A Countess for Christmas
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Christy McKellen
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HarlequinChapter One
THIS HAD TO be the most challenging party that Emma Carmichael had ever worked at.
As fabulous as the setting was—a grand Chelsea town house that had been interior designed to within an inch of its life, presiding over the genteel glamour of Sloane Square—the party itself felt stilted and lifeless.
The trouble was, Emma mused as she glided inconspicuously through the throng, handing out drinks to the primped and polished partygoers, it was full of people who attended parties for a living rather than for pleasure, in an attempt to rub shoulders with London’s great and good.
She knew all about that type of party after being invited to a glut of them in her late teens, either with her parents or with friends from her private girls’ school in Cambridge. But she’d been a very different person then, pampered and carefree. Those privileged days were long gone now though, along with her darling late father’s reputation and all their family’s money.
As if her thoughts had conjured up the demons that had plagued her for the six years following his death, her phone vibrated in her pocket and she discreetly slipped it out and glanced at it, only to see it was another text message from her last remaining creditor reminding her she was late with her final repayment. Stomach sinking, she shoved the phone back into her pocket and desperately tried to reinstate the cheerful smile that her boss, Jolyon Fitzherbert, expected his staff to wear at all times.
‘Emma, a word! Over here!’ came the peremptory tones of the man himself from the other side of the room.
Darn. Busted.
Turning, she met her boss’s narrowed eyes and swallowed hard as he beckoned her over to where he stood holding court to a small group of guests with one elbow propped jauntily against the vulgar marble fireplace.
Emma had encountered the bunch of reprobates he was with a number of times since she’d begun working for Jolyon two months ago so she was well used to their contemptuous gazes that slid over her face as she approached now. They didn’t believe in fraternising with the hired help.
If only Jolyon felt the same.
It was becoming harder and harder to avoid his wandering hands and suggestive gaze, especially when she found herself alone with him. So far she’d been politely cool and it seemed to have held him at bay, but as soon as he got a couple of drinks into him dodging his advances became a whole lot harder.
Fighting down her apprehension, she gave Jolyon a respectful nod and smile as she came to a halt in front of him.
‘Can I be of service?’
Jolyon’s eyes seemed to bulge with menace in his flushed face. ‘I do hope I didn’t just see you playing with your mobile phone when you’re supposed to be serving these good people, Emma, because that would be rude and unprofessional, would it not?’ he drawled.
Emma’s stomach rolled with unease. ‘Er—yes. I mean no, I wasn’t—’ She could feel heat creeping up her neck as the whole group stared at her with ill-disguised disdain. ‘I was just checking—’
‘I’m sure you think you’re too good to be serving drinks to the likes of us—’ Jolyon said loudly over the top of her, layering his voice with haughty sarcasm.
‘No, of course not—’
The expression on his face was now half leer, half snarl. ‘—but since I’m paying you to be here, I expect to have your full attention.’
‘Yes, of course, Jolyon. You absolutely have it,’ Emma said, somehow managing to dredge up a smile, despite the sickening pull of humiliation dragging her spirits down towards the floor.
He eyed her with an unnerving twinkle of malice in his expression, as if he was getting a thrill out of embarrassing her. ‘In that case I’ll have a large whisky.’
Emma opened her mouth to ask whether anyone else in the group required anything, but before the words could emerge Jolyon flapped a dismissive hand in her face and barked, ‘Go on, fetch!’
Stumbling backwards, stupefied by his rudeness, she gave him a jerky nod and turned away, mortification flooding her whole body with unwelcome heat.
Twisting the chain she always wore around her neck to remind her of better times—before everything in her life had gone to hell in a hand basket—she took a deep, calming breath as she walked stiffly over to where Jolyon kept his whisky decanter in an antique burr walnut drinks cabinet. Pouring his regular measure of two fingers of the dark amber liquid into a cut-glass tumbler with a shaking hand, she managed to slosh a little over the rim and had to surreptitiously wipe it off the wood with her apron so she didn’t get shouted at for not treating his furniture with due respect.
That was the most frustrating thing about working for Jolyon; he treated her with less respect than an inanimate object and all she could do was bite her lip and get on with it.
Clio Caldwell, who ran the high-end agency Maids in Chelsea that had found her this housekeeping position, had warned her that Jolyon was a difficult character when she’d offered her the job, but since he also paid extremely well Emma had decided she was prepared to handle his irascible outbursts and overly tactile ways if she was well remunerated for it. If she could just stick it out here for a little while longer she’d be in the position to pay off the last of her father’s debts and be able to put this whole sordid business to bed, then she could finally move on with her life.
What a relief that would be.
Out of nowhere the old familiar grief hit her hard in the chest.
Some days she missed her father so much her heart throbbed with pain. What she wouldn’t give to have him back again, enveloping her in a great big bear hug and telling her that everything was going to be okay, that she was loved and that he wouldn’t let anything hurt her.
But she knew she was being naïve. All the years he’d been telling her that, he’d actually been racking up astronomical debts. The life that she’d once believed was real and safe had evaporated into thin air the moment she’d lost him to a sudden heart attack and her mother had promptly fallen apart, leaving her to deal with a world of grief and uncertainty on her own.
Gripping the tumbler so hard her knuckles cracked, she returned to where her boss stood. ‘Here you go, Jolyon,’ she said calmly.
He didn’t even look at her, just took the glass from her outstretched hand and turned his back on her, murmuring something to the man next to him, who let out a low guffaw and gave Emma the most fleeting of glances.
It reminded her all too keenly of the time right after her father’s funeral when she couldn’t go anywhere without being gossiped about and stared at with a mixture of pity and condescension.
Forcing herself to ignore the old familiar sting of angry defensiveness, she plastered a nonchalant smile onto her face and dashed back to the kitchen, and sanctuary.
Stumbling in through the door, she let out a sigh of relief, taking a moment to survey the scene and to centre herself, feeling her heart rate begin to slow down now that she was back in friendly company.
She didn’t want anyone in here to see how shaken up she was, not when she was supposed to be the one in charge of running the party. After years of handling difficult situations on her own she was damned if she was going to fall apart now.
Fortunately, Clio at the agency had come up trumps with the additional waiting staff for the party today. Two of the girls, Sophie and Grace, had become firm friends of hers after they’d all found themselves working at a lot of the same events throughout the last year. Before meeting these two it had been a long time since Emma had had friends that she could laugh with so easily. The very public scandal surrounding her father’s enormous debts had put paid to a lot of what she’d thought were solid friendships in the past—owing someone’s family an obscene amount of money would do that to a relationship, it seemed, especially within the censorious societal set in which she used to circulate.
Sophie, a bubbly blonde with a generous smile and a quick wit, had brought along an old school friend of hers tonight too, a cute-as-a-button Australian who was visiting England for a few months called Ashleigh, whose glossy mane of chestnut-red hair shone so radiantly under the glaring kitchen lights it was impossible to look away from her.
During short breaks in serving the partygoers that evening, the four of them had bonded while having a good giggle at some of the entitled behaviour they’d witnessed.
Emma’s mirth had been somewhat tainted though, by the memory of how she’d acted much the same way when she was younger and how ashamed she felt now about taking her formerly privileged life so much for granted.
‘Hey, lovely ladies,’ she said, joining them at the kitchen counter where they were all busying about, filling fresh glasses with pink champagne and mojitos for the demanding guests.
‘Hey, Emma, I was just telling Ashleigh how much fun it was, working at the Snowflake Ball last New Year’s Eve,’ Sophie said, making her eyebrows dance with delight. ‘Are you working there again this year? Please say yes!’
‘I hope so, as long as Jolyon agrees to give me the time off. He’s supposed to be going skiing in Banff, so I should be free for it,’ Emma said, shooting her friend a hopeful smile.
The annual New Year’s Snowflake Ball was a glittering and awe-inspiring event that the whole of Chelsea society turned out for. Last year she and the girls had enjoyed themselves immensely from the wings after serving the guests with the most delectable—and eye-wateringly expensive—food and drink that London had to offer. Caught up in the romance of it all, Emma had even allowed herself to fantasise along with the others about how perhaps they’d end up attending as guests one day, instead of as waiting staff.
Not that there was a snowflake’s chance in hell of that happening any time soon, not with her finances in their current state.
‘Are you ladies working there too?’ Emma asked, bouncing her gaze from Sophie to Grace, then on to Ashleigh.
Grace, a willowy, strikingly pretty woman who wore a perpetual air of no-nonsense purpose like a warm but practical coat, flashed her a grin. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. You should definitely let Clio know if you’re interested, Ashleigh.’ She turned to give the bright-eyed redhead an earnest look. ‘I know she’s looking for smart, dedicated people to work at that event. She’d snap you up in a second.’
‘Yeah, I might. I’m supposed to be going back to Australia to spend Christmas with my folks, but I don’t know if I can face it,’ Ashleigh said, self-consciously smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘It’s not going to be much of a celebratory atmosphere if I’m constantly trying to avoid being in the same room as my ex-fiancé the whole time.’
‘He’s going to be at your parents’ house for Christmas?’ Grace asked, aghast. ‘Wow. Awkward.’
‘Yeah, just a bit,’ Ashleigh said, shuffling on the spot. ‘If I do stay here I’m going to have to find another place to live though. I’m only booked into the B and B until the beginning of December, which means I’ve got less than a month to find new digs.’ She glanced at them all, her eyes wide with hope. ‘Anyone looking for a roomie by any chance? I’ll take a floor, a sofa, whatever you’ve got!’
‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ Sophie said, shaking her head so her long sleek hair swished across her shoulders. ‘As you know, my tiny bedroom’s barely big enough for the single mattress I have in it and with my living area doubling as my dressmaking studio I can’t even see the sofa under all the boxes of cloth and sewing materials.’ She smiled grimly. ‘And even if I could, it’s on its last legs and not exactly comfortable.’
The other girls shook their heads too.
‘I can’t help either, Ashleigh, I’m afraid,’ Emma said. ‘My mother’s staying with me on and off at the minute while her place in France is being damp proofed and redecorated and I don’t think her nerves would take having someone she doesn’t know kipping on the sofa. She’s a little highly strung like that.’
‘No worries,’ Ashleigh said, batting a hand even though her shoulders remained tense, ‘I’m sure something will turn up.’
One of the other waitresses came banging into the kitchen then, looking harassed.
‘Emma, the guests are starting to complain about running out of drinks out there.’
‘On it,’ Emma said, picking up a tray filled with the drinks that Grace had been diligently pouring throughout their conversation and backing out through the swinging kitchen door with it.
‘Later, babes.’
Turning round to face the party, readying herself to put on her best and most professional smile again, her gaze alighted on a tall male figure that she’d not noticed before on the other side of the room. There was an intense familiarity about him that shot an unsettling feeling straight to her stomach.
It was something about the breadth of his back and the way his hair curled a little at his nape that set her senses on high alert. The perfect triangle of his body, which led her gaze down to long, long legs, was her idea of the perfect male body shape.
A shape she knew as well as her own and a body she’d once loved very, very much.
Blood began to pump wildly through her veins.
The shape and body of Jack Westwood, Earl of Redminster.
The man in question turned to speak to someone next to him, revealing his profile and confirming her instincts.
It was him.
Prickly heat cascaded over her skin as she stared with a mixture of shock and nervous excitement at the man she’d not set eyes on for six years.
Ever since her life had fallen apart around her.
Taking a step backwards, she looked wildly around her for some kind of cover to give her a moment to pull herself together, but other than dashing back to the kitchen, which she couldn’t do without drawing attention to herself, there wasn’t any.
What was he doing here? He was supposed to be living in the States heading up the billion-dollar global electronics empire he’d left England to set up six years ago.
At the age of twenty-one he’d been dead set on making a name for himself outside the aristocratic life he’d been born into and had been determined not to trade on the family name but to make a success of himself through hard work and being the best in his field. From what she’d read in the press it seemed he’d been very successful at it too. But then she’d always known he would be. The man positively exuded power and intelligence from every pore.
After reading in the papers that his grandfather had died recently she’d wondered whether he’d come back to England.
It looked as if she had her answer.
He was surrounded, as ever, by a gaggle of beautiful women, all looking at him as if he was the most desirable man on earth. It had always been that way with him; he drew women to him like bees to a honeypot. The first time she’d ever laid eyes on him, at the tender age of twelve, he’d been surrounded by girls desperate for his attention. His sister, Clare—her best friend from her exclusive day school—had laughed and rolled her eyes about it, but Emma knew she loved her brother deeply and was in awe of his charisma.
Emma, on the other hand, had spent years feeling rattled and annoyed by his unjustified judgemental sniping at her and for a long time she’d thought he truly disliked her. Her greatest frustration at that point in her life was not being able to work out why.
As she watched, still frozen to the spot, one of the women in his group leaned towards him, laying a possessive hand on his arm as she murmured something into his ear, and Emma’s heart gave an extra-hard squeeze.
Was he with her?
The thought made her stomach roll with nausea.
Feeling as though she’d stepped into the middle of one of her nightmares, she took a tentative pace sideways, hoping to goodness he wouldn’t choose that exact moment to turn around and see her standing there wearing her Maids in Chelsea apron, holding a tray of drinks.
‘Hey, you, don’t just stand there gawping, missy, bring me one of those drinks. I’m parched!’ one of Jolyon’s most obstreperous acquaintances shouted over to her.
Face flaming, Emma sidestepped towards him, keeping Jack’s broad back in her peripheral vision, hoping, praying, he wouldn’t spot her.
Unfortunately, because she wasn’t paying full attention to where she was stepping, she managed to stand on the toe of the woman talking with Mr Shouty, who then gave out a loud squeal of protest, flinging her arms out and catching the underside of the tray Emma was holding. Before she had a chance to save it, the entire tray filled with fine crystal glasses and their lurid contents flipped up into the air, then rained down onto the beige carpet that Jolyon had had laid only the week before.
Gaudy-coloured alcohol splattered the legs of the man standing nearby and a deathly silence fell, swiftly followed by a wave of amused chatter and tittering in its wake.
Emma dropped to her knees, desperately trying to save the fine crystal glasses from being trampled underfoot, feeling the sticky drinks that now coated the carpet soak into her skirt and tights.
All she needed now was for Jolyon to start shouting at her in front of Jack and her humiliation would be complete.
Glancing up through the sea of legs, desperate to catch the eye of a friendly face so she could escape quickly, her stomach flipped as her gaze connected with a pair of the most striking eyes she’d ever known.
Jack Westwood was staring at her, his brow creased into a deep frown and the expression on his face as shocked as she suspected hers had been to see him only moments ago.
Heart thumping, she tore her gaze away from his, somehow managing to pile the glasses haphazardly back onto the tray with shaking hands, then stand up and push her way through the agitated crowd, back to the safety of the kitchen.
‘Sorry! Sorry!’ she muttered as she shuffled past people. ‘I’ll be back in a moment to clean up the mess. Please mind your feet in case there’s any broken glass.’
Her voice shook so much she wouldn’t have been surprised if nobody had understood a word she’d said.
Please let him think he just imagined it was me. Please, please!
As she stumbled into the kitchen the first person she saw was Grace.
‘Oh, my goodness, Emma! What happened?’
Her friend darted towards her, relieving her of the drinks tray with its precariously balanced glasses.
Grabbing the worktop for support, Emma took a couple of deep breaths before turning to face her friend’s worried expression.
‘Emma? Are you okay? You’re as white as a sheet,’ Sophie gasped, also alerted by her dramatic entrance. ‘Did someone say something to you? Did they hurt you?’ From the mixture of fear and anger on Sophie’s face, Emma suspected her friend had some experience in that domain.
‘No, no, it’s nothing like that.’ She swallowed hard, desperately grasping for some semblance of cool, but all her carefully crafted control seemed to have deserted her the moment she’d spotted Jack.
‘There’s someone here—someone I haven’t seen for a very long time,’ she said, her voice wobbling with emotion.
He’d always had this effect on her, turning her brain to jelly and her heart to goo, and after six long years without hearing the deep rumble of his voice or catching sight of his breathtaking smile or breathing in his heady, utterly beguiling scent her body seemed to have gone into a frenzy of longing for him.
‘I wasn’t expecting to see him, that’s all. It took me by surprise,’ she finished, forcing a smile onto her face.
The girls didn’t look convinced by her attempt at upbeat nonchalance, which wasn’t surprising considering she was still visibly trembling.
‘So when you say “him”,’ Ashleigh said, with a shrewd look in her eye, ‘I’m guessing we’re talking about an ex here?’
Emma nodded and looked away, not wanting to be drawn into giving them the painful details about what had happened between her and Jack. She needed to be able to do her job here tonight, or risk being fired, and if she talked about him now there was a good chance she’d lose her grip on her very last thread of calm.
‘It’s okay, I can handle it, but I managed to drop a whole tray of drinks out there. The carpet’s absolutely covered in booze right by the camel-coloured sofa and I managed to spray the legs of a partygoer as well. He didn’t seem entirely pleased to be showered in pink champagne.’ She let out a shaky laugh.
‘Don’t worry, Emma, we’ll cover it,’ Grace said, putting a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘Sophie, find a cloth to mop up as much of the liquid as possible, will you?’
‘Will do,’ Sophie said, swivelling on the spot and heading over to the broom cupboard where all the cleaning materials were kept.
‘Ashleigh—’
‘I’ll get another tray of drinks out there right now and go and flirt with the guy you splattered with booze,’ Ashleigh cut in with a smile, first at Emma, then at Grace.
‘Great,’ Grace said, grinning back. ‘Emma, go and sit down with your head between your knees until your colour returns.’
‘But—’ Emma started to protest, but Grace put her hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her back towards one of the kitchen chairs.
Emma sat down gratefully, relieved that everything was being taken care of but experiencing a rush of embarrassment at causing so much trouble for her friends.
After a moment of sitting quietly, her heart rate had almost returned to normal and the feeling that she was about to pass out had receded.
She was just about to stand up and get back out there, determined not to shy away from this, but to deal with Jack’s reappearance head-on, when Sophie came striding back into the kitchen.
‘You look better,’ she said, giving Emma an assessing once-over.
‘Yeah, I’m okay now. Ready to get back out there.’
‘You know, you could stay in the kitchen and orchestrate things from here if you want. We can handle keeping all the guests happy out there.’
Emma sighed, grateful to her friend for the offer, but knowing that hiding wasn’t an option.
‘Thanks, but I can’t stay in here all evening. Jolyon expects me to be out there charming his guests and keeping a general eye on things.’ Rubbing a hand over her forehead, she gave her friend a smile, which she hoped came across with more confidence than she felt.
‘Okay, well, let’s fix your hair a bit, then,’ Sophie said, moving towards her with her hands outstretched. ‘We’ll get it out of that restricting band and you can use it to shield your face if you need to hide for a second.’
Grateful for her friend’s concern, Emma let Sophie gently pull out the band that was holding her up-do neatly away from her face so that her long sheet of hair swung down to cover each side of her face.
‘It’s such a beautiful colour—baby blonde,’ Sophie said appreciatively, her gaze sweeping from one side of Emma’s face to the other. ‘Is it natural?’
Emma nodded, feeling gratified warmth flood her cheeks. ‘Yes, thank goodness. I’d never be able to afford the hairdressing bills.’ Her thoughts flew back to how much money she used to waste on expensive haircuts in her pampered youth and she cringed as she considered what she could do with that money now—things like putting it towards the cost of more night classes and studying materials.
The kitchen door banged open, making them both jump, and Emma’s gaze zeroed in on the puce-coloured face of Jolyon Fitzherbert as he advanced towards her.
‘Emma! What’s going on? Why are you skulking in here when you should be out there making sure my party’s running smoothly? And what the hell was that, throwing a tray of drinks all over my new carpet?’
She put up a placating hand, realising her mistake when his scowl only deepened. Jolyon hated it when people tried to soothe him.
‘I was just checking on the stores of alcohol in here. I’m going back out there right now,’ she said, plastering a benevolent smile onto her face.
Jolyon’s eyes narrowed. ‘Come with me,’ he ground out, turning clumsily on the spot and giving away just how drunk he was.
Sophie put a hand on Emma’s arm, but she brushed her off gently. ‘It’s okay, I can handle him. You make sure everything runs smoothly here while I’m dealing with this, okay?’ She gave her friend a beseeching look, pleading for her support, and was rewarded with a firm nod.
‘No problem.’
Running to catch up with Jolyon, Emma saw him unlocking the door to his study and the lump in her throat thickened. This couldn’t be good. She was only ever summoned to his study when he felt something had gone badly wrong. He liked to sit behind his big oak desk in his puffy leather armchair as if he were lord of the manor and she were his serving wench being given a severe dressing-down.
Deciding to pre-empt his lecture, she put out both hands in a gesture of apology. ‘Jolyon, I’m very sorry about dropping those drinks. It was a genuine accident and I promise it won’t ever happen again.’
Stopping before he reached the desk, he turned to regard her through red-rimmed eyes, his gaze a little unfocussed due to the enormous amount of whisky he’d drunk throughout the evening.
‘What are you going to do to make it up to me?’ he asked.
She didn’t like the expression in his eyes. Not one little bit.
‘I’ll pay to have the carpet professionally cleaned. None of the glasses broke, so it’s just the stain that needs taking care of.’
He shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t think that’s apology enough. You ruined my party!’
Despite knowing it would be unwise to push him when he was in this kind of mood, she couldn’t help but fold her arms and tilt up her chin in defiance. She might have made a bit of a mess, but, if anything, her little accident had livened the party up.
‘Jolyon, everyone’s having a great time. You’ve thrown a wonderful party here today,’ she said carefully. What she actually wanted to do was suggest where he could shove his job, but she bit her lip, mentally picturing the meagre numbers in her bank balance rapidly ticking down if she let her anger get the better of her.
As she’d predicted, her boldness only seemed to exacerbate his determination to have his pound of flesh and he took a deliberate step towards her and, lifting his hand, he slid it roughly under her jaw and into her hair. His grip was decisive and strong and she acknowledged a twinge of unease in the pit of her stomach as she realised how alone they were in here, away from the rest of the party.
He began to stroke his thumb along her jaw, grazing the bottom of her lip. Waves of revulsion flooded through her at his touch, but she didn’t move. She needed to brazen this out. She knew exactly what he was like—if you showed any sign of weakness that was it, you were fired on the spot.
‘Well, you ruined it for me,’ he growled, moving even closer so she could smell the sharp tang of whisky on his breath. ‘But perhaps we can figure out a satisfactory way for you to make it up to me,’ he said, his gaze roving lasciviously over her face and halting on her mouth.
She clamped her lips together, racking her brains for a way out of this without making the situation worse.
‘Jolyon, let go of me,’ she said, forcing as much authority into her voice as she could summon, which wasn’t a lot. ‘I need to get back to the party and serve your guests and they’ll be missing you, wondering where you are,’ she said, grasping for something—anything—to aid her getaway. Appealing to his ego had worked well before, but she could tell from the look in his eyes that it wasn’t going to fly this time. He wanted much more than a verbal apology from her.
The thought made her shudder.
Taking a sudden step backwards, she managed to break his hold on her. ‘I need to get back. Let’s talk about this tomorrow, shall we?’ Before he could react, she turned and walked swiftly out of the door and back towards the noisy hubbub of the party, her heart thumping hard against her ribcage and the erratic pulse of her blood spurring her on.
She heard him come after her, his breath rasping in his throat as his movements picked up into a drunken jog. She’d just made it to the living-room doorway when he caught up with her, grabbing hold of her arm and spinning her around to face him.
‘Jolyon, please—’ she gasped, then froze in horror as his lips came crashing down onto hers, his arms wrapping around her like a vice. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, her heart hammering hard in her ears as she struggled to get away from him—
Then suddenly he seemed to let go of her—or was he being dragged away? The loud ooof! sound he made in the back of his throat made her think that perhaps he had been and she spun around only to come face to face with Jack.
His mesmerising eyes bore into hers, blazing with anger as a muscle ticced in his clenched jaw, and her stomach did a slow somersault. His gaze swept over her face for the merest of seconds before moving to lock onto Jolyon instead, who was now leaning against the doorjamb, gasping as if he’d been winded.
‘What do you want, Westwood?’ Jolyon snapped at Jack, flashing him a look of fear-tinged contempt.
Jack glared back, his whole body radiating tension as if he was having to physically restrain himself from landing a punch right on Jolyon’s pudgy jaw.
He took a purposeful step towards the cowering man and leaned one strong arm on the jamb above Jolyon’s head, forming a formidable six-foot-three enclosure of angry, powerful man around him.
‘I want you to keep your hands off my wife!’
