by Carrie Lomax
How dare he.
Amity gazed around the other guests as she tried to put the unsettling contact with Finlay Weston out of her mind. The party included sixteen adults and nine children, who at the moment were outside sledding under the watchful eyes of the nursemaid and two footmen. Seven of the adults were unmarried.
Six geese a-laying. Five golden rings. Amity’s mouth curved up at her unvoiced wit. She examined her prospects. Mr. Lunt, despite his unfortunate name, was her best bet. He owned property in Lancashire and was not an unattractive man if one overlooked his inability to carry a tune and trend toward baldness. As married names went, Amity Lunt did have a lumbering quality to it, however.
Her next best prospect was Mr. Gibbs, a short man with a prominent forehead and a lively humor that would have been more appealing if not for his laugh, a harsh donkey bray that made Amity wince each time she heard it. He held a decent living as a vicar. Marrying Mr. Gibbs wouldn’t offer a significantly more comfortable life than what she had at Kearny, but Amity knew how to scrimp and save. She could set aside a few shillings for her sisters.
Still. Amity Gibbs was an infelicitous name at best.
Her final option was Mr. Tillet. Quiet. Sober. Inscrutable. Amity didn’t enjoy his presence enough to consider him for any reason beyond the pecuniary. He never laughed. He rarely smiled—and if he couldn’t find a reason to smile at Christmas, when would he? Amity didn’t have the heart to tie herself to such a dour man for the rest of eternity. She had promised her mother to try and find a husband, and Amity resolved to do so.
The only other unmarried man in the room was Mr. Finlay “Poker-Arse” Weston, and he was not an option. How dare he.
How dare Finn touch her breasts, even for the most innocuous reason? The memory of Finn’s tall form at her back and his large hands brushing intimately against her body sent confusion churning through her. Amity didn’t appreciate the way her skin heated with the slightest glimpse of Finn’s broad back from across the room. She managed the problem by avoiding looking at him as much as possible, but she couldn’t help sneaking occasional glances. Like Tillet, he was strong and quiet. Unlike Tillet, he still had a sense of wry humor and dry wit, honed to a fine point since childhood when what had passed for humor had been references to flatulence and poking one another with sticks. When he laughed, Finlay’s chuckle rumbled through her like distant thunder, both warning and excitement. As for property, given the size of his annual income—a topic she ought to have paid more attention to as a young girl, before her world had fallen apart—Finlay Weston was well positioned to marry into the aristocracy.
Amity corrected the direction of her thoughts toward an innocuous plate of sugared plums. Finlay hoped to marry Holly. Holly wanted to marry Lord Stanton, her exciting suitor in London.
What did she want? Amity had a sinking feeling that she knew, and he was already out of reach. Besides, she had promised Holly. One didn’t renege on vows to a friend, even when she was starting to believe that perhaps that vow had been made in haste.
“Amity?” Holly looked at her expectantly. Lost in thought, Amity hadn’t noticed her cousin’s offer of a small parcel.
“Oh!” she said, recovering herself. Holly’s bright blue eyes met hers. “Thank you.” She had dreaded this moment. Amity had stitched a small square of linen left from the bedsheets with Holly’s initials and a sprig of greenery beneath. She had traded her share of the egg money for wool thread, silk being out of the question. She had been too ashamed to give it to Holly once she had seen Holly’s collection of fancy embroidered reticules perched on a shelf in her wardrobe. “I didn’t realize there was to be a gift exchange. I left mine in your bedroom.”
“No matter. Go on. Open it.” Holly clapped her gloved hands. Her curls danced. In her white dress with green-and-gold accents, she looked like a giddy angel. She and Finlay made a handsome pair.
He leaned against the stone fireplace a few feet away and pretended not to observe their interaction. Amity swallowed. He had definitely grown into his ears. And his legs. Amity didn’t care for the slippery, hollow ache that looking at him produced in her. Not when she could never have him. Finlay was destined for her cousin, and Amity’s loyalty to Holly overrode whatever this temporary feeling for her old friend was called.
Infatuation, that was the term. Amity schooled herself not to pay Finlay no mind and lifted the heavy rectangular box lid with apprehension.
“A writing set,” she breathed. A stack of thick paper as soft as her ruined dress lay in the tray. Proper goose quills and a sealed pot of ink lay in the tray, along with an unused block of sealing wax. Amity stroked the wood. It must have cost a month’s worth of egg money. Two months, even. “Holly, I’m speechless.”
“No more ridiculous scraps of paper, scatterbrain. I want proper letters from you all next year.” Holly clapped her hands.
Amity bounced out of her chair to embrace her cousin. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Amity’s back warmed as if she were being watched. Near the mantle, Finn’s dark gaze burned. Holly narrowed her eyes at him, and Amity broke contact.
Holly didn’t want him.
Amity swallowed. Amity Weston had a nice ring to it.
How dare I?
Finn found a welcome escape from Holly and Amity’s sharp glances and sharper witticisms the next morning when he went out with the other men to hunt ducks in the pond down the hill from Wells House. The day after Christmas was the servants’ holiday, leaving the family to fend for themselves and their guests with cold foodstuffs and hours of unstructured time. In the afternoon, the women would box up old garments and household wares to be distributed amongst the tenants of Wells House.
“I hear your property borders the Mayweathers,” Mr. Gibbs said as a large plume of white fog emanated from his mouth. The shorter man struggled to keep up with Finn. Obligingly, Finn shortened his stride.
Snow overflowed the tops of his boots and melted against his wool trousers. Wet trickled down the insides of his calves. In an hour, his feet would be bricks of ice. “It does,” Finlay confirmed.
“I also hear you expect to secure a bride by the New Year,” Gibbs panted.
“Word does seem to get around,” Finn replied ruefully. There was no need for a hasty wedding, only that his two-week visit to the countryside presented an excellent opportunity to work out the details of Holly’s marriage settlement with her father. He could return to London and see to his affairs without the process dragging on past Twelfth Night. But first, he needed to secure the lady’s agreement. It was lowering to find that this was proving to be the most difficult aspect to the process. Finlay had rarely needed to make an effort to attract a lady’s interest. His fortune did that for him.
“I understand it’s Miss Mayweather who has captured your interest,” puffed Gibbs. “You’ll make a handsome couple.”
“Mr. Gibbs, is there a point to your questions?” Finn asked in exasperation. Ahead, the rest of the men trudged along through the snowpack. Mayweather led the way, his great wool-clad form lumbering bear-like through the drifts.
“I wish to know whether you have any claim upon Miss Amity Mayweather,” Gibbs replied bluntly.
A hot spike of no struck Finn’s heart. “None at all,” he replied gruffly.
“I ask,” Gibbs panted, “because it seems you have a prior acquaintance with her. I don’t wish to intrude where my suit is not welcome.”
“I imagine your suit would be as welcome as any other man’s,” Finn offered, feeling parsimonious. “Although her younger sister’s temperament is more aligned with your calling.”
Gibbs laughed. The harsh sound startled a duck, which took wing. Mr. Mayweather, who had moved into position behind a stand of bushes while they chatted, fired. “Good shot, old chap,” Gibbs called out. The wounded bird fluttered to earth. Red blood stained the crisp snow. A tawny spaniel bounded through the drifts at the edge of the pond to retrieve is body. “About Miss Mayweather’s sister
. You were saying?”
“Miss Mary Anne Mayweather is devoted to religious study,” was all Finn said. But was it still true? Amity had never been much given to religion. She observed the niceties, of course, but it was Mary Anne who had memorized the Bible. Finn wondered whether the intervening years had softened her religious leanings. He ought to pay a visit to the family.
“Considering that I wear my faith lightly,” Gibbs replied, setting the stock of his gun against his shoulder and peering down the barrel, “I believe Miss Amity Mayweather’s company will suit me better.”
“You have excellent instincts,” Finlay replied as evenly as he could manage. Would that Finlay had demonstrated the same savvy. He had no claim on his old friend’s affections. If anything, he ought to be facilitating Amity’s suitor, not attempting to direct his attentions elsewhere. Gibbs would make Amity a fine husband, Finlay reminded himself as he spied a winged black dot on the edge of the frozen pond.
Yet there was no denying the fact that he wanted Amity far more than he did her cousin. Finn’s desire could not be attributed solely to wayward dreams of her unexpected breasts, either. For all of Holly’s beauty, there were moments when her high spirits bordered on flightiness. At twenty-two years old, and after three seasons in London, Holly had acquired a polished sheen of expensive gowns and pricey shawls but no apparent interest in acquiring a husband to provide such luxuries. If only Finn had considered this before approaching Holly’s father. Now, however, there was no backing out.
Fortunately for the ducks, his aim was off when he fired.
“There’s a fat little partridge in the bush just there.” Gibbs pointed with one gloved hand. He set about reloading. “I’ll bet you can’t knock it out of the tree.”
Finlay squinted in the bright winter light until a small oval-shaped bird took form on one forlorn branch. It looked so cozy in its hiding spot, feathers fluffed, beady eyes warily scanning the pond for the source of all this racket. He readied his gun and aimed. At the last second, Mayweather’s spaniel bounded through the nearby bushes. Finlay fired. The indignant partridge bolted out of range. Finlay wished it Godspeed.
“Ach, stupid beast. Mayweather ought to have trained his dog better,” Gibbs grumbled with ill temper. Their man-to-man conversation was over. The other man floundered off through knee-deep snow to find the other men. Finn patted the dog's head until Mayweather whistled, and the animal bounded happily away. His toes had gone numb, so when Mayweather ordered the men back to the house, he was content to leave the flock in peace as befit the spirit of the season. Besides, any longer out here and he was liable to take aim at the next man who asked him about Amity—and that was not a comfortable thought at all.
“Incoming!”
The shout came one second before the plop of wet snow hit Finlay’s cheek. It didn’t hurt, exactly. Cold bit his into his skin and startled him out of his thoughts. He ducked the next one and scooped up a palmful of wet snow. Packing into a tight ball wasn’t easy with his firearm lodged in the crook of his arm, but he managed to form a ball and lob it back at the female form who’d hit him in the face. His aim was better with frozen water than with a firearm this morning. He knocked her hat off her head. Blond hair tumbled around her shoulders. Holly shrieked.
“I give as good as I get!” Finlay called out. Fuming, Holly recovered her hat and glared. What could have been an exhilarating exchange wilted into uneasy disappointment. Nearby, the children had built a snow fort and amassed quite a stockpile of ammunition. Two heads took turns popping up to bombard him with badly aimed snowballs. The rest of the children attacked the other men. The surprise attack must have been in the works all morning. Mr. Mayweather had dropped his gun unceremoniously into the snow to retaliate with enthusiasm. Only Tillet held back. Sod him, Finn thought as he discarded his unloaded weapon and charged at the children’s fort with a battle cry. The children yelled and pelted him with snow until he crashed over the edge of their monument into a pile of snowballs and wet wool.
“Oof, get off me, Finlay!” an outraged woman yelped, breathless.
He’d landed crossways over Amity’s midsection. A grin took over his face. It figured that Amity would be leading the mischief. She scowled and gave him a shove. When Finn didn’t move, she bared her teeth and began to kick her way out from under him. The children grabbed at his clothing in an attempt to pull him away. Finlay’s body responded to Amity’s warm, wiggling form. He pushed himself to his feet before he could embarrass himself. Amity rolled over and bounced up. Her dark hair stuck in damp strands to her cheek. Her green eyes blazed with outrage…and something more. Memories of their play as children cartwheeled through his mind, happy recollections, tinged with a sharp sting of sadness as Ellis’s ghost intruded between them. Once, they had been close.
White steam stained the air between them. They weren’t children anymore.
Finn couldn’t ignore how much he wanted to kiss her. Amity gazed up at him, her glare softening. Her lips parted as if in welcome. Behind them came a harsh bark of adult anger, followed by a child’s wail.
“Mr. Weston!” Holly called out. “I am about to lose my fingers and toes to frostbite, and Adam is crying. Don’t just stand there. Help us gather the children.”
The spell broke. Amit’s expression hardened into mutiny as she marched over to her cousin to help her with the crying boy. A slimy streak beneath his red nose mixed unappealingly with the child’s tears. Holly’s curls bounced around her shoulders in a tangle as she gathered him into her arms. She was the very picture of maternal concern. Amity…
Was nothing but an old friend for whom he had developed uncomfortable, inconvenient feelings. It was nothing more than the effects of shared memories, Finlay told himself. Yet, it was Amity’s hips churning beneath her serviceable cloak that pulled at him. He retrieved his rifle and trudged back to the house.
“Did you hurt the boy?” Finlay demanded of Gibbs.
“The brat deserved it,” Gibbs huffed. “God made children to obey, not to assault their betters with snowballs.”
Finlay decided instantly there was one man who wouldn’t be marrying Amity—not if he had anything to say about it.
5
“Don’t let him kiss me,” Holly pleaded, shoving Amity roughly into place beneath the mistletoe.
“I don’t think he wants to,” Amity whispered back, exasperated. The past forty-eight hours had made her question whether her cousin’s taste in gentlemen were quite on point. Would a poker-arse leap into the middle of a child’s snowball fight?
No. Nor would a poker-arse leap over the wall of a fort and crush a woman breathless.
Finlay stood a few feet away, his back to them. Amity planted herself in the door frame as the guests prepared to play a post-tea game of Blind Man’s Bluff. Mrs. Mayweather stood in the middle of the parlor, explaining the rules to the younger children. Mr. Gibbs and Mr. Mayweather had retired to the library, to Amity’s great relief, leaving the rest of the family to entertain themselves. She hoped Mr. Gibbs was getting the dressing-down he deserved after having pushed an eight-year-old face-first into a snowbank. A grown man ought to be able to take a snowball from a child without losing his temper, even if it had hit him directly in the face. Amity had been too busy locking gazes with Finn to see it happen, much to her shame.
Her pulse pounded at how quickly memories of what had been had turned to thoughts of what might blossom between them if it weren’t for Holly.
What could never be. One thing was clear after today, though. Finlay Weston was anything but Mr. Poker-Arse. His natural thoughtfulness may have hardened into reserve, but what else ought she to expect from a man who had shouldered so much responsibility at such a young age?
Finlay might not be as exciting a beau as Holly had wished for, but upon closer acquaintance, Amity found little fault and much to admire. Idly, she imagined tracing the broad span of his shoulders as her gaze followed the V of his back downward to the two buttons at his waist. The cu
t of his jacket concealed the precise shape of his buttocks, but Amity could conjure a guess as to their shape if it matched the rest of him. She had years of stored-up longing to inform her conjecture, after all. The worst part of having fallen into poverty was that she and her sisters still yearned for men with genteel manners who wore well-cut clothing. Well, she did, anyway. Letty and Charity were less particular. They had been so young when the family had fallen on hard times that they were less enamored of the upper class. Amity, though, keenly felt the difference.
Kearny has many good, hardworking men, she reminded herself sternly. There were also plenty of gentlemen with less than admirable—
“Are you ready for a kiss, Miss Mayweather?” asked Mr. Lunt.
A faint flush spread over his cheekbones. Amity glanced around, then up at the green sprig with white berries suspended upon a red ribbon directly above her head. “No, in truth I had forgotten about the—” She stiffened as Lunt bent to silence her with a kiss directly on the mouth.
She pursed her lips against the intrusion. It was not her first shy peck beneath the mistletoe—the stuff grew on every blackthorn bush, and even the destitute branch of the Mayweather family could afford greenery at Christmastime—but it was the first time a man had attempted to insert his tongue in her mouth. What a disgusting practice, and for him to do it in front of the entire family was humiliating. Her heart raced as Amity tried to pull away, but Lunt wasn’t done. He wrapped his arm around her waist and anchored her against his chest. Amity pushed futilely against Lunt’s shoulder.
“That’s quite enough,” a male voice warned.
Lunt released her. Amity stumbled backward. Her lips felt coated with slime. She dared not wipe away for fear of offending him. When she found Holly, her cousin’s bright blue eyes were clouded with uncertainty. A strong arm gently caught Amity about the shoulders. Reassuring. Steadying.