The Last Chance Christmas Ball

by Mary Jo Putney

  He was being kind and gentlemanly, that was all. And if she wished it were otherwise, well, that would be her secret. A girl had her pride.

  Christmas Day passed quietly and pleasantly, with good food, good conversation, and music, mainly Christmas carols. Allie was filled with warmth and happiness—she couldn’t have imagined a lovelier last Christmas at home. The day ended with a highly ridiculous and fun game of charades, followed by a glass of wine and chestnuts roasted by the fire.

  And for Allie, there was another bone-melting good night kiss under the mistletoe by the stairs. And while she told herself it was just a tradition and he was just doing what was expected, she couldn’t stop herself from wishing. And hoping. And dreaming. . .

  Perhaps Lady Holly’s Christmas ball would perform the magic she so longed for....

  CHAPTER SIX

  By morning the snow had stopped, the wind was blowing steadily from the south and it was clear the snow was melting. In the distance they heard the sound of the traditional Boxing Day hunt, though as John Kelsey said, it was risky weather for it; there was still a lot of iced-over snow, as well as ice beneath snow, which was more treacherous.

  Allie was half pleased, half sorry about the thaw; pleased they’d be able to get to Lady Holly’s ball after all, but sorry that the Kelseys’ visit would soon come to an end.

  The day passed quickly. They ate well on leftovers from Christmas dinner, played cards, and talked. In the afternoon, a knock at the door surprised them.

  It was one of Allie’s tenant farmers, who’d come to check that she was all right. He’d spotted the carriage half tipped into the river, too, and was relieved to find that the travelers were safe, and that they’d turned out to be gentry.

  “The wife’ll be pleased to know you had suitable company over Christmas, Miss Allie,” he said. “She were that worried about you bein’ alone.” He glanced at the sky and nodded slowly. “I reckon your guests’ll be able to travel on to Lady Holly’s tomorrow or the next day. I’ll organize some men tomorrow to pull that there carriage out of the river.”

  Lucilla brightened at the good news, and in the evening she announced that she needed to practice her waltzing because she was certain that she was going to meet someone special at the ball and she didn’t want to make herself memorable by stepping on his feet. So after dinner Lord Kelsey rolled up the carpet in the sitting room and moved the furniture back, and Allie played several waltzes while Lucilla and her brother danced.

  He was an excellent dancer, which surprised her. “I didn’t know soldiers danced.”

  “Staff officers do,” he explained. “Very big on the social graces is The Beau.” Which, as he explained, was a nickname for the Duke of Wellington.

  “And now it’s your turn,” Lucilla said after half a dozen dances. “I’ll play and you and John can dance.”

  John Kelsey held out his hand and, fighting a blush, Allie rose from the piano. His long, warm fingers closed around hers. No gloves, as there would be at a ball. Skin to warm skin. Could he feel how fast her pulse was beating?

  The music started and, holding her in a light, firm grip, John Kelsey swirled her into a waltz. It was nothing like the lessons she’d had. Despite her fluttering heart and her mind—totally blank—she didn’t even have to think about her steps; he commanded her every movement with a sure grace that made her feel like a thistledown maiden, instead of an inexperienced country spinster dancing the waltz for the first time with a man.

  His sister played waltz after waltz. Allie floated dreamily, twirling to the music, abandoning herself totally to the command of his big, strong body. She closed her eyes, feeling utterly safe, utterly transported. It was magic.

  If it snowed again for weeks and she never went to the ball, she would, at least, have had this.

  Finally it came to an end. They were both breathless and, in Allie’s case at least, not wholly from the exertion. She managed to curtsey her thanks and maintain the illusion of the ballroom. He bowed in return, his blue eyes seeming to look right into her soul. Aware of his sister’s speculative interest, Allie collected her scattered thoughts and hurried away to make supper.

  Lucilla followed her into the kitchen, leaving her brother to return the sitting room rug and furniture to their original positions. She hovered, eyeing Allie with a troubled expression.

  “Is something the matter, Lucilla?”

  Lucilla glanced at the door and bit her lip. “It’s . . . it’s—I saw the way you looked at my brother, and, well . . .”

  Embarrassed that her feelings must have been so transparent, Allie tried to think of something to say, but before she could form a coherent sentence in her mind, Lucilla blurted out, “There’s this girl, you see, Julia Courtenay, whose property adjoins ours and . . . and she’s pretty and suitable, and we’ve known her family forever. Mama expects—well, we all expect that John will propose to her any day now. In fact”—she gave Allie a guilty glance—“when Mama knew John would be attending this ball, she wrote to Lady Holly and asked her to invite the Courtenays.”

  Allie busied herself with supper for a moment. Of course, he was already spoken for.

  “I’m sorry, I should have told you sooner. And for the mistletoe. I didn’t think . . .”

  Allie manufactured a laugh from somewhere. “I don’t know what you’ve been imagining, Lucilla, but there’s nothing to forgive. Your brother and I have been entertaining ourselves, that’s all. There’s nothing at all between us, and I certainly have no expectations that there ever could be.” Dreams, perhaps, expectations, no.

  Lucilla gave her a doubtful glance. “Are you sure? Because—”

  “My own future is all mapped out for me,” Allie said in a light tone. “Bath, remember? I’m so looking forward to it. And while it’s been delightful, flirting a little and dancing with your brother, it’s just a little bit of Christmas nonsense. Don’t worry. Now, will you set the table for supper, please? It may well be the last time you get to do it, for my servants will be returning tomorrow and Mrs. Meadows has Opinions about Ladies in the Kitchen.”

  For the rest of the evening, Allie did her best to appear cheerful and lighthearted, and if her laughter sometimes sounded brittle and a little forced, well, that was too bad. She was aware of John Kelsey’s blue gaze resting thoughtfully on her from time to time, but she managed to carry on with, she hoped, her dignity intact.

  They had what she called a nursery supper that night, scrambled eggs and ham, followed by hot cocoa and crumpets, all eaten on a rug in front of the sitting room fire.

  Allie would never forget the sight of John Kelsey sprawled elegantly on the rug in front of the fire, his long booted legs crossed, as he manned the toasting fork, toasting crumpets that they ate dripping with butter and honey. Later, they sipped sweet muscat wine and talked and talked.

  Their last night together; she would never forget it.

  But when it came to bedtime, all her resolutions about keeping her distance came to nothing when, at the bottom of the staircase, he detained her with a light touch on her arm and an upward glance at the mistletoe.

  She did try, saying, “Oh, but Christmas is over now,” as she made to pass him.

  “But the mistletoe remains,” he said softly, and her determination crumbled. One last kiss, she thought, and gave herself into his arms, kissing him with all the misplaced passion inside her.

  His embrace tightened, and he gave her long, intoxicating, drugging kisses that had her sagging at the knees by the time he was finished.

  “Shall I carry you up to bed?” he asked in a deep ragged voice—he was breathing heavily, too—and for a moment she was almost tempted.

  A simple “yes” and she would know once and for all what it felt like to be a woman, how it would feel to lie in his arms, his body pressed against hers, skin to skin. What would it be like to be possessed by him?

  But she wasn’t made that way. And the possible consequences of such a night would ruin her more certainly th
an anything. She had no desire to travel that road, so she managed to pass it off with a shaky laugh and forced herself up the stairs with a cool, “Good night, Lord Kelsey.”

  Men came in the morning with poles for leverage and two huge draft horses, and the news that though the roads were icy in places, and mushy in others, the way to Holbourne Abbey was clear.

  With a great deal of noise and fuss, they hauled the mud-covered yellow post chaise from the river and set it back on the road. Several panels and a wheel were smashed. The men brought the contents of the boot up to the house—a valise, muddy and damp, and an iron-bound trunk with one corner smashed in.

  With a cry of dismay, Lucilla knelt on the stone flags of the kitchen and unbuckled the straps that held the trunk closed. She pulled out a series of wet items. “Oh, no,” she wailed. “My beautiful ball dress! It’s ruined—utterly ruined!”

  “Let me see.” Allie lifted the dress up. “Oh. Oh, dear.”

  The dress was—or had been—white. Now it was . . . well, blotchy was the best description. The dye of the red and green ribbons around the hem had run, and the dress itself had been packed on top of a blue spencer, and the dye of that had run, too, staining the dress with blue blotches as well.

  Lucilla burst into tears.

  “It might not be as bad as it looks,” Allie assured the distressed girl, but her heart sank. She was fairly sure the dress was ruined.

  And so it proved. First, she tried blotting the stains with cornstarch, and though it did absorb some of the dye, the blotches remained. She tried soaking it in milk next, which used to help with Papa’s ink stains, but again, enough of the residue remained to make the dress unwearable.

  “Never mind,” she told Lucilla. “We’ll try bleach, that might help.” If it didn’t ruin the silk, and Allie thought it might. But now there was nothing to lose.

  Lucilla was inconsolable. “My first ever ball, and now I will have nothing to w-w-eear,” she sobbed. “Oh, my beautiful ball gown . . .”

  Allie tried every household remedy she knew, but they’d made no appreciable difference. The Meadows family returned by mid-morning, but even Mrs. Meadows’s encyclopedic knowledge of stain remedies failed to remove the blotches. Lucilla’s dress was unwearable.

  Allie left Lucilla being consoled by her brother, while she made arrangements for Albert to drive them to Holbourne Abbey in the gig. She returned to the sitting room just in time to hear Lord Kelsey saying quietly, “I know you’re upset, puss, but you must try to be brave about this. It’s a disappointment to be sure, but you might be able to borrow a dress from someone. In any case, our hostess is in a difficult situation—I suspect she’s being forced to leave her home, but it’s Christmas and she has guests, so she’s putting a brave face on it. Do you think you could do the same?”

  Lucilla sniffled. “I’ll try.”

  “That’s my girl,” he said softly. Allie entered the room, giving no sign she’d overheard the exchange. But his words had given her an idea.

  For the following hours, as the rest of Lucilla’s clothes were cleaned and dried by the extremely competent Mrs. Meadows, it was clear that the girl was trying to put a brave face on it, as her brother had asked. It made Allie warm even more to her.

  Finally, everything was dry and Allie helped Lucilla pack her things into an old trunk of her father’s.

  “I’ll just have to wear this old white woolen dress,” Lucilla said miserably. “It’s not a ball dress, and it’s last season’s, but Mama made me bring it because Northumberland gets so cold in winter.” She eyed it in disgust. “Why couldn’t that have been the one that got leaked on?”

  Allie looked at it and sympathized. The dress was practical more than pretty.

  “I wish I hadn’t come now,” the girl confided. “I was so looking forward to my first ever ball. But John gave up his own holiday for me, and Mama is hoping he will propose to Julia tomorrow night, so I’ll to have to pretend to enjoy myself anyway. I don’t want to be a wet blanket.” A tear trickled down her cheek.

  She darted a glance at Allie and added, half-embarrassed, “You’ll think me foolish, but I was certain I was going to meet my true love there—Lady Holly’s ball is famous for making people fall in love. But now . . . what man is going to look twice at me in this?”

  Allie could see her point. The white wool was a dress for keeping out draughts, not for charming young men. She looked at it again and found herself saying, “I have a dress you could wear.”

  Even as she said it, a small voice inside her cried, nooooo.

  But it was the right thing to do. She’d been facing unpalatable facts all her life. This ball wasn’t going to make any difference to Allie’s future.

  Despite several earth-shattering kisses—to Allie, anyway—and a connection and companionability she’d never before experienced, Lord Kelsey seemed unaffected. He hadn’t once referred to the kisses, or given any other indication that he was interested in her in a romantic sense—he was, as she’d told herself a hundred times already, just being a charming and obliging guest. He was a man of experience and sophistication.

  And a Miss Julia Courtenay was expecting his proposal.

  It wasn’t as if he’d mislead Allie. He’d never said a word to make her think it was anything other than a little holiday fun. It was Allie’s own lack of experience that had led her to read more into a few mistletoe kisses than she should have. Spinning dreams out of nothing.

  And though she would have loved to waltz with him at the ball, she knew now it would lead nowhere, and any pleasure she might have would be spoiled by the knowledge that Lucilla was miserable in her practical white woolen dress.

  And that Miss Julia Courtenay was there, waiting, expecting to be asked for something far more significant than a waltz.

  No, Allie had already danced her waltzes in Lord Kelsey’s arms. Plenty of women never experienced anything as remotely magical. And even if he hadn’t meant them, he’d given her kisses to dream on for the rest of her life.

  It would give Allie more pleasure to make his sister’s first ball a magical experience than to attend the ball herself.

  Besides, this was Christmas, and Lucilla and her brother had given her a priceless gift—a wonderfully happy last Christmas at The Oakes, a happier Christmas than she’d imagined possible—a Christmas to remember. She could give this sweet young girl an equal gift.

  She fetched the white box with the elegant gold design. She kept all the beautiful underclothes for herself, though, except for the corset which had been specially designed to enhance the fit of the gown.

  Lucilla gasped when she saw the dress. “Ohhh,” she said on a long sigh, lifting it out of the box. “It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. But . . . will you not want to wear it yourself?”

  “I have another new dress,” Allie said. “It arrived from the dressmaker just last week.” It wasn’t a lie.

  “Ohhh,” Lucilla said, holding the dress against herself and gazing at her reflection in the looking glass, swaying to imaginary music, just as Allie had. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m certain,” Allie said, and Lucilla embraced her. And in that moment she was sure. Regrets might come later, but it would be too late. She knew she was doing the right thing.

  Lucilla had told her brother about the dress, and as they sat down to lunch he said to Allie, “Thank you so much for lending my sister a dress. You cannot know how grateful I am to be saved from an evening of Utter Gloom and Misery.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  “I have something for you, too—a small thanks for the hospitality you’ve given us.” Ignoring her polite disclaimers, he placed a parcel in her hands. “I hope you will remember this Christmas every time you wear it.”

  Allie unwrapped the gift and gasped with pleasure. It was a Kashmir shawl, softer and finer than anything she’d ever worn, cream wool, with a deep border of exquisite embroidery in crimson and blue and a long silk fringe. “Oh, it’s beautiful—you
shouldn’t have—truly it was my pleasure, but—”

  “Put it on,” John Kelsey said.

  She rose from the table, but he rose before her. Taking the shawl from her hands, he shook it out and wrapped it around her shoulders. He stood looking down at her. “Perfect,” he said with a slow smile, and Allie felt herself blushing at the expression in his eyes.

  “Will you save me a couple of dances tomorrow night?” he said softly in that beautiful deep voice that she was sure would haunt her dreams for years to come.

  Allie looked down and mumbled something incoherent, but he seemed not to mind her apparent confusion.

  The Kelseys left The Oakes with repeated thanks and Lucilla’s avowed intention of remaining in touch; Allie must write to them at Kelsey Manor and let them know her direction in Bath. Allie, waving them off, smilingly agreed, but knew she would not.

  Once she was in Bath, they would inhabit vastly different worlds. Besides, Lord Kelsey had said not a word about keeping in touch—it was all his sister.

  “You were very quiet, John,” Lucilla said as they drove away. “Won’t you miss Allie?”

  “No.” John kept his own counsel; he wasn’t going to explain his thoughts to his sister. Besides, he’d see Allie at the ball the following night.

  Lucilla chattered on about the ball, and who might be there, and about the gown, and the shawl he’d given Allie, but John paid her scant attention. He’d actually bought the shawl for Lucilla as a memento of her first ball. But he was glad he had a gift worthy of Allie Fenton.

  The accident had not only turned their coach upside down; he suspected it had turned his life upside down as well.