Christmas Fete
Barbara Miller
Blush sensuality level: This is a sweet romance (kisses only, no sexual content).
When Dinah’s father inherits an estate, he decides she and her brother must go settle the matter. They arrive to find the place in need of much repair—and holiday spirit. As Dinah plans a cheerful fete for Christmas in hope of winning over the locals, she finds herself winning over someone else as well—Richard, the handsome man who lives next door.
Richard never expected to meet someone like Dinah—a woman who is headstrong and decisive. A woman he could spend his life with. Unfortunately, Richard needs a Christmas miracle to extricate himself from a tricky obligation.
If it’s a miracle he needs to be free, Dinah is determined he’ll get it—that way they can spend their Christmas fete together and everyone can enjoy their happily ever afters.
A Blush® Regency romance from Ellora’s Cave
Christmas Fete
Barbara Miller
Dedication
For my sister Suzanne, who loves Christmas more than anyone I know.
Chapter One
Friday, 15 December, 1815
Dinah Claypool was extremely aware of her father at his desk, which butted up against her art table in their drawing room. He savaged a letter with an opener as though he were wielding a dagger.
“Of all the ill luck!” he shouted.
Dinah jerked her watercolor brush across the page, making a nasty smear, then stared at her parent. “Papa, what is the matter? Has a ship gone down?”
“By this letter I am informed my cousin Rupert Loukes is dead, some sort of riding accident in the late spring.”
“How sad. I realize you were not close, but—”
“That’s an understatement,” he thundered. “We couldn’t stand the sight of each other.”
Dinah clamped her lips shut for a moment. “You shouldn’t admit that to anyone except me.”
He glanced up at her and arched one of his gray eyebrows. “Stop being so conventional. Now he has gone and died at a most inconvenient time just to spite me.” He tossed the letter across his desk onto her art table and missed the brush jar by an inch.
Dinah took that as permission to read it and unfolded the single sheet. “But if it was in the spring, at least you did not have to attend the funeral. Why did it take them so long to notify you?”
He paced to the fireplace and kicked at a log. “Apparently their solicitor has been busy trying to break the entail all this time. That’s who the letter is from.”
“Oh, that.” She pushed away her art paper and colors, then smoothed her dark-blue frock, for her father’s rants required her sole attention and some pouring of oils on the troubled waters of his life to make him forget the current crisis. She scanned the crabbed writing. “So you are the new Lord Hammersmith?”
“Yes. There is no escaping it. I will be expected to put the impoverished estate to rights, including that old tomb, Hammersmith Hall.”
“Will we have to move?” Dinah glanced around the parlor at the mural she had painted above the wainscoting. It was a small drawing room but the light spilling in the windows over her table was just right. She had imagined living out her days here, painting and drawing. She had even included her portrait in miniature as one of the ladies riding in the park, her dark locks spilling from under a top hat, her face smiling and her gray steed answering her every command. But that was just a fantasy. There was no gray steed and no one to ride with.
She did not do well on visits to the country because she wasn’t acquainted with anyone there. Of course most of the people she met in London were shopkeepers, servants and her father’s business associates.
“We shall have to reside there part of the year.” Her father moved to the window overlooking the street and rubbed his chin, a sure sign he was planning something. “Or some of us will.”
Dinah sighed. Was he really planning on shuffling her off to live in the country?
“It may take the better part of our fortune to put the estate right,” he continued as he paced the room.
“Someone must.” She liked that he said our fortune, not his fortune, as though giving her credit for helping, which she frequently did with the books and with suggestions for what goods to acquire in foreign countries. A lesser parent might dismiss her contributions.
“I agree, but I have that trip to Bristol. I can’t go down to Hammersmith now.” He pursed his lips then spun toward her with a dazzling smile. “I have an idea. You do it.”
“Me?” She started in her chair and almost upset the brush glass herself. “They’ll be expecting you.”
“They won’t be expecting anything except to be put out of the house.”
She lowered the letter to her lap. “You’d never do that.”
“They don’t understand that, and my riding up there in my carriage would terrify them. There’s nothing for it but to send you, Dinah. You won’t terrify anybody. You’ll reassure them.”
“Who are we are talking about?”
“Mary Ann Loukes and her daughter. Her name is Olivia or Ophelia, something Shakespearean anyway. I just can’t face them.”
“But you never did anything to them. They’ll regard you as a rescuer.”
“I don’t even care about agriculture.” He grabbed the letter, balled it up and threw it toward the grate. Dinah hopped up and retrieved it. She smoothed it out on her table so she could read the solicitor’s directions.
“Witness the success you’ve made of trade and shipbuilding. What could be so difficult about farming?” She faced her parent, understanding she would lose the argument but still curious as to why he shunned this particular task.
“Dangerous waters. I have it—I’ll send your brother with you.”
“Wonderful.” If she could picture one person who grasped even less about farming, it was George.
“I was sure you would like that idea.” Her father never understood sarcasm. He didn’t even understand the word no. “With his help you’ll have the place shipshape in a few months. You just have to learn about agriculture.”
“I said it would be easy for you, not me. No one will listen to me.”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t do it. I just can’t make the time for it. I’m sending George. Hammersmith Hall will come to him someday anyway. It’s perfect. He may as well be trained up to the task.”
“By me?” Her hands were on her hips now to show him she was angry, but it was useless.
“You’ll pick up on things instantly. You always do.”
“Now George will terrify them.”
“You can keep him on task and he will do what you tell him. How else did you get him through school? And him a year older. You can do it, girl.”
“The money will still have to be spent to set things to rights. I’m not a miracle worker.”
“I’ll put the funds in your control, but no frittering.” Her father was already on his way out of the room, probably to send a servant to hunt up George at one of his clubs.
“I’ll do it but it will be impossible to pry George from his friends at this time of year.”
“What time of year?”
She stared at him in disbelief. “It’s nearly Christmas. People, most people, want to be with family and friends. And you’ll be in Bristol all alone.”
“This is perfect then.”
“How is any of this perfect?”
“You won’t be home all alone. You’ll be a guest at Hammersmith Hall.”
“I doubt they will like company falling in on them at this time. They might still be observing mourning.”
“No one does that a full year anymore. Write that you’ll be there in a week. I’ll take care of George
.”
Dinah read over the letter from the solicitor and composed an answer. She wrote a letter to Lady Hammersmith as well, trying to sound reassuring, but it was difficult to convey what she did not possess. She could not predict how this venture would turn out, though it was clear that once again her father was avoiding Christmas.
It was like this every year. He found a reason for being away, perhaps even looked for a reason. Yes, their mother had died during the holidays but that was years ago. Surely her father did not have such delicate sensibilities as to forever connect the holiday with that. There must be some other reason he hated Christmas.
She did agree that George should get to know the estate, given that he would inherit Hammersmith Hall someday, but she worried that he might complicate matters. He was impulsive enough to offend people without realizing it or caring when she pointed it out. She was tired of being a buffer between him and the world.
Dinah lit a candle to melt the sealing wax onto her letters. She would not spend the holidays alone but she might be cooped up in a house where everyone was angry. Wonderful.
Wednesday, 20 December
Richard Chandler rode the distance to Hammersmith Hall in a state of puzzlement. Both he and his horse could have found their way blindfolded. It was the closest estate to his and he had spent much time there since he and Rupert had collaborated on some ventures—the shearing shed, the gristmill. As a boy he had worshipped Rupert’s cousin Henry and they had let him tag along when they went hunting.
But he was not used to being summoned. Ophelia’s note hadn’t been specific but she and her mother had often asked his advice after her father’s death, though Richard was younger than Mary Ann by fifteen years. Of course, he was fifteen years senior to Ophelia, which led her to believe he could solve any problem. He had an uneasy suspicion she wanted more than advice this time.
After leaving Lancer in the charge of the groom, he let himself in through the back door. Richard found Ophelia pacing the morning room. She was there in her lavender walking dress, clenching a piece of paper. Her father had been dead more than six months, yet tears streaked her face again.
“It’s the beginning of the end,” she said dramatically.
He took her hands and cupped them. They were cold to the touch. “Is someone gravely ill?”
“We have lost the estate.”
“But that is no surprise. It goes to Rupert’s cousin Henry Claypool, right?”
“The solicitor finally notified him and now we have gotten this letter from them, not even from him but from his daughter.” She thrust a much-creased sheet at him and he smoothed it with some effort while she took up her pacing.
The handwriting was elegant and bold. Richard read through it, then stared at the pacing girl. “This does not seem cause for such fear. Miss Claypool expresses their condolences and wishes they’d had word about your father’s passing earlier. She is coming now to see what help she can lend.”
“We will be put out. What shall we do?”
Richard sighed. “This does not say they will expect you to leave.”
“Why would they want us here? Father was not on good terms with Claypool after he jilted Mother. Certainly Claypool hadn’t spoken to Father because Mother made a better match with him. If only I had been a son, I would have inherited.”
“So you are expecting some sort of revenge?” Richard chuckled but the sound died in his throat at Ophelia’s accusing glare.
“I see there is no point in turning to you. I only did so out of desperation.”
“I counsel you to wait and see what happens when Miss Claypool arrives.”
“We need to find a cottage or small house in the village. Will you do that for us?”
“That seems premature.”
“You are not the one losing your home.”
“My mother and I have talked about this. If necessary, you and your mother can live with us. We have the space and you would be company for her.”
“I see, not quite paid companions, but indigent relatives. Not even relatives. It would not do. It seems too irregular.”
Richard sighed and brought his mind around to an alternative he had considered before. It bothered him that he was so reluctant to offer it. There was nothing wrong with Ophelia except that she was so emotional, but he had never considered her more than an acquaintance.
“We could marry,” he mumbled.
“What?” She stopped pacing so abruptly it took a moment for her dress to settle around her ankles. Her golden hair was disarranged from running her hands through it. Yes, she tugged at his heartstrings but he was making the offer for the wrong reason.
“No one would consider it odd if we married. We have been acquainted forever.”
“But you have never said anything. I did not realize you looked at me in that way.”
“I don’t—didn’t. But I must marry someday. Why not you?”
Her lower lip came out in a pout. “What a gracious proposal.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I’m not in love with anyone else, and I don’t believe you are either.”
“How could I be in love in this backwater? No one ever comes here.”
“It’s a solution. The only worry is that you might someday regret not waiting for someone who suits you better.”
She almost scowled at him. “I don’t believe in romantic love if that’s what you’re talking about.”
“But you might meet someone more compatible.” He was squirming, trying to talk her out of the offer now that he had made it. Horrible to have regrets about it so soon.
Her eyes were dry and she was composed as she considered the solution he had offered. “I wouldn’t let myself fall in love.”
“Is it something you can control?” He recalled the romances of his four sisters and was sure every one of them had married for love. Ophelia was right about one thing though. No one ever came here.
“If I were not so desperate, I would not ask you to make such a sacrifice.”
He closed his eyes, trying to fathom his predicament and how he had gotten here. “It’s not—”
He opened his eyes when she flung herself into his arms and kissed him, if it could be called a kiss. Richard tried to respond but her lips were as cold as her hands. Ophelia was just going through the motions and so was he. She immediately ran out of the room like a rabbit.
This wasn’t what he had pictured when he had the vague notion of marriage as a rescue. She was clearly grateful but that was a terrible reason to accept someone. Now they would both be unhappy and it was probably going to be his fault.
A thing he had not considered was the wedding night. Richard now realized he did not think of Ophelia as any woman but as the daughter of his friend, more like a sister than anything.
Feeling a little ill at his own stupidity, he rode home by the longest route. Not only did he have to break the news to his mother, who did not like Mary Ann Loukes much, but he had to reconcile the offer he had just made with his original inclination, which was to wait, to see if some other alternative presented itself. Ophelia had stampeded him into imprudence with her tears again. She was not his idea of a wife but then he probably wasn’t anyone’s notion of an attentive husband.
Richard was not used to worrying about what women were scheming and they always were scheming, weren’t they? His mother would study him for hours before broaching a subject that put him off. Ophelia had her own tactics—to work herself into a weepy mess, then saddle him with a task that seemed so minor in comparison to her floods of tears that—
He pulled Lancer up short when it occurred to him he might have been outgunned.
Had Ophelia manipulated him into offering for her? The more he considered it, the more he believed it was true. This was no temporary task. Marriage was forever and he could not draw back without creating a scandal greater than Claypool ditching Mary Ann twenty-five years ago.
Chapter Two
Thursday, 21 December
, 1815
Dinah had been sketching the Southampton countryside, a difficult task from a moving coach. She managed to hold a scene in her mind long enough to get it on paper with charcoal. Perhaps she would turn some of them into watercolors later.
When the coachman turned off the road onto a drive, she pulled the carriage curtain aside and finally saw the house.
“There it is. Hammersmith Hall.” She gazed at the rosy bricks in the late afternoon sun, the white window frames with their peeling paint and the unkempt shrubbery at the sides. Looking at it with an artist’s eye, she could almost work up some sympathy with the house. “It doesn’t seem so bad, George.”
George roused himself to lean forward and stare out the window. “It has a roof at least, but no telling how many holes are in it.”
“Such an optimist.” She flipped her sketchbook shut and ignored his suspicious gaze. “No, I was not drawing you again, since you object so much.” She always tried to understand people by studying their faces but she had given up on her brother. He often said things that sounded as if they came out of the mouth of one of his London cronies. Why couldn’t he be his own person instead of imitating their bored and often boorish attitude?
“Just so you don’t make a cartoon of me.” He put his gloves on.
“Take an interest in this place. Someday the house and the title will be yours. It matters what these people think of you, both the ladies of the house and the servants.”
George shook his head. His artfully disarranged brown locks did not make him look worldly wise, just careless. “Why should I care what they think?” He carefully arranged his top hat on his head.
“Because gossip can do far more damage than we have the money to repair. This can be a pleasant visit or a disaster. You choose.”
“Very well. I suppose I can stand it here for a week. I invited a few friends to ward off despair.”
“Oh dear, how many and who are they? Anyone the ladies would object to?”
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