Regency Christmas Proposals Page 11

  She straightened her shoulders and walked towards him as if it was the most normal thing in the world for them to be face to face. ‘Lord Amesby. Such a surprise to see you here.’

  ‘Because you think I do not care for art or history?’ he said with a laugh. ‘Only horses?’

  Horses—and cards, and women. ‘I don’t know what you care for,’ she said, and was surprised at how true that was. It had been so long since she had seen Dominick—years before the Welbourne summer party. She’d heard gossip about him often, yet knew so little of the real man now. And she found she longed to know far more. She wanted it so much it made her heart ache all over again.

  ‘I don’t see how anyone could fail to care about something so very beautiful,’ he said, gesturing to a small marble statue in the case.

  Mary glanced down to see a Grecian lady, her hair carved into perfect curls, her draperies falling around her slim body in fluid lines. She held a basket of flowers balanced delicately on her shoulder, and a small, secret smile curved her lips.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she said. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Persephone.’

  Persephone—snatched away from her sunlit life by the god of the Underworld. The first elopement. ‘Do you have some—affinity with her story?’ Mary said carefully, thinking of Lady Newcombe.

  ‘I fear I am no scholar of ancient myths,’ Dominick answered. ‘I like her because she looks like you.’

  ‘Me?’ Mary examined the statue closer. It made her want to laugh and blush like a schoolgirl to think he considered her so pretty. To think that he considered her at all.

  ‘And what of you?’ he said. He leaned closer as they both looked at Persephone, not touching but near enough that she could feel his warmth. ‘Do you visit a favourite statue today?’

  ‘There are many pieces I love here. But I confess I mostly came for the quiet.’

  ‘The quiet?’

  ‘Yes.’ She peeked at him from the corner of her eye to find he watched her very closely. No wonder all the ladies sighed for him—he still had that wondrous gift of making a woman feel herself the only person in the world. The only person he cared about. ‘You see, my youngest sister has come to stay with me.’

  Dominick laughed. ‘Then quiet must indeed be in short supply at your house. I, too, have a young relative in residence—my cousin.’

  ‘Captain Heelis.’

  His brow arched in question. ‘You know him?’

  ‘Sadly, I do.’ A thought suddenly struck Mary—perhaps Dominick could help with her Ginny dilemma. He knew about scandal and wild-hearted young people. Perhaps he had some influence with Captain Heelis. It was obvious she had none with Ginny. ‘I fear my sister has developed a tendre for your cousin, and I have heard little from her but his name these last few weeks.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘So it is your sister.’

  ‘What is my sister?’

  ‘He has been spending a great deal of time writing letters and reading volumes of poetry of late,’ Dominick said. ‘But he has been quite secretive as to the object of his affections. If it comforts you, Mary, I am certain his intentions are most honourable.’

  ‘Oh, I know they are. He has already made an offer. But my parents do not approve.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Surely they would not approve of a young man with few prospects courting their daughter.’

  Mary remembered all too well that that had once been their objection to him. ‘I am sure Captain Heelis is an upstanding young man, but—you do see my dilemma? Ginny is in my care now.’

  He nodded. ‘I will speak to Arthur. Though I fear talking will do little good. Young people in love…’

  ‘Should be committed to Bedlam,’ Mary muttered.

  Dominick laughed. ‘It does often seem so. But such feelings pass—remember?’

  Did they? She had once thought that, but just now, caught in the spell of his beautiful eyes, she wasn’t sure they did pass. Not entirely.

  ‘I just wish they would pass a bit faster,’ she said. ‘My sister cries and wails at all hours, I fear.’

  ‘At least she does not try to write poetry and then read it to you for a critique,’ Dominick answered. ‘Byron’s literary reputation has nothing to fear from my cousin’s work.’

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to speak to him,’ she said. ‘Even if it does no good now, perhaps it will plant a seed of practicality in his head. I fear I will have to remove Ginny to an entirely new locale soon.’

  ‘You are leaving for Christmas?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘Not until the New Year. I want to celebrate in my own home—not that it will be very peaceful with Ginny carrying on so!’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Dominick glanced back down at Persephone, an unreadable expression on his face. ‘I do remember how you loved Christmas.’

  A sudden burst of laughter from just outside the gallery doorway startled her. She had quite forgotten that anyone existed in the world but Dominick and her.

  ‘I must go,’ she said quickly. She took one of her hands from her muff, holding it out to him. ‘Thank you again for agreeing to talk to Captain Heelis. It has been a weight off my mind just to speak of it all with someone else!’

  He folded her gloved hand between his strong, elegant fingers, raising it to his lips. He actually brushed a kiss against her knuckles, his breath soft through the thin leather. ‘I’m glad I could be of service.’

  Feeling suddenly hot and cold all at once, she snatched her hand back and hurried from the gallery. As she left, she passed a group of two ladies and three gentlemen. One of the ladies, a blonde in a most sophisticated feathered hat and a gown too low-cut for day, called out. ‘Dominick! So this is where you have been hiding yourself, you naughty man…’

  Mary rushed on, even as she longed to look back and see how the ‘naughty man’ responded to the woman. But, no, she didn’t care! She couldn’t care. Not any more.

  Dominick hurried along the street, not seeing the busy, happy crowds around him as they carried their Christmas packages home. He didn’t see the shop windows, brightly decked with greenery and streamers, or the wintry grey sky.

  He saw only Mary’s chocolate-brown eyes, watching him from beneath her lashes as at last a tentative smile touched his lips. For one brief moment it had seemed as if they were the old Dominick and Mary, bound together in an understanding and an attraction that was natural and magical. And when he’d kissed her hand in the museum…

  But then Dorothy and his friends had appeared. Dorothy was an actress who had once briefly been his mistress. He had seen the look on Mary’s face as she’d watched Dorothy call out to him. She’d looked so solemn and strangely disappointed.

  Well, blast her anyway! She had no right to be disappointed in anything he did. Just as he had no right to feel the way he did—wanting to rush after her, take her in his arms and explain everything. As if he could explain his misbegotten life.

  A lady suddenly stepped out of a shop door, nearly running into Dominick as she laughed down at the little girl holding her hand.

  ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon!’ she cried, peering up at him from beneath her hat. ‘Why, Lord Amesby. How do you do?’ He was cursed with all things associated with Mary today, he thought. For the lady was none other than Charlotte Fitzmanning—Mary’s sister-in-law.

  ‘How delightful to see you again, Miss Fitzmanning,’ he said politely, tipping his hat to her. ‘Oh, but I must call you Lady Andrew Bassington now.’

  ‘Indeed you must—though it sounds a most fusty title indeed. And I am Lady Derrington now. My husband’s poor little nephew died of a fever last year,’ she said sadly, the light in her eyes dimming. She put her arm around the little girl, who ducked her face shyly against Charlotte’s skirt.

  ‘Died of a…?’ Mary’s son gone? A cold, stunned sadness washed over Dominick and he could only stare at Charlotte, appalled. Oh, Mary! She had always so loved children. How terrible it must have been for her—must still be. How he would have given anything to b
e there for her. ‘I am very sorry,’ he said.

  ‘It was quite terrible,’ Charlotte answered. ‘He was such a dear child, and gone so quickly. Mary was devastated.’

  ‘Is she—how is she now?’ he asked. He had to restrain the urge, barely leashed for all the months since they had met at Welbourne, to run to her. She surely would not appreciate his sudden appearance back in her life.

  ‘She does try to be brave, to assure us she feels so much better,’ said Charlotte. ‘But I see her sadness, hidden underneath. She used to love Christmas so very much, Drew and I, and our daughter Anna here, were hoping to find a way to cheer her up a bit this Christmas. We were just in that shop trying to find a gift for her.’

  Dominick glanced past Charlotte’s shoulder to the shop window. He could hardly see the sparkling gems for his sadness for Mary and her poor child. ‘Did you find something to suit?’

  ‘Anna thought she would like those amethyst earrings,’ Charlotte said. ‘Purple is Mary’s favourite colour. But, alas, she will only wear grey now! I think I must keep on shopping for a way to put colour in her life again.’

  Put colour in her life again. If only he could do that. But he had forfeited that right long ago. ‘I wish you good luck.’

  ‘I am on my way to Hatchards now, to meet my husband. Would you like to accompany us? I remember you are a reader yourself, and I know Drew would like to see you again. It has been too long since we had your company.’

  The little girl, Anna, peeked up at him with adorable dark eyes.

  ‘I fear I have urgent errands to finish, Lady Derrington,’ he said. ‘But please give Drew my greetings.’

  Charlotte nodded slowly, her gaze much too perceptive as she watched him. ‘We did miss you at our wedding, and at Anna’s christening. But perhaps we will meet again soon?’

  ‘I hope so, Lady Derrington.’ Dominick watched Charlotte and the toddling girl hurry away down the street, a package-laden footman rushing to keep up with them. The crowd pressed around him, but he did not notice. All he could see, all he could think of, was Mary. Poor, brave, beautiful Mary and her grief.

  Could there be any greater, deeper pain than to lose a child? He had seen such grief before, felt its knife-cut to the soul. It had shown him how unfit he was to be a father, how he could not protect those he loved. And for Mary to suffer so…

  Dominick turned away, blindly seeking he knew not what. But his attention was captured by those earrings, sparkling at the centre of the window display. So deep and rich a purple, like the hopeful flash of violets in bleak, cold white snow.

  Before he could stop and think better of what he was doing he stepped into the shop.

  By the time he made it back to his town house, with the package he would probably never deliver tucked inside his greatcoat, his cousin had gone out for the evening. Their talk about the young Miss Smythe would have to wait.

  That was probably for the best, Dominick thought as he locked away the jewel case. He was in no shape to lecture anyone coherently about being responsible. Not when all he could think about was Mary.

  Chapter Three

  Mary tapped her finger against her chocolate cup, staring at her sister’s empty chair across the breakfast table. It appeared Ginny was still sulking; she had even stayed in her room through dinner last night. ‘This must cease,’ she murmured.

  ‘I beg your pardon, my lady?’ said the maid, who was laying out fresh toast.

  ‘Is my sister unwell this morning?’ Mary asked.

  ‘I don’t know, my lady. I haven’t seen Miss Smythe’s maid this morning.’

  ‘I will just look in on her, then.’ Mary laid her napkin beside her plate and rose from her chair, trying to keep a pleasant smile on her face as she slowly strolled from the breakfast room and up the stairs. The servants surely had enough fodder for gossip, with all Ginny’s fits and their quarrels!

  Mary marched up to Ginny’s door and knocked firmly. ‘Ginny, you must eat something! You will make yourself ill.’

  Nothing. Only silence. Mary slowly turned the knob, peeking into the chamber as she braced herself for more tears.

  But Ginny’s room was dark, the draperies still drawn over the windows. Her heart pounding, Mary dashed over to throw them open, spinning around as grey morning light flooded in. The bed had not been slept in; the dressing table was empty. The wardrobe doors were open to reveal several gowns missing.

  For one stunned moment Mary was sure she was imagining things. It had to be some prank on Ginny’s part, to pay her back for not supporting Captain Heelis’s suit! But then she saw a folded paper propped on the pillows of the bed.

  It was a note in Ginny’s looping handwriting.

  Dearest, dearest Mary,

  I am so very sorry to do this, after all your kindness to me, but I fear I have no choice. I love Captain Heelis with all my heart, and we know we must be together. By the time you read this we will be on our way to Gretna Green. Please forgive me, dearest sister, and be happy for us.

  All my love, Ginny.

  Oh, the foolish, foolish girl. Mary crushed the note in her hand, her mind racing. Their parents would be so furious! Surely they would now cut poor Ginny off without a penny, and blame Mary for being a bad chaperon. It would be such a scandal—on the Smythes and the Bassingtons. The Bassingtons, who prided themselves on their good name.

  Unless—unless she could stop them before anyone found out. If she could just trace them before they reached Scotland no one would need to know. It could all be hushed up.

  And she knew the one person who could help her.

  Still clutching the note, she hurried out of the room, closing the door behind her. She had to send for the carriage immediately.

  Mary stood on the doorstep of the narrow townhouse, shivering despite her thick wool pelisse and the veil on her velvet bonnet. Was this the right place? She had double-checked the address, but it seemed quite deserted, with all the shutters drawn and no smoke from the chimneys.

  She glanced down the street, the sky grey and hazy through that veil. It, too, was quiet, if respectable enough. For a moment she regretted dismissing the carriage and walking here after calling on the Quickleys, but she didn’t want anyone to know where she was.

  Perhaps it was better no one was here anyway.

  But as she turned away the door suddenly swung open. It was no butler or footman who stood there; it was Dominick himself.

  She had obviously interrupted him in a private hour, for he wore no coat, just a brocade waistcoat unfastened over his shirt, his cravat loosened. His golden hair was rumpled, a wave of it falling over his brow. His expression looked as stunned as she felt.

  ‘I beg your pardon—’ His words were choked off as she raised her veil to reveal her face.

  ‘My sister has run off with your cousin,’ she blurted out. ‘I need help.’

  Dominick’s lips pressed together in a tight line, a muscle flexing along his strong jaw. ‘You had better come in, then.’

  Mary nodded and stepped into the house, her hands clutched inside her sable muff. As he shut the door behind her she had the wild urge to flee, as if by leaving she could outrun all her reawakened confused feelings for him. He was the only one who could help her now, though.

  And, if she was honest with herself, she did not really want to leave.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I gave my servants the day off,’ he said, ‘so it’s a bit desolate at the moment. Come with me. It’s warmer in the library.’

  He strode down a narrow corridor, buttoning his waistcoat and smoothing back his hair. The gold signet ring on his finger gleamed in the dim light. Well, Mary thought, in for a penny, in for a pound—as her nanny had used to say when she was a child. She followed him.

  The library was indeed warmer, less stark than the bare foyer and corridor. Warm jewel-green and red carpets were spread across the parquet floor, and there were dark green velvet draperies over the windows, keeping away the cold day. Lamps were lit on the desk and a s
mall fire smouldered in the grate, illuminating the books lining the walls. Crates lay open by the hearth, as if he had just begun to unpack them.

  ‘I have no idea how to make tea,’ he said with a rueful laugh. ‘There is brandy, but I’m sure you don’t care for that.’

  ‘Actually, brandy sounds precisely what is called for today.’ Mary laid her muff and gloves on the table, untying her bonnet ribbons.

  ‘Brandy it is, then.’ He poured generous measures of the amber liquid into two glasses, handing her one. His hand brushed lightly against hers as she took the drink, warm and strong and strangely reassuring.

  Mary took a long swallow, relishing the burn of it in her stomach. It gave her courage, even if it was only false bravery. ‘Yes, definitely what is called for,’ she said.

  ‘Glad I could be of some service, then. Here, Mary, sit down by the fire and tell me what has happened. How long has your sister been gone?’

  Mary dropped into the chair he held out for her, holding the glass tightly in her hands. His own brandy, she saw, was barely touched as he sat down across from her.

  ‘Since some time last night,’ she said, and took another sip. ‘She didn’t come down to dinner. I thought she was sulking again, but she must have been packing. When was Captain Heelis last here?’

  Dominick shook his head. ‘I have not seen him since yesterday morning. He was not at home when I returned from the museum, but he often keeps erratic hours.’

  ‘Whenever Ginny can sneak to meet him, I suppose.’

  ‘Do you know anything of her plans?’

  Mary stared down wearily into the dregs of her glass. ‘Her note said they were headed to Scotland, and that she was sorry. I went to see her bosom bow, Angelica Quickley, before I came here. After much browbeating she admitted Ginny and Captain Heelis plan to follow the Great North Road as closely as possible because of the unpredictable weather. I have tried to keep it quiet, but…’