A Stockingful of Joy (18 page)

The moment stretched for a painful eternity. Then a tall, dark-haired man who looked like a slightly smaller version of Anthony materialized by Cecilia's side. It was Brand, looking as if he wanted to do murder. Taking his wife's arm, he said in a low, bitter voice, "Since this is my father's house, I cannot ask you to leave, or even cut you, Verlaine. But do not expect civility."

Anthony tore his gaze away from Cecilia and looked at his former friend. Visibly struggling to collect himself, he said, "I had hoped we would be able to make peace, Brand. I behaved badly the last time I was here, and you have my most sincere apology." He extended his hand tentatively.

His cousin looked as if he wanted to cut it off. "I'd rather invite the Great Plague to dinner than take your hand, Verlaine." He pivoted and stalked off, taking Cecilia with him. She cast a last miserable look over her shoulder, then went obediently.

Unable to face Anthony, Emma also spun away. She walked rather blindly through the room until she almost ran into an elderly man, Lord Edward Vaughn, the present duke's uncle.

"Emma, my dear child, how lovely to see you," he said jovially. Taking her hand, he drew her under a beribboned kissing bough that hung in the arch which divided the salon into two parts. Every open arch in Harley had a similar kissing bough. After a swift peck on the cheek, he said with twinkling eyes, "One of the advantages of being an old man is that I can now kiss all the pretty girls, and my wife won't have my head for it."

Laughing, she said, "You're not that old, Uncle Edward. Not even seventy, and looking ten years younger." All of the Vaughns aged well; in another forty years, Anthony would look very much like Lord Edward. Thinking of Anthony sent a pang through her. With a determined smile, she said, "Where is Lady Edward? I haven't seen her yet."

"Charlotte sent me to get you." Taking Emma's arm, he escorted her to a corner where his round, cheerful-looking wife was relaxing on a sofa. "Doesn't get around as well as she did, but she can still ask questions!"

Gratefully Emma sank down beside Lady Edward and prepared for a good-natured interrogation. At least it would keep her from thinking about Anthony, and his reunion with the divinely beautiful Cecilia.

After Brand towed Cecilia away, Anthony took a deep, slow breath, startled at the turmoil of his own feelings. He thought he'd gotten over Cecilia years before. After all, she'd dropped him like a hot coal once she received a better offer. Yet seeing her had knocked him heels over head. He'd forgotten the impact of her beauty.

Yearning for Emma's good sense, he looked around and couldn't find her. Damnation, what must she be thinking? He had a fair idea, and the thought was disturbing. He was about to start searching in earnest when the dinner bell rang. The dowager duchess appeared beside him with feline suddenness. She even had the sleekness and composure of a small, silver-haired cat. "You shall take me into dinner, Verlaine, and then sit beside me," she announced.

One did not refuse an order from the Dowager Duchess of Warrington. He offered his arm. "It will be my honor, Grandmère. I haven't seen you in far too long."

Not that she was his grandmother, but every Vaughn under the age of fifty called her that. As he led the dowager into the dining room, his heart gave a painful twinge. If he could not make peace with Brand this Christmas, he would be unable to return. A gentleman did not make another man uncomfortable in the man's own home. Aloud, he said, "Where do you wish to sit, Grandmère?"

She gestured. "Here, at the foot of the table."

Anthony pulled out her chair, then took the right-hand seat. The long table was set for at least fifty people, he guessed.

The dowager explained, "The rest of the year, Amelia takes her place at this end as a proper duchess should, but tonight, since we dine informally, she can actually sit by her husband."

Sure enough, the duke was taking his seat at the far end of the table, and his wife was next to him. They both had mischievous expressions from flouting convention. Breaking the rules was part of the holiday fun.

"I'm glad to see that you're finally settling down, Verlaine," the dowager said in a low voice meant only for his ears. "I had begun to despair of you."

"I see you haven't lost your taste for assault, Grandmère," he said pleasantly.

"At my age, there isn't enough time to waste it on social inanities." She regarded him unblinkingly, her pale blue eyes like aquamarine. "I was particularly pleased to hear that you'd married Emma Stone. You need a wife like her, with a brain in her head and a steady disposition."

"Happy though I am to be here, I'm beginning to remember the drawbacks of attending gatherings with people who have known one since the nursery," he said dryly.

She laughed. "Everyone knows your business, and has opinions on how you should run your life. It's part of belonging to a family, Verlaine." Her expression sobered. "I've been worried that you might go the same way as your father. You're very like him, you know. Charming, handsome, everything comes to you easily. Too easily. He never grew up, and the same could happen to you."

"I can't say that I appreciate the comparison," he said coolly. "My father was an irresponsible care-for-nobody who very nearly lost the family patrimony."

"It's a man's duty to care for his inheritance and pass it on to his children, and he failed badly in that," she agreed. "But from the tales I've heard of your gambling and wenching, your behavior has not been any better. I trust that you now intend to start acting like an adult."

Having delivered that blow with the expertise of a prizefighter, she turned to the man on her left. Anthony clamped down on his irritation. As soon as his father had died and the state of the Verlaine finances was revealed, Anthony had retrenched and done everything he could to save the estate. But it was also true that until that appalling day, he'd lived extravagantly, as if his income was drawn from a bottomless well.

For the life of him, he still couldn't think of any method other than gambling that he might have used to earn the money to redeem the mortgages. One certainly could not borrow such a sum from a friend, the banks had refused him, and he had not wished to turn fortune hunter. So he'd gambled, saving his winnings, never allowing wagering fever to overcome good sense, never spending money needlessly.

Yet in the end, gambling hadn't been enough. He would have lost Canfield if not for Emma. Most of the damage had been done by his father, but Anthony would have born the blame in the eyes of the world, just as he would have had to live with the consequences of his father's selfishness and waste. For two years, that bitter knowledge had eaten at him like acid. When he had a son, he'd do better by the boy.

It was the first time he'd seriously thought about having children, and he was surprised at the complicated emotions that accompanied the idea. Children, and Emma would be their mother. Her blood would flow in their veins, as would his.

It was one of the most obvious facts in the world, yet he had never really thought about it with respect to himself. Lord, what could a man do for his children that was more important than choosing a good mother for them? And Emma would be good—he knew that without question. Kind, patient, and intelligent, not to mention healthy and with a wry sense of humor that he was appreciating more and more.

Automatically he looked for her. She was sitting near the far end of the table, smiling at some comment made by her dinner partner. Anthony's mouth tightened. Perhaps he shouldn't have removed her fichu—the fellow was leering down her bodice as if she was the next dinner course.

Jealousy was also a new experience, one he didn't like. He'd never felt jealous of his mistresses. If they fancied another man, he'd always let them go cheerfully. But Emma was his wife. He found, rather uncomfortably, how much difference that made.

Luckily the woman on his right was exchanging a year's worth of news with her other neighbor, which relieved Anthony of the obligation to talk. He toyed with his leek soup and thought about what the dowager had said.
Charming, handsome, everything comes to you easily
. Emma and her fortune had certainly come easily.

As he sipped his wine, he wondered about that stroke of luck. Would she have found him and suggested marriage if he'd been ugly? What a sobering thought. He'd always known that beauty gave a woman power, while taking for granted the advantages that his own face and athletic form gave him.

Yet he could no more take credit for his looks than for his title and station in life. His appearance was pure Vaughn, and the Verlaine title and fortune had been granted to the naval grandfather who'd been a famous admiral until his heroic death in battle.

By comparison Anthony was forced to admit that he was basically a worthless fellow. He had spent his life pursuing pleasure. His father's death had sobered him, and his desire to save Canfield had given him a worthy goal, but he had still essentially been living the life of a heedless young man about town.

I've been worried that you might go the same way as your father. You're very like him, you know… He never grew up, and the same could happen to you… I trust that you mean to start acting like an adult.

His gaze went to Emma again. Perhaps being an adult was a matter of letting go of the youthful belief that the world was a place of infinite possibilities. Not everything was possible. Every choice eliminated a myriad of other paths.

By marrying Emma, he had forfeited the right to marry any of London's dazzling beauties, just as she had given up the chance of a husband who might be more clever or worthy than Anthony. Since they had chosen each other, it was up to them to make their marriage closer to heaven than to hell.

With a wry smile, he realized that that was probably a very adult thought.

Determined to enjoy the evening, Emma managed to shut away the memory of that horrible moment between Anthony and Cecilia. She laughed her way through dinner with a cousin by marriage she'd never met. Afterward, as the men sat over their port, she made the rounds of her female relatives, exchanging hugs and news.

After the gentlemen joined the ladies, an impromptu concert began. Three young female cousins began singing carols while another played the pianoforte. Soon the instrument was surrounded by Vaughns who joined in. Emma did her share of singing, her heart aching a little as she watched some of the older couples. Lord Edward and his wife sat on a sofa, his arm around her waist. The duke and duchess were discreetly holding hands as they joined in the carols.

Would Emma and Anthony have that fondness for each other when twenty or thirty years had passed? Or would they be like Brand and Cecilia, who stood side by side with frozen faces, neither touching nor looking at the other?

Depressed by the thought that the odds were against her and her husband developing a long-term affection, Emma slipped away while the party was still going strong. No one would miss her, least of all Anthony, who was spreading his charm lavishly about the gathering.

She made the long climb to the tower room through silent passages. It was a welcome surprise to find a small fire burning when she arrived. The Harley coal bill for this fortnight would be astronomical.

After changing to her heaviest nightgown and a matching robe that went over it, she sat down at the dressing table and pulled the pins from her hair. As she was lifting her brush, the door opened and Anthony entered.

Their gazes met in the mirror. Voice carefully neutral, she said, "I thought you would be downstairs longer."

He closed the door and leaned back against it. "I made my excuses when I saw you leave. It took me a few minutes to break away, or I would have escorted you up."

She wondered if he'd come because of the sensual promise that had been between them when they dressed for dinner. Unfortunately she was no longer in the mood to consummate her marriage even though Anthony looked almost irresistible. Tall and broad-shouldered, with his waving dark hair and piercing eyes, he was a man too splendid to be the husband of Emma Stone. He was any young girl's dream. He'd been her dream.

She began brushing out her hair. Deciding that it was time for an inane comment, she said, "It was lovely to see everyone again."

"You're wondering about Cecilia," he said quietly.

She had not expected him to broach such a delicate subject. "As a matter of fact, I am." Looking in the mirror rather than at his face made it easier for her to ask, "Are you still in love with her?"

He hesitated. "No. At least I don't think so. But seeing her again was a shock. It brought back what it felt like to be twenty." His mouth twisted. "I'd forgotten how wretched a time that was."

She turned to look at him directly. He was doing his best to be honest with her, and for that she was grateful. But she was not very reassured by the fact that he "didn't think" he was in love with Cecilia. "Brand looked as if he wanted to do murder."

"I really don't know why, since he got what he wanted—Cecilia. He hardly has cause to be jealous when I haven't laid eyes on her in nine years." Anthony sighed. "I always thought of him as having an easy disposition. Perhaps I didn't know him as well as I thought. There is a lot I didn't know."

Emma suspected that when a woman came between two men, the emotional equation could change dramatically. Certainly Brand appeared to have changed from the young man she remembered. But what did she know? She was just an aging spinster who had bought herself a husband. She began to braid her hair. "Perhaps when Brand gets over the shock of having you here, his mood will moderate."

"Perhaps," Anthony said, clearly unconvinced.

Emma tied the end of her braid, then rose and went to the bed. Outside scattered flakes of snow were falling. She hoped they would continue. She'd always loved the beauty and silence of new snow. After taking off her robe and laying it over a chair, she slid under the covers.

His voice as neutral as hers, Anthony said, "Can you spare a blanket? I'll make up a bed on the floor."