A Very Matchmaker Christmas

by Christi Caldwell

  “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’m told 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 Nine

  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 agai
n.

  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 watching 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 the perfect 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.”

  “I see.”

  “Does that not worry you?”

  “Not at all.” He folded his arms across his chest and smiled. “I had a nice little discussion with your brother last night. I asked him if he would approve of my courting you. Of course, your father is the one from whom I need official permission, but I felt I owed your brother the respect he deserves as your sibling … he was ready to call me out at dawn this morning and I wanted to settle his conscience that my intentions were honorable.”

  “You wish to court me?”

  “If you are agreeable to the idea, of course.”

  It was hard to speak past the sudden dryness of her throat. “Of course,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound like too much of a ninny. But oh, it was hard to form words when her tongue suddenly forgot how to move, the pit of her belly was filled with butterfly-flutters, and her skin had gone all hot and prickly. “And what did my brother say?”

  “He gave his consent. And what do you say, Miss Ponsonby?”

  Say? What could she say? She could barely speak. “I would be most receptive of your attention, Lord Weybourne.”

  “Tristan.”

  “Tristan.”

  “And may I call you Letitia?”

  She felt as though someone had poured melted butter into her very veins. “You may … or Lettie. Or even—” her eyes sparkled with sudden humor—“Ledyard.”

  A door slammed somewhere upstairs and Letitia lowered her voice. “I can’t be here alone with you. You know that. I know that. I must go.”

  “So go find a chaperone and come riding with me.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, now.” He reached out and took her hand, stroking the back of it once, twice, through her glove before releasing it. His very touch caused her to shiver in delight. “I’ve a mind to clear my head after the excesses and overindulgences of last night. Besides, you promised you would join me. What do you say, Lettie, to a good, bracing canter across the heath?”

  “I would say that I’d far prefer that to staying here and finding ways to avoid Homer Trout, whose arrival is surely imminent.”

  “Go find a chaperone. The older, the blinder, the better.”

  A chaperone? At this hour? And in this weather?

  Ohhhh, drat! Here she was, with the chance to ride out with the Earl of Weybourne, to race him across a frozen heath and hope he hadn’t brought one of his famed Norfolk Thoroughbreds. Or to maybe hope that he had. What to do? Her maid could not sit a horse. She knew none of the staff.

  Simon. Should she ask him?

  He certainly wasn’t “blind” as Lord Weybourne wanted.

  Footsteps were coming down the hall, and any moment now their owner would come around the corner and catch the two of them together.

  “I’ll be out in the stables,” the earl murmured, and reaching up, traced the side of her jaw with a forefinger. “Don’t keep me waiting. Unless I miss my guess, the snow will be stopping soon.”

  And with that, he gave her a little bow and was out the door in a soft whoosh of cold air and blown-in snow.

  Letitia reached up and cupped the side of her jaw with her palm, trying to hold in his touch. Oh, what to do? Her blood began to thrum. Chaperone … chaperone….

  She hurried back toward the dining room.

  Simon was up, sitting alone at the long table. He was leaning back in a chair, a newspaper at his elbow and a cup of black coffee before him. His back was toward her; he had not seen her. He was dressed in civilian clothes, a dark gray coat with a high-standing collar cut to fit his fine form perfectly, his hair thick and handsome and resisting the brush’s attempts to coax it into a neat, orderly fashion. He looked helplessly windblown, even when he wasn’t standing on the quarterdeck of his frigate, and Letitia figured that made him pretty much irresistible to the ladies.

  His expression this morning though was brooding.
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  Chaperone?

  No. Not Simon. Her brother might have consented to Lord Weybourne’s courtship of her, but he was too upstanding, too protective, to let the two of them out of his sight if he was called upon to accompany them.

  The devil take a chaperone. She had no time to find one anyhow, and she suddenly knew what she must do.

  If she got caught, the whole house party would come crashing down around her ears. But she was young. She was clever.

  And nobody was up yet anyhow.

  Chapter Ten

  Tristan had just selected two hunters—one bay, the other a strapping chestnut—from the Weston stables and was helping the sleepy groom tack them up when Letitia came silently in from outside, snow frosting her little round hat and the cold pulling roses from her cheeks. Her eyes were bright with excitement.

  He quickly moved away from the groom, his brows rising in surprise. “No chaperone?”

  “The house is asleep. We’ll take our gallop across the heath and be back before anyone is even stirring.” She glanced over her shoulder through the falling snow to the quiet majesty of the mansion behind them, but no outraged brother, mother or anyone else was charging through the falling snow to stop her. “That is, if you’re game.”

  “If your mama or anyone else finds out, it’ll be more than just a ‘little scandal’ you’ll find yourself dealing with.”

  “I am good at this. Very good.” She grinned and moved further into the stable, her feminine curves shown to perfection by a close-fitting riding habit that made him want to devour her with his eyes. His hands. His mouth. “Did you bring one of your Norfolk Thoroughbreds?”

  “I did not. The herd isn’t built up enough yet to be using one as my own personal mount.”

  “Perhaps it will be a fair race, then. Let’s be off before the snow stops.”

  “Are you certain you want to risk this?”

  “We’ll head out the back of the stables and into the fields. They can’t see that from the house, even if someone does happen to wake and look out the window. It will be worth the risk.”