An Ivy Hill Christmas Page 3
His mother replied, “Justina is young and will have other opportunities to meet an eligible gentleman. I had hoped Edward Winspear would accept our invitation, but alas, he sent his regrets. He is spending the holiday in Town this year.”
“Lucky man,” Richard quipped.
Her lips curved in a sour smile. “Justina is not yet twenty, but you are nearly thirty, Richard. It is time you married.”
Richard’s face stiffened. “I am aware of my age, Mamma.”
“There is one woman in particular I wish you to spend time with during the house party. Arabella Awdry.”
“I have met the Miss Awdrys in the past, Mamma.”
“You may have met Arabella in passing, but it has been several years since you have spent any time in each other’s company.”
“I remember her as a skinny, silly, giggling thing, forever making doe eyes at me.”
“I think you will find her much improved.”
“If she is so wonderful, why didn’t Timothy marry her? I recall that once being your aim.”
“You know why. His heart has long been attached elsewhere. But Arabella is lovely and accomplished and would make an excellent wife.”
“Mamma . . .” Justina tsked. “You have just crushed any hope of Richard pursuing Arabella. You must realize that if you push him in her direction, he will do the opposite, just to spite you.”
Richard nodded his agreement. His sister knew him too well.
“I sincerely hope that is not the case.”
After his mother retired, Richard talked to Justina for half an hour longer, then finally trudged up to his old room, kept for him all these years, though he rarely visited.
There were his old books and memorabilia of his school days and his time at university—good memories and bad. In the wardrobe hung a few out-of-fashion frockcoats and pantaloons, worn gloves, riding boots, and a perfectly good beaver hat he’d forgotten about. Ah well, he’d bought himself others.
He saw the hinged wooden box on his bookcase—a beautiful box of polished acacia wood. Seth, his boyhood friend, had brought it home on his first leave.
He would never have allowed himself otherwise, but he was feeling unusually nostalgic. He opened the box and peered inside. Empty, except for the single letter Seth had sent him before he died. But it wasn’t really Seth he was thinking of. It was Seth’s sister, Susanna, whose face flickered through his mind. And with her memory, came the guilt.
He slammed the lid shut.
CHAPTER
Three
True to Justina’s prediction, Richard decided to make sure his first encounter with Arabella Awdry went poorly indeed. He planned to make it abundantly clear from the outset that he had no interest in her, or in marriage in general.
That way she would not weary herself or him throughout the rest of the holiday by mooning after him, and she could cast her hook at someone else instead. And then Mamma, seeing it was hopeless, would let off the pressure as well. Yes, he would have to shoulder his mother’s cold anger, but he was used to her disapproval, and better that than a simpering female following him around like a lost puppy throughout the twelve days of Christmas. One besotted pet was enough.
He spent the day working on revisions and then enjoyed an hour respite, during which he easily bested Murray in two games of billiards.
In the evening, he dressed with care, tying his cravat into a fussy waterfall style Pickering would never have managed. He then directed his valet to shave points into his side-whiskers and curl and arrange his hair over his brow in Brutus style.
“Curl, sir?”
“Yes, curl.”
Pickering’s frown betrayed his opinion, but he said in his weary monotone, “Very good, sir.”
When he was finished, Richard asked, “Well, how do I look?”
“Like a fop, sir.”
Richard beamed. “Excellent.”
He left his room at last. Wally, similarly attired, trotted beside him.
He met David Murray at the top of the stairs, and his friend glanced at him once, and then again, but made no comment. Murray looked uncomfortable in one of Richard’s evening coats, which fit him a bit snugly. Thankfully, Pickering had tacked up the too-long sleeves.
As they descended together, Murray whispered, “I am out of my depth here, man. Sure to call a duke a sir or a sir a lord. Lord help me.”
Richard grinned. “No dukes or lords to worry about tonight.”
“Thank heaven for that.”
The houseguests began to arrive. Richard led Murray into the billiards room and from its threshold quietly appraised the players assembling in the hall.
The first was a young man of average height with light brown hair, fair eyes, and a ready smile. “That’s Horace Bingley. Good-hearted fellow, bruising rider, though a bit of a dunderhead.”
“How do I address him?”
“‘Mr. Bingley, I hear you are an excellent rider.’ You shan’t edge in a word after that.”
He pointed next to a woman who matched Horace’s height and nearly his breadth of shoulder, with plain features and thin brown hair. “That big-boned Amazon is Sir Cyril Awdry’s sister Penelope. She’s twice the man her bird-witted brother is.”
Murray swallowed. “And I call her . . . ?”
“Whenever you need a second in a fight or want to be bested in a shooting competition.”
His mother’s pug trotted across the hall and sat at Penelope’s feet. Wally, not to be outdone, went over to join them. Richard hoped the dogs did not mistake the tall woman for a tree.
Richard’s gaze swept the hall. “They have a younger sister too. But I don’t see her at the moment.”
From behind them, soft footprints approached. A lithe figure swept past and into the hall. Murray started, and Richard felt a pinch of unease. He had not realized anyone was there. One of the female guests visiting the indoor water closet at the end of the passage, perhaps. How much had she overheard?
The willowy female approached his mother, engaging her in low conversation, her back to them, her posture excellent. Her honey blond hair was styled in a simple coiffure, and she wore a fashionable ivory gown with a lower waistline that accentuated her trim, delicately curved torso.
Richard took a deep breath. “Well, we had better join the others before Mamma sends out a search party.”
As they slipped into the hall, his mother caught sight of him. “Ah, here is Richard now.”
The female turned. He catalogued a proud bearing, fine features, slender neck, and exquisite collarbones.
His mother said, “You remember Miss Arabella Awdry?”
Richard cast the young woman a purposely blank look, then turned to his parent. “I . . . believe so.” Richard did remember Arabella Awdry, but he didn’t want to encourage her or his mother. So he’d delivered his opening gambit as he’d intended, but he’d almost faltered. Arabella was far prettier than he recalled.
“Don’t be foolish, Richard. Of course you do. You two have met on several occasions in the past.”
“The distant past, Lady Barbara,” Miss Awdry said evenly. “No doubt Mr. Brockwell meets many, many women in his whirlwind social life.”
“True.” He fluffed his cravat and flashed a disarming smile at her sister. “Now you, Miss Penelope, I do recall. You make a big impression wherever you go.”
Arabella shot him a look.
He innocently met her gaze. “What? I meant it as a compliment.”
Horace Bingley laughed somewhat nervously. “I quite agree, Brockwell. Miss Awdry is unforgettable.”
Lady Barbara ended the awkward moment by turning to introduce Lady Lillian, Penelope and Arabella’s mother.
Richard then introduced his friend Murray to the others in the party.
Nicholas Ashford arrived, and Justina led him forward to introduce him to Richard, hope and worry sparking in her eyes. That she should desire his approval was touching and rather humbling. He did not deserve such regard.
“How do you do.”
The young man gave an awkward bow, his smooth boyish face ill at ease. Mr. Ashford was above average height and thin, making him appear perhaps taller than he was. He had light brown hair and bluish-green eyes. Not good enough for Justina was his instant judgment. But then he surveyed the man’s fine striped waistcoat, pristine cravat, and expertly tailored coat and altered his opinion.
Rachel joined them. “Oh good. I see you two gentlemen have met.” She added, “Nicholas is my distant cousin and the master of Thornvale.”
Richard nodded. “So Justina has told me.”
Nicholas Ashford reddened and said diffidently, “‘Master’ sounds so grand. I am just a man, trying to do my duty by Thornvale.”
“And I am sure you do so admirably,” Justina soothed.
The young man’s shy, admiring gaze rested on his little sister. Looking from one to the other, Richard felt an odd parental pain in his chest as he realized he was no longer first in Justina’s heart.
At the appointed time, they all sat down to dinner. At Richard’s command, Wally sat outside the dining room door and watched the meal from a respectable distance, though the dog clearly longed to partake. Richard glanced at him, for a moment wishing he could be outside the room as well. His mother had arranged for him to sit next to Arabella. Thankfully, Lady Lillian had maneuvered Horace directly across from her and next to Penelope. Chatty Mr. Bingley talked eagerly to both sisters, leaving Richard in relative peace.
Soon Arabella turned to Mr. Murray and engaged him in intelligent conversation, asking about his background, his magazine, and the world of publishing.
Richard began to feel a little left out.
Idiot, he chastised himself. Was this not what he wanted? To discourage any attachments? Stick with the plan, Brockwell.
After the women withdrew and the men were alone in the dining room, Murray leaned near him and hissed, “Are you insane? Miss Awdry is an angel. An absolute angel. And if you can’t see that, then you are the dunderhead, not Mr. Bingley.”
Richard shrugged. “If you are so smitten, perhaps you ought to pursue her yourself.”
“As if she would ever seriously consider a man like me.”
It was likely true, Richard silently assented, but to his friend, he said, “You never know. Silly females sometimes surprise one.”
Eventually, they joined the women in the drawing room.
As soon as he entered, Justina took him aside. “What do you think of Mr. Ashford?”
“He seems an agreeable—if somewhat shy—young man. Do you truly like him?”
Eyes shining, Justina nodded. “I do.”
“Then I shall like him too.”
She squeezed him arm. “I knew you would.”
They all conversed for a time, but soon Justina begged for dancing. A troubled frown crossed Rachel’s face. “I have engaged someone to play for us later in the week but had not thought we would dance tonight. . . .”
The dowager Lady Awdry rose stiffly. “I shall play, if no one objects. That way, all the young ladies can dance. I am not familiar with the latest pieces but can play a French cotillion and several English country dances.”
Justina smiled at her. “Thank you, Lady Lillian.” She turned expectant eyes on Richard. He was surprised she would wish to dance with him with Mr. Ashford in attendance but would not miss his chance to dance with his little sister. Who knew how many more he would have?
He danced the first set with Justina while Horace danced with Arabella, Mr. Ashford with Penelope, and Rachel with Timothy. Murray sat out, looking ill-at-ease near Lady Barbara. Richard danced the second with Rachel, the other guests changing partners among themselves. He saw Lady Lillian tiring and began to think he would manage to avoid dancing with Arabella that night.
“One more!” Justina pleaded.
Lady Lillian replied, “Very well, but only one. I am done in.”
He decided to ask his mother for the last, and when he turned, there she stood. Wearing a grim, determined smile, she took Arabella’s arm and led her toward Richard in a rare lapse of tact.
“Richard, you have not yet danced with Miss Awdry. An oversight, I’m sure.”
Mortification flushed Miss Awdry’s cheeks. She looked down a moment, then rallied, raising her chin. “Indeed, my lady, I have not the least intention of dancing another. My slippers pinch.”
“Come, Miss Awdry, it is clear you take great pleasure in dancing.”
“The pleasure depends on the partner,” Arabella murmured.
Even Richard could not refuse in the face of his mother’s bold attack. Miss Awdry looked embarrassed enough already. And so dashed pretty . . .
He bowed. “I have been remiss indeed. May I have the next, Miss Arabella?”
“I . . .” She looked ready to refuse but faltered. “Thank you.”
Richard noticed the two matriarchs share conspiratorial looks of triumph.
When his mother moved away, Arabella quietly hissed, “Please don’t assume I asked your mother to do that.”
“I don’t. I saw the maternal force sweeping you along in her wake.”
She nodded. “Neither of our mothers is very subtle, I agree.”
The dance began.
As they bowed to one another and changed places, she said, “I suppose you dance a great deal in London?”
“No.”
“But you must be invited to many grand balls.”
“True.”
They stepped through another pattern in silence, then she huffed. “I don’t care a fig either way, but politeness dictates we should have some conversation.”
“Does it?”
“Are we to have silence the entire set? I don’t remember you ever being at a loss for words before.”
Another turn, and then they were standing out for a round at the bottom of the line. She tried again. “Were I one of your London debutantes, what would you talk about?”
He made no answer.
She said coolly, “I realize you are doing your utmost not to show me any marked attention, but by treating me with cold disdain rather than with the politeness you showed your other partners, you are singling me out indeed.”
He looked at her a moment, then tried a different tactic. “If you were a debutante, I would not be dancing with you, let alone talking to you. Now, if you were a wealthy widow . . .” He waggled his eyebrows and let the comment dangle.
She stared at him, mouth ajar. Speechless.
He took her hand again, preparing to rejoin the dance, but she withdrew her fingers from his grasp.
“Excuse me. I feel the need to go wash my hands.” She turned away in disgust.
Richard felt momentary triumph, but it quickly faded.
Murray appeared at his elbow. “Well done. You were dancing with the handsomest woman in the room.”
Richard shrugged. “Not my type.”
“No? What type is she?”
“Marriageable.”
Richard slipped out the door, retreating into that male bastion, the billiards room.
The tap tap tap of heeled slippers came down the passage a few minutes later—Miss Awdry on her way back from the water closet, no doubt. He was surprised when she entered the room.
He turned, a lazy smirk on his lips, and saw that her eyes were blazing mad.
Arabella marched toward him like an advancing soldier. “Now that I’ve had a moment to think, let me make something abundantly clear.” She drew herself up, her face flushed a delicate pink. “I have no interest in you, Richard Brockwell. I know you enjoy shocking people, but I am already familiar with your libertine reputation and would not accept you under any circumstances. So you can stop being rude, and we can both go back to pretending to enjoy the party for our families’ sakes. It is Christmastime, after all. And while I have your attention, I warn you not to say another word
against my sister. She is not ‘twice the man her brother is.’ She is a woman, with a woman’s heart and feelings. Not that you’ve ever cared about a woman’s feelings, except perhaps Justina’s. I will not tolerate any criticism of my beloved sister, any more than you would tolerate criticism of yours.”
“But mine is younger and doesn’t outweigh me by three stones.”
She slapped his face. Hard.
He schooled his expression, determined not to wince. Instead, he coolly turned his face and offered her the other cheek.
Her small nostrils flared.
“And my brother may not possess the sharp wit that you so heartlessly wield to injure others, but he is a kind, decent, and respectable man who does not deserve your cutting sarcasm. He is a far better man than you will ever be.”
Richard sobered. “You are absolutely right.”
For a moment she stilled, as if sifting his reply for latent insult, but finding none, she turned and stalked across the room.
At the door, she turned back. “If I hear any more unkind comments about my family, you will leave me no choice but to say something unkind about you, something I have kept secret for a decade. Don’t try me.”
She whirled away and quit the room.
Richard’s head pounded. Arabella might be genteel and ladylike in most respects, but clearly slights to her family brought out the worst in her. Or was it the best? Watching her regal posture as she strode away, head held high, Richard felt reluctant admiration for the favored young woman.
Murray came in and stood beside him. “Sorry. I overheard some of that. What secret was she talking about?”
Richard feigned a dismissive air. “Who knows with women?”
Then he turned away and downed a glass of brandy. The truth was, Richard had more than one skeleton in his closet. Had she somehow learned of the secret he had promised never to tell? If so, he hoped she would keep it to herself forever.
Arabella Awdry marshaled all of her self-possession and returned to the drawing room. She pinned a benign smile to her face as she entered, not wanting anyone to guess the emotions churning in her stomach.
Richard Brockwell could try the patience of a saint, and she was no saint.