Sandra Heath: Mistletoe Mischief

"So am I, but it can't be helped." Rupert raised his ivory-handled cane to prod His Majesty's horse, wishing the creature would bolt and provide at least some fleeting diversion. His beautifully tailored fawn greatcoat was worn over a wine-red coat and gray breeches, and there were golden tassels on his highly polished Hessian boots. He had fair hair and green eyes, and an aquiline nose. There was usually an amiable smile on his face, but he had been less than cheerful since declining Chloe Holcroft. Greville drew a heavy breath. "I really thought there would be more going on here than there is, but the beaumonde seems to have departed. Except Sybil Garsington and her ferocious brother." He said this last with a grimace.

"And Prinny."

"And Prinny," Greville conceded.

By December the Prince of Wales would usually have been ensconced in his adored Marine Pavilion, but this year ill health obliged him to remain in London. However, that had not prevented most people of consequence from removing to the Sussex resort as usual for the winter months. It might have been royal patronage that had made Brighton the second most fashionable town in the land after the capital, but it was high society in general that kept it in such an exclusive position.

Greville continued. "Well, Prinny is not so bad, in fact he can be most agreeable; but to stumble upon Garsingtons at every turn…" He shuddered as much as Evangeline when it came to that particular family. Sybil was the younger of Lord and Lady Garsington's two awful daughters, Sophia Strickland being the elder. Their hotheaded brother Sigismund was plump and as bald as a coot, but of such a dangerously combustible temperament that he was known to generally act first and ask questions afterward, as his record of dueling bore witness. In this and this alone he was formidably talented. Unfortunately, he and his entire family also prided themselves on their musicianship, at which they were universally dreadful. Lord Garsington played the cello, her ladyship the spinet, Sybil the harp, Sophia the violin, and Sigismund the hautbois. Musical evenings at Garsington House on the Steine were dreaded by one and all, but were notoriously difficult to avoid. Once there, only the tone deaf or those with the most insensitive eardrums escaped unscathed.

Rupert's gloom lifted for a moment as he grinned at Greville. "Just because Sybil has decided you will make a fine consolation prize."

"I'm glad you find it amusing, because I'm damned if I do," Greville replied with feeling. Sybil had been brought to London in the care of her brother in order to nurse her apparently broken heart. Some fellow in Brighton had not only resisted her advances but made clear his interest in another, so Lord and Lady Garsington had hastily dispatched her to the capital before she ruined her reputation in her attempts to win him back. It was only the thought of his sister's good name that had prevented Sigismund Garsington from challenging the man concerned to a duel. Greville didn't know who the fellow was, but cursed him soundly. If it hadn't been for him, Sybil wouldn't have come to London, and the life of Sir Greville Seton would have continued in its previous tranquil way!

Rupert nodded. "I agree, it's not funny at all."

"Why should I suffer because Sybil's heart is broken. Have you any idea what it's like to be pursued by such a strapping great amazon? It has reached the point where I expect her to leap from behind every tree, her harp lashed to her back, and her alarming bosom heaving as she lisps at me in that huge voice. Oh, Thir Gweville, Thir Gweville, wender me your arm that we may thtwoll together. Thall I play a Thakethpeare thonnet for you?"

"You shouldn't be so devastatingly handsome. It's the tight breeches, you know. All that manly perfection banishes female inhibition."

"She hasn't got any inhibitions to banish."

"True."

Greville gave a slight chuckle. "Mind you, I don't think I've ever laughed so much as I did last Christmas when she had twanged and warbled her way through 'Where the bee thuckth, there thuck I.' " He leaned back against the statue's plinth, his cane tapping against his gleaming boot. He was an arresting blend of the rugged and romantic, with thick almost black hair, and steel-gray eyes that could be disconcertingly cold if he was displeased. When he chose he was possessed of a singular charm, and his dry wit made him popular among his peers. His taste in clothes was impeccable, as his braided charcoal greatcoat, dark blue coat, and tight-fitting cream breeches bore full witness. Nothing could have been more discreet and perfect than the black pearl pin reposing in his starched muslin neck cloth, and there were few who could carry off the rakish angle at which he wore his top hat. On top of all these desirable attributes, he was also immensely wealthy, which made him the target of every hopeful mama with a daughter to marry off. But Greville had yet to find a young lady who even turned his head, let alone stirred his heart; the awful Sybil Garsington certainly wouldn't. He gave a careworn sigh. "I am ashamed to admit it, Rupert, but there have been times when I've felt tempted to shoot the whole Garsington family."

Rupert grinned again. "Oh, that won't do at all, my friend, for Aunt E won't tolerate mass murder in the family."

"More's the pity."

Rupert shivered as the cold breeze blustered again. "Anyway, Greville, why have you insisted on bringing me out in this damned cold? What is it you wish to speak to me about that couldn't be said inside?"

"I didn't want any servant ears to hear because it's about Chloe."

Rupert stiffened. "That is a closed subject."

"No, it isn't, because it's your continuing boneheadness over her that has occasioned you to foist yourself on me for Christmas."

"Look, if you resent my company, why don't you just say so!"

"For heaven's sake, Rupert, don't be so damned touchy. Did I say I resent your company?"

Rupert looked away. "No, I suppose not," he conceded. "Greville, I just don't want to talk about Chloe."

"Why? Because you know you made a disastrous decision when you spurned her?"

Rupert's green eyes swung resentfully back to him. "Certainly not. I like Chloe very much, but only as a friend, so why does everyone think I should marry her?"

Greville studied him shrewdly, deciding the time was right to make him face up to a few things. "Well, if that's the way you feel, then you won't mind the talk I overheard at White's last night."

"There's always talk at White's. Sometimes I think there's more gossip at that club than there is among Billingsgate fishwives!"

"On this occasion the fishwives have it that Chloe will be betrothed to Oliver March in the new year. The odds are apparently on St. Valentine's Day."

Rupert was visibly shaken. "Tell me you jest."

"I fear not."

"But it cannot be so, Chloe doesn't even know March!"

"Oh, yes, she does. The Holcrofts met him at the beginning of November when they came up to town. They were among Prinny's dinner guests at Carlton House, and March was there too. It seems he was much smitten with Chloe, so much so that he has followed her back to Brighton and taken lodgings for the winter. Duchess Place, I believe. He's there now, from all accounts."

Rupert leaned a hand against the statue, and bowed his head. "Well, now we know who he preferred to Sybil Garsington," he muttered.

Greville's lips parted in astonishment. "March was the fellow in Brighton?"

"I presumed you knew." Rupert struggled to overcome his emotion, for Oliver March was one of the men he loathed most in all the world.

"No, the actual name was never mentioned to me."

"He and Sybil richly deserve each other, but I still can't believe Chloe could be taken in by him." Rupert was so incensed he struck the statue with his cane.