Snowy Night With a Stranger Read online

  Ned’s smile was tight, but he managed it. “I hope to put things right,” he said, taking a sip of claret.

  “You’ll need deep pockets, m’boy,” a man bellowed from the end of the table. “Selby has the right of it…rack and ruin is what I hear.”

  Ned struggled to remember the man’s name. Giles Waring, that was it. There had been Warings around Old Berwick for generations, called themselves farmers, but they were reivers to a man. And not a gentleman among them. This offshoot of the clan looked a trifle soft for a life of raiding. But the elegancies of civilization hadn’t rubbed off, either, judging by the way he was fondling the woman on his right. Definitely not his wife. That lady was seated farther down the table between two other men who seemed to find her company as alluring as her husband found his own neighbor’s.

  Ned turned his attention to his wineglass, contenting himself with another noncommittal “Indeed?” He glanced sideways to his neighbor. “How long have you lived here, Lady Georgiana?”

  “Eighteen months, two weeks, and three days,” she answered. She helped herself to a minute portion of roast pheasant from the dish the footman held at her elbow. “We were living in London when my aunt died. Lord Selby is my guardian.”

  Ned wondered whether to comment on the bitter precision of her answer, and then decided this was neither the time nor the place to probe. “Selby is your cousin, I believe you said.” He served himself generously. He felt as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.

  “It’s a tenuous connection.” She took three green beans from the serving platter. “On my mother’s side, I believe.” Her slender shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug as if the issue was a matter of indifference.

  “Northumberland is a long way from London, in every respect,” Ned observed, helping himself to beans and moving on to the platter of roast potatoes that his neighbor had scorned.

  “You never spoke a truer word, Lord Allenton,” she said, and there it was again, that sharply different tone.

  “Georgiana, you need to eat,” Godfrey Belton called from across the table. “Look at your plate, woman. It’s not enough to keep a kitten alive. Put some flesh on your bones, for God’s sake. How’s a man to get warm at night with a stick beside him.”

  Ned controlled himself with difficulty. He felt her tension beside him. It made him think of a cat bunching its muscles, preparing to spring. But instead she said softly, “I’m not hungry, Godfrey.”

  “You need exercise,” one of the other male guests declared. “Nothing like a bit of hearty exercise to stimulate the appetite. The sooner you see to it, the better, Belton.” Another round of laughter greeted this sally. Georgiana appeared to ignore it, carefully cutting her pheasant into tiny pieces.

  “Jacobs, give Lady Georgiana a good spoonful of those mashed turnips and potatoes,” Belton instructed the butler.

  Jacobs looked uncomfortable but he brought the covered dish to Georgiana. “May I, my lady?”

  “I don’t think you have much choice, Jacobs,” she said sotto voce, but it was the other voice, the one that Ned had now decided was the real voice of Georgiana Carey.

  Ned watched the butler place a small spoonful onto her plate. Jacobs was ignoring the calls of “More, man, more” from across the table.

  “Not enough to keep a bird alive,” Godfrey declared in disgust as the butler finally backed away.

  “Leave her alone now, Belton,” Selby said. “She’s never had much of an appetite.”

  Selby’s word seemed to be law. Godfrey turned to his own plate and the conversation, such as it was, picked up.

  “Where did you live in London?” Ned inquired.

  “Brooke Street. My aunt was my guardian.” She dipped the tines of her fork in the mashed turnip with a barely concealed grimace of distaste. “I never knew my parents, Lord Allenton. They died when I was a baby. My mother’s sister was my guardian, and on her death I was passed along to Lord Selby.”

  There it was again. Acerbic as the bitterest lemon. Ned was fascinated, but he couldn’t begin to explore the contradictions at this dinner table. “There are compensations to living here, ma’am,” he said. “The mountains are beautiful.”

  “And the dales are delightful,” she said, spearing a morsel of pheasant. “The fishing is spectacular, the hunting even more so. I’ve heard it all, Lord Allenton, and I’ve no need to hear it again. Instead, tell me about India.” She turned to look at him, and he saw hunger in her eyes. Georgiana Carey was starved of the outside world, the world she had grown up with. And behind that hunger was a determination that intrigued him as it puzzled him.

  “What would you like to know?”

  Georgiana considered the question. She wanted to say anything. Anything that has absolutely nothing to do with this place and these people. But she could sense that she had aroused the viscount’s interest enough already and she didn’t dare take any more risks. She’d been foolishly self-indulgent and impulsive once today, and while she had escaped the consequences thus far, she couldn’t afford to play with fate. It was time to fade into the background again.

  “It’s very hot there, I understand,” she said in her soft voice. “Is it so all the year round? That must be tedious, I would think.”

  Ned tried to conceal his disappointment. He had expected a sharper more intelligent interest. She sounded now no different from the bored maidens he’d encountered in London set onto him by their mamas, anxious to snare the wealthiest and most eligible bachelor in town.

  Funny how the black sheep had metamorphosed into the season’s catch, he reflected, a sardonic smile twisting his mouth. Amazing what the acquisition of wealth could do for one’s marital prospects.

  Georgiana saw the smile and bit her tongue. In any other circumstances she would have asked him outright what unpleasant reflection had prompted it. But that would have been Georgie’s question, not Georgiana’s.

  “I enjoy the heat,” Ned said blandly. “But not everyone does.” He took a sip of wine.

  “Have you killed a tiger, Lord Allenton?” his left-hand neighbor asked with an elaborate shudder. “Did you hunt with one of the…oh, what do they call their kings? Such a silly word.” She tittered behind her fan.

  “Maharajahs,” Georgiana said. “They call them maharajahs, Mrs. Eddington. And they ride on the top of elephants in something called a howdah, and when their trackers find a tiger, they shoot it. It’s very sportsmanlike, I believe. Is that not correct, Lord Allenton?”

  Ned looked at her in open amusement. Her disdain was so obvious he couldn’t believe no one else around the table heard it. But it seemed that they didn’t. No one evinced the slightest surprise and Belton said, “You’re too book-learned, Georgiana, I’ve always said so. It’s not good in a woman…gives her ideas.”

  “What kind of ideas, Godfrey?” she asked sweetly. “You must make it clear, so that I know what not to think.”

  Instantly Georgiana cursed her unruly tongue. She was sailing too close to the wind again. Not for Godfrey, who wouldn’t recognize sarcasm if it hit him on the head with a cricket bat, but this Viscount Allenton was a different breed altogether.

  She shrank down in her seat as if she could withdraw herself entirely from his attention.

  “No, it’s not in the least sportsmanlike,” Ned said quietly. “But why are you trying to slide under the table?”

  “I’m not,” she insisted, a flush on her cheeks. She was just making things worse, she knew, but it had been two years since she’d had to worry about anyone seeing through her little performances. No one, not even Roger Selby, suspected that her act of demure compliance lacked sincerity. But in the space of an hour, this newcomer seemed to have her measure in full. Well, not quite in full, she reminded herself. That couldn’t happen.

  “My error, ma’am,” he said with a chuckle, and to her relief he didn’t address her again until the second course had been placed on the table.

  “I must congratulate your cousin on his cook,” he said, taking a
forkful of a pupton of creamed chicken. “This is surprisingly good.”

  “Why surprisingly?” she asked, toying with a teaspoon of asparagus mousse.

  “I remember the food in these parts as very plain, wholesome, but lacking in delicacy,” he said. “This, on the other hand, has a most subtle flavor.”

  “Oh, you can thank my ward for that, sir,” Selby declared, reaching for the decanter, his face redder than ever. “Revolutionized the kitchens, she did, the minute she walked through the front door. And she’s not above turning her own hand to a sauce now and again. Isn’t that so, Georgiana?”

  “I enjoy cooking on occasion, cousin,” she said.

  Godfrey Belton guffawed. “That’s rich coming from a woman who has the appetite of a wren.”

  “Wrens eat twenty times their body weight in a day, Godfrey,” Georgiana pointed out. “I doubt my appetite can compete.”

  Godfrey glowered at her amid the general laughter and she felt a twitch of apprehension. She thought she knew how far she could go before rousing his more savage side, but he could not endure being the butt of a joke in public, and this company was unlikely to put any constraints on his behavior. She gave him a placating smile, hoping that would cool his temper before it reached the boiling point, and to her relief he grunted and buried his nose in his refilled wineglass.

  Ned heard her little exhalation of relief, and he felt her body relax a little beside him. Something was going on here—something decidedly unsettling. Part of him wished fate had brought him to some other port in a storm than Selby Hall, but mostly his curiosity was piqued. The stunning Georgiana Carey was a mystery he’d dearly like to solve.

  Georgiana waited impatiently for the moment when, as her cousin’s official hostess, she could give the signal for the ladies to withdraw. The sooner she was out of Godfrey’s sight, the sooner he would forget her joke in the depths of the port decanter.

  At last she pushed back her chair and immediately her neighbor was on his feet, courteously helping her with a hand under her elbow. The other women followed her out of the dining room and she allowed herself to relax properly for the first time. The women posed no threat, except for boredom, and Georgiana was used to that.

  She poured tea in the salon and as soon as her companions seemed settled into noisy gossip, she went to the piano. Here at least she could find a measure of peace and quiet that would last until Godfrey arrived to demand that she play something lively, if she must play at all.

  Lost as she was in the music, she became aware only gradually of the figure standing a little away from her, his back against the sofa, arms folded, brown eyes watching her steadily. Her fingers came to rest on the keys.

  “Lord Allenton, I didn’t realize you were there.”

  “No,” he said. “I didn’t wish to disturb you. You’re an accomplished pianist, Lady Georgiana.”

  She shrugged. “Not really. I’ve known many much more accomplished than I.” She looked at him with a slight frown. “You’ve abandoned the port rather early, sir.”

  “I prefer to keep a clear head,” he said.

  “Well, you’re alone in that in this company, my lord,” she declared, closing the piano with finality as she rose from the stool. “The twelve days of Christmas lie ahead of us.”

  “You don’t sound as if the prospect pleases you overmuch,” he observed, his narrowed gaze sharp as it scrutinized her expression.

  “It’s only twelve days,” she said, brushing past him on her way back to the tea tray.

  “True.” He followed her. “And who should be chosen as Lord of Misrule tonight?”

  “It will be between Godfrey and my cousin. And they will choose my cousin…if they have any sense,” she said without hesitation. “He’s the only one capable of keeping control if matters run out of hand, even in his cups.”

  “Then I shall vote accordingly.” He shook his head, a frown in his eye.

  “What’s the matter?” she demanded. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” he admitted. “There’s just something about you…something familiar. I feel sure I’ve met you before, and yet I know I haven’t. You would still have been in short skirts ten years ago when I went to India.”

  “I was ten,” she said. “Of course we haven’t met. But it’s not an uncommon sensation…just déjà vu. So, how long were you in London after you came back from India…before coming up here?”

  “Four weeks only,” he said, accepting the brisk change of subject. “I thought a few weeks in the south would help to bridge the gap between India and the frozen north.” He laughed. “I doubt it worked.”

  She gave him a distracted smile as the sound of boisterous voices swelled from the hall, heralding the arrival of the rest of the gentlemen.

  “Come, come, no more of that insipid brew,” Roger Selby called as he entered, bearing two bottles of champagne. Godfrey, also bearing two bottles, was on his heels. “‘Tis Christmas, ladies, and I decree that no more tea shall be drunk this night…or, indeed, any of the twelve nights of Christmas.” He flourished his bottles. “Godfrey, open yours while I open mine.”

  The corks popped and the golden wine flowed. Ned tried to engage Georgiana in conversation, but she avoided him, spending her time at her fiancé‘s side, solicitously filling his glass, stroking his arm, smiling fondly. But Ned noticed that she barely touched the contents of her own glass, although she gave a skillful performance of becoming a little the worse for wear herself. He observed the scene with the dispassion of an outsider, even as he wondered what was really going on.

  The only time Georgiana approached him was toward the end of the evening. She carried a glass bowl and a handful of paper slips. “Make your choice, Lord Allenton.” She gave him a blank slip and he wrote Selby’s name, folding the paper carefully before dropping it into the bowl. She gave him a brief nod and continued around the group collecting votes.

  When she had everyone’s vote she turned slightly away from the group, making a performance of stirring up the papers, chanting some nonsense words of make-believe magic, then she shook the bowl once again before upturning it onto the table and counting out the votes. Twelve for Selby, eight for Godfrey Belton.

  Belton looked livid, but amid the general roars of approval and the genial commiserations of the company he had little choice but to put a good face on it. Selby received the vote as his due and at last the party broke up.

  In the hall the guests lit their carrying candles from the branched candelabrum on the table at the foot of the stairs and dispersed, but Ned had a fairly good idea that there would be some movement between bedchambers. Not that it was any business of his, and all he wanted was the peace and quiet of his own apartment.

  “Good night, Lady Georgiana,” he said, lighting her candle and handing it to her, shielding the flame with his cupped palm.

  “Good night, Lord Allenton. I trust you will be comfortable.”

  “Believe me, ma’am, I would be comfortable tonight in a barn,” he said with a chuckle. “Much less a featherbed.”

  “Come, Georgiana, I shall see you to bed.” Godfrey weaved drunkenly toward them, his candle flickering wildly.

  “I can find my own way, Godfrey,” she said, deftly sidestepping onto the stairs as he lurched against the newel post. “Sleep well, sir.” And she was gone, light as air up the stairs, disappearing into the gloom at the head while her fiancé stumbled in her wake.

  Well, Godfrey Belton wouldn’t be disturbing her tonight, Ned thought. The man would be lucky to make it to his own bed in the condition he was in. He came up beside Belton and slipped a supporting hand under his elbow.

  The man looked surprised, but didn’t refuse the assistance. At the top he muttered a good night and weaved away around the galleried landing. Ned watched until he’d found a door and hammered upon it. It was opened, presumably by a waiting manservant, and Belton disappeared within.

  Chapter Three

  Ned clo
sed his bedchamber door behind him and stood for a moment savoring the orderly peace.

  “I’ve put out your nightshirt, m’lord.” Davis straightened from the fire where he’d been adjusting a log. “Will you take a glass of cognac?”

  Ned had been carefully abstemious all evening, but judged it safe now that he was alone to indulge a little. “Yes, I will, thank you, Davis. And then you may go.”

  “You’ll not be wanting me to help you to bed, sir?” Davis brought a goblet over to him, sounding a little hurt.

  “I’ve been managing for myself for many years, Davis,” Ned said with a smile, taking the goblet. “I thank you for the offer, but you’ll be glad of your own bed, I’m sure.”

  “Very well, m’lord.” Davis bowed and went to the door. “What time should I bring your shaving water in the morning, sir?”

  “Oh, not before seven,” Ned said casually, taking the scent of the cognac in the wide-rimmed goblet with an appreciative nod.

  “Very well, sir.” Davis sounded rather hesitant as he hovered at the door. “His lordship, sir, don’t usually take breakfast before eleven.”

  “No matter,” Ned said. “I’ll break my fast with some bread and cheese. Bring it up with the hot water…oh, and coffee.”

  “Very well, sir…. Good night, sir.”

  “Good night, Davis.” Ned sat down by the fire, cradling his goblet between his hands. Such a late breakfast was hardly surprising in a household that drank as late and as heavily as this one, he reflected. He set down his glass and pulled off his cravat, tossing it to the floor before easing off his shoes, flexing his toes to the fire’s warmth.

  Had he really seen what he’d seen? But he knew he had. Georgiana had removed a handful of paper slips from the bowl during her make-believe incantations and then, with a deft twist of her wrist, had dropped their replacements into the bowl. He would swear she’d stuffed the purloined papers into her sleeve before turning back to the room to upend the bowl on the table.

  She had intended that her guardian should win the vote. It wasn’t hard to guess why. Selby, even when drunk, remained in control. Godfrey Belton had a dangerous edge to him even sober. Drunk he would be savage. Not the man to keep the bawdy riotousness of Christmas revelry within bounds.