Homespun Regency Christmas (9781101078716)

by Kelly, Carla; Jensen, Emma

  But tonight he’d behaved boorishly, and she’d been perfectly justified in showing her displeasure. They were due to take a ride in Hyde Park in the morning, and he’d do his best to smooth her ruffled feathers. He’d do the same at the Holland House masquerade, which he reluctantly accepted he’d have to attend if he was to put matters entirely right with Isabel. But it all depended on his being able to shrug off this damned restlessness.

  Something made him pause suddenly and whirl about to look swiftly back along the pavement. He had the strong feeling that he was being followed, but all he could see was the line of elegant carriages drawn up at the curbside outside Finch House, and the small groups of coachmen laughing and talking together as they whiled away the long hours of the ball. He continued to look back, for the feeling was so strong that every instinct told him someone was there, but there was nothing, just the empty pavement and the entrances to the mansions he’d passed. Someone could be hiding in one of those entrances. . . . For a moment he considered going back to look, but then decided against it. He had his cane and was well able to take care of himself against any footpad.

  The sounds of the ball began to dwindle away behind him as he walked on again, but as the night became more quiet, there was a new sound as a travel-stained post-chaise turned the corner from Park Lane, driving toward him at the sort of weary trot that told of a long and arduous journey. The yellow-jacketed postboy scanned the houses on either side of the street until at last he saw the address he sought, and with relief maneuvered his tired horses to a standstill outside number forty-four, a few yards in front of Richard.

  The owners of the house, Mr. and Mrs. Josiah Fitzhaven, were acquaintances of his, and he half-expected to see them in the chaise as he glanced toward it, but instead he saw two women, a rather elderly maid in a poke bonnet and prim brown mantle, and a young woman in a hooded crimson velvet cloak. He caught a glimpse of the latter’s sweet profile by the light of a streep lamp opposite as she prepared to open the chaise door.

  Instinctively Richard hastened forward to open it for her, extending his white-gloved hand to help her out. She slipped her fingers from the warm depths of her white swansdown muff, and as she accepted his hand he was conscious of the hardness of her wedding ring. The fragrance of lily-of-the-valley drifted over him as she stepped down to the snowy pavement; it was a perfume that evoked the past with a poignancy that was almost as tangible as her ring. Memories of a lost love were all around as she turned to thank him, and her hood fell back to reveal a face he’d never expected to see again.

  His heart almost missed a beat. ‘‘Diana?’’ he whispered. ‘‘Diana, is it really you?’’

  With a gasp she stared at him, her magnificent green eyes wide with shock. ‘‘Richard?’’ she breathed, withdrawing her hand as if burned by his touch.

  He gazed into the face he’d once adored to distraction. Her eyes were of a fathomless emerald, and she had a cascade of rich burnished chestnut curls which had always defied the efforts of pins to restrain them. She was that rarest of creatures, a flame-haired beauty with a flawless creamy-white complexion, and as he looked at her again, he knew there wasn’t a woman on earth to compare with Miss Diana Laverick.

  For the space of another heartbeat he was under her spell again, captivated by emotions he’d striven so desperately to deny since the last bitterly cold winter in 1814. But as he drank in the sweetly remembered face, the spell snapped suddenly, and reality rushed over him. She wasn’t Miss Diana Laverick anymore; she was Mrs. Robert Beaumont, and she didn’t deserve his love. She deserved his loathing.

  All these years before in his home county of Cheshire, when he’d been a second son without hope of inheriting his father’s wealth or title, he’d been unbelievably happy when he’d fallen in love with her. He’d been foolish enough to think she returned his love, but she was too ambitious and grasping to regard him as more than an idle fancy, and on Christmas Eve 1814 he’d learned of her sudden marriage to Robert Beaumont, a fabulously wealthy plantation owner who’d immediately swept her away to a life of luxury in Jamaica. She’d remained out of England ever since, and her heartbroken lover had at last managed to put his life in some sort of order again, but here she was on another Christmas Eve, stepping down to bring back all the torment he’d suffered at her hands. Perfidious, cold, calculating Diana, the bane of his life.

  Bitter resentment gripped him anew, and his blue eyes were suddenly ice-cold. ‘‘So, London is to be honored with your presence, is it? May I enquire if Mr. Beaumont is with you?’’

  She glanced back at the chaise, from which the elderly maid was alighting. ‘‘As you can see, Richard, Mr. Beaumont is not with me.’’

  ‘‘Will he be joining you?’’

  ‘‘No.’’ She gave the maid a warning look, as if to prevent her from saying something which might be out of turn.

  The maid met her mistress’s gaze, and remained silent, but she looked at Richard in an unsmiling way that conveyed her disapproval of him. He knew her. Her name was Mary Keating, and she’d been in Diana’s service for many years. She was a small, slight person with sharp gray eyes and a questing nose, and she always guarded her mistress as fiercely as any mother cat defending her kitten. In the past she hadn’t disapproved of him, but she obviously did now.

  Diana nodded at her. ‘‘See that Mr. and Mrs. Fitzhaven are informed of our arrival, and have their butler instruct some men to assist with the luggage.’’

  ‘‘Yes, Miss Diana.’’ Mary went to the door of the mansion, reaching up past the wreath of holly and mistletoe to rap the lion’s head knocker.

  Richard glanced at the house. ‘‘You’re staying with the Fitzhavens?’’ he asked Diana.

  ‘‘Very fleetingly.’’

  ‘‘I had no idea you knew them.’’

  ‘‘Mrs. Fitzhaven is my mother’s second cousin, and she very kindly invited me to stay with them during my . . . She invited me to stay with them,’’ she finished, as if deciding against a further explanation of her presence in London. She looked at him again. ‘‘I understand that you are now Sir Richard?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘I was very sorry to learn that both your father and brother were lost on board the Wanderer.’’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘‘Are you married?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘I’m betrothed to Miss Isabel Hamilton.’’

  ‘‘The name means nothing to me.’’ She gave the faintest of smiles. ‘‘As you may remember, I never left Cheshire before my marriage, and this is the first time I’ve been to London.’’

  ‘‘I’m afraid I don’t recall the details of your life, Mrs. Beaumont,’’ he answered coolly. Anger bubbled beneath the surface of his calm. It was preposterous to be standing here exchanging pleasantries when he really wished to shake her and make her say she was sorry for all the hurt and anguish she’d caused him.

  She couldn’t ignore the chill in his voice, or the resentment in his eyes. ‘‘Richard, I’ll only be here for a day or so, and I don’t anticipate that you and I will meet again . . .’’

  ‘‘I sincerely trust not,’’ he replied cuttingly.

  The door of the house had been opened now, and light flooded out as footmen hastened to attend to the luggage at the rear of the chaise. Mary stood at the top of the steps, watching Richard and her mistress.

  Diana gave him a ghost of a smile. ‘‘Given what you’ve just said, it would obviously be inappropriate to say that I’m glad we encountered each other like this.’’

  ‘‘Very inappropriate indeed, madam.’’ The rancor he felt was suddenly so great that he couldn’t trust himself to prolong the meeting a moment more. ‘‘Goodbye, Mrs. Beaumont,’’ he said tersely, ‘‘I trust this Christmas brings you everything you so richly deserve.’’ Inclining his head in a gesture calculated to be insulting, he strolled on, his cane swinging as if nothing of any consequence had occurred.

  Diana watched him until he turned the corn
er into Park Lane, where she remembered his town house was to be found. How full of resentment he still was, and how little he understood, even after all this time. Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them back. He’d never forgive her—he’d made that plain enough when he’d ignored the letter she’d sent explaining her swift marriage to Robert. Oh, how sad Christmas always made her feel now. It was the time of year she dreaded most of all. She took a deep breath. The sooner all this was over and done with, the better for all concerned.

  Mary came down the steps toward her. ‘‘Come inside out of the cold, Miss Diana.’’

  ‘‘I’m coming, Mary.’’

  ‘‘Mr. and Mrs. Fitzhaven have been called away unexpectedly because Mr. Fitzhaven’s father is unwell, but they’ve left word that the house is entirely at your disposal.’’

  Diana was about to reply when something made her look back along the pavement toward the crush of carriages outside Finch House. She’d heard a soft sound, a small scuffling noise as if someone was hiding in the shadows nearby.

  ‘‘What is it, Miss Diana?’’ asked Mary, looking anxiously at her.

  ‘‘I thought I heard something. Mary, I think there’s someone watching us.’’

  Mary shivered. ‘‘Then come inside straightaway, Miss Diana,’’ she said firmly, ushering her mistress toward the steps.

  Diana allowed herself to be drawn into the brightly lit entrance hall, where a kissing bunch of mistletoe, holly, red apples, and lighted candles was suspended low beneath two glittering chandeliers. The walls were a cool classical blue-and-white, and the floor patterned with black-and-white tiles. Two sapphire-blue brocade sofas were placed on either side of a white marble fireplace, where a huge yule log burned slowly in the hearth. Elegant console tables stood against the walls, each one presided over by a tall gilt-framed mirror adorned with girandoles, and at the far end a grand staircase led up to the floor above, vanishing between tall Corinthian columns that emphasized the spaciousness and grandeur of the house.

  Mary led her across to some handsome white-and-gold double doors, opening them to show her into the sumptuous drawing room beyond. There was rose-pink silk on the walls, and gilded French furniture, and more chandeliers that cast a rich, warm glow over everything.

  Mary relieved Diana of the crimson velvet cloak and the swansdown muff, and watched as she went to hold her hands out to the fire burning so brightly in the magnificent black marble fireplace. The maid’s eyes were sad. ‘‘It will be over soon, Miss Diana, and then we can go home again.’’

  ‘‘Home?’’ Diana turned to give her a rather wry smile.

  ‘‘Well, it is, isn’t it?’’

  ‘‘I suppose so.’’

  Mary was worried about her, for she’d been through so much recently. The long journey hadn’t helped, for although she, Mary, had been able to sleep when the chance arose, she knew that her mistress had had very little rest. ‘‘Miss Diana, I’ve asked the cook to prepare you a warm drink and a light supper, and there’s a maid attending to your bedroom right now, so that when you’ve had some refreshment, you can get some sleep at last. I’m sure you’ll feel a great deal better in the morning.’’

  ‘‘In readiness for my fateful meeting with the lawyer in the afternoon,’’ murmured Diana, thinking of how they’d traveled at breakneck speed from Falmouth in order to be in London in time.

  ‘‘It may not be all bad news, Miss Diana,’’ said Mary as reassuringly as she could.

  ‘‘I wish I could feel that optimistic,’’ replied Diana, turning to hold her cold hands out to the fire again.

  Mary went sadly out, closing the doors softly behind her.

  Diana gazed down into the hearth, but it wasn’t the glow of flames that she saw, it was the ice in Sir Richard Curzon’s blue eyes.

  As the hired chaise at last pulled away from the curb outside, a secretive figure emerged stealthily from the shelter of some snowy laurels in front of a nearby house. The Honorable Geoffrey Hawksworth, son and heir of Viscount Hawksworth, cursed beneath his breath as snow slithered down the back of his neck and over his fashionable clothes. Standing on the pavement, he carefully brushed the black fur trimming on his elegant ankle-length redingote.

  He was a tall young man, thin-faced and pale, with long-lashed hazel eyes and full lips. His curly brown hair was abundant, and cut in an extravagantly modish style. Beneath his redingote he too wore evening clothes, for he’d been following his adversary, Richard, from the ball when the intriguing encounter with the enigmatic Mrs. Beaumont had taken place.

  As he looked up at the bright windows of number forty-four, there was a slyly thoughtful expression on his face. Pure chance had caused him to follow Richard, whose puzzling conduct tonight and sudden departure had aroused his curiosity; pure chance had also caused Mrs. Beaumont to step down from the chaise right in front of her old love. Geoffrey was one of the few people in London who knew about Diana, for he’d once been Richard’s close friend, and Richard had told hardly a soul about his heartbreaking affair in Cheshire in the frozen winter of 1814, and he certainly hadn’t told Isabel. He’d told his good friend Geoffrey, however, because Isabel hadn’t entered their lives then, but when she’d arrived in London, and both men had fallen in love with her, they’d fallen out beyond all redemption. In the end she’d given her favor to Richard, but Geoffrey had never given up. Until she became Lady Curzon, the battle was far from over.

  Geoffrey’s hazel eyes glittered in the light from a street lamp as he pondered the engrossing encounter he’d just eavesdropped upon. The past had suddenly invaded Richard Curzon’s present, and it was a past that still had the power to destroy that gentleman’s equilibrium. Geoffrey had often wondered what his former friend’s false-hearted Diana had looked like, and now he knew. She was bewitchingly beautiful, and if Richard’s stung reaction had been any gauge, he was far from over her.

  Turning, Geoffrey began to stroll back toward the ball, congratulating himself upon so fortuitously choosing to follow Richard. Diana Beaumont’s arrival in town presented the perfect opportunity for driving a wedge between Richard and Isabel, whose dealings with each other hadn’t been going sweetly of late. A plan was already forming in his scheming mind, a plan so simple that it could not possibly fail. He began to hum to himself, and his cane twirled as he walked. He gave no thought to Diana, whose marriage might be put in jeopardy by his machinations. He was only concerned with wresting Isabel from Richard.

  Reaching Finch House, he left his top hat, gloves, cane, and redingote in the room provided, and then reentered the dazzling ballroom, where a sea of elegant, bejeweled guests danced beneath a canopy of chandeliers and Christmas garlands. No expense had been spared in the extravagant decorations; there were even German fir trees, their branches laden with tiers of colored wax candles, a continental fashion brought over by Lady Finch from her native Hanover.

  Another waltz was playing, and Isabel was again dancing with Henry Daventry, Duke of Laroche. She wore a low-cut cerise silk gown, its hem modishly stiffened with rouleaux and bows, and there was a white feather boa trailing on the sand-strewn floor as she moved. Diamonds sparkled at her throat and trembled from her ears, and flouncy white ostrich plumes, her favorites, sprang from the circlet around her short dark hair. She was laughing at something Laroche had said, and her brown eyes were soft and teasing as she looked up into his good-looking face.

  Geoffrey paused at the foot of the ballroom steps, toying with the lace spilling from his black velvet cuff. His adoring, intense gaze followed her every step, lingering on her exquisite face. Soon she would be his, he didn’t doubt it for a moment now that he possessed such invaluable information about her loathed fiancé.

  Stepping on to the crowded floor, he pushed his way toward her, tapping the duke on the shoulder. Laroche was an old acquaintance from school days, and no one ever called him by his first name; he was always simply Laroche. ‘‘Come now, Laroche, you’re being greedy,’’ said Geoffrey. ‘‘You mustn’t
hog the loveliest lady in the room, it’s my turn now, besides, I’ve just seen your wife, she’s looking for you. I suggest you adjourn to the card room, she’s already searched there.’’ It was a deliberate lie, for Geoffrey hadn’t seen the duchess at all, but he knew the thought of his wife’s approach would be sufficient to get rid of Laroche, whose dalliances outside the marriage bed had made the duchess an extremely jealous and suspicious woman.

  Laroche swiftly relinquished Isabel to Geoffrey, and melted away into the press of guests. Isabel pouted after him, and then gave Geoffrey a reproachful look.

  ‘‘You haven’t seen the duchess at all, have you?’’ she said in her soft Scottish voice.

  ‘‘Would I tell fibs at Christmas?’’ he replied, whirling her away into the waltz.

  ‘‘Yes, Geoffrey, you would, just as you’d tell fibs on any other time of the year if it suited you,’’ she answered, smiling coquettishly.

  ‘‘You look breathtakingly lovely tonight, Isabel,’’ he whispered.

  ‘‘Why, thank you, sir,’’ she said in that teasingly flirtatious way that always played havoc with him. ‘‘It’s so very agreeable to be paid compliments by an admirer, instead of having to endure one’s fiancé’s contrariness.’’

  ‘‘Have you and Curzon quarreled again?’’

  ‘‘Not exactly, he’s just seen fit to take himself home. He was in a most beastly mood, quite the surly bear, and I wish now that I’d told him not to call on me again until he’s improved his manners. However, I didn’t say any such thing, so he’ll be taking me riding in Hyde Park tomorrow morning, and to the masquerade tomorrow night. Or should I say tonight? It’s Christmas Eve now, isn’t it?’’

  ‘‘It is indeed,’’ he replied, exulting not only in the pleasure of holding her, but in the fact that she was quite obviously very disenchanted indeed with the man she was to marry. ‘‘Isabel, if you were mine I’d never be a surly bear, and I’d certainly never leave early.’’