Chapter 15
Grace smiled at her dinner companion, Mr. Clayton.
The older gentleman reminded her of her father.
Soft-spoken, kind, and abounding in wisdom, his presence had brought a peace to the day she’d not realized she’d been missing for years.
Had it really been nearly six years since Papa had taken his light with him to the grave?
She nibbled on her bottom lip, trying desperately to forget that Christmas came before Pru’s birthday, which brought other unwelcome memories.
Like a house filled with silence as everyone watched and waited.
Tears from family and staff alike. The dawning of a new day, and with it, the ending of a life.
A wrinkled hand patted hers. “Are you well, my dear?”
My dear. How was it that older gentlemen could use the endearment and it somehow felt like a hug rather than a breach of social propriety?
She sniffed and lowered her voice. “Christmas holds many memories. Some good, some sad.”
He gave a solemn nod. “I can understand. My Clara loved Christmastide. I cannot help but think of her whenever it comes around. They are bittersweet memories, but being around the family she loved so dearly helps soothe the ache.”
She glanced around at the others at the table before asking him to share a few of his favorite memories.
Apparently, the vicar’s wife had been the late Lord Gladsby’s sister.
Never able to have children, they’d loved Lady Hamdon and Lord Gladsby as their own.
He spoke of each of them in the most glowing light that she wondered why Lord Gladsby had portrayed himself as being a rather disagreeable child.
From Mr. Clayton’s perspective, he’d been a protective brother who loved his little sister so much he’d insist she be included in every outing with friends.
In addition, he’d adored his mama and her parents, who had come over from France during the revolution, which explained why Lord Gladsby spoke French without a hint of the choppy accent that plagued her attempts at the language.
Mr. Clayton told her stories of Christmas parties filled with laughter and love.
He spoke of entertaining discussions between his nephew and Monsieur Beauchene.
Apparently, Lord Gladsby had inherited his passionate nature from his grandfather.
To hold his own in political discussions with one’s own grandparent at the age of seventeen was no small feat.
Lord Gladsby had a strength of character that she found alluring. His passion was admirable, not disgraceful as he’d indicated. It seemed he and his father simply had different opinions on the application of his gifts.
Conversation carried on around them, but she could not get enough of Mr. Clayton’s stories. When he finished one, she’d ask a question that would inevitably lead to another.
“You two seem to be enjoying yourselves,” Lord Gladsby said from the other end of the table, his fork suspended in the air. “What subject has you both so occupied?”
Grace ducked her head, feeling like an intruder in his past. How could she say she’d been learning everything there was to know about his childhood because it made it easier to understand him, to feel close to him?
Thankfully, Mr. Clayton answered for her. “Miss Lenning has been so kind as to let this old man visit his memories of Christmases past, and what’s more, she’s been a wonderful listener, even though I know I’ve prattled on for the better part of an hour and have probably bored her nearly to tears.”
“On the contrary,” she protested, “they have been wonderful stories.”
Lord Gladsby smiled. “No doubt painted in rosy hues, as most of my uncle’s stories are.”
“Only telling them as they are, even if life has dimmed their brightness for others.”
The two men held each other’s gazes for a moment, not in a challenge, but as if some sort of wisdom was being passed from elder to younger.
Eventually, Lord Gladsby nodded. “We are all grateful for your memories, Uncle. They are a treasure.”
A footman carried in a large plum pudding on a silver platter, ceasing the conversation as he placed it on the table with a dramatic flourish.
A second footman entered, a pan of buttered brandy in hand.
The first man lit the concoction with a taper.
The small fire jumped to life with beautiful flames of yellow, orange, and blue.
Then the footman doused the whole pudding mold with the fragrant mixture.
Everyone clapped, delighted with the theatrics. The two servants smiled and bowed as Lord Gladsby congratulated them on a wonderful presentation.
Grace loved the way he naturally interacted with his servants.
It was one thing she’d taken note of from the very beginning of her stay, particularly his tendency to defer to his housekeeper when making decisions for the house.
Even now, the butler and housekeeper, while not seated at the table, remained in the room to take part in the festivities.
There was an obvious affection between Lord Gladsby and the elderly couple that she’d rarely seen in any other household, like station held little meaning to the baron.
Then again, maybe it didn’t. He had implied that he’d worked as a servant for some time as a spy.
The footman called Thatcher set a slice of plum pudding in front of her, and she smiled.
While her family also had the tradition of plum pudding, she’d never seen it presented in such a fascinating way.
It mixed the comfort of tradition with the wonder of novelty, making this dinner one she would never forget.
She cut away a piece of the dense fruity mixture and placed it in her mouth, closing her eyes to savor the variety of flavors.
When she opened them, Lord Gladsby was looking at her, or more accurately staring at her. Possibly even devouring her with his eyes. It was intense, warming her belly and making her mouth go dry. She had to look away. Did the others not notice the heat in his gaze? Or was she just imagining it?
She glanced back only to find his head down as he intently examined his pudding.
It was just her. She was going crazy, and he was the cause. One minute she was quite certain if she gave him any indication of interest, he’d thoroughly kiss her senseless, and the next she wondered if he even liked her at all, as evidenced by his current frown.
His brow creased and his gaze snapped to the door as if waiting for the next course. Was he angry at the plum pudding, or at her?
She subtly shook her head. It didn’t matter.
She would be gone to London in a little over a week where Lady Hamdon had promised to…
her gaze landed on the lady in question as realization dawned.
What if she’d never intended to give her a season at all?
If Prudence was right, they’d all expected her to make a match with Lord Gladsby over Christmastide.
What if it didn’t work? Would she still get her time in London? Or would Her Ladyship claim no obligation? They’d not bought any dresses yet.
“You appear troubled again,” Mr. Clayton said. “Is the pudding not to your liking?”
She blinked, bringing her dinner companion back into focus. “No… I mean yes, I like it very much.” Quickly, she stuffed a bite in her mouth.
He smiled. “I am pleased. Glad made certain to have the finest pudding for your visit.” He waggled his eyebrows and lowered his voice. “If you ask me, it seems like the boy might fancy you.”
She choked on the bite, clutching her throat as she reached for her wine glass. Mr. Clayton gave her a solid pat on the back, but she waved him away. She took a big gulp of her drink to wash down the offending piece of food, then looked up.
Everyone was staring at her, and she became keenly aware of her clammy palms and warm neck.
“Forgive me. I simply swallowed wrong.” She ducked her head, not wanting to meet any of their expectant gazes.
It didn’t diminish the sensation of being the center of attention, though. Nor would it when the Hamdons and her brother appeared not to be the only matchmakers in this scheme. Was Grace bound to disappoint everyone in this family?
Alan took another sip of his drink, trying not to stare at Grace like he had during dinner.
The clock chimed half past nine, and he wondered how long they would linger before the yule log.
Emma’s eyes were already beginning to droop, and Mr. Clayton had excused himself to return home over an hour ago.
Only Miss Prudence seemed to have energy as she played several merry tunes on the piano.
She had little proficiency, but what she lacked in talent she made up for in enthusiasm. Grace, on the other hand, would have filled the room with the most exquisite music if only he had a harp.
His mind wandered back to the first time he’d listened to her play.
It had been over a year ago sitting in the Lennings’ tiny parlor.
He’d never heard something so sweet and soothing.
It had brought a peace to his beleaguered soul that he’d not felt in a long time, much like she’d gifted him last evening. Like she did now.
What ifs danced in his mind again. What if he admitted his feelings? What if she returned them? What if they married?
The liquor he’d imbibed with the pudding and Christmas punch must have dulled his thinking, because nothing in the world seemed more right at the moment than making Grace his wife.
She was everything he’d hoped for in a woman.
Endlessly kind, wonderfully understanding, generous, beautiful, a good listener, and his closest friend since Harvey.
No one else knew half of what he’d told her, and yet she’d not flinched away from the stark facts.
But he knew who he was, and what sort of trouble he would be as a husband.
Hamdon rose from his seat. “I believe it is time I get my wife to her bed.”
Alan glanced at his dozing sister. “That probably would be best.”