The Earl’s Mistletoe Bride (5 page)

Jonathan, it seemed, had noticed nothing. After a second, he laid her hand back in her lap, replaced the hard chair by the door and resumed his seat by Mrs Aubrey. ‘Excellent. I must look to you to oversee the arrangements, ma’am, for I am promised to King’s Portbury for the next few weeks. But before I leave Fratcombe, you and I shall put our heads together and
decide precisely who is to be invited. Oh, I am going to enjoy this!’

Mrs Aubrey was beginning to look a little prim. ‘They shall be punished for their lack of Christian charity, Master Jonathan, but do not forget your own, in the process. Forgiveness is a virtue, you know. You must not enjoy yourself too much. That could be a sin.’

He nodded. ‘I will try to suppress my baser instincts. And with you as my partner in this enterprise, ma’am, I am sure that generosity and forgiveness will prevail.’ Laughter burst out of him like ginger beer from a shaken bottle. ‘They will prevail, I promise you. Eventually.’

‘What will?’ The door had opened without a sound. The rector stood there, looking puzzled. ‘Do I take it that you and my lady wife have been conspiring together, Jonathan?’

Jonathan leapt to his feet to bow politely. ‘Your wife has most generously agreed to act as hostess for an evening party I plan to give at the Manor next month, sir. I hope you do not object?’

The rector’s cheery countenance suddenly became bleak. ‘Of course not. I appreciate that entertaining must be quite awkward for you now. I…we heard about the death of your wife, Jonathan, and we were very sorry. It must have been hard on you, hearing such sad news when you were so far away. Please accept our very sincere condolences.’

Jonathan’s face had turned ashen. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Beth could barely recognise him. The mention of his dead wife had turned him grey and gaunt. It was as though he had aged on the spot, by at least ten years. He must have loved his late wife a great deal if his grief
could do that. The fact that he had been in Spain, and unable to leave his post, would have cut him to the quick. No doubt, his countess was long buried by the time the news finally reached him. Poor, poor man.

‘Your wife died of a fever, I collect?’ As he always did, the rector was being kind to the bereaved, giving them an opportunity to talk about the person they had loved and lost.

Jonathan drew himself up very straight and tall. He seemed to have sucked in his cheeks. His nostrils were pinched. ‘I am grateful for your sympathy, sir. If you will forgive me, I prefer not to discuss my late wife’s passing. It is well over a year ago now, you understand.’

The rector coloured. ‘Yes, of course, my boy. Of course.’

The easy companionship in the little parlour had evaporated. Jonathan bowed to Mrs Aubrey and then, very sketchily, to Beth. ‘If you will excuse me now, ladies, I have a great deal of business to attend to before I leave Fratcombe.’ He bowed again to the rector. In a trice, he was gone.

Beth flung herself out of bed and just managed to reach the basin in time. It was months since she had suffered one of her sick headaches, but yesterday’s encounter with Jonathan had brought back all her guilty fears. She had been tossing and turning all night. Now she had a pounding head, and sickness, as well.

She felt for her towel, dipped it in the cold water in the ewer, and wiped her face. Then she crawled back to bed, and lay there, panting. No point in trying to light her candle. At this stage in her headache, she would
barely be able to see. It would be like standing in a dark, narrow tunnel, with occasional pulses of painfully bright light striking into her eyes like arrows.

She tried to push aside her fears, to blank her mind, but the ideas kept on drumming like a nasty refrain. She had agreed to take the place of honour at a Fratcombe Manor dinner. She would have to suffer all those pointing fingers, all those whispered insults. She deserved them, for she was a nobody, perhaps even a fugitive. But she had agreed. She could not escape.

The nausea gripped her again and she raced for the basin. This time she carried it back to the bed and laid it carefully on the floor. This was going to be very bad. Usually, her headaches lasted only an hour or two, at most. Usually, she managed to conceal her pain from the Aubreys and even from Hetty. But usually there was no sickness. Sickness was impossible to hide.

For a long time, she lay on her back, eyes closed, trying to control her body. She was shivering as if it were winter rather than midsummer. She tried to breathe deeply, to think of innocent, beautiful things, like summer flowers and laughing children. Eventually, the shaking stopped and she dozed a little.

She was in a grand dining room. It must be Christmas, for the room was decked with holly and ivy. One moment she was sitting at table in the place of honour, the next, all the guests were attacking her, pointing fingers, screaming abuse, throwing branches of greenery into her face. She put up her hands to ward them off and was smeared with the waxy film of mistletoe berries. There was no one to defend her, not even the Aubreys. She shrank from her attackers. In her dream, she knew
them all. In her dream, she knew that she was to be cast out. She struggled against the hands that were trying to grab her—

‘Miss Beth! Miss Beth, wake up!’

She screamed.

‘Miss Beth, wake up!’ A cold cloth was put to her brow and held firmly.

She groaned and tried to open her eyes. Hetty was hovering anxiously, mopping Beth’s face. It was after dawn. There was light coming through the shutters, blessed light that Beth could see. The tunnel had gone.

‘You have one of your sick headaches,’ Hetty said flatly. ‘I will tell Mrs Aubrey and then I will make your peppermint tea.’

‘Hetty, don’t tell Mrs—’

Hetty straightened and shook her head. ‘I have to, Miss Beth. You can’t possibly teach the children when you are in such a state.’ She nodded towards the basin on the floor. ‘I know you sometimes hide it when it’s only the headache, but you can’t hide this. Mrs Aubrey will want you to stay in bed until the sickness has gone. And you know it’s for the best.’

Beth tried to protest. She began to push herself up, but it was more than she could manage. The nausea threatened to overcome her again. She sank back on to her pillows and willed her stomach to behave.

‘Lie still and breathe deeply,’ Hetty said gently. ‘I’ll be back with the tisane in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’ She tried to smile encouragingly and then whipped out of the bedchamber.

Chastened, Beth did as she was told. She had no
choice. Until this attack subsided, she was not going to be able to do anything. Except think.

She had promised Jonathan she would do it. For the Aubreys, he had said. But when he was holding her hand, when they were touching, skin to skin, she would have agreed to anything he asked. She was being a fool, all over again. She had berated herself before, for thinking of him as her silver knight. Now she was thinking of him as a man—a living, breathing, desirable man—which was even more idiotic. He could be nothing to her. He was a great nobleman. She was a foundling with no past, not even a name of her own. If the terrors of her dreams were even half true, she had done something wicked in her past life, and her present sufferings were probably a just punishment.

Perhaps the dinner at Fratcombe Manor was part of that punishment, an ordeal she had to undergo in order to be cleansed? That thought was oddly calming. The pounding in her head was even beginning to recede. It was a sign.

She was going to have to find a way of meeting, and enduring, the trial to come. It was her only hope of overcoming the demons that haunted her.

It was late afternoon when Jon strolled into his mother’s sitting room in the east wing of Portbury Abbey, his principal estate. She always sat here in the afternoons, to avoid the sun, she said, which was ruinous to a lady’s complexion. Since Jon had returned from Spain as brown as a nut, she had stopped adding that the sun was ruinous to a gentleman’s complexion, too.

‘Jonathan! At last! I had almost given you up!’

He came forward to kiss her hand. ‘Good afternoon, Mama. I hope I see you well?’

‘Tolerably so, my dear.’ She patted the place by her side, but before he could sit down, she said, ‘Have you ordered tea? No, of course you have not. Ring the bell, would you, dear?’

Nothing had changed. His mother was well-intentioned, but she did have a lamentable tendency to treat her sons as though they were still in short coats.

He crossed to the empty fireplace to pull the bell. How long would it be before she drove him to distraction, all over again? He had told her he planned to remain at the Abbey for three weeks, to deal with estate business, but he had barely set foot in the place before he was wondering whether he might need to create an urgent summons back to the peace of Fratcombe. It was yet another reminder of the duty he had been trying to ignore. If he wanted to reorder this house according to his own lights, rather than his mother’s, he had to find himself a wife. This time, however, he was determined that the wife would be a lady of his own careful choosing. He planned to take his time. Eventually, he would install a new countess at the Abbey, and his mother would move back to the Dower House. Eventually, he would have peace.

The door opened. Jon ignored it. It was his mother’s role to give instructions to the servants.

‘Oh, forgive me!’ It was a young and educated voice, not a servant’s.

Jon spun round. Standing in the doorway was possibly the loveliest young woman he had ever seen, with guinea-gold curls framing a heart-shaped face and eyes
the colour of bluebells. Damn it! His mother was match-making again! Just how many beauties had she installed here to tempt him? Had she turned his working visit into a house party on the sly?

The young lady dropped Jon a very elegant curtsy and then came into the room. ‘Forgive me, ma’am,’ she said again. ‘Had I known you had company, I should not have intruded.’

‘This is not company, this is my son, Jonathan, home to do his duty as host. And about time, too.’ His mother rose. ‘You will permit me to present him to you?’

The girl blushed the colour of overripe strawberries.

‘Lady Cissy, I should like to introduce my son, the Earl of Portbury, lately a major with the army in Spain. Jonathan, make your bow to Lady Cissy Middleton, second daughter of the Duke of Sherford.’

Jonathan swallowed his ire and bowed courteously. It was not the child’s fault, after all, that his mother was overstepping the mark yet again. As a dutiful son, he could not possibly respond in kind.

Lady Cissy sank into a deep curtsy. When she rose, she offered him her hand with practised elegance. ‘I am delighted to meet you at last, my lord,’ she said, looking up at him through thick golden lashes and then opening her eyes very wide, as if she were beholding something amazing.

‘Practised’ was definitely the word, Jon decided, with an inward groan. Why did his mother always choose rank and artifice over principles and honesty? He found himself remembering Beth Aubrey’s sharp retorts with more admiration than he had felt at the time. She told
the truth. She defended the weak. And she did not flirt. Unlike Lady Cissy.

He helped the girl to a seat beside his mother. He had a feeling this was going to be a very tedious afternoon.

Three sentences from the lady’s lips confirmed his worst fears. She was as empty-headed as most of her ilk. What’s more, she had a high-pitched giggle that would drive any sane man to drink.

J
on 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.