"Mr Wells? Oh, it is you."
It was Lady Quamby, standing in the shadow of an enormous elm tree, stroking the gray fox pelt about her shoulders and assessing him with far too much interested curiosity than made him comfortable.
"Lady Quamby." He stopped to bow, glancing down quickly to ensure the buttons of his fall front were done up correctly.
They were. So he rose and said with all the charm of which he was capable, "You are looking very fine today, ma'am, despite the onerous responsibilities that must accompany such a grand event as the Christmas Ball. I’m told there will be more than sixty guests."
"I'm used to organizing far bigger and more complicated entertainments than that, Mr Wells," she said with a wave of her hand. "Though I do confess this has its singular challenges."
"Indeed?"
"A couple of late additions to the invitation list that I had not counted upon." She sighed but, he noted, looked even more closely at him as she added, "And upon whose specified absence I had received the assent of others."
"Really?" Sebastian wasn't particularly interested in the minutiae as long as it didn't pertain to his sister or his beloved. Unfortunately, Lady Quamby's next words filled him with concern.
"Yes, your father is one of them."
"My father!" he said with more energy than he should have. His first thought was of Libby, whose last letter had outlined her bold plan in having her beloved Mr Clayton introduced to the company by Lord Quamby as the man she intended to wed. It was a big step for a timid girl who’d spent nearly seven years waiting to be granted approval by her father to marry a man he deemed unworthy of her.
Yet, from Sebastian’s own perspective, his father was not a welcome addition to the guest list. The old man had taken a dim view of Sebastian’s interest in Venetia all those years ago. And although Sebastian was his own master, and in full receipt of a comfortable inheritance, he knew that his father’s displeasure at learning that Sebastian intended to marry 'down' as he'd once termed such a marriage to Venetia, was hardly likely to have softened.
"So, my sister went so far as to declare she'd not come if he were to be in attendance?" Sebastian was surprised that Libby would be so transparent.
"She did not. In fact, it was Miss Reeves who said she would not come if her father were in attendance."
Sebastian noticed that Lady Quamby continued to look very meaningfully at him. He sighed. "What does Miss Reeves fear from her father?"
"Exactitude." It was Lady Quamby’s turn to sigh. "Miss Reeves’s father has ideas for his daughter's future that do not accord with her own, apparently. As you well know, she left his house in high dudgeon some weeks ago and has been staying, first with her aunt and now with us. With her father arriving unexpectedly, I felt it only fair to warn you that there may be...discord ahead." She hesitated. "Unless someone can persuade Miss Reeves’s exacting father that he really has no say in the affairs of his daughter's heart."
Sebastian was surprised that she felt it necessary to apprise him of this. And that she was looking at him as if he might volunteer to be that someone. Feeling awkward, he cleared his throat. "I've heard you are skilled in achieving every desired outcome, Lady Quamby." Sebastian recognized that she was a woman who thrived on praise, and he hoped it would release him. He was suddenly anxious to quit this exchange now that he'd noticed, to his horror upon glancing down once more, that one of Venetia's white stockings had inadvertently become lodged in his boot. The end was dangling out of the top cuff. It was not greatly in evidence, and he was certain he'd be the only one to notice, but he needed to remove it—and return it to its owner—as quickly as he could, else the loss might occasion great embarrassment to Venetia.
“You are too sweet, Mr Wells.” His hostess looked like a delighted schoolroom miss, but fortunately she let him go after, confusingly, squeezing his arm and saying with unsettling intensity, “Have no fear, Mr Wells; I’ve certainly worked hard to achieve this desired outcome. All will be well, I promise.”
He hadn't gone more than a few hundred yards when he was waylaid by another feminine voice.
Tinged with anxiety, and sweetly breathless, he imagined for one lovely minute that it was Venetia, rushing after him to reclaim her stocking. Instead, he turned to find Miss Reeves gazing at him from the path along which he had just trodden. Her cheeks were flushed, and some of her hair had come loose from its confines.
"Mr Wells, I have been looking for you! I believe you are the only person who can help me!" She hurried forward, her face a picture of distress, and to his surprise, gripped his wrist before she dropped it, stepping back quickly. "Oh Mr Wells, I don't know what to do. I've just learned my father is arriving for the Christmas Ball and it is the worst news, ever!"
To his even greater dismay she immediately began to cry, great shaking sobs, which left him standing like some oaf before he felt it incumbent upon him to take an awkward step forward and pat her on the shoulder.
"What shall I do!" she cried, taking his awkward attempt at comfort as an invitation for more, for suddenly her arms were about him and she was weeping, her head against his chest. "He wants me to marry Lord Yarrowby, and I’ve heard it’s possible that Yarrowby might accompany him. But I have my heart set on someone else. Someone Papa will find completely unworthy, yet our love is so strong and pure no one can ever come between us! You know who I mean. What can I do? Please, will you help me?”
Sebastian did the best he could. He could hardly push her away, so he let her cling to him while he patted her back and asked, "I suppose you just have to persuade your father of the merits of your beloved. I'm sure if your young man has some worthwhile occupation to compensate for the title or pocketbook your father requires, all will be well."
"Why, it's the music master, Signor Boticelli!" she wept. "How will I persuade my father that his address is every bit as equal to Lord Yarrowby’s."
"It will be difficult," Sebastian conceded, mentally comparing the oily-haired dancing tutor, whom he was sure must be a good fifteen years older than Miss Reeves, with the tall, broad-shouldered, easygoing Yarrowby that Sebastian knew as a jolly decent fellow whose legendary calm and patience had unfairly earned him a reputation for being dull and boring.
“Did you really not know?” she asked, raising her tearstained face to his. “About Signor Boticelli, I mean. I’ve been so afraid that everyone would have suspected, since we are so in love!”
Sebastian shook his head and wondered what else he’d failed to notice these past two days.
Really, he’d had eyes only for Venetia.
"Then...will you help me?" She continued to look up at him pleadingly. "Oh, I beg of you, Mr Wells, you can have no idea how eternally grateful I would be if you were to lend your assistance to my cause."
Sebastian, who was just glad she'd put a respectable distance between them since he’d gently disengaged her arms from about his neck, nodded dubiously. "Of course I will assist if it is in my power. Though I have no idea how anything I might say or do would lend any weight."
"But you would help me if you could?"
Sebastian glanced nervously at the tears that had gathered on her eyelashes, afraid of saying anything that might cause them to cascade onto her cheeks. Weeping women did not make him comfortable. Lady Banks, from whose tentacles he'd managed to extricate himself with only the utmost degree of difficulty, had entwined him with such a ploy. Tears. He wasn't about to make the same mistake twice.
"I will help you in any way that is practicable, but really, Miss Reeves, I think your best course is to use gentle persuasion on your father. If he's a fond parent, he's hardly going to force you to marry a man you do not wish to marry. Besides which, it's against the law."
"I'm more worried about him not allowing me to marry the man I wish to marry. Yarrowby is so dull, he won’t fight for me. He does everything I ask of him, and if I tell him it’s Signor Boticelli, he’s hardly going to make a fuss. No, I need my father to be persuaded to sanction m
y marriage to the one man who holds my heart in his hand." For someone so delicate and pretty, there was a great deal of strength and energy in the gesticulation that accompanied her words.
Sebastian shifted awkwardly. "Why can’t Signor Boticelli, himself, persuade your father of the merits of you marrying him? He will need to support you, after all, so it’s up to him to be able to reassure Mr Reeves. A father’s chief concern would be to ensure his child is comfortably situated. Not even true love can compensate for material necessities."
"Material necessities! What is that compared with love?" she declared with a mutinous tilt to her chin. "If you have never been in love with someone your family deems unsuitable, you would not know that the desire for the glorious everlasting union of two souls united in every possible way, transcends all else. I love this man, Mr Reeves. I would do anything to spend eternity with him. I care nothing for material necessities when, if parted, my heart will be forever crying out for him!”
Her words rang in his ears with unsettling intensity long after they had parted, she turning dramatically on her heel to flounce off to the lake, he to trudge toward the house. The sweet, amorous encounter he'd just enjoyed with Venetia confirmed that his heart, also, would be forever crying out for her, if they should be parted once more.
Just as it had been ever since Venetia had tearfully sent him on his way all those years ago, declaring she could not, would not, marry him in good conscience when he stood to lose everything, not least his inheritance. In one brief moment of anger, he'd accused her of thinking more of his inheritance than he did.
He paused as he trod the path, shaking his head as if it might dislodge the kernel of worry that had taken hold. Why reflect on the pain of the past when they had a glorious future to look forward to? Even if he was the father of Mrs. Compton’s child, as the woman claimed, she’d rescinded her hold on him after her husband had, thankfully, agreed not to divorce her. Not that he hadn’t entirely discounted the possibility that she’d exert pressure on Sebastian to shoulder replacement matrimonial responsibilities should Mr Compton decide to discard her, later, but that was a difficulty that he would face, with, hopefully, Venetia’s understanding, should it arise.
Yes, Barbara had tricked him into her bed. Yes, he’d been a fool to have availed himself of what she offered.
But it had only been the once, when he’d been beyond caring, at the time, and his future had seemed like a void.
Surely Venetia would understand.
He sighed once more. As for Miss Reeves? She was just a foolish young woman who was too immature to know better, and if Sebastian really were to do her any favors, it would be to speak plainly to Yarrowby and tell him to show a bit of manly backbone if he truly wished to wed the girl he’d been sweet on for so many years.
However, Miss Reeves was unimportant right now.
All that was important was to secure his future with Venetia by his side. His wife, his beloved, the mother of the children they would have, as well as the poor infant Dorothea’s death had left motherless.
Chapter 10
Upstairs and downstairs, the household was abuzz with preparations for the following day.
Lady Quamby breezed in, looking like a bird of paradise in a dress of green and blue decorated with a roulade of red. "Cook has been advised of the extra guests, Fanny,” she told her sister. “I think we have everything in order."
Venetia kept her head down as she embroidered quietly in her corner, far from resigned to her imminent departure in the morning.
The only saving grace was that Sebastian had reassured her he would visit her at Lady Indigo’s at the earliest, to make a formal offer.
And Venetia would, at least, avoid having to see old Mr Wells. He’d been indulgent when she’d been eight, but her memories of their difficult encounters when she was eighteen were best forgotten.
Still, it was a sore trial to have to listen to Ladies Quamby and Fenton converse amiably about last-minute preparations for the Christmas Ball, when Venetia knew she had only a gloomy quiet house and a sharp-tongued employer to look forward to spending the evening with while everyone here would be enjoying themselves.
Excitement for the grand event positively buzzed through the house with armies of servants beating carpets and polishing chandeliers and silver.
The topic among the ladies switched between hairstyles and ornaments. A multitude of fine ball gowns of silk and spangles, roulades and netting, would be revealed on the night, and listening to the descriptions of silks and sarcenets, and glittering net gowns, was like a physical pain.
Yet, Venetia consoled herself that she could still feel some excitement because one day she, too, would enjoy all this.
As Sebastian’s wife.
"I'm sorry you won't be joining us, Lady Indigo," Lady Quamby said, stopping by the old woman’s chair on her way to the sideboard to fetch a pack of cards. "But I understand you perfectly, for I, too, care little for noise and bustle. Being hostess of the annual Christmas Ball is, sadly, a duty I am unable to delegate."
"Of course." Lady Indigo toyed with the beads in her lap and looked at Venetia. "Why so glum, my girl? There’s no point in subjecting you to all this nonsense tomorrow night when you don’t have a dress to wear."
Lady Quamby sat down and spread out the cards in front of her. "I'm sure we'd find something if that's all that stands in the way." And although she said it dismissively, seemingly more invested in the cards, Venetia knew that, for her own part, she reacted with too much delighted transparency; for Lady Indigo’s nostrils flared in disapproval as Venetia thanked her hostess with hope in her tone.
Might it really be possible to attend the ball, after all? If Lady Quamby were able to provide her with something—even seasons out of date—she’d still feel like a fairy tale princess.
She’d do the waltz in Sebastian’s arms. She’d feel like his equal.
Because she would be his equal. He’d asked her to marry him. It was hard to keep still in her chair by Lady Indigo’s side as memories swirled through her brain of yesterday’s rapturous encounter with Sebastian in the folly. His ardor and his sincerity regarding a shared future were not in doubt.
He had never given her reason to doubt his love for her. Never.
And now nothing stood in the way of what she’d always wanted. Finally, she would have the love match that she had never believed could be hers.
She was brought back to the reality of her menial situation by Lady Indigo’s disdainful, "No need for any charitable donations or loans for Venetia. She and I will take our leave at daybreak tomorrow if we’re to make it home without having to spend the night along the way. One thing I will not do is sleep at an inn." Lady Indigo sounded brisk. "Which means an early night for me. A round of cards after supper and then I shall retire."
"Oh! Ladies Fenton, Quamby. Lady Indigo." It was Miss Reeves arriving in the doorway, curtsying prettily but looking unusually flustered as she hesitated on the Aubusson carpet. "Is it true my father will be arriving after lunch tomorrow?"
Venetia glanced up from untangling Lady’s Indigo’s wool. There was a tremulous note to Miss Reeves’s voice, and the hems of her white skirts were damp, suggesting she’d been outdoors.
"He is, but you have no need to fear anything, my dear Miss Reeves. Everything is in order. I know all about the state of affairs between you and your young man."
Venetia blinked rapidly. This was all very confidential, surely? But then, she'd heard Lady Quamby was not known for her tact. And, from her own years of servitude, Venetia also knew she had a habit of being disregarded if she stayed quietly where she was and did not engage with the company at large.
“You do?”
Lady Quamby clicked her tongue in sympathy. "Yes, I do. And I know you and your father have not seen eye to eye lately."
"We have not spoken in three months." Miss Reeves sounded forlorn. She hesitated awkwardly near the doorway, looking reluctant to come any farther. Perhaps she, too, f
ound the personal interrogation a little too confronting.
"Not since you rejected Lord Yarrowby. Yes, I know."
“My father hasn’t...said anything, has he?”
Lady Quamby shook her head. “No need to sound so anxious, my dear. And just because he's bringing Lord Yarrowby with him is no need for concern, either."
"So Lord Yarrowby is coming too? My father and Lord Yarrowby?" The girl sounded panicked, and Venetia felt a twinge of reluctant sympathy.
“Nobody is going to force you to marry Lord Yarrowby if you don’t wish it.” Lady Quamby patted the settee beside her, and Miss Reeves, with clear reluctance, took a seat. Venetia sent her a covert glance and saw that Lady Quamby seemed to be taking a very friendly, almost maternal approach toward the girl.
Venetia, herself, had had little to do with Miss Reeves. Not because Miss Reeves was rude or standoffish. She simply seemed not to have noticed Venetia.
“If...if only Papa would let me follow my heart.” Her voice sounded very small and, again, Venetia felt a stab of sympathy. After all, she and Sebastian had been in the same difficult situation just a few years before. Intractable papas had a great deal of power.
“And so he will, once he knows the caliber of the man you wish to have as your husband. After all, it’s not as if you’re wanting to marry someone entirely unsuitable.” Lady Quamby gave a tinkling laugh. “If you had wanted to run away with the dancing master or stable boy, then you could understand your papa taking a dim view of it.” She patted Miss Reeves’s hand. “However, the fact that Mr Wells is a perfectly eligible gentleman who can provide more than adequately for you, means your father can have no reasonable grounds for preventing a union between you.”
Venetia wasn't sure if she gasped. Someone certainly did in the tense silence that followed. A silence broken only by Miss Reeves saying in a halting, tentative voice, "Mr...Wells?”
From across the room, Venetia could see the fierce blush that had risen to Miss Reeves’s cheeks. It must echo her own, she thought with a sudden terrible awfulness.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1) Page 66