“I think we’ve stepped off on the wrong foot.” He removed his black top hat and sank his fingers into his hair. “Perhaps we should start over with introductions. My name is–”
“I don’t care who you are,” she interrupted. “The only thing I care about is that you move your carriage.”
“Is there a problem here, my lord?” Jasper’s driver, a thin, wiry man who had served the St. Clair’s for nearly five decades, hopped down from the front of the coach and took in the situation with a quick, sweeping glance. Despite his diminutive size, he’d faced down highwaymen with ease, and would have had no issue dispatching the lady in question on Jasper’s behalf.
Then again, he had a feeling she was no ordinary lady.
“No problem at all, Mr. Haskins,” he said easily. “This lovely young woman was just informing me that we seem to be in the way.”
The lovely young woman bared her teeth. “You don’t seem to be in the way. You are in the way.”
“The way of what?” Mr. Haskins wondered.
Jasper shrugged. “Some elderly shopkeeper. I’ve forgotten his name.”
“I told you.” Visibly exasperated, the brunette huffed out a breath and stomped her foot. Her skirt flipped upward, affording him a tantalizing peek at a slender calf covered in a sheer ivory stocking that was begging to be peeled off.
Preferably by using his mouth.
“I was half listening,” he admitted. “I seem to keep getting…distracted.”
“By what? Never mind.” She waved her hand in the air. “I’m sure I could not care less. Are you going to move your monstrous carriage or not?”
Jasper would hardly consider a two-in-hand monstrous, but he supposed by Blooming Glen’s standards the stately coach was rather large. Still, it wasn’t his fault he was in the way. How the hell was he supposed to know the shopkeeper was expecting a delivery? If it were up to him, he wouldn’t even be here. This was all Bridget’s fault, but his sister (despite her claims of “being but a moment”) was nowhere to be seen.
“Mr. Haskins move the carriage, if you would.”
“Right away, my lord.”
“Finally.” The little shrew rolled her eyes. “You really didn’t have to make it such a difficult – what are you doing?” she squeaked when he pushed the door open wide and jumped down. Landing in a crouch on the frozen ground, he slowly uncoiled to his considerable height of six feet and grinned down at his adversary.
“I wanted to introduce myself.”
Her mouth opened, then closed. “I – I’m sure no introductions are necessary. The problem has been solved, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Not so fast,” Jasper said quietly when she turned to go. His hand moved with lightning quickness and caught her by the elbow before she’d taken more than two steps. She stared down at his fingers and then up at his face, her countenance a mixture of shock and self-righteous indignation.
“Unhand me at once!” she snapped, give her arm a tiny shake.
“Once you tell me your name.” Jasper knew he was being an arse, but he didn’t care. Not when he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this intrigued by a woman. Especially one who looked as if she belonged in a school-house instead of a sexy boudoir.
Ordinarily, he went to great pains to avoid her type. Everyone knew proper ladies made poor mistresses, and that was the only type of relationship he was interested in. Oh, he knew he’d have to marry eventually if he wanted to sire legitimate offspring to carry on the St. Clair bloodline, but he was in no rush. Four, five, six more years of philandering and maybe he’d start to consider looking for a wife.
Or maybe not.
Either way, Jasper had no plans to march down the aisle anytime soon. Which begged the question of why he’d bothered to get out of the carriage in the first place.
It was a question he didn’t have an answer for.
“My name is absolutely none of your concern.” She shook her arm again, and this time he released her. Stumbling back, she quickly regained her balance and raked him with a frosty glare that made the wind whipping down the street feel downright tropical by comparison. “Every year it’s the same,” she bit out. “Wealthy, arrogant Londoners descend on our little village without care or consideration for the people who make their living here year-round.”
Jasper sighed. “I had my driver move, didn’t I?”
“You did.” Her tight smile fell well short of her eyes. “Thank you ever so kindly. Now if you’ll excuse me, my sister is waiting for me in the spice shop.”
“Wait.” Without fully understanding what the hell he was doing or why he was doing it, Jasper fell into step beside her as she began to navigate the busy sidewalk. Pedestrians streamed past them on either side. Some carried packages, others pushed carts. From a store shop window a dog barked excitedly, and bells jingled merrily on a passing carriage. A trio of carolers dressed in matching green cloaks sang on the corner and young boys with impish smirks darted in and out of the crowd, trying to sell bunches of holly wrapped in red ribbon.
Snagging one of the boys by the collar, Jasper pressed a handful of coins into his hand and took a bouquet. The shrew didn’t stop to wait for him, and he was forced to jog to catch up. He reached her just as she was about to enter the spice shop. The door was propped open, affording him a delicious whiff of cinnamon and nutmeg that instantly reminded him of the tea his father used to drink on Christmas morning.
“Here,” he said, thrusting the holly at her as he subsequently shoved any warm memories to the back of his mind. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I do apologize if I offended you in any way, my lady. ” Grinning his most engaging grin, he waited for her to bat her lashes and melt into a puddle of longing. For if there were two things Jasper excelled at, it was suppressing his emotions…and charming the ladies.
He’d never met a single woman whose favor he couldn’t win within a matter of minutes. Even the formidable Dowager Countess of Essex, a woman renowned for her loathing of everything and everyone, had been unable to resist his roguish magnetism.
But for some reason, the shrew didn’t seem even remotely charmed.
How odd.
“What do you want?” She glanced at the holly, but kept her arms at her sides. After a moment of awkwardness, Jasper tucked the bouquet behind his back and fought the urge to grind his teeth.
He gave serious consideration to saying good riddance and walking away, but that would mean admitting defeat. And he never admitted defeat. Especially not to a pint-sized shrew who had the bloody nerve to turn up her nose at him.
Who the devil did she think she was? Women didn’t resist Jasper. They loved him. And he loved them back. Well, not really. But in lieu of genuine affection, he showered them with priceless gifts and that always seemed to do the trick. Because the way to a woman’s heart wasn’t sweet endearments and acts of valor; it was diamonds. And fur-lined cloaks. And fully furnished townhouses in Mayfair. If his previous relationships had taught him anything, it was that a lady’s affection wasn’t earned; it was bought.
All he needed to do was find the right price.
“I’d like a tour of the village,” he said. “I take it by your earlier comment that you’re a resident here. Who better to show me where I might buy a present for my sister?”
“The village isn’t very large. Tour it yourself.” And with that, she marched into the spice shop and slammed the door in his face, leaving him staring after her in open-mouthed astonishment. Astonishment that rapidly gave way to grudging admiration.
All right. He rocked back on his heels. If that’s how you want to play it…let’s play.
Chapter Four
“Who was that man you were speaking to outside?” Rebecca asked when Honora joined her in the long line that had formed behind the counter. It seemed everyone had forgotten some type of spice in the mad holiday rush. There were at least half a dozen people standing between the sisters and the shopkeeper, a frazzled looking man who was stuffing sticks of cinn
amon and gloves of ginger into small bags as fast as he could.
“No one.” It was a lie. The pompous rake with the impossibly charismatic grin had certainly been someone. But Honora hadn’t learned his name, and thus she didn’t feel guilty for the tiny white lie. “Just another lord of something or other who thinks he’s above everyone else because he has money and a title.”
“You were engaged in conversation for quite a long time.” Rebecca gave her sister a searching glance as they shuffled forward in line. “I was about to go out and see what all the fuss was about.”
“No fuss.” Another lie. This one didn’t come as easily as the first and when a warm blush stole onto her cheeks, Honora abruptly turned her head and feigned a sudden interest in a stack of mixing bowls. “I simply asked him to move his carriage.”
“And I am sure you were a shining example of politeness and gentility,” Rebecca said dryly.
Guilt prickled at the edge of Honora’s conscience. She probably could have been a little nicer. And by a little, she meant a lot. But from the first moment their eyes had met, she’d felt peculiarly off balance, and in her effort to right herself, she’d lashed out when she probably should have remained quiet.
Of course, he’d deserved some of her scorn. He was by far the most pompous gentleman she’d ever encountered. And the most strikingly handsome. Not that his physical appearance mattered a single whit. Because it didn’t. But if that were completely true, why couldn’t she stop thinking about the color of his eyes? Or the shape of his lips? Or all that thick, glossy black hair that had framed a face comprised of fascinating angles and hard lines?
When he’d brought attention to his “superior” attributes she’d nearly choked on her own tongue. No doubt exactly the reaction he had been hoping for. The corners of her mouth pinched.
Honora had met men like him before. They were at every ball she’d ever attended. Different ages. Different titles. But they’d all shared one common trait: their belief that they were God’s gift to women.
The stranger in the carriage was no different. Which was why she shouldn’t have been wasting a second of her precious time thinking about him. Yet try as she might, she couldn’t get the sound of his voice out of her head. And her skin still tingled from the tiny shock that had shot up her arm when he’d grabbed her elbow.
The last time she’d experienced a shock like that, she’d run across the parlor in her bare feet and then touched a doorknob. She already knew metal conducted electricity. But she’d no idea that charismatic rogues were capable of the same feat. Not that she’d found him very charismatic. Or so she told herself as she and Rebecca finally reached the counter and her sister placed a bundle of cinnamon sticks on top of it.
“An even two dozen,” Rebecca told the exhausted shopkeeper.
He told her the price and she paid it, then tucked the bag he gave her under her arm.
“Shall we?” she asked Honora, arching a brow. “Or would you like to purchase those bowls you’ve been staring at for the past five minutes?”
Honora’s blush deepened. She’d never been very good at deception. Anne was the actress in the family, not her. Thankfully, Rebecca did not press the issue, and they left the spice shop without Honora having to reveal her uncharacteristic attraction to the arrogant scoundrel she hoped to never see again.
By the time Honora and Rebecca returned, the house was a flurry of activity. Servants were racing to finish last minute preparations, the twins had gone upstairs to change, Lord Appleton was hiding in his study, and Lady Appleton was poised in the middle of the organized chaos like a captain presiding over the bow of a ship in the midst of a storm.
“You’re back!” she cried when she saw her daughters slip in through a side door. The front door was being polished with a final coat of beeswax. “And you’ve gotten the cinnamon. Thank goodness.” Lady Appleton snapped her fingers to get a maid’s attention, then had her take the cinnamon sticks straight into the kitchen where they would be used for pies, warm cider, and candles. “Well,” she asked sharply, her gaze darting between Honora and Rebecca. “What are you doing standing there? Go upstairs and get ready! We’re expecting Lord and Lady Hanover any moment!”
Honora was only too happy to escape the disarray, and the pending sense of doom that accompanied it. Unfortunately, the reprieve was temporary. All too soon her presence was once again requested downstairs as the first guests began to arrive.
Wearing in her one of her finest dresses, a light pink gown embroidered with tiny white roses along the bodice, she stood at the bottom of the staircase poised to greet the guests with an artificial smile tight on her lips.
“Lady Hanover!” Flanked by her dutiful husband, Lady Appleton welcomed their first guest with a warm kiss to both cheeks while the men shook hands. “How wonderful to see you again. I’m so very glad you could make it. I hope the journey wasn’t too arduous?”
“Not at all.” Lady Hanover was a pleasantly plump woman with round cheeks and blue eyes that twinkled. She’d attended the same finishing school as Lady Appleton and the two were as close as sisters. Closer, given Lady Appleton’s real sister had married an American some five years ago and now lived across the pond. “The house looks beautiful, as always. You’ve outdone yourself this year, Elizabeth.”
Lady Appleton beamed. “Thank you for saying so.”
“Of course. Now let me get a good look at your girls. My sweet darlings,” Lady Hanover sighed as she greeted each sister in turn. “I swear you grow more beautiful every time I see you. How is little Henry?” she asked Emily. “Is he walking yet?”
“Running,” Emily confirmed with a rueful shake of her head. “And talking to anyone who will listen.”
“I’m sure he’s an absolute love. I do look forward to spending some time with him. Alas, I’m still waiting for my Dorothy to marry and give me a grandchild. It is a daughter’s most important duty, you know.” Lady Hanover made a tsking sound and whether by accident or design, her gaze slipped to Honora who stood at the end of the receiving line. She was the only one unaccompanied by a husband, a small fact made glaringly obvious by the empty space to her left.
Shifting uncomfortably beneath the judgmental weight of Lady Hanover’s gaze, she looked down at the floorboards and silently wished she could disappear underneath them. She knew her mother’s friend meant well. Everyone always meant well. But why couldn’t she be enough as she was? Why was she always seen as lacking because she wasn’t married? Why was her entire self-worth dependent on a man?
Her lips parted as she prepared to ask Lady Hanover precisely that, but before she could speak, she caught her mother’s eye. Lady Appleton gave a pleading shake of her head, and Honora bit her tongue. Something she had a feeling she’d be doing quite a bit in the days to come.
“Will Dorothy be joining us?” Anne asked in an obvious attempt to redirect the conversation. Reaching behind her husband, she squeezed Honora’s hand, and Honora squeezed back, grateful for her support. They might fight like cats and dogs, but when it mattered. their family bond was stronger than any petty argument.
“I am afraid not. She isn’t feeling well, you see, and has chosen to remain…” Lady Hanover continued talking, but Honora had stopped listening. She’d even stopped breathing.
For there, looming in the doorway, was the stranger from the village.
The man she’d argued with.
The man she’d definitely not found attractive.
The man she’d hoped to never see again.
“Who is that?” she whispered, her eyes glued to his face. He hadn’t seen her yet. He was too busy handing off his hat, coat, and gloves to one of their footman. Beside him, a young woman, presumably the sister he’d wanted to buy a present for, did the same.
“That’s Jasper St. Clair, the Marquess of Slatington,” Lord Nelson, Anne’s husband, replied. “I’m surprised to see him here. He’s been avoiding any type of social function like the plague.”
“I hope he
catches the plague,” Honora muttered under her breath.
Lord Nelson blinked. “What was that?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Would you like me to introduce you?” her brother-in-law asked.
More guests had spilled into the house behind the marquess, and everyone had started to break apart in little groups. In her element, Lady Appleton flitted from one cluster of guests to another, while servants began to circulate with large silver platters of ginger biscuits and cups of drinking chocolate topped with frothy milk.
“No,” Honora said vehemently.
Too vehemently, she realized, when her loud voice drew nearly every eye in the room.
Including the sharp, blue-eyed gaze of one Lord Jasper St. Clair.
Chapter Five
Her.
Jasper recognized the dark-haired shrew immediately. Except in the soft glow of afternoon light spilling in through the windows she didn’t look like a shrew. She looked…
Different, he told himself hastily.
She looked different, that was all.
Certainly not beautiful. Or bewitching. Or so delightfully demure that he wanted to say something outlandish just to see if her pink blush matched the color of her dress.
“Bridget,” he said, “do you know who that woman is over there?”
She followed his gaze. “The one looking at you in a murderous rage?”
“Yes. That’s the one.”
“Lady Honora. The Appleton’s youngest daughter.”
“Is she married?” The question was out before he could snatch it back, and he grinded his teeth in annoyance at his impulsiveness. Because it didn’t matter a damn bit if Lady Honora were married or not. But if that were completely true, why was he so interested in the answer?
“As it so happens, she is not.” Bridget flitted a curious glance at him as they stepped farther into the foyer. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” he said evasively.
Marquess Under the Mistletoe Page 3