Bound By The Christmastide Moon: Regency Novella Page 7

  Impossible.

  Clearing her throat and slipping her hand through the drawstring on her handbag, Mallory started for the door. She did not want to keep Hettie waiting, especially if the coals grew cold and the interior of the carriage turned frigid.

  Hettie’s words sprang to mind…”You shan’t be long.”

  It hadn’t been a request for her to hurry, but more of an undisputable truth. Had Aunt Hettie’s vision been directly connected to Mallory? Glancing over her shoulder, she expected to see her aunt in the carriage window, but the woman was not pressed to the glass. She reclined in her seat—all but dozing with her eyes shut and her mouth gaping.

  Perhaps she was only fatigued.

  Starting up the steps, the door opened before she raised her hand to knock.

  “May I help you, my lady?” The servant’s brow rose in question as he stood in the doorway, blocking her view of the foyer beyond.

  “Lady Mallory Hughes, here to call on Lord Lichfield—the Earl of Lichfield,” she said, stumbling over her words. Drat. She needn’t say Lord Lichfield and the earl. She pasted a confident smile on her lips despite the unease that coursed through her at the servant’s pulled brow and blank expression. “Is he receiving at this time?”

  With a flourish and a deep bow, he gestured for her to enter. “This way, Lady Mallory.”

  She proceeded him into the foyer and waited for him to lead her to where she would wait. Her pulse raced at the thought of seeing Silas once more. He was certainly the most handsome man of her acquaintance. Surely many debutantes would be envious of her match.

  At no point had she ever been in possession of something so grand it was worth envious stares from others; however, her betrothed was very worth the jealousy.

  “This way.”

  The butler started off down a corridor, and Mallory heard voices carrying through the drafty castle from all directions. Silas had not been wrong when he said Keyvnor was bursting with guests. As they passed a room, the open door gave Mallory a view of several young women gathered close as they worked on their needlepoint. The next hall gave her a clear view of a couple slipping into another room and closing the door behind them.

  Mallory had never been one to seek the company of a large gathering; however, she’d relish the opportunity to know what the women spoke of as they plied their needles to task.

  “Please wait within. My la—Lord Lichfield will be summoned.”

  Mallory entered a delicately feminine sitting room. With drapes, wall coverings, and furniture of varying shades of peach, the area did not seem like any place Lord Lichfield would dare enter. She smiled to herself at the thought of him perched on the low lounge before the hearth, his weight certainly too much for the furniture to bear.

  She pushed back her hood and unfastened the top button of her cloak.

  The rest of the sitting room was outfitted in similarly fragile pieces: a writing desk, table and chairs, and a harpsichord nestled in the corner with a short stool.

  “The Countess of Banfield,” the servant’s voice thundered through the room, though he spoke no louder than when he’d greeted her at the door. “Your guest, Lady Mallory Hughes.”

  Mallory whipped around to face the stately mistress of Castle Keyvnor.

  There must be some mistake. She was not here to call on the formidable Countess of Banfield.

  Her mouth gaped open and then snapped shut at the woman’s frown.

  “Lady Banfield.” Mallory dropped into a curtsey, pausing in her deep pose for a few seconds longer than necessary to collect her thoughts. Where was Lord Lichfield? Would he be joining them? Why had the servant summoned the countess? “It is an honor to make your acquaintance.”

  Mallory straightened with a serene smile as she called upon her many years of decorum training in the schoolroom.

  None of those lessons prepared her for facing the woman before her.

  “I would say the same, but I haven’t the faintest notion who you are or what you are doing in my home.” The countess looked down her long, beakish nose at Mallory, pinning her with a stare that was both intense and lackluster at the same time. “Well, girl?”

  It took her a moment realize the countess truly had no clue who she was. “Well, I am Lady Mallory—“

  “I know that much from my butler,” the lady snapped, waving her hand toward the servant, who immediately backed from the room and closed the door. “What. Are. You. Doing. At. My. Castle?”

  Her slow, deliberate words had a blush rising up Mallory’s neck. Thankfully, her cloak hid the worst of her embarrassment. “I am here to call on my betrothed, Lord Lichfield.”

  “Impossible,” she huffed. “Lord Lichfield is my brother-in-law and safely wed to my sister, Mary Louisa.”

  “I assure you, my lady, I am betrothed to Lord Lichfield, Silas Anson.” Mallory paused to take a deep breath. “While I did not travel with the betrothal agreement, we are, indeed, set to wed early next year.”

  “Silas, you say?” The woman’s tone softened immediately, and she took the few steps to the lounge, lowering herself to sit and then gesturing for Mallory to do the same on the chair opposite her. “Silas. I have not seen him since he was a lad of six or seven before Mary Louisa took…”

  Her words trailed off as if she’d said too much; however, Mallory thought she hadn’t spoken nearly enough.

  “You must be mistaken. Lord Lichfield is staying at Keyvnor and attending the weddings of his cousins—your daughters, I presume.” From the woman’s severe look, it would have been wise for Mallory to keep her assumptions to herself. “I am here from Launceston, Northern Cornwall, and staying at the Duke of Wycliffe’s estate, Tetbery.” It felt like a betrayal to Felicity to refer to Tetbery as Wycliffe’s property, but there was no way around it. “I am there with my aunt, Lady Henrietta Hughes. Lord Lichfield paid a social visit to Tetbery yesterday.”

  “My dear, dear, dear girl.” The countess clucked her tongue with each address. “I am sorry to say you have been misinformed. My nephew is not staying at the castle, and neither was he invited to the wedding. Although, if something happened to his father, I suppose the invite would, socially speaking, be transferred to the new earl, which would indeed be Silas. But I can assure you, I have not seen him. You say he is in Bocka Morrow?”

  “Yes, but—“

  “If the lad is in the area, rest assured I will locate him.” The countess stood suddenly, and Mallory followed suit. “This is not good, not good at all.”

  “Why ever not?” Mallory asked.

  “Because if my nephew has claimed the title, that means two things: my brother-in-law passed away without anyone sending word, and my sister, Lady Lichfield, has no doubt returned to England at long last.”

  Silas had mentioned nothing about his mother’s return to England, only that his siblings had accompanied him from France. “I am afraid I can speak to neither.”

  The countess stepped forward, reaching for Mallory’s hands and clasping them tightly. “Regardless, this is wonderful news. Wonderful news, indeed.” Lady Banfield paused as if realizing she still held Mallory. “You and your aunt, Lady Henrietta, must come to the wedding…and the Yule ball to follow.”

  As Mallory was ushered to the front door and unceremoniously deposited on the stoop, her waiting carriage in the drive, she remembered nodding at the countess, but if that simple gesture meant that she’d accepted the invitation, Mallory was uncertain.

  Glancing at the sky above, she noted the sun had not moved at all.

  Aunt Hettie was correct. She hadn’t been long inside, but much had changed in the short time she was.

  Chapter 9

  Silas’s mind reeled with such ferocity he feared falling from his horse. It was as if he had been caught up in a strong wind and could not right his person as strong gale gusts continued to blow him to and fro with no end in sight. He still sat motionless at the end of the drive to Castle Keyvnor where the main road split in several directions. One would
take him closer to Tetbery Estate, one to Bocka Morrow and the open sea beyond, and the last…London.

  Everything screamed for him to take the fastest route back to London, away from his family and Lady Mallory.

  When the servant had arrived at The Crown & Anchor the evening before, unmistakably garbed in Banfield livery colors, with a hastily jotted note from the countess, Silas had agreed readily to meet with her at the allotted day and time. It was his main reason for being in Cornwall, after all. It hadn’t even irked him that his aunt hadn’t given him an option for the time or place. He would have attended her in the dark of night in a tavern, if she’d requested it.

  Perhaps he should have been more leery about the information she had to impart.

  Yet, it hadn’t dawned on Silas that he’d been summoned based on anything other than his visit when he first arrived in Bocka Morrow.

  He’d regretted his decision the moment his aunt entered the room and wrapped him in an embrace so firm, he thought she’d broken one of his ribs—his chest still a bit sore from the altercation at the tavern. Once they’d been seated, and she began talking at great length and with much vehemence, Silas had allowed the words to wash over him. He’d listened to her speak of the letters and money she’d sent to Paris, the many trips she and his mother’s other siblings had made across the Channel in vain attempts to bring Mary Louisa and her children back to England, and the countess’s condolences at Silas’s father’s passing.

  If he believed any of it, he’d need to accept all of her words as truth.

  It was a daunting thought. Silas had spent most of his life cursing his family, his mother included, for the cruel nature of his childhood. He’d blamed his father for not coming to bring them home. He’d despised his mother’s family for abandoning them. And he’d resented his mother for being such a fickle, delicate woman.

  When the countess had asked after Silas’s mother, he’d seen a tear in the woman’s eye when he spoke of his mother’s refusal to leave Paris; however, a spark had entered her hard stare at the news that Slade and Sybil were in England once more.

  If his entire foundation hadn’t been ripped from beneath him, his aunt’s mention of his betrothal to Lady Mallory Hughes had surely done it. The woman had professed her remorse over not hearing of his father’s death but she’d known of his betrothal. It had quickly come to light that his intended had paid a visit to Keyvnor to meet with him but had learned he’d lied about his status as a guest at the castle.

  The cold wind swept inland off the sea at his back, chilling him to the bone through his coat, reminding him that he still stood at a crossroads, one of both the literal and emotional kind. Silas only hoped no one watched him from the castle.

  Silas had no urge to return to his dank, musty room at the tavern. Nor was he prepared to admit defeat and return to London.

  That only left Tetbery Estate…and Lady Mallory.

  When the countess had initially spoken of Lady Mallory’s visit, there had been an intense pounding in his ears. He’d withdrawn from the conversation with his aunt, but quickly realized it was his fault it was all happening.

  He’d no right to be angry with his betrothed.

  Silas had lied to her. He’d been given the opportunity to clear his conscience and admit his wrongs, but he’d continued with the charade.

  But there was little doubt left that his aunt had shared all his secrets.

  Lady Mallory would know of his estranged status with his family, his lodging at the tavern, and certainly, the dire financial state of the Lichfield earldom.

  It would be she—and her father—who called off the betrothal, as what man would wed his only daughter to such a man? And what proper lady would seek to tie herself to a family in ruins?

  He’d thought Lady Mallory, with her aunt in tow, would have already departed Cornwall for their home in Launceston in order to arrive before Christmastide morning.

  Again, he’d been wrong to assume anything.

  Obviously, she remained at Tetbery Estate.

  Silas tilted his head back, his eyes closing, and took a deep, fortifying breath. It seemed his obligations were never-ending: his siblings, his estate, his family, and now, Lady Mallory.

  There was only one direction open to him, and it led back to his betrothed.

  Lady Mallory deserved an explanation, and Silas was the only person to give it. If she could see past his deceptions and accept his apology, there may still be hope for them.

  Oddly, Silas was perturbed to realize he actually longed for Mallory to forgive him. The woman was unlike any he’d met before. Silas’s mother was indecisive, scatterbrained, and undependable. His fear of Lady Mallory being, in any way, like the present Lady Lichfield had been ungrounded.

  Silas kicked his horse into action with a backward glance at the castle.

  His aunt had made amends—or at least she’d made an effort—and had invited him and Slade to join them for the Yule ball. She went so far as to pledge her support for Sybil during her coming Season.

  But first, Silas had to make things right with Mallory.

  No longer was it essential he wed for the societal acceptance a connection to the marquess would give him and his siblings. Everything he’d dreaded coming to pass over the last several months since Mr. Peabody proposed his marriage to Mallory to remedy some of the Lichfield quandary was not as overwhelmingly frightening as it had been before his arrival in Bocka Morrow.

  The sun shone brightly upon his face, and the wind receded as Silas rode toward Tetbery Estate—and the woman with the captivating grey eyes.

  Chapter 10

  Mallory stepped out the door and into the bright sun, bringing her arm up to shield her eyes from the harsh glare as her vision adjusted. Pushing the door shut, she leaned against the rough surface as the scents from the garden invaded her senses. The smell of hellebore roses, or the Christmas roses as Aunt Hettie fondly called them, drifted on the light breeze as the sun crested above in the cloudless sky. The outdoors normally brought with it a feeling of peace and rightness—being surrounded by so many lovely, growing things.

  However, after her morning in Felicity’s lab, it only brought to mind that which was gone forever, never to return, never to draw breath, never to live again.

  Her dear friend had taken to the notion of using alchemy to bring her guardian, Lady Tetbery, back to life. It was a fool’s errand. Anyone with an ounce of sense would know working with ancient tomes, the mythical Philosopher’s Stone, and combining oddly scented chemicals would not return the countess to life. She was gone, deceased all these months. It was no wonder Mallory could not put the visions of strange symbols from her mind.

  In the end, Felicity would fail, Lady Tetbery would never walk the grounds of her Cornwall estate again, and Mallory would need to be there for her dear friend when she grieved the loss of her guardian all over again.

  Mallory pushed away from the door leading down into Felicity’s lab, determined not to dwell on the pain destined to come for her friend.

  She hadn’t even time to speak with Felicity about what she’d learned at Castle Keyvnor the previous day. How insignificant was it that Mallory sought her friend’s ear to speak of her troubles with her betrothed, while Felicity had lost her guardian, was about to lose the only home she’d ever known, and the man responsible was darkening the halls of Tetbery at every turn?

  Walking across the small, fenced-in garden, Mallory lightly caressed the pale pink petals of a winter rose, her touch soft enough not to disturb the precious blossom. How uncomplicated the life of a hellebore rose was, coming into full bloom during the dreariest months before wilting as the warm springtime heat bore down on them…only to return once the weather turned cold again. She envied the blossom’s ability to know its place, the proper time to show its beauty, and when to hide from the world.

  Perhaps it would have been best for Mallory to stay at her family estate until the time for her wedding arrived. She would not have known the tri
vial way her father had bartered his only daughter—to a man he’d not so much as met. Lord Lichfield would have had no reason to deceive her either. Yet, that had been a decision he’d knowingly made. Did he think her so petty and lacking in compassion that the state of his relationship with his family would matter?

  From what the countess shared, Silas was in no way responsible for the separation between his mother and her family. Neither did that estrangement cast a cloud of scandal in Mallory’s eye. Silas hadn’t proven ungentlemanly in any way since their meeting. In fact, he’d shown himself to be the opposite.

  Besides, hadn’t she been keeping her own secrets?

  And what she kept hidden from him was in many ways far more scandalous than an estranged family.

  Releasing the blossom and moving away from the foliage that disguised the door, Mallory sagged on the low stone wall facing the long drive that ended at the main road. Her aunt was in a hurry to depart Tetbery Estate and return to their home. Mallory was not so certain they should leave now, especially with the countess having invited her to celebrate the holiday at Keyvnor. No one awaited their return to Blenheim Park as her father rarely journeyed to the country, and her brother would likely spend his time with his latest mistress in town.

  She hesitated to return to the main house, lingering ever longer in the lush, concealed garden. Solitude had been hard to come by since her arrival at Tetbery, and Mallory had refrained from claiming another headache.

  Maybe she could remain hidden in the garden for a while longer.

  Gazing out over the vast land surrounding the estate, Mallory wondered what it would be like to have her own home, land, and life. Free from her aunt’s watchful eye, and away from the whispered proclamations that she’d been cursed. It was likely that if her betrothal to Silas were called off, she’d never know such independence. A part of her sensed that Silas would not treat her as her father and brother did. He would not tread lightly in her presence, nor eschew physical contact with her.