Lord Lansbury's Christmas Wedding

by Helen Dickson

  One eyebrow lifted in sardonic, arrogant enquiry. ‘What would I have heard? What an excellent mistress of Chalfont you would make?’ Seeing fire flame hot and sure in her eyes, he smiled mockingly. ‘Ah, I appear to have touched a nerve. I see you have a temper.’

  Jane could feel the anger begin somewhere in her breast, a hard knot just where her heart lay. Having come to his house with nothing but good intentions, she found his hostile manner and egotistical attitude outrageous. She also felt a dreadful resentment that he should feel he had the right to speak to her as though she were nothing at all. But she kept her temper subdued, which she found, as the moments passed, to be reasserting itself. Her father had said she had one, and Finn, after the not-so-good times wherever they happened to be. She had not believed it, not even remembered it, and though so far she had found no reason to show it, she knew it was there, simmering beneath her outward calm.

  Stiffening her spine, she raised her head defiantly. ‘I do lose my temper and I am hurt just as easily as anyone else. Not until afterwards do I remember and try to understand why the person who made me lose my temper might have belittled me in such a way. When I came here my intentions were honourable and completely honest. I did not expect to have them flung back in my face.’

  ‘It’s unfortunate you’ve wasted your time, but it’s hardly a tragedy.’ Christopher would allow himself a moment’s weakness, but not now, not in front of Jane Mortimer. His pride was his strength. ‘Did you really think I was so desperate for money that I would accept yours? You can turn around and go right back to your aunt.’

  His words sliced through her, laid her open and left pain in their wake. His taunting smile seared her and brought a rush of colour to her face. He was cruelly laughing at her and her stung pride would not allow that. It brought her chin up defiantly. She glared at him.

  ‘It will be my pleasure, Lord Lansbury. I’m sorry I came here. I can see I have wasted both your time and mine. I am beginning to feel that Miss Spelling has had a lucky escape.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more. I have a reputation to protect, a certain standing in society to maintain. Imagine the hilarity should it be discovered I had taken money from an employee to help settle my debts.’

  ‘Well then, you will have to make more suitable arrangements when next you look for a wife.’

  His eyes were almost silver, the grey draining away in his anger. ‘Be careful what you say,’ he said harshly. ‘And don’t be misled by the fact that I once showed myself indulgent in my dealings with you—’

  ‘One might say more than indulgent!’ Jane bit back. ‘It infuriates me that I allowed such liberties to be taken by a man who thinks of me as no more than a moment’s pleasure when you get me alone.’

  ‘I don’t recall you complaining at the time.’

  Something welled up in Jane, a powerful surge of emotion to which she had no alternative but to give full rein. It was as if she had suddenly become someone else, someone bigger and much stronger than her own self. Her eyes flashed as cold fury drained her face of colour and added a steely edge to her voice.

  ‘Which is to my regret. As a matter of fact it did mean something to me. To you, what happened may have seemed commonplace,’ she upbraided him, her words reverberating through the room. ‘Just another one of the many flirtations, romances and infidelities that give society something to gossip about. But I am not in the habit of kissing gentlemen who are relative strangers to me, or any other kind for that matter.’

  ‘I was not accusing you of such.’

  ‘What you did accuse me of was quite absurd. You, Lord Lansbury, are way above me in every aspect and not for one minute would I aspire to marry you. But after saying that, your lofty rank does not intimidate me. You may be an earl, but you are not the sun around which the world revolves. I know who I am and what I am and I do not need you to remind me. Anyone with the least instinct for class differences could tell I am not a born lady. My background testifies to that.’

  ‘Which was down to your father.’

  ‘Do not bring my father into this,’ she replied fiercely. ‘He did not belong to any particular class of society. Clever and dedicated, he represented working-class men, yet when he was in the presence of foreign nobility, he had the same confident manner as they. It was not easy to tell whether he was an upper-class gentleman who chose martyrdom among the workers or a working-class gentleman who had risen in life.’

  ‘Be that as it may, Miss Mortimer, I think that when you met my mother and she offered you the position to look after Octavia, you simply seized on a brilliant ploy to lead a better life for a while, and the deal was sweetened when you came into your inheritance and you realised how—desperate as I am for money—you saw your circumstances changing for the better and decided to test the boundaries. But I am not about to fall like a rock for it!’

  In an attempt to shut out the torment of his words, Jane found herself watching his mouth, the lips that had kissed hers so gently, so passionately. It seared her.

  ‘How dare you say that to me?’

  ‘I do dare, Miss Mortimer. You are nothing but a shallow, scheming, calculating little opportunist. With your talent, you should be on the stage, along with—’

  He would have continued but his angry diatribe was cut short. Jane was on her way to the door. She could be roused to a primitive and savage rage by an act of wanton cruelty and injustice. Unable to let the injustice pass, borne on the tide of her own anger, she turned and strode quickly back to him. Beside herself with rage, her colour gloriously high, her eyes stormy with hurt indignation, with all her strength she dealt him a stunning blow across the face. The sight of the sudden redness calmed her down, but did not cause her the slightest twinge of regret or compunction. He had insulted her basely and she had been far too patient with him.

  A scheming, calculating opportunist.

  The words hung in the air like an acrid smell.

  She felt obscurely happy at having been able to inflict pain on him. She could even have wished it were greater. She would have liked to lash out at him with her teeth and nails and tear out those insolent eyes in which, for the moment, surprise had taken the place of contempt.

  Mechanically, Christopher raised a hand to his cheek. To all appearances it was the first time such a thing had ever happened to him and he could not get over it. The slap had reduced him to silence and Jane, realising this, contemplated him with satisfaction.

  ‘Perhaps now,’ she uttered sweetly, ‘you will remember me. You are a heartless, inconsiderate, arrogant monster and I cannot believe I let you touch me. I will never be able to forgive my stupidity for making you an offer of my money—without strings—no games. I regret my own foolish naivety in thinking you would have welcomed my offer with open arms. It is your loss, Lord Lansbury. Not mine.’

  Spinning on her heel, she swept from the room with all the majesty of an outraged queen, leaving her aggressor to his own thoughts. Outside she climbed into the waiting cab. Progression was slow as the streets were crowded. There were horses ridden by top-hatted men and side-saddled women, dozens of carriages of every type, open and closed, but she saw nothing. She was too dazed to think, too numb to feel, but she could hear over and over again the carelessly brutal opinion of her uttered by the man she adored. How cold he had been, how hard and implacable his eyes.

  * * *

  Entering the house, like a moth floundering in lamplight, she stumbled her way up the stairs to her room. Once inside she turned the key in the lock and leaned her head against the hard wood of the door frame. Not even her aunt was allowed to witness the collapse of her brave facade as all her courage drained away and she sank to her knees, weeping as if her heart would break. She could hear Lord Lansbury’s words ringing in her ears, muted only by the sound of her own weeping as her heart was shredded into pieces.

  * * *

&n
bsp; Christopher stared at the door that Jane had just disappeared through, feeling bewildered and consumed with anger. Feeling the minutes ticking by, he stood perfectly still, unable to shake off the image of the tempestuous young woman with blazing violet eyes and a face alive with fury and disdain. The picture branded itself on his mind. She’d actually looked and sounded as if she’d meant every single thing she’d said to him.

  He thought of what he had accused her of and knew he shouldn’t have. Instinct told him he had gone too far and was close to making a mortal enemy of a woman who was a loyal friend to his mother and his sister.

  Was she ambitious?

  Had she hoped that he would offer marriage in return for her money? And just how much money had she inherited?

  Was she innocent of deviousness all along?

  He didn’t know what to think—but, he thought, feeling the sting in his cheek from her slap, it might be interesting finding out.

  * * *

  The morning following her bitter altercation with Lord Lansbury, Jane awakened feeling oddly refreshed after a night of tearful recriminations. She was surprised to find that she was no longer in the throes of wrenching heartbreak. The previous morning, everything had seemed so simple and predictable. Now everything had changed. Getting out of bed and remembering how she had gone to Lansbury House, ready to lay her generous offer at Lord Lansbury’s feet, now she tried to shut out the images, but it was no use. They paraded across her mind, tormenting her with vivid scenes of the mindlessly besotted girl she had been.

  How could she have been so foolish, so incredibly naive? The bitter confrontation had almost destroyed her, but as she went about her morning routine of bathing and dressing, more in defiance than sincerity she told herself that she was free of Christopher Chalfont now. Oh, yes, she had feelings for him still, she felt sure she always would, but she knew now that as far as he was concerned she had been just another woman who had fallen into his arms—so very gullible—and now she would pay dearly for it if she let it, which she was determined she would not do. Some vestige of pain still lingered, but she did not feel sad or foolish. In a strange way she felt liberated. A wry smile touched her lips as she sat before the dressing-table mirror and brushed her long hair before securing it at her nape.

  In the clear light of day she vowed that everything would be different. She was determined not to look back on her grievous mistake of offering Lord Lansbury some of her money, because it hurt too much to remember. At twenty-one years old and rich beyond anything she could have imagined possible, she was her own mistress. From this day forward, her life was going to change. For better or worse she was going to put Christopher Chalfont from her mind. She was going to enjoy herself.

  About to leave her room to join her aunt for breakfast, glancing at herself in the long mirror, she paused, her gaze sweeping over her not-so-fashionably turned out reflection with a critical eye. It was as if she were really seeing herself for the first time. She glanced in the mirror every morning to see that her hair was tidy, her face clean, but she was always too preoccupied with other matters to really see herself.

  What a sorry sight she looked, she thought, spreading the folds of her skirts between her hands. It had seen much service. She was dressed neither well nor fashionably. It was drab, the grey colour seeming to drain the colour from her face. It also hung badly on her tall frame. Remembering with envy the flounced dresses the ladies had worn at Lady Lansbury’s party, she realised that if she wanted to turn her life around she needed some new clothes very badly. She realised she should have paid a visit to the shops before now, but clothes had never been high on her list of things to do—until today. Her mind was made up. A visit to the shops would not go amiss—not that she had any experience of the buying of fashionable clothes.

  * * *

  ‘Come, Aunt Caroline, admit it,’ she said, when she broached the matter with her aunt and observed the elevation of her eyebrows. ‘My wardrobe is hardly up to town standards. I have no real flair and, to be completely honest, I’ve never been all that interested in fashion, but something needs to be done. I need a complete new wardrobe.’

  ‘Oh, dear—yes, I do see your problem. You dress very—individually, I will grant you, but you are not completely without taste.’

  Caroline thought it was a splendid idea that they should begin right away—in fact, she was quite excited at the thought of a shopping trip to the dressmakers and milliners in Bond Street, a thoroughfare of potential wealth and luxury. Jane had given her a brief account of what had transpired between herself and Lord Lansbury at dinner the night before and Caroline had half expected her to appear red-eyed and puffy-faced with weeping. She was pleased to find her looking none the worse from her ordeal and looking forward to moving on with her life.

  ‘I will enjoy accompanying you to the shops. And jewellery,’ Caroline suggested. ‘You’ll need something decorative to set off your new wardrobe.’

  ‘I have several lovely necklaces and earrings and bracelets given to me by my father.’

  ‘I’m so glad you’re being positive about all this, Jane.’

  ‘I have to be. Of course, now my situation has changed I shall have to go to Chalfont and explain to Lady Lansbury why I can no long take care of Lady Octavia,’ Jane said, as she placed her bonnet over her hair, making a mental note to arrange her hair differently when she had taken care of her clothes. ‘She has been extremely kind to me. I have no intention of disappointing her by leaving without an explanation.’

  ‘I am sure Lady Lansbury will be sorry to lose you, but considering your new status as a wealthy young lady, you have no need to work. You will soon be parading through Hyde Park with the best of them.’

  Jane laughed, fastening the ribbon of her bonnet beneath her chin. ‘I don’t know about that, Aunt Caroline. One thing I do know is that I do not intend being idle. I’m used to being busy. Phineas Waverley will be arriving in London shortly to prepare for his exhibition.’

  ‘Do you still intend helping him to prepare for it?’

  ‘Yes—absolutely. He needs someone who’s familiar with the work.’ Seeing the apprehensive look in her aunt’s eyes, she smiled to reassure her. ‘Don’t worry, Aunt Caroline. I know what I’m doing. I do love it. In a way it will be like carrying on my father’s work. It will also give purpose to my life. I think it’s just what I need to occupy my mind at this time.’

  * * *

  Jane drifted through the perfumed air of Mrs Ainsworth’s elegant salon, an establishment that had been recommended by one of the ladies who worked with Aunt Caroline’s on the board of charities. Mrs Ainsworth, who employed a number of experienced seamstresses, dressed the well-to-do in her own exquisite and clever designs.

  Ordering a whole new wardrobe, Jane was twisted and turned for the best part of two hours in the sumptuous salon as she was measured for the simplest dresses for morning, dresses for leisure, coats and tea gowns, some with long fitted bodices, all in a variety of colours and exquisite materials—gowns that emphasised her figure to advantage and flattered her vivid colouring. On the whole they were plain, but sculpted to Jane’s fine-drawn slenderness by the clever fingers of Mrs Ainsworth. Jane was glad the bustle was falling out of favour, which she considered quite hideous and unflattering.

  Like a child in a sweet shop she ordered draped overskirts and ruffled underskirts, delicate lingerie, wraps and coats, shoes and boots, and she was unable to resist purchasing beautiful beads and fans and mother-of-pearl combs and any accessory that caught her eye. She even ordered two ballgowns to be made and a riding habit in a colour of velvet that matched her eyes—not that she believed for one moment she would ever wear the ballgowns or the riding habit. She had never been to a ball in her life and she didn’t have a horse and didn’t believe she would get the chance to ride one again—and if she did, she would have to sit on one of those ridiculous
side saddles like all the other ladies.

  Mrs Ainsworth kept a quantity of ready-made gowns of different styles and sizes. When Jane purchased a rather lovely green brocade with a contrasting darker green jacket to wear immediately, with high-heeled cream boots and kid gloves to match, she was quite indistinguishable from any of the other well-bred young ladies who frequented Mrs Ainsworth’s establishment. Indeed Mrs Ainsworth privately considered Miss Mortimer had a style, a certain unique something to which she could put no name. She had seen it on very few, but it set them apart from the others, who were merely fashionable. As she was being fussed over, Jane asked herself why she was doing this. It had seemed like a dream when the expensive fabrics had brushed her skin and, as she looked at herself in the mirror attired in her gorgeous new green outfit, her glossy hair arranged in an elegant chignon, she no longer saw the plain young woman who faded into the background. It seemed like a dream in which a girl she recognised as herself but who had nothing at all to do with the real Jane Mortimer. In fact, she looked rather pretty.

  ‘You look so lovely,’ Aunt Caroline enthused. Her eyes full of admiration suddenly became rueful. ‘And so tall—just like your dear father. Unfortunately I took after our mother’s side—she was small and verging on the plump side. When I was your age, how I wish I had been as tall and slender as you.’

  Jane could not believe that silks and satins adorned with ribbons and frothing lace could bring about such a change. Yes, she thought, with her colouring, her high cheekbones and her violet eyes, she really did look quite wonderful. She no longer looked like the drab Jane Mortimer.

  Chapter Seven

  Jane had written to Lady Lansbury letting her know when she would be returning to Chalfont. Lady Lansbury sent a carriage to meet her off the train. It was mid-afternoon when she arrived. Chalfont was enjoying the last days of summer, while leaves still clung to the trees in the park. On entering the house she was told by the butler that Lady Lansbury had taken a chill and was confined to her bed.