His Mistletoe Marchioness. Georgie Lee

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СКАЧАТЬ to view the manuscript and to remember everything she used to love about being in this room with her father, she’d walked right past him, unaware this entire time that he’d been watching her from the shadows.

      He closed the book and stood up a touch straighter. He’d gained some height and his chest had grown wider along with his shoulders since the last time she’d seen him. His dark blue coat highlighted the darker strands in his sandy brown hair and made the copper flecks in his light brown eyes stand out. He appeared more like a man than the boy who’d courted her six years ago before abandoning her for a richer woman.

      She worked hard to swallow down the old anger while she straightened the line of brass buttons on the front of the spencer covering the top of her London-made mauve dress. The entire time she prayed that the shock and agitation of seeing him again didn’t show on her face. No one had thought to tell her that he would be here. With so many other memories and feelings already leaving her raw, she didn’t need his presence conjuring up more for her to struggle with. ‘Lord Delamare, what a surprise to see you.’

      If he was shocked by her presence, he hid it well, his piercing brown eyes taking her in with an earnestness she couldn’t read. ‘I find myself in need of some Christmas joy. I always remembered finding it here at Stonedown, especially in the people.’

      He traced the leather corner of the book with a weariness she knew well. She’d lost interest in so many things after Alfred’s death and now faced the challenge of rediscovering life instead of wallowing in sorrow. Then, when she was on the verge of reclaiming the simple pleasures of a house party at Christmas, here was Lord Delamare to remind her of more unpleasant times and the awkward young woman she’d once been who’d fallen for his deceptive charms.

      She ceased her fiddling with the buttons and dropped her hands to her sides, striking as confident and regal a pose as she could muster. ‘One would think London would hold more joy for a lord of your reputation than the woodlands of Kent.’

      She tried to sound light, but the remark came off as sharp as the pop of sap on the logs in the fire. Given the tales she’d heard of him and his preference for London actresses in the last three years since his wife’s death, he’d appeared more bent on emulating his grandfather’s vices than his level-headed father’s virtues.

      ‘Not any more.’ He slapped the book against his palm, chafing at the remark before regaining his former composure. ‘My condolences on the passing of Lord Kingston. I met him a number of times in the House of Lords. He was one of the few men there who kept his word. He gained an admirable reputation because of it.’

      ‘Yes, he was a very trustworthy and loyal man.’ She fixed him with a pointed look. ‘If only all lords possessed such integrity.’

      He shoved the book back into its place on the shelf. ‘Sometimes, life has a way of beating the integrity out of a person.’

      ‘It didn’t beat it out of Alfred.’

      ‘Then he was a fortunate man, for many reasons.’

      She wondered if he included her in those reasons, but she doubted it. He’d made his decision and not looked back—neither should she. She reined in her irritation, determined to be cordial and polite. It would be a long week if she didn’t master that skill and her tongue in Hugh’s presence. ‘I’m very sorry about Lady Delamare, to be stolen away so young is a tragedy.’

      He laced his fingers in front of him, running his thumb over the empty place where his wedding ring must have once been, the loss in his expression striking a chord deep inside Clara. ‘Thank you.’

      A log in the fireplace collapsed, sending up a sea of sparks. The scent of burning oak permeated the heavy air between them.

      ‘My brother is here,’ she offered, trying to lighten the mood with the kind of small talk she preferred to engage in with Lord Worth or any of the other guests. Except she’d never imagined she’d be chatting with Hugh of all people.

      ‘I know.’ Hugh faced her with the same stern countenance he’d worn when she’d first turned to see him. ‘He wrote to me and told me that he and you would be here.’

      This made her stiffen with surprise more than his having interrupted her private moment.

      ‘Did he now?’ She needed to end this conversation and have a very much needed other one with Adam and Anne as to why she hadn’t merited the same warning.

      ‘It was his letter that gave me a reason to come.’ The tender yearning in his eyes struck her as hard as a well-packed snowball, but it didn’t stun her enough to make her take leave of her senses.

      He hadn’t really loved her years ago. That he held a candle for anything more than perhaps her inheritance, which was now even more substantial than it had been before, was preposterous. Perhaps, having run through all the actresses in London, he was here for other, more lucrative amusements. The anger his grief had pushed aside slipped slowly back to her and she narrowed her eyes at him. ‘In search of another heiress to help fill the family coffers? Or did you think a widow would serve you better?’

      That wiped the tenderness off his face. She’d insulted him and she was glad, for the mistakes of six years ago along with Lord Westbook’s and Lady Fulton’s snide whispers were not experiences she wished to repeat. ‘My motives for being here are not as base as you believe.’

      ‘I’m sure they’re not as noble as you’ve convinced others to believe either.’ She marched up to him, fingers closed into fists at her sides. The humiliation of standing before him in this very room years ago while he’d told her he’d decided to marry another instead of asking for her hand was made sharper by the rich scent of his bergamot shaving soap and his stance. He didn’t so much as step back or flinch, but stood there, taking her disdain with irksome stoicism. She didn’t expect him to crumble in shame, but at least he could have the temerity to blush or look away in guilt. ‘Whatever your true reasons for coming here, be perfectly clear, they will not include me. Good day, Lord Delamare.’

      Clara stepped around him and out of the room, pausing in the hallway to drag in a deep breath and settle the nervous tremors coursing through her. It wasn’t like her to lob insults at people, but she hadn’t been able to help herself. Nor was it like her to reveal to anyone so bluntly the depths of the injury they’d inflicted, but Hugh must see that she was no weak widow all too ready to run into his arms and surrender her fortune and her person to his control. The sooner he recognised the futility of coming here, the sooner he might leave and she could enjoy her week in peace. Until then, there was the matter of Lady Tillman’s guests list to discuss with Anne.

      Clara marched into the dining room and up to Anne. She laid a stern hand on Anne’s arm, stopping her from taking another bite of her holiday delicacy. ‘Lord Delamare is here.’

      Anne peered at Clara from across the pastry before slowly lowering it to her plate. ‘Is he now?’

      Her surprise wasn’t convincing.

      ‘You knew he’d be here, didn’t you?’ Clara pulled her out of the dining room and down the hall to a secluded alcove adorned with a large vase filled with fragrant hothouse flowers.

      Ann hesitated, giving Clara her answer before she even managed to stammer out a few weak lies. ‘Well, no, not exactly. Adam told me Lady Tillman had said she’d invited him, but she gave him no indication that he’d accepted.’

      Clara glanced down the hall to make sure no one, including Hugh or anyone else, СКАЧАТЬ