Ex-Spinster by Christmas: House of Haverstock, Book 4

by Cheryl Bolen

Christopher had never easily accepted flattery. “I daresay I merely started playing at an earlier age.” He turned to Caro. “How did you fare, my lady?”

  He may have spoken flippantly, but the way he studied her with those intense black eyes caused her heartbeat to accelerate. There was something else in his gaze, something she had never before seen. Was it . . . anguish? Was he upset over her betrothal? Did he not know it was his own beastly fault she had pledged to another man? She shrugged. “We lost to the duke and duchess.”

  Their eyes locked, and neither spoke for a moment. “A sad portent,” he finally said. Then he nodded. “I bid you a good night.” He turned and left the chamber.

  * * *

  The following day was Christmas Eve and everyone—including a large assemblage of warmly dressed children—gathered in the entry hall. This was the day the Ponsby family tradition of gathering holly and selecting the Yule log took place. Sulking, Christopher kept his distance from Lady Caroline as she and Brockton stood together. He was as displeased to see her paired with Brockton as he’d been pleased at dinner to see Brockton forced between the dowagers.

  Christopher’s inner turmoil had prevented him from sleeping the night before, but amidst his torment, one bright revelation had come to him. Even though she had not denied that she was betrothed to Brockton, it was obvious that the couple had not yet announced their intentions to her family. Perhaps there was time to thwart the union.

  Gray skies were free of snow, but it was still bitterly cold—a condition that was made even more uncomfortable by a blustery wind. As the large, extended Ponsby-Haverstock families gathered in front of the home’s entrance, Christopher flicked a glance at Lady Caroline. She wore a red velvet cloak, its ermine-trimmed hood covering her head. Their eyes briefly met and instantly looked away.

  All the women wore hooded cloaks, while warm woolen mufflers offered the men’s ears some protection from the chilling winds.

  The children—most of them not much more than babes—were oblivious of the cold. They ran and squealed and frolicked in the novel snow. The oldest, Morgan’s lad, showed his cousins how to make snowballs from last night’s remaining snow. In no time, they were old hands at hurling the icy spheres at each other as well as at their parents.

  As everyone eventually gathered into individual family groups, Christopher once more felt as if he shouldn’t have come. He didn’t belong here. He watched as Finch lifted his little son as Lady Finchley drew close to her husband and gazed adoringly at little Freddie, who so markedly resembled his dark-haired father. A palpable tenderness stole over the always-amiable Finchley whenever he held his boy. Even his voice gentled.

  Christopher’s gaze moved to the respected leader of the House of Commons, Rothcomb-Smedley. One of the most powerful men in government was reduced to a babbling idolizer whenever he held his tiny daughter, a cherub with a crown of golden curls.

  The very same could be said for the Duke of Aldridge and the Marquess of Haverstock when their toddler sons were present.

  Will I ever be like that?

  A sleigh was brought around for Lady Lydia, whose time wasn’t that far away. Each of the little ones clamored to join her. Only Lady Finchley would not relinquish her Freddie. “He’s too little,” she protested. “He might fall out.”

  “Daresay he’d climb out, the little monkey,” his smiling father added.

  The sole girl sat on Lady Lydia’s lap, the little lads piled in around her. All the others plowed through the thin layer of snow alongside the slow-moving sleigh.

  “Don’t like Lyddie coming out in this wretched cold,” Morgie protested.

  Lady Haverstock placed a hand on his sleeve. “You worry too much about her. You always have. She’ll be fine.”

  Morgie stayed as close to the sleigh as he could.

  “My darling,” Lydia said to him, smiling. “It seems you’ve put our son’s coat on the wrong side out. If you’d allowed him to dress himself—which I assure you he’s capable of—he would have done better.”

  The marchioness giggled. “Your husband does rather smother those he loves, does he not?”

  Lydia’s long, thin face broke into a smile that made her almost pretty. “I am the most fortunate lady in the kingdom.”

  Lady Finchley shook her head. “Not true. I am the most fortunate woman in all of England.” She smiled adoringly at Finch, whose shimmering gaze met hers as his hand softly stroked her cheek.

  Christopher missed his own family more than ever. I don’t belong here.

  When they reached the thicket, Lydia stayed in the sleigh but the children were claimed by their respective parents.

  Lord Haverstock went to the Morgans’ son, who was the eldest child. “The duke and I are going to need my nephew to help us find the perfect Yule log. Will you oblige us?” The dark-haired lad looked as if he’d grown two inches taller as he nodded, then happily trotted off into the woods with the two men.

  Finch came close to Christopher. “Does your family do all this silliness on Christmas Eve?”

  Christopher nodded.

  “Must be as dull as dirt to an old bachelor like you.”

  Christopher came even closer and spoke in a low voice. “You’ve got to help me.”

  His brows lowered, Finch peered at him. “What’s the matter?”

  “Lady Caroline’s going to marry Brockton.”

  “The hell you say!”

  “So she’s not yet told your wife?”

  “No, and I can tell you Maggie won’t like it above half!” He turned to his wife and motioned for her to join them.

  Her eyes not leaving him, Margaret walked across the snow, her progress slowed by their son toddling beside her.

  Finch lowered his voice. “Perry says Caro’s to marry Brockton.”

  She shook her head. “I’d know it, if that were true.”

  Christopher swallowed. “It’s true. Lord Brockton told me last night, and your sister confirmed it.”

  Her face distorted in anguish. “God in heaven, no! That would be disastrous.”

  “We must stop her,” Finch said.

  “I shall lock her in the linen closet and tell Lord Brockton she’s had a change of heart,” Lady Finchley said.

  Finch shook his head. “Better if you let Aldridge send Brockton packing—once Lady Caroline’s been properly locked in the linen closet.”

  Christopher shook his head. “No. Lady Caroline must cry off on her own.” He eyed Lady Finchley and spoke in a low voice. “Your sister’s happiness is very important to me. Brockton can never make her happy.”

  “Yes,” she said with a nod. “John told me what that wretched man said at White’s.” She shook her head woefully. “Why did she not tell me? I’m the one on earth to whom she’s closest.”

  “For the same reason you didn’t tell her when you wed me.”

  “I knew she would disapprove, and she knows I would disapprove of her choice.”

  “She must mean to announce it on Christmas Day,” Christopher said.

  Finch groaned. “Tomorrow.”

  Lady Finchley winced. “We can’t let that happen. We must tell Aldridge.”

  Finch eyed Christopher. “This would never have happened if you’d just offered for her.”

  Christopher’s eyelids lowered as he drew in a breath and calculated his response. “You know I’m not the marrying kind.”

  “I know no such thing,” Finch spat out. “You’ve dismissed your ladybird and not replaced her because- -”

  Christopher held up a hand. “Pray, don’t speak of such in front of a lady.”

  “I tell my wife everything.”

  Christopher’s gaze went from Finch to his wife. No two people could be better suited, nor more in love. It was as if Lady Finchley truly was her husband’s other half. A strange emptiness came over Christopher, like the emptying of a cask. I want that.

  He drew a deep breath. “We’ll not tell Aldridge. Lady Caroline’s of age. And she’s an obstinate wom
an. She’ll have it her way, with or without her brother’s permission.”

  “Perhaps I can reason with her,” Lady Finchley said.

  “Then, my lady, I pray that you can,” Christopher said with resignation.

  “Look,” Finch said, his voice guttural, “that scoundrel’s trying to lead Caro into the woods. He’ll likely steal a kiss—or try to steal much more, knowing his reputation.”

  Before the sentence was out of Finch’s mouth, Christopher had begun to storm across the snow to catch up with the secretly betrothed couple.

  Chapter 7

  Brockton glared as Christopher neared them, but Christopher acted as if he'd been greeted with open arms. "It seems we're the only ones without children—a common bond, you might say."

  "I would say I have little in common with a commoner like you."

  Christopher fought the urge to hurl a fist into the man's smug face. To do so would only lower himself to the ill-bred man's level.

  Lady Caroline whirled at her betrothed, her pale eyes narrowed to slits. "I daresay Mr. Perry has more friends in the aristocratic class than an earl with the manners of a gutter snipe."

  Brockton effected a rueful look but did not apologize.

  Nothing would be gained by sinking into Brockton's bilge. Christopher smirked at his opponent. "I do hope you're not attempting to avoid the children. Lady Caroline’s exceedingly fond of children—especially her nephews and niece." His gaze flicked to her. "Does your affianced not have nieces and nephews of his own?"

  "I . . . I don't know." She peered up at the man to whom she was betrothed, a querying expression on her face.

  "I do."

  "How many?" she asked.

  Brockton shrugged. "Three or four. I don't remember precisely. I find little of interest in children."

  Christopher spoke to her as if Brockton were in Coventry—which is precisely where Christopher wished he was. "My, my. You two don't know each other all that well. You didn't know if he had nieces and nephews, and he doesn't know about your love of children. It's not looking as if your intended will ever grace Trent House."

  "What the devil is Trent House?" Brockton asked.

  "It's not actually Trent House," she answered. "It's a house on Trent Square that - -"

  "Your brother owns. Everyone knows the Duke of Aldridge owns all of Trent Square," Brockton snapped.

  She nodded. "Yes, but this particular house is the duchess's. Even before she married my brother, she selected that house as a refuge for the widows and children of fallen officers. It's her own charity."

  "The duchess's—as well as Lady Caroline's and Lady Margaret's and Lady Claire's," Christopher added. "They're all devoted to the women and children there, and each of them helps in her own special way."

  She smiled up at him. "Mr. Perry and Lord Finchley have taught them how to play cricket."

  "Capital!” Brockton said. “I shall have to make my own contributions at the Trent place,"

  "A word of advice," Christopher said. "I wouldn't attempt to try to impart manners. It's not your strong suit, old boy."

  Lady Caroline burst out laughing. Humor was something she and Christopher had always shared. A pity she would unite herself to man so vastly different from herself. All they had in common was blue blood.

  A little prevarication was called for at present. "You do know," Christopher said to her, "your little Freddie has been calling for his Auntie Caro."

  Her eyes lighted. She placed a hand on Brockton's sleeve. "We must go back."

  Mission accomplished.

  * * *

  She was grateful to Mr. Perry for rescuing her from almost certainly having to kiss Lord Brockton. Something was dreadfully wrong with her life if she was going to marry a man she didn't long to kiss. After all, Caro had—ever since she'd cast her affections upon Christopher Perry—craved kissing.

  How unhappy that at what should be the happiest time of her life—the precipice of marriage, something for which she had long sought—she was the most miserable.

  As she and Lord Brockton were retracing their steps back to Margaret, Mr. Perry went in the opposite direction, strolling to the sleigh where Mr. Morgan had joined his wife.

  She heard her nephew crying before she reached them. It was more of a tantrum crying than an I’m-hurt cry. Margaret was having a difficult time keeping her son from putting the red holly berries into his little mouth, and putting them in his mouth was the only thing that held his interest. Lord Finchley, on the other hand, was having a difficult time suppressing his mirth over his son's actions. Margaret and her spouse did so dote on that dear little boy. She fleetingly thought of what kind of father Lord Brockton would make. Not a very good one, she was almost certain.

  Another unhappy circumstance. She was beginning to wonder why she had ever thought that marrying him was something to be desired. He had so little to recommend him, other than a handsome countenance and a fine home on Grosvenor Square.

  I have made a most deplorable mistake.

  Mistake or no mistake, she must go through with it—especially now that she'd told Mr. Perry. She couldn't have him thinking her inconstant.

  She groaned inwardly. Constancy of affections had gotten her nowhere.

  Kneeling down beside Freddie, she put out her hand. "Give Auntie Caro the pretty holly. I'll hold it for you."

  Though his pudgy little fingers had possessively gripped a shredded handful of greenery, he relinquished it to his favorite aunt.

  "Pretty," she said.

  The remark pleased him so much he set about denuding the holly bush that was nearest and happily handed the little bits of green to her.

  "Ah, thank you," she said.

  He kept back a red berry and went to pop it into his mouth, but Caro shook her head. “Bad.”

  He responded by shaking his head.

  She withdrew a gloved hand from her muff and held out her palm. After a moment he reluctantly parted with it.

  “The little fellow will need longer pieces than those if you're planning to decorate the house for Christmas," Lord Brockton said.

  Caro, Margaret and Finchley all glared at Lord Brockton.

  "And you'll need to hold your offensive tongue unless you wish to be tossed on the fire with Aldridge's Yule log," the lad's father said.

  Since she had known him, Lord Finchley had never spoken to anyone with such malice. He was the jolliest man imaginable.

  Oh, dear, what have I done?

  Lord Brockton drew a breath and averted his gaze from the others.

  She had pledged herself to a man who was universally hated within her family.

  Not understanding the upcoming use for his pointy leaves and snapped-off stems, Freddie offered his next batch to his auntie's male friend. She was relieved when Lord Brockton attempted to act appreciative. "Thank you, young fellow."

  She eyed him. "His name is Freddie."

  "And a very nice name it is." He looked up at Lord Finchley like an errant child seeking approval.

  But Lord Finchley's congeniality was like a woman' virginity—once forfeited, never regained.

  Freddie's concentration on the task at hand was soon distracted by the duke's dog. No matter that it was twice his size, Freddie began to run after it. As did his other cousins. Soon all the children were running around in circles, squealing.

  Caro wished she could. Perhaps then she wouldn't be so beastly cold.

  The frolicking came to an end when Aldridge and Lord Haverstock emerged from the wood with a thick, short log. "See what a fine job Simon has done in selecting the perfect log," Aldridge said.

  Simon Morgan straightened his three and a half feet as if he were as tall as his uncles, a smile lifting his face.

  Caro's gaze shifted to the sleigh to see that Simon's parents had seen their son praised, but neither seemed to be aware their son had reappeared.

  Then Mr. Perry, a look of concern etched into his face, came rushing up to Lord Haverstock. "I believe your sister's time
has come."

  "Oh, dear," exclaimed the duchess, who was nearby. She then rushed off to see to her sister. "This is far too early."

  * * *

  While the women attended Lady Lydia, all the men gathered in the library. Such a gathering in one of the most intimate rooms in the house should have been comforting, but it was not. A gloom hung in the chilly air like a menacing fog.

  It was obvious to Christopher that Aldridge was being uncommonly jolly in order to lessen Morgie's uncommonly grim demeanor. What a good friend Aldridge was. Christopher could almost imagine him as the lad he'd been when he befriended Haverstock and Morgie at Eton. The duke who rarely allowed anyone to observe his softer side was now acting almost the buffoon.

  "You could name this next son Half Baked, or there's always Organ. I like the sound, Organ Morgan. What say you, Haverstock? Should you like a nephew named Organ Morgan?" Aldridge, who sat on a sofa in the darkly paneled library, looked from Morgie at his left to Haverstock on his right.

  Haverstock, who was trying to hide his fears for his sister, shook his head. "Lydia's much too sensible to allow that. She would likely know what object men might refer to as an organ."

  "My Lyddie's very musical," Morgie said.

  "Not that organ," Haverstock quipped.

  Morgie drew a deep breath and leapt to his feet, coming to stand before the fire. "When will that accoucheur arrive?"

  "Even if he's not in time," Aldridge said, "Lady Lydia’s surrounded by experienced women—including her mother. You can be assured she's in good hands."

  "Yes," Haverstock said. "Mother not only was brought to bed nine times herself—three of our siblings were lost in infancy—but she's been with each of my sisters when their time came—and she did a masterful job when my son was born."

  "He came early, too, did he not?" Finch said, smiling at Lord Haverstock.

  Haverstock shook his head. "Quite to opposite. Our son was very late. Nothing about my wife's pregnancy was easy or common, but I'm quite sure that made for one perfect child." He cracked a smile. "Your child will be perfect, too, Morgie."

  "It's not the child I'm worried about," Morgie snapped.

  Christopher tried to imagine how he would feel if Lady Caroline was the one lying in pain in the room above. Even if she were married to another, he realized he would never stop caring for her, never stop hurting when she hurt.