A Valentine For Christmas - A Regency Novella (9 page)

Charlie ignored the interjection (she had decided that Miss du Pont was definitely not her friend in her quest to save his lordship from a lifetime of seasonal unhappiness), merely gazing at her father soulfully.

Mr. Weathering looked at her with a smile. ‘How very thoughtful of him. But I do not like the idea of him languishing in his room when we are all making merry down here. I will go and fetch him myself.’

Satisfied with her work, Charlie went to help Anne and Bardwell with the strings of bright red berries. She tried very hard not to look around when she heard her father return but could not resist a quick glance when Papa said, ‘Here he is! As grumpy as a bear but I managed to convince him that we’re all friends here.’

The look, Charlie realized quite quickly, might have been a mistake for Lord Valentine gave her such a glare that she quailed beneath it and dropped her eyes. Perhaps she had overstepped the mark for he was certainly very angry.

But, no, she amended mentally. Nothing worth doing was ever really easy, she knew that perfectly well. Lord Valentine, as prickly as he was, was
not
easy. Which must make his eventual salvation that much the more satisfying. She went back to her arrangement of the berry strings, more resolute than ever.

The decorating of the tree was usually accompanied by much hilarity, cries of dismay (when Merry or Felix broke something in their enthusiasm) and noisy protest as a host of discordant voices tried to insist that theirs was the best way of displaying things to advantage. Mama had fashioned a large star, many years before and it always took pride of place at the top of a tree. A ladder was required to get it there, along with the multitude of decorations accumulated by Weathering Christmases past but at the end of it, their tree always managed to look delightful to one and all.

Initially, his lordship remained in the background, glowering like a thundercloud but Merry insisted he help her reach a branch to cast her paper-chain upon and he was unwillingly pressed into service. Even Madeleine participated, placing several ornaments on the boughs, ably assisted by James whose dark head bent all too frequently towards those bright golden ringlets.

Charlie kept an eye on Lord Valentine, wondering if this emersion into chaotic family life was having a positive effect. Bartholomew, the butler, had felt himself well enough to return to duty and was supplying largesse to those who were permitted to drink in the form of glasses of claret. Charlie saw his lordship drink deeply and shook her head. Instead of exorcising whatever ghosts haunted him, this entire affair was clearly disturbing him and for the first time, she felt a pang of regret at making him undergo something that was clearly painful. Perhaps, she thought rather wistfully, watching as his lordship retreated to a chair a little removed from the rest of them, she would have done better to have let him be to dwell upon whatever memories haunted him.

It was nigh on four o’clock when they were done and Mr. Weathering declared ‘quiet time’ until dinner. Both of her parents were fond of implementing this. They seemed to believe times of calm reflection helped the spiritual and emotional growth of everybody. Of course, their children suspected that ‘quiet time’ was merely a euphemism for their parents to remain undisturbed for a blissful period, but it was no great hardship.

Charlie elected to seek the privacy of her room and reflect upon matters. She could not help but feel that she was failing dismally in her duty to assist Lord Valentine. Evidently, she was doing it wrong although a swift mental recap of all of Mrs. Radcliff’s novels did not help clarify the matter. Her heroines had dealt with clear-cut issues, while her heroes were at least sensible enough to know that they had problems. Lord Valentine had no such clarity and was proving stubbornly hard to tackle.

Closing the door, she wandered across to her window seat and curled up on it, looking at the white world beyond the glass. The wind was finally dying down, turning into gusts that were by no means as violent as they had been. Not that it would make traveling any easier, for great piles of snow obscured the every day, turning the garden into a white wasteland populated by unrecognizable mounds. At a little past four, twilight had descended, heralding the coming night. Lord Valentine might not like it, she reflected wryly, but it appeared that he would be stuck with their company for a while longer for man nor beast would be traversing that landscape for several days yet.

Charlie drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them to rest her chin on her kneecaps. ‘What am I doing wrong?’ she mused, absently eyeing the alien world beyond the frosted panes. ‘And what can I do now to make it right?’

That was the question.

Dinner brought no convenient insights. Lord Valentine seemed to have retreated into himself. He was polite enough, answering what was put to him but he had clearly been so put out by the events of the day that he was disinclined to talk to anybody. He continued to drink with a quiet determination that Charlie found a little disturbing and retired to bed as quickly as he could, leaving the family to their own devices. Miss du Pont remained, however, playing piquet – which she was remarkably good at – and flirting. She had polarized the Weathering siblings, in that James and Harry were besotted while their brothers and sisters remained unimpressed.

French she might be, Anne had declared in an undertone, and as pretty as a picture into the bargain but there was something remarkably odd about the girl. While she could not have been much older than Charlie, there was a worldly air about her that was quite disconcerting.

‘I don’t think she’s quite the thing,’ Anne concluded softly.

‘She must be. She’s Lord Valentine’s cousin,’ Charlie pointed out, ‘and he’s clearly up to snuff.’

‘Well I don’t think
she
is. I heard her asking Florrie to fetch her a glass of Madeira, earlier.’

‘Well she
is
French.’

‘No, really… Madeira? Young ladies do not drink Madeira in England.’

‘You just don’t like her because she’s… she’s…’

‘French?’ Bardwell supplied helpfully. He had been listening to his sisters without comment, his nose stuck in a book, but could not resist a comment. They both giggled.

‘Idiot!’ Anne muttered. ‘It’s not that. She just feels awfully fake, for some reason. I know she must be all right, really. But I cannot bring myself to like her.’

Charlie forbore to comment. There was no arguing with Bardwell and who knew? He certainly wasn’t like any of his three brothers. Perhaps he would never find a beautiful French girl as delightful as James and Harry did, although it seemed a pity if that were the case. Charlie was a passionate devotee of books herself, but even she knew one could not live in them forever.

Feeling slightly depressed, a very uncommon feeling on Christmas Eve, Charlie retired to bed early, determined to forget about the situation between the covers of one of her ever-reliable favorites. But once in bed, she found she could not stop thinking about Lord Valentine, or Miss du Pont or what an odd Christmas this was.

Worse, she could not stop herself from thinking about Lord Valentine or the kiss he had so recklessly pressed against her lips earlier that day. Somehow, it made what lay between the covers of a book pale into insignificance.

Lord Valentine could not remember the last time he had allowed himself to become so squiffy in circumstances such as these. Although, he reflected owlishly as he sat on the side of the bed, in all fairness he could not remember circumstances such as these. Those damned Weatherings with their damned family traditions. And, most of all, that damned, delicious Charlotte Weathering who was such a sly filly that she had sent the father up to fetch him. It had been a masterful stroke for he could not possibly refuse such an invitation but it had incensed him. It had been just as well that they had not been alone for he had been angry enough to shake her until her teeth rattled, enraged by her inability to leave well enough alone.

What the hell was wrong with the girl, anyway?

Although his lordship knew that the answer to that question was… not a lot. Unfortunately.

He sighed and contemplated his boots. It was at times like this that he missed the services of his valet. What he wouldn’t have given to have Bishop with him at the moment. With an effort, he removed his hessians, standing them carefully side by side. He had been jug bitten many a time but tonight he was really in his altitudes. Who would have thought that a country squire would stock such an excellent claret? He had held himself together as much as possible in front of the family but had escaped as soon as he could. In the state he was in, God alone knew what he would inadvertently say. But such was his ill humor that he had continued to drink, far more than he should have. What he
should
have been doing was keeping an eye on Madeleine.

‘Damn girl,’ he muttered, although really, he did not know if he were referring to his mistress or Charlotte Weathering.

With a sigh, he flopped back down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Reassuringly, it did not swim before his eyes so perhaps he was not as rotten as he thought he was. After a moment, thankfully, his eyes drifted shut and he slept…

It seemed like only a moment passed before something brought him into wakefulness again. Something… some annoying thing, tugging at his clothing while a voice, a familiar voice was talking, on and on, so irksome that he wanted to roll over, cover his head and make it all go away again.

As if
that
were going to happen.

Valentine opened his eyes reluctantly and tried to focus on the small, determined face of Madeleine du Pont that hovered over him like a particularly pretty moon. He peered at her blearily and found himself wishing that it were not golden ringlets that were tickling his chin, but dark curls.

Damn it.

‘What the devil do you want?’

The full red lips, smiling one moment, immediately settled into a disconsolate pout. ‘Is that any way to speak to me,
mon chéri
?’

‘You should not be in my room. What if somebody sees you?’

‘Who is to see me? The family, they have all retired, do you see? But it is still so early and I am not at all fatigued. I thought we could spend a little time together.’ She ran her hand over his chest, sliding it beneath his partially open shirt to the warm skin beneath. ‘
Savez-vous ce
dont je parle,
mon amour?
’

Unfortunately he knew exactly what she meant and he found that he was not in the least bit interested. Madeleine was delightful, there was no doubt about it. And he had enjoyed their very physical relationship. But he had the sudden, disconcerting discovery that it was over. Something has soured his former desire and he wanted no more of it. As for the idea of having sex with the girl in one of the bedroom’s of his host…

With an effort, he pulled himself together and sat up, forestalling any further advances from the eager Madeleine. He had no idea what time it was but he felt it was late. He was cold, for he had fallen asleep on top of the covers, he was muzzy headed from the wine he had consumed and he felt entirely disenchanted with life. It took him a moment to realize that something had changed since he had fallen asleep and with a start of surprise he realized that the house now lay in silence. The wind had finally died away. After two days of it buffeting the house, the change was startling.

Madeleine came up behind him, winding her arms around his neck and pressing herself against him. She had changed into one of the daring (and expensive) French peignoirs that she favored and he could feel the warm weight of her full breasts against his back for she was wearing nothing else. It should have aroused him. It had certainly done so in the past. But instead, he found that his only desire was to hustle her from his room so that he could go back to sleep.

What
a sorry state of affairs this was.

The breath hissed out of her. He felt it tickle his ear for a moment as her arms released him. Slipping off the bed, she stared down at him, angry incredulity on her face. ‘You do not want
me
? You do not want Madeleine?’

He was prepared to wager she had rarely heard that before. When he had turned up, offering her his protection, she had been involved with an extremely besotted baron who had protested at being cast aside. But Valentine was younger and richer and really, it had been no contest. Madeleine du Pont was in the height of her very considerable beauty. She had enthralled more than one poor fool with those red lips and luscious, swaying hips and he had fought hard to secure her as his mistress.

So it came as something of a shock to discover that their relationship was, on his part at least, well and truly over. ‘I’m sorry, Madeleine.’