by Carrie Lomax
All he needed was a few moments alone with Miss Mayweather to ask whether she would have him for a husband. The sooner he negotiated the marriage settlement, the sooner he could go about posting banns. If the prospect of a wedding night with Miss Holly Mayweather left him cold, surely that was for the best. She might appreciate a husband who rarely darkened her door. Or, perhaps their marriage might kindle into flame upon closer acquaintance. For the moment, Finlay had selected his prospective bride the way one might evaluate a horse at auction. Teeth, hair, temperament, health.
No wonder the lady had avoided him.
“Our guest of honor,” spoke Mr. Mayweather as Finlay entered the room. The lady’s dulcet voice trailed off. The pianist hit a wrong note. Finn’s empty belly rumbled loud enough to be heard by others
He cleared his throat and bowed to his future father-in-law. “I am honored to be a part of your celebration this Christmas.”
“You remember my wife, Mrs. Mayweather,” his host said, gesturing to a woman with rosy cheeks and blond curls similar to Holly’s. Finlay did not remember her, a fact he blamed on the distraction of being unable to think of anything but food. Nonetheless he nodded over her gloved hand. Mayweather’s wife beamed up at him. A good sign, Finn thought.
There was a whirlwind introduction to the other guests—men who heartily invited him to go shooting, married women who fluttered their hands at their breasts when he bowed, and youth in the first blooms of adolescence. Holly’s sisters, brothers and cousins were too numerous for his sustenance-deprived brain to track. The one branch of the Mayweather clan missing this evening was Ellis’s mother and sisters. A feeling worse than hunger pinched his heart.
“Would you care for mulled wine, Mr. Weston?” asked Mrs. Mayweather, offering a mug. “It’s just the thing to chase away any lingering chill.”
Finn accepted the vessel with a tight smile. The mere smell of spices and warm alcohol made him faintly sick. Not wanting to offend his hosts, he sipped the strong drink and regretted it immediately. “Thank you,” he replied. “May I have a brief word with Miss Mayweather?”
“Which one? There are eight to choose from,” the lady replied with a teasing twinkle in her eye.
Ha, ha. So clever. Finlay took another sip of the sticky, sweet wine. “I see where Holly gets her wit.”
Mrs. Mayweather laughed as if he had paid her a great compliment. “Oh, very much. My eldest is my mirror image, many say.”
If this was the case, Finlay had an excellent view of the kind of woman Holly would be in twenty years. He wasn’t altogether certain he liked what he saw, in a romantic sense. Then again, if he were twenty years older, he might find the woman immensely attractive. Marriage was less about the heart and more about making a sensible match—and Holly was an eminently sensible choice of wife.
Mrs. Mayweather turned him toward the pianoforte. “Holly, do you remember Mr. Weston?”
The young woman perched elegantly on the edge of the piano bench wore a festive green gown trimmed with gold Vandyke points at the sleeve and hem. Her curls bobbed as she turned to face him with a haughty lift of her chin—quite a remarkable feat, considering how he loomed over her.
“Miss Mayweather,” Finlay intoned, wishing he hadn’t accepted the mug cooling in his hand. Nothing worse than cold mulled wine. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”
Holly Mayweather barely suppressed an eye roll. Her lips stretched in a determined but distinctly unwelcoming smile that kept her even white teeth concealed.
I ought to have remained in my room for the evening. Finn had hoped to complete a transaction, not woo a reluctant bride.
“The pleasure is mine,” Holly replied tightly. “I trust you remember my cousin, Miss Mayweather.” With a smirk, Holly turned to the lady leaning on the pianoforte with one arm.
Her name sprang to Finlay’s lips unbidden. “Amity.”
An electric shock jolted through his body. Finlay swallowed. Strands of dark hair that he’d last seen encrusted with twigs and bits of moss now dangled in glossy threads about her face. Amity Mayweather’s snub nose had lost its freckles. Now it sloped delicately toward full lips and a stubbornly pointed chin. Above it, her green eyes danced with amusement.
His gaze skimmed downward, pulled by an inexorable gravity. My, Amity had grown tall, and round in all the— Shock sluiced through him. When had his best friend’s little sister developed…breasts? The way her pert mounds filled the front of her white linen gown made his jaw tighten.
“Merry Christmas, Finn.”
Finlay Weston braced against the onslaught of memories. Amity hoisting a stick as a sword above her head before knighting him with glancing blows to each shoulder. Her unabashed tackle about his waist took on an altogether inappropriate revision as he forced his gaze upward to meet hers. Hostility glittered in her eyes.
Amity had accurately guessed the course of his thoughts and did not welcome it one bit.
Too bad, that.
3
Even as a growing boy, Amity’s childhood playmate hadn’t demolished a plate of ham the way Mr. Finlay Weston was doing at present. She exchanged glances with her cousin. Holly’s plump mouth smoothed into a flat line as she poked her food with a silver fork, casting a doubtful eye at Finn when he accepted a second large helping. Glutton, Holly’s expression silently accused.
Amity, meanwhile, concentrated on not spilling food on her new gown. To her immense relief, not one person had so much as raised an eyebrow at the sight of snowy-white linen embroidered with tiny red-and-green flowers. The lace at her sleeves and neckline had been carefully detached from the christening gown and sewn to the bodice of her new dress. It was to be removed and replaced upon her return. Her mother had pieced together the plaid accents from a section of the shawl moths had gotten to. Everything precious had gone into crafting this gown. Amity understood this was her mother’s Christmas gift to her.
She also heard the unspoken plea: find a husband. Marry someone, anyone, who might relieve the pressure upon the family’s finances. Amity thought of her sisters and mother sharing a simple roasted chicken and potatoes instead of this sumptuous feast. When she looked at things from a different angle, Finlay Weston’s appetite was perfectly justified. Amity hadn’t seen a feast like this in many years.
Finlay’s dark hair, strong jaw and the sharp slope of his nose gave him a patrician air. He hadn’t always been so serious. There remained no sign of the high-spirited boy she and Ellis had roamed the countryside playing pirates and highwaymen with. Finn had become a stranger in the years since she had last seen him.
Mr. Poker-Arse, Holly called him. Jealousy pooled up inside her like an underground spring eroding the foundation of an ill-situated house. Amity wished her marriage prospects included a wealthy, handsome man like Finn. Holly could afford to take suitors for granted. Amity couldn’t. The uncharitable thought blew away the instant Mr. Mayweather raised a glass of wine. Sixteen adults were crowded around a table made to seat twelve. The children dined separately in the parlor. “I thank everyone who traveled through this historic snowfall to celebrate with us at Wells House this Christmas.”
Amity sensed someone watching her from across the table and lifted her chin higher. It hurt to be a guest in her childhood home, but it was up to her whether she decided to hold on to that hurt or let it go. It was not her affair if Holly took her good fortune for granted—even if Amity couldn’t stop thinking how if she had the interest of a man like Finn, she’d spend the evening smiling up at him no matter how ridiculous it made her appear.
An act that would last all of ten seconds. He knows the tart side of your tongue.
“A special welcome to our guest of honor, Mr. Weston. We hope to soon have news to celebrate,” Mayweather continued.
The gentleman whose name Amity hadn’t quite caught banged his spoon against his wine glass. Others joined suit, and the room filled with the ringing endorsement of Holly’s imminent betrothal. Her cousin’s cheeks turned pi
nk, then red, then scarlet. Finn cracked his first smile since the glimpsing a bread roll beside his dinner plate, as if Holly were like a delectable ham he couldn’t wait to tuck into.
“What news might that be?” Amity asked innocently.
Spoons stopped their clanking as she placed her cup upon the crisp white tablecloth with strangely steady hands. Holly’s blue eyes widened in gratitude. The table around her looked on in shock. It was unheard of, to press a couple into announcing themselves before they were ready. Finn frowned. Amity straightened her spine and sent him a haughty glare.
His full attention riveted upon her. Amity froze, her glass halfway to the table. The navy jacket made his eyes gleam unbearably bright blue. The sight stole her breath. Now, her heart raced. She clasped her hands in her lap to steady them.
“You shall know when the time is right,” Finn responded with repressed consternation. Mr. Poker-Arse, indeed.
“I see.” Amity replied in a voice that belied her trembling body. “I welcome your news, of course. I don’t believe everyone present this evening does.”
Silence descended. Mrs. Mayweather cast her a baleful look. Amity took a fortifying gulp of her punch. Holly’s pink lips parted as if to speak, but Mrs. Mayweather clapped her hands and ordered the footmen to bring desserts before sound emerged. Amity closed her eyes. What am I doing?
Protecting her cousin from an unwanted marriage, that was what.
“Thank you.” Holly clung to her elbow as the ladies retreated to the parlor to gather the children and send them off to bed. “I was half afraid Weston would offer for me right there at the dinner table. Can you even imagine?”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t embarrass you like that,” Amity murmured. “Leave that to me.”
“I was grateful for your intervention, even if Mother was not.” Holly squeezed her arm. “You were magnificent, friend. My parents are pressing me to accept, as you have now seen.” Her cousin’s angelic features had pulled into a pout of dismay.
“Holly, you deserve better than a husband who regards you with respect but without passion. It would be a shame if you were to squander your freedom to choose a man you love.” She forced a laugh, but it sounded bitter to her own ears. “Leave the joyless union to me.”
“Don’t say that, Amity. My parents have invited a few bachelor friends to celebrate the holiday. Perhaps one of them will appeal to you.”
Across the room, Finlay regarded them with keen interest and arrogance. It shouldn’t bother her that Holly scoffed at her old friend. Amity could hardly claim acquaintance with the stiff, arrogant man looking on like a hawk surveying a field for prey. Holly was a safe choice, a sensible one. Sensible men did not propose over the Christmas Eve feast. Despite her parents’ intervention, Holly had always been safe from embarrassment, at least from Finlay.
Amity began to understand her mother’s reluctance to remain on the premises of Wells House. If being displaced by her brother-in-law weren’t bad enough, her aunt and uncle fancied themselves matchmakers. Amity forced as smile as Mrs. Mayweather coldly passed her a paper sheets of song lyrics. “Holly. If you will play the accompaniment.”
Holly dutifully took her place at the pianoforte.
“Oh, dear. I haven’t enough to go around.” Mrs. Mayweather held the last song sheet. “Mr. Lunt, do you mind sharing with Miss Amity?”
“Of course not,” the man whose name Amity had been unable to recall at supper replied. She recognized a setup when she was strong-armed into one.
Pasting a smile on her face, Amity sidled up to the man her aunt had apparently suggested. He was not unhandsome. Mr. Lunt’s ears stuck out and there appeared to be a thin spot at his crown, but he seemed nice enough. The man kept a respectful distance as he held the sheet low enough for her to see. Holly picked the opening bars to “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks at Night.” Amity loved to sing and relished the opportunity to pour her heart into verse.
Mr. Lunt, however, could not carry a tune. Amity winced with each off-key note. Behind her, a resonant baritone reverberated up her spine. She edged away from Mr. Lunt and toward the delightful voice.
“Would you prefer to share my song sheet?” asked familiar voice, sotto voce. Finn.
Heat spread over Amity’s chest and shoulders like a sudden rash. “I am quite fine, thank you,” Amity replied with all the cold chill she could muster. It wasn’t very much. Once the song had ended and Mrs. Mayweather had offered more mulled wine, Amity found herself standing close to Finn when they regrouped. Or, perhaps, he chose to stand near her. Either way, she detected the subtle scent of expensive soap and warm leather. Amity focused on the lyrics and tried to forget the tall man at her side.
“I don’t comprehend your animosity toward me this evening, Amity.” Finn spoke low as he flipped the page to “The First Noel.”
Amity broke off mid-song and snorted. “For asking a simple question? My, you have become thin-skinned, Mr. Weston.”
He regarded her speculatively from the corner of his eye. Heat flooded through her, pooling in her belly. Amity turned the page to their shared song sheet as her foolish heart raced. Surely, a man about to propose marriage ought to be single-minded in his interest toward his lady. Yet Finn barely glanced at Holly. Instead, he seemed fixated on her, lowly Amity, celebrating Christmas in her gown made from bed linens.
“It’s almost as if you envy your cousin’s imminent betrothal,” replied Finn with studied casualness, his voice low enough that only she could hear his words. He balanced the hot wine in one hand and indicated she should turn the page again. Amity carefully breached the scant distance between them to flip it. The thrice-mended seam of her stained glove looked worse by candlelight than in the wan daylight of her bedroom at home. Embarrassed, Amity quickly dropped her hand. It knocked against a hard, solid object. Warm liquid splashed over her chest.
“Oh,” she gasped.
Finn abandoned the drink on a nearby table to produce a handkerchief from his pocket. Awkwardly he began blotting at the red stains spreading across her bodice. “I had best let you take it from here,” he said with genuine chagrin. “I seem to be making this worse, not better.” Abruptly, he handed her the square of linen and turned away.
Amity was left staring down at her ruined dress in horror. Tears stung her eyelids. She refused to let them fall.
“Don’t cry, dear,” Mrs. Mayweather said gently. More gently than Amity deserved, considering her rudeness at dinner. “I’ve a maid who works wonders with stains. I’ll bet my best bonnet she can get the wine out. Let’s go and find her before it sets.”
* * *
The next morning, Finn awoke too late to attend Christmas church services, surely endearing him to his future mother-in-law. To his chagrin, he had also missed the children’s gifts of oranges, nuts and small treasures. With his stomach full of spiced wine and too much food, he’d slept poorly. Twice he’d dreamed of a woman’s plump and pert breasts, rolling them in his palm, teasing the dusky nipples into taut peaks. But when he’d looked up, it had been Amity’s green eyes hooded with desire. After the first dream, Finn had buried his face in the pillow as shame had flooded through him at the memory of how he’d pawed Amity’s breast with his handkerchief last night. When the hell had those developed? The last time he’d seen her, at Ellis’s funeral, Amity’s figure had still been distinctly girlish. He’d have remembered her chest, had it existed.
After the second time, Finn had awoken with a cockstand that had refused to subside until he’d taken matters in hand. After completion, he rolled over to sleep soundly at last.
Upon rising, Finlay took great care in choosing his garments. He had much to atone for if he wanted to secure Holly for his wife. And he did, very much. Her father’s neighboring property, her fair countenance and natural vivaciousness made Holly an attractive bride. It ought to bother him that Holly didn’t seem to enjoy his presence very much.
But what left him hollow was her cousin Amity’s hostility. Until
yesterday, on the rare occasions he’d thought of her it was as a hoyden playing stick swords and climbing trees with him and Ellis—sweet memories made too achingly painful to revisit often.
“Eating again, Mr. Weston?” Holly asked upon spotting him in the dining room breakfasting on cold sausages and rolls with bread and honey. She pulled her shawl up around her shoulders to shield her body from view—a gesture Finn might have found insulting had he been ogling her. As he hadn’t been engaged in anything remotely of the sort, he chose to take the high road.
“My appetite is a testament to the excellence of your family’s cook,” he replied. Finn met her gaze and sat back in his chair. He wasn’t about to be cowed by the woman he intended to marry. Needing breakfast and sleep were hardly grave offenses.
Amity appeared by Holly’s shoulder, wrapped in a faded brown cloak. She paled at the sight of him. Finn experienced a similar jolt, which he covered by raising his fork to bite the end off of a sausage. “He’s still growing into his ears,” she smirked.
A streak of humiliation turned the sausage to sawdust in his mouth. Amity knew the precise soft spot to prod. Finn narrowed his eyes at her. If Amity wanted to be enemies, so be it. Finn did not want to fight her, though. Better if he could turn Amity into an ally in courting her cousin.
He set down his fork and rose to his full height. He straightened his forest-green waistcoat. “Miss Mayweather, I apologize for my clumsiness yesterday evening,” he began. Amity’s fine brows knit together in a scowl. “I trust your gown can be restored to its previous condition.”
“We shall see if it can be salvaged,” Amity replied tightly. Finn had the distinct impression that he had ruined more than a dress.