Helen Dickson - Lord Lansbury's Christmas Wedding

Octavia immediately grasped Jane’s hand and pulled her in the direction of her brother. They were both breathing heavily by the time they reached the group.

On reaching his mother, Christopher bent his head and kissed her cheek before drawing Lydia forward.

Lady Lansbury smiled as her eyes settled on the woman who might well become the Countess of Lansbury, her daughter-in-law. ‘Lydia, my dear. How charming you look. I am so pleased you and your father are here to enjoy my birthday party. I am sorry your visit to Chalfont will be brief, although I am certain you will enjoy your trip to Paris.’

‘I’m sure we will, Lady Lansbury. We leave tomorrow, but we were keen to attend your party.’

‘I hope you have a pleasant few weeks. You will miss her, Christopher.’

‘I’m sure I shall,’ he replied, smiling at Lydia.

‘Perhaps you will appreciate me all the more when I return,’ Lydia remarked, trying to catch his eyes, but his attention was caught by Octavia practically jumping up and down to get his attention, bringing a frown of disapproval to Miss Spelling’s brow.

Jane thought Lord Lansbury seemed taller and more elegant than ever. Trying to still her racing heart, not wishing to intrude on the group, she hung back, reluctant to put herself forward. Lord Lansbury received her with polite courtesy and Miss Spelling, with kid-gloved hand placed in a possessive manner on his arm, with a practised smile and noticeable coolness.

Laughing gaily, Octavia wrapped her arms about her brother’s waist, much to Miss Spelling’s annoyance. She took a step back as if she’d been stung when the child reached out to touch one of the flounces on her skirt.

‘Please don’t touch my dress, Lady Octavia,’ she snapped.

Octavia snatched her hand away and stared up at her before sending Jane a look of piteous bewilderment, not liking the tone of Miss Spelling’s voice and not knowing what she’d done wrong.

Seeing the hurt and distress on Octavia’s face, Jane took her hand and drew her to her side. ‘Lady Octavia was only admiring your dress. She has done no harm so please don’t shout at her.’ Looking down at Octavia, she smiled. ‘Don’t be upset, Lady Octavia. You have done no wrong.’

Taken aback by the sharp firmness in Jane’s voice, Miss Spelling stared at her with severe reproach. ‘And why should she not be reprimanded? Spare the rod and spoil the child is what they say, is it not?’

‘They can say what they like,’ Lord Lansbury said with a deadly calm. ‘We like spoiling Octavia.’ Turning from her and looking fondly at his sister, he stroked her cheek. ‘Are you all right, poppet?’ She nodded up at him and he smiled tenderly, hoping that what could have turned out to be an awkward situation had been averted. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Miss Mortimer, Lydia,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe the two of you have met.’

Miss Spelling looked at her with a mocking air, making no attempt to hide her scrutiny. Her eyes were hard as she looked Jane up and down that was only a shade away from insolence. She assessed Jane in a manner suggesting she thought she must have fallen on hard times.

‘Do come closer, Miss Mortimer. There is no need to be so ill at ease, I assure you. I bark, but never have I been known to bite. Lady Lansbury has told me about you. You are Lady Octavia’s governess?’

In that intense moment, surrounded by the opulence of Lady Lansbury’s guests, Jane felt some emotion from Miss Spelling, pressing in on her, squeezing her with icy, inflexible fingers. The woman was striking, secure in her own strength and sure of her own incomparable worth.

‘I suppose Miss Mortimer does hold the position as Octavia’s governess, but she is more of a companion to her,’ Lord Lansbury provided. ‘We met on the ship when we were returning from France. Her quick actions saved Octavia’s life. We have much to be grateful to her for.’

Miss Spelling gave Jane a look which suggested that her presence devalued the occasion, shaking her head as if pondering what the world was coming to when the upper classes entertained their servants.

‘You have been abroad, Miss Mortimer?’

‘I have lived abroad almost all my life,’ Jane answered. ‘My father was an historian—a writer and collector of antiquities. We travelled extensively.’

‘Really?’ Miss Spelling replied, seemingly unimpressed. The full red smile never wavered, but her eyes were cold. Everything about her was precise and impeccable. ‘How very odd.’

Jane managed to retain a cool and unruffled expression as she watched Miss Spelling’s diamond earrings flash against her cheeks. She looked in vain for some trace of softness in her, but she was as hard as the trunk of the stout oak tree behind her. ‘Not at all. His work was interesting.’ Jane felt Miss Spelling’s eyes on her once more and an aura of sensuous rose perfume wafted around her.

‘And did you assist him in his work?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And do you miss the work?’

‘I do, although it didn’t end when he died. I still have much to do to complete the work he left unfinished. I enjoyed working with him and we travelled to many interesting places. We even travelled on a camel train from China to Northern India. After that we went to Europe, to Greece and on to Egypt, which was where he died nearly four months ago.’

‘It sounds—unusual, to say the least. But what manner of man takes his daughter round the world with no protection other than himself—and then...?’

Jane heard reproach in the deep, husky voice and her spine stiffened. For some mysterious reason Miss Spelling had clearly taken an instant dislike to her. She suddenly resented the rounded curves, the dark hair piled up on the haughty, fascinating head. Her own eyes narrowed.

‘What? Died? My father was a good man, Miss Spelling, loving and caring,’ she said in his defence, trying to keep her anger at the woman’s rudeness in check, ‘and you insult me by implying otherwise. Until his death he was a healthy, vigorous man. He didn’t know he was going to die. And he taught me well—mainly how to cope when things became difficult. Which I did.’

For one vivid instant the air between them shivered with tense friction. But if Miss Spelling was disconcerted by Jane’s abrupt and forthright manner, she hid it quickly under a mask of indifference.

‘I see.’ She looked towards where a lady seated next to Lady Lansbury was beckoning to her with a hand glittering with sapphires. ‘Excuse me, Miss Mortimer. I am being summoned.’

Jane nodded, feeling irritated that she should be so summarily dismissed. ‘Of course. Don’t let me keep you.’

* * *

Lord Lansbury watched Lydia go before turning to Jane. Her violet eyes with their long shadowing lashes were following Lydia. In one quick glance he saw the change her dress had made to her, the long creamy neck exposed. He saw the tiny dimple in her chin and the voluptuous curve of her red lips. He saw the tiny black mole high on her cheek where the rose faded into the gleaming white of her forehead. She was sensuous, provocative, glowing with colour like a country girl, and it seemed to him she was quite out of place among the elegant and sophisticated guests.

His granite features softened as if he understood how angry and humiliated she must be feeling by Lydia’s thoughtless remark. ‘I apologise for Lydia,’ he said. ‘She shouldn’t have said that about your father. I can see she has offended you with her frankness.’

At any other time she would have been absurdly flattered by his courtesy and concern, but now she was perplexed and shook her head. ‘Frank to the point of rudeness.’

‘I am sorry you see it that way. Lydia is American and tends to be outspoken.’ His voice was polite as he tried to smooth over the awkwardness of Miss Mortimer’s strained meeting with his future fiancée.