A Seasonal Pursuit (Regency Christmas Brides #1)

Chapter Four

CHAPTER 4

W ebb hadn’t expected to be looking forward to dinner his first night at Fairview, but after having seen the woman break all protocol and fling herself upon her bed like an eager child, he was rather curious to see her again. He could tell she had been mortified at being seen, both by her red cheeks and her defiant stare afterwards, which told him this behavior wasn’t in her usual nature, so he’d kept the conversation short. A more polite man might have ignored the entire thing, and certainly wouldn’t have spoken of it with the subject, but he found himself unable to resist.

Her response had been fairly acerbic, and something about that delighted him.

More than that, he’d done exactly as he’d said and thrown himself on the bed in his own room and enjoyed quite a good rest, despite not having near as long of a distance to travel as any of the other guests in the house.

It wasn’t his first experience of flinging himself on a bed. On the contrary, he did so almost regularly with his children. But his children were not here, which was what made his behavior this time all the more extraordinary .

Lady Standhope was keeping them all in this drawing room-turned-anteroom until the dinner arrangements she had organized were fully prepared for them, and based on the number of guests still trickling in from other parts of the house, she was wise to not keep to her prompt timing of half four. Webb stayed mostly away from the gathering, despite not having any particular aversion to those present, mostly to avoid becoming anyone’s fast favorite. He would be dismayed to find that a poor young lady had set her cap at him based on first impressions, only to have them disappointed when he made no pursuit of courtship.

There were very few problems with being a friendly, congenial sort, but that was one of them. He’d faced it briefly before he and Mary had wed, but so long as he had stayed local and avoided extended Society, the misunderstandings were minimal. And in the time since Mary’s death…

Well, he hadn’t been out in Society, let alone among those who were seeking a spouse.

Not that he was seeking one now.

He simply wanted to keep things simple and clear.

“Lord Downing, what a delight to see you here.”

Webb managed a faint smile as he turned to the approaching figure of the local curate. “Mr. Alchurch, isn’t it?”

Alchurch bowed with a ready smile. “It is, sir. Very kind of you to remember.”

“You’ve been at the parsonage for four months now, I believe,” Webb countered. “It would be rather a blight on my character, and indeed, my immortal soul, if I did not know your name.” He sobered a little. “Has Mr. Fenwick recovered from his gout?”

“Not yet, my lord. I fear I will be taking over the sermons for the foreseeable future.” Alchurch shrugged slightly, his hands spreading out. “I don’t mind. Advent is a wonderful time to be preaching, and the congregation is far more attentive.”

Webb nodded in understanding, secretly quite pleased with Alchurch taking over the sermons. He was more lively and pleasant, and also understood the benefits of brevity and moderation in his messages. Poor Fenwick was becoming far too prone to doddering, drudgery, and duration, not to mention entirely unaware of the somnolent nature of the congregation throughout his words.

How the man managed not to hear the snores emanating from parishioners, Webb would never know.

“Lord Downing, Mr. Alchurch,” Lady Standhope greeted with her bubbling laugh, sweeping in between the men. “Forgive my intrusion into your conversation, but I must have you both meet Miss Portman. She is a delightful creature and would be good company at dinner.” She gestured behind her, forcing both men to turn.

Webb bit back a grin, for there stood the bed-flopping woman from earlier, looking rather lovely in a gown of a green velvet bodice and white skirts, her dark hair pulled back almost severely, though curls at her temples and ears set off the severity nicely.

Her bright blue eyes were wide on Lady Standhope, her lips pinched, and Webb wondered which part of her description Miss Portman objected to.

Still, Webb and Alchurch bowed, and Miss Portman curtseyed, and somehow, in the midst of that, Lady Standhope had moved on.

Miss Portman watched the now distant woman who was their hostess with a hint of exasperation before turning her attention to Webb and Alchurch. “I should warn you, gentlemen, that I am neither delightful nor good company, according to most that know me. Lady Standhope is generous, but she does not know me, so unfortunately her word cannot be trusted where I am concerned.”

Alchurch smiled and made room for her to join their conversation. “I am sure you are too modest, Miss Portman.”

That earned him an almost scathing look. “No, I am not. Perhaps nine years ago when I was still considered a young miss, but now I leave modesty to those to find it of value. I am perfectly frank, Mr. Alchurch, and perfectly honest in my frankness.”

“There is great value in that as well,” Mr. Alchurch insisted, completely unperturbed. “Lady Standhope is inclined to see good things in everyone, likely even where we cannot see it in ourselves. Perhaps she has found you good company and delightful thus far, even if you do not believe you are generally considered to be so.”

Miss Portman now surveyed him through narrowed eyes. “You are naturally good-natured, aren’t you, Mr. Alchurch?”

Webb laughed at the almost disappointed tone of her voice, but also the accuracy of her assessment.

“I am,” Alchurch admitted. “I’ll not deny it.”

“Which serves him well,” Webb pointed out. “Mr. Alchurch is the curate at the parsonage at Goulding.”

Miss Portman wrinkled up her nose as she looked at Alchurch again. “With your surname, sir, you willingly pursued the church?”

Webb had to bite down on his lips hard to keep from snorting with laughter now. He had wondered the very same thing from the day he had met Alchurch, but hadn’t found the nerve to ask the man straight out. How many other parishioners had felt the same? And within two minutes of being introduced, Miss Portman was asking it.

Alchurch was laughing himself. “You would think it rather on the nose, but I’m a third son and the only one in holy orders.”

“One shudders to ask what your older brothers do,” Miss Portman murmured, her eyes widening .

Alchurch leaned forward as though to impart a great secret. “The oldest is a baronet in Norfolk, and the next a captain in His Majesty’s Navy. Suffice it to say, being only a curate is far too humble for them. My sister, however, is hoping I will perform her marriage ceremony.”

Miss Portman cocked her head slightly. “And when is the marriage to be?”

“She hasn’t said,” Alchurch admitted, his smile turning crooked. “I don’t believe she has received a proposal she is interested in accepting as yet.”

“Well, one cannot fault her for thinking ahead.” Miss Portman finally smiled, even if it was slight. “As my own sisters assure me, the devil is in the details.”

Alchurch chuckled and saw something that caught his eye in the distance. “If you will both excuse me, I see Mrs. Jessop, and I must ask after her son. He injured his leg the other day, and she was greatly distressed.” He bowed and left them, his face already a mask of concern.

Webb raised a brow as he departed, watching him for just a moment.

“Did he just…?” Miss Portman asked, not finishing the sentence.

“He did,” Webb confirmed on a sigh, turning back to her. “He is, quite unfortunately, exactly the sort of man one hopes a man of the church should be. I have never met a less hypocritical person in my life.”

Miss Portman shook her head slowly. “I’d inquire as to the veracity of his claims on Mrs. Jessop’s son purely to ensure it was not my conversation that sent him running, but I can see their conversation from here.” She looked up at Webb, her mouth curving slightly. “Refreshing to have a gentleman not entirely obsessed with flattery or social pressures.”

“Has that been your experience?” He made a face of consideration, nodding in thought. “I suppose that would be rather frustrating to endure time and again. And yet, I can see the efficiency of doing so, from their point of view. There is a task to be done, and for most of them, better to have it done quickly and return to a life without that hanging over one’s head.”

“You seem to be removing yourself from the activity,” Miss Portman mentioned with a sort of detached air, though her eyes were quite fixed. “I consider myself removed due to my age and unpleasant nature. What is your excuse?”

A trifle startled, Webb replayed his own words back in his mind, then found himself grinning as he realized he had done just that. “Habit, I suppose. I…well, I am a widower. Eighteen months now, and I am not used to socializing without a wife to claim.”

Miss Portman’s expression softened at once, making her appear several years younger, despite not looking in any way aged to begin with. “Forgive me, my lord, I did not realize…”

“How could you have?” he asked gently. “We’ve only just met. There is nothing to forgive.”

She dipped her chin in a brief nod. “Thank you. And you have my condolences. Was it sudden?”

Webb gave that some thought, surprised that he did not feel the stabbing pain in the center of his chest with the same acuteness he was used to. “No, she had been ill for several weeks, so it was anticipated. But at the same time, it felt sudden to lose her. We had been childhood sweethearts, friends long before anything more, and I don’t know that anyone is prepared for such a loss, no matter the conditions.”

He hadn’t meant to say so much, nor to speak with such intensity, but it had quite simply come tumbling out that way. As such, the silence after his speech was a trifle deafening, and all his internal organs seemed to wince at once.

“My lord, I think I need to back out of this conversation and find the hole I seem to be in,” Miss Portman said after a moment, the tension now returned to her features.

A startled laugh escaped Webb. “What hole is that? I am unaware of your being in a hole. You should have cut me off, Miss Portman.”

The corners of her lips tightened, which he took to be an encouraging response. “I have yet to be accused of silencing a man as he talked about his late wife, and I would hope my lack of politeness would not extend quite that far.”

“Perhaps, but it is hardly good conversation at a house party.” Webb grimaced dramatically as he glanced about the room. “I must be grateful no one else heard me, or I might find myself uninvited.”

“Would that really be so dreadful?” Miss Portman shrugged without taking in any of the other guests. “Then you might return to your previous holiday plans and feel no pressure to say or do anything that conforms with any aims but your own.”

She had a point, and he wouldn’t pretend otherwise. “Unfortunately, I have promised my sister that I would be here, and she is not the sort to let me go back on such a promise.”

Miss Portman grunted softly. “I have three sisters myself, so I understand that particular issue.”

“Are any of your sisters here with you?” Webb asked her, noting Lady Standhope moving towards the dining room.

“Thankfully, no,” Miss Portman quipped, batting her lashes while giving a false smile. “Anna wanted to come, as she especially loves parties. But I was the only one invited, and it really is for the best. The three of them are so cheery and well-mannered, I look like a troll by comparison.”

Webb had to smile at that. “But do they leap upon beds?”

Her smile faded into something far more natural and very pleasing upon her features. “Do you know, I don’t believe they do?”

“Then I think we can safely say that you are not a troll among them.” He nodded firmly just as Lady Standhope cleared her throat.

“Darling guests,” she announced among the quieting murmur of voices. “Dinner is served.” She took the arm of the Earl of Westwick, the highest-ranking man at the gathering, and started the procession in.

“Might I beg a seat beside you, my lord?” Miss Portman asked in a low voice. “I don’t know a soul here, besides you, her ladyship, and Mr. Alchurch, and I would certainly seem like a troll beside the holy curate and the effervescent hostess.”

Webb raised a brow at her. “But not by the absent-mouthed widower?”

Her quick smile seemed to almost express delight at his response. “That remains to be seen, but I can at least feel that I am not being judged, which is an improvement.”

Offering her his arm, Webb managed a longsuffering sigh. “I may disappoint there, Miss Portman. I do judge from time to time, which is what keeps me going to church and listening to the sermons by good Mr. Alchurch. But I promise not to comment on any judgment of you to anyone here and keep those opinions to myself.”

“Tell me your judgments, by all means,” came the clear retort. “I deserve to know what they are, if I am the subject. How else am I meant to find the improvements I need to make?”

“Church,” Webb insisted as they moved towards the dining room. “You will always find those areas there, and with Alchurch at the pulpit, you won’t even feel guilt for having them.”

“Church service without guilt,” she mused. “That might almost make it worth going.”

Webb snickered, trying to hide his amusement from anyone else. They entered the dining room and maneuvered around the massive table, perfectly set with festive décor, mountains of food, and more candles than Webb had ever seen on the same surface in his entire life.

Lady Standhope was clearly sparing no expense or effort for this house party, and he wondered if his house would be even half so festive when they brought the greenery in and set to work with the ribbons.

Then again, his brothers might get exceptionally creative with the décor and encourage his children to join them in their antics. Which would mean that he would have to pretend at loving the results so as not to hurt the feelings of his son and daughter, when it was really down to Fred and Bash for the eyesore. And then he would have to somehow hide the awful collection from the eyes of those who would pay visits during those few days or allow himself to become the brunt of mocking discussion in the village.

Webb paused near some open seats and pulled one out for Miss Portman, who sat easily and without any of the smiling gratitude some of the other ladies were employing for their companions. He took the seat beside her and surveyed the entire table as the rest of the guests took their seats as well. Many of them he recognized from social occasions before Mary’s death, but some of them were strangers. He could only guess at their invitations from Lady Standhope, given the time of year and the risk of traveling in December, but then, he did not know how Miss Portman came to be invited either. Or how far she had come.

He’d have to find a way to ask her without being blatant. He was interested, but more out of curiosity than anything else. He wouldn’t want her to mistake his interest for attraction, as she seemed the sort that would attack him directly if there were a misunderstanding, which might detract from the sort of warm party their hostess wished to hold. And considering the number of gathered individuals who knew him well enough to see him again, he would not enjoy being reminded of such a moment.

“Would you like to know anything about the gathered masses?” Webb offered to Miss Portman in a low voice. “Many are familiar to me, and those that aren’t, we could create information about them.”

She pursed her lips slightly before they pulled into a sly smile. “I’ll admit something to you, my lord: Creating information about people who are strangers to me is something I take great pleasure in. It saves me the trouble of judgment. Even if I am wrong, which I rarely am, I can never see them in their actual light again. It would be a travesty if I enjoyed social occasions, but as I do not, I find no harm in it.”

Webb covered his mouth with a gloved hand, choking on laughs and trying to cough between them without appearing to take ill for anyone else. He leaned closer to Miss Portman, unable to keep from smiling at her. “If you are going to insist on keeping me laughing at inappropriate times, Miss Portman, I think we must be done with this ‘my lord’ business. If it will not scandalize you, call me Webb.”

“Very little scandalizes me anymore,” Miss Portman assured him as she removed her gloves and laid them in her lap. “If you are to be Webb, then I am to be Rose. And as for information, Webb, you might be able to make my task at this house party far simpler.”

She matched his pose by leaning in, and murmured, “Tell me which of the gathered gentlemen are bachelors, and who might be persuaded to pretend at a love match with me.”