But there it was… someone must rise above these circumstances, and so it, seemed, that person must be Claire. Love was the catalyst for her own happiness, and she felt that if only she could put Ben and Alexandra together, they would find a way to work it out. Those two had always been flirtatious, even when neither would admit it. As different as they were, Claire had even wondered if Alexandra befriended her only to be close to Ben. And Ben, well… for all that he was a fanciable bachelor, he didn’t seem to have eyes for anyone but Lexie. Oh, but he liked to talk a good game—so did Lexie—but the proof of the plum pudding was in the eating. Claire adored Lexie. She loved Ben. Two more deserving people she had never known. If only she had her druthers, she would leave both with a hopeful future. But so, it seemed, this schedule would be the death of her; she was rushing toward yet another appointment when Ryo returned from his errand, giving Claire a nod as he walked in the door.
“You delivered it?”
“Hai,” he said.
“And she accepted?”
Her fiancé’s newly acquired manservant shrugged. “I cannot presume to say, okusama.”
He gave her a reverent nod, placing his hands behind his back, the slight gesture a heartfelt bow. Claire liked him. Though ofttimes he was a walking riddle, and sometimes his deference was odd, she enjoyed his wit. And, besides, she recognized a loyal servant when she met one. He might have served Ian’s brother loyally, but his new assignment didn’t appear to be the least bit of a conflict. His duty was to the family he served, and to the royal house of Meridian, to which Claire would soon be attached. He was ever present, and yet invisible besides.
“Of course,” said Claire, her shoulders drooping, only belatedly realizing that, yes, of course, he would have given her invitation to a butler. Alexandra would never, ever presume to answer her own door, and she would be less inclined now since she could never be entirely sure it wasn’t a correspondent from the Times. Hopefully, that scandal with her father would soon die down, and in the meantime, Claire had an urgent appointment to keep with her dressmaker. She’d kept the woman from Courtauld’s waiting too long already, only to be certain her special “holiday decorations” were off and away. However, if she didn’t hurry back upstairs, the lady would lose patience and depart, and, according to the Duchess of Kent, there was simply no one else available to deliver a wedding gown befitting a royal bride, not to mention the bridesmaids dresses she required.
“Thank you,” she said. “Please tell my brother I will join him directly.”
“Yes, okusama,” he said, but she turned once more when she was halfway up the stairs. “Oh!” she said. “And Ryo… please, please don’t tell anyone where I sent you—particularly not my brother.”
“Yes, okusama,” he said, once again, only this time with the barest hint of a smile… as though he knew what she was up to, and nevertheless, Claire knew he would keep her confidence. The man was a godsend. Already once he’d saved her life, and knowing how much she’d come to count on him, Ian had lent him to her service until after the wedding. She simply didn’t know what she would do without him. “Thank you,” she said, and flew up the stairs.
CHAPTER 2
Rule No. 2:
On Matchmaking.
You may, indeed, hang mistletoe for your own romantic designs. And nevertheless, please be prepared to accept kiss commands from anybody who might be caught beneath the mistletoe with you. Remember: It is very bad etiquette to refuse a mistletoe kiss request. (And risky besides! Please see Rule No. 6.)
Benjamin Alexander Wentworth, the seventh Earl of Highbury, sat fiddling with his pancakes, pushing them about his plate.
It was perfectly inconceivable how lonely a busy household could feel. It had been years since their breakfast table was so well laden, and now Claire hadn’t two seconds to spare to stop and fill her belly. She woke in a tizzy, ran about like a maelstrom, and so much as Ben loved how happy Claire was, he was beginning to dread the indubitable fact that she would very soon be departing London. If, indeed, he thought the house felt lonely now, he knew it would feel lonelier then, though at least their fortunes were much improved.
Months ago, mired in the gaming hells, he might not have imagined things going so well. Now, his house was in order, his sister was marrying royalty, and, no thanks to his own poor choices, his debts were fully paid. Not since his youth had he had so much hope for their futures, and, for the first time since their father’s untimely death, he wasn’t at all concerned over Claire’s future or welfare. Moreover, it would be a cold day in hell before he endangered their prosperity again. And nevertheless, despite the rosy color of their futures, there was a certain melancholy plaguing him of late—nothing he could put a finger to, not precisely, though it was there just the same.
Something was missing; what it was, he daren’t say.
On the surface, there could be nothing at all to inform his mood. He was, in truth, the man of his own household now. The future was his alone to shape.
Pancakes. Juice. Bacon. Biscuits…
What could he possibly find to complain about?
For Chrissakes, his future brother by law was a finer man than any man he could have ever hoped for. And to boot, Ben had made himself a new associate besides. Wes Cameron was an interesting bloke, with stories enough to entertain him for a lifetime, so then… why did he feel so… utterly…
Bored?
Glum?
Restless?
Perhaps it wasn’t possible to endure what he’d endured and come out of the ordeal unscathed. But there it was, he supposed. He wasn’t the same bloke he was this time last year, and no matter that he was pleased enough for Claire, he could not abide the glitter and gold—nor the influx of servants, or the eternal and cloying scent of flowers wafting in and out from every corner of the house.
Highbury’s halls were brightly lit, with Chocolate Limes, Brandy Balls, Clove Rocks and Wine Gums filling nearly every porcelain dish on every table in every common room, and there was enough sweetness and light to curdle the buttermilk cakes settling in his belly.
Bloody Norah!
A servant brought in a bit of rich plum pudding to set it on the buffet—not so much a breakfast choice, but since it was made weeks ago, and they would be gone for Christmas, it must be eaten. He detected the tangy scent of citron, orange and lemon peel, and it triggered a memory he preferred not to remember. Frowning, he pushed back his chair, rising up from the table, his appetite effectively quashed.
He no longer had any stomach for extravagances—and perhaps this, too, was natural, considering that he spent so many weeks in debtor’s prison, wallowing like a pig in his own filth. After worrying so long about keeping his neck out of a gibbet, or whether he’d ever again feel the warmth of the sun on his shoulders, he couldn’t care one whit about bon bons, or company, or idle chatter—though he did enjoy the scent of pine drifting through the air.
Christmas.
Bah, humbug!
It gave him visions, though not of sugar plums, but of fresh country air, and made him long for simpler days when he and his sister had spent holidays in Shropshire.
Unfortunately, Ben could no longer think of that particular estate, without thinking of the man who’d tried so hard—and very nearly succeeded—in destroying everything he ever held dear.