The Earl’s Mistletoe Bride

Chapter Four

Jon ignored his brother and ate his breakfast in silence. His house party ordeal was almost over. Three interminable weeks, just as he had feared. Escape had been impossible, of course, for what reason could he possibly have given for deserting a houseful of his own guests? He had been trapped by his own good manners. At least, none of the resident beauties had trapped Jon into proposing, in spite of the underhand tricks that one or two of them had tried. The rest were either so shy that they were struck dumb in his presence, or so empty-headed that their conversation bored him to death. They all had rank or beauty, to be sure, but that was no compensation. It was a relief that they would all be gone on the morrow. There was not one restful woman among them.

The door opened to admit an unexpected visitor.

‘Miss Mountjoy! How splendid!’ Jon’s brother, the Honourable George Foxe-Garway, sprang up and stepped forward to bow over the lady’s hand. Then he waved the butler away and pulled out a chair for her.

Jon also rose and bowed, distantly. From their very first meeting, a week before his wedding to Alicia, he had instinctively distrusted Louisa Mountjoy, who was Alicia’s long-time companion and bosom bow. He had discovered soon enough that his instincts were right.

In the early weeks of their marriage, Alicia had played the loving, doting wife, in public and in private. For Jon, it was a glorious liberation from his father’s emotional tyranny. He dared to have feelings again, and even to show them. Until the day of his twenty-first birthday, when he came upon Alicia cavorting naked with her lover-Louisa Mountjoy!

He had instantly seen how he had been manipulated, but he could say and do nothing, for fear of scandal. He had realised he would remain bound, until death, to a woman who would play the part of his wife in public, but would never again share his bed. His only solace was to vow that no one-and especially no woman-would ever have the power to humiliate him again. His father was clearly right-feelings made a man vulnerable. Only a fool trusted anyone but himself.

Now, all these years later, Jon was free of Alicia at last. He was not free of Louisa Mountjoy, however. Under the terms of Alicia’s will, he had been required to provide an annuity for the Mountjoy woman so that she might enjoy financial independence for life. Jon had been sure she would be gone from King’s Portbury when he returned from Spain. Unfortunately, she had taken a cottage in the village and was a frequent visitor to the Dower House instead. It was much too late now for Jon to tell his mother the real truth.

George, Jon’s only surviving brother, was talking animatedly to their visitor. Judging from his expression, George thought at least as highly of Miss Mountjoy as his mother did. That was surprising, given George’s tastes in women: he frequented low-class brothels and thought nothing of attacking defenceless servant girls. Not in Jon’s house, though. Not any more. On the last occasion, Jon had almost broken George’s jaw. And he had made it clear that if George repeated the offence, he would find himself booted into the gutter, and penniless.

If George had the run of the estate, no woman would be safe. And none of the tenants, either. George had no idea of duty. He believed the purpose of an estate was purely to provide money to fund the owner’s pleasures. In Jon’s absence, George had ‘persuaded’ the agent at Fratcombe to advance him considerable sums against his expectations as Jon’s heir. The results were disastrous, as Jon had discovered for himself during that one brief spell of home leave. He knew Portbury would have been next. In the end, Jon had had to sell out and come back to England to prevent his brother from doing irreparable damage.

He turned to their visitor. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, ma’am?’ he asked, silkily. It was a peculiar time for her to pay a call. Most of the lady guests were still asleep; any that were awake would be breakfasting in bed.

‘Oh, nothing of importance by contrast with the great affairs of running an estate. Merely a receipt that I promised to your lady mother.’

A receipt? The Dowager had never in her life concerned herself with receipts. Cooking was to be left to cooks. Jon bit the inside of his lip to stop himself from laughing aloud at Miss Mountjoy’s ridiculous attempts at deception. In his experience, this woman had a calculated motive for everything she did.

‘I’m afraid my mother is still in her bedchamber,’ George put in quickly, ‘though I imagine she will be down quite soon. Perhaps you would take some coffee while you are waiting? Or chocolate?’

Miss Mountjoy shot an assessing glance at Jon’s stony expression before she replied. ‘Thank you, sir, but I have errands that cannot wait. I shall walk back to the village.’ She stood up and reached for her gloves.

The two men rose. Jon held out his hand, palm up. ‘If you care to give me your receipt, ma’am, I will ensure it is delivered to my mother.’

‘I- No, I- Thank you, my lord, but I should prefer to deliver it myself. There is no urgency and it requires…er…a little explanation. I-’

George intervened before Miss Mountjoy could tie herself in even more knots. ‘No need for you to involve yourself, Portbury. I will mention it to Mama. I am taking her driving later this morning.’

‘I am sure that dear Lady Portbury will find that quite delightful, sir. You are such an excellent whip,’ said Miss Mountjoy.

George preened a little. ‘As it happens, ma’am, I was just about to take my pair for an airing, to take the edge off them before I drive out with my mother. She prefers placid horses, you know. Perhaps I could drive you to the village?’

‘Why, Mr Foxe-Garway, that would be such a treat!’

Jon kept his face impassive. He bowed and watched as the pair walked out into the hall, arm in arm. He could have sworn that the woman whispered something in George’s ear as soon as they were beyond the doorway. Was something going on between them? No, impossible. Mountjoy had no interest in men. Yet that encounter had been much too neat. Might they be conspiring together to drain money from the estate?

Jon would need to be even more on his guard. Against his own brother. He sighed, for such suspicions were not new. He stared into space, his coffee cup half-way to his lips. There was no point in agonising over George’s failings. He had become totally set in his selfish, spendthrift ways. He would do almost anything for money. Even the Dowager had stopped making excuses for him.

‘Good morning, Jon.’

Startled, Jon put his cup down with a clatter and sprang to his feet. ‘Good morning, Mama.’ As Jon helped her to the seat next to him, the butler disappeared to fetch her usual pot of chocolate. ‘May I ask what brings you down so early?’

‘As hostess, it is my duty to see to the welfare of our guests. Besides, George is to take me out driving this morning. Is he down yet?’

‘Ages ago, Mama. He’s just…er…driven out to take the edge off his horses. He knows you are a nervous passenger.’

‘Nothing of the sort. But I do like to drive behind well-schooled horses. George persists in buying unruly beasts. “High-couraged”, he calls them.’ She snorted in disgust. They both knew that George bought horses he could barely handle because he fancied himself as good a whip as Jon. It rankled with him that he was not.

The butler returned with the Dowager’s chocolate. She dismissed him with a nod. ‘I will ring if I need anything more.’ The man bowed and left the room, closing the door silently behind him.

Jon looked up from his plate. Her face was set. He resigned himself to what was to come.

‘Jon, I need to talk to you. About…about things.’

He reached for the coffee pot to pour himself a refill. It proved to be empty, but he did not ring for more. Instead, he sighed and leaned back in his chair. ‘I am listening,’ he said, in a flat voice.

‘Jon, I have filled the house with the most eligible young ladies of the ton. You have played your role as host impeccably, as always, but I have not seen you-’ She sighed impatiently. ‘Does none of them take your fancy? What about Miss Danforth? Now, there’s a delightful girl. And Lady Cissy, too. Even you will acknowledge that she is a glorious creature.’

He stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then he picked up his cup and began to turn it in his fingers, admiring the fineness of the porcelain. ‘Mama, they are both pretty, beautifully behaved, and without a single interesting thought in their empty heads. After all those years in the schoolroom, you would think they would have learned something. But apparently not.’

‘That is because they are young, Jon. They are only just out.’ She laid a hand reassuringly on his arm. ‘A young wife can be moulded by her husband,’ she said stoutly. ‘In a few years, you can make exactly what you want of her.’

‘Can I?’ His father had been all in favour of moulding, too. Brutally, on occasions. Jon would never follow such an example. He wanted a restful woman, but a woman of principle-her own principles, too, not a straitjacket of her husband’s design. ‘Mama, these chits are young enough to be my daughters. I can’t take a child to wife.’

She was clearly shocked by his words, but she kept her tone level. ‘In that case, when we return to London, I shall arrange a few select evening parties at Portbury House. I can invite some of the…er…more mature single ladies. There are one or two widows also, of impeccable reputation, who might interest you if-’

He was shaking his head vehemently even before she had finished speaking. ‘No, Mama. I thank you, but no. When our guests leave tomorrow, I shall return to Fratcombe.’

‘Fratcombe? But why? There is precious little society there.’

‘It is not society I need, Mama, but useful occupation. George has drained that estate in my absence and it needs- Oh, pray do not look so distressed. You could not have known what he was about.’

She could not meet his gaze.

‘It will require several months of work to restore Fratcombe. I find I relish the challenge there. I cannot be doing nothing, Mama, as I do here.’

‘But you are not doing nothing! You have guests, you-’

‘I am doing nothing useful, ma’am,’ he snapped. He had never used such a tone with her before. ‘Engaging in frivolous entertainment with house guests is not what I have been used to, these last few years,’ he explained, rather more gently.

‘I knew the army would be the ruination of you,’ she muttered.

He lifted her hand to his lips in an uncharacteristically gallant gesture, in apology for his bad temper. ‘Poor Mama. I must be a sad trial to you. I know that you mean well. It is just that we do not see eye to eye on what I need out of life.’

‘You need a wife and a son,’ she retorted. ‘Surely we are agreed on that?’

He started back and began to breathe deeply, holding himself in check. With anyone else, he would have lost his temper at such gall, but a gentleman could never do such a thing with his mother, no matter what she did.

She hastened to apologise. ‘I promise I will stop meddling,’ she finished, trying to smile. ‘But if there is anything you wish me to do, you have only to ask. Will you be content with that?’

‘More than content. Thank you, Mama.’ He leaned forward to kiss her cheek.

The Dowager was surprised into a blush. And rendered speechless.

The door opened. ‘Why, Mama! Good morning. I must say you are down in excellent time, and looking quite splendid for our outing. Is that a new walking dress? Very dashing.’ George strolled forward and bent to kiss her cheek, just as he did every morning. They all knew it was an empty gesture.

Now that George had arrived to keep her company, Jon rose. ‘If you will excuse me, Mama, I must attend to some estate business this morning, but I will be free later to hear all about your expedition. Take care George does not overturn you,’ he added mischievously. ‘It would not do to get mud on that delicate fabric.’ He touched a finger to the Prussian blue silk of her sleeve. ‘You look as fine as fivepence. There is a matching hat, I presume?’ He grinned suddenly, and she made to reach out to him. Then she let her hand drop. Jon was relieved to see that she had not forgotten how much he detested public displays of affection.

Jon pulled Saracen to a halt at the top of the hill. They were both blowing hard after the climb but, from here, he could see the whole Portbury estate and miles beyond. It was a good place to be alone to think.

He dismounted, leaving the reins loose on the big bay’s neck. The horse was too well trained to wander far.

Jon strolled across to lean his back against an aged hawthorn, bent sideways by the prevailing wind that scoured this ridge in winter. Fratcombe. He knew in his bones that he had to return there, though it had come to him only as he spoke the words. He needed work to occupy him. After army life, he could not return to the wasteful ways of before. He had tenants, and workers, and dependants. As Earl, he had a duty to them all. Surprisingly, that duty no longer felt like a burden. Was that the rector’s influence? He did not know, but, for some reason, he was eager to return. He would try to look after his people as he had looked after his soldiers; he would seek to make their lives a little better, educate their children. Yes, even the gypsy children that Miss Beth defended so stoutly.

Beth Aubrey. Unlike the gang of simpering misses his mother had gathered here at Portbury, Beth was a woman of decided character, a clear-headed, practical woman who tried to do good in the world. She had not an ounce of the guile that had surrounded him, these past weeks at King’s Portbury. He could see that clearly now. But the fundamental question remained-could he really be sure she was not a fraud?

He took a deep breath of the clean air of the hilltop. He would be arriving back at Fratcombe just a few days before the evening party at the Manor. He would visit the rectory, he decided-he had the ready-made excuse of consulting Mrs Aubrey about the party arrangements-and he would use the time to judge Beth Aubrey’s character, once and for all. If his foundling was as upright as he suspected-and, he admitted, as he hoped-he would use his rank to establish her position in Fratcombe, and with it, his own. After that, no one would dare to accept a Fitzherbert’s judgement over the Earl of Portbury’s.

Mrs Aubrey’s little maid answered Jon’s knock, as usual. At the sight of him, her eyes grew as round as saucers. She stood rooted to the spot, making no move to admit him. Impudent wench! It was not for a mere servant to have opinions on how often Jon chose to call.

‘Is Mrs Aubrey at home?’ he asked sharply.

She nodded and showed him directly to the parlour, without first seeking leave from her mistress. Almost as if he were one of the family.

‘Why, Jonathan! Three visits in three days! We are honoured.’ Jon did not miss the hint of laughter in Mrs Aubrey’s voice as she rose from her work table and dropped him a tiny curtsy. It was only yesterday that he had finally persuaded the old lady to use his given name, as her husband always did. It felt right. He was truly glad of it.

Beth-Miss Aubrey-would do nothing so intimate. She too had risen from her place, laying aside her pen. Her curtsy was a model of decorum. It showed off her slim figure and upright carriage, too. Somewhere she had been well schooled. ‘Good afternoon, Lord Portbury.’ Her voice was low, almost husky. He persuaded himself it sounded a little strained. Could she be worrying about tomorrow’s party?

He smiled down at her. ‘You have been working too hard again, ma’am. You have ink on your fingers, I fear.’ He was hoping to make her laugh as readily as on the previous afternoons.

Instead, she looked horrified. She lifted her fingers to stare at the dark stain as if some monster had settled on her skin. ‘Oh, dear. I shall never get it clean in time. What shall I-?’

Mrs Aubrey stepped forward and clasped her wrinkled old hands over Beth’s smooth ones. ‘Stop worrying, my dear. I have a remedy for that, I promise. You shall be as white as snow when you don your new evening gown.’

Beth resumed her seat, but her eyes were still wide and apprehensive, Jon saw. It had not occurred to him before now that she might worry about appearing at his party. She seemed so confident in everything else she did, in the school, with the villagers, with servants, even with him… She was a lady, but she was still a nobody, and about to be foisted on to a group of haughty gentle-folk who most definitely did not wish to accept her as an equal. Of course it would be an ordeal. Why had he not seen that? In the long run, it would make her life easier, he was sure, but that was little consolation today. Even a true lady could be afraid of confrontation.

He hastened to reassure her. ‘In any case, you will be wearing evening gloves, and-’

‘Jonathan!’ Mrs Aubrey interrupted sharply, adding a warning shake of her head. ‘Will you take tea with us?’

Now, why…? Oh, yes, of course. The ladies would remove their gloves at the dinner table. Stupid of him. His wits had gone a-begging. He was not helping Beth at all. He smiled his agreement to the old lady and set about restoring poor Beth’s peace of mind.

He joined her on the sofa. ‘You seem incredibly busy, ma’am.’ He gestured towards the pieces of card spread across the table. ‘Is this for my party, too?’ He picked one up. The name ‘Sir Bertram Fitzherbert’ was written in a very elegant hand.

‘Place cards for your dinner table, my lord. We remembered them only this morning.’

‘Ah, yes. Yet another of the hostess’s duties. I had not realised quite how many burdens I was putting on Mrs Aubrey’s shoulders when I asked her to take this on.’ He glanced across at the old lady who was standing in the open doorway, giving instructions to her maid. ‘It must be much more difficult for a hostess who does not actually live in the house.’

Beth shook her head. ‘It could be, but your butler is extremely competent. And we had weeks to prepare while you were away…’ Her voice tailed off. She threw him an enigmatic sideways glance and then quickly looked away.

Was that an accusation? That he had decreed this grand party and then fled the field? If only she knew! Those three weeks at King’s Portbury had been more dangerous than any battlefield. If he had not been awake to the matchmakers’ scheming, he might have found himself forcibly leg-shackled to a chit he could not abide. Fratcombe was a peaceful refuge by comparison. Here he could relax and be himself. Here, no one was scheming.

Except himself, of course!

He laughed aloud at that subversive thought.

‘My lord?’ She sounded hurt. She still did not know him well enough to realise he would never laugh at her.

‘Forgive me, ma’am.’ On impulse, he reached out to cover her ink-stained fingers with his own and patted her hand reassuringly. She froze instantly. Good God, what was he doing? He drew in a quick, horrified breath, but forced himself to give her one last friendly pat before nonchalantly dropping his hand back into his lap, as if he had done nothing in the least improper. ‘I was laughing at the picture you painted…of myself.’ He grinned down at her. ‘Far too top-lofty to involve myself in anything as mundane as work. And absconding from the scene to ensure I could not be called to account. Very remiss, I agree.’

‘Oh, no!’ She was blushing now. The tints of rose on her cheeks merely served to highlight her perfect complexion. There was colour on her neck, too, though it was partly hidden behind her high collar. Under her muslins, he had no doubt that even her bosom was delicately pink and-

She pulled another card towards her and busied herself with carefully writing the name. Just as well that she was not looking at Jon. She might be a single lady, but she was almost certainly old enough to recognise sensual awareness in a man’s face. He had no right to allow himself to stray into such thoughts. She was a nobody, a protégée at most. It was beneath his dignity to dally with her.

‘Oh, bl-!’ Her nib had broken and blotted the card. ‘Bother!’ she corrected herself quickly. When he did not react, she threw him a mischievous look. Unlike the simpering debutantes, she was sensible enough to realise that his touch had been a mistake. And to be forgotten at once. Yes, sensible, but delightful company, too, as he had learned since his return. Her eyes were now dancing with mischief. ‘You will permit me to observe, my lord, that your supervision of my work is not helping.’

Excellent. She was back to her normal quick-witted self. Easy with him, and more than ready to take him to task. He much preferred her that way.

He allowed himself a sheepish grin. ‘I will take myself further off at once, ma’am.’ He rose and crossed the room to Mrs Aubrey’s side. ‘It is clear that Miss Aubrey finds my presence a burden this afternoon. However, my intentions were of the best, I assure you. I knew there were bound to be last-minute chores and, since it is my party, I thought I should offer my services. Is there any way in which I can help?’

Mrs Aubrey smiled, shaking her head. ‘No. Apart from the place cards, everything is done. Unless you wish to help with those?’

He snorted with laughter. ‘If you had seen my hand writing, ma’am, you would not ask.’

She laughed, too. ‘I thought as much. It tends to be the way with gentlemen. No, you may sit and converse with me over the teacups, so that Beth is left in peace to finish her task. We are treating you as a friend of the family, you understand, rather than an exalted visitor who must become the centre of everyone’s attention.’ She paused. Jon thought he saw a fleeting shadow cross her face. ‘After all these daily visits, it could hardly be otherwise.’

Was that a warning? Had he overstepped the mark?

‘But we do appreciate your help and advice,’ the old lady went on quickly. ‘However, I warn you that you must not call tomorrow, Jonathan. Both Beth and I shall be fully engaged with gowns and curling tongs. Male company will definitely not be welcome.’

He nodded an acknowledgement, trying to keep his face straight. ‘I shall wait with…er…interest to see the results of so much female industry. I dare say I shall not recognise my hostess and my guest of honour when they cross my threshold.’

Mrs Aubrey’s eyes were sparkling wickedly now. That was too much for Jon, who laughed aloud. In a moment, Mrs Aubrey was laughing, too.

For some reason, Beth did not respond at all. Clearly she was too absorbed in her work to have heard another word he said.

Beth touched slightly shaky fingers to her lips and then, even more tentatively, to her hair. It was a splendid confection, but much too elaborate for a woman with no name. Could she go through with this? She closed her eyes. She really did not want to look at the woman in the mirror. That was not Beth. That was some other person, a fine lady, the kind of lady who could go into society and hold her head high.

She swallowed hard. She had promised Jonathan that she would do this. She had repeated the promise during one of his recent visits. But he did not know who Beth was or where she came from, any more than she herself did. When she was with him, talking and laughing as they had been doing over these last three days, she had begun to feel calm, almost serene. He treated Beth exactly as he treated Mrs Aubrey. Like a lady. But was she a lady?

It was true that she had not been a menial. Her soft hands proved that. But she could just as well have been a lowly companion, or in some other inferior position in a household. The fact that she enjoyed her duties as the village schoolmistress, and that she was apparently so good at it, suggested she might have been some kind of teacher, or governess. That would make her a lady-of sorts-but not one whose position in society allowed her to sit at the right hand of an earl.

Her eyes flew open in horror. She stared at her reflection. She had turned stark white at the thought of sitting in the place of honour at Jonathan’s table. He was going to insist upon it. He had said so, and Mrs Aubrey had readily agreed. According to the printed invitations, the select dinner, followed by a larger evening party, was ‘to introduce Miss Aubrey’. Therefore, she would have to take the place of honour on the host’s right, no matter how high the station of any other of the lady guests.

Beth cringed inwardly. How could she possibly do this? She had promised not to develop a convenient headache. Unfortunately, she was beginning to develop a real one.

She rose and began to pace up and down her bedchamber. The skirts of the beautiful new evening gown floated about her caressingly. Oh dear. Mrs Aubrey had gone to so much trouble, and so much expense, for this. The gown was a very elegant affair of delicate white gauze over pomona-green silk. It had a low square neckline and vandyking on the sleeves and hemline, to show off the gleaming colour beneath. Much too fine for a foundling.

The bedroom door opened. Hetty was back. Her excited chatter would begin all over again. Beth was not sure she could bear it.

‘Mrs Aubrey sent these.’ The maid opened a flat leather case with exaggerated care.

Beth stopped and gazed. ‘Oh,’ she breathed. The jewel case contained a single strand of exceedingly good pearls, with matching ear drops. Perfect.

‘Sit down, Miss Beth, and I will put the necklace on for you.’

What choice did she have? The whole household was determined that, like Cinderella, she should go to the ball. But, unlike Cinderella, Beth could never be worthy of this prince.

Hetty quickly clasped the pearls around Beth’s neck and helped her to hook the earrings in place. Beth straightened her shoulders. There was no going back now. She had promised them all, and so she must do everything in her power to play her part in this…this charade. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips a little. That was better. There was colour now, in both. She rose again and shook out her skirts. She could do this. She would.

She forced herself to smile as she drew on her long gloves and took up her matching fan and reticule. ‘Thank you, Hetty, for the hairstyle.’ On an impulse, she put her gloved hands on the girl’s shoulders and dropped a kiss on her cheek. ‘You are a wonder.’

Hetty blushed to the roots of her hair. And then she dropped a curtsy. ‘Miss Beth, I- Oh, ma’am, thank you.’

Beth could not tell which of them was more overcome. Not wishing to embarrass Hetty further, she patted the girl’s shoulder and left the room.

At the foot of the stairs, the rector and Mrs Aubrey were waiting. Mrs Aubrey had fashioned that wonderfully unusual red-purple silk into a most flattering evening gown. She had garnet drops in her ears, and a matching aigrette in her hair.

‘Oh, ma’am!’ Beth stopped halfway down the stairs. ‘How fine you look. His lordship could not have a more splendid hostess at his side.’

Mrs Aubrey preened a little and touched her grey curls. She too had had the benefit of Hetty’s clever fingers. ‘Thank you, child.’

‘May I say,’ the rector intervened, ‘that both my ladies look extremely fine.’ When Beth reached the hallway, he shook out her evening cloak and placed it gently on her shoulders.

Mrs Aubrey leant forward to tie it for her, straightening the folds so that the deep green velvet would hang beautifully. ‘You look radiant, Beth. Exactly how a guest of honour should be. Come now. Since his lordship has kindly sent his carriage to fetch us, we must not keep his horses standing any longer. What time do you have, James, my dear?’

The rector checked his silver pocket watch. ‘If we leave now, we will have at least a quarter of an hour before any of the other guests arrive.’

Unless they are truly bad-mannered. What if they arrive early, in order to ogle Cinderella before she has learned how to walk in her glass slippers?

Beth could not silence that unruly voice in her head. There were certainly some of the guests who were capable of such rudeness. Beth could imagine Sir Bertram and Lady Fitzherbert doing so. Lady Fitzherbert would give that tinkling, tittering laugh of hers, place her beautifully manicured fingers on Jonathan’s sleeve, and gush that she ‘must have mistaken the time’.

I will not let them embarrass me. They shall not look down on me. Whoever I was, I am now Miss Aubrey. If the rector and Mrs Aubrey are prepared to treat me as a lady, everyone else shall do so, too. Jonathan believes in me. Surely that is enough?