Their Convenient Christmas Betrothal
Автор
Amanda McCabe
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15,2K
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A charming Christmas Regency romance A festive romance to fool society… But are they fooling themselves too? Mary St. Aubin is a stellar matchmaker, but society has decided that, as a spinster, Mary can no longer be trusted with their matches! After watching her parents' cold marriage, she refuses to wed for anything but love. Then at a Christmas house party she encounters dangerously attractive Scottish laird Charles. He needs Mary's help saving his ward from a reputation-ruining liaison with a rake. But when Charles's own rakish past starts to get in the way, is there another match that must happen first… between Mary and Charles?
Prologue
Charles Campbell had no right to look so very handsome.
Mary St Aubin half hid behind the table of cake and sweets at her sister’s garden wedding breakfast to stare without being seen as silly. She did feel rather silly—she was not known to be shy at all, with her love of parties and people, which had great advantages when making matches at the St Aubin and Briggs Confidential Agency. Yet ever since she’d met Charles Campbell at an assembly, each time he was near she turned into a blushing, tongue-tied miss.
But really, who could blame her? she thought as she looked up and up his long legs in buff breeches, then across his broad shoulders perfectly outlined in a dark blue coat. A strong jaw and dimpled chin above a simply tied, snowy cravat, pinned with an amethyst thistle. A blade of a nose, sharp cheekbones, sun-browned skin and vivid, bright green eyes. His dark hair, a bit too long for fashion, waved across his brow, carelessly swept aside. He was perfect.
He chatted with the bridegroom, their old friend and neighbour and now Ella’s besotted husband, Frederick, Lord Fleetwood, and Fred’s stepmother Penelope Oliver, laughing in the sunlight. The golden happiness of the day cast a glow over everyone, and Charles was no exception. She could have vowed that all the light was gathered only on him.
She hadn’t been able to cease thinking about him for days. They saw each other often in Bath. At teas and garden parties, dances, cricket games, at the shops where he was accompanied by his young ward Adele Stewart. She had dared to try to get him to dance once, only to be turned away laughingly, but they often talked and walked together, and his scent of bergamot soap and sunshine made her dizzy with delight.
Ella sometimes mused on finding him a suitable wife through the agency. There were whispers of unhappiness in his past, a youthful marriage that somehow went awry. Sometimes she saw such shadows across his face when he thought no one was watching, and she longed to go to him, to make him laugh as the old Mary would. The Mary who went to parties and was careless of much else. But now Ella was leaving, and Mary was in charge of the agency and its future. She could not impulsively run to handsome gentlemen and hug them.
And they said he was returning to his estate in Scotland soon, leaving Bath. It made her so sad to think of never seeing him again, not having his presence to watch for at parties, not hearing his laughter.
She studied him carefully, as if she could memorise him for the greyer days ahead. The way he brushed his hair back, tilted his head as he listened to conversation, a small crease between his eyes.
He suddenly turned—and caught her staring, too late for her to run away. His smile widened, that dimple appearing in his chin, and she almost melted. To her shock, he excused himself from Pen and Fred and started across the garden, towards Mary, his steps lazy and long, his smile never fading.
‘Miss St Aubin,’ he said, his deep, chocolate velvet voice touched with a Scots brogue. ‘What a splendid day for a wedding.’
Mary made herself smile carelessly in answer, trying not to be nervous, not to blush and stammer. ‘Indeed it is. Perfect, just as Ella deserves.’
She glanced at her sister and new brother-in-law, holding hands as they moved among their guests, smiling into each other’s eyes as if they saw nothing else. Mary turned and strolled in the other direction towards a garden maze and was surprised and quite pleased when Charles went with her.
‘They are a lovely couple,’ Charles said. Mary thought he sounded wistful, his eyes unreadable as he studied the newlyweds. Did he think of his own lost wife? Her heart ached at the thought.
‘Yes. They always have been, since we were young and ran through the woods together like a pack of wildings,’ she said with a laugh, hoping to make him smile. ‘Those were fun times! My father, being an ever so respectable vicar, was quite in despair of our manners. But he never needed to be so with Ella, she was always so perfect. So caring and unselfish.’ Mary thought of all the times Ella had comforted her, reassured her, soothed her, laughed with her, and soon Ella would be gone.
Charles must have seen something of her thoughts. ‘You will miss her,’ he said simply.
Mary blinked up at him. He did always seem to see her every time they talked. Saw what she did not say. ‘Yes, I shall. She has been like a mother to me for so long, as well as a friend. But I am overjoyed to see her so happy now. She above everyone deserves such love.’
‘Doesn’t everyone deserve love? That is what Penelope says your agency does—finds everyone their best match.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ she said, surprised he knew about the agency. ‘Especially people who, for one reason or another, have—shall we say—extraordinary needs. Want a little something more, more understanding, perhaps. We can give a bit of assistance in finding their other halves.’
‘Very intriguing.’ As he listened to her carefully, watched her unwaveringly, she felt her confidence grow. She forgot to feel flustered around him and just saw—well, saw him. ‘You must meet such fascinating people.’
‘Oh, yes! There was a botanist who wanted someone to share his love of his hothouses, a historian who married a novelist who wrote medieval stories, people who are shy or have too many cats or too large a house. Everyone has a tale to tell, hopes and fears and dreams.’ She told him about a few more of their more interesting clients, revelling in his laughter, his attention, which never wavered.
She looked out over the wedding party, the guests, the cake and the ribbon streamers, heard the laughter. It was a wonderful day, one for friends and hope.
‘Do you ever wish for such agency assistance for yourself?’ he asked, his head tilted in interest.
‘No, not at all,’ Mary answered. And she did not. The work was what she loved, what she craved, and she couldn’t bear the thought of losing it.
Mary often thought of those awful days when her mother was dying. How she was just a child but would sit beside Mama and bathe her brow and hold her hand, listening to her murmured words as Ella and the nurse hurried about looking for medicine and clean towels. As her father sat in his library, unable to cope with what was happening to his own family just above his head in the room that smelled of camphor and sweat. Mary thought if she held on to her mother tight enough, she couldn’t leave.
But then her mother opened her eyes and whispered to Mary, ‘My dear girl. My beauty. I see myself in your eyes now, your passion and longing for merriment, and your anger. At your father?’
Mary couldn’t bear to nod, to tell her mother of her real anger towards her father for abandoning them at this moment. She blinked back the tears and tried not to show those terrible feelings. ‘I shall curb my passion, Mama, I promise!’
Her mother shook her head. ‘No, never do that! It’s what will make your life an adventure, my darling. But do not trust in men. Trust only in yourself. Your father—his work has always come first. I understood that when I married a clergyman. You must follow a different path. Promise me!’
Mary, frightened, shaken, had no idea what another path could be, yet she had agreed. What else could she do? And then her mother was gone.
Mary had only Ella after that, their father disappearing into his work more and more. Work and family did not seem to mix, Mary thought. Ella had sacrificed so much to be both mother and sister to Mary, to love and raise her. Then they had their own work, and Mary loved it. The agency gave them both what they needed...craved—security and control in a world where both were in such short supply. Just as their mother had said.
Mary had once cherished romantic dreams, it was true. She’d read poetry and fantasised about fair maidens and rescuing knights, about eternal love. Those faded away in the real world, and whenever her old self beckoned, she pushed her back. She couldn’t feel that way again, couldn’t take that risk.
But when she was near him, she was tempted indeed. ‘I like to help others. We could certainly be of assistance to you, if you needed it.’ She swallowed hard, wondering why she had said that. Helping him find a match was the last thing she wanted to do! Yet, she had told him the truth—she liked to help people find their happiness. If he needed that help...
He looked appalled. ‘No, I am not good husband material, I fear. I must concentrate on my estate right now and on helping Adele.’
‘Of course you are husband material!’ Mary cried.
He was the most husbandly man she’d ever seen.
His dark brow quirked as he looked down at her. ‘Do you think so?’
‘Yes, of course. You are—are...’ Handsome. Dreamy. Strong. ‘You have every quality we look for in our clients. I promise you, ladies would clamour for your attentions.’ Just as she did. ‘You are as handsome as a medieval knight, kind and charming.’
He reached for her hand, holding it lightly on his palm as if it were a precious jewel. He stared down at it, his eyes darkened, and she found she could not quite breathe.
‘How douce you are, Miss St Aubin,’ he said quietly, roughly. ‘I doubt anyone has ever seen me quite like that before.’
‘How could they not?’ She couldn’t bear to go on. She went up on tiptoe and impulsively pressed her lips to his, longing to know what he tasted like, what he felt like. His lips were warm, surprisingly soft, and he tasted of champagne and strawberries. Warm, so warm, so inviting.
Shocked at herself, she stepped back, staring up at him. He looked just as surprised, his green eyes wide, lips parted.
‘I will take that wonderful feeling all the way back to Scotland with me,’ he said hoarsely.
Mary wanted only to sink down into the grass and disappear. Now she would never, ever be able to forget him!
She had no idea what to do, so she spun around and ran away. Surely she would not ever see him again.
