The Duke's Christmas Greetings (Regency Christmas Summons Book 3) (12 page)

December 1, 1816

The Marquess of Westchester’s Study

Thursan Grange

Derbyshire, England

Anthony Carew, Earl of Bexley, leaned back in his chair, glancing around the study at the rather fearsome display of family togetherness gathered therein. The Marquess of Westchester, more commonly known as “Father,” fitted his fingertips together carefully, but maintained his silence. His mother, the Marchioness of Westchester, turned a shade paler than her usual pallor, but kept her counsel as well. Only his grandmother, the formidable dowager marchioness, dared to break the silence that followed his sudden announcement.

“What do you mean, your engagement is broken?” She thumped her cane on the floor and glowered at Anthony. “Have I heard aright? Genevieve Hopwood has eloped with someone other than you?”

“I’m afraid it’s all too true.” As he said the words, he grew conscious of a feeling of humiliation mixed with heady relief. “She met her American cousin just a few days ago, and I suppose she fell headlong in love. They eloped this morning. I just got word from her father.”

“How absolutely appalling.” His grandmother cast a withering look at those assembled around her. “An American, no less. Whatever you may say about the Hopwood fortune, or their ancient lineage, I will say there is no accounting for taste.”

“She would have been much more suited to Anthony, that much is certain,” his mother averred, nodding at the dowager. “But what can we do now? My poor son is embroiled in a scandal, none of which is of his own making. Once word gets out, there will be no end to the tittle-tattle.”

Grandmother flicked her ancient gaze over to Anthony. He had trouble meeting her look. She had such penetratingly blue eyes, despite her advanced age. “Do you care much about gossip?”

He had never been able to lie to his grandmother, no matter what he did. He could often find ways around the truth with his own parents, but never with her. “I don’t, not really,” he confessed. “I feel like a dashed fool, that much is certain. I never wanted a wife anyway. Genevieve was just a proper candidate. Now that she is gone, perhaps I can turn my attention back to farming. It’s what I love best.”

“Oh, Anthony.” Mother rolled her eyes heavenward. “You know that is impossible. You are the eldest son, and your father’s heir. You must find a wife, and you must start your own family. Farming can come later.”

“I find it heartening that Anthony is so attached to life at Thursan Grange,” Father replied, breaking his silence at last. “But your mother is right, my son. You must find a wife, and you must marry. If not Genevieve, some other girl will do.”

“And sooner, rather than later,” Mother added, unfurling her fan slowly. “Anything to quiet the gossip. Honestly, I don’t know what has gotten into young ladies these days. Eloping with an American! How positively galling.”

Anthony turned to his grandmother, hating for the conversation to turn down that same well-worn path. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief. Grandmother had the fire in the grate roaring, which might have suited her, but was causing the rest of the family to break out in perspiration. Yes, Genny had eloped. Yes, she had eloped with her American cousin. He could not feel any kind of anger or remorse about this, because she had freed him—even if only temporarily, from the Marriage Mart. Grandmother understood. She wouldn’t force him to seek a wife over the Christmas holidays.  “What do you think, Grandmother?” Asking her opinion would put an end to Mother’s tirade.

“I think,” the dowager began slowly, “that it is high time we visit my brother, Jonathan. He has invited us all to spend Christmas at Danby, and I feel compelled to go. He is much more acute on matters of matchmaking than I, and besides, I have a wish to see him again.” Grandmother looked Anthony directly in the eyes. “You aren’t off the hook yet, my boy.”

Anthony gave an inward groan. His family was determined to have him married off, no matter how he felt about the matter. And if Grandmother was planning to consult with the formidable Duke of Danby about this situation, then Anthony’s choices really played no part in the matter.

What could he say or do? He knew what he was. He was, at heart, a simple farmer. Nothing brought him greater happiness than seeing the ripe, unfurling rows of wheat reaching toward the sky in early spring. He knew what he was doing while working the land, whereas in a ballroom—well, better to leave that sort of thing to his dashing younger brother, Richard. Richard was the ladies’ man, the bounder, and the cad. Just as one would suspect from such a daring youth, he had gone off to the West Indies to seek his fortune, leaving a trail of broken hearts behind him.

Once Richard had gone, and scandals stopped brewing about him, the family’s focus had shifted firmly to finding Anthony a wife, even though he knew he had absolutely none of his brother’s debonair and suave ways.

“When do we leave?” Mother’s eyes were wide with alarm. “There’s so much to do before we can go. I had planned to have Christmas here, of course.”

“That was before Genevieve Hopwood turned our lives upside down,” Grandmother rejoined sharply. “Start making any plans you need for travel and for closing the house over the holidays. I’ll make inquiries of Jonathon as to where we shall stay. I think there are usually one or two homes to let during the season, and we shall simply take up residence in one of those. We shall arrive at Danby no later than the 20
th
. Jonathon is preparing a ball for Christmas Eve, and I want to make sure I have plenty of time to confer with him about Anthony’s predicament before the festivities begin.”

It really was too much. Anthony rose so quickly, he sent his gilt chair skidding backward. Conferring with the duke about his love life, a ball with too many of his annoying cousins, his sisters constantly underfoot, and no way to escape to the barns or to go riding over the snow-encrusted pastures of Thurson Grange.

“Tut, tut, Anthony,” Grandmother said, giving him a knowing look. “It may not be as bad as all that.”

He could think of nothing to retort. Grandmother deserved his respect and his honor, even if he thought the whole business a shameful waste of time.

There was nothing to do now except go for a ride. Perhaps an afternoon on horseback would clear his mind.

Miss Rosamond Hughes cowered behind the study door, hunched against the wall with Ladies Frances and Helen Carew, her two dearest friends in the world.

“Have they said anything about Richard?” Helen demanded in a fierce whisper.

Frances shushed her with a frantic wave of her hand. “Hush. They’re just talking about Anthony. Poor fellow. Genny did him an awfully bad turn, jilting him the way she did.”

Rosamond’s face heated with shame. Here they were, spying on Frances and Helen’s family to determine information about the great love of her life, Lord Richard Carew. Instead, they were eavesdropping on their eldest brother’s heartbreak. It really was too bad of all of them. They should not be prying.

She straightened and smoothed out her skirts. “Let’s go back upstairs,” she whispered. It simply didn’t feel right to listen in on a parental conference about Lord Bexley’s marital prospects.

Helen glanced up at her, frowning. “Don’t you want to know if Richard is coming home for Christmas? If he is, then we must begin making plans so that you may dazzle him as soon as he catches sight of you.”

Rosamond’s heart skipped a beat. “Of course I want to know,” she whispered. “But there are scruples involved.”

Frances shrugged. “All is fair in love and war,” she countered. Then she pressed her ear up against the heavy oaken door once more.

Rosamond was torn. Her friends had come up with the idea to eavesdrop on their parents once they saw the runner come to the house and deliver a message to Lord Bexley. Something big was afoot, and they wanted to know all the details. Then, too, they had offered to help Rosamond by finding out if Lord Richard would be home in time for Christmas. If he was, then she might have the chance to try to win his favor. She had been in love with him for as long as she could remember, but as a small, somewhat round, and shy young lass, she had little chance of earning his attention. Richard’s tastes ran to tall, beautiful, and vivacious ladies.

If she left now, she stood the chance of appearing ungrateful for her friends’ help, and that simply wasn’t the case. It was just—difficult—to bear any kind of witness to Bexley’s humiliation. Where Lord Richard had been sophisticated and dashing, Bexley had been aloof and distant. Lord Richard demanded attention, whereas Bexley’s approval seemed rather difficult to obtain. Somehow, it didn’t seem right to be an observer, even behind closed doors, to his heartbreak.

She stepped past Helen and Frances. Even if she was curious about Lord Richard, it did no good to stay. She would simply go back to the girls’ room and wait for them there. Surely, if they heard any news, she would be the first to be told.

As she passed the threshold, the heavy oaken door flew open and she collided with something strong and solid. A flurry of muffled shrieks and the patter of slippers told her all she needed to know—Frances and Helen had fled from whatever had just occurred.

“I beg your pardon.” A quiet, tense, male voice spoke up. Powerful hands gripped her shoulders and set her back on her feet. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Nor was I,” she gasped. She gazed up. It was Bexley, of course. His black hair was rumpled, as though he had been running impatient fingers through it, and his blue eyes held a defiant light. His square jaw was set, as though he were arguing with some invisible foe. Was Bexley always this well-built? The way he held her made her feel light as a feather. That so rarely happened—usually when she danced, or when a man squired her about, she was made readily aware that she was short and a little too plump.

He gazed down at her. “I suppose Helen and Frances are looking for you.”

“Yes, quite.” She swallowed. What would it feel like to dance with Bexley? She had never dared to suppose such a thing before. He was always so distant and far from her. Lord Richard, because of his daring and jesting ways, was far more approachable.

He released her, and then, giving her a curt nod, left. She paused for a moment, gathering her wits. If she went to the girls’ room looking as abashed as she felt, then there would be no end to the teasing she must endure.

She walked, slowly and with what she hoped was a regal air, down the stone corridors of Thurson Grange. From all sides, ancient family portraits stared down at her. This was a fine old home, the kind of environment one could call established. Not at all like her people, who had come into money lately and then purchased a manor home to call their own. Everything about the Grange was strong and silent and traditional—even its eldest son.

She really must stop thinking of Lord Bexley, and focus instead on Lord Richard.

When she finally made her way into the girls’ room, they flung themselves upon her.

“Did Anthony see you?”

“Did he speak to you?”

“Yes, of course, to both.” Rosamond disentangled herself from their arms and took her place in a chair by the hearth. “He nearly knocked me down.”

“Poor fellow. He’s probably off to the stables,” Frances mused, walking over to the window and flicking back the heavy velvet curtain. “Even in this foul weather, he likes to be out riding.”

Rosamond glanced at the thickly-falling snow. “I should hurry home.” If the snow fell too fast, she could end up having to spend the night at the Grange. Given her addled feelings, this could prove rather ridiculous.