Читать книгу: «Under A New Year's Enchantment»

Hampshire, January 1816

Thank God there’s no mistletoe. Theodora Southern swerved to avoid one of the rowdy guests at the New Year’s Eve celebration at Westerly House. She had had enough of the worst Christmas house party ever.

She glanced behind her, but Maynard Buxton, the bane of her existence, was doing his best to coax one of the serving maids into a corner for a kiss without the benefit of mistletoe. Garrick, Lord Westerly, whom she had known since childhood but seen rarely during the war years, had forbidden mistletoe this Christmas, except in the servants’ quarters. At first, Theodora had been dismayed—she’d hoped for a kiss from Garrick. But on the other hand, it meant less of having to be on one’s guard.

Or it should do, but something was most peculiar about this party. There was always some illicit behaviour at house parties, and this one was a fortnight long, making a few affaires unavoidable. But this year Westerly House seemed to sizzle with sensual desire.

Thank heavens the first wassail ritual, in which the villagers made a lot of noise and clamour to rid the great house of evil spirits, was over. The guests, high and low alike, mingled in the great hall. Ladling the wassail—hot, spiced ale—into the cups of the thirsty throng was Theodora’s responsibility, but when her friend Lucille had offered her some respite, Theodora had taken advantage of the opportunity to escape.

She hastened upstairs and down the passageway to her bedchamber. Judging by the grunts and moans from one of the rooms, some guests had already left the great hall and were once again indulging their baser instincts. “One would think this was a bawdy house,” she muttered. She was unwed and therefore a virgin, so she couldn’t risk indulging herself with an affaire. Usually, she didn’t even wish she could. She had a completely satisfying secret life—daydreams in which a handsome lover pleasured her in multiple ways. She had long ago decided she didn’t need a real flesh-and-blood man.

But something about Westerly House this Christmas made her feel as if she did.

Not Maynard Buxton, though.

At the moment, Theodora had better things to think about than lust. She grabbed a cloak from a hook in her bedchamber, slipped downstairs and through a corner of the great hall, and hurried down a deserted corridor. In the gun room, she found and lit a lantern. She pulled the hood of the cloak over her hair and set out through a side door into the cold night.

She crossed the meadow toward the abbey ruins, thankful for the chilly wind, which meant no one would venture outdoors. Ever since she’d learned that Garrick had discovered the remains of a Roman villa under the ruins, she’d been dying to take a look. A proper look, not a glance as one of a gaggle of young ladies whose only interest was in batting their eyelashes at his lordship. She’d thought about asking Garrick for a brief tour, but he’d been in a withdrawn, unfriendly mood since her arrival a week earlier. He’d spent much of his time alone in the ruins and hadn’t even tried to hide his annoyance when Lady Westerly had shepherded the ladies up to gawk at him. Very well, then! Since he had returned from the war a complete curmudgeon, Theodora would visit the ruins by herself.

She made her way through the overgrown sanctuary and across a strip of flagstones to the site of the old refectory. A pit the size of a small bedchamber, but only a few feet deep, yawned near the tumbledown stone walls. A makeshift canopy covered it to keep out the rain. She jumped into the pit and made her way carefully around the picks, shovels and trowels, past the brazier and a couple of chairs to where several pillars had been unearthed.

She squatted, aiming the beam of the lantern. She knew what the pillars were. She’d seen a drawing in one of Papa’s books. They were the remains of a hypocaust, which—

“What the devil are you doing here?” said a voice of pure rage.

Theodora started violently, dropping the lantern. It hit the ground with a clatter. The glass broke and the candle went out, plunging her into darkness. She uttered a mew of distress.

“It serves you right.” It was Lord Westerly speaking, she realized. “I don’t intend to wed you or any of the others, as I trust I’ve made plain by now.”

She stood, disbelieving, staring into the blackness. He thought she’d come out here to trap him!

“Even if I did, this sort of ploy wouldn’t work,” he said. “I won’t be forced into marriage.”

Mortification washed through her. As if she would! Much as she liked Garrick, she wasn’t one of those ninnies his aunts had invited in the hope that he would fall in love with them. She had come, as she did every year, to help out as a sort of secondary hostess. She’d known Garrick Westerly for years. She’d followed him about when she’d been ten years old to his fourteen. She’d been desperately in love with him at fifteen. She’d prayed for him when he was away at war, and she’d looked forward to seeing him again.

He wasn’t the same man. He had returned hard, bitter and frequently rude.

“Let this be a lesson to you, before you ruin all your chances,” Lord Westerly drawled. “Gentlemen use some rather unpleasant words to describe the sort of woman who chases a man. I assure you, nobody wants one of those as his wife.”

Shaking with anger now, Theodora made her way slowly away from his voice and toward the edge of the pit. It was all she could do not to shriek at him. I already did that, remember? I wouldn’t chase you now if you were the last man alive. Theodora’s half boot encountered a trowel. She muffled a curse and bent to pick it up. And I’ll certainly never use you as a daydream lover again.

She hurled the trowel in the direction from which his voice had come. It met something with a clang—fortunately not Garrick’s head, which wasn’t made of metal, although evidently he had returned from the war about as intelligent as a lump of lead.

“You disgust me,” she said. She picked up her skirts and stormed away without another word.

* * *

Garrick Westerly stared into the night. Dora? Damnation, what had he just done?

Her footsteps died away. The chilly breeze flapped the canopy overhead, and in the distance a fox yowled. He should go after her and explain. He set out in pursuit, but as he exited the far side of the ruins, the sound of voices stopped him short.

“Miss Southern?” asked a female in sharp, disapproving tones. “Whatever are you doing outdoors at this time of night?”

“It’s just as I told you, Mother.” That was the vain, redheaded Miss Concord, the most persistent of the female guests at this disaster of a house party. So far she had stalked him in the corridors day and night and even hidden in his bed in the hope of trapping him into marriage. He’d managed to get rid of her each time, but it had been a close-run thing. “She followed Lord Westerly out here. She tried to steal him from me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Theodora said. “I’m not the slightest bit interested in Lord Westerly.”

That stung. Theodora wasn’t one of the too-young ladies assembled to tempt Garrick into marriage, but he’d known her forever. He liked her, and she’d had a tendre for him long ago. The one woman Garrick cared about in the entire household, and look what he’d done. He couldn’t have blundered worse if he’d planned it in meticulous detail, copied it in triplicate and passed it to the most inept of his commanding officers for approval.

“Then why are you out here?” Mrs. Concord demanded.

“To see the remains of the Roman villa,” Theodora said.

He let out a breath. This was just the sort of thing Theodora Southern would do, but if he made his presence known, it would only serve to confirm their absurd suspicions. Best to pretend he’d never been outdoors at all. He wouldn’t have been if his friend Lord Valiant hadn’t spotted a lantern bobbing its way toward the ruins. Garrick didn’t want anyone messing about up here, so he’d followed straightaway.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Concord said. “No respectable woman would venture out alone at night to look at a bunch of mouldy old stones.”

“They’re not stones, but pillars of tile for an under-the-floor heating system,” Theodora said. Garrick had forgotten that she knew something about the Romans, thanks to her scholarly father.

Mrs. Concord made a rude noise. “Surely you don’t expect us to believe that. It’s obvious why you were here.”

“Everyone knows I decided long ago to marry only for love, so your supposition is absurd,” Theodora said. “However, believe what you like. I certainly don’t care what you think of me.”

Miss Concord muttered something which Garrick didn’t catch.

Theodora’s voice came clear and crisp on the night breeze. “You are entitled to your opinion, Miss Concord. Now it’s your turn to listen to mine. Stop angling for Lord Westerly. He is a rude, unpleasant man who has made it clear that he doesn’t wish to marry you or any of the others. If you ruin your reputation trying to catch him, you will suffer the consequences. He simply doesn’t care.”

That this was true didn’t make it any more palatable from the lips of Dora Southern, who had once been his friend.

* * *

Theodora felt the repercussions of her unwise comment almost immediately after returning to the great hall. Mrs. and Miss Concord had arrived a little earlier and set the gossip in motion. Several heads turned to stare at her. Someone pointed at her gown. When Theodora glanced down, she saw to her dismay that she had acquired a sizeable mud stain, no doubt when she’d fumbled her way out of the pit. One young woman giggled behind her fan. Maynard Buxton leered, but since he always did so, that was no surprise.

Her heart was thumping unhappily by the time she reached the wassail bowl, where Lucille Beaulieu ladled spiced ale to a queue of amorous villagers. Something about Lucille made men clamour for her, and it wasn’t merely her exotic appearance and violet eyes. Lucille fended them off with aplomb; she didn’t seem to mind being leered at.

Theodora minded very much and noticed to her alarm that Maynard Buxton wasn’t the only one doing it. The notorious Lord Valiant Oakenhurst, who had spent the war as a spy and assassin, was the only man with kindly rather than curious eyes. No doubt he sympathized, because although the women sighed over his sensual beauty, most of the gentlemen avoided him.

“What are they saying about me?” Theodora whispered in French.

Lucille shrugged in her typically languid way, and the queue of wassailers breathed a collective sigh. “There are two stories going about. Which would you like to hear, the bad or the worse?”

“Don’t tease me, Lucille. What are they saying?”

“That you tupped Lord Westerly in the ruins. That was Miss Concord’s story.”

Theodora felt herself go as red as the holly berries on the table decoration.

“You are now a scarlet woman, both literally and figuratively,” Lucille said with a little chuckle.

“It’s not funny,” Theodora said, as a visitor who had been the soul of politeness in the past glanced knowingly down the bodice of her gown.

Lucille smiled at the man, whose attention fixed immediately on her instead. “Miss Concord is a fool. Does she not realize that if Lord Westerly had really taken your virginity, he would feel obliged to marry you? Her mother shushed her, saying that your only folly was setting your cap at a man who doesn’t want you. She said that when you went to the ruins, he spurned you immediately.”

Theodora groaned. Either way, the consequences were likely to be unpleasant, but she would almost rather be seen as a wanton than a desperate spinster. She had inherited a small fortune from her godmother and therefore didn’t need to wed. After a brief engagement, forced upon her by family members and terminated when her betrothed died in a hunting accident, she had decided to marry only if she fell in love. Her family had accepted this decision, but most others, such as Mrs. Concord, refused to take her seriously. To them, marrying only for love made no sense at all.

“What do you care what these obnoxious Concord people think of you?” Lucille said.

“I don’t, but I shouldn’t have said so when they accused me of setting my cap at Lord Westerly. A mistake, but I was already overset, and my tongue took over for my common sense.”

“You were upset? Why?”

“Because when Lord Westerly found me at the ruins, he did accuse me of trying to trap him into marriage.”

“With so many women wishing to marry him, what else is he to think?”

“He should know me better than that! He used to be my friend, but it never even crossed his mind that I might be there for scholarly reasons. It is so mortifying.”

Lucille gave a very Gallic shrug. “What he thinks of you is his problem, not yours. Why let it disturb you?”

Theodora’s face heated again. “Because once upon a time it was true.” At Lucille’s inquiring look, she added, “I fell madly in love with him at fifteen—almost sixteen. He was twenty and about to go off to war. I asked him to marry me before he left, and—”

“You asked him to marry you?”

Theodora nodded shamefacedly. She swallowed her embarrassment. It was ridiculous to mind so much after more than ten years.

“How delightfully forward of you,” Lucille said.

* * *

Garrick made his way through the throng of villagers, tossing a few jests this way and that, bidding them good-night one by one. He would be more cordial from now on if it killed him.

If rage could kill, it might well do so. Since his return from the war, he’d found himself infuriated at everyone—at their smug indifference to anything but their petty concerns. At their utter lack of gratitude for the sacrifices made by thousands of soldiers. At their unwillingness to lend even a helping fingertip to those who had survived.

Theodora wasn’t like the others. He must apologize to her and would do so when the opportunity arose, but for the moment her indictment of him rang in his head like a death knell: rude, unpleasant, doesn’t care.

He had returned to Westerly three months after the battle of Waterloo, weary and sick at heart, to take up his inheritance. Instead of the peace and quiet he’d longed for, he’d been plagued by a recurring nightmare and his aunt, Lady Westerly, with her plans for the rest of his life.

She had advised him ceaselessly on how to run the estate. She had planned a Christmas house party against not only his wishes but his express orders. She had invited several eligible young ladies, even though he didn’t intend to marry anytime soon, if ever. She’d had the servants put up an ungodly amount of mistletoe in the hope that he would sample the kisses of all the prospective brides.

Strangely enough, he’d remained patient through all the nagging and unwanted advice. He’d even put up with her flagrant disregard for his wishes, but the mistletoe was the last straw.

To hell with civilized behavior, which several years of horrors had taught him was merely a facade. If war had rendered him unfit for polite society, so be it. He ordered all the mistletoe taken down, and when the notorious Lord Valiant Oakenhurst arrived unexpectedly, he asked him to stay. If his aunt’s guests didn’t like Oakenhurst, they were welcome to leave, and some had done so. If the young women compromised themselves trying to trap Garrick, they would indeed suffer the consequences, just as Theodora had said.

Now that he’d made his point and his aunt had learned her lesson, he must strive to reacquire a civilized front, but how? He seemed to have utterly forsaken the tenets of his upbringing. One needn’t be rude to get across a point, but he didn’t seem capable of anything else. The mere thought of pretending to be as asinine as his guests aroused his simmering rage.

And yet, good friends were rare; he’d already lost too many to war, and he couldn’t afford to lose Dora, as well.

* * *

“More women should do the asking,” Lucille said.

Theodora stared. She spoke French quite well, but surely she had misunderstood. “I beg your pardon?”

“The prevailing method is so inefficient, with women obliged to wait and hint and wait some more until men get up their courage.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Theodora said. “Any man you asked would jump at the chance.”

Lucille snorted. “Most of them want to bed me, not wed me.” She ladled wassail for another amorous guest. “I gather he declined.”

“Yes, very kindly, but it was mortifying all the same. I did it out of desperation, because I was so afraid he would be killed. I wanted to be...to be truly his before he went away.” She sighed, as the memory of that grief whispered through her. “I accepted his refusal and said farewell with a good grace.” She’d cried her heart out afterward, alone in her bed.

“You were very young,” Lucille said. “Even if he had agreed, your parents would most likely have refused permission.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Theodora glared as Garrick threw his head back and laughed at some villager’s jest. How dare he be so carefree after dealing her such an insult? “In any event, it’s ancient history now.” In which case, why was she so irate? “I’ve scarcely spoken to him all week because he’s been in such a forbidding mood. He should have known I wasn’t angling for him.”

Smiling at a besotted villager, Lucille ladled more spiced ale.

Theodora gritted her teeth. “He makes me so angry that—that I would like to kill him.”

Lucille tutted. “No, you would like to bed him.”

“What?” Theodora squeaked, thankful no one understood them. “I certainly would not!” Sometimes she found Lucille’s conversation a little too scandalous. She didn’t know the Frenchwoman well—wasn’t sure she’d ever met her in London—but they had friends in common, and when Lucille’s coach had broken an axle in front of the vicarage, Theodora’s parents had taken her in. Since the axle would take more than a week to fix, Lucille had asked if she might attend the Westerly house party.