Lord Lansbury's Christmas Wedding

There had been other women. He took them to bed, but he did not let them into his life. He could also be cold, calculating and unemotional, which was his attitude to the decision he was about to make regarding marriage to an American heiress, Lydia Spelling. The American dollars she would bring would go a long way to shoring up Chalfont’s finances. He was still feeling the effects of his father’s ruin, but the returns from his investments were at last beginning to show improvements.

Marriage to Miss Spelling would be advantageous in other ways as well as financial. The Chalfonts had become thin on the ground. To continue the line he had to give some thought to producing an heir. He knew how anxious his mother was for him to marry. If he didn’t produce a legitimate heir, the title was in danger of passing entirely out of the Chalfont family. It troubled him more than anyone realised and he knew he couldn’t go on ignoring the issue.

When his mother had decided to take Octavia on an extensive tour to visit New York and then Paris, reluctant to let them go alone, Christopher had accompanied them. When he’d embarked on the transatlantic voyage, the phenomenon of seeking to marry an American heiress as the solution to his financial situation and to continue the Chalfont line had not entered his head. He hadn’t reckoned on Oswald Spelling.

Spelling, a widower with one daughter, hadn’t passed up the chance to socialise with an earl—British aristocrats had become husbands of choice for American millionaires’ daughters. Invited to dine at the Spellings’s showy mansion on Madison Square, Mr Spelling had seated Lydia on Christopher’s right. It wasn’t subtle, but then it didn’t have to be.

Lydia Spelling was animated and she knew how to assert herself. Encouraged from an early age to express herself and fully confident that she was a worthwhile thing to express, she left Christopher in no doubt that she found him an attractive prospect. As an American heiress she enjoyed a freedom of movement and association that was reserved in Europe solely for married women.

When Christopher finally left New York, he had made no commitment and yet an understanding of sorts had been reached. Lydia was attractive and popular at any event. He did not love her, but making her his wife did not seem such a high price to pay for a lifetime free from financial worry. No sacrifice would be too great if he could restore some of Chalfont’s glories and ensure a more stable future.

* * *

Christopher was ensconced in Chalfont’s library reading the financial sections in the morning papers, one booted foot resting atop his knee,

It was a lovely room. With its beautiful Adams ceiling and Grinling Gibbons chimneypiece, highly polished floor and vividly coloured oriental carpets, it was like an Aladdin’s cave—a treasure trove of precious leather-bound tomes. It smelt strongly of polish and Morocco leather. It was a room which encapsulated every culture and civilisation of the universe, where bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, broken only by the fireplace and long windows looking out on to the gardens.

Christopher glanced up when the door opened and his mother swept in.

‘So this is where you are, Christopher. I thought I’d best tell you that I shall be taking charge of Octavia today. I thought it was time Miss Mortimer took some time off to get on with her work. I really wish she had accepted some kind of reward for what she did for Octavia on the ship. I did think of giving her a bank draft—a reward for saving her life—but she will be undoubtedly offended by the money.’

Christopher smiled disdainfully. ‘Perhaps she is not as eager for coin as some of the lower classes would be, who would try to wheedle some sort of monetary reward regardless of the reason.’

‘You’ve become a cynic,’ his mother teased blandly. ‘But Jane is not like that. She is without guile or greed. She is a lovely young woman, don’t you agree?’

Christopher gave her a narrow look over the top of the newspaper. ‘She’s certainly out of the ordinary—having spent her life, by all accounts, like a wandering gypsy. I’ve never seen you so taken with any of the other young ladies we have employed to take care of Octavia in the past.’

‘You’re quite right, and so far I’m thoroughly satisfied. Jane is an absolute treasure.’

‘Unconventional and hopelessly peculiar is how I would describe her,’ Christopher replied drolly, flicking back the next page of his paper. ‘I would have thought that a girl with her background would be devoid of social skills and find it hard to adjust to the kind of world we inhabit.’

‘You are too harsh. Jane is a thoroughly charming and engaging and well-adjusted young woman, with a remarkable intelligence. In the short time I’ve known her I vow she’s lifted my spirits considerably. I know you had reservations about her suitability from the start, but she has proved you wrong. The difference in Octavia is quite startling. You must have seen that for yourself.’

That Christopher had misgivings about Jane was etched into the troubled scowl on his face. His mother would hear no wrong said about the girl who had slipped so neatly and effortlessly into their lives, and for the sake of Octavia and his mother’s happiness he must accept the situation.

* * *

On the other side of the library door, which Lady Lansbury had left ajar, hearing voices and about to enter, Jane paused. Not wishing to intrude, she considered returning to her room, but on hearing Lady Lansbury mention her name, she halted.

Listening to what Lord Lansbury had to say, Jane felt tears of humiliation burn the backs of her eyes. She stepped away from the door, trying to recover her control. If what he said was to be believed, he didn’t want her at Chalfont, which meant his initial cordiality to her had all been a pretence. He was rightly protective of his sister, but that did not lessen the sting of his words or the terrible hurt that engulfed her on hearing them.

Fighting desperately to hold on to her rising anger and shattered pride, she raised her head. After all, it wasn’t her fault if he found her hopelessly peculiar. Lady Lansbury was happy to have her care for Octavia and was pleased with the rapport that had grown between them.

Taking the bull by the horns, she knocked on the door and pushed it open, forcing a smile to her lips when Lady Lansbury crossed towards her and trying not to look at Lord Lansbury, who had dropped his newspaper on to his knee and was looking directly at her, his face expressionless.

‘Come in, Jane. I’m sure you are impatient to begin work. I shall go and see Mrs Collins in the kitchen. I thought we might take Octavia for a carriage ride later if you can spare the time, Christopher.’

‘I will try, but I have a lot of work to do today. I have to go over the books with Johnson and I want to inspect one of the farms myself. Johnson claims they don’t really need a roof, but it’s going to be a rainy autumn and I want to make sure.’

‘Johnson is a very efficient and able bailiff, Christopher. I’m sure he can manage without you, but—if you must.’

‘I will try. I don’t want to disappoint Octavia. I’ll have more time this afternoon.’

‘This afternoon will be fine,’ she said, turning away. ‘I won’t be gone more than a moment. I’ll leave you to set out your work, Jane. Christopher will look after you until I return...’

Her voice faded away into the far reaches of the house and a door was heard to open and close somewhere. Then there was silence.

Without looking at the man lounging in the chair, but conscious of his presence, carrying her things, Jane crossed to a table tucked away in a corner by the window. It would be the perfect place for her to work. Lady Lansbury had introduced her to the library on her arrival at Chalfont, explaining that she would be able to concentrate on her work without interruption.

Christopher watched her pull out a chair and place her files on the surface of the table. With rigid back and head held high, she lowered herself into it. With a mixture of languor and self-assurance, absently drumming his fingers on the leather arm, Christopher let his gaze sweep over her in a contemplative way.

‘How do you find Octavia, Miss Mortimer?’

Her face was half-turned away from him. All he could see was the curve of her cheekbone and the long silky flutter of her black lashes. Her hair was drawn unflatteringly into its severe bun. Her face was composed and her eyes clear and untroubled. In fact, she looked as she always looked, unapproachable and detached from those about her. Yet she was paler than usual and he wondered if she was unwell. She was certainly quiet—in fact, she was as prim as a spinster at a church tea party.

She looked up from sorting out her work as though against her better judgement, and Christopher was mystified by her cool reserve. Her face was set in a mould of chill politeness and he could see it was all she could do to answer him. What the devil had he done to earn her animosity, he wondered, and in such a short time? Then he almost laughed. It was all so ridiculous. He was tempted to ask her outright what offence he had committed, then thought better of it. However, he learned the cause of her cold attitude when she next spoke, and he was contrite. His comments had been unflattering and hurtful.

‘Lady Octavia is a charming girl,’ Jane said crisply. ‘Where she is concerned I take my responsibilities seriously. You may not approve of me, Lord Lansbury, but be assured that I am not out to hurt her in any way.’

‘Ah. So, you overheard what I was saying to my mother, in which case I can see some form of apology is in order. However, since you mention it I did not say that I do not approve of you. On the contrary. I have nothing but respect for you and the work you do. However,’ he said, putting down his newspaper and getting to his feet, ‘what my opinions are concerning you has no bearing on the case. My paramount concern is Octavia’s happiness and well-being. As you will know, having spent some considerable time in her company, she is not like other twelve-year-old girls.’

‘That I do know. Lady Lansbury explained Lady Octavia’s situation before I accepted the post.’

‘I am sure she did,’ he said, moving close to where she sat, ‘but naturally I was concerned when I discovered that my mother had decided to employ you without discussing the matter with me first.’

‘I understand your concern. Lady Lansbury has shown nothing but courtesy itself, and I give you my word that I shall not abuse her kindness. What you must understand is that I did not seek the position she offered me. Indeed, having just arrived in London—having spent most of my life living the life of a wandering gypsy—to quote your own words, my lord—I was undecided on what I would do next.’

‘It would seem my mother came along at the right moment.’

‘Perhaps. Time will tell. I dare say the properly reared young ladies of your acquaintance would be horrified and fall into a swoon at the life I have led and liken me to a savage. I may not have been born with blue blood in my veins and all the advantages that come with it, but I have learned much and my life has been enriched by it. Yes, I have been to many places and seen things good and bad, but I would not change a thing. It is not where a person comes from that matters. It’s what a person is that counts.’

Christopher stared at the proud, tempestuous young woman in silent, cool composure. Her words reverberated round the room, ricocheting off the walls and hitting him with all the brutal impact of a battering ram, but it failed to pierce the armour of his reserve and not a flicker of emotion registered on his impassive features.

‘That, Miss Mortimer, was quite an outburst. Have you finished?’

Pausing to take a restorative breath, wondering if he might order her from the house following her outburst, Jane finally said, ‘Yes, I have.’

Cool and remote, feeling a stirring of admiration for this strange young woman who had dared speak her mind with such force, Christopher studied her for a moment, as though trying to discern something. When he had first set eyes on her he had thought her plain. But now, looking at her anew, he found himself revising his opinion. Her eyes were dark and soft and warm and were surrounded by absurdly long lashes. She had fine textured skin the colour of fresh cream. There were tiny lines at the corners of her eyes that told him she was a woman who smiled often.

But she did not smile at him.

Was she really as innocent and prim as she appeared? His instinct detected untapped depths of passion in her that sent silent signals instantly recognisable to a lusty male. The impact of these signals brought a smouldering glow to his eyes. So much innocence excited him, made him imagine those pleasures and sensations Miss Mortimer could never have experienced being aroused by him. If he had a mind, it would not be too difficult a task to demolish her pride and have her melting with desire in his arms.

Briefly, the idea of conquering her appealed to his sardonic sense of humour—if that was what he had a mind to do, which he didn’t. The idea of seducing any woman for his own gratification was unthinkable. It would put him on a par with his own father, who had been the most corrupt and debauched man he had known. Christopher was his son, but there the association ended. He was not like his father and he never would be. Where Miss Mortimer was concerned he must remember that for him, because of the position she held, she was untouchable.

The lazy smile he bestowed on her transformed his face. She stared at him, as if momentarily captivated by it, unaware of the lascivious thoughts that had induced it. Hot colour washed her cheeks under his close scrutiny and he had no doubt that she hated herself for that betrayal. He smiled infuriatingly.

With a slight lift to his eyebrows, he said, ‘Do I unsettle you, Miss Mortimer?’

‘No—no, of course not,’ she replied, completely flustered as she lowered her gaze and began sorting out the papers on the table, unable to prevent her hands from shaking.

‘Come now, you’re blushing,’ he taunted gently, being well schooled in the way women’s minds worked.

‘I am not.’ Jane’s unease was growing by the second, but she tried not to show it, attempting to maintain a facade of disinterest and indifference.

‘Yes, you are.’ Chuckling softly, he turned away. ‘I see you are busy so I will trouble you no longer.’

The smile disappeared from Christopher’s lips and was replaced by a dark frown as he strode from the room. His conversation with Miss Mortimer had unsettled him and he could not escape the fact that already she had caused a rift in his well-ordered routine—a disturbance that had brought a feeling of unease which was beginning to trouble him. Perhaps it was because, despite her ability to stand on her own two feet, there was a vulnerability about her. Or perhaps it was the fact that she had no flirtatious wiles or it was her candour that threw him off balance. Or those eyes of hers that seemed to search his face as if she were looking for his soul.

Suddenly he found himself wondering what it would be like, having a wife to light up his life with warmth and laughter—a woman to banish the dark emptiness within him.

He caught himself up short, dispelling such youthful dreams and unfulfilled yearnings. He had experienced them once before with Lily, foolishly believing that a beautiful woman could make those dreams come true. How stupid, how gullible he had been to let himself believe a woman cared about such things as love and faithfulness.

Striding away from the library, he scowled as he realised Jane Mortimer was suddenly bringing all those old, foolish yearnings back to torment him.

* * *

When Lord Lansbury had left her, Jane sat looking at the closed door for a long time, her heart palpitating as a whole array of confusing emotions washed over her—anger, humiliation and a piercing, agonising loneliness she had not felt since her father had died.

Despite the unpleasant things she had overheard him say about her and the forthright manner in which she had retaliated—and the way he had looked at her, commenting on her embarrassment—her heart continued to beat with a chaotic mix of every emotion she had ever felt. And when he had smiled at her it was the most wonderful smile she had ever seen and full of provocative charm.

Even she, as immune to charm as she was to good looks, could feel the potency of both in this man. Feeling her heart somersault, she thought that when he smiled like that and looked at a woman from under those drooping lids, he could make a feral cat lay down and purr. Yet the hawk-like shrewdness of those beautiful silver-grey eyes spoke plainly of a man who would not be easy to manage.

* * *

Lord Lansbury’s association with the American heiress was all the talk at Chalfont. It would appear that although an understanding had been reached, they were not formally engaged. An announcement was expected soon. Accompanied by her father, Miss Spelling had stopped off in London en route for Paris. They had arrived at Chalfont the day before Lady Lansbury’s fifty-fifth birthday celebrations.

Octavia was caught up in the excitement and had talked of nothing else for days. Concerned that her young charge would tire herself out before the party started, taking her hand, Jane led her to the bed.

‘You must rest, Lady Octavia, so you are not too tired to enjoy the party later.’

‘I love parties, Jane. You will come, too?’

Jane stared into Octavia’s face. It was brilliant with hope. Her eyes never moved from Jane’s and she scarcely seemed to breathe as she waited for Jane to speak.

Even though Lady Lansbury invited her to attend social events, Jane preferred not to, but since it was Lady Lansbury’s birthday and because Lady Lansbury had insisted she attend, she had accepted.

Jane laughed, turning back the down quilt on the bed while Octavia put Poppy in her basket. ‘I shall, Lady Octavia. I understand from your mama that lots of people will be coming. Now come along. Into bed with you and go to sleep, otherwise you will be too tired to enjoy the party. When you wake you’ll be ready for your bath. I’ll lay out your prettiest party dress—the rose brocade with raised pink rosebuds you like so well. You’ll be the prettiest young lady at the party.’

‘What are you going to wear? Will it be as pretty as my dress?’

‘No, Lady Octavia. I have nothing as pretty as that. I don’t know what I’m going to wear. I haven’t decided.’

Jane tucked the bedclothes around Octavia as she closed her eyes and in no time at all she was asleep. She sat on the bed for a moment, looking down at her young charge. Octavia looked adorable with her curling blonde hair rumpled and falling over her brow, her cheeks flushed and her breath coming softly through her parted lips.

* * *

What to wear for Lady Lansbury’s birthday party was proving a headache for Jane. It wasn’t something that usually concerned her since she was never invited to parties and the like where the guests were made up of fashionable ladies and gentlemen.

Miss Spelling would make her appearance beside Lord Lansbury. Try as she might not to dwell on this, Jane could think of nothing else and would make an extra effort with her appearance. When she tried to picture this unknown American heiress, she was beset with apprehension and a sharp twinge of jealousy—a feeling totally alien to her until now and she rebuked herself for it—all the greater because she had no right to such feelings when Lord Lansbury was going to marry someone else.

A lovely wise old lady she had met in India had told her that whenever a special event occurred, one must cover oneself in silks and perfumes to make one feel secure in one’s own being. To do this would send out whatever messages one wished from this simple subtlety.

Jane had taken this advice to heart, but ruefully she thought how simple that advice would be to follow if one looked like some of the fashionable beauties she had seen in London. At twenty-one years old she was capable of self-analysis and knew it would take more than silks and perfumes to stave off the disharmony she felt for herself. She chided herself for not purchasing some new clothes on her arrival in London. Aunt Caroline, eyeing her out-of-date gowns with distaste, had suggested taking her shopping, but Jane had put it off, telling her she would think about it later. She now had cause to regret not doing so.

Looking through her much-travelled battered old trunk, she drew out a brilliantly hued gown of sapphire silk. It was far more elaborate than her usual day dresses and she was sure it would be suitable for the party. The style was perhaps a little old-fashioned and would not flatter her figure, but it was certainly eye-catching.

The colour glowed and gleamed in the light as though it had a life of its own as she slid the sensuous fabric over her bare shoulders and felt its caress against her skin. The ripples of silk rustled very softly, enticing and provocative. The neckline was modest, the sleeves to the elbow trimmed with the finest lace. The tightly sashed waist and billowing skirt with its layers of supporting underskirts accentuated the feminine shape of her body.

She felt the aura of the old lady very strongly as she twisted this way and that in front of the mirror, assessing herself as never before, as if through someone else’s eyes—Christopher Chalfont’s eyes.

* * *

When Octavia saw her she gasped with delight, reaching out to lightly finger the fine silk.

‘Oh, you look so pretty, Miss Jane. So pretty.’

‘Do I, Lady Octavia?’ Jane asked, looking back at the mirror and frowning slightly as if that image of herself were not quite what she had expected to see.

‘It’s a lovely dress.’

‘This is a very special gown, Lady Octavia. It’s travelled with me all the way from India.’

‘India was where you lived, wasn’t it?’

Jane tilted the child’s face up to hers and smiled fondly. ‘Yes, I told you all about, it if you remember. It’s a country far, far away. Now, I think we had best present ourselves to your mama, don’t you? We mustn’t be late for her party.’

* * *

With Octavia, Jane left their rooms and walked along a wide passage crossing the width of the house. They passed bedrooms and drawing rooms, dining rooms and studies. The Great Gallery was a room of tremendous proportions and a hushed church-like atmosphere. Its floor was of polished oak and its walls supported a huge vaulted ceiling of decorative plaster. Set in rows along the walls were the family paintings, many larger than life and all housed in elaborately gilded frames. They gave the impression to anyone entering the gallery that they were stepping into the presence of nobility.

The afternoon was warm and sunny. Lady Lansbury had opted to have her birthday party on Chalfont’s magnificent lawns, where tables beneath parasols had been set out for the guests. Footmen were on hand to assist an enthusiastic stream of guests from their carriages and see that the vehicles and horses were taken around to the stables.

Beneath a red-and-white-striped awning, trestle tables covered with pristine white tablecloths were laden with a magnificent array of food—every delicacy which was considered necessary to tempt the appetite: pâté, lobster, all manner of succulent meats, pies and jellies, bottles of hock and claret, bowls of punch and fortified wine for the ladies. A large complement of servants flitted about to wait on the guests’ every fancy.

It was quite a spectacle for Jane when she stepped out of the glass doors which opened on to a broad terrace. Octavia in her pretty pink dress, her pretty bonnet held in place by a wide band of embroidered pink ribbon loosely knotted under her chin, held her hand tightly, an anxious look in her eyes. Jane knew she was always uneasy when in the company of so many people and she had promised not to leave her side for a moment.

The scene that confronted them was a kaleidoscope of colour. The gardens were ablaze with blossoms and islands of rhododendrons and azaleas, the air heady with the sweet fragrance of magnolia. Hanging flowers and a profusion of roses and laburnum climbed and trailed over a covered walkway. Elegant sculptures were set against dark green yew trees and an Italian fountain discharged water into a giant lily pond.