Mistletoe Magic (5 page)

‘What time is it?’ Lillian asked the question in trepidation.

‘Half past three, miss. Just turned.’

Rising quickly, she was glad that her day dress was one that would not need changing and pleased, too, for the bright sky she could now see outside.

‘Of course. Would you show them through to the blue salon and let them know that I shall be but a moment whilst I fetch my bonnet and coat.’

Ellie Wilcox-Rice was one of Lillian’s favourite acquaintances; in fact, it was probably due to her influence that Lillian had allowed even the talk of an engagement to her friend’s brother to be mooted.

As they walked along Park Lane she laughed at Ellie’s rendition of her Saturday evening at a ball in Kensington, a wearying sort of affair, it seemed.

‘I should have much rather been at the crush of James Cholmondely’s ball.’ Ellie sighed. ‘Jennifer Parker said she had the most wonderful time and that she had danced with an American with whom she fell in love on the spot.’

‘Probably Mr Lucas Clairmont,’ John said, waiting as the girls looked at a shop window, beautifully decorated for the approaching Christmas season. ‘He has all the ladies’ hearts a-racing, I hear, and no one has any idea of who exactly he is.’

‘Does he have your heart a-racing, Lillian?’ Ellie’s laughter was shrill.

‘Of course he doesn’t,’ John answered for her. ‘Lillian is far too sensible to be swayed by the man.’

‘Jennifer thinks he is rich. She thinks he has land in the Americas that rival that of the Ancaster estate. Hundreds and thousands of acres.’

‘Did he say so to her?’ Lillian was intrigued by this new development.

‘No. It is just she has a penchant for Mr Darcy in
Pride and Prejudice
and imagines Lucas Clairmont in much the same mould.’

‘A peagoose, then, and more stupid than I had imagined her.’ John’s outburst was unexpected. Usually he saw the best in all people.

‘Jennifer also said that you had a waltz with this man, Lillian.’

‘Indeed I did, and he is a competent dancer, if I recall.’

‘But he made no impression upon you?’

Looking away, Lillian hated her breathlessness and her racing heart. To even talk of him here…

‘Why, speaking of the devil, I do believe that is him coming towards us now. With Lord Hawkhurst, is it not?’

His sister laid her hand upon his. ‘John, you absolutely must introduce me to him and let me make up my own mind.’

The two men walked towards them, both tall and dark, though today it appeared as though Luc Clairmont laboured in his gait and when they came up close Lillian could well see why. Today he looked little like he had last time she had met him, his left eye swollen shut and a cut across the bridge of his nose. When her glance flickered to his hands she saw that he wore gloves. To cover the damage to his knuckles, she supposed, and frowned.

‘Wilcox-Rice.’ Lord Hawkhurst bowed his head and the exchanges of names were made. When it was her turn for introduction, however, Luc Clairmont made no mention of the intimacy of their meetings so far, tipping his hat in much the same way as he did for Eleanor.

Today the light in his one good eye was dulled considerably, his glance almost bashful as she looked upon him. He barely spoke, waiting until Hawkhurst had finished and then moving along with him.

‘Well,’ said Eleanor as they went out of earshot, ‘it looks as if Jennifer’s prince has had an accident.’

‘Been in another fight, more like it,’ John interjected. ‘There was talk of a scuffle at the Lenningtons’ the other week.’

‘Really.’ Ellie turned to look back and Lillian wished that she would not.

‘Who would he fight?’

‘The gambling tables have their own complications.’ John was quick to answer his sister’s question. ‘Your cousin, by the way, Lillian, is numbered amongst those who have had more than a light dab at the faces of others.’

‘Daniel?’ Ellie questioned, grimacing at the name. ‘But he dresses far too well to fight.’

Despite herself Lillian laughed at the sheer absurdity of her friend’s statement as they made their way into Oxford Street.

‘I can well see why Jennifer Parker is so besotted. Have you ever seen a more dangerous-looking man than Lucas Clairmont?’

When John frowned heavily, they decided that it was prudent to drop the subject altogether.

Christmas decorations were beginning to appear in more of the shops and a child and an elderly woman stood by the roadside selling bunches of mistletoe from a barrow.

Ellie rushed over dragging Lillian with her, carefully separating the foliage until she found a piece that she wanted.

‘They say if you kiss a man under mistletoe you will
find your one true love. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Perhaps you might kiss my brother? Here, Lillian, I will buy a sprig for you.’

Eleanor gave the woman some money and was handed two brown parcels, the greenery contained in thick paper and string. As they went to leave a young couple came up to the barrow. They were not well-to-do or dressed in anything near the latest of fashion, but when the man held the mistletoe up to the woman there was something in their eyes that simply transfixed Lillian.

Laughter and warmth and a shining intensity that was bewitching! She saw love in the way their hands brushed close as he handed her the packet and in the breathless smile the woman gave back to him as she received her gift. Only them in the world, only the small circle of their joy and happiness, for the bliss between them was tangible to everyone that watched.

Yearning overcame Lillian. Yearning for what she had just seen, the mistletoe a reminder of what she had never found and would probably never have. She glanced at John, who was castigating his sister for wasting her money on such frippery and a heavy sadness settled over her.

Christmas with its hope and promise had a way of undermining rationality and logic, replacing it with this mistletoe magic and a great dollop of hunger for something completely untenable.

‘I do hope you are not swayed by my sister’s nonsense, too?’ John said, and with the shake of her head
Lillian placed the brown packet in her bag and averted her eyes from the couple now walking on the other side of the street.

H
er cousin Daniel was in the library the next morning when she went down to find again the book on the Americas and he did not look pleased.

‘Lillian. It has been a while since we have talked.’ His face was marked by the underlying anger she had got used to seeing there.

For the past few years Daniel had been away from England and the ease of conversation that they had at one time had was now replaced by distance. Some other more nebulous wildness was also evident.

‘Does my father know that you are here?’

‘Yes. He is just retrieving a document that my mother has asked me to find for her.’

‘I see.’

He flipped at the pages of the book on America as it lay open on the table next to him. ‘It’s a big land. I was there on the east coast. Washington, mainly, and New York.’

‘Is that where you met Mr Clairmont?’

He frowned and then realisation dawned. ‘Ah, you saw us the other night at the Lenningtons’.’

‘I met him in the street yesterday with Hawkhurst. He had the appearance of being in another fight and I thought perhaps—’ But he did not let her finish!

‘Stay away from him, Lillian, for he is trouble.’

She nodded, and, pleased to hear her father’s footsteps in the hall, excused herself.

John Wilcox-Rice arrived alone in the afternoon and he had brought her a bunch of winter cheer. Blooms that would sit well in her room and she thanked him.

Today he was dressed in a dark blue frock coat, brown trousers and a waistcoat of lighter blue. His taste was impeccable, she thought, his Hessians well polished and fashionable.

After her talk with her cousin that morning she was in a mood to just let life take her where it would. Thoughts of children and a home of her own were becoming more formed. Perhaps a life with John would be a lot more than tolerable? Her father liked him, her aunt liked him and she liked his sister very much. The young couple from yesterday came briefly to mind, but the time between then and now had dulled her sense of yearning, her more normal sensibleness taking precedence.

So when he took her hand in his she did not pull away, but savoured the feeling of gentle warmth.

‘We have known each other for a passably long time, Lillian, and I think that if we gave it the chance…’

When she nodded, he looked heartened.

‘I have asked your father if I could court you and he has given his permission. Now I need the same permission from you.’

The warning from Daniel and the Countess of Horsham’s gossip welled in her mind.

Stay away from Lucas Clairmont. Stay away from trouble.

‘It is six weeks until Christmas. Perhaps we could use this time to see if…?’ She could not finish. To see what? To see if she felt passion or fervour or frenzy?

When he drew her up with him in response she stood, and when his lips glided across her own she did try to answer him back, did attempt to summon the hope of joy and benefit.

But she felt nothing!

The shock of it hit her and she pulled away, amazed at the singular smile of ardour on John’s face.

‘I will consider that as a troth, my love, and I will treasure the beauty of it for ever.’

The sound of a maid coming with tea had him moving away and taking his place on a chair opposite her. Yet still he grinned.

A gentleman, a nice man, a good man. And a man whose kisses made her feel nothing.

She lay in bed that night and cried. Cried for her mother and her father and for herself, trapped as she was by rules and rituals and etiquette.

John’s fragrant flowers were on the table beside her
bed, but she missed the ugly single orange bloom. Missed its vigour and its irreverence and its unapologetic raw colour. Missed the company of the man who had given it to her.

He had had a wife who had died quite recently according to the gossip. Lord, how had he dealt with that? Badly, by all accounts, as she thought of his gambling and his obvious lack of funds.

Closing her eyes, she brought her hand to her mouth and kissed the back of it as John Wilcox-Rice had kissed her lips today. There was something wrong with the way that he had not moved, the static stillness of the action negating all the emotion that should have been within it.

Lord, she had never in her life been kissed before and so she was hardly an expert, but a part of her brain refused to believe that that was all that it was, all that was whispered about and written of. No, there had to be more to it than what she had felt today, but with Christmas on its way and the honouring of a promise to find a spouse, she was running out of time to be able to truly discover just what it was.

A new and more daring thought struck her suddenly.

Perhaps she could find out? Perhaps if she invited Lucas Clairmont to call and offered him a sum of money for both his service and his silence, she might discover what she did not now know.

To buy a single kiss!

She smiled, imagining such a wild and dangerous
scheme. Of course she could not do that! Lucas Clairmont was hardly a man to bargain with and any trust she might give him would be sorely misplaced. Or would it? He had melted into the background at the Lennington ball and she had heard no gossip of her conversation on the Belgrave Square balcony. Indeed, when she had seen him in the street yesterday he had barely acknowledged her. But was that from carefulness or just plain indifference?

She moved her hand and slanted her lips, increasing the pressure in a way that felt right. A bloom of want wound thin in her stomach, the warm promise of it bringing to mind the dangerous American.

Quickly she sat up, hard against the backboard of the bed, pulling the bedding about her shoulders to try to keep the cold at bay.

This was her only chance to find out. She had been in society for nearly eight years and not once in all that time had she lain here imagining the things she did now about any man.

Forty-two days until she would give a promise of eternal obedience and chastity to a man whose kisses left her with…nothing.

Her teeth worried her top lip as she tried to imagine the conversation preceding the experiment. It hardly seemed loyal to tell him of her reaction to John’s kiss and her need to see if others would be the same, and yet if she did not he might think her wanton. A new thought struck her. Could men kiss well if they thought that they
were being compared in some way? Would it not dampen a natural tendency?

And how much should she pay him? Would he be offended by fifty pounds or thankful for it? Would he want a hundred if he kissed her twice?

The hours closed in on her, as did the fact that Luc Clairmont would be gone after Christmas. A useful knowledge that, for he would be a temporary embarrassment only, should her whole scheme founder!

The thought of Christmas turned her thoughts in another direction.

Mistletoe!

That was it. If she hung the mistletoe Ellie had bought her yesterday above the doorway and angled herself so that she stood beneath the lintel in front of him…Just an accident, a pleasant interlude that would mean nothing should his kiss rouse as little feeling in her as John’s had.

She sat up further.

Would he know of the traditions here in England? Would he even see it?

Could she mention the custom if he did not? Her brain turned this way and that, and the clock in the corner struck the hour of two. Outside the echo of the other clocks lingered.

Did Luc Clairmont hear them too? Was he awake with his swollen eye and wounded leg?

She slipped from her bed and walked to the window, pulling back her heavy cream curtains and looking out into the darkness.

Park Lane was quiet and the trees across the way were bleak against a sodden sky. Tonight the moon did not show its face, but was hidden behind low clouds of rolling greyness, gathering in the west.

A nothing kiss in a rain-filled night and the weight of twenty-five years upon her shoulders.

If she did not take this one chance, she might never know, but always wonder…

Sitting at her desk, she pulled out a piece of paper and an envelope and, dipping her pen in ink, began to write.

The letter had come a few minutes ago and Luc could make no sense of it. Lillian Davenport had something of importance to ask him and would like his company at three o’clock. The servant who had brought the message was one of Stephen’s so he presumed it to have gone to the Hawkhurst town house first. The lad also seemed to be waiting for a reply.

Scrawling an answer on a separate sheet of parchment, he reached for his seal. Out of habit, he was to think as he placed it back down, for of course he could not use it here. ‘Could you deliver this to Miss Davenport?’

The young servant nodded and hurried away, and when he had gone Luc lifted Lillian’s missive into the light and read it again.

She wanted to speak to him about something important. She hoped he would come alone. She wondered about the Christmas traditions in America and whether mistletoe and holly were plants he was familiar with.

He frowned. Though he grew trees for timber in Virginia, the subject of botany had never been his strongpoint. Holly he knew as a prickly red-berried plant but mistletoe…Was that not the sprig that young ladies liked to hang in the Yuletide salons to catch kisses? A different thought struck him. What would it be like to kiss Lillian Davenport?

He chastised himself at the very idea. Lord, she seemed to be very familiar with Wilcox-Rice and he was leaving in little more than a month.

But the thought lingered, a tantalising conjecture that lay in the memory of holding her fingers in his own and feeling the hurried beat of her heart. He guessed that Lillian Davenport was a warm and responsive woman beneath the outward composure, a lady who would be pleasantly surprised by the wonders of the flesh.

Raking his hand through his hair, he stood, wincing at the lump on the back of his head. Four men had jumped him on returning to his lodgings three nights ago and it was only his training in the army that had allowed him the ability to fend them off until help arrived.

He wished that Hawk had not persuaded him to take a walk the other day, the same walk that had brought him face to face with Lillian and her friends. Damn, he had seen in her eyes the censure he had noticed in every single one of their meetings and who could blame her?

The charade of his visit here began to press in. He would have liked to tell Lillian that he was not a bad
man, that he had been a soldier and that he held great tracks of virgin land in Virginia filled with timber. But he couldn’t because there were other things about him that she would not countenance.

Still, for the first time in a long while he felt alive and excited, the inertia in Richmond replaced by a new vigour.

He came through into the small yellow downstairs salon like one of the sleek black panthers she had once seen as a statue in an antique shop in Regent Street, all restless energy and barely harnessed menace, but she also saw he limped.

‘Miss Davenport!’ Today his injured eye looked darker, the bruising worsened by time, though he neither alluded to it nor hid it from her. Her letter was in his hand, she could see her tidy neat writing from where she stood and there was a question in his stance.

‘Mr Clairmont.’

Silence stretched until she gestured him to sit, the absurdity of all she had planned, now that he was here, screaming in her consciousness. How did she begin? How did one broach such a situation with any degree of modesty and honour?

‘Thank you very much for coming. I know that you must be busy—’

‘Card games happen mostly at night,’ he interrupted and she swore she saw a glimmer of amusement in his velvet eyes.

‘And your leg is obviously painful,’ she hurried on. To that he stayed wordless.

Her eyes strayed to the door. Did she risk broaching the subject before the parlourmaid brought in the refreshments or after? Relaxing, she decided on after, reasoning she could then instruct the girl to leave them alone for the few moments it would take to conduct her…experiment.

Lord, she hated to call it that, but was at a loss as to what else to name it.

‘I hope London is treating you well…’ As soon as she said it she knew her error.

‘A few cuts and bruises, but what is that between a man and a beautiful city?’

‘Was it a fall?’

He frowned at that and grated out a ‘yes’.

‘I had an accident last year at Fairley, our family seat in Hertfordshire.’

‘Indeed?’ His brows rose significantly.

‘I fell from a horse whilst racing across the park.’

‘I trust nothing was broken?’

‘Only my pride! It was a village fair, you see, and I had entered the race on a whim.’

‘Pride is a fragile thing,’ he returned in his American drawl, and her cheeks reddened. She shifted in her seat, hating the heat that followed and fretful that her letter had indeed told him far too much. Her eyes flickered to the mistletoe she had hung secretly, a sad reminder of a plot that was quickly unravelling, and then back to his hands lying palm up in his lap.

Suddenly she knew just how to handle her request. ‘You told me once of a woman who had read your hand in the town of Richmond?’

She waited till he nodded.

‘You said that she told you life was like a river and that you are taken by it to the place that you were meant to be.’ The tone of her voice rose and she fought to keep it back.

‘The thing is, Mr Clairmont, I would hope at this moment that the place you are meant to be is here in my salon because I am going to ask you a question that might, without some sense of belief in fate, sound strange.’

‘I know very little about the properties of mistletoe or holly,’ he interrupted. ‘If it is botany that you wish to quiz me on?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Your letter. You mention something of particular plants.’

Unexpectedly she began to smile and then caught the mirth back with a strong will as she shook her head.

‘No, it is not that. I had heard from…others that the state of your finances is somewhat precarious and wanted to offer you a boon to alleviate the problem.’ She knew that she had taken the wrong turn as soon as he stood, the polite façade of a moment ago submerged beneath anger.