Ex-Spinster by Christmas: House of Haverstock, Book 4 Page 4

  When he stepped into the wood-paneled entry hall, he realized his entry onto the property had not gone unnoticed. Several of the family members came to greet him. Finch’s wife curtsied first, then said, “I must go to the billiards room and tell John you’ve come! He’ll be so excited.” With that, she took off down a long, narrow corridor.

  That left him with the Duchess of Aldridge and her sister Lady Lydia—and Lady Caroline. He bowed first to the duchess, then to her sister, and lastly, he faced Caroline. Even when he’d first met her, he’d not been this nervous. He’d spent years cultivating his reputation as a well-heeled, well-educated ladies’ man who was welcome in the best circles. He had become accustomed to women throwing themselves at his feet. Indeed, even those first early days of his . . . friendship with her, it had been she who was the aggressor.

  There was something about her that made her stand out from other lovely ladies of the haute ton—and it wasn’t that she was a duke’s daughter.

  He felt that same indefinable attraction today as he peered at her. He wished she hadn’t worn that soft blue frock that clung to her smooth curves and never failed to arouse him. Her slight and fair blonde beauty was upstaged by the sensuousness of a courtesan she exuded whenever they were together. He had felt it in those earliest days of their acquaintance, and he felt it now. Her desirability was as palpable as his own heartbeat. His head inclined. “Lady Caroline.”

  “You’ve brought your mother?” she asked, her gaze flicking to the outer door.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “But Lord Finchley said you could not leave her at Christmas.”

  It was good that Finch had told the group of his invitation. He felt less of an interloper. “Actually, she left me. We received a communication early this morning that my next-to-eldest sister’s time had come, and she was calling for Mama to come be with her at the birth of her first child.”

  “Then it’s to be a Christmas baby,” the duchess exclaimed.

  He shrugged. “It’s my belief my sister will not be able to wait until Christmas.”

  “We are most happy that you’ve come to us,” the duchess said.

  Funny, he’d never been uncomfortable in the presence of the duchess, but her husband was another story. The man’s air of complete authority intimidated Christopher.

  “We were strolling in the gallery when we saw your coach come up the drive,” Caroline said. “You’re welcome to join us, but I daresay you’d rather be with the men.”

  “Indeed he would,” said Finch, strolling into the hall with a huge smile on his face. “So you changed your mind after all. Devilishly happy to have you. Have you brought your mother?”

  Christopher explained about Susan’s babe.

  Then he saw Brockton. The man did not look happy. Why had he even left the billiard room? Surely Brockton hadn’t come here to greet him. It wasn’t as if they were friends. The scoundrel ought to have realized that Christopher had snubbed him when he left White’s two nights ago. More likely he meant to interfere with any possible communication between Christopher and Caroline.

  He moved closer to Christopher. In an attempt to suppress his hostile expression, Brockton offered a bow and effected a smile that was as friendly as a viper. “So, Perry, you’ve come to celebrate Christmas with us. I didn’t know those of your faith shared in our celebration.”

  Christopher stiffened, but before he could respond, Caroline stepped forward and addressed the obnoxious man in a hostile voice. “Mr. Perry’s a Christian.”

  The duchess came and linked her arm in Christopher’s. “We are delighted you’ve come, Mr. Perry. Once my husband’s sister Claire arrives, our party will be complete.” With him at her side, she began to mount the stairs, and the others followed. “This will be the greatest Christmas ever.”

  * * *

  Lord Brockton came to offer his arm to Caro, who was following the duchess upstairs to the drawing room. “I know it’s wickedly cold outside,” he said, “but nothing would make me happier than to take a sleigh ride with you at my side and both of us tucked beneath a fur rug.”

  She laughed. “It sounds far more romantic than it would feel. I daresay you haven’t seen how fierce the wind is today. We would be miserable.”

  Truth to tell, she wasn’t yet ready to be alone with the man. He was sure to want to kiss her again, and she did not enjoy it in the least. Her insides clenched. Why did Christopher Perry have to intrude into her courtship with Lord Brockton? If she hadn’t seen him today—and been instantly and intensely attracted to him as she always was—she might have better warmed to Lord Brockton—her future.

  Christopher Perry is my past. She vowed to ignore him during the remainder of his stay. It would be difficult, given that everything about him—his every expression, the timbre of his deep voice, the obsidian flash in his simmering eyes—was stamped into her memory as if they’d been branded with a hot iron.

  She allowed herself to gaze at Lord Brockton’s profile. A pity his handsomeness failed to accelerate her heartbeat. She sighed and patted his arm possessively. She’d always longed to belong to someone. And now she would belong to this man. That thought pleased her. That and the knowledge she’d be mistress of her own house.

  In the drawing room, her breath caught at the sight of Christopher Perry, who stood near the chimneypiece. All the draperies were open to let into the chamber the day’s waning light—too gray to be called sunshine. She sat on a rose silken settee with Lord Brockton beside her.

  Her thoughts were still on his Grosvenor Square house. She was eager to see its interior. Would it measure up to Mr. Perry’s? Some said Christopher Perry’s house was the finest in London. She agreed. For more than a year she had believed she would one day be its mistress.

  Now she knew she never would.

  A moment later the duke entered the chamber with Lord Haverstock and Mr. Morgan, and they all stood. The duke went straight to Mr. Perry. “How good of you to come, Perry. Your presence will help to make this the most joyous Christmas ever.”

  As the duke went to take his seat on the throne-like chair that matched the one Christopher sat in, Caro pondered her brother’s friendly greeting to her former lover. In nearly two years of acquaintance, Aldridge had never before been so amiable to him. The only explanation for it was her brother’s intense dislike of Lord Brockton.

  It was imperative for her future happiness that this man to whom she was betrothed ingratiate himself to her brother. But what heroic acts could he possibly perform to redeem himself in Aldridge’s eyes? She would have to ponder it.

  They heard a great fuss being made downstairs amidst door slamming. “I daresay the Rothcomb-Smedleys have finally arrived,” Lord Haverstock said.

  He was proven correct minutes later when Claire and her husband entered the drawing room. Greetings were exchanged, then Claire sat by Margaret, and her husband took a seat to Lord Haverstock’s right. All the men in the chamber—except Lord Brockton, who took no interest in politics—launched into a discussion of Parliamentary matters.

  Even Mr. Morgan, who formerly eschewed governmental matters, had successfully stood for the House of Commons this past year and was turning out to be a promising legislator. All the men in the family claimed he understood budgetary matters better than any of them. He’d diligently trimmed government waste and had even managed to withhold an increase in the Regent’s Civil List.

  Caro turned to her betrothed and whispered, “Excuse me. I’ve just remembered something.”

  It was impossible for her to think when others were talking. She needed solitude. She must return to the long gallery. Walking alone was the only way she could clear her mind enough to help devise a plan to restore Lord Brockton’s honor—at least in her brother’s eyes.

  * * *

  Aldridge’s friendly greeting came as such a shock. Christopher had thought perhaps the duke was playing a cruel hoax upon him. He froze and gazed into the lofty peer’s dark eyes. The amiability
in Aldridge’s smiling face and in his voice was genuine.

  To further expand his rare friendliness, the duke even sat at the chair directly opposite Christopher’s and engaged him in conversation. “Allow me to say—and I know I also speak for Lord Haverstock—we were mightily impressed when you stood for Parliament and put the vast Perry resources behind your efforts. I wish we had a hundred of you. Isn’t that so, Haverstock?”

  The marquess nodded. “Just so long as they continue voting with the Whigs.”

  Surely his mediocre success in the House of Commons did not account for this sudden befriending by the Duke of Aldridge. Christopher shrugged. “I follow Lord Finchley, and Lord Finchley follows the two of you.”

  Throughout the course of his adult life, Christopher had learned that when another man suddenly warmed to him that other man usually wanted to tap into Christopher’s exceptional wealth. But that could not explain the Duke of Aldridge’s reversal of stiffness this afternoon. It was an acknowledged fact that Aldridge was one of the wealthiest aristocrats in all of England.

  What then? Why had the duke taken it upon himself to treat Christopher with something so akin to affection?

  “With the election of you and Mr. Morgan this year and the addition of Finchley to the House of Lords, we’ve gained three votes,” Aldridge said, smiling.

  Smiling! The man had never before smiled at him.

  Then Aldridge’s eyes narrowed as his gaze moved to Lord Brockton. “Why, Brockton, do you not serve in the House of Lords?”

  The scoundrel hesitated a moment before responding. “Alas, your grace, I’ve been too busy.”

  “At Newmarket?” Aldridge glared at Brockton with a far more stern demeanor than he had ever directed at Christopher. Could it be the duke did not look favorably upon a union between Brockton and his sister? The duke was acting like a suspicious father who wished to eliminate his daughter’s unsavory suitors.

  Now Christopher understood. Aldridge clearly did not approve of Brockton as a potential husband for Lady Caroline. He was so opposed to the union, he was willing to give the illusion that he’d rather pledge Caroline to the great grandson of a Jewish jeweler than permit her to wed the wicked Lord Brockton. Of course, Christopher was merely a handy stand-in rival. Not a real rival. What duke would have his sister marry so far beneath her?

  “As I’m maturing,” Lord Brockton said to the duke, “I’ve come to see that my sense of duty is calling me to serve in the House of Lords. Men like us—peers of the realm—need to lead the country.”

  The liar! Not a month ago Christopher had heard him at White’s telling his drunken friends he had no intentions of ever sitting through dull sessions of Parliament when he could be bedding opera dancers or going to the race meetings.

  Christopher had no desire to listen while these men discussed Parliament. Emblazoned on his brain like corrosive acid was the vision of that unworthy scoundrel sitting so close on the cozy settee with Lady Caroline Ponsby. It was more destructive than sword slashes on a Michelangelo canvas. Nothing could be more wrong!

  How he wanted to be that man seated beside her. For the rest of their lives.

  But that could never be.

  * * *

  Because of all the windows, this gallery was the coldest room in the big, rambling house. For warmth, she forced herself to walk briskly, and though she warmed some, she wished she’d taken the time to fetch a shawl.

  Taking long, quick strides, she analyzed her brother’s perspective. He obviously thought Lord Brockton a wastrel fortune hunter who would squander her considerable dowry on gaming and shameless women. Her heart sank. What if that proved to be his intentions? Surely he must be attracted to her. Men always had been.

  She refused to think such uncharitable thoughts.

  Instead, she put her mind to devising a scheme to improve her brother’s opinion of Lord Brockton. First, Lord Brockton must vow to take his seat in the House of Lords. Her brother was passionate about his Whig politics, and the more like-minded men who served with him, the happier he would be.

  Other than his love of Parliamentary duties, her brother’s other passions were for his wife, whom he adored, and their toddler son, Ram—the Marquess of Ramsbury, who was the light of his father’s eyes.

  She would have to advise Lord Brockton to be effusive in his praise of Elizabeth and Ram. Aldridge would positively glow.

  Would these things be enough to win her brother’s approval?

  She sighed. Even though she was old enough to marry without her brother’s consent, she did not want to do so. Theirs was and always had been a close family, and she did not ever want to do something that would estrange her from them.

  If only Lord Brockton could slay the metaphoric dragon! She pondered this a moment. Perhaps there was a way. What if she could stage a situation in which little Ram appeared to be in danger, and at great personal risk, Lord Brockton saved the little boy?

  But what kind of danger? A charging bull? A fall from a great height? A snatching by wicked highwaymen? Any of these, of course, could not actually threaten her precious nephew.She was giving this considerable consideration when a door creaked open. She spun around to see who had entered the gallery.

  His face bathed in the yellow glow of a wall sconce, Christopher Perry strolled toward her.

  Chapter 5

  Christopher had waited to take his leave until the duke was forcing Brockton into a discussion on the merits of serving in the House of Lords. Then he quietly slipped away. If Lady Caroline had gone to her bedchamber, she would have bid goodbye to the group. She must be either on this floor or on the ground floor.

  A pity it was such a vast, rambling house. He might never find her. He descended the broad wooden staircase to the ground floor and strolled along a long corridor, peering into each chamber he passed. What had she been doing when he arrived? Hadn’t someone mentioned that the ladies had been walking the gallery whilst the gentlemen played billiards?

  Perhaps she meant to return there to fetch something like her shawl. He wasn’t precisely sure where the gallery was in this rambling house, but he recalled that they’d been able to observe his entrance, so he knew it must be on the south side. He turned back and walked along the east-west corridor.

  And he found her. She turned around and glared at him when he entered the chamber. How lovely she looked in the gossamer sky blue gown that skimmed along the smooth curves her body. His throat went dry as he gazed upon her.

  “What are you doing here?” she snapped.

  He moved toward her. “I’m not really sure. I suppose I was concerned about you.”

  “No need to be.” She did not look at him when she issued her harsh response. It was if she were hell bent on strolling this frigid chamber—and ignoring him.

  He would not be dissuaded. He fell into step beside her and saw that she trembled from the cold. “You’re wrong. I do have reason to be concerned. Dressed so flimsily, you’ll take lung fever. Can I not persuade you to come to a warmer room?”

  She shook her head. “I can only concentrate on matters when I walk. Alone.”

  “Then allow me to fetch your shawl.” What she really needed was a fur-lined cape and leather gloves.

  “If I walk fast enough, it will heat me.”

  “You’re being obstinate.”

  “You’re being rude, infringing on my desired solitude.”

  He shook his head. “It’s you who’s being rude. One should not run off from one’s guests.”

  “I suppose I am being rude.”

  “What is this matter of great import that you’re pondering?”

  “It’s a private matter.”

  “Does it have to do with Brockton?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I would not be your friend if I didn’t warn you that he’s not the sort of man who will ever value a lady.”

  “I know that he’s a reputed rake who seeks to wed an heiress.” She came to the wall, turned, and continued on at her f
ast pace.

  He wished he could reveal to her that Brockton had boasted that he’d keep his lowborn mistress if he married Lady Caroline, but no gentleman would ever repeat so tawdry a tale to a lady. Instead, he said, “He’s worse than that. He’s a vile man who’s barely tolerated in polite circles.”

  Her mouth folded into a grim line and her pace quickened. Her satin slippers slapped along the cold, marble floors. Slap, slap, slap, slap, pivot at the wall, slap, slap, slap, slap, pivot at the wall. Repeat. All the while she ignored him as if he were one of the portraits lining the chamber’s cold stone walls.

  Despite the briskness of her walk, she had not warmed. Her skin tinged a milky blue, and her teeth chattered like bottles in a speeding buggy. He truly feared she would make herself sick. When he could stand it no longer, he yanked off his own jacket.

  She stopped. Her eyes widened as they raked over his upper torso, then for the first time since he’d entered the gallery ten minutes earlier, she looked him in the eye. “What are you doing?”

  He moved to her and draped his coat over her shoulders, pulling it together just below her chin. “I cannot be a party to your self-destruction.” In more ways than this.

  She twisted as if to free herself of his coat, but he continued to clasp it in front of her. “You, my lady, have two choices. You can shed my jacket and move to a warmer room, or you can continue here—wearing my jacket.”

  Anger flashed across her face. “You’re the one who’s obstinate.”

  He moved closer, peered down into her face, and spoke throatily. “We’ve always been alike, Caroline.” And in spite of their divergent origins, they were alike. Perhaps that’s why they’d always been drawn to one another. Their similarities extended to that indefinable sensuousness that flared in both of them every time they’d been together.

  Even now, even in this chilly chamber, there was a feverish look on her face when their eyes locked. He’d come to know her every expression, every nuance in her body. Her breath silently hitched, as it always did when they were this close.

  He let down his guard and reached out to stroke her face. She took advantage of his lapse to try to wiggle out of his jacket. “You’re not to address me so familiarly,” she snapped. “I am Lady Caroline to you.”