Regency Christmas Proposals by Gayle Wilson & Amanda McCabe & Carole Mortimer

Author:Gayle Wilson & Amanda McCabe & Carole Mortimer [Wilson, Gayle & McCabe, Amanda & Mortimer, Carole]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2010-10-15T13:42:27+00:00

Chapter Seven

Rose Cottage. Mary peered past the pretty sign on the neat stone wall to the house just down the tree-lined lane, half-shrouded in grey mist. It didn’t look much like a cottage, more like a substantial redbrick manor, and of course there were no roses in evidence at all. It looked a quiet, respectable, austere place, and she had never been so glad to see a house in her life.

The long, silent day, sitting close to Dominick on the carriage seat, only speaking in short, polite sentences such as ‘Are you too cold?’ and ‘I’m quite well, thank you,’ had made her want to scream.

It was as if the passion of the night before had in truth been only a dream. She had no idea what to say to him, or what last night had really meant. She only knew that she felt completely different deep down inside. The passion and the tears had done that. A part of her she had put away when she had married William, pressed down until it was nearly invisible even to herself, was peeking forth again. Its bright warmth, faint and tentative as it was, had melted the edges of the ice she had lived in for so long.

Dominick didn’t seem touched by that light, though. His forehead was creased as if he was deep in worry—or regret. Regrets? For a man of his reputation? It planted a tiny seed of hope deep inside her. Maybe her old love, her Dominick, was still there after all.

‘Is this your aunt’s house?’ she said as he turned down the lane. The frosty hardened mud crunched under the horse’s hooves, while the cold wind rattled the branches overhead.

‘It is,’ he answered. ‘I only hope she is at home.’

If she was not they would have the whole large house to themselves, Mary thought with what felt strangely like wicked pleasure. Wouldn’t that be terribly unfortunate…?

Alas, a few days alone with Dominick was not to be. No quiet evenings by the fire to get him to talk to her at last; no long nights in big bedchambers. No sooner had he stopped the carriage by the front steps than the door opened. An elderly butler appeared there, followed by a flurry of maids and footmen, squinting against the cold grey glare.

‘My lord!’ the butler cried. ‘We certainly did not expect you in this weather.’

‘No, Makepeace, staying home would be too sensible for the likes of me,’ Dominick said. He swung down from the carriage, hurrying round to help Mary alight. His gloved fingers tightened on hers for an instant, and then his touch was gone.

Somehow Mary felt even colder than before.

‘There was no time to send word ahead,’ Dominick said to the butler. His hand moved to her elbow, helping her up the icy-looking stone steps, but it was a brief, polite touch now. ‘Is Lady Amesby at home?’

‘Of course, my lord,’ Makepeace said. ‘Her ladyship always spends Christmas at Rose Cottage. She will be very happy to see you.

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