A Christmas Betrothal

by Carole Mortimer

  He traced her parted lips with his fingertip, the bruised softness of them. She bit at him lightly. ‘I think the rain has ceased,’ he managed to say.

  She tilted her head to the side, as if to listen to the silence outside their rough shelter. ‘So it has.’

  Dominick forced himself to ease away from her, to rise to his feet and reach for the rest of his clothes. ‘We should leave while the weather is still clear. I’d like to make it to my aunt’s house today—perhaps she has had word of Arthur and your sister.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Ginny.’ She sounded a bit startled. Had she, too, forgotten their errand in the firestorm of last night? Yet another sign they should not be together—good sense flew away when they touched. ‘I hope they have found shelter.’

  ‘I know it does not seem like it, but my cousin is a sensible enough man. He won’t let your sister suffer.’

  Mary reached for her boots, tugging them over her feet. ‘I know. He is a military man, after all. I just … ‘ Her words trailed away into heavy silence.

  Dominick knew how she felt. What words could there possibly be for them now? What could erase the past, make it all right again?

  She struggled to fasten the stiffened leather of the boots, a frustrated sigh escaping her lips.

  ‘Here, let me,’ Dominick said. He knelt beside her, taking her foot onto his lap.

  Mary watched solemnly as he worked at the fastenings. ‘First you put right my tangled hair, now my shoes. You do know what a lady needs.’

  He automatically gave her a flirtatious smile. ‘Ah, well, I aim to please, my lady.’

  ‘And you are very good at it.’

  He finished fastening her other boot, but somehow could not quite let her go. He smoothed a gentle touch over her ankle, the water-stained white stocking, along the soft curve of her calf. Her breath caught and she went very still. Dominick bent his head and pressed a kiss to her leg.

  She touched the top of his head, one fleeting caress as quick as the brush of a butterfly’s wing. Then it was gone, and he lowered her foot back to the floor.

  ‘We should go, then,’ she said, ‘if we want to reach your aunt’s today.’

  Chapter Seven

  Rose Cottage. Mary peered past the pretty sign on the neat stone wall to the house just down the tree-lined lane, half-shrouded in grey mist. It didn’t look much like a cottage, more like a substantial redbrick manor, and of course there were no roses in evidence at all. It looked a quiet, respectable, austere place, and she had never been so glad to see a house in her life.

  The long, silent day, sitting close to Dominick on the carriage seat, only speaking in short, polite sentences such as ‘Are you too cold?’ and ‘I’m quite well, thank you,’ had made her want to scream.

  It was as if the passion of the night before had in truth been only a dream. She had no idea what to say to him, or what last night had really meant. She only knew that she felt completely different deep down inside. The passion and the tears had done that. A part of her she had put away when she had married William, pressed down until it was nearly invisible even to herself, was peeking forth again. Its bright warmth, faint and tentative as it was, had melted the edges of the ice she had lived in for so long.

  Dominick didn’t seem touched by that light, though. His forehead was creased as if he was deep in worry—or regret. Regrets? For a man of his reputation? It planted a tiny seed of hope deep inside her. Maybe her old love, her Dominick, was still there after all.

  ‘Is this your aunt’s house?’ she said as he turned down the lane. The frosty hardened mud crunched under the horse’s hooves, while the cold wind rattled the branches overhead.

  ‘It is,’ he answered. ‘I only hope she is at home.’

  If she was not they would have the whole large house to themselves, Mary thought with what felt strangely like wicked pleasure. Wouldn’t that be terribly unfortunate … ?

  Alas, a few days alone with Dominick was not to be. No quiet evenings by the fire to get him to talk to her at last; no long nights in big bedchambers. No sooner had he stopped the carriage by the front steps than the door opened. An elderly butler appeared there, followed by a flurry of maids and footmen, squinting against the cold grey glare.

  ‘My lord!’ the butler cried. ‘We certainly did not expect you in this weather.’

  ‘No, Makepeace, staying home would be too sensible for the likes of me,’ Dominick said. He swung down from the carriage, hurrying round to help Mary alight. His gloved fingers tightened on hers for an instant, and then his touch was gone.

  Somehow Mary felt even colder than before.

  ‘There was no time to send word ahead,’ Dominick said to the butler. His hand moved to her elbow, helping her up the icy-looking stone steps, but it was a brief, polite touch now. ‘Is Lady Amesby at home?’

  ‘Of course, my lord,’ Makepeace said. ‘Her ladyship always spends Christmas at Rose Cottage. She will be very happy to see you.’ His glance fluttered over Mary, a flash of curiosity in his eyes. But he was too professional to let any speculative gleam remain.

  Did Dominick bring his ladies here? Mary wondered with a sad pang. Had he brought Lady Newcombe?

  ‘This is Lady Derrington,’ Dominick said. ‘I hope my aunt will have a guest chamber for her, as well?’

  ‘Certainly, my lord. You know how Lady Amesby enjoys company.’

  ‘Even of the unexpected variety?’ Dominick said with a laugh.

  As the servants bustled around the carriage, unloading their meagre luggage, he led Mary into the house.

  The contrast of the warm, cosy space with the bleak, wintry world outside was immediate. The foyer was painted a lovely deep blue, trimmed in white plasterwork like clouds in a summer sky. A few sunny Italian landscapes hung from the picture rail, and wreaths of holly and evergreen were twined along the staircase banister. Their crisp scent was sweet in the warm air. From behind one of the closed doors Mary could hear the strains of a pianoforte. Someone played ‘Greensleeves.’

  ‘What a lovely home,’ she murmured, untying her bonnet and letting a maid take away her damp cloak.

  Dominick gave her a half-smile. ‘This is only the foyer.’

  ‘Oh, I know. But I have a feeling for houses. They have their own souls, and this is a kind one.’ Unlike Derrington, which had frozen her heart the first time she had set foot in it as a bride.

  ‘A port in the icy storm,’ Dominick said.

  The door flew open, letting out that flow of music along with a tall lady clad in fur-trimmed brown velvet and a brown satin turban. A few silvery curls escaped to frame her rosy cheeks and sparkling hazel eyes. Eyes which seemed to miss nothing as they swept over Mary and Dominick.

  ‘Dominick! You beautiful, impulsive man—dashing through such wretched weather just to spend Christmas with your old auntie,’ she said merrily. She hurried forth to seize Dominick in her arms, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘You are quite frozen through, and so must your friend be.’ Lady Amesby turned that sharp, sparkling gaze onto Mary. ‘And so pretty she is. Have you turned respectable at last, my boy?’

  Dominick laughed ruefully, and Mary thought she saw a hint of red beneath the bronze of his cheeks. Shocking. ‘Aunt Beatrice, may I present Lady Derrington? She is an old friend, and I fear we are on something of an urgent errand—’

  A piercing shriek interrupted him. The music ended abruptly, and a flash of red and white came flying out through the door behind Lady Amesby.

  ‘Mary!’ Ginny screamed, and threw herself into Mary’s arms.

  Mary stumbled back against the wall, too shocked to brace herself for the impact of her sister’s embrace. Ginny clung to her, sobbing.

  ‘Ginny … ‘ Mary murmured. ‘Is it really you?’

  ‘Oh, Mary! I longed for you so much, and here you are. It’s a miracle.’

  All Mary’s fear and anger towards her sister faded in one great rush of relief. Ginny was safe. She was here, out of the cold storm, warm and fed and healthy. A
nd—Mary peeked at the hand against her shoulder for any sign of a ring. And not married.

  ‘Ginny, you foolish girl,’ she said, wrapping her arms tightly around her sister. ‘What were you thinking about to run off like that?’

  Ginny just shook her head. ‘I fear I was not thinking at all. It was so cold, and Arthur got lost, and there was this horrid inn with drunken people … ‘

  ‘Drunken people?’ Mary cried in alarm. ‘Did they hurt you?’

  ‘Oh, no, we left there right away, after Arthur had a fight with one of them. But it was dark and snowing! I thought my nose would freeze off.’

  ‘Just as your sister’s nose will, Miss Smythe, if you don’t let her sit down by the fire,’ Lady Amesby said. She sounded amused by the little scene, as if she sat in Drury Lane watching a farce.

  ‘Oh, Mary, I am so sorry! You do seem cold. Come—sit down and tell me how you found me,’ Ginny said. She tugged on Mary’s hand, leading her into the drawing room.

  Mary hadn’t even realised how very tired she was until she dropped into a soft armchair set in front of the roaring fire. She sank back against the cushions, weary of the travel, her worry over Ginny, the sudden relief at seeing her again—and especially her confusion over Dominick and her feelings for him. Or his feelings for her, if he possessed any at all.

  Ginny plopped down on a stool at her feet, burying her face in Mary’s skirts as if she were a child. Mary almost laughed aloud at the thought that this was the same young lady who had insisted so stoutly that she was ready to marry.

  ‘Where is our young knight in shining armour?’ Dominick asked Lady Amesby, his neutral tone giving away no hint of anger or any other emotion. He was hidden from her again.

  ‘I do not think Arthur is the only knight in shining armour here,’ Lady Amesby said. ‘But of course you will want to have a little chat with him. He is in the library. I’ll send for some tea while you young people all become—reacquainted.’

  Mary laid her hand gently on Ginny’s shining auburn hair, studying Dominick over her sister’s head. He watched them solemnly. ‘Oh, Ginny,’ she murmured as he turned away. ‘You dear, silly girl.’

  ‘Mary, I am truly sorry,’ Ginny sobbed. ‘Eloping is not nearly as much fun as I imagined it would be.’

  ‘No,’ Mary murmured, thinking of Dominick and his flight with Lady Newcombe, which had ended so badly. Thinking of last night in the hay, and how Ginny was not the only foolish Smythe woman. ‘I would imagine it is not.’

  But now she had to cease being foolish and be responsible. Just for a moment. Mary held Ginny’s trembling hands tightly in hers and said sternly, ‘Ginny, you must see how bad this is.’

  ‘Oh, Mary! I never—’

  ‘No, dear. Just listen to me. To be so disregarding of your reputation, of the family’s name, was bad enough. It could have ruined you for your whole life! You would have had to go and live in the country with Aunt Frances for ever.’

  Ginny’s eyes widened with horror. Their mother’s sister lived in the depths of Devon, with ten dogs and a monkey in a smelly little cottage. ‘I never thought of that!’

  ‘Exactly. You did not think. And worse than Aunt Frances was running off into a terrible winter storm and putting your life in danger. I do not know what I would have done if I had lost you. I can’t bear to lose anyone else.’

  ‘Oh, Mary.’ Ginny’s eyes filled with tears again. ‘I never want to make you sad. I will think from now on. I promise.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Mary took her sister in her arms and held onto her very tightly. ‘I do so hope so, my dear.’

  ‘They arrived here yesterday evening,’ Beatrice said as she led Dominick along the corridor to the library. ‘Frozen through, and the girl half hysterical.’

  ‘I’m relieved they found their way here, then,’ Dominick answered.

  ‘It’s quite a miracle. They’re a pair of complete babes in the wood, and I shudder to think what the future would hold for them if they did manage to marry.’ She gave him a questioning glance. ‘Unlike the sister. She seems to have plenty of spirit.’

  Dominick laughed ruefully, remembering Mary’s fierce insistence that she should go with him on this journey no matter what. Her stoic tolerance of the cold and damp. The passion of their lovemaking. ‘She certainly does.’

  ‘And a lady, too. I do remember hearing what a dry stick Lord Derrington was—quite elderly before his time. That couldn’t have been much fun for her.’ She stopped next to the closed library door. ‘Do be kind to the lad, Dominick. He’s utterly guilt-stricken at putting his lady-love through such a trial. I’m sure he will never do such a bacon-brained thing again.’

  ‘It’s my task to make sure of that, isn’t it?’ he said grimly. ‘If he truly loves Miss Smythe, how could he do such a thing?’

  ‘Dear Dominick. Everyone thinks you so wicked, but in truth you are the most honourable man I know. You are so protective of those you care for.’

  Honourable? Him? No, he was the most selfish of men, taking his pleasures where and when he wanted them. Even with Mary in the midst of a winter storm. ‘I fear you are the only one who thinks that, Aunt Beatrice.’

  She tilted her head quizzically to one side as she watched him. ‘Am I? No, I don’t think so. In fact, I am quite certain the Smythe sisters would agree with me. Especially if they knew the truth about Lady Newcombe … ‘

  Dominick frowned. ‘Aunt Beatrice … ‘

  ‘Oh, do not worry. I promised you I would say nothing and I won’t. Besides, it’s a tale Lady Derrington should hear from you.’ She gently patted his arm. ‘Now, I will go and make sure the guest chambers are properly prepared and leave you to your scolding.’

  He watched her walk away, half wishing she would not leave him alone. Scolding was certainly not one of his favourite tasks! But he had to convince Arthur that if he loved Ginny Smythe he had to win her properly, with the consent of her family, or there would be no peace in their marriage. Dominick knew that sad fact better than anyone.

  But when he pushed open the door and saw Arthur sitting there Dominick knew nothing could make his cousin more miserable than he already was. Arthur sat slumped over in a chair by the fire, his hair and clothes a rumpled mess, his hands covering his face.

  ‘Well,’ Dominick said, slamming the door behind him to startle his cousin from his stupor, ‘it’s a fine mess you’ve got us all into, Arthur Heelis.’

  ‘Dominick!’ He leaped up from his seat. ‘Whatever are you doing here?’

  Dominick crossed his arms sternly across his chest, leaning back against the door as if to block any escape. Not that Arthur looked in any shape to be escaping. He was pale and haunted-looking, his jaw shadowed with beard and his hair tangled. A bruise darkened one cheek—probably from that inn fight Ginny had mentioned. ‘I am here to find you, of course. Why else would I leave my warm house in the middle of December?’

  ‘I—how did you know we were here?’

  ‘I didn’t. Lady Derrington and I merely sought shelter from the storm with Aunt Beatrice, hoping she might have had word of you. Finding Miss Smythe playing the pianoforte in the drawing room was a rare stroke of luck. At least you showed some good sense in bringing her here.’

  ‘Lady Derrington is with you?’ Arthur groaned, sinking back into the chair.

  ‘Of course. She is terribly concerned about her sister’s welfare—unlike other people I could name.’

  ‘That is not fair, Dominick! I love Ginny. She is everything to me.’

  ‘So because you love her you asked her to elope with you? To risk losing her family, her reputation, her very life?’ Dominick shook his head. ‘That does not sound like love, Arthur.’

  Arthur rubbed his hands sullenly over his face. ‘It was her idea to run away. I could not argue with her.’

  Oh, the tale just got better and better, Dominick thought sarcastically. Arthur was not just a bacon-brain, as Beatrice had put it, but a weakling who had refused to put Ginny’s welfare ahea
d of his own.

  It was going to be a long evening indeed.

  Chapter Eight

  Mary took a slow bite of her dried-apple tart, surreptitiously studying Dominick across the dining table. Lady Amesby had kept up a bright, steady stream of chatter throughout the meal, asking after her friends in London and imparting all the neighbourhood gossip. Even Ginny had managed to become more cheerful, joining in the talk as her suitor sat beside her in chastened silence.

  But Dominick, even though he smiled at his aunt and answered her questions, seemed preoccupied. It was as if although he sat with them in the warm, candlelit dining room his thoughts were very far away. What she would not give to know what those thoughts were! Perhaps he was missing the pleasures of Town, left behind to help her with this wild chase. Perhaps he regretted the flash of chivalry that had made him come with her.

  ‘Well, I know the circumstances are not all that could be desired,’ Lady Amesby said, ‘but I must say how happy I am to have both my nephews with me for Christmas. And Lady Derrington and Miss Smythe, too! It will be a very merry time.’

  Mary gave her a smile. In only the short time they had been at Rose Cottage she had come to like Dominick’s aunt so much. Her warm welcome and cheerful conversation kept away even the cold outside. ‘It is very kind of you to take us in, Lady Amesby. But surely Christmas should be for family? It seems the storm is abating. Ginny and I could leave for London in the morning.’

  ‘Leave?’ cried Lady Amesby. ‘Certainly not. Christmas is to share with everyone, and I love having so much company. My cook has prepared far too much food for me to consume myself. Unless there is someone in Town awaiting your return, Lady Derrington?’

  ‘Only my brother-in-law and his wife, who are such dears,’ Mary answered. She felt a pang as she thought of her son, who was not there. But it did not have quite the terrible sharpness it once had. ‘I sent them a message as soon as we arrived here, saying I am quite safe.’