The Wedding Game (24 page)

Prudence waylaid Douglas on his determined path to Chastity. “So what do you think of Romsey Manor, Douglas?”

“A most delightful house, Lady Malvern,” he said. “These old English country manors are quite charming.”

Prudence nodded but gave a sigh. “And so expensive to keep up. You wouldn't believe the shifts we have to make to keep everything in something resembling good order. Ever since Father's debacle on the Exchange . . .” She smiled as easily as if she had said nothing of any significance, stepped aside, and moved away towards a knot of women gossiping busily with their heads together.

Douglas frowned, wondering what had prompted that particular confidence. He resumed his path to Chastity. “I haven't said good evening,” he said as he reached her. He hitched up his trousers at the knees before squatting on his heels beside her. “Hello,” he said to the child she was talking to. The small boy regarded him solemnly, his mouth full of mince pie.

“I'm rather busy,” Chastity said vaguely. “This evening is for the carolers. We have social obligations to the locals at different times of the year, but Christmas is the busiest. I like to give the children all my attention.”

There was no mistaking this dismissal. But Douglas refused to take it. He said quietly, “I just wanted to apologize for indulging an impulse earlier. I don't know what came over me. Can we put it behind us?”

Chastity looked at him, wondering if one of her sisters had already managed to convey the true state of the family finances to him. If so, it had certainly worked, and she could only be grateful. Matters between them would now return to their former friendly footing and she could easily overcome her own inconvenient desires if they were given no encouragement and no outlet. She said with a quick smile, “Yes, of course. That would be best. We won't think of it again.”

He nodded, straightened, and walked away in the direction of the aunts. Chastity wiped the child's sticky fingers and stood up herself. The carolers were gathering their belongings, putting on coats and gloves, and making their way to the front door in a chorus of “Merry Christmas.” A tiny sigh escaped Chastity, but she didn't know why. Everything was now going smoothly and according to plan.

Chapter 13

I
n addition to her other charms, Chastity had a remarkably pretty voice, Douglas thought. In fact, all three Duncan sisters had fine voices. He was well placed to judge since he was sitting just behind them in the Duncan family's box pew in the little village church as their voices swelled with the choir into an energetic rendition of “O, Come All Ye Faithful” at the end of midnight mass. The entire party with the exception of Sarah and her governess were in attendance, and Lord Duncan's powerful baritone rose to the Norman rafters of the ancient church, all but drowning the contessa's lighter alto as she stood beside him.

“I always think that sacred music should not be sung with such exuberance, just as if it were a popular song, don't you,
Dottore
?”

At Laura's whispered comment he glanced sideways. She was looking as if she thoroughly disapproved of the present proceedings. “Just a little vulgar, I think,” she said with a conspiratorial nod. “The Italians know so much better how to revere the sacred.”

Douglas, who was enjoying lending his own tenor voice to the vigorous choir, said in an expressionless whisper, “I hardly think Christmas carols come into the category of sacred music. They're the expressions of popular joy and as such should be sung by the congregation with as much pleasure as they feel.”

Laura frowned as if he'd disappointed her. She muttered something about “lack of sensibility,” and returned her eyes to her hymnal but maintained a steadfast silence amid the joyful outpouring around her.

Douglas wondered how anyone could go through life criticizing everything and everyone in her path. It must be very wearing. He repressed the reflection that it was also very wearing for her companions. The congregation knelt for the blessing and he dutifully bowed his head while he plotted an escape route from the box that would separate him from Laura and put him naturally at Chastity's side for the walk home.

They'd had no further conversation and he was anxious to underscore the return of friendly relations. At dinner he'd been seated beside Laura at Lord Duncan's end of the table. Chastity had been in the middle but on the same side, so he couldn't even try to catch her eye during the meal. After dinner she'd been inseparable from her sisters or had been too busy pouring and offering coffee for any kind of sustained conversation.

He rose to his feet as the organ struck its first chord for the recital accompanying the congregation's departure. Laura was between him and the door to the box and she took her time about gathering up her belongings, looking all around her on the pew as if she might have dropped some precious object. He ground his teeth in impatience as he waited, politely smiling, for her to precede him into the aisle. Chastity and her sisters with their husbands were already at the church door with Lord Duncan and the contessa when he could at last join the slowly moving throng in the narrow aisle.

The family had stopped at the church door to greet the vicar and were still gathered in a knot in the vestibule, the crowd milling about them, when Douglas and Laura finally made it to freedom.

“An excellent sermon, Vicar,” he said, offering the ritual compliment for these occasions.

The vicar beamed. “Christmas services are always the easy ones,” he said. “Same thing every year, just what everyone expects.”

“I would have thought you might welcome the opportunity to shake up complacency in that case, Vicar,” Laura said with a humorless smile. “Isn't it the role of a pastoral shepherd to challenge his congregations' assumptions?”

“I . . . well . . . perhaps so, at other times of the year,” the vicar responded, clearly dismayed by this false note in the general bonhomie of Christmas morning.

“I believe we all have enough challenges in our lives the rest of the year, Vicar,” Chastity said swiftly. “One day out of 365 can surely be devoted guiltlessly to simple pleasure.”

“Yes . . . yes . . . quite so, Chastity, quite so,” he said, once more beaming.

“We'll leave you to the rest of your congregation, Dennis,” Lord Duncan declared, shaking his hand. “Expect to see you at the meet on Boxing Day.”

“Oh, yes, indeed, Lord Duncan,” the vicar said. “Wouldn't miss the hunt for the world. And the breakfast,” he added. “Nothing like tradition, is there?”

“Nothing like it, m'dear chap,” his lordship agreed. “Come along now, people, come along. Let's leave the good man to his flock.” He shepherded his own party down the path and through the lych-gate.

“A hunting vicar,” observed Douglas, doing a neat sidestep and a little quickstep in order to bring himself up on Chastity's right side. “Positively Trollopian.”

“Yes,” Chastity agreed, opening the little gate that led directly into the grounds of Romsey Manor. “He likes his claret too. But Dennis is no Archdeacon Grantly.” She turned to Constance. “Did Grantley hunt, Con? Can you remember?”

“I don't recall,” her sister said. “Prue, can you remember?”

A lively discussion among the three of them ensued on which of Trollope's many characters had emulated their creator's passion for hunting and Douglas listened with interest on the short and frosty walk home. The sisters' knowledge of the author's oeuvre was considerable, and to Douglas's mingled amusement and relief, rather too erudite to encourage interjections from Signorina Della Luca, who kept opening her mouth to interrupt and then—wisely, he assumed—closing it again.

Hot brandy punch and mince pies awaited them in the great hall. “Are you happy with punch, Douglas, or would you prefer whisky?”

“Punch, thank you, Constance.” He took the mug she offered him and inhaled the rich fragrant steam. He observed with a smile, “I find myself enjoying these English Christmas traditions.”

“Yes, we love them too,” she said, adding with a tiny sigh, “Poor Father, since he lost all his fortune, is always fretting that we can't afford them anymore. But the estate is self-sufficient and generates enough income to cover most of the London expenses, although we do have to economize.” She gave a little shrug. “It's hard for him to accept reduced circumstances.”

“I'm sure it must be,” Douglas said neutrally, wondering why on earth the two sisters had chosen to confide this surely private piece of family business to a man who was to all intents and purposes a near-stranger.

“Well, if you'll excuse me, I must see to my other guests.” Constance, message delivered, smiled at him and glided away.

“There is a rather pleasant chintz material in my bedroom,
Dottore
. . . oh, I must get used to calling you Douglas.” Laura's irritating little trill broke into his puzzled thoughts. “I think it would be delightful for your waiting room. Perhaps you would like to come and look at it.”

“Good God, no, I couldn't do that,” he said before he could stop himself, appalled at the prospect of entering this woman's bedroom. It wasn't that he was afraid of her suggesting anything untoward. Laura Della Luca was not in the habit of the untoward, but the intimacy of a tête-à-tête in her bedroom was somehow unthinkable.

“Oh, you English,” she said with another little laugh, lightly patting his arm. “So worried about appearances. But I assure you my maid will be there as chaperone.”

“Actually, I'm Scottish,” he said. “And we Scots do worry about appearances.” He tried a smile. “The dour and puritanical Scots . . . the land of John Knox.” He waited in vain for the swift witty comeback that he knew the remark would have elicited from Chastity but Laura merely blinked her pale eyes in something bordering on incomprehension.

“Oh, I'm sure you exaggerate,
Dottore,
” she said with an attempt at sympathy. “Not all Scots can be puritans, surely?”

“No,” he agreed flatly. “Of course not. Can I get you another glass of punch?”

“No, thank you.” She offered a thin smile. “It's late. I believe I shall retire.” She let him take her empty beaker. “I must take my mother to bed.”

The contessa didn't look in the least ready for bed, Douglas reflected as he put the empty beaker on a long refectory table that stood against one wall of the hall and went to refill his own from the steaming punch bowl.

Contessa Della Luca was sitting on a deep and shabbily comfortable sofa before the fire, laughing and talking with Lord Duncan, a beaker of punch between her hands. At her daughter's approach she looked up, listened for a minute, then with a smile that looked resigned to Douglas, set down her beaker and rose to her feet. She was a remarkably handsome woman, he thought. Stately in a bustled gown that would have been fashionable some twenty years earlier. But it suited her and clearly Lord Duncan thought so too. He had risen with her and was now bowing over her hand, then, not satisfied with that courtesy, he escorted her to the bottom of the stairs, raised her hand to his lips, kissed it, and stood looking up until she and her daughter had disappeared into the shadows of the upstairs landing.

It seemed to be the signal for the party to break up. The aunts wafted upstairs in a cloud of feather boas and cashmere shawls and Douglas offered his good nights to his hosts. He took Chastity's hand in his and bent to kiss her cheek in a perfectly proper friendly salute that could draw no untoward attention. “Good night, Chastity. Sleep well.”

“You too,” she said, making no attempt to return the kiss, although her smile was friendly. “I hope the church bells don't wake you too early.”

“I always wake early anyway,” he said, dropping her hand. He turned to shake hands with Lord Duncan and then ascended the stairs. Chastity watched him go and took a breath of relief. Christmas Eve was over and there would be so much to fill the next couple of days that she wouldn't have time to dwell on lustful urges.

He
was
so incredibly attractive, unutterably desirable, though. Oh, she wanted to kick herself.

“Gentlemen, will you join me for a nightcap in the library?” Lord Duncan inquired of his sons-in-law. “Never could be doing with this punch . . . too sweet on the tongue.”

Prudence and Constance made little shooing gestures with their fingertips at their husbands, who recognized that sitting over a cognac with their father-in-law was a family obligation.

“Of course, Lord Duncan,” Max said. “Punch is a trifle cloying, I agree.”

“But the ladies like it,” his lordship said with a genial smile.

“Father, not all women have a sweet tooth,” Constance protested.

Her father regarded her. “You are an exception to the rule, Constance.”

“I, on the other hand, am not,” Chastity said cheerfully. “I'm off to bed. Good night all.”

Max held up an arresting hand. “Before you go, Chastity, Gideon and I would like to talk to the three of you in the morning . . . before breakfast, if possible.”

“Oh, surprises,” crowed Prudence. “Is this to do with what you've been whispering about for weeks?”

“It might be,” her husband said mysteriously. The effect was somewhat lost when he winked at his brother-in-law. “Would eight o'clock be a good time?”

Prudence wrinkled her nose. “I wish you didn't have this predilection for early rising, Gideon. It's gone one in the morning now.”

“Sarah will be up,” he reminded her.

“Yes, I know,” she said. “Tomorrow's different. We were always up at crack of dawn on Christmas morning when we were children. I was talking more generally. We have a stocking for Sarah that has to go on the end of her bed so that she has something to open as soon as she wakes. Shall I take it in, or will you?”

“That's a Duncan tradition, not a Malvern one,” Gideon said, reaching out a hand to draw her against him for a moment. “It's for you to do.”

She turned her face up and smiled at him. “I didn't think you'd mind, but some people are funny about family traditions.”

“Not when it comes to Duncan family traditions,” Max said. “What goes into these stockings?”

“Wait and see,” Constance said. “You don't know what you'll find at the end of
your
bed.”

Chastity felt suddenly bereft. This light loving banter, the sharing of her family traditions . . . she wanted to be part of it too. “Good night,” she said brightly. “I'll see you all in the morning, then.”

“Wait, Chas.” Prudence moved away from Gideon's arm and came quickly towards her sister. “We'll go up together. The men are going to drink cognac but I'm not sleepy—are you, Con?”

“Not in the least,” Constance said. “And there are a few things we need to talk about . . . arrangements for tomorrow and suchlike,” she added vaguely, linking arms with her baby sister.

Chastity made no objection. She knew they knew how she was feeling. “If we're going to play silly games tomorrow, we should organize them a little,” she said. “Otherwise there'll be chaos.”

“There'll be chaos anyway,” Prudence said blithely as they climbed the stairs. “No one will be clearheaded enough after lunch to read a playing card straight.”

“Just as long as we steer Father clear of the bridge table,” Constance said as they went into Chastity's room. “I'm not playing cutthroat bridge with Max if I don't have all my wits about me.”