A Seasonal Pursuit (Regency Christmas Brides #1)

Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER 12

C hristmas Eve dawned bright and merry, even for those who had been awake into the early hours of the morning at the assembly rooms.

Webb had never been able to sleep late even when he had been up excessively late, and he simply had to cope with the differences the amount of sleep provided him. This morning’s headache was really rather mild, as he hadn’t imbibed much the night before, and it made exploring the house much more pleasant.

As did the decorations already being put in place by the staff. He supposed the idea was for the family and guests to awake with the greenery and such already in place, much like a magical change of their scenery while they slept.

He did love watching it all take shape in the corridors and rooms, filling the house with so much beauty and festivity, lifting the spirits as much as the greenery itself was being lifted… Was there this much effort going on at Downing House with what his children, siblings, mother, and staff had put together?

Laughing, Webb shook his head at his own thoughts. It was far too early in the morning for any one of his family members to be involved in anything like decorating. The staff might have begun doing so, but no one else would have.

He entered the painted drawing room, which, as he understood it, was only called such because there were images and designs painted on the walls instead of using wallpaper or a single color. It was part of a collection of other drawing rooms in this portion of the house, and it seemed that all of them had already been furnished with appropriate decoration.

And this one, as it happened, also boasted the lovely addition of Rose Portman, for the present.

“What in the world, may I ask, does any house, even one of unconscionable size, need so many drawing rooms for?” he asked with a smile as he moved farther into the room.

Rose turned from the window, looking tired but smiling easily. “I was just wondering the same thing.”

Webb found his eyes darting over every aspect of her, looking for any sign of the panicked version he’d encountered at the ball. She hadn’t made a reoccurrence last evening, her dancing even taking on a more jovial edge and her face bathed in smiles every time he saw her. They hadn’t spoken of her partners much, more for his deciding to avoid the topic in hopes of limiting her stress, but he had wondered…

Well, other than appearing tired, she looked well. Her dark hair was simply pulled up in the sort of chignon his sister liked to wear, and her gown was a fairly simple white muslin, and rather than a shawl, she had a green woolen mantle about her shoulders and arms, which seemed appropriate for the chill he had felt that morning. She was lovely, even like this, and the shade of green enhanced her eyes. They were a pale blue this morning, and he was not sure if that was due to the lack of sleep or the emotions of the night before.

Her lips were pressed in a thin line of a smile, and that, he was sure, was some form of awkwardness she was trying to work through.

He’d make short work of that.

“How did you sleep?” he asked in a softer voice, coming to her.

Rose shrugged. “Fine, considering the amount of time it was. Sleeping late has never been my way, and I have never enjoyed taking a tray in bed, so I thought I would wander the house before I am expected to entertain myself.”

“And see the decorations going up?” Webb hinted, indicating the beauty that had been added to the room they were in.

“Yes.” Rose looked up, smiling at the greenery. “It is all very elegant. I do find myself wondering how the trimmings at Downing House will compare…”

Webb chuckled, clasping his hands behind his back. “They will compare in enthusiasm, but I fear in little else. I have no doubt they will be constantly readjusted as various aspects fall and sag from their fixed positions.”

“But more personal,” Rose pointed out. “The children will be so pleased to see their creations up in the house, will they not?”

“I hope so.” Webb sighed as he stared out the window, looking in the direction of his home, but unable to see it from this distance. “They’ll be finalizing their presents today, and Emily has not indicated the slightest hint to me as to what to expect.”

Rose laughed softly. “That makes her an excellent aunt, if a frustrating sister. What surprises truly exist in our adult lives? Let your children surprise you, Webb. For your own sake as well as theirs.”

Webb looked at her again, wondering at the almost sentimental tone she was taking on, and given what she had said last evening, he was viewing a much softer version of Rose than he had ever expected. He did not mind this one; in fact, he liked it a great deal and found great comfort in her. But he wanted to know why the change had happened, and if she was also comfortable with it. If she was not, there was no purpose in enjoying the appearance.

“Rose,” Webb ventured, turning to lean against the window and stare at her more fully, “are you all right?”

She folded her arms, tucking her mantle more closely to her. “I think so. Thank you for inquiring. I feel a little vulnerable this morning. Not because of you,” she added hastily, putting a hand on his arm. “You were wonderful last evening, and so very helpful.”

He nodded his thanks but said nothing about it. He did not want to discuss his actions when her emotions were of far more concern.

“Just because of where my mind went,” Rose went on. “I didn’t realize I cared so much anymore. I have spent so long not caring that it became a large part of me. Now that part is less certain, and I feel scrubbed raw. It is most uncomfortable.”

“How can I help?” Webb asked, wishing he could hug her in this moment. She deserved a warm embrace, and he would have felt better holding her secure in his arms.

He wouldn’t think too closely on that impulse.

Rose patted his arm again, squeezing gently for a moment. “You already are. By being my friend and allowing me to be whoever I am at any moment, I feel some semblance of control and freedom, which helps a great deal. And I would very much like to enjoy Christmas while trying to accomplish my aunt’s requirements.”

Webb did his best not to rear back in surprise. “You still want to do as she requires?”

He heard a small, almost disbelieving laugh. “I can hardly believe it myself, but yes, I do. I don’t know what I am looking for anymore, aside from some intelligence, manners, and respect. ”

“All fair things,” Webb concurred with an approving nod.

“But I do still love the idea of the quiet cottage in the Cotswolds,” Rose admitted with a small smile. “Even if I only visit some of the time. It would be just a lovely place for respite.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he quipped. “If it is what you really want.”

Rose was already nodding, her smile spreading. “It is. And if my aunt wants me to marry to get it, then I will try to make the best marriage I can, under these circumstances, to get it.”

“Right, then,” Webb replied, doing his best not to show his surprise at her particularly calm demeanor on the subject. Her acceptance of the task before her, after struggling so much to find and consider her own feelings. He would not pretend that he understood the complicated nature of a woman’s feelings, nor of the way in which they were so encouraged to tamp them down by Society. Tamp them down, ignore them, and yet still be considered delicate, fragile, and emotional.

He had heard plenty of the commentary from gentlemen, so called, young and old, who viewed women in such a way. Even their own sisters, which he certainly did not think was fair. Siblings ought to be able to express themselves more freely with each other than with members of Society, and without judgment.

Would it help Webb to look at Rose as he might Emily, then? To tease her as such, let her express herself as such, keep her confidence as such, protect her as such, and help her as such? Would all of this work itself out more neatly if he adopted Rose in such a way?

He watched her as surreptitiously as possible as they both stared out the window, trying not to frown as he did so. Not because looking at her made him frown, but because now he was the one conflicted with what he wanted and what he thought. Now he couldn’t see the clearer way forward. Now he needed to examine his ideas for the scheme and try to determine how he would act.

Because Rose was not his sister. He didn’t want to see her as his sister. He didn’t think he could ever treat her like his sister.

She was too intriguing, too lovely, too entertaining, and taking up far too much space in his thoughts to ever be viewed in such a platonic fashion.

And it was the complete lack of platonic feelings at the moment that was giving him quite the fog over concise thought.

She had the faintest impression of freckles in her complexion, and he was fascinated by them. As though she hadn’t been bothered to wear bonnets out of doors for the entirety of her adolescence and her complexion had never fully recovered, even if she wore them now. Then there was the very particular shade of blue in her eyes, which he was fairly certain matched the sky in the springtime. Now all he wanted to do was see her eyes in the springtime so he could be sure of their shade.

He wanted to make her laugh. He wanted to laugh with her—laugh until they both shook silently and had tears of mirth leaking from their eyes. He wanted to see the wry curving of her mouth when she was feeling amused in a cynical way, especially if he was having a similar thought. He wanted to be the one she turned to when she cried. Hell, he wanted to hold her when she cried and wipe the tears from her eyes, or let them dry upon his shoulder. Perhaps even kiss them away.

Webb’s eyes widened as he focused on some point on the horizon, his throat clenching as though some force were gripping it in hand.

Kiss? Hold?

Aside from being the very opposite of platonic, he had also never had the thought of doing such a thing with anyone except Mary in his entire life. The fact that he was having it now with Rose was both shocking and uncomfortable, aside from the fact that he was actually excited about the idea and felt no shame about it.

None.

No guilt, no shame, no twinge of impulse to run to the cemetery to confess to Mary where his mind was going or feeling like he was forgetting her…

On the contrary, he felt as though Mary was laughing at him.

With him.

Well, if he had been laughing, anyway.

Part of him wanted to, but he was still too traumatized by the suddenness of the thought to even smile.

So instead, Webb swallowed, acknowledging that he could not see Rose in a platonic fashion, let alone as a sister, and tried to focus on the scheme itself. “So did your dancing last night lead to any insights on particular gentlemen? For good or ill—I’ve no preference so long as the information is detailed.”

Rose chuckled in a low, almost throaty manner that did something to the arch of his left foot. Almost as though it wanted to curl inside his boot and his ankle roll until the bone touched the floor.

Bizarre sensation.

“Seeing as I was not judging a man’s candidacy based on dancing abilities,” Rose began, shifting her weight—Webb flattered himself—to lean a little closer to him, “my thoughts are purely based upon conversation and the manner of the man in question.”

“Understood,” he confirmed with a nod, willing the tension in his chest to find some other soul to plague until he could get his senses to return. “And very wise. I am a dreadful dancer most of the time.”

Rose sputtered and glanced up at him. “You danced well enough with me.”

Blast. He’d forgotten that he’d danced with her the night before. Twice, as it happened, and he had been so focused on her emotional outburst that he recollected absolutely none of it.

Did that make his words a lie?

Thinking quickly, he gave her a wry look, finding bantering with her to be practically habitual and thus not requiring much of his sense. “Perhaps you are not as capable a dancer as you think, and I was passable because of some fault of yours.”

She looked almost impressed with his barb, her smile turning coy. “His lordship has some bite with his bark this morning. Not very festive on Christmas Eve.”

“Holly has sharp edges to its leaf, does it not?” he replied, hoping he did not need to apologize. “I argue that I am simply a different version of festive.”

“Now you’re beginning to sound like me,” she countered.

Webb shrugged. “There are worse things.”

They shared a smile, and again, Webb’s left foot tingled. He forced his toes to curl hard, hoping it would drive the sensation away.

“As to the question of gentlemen,” Rose said with a soft clearing of her throat, making Webb wonder if she knew how his foot was tingling and that he would need a distraction, “there are a few who have not rendered themselves out of contention due to some poor opinions, ill-judged comments, or sheer stupidity.”

Webb snorted a laugh, covering his mouth just for a moment, loving the spice without spite in her voice. It was her manner to be so direct and frank, and to go without softening the hard edges of her own thoughts. He loved the difference between her manner and that of the traditional ladies of Society and loved that there would never be any mistaking the opinions of Rose Portman.

“Mr. Foyle, for example, carries himself well,” she went on. “He knows his mind on several topics and does not waste time on idle flattery. What is his situation? ”

“Not bad, as it happens.” Webb twisted his mouth in thought. “He has a pretty property to the east that has been in his family for generations and brings in perhaps ten thousand a year. As far as I know, he is even-tempered and companionable. He’d certainly make a comfortable match without much fuss.”

Rose nodded in approval. “Mr. Greene talks a great deal, but the content is decent. Very polite, but almost too polite. It may not matter, if the marriage is the distant-but-comfortable one I originally envisioned, but I do wonder about the idea of raising children with him, should he wish it.”

“Bottom of the list, then.” Webb tried not to smile, feeling as though they were analyzing horses in this rather straightforward, factual, practically emotionless conversation. “His father travels extensively, but leaves his mother behind, so you would also have Mrs. Greene to contend with. I know little of her, but nevertheless…”

“Mothers do not like me,” Rose told him with a curt shake of her head.

“Mine does.” Webb winced very slightly, wishing he hadn’t said that. It wasn’t about his family, his mother, his likes, wants, or needs…

Not that liking, wanting, or needing was involved here, on his part or otherwise.

But if Rose continued to grin the way she was at this moment, that involvement might just shift.

“Does she?” Rose asked through her wide smile. “I liked her very much, too. But she’s used to the four of you and all that you say and do together. I must appear to blend right in with the mix.”

She did blend in with the rest of them. She fit perfectly, even with Bertram’s dry humor tossed in. She was as perfect a fit with them as Mary had been, but his wife had known them all for several years before marrying in. Her style of humor had been mostly deflecting the madness of the Rixton siblings and sighing in amusement at their antics. She had been the peacemaker, the one every person tried to get on their side for victory and sense, the gentling influence on all of them.

Rose could not be more different, and yet not incompatible or wrong in any way. She was an active participant in the banter and antics, challenging where she wanted and ignoring where she did not. If she were to be a regular fixture in such sibling settings, she would be the one they wanted on their side as a weapon, not a shield. Victory might be assured with her because of her very specific arsenal, and the perfect nettles she was capable of.

But Rose also had a large heart—tucked among the brambles she had planted over the years, it was true, but he had seen it there. He had seen it with the children, and he had seen it in her conversation with his mother. Rose couldn’t have known that his mother would have such a commentary on her children, and it had been some time since she had said anything of the sort in the company of others. That she had done so was a sign of her trust in and comfort with Rose, and to accomplish that in so short a time…

Webb couldn’t tell Rose any of this though. He could barely think it without a sense of panic coming over him. It was far too soon for any of this to be occurring to him. Not in regards to Mary’s death—he felt he was comfortably removed enough there to consider feelings for someone else—but with barely knowing Rose a few days and already thinking…

It was much too soon. It was only the close proximity and compressed amount of time in that proximity. Some time at home away from her would certainly help him to regain some sanity and sense, as well as reality.

She was a friend and ally, and his noticing additional things about her and feeling certain ways was surely just an indication that he truly was ready to consider taking a wife in the future. It couldn’t be Rose, specifically, this quickly.

It just couldn’t be.

“Who else?” Webb asked through a slightly tightened throat, willing his panic to fade. “Who else is on the list, I mean. Or off it.”

“Alchurch, bless him, is off,” Rose admitted with a heavy sigh. “I like him immensely, but he deserves a wife who matches his goodness and doesn’t contemplate running away to a cottage in the Cotswolds. Someone content to remain with him at all times, if he wishes it. I just do not see myself filling that role. While we’re at this house party, I may dance with him more than once purely as a respite, but he cannot be my husband.”

Why was that such a relief for Webb to hear? Alchurch wasn’t his competition for Rose’s affections, and he wasn’t even pursuing Rose’s affections.

Was he?

Rose wasn’t sure she wanted her affections involved in any of this, she had said so herself. If Webb did have affections involved, would there be anything worse than knowing hers were not? He would need to watch himself, or he would be setting himself up for a lifetime of heartache and longing for more.

If that was what he was feeling, of course. Once he knew, then he could adjust his plans accordingly.

“Mr. Harris would be a candidate,” Rose went on, oblivious to Webb’s thoughts, “but Mrs. Richards is fixed on pairing him with Miss Proffitt, and I am not about to get in the way of her plans. She might then get ideas for me, and I cannot bear that thought.”

Neither could Webb. Making a match for Rose was something he had committed to do, and suddenly he couldn’t bear the thought of that either. But if he stuck to their plan, Rose could have the comfortable, distant marriage she had originally wanted, and he would know that no one held her heart.

There was something bittersweet about that, but it was all Webb could do for the moment.

It would have to be enough.