The Earl’s Mistletoe Bride (7 page)

Barely ten minutes after the cloth had been removed and the dessert and decanters set upon the polished mahogany, Mrs Aubrey took a last sip of her wine and rose. ‘Ladies?’ Though it was earlier than normal, her tone was commanding. She gazed round, as if daring the ladies to object.

Lady Fitzherbert whispered something, quick and low, to the dinner partner on her left. Jon did not catch it all, but he was sure he heard the word ‘impostor’. For a second, his hands clenched under the table. He clamped his jaws together. He must not give any hint that he had heard. He must trust Mrs Aubrey to deal with Lady Fitzherbert’s venom.

Jon and all the other gentlemen rose to help their partners from their chairs. But Beth seemed quite unaware that the ladies were about to leave. Jon moved quickly
behind her, put his hands on the back of her chair and bent forward until his lips were only an inch or so above her curls. He could smell lavender—and hot, wild hillsides. ‘Miss Beth,’ he whispered, forcing himself to ignore the subtle scent of her and the tempting pictures it conjured up in his mind. ‘The ladies. Courage!’

She started in her place, but recovered almost instantly. She rose gracefully and turned to smile a little shakily at Jon. ‘Thank you, sir. And for your kind words. I shall treasure them.’ As she spoke, she looked directly into his face. Her eyes were wide and glistening. Not tears, surely? She had shown such self-control since the moment she arrived.

‘Courage,’ he said again, in a lower but more meaningful voice. He took her hand and placed it firmly on his sleeve. There would be no hovering this time. He led her to the door and opened it himself, for, as guest of honour, she must leave first. ‘We will join you soon, Miss Beth,’ he murmured and reluctantly let her go.

He watched as she made her way to the stairs. She had drawn herself up very tall; her spine was ramrod straight. Even from the back she looked like a soldier preparing for battle. In the drawing room upstairs, she would face the claws of the harpies.

Beth was halfway up the stairs, still stunned by Jonathan’s immensely flattering words, when she was dragged back with considerable force. She cried out in shock, grabbing for the baluster rail. Someone had trodden, hard, on the hem of her gown.

‘Oh, I am so sorry.’ It was, of course, Lady Fitzher
bert. ‘Have I torn your gown, child? What a pity. It is such a pretty, girlish confection, too.’

Beth did nothing to betray the fact that she knew the damage was intentional. That would be a victory for the woman which she did not deserve. Instead, keeping a firm grip on the wooden rail, Beth turned her shoulder enough to smile sweetly into the older woman’s face. ‘If you would be so kind as to remove your foot, ma’am, I shall see what may be done to repair the damage.’

Lady Fitzherbert whipped her foot away as swiftly as if she had stepped barefoot on to burning coals. ‘I do apologise. Such a silly accident. I am not usually so clumsy.’

‘I am sure you are not, ma’am,’ came Mrs Aubrey’s tart voice from the hallway below. There was a tightness about her pursed lips, too. She clearly knew, just as Beth did, that the incident had been deliberate. If Beth had not had the presence of mind to grab the rail, she could well have tumbled all the way to the foot of the stairs.

The other ladies were twittering helplessly. Mrs Aubrey frowned up at them. ‘Come, ladies. Let us settle ourselves in the drawing room for coffee. Then Beth and I will see to the repairs.’ Mrs Aubrey ushered the stragglers on.

‘Thank you, Aunt Caro,’ Beth said quietly. She lifted the fragile white gauze so that the ripped portion would not trail on the stairs. She doubted that Lady Fitzherbert would try the same trick again, but it was safer to give her no opportunity for further mischief. Beth hurried up the remaining stairs and waited for Mrs Aubrey to join her. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, ‘but I am sure that
there is no need for both of us to leave the guests. With a maid’s help, the damage can be quickly repaired.’

Mrs Aubrey nodded. They both knew it would be best not to leave the other ladies to their own devices in the drawing room, where they could pick over Beth’s reputation like vultures. Lady Fitzherbert was quite capable of acting as the malicious ringleader, given half a chance. Under Mrs Aubrey’s gimlet eye, she would not dare. Probably.

The gentlemen would join them very soon, Beth was sure. Jonathan had almost said as much. He was being so very attentive, doing so much for Beth’s comfort, that this dinner party was proving rather less of a trial than she had feared. Where the other guests were concerned, at least… With Jonathan himself, it was much more difficult—conversation, and compliments, and touching… There had been too much dangerous touching.

It had taken Jon longer than he expected to lure the gentlemen away from the decanters. Predictably, Sir Bertram Fitzherbert had been the worst. He insisted on proposing toast after toast, on ever more ridiculous subjects, culminating with the hunter he had recently bought. That had been the final straw and too much for even the rector’s good nature.

As host, Jon brought up the rear when they mounted the stairs. Sir Bertram, in the lead, was definitely swaying. With luck, he would drop into a comfortable chair and fall asleep. That was certainly better than leering at the ladies and repeating the kind of suggestive remarks he had made over his port. It was also the best that Jon dared to hope for. The Fitzherberts were truly a disgrace
to their class. Jon’s firm intention was never to permit them to cross his threshold again.

He dawdled on the stairs, reluctant to join the noisy, self-satisfied group above. In half an hour or so, the guests for the evening party would arrive to swell the numbers to more than thirty. There would be several younger ladies and gentlemen among them, so the noise level was bound to grow even worse. That prospect irked him greatly. He had endured too much horrendous noise in the last few years.

He needed peace. And peace of mind.

Yes, of course!
That
was what he longed for. Now, he understood. He wanted the comfort of a home of his own, a place where he could build his life again. Perhaps there could even be a gentle, smiling wife who would understand and share his desire—his need—for a calm, quiet refuge? A woman of principle who would do good in his name?

He did not require love, or passion. In his experience, they did not exist. Even if they had been attainable, they were not for a man of his class. Love gave a woman power she should never be permitted to have. But a comfortable room, a glowing fire, a patient partner sitting opposite, and children playing at their feet. Was that so much to ask? Surely he could find such a restful woman, such a companion, somewhere in the Upper Ten Thousand?

His decision was made without a qualm. As if he had always known what he should do. He would remain here at Fratcombe for a little longer, restoring his strength of mind in the quiet of his park. He would be able to enjoy
his own company, now that he knew what he wanted from life. It was all remarkably simple.

Soon he would begin searching the
ton
for a placid, restful bride.

He took a couple of deep breaths, relishing these moments of quiet on the deserted stairway. Now that he knew his own mind, he could endure the hubbub, however bad it became. He straightened his shoulders and continued up to the drawing room.

The relative hush surprised him. He had expected chatter and laughter, but there was neither. He was shocked to see that Mrs Aubrey was sitting at the open instrument and Beth was standing next to it, looking a little flushed. It seemed they had only just finished performing. Beth must have been singing. But how could that be? She had no memory of what had gone before. How could she possibly remember music? Or how to sing?

‘Bravo, my dear!’ That was the rector. The guests began to clap. Even Lady Fitzherbert was applauding, though without much enthusiasm.

What on earth had Jon missed?

He tried to slide into the room without being noticed, but he did not succeed. The rector came across and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘A host’s duties are never done, eh? Such a pity you missed Beth’s song.’

‘Perhaps, if I asked her, Miss Aubrey would sing another?’ Jon had not meant to say any such thing, but the words were out now, and sounding very particular. He cursed his unruly tongue. In that same instant, he caught an exchange of knowing glances between Lady Fitzherbert and her husband. That confounded woman
would still make mischief if she could. Jon fervently hoped it was not too late to recover the situation. From now on, he would be wise to ensure his relationship with Beth was a model of propriety, especially in public. After all, that was the fact of the case, was it not?

Of course it was.

He found himself waiting by the door to see what would happen next. There was a lingering stillness, an atmosphere that he could not quite account for. He felt as if he were intruding into a private realm, and was there only on sufferance, even though this was his own house. The rector spoke quietly to his wife, and then to Beth. At first, she looked rather embarrassed, but she nodded at last and began to confer with Mrs Aubrey in a low voice. The rector was beaming as he resumed his seat.

She would sing again. In response to Jon’s too particular request.

He decided to remain where he was, detached, and as far as possible from the performers. He leaned against the door jamb and let his head fall back on to the wood so that he was gazing at the ceiling. His guests might assume he had had too much wine, but he did not care. He did not want to be near any of them while Beth sang. He did not want to have to look at their hypocritical faces, either.

At the first notes of the accompaniment, he allowed his eyes to drift closed. It was not a piece he recognised, but it was gentle, and soothing. Mrs Aubrey had chosen well for Jon’s mood.

Beth had not forgotten how to sing. Perhaps one never did? She had the voice of an angel, sweet and
caressing. Jon felt the music rippling through his body like a cleansing cascade, washing away his troubles and leaving him refreshed. And consoled. Consoled? He did not understand it, yet it was true. Through her song, he was finding a degree of peace that had been lost to him for years.

J
on groaned aloud and forced his eyes open. He was drenched in sweat, as usual, but he was accustomed to that now. He dragged his pillows back into place and pushed himself upright. The chill night air raised gooseflesh on his naked torso as he reached for his tinder box.

By the light of his candle, he checked his watch. Nearly four o’clock. Little more than an hour till dawn and blessed daylight. Anything was better than the dark, and the ghosts it brought.

He would not think about them. Nor would he sleep again. In sleep, he too often fell prey to emotions he could not control. It was laughable, really. All those years when his father had been trying to school him to be cold and calculating and distant. The old man thought he had succeeded, too. Even Jon thought he had succeeded. But he had not reckoned with the ghosts.

He must not give in to such weakness! Cross with
himself, he set the bedclothes to rights and lay back, hands clasped behind his head, staring up at the silken bed canopy and forcing his mind to go over the evening’s events, to focus on images he could control. He was quite proud of what he had done to the upstart baronet and his wife. The Fitzherberts would know their place in future. And they would not dare to cut Beth again, he was certain. The Aubreys might not approve of Jon’s methods, but they would surely approve of the result. Jon had done it for them, because of the immense debt he owed them. He had
not
done it for Beth Aubrey. Indeed, he had barely thought of her until a few hours ago. Not as a woman, at least. She had been a foundling, a possible fraud, and a source of irritation to his ordered life.

It was impossible to think of her in those terms any more. Her memory loss must be real; he was convinced of it. Besides, she was beautiful, and desirable, and when she sang…

He could not fathom his reaction to her singing. It had been as soothing as waves on the sea shore, gently caressing the sand. Sadly, the effect had not lasted long enough. He might have felt peace and consolation in his drawing room, but here in the darkness of his bedchamber, nothing had changed.

That reminded him, uncomfortably, of his need for a woman in his bed. He had been celibate for months since his return from Spain. At first, even the thought of coupling had disgusted him, but now, with the passage of time, he was becoming whole again, as his thoroughly masculine reaction to Beth’s ravishing appearance had proved. Unfortunately, she was the adopted daughter of
the people he admired most in the world! It was shameful to want to bed her.

He forced himself to go logically through the facts of her case. He had rescued her last Christmas, and deposited her with the Aubreys like a half-drowned kitten. She had no memory of her past life, but she was certainly a lady—last night’s dinner had proved that, even by Jon’s exacting standards—and almost on a par with the Aubreys for goodness and generosity of spirit. She had precious little standing in life, but she cared for those who were even worse off than she was.

He must not lust after her as if she were a lightskirt! It would be dishonourable to debauch a lady, especially one who was in the care of people who trusted him. His options were stark: keep away, or marry her!

Where on earth had
that
thought come from? The Earl of Portbury could not possibly marry a woman with no past and no family. It was unthinkable, no matter how desirable the female. Nor could she become his mistress. So she could not be anything at all.

Perhaps she could be a friend?

That subversive thought came as a shock. Friendship led to attachment, and attachment was dangerous. And yet…and yet something might be possible, provided he could behave like a gentleman. The answer to misplaced desire was to keep his distance from Beth Aubrey. If he avoided her for a while, the urge would subside. That was the answer. Perfectly logical.

He would spend a week or two alone, supervising improvements to his estate. Hard work would divert his mind and tire his body. Then he would invite the Aubreys, and Miss Beth, to spend the day at Fratcombe
Manor. He would treat her as a guest and prove to himself, in the process, that his hard-earned lessons in detachment still held sway. His father had surely been right. A nobleman had to be cold and unemotional; his position required it. Feelings led to weakness that would always be exploited. Jon had buried them all, long ago.

Outside in the courtyard, a dog barked.

It sounded just like Caesar. Horrified, Jon screwed up his eyes against the memory. It was not buried after all. His father, the gun, the boy and his beloved dog. A gundog that was gun shy. There had to be a test, his father had said. If Caesar was gun shy, he must be shot so that he could not breed. The first barrel had proved it beyond doubt. Caesar had been shivering with fear. The second barrel had ended his life. Jon, at ten years old, had been forced to pull the trigger. And then to fetch a shovel and bury his best friend. He had never had another.

The Aubreys were friends, surely?

No. The Aubreys treated him almost like a son—and they called each other ‘friends’—but Jon had never granted them the intimacy of true friendship. They knew how much he had mourned for his dead brother, but they knew nothing else. Once Jon became his father’s heir, he had never confided in anyone. The burdens of his childhood and his marriage were his to bear. As were the horrors of war. He would bear them alone.

‘Forgive me, Miss Beth, but I am curious. You have no memory of your life before you came to Lower Frat
combe and yet you do remember how to sing. Quite beautifully, too. How does that come about?’

They were in company again for the first time since that dinner party in her honour. In the intervening two weeks, they had not exchanged a single word. She had thought about him, dreamt about him constantly, but since he seemed determined to maintain a certain distance, she had had to comply. At church, they had merely bowed. Now, walking across his park and with a chance to converse at last, the first thing he did was to question her about her singing?

Beth sensed increasing suspicion. Jonathan was wondering whether her lack of memory was a fraud. Deep hurt settled in her gut, where it began to eat away at the fragile self-esteem she had worked so hard to build. He had lauded her in public, at the dinner. Now, in private, he was set on cutting her down. She had been wrong to hope he trusted her. He was not her champion at all.

He was waiting for her answer. He looked implacable. Like an inquisitor.

‘I cannot explain it. I must have been taught, I suppose, at some time in my past life. Like…like learning to read. Or to write. I can still do both of those, but I have no memory of how or when I learned. You do not find it strange that I can read and write. Why should singing be different? It is simply one more basic skill.’ When he still looked doubtful, her pent-up feelings overcame her and she rounded on him. ‘I see that you do not believe me, sir. That being so, I shall relieve you of my presence.’

She turned on her heel and began to march back towards the Manor and the safety of the Aubreys’
company. She could see them in the distance, strolling contentedly around the flower garden by the house. She would join them. Unlike Jonathan, they did not doubt her honesty.

She had gone barely half a dozen steps when he caught her by the arm and forced her to stop. His fingers were almost biting into her flesh through her fine Norwich shawl. She froze, refusing to turn to look at him. ‘Please release me, sir.’ Her voice was a low, angry hiss. How could he do such a thing? This—their very first touch since the party—was neither friendly nor gentle. This was nothing like the touch she had longed for. She needed to get away from him. In a moment, her head would start to pound.

He relaxed his grip a little, but he did not let her go until he had moved to stand directly in front of her, blocking her path. Then he dropped his hand. ‘I apologise, ma’am, both for my words and for my actions just now. It was not my intention to insult you.’ He raised his hand and stood gazing down at his cupped fingers as if they belonged to someone else, as if they had chosen, of their own volition, to seize Beth so roughly. After a moment, he shrugged and dropped his arm. He seemed perplexed.

She could not begin to understand him. He had been so intent on using that party to restore her to her rightful place in society, but then he had spent two whole weeks practically ignoring her. The change dated, she realised with a start, from the moment he had heard her sing. Without a shred of evidence, he had apparently concluded, there and then, that she was a fraud. And to be shunned.

Had he invited Beth and the Aubreys to visit the Manor this afternoon so that he could question her in private? She had assumed, naively, that it was a kindness to the Aubreys, because the sun was shining for the first time in a fortnight. Was he so very devious?

‘Miss Aubrey.’ His voice was low, almost inaudible.

Beth was staring at the lush grass beneath her boots and refusing to look at him. She dared not think about him, either, lest her body betray her yet again. She focused instead on the salutary effect of two weeks of rain on the growth of grass.

‘I will escort you back to the house if that is your wish, ma’am. But may I not tempt you to walk with me as far as the lake? You must be feeling the want of exercise after so many days of rain. I admit I do myself.’ He paused. His voice softened even more. ‘May we not call a truce?’

It was a real apology this time, not just mere words, Beth decided. She raised her head and looked into his face. His eyes were troubled and he was frowning. Conscience, perhaps? Well, she would show him that she was not to be cowed, no matter what he might say of her. She was not such a poor creature. ‘If you continue to frown so blackly at me, sir, I shall not accept your escort at all.’ He blinked in surprise, but his frown disappeared on the instant. That made her smile. ‘Much better. I accept your offer of a truce. Let us talk of nothing in the past, neither mine nor yours. Shall we agree on that?’

A fleeting shadow crossed his face. Then he, too, smiled. ‘I am only now coming to understand how wise you are, ma’am. Will you allow me to say that I have
missed our conversations these last weeks? You have such a refreshing way of seeing the world.’

Beth felt herself beginning to blush. This would not do at all. ‘Just at this moment, sir,’ she replied a little tartly, ‘I should like to be refreshed by walking up to your lake so that we may discuss the…the—’ she scanned the rolling parkland, desperate to light on an innocent topic of conversation ‘—the rearing of sheep,’ she finished triumphantly.

He threw back his head and laughed heartily.

Beth found herself laughing, too. Her absurd remark had served to break the increasing tension between them.

He offered Beth his arm. He was still grinning. ‘Let us walk then, ma’am, and I shall do my best to enlighten you on the subject of…er…sheep.’ When Beth hesitated a little, wary of his touch, he took her arm—gently this time—and tucked it into his. ‘There. That is much better.’

To her surprise, it was. For once, her insides were not churning simply because her fingers were on his arm. She refused to let herself dwell on the strength of the muscles beneath that elegant sleeve. She would concentrate solely on the scenery. Surely she had enough self-control for that?

They began to walk towards the distant lake. Beth noticed that he was matching his stride to hers. He was again the considerate companion.

He managed a couple of extremely general sentences about the size of his flock. ‘And of course, warm weather and rain make the grass grow strongly which is, in turn, good for the sheep. More wool and more meat.’

Beth waited politely for him to continue. He did not. They walked on for another twenty yards. Still nothing. Now it was Beth’s turn to burst out laughing. ‘Have you imparted the full extent of your knowledge of sheep, sir? That they do better when they have good grass to eat?’ She could not stop laughing. ‘I do believe that the five year olds in my schoolroom could have told me that. You, sir, are a fraud.’

He shook his head in mock contrition. ‘Yes, I fear I am. Sadly, I spent too much of my youth dreaming about the army. I was not the heir, you see, so there was no point in my learning to manage the estates. I—’

Beth stopped him by the simple expedient of laying her free hand on his arm. ‘Nothing of the past,’ she said softly. Then, after a short pause, she began brightly, ‘Tell me, sir, do you have many trout in your lake?’ She waved her free hand in the general direction of the water. It was much safer than leaving all her fingers in contact with his warm, tempting flesh.

She had lit on a subject he did understand. He spoke at some length about his love of fishing and of the fine specimens that had been taken from the lake over the years. ‘Do you fish, Miss Beth? Many ladies do.’

‘I…I don’t know.’ There was no point in racking her brains over it. If there was a memory, it would refuse to show itself, as always. Perhaps, if he put a rod in her hand, she would do it automatically? Perhaps the body remembered such things all by itself, just like writing or singing?

He laid his free hand over hers for a moment in a brief gesture of reassurance. ‘Forgive me. That was clumsy of me. And in breach of our agreement, besides. But if
you would like to learn to fish, I should be more than happy to teach you. I—’ He stopped dead, struck by some sudden thought. ‘Ah, no. Not this year. What a pity.’

The shock of his words numbed her senses as surely as a cascade of icy water. He must be planning to leave again soon. She was going to lose even those brief chances to feast her eyes on him. Beth’s throat was suddenly too tight for speech. Her silver-armoured knight had delivered her to safety and now he was about to ride off in search of new adventures, perhaps to rescue some other lady in distress.

If there had been anguish in her face, he had not noticed it, for he continued, as if thinking aloud. ‘Riding, now, is a different matter. That can be enjoyed all year round. I wonder, Miss Beth, if you ride? No, do not tell me that you do not know. Tell me instead that you are willing to give it a try. Let me mount you on my most biddable mare and then we shall both see whether you know what you are doing in the saddle.’