A Holiday Proposal (Wedding Trouble, #6) Read online

  “I spoke with the Duchess of Salisbury,” Irene announced.

  “Oh?” Tristan tilted his head. “I must call on the Duke and Duchess. She’s often praised.”

  “The duchess is lovely.”

  “Why are you visiting them?”

  “My mother thought it best I stay somewhere while she and my stepfather visit their friends. I’m afraid I’m not the best company.”

  “I highly doubt that.”

  “Well, I’m not the best representation of my mother’s talents.” Irene swallowed hard.

  “I take it your mother doesn’t share your interest in science?”

  “Precisely.”

  “I’m sorry.” His voice rumbled beside her, and Irene fought the manner in which her heart squeezed.

  When she’d seen him for the first time, she’d been fascinated by his vivaciousness and handsomeness. He was more than that. He was kind.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Irene said, changing the topic back to the duke and duchess. “I enjoy visiting Salisbury Castle.”

  “You have much in common with the duke.”

  Irene nodded. “Yes.”

  Sometimes she found it odd that not everyone shared her interest in science, and that people could wonder at the natural world and all its beauty and not ponder how it worked. The Duke of Salisbury shared Irene’s interests, even if he was more interested in chemicals and tiny particles to make his waterproof clothing.

  “The Duchess mentioned you had a dissatisfactory childhood. I can understand that you want to make certain you fulfil your dreams now.”

  Tristan stiffened. “Oh.”

  “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Nonsense. You should know. After all, you’re my faux wife. The duchess is new to the region, but everyone else knows the story, even if they think it in poor taste to repeat it.”

  “I hope they didn’t harm you?”

  “What?” Confusion was in his voice. “No, no. Nothing like that. They fought amongst themselves.”

  “I see.”

  Irene’s mother had remarried. Even though she had never fought with Irene’s father, it was obvious that Irene’s mother truly loved Irene’s stepfather. She giggled more and exclaimed over Irene’s stepfather’s good qualities with a passion she’d never shown for Irene’s father.

  Irene wanted to squeeze Tristan’s hand, but she just brushed her shoulder to his.

  “My father was not a particularly good husband. It’s why I don’t want to marry.”

  “Oh?” Irene’s voice squeaked, and she coughed hastily.

  “He chose the wrong bride,” Tristan said. “And they made each other miserable.”

  “What was your mother like?”

  “She was beautiful. My mother always said she was the top debutante of her season.”

  “You must resemble her.”

  “You think I’m handsome?” Mirth filled his voice, and even though it was dark, she looked away rapidly, conscious her skin was heating in an indecent manner.

  “I didn’t say that.” Her voice squeaked. “I only meant...”

  “Do not worry,” he said, his voice soothing. “My father started to spend more and more time with other women, and my mother was stuck alone in this manor house.”

  Irene was silent, musing about this beautiful bride, who had realized her husband didn’t love her and that she was alone. “That’s dreadful. Were you quite close to your mother?”

  “She didn’t have particular motherly instincts, if that’s what you mean,” Tristan said. “Besides, I also resemble my father. It didn’t matter I was her own son.”

  “But you deserved affection from her.” Irene spoke hastily, and she remembered too late that she should keep her voice low, lest people hear them as they strode toward Salisbury Castle.

  “It wasn’t a horrible life,” he said. “The servants were kind, and I went to school soon enough. I enjoyed school.”

  “What was your favorite subject?”

  “History. All those battles. Though mainly I enjoyed being away from home. I enjoyed playing sports and I enjoyed playing with lots of other boys. It’s isolated here. And the Duke of Salisbury was older than I was, which wouldn’t make a difference now, but seemed insurmountable at the time.”

  Irene nodded. “I understand. My siblings are older.”

  They were silent for a while, then Tristan spoke again, “My mother knew about my father’s affairs. She was consumed with jealousy and hate. She would speak about her past and how she could have selected someone better. She would speak about how my father made her miserable. She was right of course. Father shouldn’t have done those things. He humiliated her. This is a rural area. Gossip travels quickly. He’d broken the vows of their marriage, and he did so openly and with enthusiasm. That hurt her even after she stopped loving him.”

  “And that’s why you don’t desire to marry?”

  “I haven’t finished telling you the story.”

  “There’s more?”

  He gave her a wry smile. “When I was eight and arrived back from holiday, the servants told me both my parents had died.”

  “Both?” Irene’s chest squeezed.

  They must have both become ill. She despised these dreadful diseases that descended with no warning.

  “Apparently, my father had a mishap with a chamber pot,” Tristan said. “It—er—struck his head. And killed him.”

  “How terrible!” Irene widened her eyes. “A chamber pot? But those are on the ground.”

  “Well, apparently this one collided with his head.” He shrugged. “A maid discovered his body, then discovered blood on the chipped chamber pot. My mother said the chamber pot had been put on the wardrobe, and he’d walked into the wardrobe and accidentally killed himself.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense,” Irene said. “So you think she...?”

  Irene didn’t want to say it. One didn’t want to muse upon the possibility that Tristan’s mother had murdered Tristan’s father by flinging a chamber pot at his head.

  “She returned to London. Perhaps she was happy there, though I wonder. People knew the story, and she died soon of influenza. I don’t want to marry someone and bring her to the countryside and then...”

  “Of course not.” Irene frowned. “Who was your guardian?”

  “My father had a younger brother. He died ten years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I never met him,” Tristan said. “He lived in Nottingham. I was thankfully in school, and he encouraged me to find other people to spend holidays with.”

  “Like my brothers.”

  “Yes.”

  They were both silent.

  “You’d rather remain in London,” she said.

  He nodded. “I know gaming hells are controversial, but it’s not a horrible place for a man to be. It’s a club with other men. They’re not being unfaithful. Perhaps my father and mother would have been happier if he’d simply had a gaming hell to visit. Hades’ Lair is closing, and it should be sustained.”

  “And it will be,” Irene promised.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  IRENE BADE FAREWELL to Tristan and rounded the corner of the path that led to the castle. The wind intensified, and she hurried back the short remaining distance. She climbed the tree and stepped onto the balcony. She moved more quickly, now she’d had practice.

  “Irene! Darling! Are you here?” Irene’s mother’s voice sailed through the balcony window, and Irene pushed it open, fumbling in her haste. Her mother wasn’t supposed to be here. Not now. Not when Christmas was still a week away.

  Irene practically tumbled into the room.

  Her mother stood in Irene’s bedroom, and her eyes goggled.

  “Irene!” Her mother called out in a singsong voice. “Were you on the balcony?”

  “Yes,” Irene’s voice squeaked, and she hoped her mother hadn’t been in the room for long.

  Her mother brushed a leaf from Irene�
�s cloak, then a few twigs. Irene froze, uncertain how long her mother had been in her room, and puzzled why she was here at all. Her mother frowned, even though that was an oddity. Her mother had told Irene once she limited her frowns to ward away wrinkles.

  “How curious. I hope you weren’t outside for long?” Irene’s mother didn’t frown this time, but Irene didn’t fail to glimpse the manner in which her mother’s eye narrowed, and for a brief moment, Irene even thought she saw her mother furrow her brow.

  “I just wanted to take some fresh air. And—er—stay warm.”

  “Naturally. Oh, well it is a pleasure to see you, my dear.”

  “You just arrived?” Irene asked.

  Mama nodded, and Irene’s shoulders eased.

  “I’m happy to see you too,” Irene said, hoping the displeasure that emanated through her was invisible.

  “You could catch cold by standing outside. Sniffling is most unladylike. No man will dance with you if you’re clutching a dirty handkerchief and blowing your nose at frequent intervals.”

  “I’ll be more careful,” Irene said. “I wasn’t on the balcony for long.”

  That much was true.

  Irene decided her mother would not be more content to hear that Irene had been hastening through the countryside from Highedge Hall where she’d been pretending to be Lord Burley’s wife. That was the sort of thing unlikely to make mothers happy. Irene’s reputation would be ruined if she was caught in the presence of an unmarried man, and unfortunately, Irene had spent the past three days pretending to be married to him.

  She hadn’t quite realized the absurdity of what she’d been doing until she saw her mother.

  Irene removed her cloak, and her mother widened her eyes.

  “You’re wearing that dress!” Mama exclaimed.

  “Er—yes.”

  “It’s lovely, my dear,” her mother drawled. “And such a pretty color on you.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Irene gave a tight smile. Irene shouldn’t have dismissed the dress before, but she wished her mother had complimented one of the dresses Irene preferred to wear instead.

  “White. I always told you to wear white, and now, when I’m gone, you’re wearing it.” Mama’s gaze dropped to Irene’s hem. “Though you managed to make it most dirty dear.”

  Heat ascended Irene’s neck.

  “The Duchess will notice a dirty hem,” Mama continued. “Because she used to be a maid.”

  “I know,” Irene said.

  “It’s really quite scandalous.”

  Irene stiffened. “I suggest you lower your voice. This is the Duke and Duchess’s home, and they are kindly letting us stay.”

  Celia had been so helpful to Irene, and she didn’t want her to overhear Irene’s mother marveling at Celia’s rise in position. Celia couldn’t help that her father, an earl, had made her mother with child, and she couldn’t help that his wife took it upon herself to make Celia’s life miserable.

  “You are right, my dear. So sensible. What would I do without you?” Irene’s mother sighed. “To think, soon we won’t spend much time together.”

  Irene blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you’ll marry, of course. Naturally.”

  Irene stared at her, wondering if her mother could possibly have heard about all the time that Irene had been spending with Lord Burley.

  “I don’t have a suitor,” Irene said.

  Mother blinked. “Of course you don’t have a suitor, my dear. But, at this ball, there will be eligible men, and I will introduce you to every one of them.”

  Irene’s heart thudded. “That’s why you returned early?”

  “Precisely. You are pale, my dear.” Mama stroked Irene’s cheek, and Irene forced herself to resist the urge to jerk away.

  “You said I could remain at home.” Irene’s voice shook.

  “Yes.” Mama shrugged. “But your stepfather and I do like traveling. We won’t always have a place for you to stay in.”

  “But perhaps a cottage—”

  “Nonsense. Your brother is a duke, dear. I won’t have you holed up in a cottage, studying weather patterns.” Mama wrinkled her nose. “Most unseemly. And don’t even start on your plan to go to Cambridge to study under a tutor.”

  “Dr. Irving is a renowned professor.”

  “You’ll never be a student,” Mama said. “You’ll marry. It’s the natural way of things.”

  “But I don’t desire to marry,” Irene protested.

  “You look so lovely, dear,” Mama said, ignoring Irene’s plea. “Don’t worry, we’ll find you a husband in no time. And tomorrow’s Christmas Ball is the perfect place to find one.”

  Irene straightened.

  A horrible thought occurred to her. Tristan and the prince and princess would be at the ball. She couldn’t have her mother also be there, dragging her from unmarried man to unmarried man. That was the sort of thing the prince and princess would find suspicious.

  She couldn’t go.

  She would have to pretend to be ill.

  “Oh, dear.” Irene placed a hand over her brow. “I’m not feeling well.”

  Her mother placed a hand on Irene’s forehead, and her expression grew more serious. “I am worried.”

  Irene shot her mother a mournful look.

  “Of all my children,” her mother said, “I wouldn’t have thought you had lost your sense of temperature.”

  Irene widened her eyes

  Her mother removed her palm. “Your forehead is not warm. You need not worry, my dear.”

  “Thank you,” Irene said, her voice hoarse.

  “So you’ll be able to attend the ball,” Mama said brightly.

  “Indeed,” Irene squeaked.

  At least her mother was unlikely to waste time introducing her to Prince Radoslav since he was, after all, married, and her mother prided herself in her time-efficiency.

  “Well, I am happy to see you,” Irene lied.

  “Of course you are, my dear. And we are going to have the very nicest Christmas in the world. I can just sense it. I can smell it.”

  “It’s probably the scent of cloves and oranges wafting through the room.”

  “The Duchess of Salisbury is quite talented,” Mama mused.

  “Yes,” Irene said.

  Irene wasn’t wondering at the Duchess of Salisbury’s talents. She hoped her mother’s presence would not destroy Tristan’s plan. She would need to inform him as soon as possible about her mother’s unexpected arrival. Her identity could not be exposed. Not if Tristan wanted to avoid actually marrying her.

  After all, Tristan could marry anyone. He would marry someone with a lovely name, someone who always wore the correct clothes and said the correct things. Irene might be talented at science, but her talents did not extend to the subjects allocated to women.

  She sighed. She’d looked forward to seeing Tristan frequently.

  “You do look pale, my dear.”

  “I think I’ll lie down,” Irene said.

  “I suppose you must rest for the ball tomorrow night. That will be the last occasion, my dear, that you spend time on your balcony.”

  THE NEXT DAY, IRENE hoped she’d imagined her mother’s presence, but when she went down to breakfast, her mother was there.

  Normally, she was glad to see her mother.

  It was simply terribly inconvenient that her mother had chosen to be here the one time that Irene was doing something utterly inappropriate. She sighed. Perhaps being a bluestocking was less enjoyable than she’d imagined. Perhaps spending her time in her mind was not in fact heavenly.

  “Oh, darling,” her mother said, looking up from her turtulong biscuit and chocolate. “Are you feeling better?”

  Irene didn’t bother to pretend she was unwell, lest her mother show up in her room with hot soup.

  “I think I’ll go for a walk later,” she said.

  “I’ll join you,” her mother said brightly.

  Fiddle-faddle.

  S
he should have thought of that.

  “I wanted to do meteorological research,” Irene said. “I’m afraid it won’t be very exciting.”

  Her mother wrinkled her nose. Mama had no bluestocking tendencies, and it was a great wonder to her that both of her daughters were so devoted.

  After breakfast, Irene hurried to the manor house. Tonight, she wouldn’t be able to spend dinner with Tristan. She was almost to the manor house before she remembered that the last time she’d seen the prince and princess, Tristan and she were kissing with a passion justified only by the presence of mistletoe.

  She approached the door of the manor house, and it opened.

  Dawson gave her a regal smile. “Ah, Lady Burley. I see you’ve taken another walk.”

  “Yes,” Irene said.

  “I must apologize for never seeming to be in the foyer when you leave.”

  “I forgive you,” she said gaily and marched past him.

  Tristan was in the drawing room this time with the guests. Irene greeted the prince and princess, then asked to speak with him alone. He raised his eyebrows slightly, but led her to the library.

  Irene shut the door. “You’re going to the Duke and Duchess of Salisbury’s Christmas Ball tomorrow night.”

  “Yes, naturally,” Tristan said.

  Irene gave a frustrated sigh. “And I’m going as well. As Miss Carmichael.”

  Tristan’s expression changed. “I suppose the prince and princess might spot you at the ball.”

  “Yes, they might.”

  “Any chance that it’s a costume ball, preferably the kind with masks?”

  “No, it is not a masquerade. This is Christmas. Everyone wants to see everyone’s joyful faces. Though, apparently, we are supposed to wear either red or green or gold, for those who insist.”

  “I assume men do not need to ask their valets to dye their tailcoats red?”

  “You assume correctly, though I would like to see you in a nice colorful waistcoat.”

  “Noted.” Tristan nudged her. “Now you are acting like my true wife.”

  She giggled. Her heart shouldn’t warm at the statement. They’d been spending time together. That was all. Perhaps most women did not talk about their male friends’ clothing.