A Christmas Bride / A Christmas Beau (14 page)

And she was always aware of him. She could not rid herself of the obsession and in the end stopped trying. Soon he would be gone and she would not have daily reminders of him. Within eight months his child would be gone—from her womb and from her life. She would have her own life, her own particular hell, back again.

She thought of him constantly—not sexual thoughts. They would have been understandable and not particularly disturbing. She kept thinking of him escorting her home, his arm solid and steady beneath her own, his pace reduced to fit hers. She kept thinking of him lifting her into his arms and carrying her into the house and up two flights of stairs as if she weighed no more than a feather. She kept thinking of his near-silence when he had called with Lady Francis, of that frowning, intent look with which he had regarded her, as if he were genuinely worried about her health. She kept imagining herself leaning into his strength, abandoning all the burdens of her life to him, letting him deal with them for her. She
kept thinking of herself sleeping in his arms. Just sleeping—nothing else. Total relaxation and oblivion. Safety. Peace.

She hated the feeling. She hated the weakness of her thoughts. And so she hated him even as she was obsessed by him.

By the middle of December she was impatient for his departure. He had come to choose a bride. He had chosen her long ago. Let him take her to his father, then, and begin a grand Christmas celebration. She could not understand why he delayed. She resented the delay. She wanted to be free of him.

She wanted desperately to be free. And she laughed contemptuously to herself whenever she caught herself in the thought. Had she forgotten that there would never be freedom, either in this life or the next? Had hope somehow been reborn in her even as she knew that despair was the only end of any hope? She had dulled her sensibilities to reality before that dreadful evening when desperate need had tempted her to seduce Edgar Downes. Perhaps, she sometimes thought, she would have fought the temptation harder if she had had even an inkling of the fact that he would not be easily forgotten. That he would impregnate her.

She waited with mingled patience and impatience for him to be gone.

E
DGAR HAD ALWAYS
thought of himself as a decisive man, both by nature and training. He had never been a procrastinator—until now.

He delayed in making his intentions clear to Miss Grainger and her parents. And he delayed in speaking with Lady Stapleton and putting his suspicions into words. As a result, with only two weeks to go until
Christmas, he suddenly found himself in a dreadful coil indeed.

He was at a dance at Mrs. Parmeter’s—she and her husband were newly arrived in London to take in the Christmas parties. He had just finished dancing a set of country dances with the Duchess of Bridgwater and had joined a group that included Sir Webster. The conversation, inevitably he supposed considering the date, centered about Christmas and everyone’s plans for the holiday.

“Your father is to entertain quite a large house party at Mobley Abbey, I hear, Mr. Downes,” Mrs. Parmeter said, smiling at him with marked condescension. As a new arrival she was not as accustomed as most of her other guests to finding herself entertaining a mere merchant.

“Yes, indeed, ma’am,” he said. “He is delighted that there will be such a large number, children included. He is passionately fond of children.”

Sir Webster was coughing against the back of his hand and shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I must commend you on the number of guests with whom you have filled your drawing room, ma’am,” he said.

“Yes.” Mrs. Parmeter smiled graciously and vaguely. “And Sir Webster was telling us that he and his lady and
Miss Grainger
are to be among the guests, Mr. Downes,” she said, placing particular emphasis on the one name. She raised her eyebrows archly. “Is there to be an interesting announcement during Christmas, sir?”

“Oh, I say.” Sir Webster sounded suitably mortified. “I was merely saying, ma’am—”

“I am certainly hoping that Sir Webster and Lady Grainger and their daughter will be among my father’s guests,” Edgar said, aghast at what he was being forced into—as a businessman he had perfected the art of avoiding being maneuvered into anything he had not
pondered and decided for himself. At least he had the sense to leave the woman’s final question alone.

“I am sure you are, sir,” Mrs. Parmeter said. “You know, I suppose, that Lady Grainger’s father is Baron Suffield?”

“Yes, indeed, ma’am,” Edgar said.

She turned her conversation on other members of the group and soon enough Edgar found himself with Sir Webster, a little apart from the rest of them.

“I say—” that gentleman began. “Mrs. Parmeter totally misunderstood me, you know. I was merely saying—” But he could not seem to remember what it was he had been merely saying.

Perhaps, Edgar thought, it was as well to have his hand forced. He had only two weeks left in which to keep his promise. There was no one more suitable—or more available—than Miss Grainger. There was that young man of hers, of course—he should have found a way of dealing with that problem by now. And there was that other problem, too—but no. She appeared to have recovered from her indisposition whatever it had been, though she still seemed paler than he remembered her to have looked. He could not do better than Miss Grainger—not in the time allowed, at least. And perhaps he had carried the courtship rather too far to back off now without humiliating the girl and her family. Certainly the father seemed to expect a declaration.

“But my father would be delighted to entertain you and your wife and daughter at Mobley, sir,” Edgar said, releasing the man from his well-deserved embarrassment. “And my sister and I would be delighted, too, if you would join us and other of our friends there for Christmas. If you have no other plans, that is. I realize that this is rather short notice.”

“No,” Sir Webster said quickly, “we have no other plans, sir. We were thinking of staying in town to enjoy
the festivities. That was our plan when we came here. We were undecided whether to stay, too, for the Season. Fanny would enjoy it and it is time to bring her out, I suppose. It is difficult to part with a daughter, Mr. Downes. Very difficult. One wants all that is the best for her. We will accept your gracious invitation, sir. Thank you. And we will decide later about the Season.”

There would be no Season if he came up to scratch, Edgar understood. And probably no Season if he did not, either. The Graingers were said to be too poor to afford such an expense. But he was not going to pick up the cue this time. He merely smiled and bowed and informed Sir Webster that Cora would write to their father tomorrow.

His father would read eagerly between the lines of that particular letter, he thought. Or perhaps not between the lines either. Cora would surely inform him that Miss Grainger was the one, that he might prepare to meet his future daughter-in-law within the fortnight.

Edgar felt half robbed of breath. But it was a deed that must be done. It was time to stop dragging his feet. Young Jack Sperling could not be helped. This was the real world. And the girl’s age could not be helped. Young ladies were married to older men all the time. He would be kind to her and generous to her. He would treat her with affection. So would his father and Cora. She would be taken to the bosom of their family with enthusiasm, he did not doubt. She would learn to settle to a marriage that could be no worse than thousands of marriages that were contracted every year. And he would settle, too. He would enjoy having children of his own. Like his father, he was fond of children.

Children of his own
. There—that thought again. That nagging suspicion. His eyes found out Lady Stapleton. She was at the other side of the room—without ever looking at each other for any length of time, they always
seemed to maneuver matters so—talking and laughing with Mr. Parmeter and the Earl of Thornhill. She was wearing the scarlet gown she had worn that first night—the one with all the tiny buttons down the back. It must have taken him all of five minutes.…

She looked healthy enough and cheerful enough. She looked pale. She did not look as if she felt nauseated. But this was the evening rather than the morning. Besides, Cora had said that the feeling passed after a couple of months. It was two months since … Well, it was two months. She did not look larger. But it was only two months.

It could not possibly be. Beautiful and alluring as she looked, it was a mature beauty and a mature allure. But she was only six-and-thirty. She was still in her fertile years. She had never had a child before—at least he did not believe so. Why would she conceive now? But why not?

Such conflicting thoughts had teemed in his head for the past two weeks. They had woven themselves into his dreams—when he had been able to sleep. They had kept him awake.

He caught her eye across the room, something that rarely happened. But instead of looking away from each other, both continued to look as if daring the other to be the first to lose courage. She raised one mocking eyebrow.

He despised indecisiveness. If there was one single factor that could keep a man from success in the business world, he had always found, it was just that—being indecisive, allowing misplaced caution and unformed worries to hold one back from action that one knew must be taken. He knew he must talk with her. And time was running out. He should already have left for Mobley. He must do so within the next few days.

He must talk to Lady Stapleton first. He did not want
to—he would do almost anything to get out of doing so if he could. But he could not. Not if he was to know any peace of mind over Christmas. He walked across the center of the drawing room, empty now between sets, and she smiled that smile of hers to see him come. She did not turn away or even look away from him.

“Ma’am?” He bowed to her. “May I have the honor of dancing the next set with you?”

“But of course, Mr. Downes,” she said. That low velvet voice of hers always jolted him, no matter how often he heard it. “It is a waltz, and I know you perform the steps well.” She set her hand in his. It was quite cold.

“And how do you do, ma’am?” he asked her when they had taken their positions on the floor and waited for the music to begin.

“Very well, thank you, Mr. Downes.” Her perfume brought back memories.

There was no dodging around it, he decided as the pianist began playing and he set his hand at the back of her waist and took her other in his own. And so he simply asked the question.

“Are you with child?” His voice was so low that he was not sure the sound of it would carry to her ears.

Clearly it did. She mastered her surprise almost instantly and smiled with brutal contempt. “You must think yourself one devil of a fine lover, Mr. Downes,” she said. “Is it the factor by which you measure your success? Have you peopled Bristol with bastard children?”

But not quite instantly enough. For the merest fraction of a second—had he not been looking for it he would certainly have missed it—there had been something other than contempt in her eyes. There had been fright, panic.

“No,” he said. “But I believe I have got you with child.” Now that the words were out, now that he had
seen that fleeting reaction, he felt curiously calm. Almost cold.

“Do you?” she said. “And do you realize how absurd your assumption is, sir? Do you know how old I am?”

“You told me once,” he said. “I do not believe you are past your childbearing years. Are you?”

“You are impertinent, sir,” she said. “You dare ask such a question of a lady, of a virtual stranger?”

“A stranger whom I bedded two months ago,” he said. “One who is to bear my child seven months from now, if I am not much mistaken.”

She smiled at him—a bright social smile, as much for the benefit of the other dancers and watchers as for his, he guessed. “You, Mr. Downes,” she said, “may go to hell.”

“But I notice,” he said, “that you have not said no, it is not true. I notice such things, ma’am. I have been and still am a lawyer. Is it that you are afraid to lie? Let me hear it. Yes or no. Are you with child?”

“But I am not on the witness stand, Mr. Downes,” she said. “I do not have to answer your questions. And I scorn to react to your charge that I am afraid to answer. I will not answer. I choose not to.”

“Have you seen a physician?” he asked her.

She looked into his eyes and smiled. “You are a divine waltzer, Mr. Downes,” she said. “I believe it is because you are so large. One instinctively trusts your lead.”

“Do you still suffer from morning sickness?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, “it is not just your size, is it? One cannot imagine enjoying a waltz with an ox. You have a superior sense of rhythm.” Her smile turned wicked.

“I shall find out for myself tomorrow,” he said. “You once invited me to escort you to one of the galleries. I accept. Tomorrow morning will be the time. We have arranged it this evening. You may tell Mrs. Cross that if
you will. If you will not, I will tell her when I come for you that I have come to discuss your pregnancy.”

“Damn you, Mr. Downes,” she said sharply. “You have the manners of an ox even if not the dancing skills of one.”

“Tomorrow morning,” he said. “And if you have any idea of bringing your aunt with you, be warned that we will have our frank talk anyway. I assume she does not know?”

“Damn you to hell,” she said.

“Since we are dancing for pleasure,” he said, “we might as well concentrate on our enjoyment in silence for the rest of the set. I believe we have nothing further to say to each other until tomorrow.”

“How your underlings must hate you,” she said. “I am not your underling, Mr. Downes. I will not be overborne by you. And I will not be blackmailed by you.”

“Will you not?” he said. “You will tell Mrs. Cross the truth, then, and have that servant of yours refuse me admittance tomorrow morning? I believe I might enjoy pitting my strength against his.”

“Damn you,” she said again. “Damn you. Damn you.”

Neither of them spoke after that. When the music drew to an end, he escorted her to her aunt, stayed to exchange civilities with that lady for a few minutes, and then took himself off to the other side of the room.