A Seasonal Pursuit (Regency Christmas Brides #1)

Chapter Fourteen

CHAPTER 14

W ell, this was certainly the most unusual Christmas Eve that Webb had ever experienced.

First, there had been the long sword dancers and their exceptional performance, which had garnered rather appropriately impressive reactions from the guests. Webb had seen them before, of course, as it was a bit of a local tradition, but it had been some years since he’d had the pleasure of their performance. It was always worth watching the expressions of those who were not local for such a thing. The awe mingled with terror was particularly amusing, and it had been no exception tonight.

Then there had been an arranged timing of a group of local wassailers, which had been a pleasant enough diversion. Their music had been particularly stirring, and they had ended their performance with some of the more jaunty local tunes, which had brought on some improvised dancing from a few of the guests.

Not Rose, he’d noted with a hint of satisfaction. He wouldn’t have objected to her dancing, as he was not in a position to do so and it might actually have given him pleasure, but it would be her choice of partner and the unplanned nature of it all that might have irked him. It was hard to say, really. Rose’s list was whittling down, and there was some good and bad associated with that.

After the wassailers had departed, they’d had a relatively reserved supper, which Webb suspected was due to the great feast that their hostess had planned for Christmas Day. Rose had been unusually quiet during the meal, and Webb hadn’t pressed her to keep up a conversation. Something was changing between them, and until either of them acknowledged that, whatever it was would hang between them like a low and heavy cloud.

Now they were back in the Grand Drawing Room, and Lady Standhope had announced that there would be ghost stories told.

It was an old tradition in York, stories of a haunted nature during the Christmas season, but Webb had never participated in it. Mostly because his mother despised anything of a supernatural nature and did not enjoy being scared on purpose, but that was neither here nor there. He doubted Lady Standhope would have selected ghost stories that would be truly terrifying, given the delicate nature of a few of the ladies she had invited.

Or perhaps she was the sort who would enjoy having her guests intentionally afraid and jumping at the slightest sounds and desperate for additional candles to be lit.

He’d heard of stranger behaviors in ladies of her age and station.

“Can we not perform a theatrical instead?” one of the young ladies asked in a very small voice as a few candles were doused.

Lady Standhope gave her a sympathetic look. “We will, dear child, in a few days. This is merely a tradition, and my late husband always told the best ones. Do not fear, none of these stories are true.” But there was an almost sinister smile on her lips that would reassure no one of that.

Webb shook his head, fighting a smile of his own. The woman was vicious, and now the young lady would wonder about the veracity of these stories all night long.

Rose sat quietly in the middle of a sofa, the seat to her left available, while the one on her right was occupied by Lady Clarke, who was saying something to her with great earnestness.

That made Webb blanch slightly. Did he really want to tempt the matchmaker by sitting beside Rose in a darkened room? On the other hand, did he really want anyone else to sit beside her? He looked around the room for Mrs. Richards, who was in eager conversation with Mr. Alchurch.

Now Webb felt his pulse skip a beat or two. Were the women plotting to put the two together? He already knew how Rose felt about Alchurch, but if she were convinced that he would make a good match, and she only wanted something convenient… Would she be so easily persuaded? He did not know these ladies well, nor was he aware of how Alchurch felt about Rose, or marriage in general.

What if Alchurch could convince Rose that her preferred arrangement suited him?

Webb’s feet were moving before he knew what he was about, and he cleared his throat very softly when he reached Rose. “Is this seat taken, Miss Portman?”

Rose glanced up at him, her lips quirking to one side, the darkening light in the room making her eyes an almost hypnotic shade of purple. “No, my lord. Please, take it.”

Webb swallowed and did so, then looked around her and nodded at Lady Clarke. “My lady, it is very fine to see you this evening.”

Lady Clarke smiled at him, propping her walking stick in front of her and resting her hands upon its top. “And you, my lord. Are you prepared for ghost stories?”

Shrugging, Webb put his hands on his knees. “I hope so, though I trust I may count on you to revive me should it all become too much and I swoon. ”

Lady Clarke chortled, tapping her stick against the floor a little. “What makes you think I have smelling salts upon my person, young man? Am I really so delicate in appearance?”

“Not at all, my lady,” Webb countered easily. “I simply believe you to be prepared for all emergencies. You might also have a flask of brandy in that reticule of yours, as well as a dagger concealed in a very sensible boot. One can never be too careful these days.”

Rose covered her mouth to stifle giggles while Lady Clarke only shook her head, smiling at him. “Cheeky devil. Do let me know when you are ready for a wife. I shall take great pleasure in finding you one.”

“Thank you, my lady. I shall.” Webb nodded his thanks and sat back, exhaling slowly.

“Nicely done,” Rose whispered, pretending to adjust her gloves. “That is one way to throw them off the scent.”

Webb nearly asked how she had known, but the question became caught in his throat. “And you?” he managed.

Rose’s smile spread very slightly. “Apparently, I am not even a thought. There are no elderly widowers who wouldn’t mind a wife who isn’t barely out of leading strings, so I am merely a source of support and confidence for them.”

Relief had never tasted so sweet, though there was a distinct hint of Madeira to it, if his mouth were any indication.

Certain Rose would hear the pounding of his heart in his throat, Webb folded his arms and tried to lean away without looking as though he was leaning away. “Why is Mrs. Richards talking to Alchurch so intently?” he asked, not feeling the need to keep his voice as lowered now.

“Lady Clarke was just explaining that to me,” Rose informed him, her tone resuming its usual timbre. “May I tell him, my lady?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Lady Clarke said with a flick of her fingers. “His thoughts would be most welcome.”

“For whatever they might be worth,” Webb muttered for Rose alone.

She ignored that and turned to him slightly, her eyes a trifle scolding. “The ladies believe that Miss King would make a good match for Mr. Alchurch.”

The burst of delight in the pit of Webb’s stomach was a sensation he was entirely unprepared for, and he dealt with it by crossing one leg over the other and exhaling slowly. “Really?” he replied, as though it were a deeply interesting thought.

He could feel Rose’s eyes on him, but he did not dare meet her gaze.

“You don’t have the faintest idea who she is, do you?” There was no question in her voice, but there was a derisive hint of humor that he found frightfully encouraging, all things considered.

“Not a jot,” he said at once. “But I support the idea in full.”

Rose made a strange humming sound that could have been a new version of her laughter, and he wanted so badly to inquire after it, but now was not the time. Still, it was a delightful shade of sound from her lips and seemed to ring through him like the striking of a gong.

But with far more pleasure.

“She’s the quiet beauty in green sitting by Mrs. Dawes,” Rose told him, gesturing very faintly in the general direction. “Barely three and twenty, from a good family near Bradford, and a dowry of seven thousand pounds, it is expected. Lovely singing voice and even better at the harp and pianoforte. I suspect we’ll hear from her tomorrow during musical performances.”

“Is that what is taking place tomorrow? Lovely.” Webb nodded in approval, barely sparing a glance for the figure of Miss King. Oh, he recognized her once she had been pointed out, but only as a face of the party and not for any meaningful conversation or context. And if the ladies thought she would make a good wife for Alchurch, who was he to argue the point? He was not interested in making matches, unless they were for Rose, and he trusted that Alchurch, being in possession of a good heart and charitable soul, would make a fine match for himself and for the parish. If that person happened to be Miss King, then good for them all, and especially for the ladies taking pride in the match.

Rose huffed a little beside him. “Honestly, you could pretend to care.”

“Why?” he asked in a low voice. “If Alchurch starts pursuing her based on the recommendations of the ladies, then, as the head of a family within the parish, I will care immensely. But I’m not here to marry off my clergyman. I shall watch his actions with interest, but you can hardly expect me to enjoy match speculation.”

“You enjoy my speculation,” Rose murmured in a voice that Lady Clarke hadn’t a hope of hearing.

“No, I don’t,” he murmured back. “But I’ve agreed to help you, and so I will.”

“What do you—?”

Her question was cut off by Lady Standhope clearing her throat and standing before the fire, a book in her hands. “Our first installment of the night, ladies and gentlemen, is the telling of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. A few of us will read, as it is quite long, and I encourage all who have agreed to read with me to engage in your best theatrics.”

“Oh, I am certain that will help it to be less boring,” Lady Clarke grumbled, her walking stick making a faint skidding sound against the wooden floor. “This one isn’t scary at all, unless you are scared of alliterative verse and a vapid imagination.”

Webb choked on laughter and immediately coughed to cover it, gesturing for a footman to bring him a glass of something. Rose was humming again, but this time between shaky breaths, and he could feel the slight trembling of her form as well as see the tension in her lips.

“My lady,” she hissed, her words unsteady, “you will make us a spectacle if we laugh during a ghost story.”

“Just tell them you laugh when frightened,” Lady Clarke retorted without concern. “Might get you out of here faster.”

Rose turned towards Webb and hid her face in the shadow his shoulder provided. “I cannot… I am going to…”

He was struggling not to laugh himself and remained as composed as he could, though having Rose so near him was adding to the trouble and making his face warm. “Steady on,” he whispered. “Once people start reacting, we should be safe.”

“What if they don’t? What if everyone is stoic and silent?” She looked up at him, barely a handsbreadth away from his face, and if he turned towards her, he could brush his lips against hers without any effort at all.

Gads, what an impulse to have to fight at this very moment, aflame as he was and already in a darkened space.

“Then,” he said through gritted teeth, his hands clenching into fists as they were tucked in his folded arms, “we will literally bite our tongues until they bleed and laugh later.”

Rose exhaled slowly, the feeling of it catching at Webb’s skin just above his collar.

Hell’s teeth…

Then she blessedly straightened and resumed her proper posture, attention forward, entirely composed.

Webb, on the other hand…

Lady Standhope began the reading of Sir Gawain , and as she had begged of others, she was very theatrical in doing so. Her cadence was a bit stilted, but one had to give her credit for attempting to alter her voice for each character and changing the volume of it to make things more frightening at times. The trouble with Lady Standhope’s rendition was that her voice did not sink particularly low, and so her attempts to sound haunting only served to give her voice a chirping note, which was not at all frightening.

Rose, in particular, seemed to find the voice more amusing than anything else, if the amount of shaking beside Webb was any indication.

“Really, Miss Portman,” Lady Clarke whispered for their group only. “If you cannot maintain more decorum, you ought to remove yourself from the space. One cannot tell if you are about to swoon from fright or burst into hysterics.”

It was not entirely fair for Lady Clarke to provoke Rose in such a way, as it only served to make the entire situation worse. One slight glance at Rose revealed that her lips were clamped together so hard that they were white, her eyes filled with mirth that threatened to spill over into actual tears.

“I may have need of smelling salts after all,” Lady Clarke muttered with a shake of her head, her own lips quirking very slightly.

The woman was utterly devious, and Webb was convinced she actually wished for Rose to burst out laughing just to change the scene before them.

Mr. Garner took over reading after Lady Standhope and, while Webb found the man insufferable in conversation and opinion on a personal level, his skills in the dramatic arts were evident. He was far more able to portray the haunting nature of the tale and to create a variety in voice and characterization of those he read.

The tale of Sir Gawain was one that Webb had heard before, so he paid little attention to it. If Rose had heard it before, he could not tell. She continued to struggle against laughter, though it wasn’t as pronounced for Mr. Garner’s version. She did not react as shockingly as the rest when Sir Gawain met the Green Knight once more, nor when the axe had to be brought down a second and third time. She did gasp when the identity of the Green Knight was revealed, and she applauded with everyone else when Mr. Garner finished, but without much enthusiasm.

“Is it just me,” Rose inquired softly through a false smile, “or did Mr. Garner seem to stay up there for an exceptionally long time for his turn rather than have someone else join in?”

Webb glanced about the room quickly and did see a slightly disgruntled expression on a face or two, including that of Lady Standhope. Stifling laughter, he nodded once. “You would not deny the man his chance to display his great acting and orating skills, would you? He is angling for a leading role in the theatrical, whenever that takes place.”

“Remind me to have a headache that evening,” Lady Clarke muttered without clapping.

Webb and Rose shared a look, then quickly averted their gaze, laughter threatening to spill over yet again.

Had any evening of ghost stories ever been so entertaining?

“Well,” Lady Standhope announced, rising swiftly, “that was quite the rousing rendition, was it not?” Without waiting for additional applause, she went on. “We will now hear the tale of Beowulf . Mr. Kent, if you would begin.”

Mr. Kent, a rather stout man who was attending the party with his wife and children, stood with a book in hand, clearing his throat excessively.

“Should I anticipate something exceptional based on that?” Rose inquired mildly. “Or simply something of a cold?”

“ Beowulf always sounds better with congestion,” Lady Clarke answered before Webb could do so. “Even better if the reader coughs himself into apoplexy and ends the misery early.”

Webb looked around Rose in exasperation at the older woman. “Really, my lady, why did you come down for the reading this evening if you despise these so? ”

Lady Clarke returned his look with mild superiority. “How was I to know which stories would have been selected? I love a good haunting. I tend to hope my late sister will appear afterwards. She promised me a set of her jewels that has never materialized, and I am determined to have them.”

Rose snorted, covering her mouth and nose quickly, squeezing her eyes shut and breathing very slowly. Webb could only grin and shake his head as he settled in for a mediocre recitation of an epic poem he’d never been particularly fond of.

Mr. Kent was followed by Mr. Greene and Mr. Fellowes, and thankfully that was the end of it. None of the three were particularly dramatic, which seemed to make Lady Standhope quite put out, based on her facial expressions and faint huffing sounds.

“Have you spoken with our hostess this evening?” Webb asked Rose as they applauded for the finishing of Mr. Fellowes’s reading.

Rose nodded once. “Before supper. She hopes I am enjoying myself and meeting plenty of her gentlemen guests, and asked if any had met my particular fancy as yet.”

Roughly four of Webb’s ribs went numb at that. “And?” he pressed as gently as he possibly could under the circumstances. “What did you tell her?”

“I asked her outright if she would tell my aunt what I told her,” Rose replied, surprising him with her frankness, but also by how bold it was to ask such a question of their hostess. “She said she would, as it was her sworn duty as her friend.”

“Who swears their friends to things like that?” Webb wondered aloud as feeling returned to his chest.

Rose ignored his question. “So I told her that it would not be appropriate to relay information to my aunt that I have yet to decide upon, and if it would not offend her, that I would keep such information to myself until I was more certain. ”

It was the most perfect response he could have thought of, even if it was a delaying tactic on her part. If such a statement made its way into the content of a letter to Aunt Edith, it would show that Rose was taking the task seriously and also using caution and discretion. Her aunt would be curious, if her taste for gossip was as ravenous as Rose claimed, and would now want to know anything that Rose would share at any time.

“Excellent response,” he praised when he was able. “I approve.”

“Thank you. You should.” Rose tossed her head a little, craning her neck from side to side. “It is the truth, after all. I have decided nothing, and I need to be more certain. She cannot argue with that.”

Webb was desperate to ask what specifically she needed to be more certain of, but their hostess was rising again, and he had to bite back a sigh of impatience.

“For our last ghost story of the evening,” Lady Standhope announced, her voice now sounding strained, “we will indulge in a bit of local lore. Mr. Ross will favor us with three tales of ghosts from the records of our very own Byland Abbey.”

There were sounds of hushed awe from the guests, several of them leaning forward or scooting closer to the front.

“Where is Byland Abbey?” Rose whispered.

Webb scoffed just a little. “To the north, not too far from Thirsk. Having her call it our very own is a stretch, but it is in the county.”

“Well, there is that, at least.”

“Now these I will attend to,” Lady Clarke announced for their little group, seeming to settle in. “I suggest you both do the same, or else Lady Standhope might require something further of us to sate her whims. Heaven knows what that might entail.” She shuddered and rested her hands atop her walking stick again, eyes fixed on Mr. Ross .

Rose glanced at Webb with a slight smile, which danced more in her eyes than on her lips, and then also looked forward for the beginning of the tales.

Attend to the story? When a woman with dancing eyes and a beguiling smile sat so close he could inhale the scent of juniper, peppermint, lilies, and honey without any effort whatsoever?

Not bloody likely.

But he would try.