Regency Christmas Proposals Page 6

  ‘I have younger brothers, Mrs Stowe. If I have no sons, one of them will inherit.’

  ‘And you would not mind if you have no sons? And no daughters?’

  ‘Surely that is in the hands of God?’

  ‘I was married for eight years and never conceived.’

  ‘That does not mean that you cannot.’

  ‘What if it does? If I did not conceive as a girl, what makes you believe I will do so at my age?’

  ‘The ripe old age of thirty-one?’ Another smile, one which did not quite reach his eyes.

  ‘What if I am barren?’ she pressed, believing that she had at last found the key to forcing him to acknowledge that what he proposed was impossible.

  ‘Then you are barren.’ Each word was separately and distinctly enunciated. ‘I am not asking you for children, Mrs Stowe. I am asking if you will do me the honour of becoming my wife.’

  Time stopped. A million objections ran through her head as his eyes held hers. All her very good reasons to refuse him. Her age, her lack of position, her inmost conviction that she was indeed unable to bear children, her fury with him for deceiving her. The first three he had rejected as unimportant. The latter, which had once burned bright and fierce, now seemed merely ridiculous. Almost contrived.

  And still…

  ‘I cannot,’ she said, freeing her hand from his with a jerk.

  He made an attempt to retake it, but once more she put hers together, intertwining her fingers and pressing her palms against her stomach.

  ‘I have given you my answer. And now, if you please, I should like to be alone.’

  ‘Bella…’ He stepped forward to put his hands on her shoulders.

  Shocked at the familiarity, she looked up to protest—and straight into his eyes. She swallowed, the rebuke she’d been about to give unspoken.

  As she watched, again mesmerised, he bent his head to place his mouth over hers. His right hand fell to the base of her spine, pressing her body against his.

  At the first touch of his lips, hers parted. With her response, he deepened the kiss, expertly ravaging her senses so that for a moment she was unable to move or to think. If she didn’t—

  Realising how dangerous was the trap he was baiting, she raised her hands to put her palms flat against his chest, pushing him away with all her strength. ‘Don’t. Please, stop.’

  He obeyed at once, his breathing as ragged as hers. ‘You can’t after that deny—’

  ‘No more, my lord, I beg of you. We do not suit. We cannot. That is my last word on the matter.’

  She turned, stumbling a little in her haste to be gone. His fingers caught her elbow, holding her until she regained her balance. As soon as she had, she pulled away from him, walking as quickly as she dared over the rough ground.

  She expected him to come after her. To ride beside her. To attempt to convince her again that his arguments were rational while hers were not. He did none of those things.

  When she reached the broad meadow below, with its profusion of wildflowers, she looked back to the top of the rise. And found it as empty as her heart.

  Chapter Seven

  Six months later

  The snow that blanketed the countryside covered its winter dreariness, but for some reason, despite the undeniable beauty of the scene outside her window, even that failed to work its usual magic on Isabella’s spirits.

  Hannah had left early this morning to buy the Christmas goose and other items for the feast she was planning to serve in two days. The cottage had already been made festive with the scent of fresh greenery Ned had brought inside.

  And, in spite of everything the two of them were doing in preparation for Christmas, Isabella could find not a trace of joy in her heart. She pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders as she turned away from the parlour window.

  Ned and Hannah had undoubtedly been delayed by the condition of the roads. When they returned, the housekeeper would be full of complaints about that, as well as the latest gossip she had picked up in town. All of which would serve as a distraction, and none of which would demand more than the minimal response. Thankfully Hannah would be quite content with the occasional expression of surprise or dismay, as her stories warranted.

  Isabella walked across to the fire and bent to add wood from the stack Ned had replenished before he’d brought the pony cart around for his wife. She stood watching as the log caught, its crackle cheerful in the snow-shrouded emptiness of the small house.

  For a moment the feelings of despair she had fought for the last six months overwhelmed her resolve. She put her head in her hands as tears welled from behind tightly closed lids. Then, furious with herself, she scrubbed at her cheeks lest sharp-eyed Hannah discern that she’d been crying.

  What possible reason did she have to feel sorry for herself? She had a roof over her head, food for her table, two beloved companions who would do anything for her. She should be on her knees thanking God for His many blessings instead of—

  The slam of the door chased those thoughts from her head. She pinched her cheeks to give them colour, and then used her handkerchief to wipe any traces of dampness from her nose.

  When she walked into the kitchen the housekeeper was unburdening herself of boxes tied with string and sacks that bulged with odd shapes. Snow clung to Hannah’s bonnet and dusted the shoulders of her cloak, but she was humming to herself.

  ‘The roads must be a nightmare,’ Isabella ventured as she stepped forward to assist in the unpacking.

  ‘Ned had to help Mr Slater free the wheels of his gig,’ Hannah looked up to say. ‘I’ll have a time of it getting the muck out of his coat. Sticky as tar, it is.’

  ‘It’s lucky he was there to lend a hand. Especially as cold as it is today.’

  ‘And looks to grow more so. Mark my words, the roads will be frozen solid before this day is done.’

  ‘At least you won’t have to venture out again before church on Christmas Day.’

  ‘Thank the Lord,’ Hannah agreed, busily placing apples, chestnuts, onions, parsnips and potatoes onto the table. Apparently there was to be no indication in the next two days of the frugality they practised the rest of the year.

  ‘And for His merciful bounty,’ Isabella finished. ‘Most of which you seem to have brought home with you. All this for the three of us?’

  ‘And why should we not have a feast? It’s Christmas, after all.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Isabella agreed with a smile.

  The plump goose was duly admired. Then Isabella donned an apron to help with the preparation of the Christmas pies, which were to be the first order of business.

  As they worked, the familiar camaraderie between the two of them, as well as the housekeeper’s pleasure in the meal she planned, dissipated Isabella’s earlier melancholia. She was helping peel apples when the sense of the housekeeper’s chatter destroyed any illusions she might have had about being content with her life.

  ‘By the by, I heard some gossip in town about your London gentleman. Mind you, Becky Gilbert’s tongue has been known to wag at both ends, but she says Mrs Lambert—who she works for, you know—is acquainted with his lordship’s cook.’

  ‘Mr Wakefield?’ Isabella’s heart had stopped with the words ‘your London gentleman’. By the time the housekeeper finished her following sentence, it was pounding so hard it seemed in danger of leaping from her chest.

  ‘Lord Easton, he is, dear. Becky was working at the inn when he was there. That’s how she came to know his title. Pleasant to her, he was. Not like some of them as stays there. And his man was too—although that one was sometimes quarrelsome about what was or wasn’t good enough for his lordship.’

  Was he engaged? Married? Dead?

  ‘What did she say about him?’

  The words sounded strangled to her ears, but Hannah seemed not to notice. Her knife continued to transform the peel of the apple she held into a long crimson snake.

  ‘Mrs Lambert’s acquaintance apparently works
in his country house, not in town. Such a shame, she said. But then the good book says—’

  Dead, then. Oh, dear God, no.

  ‘What about Lord Easton?’

  Hannah’s eyes, wide and shocked, came up at Isabella’s tone. ‘Well, I was about to tell you what about him. If you’ll only give me a chance.’

  Isabella clamped her lips together, knowing from experience that it would be better to let her housekeeper tell her news in her own way. Questions—although she ached to ask them—would only delay the process.

  ‘There, now.’ Hannah inspected the apple she’d peeled and then deftly sliced it into the bowl in front of her. Only then did she look up at her mistress. ‘Blind.’

  The nod she added to that pronouncement held a trace of satisfaction, but Isabella ignored it, concentrating instead on the single word she had uttered.

  ‘Blind? Are you sure that’s what she said?’

  He had told her that due to the damage to his eyes he was unable to read, but she had spent too many hours with him to believe that his injuries still affected his sight in any other way.

  Had been blind, her searching mind supplied. Someone must have told the cook that, and the information had become garbled when it was relayed to Becky Gilbert’s employer. Or to Becky herself.

  ‘Oh, I’d not be mistaking something like that, now, would I?’ Hannah went on.

  ‘But whatever damage there had been to his eyes was quite healed. You saw that yourself.’ She was clutching at straws, she knew, but straws were all she had.

  Blind. The word echoed and re-echoed in her head even as she argued.

  ‘An infection, Becky said. Something to do with what happened to him when he was in the army. Mrs Lambert didn’t know the details, her friend not being privy to those. All I’m telling you, love, is what she told me. Make of it what you will. Despite what he done…’ Hannah hesitated, looking up at her with sympathy in her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t wish blindness on anyone. Especially someone so young.’

  ‘What he did? What do you mean?’

  ‘It was plain as the nose on your face that your heart was broken when he left. Mine ached just to see how much you suffered. So maybe it’s a rough kind of justice after all. But still…So young.’ Hannah shook her head mournfully.

  ‘You could not be more wrong.’ Isabella’s tone once again caused the housekeeper’s eyes to widen. ‘He asked me to marry him. I’m the one—’ She stopped, her lips clamping shut before she opened them to continue. ‘I’m the one who said we should not suit.’

  ‘Not suit? Why ever not? He seemed a fine young man to me.’

  ‘Too fine,’ Isabella whispered. ‘And too young.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ Hannah’s confusion seemed genuine.

  ‘You said it yourself. That he was too fine. Too much the London gentleman.’

  ‘Oh, love, never say that something I said made you go and turn him down? A man like that? Someone who would care for you all your life?’

  ‘We did not suit,’ Isabella said again, trying to give the words some validity.

  They rang hollow instead. Her heart had known that then, even as her intellect had foolishly tried to make her conform to the opinions of the world.

  ‘Maybe it’s for the best.’ Hannah had moved around the table to put her arms around her, drawing her close. ‘Considering what’s happened to him, I mean.’

  For a long moment Isabella allowed herself to be comforted by the warmth of the motherly bosom and the familiar scent of lavender water, overlaid now with the smell of cloves. Finally she leaned back, looking into Hannah’s face. ‘There is no mistake? You’re sure?’

  ‘It’s what she said. Perhaps if you talked to Mrs Lambert…’

  The words trailed as Isabella pulled away from the housekeeper’s hold. With trembling fingers she struggled to untie her apron, laying it on top of the waiting apples when she had done so.

  ‘Can I get you something, dear?’ Hannah asked. ‘A cup of tea? Or a compress for your head, mayhaps?’

  ‘Ned,’ Isabella said, trying to think what else she should need.

  ‘Ned?’

  ‘And the pony cart. Do you think the mail coach will run this afternoon?’

  ‘I’ve never known it not to. But you’ll not be needing the mail coach for Mrs Lambert’s. Ned can take you straight there, right enough.’

  ‘I’m not going to Mrs Lambert’s.’

  ‘Then…why would you need the mail coach?’

  ‘Because I am going to him.’

  Chapter Eight

  She had sent Hannah to enquire of Becky Gilbert the location of his lordship’s residence while she herself threw clothing into William’s old portmanteau. She hadn’t even allowed Ned to unharness the pony when they’d returned with that information. She had made him turn right around and drive her to the Wren’s Nest, where she’d been lucky enough to secure a seat on the fast-moving coach that carried not only the mail but any passengers willing to pay a premium for its speed.

  Although she’d been infinitely grateful to have secured an inside seat, even there, somewhat protected from the elements, the cold had seeped through her clothing and chilled her to the bone. And that had been before the brunt of the storm had struck, hiding the highway under mounds of snow.

  Now, after more than twenty hours on the road, half of them spent in a coach caught in snow drifts or in walking up icy hills in order to spare the horses, she was at last standing in the courtyard of the inn at Welwyn. And once more assailed by doubt.

  No matter what she said to him, Guy would know why she had come. And she knew exactly how he would react.

  She had refused him for reasons that were far less important than those he would mount against her. If he bothered to make those arguments. After all, he might not even agree to see her—

  Only as the words formed in her head did her resolve strengthen. It didn’t matter what he thought about why she was here. Given the opportunity, she knew she could prove to him that this had nothing to do with pity and everything to do with her realisation of what a fool she had been.

  She turned and marched inside. The ticket agent was engaged with the last of the passengers for the outgoing coach, so she waited until he was free before she made her enquiry.

  ‘I wish to hire a conveyance to take me to Woodhall Park.’ Her manner, learned in far more difficult dealings with recalcitrant innkeepers on the Continent, was so deliberately confident as to be commanding.

  ‘They’re not expecting you, then?’ The agent’s eyes considered her, no doubt judging her acceptability to the occupants of the Hall.

  ‘If they were, they should, of course, have sent a carriage to meet me.’

  One of the man’s brows lifted. ‘Acquainted with the family, are you, miss?’

  ‘With Lord Easton. If that is any of your concern.’

  ‘His lordship is very well thought of by folks around here.’

  ‘I should imagine that he would be. Now, is there a chaise available for hire, or must I enquire elsewhere?’

  ‘Why don’t I send someone up to the house to tell them you’re here? Then they can send something for you more comfortable than a yellow bounder.’

  There was little to be gained by continuing to argue, Isabella decided. She could always appeal to the innkeeper, but she suspected the outcome of that conversation would be no different.

  She even wondered briefly if it might not be better to let Guy make that decision, rather than arrive unbidden on his doorstep. But if she did, and he then refused her, she would lose the opportunity to convince him of her true motives in coming.

  ‘The chaise, I believe,’ she said decisively. ‘But thank you for your very kind advice.’

  She could not be sure what won the day—her tone of command or the fact that under her cloak she was wearing the first new dress she had purchased in more than five years, a mulberry worsted that she was pleased to think complemented her colouring. For whatever reason, the agen
t motioned for one of the post boys, giving him instructions to have a chaise brought round.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said again as the boy disappeared into the courtyard.

  ‘As I said, we think highly of his lordship around these parts. One of the Iron Duke’s aides, he was. Mentioned in dispatches, you know.’

  ‘I did know, actually.’ Isabella’s lips tilted with the memory of the story Guy had told her concerning Wellington and the Spanish lady’s chemise. ‘At Salamanca, I believe.’

  The man’s brows lifted again before he said, his manner far friendlier than it had been before, ‘I’ll see to it there’s plenty of rugs in the chaise, miss. It’s brutal cold out. You wait here in the warm, and I’ll let you know when they’re ready.’

  The guests in attendance for the Christmas Eve dinner at Woodhall Park were all family. Even so, when seated they numbered thirty-four.

  The second course was being just brought round when one of the footmen entered the dining room. He whispered something into the ear of the butler, who was supervising service.

  Guy assumed from Rodgers’ expression in response that there was some issue with the staff. He was surprised, therefore, when the butler approached his place at the head of the table.

  Rodgers bent, his words discreet enough not to be overheard. ‘You have a visitor, my lord.’

  Guy briefly considered which of his acquaintances might be unthinking enough to show up uninvited on Christmas Eve. Unable to conceive of any one of them doing so, he looked up to question, ‘Someone to see me? Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure, my lord. A lady, my lord.’ Although his features were now perfectly composed, Rodgers still managed to suggest his strong disapproval of the entire matter. ‘One who seems a bit…travel-worn, if I may be so bold.’

  ‘Did she give her name?’

  ‘A Mrs Stowe, my lord. I have instructed the driver of the chaise she arrived in…’

  The butler’s last faltering sentence was addressed to Guy’s back as he made his way towards the dining room door. He was aware of his mother’s raised brows as he passed her end of the table, but he ignored the message they were intended to convey.