The Earl’s Mistletoe Bride

them to cross his threshold again.

He dawdled on the stairs, reluctant to join the noisy, self-satisfied group above. In half an hour or so, the guests for the evening party would arrive to swell the numbers to more than thirty. There would be several younger ladies and gentlemen among them, so the noise level was bound to grow even worse. That prospect irked him greatly. He had endured too much horrendous noise in the last few years.

He needed peace. And peace of mind.

Yes, of course! That was what he longed for. Now, he understood. He wanted the comfort of a home of his own, a place where he could build his life again. Perhaps there could even be a gentle, smiling wife who would understand and share his desire-his need-for a calm, quiet refuge? A woman of principle who would do good in his name?

He did not require love, or passion. In his experience, they did not exist. Even if they had been attainable, they were not for a man of his class. Love gave a woman power she should never be permitted to have. But a comfortable room, a glowing fire, a patient partner sitting opposite, and children playing at their feet. Was that so much to ask? Surely he could find such a restful woman, such a companion, somewhere in the Upper Ten Thousand?

His decision was made without a qualm. As if he had always known what he should do. He would remain here at Fratcombe for a little longer, restoring his strength of mind in the quiet of his park. He would be able to enjoy his own company, now that he knew what he wanted from life. It was all remarkably simple.

Soon he would begin searching the ton for a placid, restful bride.

He took a couple of deep breaths, relishing these moments of quiet on the deserted stairway. Now that he knew his own mind, he could endure the hubbub, however bad it became. He straightened his shoulders and continued up to the drawing room.

The relative hush surprised him. He had expected chatter and laughter, but there was neither. He was shocked to see that Mrs Aubrey was sitting at the open instrument and Beth was standing next to it, looking a little flushed. It seemed they had only just finished performing. Beth must have been singing. But how could that be? She had no memory of what had gone before. How could she possibly remember music? Or how to sing?

‘Bravo, my dear!’ That was the rector. The guests began to clap. Even Lady Fitzherbert was applauding, though without much enthusiasm.

What on earth had Jon missed?

He tried to slide into the room without being noticed, but he did not succeed. The rector came across and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘A host’s duties are never done, eh? Such a pity you missed Beth’s song.’

‘Perhaps, if I asked her, Miss Aubrey would sing another?’ Jon had not meant to say any such thing, but the words were out now, and sounding very particular. He cursed his unruly tongue. In that same instant, he caught an exchange of knowing glances between Lady Fitzherbert and her husband. That confounded woman would still make mischief if she could. Jon fervently hoped it was not too late to recover the situation. From now on, he would be wise to ensure his relationship with Beth was a model of propriety, especially in public. After all, that was the fact of the case, was it not?

Of course it was.

He found himself waiting by the door to see what would happen next. There was a lingering stillness, an atmosphere that he could not quite account for. He felt as if he were intruding into a private realm, and was there only on sufferance, even though this was his own house. The rector spoke quietly to his wife, and then to Beth. At first, she looked rather embarrassed, but she nodded at last and began to confer with Mrs Aubrey in a low voice. The rector was beaming as he resumed his seat.

She would sing again. In response to Jon’s too particular request.

He decided to remain where he was, detached, and as far as possible from the performers. He leaned against the door jamb and let his head fall back on to the wood so that he was gazing at the ceiling. His guests might assume he had had too much wine, but he did not care. He did not want to be near any of them while Beth sang. He did not want to have to look at their hypocritical faces, either.

At the first notes of the accompaniment, he allowed his eyes to drift closed. It was not a piece he recognised, but it was gentle, and soothing. Mrs Aubrey had chosen well for Jon’s mood.

Beth had not forgotten how to sing. Perhaps one never did? She had the voice of an angel, sweet and caressing. Jon felt the music rippling through his body like a cleansing cascade, washing away his troubles and leaving him refreshed. And consoled. Consoled? He did not understand it, yet it was true. Through her song, he was finding a degree of peace that had been lost to him for years.

Chapter Six

Jon groaned aloud and forced his eyes open. He was drenched in sweat, as usual, but he was accustomed to that now. He dragged his pillows back into place and pushed himself upright. The chill night air raised gooseflesh on his naked torso as he reached for his tinder box.

By the light of his candle, he checked his watch. Nearly four o’clock. Little more than an hour till dawn and blessed daylight. Anything was better than the dark, and the ghosts it brought.

He would not think about them. Nor would he sleep again. In sleep, he too often fell prey to emotions he could not control. It was laughable, really. All those years when his father had been trying to school him to be cold and calculating and distant. The old man thought he had succeeded, too. Even Jon thought he had succeeded. But he had not reckoned with the ghosts.

He must not give in to such weakness! Cross with himself, he set the bedclothes to rights and lay back, hands clasped behind his head, staring up at the silken bed canopy and forcing his mind to go over the evening’s events, to focus on images he could control. He was quite proud of what he had done to the upstart baronet and his wife. The Fitzherberts would know their place in future. And they would not dare to cut Beth again, he was certain. The Aubreys might not approve of Jon’s methods, but they would surely approve of the result. Jon had done it for them, because of the immense debt he owed them. He had not done it for Beth Aubrey. Indeed, he had barely thought of her until a few hours ago. Not as a woman, at least. She had been a foundling, a possible fraud, and a source of irritation to his ordered life.

It was impossible to think of her in those terms any more. Her memory loss must be real; he was convinced of it. Besides, she was beautiful, and desirable, and when she sang…

He could not fathom his reaction to her singing. It had been as soothing as waves on the sea shore, gently caressing the sand. Sadly, the effect had not lasted long enough. He might have felt peace and consolation in his drawing room, but here in the darkness of his bedchamber, nothing had changed.

That reminded him, uncomfortably, of his need for a woman in his bed. He had been celibate for months since his return from Spain. At first, even the thought of coupling had disgusted him, but now, with the passage of time, he was becoming whole again, as his thoroughly masculine reaction to Beth’s ravishing appearance had proved. Unfortunately, she was the adopted daughter of the people he admired most in the world! It was shameful to want to bed her.

He forced himself to go logically through the facts of her case. He had rescued her last Christmas, and deposited her with the Aubreys like a half-drowned kitten. She had no memory of her past life, but she was certainly a lady-last night’s dinner had proved that, even by Jon’s exacting standards-and almost on a par with the Aubreys for goodness and generosity of spirit. She had precious little standing in life, but she cared for those who were even worse off than she was.

He must not lust after her as if she were a lightskirt! It would be dishonourable to debauch a lady, especially one who was in the care of people who trusted him. His options were stark: keep away, or marry her!

Where on earth had that thought come from? The Earl of Portbury could not possibly marry a woman with no past and no family. It was unthinkable, no matter how desirable the female. Nor could she become his mistress. So she could not be anything at all.

Perhaps she could be a friend?

That subversive thought came as a shock. Friendship led to attachment, and attachment was dangerous. And yet…and yet something might be possible, provided he could behave like a gentleman. The answer to misplaced