by Nina Mason
Breaking from the kiss, she sat up and looked around. The cold, colorless landscape seemed to have taken on more heat and vibrancy. Though it all seemed so real, she knew deep down it was only make-believe. Until his engagement was dissolved, these sweet, stolen moments were akin to playacting.
Talking of which …
“Why did you give up our roles to your brother and betrothed?”
He made a face. “Please do not refer to Miss Stubbs by that detestable title. Taking a breath, he added, “And to answer your question, I gave them our roles both to push them into each other’s arms and to cast suspicion away from you and me.”
It was her turn to give him a queer look. “Do you want your brother and Miss Stubbs to form an attachment?”
“No. Not a serious one, leastwise. What I want is for him to compromise her virtue, so that I can call off the engagement on legitimate grounds.”
Georgie was impressed with his ingenuity, despite the ruthlessness of his plan. “Is Benedict in on this scheme of yours?”
“He is. And more than happy to oblige me.” He produced an axe from beneath the seat. “Now, shall we go ahunting for the perfect Christmas tree?”
Sixteen
They found a beauty of a tree in short order: a yew that stood at least ten feet tall. With no lack of effort or ingenuity, they managed to chop it down and drag it back to Greystone behind the sleigh.
The servants had since erected the tree in one of the mansion’s front-facing bow windows and Georgie, aided by Winnie, was engaged in crafting the decorations that would hang from its limbs. Presently, they were in the billiards room; she stringing together a garland of raisins and almonds and Winnie making pretty little paper snowflakes.
All the others were also in the room, rehearsing the play as a group. Miss Stubbs accepted the part of Amelia without hesitation, and received the news that Benedict would replace Christian as Anhalt with scarcely less exuberance. Her zeal was understandable. Benedict was gallant, flirtatious, and no less handsome than his elder brother (if not an inch or two smaller in stature). If the family fortune was handed over to him as a consequence of Georgie’s letter, he would make a very pretty marriage prospect for Winnie, Henrietta, or Charlotte.
Assuming, of course, Miss Stubbs did not bedazzle him first with her wiles. For love was blind, was it not?
Turning to Winnie, Georgie asked, “What do you make of Mr. Churchill?”
“I think him the handsomest man that ever was seen, as well as the most agreeable,” Winnie whispered in reply as she snipped another notch out of an intricately folded sheet of paper. “And, even better, we will all be able to dance after dinner now that he has come.”
“Do not get too far ahead of yourself,” Georgie cautioned her, “for we do not yet know if Mr. Churchill is inclined toward dancing.”
“Then let us ask him.” Lifting her eyes from her task, Winnie called out, “Mr. Churchill, are you fond of dancing?”
“I am indeed, Miss Raynalds,” he genially answered. “If you and the lovely Miss Stubbs here will agree to be my partners.” Flicking a glance toward Georgie, he quickly added, as an afterthought, “And Miss Bennet, too, of course.”
Over the next two hours, Georgie observed that Benedict Churchill was the sort of young man to be generally liked, his amiability being of the kind more often found agreeable than some endowments of a higher stamp. He had easy manners, excellent spirits, and a naturally cheerful disposition.
At present, they were running through the second scene in Act Two. To set the stage, the footmen brought in a table, where Amelia (Miss Stubbs) and the Baron (Capt. Raynalds) had just sat down to breakfast together. Meanwhile, Count Cassel, the substitute role Christian had chosen, was in the wings, waiting to enter.
“How is the weather?” the Baron asked his daughter. “Have you walked this morning?”
“Oh, yes. I was in the garden at five o’clock; it is very fine.”
“Then I’ll go out shooting. I do not know in what other way to amuse my guest.”
Entering with a flourish, the Count said to the pair, “Ah, my dear Colonel! Miss Wildenhaim, I kiss your hand.”
To this, the Baron boisterously replied, “Good morning! Good morning!” Then, in a tone of disapproval, he added, “Though it is late in the day, Count. In the country we should rise earlier.”
There was a pause, during which the Captain and Christian looked expectantly at Miss Stubbs, who had the next line.
Georgie, who followed along in the book while making her decorations, called out, “You’re supposed to offer the Count a cup of tea, Miss Stubbs.”
“Oh, yes,” said the flustered actress. “I keep forgetting.”
After taking the cup from her hand, the Count said to Amelia, “Is it Hebe herself, or Venus, or …”
Addressing the audience, Amelia offered this aside: “Ha, ha, ha! Who can help laughing at his nonsense?”
“Neither Venus, nor Hebe,” said the Baron crossly to the Count, “but Amelia Wildenhaim, if you please.”
Joining the other two at the mock breakfast table, the Count gazed admiringly upon Amelia for a moment before speaking his next line (which Christian delivered with obvious unease): “You are beautiful, Miss Wildenhaim. Upon my honor, I think so. I have travelled, and seen much of the world, and yet I can positively admire you.”
“I am sorry,” she said, fluttering her lashes. “I have not seen the world.”
“And I have never seen such atrocious acting,” Georgie said to Winnie out of the side of her mouth.
Winnie hid her smile behind her hand. “You would have made a far superior Amelia, I daresay.”
“I flatter myself I would have,” Georgie told her. “While my acting might not have been superior, at least I would have remembered my lines.”
Though they both laughed, Georgie’s mirth was only skin-deep. Underneath her gay façade beat a heart festering with jealousy and resentment. Jealousy because she could not bear to watch Christian make love to Miss Stubbs, even if it was only pretend; resentment because she alone was excluded from the enterprise in which her companions were all so gaily employed.
Apart from prompting the forgetful Miss Stubbs, she had no part in the play. Christian had surrendered the role of Anhalt, but had chosen an alternate one for himself. And a plum one it was at that, with its forty-two odd speeches.
She, meanwhile, was naught but a spectator. A mere bystander. She could string her nuts and raisins anywhere else in the house and would scarcely be missed. (If indeed she was missed at all.) Would she be, even by Christian, who was so gaily engaged in rehearsing his new role?
The more Georgie pondered the question, the more heart sore and angry she became. It preyed on her mind until she could bear the uncertainty no longer. She had to know if she mattered to him more than the play.
Excusing herself, she got up and took her leave, abandoning her project for the time being. Having no particular retreat in mind, she wandered around the first floor until she found herself in the drawing room, where the Christmas tree stood in the window alcove. She walked up to it, taking in its agreeable scent as she wallowed in self-pitying misery.
Gradually, she came to see how irrational she was being. She was “the other woman” in this scenario, not Miss Stubbs. She had allowed, and even sought, Christian’s attentions, knowing full well he was pledged to someone else. More shocking still, she had conspired with him to end the engagement so they could marry instead.
Oh, what a wicked, conniving Jezebel she was. And he was even worse. Not only had he offered marriage to a barmaid to gain her favors, he’d behaved the same way toward her. Lord, what a rogue was he! What a scoundrel! What a villain!
And, stupidly, she’d not only fallen for his tricks, she’d given him her virginity!
Because she loved him, gullible, foolish, irrational creature that she was.
Tears welled in her eyes, tightening her throat. She bit her lip to stem their flow. She would n
ot cry, confound it. No, she would not. She had made her own bed, and now must lie in it alone.
Then, she remembered the letter…and that he was willing to give up his legacy for her…and even go to debtor’s prison, God bless him.
And so, just like that, she stood ready to forgive him all his trespasses, if only he came looking for her.
The next moment, like a wish come true, Christian was behind her saying, in a voice filled with concern, “There you are, Georgie. You had me worried. Is anything amiss?”
“Not anymore,” she said, turning to face him with a happy heart. “For a few moments, I allowed fear to get the better of me, but I’m all right now.”
He came up to her and took her in his arms. “Dearest Georgie. Please don’t fret. We will find a way to be together, one way or another.”
Moved by his reassurance, she put her arms around his neck and lifted her face to his. He captured her mouth in a ravishing, toe-curling kiss that made the last of her doubts take flight. She was safe now. Safe in his arms and sure of his love.
Breaking from the kiss, he said in an undertone, “Shall I come to you tonight after the house is asleep?”
“No,” she answered, recalling Winnie’s remarks about the sounds coming through the wall. “Let me come to you tonight.”
* * * *
That evening, after dinner, when the men were alone with their ports and cheroots, Christian asked his brother how he was getting along with Miss Stubbs.
“Not at all,” Benedict said, “which is just as well, I daresay.”
Puzzled by his answer, Christian furrowed his brow. “What makes you say so?”
“There is another lady who has caught my eye,” he told his brother. “In fact, I declare myself to be quite smitten with her already.”
Fearing he meant Georgie, Christian asked, “May I know to which of the ladies you refer?”
“Yes,” said the Captain, whose expression mirrored Christian’s concern. “Do tell, old man.”
“You both know perfectly well it would be premature, as well as highly improper, for me to name names when I have no idea of the lady welcoming my suit.”
Because Benedict was right, Christian did not press him for the name, despite his now being doubly-worried. Clearly, the object of Benedict’s fancy was not Miss Stubbs. That left only two other candidates: Winnifred and Georgianna.
When soliciting Benedict’s help with Miss Stubbs, he’d not confessed his aspirations where Georgie was concerned. To do so would call her virtue into question—and he’d done damage enough on that score already.
The honorable thing to do, therefore, was keep quiet and hope Georgie’s head wasn’t turned by his brother’s dash, charm, and availability—or, heaven forbid, the legacy their father would likely settle on Benedict when he learned of Christian’s engagement.
Still, he must not let his imagination run wild. For it was entirely possible Winnie was the object of Benedict’s fancy. And how fortunate they all would be if that were indeed the case!
After the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the parlor, Christian watched his brother for signs of a preference between Georgie and Winnie. To his frustration, he could detect none. It did not help that they were evenly partnered. As the two young ladies switched off providing the music, the gentlemen danced with the other three in turn, as decorum dictated. Not even the Captain, who was mad for his wife, deigned to partner her more often than any other.
With Miss Stubbs, Christian was civil; with Mrs. Raynalds, he was guarded; with Miss Raynalds, he was free and easy; and with Georgie, he worked hard to keep his feelings in check.
When they tired of dancing, they played Charades, followed by Whist. It was well after midnight by the time they went up to bed, and, to Christian’s great vexation, he had no better idea of his brother’s favorite than when the evening began.
He went straight to his room, stripped down to his shirt, and climbed into bed. Whilst waiting for Georgie to come, he tried to read the book he’d brought along: The Statesman’s Manuel, or The Bible the best guide to political skill and foresight: a lay sermon by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, the political thinker and poet who had more famously written The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
Personally, Christian preferred Coleridge’s non-rhyming poetry. The Frost at Midnight, which his father frequently recited to him as a boy, was a particular favorite:
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent ’mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Once they were so close; as close as any father and son could be. Papa had taught him to shoot, to fish, to keep accounts, and to recognize good horseflesh when he saw it. They hunted together, attended the races at Newmarket Heath, and went on outings to the Peak District, the henge at Arbor Low, Bleaklow moorlands, Kinder Downfall, Chatsworth House, and Elvaston Castle, among many other locations.
Was it any wonder he’d developed at an early age an appetite for travel and adventure? But the heirs to Earldoms were not supposed to join the Navy, or worse, risk life and limb by taking part in actual battles. The heirs to Earldoms were supposed to stay home, quietly waiting to assume their sacred duties as guardians and progenitors.
Yes, he’d done the Grand Tour after graduating Oxford, but rather than satisfy his appetite for travel, the experience only made him hungrier.
Christian rubbed his eyes and set the book aside. Too distracted to read—especially something so dry—he climbed out of bed and went to the window. As he looked out at the moonlit snow, he thought again of The Frost at Midnight.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the night-thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.
A shiver went through Christian, followed by a harpoon of fear. Was he right to allow Georgie to write to his father? Would he lose his inheritance as a consequence? Go to debtor’s prison and die of starvation, dysentery, or some other dreadful disease? Well, if he must go, let it be to Fleet or King’s Bench, where he might at least have visitors, a few creature comforts, and, if he was very, very lucky, be allowed to live in a house nearby rather than in the prison itself.
But at least he’d have a wife he loved, he comforted himself, even if he could not live with her or have conjugal relations. That was some consolation, at least, assuming Benedict did not steal her away. And there was always a chance his father would stand by him, or at least pay off his debts before cutting him off.
And cut him off, Papa must. For to retain his inheritance would condemn him to life with Miss Stubbs—a milder form of incarceration perhaps, but no less a prison. Yes, yes. He could take a lover or keep a mistress, like most gentlemen of means, but he would not have the woman he loved. Even were Georgie willing to be his dem
imonde, he could not in good conscience contribute to her downfall.
More than he already had, that was to say.
At present, thankfully, nobody knew they’d had amorous congress. Unless she’d told her sister, which he sincerely hoped she had not. For, as Papa had indelibly impressed upon his sons, the only way to keep a secret safe was to never confide it to anyone.
A soft rap at the door both startled and pleased him. Grabbing his banyan off the chair by the fire, he pulled it on and tied the sash as he crossed the room. Before turning the key in the lock, he leaned very close. “Who is it?”
“It’s me,” Georgie replied. “Were you expecting somebody else?”
“No.” He opened the door and yanked her inside. As he shut and locked it behind her, he said, “But I have seen enough farces to know one cannot be too careful when answering a door in the dead of night.”
As he turned back to her, he caught a whiff of her rose-water fragrance. She was wearing the same dressing gown as the night before. Leaning in, he clasped her face and brought her mouth to his. It was only a kiss, and yet it quite undid him.
He guided her toward the bed and peeled off her robe, pleased to discover she was nude underneath. He caressed her skin, which was warm to the touch and salty to the taste. Her hands explored him, too, and when one of them closed around his erection, he groaned with the need to be inside her.
He shed what little he still had on and, as they stood there naked, he kneaded her breasts, suckled her nipples, and combed his fingers through her hair. They tumbled onto the bed together, their hands and mouth still feasting on the other. He stroked her belly, her hips, and her thighs before moving between them.
Pushing into her, he sighed with deep satisfaction. This was paradise; this miraculous merging of their separate bodies. As he moved inside her, he looked into her eyes and told her how beautiful she was. When his pleasure was too much to bear, he pulled out of her and spilled himself across her belly.