A Regency Christmas VI

by Mary Balogh, Jo Beverley, Sandra Heath, Edith Layton, Laura Matthews

  Because objects of charity were meant to be given at Christmas—and in her case, being an object of charity herself, to be given a Christmas, too. Squire and his wife were ruthlessly charitable, and there was nothing she could do but smile and bear with their kindness until the new year freed her. If she insisted on remembering that she was their favorite philanthropy, she’d suffer instead of having a good time. She’d resolved to forget about it this year. And had tried, and almost succeeded...

  ... until the stunningly attractive man who had just arrived reminded her just now. Because he didn’t know her, or about her, and so had looked at her as though he thought she was fascinating, eligible, possible. At least he had in that instant when she’d first seen him and they’d traded astonished stare for stare—as though they’d recognized each other after years apart—in that transcendent second before his face turned cold and harsh again. Which was exactly how it would look once he was told who she was. And they’d certainly tell him, of course.

  Oh, that’s our Eve. Poor relation. Charming girl. So sweet. Our Caroline just dotes on her. That’s one of our Caro’s gowns on her; isn’t it lovely? Trust Caro to do the right thing by poor Eve. Not a penny to bless herself with, poor chit. She seldom gets a chance to meet people. Lives in the back of beyond, and looks forward to coming here each year, you know. Just wouldn't be Christmas without her.

  Next year, Eve told herself fiercely, she’d finally be able to stay home. At five and twenty, they have to agree when you say you’re entirely on the shelf and content to remain there. Because then she would be. She’d be free to stay home at Christmas—and dream of what might have been if she’d come here again. Oh, bother, bother, bother! she thought, staring down into the fire and biting her lip in vexation. If they’d only not invite such gentlemen as to give a girl dreams of what might have been if she’d been born otherwise ... or if she was otherwise, she thought, remembering Lord Shelton, who had not come with his friend after all, thank heavens. That would just be too embarrassing—although she found herself thinking that she would love to see him anyway, since he was the only man in the world who seemed to understand her.

  “Eve, my dear, come and meet the Viscount Hunt,” Squire said merrily. She looked up to see the harsh-faced gentleman standing next to her host, looking at her with no expression, his eyes cold as his face.

  “Here’s our little Eve, my lord,” Squire said. “Eve Thompkins—my Lord Hunt. She’s quiet as a mouse,” Squire confided loudly as Eve curtsied to Ian’s brief bow, “but don’t let that pious little face fool you; she’s clever as one, too—who knows what sort of rumbunction’s going on in that wise little noggin? Father’s a noted scholar, don’t you know?”

  Trust Squire to damn her even as he praised her, Eve thought sadly. Three times damned: “Clever,” “pious,” and “wise” all in the same sentence describing her? It was code for “spinster.” Incurable spinster at that. Because an eligible girl was a “clever puss,” if she was supposed to be witty, never “pious,” and certainly not “wise.”

  “Miss Thompkins,” Ian said.

  His voice was dark as his visage, and abrupt. It warned away sympathy for the terrible scar on his cheek. But it lured her as well, because it was rich as it was dark, and she seemed to hear it in her very bones.

  “Ah! Here’s my Caro!” Squire said before Eve could answer and stammer some polite foolishness. “Now the party begins! Watch yourself, my lord; she’s a clever little puss, too. Not one for books, mind, but how could she be with an old dunderhead like me as her papa? But no one’s sharper, I promise you, for all she’s a beauty! Caroline, my love, here’s the Viscount Hunt, all the way from London town.”

  But Caroline already knew that, Eve thought sadly as her cousin dimpled up at the bemused viscount. Caro had seen him arrive, seen him being shown around, and had waited until her father had introduced him to all the rest of the company before approaching him. That way she could take his arm, as she did now, and steer him into the party as his companion, and not have to worry about anyone else he might meet taking him away from her.

  And why not? It was her home, her house party, and all the eligible men in it were at her disposal. She was looking for a husband. He wouldn’t be hard to find; she had everything a gentleman could want. She was young and pretty and had a good family and a neat dowry. She was comely in the most fashionable way: slender, but just rounded enough so that even her elbows were dimpled. Her hair was dark and it curled, her eyes were fashionably blue, and her smile frequent and radiant. The worst part of it, Eve thought sadly, as she trailed along in the backwash of her cousin’s bright laughter, was that she was a thoroughly nice girl, too. So it was impossible to dislike her for taking what was rightfully hers.

  But it was possible to envy her from the bottom of her heart. And to her disgust, Eve found that for the first time in her life she did envy her fortunate cousin. Not for the manor or the dowry or the fashionable clothing, or any of the things her cousin had and she did not. But only for the one dark man she now proudly displayed like a new trinket on her dimpled arm.

  They knew how to make Christmas at Moon Manor. Ian was glad he had come. It was better than being at his own home. Because although it was clear that Christmas was a tradition here, replete with many warm memories, they weren’t his memories. His own wouldn’t have made for a very glad holiday. And so he was pleased to share in those at the manor.

  His room was comfortable. Dinner was delicious; the company sparkled. He hadn’t been in “proper” mixed company in a long while, and found he’d missed it. He was seated next to Caro, the squire’s eldest daughter. She was so charming he almost forgot the poor girl Shelton had designs upon. But not quite. Not that it mattered. She sat so far down the table from him he couldn’t keep his eye on her without being obvious about it, and whatever he was, he was never obvious. He would bide his time. It was easy to do.

  Caro Moleswirth either thought he was a great catch or had heard of his reputation and thought that it would be fun to play with fire. Because she set out to snare his interest with a vengeance. She did it with such a complete misunderstanding of what it was a rake wanted in a woman that he couldn’t remember when he’d been so entertained. He almost regretted it when the ladies left the gentlemen to their port.

  The girls crowded together in a salon that had been designated the ladies’ withdrawing room for the night. It was supplied with chamber pots and lined with looking glasses, and all the women crowded in before going into the grand salon where they would rejoin the gentlemen. The older women simply relieved themselves, repaired their maquillage if they wore any, tended to their hair, and chatted briefly. But the girls fussed over their clothes and hair, and jested and gossiped with each other excitedly, sounding like a treeful of cheerful birds.

  “You’ve got yourself a beau, Carol!” one of them eased her host’s daughter.

  “And, mmm, what a handsome one he is, too,” another chirped. “Such lowering black looks. Byron would be madly jealous.”

  “A lot you know of Byron,” another girl said laughingly. “Your mama would wash your mouth out with soap for merely mentioning his name, much less knowing him. But I agree. Hunt is so madly attractive. So .. daunting. How I envy you.”

  “Oh, Hunt?” Caro asked with an air of unconcern as She studied herself in the glass. “Lud! What a gloomy gus he is! He never smiles.”

  “He doesn’t have to,” another girl sighed. “Such madly attractive eyes; I vow you can actually feel them on you,” she said with a delicious shudder. “Black ... or are they brown?”

  “I don’t know,” Caro said carelessly, as if she hadn’t been trying to stare into them all evening and only stopped because they were always more intent on his dinner than on herself. She wasn’t a vain girl, but had too much pride to continue to try to compete with a goose and a side of beef. “... dark brown, I suppose.”

  No, Eve thought, gray. They were gray. She knew because she’d seen the sides of h
is eyes in the candlelight as he’d gone into dinner. They caught the light and refracted it as brown would not. They were gray as dark ice. Gray as gun metal, and just as merry.

  “Perhaps he doesn’t smile because he was so lately at war,” Eve said softly.

  “Pooh!” Caro said, tossing back her head and smiling at how her curls bounced. “Latimer was in the wars, and so was Johnny Stevens and Philip Connors, and a merrier crew I’ve never seen.”

  “Latimer patrolled the regent’s palace at Brighton, and Johnny never takes anything seriously, and Philip is a man of the world,” one of the girls said.

  “Whereas Hunt’s a man of the boudoir,” one of the girls whispered with a sidelong look to be sure her mother wasn’t listening. “Or so I’ve heard.”

  “Yes, he’s got a dreadful reputation,” her friend reported. “But the wonder is that he’s still welcome everywhere.”

  “He’s young enough to change, or so my mother says,” another said.

  “ ‘With his income, title, and that estate, my dear,’ ” her friend said with mock haughtiness, imitating her own mother, “ ‘it scarcely matters.’ And with that face, that manly form, and his outrageous reputation,” she added on her own giggle, “who cares?”

  “Well, I suppose he is a bit fascinating,” Caro said lightly, “and so whatever else, I shall get him to laugh tonight—you’ll see!”

  But it was hard for her to get near enough to him to get the chance. Because when the gentlemen joined them at last in the grand salon, the viscount was surrounded by men, from the youngest blades to their hoariest elders. They hung on his every infrequent word.

  “He don’t talk much, but when he does, Lud!” young Latimer confided to Caro and Eve when he finally left the crowd around the viscount and joined the ladies. “He makes sense. The man’s been to Spain, fought valiantly—and has got some dashed fine ideas on how to end the conflict. Even m’father says he’s got a head on his shoulders.”

  Eve looked at the head that sat so proudly on those wide shoulders. The viscount’s face was handsome, starkly attractive, but cold. And the scar he bore seemed to go deeper than his skin. She saw no lust in his eyes, not exactly—he only looked at a girl as though he were evaluating things about her that she didn’t know she had, but soon found herself wishing she did. When he did laugh, those strong features only rearranged themselves; it was hard to imagine him ever looking lighthearted. Surely a rake would be all cozening sweetness, all compliance and smiles? If physiognomy was destiny, as some men of science said, then it made no sense that the man was a rake.

  A rake was a fellow who lived for the pleasures of the flesh. A rake was a man who made his way through life with flattery and cunning. Eve knew rakes—well, at least one rake. He was charming, in no way like the viscount. Because Hunt did not try to charm; in fact it almost seemed as though he tried not to.

  But then that head turned as though she had called his name, not just thought it. He looked across the room and straight at her, the hard gray eyes cool and assessing. Eve turned away, flustered. Perfect, she told herself bitterly as she caught her breath and studied her shaking hands with rapt attention. Now you’re turning into a true spinster, all sighs and glances and romantic fantasies. When shall you start looking for handsome strangers under your bed each night? she asked herself angrily. She turned her attention to her cousin, praying she hadn’t been seen goggling at the grim viscount. She needn’t have worried. Caro was too busy whispering with her mother to have noticed anything.

  The squire’s wife nodded, and left her daughter in order to have a word with some of her lady guests. Within moments one of them struck up a merry tune on the piano, another approached her spouse and elbowed him hard, yet another crossed the room and breathed some harsh, pertinent words in her husband’s ear. Slowly the group of gentlemen around the viscount parted, and they rejoined the ladies.

  There were tables set up for cards, and those inveterate gamblers among them soon settled down at their favorite games. Matrons gossiped, trading recipes and stories about children, husbands, and servants. Their husbands chatted about hunts, races, mills, and property. There was a devilish hot game of charades being played by the younger folk in one corner of the room, and a riotous game of snap going forth in another. Consecutive players kept the piano thumping, there was singing, and before long someone moved a chair and someone else called for a footman to help move a table and there was some jolly impromptu dancing—with Squire shouting, “No polkas, now! Here—have a care for the furniture. We’ll have a ball another night,” as everyone laughed.

  Eve had her admirers, but both she and they knew that was all they could be. So she smiled at them and let them go on to more promising girls. She’d met most of them before at these holiday affairs. If she had not, Caro had kindly explained their situations to her, so she’d have no illusions. None of them could afford a pauper wife. They either needed a fortune, wanted one, or had a parent who insisted. Even if they didn’t, Eve didn’t encourage any of them—she’d lived in a marriage that was a misalliance and would not wish it on anyone. Not that her parents weren’t happy, and didn’t love each other. They were, and they did. But her mother had known better before her marriage, and her father knew it, and it shadowed their lives. And absolutely limited their daughter’s.

  So she passed the evening by smiling and watching and counting the hours and pretending to have a jolly time. As Caro clung to the viscount’s arm like lint.

  “Now, listen!” Caro finally cried to the company as the candles began to gutter and the first guests started to move toward the stairs. “This is very important. Christmas Eve is fast approaching and we have things to do! We have traditions here at the manor. Tell them, Father!”

  “You tell them, my love!” he laughed, as amidst much laughter, he put his hands round her waist and lifted her to a chair so she could lecture to the company.

  But in truth, only the viscount didn’t know the traditions, and the fact that this lecture was one of them, and had been since Caro had been able to lisp directions.

  “Since tomorrow bids to be fair, and we cannot say what Christmas Eve shall be, tomorrow is the day we’ll need help from everyone to bring in the mistletoe. The servants will cut the holly and the ivy,” she said, shaking a finger at her guests, “but we girls must bring in the mistletoe—and mind, not a sprig in the house until evening or it’s bad luck. You gentlemen can help my father find the Yule log, no matter how long it takes,” she said, as all the men pretended to groan, as if they didn’t know that Squire had found it weeks ago and guarded it jealously since. “For you know it must be found, not taken.” The men smiled, because that meant Squire intended to lead them on a merry hunt, a good long ride to shake the cobwebs out. “And when we’re done—I propose we skate on the pond till we’re dizzy!”

  There was a ragged cheer, much laughter, and the company began to make their good nights. Caro stood at the foot of the stair, flushed with pleasure at being the center of attention. Eve stood watching. In that moment, she felt as though she were standing in some distant audience, seeing all the brightness and laughter being played out before her, and that it was already receding into some enchanted memory she’d never really been part of. It made her homesick for a home she’d never had. It made her realize this was her last Christmas as a girl. If she ever did return here it would be in her caps, as a certified spinster, with not even the fantasy of a match before her. The only way she could meet a dark, brooding, fascinating stranger at home would be if he got lost on the moors. A lump rose in her throat; she was appalled to find tears in her eyes. She looked away, trying to collect herself. And saw him looking straight at her—with sympathy, with understanding, with an echo of her own sorrow instead of the usual coldness she saw on that harsh face.

  Ian had been watching her all night. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was because he knew her future better than she did, and felt in some way responsible. She was one with all the other girls here toni
ght, but if Shelton had his way, she would be in the business of providing pleasure for the gentlemen by the time another Christmas came. It bothered him.

  He hadn’t had a chance to speak with her. Maybe she didn’t deserve his sympathy. But he knew too well that though she stood in this respectable company tonight and was part of the festivities, if rake Shelton had his way, by next year her name would be a scandal and her presence an anathema to them. He felt like a man who saw a pretty little fish swimming in a pond, all unaware of the hook she was about to be impaled upon. Because he saw how lonely she was now, and so surely when an experienced man like Shelton cast his lure, she would bite.

  Ian was not a moralist, certainly. But somehow the thought of rakish matters seemed wrong in this cozy country setting. The contrast between lustful longings and the sweet innocence of Christmas was so stark as to be appalling to him. What should he do? Save her? From herself? Or for himself? Graceful and shapely, she was certainly lovely enough—and sad enough to tempt him. He was always drawn to sorrow, because he knew he could never disappoint a woman who was already unhappy.

  As he looked at her now, while the rest of the company laughed, he saw tears glittering in those remarkable eyes Shelton had praised. They made him catch his breath. Because in that moment when he should have been merry, he realized he felt like an outsider, too. It wasn’t only because he was privy to Shelton’s plans. He had his own dark secrets. He bore the stench of war about himself, and his body held the recent memory of soulless lust. Where did he fit into this sweet Christmas celebration? What did he have in common with all these charming, foolish young girls?