His Mistletoe Marchioness. Georgie Lee

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СКАЧАТЬ could be again. She refused to make a pitying spectacle of herself in front of the other guests. Here was a man offering her genuine regard when she needed it, there was no reason not to accept.

      She slid her hand over his arm and stood confidently beside him. ‘Yes, Lord Kingston, you may.’

      * * *

      The clang of the gong echoed up from the main hall and pulled her away from the sweet memory and back into the reality of the present. It was time to go down for dinner and Alfred wasn’t here to walk with her tonight. She must face whatever awaited her alone and deal with it as best she could. It made her wish she had packed up and gone back to Winsome.

      No. I won’t be so weak. She took the gloves that Mary held out to her, cursing the tremor in her hands while she tugged them on. She shouldn’t be this nervous. Hugh meant nothing to her and what had happened was a long time ago. Except he did mean something, he represented everything Clara had been before she’d become a marchioness, an ill-at-ease girl who, despite a respectable inheritance, had been unable to catch or hold a gentleman’s attention long enough to secure a proposal. She was no longer that woman, but echoes of that girl dogged her steps as she escorted Anne out of her room and down the hall towards the stairs.

      The old awkwardness was especially potent when they spied the end of the line of people waiting to queue up for dinner. A number of them smiled and nodded appreciatively, but it wasn’t them that Clara fixed on, but Lord Westbook and Lady Fulton. They stood one step apart, with Lord Fulton too engrossed in conversation with Lord Worth above him to care if his wife spent her time whispering to Lord Westbook. Lady Fulton’s small eyes widened at the sight of Clara, and Lord Westbook stopped his incessant talking to take Clara in.

      Clara’s awkwardness melted away and she held her head high and strode forward with purpose, thankful Anne had suggested she change. Clara hadn’t forgotten Lady Fulton’s derisive remarks about her six years ago and the way they’d revealed her true opinion of Clara. She was not a girl in a simple dress and wearing her jewellery as if it were nothing better than an old chandelier chain that she’d decided to drape around her neck. Clara’s gown might be muted, but it was fine, and the emeralds she wore spoke of her increased status. She was no longer a plain country mouse, but a refined lady.

      ‘Lady Kingston, there you are. Come now, you must take your place beside Lord Delamare so we may all go in,’ Lady Tillman called out, moving up through the parting guests to reach Clara and take her by the hand.

      Clara did her best to concentrate on the stairs and not trip over Lady Tillman’s short train as her hostess pulled her down the stairs. Around her, the line had gone silent and she could almost hear people wondering if they would be treated to the same show of courting and rejection that they’d witnessed six years ago. They would not enjoy any sort of amusement from her, assuming Hugh decided to behave with dignity when she reached him. If he wished to give a little of what he’d got from her in the library, this was a perfect opportunity to do it. She didn’t think him so petty, but after what she’d heard of him in London, it was a possibility. It made her want to twist out of Lady Tillman’s grip and run back to her room, but she would not look like a coward in front of the other guests, especially Lady Fulton. Instead, she would sit next to Hugh at dinner with all the bearing and dignity of a marchioness and everyone else could get their entertainment elsewhere.

      Lady Tillman and Clara finally reached the bottom of the stairs and Clara stopped before Hugh, her heart racing from both the quick descent and her nerves. If Clara’s attire had changed in six years, then so had Hugh’s. He was taller than the gentlemen on the step above him and his broad shoulders did more credit to the wool covering them than the talents of his Jermyn Street tailor. His dark trousers hugged his trim middle and thighs, and he wore his hair combed back off his strong face, the knot of his white cravat tucked neatly beneath his square chin. If she hadn’t heard the rumours, she would have thought he’d spent the last three years at Everburgh riding and engaging in other sports, not in debauchery at the theatres and clubs of London.

      ‘Good evening, Lord Delamare,’ she greeted, trying to convince everyone, including herself, that it made no difference to her if she was seated next to him and that she could be gracious and friendly to an old flame with the poise expected of a woman of her standing.

      ‘Good evening, Lady Kingston. You look lovely tonight.’ His unstudied words raised Clara’s confidence higher than when she’d approached Lady Fulton at the top of the stairs and allowed her to breathe again. She hadn’t known what to expect when she’d descended, but she hadn’t expected this compliment and it almost rattled her surety, especially when Lady Tillman laid Clara’s hand on Hugh’s arm.

      The sight of her satin-covered fingers against the black fabric of his coat brought back a hundred memories. They were of Alfred escorting her into dinner or a ballroom, the two of them chatting and laughing while they walked. It’d been two years since she’d stood beside a man like this and loneliness and loss overwhelmed her. It should be Alfred beside her, but it wasn’t and it never would be again.

      ‘Are you all right, Lady Kingston?’ Hugh laid his hand comfortingly over hers.

      She raised her face to his, having forgotten for a moment to keep her chin up. She offered him a weak smile, trying to be regain her composure, but it was difficult with his warm hand covering hers. If she could let down her guard long enough to tell him the truth, she would, but she couldn’t, not here and certainly not with him. ‘Yes, only sometimes I find it difficult at this time of year.’

      It was the most she could say.

      ‘I understand.’ He squeezed her fingers, his thumb lightly brushing hers, the steady motion soothing her. There was nothing calculated in the gesture or his words, only a desire to ease her pain in a way very few had tried to do since the weeks surrounding the funeral.

      ‘Are you ready to lead them in?’ Lady Tillman asked, drawing Clara’s attention away from Hugh.

      ‘Yes, of course,’ Clara stammered, everything she’d intended to do tonight from walking regally like a queen to ignoring Hugh thrown into confusion. For a long time, her grief had been hers alone to bear, expected by all to grow fainter as time passed, but he’d seen it and for a moment he’d helped her to shoulder it. This was a greater comfort to her than all the showing up of Lady Fulton and Lord Westbook, and it stunned her that it should come from him. After the way she’d spoken to him in the library, she’d expected derision instead of kindness.

      They started off down the hall and she raised her head high, concentrating on the pearls woven in their hostess’s coiffure and not Hugh’s steady steps or the shift of his arm beneath her palm. His hand remained covering hers, the pressure of his fingers distracting. She wished he’d acted like a rake instead of a gentleman. It would make it so much easier to decide how to behave with him tonight. While his kind words were appreciated, it didn’t change their past or her opinion of him and this unfortunate seating arrangement.

      They all strolled into the dining room. The table was bereft of treats and laid out in its splendid china and silver which glistened in the high polish of the table’s finish. Everything about this room was sumptuous with the walls done in a deep red wallpaper covered with numerous gilded frames of hunting portraits and the English countryside. Along the edges of the room, the guests moved past fine burled oak sideboards with marble tops and elaborate candelabras, vases and other adornments. At the other end, a large fire roared in a hearth decorated by white moulding similar in shape to the classical front of Stonedown Manor. Clara pitied Lord Tillman who would sit with his back to the blaze and likely roast as much as the meat course. If he did mind the heat, he never said anything, enduring it so the guests at Clara’s end of the table would not shiver through the meal.

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