His Mistletoe Marchioness

by Georgie Lee

  He was about to pull back his hand and admit the futility of trying to reach out to her when she slowly stretched out her hand and finally took his.

  The coldness of the trees overhead seemed to vanish as he stared into her eyes, the clouds of their breath meeting in the space between them. This gesture should have been nothing more than the sealing of a bargain, but it wasn’t. While he held on to her, the time that had passed and all the heartache that had filled it between today and six years ago disappeared. She was simply young Clara again and he was taking the first tentative steps towards making her so much more. If he could draw her to him and slide his arm around her waist and bend her into the curve of his body to taste her full lips, he would. He wanted to make her wide eyes close with a sigh while he clasped her small body against his. If he could touch her so intimately, then maybe he could touch the Hugh he used to be, the one not corrupted by disappointment and his own failings, but a man she’d at one time admired and craved.

  Instead, he let go of her and lowered his hand, the delicate imprint of her fingers on the back of his as vivid as her pale skin against the darker tones of her hair. They would never again mean what they had to each other back then, but at least the painful stiffness between them and her low opinion of him might change. If he could redeem himself in her eyes and receive her forgiveness, he could redeem himself in everyone’s eyes and perhaps forgive himself. It was a goal he longed to obtain.

  * * *

  Clara let go of Hugh, but she didn’t step away from him. Instead, she continued to stare at him, doing all she could to hide how stunned she was by his ready agreement and how easily she might have fallen into his arms and repeated all her prior mistakes when his hand had touched hers. When she’d spoken, she’d braced herself, expecting him to laugh off or dismiss her concerns as nothing more than an overactive imagination such as the one she’d employed when she’d thought that he would propose. She hadn’t expected this ready agreement or the heat in his eyes that had threatened to melt the icicles hanging on the branches above them. If she had stepped closer to him, tilted back her head in invitation, she was certain he would have taken her in his arms and kissed her, and she wouldn’t have stopped him. It was madness and she smoothed her hand over the front of her pelisse, trying to shake the feel of his fingers wrapped around hers, relieved the moment had passed.

  I’ve spent too much time listening to Lady Pariston and Anne and it has muddled my thoughts.

  Their tenuous truce would never hold if she fawned on him as she had six years ago. Besides, it was plain that their time together, for whatever it was worth, was long gone and while she might be lonely since Alfred’s passing, she wasn’t so lonely as to mistake Hugh for a man capable of easing it with both discretion and genuine affection. With a shaking hand she raised the crumpled parchment to read it, thinking they’d better get on with the hunt and stop dallying around before they found themselves in who knew what trouble. ‘We should read the clues and see where to go before we run out of time and have no objects to our credit.’

  ‘We can’t have that.’

  ‘Imagine how thrilled Lord Westbook and Lady Fulton would be to brag about besting a marquess and a marchioness in something as simple as a game.’ She was certain that after the way Lady Fulton had approached her last night and at the start of the game, the woman would continue to do all she could to try to knock Clara down a peg or two. This odd pairing gave her more ammunition to do it with.

  ‘Judging by the way she spoke to you at the start of the hunt, I see you’ve suffered the privilege of being the topic of one of Lord Westbook’s stories or on the receiving end of Lady Fulton’s sharp tongue.’

  ‘More than once. I understand Lord Westbook, but I can’t see why Lady Fulton has to be so difficult.’

  ‘Because she’s jealous of you.’

  ‘Jealous?’ It didn’t seem possible.

  ‘By belittling you, she hopes to raise herself up. You have a kindness and beauty that she lacks and where she bargained her money for a title, you achieved yours through love.’

  ‘I’d never considered it that way.’ Strange it should be Hugh who pointed it out and called her beautiful. She clasped the sides of the parchment tight against the compliment, afraid to read too much into it. It was his way of honouring the truce and nothing more. ‘We can’t let them beat us.’

  ‘Then read the clue and let’s win this game.’

  She cleared her throat and read out the first clue. ‘A thing with no hands that helps a man.’

  He came to stand behind her, looking over her shoulder at Lady Tillman’s fine Italian script. The strong scent of his sandalwood shaving soap made more potent by the crisp morning air took her by surprise. She shook off the temptation to tilt her head back against his shoulder and inhale by reading the words again. She could forgive him for what had happened but it didn’t mean she should forget it or what he’d made of himself since. His prior behaviour told her more about him than any of his compliments ever could and she must believe this above all other things. ‘What do you think the clue means?’

  ‘Hmmm, something helpful, but with no hands.’ Thankfully, he stepped away from her to ponder it, stroking the fine line of his jaw with his fingers, his eyes raised to the sky as if the answer were written in the grey and white clouds passing overhead. In this stance, he reminded her of the boy who used to come to Winsome Manor to study with Adam during holidays, not the wastrel Marquess he’d become. If only he could have held on to that innocence and sense of youth, but, as Clara well knew, mourning had a way of ageing a person. ‘A tool, perhaps, something in the carpenter’s shed?’

  Clara shook her head. ‘Lady Tillman may not stand on convention, but she wouldn’t send her guests there. No, it has to be something closer to the house.’

  Across the lawn and somewhere beyond the trees, they heard other guests talking and laughing while they puzzled out different clues or moved on to a new one.

  ‘We’d better figure it out soon or we’ll be the only ones who don’t find anything.’

  Clara snapped her fingers, her gloves muffling the sound. ‘I know what it is. It’s a sundial.’

  ‘A clock with no hands and a clock is helpful to man,’ Hugh mused. ‘Well done, Clara, but where’s a sundial? I didn’t notice one in the garden when I was out there walking yesterday.’

  She ignored his use of her familiar name, guiltily enjoying how it sounded in the deep tones of his voice. She shouldn’t allow him to be so familiar with her, but if she chided him for it then the truce might end and the awkwardness she dreaded would return. ‘It isn’t in the garden, but at the top of a rise in a clearing overlooking the lake.’

  ‘Then lead the way.’

  Chapter Four

  Clara and Hugh raced along the crushed gravel path that meandered through the trees to where it opened on to the lake near the bottom of a gently sloping hill. Along the bank of the lake, the path continued, disappearing up into a thick patch of trees that sat on a small hill overlooking the water.

  ‘There’s the path,’ Clara announced when they were out in the open. Taking up the hem of her skirt, she made for it and Hugh followed close beside her. Their progress slowed a touch when the ground began to rise, the pace of their breathing increasing as each step became a little harder.

  ‘Are you sure there’s anything up there?’ Hugh asked, not nearly as winded as Clara during the climb. Through the thick branches, they could barely see the lake or believe that this tangle of leafless ash and oak trees would ever break into something open.

  ‘Yes, I’m certain it’s there, but the area around the path has grown up so much I think most people who were aware of it have forgotten the way. The rest probably don’t know it’s here.’

  ‘What makes you remember it so well?’

  She raised her hem a little higher to step over a fallen branch. ‘My mother and
I used to walk here during our visits with Father for the hunting season. The view of Stonedown from the top is magnificent.’ The closer they drew to the crest the quicker Clara moved despite the exertion of the climb and the constant dodging of rocks and dead branches. For a moment this was more than a scavenger hunt, but a brief chance to touch a part of her past that was as painful as the loss of her husband. With the stone sundial coming into view, the memory of her and her mother racing out from the line of the trees to see who could reach it first overcame her. She’d always win and her mother would laugh before standing with her arm around Clara to take in the view of Stonedown. Clara didn’t race to the sundial this morning, but approached it with solemn reverence, the happy memory bittersweet. She was tired of mourning, of losing and regretting, and yet here she stood at this once-meaningful site with Hugh, one of the most potent regrets she’d ever endured.

  She touched the sundial, running her hand along the front of it. So many times she’d tried to puzzle out the time, but reading the sundial, unlike retaining some Latin, was a skill she’d never mastered no matter how many times her mother had demonstrated how to do it. With no sun out today, there wasn’t even the chance to try. She missed her mother and father and the happy days as a family with them at Winsome before their passing had left her with an inheritance and all the insecurities of a young woman without a mother to guide her through the pitfalls of society. If her mother had lived, perhaps Clara wouldn’t have stumbled with Hugh, or been left to find her own way when it came to dresses and carrying herself and dealing with people like Lady Fulton.

  Clara’s melancholy turn must have shown on her face for Hugh came up on the opposite side of the sundial and rested his big hands on the solid surface.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  Clara thought of some flippant answer she could give him about being winded from their walk, but, like the real concern he’d shown her on the stairs last night, it was clear by the grave tone of his voice that he genuinely wanted to know. She owed his kindness a touch of truth untainted by any past bitterness. ‘I was thinking of my mother and how much I miss her and my father at this time of year. Some days it feels as if I’ve spent too many Christmases mourning loved ones.’

  ‘I know.’ He tapped one carved Roman numeral with his fingers. ‘Three Christmases before we...’ The rest of the sentence drifted away with the breeze. Clara nodded to tell him he didn’t need to speak the words because, like him, she knew the story, too. He said nothing more about the incident as he continued. ‘I lost my father. It was difficult that first season to look around the table and realise someone so important was missing and how much that loss had changed me and everything. Then, after Hermione and my mother, every year has grown harder to bear. It’s a lonely table now.’

  ‘I know. Loss changes so much,’ Clara whispered, once again struck by how strange it was that she could talk with him about her grief without shame or embarrassment. She shouldn’t do so, but after keeping it bottled up for so long, afraid people would tire of listening to it or tell her that she should move past it, it was nice to speak with someone who genuinely understood, even if that someone was Hugh.

  * * *

  Hugh peered out over the water, the rippled surface of which had turned silver with the grey clouds covering the sky above it. Loss had changed him a great deal, far more than he cared to dwell on either silently or with Clara. He’d gone from the son of a marquess who’d been willing to set aside the desires of his own heart to do his duty to his family to a wastrel in London, cursing duty and determined to blot out the pain and guilt of his wife’s loss through wine and women. He’d done everything asked of him and it still hadn’t mattered and yet, in turning his back on his responsibilities, he’d made the pain even worse.

  ‘You miss your wife?’ Clara’s sweet voice drew him away from the torment of his mistakes and back to her and the stunning countryside surrounding them.

  ‘You seem surprised,’ Hugh countered, but not in accusation. Hers had been a soft question of surprise and Hugh wasn’t upset by Clara asking it. Everyone had known that his and Hermione’s marriage had not been a love match.

  ‘The last three years might indicate otherwise.’

  ‘My exploits in London were greatly exaggerated.’

  ‘All the actresses, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. There were one or two, but their company is not as enjoyable as that of a woman of quality.’ Hugh swallowed hard, sick again at the kind of man he’d become. He only hoped it wasn’t too late to redeem himself and become again the honourable and noble man he’d once been.

  ‘But still you dallied.’

  ‘There are many reasons a man seeks out diversions in London, sometimes it’s to be reckless and sometimes it’s to forget. Hermione and I may not have gone to the altar in love, but we came to love one another through our work to finish what my father and mother had started at Everburgh. She shared my desire and willingness to do whatever it took to rebuild it and to make sacrifices to see that it, and the line, endured.’

  He balled his fists against the pain, not sure why he was telling Clara this. They were not intimates or confidants, but in the soft, patient manner with which she regarded him, he couldn’t hold back. In London, there had been many people willing to drink and carouse with him, but none eager to listen to or ease the grief he carried, the one he’d tried to ignore and forget with one more glass of brandy or one more evening with Lady Frances. When he’d run into Adam in London last Season, he’d thought his old friend someone he could confide in, but Adam and Anne were too happily married and certain of the solidness of their life together for Adam to do more than listen with sympathy. He couldn’t understand Hugh’s pain the way Clara did. ‘The day I lost Hermione was one of the most difficult of my life. She’d been with child, but lost it early. All should have been well and we should have gone on to have more chances and time together but the midwife, and later the doctor, couldn’t stop the bleeding. When I pressed them for answers, all they could say was that sometimes this happens and they didn’t know why. That night, I sat with her, encouraging and willing her to live, but the weaker she grew, the less she heard me until she was gone. I should have known she wasn’t meant to have children and been more cautious with her, but she wanted so much to do her duty as a marchioness and give me a son that she hid the true depth of her weakness from me and everyone.’

  ‘You aren’t to blame for what happened.’ Clara reached out and covered his hand with hers, the motion impulsive and uncalculated, just as she’d always been. ‘Sadly, it’s all too common even with the strongest of women.’

  ‘But she died for nothing. I married her for money. I admit that, but I didn’t do it out of greed. I did it to preserve everything my parents spent their lives trying to achieve. Although I came to love her, even her dowry wasn’t enough to make Everburgh completely safe or free from worry. Despite every sacrifice that I and Hermione made, I’m still dealing with problems and on the verge of losing everything again. It’s the reason I turned my back on duty when I was in London, for I did my duty and Hermione tried to do hers, and what did it gain us? Nothing.’ Hugh wanted to smash the sundial to pieces until the pain inside him was smashed, too. Duty had once been the noblest reason for anyone to act, but it had become a chain that could kill the people bound to him, including his parents and his wife. He took a deep breath and unclenched his hand, refusing to allow the dark hate and anger that had nearly trampled him in London to claim him once again. ‘Without her I was lost and a lost man is apt to lose his way in other regards.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll soon find your way again.’ Clara’s grip on his hand tightened and she leaned towards him with a conviction to admire. ‘I’m trying to find my way, too.’

  ‘You don’t seem as if you’ve lost your head.’ He turned his hand over in hers and held it tight. Their gloves separated their flesh, but not the warmth between t
hem and he clung to it and her, drawing comfort from both.

  ‘I have in my own way. After Alfred’s death, I cloistered myself at Winsome, avoiding the world and thinking that in doing so I could stop the pain, but it only made it worse. I can’t live like that, without hope or prospect of a better future, nor would Alfred have wanted me to.’

  ‘You don’t deserve to be unhappy, but to enjoy life here or wherever you choose.’

  ‘Some day we’ll both be happy and all this awful business will be behind us, not entirely forgotten, but not so present and troubling.’ She smiled and the sight of it swept the chill off Hugh in a way nothing else in the last three years, not all the brandy or his time with his mistress or anything, ever had.

  ‘Yes, we will.’ He gently squeezed her hand, eager to hold on to her and the contentment surrounding them for as long as he could, but it didn’t last. From somewhere in the trees behind them, the voices of a man and woman made the birds stop twittering and Clara let go of Hugh.

  ‘This way, I tell you it’s here. I used to come here with my mother,’ Adam’s voice declared as he tugged Anne out of the line of the trees and into the clearing. They held hands, laughing and smiling, the love and ease between them obvious and admirable. There were few among their class who could claim such joy in their union, but Anne and Adam’s marriage had been a love match, one for any couple to admire and emulate. Hugh hoped very much that he and Clara might soon meet people who would allow them to join their ranks. The fleeting thought that they could find such happiness together whispered through his mind before he pushed it aside.

  Adam and Anne jerked to a halt, but the laughing smiles on their faces only grew wider. They exchanged a knowing look and Hugh could practically feel the heat of Clara’s blush from across the sundial. Thankfully they hadn’t caught Hugh and Clara holding hands. Their gesture of comfort was innocent enough, but Hugh knew other people wouldn’t take it that way. Thankfully, it was Anne and Adam who’d stumbled on them. They would be more discreet than someone like Lord Westbook, but how the two of them felt about what some might view as Hugh dallying with Clara again remained to be seen. Blaming it on the spirit of the game would only go so far and like society and Sir Nathaniel’s good opinion, Adam’s was one that Hugh didn’t wish to lose.