A Countess by Christmas (18 page)

Which was how, she reflected bitterly, he had always thought of her. A useful person to have about, but nowhere near his equal!

She got to her feet, quivering with indignation. ‘No right to forbid me from doing anything I want, sir! Just as I have no right to refuse my employer’s summons. They have already been more than lenient with me…’

‘I will write to them for you, then.’ He grabbed her upper arms. ‘Tell them I cannot spare you. That they must do without you until the celebrations here are at an end.’

She felt a clutch of panic. ‘Oh, please do not do that! I will lose my job, and then what would become of me?’

‘Does your job mean so much to you?’

‘Of course it does! If I lose this post I must seek another, and it was difficult enough to secure this one…’

Of course. She had no money. And it was unfair of him to ask her to jeopardise her whole future without some concomitant sacrifice from him.

He slid his hands down her arms until they were loosely clasping hers. He looked down at them, head bowed. The only person who would have the right to help Helen whether she wanted him to or not would be her husband. He had never thought he would put his head in that particular noose again…but had he not already told her that he thought she would make some man a comfortable sort of wife?

He looked into her eyes, which were troubled,
almost afraid, and felt a rush of resolution surge up within him.

At least he would not spend any more sleepless nights wondering what sort of people she was going to work for. Imagining her being accosted by some drunken buck on some other set of backstairs because she was too damned innocent to know girls could not go wandering about a house at night half dressed! Fearing that next time there might not be anybody around to rescue her.

The sacrifice would be worth it if it meant knowing she was being properly looked after.

‘Do you really want to leave?’ he asked her gently. ‘Do you dislike Alvanley Hall so much that you would rather go elsewhere?’

‘No.’

He took a deep breath. ‘Is it me, then? Have you taken me in dislike? Do you wish to put some distance between us?’ If that was the case he was not going to make himself look ridiculous by offering her his name! ‘No! Oh,
no
,’ she said with feeling.

‘Then I will offer you a position here,’ he said, gripping her hands a little tighter. ‘How about that?’

‘What sort of a position?’ she asked, bewildered. ‘You do not have any children…’

‘More’s the pity! My sister’s boy is proving to be more and more of a disappointment to me the older he grows. After that incident on the stairs I am beginning to feel quite perturbed at the thought of leaving the estate and the people for whom I am responsible in such careless hands. If I had my own son,’ he said, ‘I could train him up from the day of his birth. I am only in my thirties—the age at which most men consider marriage for the
first time. With luck I might live long enough to bring him safely through the troubling years of growing to maturity, and go to my grave with a clear conscience.’

‘What are you saying? You want me to kick my heels here, with my aunt, while you find a wife and then breed a son so that I can educate him?’

‘No, you little idiot!’ he shouted angrily. ‘I am not saying that at all! I am asking you to marry me!’

‘M
…marry you?’ She tugged her hands free and felt behind her for the chair. She had to sit down. She could not believe he was really asking her. She had cried herself to sleep the night before because she’d been so sure he would never, ever propose to her. Apart from the fact he was still mourning for his late wife, she was a nobody. Nothing. If this time at Alvanley Hall had taught her anything it was that she did not know how to move in the upper echelons of society. She had no idea how to be a wife to a man like him.

He could not possibly mean it!

A strange spasm passed across his face as he eyed the way she clasped her trembling hands together in her lap.

‘May I point out that I have neither hairy knuckles nor greasy skin?’ He held his hands out to her, palm down.

For a moment she could not understand why he was holding out his hands to her like that. Was he making
some kind of jest? But when he turned them over, so that she could inspect them thoroughly, it came to her that he was referring to the conversation they’d had about marriage before. When he’d offered her a dowry and she had thought he wanted to be rid of her.

‘I own I am much older than you, but you did not specify at what age a suitor would become unpalatable.’

She looked up into his face and frowned.

‘Are you being serious?’

‘Yes. Will you have me, Helen? You…you have already given me one gift this Christmas. Agreeing to become my wife would be the greatest gift of all.’

He looked so sincere her heart skipped a beat. But she did wish he had not spoken of
having
her. It made her think of bedrooms. Her entire body blushed. Would she have him? Oh, yes—in that respect in a heartbeat!

She wanted to go to bed with him and know what it felt like to become completely one flesh with him. That dance last night, she realised, had sensitised her whole body to his. As they had moved about the room, scarce an inch separating them from chest to thigh, she had resented even that inch.

Her face flooded with heat. She had told Lady Thrapston in no uncertain terms that she would not become any man’s mistress. So why had she not leapt up and shouted,
Yes, yes, I will marry you!
and flung her arms round him and kissed him? What kind of woman was she?

‘I d…don’t know,’ she said, hanging her head. ‘I never thought…’

‘For God’s sake don’t say,
Oh, dear, this is so unexpected
!’ He laughed bitterly.

His proposal could not have surprised her any more than it had surprised him! But that was always how it was around Helen. She got under his skin to the extent that he never knew what he was going to do or say next. And he really disliked the feeling of uncertainty she was engendering. He had known who he was before she came along. ‘Well, it
is
unexpected!’ she retorted, lifting her head to glare at him. Especially since his proposal had come without a single word of affection, let alone a hint that he might perhaps, in some way, love her. Even just a little.

‘Look,’ he said, running the palm of his hand over his head, ‘perhaps you had better go away and think it over.’ A cold, sick feeling gripped him at the prospect she might refuse. She was not like other women, who regarded him as a prize. There was no telling what she would decide. Certainly, by the looks of her, his proposal was not filling her with rapturous joy.

‘You have nothing to fear from me if you refuse. I shall not make things difficult for you. I would appreciate it, though, if you would let me have your answer by this evening,’ he said, going to his desk and sitting down on the other side of it.

That was better. Putting a barrier between them helped him to revert to his sane, rational self. Because for a moment there he had experienced an almost overwhelming urge to get down on his knees and beg her not to leave. It shook him. He hardly knew her, and already she had reduced him to that!

‘There will be arrangements to make for your departure. I shall, of course, put my carriage and a driver at
your disposal should you decide against the match,’ he said, forcing himself to focus on practicalities. ‘But travelling tomorrow is out of the question. Apart from your promise to the children, I make Boxing Day a holiday for all my staff. I will not have them put out.’

That was better. He was calm, cool, and in control of himself. There was no more risk of an inappropriate descent into some kind of emotional outburst.

And if she left that was what he would go back to. No swift surges of joy, but no risk of pain either. Just the safe, orderly, contained life he had made himself live since Lucinda’s death.

The coldness of his eyes, the clinical way in which he addressed her, struck a chill through Helen. It was not just that he did not behave like a lovestruck suitor. It was far worse. He looked to her very much like a man who had just said something that on reflection he wished he had not said at all.

‘Of course not,’ she said, wounded. ‘I would not wish to put anyone out.’

With that, Helen stumbled from the room, staggered a few feet along the corridor, and collapsed onto the nearest chair. For she was shaking. She did not think she had ever felt so confused.

Oh, not about her own feelings. She loved him. From the moment they had met he had affected her as no other man had ever done. And, in spite of that moment of self-doubt just then, it was
not
just a physical attraction. The more she learned about him, the more he drew her to him.

But what did
he
think of
her
? Apart from mentioning that they thought alike on a number of issues, that
proposal had given her no clue. No, wait—he had said he thought of her as an ally against his family. Well, that was not saying very much, was it? Nobody with a shred of decency could fail to take his part against them!

Though how could she possibly refuse the one thing he had asked of her? At breakfast she had heard him agree that he needed nothing. That he never asked anybody for anything.

But he had asked
her
to mother his children, so that he could raise up a son he could be proud of.

Dared she reach out and take the little that he seemed to be offering her? Since that talk with Lady Thrapston she knew that loving
any
woman was completely beyond him. For one wild moment she was filled with the desire to pour out her own heart on his wounded soul. To love him and love him! She might not be able to heal his broken heart, but he had asked her to provide some measure of comfort by giving him children of his own, so that he would at least not have to dread leaving his tenants to Swaledale’s tender mercies. Could she really do that? Dedicate the rest of her life to bringing some sunshine back into his dark, lonely existence?

It was the only Christmas present he wanted. And did he not deserve it? He was the best of men. The very best. Surrounded by a pack of greedy, grasping relatives who had been, and still were, totally insensitive to his pain.

It would take some getting used to, this inequality in their feelings for each other, but in time he was bound to grow fond of her at least.

Wasn’t he?

She rubbed at a tension spot on her forehead. He
might not feel any great affection for her, but he had certainly demonstrated that he had a great deal of respect for her. A man did not ask a woman to marry him unless he felt…

Oh, what was the use? She had no idea what was going on in the aggravating man’s head! And even when she thought she might be getting a glimpse of what he was thinking, his mood could change in the blink of an eye.

She got to her feet and strode along the corridors and up to her room to dress for church. If she dithered about down here any longer she would be late.

From her pew, she kept sneaking peeks at Lord Bridgemere. He did not look a bit like a man who was waiting for an answer to a marriage proposal. He seemed so calm and collected as he stood and knelt and sat through the service. While she was still a mass of quivering nerves. Had that proposal really meant anything? By the look of him he would just shrug and go on with his life as though nothing untoward had occurred if she turned him down.

That
was why, it suddenly struck her, she had not leapt at his proposal. Because he had not spoken of love. He had only given her a
practical
list of reasons why they should marry.

Very well—she would look at it from a practical point of view herself. She had never really thought seriously about marriage as an option. She cared too much for Aunt Bella to question her strongly held views upon the subject and, because no man had tempted her to
abandoning her comfortable single state, she had never given the matter any deeper thought.

But Aunt Bella and she were going to have to go their separate ways now anyway. She would, in fact, be likely to have less contact with Aunt Bella if she went to live the proscribed life of a governess than she would if she married Lord Bridgemere. And she did not think that her aunt would disapprove of the match all that much, considering how highly she had spoken of him after that interview.

If she had met him and fallen for him when they had been living in Middleton things might have been very different, but as they were…

Very well. There was no risk of offending Aunt Bella.

But what else would marriage mean? Well, she would become a countess, for one thing, with unassailable status and untold wealth. She would never have to worry about finding the money to settle outstanding bills, or sell off her gowns to put food on the table.

Most girls would jump at the chance to marry an earl. Any earl. Let alone one who was so handsome. And with whom she had grown so infatuated. She ought to regard getting a proposal from a man who was renowned for being a recluse as a triumph. Especially since his own sister had despaired of ever getting him to take such a radical step.

She glanced round the packed pews at the other members of his family. They would all say she was not good enough for him. And yet he had seen something about her he liked enough to tempt him from his single state. Yes, there was no doubt about it: he was quite a catch.

So why did she not feel triumphant?

In the pew beside her, Aunt Bella stifled a yawn as the local vicar mounted the pulpit to deliver his Christmas sermon.

Here was another factor to consider. If she were to become Lady Bridgemere, she could make sure that her aunt would never have to worry about money again. By golly, how she would enjoy ensuring Aunt Bella had every luxury her heart could crave! Never mind finding some small nook amongst Lord Bridgemere’s vast holdings in which she could eke out her declining years. Or palming her off on one of his other relatives in return for bailing them out of their financial embarrassments! It would be wonderful to pamper the darling who had taken her in and comforted and cared for her when she had been just a forlorn little girl.

Yes, there were plenty of solid, practical reasons for accepting his proposal.

So why hadn’t she? What was holding her back?

If all these very practical reasons were not making her thrill to the idea, what would convince her to marry a man she knew didn’t love her?

When they returned from church, everyone went to the great hall for mulled wine and spiced cake.

The hall, like the ballroom, was festooned with greenery brought in from the woods. One of the suits of armour, Helen noted with amusement, now sported a crown of holly, bright with berries, his upraised gauntleted hand clutching a bunch of mistletoe.

Chairs had been set out in a semi-circle, and gradually everyone took their places. Except the children and Lord
Bridgemere, who were all gathered up in the minstrels’ gallery. He must have gone straight up to the nursery wing on returning from church, to make sure they would have the best view of the mummers who had come over from the village.

One of the villagers banged on the drum he was carrying, and everyone stopped talking. The man with the drum stepped forward, tilted his face up towards the minstrels’ gallery, and said, ‘We come to perform for you, Your Lordship, to thank you for the way you always look after us, whether you’re here or busy elsewhere. We know there’s unrest in some parts, but as for us we give thanks daily that God has seen fit to grant us such a fair and charitable master as you.’

Lord Bridgemere’s face took on that wooden cast Helen had seen him adopt on several occasions. For the first time she realised he was struggling with strong emotion. For a moment her mind went back to the way he had looked immediately after proposing to her. She had thought he looked completely cold then, but that was not it at all. He’d looked just as he did now! Her heart sped up. Did that mean his feelings
were
engaged? Perhaps so strongly that he felt the need to conceal them?

Perhaps there was hope. Perhaps he might come to care for her in time…

He made a slashing motion through the air with one hand, as though he did not want to hear any more, which made him look harsh. Yet it did not stop the villagers from beaming up at him.

They knew him. Had known him and his moods for years. They could see straight through that cold, forbidding exterior to the man he was beneath. And they loved
him for what he was. That flicker of hope grew bright enough to drive away some of her fears and doubts. Lord Bridgemere was a good man. It was why they loved him. Why
she
loved him.

Though
her
love for
him
was not the issue.

To the accompaniment of a fiddle and drum, the villagers in their garish costumes then performed a rollicking version of
Saint George and the Dragon
, which ended with a rousing song about shepherds increasing their flocks.

When they’d finished, the assembled house guests clapped politely. Then Lord Bridgemere cleared his throat and said, ‘Singing so loud is thirsty work. The traditional wassail cup is over there.’ He indicated the table round which they had been clustering earlier. ‘I would advise the Methodists amongst you to partake only from the jugs at either end of the table. Not the punchbowl.’