Under a New Year's Enchantment. Barbara Monajem
kill, it might well do so. Since his return from the war, he’d found himself infuriated at everyone—at their smug indifference to anything but their petty concerns. At their utter lack of gratitude for the sacrifices made by thousands of soldiers. At their unwillingness to lend even a helping fingertip to those who had survived.
Theodora wasn’t like the others. He must apologize to her and would do so when the opportunity arose, but for the moment her indictment of him rang in his head like a death knell: rude, unpleasant, doesn’t care.
He had returned to Westerly three months after the battle of Waterloo, weary and sick at heart, to take up his inheritance. Instead of the peace and quiet he’d longed for, he’d been plagued by a recurring nightmare and his aunt, Lady Westerly, with her plans for the rest of his life.
She had advised him ceaselessly on how to run the estate. She had planned a Christmas house party against not only his wishes but his express orders. She had invited several eligible young ladies, even though he didn’t intend to marry anytime soon, if ever. She’d had the servants put up an ungodly amount of mistletoe in the hope that he would sample the kisses of all the prospective brides.
Strangely enough, he’d remained patient through all the nagging and unwanted advice. He’d even put up with her flagrant disregard for his wishes, but the mistletoe was the last straw.
To hell with civilized behavior, which several years of horrors had taught him was merely a facade. If war had rendered him unfit for polite society, so be it. He ordered all the mistletoe taken down, and when the notorious Lord Valiant Oakenhurst arrived unexpectedly, he asked him to stay. If his aunt’s guests didn’t like Oakenhurst, they were welcome to leave, and some had done so. If the young women compromised themselves trying to trap Garrick, they would indeed suffer the consequences, just as Theodora had said.
Now that he’d made his point and his aunt had learned her lesson, he must strive to reacquire a civilized front, but how? He seemed to have utterly forsaken the tenets of his upbringing. One needn’t be rude to get across a point, but he didn’t seem capable of anything else. The mere thought of pretending to be as asinine as his guests aroused his simmering rage.
And yet, good friends were rare; he’d already lost too many to war, and he couldn’t afford to lose Dora, as well.
* * *
“More women should do the asking,” Lucille said.
Theodora stared. She spoke French quite well, but surely she had misunderstood. “I beg your pardon?”
“The prevailing method is so inefficient, with women obliged to wait and hint and wait some more until men get up their courage.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Theodora said. “Any man you asked would jump at the chance.”
Lucille snorted. “Most of them want to bed me, not wed me.” She ladled wassail for another amorous guest. “I gather he declined.”
“Yes, very kindly, but it was mortifying all the same. I did it out of desperation, because I was so afraid he would be killed. I wanted to be...to be truly his before he went away.” She sighed, as the memory of that grief whispered through her. “I accepted his refusal and said farewell with a good grace.” She’d cried her heart out afterward, alone in her bed.
“You were very young,” Lucille said. “Even if he had agreed, your parents would most likely have refused permission.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Theodora glared as Garrick threw his head back and laughed at some villager’s jest. How dare he be so carefree after dealing her such an insult? “In any event, it’s ancient history now.” In which case, why was she so irate? “I’ve scarcely spoken to him all week because he’s been in such a forbidding mood. He should have known I wasn’t angling for him.”
Smiling at a besotted villager, Lucille ladled more spiced ale.
Theodora gritted her teeth. “He makes me so angry that—that I would like to kill him.”
Lucille tutted. “No, you would like to bed him.”
“What?” Theodora squeaked, thankful no one understood them. “I certainly would not!” Sometimes she found Lucille’s conversation a little too scandalous. She didn’t know the Frenchwoman well—wasn’t sure she’d ever met her in London—but they had friends in common, and when Lucille’s coach had broken an axle in front of the vicarage, Theodora’s parents had taken her in. Since the axle would take more than a week to fix, Lucille had asked if she might attend the Westerly house party.
Theodora had agreed, thinking Lucille, who had a worldly air, would be an entertaining companion. Worldly was an understatement. Lucille wasn’t the least bit discomposed by the sensual atmosphere and seemed to expect Theodora—a respectable spinster—to feel the same.
The Frenchwoman rolled her eyes. “You cannot fool me. I have seen the way you look at him.”
Perhaps Theodora had looked at Garrick with lustful appreciation the first few days of the party. Why wouldn’t she? He still had the dark golden hair and masterful chin of his youth. Once she had recovered from her girlish attachment to him, she’d used him as a daydream lover from time to time.
“As if I would like to strangle him?” she retorted.
“As if you have suffered a severe disappointment,” Lucille said.
Theodora couldn’t deny that. “Of course I am disappointed. I have known Lord Westerly since he was a boy. He was... He has changed greatly.”
“What did you expect? He spent years at war. He risked his life, he killed others and he saw savagery and devastation such as you cannot imagine.”
Something in her voice told Theodora that Lucille wasn’t speaking only of Garrick. “You were on the Continent during the war, were you not?”
Lucille nodded.
“You have seen some of the same horrors.”
Lucille squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again.
“Yet you are polite and charming,” Theodora said. “Lord Westerly has been consistently unpleasant since we arrived.”
“War affects each person differently,” Lucille said. “I try to forget. Lord Westerly is determined not to.”
“Yes, but must he shove his opinions down everyone’s throats?” She agreed with most of those opinions—such as the need to employ former soldiers—but not his method of delivering them.
“Perhaps he hopes to shock people out of their stolid Englishness,” Lucille said.
Theodora certainly understood that. Over the past few years, she had become more and more frustrated with stolidity. With people’s refusal to believe anything but what they already understood. With rules and standards of behaviour, which were like fences and hedges one could see over, but through which one must never pass, particularly if one remained unwed. “Perhaps I have misjudged him, but that doesn’t mean I want to...”
“You cannot fool me, chérie. You want it so badly you cannot even say it.”
“It doesn’t matter what I want. I’m a respectable virgin.”
Lucille indicated the hostile eyes of the ladies and the lustful ones of the men. “Not anymore,” she said.
* * *
“Forget about apologizing,” Lord Valiant Oakenhurst said. He and Garrick were sharing brandy and a quiet moment in the library now that the villagers had gone and the guests had retired. “Take Miss Southern to bed.”
This was typical of Valiant, who was what the espionage world called an incubus—a man with unusual powers of seduction and the ability to send erotic dreams. When Garrick had first become embroiled in espionage, he’d thought this ability pure fantasy, but eventually he’d been forced to accept it as the simple truth. It was a useful quality in spies, but in