Martha Barwood
Regency Romance Author
his Christmas ReluctantCountess
Prologue – Chapter One – Chapter Two
Prologue
London, 1815
Clarissa was frozen in place, her heart racing so wildly she felt that it might burst from her chest. Her hand shook as she read the letter held between her fingers.
My Dearest Clarissa,
I can deny this no longer. I am in love, and I am unable to hide it.
For many months, Mr Harrison has been more than just a tutor to me. He has been my light in the darkest of days. I have come to accept that I cannot live without him.
We have declared our feelings for one another, and I am to be his wife. We head to Gretna Green even as I write this.
I know the devastation this news will cause Mama and Papa, but they will not let me live as I must.
I love you with all my heart and can only pray that, in time, I will have your forgiveness.
Yours,
Catherine.
Clarissa drew in a long, painful breath and attempted to hold back the tears banked in her eyes. How could she? She crumpled the note between her palms, squeezing it forcefully. She wished for the ink to bleed into her skin and disappear, taking the painful truth with it.
How could this have happened?
Clarissa walked unsteadily to the entrance hall of the house. The familiar floor seemed to dance before her eyes as she attempted to compose herself. The walls about her were lined with family portraits going back generations, their stoic faces only serving to remind her of the Crompton legacy her sister had just destroyed.
Her family had always been among the most respected in the Ton—and now they were all ruined. Catherine had, with a single act of selfish recklessness, destroyed their reputation overnight.
“Clarissa?”
She turned, her eyes moving upward to the grand staircase. Her father’s portly form stood at the top of the steps; his brow furrowed as he descended toward her.
“Whatever is it, child? You look very unwell.”
Clarissa looked down at the letter in her hand.
Can I protect Catherine from my father’s fury? Is there any possibility that she will change her mind and return to us?
Clarissa closed her eyes in despair. She knew her sister. She was not someone who did things lightly. There would be no recompense for her now and no chance of saving any of them. Her father came level with her, his spectacles perched low on his nose, the scent of port on his breath. Clarissa handed him the letter without another word.
She did not wish to be there to witness the moment when he discovered the cruel truth. But what else was she to do, hide the letter and leave him to discover it from the gossipmongers?
He looked at her quizzically before his deep brown eyes began to scan the letter. Clarissa could not bear to watch, waiting for the moment when he—
“Good God!” he turned, crushing the letter in his fist. “Jarvis!” he called as the butler loped quickly into the hall behind him, his eyebrows raised in query at his master’s agitated state. “My horse, immediately!”
Clarissa watched her father storm across the hallway, the door slamming so loudly behind him that it shook the whole house. She could only pray that he reached Catherine in time to avert disaster.
There was a gentle patter of feet above her, and Clarissa felt dread swamp her as she saw her mother’s elegant figure appear on the landing balcony.
God help us all.
***
The scandal, when it broke, was worse than any of them could possibly have imagined. It felt to Clarissa as though society had been waiting for it to happen all along. It was almost as if they revelled in her family’s misery.
Her father had done everything in his power to recover Catherine and prevent the match, but he had been far too late. By the time he discovered her whereabouts, she had boarded a ship to Italy as ‘Mrs Harrison’ and was lost—perhaps forever.
The resulting shock for her mother had been swift and immediate. Soon, everyone knew that Lady Bernadette Crompton was confined to her bed. She suffered fits of hysterics that echoed about the halls of Crompton Manor like a death knell.
Friends they had known for years closed their doors to them, and invitations to balls and social occasions were rescinded almost overnight.
Clarissa, who had been enjoying a successful courtship with a promising young Lord, discovered that she had become a pariah by association. He cut all ties as though they had never known one another. Even Clarissa’s best friend, Charlotte Hayes, was forbidden from calling.
As the days drew on, Clarissa felt the cold sting of isolation grow ever sharper.
Her father retreated to his study. He would see and speak to no one but Clarissa. The servants were forbidden from disturbing him, and when she was finally permitted admittance, he was poring over maps of Italy, trying to discover where her sister might have gone.
Looking back on it, those had been the good days. To begin with, her father was determined to find Catherine, and she held out some hope. But after the first few weeks passed, his determination turned to rage.
For it was not only their social standing that was ruined. The Crompton fortunes were heavily tied to her father’s advantageous connections within the Ton, connections that were now shaken irrevocably—some beyond repair. Over time, their situation became increasingly difficult.
They still attended the balls to whom their invitations had not been revoked, but Clarissa had to endure the degradation of continuous, vicious glances and whispers behind her back. She felt bitterly betrayed by Charlotte. Her friend not only ignored her on such occasions but actually participated in the slander being spread about her. Catherine Crompton’s younger sister could not possibly be left untainted by such a scandal.
She did not have her dance card marked for the remainder of the season, and the doors of good society slowly closed about her.
Two months later, she stood at the top of the stairs looking down at her family home, feeling numb, as she often did these days. Catherine was gone, and the world was a very different place.
Clarissa watched Annabelle, their maid, walk slowly up the dark stairs, holding a tray of tea in her hands. Clarissa waited until the girl was almost upon her before stepping forward.
“I will take that, thank you.”
“Oh! Good morning, Miss Clarissa,” Annabelle said with an overly bright smile.
All the servants had been on tenterhooks for weeks. Clarissa had noticed the house was deathly quiet through the day, as though every member of their staff was tiptoeing about so as not to cause offence.
“Good morning, Annabelle,” Clarissa said, taking the tray from the maid’s hands and watching her brows raise in surprise. “You can go about your duties.”
The young girl nodded, bobbing a swift curtsy, before descending the steps again. Clarissa steeled herself, took a deep breath, and carried the tray into her mother’s room.
It was horribly gloomy inside. The heavy drapes were drawn day and night, a musty scent filling the air from the medicinal drafts the doctor had prescribed.
Clarissa walked across the room to the bed and placed the tea beside it. Her mother’s listless form barely stirred, and Clarissa sat on the bed to prepare the tea, waiting to see if she might speak today.
There was no response as she held a cup and saucer out. It hovered precariously in her fingers before she put it down with a sigh.
“How are you faring today, Mama?” she asked.
“Has Catherine been found?” The perpetual question.
“Papa is doing everything he can.”
“She will never be discovered,” came her mother’s croaking voice. “She will be killed at sea.”
Clarissa felt her throat tighten at the possibility that her sister was not only an outcast but in significant danger. She had not known Harrison well, and she could only hope that he was a good man and would care for Catherine as she deserved.
“Are you feeling any better?” she tried again.
Her mother’s trembling hand stretched out from the bed. She desperately clutched Clarissa’s fingers as those familiar green eyes looked up at her imploringly.
“Lord Warrington, has he called?”
Clarissa kept the blank mask on her face even as her heart beat faster. Lord Felix Warrington had been her suitor for much of the season. Indeed, she had been expecting an imminent proposal from him.
She had lied to her mother about him every day for the last two months. She had not wanted to be the cause of more pain. But she could not do it anymore.
“No, Mama. I do not believe he will be calling again.”
The change was almost instantaneous. Her mother began thrashing; great wails ripped from her throat as her arms flailed wildly, a fit coming on so suddenly Clarissa was almost struck across the face in her haste to rise.
She rushed from the room, jerking to a halt as Annabelle ran back up the stairs toward her.
“Call for the doctor,” Clarissa said urgently. “Tell him to come at once.”
Annabelle took to her task, leaving Clarissa feeling utterly helpless as she listened to her mother’s desperate cries through the walls.
Perhaps I should have lied for the remainder of my life to appease my mother, she thought bitterly. I could have fooled everyone into believing that any man would still look at me.
Her jaw tightened, and she placed her hands on her stomach with determination, interlacing her fingers and clenching her teeth.
If she could not live her life as she once had, then she would need to carve out a new one. Her father needed her help, as did her mother. With Catherine gone, she was now the oldest daughter in the house. She would rise to the task of assisting her parents however she could.
Perhaps society had abandoned them, but she would do everything in her power to ensure that their family did not crumble into nothing. Clarissa had no suitors, prospects, or future and she would have to find a way to accept that. At the tender age of eight and ten, she was a spinster.
Her decision made, she went back into the bedroom, determined to hold her mother’s hand until the doctor arrived. It was all she could do.
As the months became years and the Cromptons settled into their new life on the fringes of society, their once vivacious and hopeful daughter became withdrawn, stoic, and old beyond her years.
She was devoted to her parents and rebuilding their shattered lives, but she had no time for her own happiness, love, or anything to do with it.
Chapter One
The Country, 1818
The rays of the sun flooded through the high, mullioned windows of the drawing room. As usual, Clarissa was up before the lark, looking out on the wide expanse of the gardens at their country estate.
A robin was pecking at the lawn amidst the snow, and she had been watching him for some time. Over the years, she had learned that little distractions could be a balm for the soul.
His merry red breast fluttered about, his beak burrowing into the hardened ground beneath. The gardener had left a spade in one of the beds, and the little bird fluttered up onto the handle. It was an image straight from a Christmas card. She smiled at him, wondering how he might spend the remainder of his day and whether he would successfully catch the worm.
She had already had a productive morning herself, settling several matters with the housekeeper and writing three letters—all before her father was out of bed. As she waited for her tea to be brought to her, she turned her face up to the sun, feeling the faint warmth of it over her skin.
The snow had settled on the ground overnight, carpeting everything in a blanket of glistening white diamonds. She sighed as she looked out at it. No doubt her mother would fuss terribly if she took a turn about the grounds later, but she was determined to do so.
The door opened, and their maid entered. She had been with the Crompton family for many years and had a severe stoop that Clarissa found hard to look at. She carried the tray expertly, but Clarissa could not imagine she was comfortable.
Clarissa stepped forward, took the tray, and placed it on the side table beside the settee. She smiled at the maid.
“Thank you, Poppy. How are you this morning?”
“Oh, cannot complain, Miss Crompton.”
“Is there enough coal below stairs for the fires to remain lit?” she asked. “It is a bitterly cold day.”
“Indeed, Miss Crompton, with the ovens in the kitchen, it is quite pleasant. Too many bodies to feel the cold down there. Never fear.”
Clarissa had spent a great deal of her time analysing her father’s accounts over the years. At first, he had forbidden her from any such notion, but as the toll on his faculties had risen, she had begun to assist him more and more. During the winter months, she had taken to deliberately diverting funds, that they might otherwise have spent on her wardrobe or her mother’s frivolities, to the servants’ quarters. She knew how abominably cold it could become with snow on the ground.
“Very well, thank you, Poppy. Is Papa awake, as yet?”
“His Lordship is in his study. I have brought him some tea. I believe Miss Emily was looking for you.”
“Do send her in.”
Clarissa smiled. She could already hear her cousin’s pattering footsteps approaching.
Emily burst into the room only seconds after Poppy had left it. Her dark brown hair was curled in ringlets at either side of her face, and her round, happy expression always brought joy to Clarissa’s heart.
“Clary,” Emily said, sounding pained. “You promised to wake me up. Look at the snow! I could not believe it when I opened my eyes this morning. Have you ever seen anything more beautiful in your life?”
Clarissa chuckled as her ebullient cousin practically ran to the window. If she had been five years younger, she might have pressed her nose against the glass, but thankfully, at nearly eighteen, she had a little more decorum than that.
“One would think you had never seen snow before,” she said teasingly.
“Not in the country! This is my first Christmas here.”
Emily had come to live with them two years earlier when Clarissa’s uncle tragically died in a riding accident. Lord Crompton had welcomed Emily into the bosom of the family without delay. She was a dear girl, although her enthusiasm and excitement could be tiring at times. She was still not out in society, given the concerns her father retained over allowing this too early, but she was charismatic, beautiful, and strong in character.
Clarissa had taken a little while to grow used to her, however. When Emily arrived, Clarissa felt bitter toward her parents for their obvious excitement and happiness at having two girls in the house again. Despite her own confusing feelings toward Catherine, she still missed her sister terribly and did not like the idea that Emily had been adopted as a replacement.
Since then, however, she had grown to love her dearly. How could she not when the girl was such a ball of happiness?
“Would you like some tea? You are going to wear out the carpet if you hop about like that.”
Emily turned with a grin and came to sit beside her as Clarissa poured some tea for them both. For a blissful moment, all was quiet as Emily sat back on her chair, staring out the window and sipping her tea, her eyes twinkling merrily.
Clarissa settled herself, sighing contentedly and listening to the crackle of the fire. There were three letters beside the teapot that she had not immediately observed, and she now picked them up. Two of them were bills for services rendered. The third she did not recognize and frowned at it.
She opened it without much cause for alarm until she read the missive inside. Clarissa swallowed convulsively, her fingers tightening on the paper, noting its quality and thickness.
They had been invited to a house party at Lady Eleanor Kingston’s country estate. Clarissa rose to her feet and then abruptly sat down again as Emily turned to stare at her in surprise.
She read it again, but there could be no mistake. Lady Eleanor expected the ‘pleasure of their company’ for Christmas.
She suddenly found it hard to breathe and tried her best to tamp down the nervous energy fluttering through her body. It had been a very long time since anyone in good society had thought of the Crompton’s and pleasurable company in the same sentence.
“What is it, Clarissa? You have gone very pale,” Emily said, a little frown marring her face.
Clarissa startled as the door opened behind them, and her mother entered the room. Her mother had an elegant stride, which Clarissa had always admired. They were almost as tall as one another now, but Clarissa had never been able to emulate her poise.
Lady Crompton wore a long plum gown of fine silk. Her blonde hair, streaked with grey, was twisted atop her head in a complicated construction, her expression tight and irritated.
“Good morning, Mama,” Clarissa said carefully.
“Good morning, Aunt,” Emily piped up.
Clarissa swiftly hid the invitation behind her back, giving a warning look to her cousin. Her mother walked immediately to the fire, plucking a discarded shawl from the back of one of the armchairs and flicking an irritated glance at her daughter as she pulled it about her shoulders.
“It is so cold in the house, Clarissa. Are we to have no fires this winter?”
It was an old argument.
Her mother was used to luxury and had not adapted well to being excluded from society. Although her father’s business dealings had picked up in recent months, Clarissa was still loath to overindulge in buying coal. Lady Crompton would have burned all the wood in the estate on the first day of winter if she had her way.
“I will ask Poppy to bank it up for you, Mama. Have you seen the snow? It is so beautiful.”
“It is a nuisance for getting about,” her mother snapped, placing her hands closer to the fire and sighing heavily. “I would give a great deal to live throughout the year in the sunshine. I cannot abide all this cold.”
After a short pause, her shoulders relaxed slightly, and she turned to Clarissa with a half-smile. “I am sorry; I fear I have not had enough sleep.”
“Papa’s slumber has not improved, I take it?” Clarissa inquired gently.
Her mother cast her a fatigue glance. “It has only worsened.”
They shared a smile, and her mother came to sit beside Emily as she poured her a cup of tea. Lady Crompton’s gaze settled on the letters at Clarissa’s elbow, a frown on her face as she noticed the discarded envelope from the invitation.
Clarissa knew instinctively that there was no use concealing it any longer. Her mother would merely root it out anyway. She pulled it from her side and handed it over. Emily’s eager eyes tried to read it while it was upside down under her nose, but she was not quick enough.
“We have received an invitation to a Christmas house party from Lady Eleanor Kingston,” Clarissa said quickly, watching the surprise ripple over her mother’s face.
“Lady Eleanor?” Lady Crompton replied weakly. “I see.”
She proceeded to do the same thing that Clarissa had done, reading the invitation and then reading it again as though to ensure it was genuine. She looked at the back, the front, and then the back again, then lowered it to her lap.
Clarissa waited, dreading the reaction before it came but knowing there was no escaping it.
“Oh, this is wonderful,” her mother exclaimed, leaping to her feet and walking to the fire. She began pacing in front of it, her hands gripping the invitation like a lifeline. She rang for a servant immediately, and a footman entered the room. “Please ask Lord Crompton to join us at his earliest convenience.”
The footman disappeared again, and Clarissa closed her eyes, begging for patience.
“Mama…”
“Lady Eleanor has always been one of my closest friends; I knew she would not abandon us like the rest of them.” She read the invitation again. “Just think of it, Clarissa, a house party for Christmas! There could be any number of people there to whom we are not yet acquainted. It has been so long since… this could be just what we need.”
Her mother never mentioned the elopement or said Catherine’s name aloud, and neither did her father. She was always simply referred to as ‘your sister’.
Despite knowing that her parents did not wish her ill, Clarissa could not help but take the phrase personally. It sounded accusatory, as though she were tainted by her sister’s disgrace.
“Are we truly going to a party?” Emily asked, her eyes sparkling with glee.
“Of course!” Lady Crompton said quickly. “How could we possibly refuse?”
“Mama,” Clarissa said again, her tone cautious and measured, “consider the potential risks.”
Lady Crompton stopped pacing and turned to glare at her. “Risks? What risks?”
Clarissa cleared her throat. “Lady Eleanor may wish for us to attend, it is true, but the very people we would be circulating with might still shun us as a family. It could be yet another humiliation and there would be no escape. We would be guests in a house where we do not belong amongst animosity and derision. We attended so many balls to ‘keep up appearances,’ and I need not remind you how difficult they were by the end.”
“Oh Heavens,” her mother exclaimed. “Those balls were directly after your sister left us. It has been so long that there will be, and have been, a host of new scandals for the gossips to sink their teeth into by now.”
“And if we make a misstep somehow amidst this new company? What then? We would be in a worse position than when we started.”
“Are you planning to misstep?” her mother asked, her eyes narrowing cruelly at Clarissa as though she was intentionally attempting to sabotage her mother’s good humour.
“Of course not, Mama, but—”
“Clarissa is right, my dear.”
They all turned at the deep voice from the doorway. Her father, Lord Robert Crompton, stood behind them, one hand still on the door handle. As he scanned the room, his gaze rested on Clarissa for a fraction longer than the others.
He closed the door behind him and walked into the room, cutting a smart figure in his morning coat. Although he was clean-shaven, he had always had a thick head of hair, and his sideburns and eyebrows had only grown bushier over the intervening years.
Clarissa’s mother hated them.
Lord Crompton took up his position by the fireplace as his wife repaired to one of the sofas. She sat very straight, the invitation still clutched in her elegant fingers.
“What do you mean, my dear?” she asked, feigning nonchalance. “You cannot possibly be considering refusing?”
Her father turned to Clarissa, those bushy eyebrows raising to his hairline.
“Well, Clary? It is you who has shouldered the burdens for this family over the past few years. I think it fair that we hear your views.”
Her mother scoffed derisively. “We have already heard her views—”
“Bernadette,” her father said with quiet comment. “Please let our daughter speak,” and Lady Crompton fell into an uncomfortable silence.
Clarissa hesitated, feeling her mother’s gaze burning into her skin.
It was true; she had shouldered much of the weight of her sister’s disgrace to protect her family. She had continued with her charitable work, attempting, where she could, to be seen within their local community. She had attended a few smaller functions, forcing herself to mingle with friends who had turned their backs on her and making polite conversation with the dregs of their social circle.
She did not miss those days. In the end it had done her little good.
In truth, if Clarissa could have torn up Lady Eleanor’s invitation and thrown it into the fire, she would have. She had no wish to walk into a room and find herself the subject of gossip ever again.
And yet…is this our chance at redemption?
Lady Eleanor was exceptionally well connected, not to mention her influence with the Ton knew no bounds. If they could return to her good graces, they might just stand a chance of being accepted back into society by next season. It was perhaps a fool’s hope, but a hope, nonetheless.
She stared at the paper in her mother’s hands as her mind dragged her back to that awful day three years before. She would never forget finding her sister’s note—the spiked, urgent handwriting so unlike Catherine’s neatly looping style. In a few sentences, her sister had managed to destroy everything their family had carefully built over decades. Clarissa felt the familiar ache in her chest at the memory and tried to tamp down her own reaction, aware of her mother’s eyes still fixed on her face.
The idea of returning to society terrified her, but remaining as she was, with no hope of a better life or a good marriage, would be worse.
She glanced at Emily. Her cousin deserved to have a future, too. Someone so happy and carefree, just as Clarissa had once been, should not be downtrodden by Catherine’s mistakes.
“We must attend,” her mother interjected, giving up on hearing any response from Clarissa. “Refusing would surely be seen as an admission of shame. And the shame is not ours.”
Clarissa clenched her fists, and Emily came to sit beside her, taking her hand. Her cousin knew very well how much Clarissa hated negative remarks about Catherine. Sometimes, the two cousins would discuss her secretly before they went to bed. They would imagine the exotic life she lived in Italy. In Clarissa’s mind, Catherine was achingly happy and that was the way she wished her to remain.
She supposed she should have resented her after everything her departure had put her through. But Clarissa could not find it in her heart to do so. In the long years of her absence, Clarissa had come to recognize how brave Catherine had been. Foolish—to be sure—but brave enough to follow her heart.
Her mother’s voice became almost desperate.
“We have been hiding in the countryside for three seasons. We have barely been seen in town and avoided all social functions, only entertaining our closest and dearest friends who still do not invite us to their soirees. This is our chance, Robert.”
Her mother stood up, going to her husband and gripping his hands, looking at him imploringly.
As her parents began to speak urgently with one another in hushed voices, Clarissa’s gaze floated to the window. The snow had begun to fall again. She watched it whirl and twist against the pane. She could sympathize with the nervous twitches of each snowflake as they floated to the ground, trying to find their place in a changeable world.
Her family had been ostracised for three long and tumultuous years; perhaps it was time for things to change.
She looked back to her parents as silence fell. All the eyes in the room were now trained on her. The whole family was waiting to hear her decision.
“We will go,” she stated finally, watching the smile bloom across her mother’s face.
Chapter Two
Lord Nicholas Bolton looked out of the window, frowning at the snow, hoping his ire might melt it all away. He was only back in England for two weeks and already missing the heat of southern Europe.
He had quite forgotten how chilly England could become at this time of year.
It was beautiful, though. The trees were hunkered down as though tucked under a great white sheet; their limbs outlined in silver frost contrasting against their dark trunks.
The gardener had yet to clear the pathways around Lady Eleanor’s gardens, and they were peaceful, still, and calm.
Nicholas had no time for such things.
He harrumphed good-naturedly, drumming his fingers against the polished wood of the windowsill, imagining he was back in the south of France beside the sea again. For the tenth time that morning, he reminded himself that he could not abandon his duties indefinitely and that it was just those duties and obligations that had necessitated his return.
A sharp knock at the door pulled him out of his melancholy, and he turned as his younger sister entered the room. She looked somewhat perplexed, her freckled face part joyful and part curious.
As soon as her wide blue eyes alighted on him, however, the joy eclipsed everything else, and she ran at him with such force that she almost knocked the air from his lungs.
“Good Lord, Rosemary, you have the strength of a mountain!” he said, chuckling at her as she looked up at him. She had grown in the two years he had been away, and his throat tightened as he thought of everything he had missed.
“I cannot believe you are really here,” Rosemary said, finally releasing him and stepping back. “When Aunt Eleanor told me you would be back for Christmas, I did not believe her.”
“And why not? I gave her my word, and I never break my promises.” His sister scoffed, and Nicholas gave a sharp laugh. “I have already told you I did not promise to bring you back a rocking horse, only that they have beautiful examples of them in Spain.”
“You should not write such descriptive passages about things you cannot bring home for me, then,” she said with a disgruntled frown. “I fell in love with them from your letters.”
Her nose crinkled disapprovingly at him. It was an expression he had never been able to resist when she was younger and now was no different.
“You are far too old for a rocking horse, Rosemary.”
“I would not have ridden it,” she protested. “I merely wished to admire it.”
She was now twenty years old. He could not believe that the baby he had once held in his arms was out in society. At two and thirty, he felt ancient in comparison and wondered whether they would enjoy the same easy relationship they had once had now that she was a woman in her own right.
“Well, speaking of things one should not take onto a ship,” he said, unleashing his roguish smile, “a man I met did bring something very unusual aboard on my return journey to London.”
Rosemary rolled her eyes at him, knowing he was changing the subject, but her curiosity was peaked.
“What was it?” she asked eagerly.
“A magnificent parrot.”
Her eyes widened, and then she giggled prettily. “Nicholas, pray, do be serious.”
“I am quite sincere, I assure you. This parrot perched upon his shoulder at the dinner table each evening, a most splendid creature.”
Rosemary was staring at him now, flabbergasted. “But how?”
“Did I mention it could recite poetry?” He grinned, knowing she was captivated. “He informed me it was an extraordinary specimen, a rarity he could not bear to leave unattended in his cabin. He insisted on taking it with him wherever he went.”
“You are a fool if you think I shall believe such folly.”
“I ought to have penned a letter to describe its brilliance. I assure you, every word is true.”
She snorted in a most unladylike fashion and came to lean against the windowsill with him, looping her arm in his. He felt a flicker of guilt as he looked down at her sad expression and squeezed her arm gently. If she had missed him half as much as he had missed her, she had every reason to be unhappy he had stayed away so long.
They stood in companionable silence for some minutes, Nicholas simply enjoying the touch of one another. He had missed casual touches on his travels.
He had certainly not been without companionship—indeed, he had developed quite a reputation in certain circles—but real affection had been lacking. As he contemplated the top of his sister’s dark hair and wondered if she had finished growing yet, the door to the room opened to admit his Aunt Eleanor.
Nicholas straightened, noticing the familiar stern expression on her face. His aunt had been a wonderful guardian and a great companion to Rosemary, but she did have a rather waspish countenance when she was displeased. She could also be exceedingly elegant, but right at the moment, she was advancing on him like a knight about to tackle a dragon.
“Good morning, Aunt,” he hazarded, “you are looking so well these days.”
“None of that,” she said, waving him off and brushing a disapproving hand over Rosemary’s shoulder. “What are you wearing, child?” she asked as Rosemary looked down at herself rather self-consciously. “I have told you countless times that these ruffles are out of fashion. Is this not your dress from last season?”
“It is from last month, Aunt. The seamstress assured me that they were back in fashion.”
“Frivolity!” she said, although her tone was almost affectionate. “None of these modern ladies know how to dress if you ask me.”
Her green eyes swiveled to Nicholas, and he reminded himself he was two and thirty, not five years old anymore.
“You look like a fop,” she said, narrowing her eyes at his waistcoat. It was actually one of the more modest garments in his collection. His valet constantly bemoaned the colours he wore for evening occasions, and Nicholas rather enjoyed gently riling his aunt with his choices.
“Thank you, aunt,” he replied. She sucked in a breath and stuck a bony finger in his face.
“You are not yet too advanced in years to be taken to task over my knee, young man,” she proclaimed and seemed all the more furious when Nicholas chuckled.
“Over a waistcoat?”
“Over your conduct!” Nicholas’s smile quickly dimmed. “You have been exceedingly lax in your duties, both as my nephew and the heir apparent. I shall not hear another word of you gallivanting off to Europe for a second time in two weeks no less! It is high time you took up your father’s duties and found a suitable wife.”
Rosemary’s fingers clutched tightly to his arm in a silent show of support, and he was grateful for that.
She knew very well how Nicholas felt about marriage. However, before he could reply to his aunt, she had stalked across the room and sat down firmly on the chaise.
She flicked a hand at them, and they both dutifully sat opposite her. She was an exceedingly dapper woman, even in her dotage, and Nicholas could not help but admire how poised she was. The dark red gown she wore perfectly complimented her hair. Despite having exceedingly dark brown hair that often looked almost black, she was still without the grey streaks that her peers were sporting.
“My dear aunt, you know how I feel about settling down.”
Her shoulders remained stiff, her back straight as she eyed him carefully. “I have known of that for many years, my boy, and you have done nothing to persuade me otherwise. However, you are the next Earl of Bernewood. Do you intend to remain unmarried forever?”
If only I could, he thought bitterly.
“I do not wish to displease you, but I have greatly enjoyed my travels. I am in England for two weeks only, and I shall continue to manage things from Europe as I have been.”
“There have been delays throughout the last two years, and many matters of the estate need your attention.”
“I shall endeavour to see to them while I am here, aunt,” he said, flashing a smile. It usually could charm anyone, but his aunt’s face was deeply unimpressed.
It was almost worse when she sighed, her shoulders drooping as she stared at the carpet beneath her feet. He did not wish to evoke such a reaction in anyone, let alone a woman whose opinion he valued so highly.
“Nicholas,” Eleanor began with forced patience. “You are a wonderful man, with excellent prospects. I do not understand why you are so against the idea of matrimony. Would you not like a companion with whom you can share your fortune? Would you not wish to raise children of your own someday?”
Nicholas’s throat tightened at her words. They were so ordinary, yet they invoked a tremor of anxiety in his heart.
Yes, that is precisely what most men in my station would wish for. And I had it. I believed I had everything I wished for in the world in the palm of my hand, only to have it cruelly snatched away.
“Perhaps, one day,” he managed, “but, as it is, I enjoy my freedom. The estate would tie me to one place for too long, and I cannot think of anyone in society whom I admire enough to marry. I would wish for nothing more than to make you happy, Aunt Eleanor, you know that. But I cannot rush into these things.” He raised a hand as she opened her mouth. “I know you feel I have already taken too long about it, but I believe there is much I can learn on my travels to make me a better husband in the long run.”
Her eyes softened, and the familiar affection reappeared on her face. She sighed.
“Very well, then,” she shifted in her seat. “Do not take me for a fool. I know very well of your charm, Nicholas, and you will not unleash it upon me.”
Nicholas chuckled. “I would not dream of it,” he answered, breaking out his most ravishing smile to emphasize the point.
Eleanor closed her eyes as though praying for patience. “I expect you to be on your best behaviour for my Christmas house party,” she continued sternly. “I shall expect the Earl to be present, not my troublesome nephew.”
“Are they perhaps not one and the same?” he asked as she fixed him with a knowing glare.
“Best behaviour.”
“Of course, Aunt. I would never disgrace you,” he insisted merrily.
Finally, she chuckled, relaxing a little in her seat. Rosemary quickly asked her who she had invited to the party, and the conversation turned to the exclusive guest list.
Nicholas knew his sister was attempting to save him from more questions and accusations, and he was grateful to her for that.
However, despite his attempts to listen to what they were discussing, his mind lingered on the past. His aunt’s insistence upon him finding a bride always led to memories of Victoria. The same pain stuttered through his chest as he remembered her beautiful face and the dark depths into which he had fallen because of it.
He glanced at the window, surprised to see that the snow was falling again. He had always loved their country seat, but the house did bear unhappy memories. His eyes strayed to the portrait above the fireplace, his father’s steady gaze looking back at him.
Memories flooded to the front of his mind once again, as he recalled the fateful night he had come to the Bernewood Estate after receiving the doctor’s urgent missive.
It had been mere hours after his arrival that he had lost his beloved father. The shock had been immense.
At five and twenty, Nicholas was thrown into the whirlwind of duties that came with the title of Earl of Bernewood. He had been in no way ready for the responsibilities that suddenly weighed upon his shoulders. Society’s expectations were crushing enough, but the sheer number of decisions and choices he had had to make in the intervening weeks and months had almost overwhelmed him.
It had been a terrible time, and the bright, shining light that had emerged from the darkness had been Victoria.
He had believed her to be perfect for him in every way. A tall, willowy woman with striking red hair, who captured his heart almost immediately from across the floor. They had danced together in every ballroom that season. She was intelligent, witty, startlingly direct, and exactly what he thought he needed in a wife.
Then, an innocent wrong turn at the final ball of the season had him walking in upon her in a compromising position with another man. Nicholas had stood frozen in the doorway in utter disbelief as Victoria had slowly lowered her leg from the man’s groping fingers and turned to him in surprise.
She had laughed at him—joked with him about his affections. She had been cruel and heartless and had made it exceedingly clear that his love had been one-sided.
He closed his eyes as he recalled the desperate letters he had sent her after the event, insisting all would be forgiven and that they could still be together. The foolishness of youth.
Yet despite his own position and wealth, Victoria had chosen a Duke as her husband. She barely gave a second thought to the earl she had humiliated in the process.
Nicholas had not been able to bear it. He had chosen to go to Europe to escape the wretched reality of his broken heart and had abandoned his family at the same time.
He opened his eyes again, and his gaze moved to his sister. Her pretty countenance was alive with excitement as she discussed the party with her aunt. It had been a betrayal for him to leave her.
He had known it at the time but had been too focused on his own selfish pain to heed her pleas for him to stay. He had been gone for far too long, and although he could not agree to remain in England just yet, he knew that his next trip to Europe would be his last.
Another year or two. He promised himself. Then, I will fulfill her wishes and become the earl she wishes me to be.
“Nicholas!”
He was pulled from his thoughts by the realization that Rosemary and his aunt were looking at him expectantly.
“I told you he was not listening,” Rosemary said wearily.
“My apologies. I was considering how I might impress the guests. Perhaps I could learn to juggle? Or I could perform some sort of dance for them?” Despite her disapproval at his tone, his aunt could not entirely mask her smile.
“I was asking,” Rosemary continued, “if you remembered my friend Clarissa Crompton. Do you recall her?”
“I cannot say I do, although the name is familiar.”
“She has accepted our invitation!” Rosemary said, with great animation. “I have not seen her for so long. I was unsure if they would come at all. The scandal was so fresh the last time that I saw her. Thank you for inviting her family, aunt. I believe this will do them all good.”
“I agree; it is too cruel that they have been ostracized for so long,” his aunt said kindly, a slight frown across her brow.
“Now that they are attending, I cannot wait to see her,” Rosemary said excitedly. “She was so dear to me, and I can only hope that this will mean many more visits in the future.”
“Quiet, my dear,” Eleanor said easily. “I was not sure if they would come myself, but I have missed Lord and Lady Crompton’s company.”
Nicholas tried to recall these names being bandied about but came up with nothing. The Crompton name did stir something in the back of his mind, perhaps a scandal about a sister? He had heard it through a friend of a friend. But he had been abroad at the time it broke. London’s scandals were not so very important to him then.
As Rosemary and his aunt began to enthuse over the arrangements, he felt uncertain at the prospect of the upcoming party. It was a selective guest list, so at least he would not have to socialize with dozens of people. Yet, he would prefer it was just the three of them for Christmas.
He did not like socializing with people who saw him for his title and reputation alone. He had enjoyed freedoms in Europe that he could never have cultivated in England, but he was not naive enough to believe his exploits would not have reached English shores.
He had cultivated a carefree and open persona on the continent. Some might even call him a rake, but he did not regret losing himself to pleasure and vice. It had been a difficult time, and his freer proclivities had enabled him to move past the heartache—it had felt like a necessary evil. No, he did not regret it, but he was not proud of it.
The thought of packing his rakish ways into a box to become the man everyone expected him to be was not a fulfilling prospect.
He shifted in his seat, schooling his expression into neutral amusement. The easy-going man he presented to the world was not who he truly was. He was loathe to remind himself of who he had once been—the loving, dutiful fool Victoria had destroyed without hesitation.
He did not relish losing the life he had carefully built for himself, and yet a small part of him wondered whether that might not be for the best. Perhaps this Christmas would herald some changes.
One cannot persist on a lie forever.
