Chapter Six
The Little Chillendale church hall was a fine edifice, having been built around the ruins of a fifteenth century priory.
It was next door to the church, boasted a covered path between the two buildings, and the windows featured odd little designs in coloured glass – remnants of the original stained-glass creations in the church itself.
There was a large fireplace in which a massive log burned on this special evening, sending warmth throughout the space and over all the villagers who had come to enjoy the Fête. Chairs were arranged around the room, interspersed with long tables almost sagging under the weight of food.
The sound of young voices rose above the murmur of adult conversations, as every little one caught the excitement of being out with their families well past their bedtimes, and their eyes widened at the sight of so many different treats.
Lady Jocelyn and Sir Rodney were occupying the seats of honour, nearest the fire and farthest away from the noisiest of the children’s games.
Although Lady Jocelyn had a small girl on her lap, and Sir Rodney a young boy at his feet playing with a very colourful windmill. His parents looked quite at home.
Reid smiled. They knew how to blend, how to be everything that they were born to be.
They were honoured, revered, and above all, liked.
He hoped he would turn out the same way.
There was one large chair off to the side of the fireplace, shrouded in a horse blanket.
Reid would be sitting there in his incarnation as the Mistletoe Marquess.
Since he was wearing a jacket and trousers made of deep green wool, all he had to do was place a wreath of mistletoe on his head and the thing was done.
But he still enjoyed the excited looks he received from some of the older children who had attended the Fête several years in a row.
A stir heralded the arrival of the Southwicks, and Lady Mary led Emmeline inside with her head held high and an air of consequence.
Many could be forgiven for assuming the tall lean man in brown behind them to be a servant or a coachman.
In fact, he was neither of those things. He was Lord Southwick.
He must have been attractive when younger, mused Reid, watching them wend their way through the room. But now he seemed tired and gaunt. Of course, given who he was married to, Reid wasn’t surprised.
Being leg-shackled to a woman like Lady Mary would be enough to wear the strongest man down to the bone.
Putting on a socially acceptable expression of welcome, Reid strolled over and greeted the newcomers.
“Reid, dear. How lovely. And here’s Emmeline, looking just adorable this evening, wouldn’t you say?”
“My Lady.” Reid bowed over her hand. “And Miss Emmeline. Lovely as always.”
“So kind.” There was the blush and the giggle.
“My Lord. Good of you to join us.” Reid saluted Lord Southwick.
“Not much of a chance of doing otherwise,” sighed the older man. “You serving your ale, Reid?”
“Indeed yes.” He turned and pointed to the far side of the Hall. “If you’ll notice a basket full of holly over there? We’ve set up for a small tasting on that table.”
“You’re a good man. I’ll stop by and say hallo to your parents soon.”
“Very good, sir.” Reid bowed as Lord Southwick made a hasty departure toward the ale.
“Now Reid. We must talk about arrangements for the Ball, you know.” Lady Southwick had her hands clamped around his arm. “It’s getting quite close, and Emmeline…” A loud laugh distracted her, and she turned toward the door. “Good heavens. Isn’t that Brent Rowdean?”
“Indeed it is. Although he’s properly known as Viscount Rowdean of Minter now, I believe, since his father passed.”
“A Viscount?” Her grip on Reid’s arm lessened. “I had no idea.”
Reid was about to make some comment when another figure entered the hall behind Brent. It was one he recognised all too well.
“And who is that with him, I wonder?” Lady Southwick dropped Reid’s arm completely.
“I shall make it my duty to find out, Ma’am. Excuse me.”
He managed not to run. He also managed not to shout out her name, but it was a close thing. Finally, he arrived at her side, hoping he hadn’t trodden on too many children to get there.
“Good evening.” It seemed such a mundane thing to say, but every other word seemed to have vanished from his brain.
She smiled at him, doing serious damage to his few remaining working brain parts. “Hullo.”
Brent grinned. “Reid, I’d like you to meet my cousin.
Lady Prudence Eldridge. Pru, this is my oldest friend, Reid Chillendale.
For several centuries, his family has been responsible for the best ale you’ll ever taste.
Nobody knows how they do it, but there it is.
Personally I think they’ve all got a touch of magic. ”
Prudence laughed. “If it’s as good as you say, then I think you’re right. Magic it is.” She held out her hand. “Mr. Chillendale. Good evening.”
To his surprise, he took it and raised it to his lips. “You are most welcome to our little Fête, Lady Eldridge. Let me find you a seat.”
She flashed him a wicked grin from beneath her eyelashes, and Reid knew in that very moment – surrounded by noise, laughter and the smells of Christmas – that she was the only woman for him.
His welcome might have been quite acceptable, but his eyes were saying something else entirely.
She knew instantly that instead of finding her a seat, what he really meant was more along the lines of “let me take you somewhere private, strip those clothes from your body and have my way with you. For hours on end.”
The smile she gave him told him she knew, and the answer would have been yes. There was something about him. Something real, genuine and honest.
When she’d mentioned to Brent that she doubted she’d ever meet a man with no alternative motives, or desire for power, or greed, or any of the things that she found so unappealing, he’d paused for the longest moment. Then he’d grinned.
“I know one. Other than me, that is.”
She’d scoffed at his assertion, but he’d been quite serious about it, and told her of Reid Chillendale, his childhood friend.
Given that it was Brent telling her stories of their exploits, she took half of what he said and added a hefty pinch of salt.
But the other half…that was where the intriguing possibilities lay.
The notion that this Reid person might indeed be the paragon Brent made him out to be.
She’d known and loved her cousin ever since he picked her up and tended to her skinned knee after she’d fallen.
She was four and he was seven. They’d formed a bond that had lasted – through her ill-fated marriage, through his ascendancy to the position of Viscount upon the death of his father – to now, this moment when he proudly presented her to the one man he avowed would meet all her requirements.
It was one of those unique relationships where they simply loved and trusted each other, she mused.
There had never been any kind of romantic attachment there.
They were as close as brother and sister, and had been that way from the start.
Which was an excellent thing, since each had needed that kind of support throughout their lives up to this point.
As Reid led her through the Little Chillendale church hall, she wondered if perhaps this was the man who would change her mind about many things.
Or if he would just be the man who made her pulses race just by smiling at her.
Perhaps it would just be a mutually satisfactory affair. Only time would tell.
“Lady Eldridge, I’d like to present my parents, Sir Rodney and Lady Jocelyn Chillendale.” Reid had stopped in front of an elderly couple. “Papa, Mama…this is Brent’s cousin, Lady Eldridge.”
His mother smiled. “How nice to meet you, Lady Eldridge. And how lovely of you to attend such a simple gathering.”
“It’s my pleasure, Ma’am.” Prudence curtseyed gracefully. “This is a treat for me. Brent told me of the Fête, and I am thrilled to attend.” She turned to Reid’s father. “And Sir Rodney…Brent tells me your ale is the finest in the country. I must beg a taste if at all possible…”
Used to dealing with elderly gentlemen, she was pleased to see she hadn’t lost her touch as Sir Rodney blushed, huffed and blustered, then took her arm and led her away, talking animatedly.
“Here we are, my dear. I think you’ll find it to your liking, although whether it’s the finest in the land, well…that might be a bit of Brent’s exaggeration.” He filled a small mug from the cask resting atop a festive table. “There. Try that.”
She accepted the mug and raised it, sniffing appreciatively. Although not overly enamoured with ales in general, this one had a richness to it that she found pleasant. So she sipped. And then smiled.
“Oh, yes. I do believe Brent was correct, Sir. This is undoubtedly the finest ale in the country.” She sipped again, enjoying Sir Rodney’s delight and pride.
“Well?” Reid’s voice sounded behind her. “Have you been converted into a Chillendale supporter?”
She laughed. “How could I not? This is an excellent ale, Mr. Chillendale. And I’m very sure I’m far from the first person this evening to tell you that.”
“I’m pleased you like it. M’father and I strive to make sure it’s the best possible combination of ingredients.”
Sir Rodney nodded. “Family effort, you know. Always has been, and with luck always will be.” Then his eyebrows drew together. “That’s if we can solve this damnable mess with the Mistletoe Marquess.”
“Oh?” She glanced at Reid, eyebrows raised in question. “A problem?”
Reid sighed. “Never mind. That’s not something we’re going to worry about this evening.”
As if in answer to some silent prayer of his, there was a short blast from a trumpet and everyone’s head turned toward the area left clear of chairs.