A Dream Christmas. Кэрол Мортимер
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womankind. Guy had imagined that Bath would prove very shabby genteel now that it had passed its heyday as a fashionable spa, yet the staid society was promising several intriguing possibilities. Greville had made no secret of the fact that he intended to press his suit with the lovely Lady Amelia and now there was Miss Sheridan…
Remembering the flash in those beautiful hazel eyes as Sarah had administered her set-down, Guy was forced into a reluctant grin. He had noticed her as soon as she had come out of the florist with those wretched roses in her arms. Beneath the prim bonnet, her hair had been the colour of autumn leaves; not brown or gold or amber, but a mixture of all three. She had held herself with an unconscious grace, slender and straight; despite her demure appearance, she was far from priggish. There had been a hint of laughter in her eyes and a smile on those pretty lips, and he had known that, for all her propriety, she had been attracted to him.
It was a shame that his father was also Sarah Sheridan’s godfather. Guy acknowledged that that would preclude the sort of relationship that had sprung to mind on first seeing her. Nevertheless, it gave him the perfect excuse to pursue the acquaintance and that was a thought that held definite appeal. He drove his hands into his coat pockets.
‘Has Miss Sheridan never wished to marry?’ he asked, still following a train of thought of his own.
‘No money,’ Greville said succinctly, watching his friend with deep misgiving. ‘Here in Bath everyone is looking to marry a fortune. Sarah goes about with Lady Amelia, writes her letters and so on—’ He broke off at the look of distaste on Guy’s face.
‘Miss Sheridan a lady’s companion? Surely not!’
‘It is hardly like that,’ Greville said, leaping to Amelia’s defence. ‘Lady Amelia is most sincerely attached to her cousin—they are friends rather than employer and employee! Why, Amelia is the sweetest-natured creature—’
Guy held up a hand in mock surrender. ‘No need for such heat, old fellow! You’ll be calling me out next! I had no intention of casting doubt on Lady Amelia’s generosity, but it seems…’ he hesitated ‘…incongruous to think of Miss Sheridan in such a situation. I wonder if my father knows? At the very least he would offer her a dowry…’
Greville’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘Thought it was something else you had in mind to offer Miss Sheridan, Guy!’
‘I won’t deny it crossed my mind,’ the Viscount murmured, ‘but m’father wouldn’t like it! Tell me, Grev, if all the roses in Bath had been sold, where would you go to buy a posy for a lady?’
Greville stared at him as though he had taken leave of his senses. ‘Don’t know what the devil you’re talking about, old chap! Roses in winter?’
‘It is very late for them, I suppose. Would I be able to send someone to purchase red roses in Bristol, perhaps?’
‘You can buy anything with your sort of money,’ Greville said, without rancour. ‘Though why you would wish to go to the trouble—’
‘A favour for a lady,’ Guy explained.
‘I collect you mean to win a lady’s favour!’ Greville said glumly. ‘Well, I can’t stop you! But be warned, Guy—Miss Sheridan is no fool! She will see through your schemes! And as for Lady Amelia, well, I would not like to be in your shoes if she takes you in dislike!’ His gaze fell on the one red rose that Guy had rescued from the street and which he still held in one hand.
‘Must you walk round carrying that thing?’ he besought. ‘Devil take it, Guy, you look like a cursed dandy!’
‘Sarah! You cannot return to Blanchland! I absolutely forbid it! Why, your reputation would be in shreds as soon as you crossed the threshold!’
Lady Amelia Fenton, her kittenish face creased into lines of deep distress, threw herself down onto the sofa beside her cousin. ‘Besides,’ she added plaintively, ‘you know that you detest what Ralph Covell has done to the house, and have never wanted to set foot there again!’
Sarah sighed, reflecting that the only positive thing about the current situation was that it had successfully deflected Amelia from bewailing the loss of the red roses. She had been beside herself to discover that her artistic centrepiece was ruined—until Sarah had casually mentioned her plan to travel to Blanchland on the day following the ball.
Amelia got to her feet again and paced energetically up and down before the fireplace. She looked quite ridiculous, for she was far too small to flounce about. All Amelia’s features were small but perfectly proportioned, in contrast to her fortune which was big enough to make her one of Bath’s most sought-after matrimonial prizes.
Realising from Sarah’s expression that she looked absurd, Amelia sat down again, frowning. ‘I know you think I am making a cake of myself, Sarah, but I am truly concerned for your welfare!’ She sounded small and hurt. ‘Whatever you say, it will be the ruin of you to go there!’
Sarah sighed again. ‘Forgive me, Milly! I must go. It is at Frank’s request—’
‘Your brother has been dead these three years!’ Lady Amelia said incontrovertibly. ‘It seems to me that it is asking a great deal to expect you to grant his requests from beyond the grave!’
Sarah, reflecting that her cousin had no notion quite how much Frank was indeed asking of her, tried to console her.
‘It will not be for long, I promise, and it is no great matter. I am sure Sir Ralph cannot really be so bad—’
‘Ralph has made Blanchland a byword for licentiousness and depravity!’ Amelia said strongly. ‘You may pretend that you are happy to accept this commission, but you know it will ruin you! What can be so important to force you back there? Oh, I could murder Frank were it not that he is dead already!’
Sarah burst out laughing. ‘Oh Milly, I truly wish that I could confide in you, but I have been sworn to secrecy! It is a most delicate matter—’
‘Fiddle!’ Lady Amelia said crossly. She looked at her cousin and her anger melted into rueful irritation. She could never be cross with Sarah for long.
‘Oh, I am sorry, my love! I know you were most sincerely attached to your brother and that you believe you are doing the right thing, but…’ Her voice trailed away unhappily.
‘I know.’ Sarah patted her hand. At four and twenty she was Amelia’s junior by five years, yet often felt the elder of the two. It was Amelia who rushed impetuously at life, Amelia whose reckless impulses could so often lead to trouble if not tempered by the wise counsel of her younger cousin. Amelia, widowed for five years, still seemed as heedless as a young debutante. Yet now it was she who was counselling caution and Sarah who was set on a foolhardy course.
‘And to travel now!’ Amelia said fretfully. ‘Why, it is but two weeks to Christmas and I am sure we are in for some snow!’
‘I am sorry, Milly, it is just something I feel I must do—’
‘Excuse me, madam.’ Sarah broke off as Chisholm, Amelia’s butler, stepped softly into the room. ‘There are two gentlemen here to see you—’
‘I am not at home!’ Amelia cried vexedly. ‘Really, Chisholm, you know that I am not receiving!’
‘Yes, ma’am, but you did give orders that Sir Greville—’
‘Greville!’ Amelia cried. ‘Why did you not say so, Chisholm? What are you waiting for? Show him in at once!’
Not a muscle moved in the butler’s impassive face. ‘Very well, madam.’
Sarah, repressing a smile, wondered whether Amelia appreciated the long-suffering patience of her servants. They were all most sincerely attached to her, despite her grasshopper mind.
‘Sir