by Carrie Lomax
Finn.
Lunt had reached up to pluck white berries from the branch of mistletoe. He rolled the little white beads in his palm. Nervous droplets beaded on his forehead.
“Well, Mr. Lunt, that was delivered with admirable enthusiasm. How would you like to be our first blind man this evening?” Mrs. Mayweather’s sister, Holly’s aunt through her mother’s side, arrived with a tray laden with festive biscuits and bonbons.
Holly turned away as though she was embarrassed of Amity. Everything had happened in the blink of an eye as Amity stood rooted to the floor in shock and shame.
“I hope we have many children, Miss Mayweather,” Lunt said quickly. He grabbed her hand and poured the little white berries into her palm. “If I may have the first dance with you this evening.”
“Of course,” Amity replied woodenly. What else was she supposed to say?
Lunt was a gentleman, ostensibly. She had, after all, been standing under the mistletoe at Christmas. Yet kisses were supposed to be chaste and gentle, not sweaty public attacks upon her person. Amity stared down at the white berries in her palm and felt the blood drain from her face. I hope we have many children.
“Did he say the words I think I heard?” Amity muttered to Finn’s tall, solid presence. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze.
“Yes,” Finn replied quietly. Her embarrassment ballooned inside her chest.
No, the worst part was that Finn had witnessed her brief defilement. Had Holly set her up, or had her cousin genuinely wanted to avoid kissing Finlay? And if so, why?
It had been only a kiss, yet Amity felt violated. The worst part was that Holly wouldn’t look at her now, as though Lunt’s unwanted embrace had tainted Amity. Holly popped a confectionery into her mouth as her attention slid past Amity. Lunt appeared oddly satisfied with himself, his chest puffed as he dangled a thick white scarf from his fingers, ready to be the Blind Man.
“I don’t know if anyone has said it explicitly,” Finlay said with a grimace, “but you ought to know the reason for the presence of three bachelors this Christmas is that you are said to be seeking a husband. Your uncle believes it is time for you to marry. Mr. Lunt, Mr. Gibbs and Mr. Tillet are his selections for your delectation.”
“None. I refuse all of them,” Amity said with all the fervor she didn’t know how to conceal. “Finn, my uncle listens to you. Will you ask him to call them off?”
“I cannot.” They were standing together now beneath the kissing bower, Finlay leaning one arm against the woodwork as if to protect her. “But I can try to prevent that from happening again. I don’t like what Lunt did to you just now. Undoubtedly, he will find your reticence a sign of modesty and not disinterest. He’s a grown man and ought to know the difference, yet…” he trailed off. “I can’t call the others off from their pursuit.”
“Not even for an old…friend?” Amity asked, peering up at him through the fringe of her hair. His image swam, and Amity realized with horror that she was on the verge of tears.
“I’ll do what I can to protect you, Amity,” he whispered, straightening as the players gathered in a circle. Holly still avoided her, to Amity’s mortification. “Though I confess my feelings for you are…” Finlay broke off. He shook his head.
“Are what?” Amity demanded.
Finn shook his head.
“You can’t stop there,” she protested, but he turned his back on her to join the game. A muscle in his jaw worked. Amity narrowed her gaze at him and, in a childish fit of frustration, tossed a white berry at his back. It bounced off and fell to the carpet to be squished underfoot. She deposited the remaining fruit on a side table and edged back into the festivities, eager to shake the sense that Lunt’s kiss had made her a pariah. She kept a watchful eye on Lunt. The odious man wore a smug expression when he finally caught the youngest girl, who was seventeen and old enough to stay up with the adults.
Amity edged her way into the parlor enough to see that he was utterly correct with the girl. He handed over the blindfold and stepped adroitly out of the way as the girl barreled around the room, seeking a new victim. He sidled nervously over to Amity. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“It’s all right.” Amity swallowed. The best gift she could bring to her mother this holiday season was an offer of marriage. Lunt, Gibbs and Tillet were her only chances of obtaining a proposal. Yet all she could think of was how badly she wished that kiss had come from Finlay, instead.
There were five days until the New Year, with toasts to health and prosperity. Five days more until the Twelfth Night ball—and after that, she could return home. Unless she decided to reach for one of the men her uncle had selected for her.
Again, her gaze strayed to Finn. Holly claimed not to want him.
What if Amity did?
* * *
“You saved my life this evening,” Holly declared with a shudder as she swept a brush through her gleaming locks in the privacy of her bedroom.
“It was no great sacrifice,” Amity mumbled. She tucked her wrapper around her legs. What a joy to have enough candlelight to read into the evening. She paused and placed a ribbon between the pages of her book, borrowed from the Mayweather’s generously appointed library. She remembered this book, a bawdy romance her mother had declared inappropriate for a girl her age when Amity had first discovered it. Reading the story again was like visiting an old friend. “Holly, why don’t you want to marry Finlay?”
Holly set her brush aside. “It’s not his person I object to. It’s that he spoke to Father without coming to an understanding with me first. I have already given my heart to Lord Stanton. It’s only a matter of time before he proposes, I swear.”
“Aren’t you afraid that marriage to an aristocrat is a stretch, even for you? Is he a baron or a viscount?”
“I can’t believe you don’t know.” Holly sigh, irritated. “Don’t all young ladies memorize Debrett’s?”
No, some of us are too busy tending chickens and pulling weeds to put food on the table. Not that Amity’s mother would ever dream of asking the rest of the Mayweather family for monetary assistance. Amity wished her mother had been more forthcoming about the arrangements than her unspoken implication that Amity was to find a suitor during this visit. “I haven’t had any reason to do so,” she replied mildly. With her newfound comprehension of the Mayweather’s matchmaking machinations, Holly’s embarrassed response after Lunt’s kiss made sense. Holly must have been ashamed of her parents putting Amity in an awkward position.
But then, why wouldn’t she say so out loud? Amity swallowed her disappointment.
“Lord Stanton is an earl,” Holly informed her haughtily. She set her hairbrush down on the dresser and checked her appearance in the mirror above it. “Father doesn’t approve. I told him I wanted to return to London in the spring and why. He told Mum, and the next I knew, Mr. Weston was to join us for Christmas. She is so excited about having Mr. Weston for a son-in-law. I feel as if everyone has conspired to marry me off without ever consulting me on the subject.”
“A perfectly fair response,” Amity replied slowly. “In fact, I suspect the same thing has happened to me. Finn says your father invited Mr. Lunt, Mr. Gibbs and Mr. Tillet specifically to court me. Do you know anything about this?”
Holly’s gaze slid guiltily away from hers. “Mother thinks you and your sisters are too poor to find proper husbands. Once I asked to invite you for the holidays, they wanted to help. But subtlety isn’t their strong suit.”
“You might’ve at least warned me,” Amity rebuked mildly. “It’s not the intent that bothers me. It’s the sneakiness of it.” The Mayweathers’ underlying assumption that she was incapable of finding a husband burned. Worse, they hadn’t evaluated their chosen prospective husbands with any knowledge of the kind of man she might find attractive.
Finn.
“Yes, well, it seemed as if you might welcome attentions from at least one of the men,” Holly huffed. “I thought it might go more natu
rally if you met them without pressure.”
Clearly, Holly had inherited her parents’ propensity to scheme. “Considering how you don’t wish to marry Mr. Poker-Arse—”
Holly interrupted her with a laugh. “I daresay Tillet has usurped Mr. Weston’s title. Have you ever met such a dreary man?”
“No.” Amity chuckled. She did not wish to fight with her cousin. She abandoned her book and came to the bed she was sharing with Holly. “But since you don’t want Finlay to ask for your hand…”
“I never said that,” Holly replied quickly.
“Yes, you did.” Amity remembered their conversation in the sleigh distinctly. “You begged me not to leave your side so Finn wouldn’t have a chance to propose. You wanted to go back to London and your Lord Stanton, remember?”
Her cousin rolled onto her side and took the bulk of the coverlet with her. “Stop hogging the warm spot. My feet are freezing,” she complained, kicking at Amity’s stockinged feet.
“Then give me half the blanket,” Amity replied. Her frustration ran deeper than a squabble over a down comforter and the heat from a pan of coals. The iciness between them was more than temperature. It had frozen hard into a sheet of resentment.
“I have decided I rather like Mr. Weston. I believe I shall permit him to catch me beneath the mistletoe next time,” Holly huffed. “I still don’t wish to marry him, but Mum is right. I could do worse for a husband. I ought to at least allow him to court me for a few days, just in case Lord Stanton doesn’t make an offer after all.”
“Then I don’t need to provide you with constant companionship,” Amity replied with a bitterness she couldn’t quite conceal.
“That’s right.”
“I may socialize with whomever I choose, then?”
“Certainly. Although I doubt you’ll have much opportunity for that. Mr. Gibbs asked Papa for permission to ask for your hand this evening. That’s what they were doing in the library while you were kissing Mr. Lunt.”
Amity sucked in a breath. That wasn’t how it happened. “I’d rather it had been Finn who’d kissed me. At least I would have enjoyed it.”
Holly stiffened. Amity knew immediately she had said exactly the wrong thing at precisely the wrong moment. Yet, having dug the first scoop for her grave, she found it impossible to put the shovel down.
“You wouldn’t dare,” her cousin replied.
“Why not? You don’t want him.”
Holly threw back the coverlet and sat up. “That is untrue. Apologize, or find somewhere else to sleep.”
“Holly, it’s ten o’clock at night. I refuse to go wandering about in my wrapper with three different men staying in the house who have designs on me.” Amity took advantage of Holly’s indignance to pull the blanket more firmly around her body. Much warmer.
“Out,” her cousin commanded, pointing to the door.
“Don’t be such a child,” Amity replied as she snuggled deeper into the soft bed. “Finn is a person, not a toy to fight over. We shall handle this like grown women and do a far better job of it than letting your parents make our decisions for us.” Holly’s furious expression softened, so Amity continued. “We should both indicate to Finn that we welcome his advances and let the man choose between us.”
Holly tossed her head. “Fine. I have no doubt he will choose me.”
The mattress dipped and the bedclothes rustled as Holly climbed back into the warm spot she had just vacated. Amity could guess precisely what her cousin was thinking. Holly possessed ample beauty and a substantial dowry. Amity had neither. There was no possible way Finn would choose her over Holly. Yet the embarrassment would be worth it in the end, for at least it would let her put the formidable Finlay Weston between Lunt, Gibbs, and Tillet.
She was jealous. Her cousin regarded Finlay as a convenient backstop for a more ambitious match that might not work out, whereas Amity…
Loved him.
She always had. For so many years, she had chosen to remember Finlay Weston as a beanpole boy with a shy smile, ears like jug handles, and a level head that tempered the worst of Ellis’s extravagant imaginings. Along with his ears, Finlay had grown into a gentleman of reserved kindness and gentle humor. Precisely the sort of man she could imagine teasing and sharing stories with for years to come. Yet, regardless of her wishes, she must marry. At least now that she knew the score, Amity could evaluate the men before she accepted one of them for her husband. What harm was there in including Finlay in their little competition? Amity just hoped she didn’t lose her cousin’s friendship in the process.
6
The next morning marked a confounding shift in Holly’s attitude toward Finlay. There were no snide comments about his appetite, which had returned to normal. No one-word replies when he inquired about how well she had slept. In fact, Holly had taken him off guard with a brightly delivered, “Good morning, Mr. Weston.” Beside her, Amity watched and listened without attempting to intervene in her cousin’s incessant stream of chatter.
Curious.
The minute he had resolved to speak with Holly’s father about releasing him from proposing to Holly, the lady in question developed a keen interest in him. He was caught in a net of his own making woven from conflicting strands of honor and desire. Finlay could hardly spurn the woman he’d planned to marry, in her own home, at Christmas. Only a cad would humiliate her so.
Fresh snow had fallen in the night, and the crowded house was beginning to feel claustrophobic. He was not alone in wanting a bit of fresh air, for Holly leaped at his proposal of a post-breakfast sleigh ride before he could even finish speaking.
“I would be delighted to accompany you.” She beamed.
Finlay’s breakfast suddenly tasted off. This was the ideal opportunity to ask her to marry him. Yet even if Amity had not stolen his heart beneath snow and mistletoe, Holly’s overnight pivot from cold disdain to enthusiasm left him suspicious of her motives. Her radiant smile sharpened into a smirk. Finn followed the direction of her narrow gaze and found…
Amity. She poked at her eggs, flanked by Gibbs and Lunt. Tillet sat next to Mrs. Mayweather, chatting agreeably about the clear weather.
“Perhaps Amity would like to join us?” he asked.
Mrs. Mayweather stopped speaking midsentence to gape at him. Her mouth closed in a flat line that said clearly, What are you doing?
Spoiling the perfect opportunity to achieve his goals, that was what. Intentionally, at that.
“Mr. Tillet, would you care to accompany my niece?” Mrs. Mayweather asked sweetly.
Check and mate. Mrs. Mayweather was not going to let him worm out of doing the honorable thing toward her daughter—not easily.
“Certainly,” Tillet replied. Finn was startled at the sound of his resonant bass voice. Yet it conveyed no enthusiasm, flat in affect and tone. Gibbs and Lunt spoke at Amity from either side, paying little attention to their hostess’s machinations until the matter was settled, too late for them to join.
“Excellent. I shall have the horses readied after breakfast.” Mr. Mayweather replied, seemingly pleased with the arrangement. More so than Finn could claim to be—but at least Amity would be close by, where he could protect her from further assaults upon her person.
They set out a half hour later with Tillet in the front seat, next to the driver, and Finn in the rear seat between two women whom had been fast friends as recently as yesterday. Now they ignored one another as studiously as the opposite faces of a Janus statue. Once they were gliding over the snow, however, Holly warmed up instantly—to Finlay, at any rate.
Her hand beneath the blanket went places it oughtn’t. Up his thigh, close to his nether regions. Whereas two days ago he might have welcomed her forwardness, Finn had the distinct sense that now it was borne out of peeved aggrievance instead of affection. He captured her small hand in his and removed it from his person. A moment later it was back, though she kept her hand lower on his knee.
“I find the Christmas holiday most invigorat
ing, don’t you?” Tillet asked, turning in his seat to speak generally to all three of them, most directly to Amity.
“Indeed,” she replied, properly reticent.
Before Amity could say anything further, Holly jumped in. “I simply love the candles and the gift-giving and the rosemary and mistletoe, and the carols. Best of all, though, is being together with family.” Holly batted her eyes at him. Finn couldn’t recall ever having been simpered at with this degree of enthusiasm by anyone, much less Holly Mayweather. “Especially the singing,” she continued when he didn’t respond. “You have such a wonderful voice, Mr. Weston.”
Finlay Weston knew blarney when he heard it. Yesterday, Holly had barely been able to tolerate his presence. Today, she was all smiles and inappropriately intimate touches. The abrupt turnabout gave him the distinct sense that she couldn’t stand the idea of his attraction to her cousin. Amity, by contrast, sat tight-lipped and coiled like a spring beside him.
“Not so wonderful as Mr. Tillet’s,” Finn said. He could play along with Holly, but Amity’s silence worried him.
“You are as kind as you are misguided,” replied Tillet. Despite his brooding countenance, Tillet wasn’t a bad match for Amity. Finlay stifled a grimace at the thought.
“Sing us a song.” Holly clapped. “Both of you, together.”
Oh, very well. If he couldn’t indulge with a song for the new year, what use were winter holidays?
“I must demur, Miss Mayweather. My throat has been sore these past few days. I don’t wish to tax my voice.” Tillet replied in a voice that sounded perfectly fine to Finlay’s ears.
“Is that why you’ve been so quiet?” Holly asked.
Beside him, Amity stiffened at her cousin’s rudeness. “Holly. Please. What might be an acceptable flirtation in London is the height of inconsideration here in the countryside,” Amity chided her gently.