It Happened One Christmas: Christmas Eve ProposalThe Viscount's Christmas KissWallflower, Widow...Wife!

by Carla Kelly

  His stoic mask dropped a touch, his piercing green eyes softening as he let go of his hands and allowed them to fall at his sides. It was the subtlest of changes, but enough to give Lily the courage she need to carry on.

  She held out her hand to him. ‘Will you dance with me?’

  More than one surprised gasp filled the air around them, but it was only Gregor’s reaction which mattered to Lily now.

  ‘Are you sure you wish to stand up with me?’ he asked, not in disgust, but with a hope as frail as the small patterns of ice clinging to the windows.

  ‘I’d consider it an honour to stand up with such a dear friend, someone who deserves my respect because he is one of the most genuine, caring and honest people I know.’

  A long moment stretched out as she waited for him to take her hand. Around her the whispers increased, but she remained steady, willing to face whatever consequences her boldness brought down on her.

  She was rewarded with Gregor’s solid grip as he took her hand. She curled her fingers around his and not even her gloves could prevent the heat of his touch from wicking through her. He hadn’t walked away, but accepted her apology and her, faults and all.

  The people parted to let them pass as he escorted her to the dance floor, gaping at them as they had four years ago when Gregor had stood up with her.

  ‘We’re creating quite a stir,’ he observed as they headed for the top of the line.

  ‘Good. I’d like this to be as memorable a Christmas for them as for me.’

  ‘I’m most happy to assist you in the endeavour.’ His lips curled up at the corners with a mischievous grin as he let go of her and backed into his place at the top of the line.

  The weight of his hand lingered in hers as they waited for the other couples to take their places. There was a scramble to secure positions close to Gregor and Lily with no one wanting to be too far away from this curious sight. Even the older guests who’d cared little for the dancing before now crowded around the edges of the dance floor. Aunt Alice stood amongst them, tossing Lily an encouraging wink as she pulled Pygmalion back to her side.

  The musician struck up a tune, not a Scotch reel, but a country dance so similar in energy Lily nearly skipped as she moved forwards to link elbows with Gregor. As they spun around, the room disappeared in a blur with only his smile remaining. His hair fell over his forehead as he danced, his smile as wide as hers as they twirled and chasséd in time to the music, the clasp of his hands as sure as his regard for her. Once again he was her Lord of Misrule and she his Queen of Folly.

  When it came time to sashay down the line, he took both her hands in his and they set off, eyes locked on one another, oblivious to everything, including Pygmalion, who bolted away from Aunt Alice, his leash trailing behind him as he hurried out to meet them.

  It was too late by the time Lily caught the flash of brown at her feet. The dog became entangled in her skirts, knocking her off balance and sending her hurtling towards the floor. In an instant Gregor’s arm went around her waist and she curled back against it as though he’d purposely dipped her in time to the tune.

  The violinist scraped his bow against the strings and the flutist blew an off note as the musicians went silent, watching her and Gregor as intently as the crowd.

  He continued to hold her, breathing as fast as she did, his hand firm against her back. Above him the candles shimmered in the darkness of his hair. She held on to his arms, unaware of anything except the closeness of his body to hers and the laughter making his eyes dance. He shifted and she braced herself, ready to rise with him and resume the dance, but he didn’t set her on her feet. Instead, he leaned down and joined his lips to hers.

  She closed her eyes, savouring the strong heat of him and not caring a fig about anyone else in the room. There was a promise in his kiss, a Christmas one made to her in front of everyone here. He loved her and she loved him, and this would be the first of many glorious Christmas balls during which they’d dance together.

  * * * * *

  Wallflower,

  Widow...Wife!

  Ann Lethbridge

  I would like to dedicate this book to someone who has been my greatest supporter over the years, who has served as my inspiration for the love you will find between the covers and who has played a major part in making so many of my Christmases a joyful occasion.

  This story is for you, my husband, Keith.

  Dear Reader,

  I admit it. I am one of those people who adores all things Christmas: the season, the food, the singing, the gifts, the decorations. For me, it is all about gathering together with family, and that is what I wanted to reflect within these pages. While the story is fiction, I could not help but put a few of my own happy Christmas memories within these chapters, in particular the gathering of Christmas greenery and the singing out of doors.

  If you would like to know more about me and my stories, you will find me at annlethbridge.com.

  In closing, I would like to wish you and your family a very happy and loving Christmas.

  Ann Lethbridge

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter One

  December 1813

  Adam Royston St Vire, Viscount Graystone and heir to the Earl of Portmaine, squeezed the bridge of his nose and once more applied himself to the column of figures in the dusty old ledger. Again his vision blurred. The linenfold panelling darkened by age, the dingy carpet and old oak furniture seemed to swallow what little winter sunshine filtered through the library’s mullioned window. Perhaps another candle would help.

  Stiff from the lack of warmth in this benighted old manor house, despite the blazing fire he’d lit, he arched his back and stretched his cramped hand. The ledgers told a sorry tale. Old Cousin Josiah had neglected Thornton for years. A large investment was needed to bring it up to scratch and even then... Portmaine had no need of such a drain on its coffers. A quick sale was what he would recommend to his father.

  He rubbed at his nape. Paperwork. He hated it.

  The old restlessness seized him. He eyed the brandy bottle he’d picked up with other supplies on his way through the local village the previous day. Brandy would not help him complete his task more quickly, even if it did dull his urge to move on. His duty, to his father and to the estate, required that he finish this up before going home for Christmas.

  The thought of home, of being the subject of sympathetic eyes and concerned faces, made his stomach curl in on itself. Worse yet would be the matchmaking efforts made by his mother. She’d written, warning him of the young lady and her family invited for the holidays. He didn’t blame his mother for her stratagems to see him leg-shackled once more. She didn’t understand that he was perfectly content to leave the business of providing the next Portmaine heir to one of his younger brothers. Marriage was out of the question.

  Damn it all, he did not want to think about his dead wife. It hurt too much. Especially at this time of year. Marion had loved Christmas. She’d loved life. And had he been a better husband, paid attention to his duty, she would have lived to enjoy this one.

  Anger and regret churned vilely in his stomach. It always did when he allowed thoughts of Marion to slip into his mind. His fingers clenched around his pen. The urge to hurl it across the room had his hand trembling. He dipped it in the inkwell instead, forcing his mind back to Sir Josiah’s account books.

  Figures never let him down. They always did exactly as required. If they weren’t right, they could be fixed. Unlike people. He peered at the crabbed line of explanations beside each number and grimaced. At least the mess Cousin Josiah had left him provid
ed a reasonable excuse to put off his return to Portmaine for a few days longer. He began tallying the column again.

  ‘You do it,’ a high-pitched voice said right outside the window that looked over the sweep of drive.

  ‘No, you. It was your idea. And you are the oldest.’

  Female voices of the cultured sort. Too young to pose any sort of matrimonial threat, thank the sweet heavens.

  The doorbell clanged.

  He ignored it. Since Josiah’s servants had been pensioned off—all but the stable boy—and Adam had sent his own man home for the holidays, there was no one to answer the door. He certainly wasn’t expecting visitors. The solicitor who had given him the key had asked if Adam wanted to hire a housekeeper or some such from the nearby village, but he’d declined, given the shortness of his planned stay.

  The doorbell pealed again. Not deterred, then. He sighed, rose to his feet and headed into the chilly cave of the entrance hall. He pulled the door open at the same moment the taller of two young females reached for the bell. She lurched into his belly with a cry of alarm.

  He steadied her, set her back on her feet and glared down. ‘What do you want?’

  The smaller child disappeared behind her elder, peeping out and up at him with large blue eyes framed by pale lashes.

  The elder, a rosy-cheeked brunette with her chin lost in a blue knitted scarf, whom he judged to be about the age of ten, put mittened hands on small hips. ‘We want to see his lordship.’ Her breath puffed out from her lips in a frosty mist.

  How had they discovered his presence at Thornton House? He glared harder. ‘And who is it who wants to see his lordship?’ he growled.

  The little one disappeared again, but the older girl drew herself up straight like a soldier on parade. He couldn’t help but admire her fortitude. There wasn’t a groom in his stables who didn’t falter when he was in what they called one of his moods.

  ‘I am Miss Lucy Melford, and this is my sister, Diana.’ She spoke carefully, as if she had learned the words by rote yet needed to think about them. ‘We wish to see Lord Graystone on a very important matter, if you would be pleased to announce us.’

  An odd feeling rose in his throat. His lips twitched with the urge to smile at this small package of self-importance. She reminded him of his sisters at that age, appearing as brave as lions when they were terrified. He hunkered down, bringing himself to eye level with the imperious little baggage. ‘His lordship isn’t at home.’

  Miss Melford turned to her sibling. ‘They say that when they don’t want to see anyone.’

  Miss Diana whispered from her place of safety, ‘I told you we shouldn’t come.’

  Adam couldn’t resist. ‘Why did you?’

  The elder young lady regarded him thoughtfully, probably trying to decide if he was an ally or a foe. ‘We have an important question to ask.’

  ‘Lucy! Diana!’ a breathless female voice called out.

  Adam rose to his six foot four inches and regarded the third female hurrying up his drive towards him. An adult female in a drab-looking pelisse of some indeterminate brown colour and a faded black bonnet, which was about all he could see of her as she watched where she placed her feet on the snow-covered drive. Amusement fled. Gads, he should have known little girls would come accompanied by older versions. Governesses and mothers and such. Dangerous territory for a man alone, single and planning to stay that way.

  He began to close the door as she arrived alongside the children.

  The governess, or whatever she was, looked up, a frown on her face. ‘Girls. I told you not to bother his lordship.’

  Adam’s breath caught in his throat. Because she was...so unexpectedly young. No one would describe her face, with cheeks deliciously flushed by the chill December air, as pretty. Her nose was too aquiline, her mouth too generously wide, for ordinary beauty. But she had the most remarkably luminous hazel eyes he had ever seen. Wide set and intelligent and expressive, they took in the tableau at the door with dismay. Her frown deepened. Her lips pursed. A very prim and proper lady, then, whom others might call unfortunately tall. Not him. It was rare that he met a woman he topped by only a few inches. Statuesque with a lush bountiful figure, he found her utterly carnally tempting. Shocked by his ungentlemanly thoughts, he forced himself to fix his gaze upon her face.

  ‘Girls, you were wrong to go against my wishes,’ she said, her expression becoming severe. ‘Come away this instant.’

  ‘But, Mama, he is going to ask his lordship,’ Miss Melford said. ‘You were, weren’t you?’

  Mama? How was that possible? She could not possibly be old enough to be a mother to these children.

  He looked from the mother to the small serious faces staring up at him. ‘It depends on your question.’ Devil take it, did he have to sound quite so surly?

  ‘Please, do not trouble his lordship,’ Mrs Melford said, breathing hard from her dash up the drive, a circumstance resulting in a most pleasing expansion and contraction of the brown pelisse in the region of her chest.

  Again Adam dragged his gaze back to her face and saw consternation lurking in those beautiful eyes fringed with lashes the colour of guineas. Strands of the same coloured hair had managed to escape in little tendrils around her oval face.

  ‘And you are?’ she said with a lift of delicately arched brows.

  For a moment he frowned, then he realised the import behind her question and its tone. She thought him a servant. As did the little girls. They had no idea to whom they spoke. And no wonder. He had answered the door in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. Something no gentleman would do. But then he wasn’t much of a gentleman these days.

  ‘Royston.’ Almost without thinking, he gave his mother’s maiden name as he often did when he travelled on estate business. Self-defence against toadies and matchmaking mamas.

  The woman hesitated. ‘Cassandra Melford. Please give my apologies to Lord Graystone for the disturbance.’

  A proud woman despite her air of genteel poverty. The unexpected spark of interest deep inside him flared higher. ‘Why don’t I ask his lordship your question, so he can decide if it is a trouble or not?’

  ‘We wanted to ask if his lordship would permit us to cut some Christmas boughs in his woods.’ Miss Lucy spoke quickly, before her mama could forbid another word, sly little puss. She waved an arm off to the right where Adam had noticed a formidable expanse of deciduous forest. ‘And perhaps, if we just happened to find a log—by chance, you understand—we could bring it home for the holidays.’ She smiled and he could see a gap where an incisor used to be.

  Miss Diana peeped around her sister and removed a finger from between rosebud lips. ‘There is—’

  ‘Hush,’ Miss Lucy said.

  Clearly the child had already located the log of her choice.

  ‘Girls, it is not right for us to trespass in his lordship’s woods,’ their mama said softly, as if to ease the blow of her words. ‘I am sure we can find some greenery in the hedgerows. I promised you we would go tomorrow. And Mr Harkness might have a log left at the end of the day we can...purchase.’ How telling was that little stumble. Money was a problem. She smiled apologetically, a smile that transformed her face from stern to warmly charming. ‘I am so sorry we bothered you, Mr Royston.’

  The sadness in her eyes, despite her brave smile, was painful to see. Adam did his best not to see it. He was no knight in shining armour.

  ‘Wait here, while I ask.’ Blazes, now what was he doing?

  Mrs Melford looked ready to refuse.

  ‘I’ll be but a moment.’ He closed the door, castigating himself for his deceit. Yet, strangely, he found it pleasant to converse with a woman who was not my lording him all over the place. Or sympathising. Or simpering and batting her eyelashes.

  ‘He said to wait,’ Miss Lucy said, her high voice piercin
g.

  A small silence.

  ‘He just closed the door. He didn’t go anywhere,’ little Miss Diana announced, clearly hard up against the other side of the door. Listening.

  Another odd twitch of his mouth he recognised as the beginnings of a rusty smile on lips tight from lack of practice.

  He crept a few feet up the hall, not quite believing his idiocy, and stomped back to open the door, only to discover Mrs Melford in the throes of dragging her daughters away.

  He followed them a few steps down the snow-covered drive and raised his voice. ‘His lordship has one condition. I must go with you. He can spare me tomorrow afternoon.’ He should be done with his paperwork by then, but it would be too late to set out for Portmaine Court and arrive before dark. Though why he was even thinking of doing this—perhaps because the girls reminded him of his younger sisters whom he rarely saw. Or perhaps it was his curiosity about the woman.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Mrs Melford said stiffly.

  ‘Mama,’ Miss Lucy pleaded, her eyes big and sad.

  ‘I meant you also, Mrs Melford,’ Adam said, at once realising the difficulty of a stranger accompanying two little girls anywhere. ‘And Mr Melford, too, of course.’

  The woman tensed. ‘There is no Mr Melford.’

  A widow. Now why did that lift his spirits when he should be expressing regret?

  ‘Bring whomsoever you wish,’ he said. ‘But his lordship insists I accompany you.’

  ‘We won’t steal anything,’ Miss Lucy said indignantly.

  Adam shrugged, feigning surly indifference, when he felt anything but indifferent. ‘Won’t you need help with the log? Unless you have a servant to assist?’ Which from the condition of their patched and worn clothing he very much doubted.

  Clearly torn, Mrs Melford gazed at the hopeful faces of her children. She heaved the small sigh of the beleaguered parent; he’d heard enough from his own to recognise it as defeat. ‘Tomorrow, then. At two.’