by Georgie Lee
‘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 whit
e 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.