Regency Christmas Proposals

by Gayle Wilson, Amanda McCabe

  He was halfway down the hall before intellect prevailed upon his emotions, urging him to slow down and think. Isabella had accused him of being too young. Too rich. Of having a title. Of being deceitful. And, at least by implication, of being more interested in acquiring an heir than the woman he loved.

  Now it seemed her objections had miraculously been swept away, so that she had come here. And he was terribly afraid that he knew precisely what had accomplished that. His only surprise should be that it had taken so long for the gossip to reach her.

  She would undoubtedly have been placed in the small anteroom where questionable guests were left to cool their heels as the staff secured instructions as to their proper reception. What was she thinking as she waited? That someone would eventually bring her to him? Or that some servant would lead him by the hand to this confrontation?

  Because by now Guy understood that was exactly what this meeting would be. A confrontation.

  He drew a breath, steeling himself for the sight of her. As he walked across the expanse of the marble floor, his heels echoed in the silence of the vast entrance hall, at least providing her some warning.

  Isabella was standing in the middle of the room, one gloved hand resting atop its only piece of furniture—a round table that held a small Grecian marble. A priceless objet d’art, which she was pretending to admire.

  The footman who had admitted her had not even taken her cloak. Given the chill of the room, that was probably a blessing.

  ‘Mrs Stowe? You have had a very long, cold journey.’

  The strain of it was evident when she turned. The delicate skin under her eyes appeared bruised, the area beneath the high cheekbones shadowed.

  He fought the urge to gather her into his arms. To do as he had wanted to do almost from the day he had found her again. To protect her. To have the right to protect her.

  ‘And on Christmas Eve,’ he added, when she continued to say nothing.

  Her eyes searched his face. Since he knew quite well what she was looking for, he smiled at her. ‘Let me take you somewhere warm.’

  He held out his hand, but for several heartbeats she didn’t move, her stillness so complete it was almost frightening. Only then did he realise that the hem of her gown was trembling with the fine vibration of her body.

  Was she shivering from the cold? Or from the realisation of the mistake she had made?

  ‘I thought—’ Her tongue touched lips chapped from their exposure to the relentless winter wind.

  His chest tightened with the need to touch her. To soften her mouth against his.

  ‘I was told—’ she began again.

  ‘Let me take you somewhere warmer. We can talk there.’

  Her lips closed, the reason for her journey still undisclosed. Her eyes clung to his, asking the question her mouth had not.

  That he didn’t answer it was a deception far greater than that which he had practised before. One he prayed she would never discover.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she whispered, the words little more than a breath.

  For an instant he had thought she meant something very different. Only when she started towards the door behind him did he understand for what she was apologising.

  ‘You can’t mean to leave,’ he protested, although if she did it would be the safest thing for him.

  ‘I shouldn’t have come. Please forgive my intrusion.’

  ‘You’re always welcome, Mrs Stowe. We are, I hope, still friends. And as your friend I must insist that you stay. At least for tonight, if no longer.’

  She shook her head. ‘I cannot. You must know that.’

  ‘Shall I ask my mother to come to you? Or take you to her? We’ve just now sat down to dinner. You must be hungry as well as cold. It’s only the family.’ He moved to take her elbow, but she drew back to avoid him.

  ‘You cannot believe that I wish to trouble your mother. I assure you I did not come for that.’

  ‘Then may I take you where there’s a fire? I can’t think why they would have left you here.’ He glanced around the cold, empty room to make his point.

  ‘They left me here because despite my dress, which I had thought very smart, they judged me as someone who should wait in an anteroom. What do you suppose gave me away?’

  She was beginning to regain her equilibrium—much more like the Isabella he’d fallen in love with.

  ‘The indomitable Mrs Stowe,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Hardly.’ Along with the note of self-deprecation, there was now a hint of amusement in her voice.

  She didn’t resist this time as he took her arm, which gave him to understand exactly how exhausted she must be. He guided her up the stairs to his mother’s sitting room—the only place he could be sure they would not be interrupted by the dispersal of his guests after they had finished their meal.

  Although generously proportioned, Lady Easton’s very private domain was small enough not to be overwhelming, and one of his favourite rooms in the entire house. His mother’s taste was reflected everywhere—both in the furnishings and the fabrics. Even in the art that graced the walls and the elegantly placed bric-a-brac.

  Ignoring all of that, Isabella walked to the fireplace, holding her hands out to its welcoming blaze. After a moment she pulled off her gloves, laying them on the mantel. As she untied her bonnet, she turned to face him.

  There was a small silence, which he broke by walking across to the bell on the table beside his mother’s chair. He rang it sharply, waiting until one of the girls entered and dropped a curtsy.

  ‘Would you bring us a pot of strong tea, please, Ellen?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘And a light repast for Mrs Stowe. Cook will know the kind of thing I want. She’s had a long, tiring journey.’

  Isabella’s ‘Nothing for me, thank you’ was spoken almost simultaneously with the girl’s ‘Of course, my lord.’

  Guy ignored her protest, knowing that his orders would be carried out no matter what his guest had said. He placed the bell back on the table and looked up to find Isabella’s eyes again on his face.

  The woman he’d fallen in love with was no fool. He would play her for one at his peril.

  ‘How have you been?’ As he asked the question he indicated the wing chair on the other side of the small tea table before the fire.

  Isabella tilted her head to him before she walked over and sat down. He bent to pick up the footstool that stood in front of his mother’s chair and placed it at her feet.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and then, after a long moment spent contemplating her surroundings, ‘This is a pleasant room.’

  Apparently the conversation between them was to be confined to polite inanities. An art at which he was undoubtedly more skilled than she.

  ‘My mother’s sitting room. I loved coming here as a child. It’s exactly like her. Bright and gay and full of life. In stark contrast, I fear, to the rest of this pile.’

  ‘Yes, well, quite frankly, Woodhall Park does not quite convey “the rest”.’

  ‘You dislike it?’ His voice was flat as he made that observation. But, after all, what could it matter whether she approved of his home or not?

  ‘On the contrary. It’s most impressive. I simply wasn’t prepared for its grandeur. When the chaise rounded the last curve in the drive, the house appeared before us like a castle out of a fairytale.’

  ‘Hardly that,’ he said with a laugh.

  ‘Exactly that.’ The amusement he’d glimpsed in her eyes had disappeared.

  ‘You can’t hold me responsible for the place of my birth.’

  ‘Or the condition of your birth, apparently.’

  ‘Still disapproving, I see. So…why did you come, Bella? Forgive me—I should say Mrs Stowe.’

  She shook her head. ‘A whim. A foolish one, it seems.’

  ‘Why foolish?’

  ‘Because I see that I was not mistaken in the objections I made before. If anything—’

  She was interrupted
by the girl with the tea. The tray she brought was so heavily laden it was almost too much for her to carry.

  Isabella quickly swept up the bonnet she’d laid on the table between them, smiling up at the maid as she deposited her burden. ‘Thank you. This looks wonderful.’

  The girl curtsied before she cut her eyes to him. ‘Will that be all, my lord?’

  ‘Thank you, Ellen. For the time being.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Oh, and your mother’s asking for you.’

  ‘Would you tell her I have a guest? Perhaps after dinner she would come up to meet her.’

  ‘I’ll tell her, my lord.’

  She wouldn’t, of course. She would simply pass his message up the chain of command, and Rodgers would eventually whisper it into his mother’s ear.

  They were silent during the few seconds it took for the maid to leave. As Guy turned back from watching her departure, he found Isabella’s considering eyes on him once more.

  ‘Will you pour?’ he suggested, easing down into his mother’s chair.

  She picked up the pot to obey. ‘Hannah would think this very wasteful for only two people.’ She nodded at the delicacies arranged on the caddy.

  ‘How is Hannah?’

  ‘Almost assuredly thinking I should be consigned to Bedlam.’ She handed him the cup she’d just filled.

  ‘Because she isn’t accustomed to your acting on…whims?’

  She glanced up from pouring her own tea, her eyes slightly widened.

  ‘Careful,’ he warned as the hot liquid overflowed.

  ‘Apparently I shall drink my tea from the saucer, like Ned,’ she said with a laugh.

  Putting down his cup, Guy lifted hers and laid one of the linen napkins over the spill. When that had been soaked up, he put the stained cloth on the edge of the silver tray and handed the tea to her.

  ‘That’s ruined, you know.’ She looked at him over the top of the cup as she took her first sip.

  ‘The napkin? I’m sure they’ll be able to clean it.’

  ‘Your servants?’

  ‘Yes.’ An attempt to make him feel guilty for who and what he was?

  ‘If not, I know of a very good treatment for linen. Your mother may write to me about it.’ The flash of amusement in her eyes was quickly hidden by a downward sweep of her lashes.

  ‘I’ll tell her.’

  There was a small, almost companionable silence as they sipped.

  ‘The tea is excellent.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll tell my mother that as well.’

  Another sip. Another upward glance.

  ‘In truth…’ she began, and then allowed the words to trail away. ‘In truth?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She shook her head slightly. ‘I never thought we should be having tea.’

  ‘Why not? Are we not friends, Mrs Stowe?’

  ‘I think not, Lord Easton.’

  ‘I had thought we were. I’m very sorry if it’s not so.’

  She smiled. ‘As am I.’

  She put her cup and saucer down on the tray and picked up her bonnet. ‘Thank you for the tea. It has caused me to feel much revived. Would you be kind enough to ask someone to tell my driver to bring round the chaise?’

  He had stood when she did, so that now they were facing one another over the untouched feast he’d sent for. ‘You can’t possibly intend to turn around and start back now.’

  ‘The sooner the better,’ she said. ‘I know that now.’

  ‘You will make yourself ill if you persist in this.’

  ‘Then you can rush to my side to succour me.’ This last remark was spoken as she walked towards the mantel to retrieve her gloves. She turned, pulling them on almost angrily. ‘“Folly must be paid for, and the coin required is always your most precious.” My mother used to say that. I wasn’t sure what she meant until now.’

  ‘Bella—’

  ‘I was told that you were blind. And without bothering to verify the truth of what I’d been told I rushed across the county to…’ She hesitated, shaking her head. ‘I’m not sure what I intended. All I know is that I felt I had to come to you.’ She laughed. ‘And when I arrive I find you quite hale and enjoying dinner with your family.’

  ‘Bella—’

  ‘And all this…’ Her hand made an encompassing gesture that seemed to include the room, the tea tray and him. ‘Nothing has changed.’

  ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘Would you prefer that it had?’

  The question stopped her. Her lips parted slightly as she thought about what he had asked.

  ‘No,’ she whispered finally. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘But if I were blind… It would have made a difference in how you feel about me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you had not come before.’

  ‘I thought… I don’t know what I thought. Maybe…’

  He waited, watching her fingers tear at the ribbon of her hat.

  And then her gaze lifted again. ‘I thought you might need me.’

  ‘I do need you. I always have.’

  She shook her head, turning to look at the door rather than meet his eyes. ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I had forgotten. You deal in hope. And encouragement. And what was the phrase you used? Telling sorely wounded men what they need to hear.’

  Stung, she turned to him then. ‘I did not ask for your thanks. I never have. I did no more for you—’

  ‘Than you had done for a hundred others. I know. So you told me.’

  ‘Why are you saying all this?’

  ‘Can you not deal with a man who doesn’t need your comfort, Mrs Stowe? Must we be prostrate in order to be attractive to you? Or merely blind?’

  The silence this time was awful with the knowledge that he had gone too far. Then into its bitter coldness walked his mother, her pale blue gown and soft blonde curls an unforgivable contrast to the tall, dark woman in the ill-fitting woollen dress.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Lady Easton said, ‘but I heard your voices in the hall. And if I can hear them, my dear, believe me, the servants will.’

  The last was addressed to him, but she turned immediately to smile at Isabella.

  ‘Mother, may I introduce Mrs Stowe. Isabella, my mother, Lady Easton.’

  ‘Oh, my dear! Has he said something unpardonable?’ his mother asked. ‘But of course he has. Men are all the same, you know. His father drove me to tears too many times to count.’

  She was right, Guy realised. Isabella was crying. And it was nothing like the pretty tears his mother shed, to be delicately wiped away with the scrap of lace she carried once they had made her point.

  Isabella’s nose was red, and moisture tracked down her cheeks.

  She scrubbed at the tears with both hands, but the leather gloves she had donned rendered her attempts worse than useless. ‘Bella.’

  ‘Don’t,’ she demanded. ‘Just…’ She drew a trembling breath to appeal to his mother. ‘I came in a hired chaise. A hideous yellow thing. Could you please have someone bring it to the door?’

  His mother’s gaze moved to his face, and then back to hers. ‘But you’ve only just arrived. Surely—’

  ‘I have to go. This was all a terrible mistake. I thought… It doesn’t matter what I thought. Please.’ The imploring word was full of desperation.

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ Guy said.

  He had learned all he needed to know. There was little to be gained by drawing out this farce any longer.

  ‘Guy!’ His mother’s protest followed him down the stairs, but he ignored it.

  He dispatched servants: one to fetch the chaise, another to bring rugs, and a third for a warming pan. By the time his mother escorted Isabella downstairs everything had been made ready for her departure.

  The tears had been controlled, all evidence of them removed. Considering the scene upstairs, she appeared remarkably contained.

  She held her hand out to him. After a moment’s hesitation he took it, his hold on her fing
ers deliberately light.

  ‘I’m sorry for my intrusion on your dinner. Thank you for your kindness, Lord Easton.’

  He inclined his head, but made no other response, leaving his mother to take matters into her own hands.

  ‘Any acquaintance of Guy’s is always welcome, my dear. I don’t know why you should rush off, but—’ She held up one soft white hand to stave off the anticipated protest, ‘I understand that you feel you must. Please do come again. Stowe, did you say? I know I have heard your name before, but I cannot place in what context. Guy?’ The wide blue eyes appealed.

  ‘France,’ he said. ‘Mrs Stowe was the woman who assured me that my life was not over because I had lost my sight.’

  ‘Stowe. Of course. How could I have forgotten? Guy has talked of you so often. Why, he searched for you for years. And here you are.’ His mother took both of Isabella’s hands in hers. ‘But you must stay. We haven’t had time to properly thank you. Guy, make her stay.’

  ‘I’m afraid Mrs Stowe can be remarkably determined once her mind is made up. She doesn’t want to be here.’

  His mother turned to look at Isabella again, her brow furrowed. ‘Surely you can stay the night? It’s almost dark. And it’s snowing again.’

  ‘You are very kind, but I can’t.’ Isabella pulled her hands free and stepped out onto the portico.

  A footman opened the door of the chaise and helped her up its steps. Another placed the warming pan at her feet and positioned a rug over her lap. In a matter of seconds the lumbering vehicle was pulling away down the drive.

  Guy’s gaze followed it until it disappeared into the winter darkness. When he turned his mother, her arms wrapped around her body as a shield against the cold, was still beside him.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, looking up into his face. ‘Why did you quarrel? Why ever did you let her leave?’

  ‘Because she came for the wrong reason.’

  ‘But she did come. Isn’t that the important thing?’

  He didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t know the answer, but because it would be too difficult to explain it to her.

  He had found he was having a hard enough time explaining it to himself.