Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,141

more such thinkers.”

“What utter nonsense,” Mother cried. “I forbid you to speak to him, Dorothea. He disdains titles merely because he is a nobody. His sort of thinking is dangerous. Just look at what happened in France.”

“Please, let’s not,” Restive said. “I have heard enough about France’s woes from Charles Dufair, one of my guests.”

“A Frenchman,” Mother sneered.

“A young, handsome Frenchman of noble descent,” Restive corrected gently, “and a talented artist. He escaped France with his life.”

“And nothing else, I expect,” Mother said. “He will not do for you, Dorothea.”

Dorothea was accustomed to ignoring her mother’s ceaseless prohibitions, but this was too much. “For heaven’s sake, Mother, I haven’t even met him.”

“You always choose the most unsuitable sorts,” Mother grumbled. “Fortunately, we shall leave here shortly.”

A curve in the drive revealed a beautiful brick structure, Jacobean by the look of it, grand but not overwhelmingly so.

“And here we are,” Lord Restive said in his smooth voice. He was a bit rakish, but not dangerously so. The only other mark against him, so to speak, was winning the St. George medallion from her brother Edgar.

And really, that was a mark against Edgar. He shouldn’t have staked something that didn’t belong to him. Restive had won it in fair play.

Nevertheless, Dorothea was determined to steal it back.

Lord Restive escorted them through massive front doors into a Great Hall. Ahead was a massive hearth; to the left curved a graceful oak staircase, while to the right a doorway led to a drawing room.

Two ladies hastened into the Great Hall. The elder, Lady Alice Turlow, was Restive’s aunt. The younger was a tall, voluptuous, dark-haired stranger.

“My dear ladies, how delightful,” Lady Alice said. “The Contessa and I were just bemoaning the lack of feminine company.”

“So kind of you to take us in,” Mother said with grudging politeness. Lady Alice was the daughter of an earl, so her status automatically ensured her a modicum of respect from Mother. “We shan’t inconvenience you for long.”

“It’s no inconvenience at all,” Lady Alice said. “Do please stay over Christmas. My nephew’s travelling carriage is under repair, and I doubt you’ll find anything better in the village than a gig, which wouldn’t be at all the thing.”

Dorothea shivered at the thought of driving ten miles in an open carriage while cold and darkness drew in. She hoped Mother wasn’t furious enough to agree to that. Dorothea certainly wouldn’t. She dreaded the thought of the public quarrel that would ensue.

Actually, she dreaded the quarrel anyway. As a child, she had got along reasonably well with her mother—but since she’d reached marriageable age, they did nothing but argue.

If only they could have a short truce, just for Christmas. She sighed, knowing it was impossible.

Lady Alice twinkled sympathetically. “Are you ladies acquainted with Contessa Tivoli? Her father was one of my most dashing suitors long ago. Bianca dear, allow me to introduce Lady Darsington.”

Mother bristled at this introduction, as she believed that all foreigners, no matter their rank, were inferior to the English gentry, and therefore the Contessa should have been introduced to her, not the other way around.

“And her lovely daughter, Dorothea,” Lady Alice went on.

“Lovely indeed!” The Contessa surged forward, appraising Dorothea with frank admiration. “A diamond of the first water, as they say, which makes no sense. What have jewels to do with water, I ask? No one answers me, but you, signorina, are magnificent. If I were a modiste, I would beg to fashion your gowns.”

“Thank you,” Dorothea faltered, feeling a blush rise to her cheeks. The Contessa herself was striking, but it wasn’t the sort of thing one said. Oh, why not? Conventions were so tedious. “You are a jewel as well, Contessa.”

Mother scowled, but Lady Alice laughed, bless her. A male voice drifted from above. “Two jewels of such magnificence, one dark and one fair. How superb! I shall sketch you together.”

Lady Alice smiled. “Come and be introduced, Charles.”

The gentleman in question descended the stairs, carrying a sketchbook and a stick of charcoal. His worn cuffs hinted at relative poverty, but his smile was cheerful and his bow perfection.

“Charles Dufair is an old friend of Restive,” Lady Alice said, “and an accomplished artist. One never sees him without his sketchbook. You young ladies might sit for him tomorrow. Ah, here comes our housekeeper.”

She beckoned a spare, kindly-looking woman forward. “Mrs. Bates will escort you upstairs to freshen up whilst we have bedchambers prepared for you.” And thus, with the ease of knowing she would not be