Mistletoe and Mayhem: A Regency Holiday Romance Anthology, page 18
Marty laughed and fetched his trunk. “’Twill be snowin’ here any day, my bones say. I’ll just transfer your things to our cart and send this rig back. His Lordship ordered horses for the both of you. Just arrived back from Enderby a bit ago. Ain’t even been home as yet. Don’t know if he knows how the cold’s come in. Been awaitin’ you all afternoon snug by the fire in the taproom.”
Marty plopped the trunk into the cart.
“Marty.”
“Aye, sir?”
“He’s been here all afternoon?” No wonder Mother had begged him to hie himself home and see to Fitz.
Marty cracked another smile, the glazed look confirming he’d been in the taproom as well. “Aye, Master George. And it being dark in an hour or so, I’d best get your things home.” He tugged at his cap and turned away.
George shoved down his irritation. He could do with a warm fire and a brandy, but he’d have preferred them in his old room at home.
Inside, the taproom was teeming with men, all escaping the day’s icy blast.
His brother sat in the corner, waistcoat unbuttoned and tawny hair straggling over a carelessly tied neck cloth. He looked bleary-eyed and bloated.
George scanned the mostly familiar faces and exchanged greetings, making his way over to the boisterous table near the great yawning fireplace.
“Brother.” Fitz’s big paw pounded his back.
The tavern maid arrived with a fresh glass, a full bottle, and a tankard of foaming ale.
“A toast.” Fitz snatched the bottle and topped off drinks. “To my little brother George, the wizard who keeps Loughton afloat.”
He’d forgotten to mention their other brothers, Rupert and Selwyn, who both helped manage the family’s wealth.
George raised his own glass. “And here’s to the new Lord Loughton.”
Fitz’s smile faltered. “And to Father.”
After another round and George’s report on the weather, the crowd thinned, departing to see to their livestock and their suppers.
“And how goes the railway scheme, brother?” Fitz asked.
The railway scheme. He signaled the tavern maid and lifted his tankard, stalling for time. The railway scheme, as Fitz called it, had been taking his full attention since father’s autumn funeral. While he’d been off to Northumberland to look into steam locomotives, other members of the corporation were wrangling members of Parliament or meeting with landowners on the planned route.
His help was urgently needed with the last task.
“Coming along,” he said. “A few challenges, here or there.”
Fitz braced himself on his elbows and breathed brandy his way. “Georgie, I’m fuddled and foxed again.”
George sipped his ale, waiting.
Of all the Lovelace men, Fitz was the most affable, the most garrulous, and the least business-minded. Father had moaned more than once to George, wishing sons two, three, or four had been his first-born.
Not that George envied Fitz. The title’s obligations curbed a man’s freedom. Once Fitz stopped grieving and accepted his fate, he’d do well. He could don his robes and attend Parliament, and leave managing most of the family business to his brothers.
Fitz studied his drink. “Mother wants me home. I’m glad you’ve come. The others won’t be there. Not Rupert, nor Selwyn, nor their wives, nor our married sisters.” He grimaced. “And still, Loughton Manor is swarming with females.”
“As it always is.” Besides their mother, Loughton Manor housed their younger sisters, Cassandra and Nancy, who were not yet out and Fitz’s young daughter, Mary.
“There are guests, George. Female ones.”
Fitz’s gaze glinted with humor.
“Your fiancée?”
Fitz frowned. “No. Miss Parker is at home in Hampshire.” He swirled his brandy with a faraway look.
It had been a little over a year since Fitz lost his wife and newborn son. In September, he’d met Miss Parker at a house party, and become engaged within the week. Father’s death had delayed the nuptials.
The sudden engagement to a girl Fitz had only just met, so soon after his wife’s death, had seemed rash. “Having second thoughts?”
Fitz shrugged. “Rupert and Selwyn are abiding in London for the Yuletide, like sensible sods. Both Mrs. Lovelaces are increasing again. One of them is bound to have a boy.” He topped off George’s glass. “You know, George, you are the only one of us without a Mrs. Lovelace or an intended Mrs. Lovelace.”
He laughed. At the moment, he didn’t even have a mistress. He’d broken off with the last one a year ago when he’d headed to Scotland with his friend the new Duke of Kinmarty. “You’re forgetting James and Edward.”
“I won’t count them until their voices change.” His eyes glinted. “Mother is plotting.”
George called for another tankard. He’d marry when he’d made his own fortune and not before. “May as well spit it out.”
“There’s an heiress afoot. Bound to be mistletoe and kissing boughs everywhere, knowing our sisters. You’ll need capital for your railway, won’t you?”
He swallowed a groan. “So much for the quiet family Christmas while we’re still in mourning.”
“Name’s Charlotte Cartwright. Mother had planned to bring her out with the girls this season, before Father’s death delayed their come-out. They were schoolfriends you see.”
“A schoolfriend of Cassandra and Nancy.”
“Yes, I know. Your tastes go to older widows. But…fifty thousand pounds?”
Fifty thousand pounds, for a lifetime chained to a girl like his younger sisters. “Tempting, but no.”
Fitz laughed. “You didn’t even ask if she is pretty.”
“Is she?”
“Saw her at Easter. She’s comely enough. Fair like our sisters. Not quite as much of a hoyden, I hear. Damnation, but I’d like to dispense with Almack’s and all that bother and find our sisters a match in the country. Mother would appreciate having them nearby. I suppose their dowries are all in order?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” Fitz glanced toward the door and waved. “Come join us,” he shouted. “George, this man has a high-stepper I want you to look at.”
It was full dark when their mounts picked their way down the drive to Loughton Manor. While George dismounted, Marty caught Fitz before he toppled. The sight had both brothers laughing.
“In the suds, Marty,” Fitz said. “It’s his fault.”
“Got to blame someone, milord,” Marty said.
“If you see to these poor plodders,” George said, “I’ll be happy to take the blame.”
“Always were a gentleman, Master George, even in short pants.”
George laughed and hauled Fitz across the yard and through the kitchen door.
Their long-time cook squawked a greeting. “Your mother’s been a-fretting. Waiting and waiting while the roast dries and the—”
“Our deepest apologies,” George said. “We’ll take a tray in the library.” He spotted a footman. “Send word to my mother to start without us.”
“We’ve just served the soup, sir.”
“There you go,” Fitz said. “We’re not too late, and I’m famished. Haul me up there, Master George.”
“I’ll haul you to your bedchamber to change.”
Another young footman popped in with an empty tray and Fitz grinned. “It’s a family meal, isn’t it, Jeffrey?”
“Aye, my lord. All but the very youngest at table.”
“That will be for your sake Georgie. Everyone who can manage a fork present to greet you. Late or not, she’ll want us there. Come along, brother.”
As they climbed the stairs and made their way to the dining room, his heart lifted. He was anxious to see his younger brothers; they’d taken father’s death the hardest.
He’d known that, and still he’d left immediately after the funeral, thinking that Fitz, the new head of the family, would tend to them until their return to school. Then Mother wrote saying she was keeping them at home for the Michaelmas term, and Fitz…
Fitz had let them down, and so had he.
Sophie spooned a mouthful of soup, her insides churning.
For the sake of her cook and the hungry boys, Lady Loughton had started dinner without Fitz. Though she hadn’t entirely given up. Not one, but two empty places remained, one at the head of the table, and one directly across from Sophie, and the footmen made no moves to clear away dishes.
“Who else is coming, Mother?” Twelve-year old James called from his place near the vacant seat at the head of the table.
“You shall see,” Lady Loughton said.
“Is it Fitz’s fiancée?” Cassandra asked.
Nancy leaned over her plate and peered down the table. “Why have you placed her between Charlotte and me, Mama, and not next to Fitz?”
Lady Loughton smiled.
“Mama,” Cassandra said. “Tell us.”
Sophie glanced at her hostess and cleared her throat. “The soup is delicious, my lady.”
“Not too tepid?”
“Not at all,” she lied. As in many great houses, the kitchens were a good distance away.
“Lady Glanford,” Cassandra said, “you are purposely diverting our mother.”
Just as Sophie opened her mouth to defend herself, the dining room door burst open.
“Here we are.” Windblown and damp, Fitz filled the doorway and paused with a grin and a flourish. “And look who I’ve found. Your favorite brother.”
A man appeared next to Fitz and Sophie’s heart leapt into a gallop.
“I knew it would be you,” Cassandra cried.
Chapter Three
Sophie steadied her spoon and tried to quiet the bolt of instant, unbidden attraction, and the rollicking tumult inside her. Taller than Fitz, the brother’s profile revealed a strong stubbled jaw, straight nose, and full lips. Dark hair brushed the edge of a white collar and crisply tied neckcloth; wide shoulders filled the dark superfine of a coat that tapered down to buff breeches covering the powerful legs of a man who must spend a great deal of time in the saddle.
Her gaze traveled back up and met blue eyes, and her breath left her. The same hard-planed cheeks, the same stubborn jaw, the same sardonic lips—but young Lovelace had grown into a shockingly handsome man.
It would have to be that brother.
She stiffened her spine as she’d done on that long-ago day in the Townsends’ garden, fighting the sudden attraction, holding the piercing blue gaze. Oh, he was delicious, and challenging, and…interested. Heat flooded her insides and rose into her cheeks.
“George.” The Lovelace boys swarmed him and pulled his attention away.
She took in a much-needed breath. She’d won this round.
As the tumult increased, she cast her gaze up the table. Artie squirmed in his seat, watching his friends. At the other end, Lady Loughton’s lips twitched as if fighting a frown. Or a smile.
The woman had ten children, but this new arrival was special to her, and as Fitz said, a favorite of his younger brothers and sisters. He was equally windblown and ruddy-cheeked, and likely showing up for dinner in the same clothing he’d traveled in.
Her own father—another hard-edged man—might have done the same, arriving late from the mill after a business meeting. Her vision blurred again.
She shook herself and glanced around—anywhere but at him.
Across from her, Charlotte, her jaw dropped like a fish ready to take a hook, was craning her neck as this brother went to kiss Lady Loughton.
Loughton was betrothed. Was this brother unmarried?
He might be interested in Charlotte’s fortune. Perhaps he’d be a good match, even without a title.
Sophie lifted her gaze again and found him studying her. He didn’t remember her. Or he did and…his lips twitched into a lopsided grin.
Oh heavens. He was drunk—both men were. While Fitz shouted greetings to all and sundry and ploughed into his dinner, this Lovelace’s gaze devoured her, promising things she’d never experienced.
And perhaps never would. The thought saddened her and cooled her racing heart. She’d once longed for romance, for passion, for true love, but ten years with Glanford…
At her age, it was best for a woman to shed that hope. Charlotte, on the other hand, was young and fresh.
If she was to bring the girl out…Charlotte would have a chance at a full season, a chance to meet someone worthy. Whether or not this Lovelace was worthy was an open question.
He knew her.
But from where? Foxed he might be, but desire flooded George, his gut and other parts recognizing this lady, who was no green girl from Cassandra and Nancy’s school.
He fell into the loveliest gray eyes he’d seen in a long time—wide, and luminous, and equally interested—while his ale-addled brain searched for a name.
Hands tugged at him, and he tore his gaze away, greeting James and Edward.
When he straightened, the lady was staring intently at a boy about Edward’s age, a boy with eyes the same shade as her own.
“Come kiss me, George.”
Mother’s voice pulled his attention from another split-second glimpse of a dark gown and a jeweled cross over a generous bosom.
“Mother.” He kissed her cheek. “You look well. I’ll change in a blink and return for the main course.”
“You will not. You will join us this moment.”
The footman ushered him to a seat across from the lady. His youngest sister, Nancy, sat to his left. The young lady to his right—fair-haired, blue-eyed, and rosy-cheeked—might have been Cassandra’s twin, so much did she resemble her.
He dropped a kiss on Nancy’s cheek, then inclined his head to the two strangers. “How do you do? I’m George Lovelace. One of you must be Cassandra’s school friend visiting for the Yuletide, but which one?”
Next to him, the girl pressed her napkin over a giggle, her cheeks flooding with more color. The other lady went impossibly still and her gaze shuttered.
His breath caught. Face heating, he remembered.
“Do behave George. Lady Glanford, Miss Cartwright, you both know Fitz. This other handsome fellow is my usually punctual son, George.”
Lady Glanford. He’d spent years remembering her hurt, her embarrassment. Her scold: There are no gentlemen in the garden today.
Lessons on gentlemanly behavior from an ironworker’s daughter? Try as he might to shake off the shaming, he was grateful he hadn’t. It had served him well in the wider world of trade.
A bowl of soup appeared and he picked up his spoon. Lady Glanford’s lips moved in a stiffly polite greeting, stirring the devil in him.
Fitz and his fool of a friend, Glanford had been close once, but father had forced a stop to the loans and the gambling. What was she doing here? Had she changed much? Her innate dignity appeared intact. She was seldom in London, and their paths hadn’t crossed there. He’d heard bits and pieces over the years, that the marriage had been preserved, somehow, and that she’d even given her feckless husband a spare.
Head tilted, she listened to Cassandra’s babble whilst studying the new plate set before her, completely uninterested in both.
Her gaze lifted and met his, and held…and held…and…
Cassandra spoke, and the lady’s eyes flashed irritation before turning away and releasing him for a view of the same porcelain neck with its pounding pulse.
Age had softened her. She’d been an attractive girl, but she’d grown into a beautiful woman. And with Glanford’s death a year earlier, she was now a beautiful widow.
Was she the reason Fitz had delayed his wedding?
He shook off the thought. Fitz was more gentlemanly than Glanford, but when deep in his cups, he wasn’t discreet. If he’d been dallying with Glanford’s widow, he’d have mentioned it at the inn.
In his own liaisons, he’d taken the Glanfords’ unwitting lessons to heart. He didn’t pay actresses or ladybirds. His lovers were widows who relished their freedom, and he made sure he never left them unsatisfied.
This particular lady was free, and luminous, and…a challenge. And the house, Fitz had said, was bound to be filled with mistletoe…
Had Lady Glanford ever learned the pleasures of carnal love? And would Mother slay him if he pursued her?
His elbow brushed the flounce of a gown, and tension sparked in the guest next to him. The gray eyes across from him narrowed on the point where his sleeve touched Miss Cartwright’s.
Nancy leaned close. “Why are you late, George? Did the wheel fall off your chariot? Did your horse pull you into a ditch? Were you beset by a highwayman?”
He elbowed her. “You minx. You’re reading too many novels. It was nothing so entertaining. Merely snow. Bushels of it in Yorkshire. Dreadful weather, and the temperature is dropping. We’ll have snow here soon as well.”
“No one has introduced our friend.” That was Edward, piping up in his little boy’s voice.
A throat cleared across from him, and the lovely widow gestured toward Fitz’s end of the table.
“Mr. Lovelace, meet my son, Arthur, Lord Glanford.”
A new thrill rippled through him. He remembered her husky voice.
A dignified waif like his mother, the boy delivered a gentlemanly greeting, a contrast to the barbarian Lovelace boys.
“What of your railway?” James called. “Have you started laying the tracks?”
“Don’t bore us with talk of railways,” Cassandra said. “Tell us who you’ve been visiting. How is your friend, the duke?”
“He hasn’t been visiting the duke,” James said. “And if you bothered to learn anything besides embroidery, you’d know railways are not boring.”
“My grandfather built a railway,” Lord Glanford said.
Fitz looked up from his plate. “Did he indeed, Artie?”
A memory stirred: years earlier, Glanford had asked Fitz to serve as the boy’s guardian in the event of his death. Father had urged him to decline, to cut ties with the earl. Yet here he was, on a familiar basis with the boy.
