He was not in the market for a wife. He was too busy, and he didn’t have time to put down the relentless pursuit of amassing a fortune to court one—though in this instance, an exception could be granted. God knew he hadn’t been able to think of much else besides the woman he’d known only as “Lettie” anyhow, since that brief encounter in his stable....
She was looking down at her plate, pushing the food around with her fork. None of it had made its way to her mouth. How mortified she must be, after the exchange that had just ensued.
“So where is your Man with the Mole?” he murmured for her ears alone, and his cajoling tone had the desired effect of taking her mind off the recent conversation, of which she was the subject.
“Oh, do not remind me of my plight! I have been wondering for the past few days what I can do to discourage his attentions once he arrives.” She made a little noise of desperation. “He is supposed to be here tomorrow. Mama has great plans for the two of us.”
I have better ones.
“You are very beautiful, Miss Letitia. I predict he will fall in love with you and sweep you off your feet.”
She blushed all over again, but her eyes sparkled and she pursed her lips in a way that made him want to kiss them into open, parting submission. “I do not quite know what to say to such a complement, sir.”
“‘Thank you’ would be a start.”
“Thank you, then.”
“And ‘yes, Lord Weybourne, I would love to take you up on your offer to go riding tomorrow so as to escape the attentions of Man with the Mole.’”
“But you have not asked me to go riding.”
“I was getting to that.”
“Well, even though you have not asked, but are getting to that, then I feel compelled to give you my answer which, of course, is yes.” She glanced at her mother, who was conversing with Lady Weston, and lowered her voice. “How is Amir?”
“He misses you. Tore a chunk out of Mick’s arm after you left.” He leaned close, catching a whiff of her delightful fragrance—lavender. “You should not have run away, Letitia.”
“I ... have not given you permission to use my Christian name.”
“I’m sorry.” He put his head to one side and smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Ledyard.”
“Shh!”
“Does your mama have the same keen hearing that you and your brother share?”
“Where do you think we got it from?”
“So are you looking forward to going riding with me tomorrow? We can put the slip on Man with the Mole.”
She laughed and took a sip of her wine. “Mama will be cross if she thinks I’m making a scandal when she has all but promised me to him.”
“Perhaps, Miss Letitia, a little scandal is just what is needed to frighten him off.”
“Perhaps,” she said slowly, her smile spreading, “you are correct.” And then, her eyes sparkling, “Would you be willing to help me create just a bit of a scandal, Lord Weybourne? A perfect Christmas scandal, so that Mr. Homer Trout will decide that I am not the woman for him after all?”
“I would be delighted,” he murmured, letting his gaze drink in the beauty of her face, and he wished he could reach out and caress that pert upper lip, the full and pink lower one or better yet, claim those smiling lips with his mouth ... his tongue. God, she was beautiful. How on earth had he let her get away from him back in Norfolk?
“Homer arrives tomorrow. Meet me downstairs, early, and by then I will have thought of something.”
Chapter 8
The main course was fish garnished with slices of lemon—flaky, perfectly cooked, and perfectly wasted on Letitia, who was aware of nothing but the fact that the handsome Lord Weybourne was here, in Leeds, at this Christmastide house party.
And sitting next to her.
Yes, there was fish, as well as winter vegetables and rolls and mince pies and wine, lots of wine. There was a fire in the hearth, mistletoe on the mantel, the smell of evergreen and burning wax and the warm glow of candlelight reflecting off the great windows that held back the darkness outside. Laughter, toasts, someone who’d imbibed a little too much doing a drunken rendition of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Winnie spilling her drink and being swept off her feet by the sudden, unexpected, and outrageously romantic entrance of Lord Trent Ballantine with a proposal of marriage. But Letitia was only dimly aware of it all. For her, there was only Tristan St. Aubyn and the deliciously warm tingles that skated over her flesh at his nearness, the sound of his deep voice, the occasional discreet brush of his fingers against her own beneath the tablecloth. He was talking about something—horses, she thought—but she was only half-aware of what he was saying, instead thinking about the way his auburn hair had a rakish insouciance about it that mirrored his very character, studying the little crinkles at the corner of his intense gray eyes when he answered Mama’s questions, and wondering if he, like she, was dreading the one question she was sure Mama was going to make inevitable.
“So tell me again, Lord Weybourne, how did you and my Lettie meet?”
Leave it to Mama not to disappoint.
Letitia’s stomach dropped somewhere down beneath the level of her hips and bounced back up again, taking her heart with it into her throat, but Lord Weybourne countered it with smoothness and ease.
“We met over horses, Lady Penmore.”
“I see.” Mama’s fork dropped to the lemon on her fish, pushed it gently aside with a barely perceptible flick of the tines, and sank into the tender white flesh. “And where was that, my lord?”
Beside her, the earl smiled and said genially, “Do you really wish to know, Madam?”
Letitia nearly choked on her own fish. Tristan St. Aubyn had bottom, that’s for sure, to be challenging her mama so, but she also saw the touché in her mother’s smile and knew that Mama appreciated Weybourne’s attempts to not only safeguard her reputation, but to go hand to hand with her in a clandestine battle of wits.
“Perhaps,” Mama said, smiling, “we will revisit this topic later. And in private.”
“As you wish.”
“As I would wish, too,” put in Simon from Letitia’s left, and she realized that he’d been listening to this exchange in his silent, observant way, choosing to add to it only when it suited him or he could get in a salvo of his own.
Which was good.
Anything to have her brother’s keen attention on her and Tristan as opposed to Christopher Chance, currently exchanging warm exchanges and conversation with Pru just down the table. Oh, she’d heard the rumors all night—that the man was a pirate, something gone wrong with his supposed letter of marque, and to have one such as he in the same room as a Royal Navy captain who did everything by the book ... no, this could not end well.
An accidental brush of Lord Weybourne’s thigh against her own as he shifted position in his seat reclaimed her attention. The devil take Simon. And Christopher Chance, too.
I still cannot believe he is here.
Here.
Memories of that hot and forbidden kiss they’d shared in his stables flashed into her mind and goosebumps rose on her arms. She shuddered.
“Are you cold, Miss Ponsonby?”
“No, quite the opposite,” she said truthfully, but nevertheless adjusted her light silken shawl over her shoulders. Cold? With him sitting next to her?
“So I understand you raise horses,” Mama was saying. “What a small world! Your sister Ariadne is a friend of mine. In fact, Lettie and I stayed with her and Colin on our way down here to Kent.” She refolded her napkin in her lap and looked up, directly into Lord Weybourne’s eyes, her own gleaming above a disarming smile. “I understand you live quite near to her?”
Letitia gulped. Oh, no. Mama had picked up the scent like a hound on a trail.
“Very near, Madam.”
Mama said nothing and just nodded once, with a tiny, self-satisfied little smile, and Letitia wanted to squirm in her chair.
“My sister and I share the horses and
my father’s legacy,” Lord Weybourne continued, cutting a piece of fish and dragging it through the juices that bathed the bottom of his plate. “It’s been a long road following my father’s death and the loss of almost the entire herd of Norfolk Thoroughbreds.” Letitia’s gaze dropped to his hands, watching them as they wielded knife and fork and went about the business of getting food from his plate to his mouth. She wondered if he could sense the rapt attention she was paying the shape of them, the way the knuckles and tendons came together just beneath his tanned skin, his short, perfectly manicured nails. If only she’d had time to touch those hands, to explore them, when they’d last met....
“How many horses are left?” Simon asked from her left.
“We have our herd stallion, Shareb-er-rehh. The last original mare, Gazella. A three-year-old colt with the sweetest of dispositions and a yearling colt with the most sour. We were hoping for a filly this year, but Gazella came up barren.”
Down the table, the Marchioness of Carlisle, known to be a religiously prudish sort, blanched as she caught the tail end of Tristan’s sentence. “My goodness,” she said disapprovingly. “Such conversation, and at the dinner table as well!”
“Don’t you like horses, Lady Carlisle?” asked Letitia, before Lord Weybourne could fashion a response.
“I like them from the interior of a coach. I like them in paintings on my wall. I do not care to discuss their procreation.”
“My dear Clare,” cut in Letitia’s mother smoothly, “do you not remember the match race from four years back? When the Weybourne’s horse defeated that monster, Black Patrick?”
“I do not follow horse racing.”
It was Prudence, still exchanging secret glances with Christopher Chance, who jumped in to save the day before it could deteriorate further. “Isn’t this fish marvelous, Mama?” she asked, with a sly wink at Letitia. “I do hope Lady Weston’s cook will be persuaded to share the receipt!”
After that the evening settled somewhat, with talk moving from fashion, the Prince Regent, the weather, the deplorable state of the roads heading into Leeds, and of course the meal, which was spectacular in every way. Letitia noticed that Lord Weybourne didn’t initiate much conversation, though she did notice that he watched her when he thought she wasn’t looking, that he made sure she had plenty of food on her plate and that her glass was constantly full, and that he was most solicitous of her in every way. She knew that if he was dying to talk about anything, it wasn’t the weather, the meal, or the Regent.
It was horses.
A conversation she was eager to share with him.
* * *
The dinner concluded, the men retired to the library for spirits, smokes, and politics, and the women gathered for tea. After the four daughters had each had a cup, Lady Weston ushered them all out of the room with the excuse that the hour was late and there was much planned for the following day.
“We can’t have you girls looking tired tomorrow after such a long night,” she said firmly.
“Indeed,” added Lady Portland, “you’ll want to be fresh and rested. Lots to do tomorrow!”
Protesting, the four younger women said their goodnights and left the room as a group.
“Are they gone yet?” asked Lady Penmore.
“Of course they are, Lenore,” said Lady Carlisle with a casual wave of her hand. “You just saw them go.”
“I know my daughter,” she murmured, and rising, moved silently to the door. With the other three women watching, she yanked it open. On the other side was a startled Letitia, who jumped back into the arms of her three friends in alarm.
“I knew it,” said Lady Penmore. “Get to bed, all of you.”
“Mama, I wasn’t eavesdropping, I was just coming back because I— I forgot my shawl!”
“Of course you were. Your shawl is on your shoulders. Now get to bed.”
Grumbling, the young ladies moved off down the hall, only Letitia looking back over her shoulder and trying to convince her all-too-knowing mama of her innocence.
Lenore waited until their footsteps had faded, then shut the door firmly behind her.
The four mamas all took seats in a horseshoe shaped ring around the fire, fingers warmed by china tea cups and the hot brew within.
“Right,” said Lady Weston. “Progress report?”
The Countess of Portland snatched eagerly at a biscuit and dunked it in her tea, her eyes bright with excitement. “Well, I think my work is done! Lord Trent Ballantine and a marriage proposal . . . oh, it has been a splendid evening, a splendid evening indeed for my Winnie.”
Lady Weston nodded sagely. “Splendid indeed, Pamela, and ever so romantic! And you, Clare? How did your Prudence fare?”
“The girl is altogether too worried about ‘being sensible’ but I’m praying that she’ll relax her ‘sensibilities’ long enough to let herself be swept off her feet by Christopher Chance.”
“Perfect!” said Lady Weston, with a little clap of her hands. “And you, Lenore? What do you have to report?”
“I am happy to say that my Lettie has completely forgotten about the looming spectacle of Homer Trout in light of the fact that the Earl of Weybourne is here.”
“As you had hoped he would be.”
“As I was all but guaranteed by his sister that he would be.” Lenore cast a sly smile at Lady Weston. “Thanks to your Stephen, who asked him to come and evaluate a mare. It seems that the handsome young earl is no more immune to the lure of a good horse than my daughter is.” She sipped her tea, grinning. “Let’s just hope that neither are immune to each other.”
Chapter 9
Letitia opened her eyes early the next morning after a night of troubled, restless sleep. Nightmares of Simon and Lord Weybourne dueling at dawn ... reliving the sparkling joy of sitting next to the earl at the dinner table and feeling all hot and shivery inside when he’d called her beautiful ... dreams of his intense gray eyes, his warm hands, and the way his mouth had felt against her own, the way it had tasted, the way she yearned to have him kiss her again, over and over again.
He was here.
Here.
And she had another full day to get to know him.
But did he want to get to know her? After her shocking, scandalous masquerade as a boy, her deceit, and her oh-so-wanton response to his stolen kiss? Was the interest he’d paid to her last night at the table because he fancied her, or was he just being polite? What must he think of her? And what on earth had transpired between him and Simon in the discussion both had planned to have with the other over her?
And then she remembered Homer Trout—who was supposed to arrive today.
Her stomach somersaulted. Just when she’d found someone genuinely interesting, fascinating, and able to twist her tongue and insides into knots that would make any of the mariner men of her family proud, someone whose kiss had become something to relive over and over again in her mind, someone whose presence here was something akin to Providence ... Homer Trout was going to come here and ruin it all?
She had to do something.
Quickly.
She pushed back the covers, parted the bed hangings, and shivering, looked toward the window, only to see snow falling softly beyond the ancient panes of glass. She gasped in surprise, her worry over the looming arrival of Homer Trout forgotten. Snow! And for Christmas! Oh, how delightful!
Still in her night clothes, the hem of the garment floating around her ankles, she ran to the window seat and looked out. An inch, maybe two, had fallen overnight and it was still coming down in fat, fluffy flakes that swirled past her window and drifted down to the lawn below, now white beneath the light cover.
She rang for Beryl, begging her to hurry as the maid hastily brushed her glossy golden-brown tresses into a loose chignon, pinned it atop her head, and sent her downstairs garbed in a smart, fitted riding habit of dark blue wool that showed off the gentle rise of her breasts, her tiny waist and the flare of her hips.
The house was not yet
awake. Servants were about, quietly stoking fires, laying out newspapers, and by the smell of food coming from the kitchens, preparing a breakfast grand enough to feed an army.
And still, beyond every window she passed, snow falling, drifting down from the heavy gray skies, reminding her of the fact that it was Christmastime ... and she was, by the looks of it, the only one of the guests up early enough to see and enjoy it.
She had the morning, the magic, and all of that outside beauty entirely to herself.
And here she was—inside.
Delicious smells from the kitchen and dining room beckoned her, but breakfast could wait.
She was just heading for the door when the statue that had been leaning carelessly against a recessed window in the great hall moved.
Letitia let out a little gasp of surprise, then relaxed when she realized that it was no statue, but Lord Weybourne, who had been watching the snow falling outside.
And her.
She found her tongue. “Lord Weybourne!”
“Good morning, Miss Ponsonby. Sleep well?”
Her eyes, sparkling with amusement, met his. “Is it that obvious that I did not?”
“That’s no question to be asking a gentleman who wishes to be nothing but gallant.”
“Gallant? You’re supposed to be helping me create a scandal so I can deter an unwanted suitor. Who cares about gallant?”
“Well, I do. But since you ask, Miss Ponsonby, you look as fresh as the snow falling from out of the sky.”
“I barely slept a wink.”
“And why is that?”
Because all I could think of, was you. All I could dream of was you. You, you, you.
“Because my mama was acting quite suspiciously last night. I think she knows I slipped out and visited your stable back in Norfolk. I could tell just by the way she was looking at you, the pointed intent to her questions, that she’s suspicious about how and why we already know each other. Oh, she’s far sharper than she lets on. If she finds out that I was at your estate, in your barn, it will be far more than a ‘little scandal’ I’ll be getting, and you’ll be dragged into it right along with me.”
Scandal At Christmas_A Christmas Novella Page 6