A Christmas delight

  This book made available by the Internet Archive.

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  "Ah, there you are at last."

  Lady Alice Conyngham looked up from her papers and grinned at her brother. "Yes, Roland, here I am in my study. The last place you would look, of course."

  "Well," he said as he came to perch on the edge of her desk. "It's going to be the last place I look today. Why would I keep looking when I've found you?"

  Alice chuckled and rolled her eyes at him.

  No one would ever doubt that they were brother and sister. It would not be hard to suppose them twins, though Lord Masham was four years his sister's senior. Both had fine-boned features, wide, humorous mouths, and sparkling hazel eyes. The difference lay in their hair. Lord Masham had dark blond unruly waves; Alice was blessed with a thick, heavy mass of chestnut which fell die straight past her hips.

  When newly emerged from the schoolroom she had suffered hours of curling and crimping to achieve a fashionable look, but these days she was wiser and let it be. When she was informal, as now, she simply tied it back with a ribbon.

  She looked at her brother severely. "Now that you've found me, Roland, state your business and go away. We've thirty-three guests arriving on Christmas Eve and I have work to do."

  "Thirty-six," he said.

  "Thirty-three," she repeated firmly. "I should know, since I have the task of allocating bedrooms to them all."

  "Thirty-six," he said again. "Forgot to tell you. Invited three fellows before I left Town."

  "Roland!"

  "Come on," he said beguilingly. "We can't actually have run out of space. Bumped into Lord Ivanridge and Thornton Ewing at White's. Clear they'd nothing particular laid on for Christmas, so I invited them here. After all," he added coaxingly, "they're both war heroes, Al. Bad show if they were left to spend their first Christmas after victory by a lonely fireside."

  "I believe I have seen both names mentioned in reports of battle," admitted Alice. "But they're total strangers, Roland, and they must have family."

  "Not total strangers," he pointed out. "I was at school with 'em. They were both on the Town before they joined up—you must have met them somewhere. In fact, I rather thought Ivanridge came to a Ttoelve Days once."

  "I don't remember him . . ."

  "And I'm not sure they do have family," Roland continued. "Close family, that is. Ivanridge's parents died when he was young. He inherited his uncle's title a few years back and the old man was a bachelor. Anyway, the people invited here aren't exactly orphans, Al. They come because Conyngham Christmases are famous."

  Alice sighed but gave in, as she usually did with her brother. And it was true that the twelve-day Christmas festival held each year at Conyngham Castle was a renowned festivity. Invitations to it were prized. The fact that it had not taken place last year because of the death of Alice's mother, the Countess of Raneleigh, made this year's celebration even more anticipated.

  It also meant that Alice had the running of it for the first time. The earl and Roland loved the event and could be depended on to organize activities once the guests arrived, but they had no patience with the tedious preliminary work of allocating bedrooms and stabling, ordering supplies,

  and making sure those guests arriving by stage or mail would be collected. Even with an excellent and experienced staff, Alice had her hands full.

  "Very well," she said and frowned at her lists. "But I truly am not sure where to put them. All the good bedrooms are taken."

  "Double 'em up," said Roland blithely. "The younger' men won't mind. I'll take someone in my room. Bed's big enough for five."

  "Invite any more impromptu guests," warned Alice, "and you'll be testing out that theory." She scribbled changes to her room list. "You said three?"

  "Ah yes," said Roland, suddenly developing an interest in the winter scene beyond the window. "Well, he was with us, Al. Could hardly leave him out, could I?" At her questioning look he said, "Standon."

  Alice stared at him. "Roland. Tell me you're teasing. Please."

  He did color up a little. "Devil a bit. Come on, Al. It's six years. Surely you two can meet on good terms."

  "Of course we can," she snapped. "We've been meeting on good terms ever since. It must have been the most civilized jilting ever!" Alice pressed her hands together and forced the shrill tone out of her voice. "That does not mean I want Lord Standon here for Christmas."

  "Not like you to hold a grudge," Roland reproved. "Fellow's all alone. Parents dead, sister in Canada with her husband . . ."

  "But Christmas, Roland," Alice pointed out, experiencing familiar exasperation with her brother's insouciant disregard for details. "It was during Christmas at Conyngham six years ago that I jilted the man!"

  "Oh," he said with mild surprise. "That must be why he hesitated about accepting. But I made a big thing about how welcome he'd be, Al. Can't fob him off now."

  Alice shook her head. "I suppose not," she said bleakly. "But if he does something cakish like offer for me again I shall make you deal with it, Roland."

  "You could do worse," he pointed out. "Than take up with him again, I mean."

  "Doubtless," she replied tartly. "However, my sentiments have not altered."

  "Nor have his, I suppose. Why else hasn't he married? He's turned thirty and has a duty to his name. Don't like to make a point of it, Al, but you're twenty-three yourself. If you're not careful, you'll end up an old maid."

  Alice looked him in the eye. "Roland, one thing I promise you. I will not end up an old maid. Now go away and check guns or billiard balls or something."

  Recognizing her irritation, he went. Alice rested her head on one hand. Damnable, damnable situation.

  She'd made her curtsy at seventeen, highborn, well dowered, and passably good-looking despite the impossibility of holding her hair in any fashionable style. She had been a mild success in the Season of 1809 and, in her mother's opinion at least, it would have been vulgar to be anything more. Let the impoverished and the parvenus seek to be a Toast; a Conyngham had no need of such extremes to marry well: that is, within the inner circle of the haut monde.

  It had been made quite clear to Alice which were the gentlemen most suitable for her consideration — suitable in terms of politics, wealth, and bloodlines. Most of them were familiar, having been houseguests at Conyngham.

  During that Season Alice had enjoyed herself with all of them and waited for love to strike. When that mythic emotion had failed to appear she had happily settled for fondness and accepted Charlie Dearham, Lord Standon, whom she had known from the cradle. He had been, still was, an easygoing man with a gentle wit and a kind heart. She had always enjoyed his company though she had not, in fact, been in a great hurry to wed. The ceremony had been set for May, 1810.

  Of course Charlie had been invited to Conyngham for Christmas that year. And that was where it had all fallen apart. All because of a rogue called Tyr Norman. Captain

  Tyr Norman, newly commissioned to the 10th Light Dragoons, a Hussar regiment, magnificent in his blue dress uniform with silver braid, the dashing fur-trimmed pelisse swinging from one shoulder.

  During the Twelve Days at Conyngham the guests were required to wear medieval garb, but Lord Raneleigh made an exception for serving officers. Perhaps that was what had made Tyr Norman so dazzling to her eyes, the fact that he was in a real uniform and soon to be posted to the Peninsula, whereas most of the other men had been playacting.

  He'd been growing the necessary Hussar moustache, she remembered, and had laughed disarmingly about the fact that he couldn't yet twirl the ends like an old hand . . .

  It had taken just twelve days of Tyr Norman to turn Alice's life upside down.

  Charlie
had never understood why she suddenly broke their engagement. She knew he and others had waited for her to show the new attachment which must surely be the cause. She had not been able to explain to him except to say that she found she did not love him as she should.

  The truth was that Alice had found that love was not a myth but a painful, maddening reality. But how could she tell anyone that she had given her heart to a rogue and then her virginity, too, and that the rogue had taken both and decamped, leaving her without honor or heart to offer to another?

  In the end, unable to bear the burden of guilt, she had confessed all to her mother. Lady Raneleigh had been deeply shocked but surprisingly gentle. She had explained the possible consequences, but when Alice's courses had shown that she was not, at least, pregnant, her mother had recommended that she get on with her life. She had strongly urged a reconciliation with Charlie, using a whole battery of logical arguments.

  It had been no good. Tyr Norman had proved a rogue of the first order, but there had been something between them, something extraordinary. Alice had found she could

  not bear to wed without it. Her mother, she knew, thought that her experience had been distressing and had turned her against marital intimacy. Honesty told Alice that it was quite otherwise. She could not now bear the impersonal couplings her mother earnestly promised her.

  Alice was shocked to feel the dampness of tears on her fingers and angrily brushed them away. It was over. It was ancient history. Tyr Norman was probably dead.

  She had guiltily searched out the few mentions of his name in military dispatches —he had distinguished himself at Talavera, she remembered —but all mention had ceased two years before. She must have missed his name in the casualty lists. She had had after all, moments of sanity when she refused to look. She hoped he was dead. He deserved to die in a muddy field somewhere . . .

  More tears were squeezing past her lids. Oh damn!

  Alice grappled for composure.

  Tyr Norman, dead or not, would never show his face at Conyngham again. Charlie Dearham, she reminded herself, was a civilized man and wouldn't create any embarrassment. It would all be all right.

  And now, she thought, pulling another sheet of paper closer, she had twelve days of celebration to organize.

  Christmas Eve was the usual merry chaos, but Alice was relieved to have it come. The hard work of organization was over and now it should be fun. Even the minor calamities, like the stranding of the Duke and Duchess of Portsmouth ten miles away due to a broken axle, could easily be taken care off.

  Conyngham Castle —a twelfth-century castle to which pieces of each succeeding style of architecture seemed to have stuck —was lit from cellar to attic. Inside it was festooned with greenery and ribbons and made cozy by roaring fires. Cheerful servants dashed around, for they loved the celebration as much as anyone, and plenty of extra hands were always hired so the work-

  load was as light as possible.

  Besides, the vails were always extraordinary.

  Guests arrived all day, breath steaming, laughing and chattering. There was a buffet of hot and cold food set up in the Yellow Saloon, and familiar guests knew to make themselves at home. Alice, her father, and her brother were on hand to look after the less experienced and make them welcome.

  Alice had just befriended shy Lady Podbourne, whose new husband had abandoned her when he became caught up in a discussion about fowling pieces, when the doors swung open again to admit a gust of crisp air and new batch of guests.

  She introduced Lydia Podbourne to the Beasleys then went to welcome Mr. and Mrs. Digby-Rowles. Behind them she saw Charlie.

  The Digby-Rowleses were regular guests and merely waved a greeting before putting themselves into the hands of the bevy of waiting servants. Alice turned to the man she had jilted.

  She knew there was nothing he would hate more than any mention of it. "Hello, Charlie," she said and accepted a cool kiss on the cheek. "Lovely to see you here again. I'm afraid you'll have to share a room, though. Pve put you in with Lord Ivanridge. I hope that's all right."

  "Of course," said Charlie with no hint of awkwardness. He was pleasant by nature and pleasant by looks. He had soft brown hair and a smooth face, fine, kind eyes, and a shapely mouth made for smiling. "We traveled down together. Found we'd both been here once before as well, so we're old hands. No need to fuss over us." He indicated the man behind him and Alice turned with a smile.

  Which froze.

  "What the devil are you doing here?" she said.

  It was, thank God, said softly.

  The dark-haired man's courteous smile cooled. "Delighted to meet you too, Lady Alice."

  Charlie said, "Is something the matter, Alice?" but his

  voice seemed faint and far away.

  He looked the same and yet different — leaner, with shorter hair, and no trace of the moustache of which he had been so proud.

  It was impossible to do as she wished and have him thrown from the house. She'd kept her secret for six years. She could surely keep it for twelve days more. "No," she said with a shaky laugh. "I'm sorry. Things are at sixes and sevens and I'm losing my wits. It's just that I thought this gentleman was dead." Remaining coherent by force of will, Alice swallowed, extended a hand, and said, "It is Mr. Norman, isn't it?"

  He acknowledged her hand with the briefest of touches, his mouth smiling, his eyes cool and watchful. "Lord Ivanridge now, Lady Alice. That is doubtless why you were taken by surprise."

  "Indeed," she said. "Congratulations, my lord. As you will have heard, I have had to put you to share a room with Standon. I hope you do not mind." At last she could turn away to summon a maid. "Hattie will show you up. I'm sure you will remember that we leave our guests to suit themselves until dinner." She turned an impersonal smile on the group. "I will see you later, gentlemen."

  It was only as she walked away that she registered that there was another man in the group, doubtless Major Ewing, and she had ignored him. She could do nothing about it now. She had to escape.

  With a smile fixed painfully on her face, Alice walked composedly across the hall, mounted the stairs, and progressed along corridors to her bedchamber. Once there she turned the key in the lock with unsteady fingers and collapsed on her bed.

  Tyr Norman was here, sans moustache, sans uniform, but still able to drive wits to wildness in a second. How could he have done this to her?

  Would he have the decency to make an excuse and leave?

  Why should he? she thought with a bitter laugh. He, at least, must have expected this confrontation.

  What could his purpose be?

  Had he come to gloat over his long-ago conquest?

  Had he come to try to repeat it? She'd see him dead first.

  Devastating thought. Had that riotous tumble in his bed been so long ago that it seemed of small importance to him? Perhaps so. After all. he'd surely spent the past six years engaged in warfare, killing and wenching his way across Europe. Why should he remember one silly seventeen year old?

  Alice bit on her knuckle. Perhaps he didn't even remember. She found that insupportable. She'd lived with the memory, bittersweet though it was, every day and night since.

  How hard he had looked. Where was the young man with the laughing dark eyes? Latin eyes, her mother had said dismissively. Where was the smile which had melted her bones? Swallowed up by war?

  She rolled over and buried her head in her hands as the memories flooded back as if it had all been yesterday. The way those dark eyes had become even darker, and yet brighter, when she had shyly slipped off the top of her gown to expose her breasts.

  Where had she gotten the boldness to do such a thing? she wondered. From twelve days of festivities and an excess of mulled cider. It was as if she'd been another person that night.

  She remembered the soft music of his voice as he had told her how beautiful she was and calmed her anxieties; the sight of his magnificent torso, bronzed by the firelight except where it was darkened by his h
air; the feel of that body beneath her hands. That had been the hardest to forget, the feel of leashed power beneath her hesitant fingers.

  When he'd gone, abandoned her, and she'd realized that she could never marry, that had been the hardest part —to know that she would not experience that again, the feel of a man's body beneath her hands . . .

  There was a scratch at the door.

  Alice leapt up and quickly washed her face, trying to

  wash away her wicked thoughts along with the tear stains. Had she learned nothing in six years? She went to the door to open it. A maid was there.

  "Sorry to disturb you, milady, but Mr. Kindsy says there's a problem with the Countess of Jerrold's room. She says the chimney smokes." This was reported with a resigned tone. Every year, Alice's godmother, the Dowager Countess of Jerrold, found something about which to complain. Once soothed, she settled to be an acceptable guest.

  Alice put her moment of wildness behind her and went off to deal with her godmother.

  This event would not be the disaster she feared unless she allowed her wanton heart to make it so. In the hectic, crowded days to come it should be easy enough to avoid Tyr Norman, Lord Ivanridge.

  It might be possible to avoid Ivanridge, but it seemed impossible to keep him out of her thoughts. As she dressed for dinner that evening, Alice found herself wondering what he would think of her gown and was instantly annoyed that she would care.

  Six years ago, however, she had been just out of the schoolroom and her clothes had been chosen by her mother. They had all been of the highest quality and the finest cut but demure. For day there had been the universal light muslins, for evening plain pastel silks.

  These days, having resigned herself to spinsterdom, Alice dressed to please herself. She had discovered a taste for strong colors and unique designs and wore them for her own pleasure. Her mother had not approved.

  Christmas Eve at Conyngham was the last night of modern dress, and Alice's gown for this evening had been chosen weeks ago —a bright royal blue of simple cut, trimmed with silver braiding on the bodice and braided leaves around the hem and down the long sleeves. The plain style might not be the current vogue, but she thought it suited her, for she was tall for a woman and had a shapely figure.