There were those blasted tears again. They had a habit of sneaking up when she least expected them, no matter how hard she tried to keep them at bay. It was not that she did not want to cry. It was just that once she started she did not know how she would stop, and with her mother and sister falling into hysterics at the drop of a hat, someone had to remain strong.
Taking a deep breath, she ignored the burning in her throat, blinked away the stinging in her eyes, and said, “I appreciate you coming here at such an early hour, Mr. Guthridge. You have been immeasurably helpful.”
Gathering up a few wayward papers, the lawyer tucked his satchel under one arm and rubbed his mustache. “I am happy to be of service, Lady Kincaid, especially during this trying time. However, I really do believe your mother—”
“No.” Lily tempered the sharp command with her most brilliant smile. “That is to say, I would prefer you kept the clause to yourself… at least for now. Two weeks,” she said, confidant she could find a solution in that length of time. “Two weeks and you may tell my mother whatever you wish.”
She knew the lawyer didn’t like it, but in the end he gave a nod – albeit a reluctant one – and vowed to keep the most unfortunate part of the will to himself for the length of fourteen days.
Lily saw him out, all smiles and bright assurances that everything would be ‘quite well’, but the moment the door was closed she slumped against it, the last of her strength draining away as she closed her eyes. “Oh Father,” she whispered brokenly, “what have you done?”
CHAPTER TWO
Captain James Rigby, formerly of the second company in the eighth British battalion, was done fighting. Had been done, if truth be told, for the past two years, but it wasn’t until his arm was severed from his body that he was officially declared unfit for duty and sent home to England.
Losing a limb was a funny thing, James reflected as he sat in his study and stared blindly out the window at the darkening sky. He’d watched the doctor cut it off himself, watched him hack away at the rotting flesh and bone with all the finesse of a butcher while he drifted in and out of consciousness. And yet still he was caught by surprise every time he glanced down and saw nothing on the left side of his body save a neatly pinned shirt sleeve.
It had taken three men to hold him down on the table. A fourth to force his jaw open and pour the laudanum down. Even now, five months removed, he could still taste it, just as he could still feel his arm.
He closed his eyes, replaying the bloody memory that still haunted him day and night. A memory he wished he could cut away as easily as the doctor had cut away his flesh and bone.
James’ remaining hand curled into a tight fist of frustration that pounded uselessly against the top of his desk, shaking papers and sending a glass figurine toppling over the edge. He waited for the figurine to break. Waited for it to break, as he was broken. Waited for it to shatter, as he was shattered.
But the glass remained intact, and the irony that such a delicate thing could survive a fall unharmed while he, a strong, strapping man of only twenty seven had been reduced to little more than a cripple, did not escape his notice.
He wanted to curse. He wanted to cry. He wanted to shout to the high heavens about how bloody unfair it all was, but he knew once he started he might never stop, and so he bottled up the self-pity and the anger and the emotion and buried it in a place so dark it could not help but fade into oblivion.
His heart.
A timid knock sounded at the door, alerting James to who was on the other side even before he heard his sister’s soft voice through the thick wood.
“James, are you all right?” she asked hesitantly. “I thought… I thought I heard something.”
“Something fell off my desk. Come in, Natty.”
The door creaked open a few scant inches and a pale face, oval in shape and quite pretty in design, peeked through.
At seventeen Natalie was a girl on the brink of womanhood, not that James liked to think in such terms although he supposed he would have to start. An arm, he reflected grimly as his once bright, vibrant sister darted nervously into the room, was not the only thing he’d lost during the war.
Time.
The only thing in life that was given and taken in equal measure.
When he went to France five years ago he left behind a rambunctious girl with dirt on her knees and pigtails in her hair. He’d returned to find a somber woman full grown, a woman who knocked where she once would have rushed in. A woman who frowned where she once would have smiled.
They said war changed the men who fought within it, and James knew that to be true. But he also rather thought it changed those left behind as well. The ones forced to wait and worry, never knowing if the next day, the next hour, the next minute would bring good news or bad. The ones forced to carry on with their lives as though nothing were amiss. The ones forced to grow up without a father, a son, a brother…
“I do not want to disturb you,” Natalie said, her blue eyes wide and wary.
“You’re not.” He spoke curtly, adopting the same brusque tone he’d used to send soldiers into battle. A tone that had no place in a gentleman’s study. Natalie faltered a step, her lips parting in dismay, and James bit back a growl of frustration. He already garnered enough frightful glances when he walked down the street – he did not need his own sister to fear him as well. And yet fear him she did, if the twist of her hands and the worried look upon her countenance was any indication.
Making a deliberate effort to soften his voice, he nodded towards the leather chair facing his desk and asked if she would like to sit. Natalie did so with great caution, perching on the very edge of the seat as though preparing to flee at a moment’s notice.
A silence rose between them like a wall, as unfamiliar as it was uncomfortable, and James could not help but wonder when he’d lost his sister.
Was it the day he left, when she clung to his side and begged through her tears for him not to go? The long months and years that followed? When their father died and she was forced to live with their aunt? Or after he returned, more a monster than a man, with no idea of how to live in polite society?
Frustrated beyond all bearing, James thrust a hand through his hair, pulling the long, unkempt ends taut. He was in desperate need of a haircut, a shave, and, he thought with a sardonic twist of his lips, a new wardrobe with all of the left sleeves removed.
“You look… nice.” Belatedly noting Natalie was wearing an ivory ball gown trimmed with light blue lace, James studied her with more attention to detail. Her chestnut brown hair was pulled back from her face and twisted up into one of those bewildering coiffures that defied gravity. Pearls – their mother’s, if he was not mistaken – clung to her ears and wrapped around her neck. “Very nice,” he said, a frown weighing heavily on his mouth. “What is the occasion?”
For a moment – a moment so quick if he’d blinked he would have missed it – a flash of irritation flickered in Natalie’s eyes before she slumped back in her seat, stared up at the ceiling, and mumbled something under her breath.
“Speak up,” James demanded, then immediately winced. You are not on the bloody battlefield taking a report, he reminded himself sternly. Calm yourself, man, before you frighten her further.
“I said,” Natalie began, her dark eyebrows pulling together, “I knew you would forget.”
“Forget?” His frown deepened. “Forget what?”
“The ball at Winswood Estate, hosted by Lord and Lady Heathcliff. It is fine,” she said hastily before James could say a word. “I… I did not want to go.”
Heathcliff. The name rang a bell of memory deep within the recesses of James’ mind. He struggled to recall its origin for a moment, then shrugged and let it go. He would remember in due time. He always did.
Leaning forward onto his remaining arm, James did a sweeping glance of Natalie’s attire and said dryly, “Is that why you are wearing a gown fit for a queen?”
Instantly a deep blus
h took hold of Natalie’s cheeks and her hands passed in a nervous flutter across her lap, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from the thick folds of her dress. “I told you about the ball over a month ago but I… I suppose you were otherwise occupied.”
That was one way to put it. Another – even though he cringed to think of it now – was that he’d been a raging lunatic, drunk off his arse from sunup to sundown, with nary a coherent word spoken (or retained) in between. The pain in his arm had driven him to drink. The fact that the pain came from an arm he no longer had drove him to the brink of lunacy. By sheer will he’d brought himself back from the edge, but the journey had not been an easy one, and James was not so foolish to think it was even halfway finished.
How long would it take, he wondered, until he stopped trying to open a door knob with a hand that no longer existed? How long until the phantom aches eased? How long until he woke in a bed not soaked with his own sweat? How long until he felt a shred of normalcy return?
“I take it the ball is tonight?” he asked after a long pause. The last thing he wanted to do was feel the weight of a dozen stares as he played the part of chaperone, but he supposed there was no getting around it. If he wanted to reacquaint himself into society – which he did, if only for his sister’s sake – then there really was no way around it.
Balls were long, tedious affairs filled with intricate dance steps he had never been able to successfully master and idle gossip he had no interest in taking part in. Although now, given his situation, there was one upside. No mothers would be sending their sparkly eyed daughters his way to dance, for who in their right mind would want to court the attentions of a cripple? He would be left in peace, Natalie would be able to waltz to her heart’s content, and hopefully she would begin to treat him as she used to.
That was all he wanted.
Not an enormous mansion, or a fleet of carriages, or a gorgeous woman on his arm. No, his desires were much simpler than that. All he wanted, all he needed, was for life to go back to ‘used to’.
“The ball began an hour ago,” Natalie whispered, still fussing with her skirts, her eyes downcast and her shoulders rigid.
James stood up. “Then I’d best get changed.”
“You… You want to attend?”
Someone – a maid, he assumed – had placed a sprig of holly on the corner of his desk in celebration of the impending holiday. The leaves were a dark, glossy green and felt like wax when he picked up the sprig and twirled it absently between his thumb and forefinger, sending the red berries spinning in circles. “Why don’t you ask Mrs. Fieldstone to have the carriage brought round,” he said, referring to their head housekeeper, a plump, pleasant woman who had loyally served the Rigby household for three generations. “And I will meet you in the foyer in five minutes.”
“Five minutes?” Natalie said doubtfully.
For the first time in recent memory, James’ mouth attempted to form a smile. The muscles stretched and tightened, pulling at the sides of his face in a way that was both familiar and forgotten. “Perhaps ten,” he said, acknowledging his disheveled appearance with a wry shake of his head.
After sleeping day in and day out on the hard ground, he’d grown accustomed to dirt. Smelling it. Tasting it. Wearing it. To him, the worn out trousers and tunic he was currently wearing were luxurious garments, but in reality they were far more suited for a beggar than a member of the gentry.
He had clothes, of course. More than he knew what to do with. But after being forced to wear a heavy, cumbersome uniform for longer than he cared to remember, James now welcomed comfort over quality. Unfortunately the rest of his peers still favored pomp and circumstance, which meant his current state of dress was a far cry from suitable for a formal ball. In all honesty he could give a flying fig what others thought of him, but he knew his actions and appearance would have a direct effect on Natalie, and so he would try – ‘try’ being the operative word – to engage in a manner befitting a man of his station.
The Rigby’s had never been nobility, but they were gentlemen, their wealth discreetly earned and just as discreetly spent. Their country estate was modest, their townhouse in London rented seasonally, but they had never wanted for money nor suffered due to lack of it.
“How is the marriage mart these days?” James asked as he walked around the side of his desk and out into the hallway. Candles illuminated the narrow passage, sending flickering spheres of light dancing up the walls and over the faces of his ancestors that now existed solely within the confines of silver edged frames. At the end of the hall, James knew, would be his parents, Harold Rigby on one side and Bernice Rigby on the other. Staring endlessly at each other in painted memoriam as they had never stared at each other in life.
James’ memories of his mother were vague at best, nonexistent at worst. She’d died of complications shortly after Natalie was born, and their father followed suit eight years later. Still a young, impressionable girl of nine Natalie had gone to live with an aunt while he… he had used his new inheritance to purchase an officer’s commission in the army.
“There is no one I am interested in currently.” Natalie trailed behind him, quiet as a mouse where she once would have made enough noise to wake the dead. James paused at the end of the hall and turned to face his sister. Even in the flickering shadows she seemed pale and withdrawn; a slim imitation of the laughing, rambunctious girl he remembered.
“What happened to you Natty?” he murmured, drawing on the name he’d used when they were children. His arm ached to wrap around her shoulders, to pull her close and banish the fear he saw in her eyes, but she was already so stiff he feared one touch would be enough to shatter the temporary alliance he’d built between them since his return.
Natalie stared at him, her expression guarded. “Not all wounds can be seen from the outside,” she said cryptically.
Something churned inside of James’ stomach. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. “Natty, what are you—”
“I will ask to have the carriage brought round and meet you in the foyer,” she said, cutting him off mid-sentence before she spun in a swirl of white silk and hurried back down the hall.
Watching her go, James wanted to pound his fist against the wall, his need to strike something tangible so great it was like a living thing clawing at him. I cannot fight your demons when you won’t tell me what they are, Natty, he thought helplessly. Not when I have my own to contend with.
CHAPTER THREE
32 days until Christmas
The Winswood Estate
Home of Sarah & Devlin Heathcliff
The very last thing Lily wanted to do was attend a ball, and had it not been hosted by her dearest friend in the entire world she would have skipped it without remorse. Unfortunately, the ball in question was being hosted by her dearest friend in the entire world, and thus she found herself dancing at midnight in the arms of a man who possessed both a wandering eye and a heavy instep.
Unable to contain her wince when he trod on her foot for the third – or was it the fourth? – time, Lily bowed out gracefully as the musical strains of the waltz drew to a close. “Thank you for the dance,” she said politely even as her attention wandered across the room to where Lady Sarah Heathcliff – best friend and former wallflower extraordinaire – stood beside her tall, dark haired husband, her face tilted up towards his and her doe brown eyes glowing with adoration.
The Viscount of Winswood seemed just as infatuated with his wife as she was with him if the hand resting daringly low on her hip was any indication, and Lily couldn’t contain her quiet snort of laughter when his hand slipped lower and was promptly slapped away.
Sarah had married Devlin Heathcliff the winter before after a scandalously short engagement. She’d loved the handsome viscount from afar for years, but had only gotten up the courage to finally make herself known to him after no small amount of urging from Lily. Now, nearly a year into marriage, the two were more in love than ever before and Lily took her fair share of cred
it for their blissful happily-ever-after.
If only finding a husband of her own could be so easy.
As she retreated to the refreshment table and helped herself to a handful of grapes, Lily could not help but scowl. Nearly every eligible bachelor in existence was in attendance tonight, but nary a one had managed to catch her eye.
They were either too young or too old. Too arrogant or too meek. Too talkative or too quiet. Too… well, too everything. She wasn’t looking for perfection. Truly she wasn’t. But surely there had to something better out there than the current crop of fop minded gentleman who wouldn’t know an intelligent conversation if it smacked them upside their hideous wigs.
The very idea that she would most likely have to pick someone from this very room to marry was so depressing she set her plate of grapes aside without eating a single one.
“Are they too sour?”
In hindsight it was a very good thing Lily had put down the grapes, for if she was still holding them they would have certainly flown every which way. “My goodness,” she said with a laugh as she spun around.
The girl who had snuck up behind her was young, no more than sixteen or seventeen if Lily had to hazard a guess, with chestnut colored hair that framed a delicate, heart shaped face, sweeping eyebrows and pale, serious eyes. “You certainly startled me,” she continued with a bright, cheerful smile intended to put the visibly nervous girl at ease. “No, the grapes are not sour. Well, perhaps they are, but I wouldn’t know. I did not eat any. It seems I do not have much of an appetite this evening.”
The girl glanced down at her shoes peeking out from beneath the hem of her ivory gown. “Neither do I,” she whispered.
Regency Christmas (Holiday Collection) Page 8