by Carola Dunn
She had refused to take his arm. A little coyness did her no harm in his eyes. Perhaps she had a jealous lover from whom he’d have to woo her, or perhaps she was simply teasing, leading him on. Either suggested a practised Paphian, which suited him very well. Given that few actresses earned a decent living on the stage, nonetheless he had no stomach for beguiling any female onto the primrose path. Nor had he any desire to teach an inexperienced ladybird the tricks of her trade.
His pleasant ruminations on the joys of a new mistress cut off when he heard voices in the entrance hall ahead. He was tempted to escape up the back-stair to his chamber. However, he had promised his parents to be on hand to greet their guests and he was already late, due to Salamander’s cast shoe. Best make his excuses before removing the travel-dirt from his person.
“Confound it!” he swore sotto voce as he strode into the spacious, domed vestibule, brightly lit by a huge chandelier, and saw the new arrivals.
Only one possible reason for the Winkworths’ presence came to mind. Rusholme had hoped to have Christmas free of the machinations of match-making mamas. He should have known better. His own mother was as anxious to see him married as any mother of an eligible damsel.
Before he could cut and run, Lady Winkworth spotted him. “Dear Rusholme,” she gushed as he reluctantly approached the group. “How obliging of you take the trouble to be here to welcome us when you have clearly only just arrived yourself.”
He bowed. “A fortuitous encounter, ma’am.”
She beamed, obviously under the impression that fortuitous was a synonym for fortunate. He found himself wondering whether Miss Savage knew the difference.
Turning to his parents to apologize for his tardiness, he was taken on the blind side by Lady Anne Winkworth, who clamped herself to his arm. “So kind of you to invite us, Lady Easthaven,” she cooed, fluttering long, dark eyelashes at Rusholme. “I quite dreaded being parted from so dear a friend over the holidays.”
“I trust you will enjoy the festivities,” said the marquis jovially.
Lady Easthaven’s manner was considerably cooler. Beckoning to the nearest puce-liveried footman, she said, “Samuel will show you to your chambers, Lady Winkworth. If your personal servants are not yet arrived, you have only to ring for assistance.”
Unwillingly detaching herself from Rusholme’s arm, Lady Anne followed her parents and the footman. At the foot of the marble, gilt-banistered stairs she glanced back, smiled, and gave a little wave.
“Have you an understanding with that young woman, Garth?” the marchioness asked austerely, pulling her green-and-pink Norwich silk shawl closer about her purple-clad shoulders.
“No, Mama,” he assured her, kissing her cheek. “I have stood up with her at several balls in Town, but I’ve never even so much as called on the Winkworths.”
“Then her conduct is unbecomingly forward.”
“Come, come, my dear,” said her husband. “Modern manners are freer than in our day, and a little flirtation does no harm. A pretty chit, hey, Garth?”
“Lady Anne is considered a dazzler, sir.”
“And her family and fortune are irreproachable,” Lady Easthaven conceded.
“Otherwise you’d not have invited her, would you, Mama? I believe Lady Anne has refused a number of acceptable offers, but if she’s holding out in hopes of becoming a marchioness I fear she is doomed to disappointment.”
His father laughed. “Your mother has more than one string to her bow, my boy,” he commiserated. “Come, my dear, let us sit down for a few minutes before the next consignment of feminine pulchritude and good breeding arrives.”
“She’s here,” said Rusholme as the door-knocker sounded, “and I’m off.”
Taking the stairs two at a time, he was at the top of the first flight when a familiar voice stopped him. After a moment’s hesitation, he ran back down. His friend’s recent marriage had been a nasty shock, but the Honourable Mrs. Denham was an inoffensive young lady.
Two carriages must have arrived on each other’s heels, for another group entered as he greeted the Denhams. “David, my dear chap, good to see you. And Mrs. Denham, welcome to Easthaven.”
“Thank you, Lord Rusholme.”
“Hello, Garth.” David looked oddly guilty. The explanation was not far to seek. “Let me present you to my sister-in-law, Miss Kitty Wallace.”
Betrayed! Rusholme flashed his so-called friend a fulminating glance. Gad, a fellow had only to get himself leg-shackled and he wanted the rest of the world to join him in parson’s mousetrap!
Miss Wallace, shrinking behind her brother-in-law’s broad back, had to be bodily hauled forth by her sister to make her timid curtsy. Rusholme bowed and said everything proper. No doubt the poor little mouse had had dinned into her that she must endeavour to fix his interest. Already she bored him, but at least she didn’t appear at all likely to chase him shamelessly, like Lady Anne.
For David’s sake he’d be kind to her, without giving the slightest excuse for raised hopes.
A footman bore the three away and Rusholme turned to the latest comers. No marriageable females, thank heaven! The stout, good-natured Lady Adeline had been his mother’s crony forever, and her husband was a political colleague of the marquis.
With them was Lady Adeline’s nephew, Henry Ffoliot. Though not an intimate friend, he was one of Rusholme’s Corinthian set, a good enough fellow if rather more of a libertine than Rusholme quite cared for. He was rumoured to be all to pieces, in fact to be hanging on his aunt’s sleeve, desperately in need of a wealthy bride. No doubt he’d be glad to take Lady Anne off Rusholme’s hands. Unfortunately, that worldly young lady would never cast a second glance at an untitled wastrel, for all his dashing good looks.
Yet another footman led the trio away. “How many more are you expecting today?” Rusholme asked his mother.
“No more, I believe. Julia and family will not be here till tomorrow. Maria arrived earlier. I understand your nieces and nephews are eagerly awaiting a visit from their uncle.”
“I’ll go up to the nursery as soon as I’ve changed. More guests coming tomorrow, too?”
“Yes,” said the hospitable marquis with deep gratification, “we’ll have a full house, as usual. Did I tell you I’ve hired a troupe of actors to entertain us? Old-fashioned mumming and carol singing on Christmas Day, and they’ll put on She Stoops to Conquer on Twelfth Night when the neighbours join us.”
“An excellent choice, sir.”
Rusholme went up to his chamber at last. He looked forward to seeing Miss Savage as Kate Hardcastle, a lively rôle to suit her lively nature.
He stopped with his greatcoat half off as a horrid notion struck him. He had never seen her face. Suppose she was not to play Kate but old Mrs. Hardcastle? Suppose she was buck-toothed, pudding-faced, or afflicted with a frightful squint?
It didn’t bear thinking of.
Chapter 2
“Miss! Miss!”
The urgent whisper in her ear drew Prudence from a dream in which she waltzed around a pale-blue ballroom in the arms of a tall man in a greatcoat. All she could see of his face was a pair of dark eyebrows, but she knew he was laughing at her. She had just time to wonder when she had learned to waltz before full awareness returned and she opened her eyes.
“Miss, you said to wake you.” By the light of a tallow candle, the kitchen maid looked down at her anxiously. “I brung you tea.”
“Thank you, Rosie. But it’s still dark out.”
“They goes out soon as it begins to get light, miss, acos ev’yone’s so busy once the nobs start to wake up. In about twenty minutes, Mr. Samuel said. I got to go. There’s scores o’ kettles to be filled.”
She scampered out. Prudence sat up, filled with a moment’s thankfulness. Her own life had not been easy but compared with that poor child... Somehow she’d spare a sixpence for Rosie when she left Easthaven.
Swinging her legs out of bed, she shivered and reached for her shawl. Behind her Aimée stirred.
/> “What the devil...?” came her sleepy voice.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. It’s Christmas Eve. I’m going out with the servants to gather holly, remember?” She pattered across to the washstand and doused her face in icy water.
“You’re dicked in the nob, Sera, you know? Still, since I’m awake I suppose I might as well go too.” Aimée sat up, stretched, and yawned.
“We have twenty minutes. Eighteen now. Rosie brought me tea. Do you mind sharing a cup?”
“Share a bed, share a cup, there’s... Eighteen minutes?” she shrieked. “Dammit, I can barely dress in eighteen minutes. What about my face?”
Prudence laughed. “You don’t need powder and paint to cut evergreens. Come on. Hurry.”
Half an hour later the two actresses perched beside the carter on a farm wagon pulled by a huge carthorse whose breath formed clouds in the chilly air. As they rolled across a misty park white with frost, Prudence was glad of her new cloak. Though made of cheap duffle, it was thick and warm, and a gay spring green quite unlike the drab browns, greys and navy-blues she had always worn before.
Behind them, on piles of sacks among ladders, pruning-hooks, and shears, sat Samuel, First Footman and director of the operation, two lesser footmen, and a pair of giggling maids. Several under-gardeners trudged alongside.
Aimée shivered in her elegant rose-pink velveteen pelisse. “I can’t think why I let you persuade me,” she grumbled. “I haven’t picked holly since I was a child.”
“I never have. My father said decorating with holly and evergreens was a pagan custom to be condemned by all good Christians. Oh, look!”
A blood-red sun rose through the mists ahead. The track curved to the left and started up a wooded hillside. On the very edge of the wood stood a luxuriant, glossy-leaved holly with masses of scarlet berries glowing in the ruddy light.
“Do stop,” said Prudence as the cart rumbled on. “We shall never find any better berries.”
“Can’t cut that lot, miss,” Samuel told her. “We have to leave the best berries, specially them closest to the house. Later on some of the nobs’ll come out, the young uns, and they won’t want to look far.”
“If the ladies and gentlemen go gathering, why must you?”
“They get bored afore there’s near enough picked. His lordship likes a good show.”
“This arternoon,” put in one of his juniors, “they’ll stand about giving orders while we run up’n’down ladders, and then they’ll say they been putting up decorations.”
“Anyways,” said a maid tolerantly, “it’s fun and we get to decorate the servants’ hall. We even hang mistletoe though her la’ship won’t allow it in the rest o’ the house.”
“Who needs mistletoe?” Samuel leaned over to give her a smacking kiss, and everyone laughed.
The wagon stopped in a clearing. Surrounding it, scattered among the leafless oaks and birches, grew holly, laurel, spruce, and fir.
“Remember,” said Samuel, “don’t cut the berries on the bushes closest to the clearing. Leastways, only the ones growing round the back.”
Laughing again, they spread out between the trees. Heaps of frosted leaves crunched beneath their feet as they filled sacks with greenery, calling to each other when they found a particularly good crop of berries. To Aimée’s delight, she was the first to find an oak with mistletoe growing on its branches. She granted a kiss to the gardener who climbed up to pick it. Prudence started singing “The Holly and the Ivy,” and they all joined in.
It was when the carol ended that she heard childish voices back in the clearing. Her sack was as heavy as she could manage so she had an excuse better than mere curiosity to return to the cart.
The man stood with his back to her, a tall figure in a caped greatcoat, bare-headed, dark-haired. She knew at once who he was. He had danced in her dreams.
She stopped, ready to flee. After all, she had sneaked about Lord Rusholme’s home and insulted his family’s ballroom. He had every right to be affronted, though he had sounded more amused. Then a small girl ran up to him, grabbed his hand, and pointed at Prudence.
“Look, Uncle Garth, there’s a wood elf.”
Rusholme turned. The wood elf stood poised for flight, her spring-leaf green hood thrown back, revealing her autumn-leaf curls; revealing a faultless face: delicately arched brows, rosy cheeks, mouth made for kissing, chin slightly pointed as befitted an elf.
“She’s not an elf,” said his ten-year-old nephew scornfully. “She’s a lady. And she’s got a pair of shears.” He dashed up to Miss Savage, skidded to a halt, removed his uncle’s beaver from his head and made his bow. “I’m William Braverton, ma’am. Please may we borrow your shears? We came to cut holly for the nursery but Uncle Garth forgot to bring shears or a knife or anything.”
“Perhaps your uncle forgot on purpose, Mr. Braverton. They are very sharp. Ask him whether you may borrow them.”
“May I, sir? I swear I’ll be careful.”
“As long as you don’t let your sisters near them.”
“Thank you!” The boy took the shears Miss Savage held out to him, then said off-handedly, “As a matter of fact, it’s Lord Braverton. Are you taking that sack to the cart, ma’am? I’ll carry it for you.”
She smiled at William—but it was Rusholme’s heart that turned over. He moved towards her as if drawn by a magnet.
Maria would have his blood for letting her children consort with an actress. He didn’t care. Yet Miss Savage could not possibly be as captivating as he had thought her yesterday, before he had seen her face.
Now he was closer, even that was not perfect. Her nose was not quite long enough for classical beauty, her chin was definitely pointed, her mouth a trifle too wide, her brow too broad. And she was older than he’d expected, though he’d had no reason to think her any particular age.
No diamond after all. Had he seen her properly last night, he’d not have been so bewitched by her voice and her disarming candour as actually to judge her intelligent on the basis of a single word!
“A fortuitous meeting, Miss Savage,” he said.
Her sparkling eyes were hazel, he noted as she raised her eyebrows. “How can it be anything else, my lord? You could not know I was here and I was specifically informed that ladies and gentlemen are not expected to rise for several hours.”
“Indeed! I’d have you know I generally ride at this hour, only this morning I was captured by these little....”
“Savages?”
“Imps. How did you guess I deliberately forgot to bring any cutting implements?”
She laughed. “I beg your pardon for divulging your secret. I believe you may trust your nephew. He has excellent manners.”
“‘Manners makyth man’?” he queried.
“That’s rather overstating the case, but they certainly smooth the paths in life of both he who possesses them and those he encounters.”
Intrigued, he was going to pursue the subject, but Sophie pulled on his sleeve. “I have good manners, Uncle Garth,” she said in a loud whisper.
“You certainly do, and I am forgetting mine. Miss Savage, may I present my niece, Lady Sophie Braverton.”
“How do you do, Lady Sophie,” said the actress gravely as the child curtsied. “Are you enjoying your walk in the woods?”
“Yes, ma’am. Please, are you a wood elf?”
“I’m afraid not, just an ordinary person. I expect the wood elves have all gone to sleep in their trees for the winter.”
“Oh yes, I ‘spect so. Do you want to come with me and Uncle Garth to watch William cutting holly?”
She looked questioningly at Rusholme. He nodded, knowing he ought not. The contrast between her profession and her educated speech and manners fascinated him. Perhaps she was no dryad but she was a mystery he was determined to solve. What was more, the vivacity of her less than perfect features was more alluring than any static beauty.
Sophie took her hand and he saw it was bare, the slender fi
ngers red with cold. “Have you no gloves?” he said roughly.
“I do indeed, in my pocket. I took them off to keep them from being stained with sap, which is horridly difficult to wash out.” She pulled on grey woollen mittens.
When she was his mistress, she’d have kid gloves and a fur muff, and a maid to do her laundry.
He must be mad to let the children talk to the woman he intended to take under his protection! But Sophie was tugging them both towards the holly tree where William’s shears snip-snapped as little Bella crowed in delight, her tiny hand firmly held by her big sister. Too late now to change his mind.
Prudence was surprised at Lord Rusholme’s tolerance. Young William had put him in an awkward spot, to be sure, yet most gentlemen would have no difficulty dismissing a mere actress, with or without courtesy. Perhaps, overwhelmed by the responsibility for four children not his own, he felt that any female—even an actress—must be of assistance!
She stole a glance at him. He was about her own age, maybe a year or two older. Not quite handsome; though his aristocratic features were finely carved, his cheekbones were a trifle too prominent, adding to a somewhat arrogant, cynical air.
Still, the heir to a marquis was entitled to a touch of arrogance, while the toadying he must often meet with accounted for the cynicism. In contrast to his general air of superiority, his dark hair was in disarray, although there was no breeze. Prudence suspected he had given a ride on his shoulders to the moppet now dancing up and down with excitement ahead of them.
“Sera!” Aimée came through the woods towards them, a doting gardener at her heels carrying both her sack and his own. “Who’s your friend?”
“Lord Rusholme.” Prudence was dismayed to find herself ashamed to be associated in his mind with her flamboyant colleague. Despite their hurry, Aimée had found time to rouge her lips and cheeks and darken her lashes. Her pelisse might be inadequate against the cold but it fitted snugly over a generous bosom and was short enough to display a neat pair of ankles. “Miss Orlando, my lord.”
His lordship nodded curtly.
Unabashed, Aimée batted her eyelashes with a coy smile, then winked at Prudence and said, “Never fear, Sera, I’m no poacher. Come on, Billy boy, let’s dump this lot and see if we can find some more mistletoe.” She tripped off towards the cart, followed by the scarlet-faced gardener who ducked his head to the earl as he passed, his hands being full of sacks of greenery.