But there was this as well: He didn’t wish to feel pity for the daughter of the man who’d brought him to his knees.
Lord Huntington was an abomination.
Ben had gone to the man for help, and Huntington had not only swindled him, but then had him thrashed and tossed into debtors’ prison with no one the wiser. He still bore a small scar where the pipe had caught him on the chin.
Naturally, he was still furious over it all, but no more furious than he was that Huntington had set his sights on Ben’s sweet sister, preying upon her in much the same fashion he would hunt some beast of prey. In the end, he’d not gotten what he’d deserved. Gaol was too good for the man, and Ben hoped to God that Huntington found himself buggered every day of his miserable life.
Unfortunately, seeing Alexandra only roused his darkest emotions, and he didn’t relish thinking about his time in Fleet.
So what if Alexandra was alone for the holidays. He’d come dangerously close to spending every day of his life alone in a cell, with only her father to account for it.
Moreover, he had a feeling in his gut that his sister was up to no good and he really didn’t appreciate Claire’s meddling. No matter that he was, in fact, still attracted to Alexandra—who wouldn’t be; she had grown into a fine young lady—she stood for everything he could no longer bear.
Point in fact: He couldn’t remember the last time—or even the first time—they’d had some meaningful discourse that lasted more than three minutes that didn’t revolve around some juicy bit of gossip. How pleased she must be to be spending the holidays in this bastion of inequity, where, no doubt, her father would have felt right at home. No matter that the place was changed now, altered by bits of velvet and lace, Ben could still smell its taint in the walls themselves.
Gambling, whoring, drinking.
All that gibberish was behind him now. Consequently, he wasn’t remotely interested in spending time with Alexandra Huntington.
“Claire,” he whispered. “What are you up to, sister?” Whatever it was, she wouldn’t get away with it.
CHAPTER 4
Rule No. 4:
On Avoidance.
One way to avoid mistletoe is to remain aware of hanging locations at all times. Be sure to inspect doorways, chandeliers and lamps. Tip: No one should question your propensity to look about if you occasionally compliment the decor. Be advised: Mistletoe locations might change from time to time. (Please see Rule No. 2)
Holly. Ivy. Mistletoe.
No expense had been spared to illicit good cheer, every room in the manor festooned with boughs of holly and sprigs of mistletoe as well—a small, but annoying detail Alexandra might have happily overlooked had she not encountered the frippery in her own home. Only to make matters worse, unlike in her own home where there was a single sprig hidden along the back hall, here the mistletoe was everywhere, and full of drupes, besides. One must be vigilant to avoid them, but the sight of them bedeviled her all the more because she and Benjamin were presently the only ones in attendance without sweethearts. Never in her life would she have believed she would say such a thing—or even think such a thing—but she desperately hoped the Duchess and her daughter would be arriving soon, because, at the instant, she felt as though she were attending a party for twains.
Merrick, Chloe.
Ian, Claire.
Mr. Cameron and his flamboyant paramour…
Waiting for the dinner bell to chime, Alexandra chose a spot at the back of the parlor, next to the pianoforte—as far as possible from mistletoe—and there she remained, awkwardly alone… certain of only one thing: Nothing was as it used to be. Nothing.
Bittersweet memories of her youth accosted her—holidays in Shropshire, wassails with Ben and Claire, plum pudding at midnight in the kitchen…
Like a comfortable old friend, the pianoforte’s hood was left ajar, the ebony and ivory keys winking brilliantly beneath the light of a glittering chandelier. The urge to tap a key was nearly irresistible, but Alexandra daren’t call attention to herself. Placing her hands firmly behind her back, she managed a smile, only considering the changes in their roles. For so many years, Alexandra had pushed and cajoled Claire into the spotlight, but for all her wallflower tendencies, Claire was now a model hostess, seeing to her guests with all the ease of a seasoned socialite—something her dear friend had always claimed she would never be. And yet… here they were… and there she was…
A trickle of laughter drifted over as Claire delighted over something Chloe Welbourne said, and Alexandra felt an immediate and unmistakable tweak of envy—although, really, why shouldn’t Claire and Chloe be friends? On the surface they had more in common than Alexandra and Claire. Against all persuasion, both had remained true to themselves, flouting convention at every turn. And really, were Alexandra Claire, she might prefer Chloe as a best friend too. Not only was Chloe a notable physician in a day and age when women were not afforded such choices, she was effervescently lovely besides.
And look at her—only look at her. Despite her left-handed marriage and increasing belly, she moved about the parlor with a grace born of confidence, something Alexandra was sorely lacking. Under different circumstances they might have all been good friends, but it was far more likely that they would part ways after the holidays, and Alexandra would never see any of these people again, including Claire.
Feeling the loss acutely, her gaze moved to Ben, who was now speaking with Mr. Cameron—the detective Claire employed some months past to investigate her brother’s disappearance. Only watching them together, she frowned. Because if, indeed, Ben was ignoring Lexie—and he was—he didn’t seem the least bit inclined to ignore Mr. Cameron’s guest, one Lady Morrissey, whose husband was not entirely deceased, and yet here she was, cozy in public with Mr. Cameron, and flirting with Ben besides.
She wasn’t jealous. That wasn’t the thing at all. It was just that Ben had only spoken two words to her.
“Lady Alexandra,” he’d said, with a polite bow.
But he didn’t take her by the hand, nor did he embrace her. Instead, he’d wandered into the gallery to study portraits, only returning at the lure of Lady Morrissey’s laughter.
And there they were, laughing gaily, whilst Alexandra had never felt so out of sorts, or completely at sea.
So, yes, indeed, she was feeling sorry for herself, and fighting the most incredible impulse to pound most vigorously upon the piano keys, if for no other reason than to remind certain persons in attendance that the occasion was supposed to be gay… and yet, really, there was only one person lacking in joy here, and it wasn’t Lady Morrissey.
Nor was it Ben.
Nor Claire.
Nor Chloe.
Nor Merrick, or Ian.
Certainly not Mr. Cameron, whose ears were now blushing as fiercely as his cheeks.
Fa la la la la, Alexandra groused silently, feeling like a crosspatch to the nth degree, and looking everywhere but at lovers or at the mistletoe—one hanging from the chandelier, another from the arched entry—all the while trying desperately not to remember the minty scent of Ben’s mouth… or the way his long, lean fingers had splayed over her back… all so chaste considering the way Lady Morrissey and Mr. Cameron were canoodling in public.