His Mistletoe Marchioness

by Georgie Lee

  * * *

  Hugh stood at the bottom of the stairs while the other guests formed up on the steps behind him. He adjusted his cravat and his shirtsleeves for the hundredth time since coming downstairs. After he’d taken leave of Clara at the end of the scavenger hunt, Hugh had done everything he could to distract himself from thinking about her. He’d sought out Lord Tillman to ask his advice about the case facing Everburgh. He’d played billiards with Lord Missington and accepted Lord Wortley’s effusive thanks for the brandy which, judging by the high flush on the youth’s cheeks, he and Lady Pariston had decided to enjoy the moment the scavenger-hunt party had dispersed. Hugh had then gone to his room to correspond with his man of affairs about Sir Nathaniel’s referral and the suggestions Lord Tillman had made. All these things had distracted Hugh for a while, but none of them had kept thoughts of Clara completely at bay.

  During the hunt, she’d lived up to her promise to enjoy herself with him, casting no more disparaging remarks at him and even looking on him with admiration when he’d admitted to giving the win to Lady Pariston. That look had meant more to Hugh than the sultry pouts of any of the actresses he’d ever had on his arm, any race he’d ever made in Rotten Row and even the winning shot in the duel with Lord Cecil. It had told him that he could change, that he could be a better man again because she was beginning to see him as one. It hadn’t been his goal in giving the win to Lady Pariston to garner Clara’s admiration. He’d simply wanted to make an old woman and a young lord who deserved to enjoy the season as much as anyone happy. He knew what it was like to be left behind and forgotten because of poverty or a myriad of other reasons. It’s why he’d always liked Adam and his family. Whenever he’d stayed with the Extons during school holidays, they’d never made him feel poor or pitied for his predicament of coming from a distinguished line and not having a pot to piss in. He’d wanted to return a measure of the kindness he’d received where he could. Until this weekend, chances had eluded him, as had the look of admiration Clara had offered him. For a moment, it had taken him back six years, before Lord Matthews’s letter had arrived, before his mistakes in London, when every possibility of being happy with Clara had still been real and obtainable. The glimmer that it might be again had lingered in her proud smile and the feeling had been difficult to shake. It was also a dangerous one to entertain.

  There couldn’t be more between them, especially not while they were under the same roof. Everyone here probably knew about his relationship with Lady Frances and they probably looked on Clara as soon sharing the same predicament, but she wouldn’t. She would be no man’s mistress, especially not Hugh’s, for he wouldn’t blot her reputation in such a way nor would he leave this party with her an object of pity like he had before. She didn’t deserve such shabby treatment or a tarnished man like Hugh. Even if, like Adam, she could look past all his faults, the past still stood between them, along with Hugh’s current financial difficulties. Affection could not bloom beneath the weight of doubts about him and his motives for pursuing her.

  The shuffling of feet on the stairs behind him drew Hugh out of his thoughts and he turned to see the guests parting as Clara descended. The earrings dangling from her ears sparkled in the candlelight of the entrance-hall chandelier and glistened against the smooth skin of her neck above the round mounds of her breasts. The rich, deep red silk of her dress heightened the paleness of her skin and brought out the darker tones in her hair. She held her head high with a self-possession to make his chest and other places constrict and nodded like a queen to everyone who greeted her. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, especially when she turned her smile on him and she appeared to glow even brighter. Last night, she’d viewed being beside him with all the derision that he’d thrown at duty after Hermione’s death, but not tonight. More than one of the gentlemen she passed admired her figure and Hugh’s chest filled with pride. She was coming to stand beside him and lead them into the dining room.

  Except she wasn’t his Marchioness and she carried another man’s name.

  Regret gripped him as hard as desire. If things had been different six years ago, then she would be here tonight as his wife, with their children in the nursery, the two of them free to enjoy one another’s company at dinner and for as many hours afterwards as they wished in the darkness of his room, but that wasn’t the way things had ended. Hugh had made another choice and it had cost him any chance of ever having her.

  He let out a long breath when she stepped down off the final step and came to stand beside him and laid her gloved hand on his arm. Her touch was light but powerful, making the manor and the other guests fade away. He was proud to give her the sturdiness of his support even if she didn’t need it. It was, as the glittering diamonds encircling her neck and rising and falling with each of her long breaths reminded him, the only thing he could offer her. He could not adorn her with dresses and jewellery or even provide her with a house to manage that wasn’t plagued by troubles or threatened with ruin. He couldn’t even offer her a title. Where precedence and the fate of the name drawing had brought her close to him, reality placed her far beyond his reach. He cursed again his weak and debauched grandfather and all the troubles he’d left for Hugh to correct. The most he could do was enjoy this moment and the brief time that Clara was in his presence.

  ‘You look stunning tonight.’ He laid his other hand on top of hers, encasing it in warmth against the chilliness of the main hall. A blush spread across the bridge of her nose and the spattering of freckles marring the fine white skin, adding to her loveliness more than any of the jewels or even the fancy combs in her hair. It reminded him that she was still, in many ways, the Clara he’d first fallen in love with even if he was no longer the Hugh who had captured her heart.

  ‘You’re quite striking, too.’ She tilted her head a touch to look at him from the corner of her eyes, a teasing smile drawing up the fullness of her cheeks. ‘I think your London tailor suits you very well.’

  London was not a place he wished to think of right now. ‘This isn’t from London, but from a local man in the village. I do my best to give him as much work as I can. With Everburgh slowly recovering, I must share with those on my estate what little prosperity we’ve enjoyed these last few years.’

  ‘But isn’t it the fashion to shop in Jermyn Street? You wouldn’t want society to consider you unfashionable,’ she teased, but there was admiration behind her merriment and he wanted more of it than even the prosperity of his manor, to believe that there might be something more potent between them than this tenuous friendship, a chance to reclaim not just his past reputation but his worthiness to pursue her.

  ‘I don’t care what society thinks of me as long as I’m helping those in my care to thrive.’

  ‘Is that really the only time you don’t care?’ she asked with disbelief.

  He could almost hear her thinking the same thing so many matrons did when they spied him—a cross between wanting to protect their daughters from the rumours they’d heard about him and their desire to believe that they weren’t true because it better suited their pursuit of a marquess. Except it wasn’t a title or his lands that Clara sought, but a man of trustworthiness and honesty. Not for the first time in the last few months he cursed having been so flippant with his reputation. ‘It is.’

  ‘What about at the gambling tables?’ she asked with a much prettier tone of reprimand than his mother used to employ. She used to scold him like the devil whenever he saw her, afraid he was going down the same path as his grandfather and wanting to stop him, but she hadn’t been able to. That decision had needed to come from Hugh. That it had come too late for his mother to witness was another regret to add to the pile.

  ‘I don’t gamble.’ It was the one vice not even he, in his disgust with the world and fate, could not lower himself to indulge in. He was angry at duty and how all the things he’d been taught to believe in had failed him, but he wasn’t a sadistic fool. He wouldn�
��t allow that weakness to erode the few gains that doing his duty had provided or prove beyond a doubt to everyone, and especially himself, that he was as bad a wastrel as his grandfather. Even in his darkest moments he’d held on to the pride of knowing that he was nothing like that man.

  ‘Then when you enjoy your claret at the club?’ she prodded.

  Sadly, this hit a touch too close to the mark for he’d out drunk more than one lord, winning a considerable sum in a challenge once for being able to remain upright long after his opponent had collapsed on to the floor. It was another victory in which Hugh had taken no real pride, especially when his opponent had become so sick there were fears he would expire from his excesses. Guilt and shame washed over Hugh. For a time, he’d been an ugly man, but he couldn’t change it, he could only strive to redeem himself. ‘At one time I indulged at my club, but not any more. I’ve given up drink. I’ve seen the damage it can do and no longer have a taste for it.’

  ‘Then I commend you for your admirable changes.’

  She wouldn’t commend him if she knew half of what he’d done, but she didn’t and for the moment he could enjoy her tender smile and bask in her approval, no matter how brief it might be.

  * * *

  The invitation to proceed into the dining room was made and Clara tightened her hold on Hugh’s arm, conscious of the thickness of the muscle beneath his fine wool coat. Together they strode into the red-wallpapered room, the walk giving her a chance to consider everything he’d told her. She wanted to believe in the good in Hugh, to trust what she’d seen of him today, but it was hard. During her first and only Season in London, she’d learned that what a man said wasn’t as important as what he did. Hugh might speak well of helping those he cared about, but he’d all but turned his back on those in his care when he’d gone dissolute in London. He might have been on the verge once of asking for her hand, but he’d walked away in an instant to marry a richer woman. These actions spoke louder than any of his words, and yet with each strong stride he took beside her, the patient way he waited for her to take the seat next to him before taking his, and the many smiles he brushed her with that she couldn’t help but meet, she grew more and more confused about what to think of him.

  She flicked out her napkin and set it over her lap while the footman slid in between them and filled her wine glass before moving on to fill Hugh’s. Clara watched Hugh out of the corner of her eye, wondering if he would ignore the drink or if his having sworn off spirits had been a lie intended to bring him further into her good graces. She shouldn’t be watching him or concerning herself with his habits. They were none of her business, but she couldn’t help herself. Life in the country had become very boring indeed if, in the middle of a lively dinner, this was how she chose to amuse herself.

  When Lord Tillman gave a toast to Lord Wortley and Lady Pariston, Clara raised her glass, unable to stop herself from checking to see if Hugh reached for his. He didn’t take up the wine, but chose instead the orange juice that had also been provided. Even after the footmen took away the fish and set down the meat, then went around the table with the red wine, leaning past Hugh to fill his glass, it remained on the table in front of him to turn to vinegar in the same way the white had been left. He didn’t even appear to notice nor reach for it before jerking back his hand in remembrance of what he’d told her about abstaining.

  When Lord Wortley, obviously under the influence of the brandy he’d won and the wine served at dinner, made a toast to their host, everyone took up their glasses again. Clara watched Hugh, waiting to see if he would slip, but again he raised his orange juice glass and, feeling her watching him, furrowed his brow at her in curiosity.

  Clara smiled nervously, guilty about trying to catch him out. She shouldn’t be so petty and want him to fail, but wish for him to succeed in bettering himself in the same way she was trying to improve herself. He had a great many sins to atone for, but at least he was trying.

  ‘Are you enjoying your orange juice?’ she asked.

  ‘I am.’ He tilted his glass to her. ‘Are you not having any?’

  ‘I will have some, along with a little bit of a confession.’ She dropped her voice so as not to be heard by the others.

  ‘I’m listening.’ He set down his orange juice and took up his knife and fork, listing a touch towards her to hear what she had to say while he cut his mutton. ‘What sins have you committed that I need to hear about?’

  She pushed her meat through the gravy on her plate, certain he wouldn’t care to listen to her sins as much as she would like to hear some of his. They were probably more interesting and a touch less embarrassing, at least for her. She was only revealing this because she wanted to stop herself from being so petty and for acting like a woman who had nothing more to occupy her time than chewing over old slights. It was the sort of thing a country mouse would do. ‘I’ve been wrong in regards to my opinion of you.’

  He paused in the cutting of his mutton and stared at his plate for what felt like ages before he finished slicing through his meat. She waited for him to turn hard eyes on her and for the stony silence that had settled between them last night to return, but it didn’t.

  ‘Wrong in what regards?’ It was the same tone her mother used to employ when waiting for Clara to tell her the truth about why a particular vase was broken or one of the slices of cake was missing at tea time.

  Clara took a deep breath, hesitant to be so honest, but it was more for herself than him, a way to finally let go. ‘About the man I thought you’d become since the last time we knew one another. I have not been entirely correct in my assumptions about you.’

  He slipped a piece of mutton into his mouth and chewed it for a long while, leaving her to wonder about his response. If someone had frankly told her about their low opinion of her she wouldn’t react with this much patience, but snarl at them the way she had Lady Fulton. Hugh did neither, but set down his knife and fork and fingered the stem of his orange-juice glass before finally answering. ‘No, you weren’t wrong. I was that man deserving of your low opinion. I still am for the way I behaved in London and with you.’

  ‘Why did you court me when you knew you couldn’t?’ Clara asked without thinking, wanting the answer to the old question, the one that had cast her value as a desired woman into doubt, despite even Alfred’s attention and love. She would not live with that lingering doubt any longer.

  Hugh glanced down the table to where Anne watched them before a question from Lord Tillman drew her attention away. His voice was barely above a whisper when he answered. ‘I never thought the negotiations with Lord Matthews would come to anything. I thought I was free to follow my heart, but I wasn’t.’

  ‘Yes, you were, until you decided you weren’t.’ She checked her irritation, lowering her voice to match his and keep the conversation discreet between them. She shouldn’t be looking back or allowing the old wound to smart so much, but with Hugh and the truth laid out before her like the table settings it was difficult not to confront.

  Hugh smoothed his napkin over his lap. ‘I’ve never been free, Clara, not in the way you and Adam are, unaware of what it’s like to struggle, to wonder if there will be food on the table, heat or even a roof over your head, to watch your parents ruin their health while they work to free themselves and the estate of crippling debt and court cases.’

  ‘But I had money.’

  ‘Not enough and the debts would have taken it all. I would have dragged you down into poverty with me, ensuring that the suffering and hardship my family endured for twenty years would be visited upon you and our children. I don’t want my sons growing up with a great title and threadbare clothes like I did, to see them cold in the winter and hungry every time the harvest failed, to have everything their station should allow them to enjoy sit just beyond their reach and me unable to do anything about it. I saw what that regret did to my parents and I couldn’t do that to you or to any future ch
ildren.’ He took a deep breath, staring at the delicate check pattern in the tablecloth while he continued. ‘My parents made so many sacrifices for me that when I inherited the estate, I wanted nothing more than to give my mother an easier life free from worry so that her last years would be a comfort instead of a struggle. With a single church ceremony, I was able to do that. You’re right. I shouldn’t have courted you, but I was young and inexperienced in the way of things and while we were here together I couldn’t see the potential consequences, only you and how happy we were together.’

  Clara studied him, his face soft with his sincerity and the unspoken desire for her to understand. In his eyes, she caught the faint reflection of the moment he’d stood across from her in the library six years ago. She’d expected a marriage proposal and he’d told her that he was leaving to marry another. The memory didn’t burn like it used to because she finally understood why he’d behaved as he had. With her, he’d enjoyed a respite from his crushing responsibilities in the same way she’d enjoyed one from her crippling shyness. Reality had stepped in to end it like it sometimes does. The blame she’d held against him so long finally eased. Adam was right, Hugh had possessed good reasons for marrying another. ‘If I’d been in your shoes and seen my mother suffering the way yours had, I would have done the same thing.’

  ‘I appreciate your graciousness. It is a quality most people don’t possess.’

  ‘Then it’s a good thing you’re sitting beside me and not Lady Fulton.’ She smiled at him, easing the tension and seriousness between them.

  ‘It is a good thing indeed.’ He leaned close to her again, the tang of his shaving soap as tantalising as the glimpse of his thigh clad in tan breeches just beneath the white tablecloth edge. ‘Do you remember when Adam and I hid a frog under the silver serving cover for the cook to bring in?’