The marquess is back!

Will she give him a second chance?

When widowed Lady Clara Kingston discovers that Lord Delamare is a guest at the same Christmas house party, her instinct is to run!

Six years ago, Hugh broke her foolish heart. Dare she believe he’s truly a reformed rake?

She’s secretly thrilled every time he looks her way, but she’ll have to trust him if she’s to reclaim his kiss underneath the ever-present mistletoe...

“Lee has written an exciting blend of action, adventure and romance. Fans will enjoy the well-written, fast-paced, suspenseful novel.”

—RT Book Reviews on Captain Rose’s Redemption

“An exciting spy novel with a Gothic twist that showcases character growth, intrigue, history and a second chance at love.”

—RT Book Reviews on Courting Danger with Mr. Dyer

A lifelong history buff, GEORGIE LEE hasn’t given up hope that she will one day inherit a title and a manor house. Until then she fulfils her dreams of lords, ladies and a Season in London through her stories. When not writing she can be found reading non-fiction history or watching any film with a costume and an accent. Please visit georgie-lee.com to learn more about Georgie and her books.

Also by Georgie Lee

The Cinderella Governess

Captain Rose’s Redemption

The Business of Marriage miniseries

A Debt Paid in Marriage

A Too Convenient Marriage

The Secret Marriage Pact

Scandal and Disgrace miniseries

Rescued from Ruin

Miss Marianne’s Disgrace

Courting Danger with Mr Dyer

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

His Mistletoe Marchioness

Georgie Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07430-8

HIS MISTLETOE MARCHIONESS

© 2018 Georgie Reinstein

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my wonderful readers,

may you have a happy and hope-filled Christmas season.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Kent, England—December 20th, 1806

‘I still can’t believe you talked me into coming back to Stonedown Manor for Christmas,’ Lady Clara Kingston complained to Lady Anne Exton, her sister-in-law, for the second time during their journey. The first had been when they’d set out two hours ago from their estate, Winsome Manor. Conversation with Anne had eased Clara’s initial misgivings and for a while the carriage ride through the snow-covered countryside had been soothing. But as the rolling hills of Surrey had changed to the flatter lands on the edges of the Weald in Kent and the familiar landscape surrounding Stonedown Manor, Clara’s apprehension had returned. With Stonedown looming on a nearby rise, the creamy stone front of it fading into the stark and leafless trees and frost-covered hills behind it, Clara’s unease increased.

‘You’re too young to cloister yourself at Winsome,’ Anne said. ‘And what better way to return to society than surrounded by people you know who will be glad to see you? It’s been ages since you’ve attended one of Lord and Lady Tillman’s annual Christmas house parties.’

‘For good reason.’ It’d been six years since the last time Clara had travelled this road. Back then she’d been heading home with the disappointment and embarrassment that had marred the remaining days of that Christmas visit accompanying her. It had been one of the worst Christmases that she’d ever endured and one of the best and most memorable.

‘That was a long time ago, Clara, and far behind you. Think of the better times,’ Anne encouraged.

‘I’m trying.’ Clara traced the outline of her wedding ring beneath her glove. She’d been unable to take it off despite the two years that had come and gone since Alfred’s passing. With him beside her, she could have returned to Stonedown without the regrets and doubts weighing her down, laughing at the less-than-pleasant memories of her last visit instead of allowing them to torture her as much as his loss. The surety of his love and protection was no longer there to help her and never would be again. Whatever waited for her at Stonedown, she must face it alone, as she had the humiliation that had marked that Christmas morning six years ago before Alfred’s caring had driven it away.

Clara nearly rapped on the roof of the coach to tell the driver to turn around and take her back to Winsome, but instead she clasped her hands tight together in her lap, her wedding ring pushing into the crook of her fingers. She couldn’t run away from this like a scared spinster or that was exactly what she would become. She was tired of being the widowed aunt, of living through Anne’s and Adam’s lives while hers remained mired by a loss of love and purpose. This more than all of Anne’s urgings had brought her to Stonedown. After two years secluded in the country, even she could see how the isolation and loneliness weren’t good for her.

Anne leaned across the carriage and clasped Clara’s hands, giving them a reassuring squeeze. ‘Don’t worry, Clara. Everything will be all right. You’ll enjoy yourself and who knows what might happen. You met Alfred here. There might be someone equally special waiting for you this time.’

The light of hope in Anne’s pale green eyes surprised Clara as much as the sensation rising in her heart. Hoping for such a thing felt like a betrayal of Alfred’s memory, but she needed to believe that there was something more waiting for her than the endless lonely days at Winsome Manor, many of which she spent lamenting what hadn’t been. Alfred wouldn’t want her to stop living, but the chance of lightning striking twice at Stonedown was remote, as was the possibility that she and others would not recall that her biggest embarrassment had also happened here. ‘Assuming people can see me as I am and not always think of me the way I was and what happened before.’

‘Few people will be so bored during their time here as to dwell on that unfortunate incident. There’s no reason for anyone to remember or to bring it up.’

‘I pray you’re right.’ Clara didn’t wish for people to view her as the simple girl who’d allowed herself to be duped by a fortune hunter, but as the poised Marchioness of Kingston that she’d become in the years since. It was the other reason she’d decided to come here, to prove to herself and everyone how much she’d changed. As for love finding her twice at Stonedown, she wasn’t that hopeful. ‘I doubt there will be anyone waiting at the house party for me. Most of the guests our age are married and the rest are old enough to be our parents. But you’re right, this is a good chance for me to venture out again and remember what it’s like.’

‘Don’t be too safe,’ Anne suggested with a mischievous smile as she sat back against the squabs. ‘An innocent risk every now and then is good for a woman.’

The plotting look in Anne’s eyes made Clara wonder if Anne knew something about Lady Tillman’s guest list that she didn’t. There wasn’t time to ask as the carriage made the turn on to the main drive leading to the massive front staircase.

A number of other carriages stood before the entrance, disgorging their passengers who strode up the numerous steps to the house. Spying the carriages and all the familiar faces, the excitement and anticipation that used to seize Clara when she and Adam were children and their parents would bring them here for the week before Christmas swept her again. Yes, she would enjoy herself in a way she hadn’t done in years and perhaps for a little while forget the lingering sadness that had been draping her for far too long.

A footman opened the carriage door and a gust of cool air with a hint of snow rushed in. Clara stepped out and peered up at the tall façade and the wide columns stretching up to support the triangle-shaped entrance giving Stonedown Manor the appearance of a Greek temple. It had seemed so much taller when she’d been a child holding on tight to her mother’s hand while they’d climbed these same steps. Coming to Stonedown had been as much a family tradition as Christmas pudding or carols. After their parents’ passing eight years ago, Clara and Adam had continued to come to Stonedown, to keep the tradition and their memory alive until that awful Christmas six years ago.

With a sigh, she started her ascent, but Anne took her by the arm, giggling like a new maid. ‘Do you remember how old Lady Pariston used to pinch the footmen on the cheeks?’

Clara tossed back her head and laughed, having quite forgotten. ‘I do. Didn’t she catch one on the bottom once?’

‘She said her shoulder hurt too much for her to reach the higher cheek. She will be here.’

‘Then no footman is safe.’

They almost doubled over in laughter when they reached the top, the old memory and the chance to see the charming Dowager again giving new life to the prospect of being here. It didn’t have to be all pain and regret, and Anne was right, Clara must think about the happy memories instead of dwelling on the unfortunate ones.

She and Anne stepped into the main entrance hall and craned their necks to take in the tall-ceilinged room with wide-eyed wonder. Despite the marble floors, the stone and iron of the curving front stairs and the high plastered ceilings and stark white moulding, there was a cosiness to Stonedown, an air of family and comfortable living one often didn’t find in estates this grand. This was the seat of the Earls of Tillman, but also their true home and, where it once rang with the noise of their five children, it now echoed with the sound of their grandchildren and the children of the guests and all the people gathered to celebrate Christmas. Fresh boughs of holly adorned every table and garlands of evergreens draped the long banister of the wide staircase leading up to the first floor. The crisp and spicy scent of cinnamon and nutmeg mingled with the earthy aroma of pine while the tinkling notes of someone playing Christmas carols on the piano in the music room drifted through the air. Clara took it all in, allowing the many happy memories of Christmases with her family here to fill her and make her doubts about coming fade. This delight was exactly what her tired soul needed.

‘There’s Lady Tillman. She will be so happy to see you.’ Anne guided her to where their stately hostess stood beneath a magnificent painting of the Italian countryside.

Lady Tillman, with her grey hair done up and decorated with a sprig of holly, and her thick figure regal in a dark green velvet frock with long sleeves and fur cuffs, reminded Clara of her mother and the way she used to appear whenever she’d greeted house party guest at Winsome Manor. The Countess smiled while she watched a group of children race past her. One of the little boys bumped into a half-pillar and made the vase on top of it rattle, causing the footman near it to leap at the ceramic to make sure it didn’t fall. Lady Tillman uttered not one word of reprimand, the near loss of a vase a worthy price to pay to have this much joy echoing off the overhead frescos.

Clara watched the children dart between the guests, the ribbons of the little girls’ dresses fluttering while the shoes of their brothers and cousins and friends slapped against the stone. Clara smiled at the sight, but it slowly faded as the familiar sadness she’d endured too many times in the past six years dropped over her like a blanket. At one time she’d dreamed of returning here for Christmas with a son or daughter who could play with her niece and nephew and enjoy the festive season the same way she had as a child but it hadn’t been. As with his first wife, she and Alfred had had no children. With Alfred gone, her dreams of having a family of her own were in danger of never coming true and it left a hole in her heart that made her want to weep.

‘Lady Kingston, Lady Exton, how magnificent to see you both.’ Lady Tillman strode up to Anne and Clara. Clara struggled to push aside her melancholy and greet their hostess. This wasn’t the time to cry and lament. She’d done enough of that at Winsome and there would be plenty of opportunities when she was alone in her room at night, but no matter how much she smiled, she couldn’t shake off the sadness completely. Alfred wasn’t even here to comfort her. ‘Lady Kingston, you don’t know how thrilled I was when Lady Exton told me you were coming. You’ve been away from my parties for far too long.’

She wagged a reprimanding finger at Clara before clasping Clara’s hands, her gracious and heartfelt greeting soothing Clara’s sadness. ‘You’re right, Lady Tillman, and it’s a mistake I intend to rectify.’

‘You already have.’ Lady Tillman patted her hand, then let go. ‘You both must go on through to the dining room and have your tea before the children eat all the tarts. The little cherubs, how I adore having them here.’

‘Are my children somewhere in this crush?’ Anne glanced about to see if she could spy the tow-haired heads of James and Lillie.

‘Oh, yes, they went running through here some time ago and your husband is in the billiards room with Lord Tillman and many of the other men.’

There hadn’t been enough room in the carriage for them all so Adam and the children had gone on ahead while Anne had ridden with Clara. Clara felt sure she’d done it to offer her support and she was thankful for the company, especially as they waded through the guests on their way to the dining room. Clara gave and accepted greetings from many old acquaintances, all the while enduring their consolations. It made her feel loved and wanted, but even these kind words reminded her of the loss of Alfred and how grief had made her stay away. It was a bittersweet arrival.

‘Lady Kingston, is that you?’ Lady Pariston stopped them. Wisps of her grey hair stuck out from beneath her white lace mobcap and she stooped a bit where she gripped a walking stick in her frail hands. Clara had never remembered her as robust or young, but she seemed even older today, but no less cheerful than she’d been before. Nothing ever appeared to dampen the Dowager Countess’s delight in everything. Lady Pariston leaned forward on her stick with a little too much amusement and no small amount of mirth. ‘What trouble do you intend to get up to this time, Lady Kingston? Plan to get jilted by another marquess while you’re here? I don’t think there are any in attendance, and if there happens to be more than one then you must share. It was awful of you to keep both of them to yourself last time, even if you did land the better of the two.’

Clara stiffened, struggling to maintain her smile. ‘I’ll be sure to share this time if there’s more than one marquess.’

‘Good. I know you won’t believe it to look at me, but I used to have to fend off marquesses, and even a duke, with a stick.’ While Lady Pariston waxed on about her past, Clara glanced around to see if any footmen stood in danger of her fingers, but none was so close. ‘If I hadn’t loved Charles so much I never would have consented to becoming a mere countess, but he more than made up for the step down by the size of his manor.’

She nudged Clara with her elbow and Clara laughed.

‘A sizeable manor does make a great deal of difference, doesn’t it?’ Clara could enjoy Lady Pariston’s jokes because they were not cruelly meant. She spoke plainly and frankly and expected everyone around her to do the same.

‘I’ll say. Now go on through to your tea and pick out the man you want to catch this time.’

Lady Pariston strolled off, her gait, despite the walking stick, as spry as her laugh.

Clara crossed her arms and trilled her fingers on them as she turned to Anne. ‘So much for no one remembering that unfortunate incident from the last time I was here.’

‘Well, if anyone was going to bring up what happened, you know it would be Lady Pariston.’

‘I doubt she’ll be the only one.’ Clara nodded to where Lady Fulton in her lace-cuffed dress that did little to contain her large chest and slender Lord Westbook with his sharp nose and slicked-back dark hair stood whispering together, each of them throwing Clara sidelong glances and then casually strolling away when it was clear that they’d been seen. Clara was certain they were not discussing the size of her diamond earrings. ‘What was it that Lady Fulton called me? A plain country mouse?’

‘And you are no longer that any more. Chin up, my dear Marchioness. There are tarts to eat.’

They strolled to the dining room, their progress slowed by more greetings, and Clara tried to shake her irritation at Lady Fulton and Lord Westbook. Their catty remarks had made a bad situation much worse six years ago and, unlike Lady Pariston’s silly and innocent reminder of Clara’s past, she knew anything they said was designed to inflict the most damage. The two of them were notorious gossips and Clara’s story must have greatly amused them, and who knew how many other country families six years ago.

As if to add insult to injury, it was then that she and Anne passed the small hallway leading to the ballroom. A sprig of mistletoe hung from the chandelier in the centre of the hallway, just as it did every year. Clara paused, noticing the white berries adorning the branch, and the memory of that Christmas Eve six years rushed back to her...

‘We should probably return to the ballroom,’ Hugh had suggested, rocking back on his heels before planting himself firmly in front of her.

‘Yes, we wouldn’t want people to notice our absence and talk.’

She didn’t care if they did. She yearned to stay there in the hallway beneath the mistletoe alone with him. He must desire it, too, for neither of them made a move to return to the dancing and she enjoyed this rush of boldness, the first one she’d ever experienced in a man’s presence.

He stepped forward and clasped her hands in his.

She straightened, struggling to stand still against the excitement coursing through her at the press of his fingers against hers.

His pulse flickered beneath her grasp and a shiver of excitement made her tremble. She wished to feel not just his fingertips against her skin but the entirety of him and everything promised by the longing in his eyes.

He wanted her as much as she wanted him, not in the sordid way spoken of in gossip, but in a deep and binding union of their lives...

Until the next morning, Clara thought wryly, the memory of crushing the berry he’d plucked for her from the mistletoe beneath her boot heel in the drive the next morning equally potent. Hugh might not have asked for her hand in so many words, but it had been there in every look he’d cast her that night and across the table and sitting rooms of the days before. The ones everyone in the house had seen, too. How people like Lady Fulton had sneered at her when Hugh had left to marry another. Despite his kiss and everything they’d shared that week, she’d been nothing more to him than a way to pass the time until someone more lucrative had come along and she’d been too much of a simple country girl to see it.

Clara swept off to follow Anne into the dining room. I’m not that naïve girl any more.

And she would make sure that people like Lady Fulton recognised it.

‘Oh, Clara, Lady Tillman has set out her mincemeat tarts.’ Anne eyed Lady Worth’s small china plate as she passed them. ‘I must have one before they’re all gone for it isn’t the start of the Christmas season until I’ve eaten one.’

‘Don’t you wish to greet your husband?’ Clara was somewhat curious to venture into the billiards room and see what men were in attendance, almost ashamed to admit she did hold out some hope for this party. After all, it was the season of miracles and she could do with one.

‘Adam can wait. The tarts will not.’ Anne took a tart from the magnificent selection of treats arranged on the long table and enjoyed a large bite, sighing at the sweet taste and the aromatic holiday spices.

‘You’re right.’ Clara took a bite of her selection, savouring the cinnamon-laced confection. ‘It isn’t Christmas until I’ve had one of these.’

Anne dabbed the sides of her mouth with a small napkin, then set it on the tray of a passing footman. ‘No, it isn’t. Oh, there’s Adam. I must tell him that I brought his cufflinks and will have my maid send them to his valet. I’ll be right back.’

She rushed off to take care of this domestic matter, leaving Clara to enjoy more tarts. While she finished her last treat, her stays already growing tight from the bounty of delights, she noticed the open door to Lord Tillman’s library across the hall from the dining room. Through the white-corniced frame, she could see the warm fire burning in the grate, its light glistening off the many gold-tooled titles of the books lining the walls. If there was one other Christmas tradition she could not do without, it was perusing Lord Tillman’s illuminated manuscript outlining the Nativity, the one he set out every year for his guests to enjoy. The last time she’d admired the Nativity had been six years ago when Hugh had glanced at her from across the wide pages, his fingers brushing hers when he’d turned the aged parchment. It had been the place where Hugh had first become more to her than her elder brother’s long-time friend and sometime houseguest at Winsome Manor and everything between them had changed.

No, I will not think about that, but of better times.

She left the bright dining room and crossed the hall to the library. It was just as she remembered it, with the shelves filled with antique manuscripts and more recent novels. The heaviness of the wood bookshelves and mouldings and the dark leather of the furniture made the room much darker than any of the others in the house, but with a large fire burning in the grate and the medieval illuminated manuscript perched on the tall bookstand by the window, it was one of the cosiest places in Stonedown. Lord Tillman was generous with his collection, making everything in it available to his guests. She’d spent many hours in this room with her father during the Christmases when he’d been alive, with him helping her to puzzle through the Latin text of the manuscript or to select a novel to read while she was here. She would take the book up to her room and every night before falling asleep she’d devour a few pages, relaxing after the excitement of the festive days. The next day at breakfast, she and her father would discuss the story, for he always urged her to choose ones he’d already read and he would make her guess how it might end. She used to beg him to tell her, but he never would spoil the story no matter how well he knew it or whether or not it was one of his favourites.

Taking a deep breath of the smoke-tinged air flavoured with the faint must of old paper, she closed her eyes and almost forgot for a moment that her father and mother were gone, and that she’d spent too many of the last eight years missing people the most at this time of year.

She opened her eyes and crossed the room to the illuminated manuscript. The sunlight coming in from outside, despite being muted by passing clouds, still sparkled in the glittering gold of the chorus of singing angels’ halos and in the fine calligraphy of the first letter of the page. The book was in Latin and she peered at it, trying to make out what words she could remember from her lessons with Adam and their father so long ago. Unlike her brother, she’d never mastered the old language, but a few words and phrases were familiar and she worked them out in a whisper, her effort making the noise and chatter in the hallway and rooms outside fade away until one voice rang out above them, stopping her cold in her reading.

‘Lady Kingston, it’s a pleasure to see you again.’

Clara’s finger froze over the red calligraphy, her pulse pounding in her ears. She took a deep breath and turned slowly around to find Hugh Almstead, Fifth Marquess of Delamare, standing at the bookshelf in the corner holding an open book. He didn’t flinch at the sight of her, but his confidence was betrayed by the subtle shifting of his weight on his feet. In her eagerness to view the manuscript and to remember everything she used to love about being in this room with her father, she’d walked right past him, unaware this entire time that he’d been watching her from the shadows.

He closed the book and stood up a touch straighter. He’d gained some height and his chest had grown wider along with his shoulders since the last time she’d seen him. His dark blue coat highlighted the darker strands in his sandy brown hair and made the copper flecks in his light brown eyes stand out. He appeared more like a man than the boy who’d courted her six years ago before abandoning her for a richer woman.

She worked hard to swallow down the old anger while she straightened the line of brass buttons on the front of the spencer covering the top of her London-made mauve dress. The entire time she prayed that the shock and agitation of seeing him again didn’t show on her face. No one had thought to tell her that he would be here. With so many other memories and feelings already leaving her raw, she didn’t need his presence conjuring up more for her to struggle with. ‘Lord Delamare, what a surprise to see you.’

If he was shocked by her presence, he hid it well, his piercing brown eyes taking her in with an earnestness she couldn’t read. ‘I find myself in need of some Christmas joy. I always remembered finding it here at Stonedown, especially in the people.’

He traced the leather corner of the book with a weariness she knew well. She’d lost interest in so many things after Alfred’s death and now faced the challenge of rediscovering life instead of wallowing in sorrow. Then, when she was on the verge of reclaiming the simple pleasures of a house party at Christmas, here was Lord Delamare to remind her of more unpleasant times and the awkward young woman she’d once been who’d fallen for his deceptive charms.

She ceased her fiddling with the buttons and dropped her hands to her sides, striking as confident and regal a pose as she could muster. ‘One would think London would hold more joy for a lord of your reputation than the woodlands of Kent.’

She tried to sound light, but the remark came off as sharp as the pop of sap on the logs in the fire. Given the tales she’d heard of him and his preference for London actresses in the last three years since his wife’s death, he’d appeared more bent on emulating his grandfather’s vices than his level-headed father’s virtues.

‘Not any more.’ He slapped the book against his palm, chafing at the remark before regaining his former composure. ‘My condolences on the passing of Lord Kingston. I met him a number of times in the House of Lords. He was one of the few men there who kept his word. He gained an admirable reputation because of it.’

‘Yes, he was a very trustworthy and loyal man.’ She fixed him with a pointed look. ‘If only all lords possessed such integrity.’

He shoved the book back into its place on the shelf. ‘Sometimes, life has a way of beating the integrity out of a person.’

‘It didn’t beat it out of Alfred.’

‘Then he was a fortunate man, for many reasons.’

She wondered if he included her in those reasons, but she doubted it. He’d made his decision and not looked back—neither should she. She reined in her irritation, determined to be cordial and polite. It would be a long week if she didn’t master that skill and her tongue in Hugh’s presence. ‘I’m very sorry about Lady Delamare, to be stolen away so young is a tragedy.’

He laced his fingers in front of him, running his thumb over the empty place where his wedding ring must have once been, the loss in his expression striking a chord deep inside Clara. ‘Thank you.’

A log in the fireplace collapsed, sending up a sea of sparks. The scent of burning oak permeated the heavy air between them.

‘My brother is here,’ she offered, trying to lighten the mood with the kind of small talk she preferred to engage in with Lord Worth or any of the other guests. Except she’d never imagined she’d be chatting with Hugh of all people.

‘I know.’ Hugh faced her with the same stern countenance he’d worn when she’d first turned to see him. ‘He wrote to me and told me that he and you would be here.’

This made her stiffen with surprise more than his having interrupted her private moment.

‘Did he now?’ She needed to end this conversation and have a very much needed other one with Adam and Anne as to why she hadn’t merited the same warning.

‘It was his letter that gave me a reason to come.’ The tender yearning in his eyes struck her as hard as a well-packed snowball, but it didn’t stun her enough to make her take leave of her senses.

He hadn’t really loved her years ago. That he held a candle for anything more than perhaps her inheritance, which was now even more substantial than it had been before, was preposterous. Perhaps, having run through all the actresses in London, he was here for other, more lucrative amusements. The anger his grief had pushed aside slipped slowly back to her and she narrowed her eyes at him. ‘In search of another heiress to help fill the family coffers? Or did you think a widow would serve you better?’

That wiped the tenderness off his face. She’d insulted him and she was glad, for the mistakes of six years ago along with Lord Westbook’s and Lady Fulton’s snide whispers were not experiences she wished to repeat. ‘My motives for being here are not as base as you believe.’

‘I’m sure they’re not as noble as you’ve convinced others to believe either.’ She marched up to him, fingers closed into fists at her sides. The humiliation of standing before him in this very room years ago while he’d told her he’d decided to marry another instead of asking for her hand was made sharper by the rich scent of his bergamot shaving soap and his stance. He didn’t so much as step back or flinch, but stood there, taking her disdain with irksome stoicism. She didn’t expect him to crumble in shame, but at least he could have the temerity to blush or look away in guilt. ‘Whatever your true reasons for coming here, be perfectly clear, they will not include me. Good day, Lord Delamare.’

Clara stepped around him and out of the room, pausing in the hallway to drag in a deep breath and settle the nervous tremors coursing through her. It wasn’t like her to lob insults at people, but she hadn’t been able to help herself. Nor was it like her to reveal to anyone so bluntly the depths of the injury they’d inflicted, but Hugh must see that she was no weak widow all too ready to run into his arms and surrender her fortune and her person to his control. The sooner he recognised the futility of coming here, the sooner he might leave and she could enjoy her week in peace. Until then, there was the matter of Lady Tillman’s guests list to discuss with Anne.

Clara marched into the dining room and up to Anne. She laid a stern hand on Anne’s arm, stopping her from taking another bite of her holiday delicacy. ‘Lord Delamare is here.’

Anne peered at Clara from across the pastry before slowly lowering it to her plate. ‘Is he now?’

Her surprise wasn’t convincing.

‘You knew he’d be here, didn’t you?’ Clara pulled her out of the dining room and down the hall to a secluded alcove adorned with a large vase filled with fragrant hothouse flowers.

Ann hesitated, giving Clara her answer before she even managed to stammer out a few weak lies. ‘Well, no, not exactly. Adam told me Lady Tillman had said she’d invited him, but she gave him no indication that he’d accepted.’

Clara glanced down the hall to make sure no one, including Hugh or anyone else, was listening. ‘You’re lying. I can always tell because your cheeks go red.’

With Anne’s fair complexion and blonde hair it was difficult for her to hide even the slightest of blushes.

‘Yes, we knew,’ Anne mumbled, suddenly very interested in the button on her spencer. ‘Lady Tillman wrote to us about it a week ago, wanting to make sure there would be nothing awkward between the two of you. I assured her there wouldn’t be.’

‘Without consulting me first?’

‘I was afraid if I told you, you wouldn’t come and I wanted you to. I see the way you are at Winsome, and how lonely and sad you appear sometimes, especially while watching the children or when you think no one is looking, and it breaks my heart. I want you to be as happy as Adam and I are and to have children of your own and all the things you lost when Alfred died. You won’t find them sitting in your room at home, but here with people.’

Clara swallowed hard. Only Anne could stop Clara from being angry at her when she should be steaming. She thought she’d been better about hiding her grief, but she hadn’t if Anne and Adam had gone to such lengths to make sure she came to this house party. Anne was right. Clara had travelled to Stonedown to take her first steps towards finding a new life. She’d already seen a number of new faces among the usual guests. Perhaps one of them would be someone like Alfred with caring eyes and a trustworthy heart, the kind of man who’d readily comfort a grieving and rejected young woman one Christmas morning instead of laughing at her. That man was not Hugh.

‘I realise Lord Delamare being here might be a little awkward,’ Anne continued, ‘but what happened between the two of you was a long time ago and since then he was happily married and so were you. There’s no reason why you can’t be polite and cordial to one another and no reason why his being here should spoil your week.’

Except Clara had already been less than cordial to him because he’d reminded her of the worst embarrassment she’d ever endured. This wasn’t at all how she’d imagined this house party beginning. ‘Even if we can be cordial to one another, more people than Lady Pariston are bound to remember what happened and bring it up, especially Lord Westbook and Lady Fulton and you know how cutting they can be. I told you what they said about me the last time we were here once the entire household heard of what happened.’

‘And a great deal has changed since then.’ Anne laid her hands on Clara’s shoulders. ‘There’s no reason why they and everyone won’t see anything but the confident woman before me.’

Clara wasn’t so generous in her perception of what people would see when they looked at her. She hoped it was a mature marchioness, but she feared, especially with Lord Delamare present to remind them, that they’d see nothing but the awkward young girl she’d once been. No, she was no longer an easily tricked country heiress, but a woman of experience and sophistication who would not have the wool pulled over her eyes by a scheming man and she would prove it to everyone, including Hugh. ‘Yes, you’re right. Just because he’s here doesn’t mean I have to speak with him or give him more than a curtsy and any required manners. In fact, if I can avoid speaking to him entirely, I will.’

‘Except that because of precedence, you’ll be sitting next to him at every dinner,’ Anne reminded, dropping her voice so as not to be heard by the gentlemen and ladies passing them as they went from the dining room to the billiards room.

Clara let out a frustrated sigh. If the footman hadn’t already dragged her travelling trunk up the stairs to her room, and if Mary, her lady’s maid, wasn’t already busy arranging dresses in the wardrobe, Clara would order her clothes packed up and the trunk put back on the carriage so she could return home. Except there was nothing for her at home except more nights alone, more days spent in reading and solitude or watching James and Lillie play and regretting that she had no child to play with them. She could leave and allow the melancholy to claim her or stay and remain on this path to being out in the world and open to the possibility of love and a better life. That, and proving that she’d changed, was why she was here and she wouldn’t allow Hugh to steal this from her the way he’d tried to steal her faith in herself six years ago. She intended to enjoy the season and she would. What Hugh did was immaterial to any of that.

* * *

Hugh examined the pages of the illuminated manuscript, trying to concentrate on the beautifully drawn and painted figures, but all he could see was Clara. The moment she’d entered the room, the only thing he’d been able to think about was the Christmas Eve ball when he’d held her in his arms. Her petite body had been languid against his when she’d curved into him with sighs as tender as her fingertips against his neck. Beneath the silk of her gown he’d been able to feel the press of her hips against his and when he’d caressed the line of her back, the sweep of his fingertips over the bare skin above the line of her bodice had made her shiver.

He’d sat across the table from her at Adam’s family home over the years, paying her no more heed than he would the younger sibling of any of his friends. It wasn’t until she’d entered Lady Tillman’s sitting room at the beginning of that fateful Christmas house party, her dark blonde hair done up in ringlets and secured with red ribbons, the plain cut of her dress unable to hide her curving hips or the fullness of her breasts, that he’d viewed her as a woman. Even when dressed in the simplest of fashions, she’d taken his breath way and he’d struggled not to stare at the womanly changes that had come over her while she’d spoken about the falling wheat prices and how they plagued the major landowners. Her girlish interests had changed as much as her figure. In those few moments she’d transformed from the gangling young sister of his closest friend into a lady he couldn’t take his eyes off, one worthy to become mistress of Everburgh Manor.

There hadn’t been any trace of that smitten woman in the one who’d turned to face him today, her full lips opening with surprise before she’d pressed them tight together in disgust. Marriage and loss had changed her as much as it had changed him. The simple young woman he’d fallen for had matured, her plain country styles exchanged for the elegance of London fashion, her once-adoring looks now cutting, but he deserved her anger. It was the grief he’d seen when she’d pored over the vellum that she didn’t deserve.

He turned the manuscript pages until he reached the one of the women crying at the foot of the cross. The mournful looks on their faces reminded him of how Clara had appeared when he’d watched her from across the room, hesitant to interrupt the private moment or to intrude on a sadness he was all too familiar with. While he’d watched her, the anguish and torment he’d suffered after he’d received the Christmas Eve letter six years ago informing him that Lord Matthews had finally agreed to Hugh’s requests for his daughter’s dowry, and that Hugh and Lady Hermione Matthews’s engagement could proceed, had rushed back to him. Along with it had come the regret that had tortured him in the carriage that Christmas morning when he’d ridden away from Stonedown and Clara. The memory of her distraught face when she’d faced him in this very room had torn at him along with the same accusation she’d thrown at him moments ago.

‘Fortune hunter. Bollocks.’ He slapped the book stand, making it rock before it righted itself. He hadn’t married Hermione simply for money, but out of duty to his family. The cold winters at Everburgh when his parents used to struggle to heat even a few rooms while his grandfather had squandered the family fortune on his actress second wife still haunted him, as did the strained and worried faces of his parents. After his grandfather’s hard living had finally killed him, the massive debts had fallen to his father to pay and their quality of life, which had never been high, had declined even further. Although his parents had done everything they could to shield Hugh from the reality of their situation, there was nothing their stories of knights and dragons could do to stave off the cold or place more food on the table. Then, when they’d been on the verge of leaving those days behind them for good, Hugh’s father’s heart had given out, worn down by years of struggles. At his funeral, Hugh had vowed that he would do everything he could to make sure that his mother would one day experience the comfort and ease that a marchioness deserved. His marriage to Hermione had given him the chance to do that and he’d never regretted his decision. He still didn’t. It was his youthful indiscretion at not being more cautious with Clara’s feelings that he lamented, especially today, but there was nothing he could do to change the past, not his one with her or the last three years. He could only move forward and he would.

Hugh left the library in search of Adam and society, needing both more than solitude and regret. Solitude and the constant torment of remorse had already led him to make too many mistakes in London after Hermione’s death, ones he’d have to work twice as hard to overcome if Clara’s reaction to him offered any indication of how people currently regarded him. She and they had heard the stories about his behaviour in London. Most of the tales weren’t even true, or they were exaggerated far beyond recognition, but it didn’t matter. Until recently, he hadn’t worked to check them and enough of them were true to give credence to the rest. At one time he’d been admired as much for himself as his old title and had been known to everyone as an honourable and respectable marquess who hadn’t inherited his grandfather’s taste for ruin. It’d taken a lifetime to build that reputation and three years to throw it all away and make everyone believe he was no better than his grandfather, but he was and he would prove it again.

Striding down the hall, he found Adam in the billiards room with a number of other gentlemen. They bent over the table to examine the shots, change the score on the marker or watch the game, each of them carrying glasses of brandy and sipping them between bits of conversation and breaks in the play. A gaggle of children ran through the room, swarming around the table before running out the opposite door, their noisy chatter barely breaking the conversation of the lords who were willing to tolerate their antics in this season of forgiveness. Hugh hoped everyone was willing to forgive more adult mishaps, especially his.

‘Delamare, good to see you.’ Adam clapped him on the back, then moved to hand him a glass of brandy from a nearby footman’s tray before remembering and setting it back on the salver for someone else to enjoy. ‘Sorry, I forgot you’d given it up.’

‘There are times when I think that might have been a mistake.’ He glanced at the brandy, tempted to throw back a good portion of it and savour the burning in his throat. It was a pain he deserved, but he wasn’t a man to go back on his promises, at least not any more.

Adam tilted his head to one side in scrutiny. ‘I assume you’ve seen Clara, then?’

‘I have. She wasn’t pleased to see me.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ He didn’t look at Hugh, but swirled his brandy in his snifter before taking a generous drink. ‘She didn’t know you would be here.’

‘You didn’t tell her?’ He wanted to take the snifter and break it over his friend’s head. ‘The entire reason I wrote to you was so you could warn her in the hopes it might ease any tension between us.’ The tension that had dominated every word that had passed between them in the library.

‘If I’d told her you’d be here, she wouldn’t have come. You know how it is, no one likes to be reminded of past mistakes and such.’

No, they didn’t. Not Hugh, not Clara, no one.

‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter now,’ Adam continued. ‘You’re both here and now you’ve got your awkward first meeting out of the way, I’m sure the two of you will get on splendidly.’

‘I wish I shared your optimism.’

‘Well, the season of miracles and all that.’ He rapped Hugh on the arm and took up his cue stick and bent over the table to take his shot, the conversation about Clara and Hugh being here together over. Hugh allowed it to drop. Adam was one of the few friends from his past who saw the better in Hugh even when he couldn’t see it in himself. Hugh owed it to him to be respectful, especially of Clara. Adam, having inherited young, knew well the responsibilities of a titled man, but for all of his patience and understanding of Hugh’s mistakes, and the family duty that had forced him to marry another, Adam would draw the line at intentional injury to those he loved.

‘Marvellous shot, Exton,’ Lord Tillman muttered through his bushy moustache, one hand on his round belly, the other clutching his brandy. He was tall with spindly legs and long thin arms, his full head of hair a striking contrast to his less-than-robust form. An earl from a long line, he didn’t lord his title over anyone, taking it all in stride. He and his wife were two of the most congenial hosts that Hugh had ever known and the most forgiving. Neither of them had baulked at inviting him after he’d placed a gentle request with Lady Tillman when they’d met at the theatre at the end of last Season. He was thankful for their support and this chance to take his first steps towards redeeming himself with good society. If Clara’s reaction to him was any gauge, he had a great deal of work to do.

Hugh tried not to sigh in weariness while he watched the game. He intended to some day hold a house party like this at Everburgh, but with no Lady Delamare to help him welcome his guests and no children to run with the guests’ children, he would have to live once again off someone else’s generosity. It was yet another dream that was on the verge of never coming true, especially if the court ruled against him in the last case concerning Everburgh.

He glanced at the brandy, wanting to knock the drinks to the floor, but he maintained his self-control. He’d done all that duty had required of him when he’d become the Fifth Marquess, paying off the last of the debts with Hermione’s money, using Lord Matthew’s connections to woo influential lords and hire expensive barristers to settle remaining court cases in his favour or on better terms, but still it hadn’t been enough. The estate was in danger once again from a Scottish lord who claimed that Hugh’s grandfather had signed over Everburgh to him in exchange for a life annuity and the payment of some debts. The Scotsman had a few letters indicating some sort of deal between him and Hugh’s grandfather, and receipts of payment to his grandfather, but he had yet to produce the signed contract. If he did produce it, it would become a matter for a judge to decide. If the court ruled against Hugh, then everything that Hugh, his parents and Hermione had done to save the estate would mean nothing.

Hugh stood up straight and greeted Sir Nathaniel with a hearty welcome, determined to remain polite and solicitous. He would face this unexpected challenge with the fortitude his parents had always shown during their trials, the one he’d demonstrated, too, until Hermione’s death had sent him into a dark spiral, but those days were over. He’d made a number of mistakes since Hermione’s death, but they and the damage they’d done would soon be behind him. He would enjoy the respect and esteem of these men again, and, if given the opportunity, Clara’s, as well. He was the Marquess of Delamare and he would bring dignity to the title and himself once again.

Chapter Two

‘My dear, are you sure that’s the dress you wish to wear tonight?’ Anne asked, entering Clara’s room to collect her for dinner. In a short while, everyone would line up according to precedence on the main staircase before going into the dining room. Clara prayed someone had arrived to outrank her, a dowager duchess or a dowager marchioness with an older title than hers who would bump her back a place or two in the line away from Hugh. As much as part of her wanted to be at the head of the line where everyone might see her, she didn’t wish to be there beside Hugh.

Given that this wasn’t likely to happen, she’d dressed as she would for any other dinner at Lord and Lady Tillman’s, careful to pay no special heed to her attire. She didn’t wish Hugh to think she’d changed her manner of dress simply because they happened to be beneath the same roof. If Anne’s half-frown were any indication, Clara had succeeded a little too well in her desire to under-dress. ‘What’s wrong with my dress?’

‘Nothing, except it’s a tad dark.’

‘It’s winter.’ Clara opened her arms and looked down at the black velvet dress devoid of any decoration, trying to sound sensible and failing.

‘But the season is so cheerful and you don’t want to come across as dour. Perhaps your green dress would be better. You want people to speak with you, not offer consolations.’

Clara dropped her arms in defeat, her desire to be seen as a refined and chic lady fading in the face of her current wardrobe. This dress might be fine and of excellent material but it bore the hallmarks of her grief, as did most of the dresses she’d brought with her. The bright gowns she’d worn before Alfred’s death were still packed away in trunks at Winsome Manor. She wished she hadn’t left them behind.

‘You’re right. I appear as if I’m going to a memorial, not preparing for a festive week. I’ll wear the green dress.’ She waved for Mary to undo the buttons on the back so Clara could change. ‘I don’t want to scare whomever I’m paired with for the week’s events or give them the impression that they’ll be stuck with a stick in the mud.’

‘No, you don’t.’ Anne laid a finger on her cheek, her frown drawing up to one side in a smile that made Clara suspicious. ‘Especially since you’re sure to be seated beside Lord Delamare.’

‘You needn’t remind me.’ He was the reason she’d already devoted too much time to preparing for dinner. Her inability to find an appropriate dress reminded her of the many times she’d stood before this mirror six years ago, feeling heavy and uncomfortable in all her country finery and inherited jewels, the reflection staring back at her one of a young lady who used to turn down dances for fear that she would step on toes and embarrass herself. Every evening before dinner, she would try on all her dresses, lamenting to Mary about her inability to look like a refined London lady. She’d once thought this was the key to securing Hugh’s heart. Instead, the way into his affection had been through more pounds and political influence than her family had possessed.

‘I think you should consider yourself very lucky,’ Anne said, drawing Clara back to the conversation.

‘Lucky? I am far from lucky.’ If she were lucky, then Hugh wouldn’t be here and she wouldn’t feel the need to prove herself to the likes of him or Lady Fulton. She had changed a great deal since the last time she’d been here—now the trick was proving it to everyone else, including herself at times.

‘Of course you are. If you forgive him, then there are no barriers to anything happening between the two of you this Christmas.’

Clara gaped at her sister-in-law, unable to believe the words that had just come out of her mouth while Clara was standing in her shift and chemise of all things. Clara stepped into her green dress, yanked it up and stuck her arms in the sleeves. ‘Life in the country has become quite dull if you’re suggesting something between me and Lord Delamare, a man who is nothing more than a fortune hunter who’d go through my money faster than he does actresses in London.’

‘He isn’t as bad as you and so many others think,’ Anne responded with surprising seriousness, having seen and heard a great deal more of Hugh than Clara had when she’d followed Adam to London every Season. But while she’d been discreet with her tales of him, others had not and a very different picture of him had emerged for Clara.

When Hugh had been a student at the Reverend’s school with Adam he hadn’t been so bad, but it wasn’t the case any more as she sadly knew from experience. During Hugh’s many visits to Winsome when she was a girl, he’d seemed so friendly, straightforward and predictable, enjoying riding and hunting like any young gentleman, but the candlelight had never caught in his eyes or his smile been as wide or charming as it had during that Christmas week. Some time between their meeting in the sitting room on the first day and the snowball fight in the garden, Hugh had stopped being simply her elder brother’s friend and had become very much more.

It wasn’t until the morning that he’d told her he would marry another that he’d suddenly become someone Clara didn’t recognise. After that disastrous Christmas, Adam and others had tried to convince her that Hugh wasn’t the rake Clara believed him to be. Hugh’s behaviour in London had proven them all wrong, making her brother’s continued faith in his old friend perplexing. Adam had always had their father’s gift of seeing the best in even the worst people. It was a trait she didn’t often share and Clara wondered what Hugh hid from Adam and Anne to keep them so enamoured of him. ‘What about the duel he fought? Only a true wastrel resorts to that kind of theatrics to resolve a dispute.’

‘You know how men are when it comes to their honour. Even the best of them can lose their heads at times.’

‘He isn’t the best of them, as proven by the tale of him and Miss Palmer at the theatre, the one that was in all the London papers that Lady Bellworth was kind enough to send us as if I’d wanted to hear news of Hugh, good or bad.’

‘According to Adam, the story is quite overblown. I think once you speak with him at dinner you’ll see that he isn’t the rake those rumours make him out to be.’

‘I doubt it.’ Clara peered at Anne while Mary did up the back buttons, amazed, after her earlier show of concern downstairs, that she would be this cavalier about Clara and Hugh. ‘Even if he is, I don’t care. I learned the hard way about him once before. It’s all I need to know about his character.’

She viewed herself in the mirror, silently admitting that the green dress did suit her better. Good. It would make her diamond and emerald necklace stand out and help banish the old self-consciousness nipping at her. While Hugh’s rejection had wounded her burgeoning confidence years ago, Alfred had made her certain of it, but he was gone and it was up to her to maintain her belief in herself.

She glanced at the door to her room and at the shiny knob reflecting the firelight. Just on the other side of it was where she and Alfred had truly met for the first time, on that Christmas morning after she’d come upstairs from meeting Hugh for the last time.

She’d struggled to remain composed until she’d been able to reach this side of the door and cry, but Alfred had been there to help soothe her broken heart...

* * *

‘Lady Exton, are you well?’

Genuine concern and not just the nicety of manners had driven Lord Kingston’s question. It had been there in his blue eyes with their faint lines at the corners.

He was older than her—thirty-five, perhaps—with dark hair touched with grey at the temples and the regal air of his class. He stood straight and tall, his strong features making him more debonair than a man like Lord Westbook, but there was a kindness about him that called to Clara.

‘Since the passing of my parents I sometimes find the holidays difficult to endure.’

If she’d known him better she might have wailed on his shoulder, as she wished she could still do with her mother who would have rushed to comfort her. But her mother was no longer there to offer her love or wisdom or even the strength to face the other guests.

All day today she’d have to sit beside everyone in church and across the table at dinner and pretend to be cheerful while her heart continued to break. Everyone had seen her and Hugh walking and playing cards and spending almost every moment they could in one another’s company. His having left and her looking more like it was All Hallows’ Eve than Christmas morning would make it obvious to everyone what had happened.

Hugh hadn’t just trifled with her and jilted her, he’d done it in the most public way imaginable, making the pain even more deep.

‘I understand. It was a great many years before I could enjoy Christmas after my wife passed. I assure you, Lady Exton, it does get easier with time.’

‘Does it?’ she whispered.

Her mother would have seen Hugh for the fortune hunter he really was and she would have warned Clara off him as she had the other fortune hunters in London. The lack of her mother’s love and guidance further tarnished an already clouded morning.

He reached into the pocket of his coat and took out a white handkerchief and handed it to her. ‘It does.’

She took his handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, embarrassed for almost losing her poise. ‘I’m sorry to cast a shadow over the merry day.’

‘Don’t be. A pretty young lady like you is allowed to be sad from time to time. If you weren’t, one would think you didn’t have a heart. May I escort you down to breakfast?’

He’d held out his arm to her, the tenderness in his eyes difficult to abandon for the cold emptiness of her room. There’d been enough of those sorts of mornings in the last two years, between her father’s death and then her mother’s passing. That Christmas had been supposed to be better—and it had been until that morning.

It could be again. She refused to make a pitying spectacle of herself in front of the other guests. Here was a man offering her genuine regard when she needed it, there was no reason not to accept.

She slid her hand over his arm and stood confidently beside him. ‘Yes, Lord Kingston, you may.’

* * *

The clang of the gong echoed up from the main hall and pulled her away from the sweet memory and back into the reality of the present. It was time to go down for dinner and Alfred wasn’t here to walk with her tonight. She must face whatever awaited her alone and deal with it as best she could. It made her wish she had packed up and gone back to Winsome.

No. I won’t be so weak. She took the gloves that Mary held out to her, cursing the tremor in her hands while she tugged them on. She shouldn’t be this nervous. Hugh meant nothing to her and what had happened was a long time ago. Except he did mean something, he represented everything Clara had been before she’d become a marchioness, an ill-at-ease girl who, despite a respectable inheritance, had been unable to catch or hold a gentleman’s attention long enough to secure a proposal. She was no longer that woman, but echoes of that girl dogged her steps as she escorted Anne out of her room and down the hall towards the stairs.

The old awkwardness was especially potent when they spied the end of the line of people waiting to queue up for dinner. A number of them smiled and nodded appreciatively, but it wasn’t them that Clara fixed on, but Lord Westbook and Lady Fulton. They stood one step apart, with Lord Fulton too engrossed in conversation with Lord Worth above him to care if his wife spent her time whispering to Lord Westbook. Lady Fulton’s small eyes widened at the sight of Clara, and Lord Westbook stopped his incessant talking to take Clara in.

Clara’s awkwardness melted away and she held her head high and strode forward with purpose, thankful Anne had suggested she change. Clara hadn’t forgotten Lady Fulton’s derisive remarks about her six years ago and the way they’d revealed her true opinion of Clara. She was not a girl in a simple dress and wearing her jewellery as if it were nothing better than an old chandelier chain that she’d decided to drape around her neck. Clara’s gown might be muted, but it was fine, and the emeralds she wore spoke of her increased status. She was no longer a plain country mouse, but a refined lady.

‘Lady Kingston, there you are. Come now, you must take your place beside Lord Delamare so we may all go in,’ Lady Tillman called out, moving up through the parting guests to reach Clara and take her by the hand.

Clara did her best to concentrate on the stairs and not trip over Lady Tillman’s short train as her hostess pulled her down the stairs. Around her, the line had gone silent and she could almost hear people wondering if they would be treated to the same show of courting and rejection that they’d witnessed six years ago. They would not enjoy any sort of amusement from her, assuming Hugh decided to behave with dignity when she reached him. If he wished to give a little of what he’d got from her in the library, this was a perfect opportunity to do it. She didn’t think him so petty, but after what she’d heard of him in London, it was a possibility. It made her want to twist out of Lady Tillman’s grip and run back to her room, but she would not look like a coward in front of the other guests, especially Lady Fulton. Instead, she would sit next to Hugh at dinner with all the bearing and dignity of a marchioness and everyone else could get their entertainment elsewhere.

Lady Tillman and Clara finally reached the bottom of the stairs and Clara stopped before Hugh, her heart racing from both the quick descent and her nerves. If Clara’s attire had changed in six years, then so had Hugh’s. He was taller than the gentlemen on the step above him and his broad shoulders did more credit to the wool covering them than the talents of his Jermyn Street tailor. His dark trousers hugged his trim middle and thighs, and he wore his hair combed back off his strong face, the knot of his white cravat tucked neatly beneath his square chin. If she hadn’t heard the rumours, she would have thought he’d spent the last three years at Everburgh riding and engaging in other sports, not in debauchery at the theatres and clubs of London.

‘Good evening, Lord Delamare,’ she greeted, trying to convince everyone, including herself, that it made no difference to her if she was seated next to him and that she could be gracious and friendly to an old flame with the poise expected of a woman of her standing.

‘Good evening, Lady Kingston. You look lovely tonight.’ His unstudied words raised Clara’s confidence higher than when she’d approached Lady Fulton at the top of the stairs and allowed her to breathe again. She hadn’t known what to expect when she’d descended, but she hadn’t expected this compliment and it almost rattled her surety, especially when Lady Tillman laid Clara’s hand on Hugh’s arm.

The sight of her satin-covered fingers against the black fabric of his coat brought back a hundred memories. They were of Alfred escorting her into dinner or a ballroom, the two of them chatting and laughing while they walked. It’d been two years since she’d stood beside a man like this and loneliness and loss overwhelmed her. It should be Alfred beside her, but it wasn’t and it never would be again.

‘Are you all right, Lady Kingston?’ Hugh laid his hand comfortingly over hers.

She raised her face to his, having forgotten for a moment to keep her chin up. She offered him a weak smile, trying to be regain her composure, but it was difficult with his warm hand covering hers. If she could let down her guard long enough to tell him the truth, she would, but she couldn’t, not here and certainly not with him. ‘Yes, only sometimes I find it difficult at this time of year.’

It was the most she could say.

‘I understand.’ He squeezed her fingers, his thumb lightly brushing hers, the steady motion soothing her. There was nothing calculated in the gesture or his words, only a desire to ease her pain in a way very few had tried to do since the weeks surrounding the funeral.

‘Are you ready to lead them in?’ Lady Tillman asked, drawing Clara’s attention away from Hugh.

‘Yes, of course,’ Clara stammered, everything she’d intended to do tonight from walking regally like a queen to ignoring Hugh thrown into confusion. For a long time, her grief had been hers alone to bear, expected by all to grow fainter as time passed, but he’d seen it and for a moment he’d helped her to shoulder it. This was a greater comfort to her than all the showing up of Lady Fulton and Lord Westbook, and it stunned her that it should come from him. After the way she’d spoken to him in the library, she’d expected derision instead of kindness.

They started off down the hall and she raised her head high, concentrating on the pearls woven in their hostess’s coiffure and not Hugh’s steady steps or the shift of his arm beneath her palm. His hand remained covering hers, the pressure of his fingers distracting. She wished he’d acted like a rake instead of a gentleman. It would make it so much easier to decide how to behave with him tonight. While his kind words were appreciated, it didn’t change their past or her opinion of him and this unfortunate seating arrangement.

They all strolled into the dining room. The table was bereft of treats and laid out in its splendid china and silver which glistened in the high polish of the table’s finish. Everything about this room was sumptuous with the walls done in a deep red wallpaper covered with numerous gilded frames of hunting portraits and the English countryside. Along the edges of the room, the guests moved past fine burled oak sideboards with marble tops and elaborate candelabras, vases and other adornments. At the other end, a large fire roared in a hearth decorated by white moulding similar in shape to the classical front of Stonedown Manor. Clara pitied Lord Tillman who would sit with his back to the blaze and likely roast as much as the meat course. If he did mind the heat, he never said anything, enduring it so the guests at Clara’s end of the table would not shiver through the meal.

Despite the formality of the setting, everyone except those newest to the party approached their seats in leisure as if they were in their own homes. When they reached their places, Hugh finally let go of Clara and she took her place beside Lady Tillman, conscious of every move Hugh made when he sat down on her right. With Lord Worth on Lady Tillman’s other side and dominating her attention with conversation, Clara realised she would either have to slurp her soup in silence or find a way to speak with Hugh. She didn’t wish to converse with him at all, but to be alone and think about what had just happened. He hadn’t behaved at all as she’d expected and she’d been foolish enough to allow a touch of kindness to make her almost slip and reveal to him something of the lonely woman beneath the confident Marchioness. He didn’t deserve to see that woman or to know the details of her heart, both good and bad. He deserved nothing but her disdain, but it was difficult to find the resolve to deride him so severely again.

Unable to decide what to do, she did nothing except remain silent and listen to the conversations around her while she ate. Hugh was in no hurry to break the stalemate either. Where he’d been quite free with his words in the library and then again on the stairs, he’d gone mute now, focusing on his plate as if it was the most important thing in the room. He didn’t even make an effort to speak to Lady Pariston who sat on his other side. The manners her mother had instilled in her urged Clara to at least mention the weather, but she couldn’t bring herself to do even that. She didn’t want to appear like an overeager debutante and force him into a conversation he clearly didn’t want. Instead, she continued to eat her soup, thankful that with the balls and other events, there wouldn’t be too many similar dinners to endure this week.

Clara swirled her soup with her spoon, leaving a quickly disappearing trail in the thick, pale green surface, the tension between them ruining the taste of her food. This was not at all how she’d imagined this week unfolding and she wondered, if she chose to go with Anne and Adam to London, if that experience would be any better. There had been moments of delight during her first Season in London, but they’d quickly faded while she’d stood against the wall at dances or watched her mother send yet another young man with a pile of debts in search of a rich wife packing. Returning to London as the wife of a peer in the House of Lords had been so much better. She’d been proud of Alfred’s accomplishments and had done her best to help him by hosting dinners for his political friends and attending balls. She hadn’t returned to town since his death, not wanting to face all its pitfalls alone. She would have to face it if she wanted to find a new life, for the society of the country was very limited if Hugh’s presence was any indication. Lady Tillman must be hard up for guests to have invited him.

She glanced past Hugh to thin Lady Pariston with her lace shawl and tweedy-coloured dress, the weight of the large diamond necklace she wore making her hunched posture more pronounced. While Clara used to enjoy sitting with Lady Pariston by the fire in the evenings and listening to her tales of Stonedown Manner in the old days, she wondered if becoming a similar little old lady was to be her fate. She was a dowager, too, and glancing around the table, it was clear there would be no Alfred to rescue her this time from an ignoble future. It made her lose her appetite.

Then she caught Hugh’s gaze and her heart made a little flutter. No, he wouldn’t rescue her either, unless he deemed her purse large enough to make her more attractive. It would be up to her to find some other way of moving on long after this party concluded, but, touching her gloved hand to where the imprint of Hugh’s heaviness still lingered, it was difficult not to remember a previous Christmas that had been full of potential, until it hadn’t been.

* * *

Hugh set down his soup spoon and sat back against the chair, allowing the footman to take away the half-eaten dish and replace it with the next course. Beside him, Clara began to eat her fish, her gloved hand moving the silver fork elegantly back and forth from the plate to her full red lips. Every now and then she’d lean forward in her seat, lengthening the line of her back, her pert chin pressed out a touch above the long line of her neck to where it curved down to her supple chest. The whiteness of her skin was a stark contrast to the deep green of her gown. The colour matched the richness of the emeralds in her necklace and the jewels sparkled with each of her movements. The cut of her bodice, although modest, still revealed a touch of the soft creaminess of her chest. She was finely attired even if it whispered of mourning, but the heavier material flattered her more than the wispy gowns of the women who’d come up from London for the house party. The gown added grace to her once-awkward movements and told him that she had grown a great deal since the last time he’d seen her.

She set down her fork and frowned a touch when she could not catch all the words of Lord Worth’s conversation with Lady Missington from across the table. That Clara longed to be sitting next to him and taking in every story about the last session of Parliament instead of beside Hugh was clear. If it were in his power to release her to do so, he would, but they sat where precedence dictated and they were beholden to it, and to each other to make conversation, except they had yet to make any.

Hugh poked at his fish and the white sauce covering it. He’d spoken to Clara twice today. The first time, she’d sneered at him and his reputation and accused him of being in search of money, leaving him in no doubt about her opinion of him. The next time, with her standing beside him, her hair swept off her neck and done in ringlets at the back of her head that shivered with each of her delicate movements, she’d lost her sneer and the veil of courage she’d worn when she’d descended the stairs to reveal the grieving woman beneath. Without thinking, he’d laid his hand on hers, recognising her hurt and longing to crush it like a walnut shell. She didn’t deserve to suffer, but to enjoy her youth and the merry season. He’d succeeded for a quick moment in easing a pain he knew all too well, but his comfort hadn’t lasted. Nor had it been enough to change her mind about him, even a little. She remained determined to think the worst of him and make him endure her silence because of it.

He cast Clara another sideways glance and she paused in her eating, conscious of his scrutiny and quickly meeting his curious gaze before she returned to her fish. He let her go, but not without a great deal of guilt. He’d ruined her Christmas once before by being too open and easy with her when he should have been more guarded and reserved, reminding him of how much she’d changed since they’d last sat at this table together. Back then, she’d been further down the line of precedence and across from him, hindering any chance he might have had to speak with her despite their eagerness to converse. They’d spoken instead through longing glances, smiles and coquettish looks tossed across the table, not careful or caring if anyone else saw them, and it had increased her embarrassment in the end.

People would whisper again, but this time it would be about the stony silence between them, the one that had already garnered a number of small frowns from Lady Exton from where she sat next to her husband. Once in a while she would comment to Adam who would glance up at Clara and Hugh. He didn’t silently urge Hugh to speak to his sister, but simply offered a few words to his wife before returning to his meal. Hugh set down his fork and picked up the punch he’d requested from the footman. The sweetness nearly made him gag. His failed courtship of Clara had almost cost him his friendship with Adam, he didn’t wish to risk it again by mistaking the brief moment at the bottom of the stairs for something more than a genuine thank you for his having been kind. This silence was intolerable, but he would endure it to keep the peace between himself and Adam and to spare Clara from any derision that his previous lack of discretion had caused her. He had no one but himself to blame for her poor opinion of him and again he cursed his actions of the last three years.

Hugh took in the other guests who were too engaged in discussion with those around them to notice him, but he caught a few curious looks thrown in his direction now and then. It was clear in the way that many regarded him with sidelong glances that they’d heard the stories about him and continued to wonder if they were true. He would show them they weren’t through his actions and defy all their low expectations, even Clara’s. He was here to begin the slow process of undoing his mistakes in London after Hermione’s death, to rebuild the good name he’d once prided himself on holding, the one he’d carelessly tossed away in his grief. No whiff of scandal could touch him, especially while Lord Westbook was here and no doubt watching for any more stories to entertain other hostesses with. Everything Hugh did this week, especially in regards to Clara, must be above board and if it meant sitting here in silence beside Clara until she chose to break it, then so be it. He’d endured worse things in his duty to the Delamare name. He could endure this even while he wished there was some way he could change it.

* * *

At the end of the meal, Lady Tillman led the ladies out of the room while Lord Tillman called for the brandy. The men rose from their places of precedent and took up more informal seats at Lord Tillman’s end of the table. Hugh chose the chair beside Sir Nathaniel, eager to talk to the man who, before his ennoblement, had been a celebrated barrister and who understood the vagaries of the law better than most titled men. The letter informing Hugh that a lawsuit for possession of Everburgh had been filed had forced him out of London as much as his disgust with himself. He might have turned away from duty and responsibility for a while, but he hadn’t given up on it entirely because it wasn’t an easy thing to set aside, nor could he abandon trying to accomplish everything that his father and even Hermione had sacrificed their lives to help him achieve. It might mean more struggle and difficulties, but he would see this through and seize every advantage available to him, including setting his pride aside and asking for help from Sir Nathaniel, Lord Tillman and Adam.

To Hugh’s dismay, Lord Westbook took the chair on Hugh’s opposite side. He gave the man no notice as he leaned in towards Sir Nathaniel. ‘I understand you once handled a case concerning the signing over of an estate when the signee was in no position to make such a decision and succeeded in having the contract voided.’

‘I did.’ Sir Nathaniel leaned forward with his elbows against the table to give them some privacy in their discussion. The rest of the gentlemen sat back, savouring their drinks and the conversation, while Lord Westbook sat ramrod straight in his chair, no doubt watching and listening to everything. Let him hear what Sir Nathaniel had to say, his opinion and all his stupid little stories meant nothing to Hugh. Besides, the pending case was already well known in London and another of the many tales already attached to his name. ‘And I’m familiar with your case.’

‘What do you think of it?’

‘I think you have a solid one against the enforcement of the contract, should the Scotsman ever produce it. Who’s representing you?’

‘No one, yet.’ He couldn’t afford any long, drawn-out payments to solicitors. Everburgh might be clear of debts, but the harvest had not sufficiently recovered enough to provide a robust income. Hugh must continue to economise and endure a few more lean years before he and his estate workers could at last breathe easy, assuming Everburgh wasn’t stolen out from under him. ‘I was thinking of engaging Featherton and Associates.’

‘A good firm, but not the one for something like this. You need Allenton and Associates, one of their best barristers used to work for me, I trained him up. He knows the case you’re referring to and has handled other matters dealing with questionable contacts. He’s the best for you.’

And expensive, Hugh thought, but in a matter like this he could not afford to be stingy. He would find a way to obtain the money to pay for their services, he had no choice. ‘I’ll be certain to engage them.’

The footman tried to set a snifter of brandy before Hugh, but he waved it away.

‘Is there another spirit I can offer you, Lord Delamare?’ the footman asked, eager like his employer to make the guests happy.

‘None, thank you.’

‘Nothing to warm the soul on a cold night?’ Sir Nathaniel asked, taking up his drink.

‘I warmed my soul one too many times on both cold and hot nights to realise I need to return to simpler more noble pursuits, such as my estate.’

‘An admirable choice a number of gentlemen would do well to make.’ Sir Nathaniel regarded him with an appraising look, the kind Hugh usually saw in mamas sizing him up at balls as a potential catch before they wrinkled their noses in displeasure and moved on to greener and less tarnished pastures. Hugh waited for Sir Nathaniel to do the same, but instead he took a deep sip of his drink and set it down, more admiration in his expression than reprimand.

‘If you’d like, I can write to Allenton and Associates to recommend you to them so you receive their best service,’ Sir Nathaniel offered.

‘I’d like that very much.’ This raised his spirits more than brandy ever could. This was not the usual reaction he received from those who’d appraised him of late, especially those with whom he was not well acquainted. There was no reason for Sir Nathaniel to assist him, but Hugh was glad of his kindness and generosity and would do all he could to deserve it.

It was then Lord Westbook sat forward, his long and narrow face punctuated by a too snake-like smile. ‘I’m sure your turn towards temperance in this and other pursuits will help you a great deal in your case, Lord Delamare.’

Hugh pinned the man with a hard stare, in no mood to share any of his personal matters with this weasel. ‘My behaviour has no bearing on the enforcement of the law.’

‘Behaviour always has a bearing on cases for judges are men like any other and, given your opponent’s spotless reputation, a judge might look upon him more favourably than he does you.’

‘Careful how you call my reputation into question, Lord Westbook, or I may find a way to revive it in your eyes with a more formal challenge,’ Hugh growled in a low voice. Thankfully, Mr Alton asked Sir Nathaniel a question, drawing his attention away from the less-than-civil turn in Hugh and Lord Westbook’s conversation.

Lord Westbook went pale beneath his ruddy complexion, his spine not so stiff when faced with a challenge more formidable than making society ladies titter with delight at scandalous tales in order to secure an invitation to yet another party.

Hugh rather hoped Lord Westbook was man enough to force his hand, but Hugh didn’t wish to be rude to their host or to lose Sir Nathaniel’s newfound respect by calling out a fellow guest. Nor did he appreciate the kernel of truth in Lord Westbook’s nasty words. Hugh might not have done more than most lords in London, but he’d been careless in keeping it discreet. Lord Westbook was right. If his matter came before the wrong judge, Hugh’s past behaviour might be taken into account. It made his need to be impeccable and avoid any whiff of scandal from here on out far more pressing.

* * *

‘Lady Kingston, we haven’t had a chance to speak since you arrived.’ Lady Fulton squeezed in between Clara and Lady Pariston where they sat on the sofa, enjoying the fire and a great deal of catching up. Anne had been forced to leave the women directly after dinner to help take care of poor Lillie who’d eaten too many sweets and become sick in the nursery where the rest of the children dined. From across the new arrival, Lady Pariston threw Clara a sympathetic and curious look, both of them wondering what in the world Lady Fulton could possibly have to speak with Clara about. Lord Fulton was an agreeable man, but his considerably younger wife, who’d possessed more mercantile money than lineage before becoming Lady Fulton, wasn’t such a charming delight. She was tall and slender, and although her bloom had faded she was still attractive. However, her constant sneer did a great deal to temper it. ‘I must say, your necklace is gorgeous. Was it your mother’s?’

‘No, it was a Christmas present from my late husband,’ Clara answered coolly, irked by the woman’s uninvited intrusion and her ignoring Lady Pariston.

‘He had exquisite taste in jewellery,’ she purred with a covetousness to make Clara think she meant Alfred had more taste in baubles than he did ladies, but she smiled and accepted the compliment with far more graciousness than Lady Fulton deserved. ‘It’s a pity precedence has forced you to waste this display of finery on a man like Lord Delamare. One would think after what happened the last time the two of you were here together that he would have had the decency to stay away. I’m surprised, given his reputation in town, that he was even invited.’ She raised her hand to speak from the back of it as if she and Clara were sharing some great intimacy. ‘As much as I adore Lady Tillman, I’ve always questioned her selection of guests. Sometimes they can be so common.’

Her gaze flicked over Clara, who was certain that Lady Fulton was including her in that collection. Clara’s title might garner her respect, but not from everyone, especially someone like Lady Fulton who, despite the fashionableness of her dark blue evening dress, and the gaudy gold jewellery she wore, could not completely hide her more humble roots.

‘I believe a wide variety of guests always lends a touch of surprise to any gathering. One never knows who one might meet here, isn’t that right, Lady Pariston?’

‘It is,’ the grand dame concurred, too old to be ruffled by a parvenu like Lady Fulton. ‘Who knows what might come of new friendships.’

‘But they aren’t all new, are they?’ Lady Fulton leaned closer to Clara, her look of affected concern as sickening as her overly sweet perfume. ‘It can’t be easy for you to see him again.’

Clara sat up straighter so she could peer down her nose at the rude woman. Whatever impression she’d made on Lady Fulton in the hallway before dinner had worn off. It was time to assert herself again. ‘I find it as easy to see him as I do to see those who overstep the bounds of propriety by speaking too intimately to their betters.’

Lady Fulton jerked back and pressed her thin lips tight together at having been put in her place and by Clara of all people. Clearly she hadn’t expected this show of spirit and if she hadn’t risen at that moment to seek out other companionship, she would have tasted a great deal more of it. Clara almost wished she had stayed for, with her hackles raised and the tension still lingering from dinner, a little tiff would help her sit much easier on the sofa while they waited for the men to join them.

‘Well done, Lady Kingston,’ Lady Pariston congratulated, patting her on the knee. ‘You stood up to her as you should.’

‘I wish it hadn’t been necessary to do so.’ But Lady Fulton had been the one to strike the first blow. Who was she to cast any aspersions on Clara or even Hugh? Yet she’d felt bold enough to do it simply because of Hugh’s presence and their unfortunate seating at the dinner table. ‘With any luck, that will put an end to any of her other observations about me, at least in public.’

She could not control what they said in private any more than she could command Hugh to leave. She could only hope that nothing else happened this weekend to give that vile woman or anyone else more cause to look down their noses at her or to insist on seeing her as nothing more than the awkward young girl she’d once been. She would not be made to feel inconsequential again, not by Lady Fulton and certainly not by Hugh.

‘Care less what others think and you’ll be happier, I promise,’ Lady Pariston instructed, as if able to hear her doubts about herself and this week. ‘Besides, the way Lord Delamare regarded you tonight won’t silence anyone’s tongues and if they’re going to whisper then you might as well give them something worth whispering about. A house party is as good a place as any to do it.’

‘Lady Pariston!’ Clara could not believe she was having this conversation with a woman who could be her grandmother or that Lady Pariston was suggesting that Hugh had regarded her with a great deal of interest. The only thing he was probably interested in was her money.

‘Oh, don’t look so shocked. You’d be surprised by what all these ladies get up to, but you won’t hear about it because they’re discreet. I was discreet, too, and oh, I did have my fun, not when I was married, mind you, but on a number of occasions afterwards.’ She laid a wrinkled and bejewelled hand on her chest and smiled with winsome pride. ‘With a little discretion you could get up to a little trouble with that fine specimen of a marquess yourself.’

First Anne, now Lady Pariston. There were times when Clara seemed like the only one who cared about the blemishes of Hugh’s past. ‘I’ve already had enough trouble with Lord Delamare and, judging by what I’ve heard of him, he’s had a fair amount of his own trouble.’

‘Good, it means he knows his way around a woman.’ Lady Pariston winked at her before throwing back her head and laughing. Clara’s cheeks began to burn as people turned to view them before returning to their amusement. Then Lady Pariston sobered and faced her again. ‘Seriously, my dear, you have been placed in this position at far too young an age and now you must make the best of it. Don’t work so hard to please others, only yourself, and if that pleasure should include the young man, then so be it.’

Clara waved her hand in front of her face against the heat of the fire. ‘I assure you, what I want does not include Lord Delamare.’

‘Don’t be so set against it. It does no good for a woman to be alone, especially when there is a man willing to keep her company.’ Lady Pariston sat back, regarding her out of the corner of her eyes as if she didn’t believe for a moment what Clara had said.

Clara laid her hand in her lap with a sigh. She could insist it was true but there was no point. Lady Pariston was right, people would believe what they wanted and Clara should not be guided by a desire to try to control it. All she could control was how she responded to everyone, including Hugh, but she had no energy to do any more of that tonight. Rising, she offered the ladies goodnight and took her leave, unwilling to wait for the arrival of the men.

It would be a pleasure to be alone in her room where no one expected more of her than blowing out her candle before she fell asleep and she didn’t need to deal with the issue of Hugh and how to handle him while she was here. She wasn’t about to follow Lady Pariston’s advice, but she was at a loss for her own ideas about what to do. She needed her rest if she was going to face more of it tomorrow. Heaven knew this was not how she’d expected this week to be.

Chapter Three

‘You and Lord Delamare were quite silent at dinner last night,’ Anne remarked, taking the empty seat beside Clara in the sitting room where all the guests were gathering for the traditional partnering for the week’s activities. The ladies wore their sturdy pelisses and shoes and held their leather gloves in anticipation of an outside game. The weather had remained pleasant if not cold and everyone was sure the Tillmans would take advantage of it to amuse their guests. The men were equally bundled up in heavier coats and redingotes, but everyone had undone the top few buttons to keep from sweltering in the warm sitting room.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.