To Wed His Christmas Lady (The Heart of a Duke Book 7) (2 page)

T
he carriage was not coming.

Somewhere between the departure of the first carriage and the seventh, Lady Clarisse Falcot, daughter to the Duke of Ravenscourt, had resolved herself to that eventuality.

Except, standing in the corner of her chambers at Mrs. Belden’s Finishing School staring down as the
eighth
carriage pulled away she readily admitted, only to herself, that one could not truly be resolved to being forgotten—at the Christmastide season, no less—by one’s father.

In the crystal pane, partially frosted from the winter’s cold, a bitter smile twisted the corner of her lips. She tightened her grip upon the cherished heart pendant in her hands so that the crimson ruby bit painfully into her palm.

Then, what purpose did she truly serve to the man, more stranger than sire, beyond increasing his power and wealth? This latest, glaring indignity was only one more reminder of her absolute and total lack of worth to the duke.

There is little use to me of a girl…the only purpose you’ll serve is as a match with Billingsley’s son…if he ever brings himself ’round to returning from his gallivanting…

Her temporary chambers here at Mrs. Belden’s echoed under the force of that remembered laughter.

The soft shuffle of footsteps at the entrance of the room pulled her attention away from the lead windowpane as her lady’s maid, Alison hurried into the room. She caught Cara’s gaze and a blush stained the young woman’s cheeks. “My lady,” she murmured. Did the girl suspect that her mistress had been forgotten? Pity filled the girl’s eyes. “I am sure the carriage will arrive shortly.”

Cara wanted to spew all kinds of cold responses about the insolence of the woman’s supposition. Except, shame slapped at her cheeks as Alison set to packing the final trunk. She rushed about the room, pointedly averting her gaze. Jagged humiliation lanced her and the muscles of her throat tightened. Only this maelstrom of emotions cutting off her ability to breathe was about more than embarrassment.

Pain
.

Cara yanked her attention back to the window as her mind wrapped around that one word. She balled and unballed her hands at her sides. The cold pendant in her grasp dug sharply into her palm and she welcomed that diversionary sting of discomfort. For years, she’d built fortresses about herself, protecting her from that pain; hating the emotion as much as she hated the man her father was. Pain was a sentiment that had weakened her in ways she’d tired of; she was truly tired of being weak. It earned you pity amongst the servants and snide comments from the girls you attended finishing school with. Yes, cold and indifferent was far preferable to the gut-wrenching agony that went with laying yourself open before another person.

Yet, standing there with the wind howling forlornly outside, was it possible to be anything other than gutted by the truth that your father had forgotten to send ’round the carriage to retrieve you for the Christmastide season? Yes, she’d been invisible as a girl. A powerful peer had little use in a daughter—except for the match she might someday make. And now, as a woman of eighteen, she served a material purpose—making an advantageous match with another ducal family. Still, even with that pawn-like figure she’d been transformed into by their power-driven Society, Cara was still worthless to her father, in even the most material way. Long ago, she’d accepted that. But deep inside, in the place where hope dwelled, she dreamed of a man who could love her. A man who was kind and bold and strong; who could see past the ice upon the surface and, instead, see a soul worth loving. And that man would be worth throwing over any future duke for; her sire’s disapproval or any long ago signed contracts be damned.

Today’s blunder on her father’s part only roused the absolute foolishness in such silent yearnings. Nonetheless, a spasm wracked her heart and she rubbed her hand over her chest to dull the ache. The cold ruby of her mother’s necklace pierced the fabric of her gown.

“When I am sad, my lady—”

“I am not sad,” she bit out. Except, why did it feel as though she lied to the both of them? Cara shoved away such foolishness. There was little use in lamenting her father’s disinterest. Regret and pain did not affection make. “Here,” she thrust out her hand with the necklace—her last link to her mother, toward her waiting maid. What was the point of holding on to that cold artifact from long ago? That too-brief interlude of love had proven how fleeting and impossible that sentiment, in fact, was. “Place this in the bottom of my trunk.” She didn’t need the reminder of what once was. Not on this day.

A small moue of surprise formed on the maid’s lips. “You are never without your necklace, my lady.”

No, she was not. Cara dropped her gaze to the broken clasp of this piece that had once graced her mother’s neck. Incapable of words, she shook the chain once and Alison rushed forward to claim it. The girl took in the damaged pendant and made a clucking noise like a chicken let loose. “How very sad,” she said as though to herself. “’Twas a fine necklace.”

The ten carat ruby and fine Italian gold had meant nothing to Cara. Rather, the memories connected to that piece as her mother had pressed it into her small hand were of far more value than any material worth attached to the necklace. “You’d still be your cheerful self with that,” she said tersely, jerking her chin at the heart.

Alison blinked wildly and then a broad smile split her lips. “Oh, indeed!” She skipped over to the bed and gently wrapped the beloved piece.

It was on the tip of Cara’s tongue to call for the return of that heart, but she compressed her lips into a tight line to keep from revealing that hint of weakness.

“One must always find things to be cheerful about.” Her maid chatted like a magpie which, unfortunately for Cara, was often. “There were cranberry scones for breakfast.”

As respected and revered as Mrs. Belden’s school was, one would never claim the headmistress’ cook was in any way accomplished. “They were drier than a sack of Cook’s flour.”

The room trilled with Alison’s laughter as she hurried from the armoire over to the open trunk at the foot of the bed. Cara winced as the young woman, between her sniffling, proceeded to carry on about the texture of the cranberries and the other parts of her breakfast meal. Cara had resolved to see her sacked the minute she’d entered into her responsibilities as maid and first smiled at her. People did not smile at her. And they decidedly did not speak to her. The maid had prattled on in a manner that had set Cara’s teeth on edge. But then, the more she’d listened, the more she’d perplexedly found there was something rather
comforting
in hearing another person’s voice. Oh, she’d sooner wed the miserable, pompous, future duke her father would bind her to with a smile and a “yes, please” than ever willingly admit as much. A startled laugh slipped from Cara’s lips, and Alison shot a wide-eyed look back at her. Cara schooled her features and disguised that shocked sound as a cough. Alison resumed her packing, all the while humming as she went.

Yes, though Cara made it a point to not engage the girl, there was an odd solace in being with a person who spoke to you—and not
about
you. Or even,
at
you.

“Then there were the biscuits,” the plump woman said crushing one of Cara’s satin dresses close to her chest and hopelessly wrinkling the fabric. “Oh, the biscuits. A-
choo!
”

Cara returned her attention to the grounds outside her chambers. “It is a sorry life indeed if you find joy in biscuits and scones,” she said, unable to keep the bitterness from her tone. Then really, what happiness was there? It assuredly was not found in the cold families a lord and lady were born into.

“Oh, but surely you see it is a lovely day?”

She squinted out into the dreary, gray-white, winter sky. A lovely day? Was the girl madder than a hatter? Her mistress had been summarily forgotten by her sole surviving parent at Christmas. Not that it mattered whether or not it was the holiday season. She abhorred all the false festive cheer of Christmas; a time when lords and ladies pretended they were happy and kind and all things different than the cold, unfeeling figures they truly were.

“I daresay it will be a wonderful holiday.” Her maid wiped her nose on a handkerchief and quickly stuffed it into the front pocket sewn into her apron.

On what did the girl base such a surely erroneous assumption? What joyfulness did she know as a maid in the Duke of Ravenscourt’s employ for Cara’s miserable self?

“The skies are gray, without a hint of sunshine,” she said, hating that she engaged the girl, but it provided a small distraction from her own miseries.

“Ah, but the smell of snow is in the air.” Then, as though she could smell anything more than the dark, lonely chambers through her stuffed up nose, the girl threw her arms wide and inhaled deep. She ruined that attempt at invigoration with another sneeze.

A knock sounded at the door and Alison rushed over to open it. Cara thrust back her pathetic musings, despising the weak creature who still mourned the loss of a father’s love, nearly as much as she despised the man himself. As Alison pulled the door open, one of Mrs. Belden’s instructors—aptly named dragons—remained in the corridor. She whispered something to the maid. Cara pointedly kept her attention at the window, away from that slight exchange. All the while, her neck pricked with humiliated hurt at the obvious reason for the interruption.

Down the length of the gravel drive, a black carriage rattled toward the front of the establishment. Her heart gave a funny leap. With blossoming hope, she pressed her face to the window and squinted. Young ladies did not squint and they certainly did not show enthusiasm or, well,
any
hint of emotion. But she didn’t give a jot about proper ladylike behavior just then. A cry, born of a hope she didn’t believe herself capable of, stuck in her throat. For there was a carriage rattling slowly down the drive and that black conveyance signified she’d
not
been forgotten. She brushed a hand over the frosted pane, the glass ice cold on her bare palm. Ignoring the slight sting, she attended that elegant, black barouche as it came to a sudden stop outside the front of the revered finishing school.

An odd emptiness settled in her chest. She stared unblinkingly down at the crest—the crest of someone else’s father. A sire who likely didn’t love his daughter, because none of those self-important, officious peers who ruled the world did, but one who, at the very least, had not forgotten his daughter at the holiday times, either.

Alison cleared her throat. Schooling her features, Cara turned around. “What is it?” Her sharp tone came from a woman who was one word too many away from dissolving into a mewling, weepy mess.

The girl’s usually sunny smile dipped. “Mrs. Belden asked to see you in her office, my lady.”

She curled her hands into tight fists.
The summons
. Cara stole one more glance out the window and stared at the intersecting lines of her palm marked upon the frosted glass. Through that space left by her hand, the faint flecks of snow began to fall.
Prove me wrong. Come now. I command it.
From a place where she didn’t know hope still dwelled within her, Cara willed another carriage down the drive. Except, just as she’d been a girl of seven willing her mother to breathe once more, no matter how long she stared or how much she wished it to be, it was not coming.

“My lady?”

It was that warm gentleness that snapped her from her miserable standstill. “Hurry along with the remainder of my belongings,” she forced past tight lips. Cara spun on her heel and marched from the room, though it was remarkably hard to save face when you ordered your maid to pack your belongings and there was really no place to go.

Cara moved through the quiet, now empty, halls of this place that was no more home than the cold, empty halls of any one of her father’s opulent estates. Mrs. Belden’s, just like His Grace’s townhouses and grand estates, was nothing more than a place with a roof and any number of walls and windows and doors. There was no warmth here.

Though, once upon a lifetime ago, there had been a place she’d considered home.

…but Father says you are to only call me Clarisse…

…ah, your father insisted you be named Clarisse, but I am your mama, and Cara mia, you shall always be…

Cara came to a sudden, staggering stop outside Mrs. Belden’s office as the long-buried memory trickled in. She’d not allowed herself to think of her mother in the eleven years since she’d been gone. For with those thoughts came the aching reminder of what it had once meant to laugh and smile and be happy. She pressed her eyes closed and willed back all remembrances of the last person who’d loved her, not for what she could do or bring to someone else, but simply for herself.

“But I despise her.”

That plaintive entreaty cut across Cara’s thoughts and brought her eyes flying open. She stared at the wooden panel of Mrs. Belden’s closed office door where the nasty headmistress now spoke to Lady Nora. Lady Nora Turner, the Earl of Derby’s daughter, and one of Cara’s greatest enemies at Mrs. Belden’s. Though in truth, it was really more a tie for the top place among the ten other girls who’d had the misfortune of being scuttled off to Belden’s lair.

“Everyone despises her,” the woman spoke with a crisp matter-of-factness. She thumped her cane once. “But she is a duke’s daughter and as such, is afforded our respect.”