The Christmas Foundling: A Christmas Regency Romance (Belles of Christmas: Frost Fair Book 5)

by Martha Keyes

  “Lord Venton,” he said, inclining his head. “Lady Venton.”

  She smiled at both of them, and Lydia felt a bit nauseated. Lydia had wondered if she had perhaps idealized Lady Venton in her mind, but no. She had decidedly not.

  “I say, Lady Lynham,” Lord Venton said. “Will you not dance with me? My wife says she is too tired for another set, but I know you can always be relied upon to join a man on the ballroom floor.”

  “Oh,” Lydia said. She had never danced with the man, but she hardly felt she could refuse him after such words. “I would be glad to do so.”

  “Splendid,” he said, handing off his wife to Miles. “Lynham, perhaps you can take Sophia to the refreshment table. She is always wishing for a morsel these days. Perhaps you heard—she is in the family way again.”

  Lydia’s stomach flooded with more nausea.

  “My mother had mentioned that,” Miles said, losing none of his genial way. Lydia wished she had his same measure of composure. “I congratulate you both on such a happy announcement.”

  “The two of you better get going,” Lord Venton said with a wink at Lydia and Miles, “if you intend to catch up with us.”

  Lord Venton was an amiable gentleman—handsome and easy to converse with—and Lydia tried her best to keep her attention on him during the set. She was successful for almost the entirety of the first dance, but then the dance took Lord Venton away for a moment, leaving her to stand in line with nothing to keep her attention. Her eyes sought Miles, and they found him with no trouble at all.

  Her stomach clenched. He was still with Lady Venton. They were laughing, with a drink in hand, and they were beautiful together. Looking at them there—Lady Venton with her rounding stomach, Miles looking particularly handsome in his breeches—it was almost like looking at a picture of an alternate reality. It was everything Miles could have had if he had never met Lydia—if he had listened to his mother and father and done what he had planned to do.

  An arm scooped around Lydia’s, and she blinked and scurried back into the dance, grateful that Lord Venton was amusing himself far too well to note the embarrassing tears in her eyes.

  Chapter 17

  September 1810

  Miles hated to see his father this way—the raspy breathing, the sunken cheeks, the hacking coughs that made Miles clench his fists for fear his father might never manage to catch his breath again.

  He was on the edge of his seat, a glass of water at the ready, but his father waved it away as he finally managed to stop coughing, dropping back onto the pillows behind him and looking more tired and drawn than ever.

  “Help me lie down,” he said, and Miles set down the glass of water, hurrying up to help his father shift down farther in the bed. “It is time, Miles,” he said.

  Miles swallowed. He wasn’t ready for this. Was one ever ready to say goodbye to a parent?

  “It is time for you and Lydia to get serious about an heir,” his father continued, eyes still closed. “It is unwise to put it off.”

  Miles blinked in surprise and debated for a moment how to respond. It wasn’t as though he and Lydia had been avoiding having a child. But perhaps they did need to pursue things more seriously now, whatever that meant.

  “I had hoped the succession might be secure by the time I died. But…” His father’s brow furrowed. “Promise me you won’t delay any longer.”

  “I promise, Father,” Miles said with a lump in his throat. His children would never meet their grandfather.

  “I have no doubt you and he will make me proud,” his father said. “The seventh and eighth Barons Lynham. An unbroken succession.” He breathed through the hint of a smile, as though the prospect brought him a sense of peace.

  The Present

  Miles hoped the smile he wore hid his impatience as he glanced at the ballroom floor. Venton had asked Lydia to join him for the two longest dances of the night.

  It wasn’t that he minded keeping Sophia company. They had always gotten along very well—he would never have considered marrying her if it weren’t for that fact. Nor did he begrudge her the joy of a life that seemed to hit every milestone and success with the clockwork precision of the Mail Coach.

  He merely envied her situation and her achievements. He wanted the same for him and Lydia.

  He looked to Lydia again. She had perhaps never looked so beautiful as she did now, but there was something amiss, something about her smile that wasn’t entirely genuine. If only he could be the one to fix that. But nothing he did seemed to help—at least not for more than a moment. Whenever he thought they were turning a corner, it turned out not to be so, and she retreated from him again. He feared that, at some point, she might do so for good.

  “Have you and Lady Lynham been passing an agreeable Christmastide?” Sophia asked. “Despite this terrible cold, I mean. It has certainly forced a great many people to change their plans. I had understood that you intended to spend Christmas in Staffordshire.”

  He nodded. “The best laid plans, you know. But we have managed to keep ourselves entertained here in Town, all the same. My wife’s sisters joined us, and they are…well, let us just say that they entertain us well enough themselves.”

  Sophia’s mouth pulled into a smile. “If they are anything like Lady Lynham, I can only imagine they have brightened the season immeasurably.”

  The set finally finished, but Lydia was stopped by a friend on her way over, so Venton came alone to retrieve his wife. He thanked Miles for taking her into his care, and the two of them retreated to a different part of the room.

  A hand clapped upon Miles’s shoulder, and he turned, stifling a sigh as he encountered George Hewitt and Edward Parry, friends of Harry. Hewitt was a tiresome companion for conversation. He imagined himself to be quite entertaining, but the truth was, he was simply annoying. And as for Parry, he was certainly preferable to Hewitt, but only marginally so. Why Harry insisted upon keeping such company, Miles couldn’t understand. He tried to be kind to them for his brother’s sake, but the men were both fools.

  “What has you wearing such a Friday face, Lynham?” Hewitt asked, squeezing Miles’s shoulder and shaking it slightly.

  “Surely not a Friday face.” Miles removed Hewitt’s hand and made an effort to look more pleasant. He was normally better at hiding what he was feeling.

  “An undeniable Friday face,” Hewitt replied. “Here.” He took the empty glass from Miles’s hand and set it on the tray of the passing footman, who paused so Hewitt could take three new ones. He gave one to Miles and one to Parry.

  “What’s this we hear of a little baby in your house?” Parry asked.

  Miles felt a renewed desire to throttle his brother. Why must he insist upon spreading the news about to people like Hewitt and Parry? If they knew, it was likely that all of London did.

  He shrugged, hoping his nonchalance would convince them that it was a matter of too little importance to dwell upon. “We found him at the Frost Fair and couldn’t leave him there in good conscience. He seems to have been abandoned by his mother.”

  “Ah. Much better than what I had heard.”

  Miles turned to look at him, but Hewitt was gazing around the ballroom. He winked at someone.

  “And what, may I ask, did you hear?” Miles said.

  Hewitt tossed off his glass. “Thought you were perhaps hoping to pass him off as your own.” He winked at Miles, and Parry chuckled.

  “What a feat that would be!” Parry cried out. “A stranger’s brat in line for the Barony of Lynham!” He slapped a hand on his thigh in amusement. “I wish you would, Lynham! It would be great sport to watch you dupe the ton with such a trick.”

  “Best your father isn’t here to see such a thing, eh?” Hewitt said with a jab of the elbow in Miles’s side. “He would not have been amused in the least, would he?”

  “Hardly,” Miles said, hoping to quell any cause the two men might have to believe Miles wished for further discussion on the subject.

  P
arry tilted his head from side to side, as though considering this. “No, I suppose not. And we wouldn’t want to serve Harry such a trick, either. Not when he’s got a chance at the title!”

  “Very true,” Hewitt responded.

  Miles felt his pulse in his neck. Most of the time, their banter was harmless, but tonight it had a barb to it Miles didn’t want to admit.

  “Saw you talking to Lady Venton,” Parry said, gesturing in her direction with his glass.

  “Your powers of observation are formidable, Parry,” Miles said sardonically.

  “Thank you,” Parry said, missing the insult. “Now there’s a couple who will have more children than they know what to do with if they keep on as they are.”

  Hewitt chuckled. “It’s like Jacobs used to say about him and his wife—they need only look at one another to have her with child yet again! Six of ‘em already, though four of ‘em are girls, you know.” He shook his head as though this was cause for lament. “Perhaps they’d lend you one of the boys, Lynham. I imagine they’ll have a few more by the time they’re done.”

  Miles balled his fists and smiled through clenched teeth. “And perhaps they’ll lend a daughter to each of you, since I have grave doubts either of you will be able to find a woman who will have you without an added dose of persuasion. Good evening, gentlemen.”

  He walked toward the French doors that led out onto the terrace. They were closed—it was far too cold outside to leave them open—but Miles needed some air, and he pulled a handle and slipped outside.

  He sucked in a long breath, focusing on how the frigid air felt traveling down his throat and into his lungs. It was silly of him to let Hewitt’s and Parry’s mindless jabbering bother him. Why should it matter to him what anyone thought of him or Lydia? Or Thomas, for that matter? It was none of their business.

  But it did matter to him. And hearing the Lynham succession discussed as though Harry were the heir apparent rather than the heir presumptive? It was evidence of how people saw Miles as a failure.

  And the things that were undoubtedly being said about them taking in a baby…

  He clenched his eyes shut against the way his pride smarted and thought of the letter he’d received earlier that day from his mother. She’d informed him she had found a situation for Thomas.

  He hadn’t told Lydia. He wasn’t sure how to. He could already foresee the dismay in her eyes.

  The door creaked open, and he turned to see Lydia herself come outside. She shivered, pulling her long gloves up to cover the gap between them and her sleeves.

  “What are you doing out here, Miles? It is frigid.” She searched his face and slowed. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. He wouldn’t trouble her with the gossip. “Shall we leave? I find I have had my fill of the company here.”

  She smiled at him and nodded. “I should like that.”

  Chapter 18

  They made their way back through the crowds inside, Miles pulling Lydia along, obviously impatient to leave. To those who greeted him, he offered a nod and a smile. Normally, he would stop and spend a minute or two greeting them, but not tonight.

  Lydia swallowed, glancing at Lady Venton one last time. Was it his conversation with her which had made him wish to leave? Was it too painful to be in her presence, knowing what he could have had but had foregone?

  Lydia let out a large sigh as they settled into the carriage seat together.

  “Quite so,” Miles said.

  She didn’t respond, too unsure what his mood meant to know what might aggravate it. The only sound was of coachmen calling to each other as the carriage carefully navigated away from the Gallaghers’ townhouse, followed by carriage wheels rumbling and horse hooves clacking on the cobbled streets.

  “Tomorrow marks the beginning of a new year,” Miles said after a minute or two of silence.

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Usually she looked forward to the prospect of a fresh year, but all she could feel was anxiousness at the thought of what 1815 might bring. She had lost her confidence in the future.

  “Before we know it, it will be Epiphany.”

  She looked at him, trying to understand why he would mention that day specifically. He was watching her, too.

  “We agreed we would try to find a situation for Thomas by Twelfth Night,” he said, “and I haven’t made a single inquiry into the matter, I’m afraid.”

  Her muscles tensed. “Well, we didn’t necessarily set the date in stone. We merely said that we should likely be able to find something by then.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, as though he was trying to see through her words. “We cannot put it off indefinitely.”

  She paused before responding. It had been silly to hope that things might turn out just that way—an intention that never materialized. But she realized now that she had hoped it. Deep down, she had been hoping that Miles was getting just as attached to Thomas as she was, that he wouldn’t wish to part with him at all, that he would forget about finding him another home entirely.

  “No, I suppose not,” she said with a catch in her throat.

  Of course it wasn’t what he wished. He didn’t just want a baby. He wanted an heir. And, no matter how much he cared for Thomas and wanted the best for him, Thomas could never be his heir.

  It was a lonely end to a lonely year, and instead of letting Thomas sleep in his cradle, Lydia brought him in bed with her, to sleep where he and Miles had slept just three nights ago.

  How would she bear the solitude when Thomas left? She pushed down the emotion in her throat as she gazed at his long, curled lashes.

  “I wish you could stay,” she said in a whisper, and her breath ruffled a few of the fine hairs that peeked out from the cap on his head.

  The dowager baroness had promised to join them for tea the next afternoon, and when Lydia heard her mother-in-law’s voice coming from downstairs, she cringed. She had hoped that she and the dowager baroness would manage to get along more easily, but instead, it was getting more difficult as time went on.

  “And how was the Gallaghers’ party last night?” she asked of Miles as Lydia poured the tea. Mary and Diana had declined to join them, and Lydia envied them.

  She hardly knew how to respond to the dowager’s question, so she was grateful when Miles stepped in. “It was…more crowded than I had expected. We did not stay long.”

  The dowager looked at Lydia, indicating her arms with a nod. “How strange to see you without that baby in your arms. Did you find a place for him, then?”

  Lydia felt her heart begin to patter more quickly. “No. I asked Jane to put him down to sleep before I came down.”

  “I see.” She smiled in a way Lydia found patronizing, almost as if she pitied her. “Well, I am sure Miles told you I may have discovered a situation for little Thomas.”

  Lydia glanced at Miles, who was looking down at his hands, a frown on his face. Would he step in and tell her that they didn’t need her to take the task upon herself?

  “I am waiting to receive word back,” she continued. “But I am hopeful that it will serve, and I will, of course, inform you as soon as I know.”

  Miles seemed to be avoiding Lydia’s eye, and it was all she could do to thank her mother-in-law and change the subject as quickly as possible.

  When it came time to see the dowager baroness out, Lydia and Miles accompanied her to the door. Lydia waited for it to shut behind her mother-in-law then turned without a look at Miles and made her way up the stairs.

  “Lydia,” he said, following behind her.

  She turned toward him once she reached the top of the stairs, trying to breathe evenly. Her patience had worn thin after an hour with the dowager baroness, and she found that her chest was rising and falling quickly. She was frustrated with Miles—with his silence. With the fact that he had told her nothing of his mother’s meddling despite their conversation the night before about finding Thomas a home.

  He checked on the final sta
ir, searching her face. “You are angry.”

  She said nothing in response. It wasn’t a question anyway. It was a statement. And it was true.

  “Is it because my mother has found a place for Thomas?”

  “When you told her we did not require her assistance in the matter?” Lydia asked. “Yes, that is part of it.”

  “But only part of it…” he said slowly, searching her face.

  “Once again, you allow her to—” she stopped, letting out a breath through her nose and looking away. “We have already discussed this. There is little purpose to doing so again.”

  He made an incredulous sound, but she was tired of feeling like she had to beg him to stand up for them to his mother. He had said it before: he didn’t care to cross his mother. He would rather allow her free reign to avoid hurting her feelings or confronting her, even if it meant causing Lydia pain.

  “You said nothing when she mentioned the situation for Thomas,” Lydia said. “I take it that means you wish for it?”

  “I take it you don’t?”

  She swallowed, and he stared at her.

  “You want to keep him, don’t you?” he asked.

  Her nostrils flared, and her eyes burned. “And you want to be rid of him as soon as possible, don’t you?”

  He put his hands up, as though trying to defend himself from an attacking animal. “I have nothing but Thomas’s best interests at heart. You know I care for him.”

  “But?”

  His jaw shifted from side to side. “Do you know what they are saying about him? About us?”

  “Who?”

  He threw up his hands. “The Town.”

  She felt a sickness settle in the pit of her stomach. She hated knowing that people discussed them. “I’m sure it makes no difference to me what people choose to say or believe about any of it.”