A Seasonal Pursuit (Regency Christmas Brides #1)

Chapter Six

CHAPTER 6

H e hadn’t expected to enjoy the first night at the house party, gracious hostess though Lady Standhope was, but he had to admit that Rose Portman was the most unexpected form of good company Webb could have hoped for.

Indeed, he had never met a cynic who was less sour about life and less biting in their commentary. She was rather frank, he would grant her that much, but she was never insulting in her honesty. He found her pessimism rather amusing, considering how she had leapt on her bed when he’d first seen her, and wondered what else she might do in private that would be at odds with the persona she presented.

Did she twirl around her rooms when putting on a new gown, as his daughter did? Did she ride astride and let her hair dance on the wind? Did she read novels aloud to herself and do voices for each character? The possibilities were endless, and he was half-tempted to secretly seek her out during the house party for more opportunities to catch her unawares.

Fascinating creature, and his curiosity was certainly piqued.

If he got nothing else from this experience, at least he’d found some entertainment .

He was struggling, however, with the concept of being on one’s own for a good portion of the day, as they were now. Breakfasts had been available for three hours or so, and there had been a sort of cold luncheon as well, for those still about the house. Many of the gentlemen had gone out shooting, though Webb hadn’t opted to join them.

The ladies were occupying themselves with their usual tasks for daylight hours, as far as he could tell. Drawing, reading, embroidery, and walking were just a few of the activities he’d witnessed as he wandered Fairview, and he wondered if anything of the sort was truly engaging for them. He had yet to find Rose as he’d gone about this aimless pursuit, so he could not ask such a question as yet. His sister would have told him just as frankly, were she present, but he’d never paid all that much attention to the occupation of ladies during the day, so it had never occurred to him to ask her.

As for himself, Webb would have much rather been home at Downing and going over the ledgers with his estate manager. With St. Stephen’s Day approaching, he liked to have a more specific understanding of what his tenants and servants had done throughout the year and to be able to gift them generously but accordingly. He had no doubt Mr. Parker would arrange the details with perfect integrity and understanding for how Webb would handle matters, but the distance between himself and his duties was not something he was comfortable with. He could have ridden across his lands again while the children were at their lessons, could have looked ahead to the planting season for his lands and tenant farms, taken his children to the village to find small presents of gratitude for their servants…

But no. He was here, a guest in a neighbor’s home, and utterly bored.

Eventually, his wandering led Webb to the Long Gallery on the first floor, and he smiled to himself as he strolled along it. Kitty and Pierce would have torn around this space at top speeds, racing each other from end to end before creating some spectacular course full of twists and turns, winding this way and that, Kitty falling over at least twice as her haste got the best of her balance. They had a gallery at Downing, but it was nothing compared to this.

Most of Downing was nothing compared to this, actually. And he had always been quite pleased with his home. Not that he was presently feeling shame, as he knew that Downing was well set up and still boasted fair prospects and immaculate gardens as well as prosperous farms. It was still regarded as one of the finest estates in Yorkshire, but this place…

There was nothing to compare to Fairview, and that included royal residences he had seen.

“Well, well, well… Lord Downing in the gallery. What are the chances?”

The dryness in the voice made him smile, as did the now familiar tone. A feminine voice without trills, lilts, or breathiness, almost perfectly crisp and somehow filled with all of the wry notes that had ever been left unspoken in polite conversation. Warm without being inviting, and polite without being deferential.

It could only ever belong to Rose Portman.

She was coming towards him from the far end of the Long Gallery, the blue of her eyes standing out even more due to the almost purple shade of her gown. She had pushed the sleeves back to her elbows, and the sight made him want to grin. He was quite positive that her mother would have scolded her at one point for stretching out the fabric of the long sleeves in such a way, but he suspected there was no telling Rose what to do or not do, especially at this point in her life. She was beyond caring about what anyone thought but herself, and it was remarkably refreshing to find that in someone who had not become entirely bitter and in some way scandalous.

There was no scandal to Rose. Only a desire for liberty.

And she was a determined enough woman to claim it for herself, even if he did not assist.

He liked that about her. She was no damsel in distress, and he was certainly no gallant knight. She was marshalling her own troops and looking for allies in the battle ahead, and he, still trying to get his own lay of the land, only hoped to not be a hindrance.

“Miss Portman,” Webb greeted with a half bow in her direction. “Is it so shocking that I should be in the gallery? Have I managed to destroy your perceptions of me already?”

She scoffed just loud enough for him to hear as she approached. “No, not really. I only meant that in the vast scope of this entire house, I managed to find you in one of the places I was already venturing.”

Webb cocked a brow at her. “Were you trying to find me?”

“No, of course not.” She snorted softly and turned to face the portrait he was standing nearby. “As I said, I was already coming here. Why are you not out on the hunt?”

“I didn’t think a hunt necessary when we already have one on the agenda, and I don’t really trust Mr. Fordham with a gun after the amount of drink he consumed last evening.” He shrugged and squinted at the portrait before him. “Do you think the gentleman painted found this likeness flattering?”

Rose snickered and clasped her hands behind her back. “I shouldn’t think so, but perhaps he was a pock-riddled sort in life. In which case, this would be a flattering likeness indeed.”

“There’s a thought I hadn’t considered. One must always consider the pox in previous generations.” He nodded thoughtfully and moved on to the next picture, Rose falling into step beside him. “What of you? Why are you not reading or drawing or whatever it is that ladies are expected to do during unscheduled time?”

“Because I am dreadful at drawing, for one,” she replied simply, “and I wanted to see the house, for another. Exploring grand houses is an underrated experience and would be one of my favorite pastimes if it were allowed.”

“Is it not allowed?” Webb asked with a curious look, trying not to smile. “Are we flouting the laws of convention at the moment?”

He felt a surge of pride and satisfaction at the dramatic eye-rolling that Rose bestowed on him. “No, of course we aren’t. I only meant that one cannot constantly be wandering grand houses. We all do it, but how often do we talk about it? According to my mother, it is a great mark of brashness to be always applying to housekeepers to see inside estate houses. Yet it does not stop her from asking our innkeeper to engage in such application on her behalf when touring the Cotswolds every other year. She wants to see all the great houses in the land, but she’ll never admit it.”

“That sounds like a problem very specific to your mother,” Webb suggested with a hint of laughter. “Why deny our innate curiosity of such places? It does nothing for us, and manages to hem us in, so to speak. Tell your mother that if she ever comes to Yorkshire, she is more than welcome to tour Downing House.”

“I will tell her no such thing,” Rose retorted at once, surprising him with her vehemence. “You’ve done nothing to earn the misfortune of her presence in the privacy of your home. I love her, of course; she is my mama. But really, Webb, your politeness must have its limits. For your own sake.”

He had to laugh at that, his mind venturing to thoughts of his own mother, who was due to arrive at Downing from the dower house today. She’d be focused on entertaining the children while she was in residence rather than on anything particularly festive. In her mind, the Christmas holidays were more a time of reflection than celebration, and that somber note had been her attitude towards all holidays since Webb’s father had passed away ten years ago. She was not opposed to celebrations, nor would she be a depressing influence on any such occasions, but one would notice the strain in her features the longer she attempted enthusiasm.

But before all of that, she had been fairly exuberant in all things, especially under the influence of his father, as far as Webb could recall.

“I’ll simply plan to be away at the time,” he told Rose with a nonplussed smile. “She can meet my mother and the two of them can judge my house to their hearts’ content without my being aware of any of it.”

Rose’s brows rose, accompanied by a dubious expression. “Would your mother not tell you her thoughts afterwards? Or now, rather? Surely she sees your house on enough occasions to express her opinions.”

“Oh no. Quite the contrary.” Webb shook his head very firmly, examining but not really taking in the landscape panting before him. “My mother never expresses her opinions—vocally, at any rate. One must decipher her facial expressions to get an idea, but even then, there are no explanations.”

“Well, that is entirely unfair,” Rose insisted, her face wreathed in understanding and sympathy. “How can you possibly know what she particularly objects to and what she would prefer if all you can tell is that she is unimpressed?”

“We have all asked that question our entire lives,” Webb assured her. “She was vocal enough when she was interfering in my life, and I am certain she still is with my unmarried brothers, but no longer with me. She visits my home from time to time, but she loves the solitude of her dower house more and more as time goes on. I’ve had to resort to my children writing her letters begging her to visit for her to make the journey across the grounds.”

Rose tsked a little, shaking her head. “I’d offer up one or two of my sisters for your brothers as recompense for your efforts here, but alas, they are all married. And it would be a bit like living in a place where it is always warm and sunny, everything is agreeable, and nary a cloud will mar the sky.”

Webb winced dramatically, more to play along than anything else. “What would England become without its customary rain? And to be constantly overheated? I’ve been to Spain, and it is a lovely visit, but not my preferred style of habitation.”

“I quite agree, which is why I do not mind spending Christmas apart this year.” She moved on to the next portrait, this one of an elderly woman with minimal wrinkles, dressed in excessive finery. “Now this is an unfair estimation of aging if ever I have seen one. Is it really such a crime to grow old?”

“I’ve never thought of getting old as a crime,” Webb informed her, casually striding to view the portrait more closely. “But then, I am a man.”

“Oh, indeed?” Rose gave him a questioning look, her eyes wide. “You should tell people that earlier in the conversation. It might save them a great deal of confusion.”

Webb gave her a sardonic look, which earned him a teasing glance in response. He turned his attention back to the painting. “A man, particularly a gentleman, can grow dignified with age and is always a candidate for social occasions and aims, be they matrimony, fortune, or influence. A woman, on the other hand, is considered to be more and more insignificant with age, unless she is very wealthy, very titled, or very influential. I have met far too many ladies who become diminished versions of themselves as the years go by, and I have always thought it quite a shame.”

“You know several old ladies?” Rose asked him dubiously.

Of all the parts of his statement she chose to comment on, that was it?

Webb dropped his head, snorting softly with laughter. “Well, you know. Aunts. My mother. My mother-in-law. Neighbors. You get to know a few over the course of a lifetime.”

“I suppose so. If we are still friends when I am old, Webb, do make sure that I am painted with wrinkles, will you?”

He glanced over at her, finding her even more fascinating now than she had been a few minutes ago. “Friends already, eh? Very well, Rose. I shall ensure that every single wrinkle is painted in exact detail and illuminated with the proper lighting for the artist.”

Rose smiled at that, still staring at the portrait before them. “Thank you. I cannot promise to have wealth or titles, but I think I can work for influence. Though, to be fair, I have very little intention of being a fixture in London Society. I have never enjoyed it, and I doubt that will change whether I am married or not.”

“That all depends on how you look at it, I suppose. A widow can find her entertainment and enjoyment wherever she likes, can she not?” Webb folded his arms, giving Rose a daring look.

She sputtered lightly and wandered to the next painting. “We haven’t even found me a husband yet, and you’ve already killed him off. So are we looking for the perfect superficial husband who will leave me alone and we live happily ever after apart? Or are we looking for someone we can murder someday?”

Webb clicked his tongue a little as he considered either option. “I don’t think we should opt for a life of crime so early in our efforts. If the husband we get for you doesn’t become the husband you deserve, then we can revisit the idea. You could still be an influential older woman without being a widow. If you wanted.”

Rose made a face, passing the next family portrait of a portly man with too many neck ruffles. “I’d rather be influential in my local society. There is nothing that says all influence belongs to London, nor that Society does. I shall enjoy being a free-spoken older woman, locally terrified and respected, secretly admired. Perhaps I will even host Christmas parties and let revelry commence within my discerning eye.”

“Revelry?” Webb repeated, nodding in thought. “You’d permit revelry at your parties, Miss Portman?”

“Within reason,” she assured him as she walked beside him. “One must allow the festivities to be festive, after all.” She looked around the gallery, her eyes narrowed. “Do you think the tradition of decorating for Christmas on Christmas Eve might be a little outdated? Why couldn’t we decorate earlier? As part of Advent, even. Is the risk of bad luck really so great that we cannot be festively adorned in our houses for longer?”

Webb tried to imagine the space with garlands and greenery and the like, and he could see it all, brightening up the gallery and reminding those wandering here of the time of year. A house this size would have endless amounts of work to be done for such decoration, and the servants surely could only have that task alone for Christmas Eve. Would it really be so bad for them to stretch that work out for a couple of days and have the place be bright and cheerful for a bit longer than a scant few days? And families around here seemed to enjoy helping with the decorating process, so it would not all fall on the groundskeeping staff or the footmen. Why shouldn’t it extend longer and let the good spirits of the holidays make up for the risk of bad luck?

“I don’t see why not,” Webb murmured, now ignoring the paintings around them entirely. “But I have no doubt that Lady Standhope has her decorations already prepared and ready to be hung from the very first waking moments of Christmas Eve. At Downing House, we are far less prepared. Perhaps I might tempt you to escape the house party with me for a time and help us with our preparations. Tomorrow, if it suits.”

Rose looked at him in surprise. “You’re putting them up tomorrow?”

Webb hissed loudly. “No, I am not ready to tempt fate yet, but we’ll do all of the work involved in preparing the decorations tomorrow so that they may be hung on Christmas Eve the following day. If you will not mind sharing some decorating time with an exuberant three-year-old girl with a penchant for ribbons and an accident prone four-year-old boy with his father’s eye for detail—that is to say, none—then it might be a trifle enjoyable.”

“If it is better than wandering around to fill time, then I should be delighted to come.” Rose turned to him quickly, her eyes round. “Don’t tell Lady Standhope that I am bored already. I love exploring her house, but it is so large that I have to do so in portions, or I risk getting lost. A change of scenery and company would be most welcome.”

“Well, let me ask you this, on the subject of what ladies do for entertainment,” Webb mused as they neared the end of the Long Gallery. “Do any of you actually enjoy drawing and embroidery and the like?”

Now Rose began to laugh, full-bodied and rich sounds, her head falling back and her throat practically bouncing with each ripple of laughter. “No! No, of course we don’t! Embroidery is meant to occupy our fingers and our minds, and sometimes the skilled ones make work to be admired, but mostly it is a way to fill time. Those who enjoy art do enjoy drawing, but those of us forced to take hopeless drawing lessons dread having to continue pretending all of that. Some enjoy music, and I appreciate those who do, but again, I was not one. Walking and reading are the pastimes I enjoy best, given my lack of skills in other avenues. But our entertainment is not the focus of the activities we are expected to engage in.”

“Then what is?” Webb asked, truly curious now .

Rose tossed her head and fluttered her lashes. “Our accomplishments, my lord. For no gentleman of status and fortune would dream of marrying a young lady who cannot properly embroider.”

“Ah,” he said with a sage nod. “I had forgotten. That was, of course, my chief requirement when I was looking for a wife.”

“Very sensible. I am certain you were not disappointed.” She grinned up at him, making something tug behind three of his ribs. “Do you know what Lady Standhope has planned for us this evening? It is not a ball yet, is it?”

Webb shook his head. “No, I believe there is no ball until Christmas Eve. Tonight is festive parlor games, so that we might become better acquainted.”

“Well then,” Rose told him, “we shall have the chance to sniff out some potential husbands tonight. My aunt would know very well that I would never fall in love with a dunce or a bore.”

“I shall watch for those poor souls who fit such labels,” Webb vowed with all due solemnity, fighting laughter, “and have them struck from our list.”

“Marvelous.” Rose sighed and turned to face the Long Gallery once more. “Shall we walk the other side now? We ought to pay our due diligence, after all.”

Webb smiled down at her, suddenly finding himself entirely at his leisure and without any boredom in sight. “Indeed we ought, Miss Portman. Let us walk.”