His Mistletoe Marchioness. Georgie Lee

be this cavalier about Clara and Hugh. ‘Even if he is, I don’t care. I learned the hard way about him once before. It’s all I need to know about his character.’

      She viewed herself in the mirror, silently admitting that the green dress did suit her better. Good. It would make her diamond and emerald necklace stand out and help banish the old self-consciousness nipping at her. While Hugh’s rejection had wounded her burgeoning confidence years ago, Alfred had made her certain of it, but he was gone and it was up to her to maintain her belief in herself.

      She glanced at the door to her room and at the shiny knob reflecting the firelight. Just on the other side of it was where she and Alfred had truly met for the first time, on that Christmas morning after she’d come upstairs from meeting Hugh for the last time.

      She’d struggled to remain composed until she’d been able to reach this side of the door and cry, but Alfred had been there to help soothe her broken heart...

      * * *

      ‘Lady Exton, are you well?’

      Genuine concern and not just the nicety of manners had driven Lord Kingston’s question. It had been there in his blue eyes with their faint lines at the corners.

      He was older than her—thirty-five, perhaps—with dark hair touched with grey at the temples and the regal air of his class. He stood straight and tall, his strong features making him more debonair than a man like Lord Westbook, but there was a kindness about him that called to Clara.

      ‘Since the passing of my parents I sometimes find the holidays difficult to endure.’

      If she’d known him better she might have wailed on his shoulder, as she wished she could still do with her mother who would have rushed to comfort her. But her mother was no longer there to offer her love or wisdom or even the strength to face the other guests.

      All day today she’d have to sit beside everyone in church and across the table at dinner and pretend to be cheerful while her heart continued to break. Everyone had seen her and Hugh walking and playing cards and spending almost every moment they could in one another’s company. His having left and her looking more like it was All Hallows’ Eve than Christmas morning would make it obvious to everyone what had happened.

      Hugh hadn’t just trifled with her and jilted her, he’d done it in the most public way imaginable, making the pain even more deep.

      ‘I understand. It was a great many years before I could enjoy Christmas after my wife passed. I assure you, Lady Exton, it does get easier with time.’

      ‘Does it?’ she whispered.

      Her mother would have seen Hugh for the fortune hunter he really was and she would have warned Clara off him as she had the other fortune hunters in London. The lack of her mother’s love and guidance further tarnished an already clouded morning.

      He reached into the pocket of his coat and took out a white handkerchief and handed it to her. ‘It does.’

      She took his handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, embarrassed for almost losing her poise. ‘I’m sorry to cast a shadow over the merry day.’

      ‘Don’t be. A pretty young lady like you is allowed to be sad from time to time. If you weren’t, one would think you didn’t have a heart. May I escort you down to breakfast?’

      He’d held out his arm to her, the tenderness in his eyes difficult to abandon for the cold emptiness of her room. There’d been enough of those sorts of mornings in the last two years, between her father’s death and then her mother’s passing. That Christmas had been supposed to be better—and it had been until that morning.

      It could be again. She refused to make a pitying spectacle of herself in front of the other guests. Here was a man offering her genuine regard when she needed it, there was no reason not to accept.

      She slid her hand over his arm and stood confidently beside him. ‘Yes, Lord Kingston, you may.’

      * * *

      The clang of the gong echoed up from the main hall and pulled her away from the sweet memory and back into the reality of the present. It was time to go down for dinner and Alfred wasn’t here to walk with her tonight. She must face whatever awaited her alone and deal with it as best she could. It made her wish she had packed up and gone back to Winsome.

      No. I won’t be so weak. She took the gloves that Mary held out to her, cursing the tremor in her hands while she tugged them on. She shouldn’t be this nervous. Hugh meant nothing to her and what had happened was a long time ago. Except he did mean something, he represented everything Clara had been before she’d become a marchioness, an ill-at-ease girl who, despite a respectable inheritance, had been unable to catch or hold a gentleman’s attention long enough to secure a proposal. She was no longer that woman, but echoes of that girl dogged her steps as she escorted Anne out of her room and down the hall towards the stairs.

      The old awkwardness was especially potent when they spied the end of the line of people waiting to queue up for dinner. A number of them smiled and nodded appreciatively, but it wasn’t them that Clara fixed on, but Lord Westbook and Lady Fulton. They stood one step apart, with Lord Fulton too engrossed in conversation with Lord Worth above him to care if his wife spent her time whispering to Lord Westbook. Lady Fulton’s small eyes widened at the sight of Clara, and Lord Westbook stopped his incessant talking to take Clara in.

      Clara’s awkwardness melted away and she held her head high and strode forward with purpose, thankful Anne had suggested she change. Clara hadn’t forgotten Lady Fulton’s derisive remarks about her six years ago and the way they’d revealed her true opinion of Clara. She was not a girl in a simple dress and wearing her jewellery as if it were nothing better than an old chandelier chain that she’d decided to drape around her neck. Clara’s gown might be muted, but it was fine, and the emeralds she wore spoke of her increased status. She was no longer a plain country mouse, but a refined lady.

      ‘Lady Kingston, there you are. Come now, you must take your place beside Lord Delamare so we may all go in,’ Lady Tillman called out, moving up through the parting guests to reach Clara and take her by the hand.

      Clara did her best to concentrate on the stairs and not trip over Lady Tillman’s short train as her hostess pulled her down the stairs. Around her, the line had gone silent and she could almost hear people wondering if they would be treated to the same show of courting and rejection that they’d witnessed six years ago. They would not enjoy any sort of amusement from her, assuming Hugh decided to behave with dignity when she reached him. If he wished to give a little of what he’d got from her in the library, this was a perfect opportunity to do it. She didn’t think him so petty, but after what she’d heard of him in London, it was a possibility. It made her want to twist out of Lady Tillman’s grip and run back to her room, but she would not look like a coward in front of the other guests, especially Lady Fulton. Instead, she would sit next to Hugh at dinner with all the bearing and dignity of a marchioness and everyone else could get their entertainment elsewhere.

      Lady Tillman and Clara finally reached the bottom of the stairs and Clara stopped before Hugh, her heart racing from both the quick descent and her nerves. If Clara’s attire had changed in six years, then so had Hugh’s. He was taller than the gentlemen on the step above him and his broad shoulders did more credit to the wool covering them than the talents of his Jermyn Street tailor. His dark trousers hugged his trim middle and thighs, and he wore his hair combed back off his strong face, the knot of his white cravat tucked neatly beneath his square chin. If she hadn’t heard the rumours, she would have thought he’d spent the last three years at Everburgh riding and engaging in other sports, not in debauchery at the theatres and clubs of London.

      ‘Good evening, Lord Delamare,’ she greeted, trying to convince everyone, including herself, that it made no difference to her if she was seated next to him and that she could be gracious and friendly to an old flame with the poise expected of a woman of her standing.

      ‘Good evening, Lady Kingston. You look lovely tonight.’ His unstudied words raised Clara’s confidence higher than when she’d approached