did little to contain her large chest and slender Lord Westbook with his sharp nose and slicked-back dark hair stood whispering together, each of them throwing Clara sidelong glances and then casually strolling away when it was clear that they’d been seen. Clara was certain they were not discussing the size of her diamond earrings. ‘What was it that Lady Fulton called me? A plain country mouse?’
‘And you are no longer that any more. Chin up, my dear Marchioness. There are tarts to eat.’
They strolled to the dining room, their progress slowed by more greetings, and Clara tried to shake her irritation at Lady Fulton and Lord Westbook. Their catty remarks had made a bad situation much worse six years ago and, unlike Lady Pariston’s silly and innocent reminder of Clara’s past, she knew anything they said was designed to inflict the most damage. The two of them were notorious gossips and Clara’s story must have greatly amused them, and who knew how many other country families six years ago.
As if to add insult to injury, it was then that she and Anne passed the small hallway leading to the ballroom. A sprig of mistletoe hung from the chandelier in the centre of the hallway, just as it did every year. Clara paused, noticing the white berries adorning the branch, and the memory of that Christmas Eve six years rushed back to her...
‘We should probably return to the ballroom,’ Hugh had suggested, rocking back on his heels before planting himself firmly in front of her.
‘Yes, we wouldn’t want people to notice our absence and talk.’
She didn’t care if they did. She yearned to stay there in the hallway beneath the mistletoe alone with him. He must desire it, too, for neither of them made a move to return to the dancing and she enjoyed this rush of boldness, the first one she’d ever experienced in a man’s presence.
He stepped forward and clasped her hands in his.
She straightened, struggling to stand still against the excitement coursing through her at the press of his fingers against hers.
His pulse flickered beneath her grasp and a shiver of excitement made her tremble. She wished to feel not just his fingertips against her skin but the entirety of him and everything promised by the longing in his eyes.
He wanted her as much as she wanted him, not in the sordid way spoken of in gossip, but in a deep and binding union of their lives...
Until the next morning, Clara thought wryly, the memory of crushing the berry he’d plucked for her from the mistletoe beneath her boot heel in the drive the next morning equally potent. Hugh might not have asked for her hand in so many words, but it had been there in every look he’d cast her that night and across the table and sitting rooms of the days before. The ones everyone in the house had seen, too. How people like Lady Fulton had sneered at her when Hugh had left to marry another. Despite his kiss and everything they’d shared that week, she’d been nothing more to him than a way to pass the time until someone more lucrative had come along and she’d been too much of a simple country girl to see it.
Clara swept off to follow Anne into the dining room. I’m not that naïve girl any more.
And she would make sure that people like Lady Fulton recognised it.
‘Oh, Clara, Lady Tillman has set out her mincemeat tarts.’ Anne eyed Lady Worth’s small china plate as she passed them. ‘I must have one before they’re all gone for it isn’t the start of the Christmas season until I’ve eaten one.’
‘Don’t you wish to greet your husband?’ Clara was somewhat curious to venture into the billiards room and see what men were in attendance, almost ashamed to admit she did hold out some hope for this party. After all, it was the season of miracles and she could do with one.
‘Adam can wait. The tarts will not.’ Anne took a tart from the magnificent selection of treats arranged on the long table and enjoyed a large bite, sighing at the sweet taste and the aromatic holiday spices.
‘You’re right.’ Clara took a bite of her selection, savouring the cinnamon-laced confection. ‘It isn’t Christmas until I’ve had one of these.’
Anne dabbed the sides of her mouth with a small napkin, then set it on the tray of a passing footman. ‘No, it isn’t. Oh, there’s Adam. I must tell him that I brought his cufflinks and will have my maid send them to his valet. I’ll be right back.’
She rushed off to take care of this domestic matter, leaving Clara to enjoy more tarts. While she finished her last treat, her stays already growing tight from the bounty of delights, she noticed the open door to Lord Tillman’s library across the hall from the dining room. Through the white-corniced frame, she could see the warm fire burning in the grate, its light glistening off the many gold-tooled titles of the books lining the walls. If there was one other Christmas tradition she could not do without, it was perusing Lord Tillman’s illuminated manuscript outlining the Nativity, the one he set out every year for his guests to enjoy. The last time she’d admired the Nativity had been six years ago when Hugh had glanced at her from across the wide pages, his fingers brushing hers when he’d turned the aged parchment. It had been the place where Hugh had first become more to her than her elder brother’s long-time friend and sometime houseguest at Winsome Manor and everything between them had changed.
No, I will not think about that, but of better times.
She left the bright dining room and crossed the hall to the library. It was just as she remembered it, with the shelves filled with antique manuscripts and more recent novels. The heaviness of the wood bookshelves and mouldings and the dark leather of the furniture made the room much darker than any of the others in the house, but with a large fire burning in the grate and the medieval illuminated manuscript perched on the tall bookstand by the window, it was one of the cosiest places in Stonedown. Lord Tillman was generous with his collection, making everything in it available to his guests. She’d spent many hours in this room with her father during the Christmases when he’d been alive, with him helping her to puzzle through the Latin text of the manuscript or to select a novel to read while she was here. She would take the book up to her room and every night before falling asleep she’d devour a few pages, relaxing after the excitement of the festive days. The next day at breakfast, she and her father would discuss the story, for he always urged her to choose ones he’d already read and he would make her guess how it might end. She used to beg him to tell her, but he never would spoil the story no matter how well he knew it or whether or not it was one of his favourites.
Taking a deep breath of the smoke-tinged air flavoured with the faint must of old paper, she closed her eyes and almost forgot for a moment that her father and mother were gone, and that she’d spent too many of the last eight years missing people the most at this time of year.
She opened her eyes and crossed the room to the illuminated manuscript. The sunlight coming in from outside, despite being muted by passing clouds, still sparkled in the glittering gold of the chorus of singing angels’ halos and in the fine calligraphy of the first letter of the page. The book was in Latin and she peered at it, trying to make out what words she could remember from her lessons with Adam and their father so long ago. Unlike her brother, she’d never mastered the old language, but a few words and phrases were familiar and she worked them out in a whisper, her effort making the noise and chatter in the hallway and rooms outside fade away until one voice rang out above them, stopping her cold in her reading.
‘Lady Kingston, it’s a pleasure to see you again.’
Clara’s finger froze over the red calligraphy, her pulse pounding in her ears. She took a deep breath and turned slowly around to find Hugh Almstead, Fifth Marquess of Delamare,
