All is Mary and Bright: A Christmas Regency Romance (Belles of Christmas: Frost Fair Book 2)

by Kasey Stockton

  Mary considered the question but quickly shifted to considering the man who asked it. Was he concerned that he would be in Mr. Darcy’s position one day? That he would not be able to discern whether a woman loved him or his money? His title? His estates and prestige?

  She plucked at the green overlay on her gown, pulling on a loose ivory embroidery thread. “I can only imagine that Mr. Darcy loved her enough to trust her. He loved her for her character, did he not? For the woman he believed her to be. If he could feel that way, then it stands to reason that he would know her well enough to know she would not say things she did not mean.”

  His eyebrows drew together in consideration, but she was not finished.

  “And I do think she proved herself,” Mary continued, “by refusing the initial proposal. She knew of his wealth at that time. If that was all she desired, she would have accepted him initially.”

  Lord Sanders stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. He intertwined his fingers and rested them over his stomach. “That is a valid point, and one I had not considered.” He regarded her closely. “Were you pleased that Miss Jane Bennet received her own satisfactory ending? I recall hearing you say that you were interested in her outcome.”

  “Yes. She deserved to be happy, and I was immensely satisfied with the ending.”

  He looked as though he wished to say more, but he remained silent.

  Mary thought on the argument they’d had before dinner, and she turned her attention to the fire. They really ought to add a log, or it would burn out soon. The strong desire overcame her to apologize for Mr. Lockhart’s behavior following dinner, but there was no way to do so without disrespecting the man she was going to marry, and she could not do such a thing. It would be wrong of her, disloyal.

  “What are you thinking about so intently?” Lord Sanders asked, his voice husky.

  “Mr. Lockhart.”

  The room grew silent but for the ticking clock, as if everything else had frozen. Lord Sanders cleared his throat. “He is very tall,” he said. “And possessed of good manners.”

  She glanced at the earl. “Does that shock you? He is in trade, after all.”

  His head drew back, resting on the back of the sofa. “You cannot think I care whether he is in trade or not. I was merely making an observation.”

  She could not discern whether the earl was being polite or honest. She’d been so worried about Mr. Lockhart’s inquisition, his boldness. “I confess I hardly know Mr. Lockhart, but he is a gentleman, and I am certain we will find our own rhythm eventually.”

  “If you hardly know him—”

  “My father contracted the marriage.” The silence in the room was so thick, Mary thought she could slice it with a knife. Lady Anne stirred on the sofa beside her, and she waited for the girl to rise, but she remained asleep. The dimness of the room and the quiet house had lulled Mary into a sense of being alone with Lord Sanders, and she found she had the strongest desire to confess the nature of her marriage contract to the earl.

  The only people in the whole of England who were aware of the circumstances were her father, her betrothed, and herself. Would it be so very terrible to confide in another? In someone she deemed a friend? She swallowed the impulse. It was juvenile and silly. She had lived many years without someone to confide in, and she could easily continue in the same manner.

  But it did strike her as funny how similar Mr. Lockhart’s faults were to the fictional Mr. Darcy.

  “What are you thinking about?” Lord Sanders asked. “Your eyebrows have been dancing together and apart, and it is quite concerning.”

  Mary laughed quietly. “I was thinking of my marriage contract with Mr. Lockhart. And how very similar he is to Mr. Darcy.”

  “Oh. How so? Does he own half of Derbyshire?”

  She smiled. “No, but he has a lot of pride in his accomplishments, and I do not fault him for it. He thinks in terms of business in a way I could never quite wrap my brain around.”

  “You claim not to know him well, and then you speak as though the opposite is true.”

  She stilled, startled by his blunt honesty. “I don’t know him very well at all. But my little acquaintance has taught me much. Our marriage is a business arrangement. That speaks quite a lot about the both of us, does it not?”

  “It explains why you were so quick to defend Charlotte Lucas’s choice to marry Mr. Collins earlier tonight.”

  So, he had not forgotten their argument. Mary wanted to duck her head, to hide her embarrassment, but she held the earl’s gaze. “Sometimes we are able to make our own choices, and sometimes we do things simply because we must.”

  He uncrossed his ankles and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Do you not wish to…” He paused, clearing his throat, his eyes dark and solemn. “That is, I mean to ask if you are certain…”

  He seemed unable to finish a coherent thought, but she thought she knew what he was trying to ask. “I am content with my choice. I’ve had quite a lot of time to settle my heart on the matter. But it matters not what I think; the contract has been signed, the agreement already made.”

  “Contracts have been broken before.”

  Her heart leapt in her chest, pounding furiously, before she tamped it down, pouring reality over it like a bucket of water over a fire. “It is impossible. And I ought to go to sleep.” She stood, crossing her arms over her chest. “Can I trust you to wake your sister, or should I do so now?”

  “Wait,” he begged, standing. “I cannot rest with this laying on my conscience. Have you been coerced into making this agreement?”

  She wanted so badly to confide in him, but what would it mean? How could she burden him with her troubles? If nothing else, she ought to put him at ease. “I will only answer your question if you answer one of mine.”

  “Deal,” he said without hesitation, the quick-thinking of a man used to wagers.

  She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes. “Mr. Lockhart has purchased my father’s debts. He pulled us from the mires of destitution and restored my father’s good name. And he only did these things as part of our marriage contract. If I was to step away, to break our engagement, my father would be forced to repay Mr. Lockhart, and that is impossible.”

  Lord Sanders leaned back, his widened eyes stricken. “So the man bought you?”

  Cool distaste prickled her skin and slithered down her spine. She had felt like a commodity when her father and Mr. Lockhart set about preparing the agreement, but they had been careful to treat her with dignity and respect—to give every appearance of allowing Mary a choice, even though she knew she lacked one. “I am doing my part to save my family’s name. And I would appreciate it if you put this information from your mind. You are one of four people now in possession of this knowledge, and I would prefer my mother never learned of it.”

  His eyes hardened. “You cannot mean you’ve led your mother to believe you developed a tendre for Mr. Lockhart?”

  Andrew was doing his level best to keep his voice even, his breathing controlled, but the information Mary had just given him was the outside of enough. Her father had sold her to that upstart, Lockhart? If only Andrew had known her before, he could have easily pulled her father from the depths of his debt and done so without bartering for a wife.

  He knew it was a common practice, especially among those of old titles who wished to replenish their wealth, but to know Mary’s happiness hung in the balance of such a crude agreement made him ill.

  “My mother knows we came to an agreement after very little acquaintance. What she makes of that is up to her, but she has been kept fully unaware of the depth of my father’s losses. I believe she thinks that if we retrench long enough, we will come about all right again, that our economizing is temporary. And she is not wrong.”

  “Are these losses from gambling?”

  “Speculation,” she corrected.

  “Ah,” Andrew said, nodding. “A gentleman’s folly. It is a gamble, but a much more calcula
ted one.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You do not approve of speculation?”

  “My father did not. He’d known too many good men lose fortunes to see any value in it. He warned me away at length, and I’ve never forgotten.”

  “I would have liked to have had the opportunity to meet your father.”

  Andrew’s chest warmed. “He would have liked you.”

  “You cannot know that, but it is kind of you to say, nonetheless.” She shifted, her eyes growing serious. “But I answered your question, so now it is my turn to ask one.”

  He met her gaze. What could she possibly wish to know about him? “Yes?”

  “What is your favorite Christmas memory?”

  He was not expecting that question. Looking down into her curious eyes, he swallowed his apprehension. “My favorite memory involved my father, actually.”

  She remained standing, her hands clasped in front of her, intently listening to him speak.

  “When I was no more than ten years old, my father came to me late one afternoon just after Christmas and quietly asked me to prepare to go for a ride on our sled. It was to be a surprise, and I could not let anyone know what I was up to. So I dressed in all of my winter clothes, snuck out of the house, and met him at the stables. He’d harnessed his horse to the sled and he helped me in, covering me with a blanket.”

  Anne shifted on the sofa and Andrew glanced at her, watching to see if she was waking. Gratefully, she seemed to stay asleep; he was not yet ready to end his conversation with Mary. He gestured to the vacant sofa behind them, and Mary nodded before she took a seat at the end nearest the fire, and he followed her over. He made sure to leave enough distance between them to be respectful, but sit close enough that he could speak softly, and she would hear him.

  “That sounds like a fun experience for a young boy.”

  “It gets better,” he said, unable to temper his smile. The fond memories of that night still soothed his grieving heart whenever he missed his father. “We usually had bells attached to the sled, but they had been removed that night, and when I asked why, my father explained that we were acting in secret and needed to do our utmost to not get caught.”

  Mary’s eyebrows rose, her interest piqued, he hoped.

  “We rode to the vicarage in the center of town where the vicar’s wife had recently given birth to a baby boy, and my father pulled to a stop away from the building, down the street. He handed me a small box and told me to put it on the doorstep, knock on the door, and run back to the sled as quickly as I was able without being seen.”

  “What was in the box?”

  “He never told me exactly what it contained. It was just a little something to help them out; that was all the explanation I received. We went on to deliver a dozen other boxes that evening before we went home and put the sled and horse away and snuck back into the house. I pestered him for more information, but he only told me that we had done the work of the angels that night, and I was never to reveal our actions to another soul. He explained that he enjoyed serving God’s children most when others weren’t watching. That he felt it was special, just between him and God and the person he served.”

  “Did you not wish to know what was in the boxes?”

  “Of course I did,” he said, chuckling. He recalled his earnest curiosity as a young boy, but the way his father had explained the situation resonated with him, even at so tender an age. It meant a lot to Father, so he had let it go. “All he would tell me was that he knew they had each had a need, and we had filled part of that need.”

  Mary’s voice was quiet, filled with awe. “And you never told anyone?”

  He smiled, remembering his solemn promise as a young boy, and how desperately important he thought it was to keep the secret. He had felt so special sharing that with his father. “No, I never told anyone.”

  “Until now.”

  “Yes.”

  She smiled guiltily. “You needn’t have told me.”

  “You asked for my favorite Christmas memory. I wanted to be honest.”

  Mary reached over and placed her hand on Andrew’s, and he went still. Squeezing his fingers, she gazed at him with compassion. “Your father sounds like a good man. It is no wonder you serve your sisters so well. You clearly had an excellent example.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and he wondered if she heard his words, so difficult it was to choke them out. He cleared his throat. “I know I will never measure up to him, and neither do I try.”

  “You may not see it, but I imagine you are very much like him.”

  He wanted to slip his hand from hers, to put space between them and end this uncomfortable conversation, but he did not wish to lose the contact of her fingers on his. They had both shed their gloves earlier in the night and her soft skin was warm, comforting him.

  Her eyebrows pulled together, her eyes resting on him in earnest interest. “Why is it that you don’t believe you measure up?”

  He lifted his shoulder in a soft shrug. “It is nothing. I just know how good he was, and how I lack. I am not a paragon. I do not serve others selflessly, climb upon roofs to fix thatches, deliver secret packages to my neighbors in need. I gamble, wager, drink, and play cards. I am more concerned with my own entertainment than I am suffering through a winter in the country with my mother.”

  “You have told me all of this before, but I still cannot believe it sinks you as low as you believe it does. What will it take for you to understand that you are likely exactly the man your father wanted you to be? You care for your sisters and your mother. You serve others by remembering their preference for oranges and evergreen boughs and go out of your way to procure them. You play games you’d rather not simply because your sisters wish it.” She squeezed his fingers again, and he felt it clear in his heart. “In what way have I described a man who is only after his own gain?”

  “Yes, that all sounds good, but—” He scrubbed a hand over his face, unsure how to explain this to her. He was not inherently good like his father. “I do not put others above myself.”

  “I only just gave you examples of how you do exactly that.”

  She was difficult to persuade. “Yes, but I have done none of those things without grumbling about the snow or the cold or about being forced to celebrate a holiday I’d much rather pass playing cards with my friends in our clubs.”

  “But you didn’t, Andrew. You chose to remain here with your family, to suffer the cold to find your sister some evergreen, to participate in a childish puppet show to bring a smile to Caroline’s, Anne’s, and your mother’s faces. Accept what I am telling you: you are more like your father than you think.”

  The room grew dimmer as the fire waned more, and what little flame remained jumped about, dancing light across Mary and Andrew. Their clasped hands glowed orange, and he hoped she would remain in that position forever. Had she realized that she’d called him Andrew? It had felt so natural and sounded charming on her lips.

  “I understand the points you are trying to make, and I appreciate you for trying to make them.”

  But she did not know his father.

  Mary slipped her hand from his, taking all the warmth left in the room with it. He longed to reclaim her hand, to sit like that all night and ask her to share stories of her childhood as well. But he did not have a claim on Mary.

  She yawned, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth, and then stood. “Shall I wake Lady Anne and take her upstairs with me?”

  “I will see to her. You may go on ahead.”

  Mary gave him a grateful, pointed smile as if to say, See? I told you so.

  He wanted to argue that this was his duty as a brother and a gentleman and nothing more, but he had a feeling that would lead to a fruitless argument. Mary would not be swayed.

  “Goodnight, my lord.”

  “Goodnight.”

  He watched her walk away, leaning back on the sofa and considering her words. Could they hold an ounce of truth? Certainly he would never be
so selfless and humble as the late earl had been. But perhaps his small efforts were making a difference in the lives of his family. He could not replace Father, but he could ease the pain of his absence.

  Anne’s voice cut through the quiet room and startled Andrew. “I really like Mary.”

  “Gads, Anne! You could warn a man first.”

  She straightened on the sofa opposite him, rubbing at her tired eyes.

  Unease crept upon him, and he looked at her warily. “How long have you been awake?”

  “Long enough to hear you tell her of your secret outing with Father.”

  So she had been awake when Mary had taken his hand, too. His cheeks warmed, and he was grateful the darkness in the room likely hid his blush from his sister. He could only hope that her pretending to sleep had hidden their hands from her as well.

  But even if they hadn’t, things would still be well. Neither he nor Mary had done anything wrong.

  “You do realize that Father did the same thing with me, right?”

  Andrew paused, narrowing his eyes at his sister. “What do you mean? The Christmas deliveries?”

  “Yes.” She stretched her arms high above her head. “And I never told a soul because he begged me to keep it a secret. But I was quite young, and likely not as fast as you were, because I was caught.”

  “By a tenant?”

  She shook her head. “By Mrs. Phillips. The woman who lived down by the bridge? I slipped on the ice when I was running away, and she must have been near her door when I knocked because she was outside at once, helping me to my feet and offering to bring me inside to warm near the fire. I went with her, and father had to come in and fetch me; by the time he followed me inside, she had opened the box.”

  “What was in it?”

  “Gloves, shoes for the Phillips children, and a sack of coins. It had been a heavy box compared to the others, and I’m certain Father gave her a good deal of money.”

  Money? Shoes? Andrew’s young imagination had created a vision of carved, wooden soldiers and geography puzzles much like he’d wished for as a child, not items of necessity. It quite made sense though. What would the vicar’s wife have done with toy soldiers?