by Mary Balogh, Jo Beverley, Sandra Heath, Edith Layton, Laura Matthews
Piers had reined his horse in again while still in view of the holly tree. He watched the boys run to their mother, and saw how tenderly she put her arms around them both. Then they gathered the holly that still lay scattered on the ground, and carried it and the mistletoe back toward the manor house. He could just hear the boys’ laughter, and from time to time Rebecca’s laughter too.
A wry light passed through his blue eyes as he pondered the marked contrast in her now. It was almost like watching a different person. The cold, antagonistic Rebecca had gone, and in her place was the softer, warmer creature he remembered from the past. The too-distant past, it seemed now. How old had she been when they’d first met? Sixteen? Seventeen, maybe? He’d been a few years older, and susceptible to her fresh, unspoiled beauty.
It had been at the midsummer fair, and he’d rescued her from the rather importunate attention of an inebriated lawyer from Plymouth. She’d been so sweetly grateful, and so delightfully overawed by his grand birthright, that he’d been flattered beyond belief. She may not have been part of the exalted circle in which his family moved, but there’d been a sparkle in her eyes and a glow on her cheeks that set her completely apart.
Piers gazed at the three figures disappearing into the distance. Yes, there had been something that set Rebecca Newton apart, something that eventually elevated her into the Winterbourne family itself. Much good it had done her.
His lips twisted savagely as he kicked his heels to urge his horse on again.
The night of Christmas Eve arrived, and the weather was still atrocious. Clouds scudded endlessly across the dark sky, and the gale could be heard whining around the eaves as Rebecca emerged reluctantly from her room to go to the ball. She held a lighted candlestick because the passage was dark and uneven, and beneath her gray velvet evening cloak she wore the strawberry silk gown. Her dark hair was pinned up into an elaborate knot trimmed with ribbons to match the gown, and she carried the same fan and silver sequin reticule as the night she and Edward met.
Too late, now the moment of actual departure was upon her, she realized how many deep memories were bound to be stirred by attending the ball again. She’d now learned how much Sir Oliver had done to spread news of the betrothal over the county, and so was only too aware of the interest she’d attract from the moment she arrived at Almondsbury Park.
Feeling daunted, she paused with a hand shielding the candle flame. Truth to tell, she was beginning to feel intimidated by the whole business. She’d hated the unfair notoriety she’d gained because of Edward, and shrank from the same thing happening all over again. She wanted to hide away, but instead must face practically the whole of Devon society, to say nothing of Sir Oliver in particular. He made no secret of his delight with the stir his marital affairs were creating, and had done his utmost to try to escort her tonight, but she’d managed to fend him off. She wanted the freedom to leave when she felt like it, and so was determined to use Clifford’s carriage.
Piers was another reason for wanting to be able to come home when she wished. She was bound to see him, and even if they didn’t speak, his mere presence would still affect her. Their meeting on the riverbank had left her feeling confused and vulnerable. But that was how he always left her.
Clifford had heard her door from the hall, and came impatiently to the foot of the staircase. “Do hurry, sis, for it won’t do to be unnecessarily late!”
The light of the candle wavered as she walked on. Ghostly hands and strange cloaked men couldn’t have been further from her mind in that moment, but as she approached the head of the staircase she had the oddest feeling someone was watching from the bedroom doorway behind her. She turned sharply, and the candlelight shivered, but the shadows were empty. Her hand trembled a little as she protected the flame again. Gradually the sensation of being watched began to subside, and after a moment she continued down to the hall, where her brother and sister-in-law waited.
Clifford was nine years older than his sister, and shared her dark coloring. Tall, and rather heavily built, he possessed the sort of imposing articulate presence that was ideal for the hurly-burly of parliament. Rebecca thought he was certainly wasted as just the master of Abbotlea, for he had much to offer.
His glance raked her, and came to rest approvingly upon her intricately pinned hair. “You look excellent, sis.”
“Thank you.”
“You can be sure the future Lady Willoughby will be a success tonight,” he observed levelly, his shrewd gaze making note of the reluctance in her eyes.
“I hope so,” she replied resignedly.
“You don’t have to marry him, you know.”
“I think I do.”
“Why? Because of my political ambitions?”
“That, and the need to spare your purse now you’re to be a father,” she replied.
“My purse can manage, and as to my desire to grace Westminster with my Devon common sense and wit, I can do that without Sir Oliver.”
Rebecca looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Simply that if I choose, I can turn to another sponsor.” He glanced briefly at Margaret, whose gaze was carefully averted.
“And who, pray, is this other sponsor?” Rebecca inquired.
He fell silent.
She smiled a little. “A valiant attempt, sir, but patently transparent. So my reasons for marrying Sir Oliver remain. It may not be a love match, but it will do.”
“Your first venture into marriage left you penniless, so if you imagine marrying for money will bring happiness, I fear you’re sadly mistaken.”
“It’s my decision.”
“Rebecca—”
But Margaret put a warning hand on his sleeve. “Leave it, my dear, for there’s nothing to be gained from arguing.”
He drew a long breath. “As you wish, my dear, but you and I both know things that—”
“Clifford!”
His lips clamped shut, and he looked away.
Rebecca looked curiously at them both. “I’m missing something here, am I not?” she said. “What’s going on that I haven’t been told?”
“Nothing,” Margaret replied with a disarming smile.
“I don’t believe you.”
Margaret gave a tinkle of nervous laughter, but then became serious as she changed the subject. “Rebecca, you will be courteous to Piers tonight, won’t you?” she said suddenly.
“I’ll do my best.”
Clifford cleared his throat. “We’ll hold you to that, sis.”
“Yes, I’m sure you will.” Why were they so concerned she should be civil to Piers? It was almost as if it were a matter of considerable importance! But as she was about to put the question into words, Margaret spoke again.
“I do trust you’ll enjoy the ball, Rebecca.”
“I just hope I’m not too much the center of attention.”
Clifford gave a grunt. “It’s a vain hope.” At that moment the carriage arrived at the door, and he offered her his arm to escort her outside.
The wind gusted and rain stung her face. She shivered as he assisted her into the vehicle, which a moment later drew away toward the wrought iron gates into the village street. Rain shone in the arc of light from the lamps as the coachman tooled the team up to a trot. The wheels splashed through puddles, and the vehicle was buffeted by the gale. Few people were out and about, and the lighted cottage windows looked cozy and inviting. Ribboned Christmas wreaths were fixed to doors, and the parish church was dimly lit from within as the village women put up the seasonal decorations of holly, ivy, and fir.
Rebecca glanced at the open church doorway as the carriage passed. An elderly man in a long cloak was standing there, his figure a mere silhouette against the candlelight within, but she could feel his gaze upon her. It was the man from the riverbank! With a gasp she turned to look back, but he’d vanished. One moment he was there, the next he might never have been.
She drew nervously away from the window. Her heartbeats had quickened
and she felt both hot and cold at once. To calm herself she counted to ten, and then exhaled slowly, telling herself there hadn’t been anyone there, just shadows.
She looked out at the dark night again. At least one puzzle had been solved now, and she knew why the cloaked man seemed familiar. His stocky build and the tilt of his head put her strongly in mind of her father.
The carriage began the long climb over the forested hill toward Almondsbury Park. The wind soughed through the trees, and the vehicle jolted over deep ruts. They heard the roar of water as they neared the rocks where the rain drained from the saturated hilltop into a steep gully and began its descent to the river valley below. A humpbacked stone bridge carried the road over the torrent, and then at the summit just beyond was the fork with the road from Winterbourne Castle.
Low clouds swirled mistily through the trees, but if she’d glanced to the right along that other road, she might just have been able to make out the lamps of a stationary carriage. At last the long descent toward Almondsbury Park commenced, and as the road swooped down below the cloud again, the coachman brought the team up to as smart a pace as he dared.
Piers had set out from Winterbourne Castle intending to drive straight to the ball, but as his carriage left open land to negotiate the forested hill, he began to doubt the wisdom of attending at all. He looked out at the shadowy trees swaying in the storm, and saw the first tendrils of cloud coiling swiftly between the crowding branches. Soon everything began to turn gray and indistinct, until at last he could only just make out the trees at the side of the road.
His doubts increased. This damned Willoughby business had already caused sufficient stir. Too many old embers had been fanned, and his presence beneath the same roof as Rebecca after all this time was bound to make it a damned sight worse. He leaned his head back against the carriage’s green leather upholstery. Goddamn it, what was he to do? Should he go, or would it be more politic to turn around and go back to the castle?
He needed time to think. Leaning forward, he lowered the rain-spattered window glass and told the coachman to halt. Then he raised the glass once more and sat back. The thought of watching that elderly peacock Willoughby basking in his betrothal glory was too much to stomach. The fellow would be brandishing his success like a battle honor, and smugly boasting to the world about his good fortune in securing such a beautiful and desirable bride. And when alone with male acquaintances, he’d be constantly winking and grinning as he stirred their envy over the physical delights that would soon be his alone to enjoy.
The wind moaned through the trees outside as Piers sighed. Yes, indeed, the prospect of Willoughby’s triumph was far from uplifting. But almost as bad would be the sight of Rebecca’s smiling compliance. She didn’t want to marry the odious fellow. Plague take Clifford Newton for getting his wife with child after all this time!
The uncharitable sentiment aroused his guilt. God, this was getting him nowhere. The fact was that Rebecca intended to go ahead with this cursed match, and there was nothing he could do about it. The best thing all round was for him to attend this damned Christmas ball, behave as if he didn’t give a damn who his cousin’s widow married, and then leave as soon as he could. Yes, that was the only real choice, for to stay away might draw even more unwelcome attention to the past.
His decision made, he lowered the window again to instruct the coachman to drive on, but as he leaned out into the wind and rain, a movement caught his eye. He was sure there was someone about ten yards away, next to an ivy-draped tree.
He peered through the swirling cloud. “Who’s there?” he called above the noise of the night.
There was no reply, but still he was certain someone was there. “Who’s there?” he demanded more authoritatively.
No response was forthcoming, but he felt sure he could just make out a shadowy silhouette. It looked like a man in a cloak. Whoever it was clearly had no intention of revealing himself, which left the obvious conclusion that he was a poacher. Well, good luck to him on a night like this.
He heard another carriage pass over the bridge by the fork just ahead. It was Rebecca’s, but he didn’t realize it as he returned his attention to the figure by the tree. But it had melted away into the cloud, leaving only shivering ivy sprays. He called to the coachman, “Drive on!”
“My lord.”
The whip cracked, and the carriage jolted forward. Piers glanced back toward the tree as he began to raise the window glass again. The cloaked man was there, and for a moment was clearly visible, although his features were concealed by the low set of his hat. Piers was in two minds whether to order the coachman to halt again, but then decided against it. The carriage drove on.
The lights of Almondsbury Park appeared ahead. Rebecca gazed out unhappily, and as her carriage turned through the impressive wrought iron gates, it was difficult to resist the impulse to turn around and return to Abbotlea. But she knew the gauntlet of society had to be run sooner or later, and it was best to get it over and done with.
Every tree in the grounds had been hung with lanterns. A long line of elegant vehicles was drawn up along the drive, and as hers neared the main door, she heard music drifting out into the stormy night. She looked up at the great house. The windows were illuminated, and the rooms behind them were lavishly adorned with Christmas greenery. It was all very seasonal and exciting, but now she was here, she was more prey than ever to nerves.
The carriage door was opened by a liveried footman, and she alighted hesitantly, her hair ribbons fluttering in the wind. But as she stepped down, she was dismayed to see Piers emerge from the carriage behind. He didn’t see her as he paused to adjust the froth of lace at his tight-fitting cuff.
Few men could have appeared to more advantage in the close-cut black velvet coat and white silk breeches that were de rigueur for occasions like tonight’s. Again he brought Edward strongly to mind, and yet at the same time he managed to be totally unlike him. One couldn’t imagine Piers becoming addicted to the turn of a card, or accepting wild challenges such as the horse race that led to Edward’s premature death. Not for Piers the folly of a patently unfair ten-mile gallop through a summer downpour against the best horse in the south of England. But her foolish Edward had accepted, inevitably lost the race, and paid the ultimate price by contracting a fatal fever.
An ironic smile played briefly upon her lips, for Piers differed from Edward in another even more significant way: he would never have made a monumental misalliance with an inconsequential nonentity from Abbotlea Manor! No, his bride was an heiress who would bring even more wealth into his already overflowing coffers.
Piers suddenly realized she was there, for Sir Oliver, ever watchful for her arrival, emerged noisily from the house to claim her. “Ah, my dear! My dear!” he cried, taking her hand and drawing it palm uppermost to his lips.
He was of slight build, with receding gray hair that had once been a mane of rich brown curls. His mouth was wide and his hazel eyes were bright in the lamplight as he lingered over her hand. He wore the same formal evening wear as Piers, but whereas on Piers the tight coat and breeches emphasized his well-formed masculine shape, on Sir Oliver they served only to draw attention to his narrowness and lack of height.
His loud greeting saw to it that Piers wasn’t alone in becoming aware of her arrival. She felt other nearby guests all turn to stare at her, and from the corner of her eye she saw fans raised to whispering lips.
Sir Oliver clasped her hand in both his, and gazed ardently into her eyes. “I’m flattered that because of you I’m the center of attention tonight. It does my vanity good,” he said frankly.
She managed a weak smile, but her heart sank apace. He might revel in being the center of attention, but she certainly didn’t.
He didn’t notice her reserve. “Come inside, my dear, and let us brave them all together.” He ushered her into the glittering vestibule, where Christmas decorations were festooned around the gilded walls, and small boys in eastern costume handed out ribb
oned favors for the ladies to wear on their wrists.
As a footman relieved Rebecca of her cloak, she glanced back to where Piers still stood. His blue eyes were upon her, their expression hard to read. She turned hastily to the front again, and allowed Sir Oliver to tie the favor to her left wrist before he escorted her toward the ballroom staircase.
Piers watched her. Willoughby could justifiably boast about winning her hand, for she was without a doubt one of the most beautiful women in Devon. Probably in the whole of England. There was still something about her, something fresh and sparkling, like the best champagne. But for Piers Winterbourne, the champagne was little more than vinegar.
With a wry smile, he entered the house.
Rebecca and Sir Oliver paused at the head of the ballroom steps. The great blue-and-gold chamber was magnificently illuminated and mirrored so that lights and guests seemed to be repeated over and over again on all sides. The orchestra played from an apse high on one wall, and the Duke and Duchess of Almondsbury received each new arrival at the foot of the grand steps. Refined laughter and conversation vied with the music of the polonaise that was in progress, and plumes trembled and jewels flashed as the ladies danced.
There were Christmas decorations everywhere, including the gilded ceiling, where huge mistletoe kissing boughs were suspended, their gold satin ribbons trembling in the rising heat. Rebecca glanced up at them, remembering the first kiss she and Edward had shared so publicly in this very ballroom, but then her brow drew together in puzzlement as she saw what appeared to be a huge nest fixed to the center of the ceiling. It was filled with something white; she couldn’t make out what. Then her attention was drawn down to more immediate matters as the master of ceremonies rapped the floor with his staff and announced their names.
“Sir Oliver Willoughby and Mrs. Edward Winterbourne.”
A great stir went around the gathering, and all eyes swung toward them. Rebecca felt dull color staining her cheeks, and kept her gaze lowered as Sir Oliver conducted her down to be greeted by their hosts, whose expressionless visages made it clear she’d been invited only for the sake of her husband-to-be, not for herself.