CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Clarissa watched Annie fuss with the beads on her gown as she straightened the fabric. She had rediscovered an older charcoal dress with an ochre underlay. It was a very attractive creation, and she felt it complimented her skin tone well.

The beading across the bodice was very fine. She remembered collecting it at the seamstress with Catherine. It had been three weeks before her leaving with Mr Harrison. Now that she considered her sister’s demeanour at the time, on reflection, her activities had been strange.

She had insisted on using her allowance to buy Clarissa this additional gown, telling her how well she looked in it. Catherine herself had chosen the pattern and the colour of the fabric. As Clarissa regarded herself, she missed her sister terribly. What might Catherine say of Lord Bolton? Would she approve?

She would undoubtedly tell Clarissa to follow her heart, just as she had done. Yet what does my heart want?

She had watched many an attraction form across a crowded room. She had listened to endless gossip about marriages or affection between those in her circle. She had always imagined both parties were utterly certain of their feelings. And yet, when it came to her own heart, she was not sure at all.

She had locked away her inner emotions for so long and could not unleash them all at once. She had barely cried for three years, never allowing any emotions to overwhelm her. The thought of letting someone so close again and allowing herself to feel was a worrying prospect.

She had not realised until she met Lord Bolton, just how closed off she had felt since Catherine’s departure. Her mother had often said she looked ‘cold’ at the edges of a room and would deride her for her serious expression. Clarissa had always felt her mother rather cruel for saying such things. But perhaps Lady Crompton had a point.

“How would you like your hair today, Miss Crompton?” Annie asked, holding the hairpins in one hand as she ran her fingers through Clarissa’s hair.

“What do you think, Annie?” she asked. Her maid loved to choose how to style it.

Annie smiled. “Perhaps a ribbon today? I have a lovely orange bow that would complement your gown.”

“I am in your hands; thank you, Annie.”

The maid set to work, getting out her box of ribbons and shuffling through them until she landed on the colour she wanted.

The ribbons reminded Clarissa of the kissing boughs she and the other ladies had made earlier in the week. She wondered where hers might be hung. As she considered it, another thought came to mind.

She imagined standing beneath it, looking up at her creation, and being joined by Lord Bolton. Perhaps they would both observe the mistletoe, a silence forming between them.

Clarissa’s hands tightened in her lap.

Perhaps he might turn back to her, those emerald eyes fixing upon hers in that mesmerizing way. They would step closer to one another, their bodies only inches from touching, and he might lower his head, their lips moving toward one another in a most illicit kiss—

“Are you well, Miss Crompton? You are very flushed.”

Clarissa cleared her throat. “I am a little warm from the fire, that is all.”

She went to breakfast shortly after, aware that she looked very well. Annie rarely took such care over her hair, and the dress was not her usual beige or white muslin. She felt, as she walked into the room, very grand indeed. She even complimented herself that she rivalled Lady Wilde’s elegance.

As she sat down, Lady Eleanor announced that today they would be hanging the kissing boughs about the house. Clarissa’s eyes were drawn to Lord Bolton, who was sat at the other end of the table. He had his coffee cup in his hand and looked at her over the rim. His eyes were just as warm and inviting as they had been the day before.

Clarissa felt her cheeks flame and looked hurriedly away. She wished she could control her reactions around him. He must be able to tell the effect he has on me, she thought with concern. The images she had conjured that morning returned, flooding her mind with Lord Bolton’s lips, his intense gaze, and divine scent.

She piled her plate high with toast, adding another slice as her mother looked at her disapprovingly. She was determined to distract herself by any means necessary.

“Clary?”

Clarissa looked at Emily, who sat beside her. The young girl was moving the egg around her plate forlornly.

“What is it, Emily?” Clarissa asked with concern.

“Do not let Lady Eleanor hang mine,” Emily whispered. Clarissa’s heart clenched at the sorrow in her eyes.

“Whyever not? Your bough was very pretty.”

“No. I am not good at making them. I do not think it would stand up against the others. What if everyone says how good they all are except for mine?”

At times like this, Clarissa was reminded that Emily had lived a very sheltered life. Emily’s father had doted on her, and his death had hit her hard. She wondered if her cousin had ever had anyone tell her she was talented since then. Her mother tended to overindulge Emily but then criticized everything she did in the same breath.

“My dear, Emily, that is not true,” she said softly. “But if you are very unhappy with it let us resolve to fix it together. I think your bough is beautiful, and I would be honoured to have it beside my own.”

Emily’s expression improved a little. She seemed younger than her eighteen years, and Clarissa squeezed her arm reassuringly.

“Shall we go early and find it? We can see what can be done.”

“But you have not had breakfast!”

“I am not hungry today,” Clarissa lied, “I do not like to see you so downcast.”

Emily smiled as they both rose and made their way into the drawing room. All the boughs had been beautifully laid out in a line on the table.

Although Clarissa had been complimentary of Emily’s, she was correct that it did look rather scruffy beside the others. Emily was in the act of hiding it behind the settee when Clarissa laughed and told her to come over to the table where the remainder of the foliage had been left.

Before the other ladies arrived, they endeavoured to improve it. Clarissa added a beautiful tartan bow to the bottom, and they wound some purple ivy around the edges, which sorted out the unevenness of the holly.

By the time the other ladies came into the room, Emily was beaming again. Clarissa was of a mind that she should always be smiling. She was the happiest creature she had ever known.

Lord Addison approached them, complimenting them both on their boughs. Clarissa smiled as he admired them, but Emily blushed furiously as he raised hers up to look at it.

“I believe this is my favourite, though,” he said with a grin.

“It is the most untidy,” Emily said quietly.

“Is it? Well, I do not care for neat then,” he said cheerfully and handed it back. He then went to assist Lady Garriton who had somehow managed to attach her bough about her person accidentally.

Clarissa lifted her own bough as the other ladies did. She was pleased with it and tweaked the silver ribbon tied at the base. The holly and mistletoe were rather tidier than the others. She certainly had the neatest, if not the most extravagant, bough.

The party broke up as the ladies walked about the house under Lady Eleanor’s direction as she pointed out some suitable spots.

Just as Eleanor had promised, Lady Wilde’s was hung above the clock in the hall, directly opposite the front door. It would be seen by anyone who entered the house, and Lady Wilde was evidently very pleased with the arrangement.

Clarissa followed her mother and Rosemary to a small archway at the edge of the entrance hall. Lord Bolton was behind her, speaking to Lady Bartholemew, who was entreating him to help her hang her bough.

The kiss she had pictured had her skin alight as she looked at him. She had never entertained such thoughts with Warrington. She had never entertained them with any man. Was this why he was known as a rake? Once you were in his sphere of influence, it was almost impossible to pull yourself out of it.

Lady Eleanor approached her with a small stepladder.

“Your bough will look lovely in the centre,” she said to Clarissa. Lady Crompton seemed affronted that Lady Eleanor had not chosen her own and walked away with Rosemary in her wake.

“Thank you, my lady,” Clarissa said as she settled the steps and prepared to climb them. Lady Eleanor was distracted by Lady Wilde asking her whether her bough was central. Clarissa climbed the steps alone.

There was a small hook from a previous year in the centre of the arch, and she was able to hang her bough there. Being rather small, however, she found she had to reach up to hook it over it, and as she did so, she lost her balance.

For a heart-stopping moment, she felt her foot move from under her and, with a small cry of alarm, toppled sideways.

She was seconds from colliding violently with the floor when a strong arm encircled her waist, large hands holding her steady, as Lord Bolton suddenly stood beside her. He lowered her gently to the floor. Lady Bartholemew was all aflutter behind him, fussing over Clarissa and ensuring she was well.

Clarissa could not look anywhere but at Lord Bolton. His hands were still around her waist, sure and warm, and his eyes never left hers. They stared at each other as the room about them disappeared, and the bustle and chatter of the other women faded.

Clarissa could have stood there with him forever, basking in the heat of his body and the safety she felt in his arms. But after what could only have been a few seconds, he ensured she was balanced and then stepped away.

“Upon my word, Miss Crompton, are you well?” Lady Wilde glided effortlessly toward them, her hand brushing against Lord Bolton’s elbow as she did so. “My goodness, you could have hurt yourself badly!”

Lady Wilde looked up at Lord Bolton, who was observing her with an expression of concern. Clarissa could not tell if he was concerned for her or at Lady Wilde’s words.

“Miss Crompton, are you alright?” Lady Eleanor asked, hurrying forward.

“Yes, I am alright,” Clarissa said, giving a small laugh. I overbalanced. Your nephew has righted me, however. I thank you, Lord Bolton.”

Lord Bolton said nothing as Clarissa was engulfed by well-wishers and concerned party members. When she looked again, he was gone.

Clarissa spent much of the day with Emily and Rosemary as the day progressed. She enjoyed her old friend’s company, and they discussed many days from her youth. Rosemary remembered Catherine, and although she did not explicitly open the topic, there were some gentle references to ‘your sister,’ which Clarissa was grateful for.

The ladies moved about the house under Eleanor’s instruction, putting up more Christmas decorations and lighting some of the candles. The house was positively bursting with Christmas cheer, and Clarissa felt the joys of the season more acutely than ever.

This was by far the happiest Christmas she could remember.

Lord Bolton was always at the edges of her vision throughout the day. She wondered if he might speak to her, but he was taken up with Lady Bartholemew and Lady Garriton’s constant requests. Clarissa had the opportunity to observe him often, his smiling eyes and laughter always close by.

His friendship with Lord Addison was obvious; they were more like brothers than friends. Clarissa was also beginning to notice Lord Addison’s attentions to Emily. It was a gentle thing, but his eyes rarely left Emily when her cousin was in the room.

She had noticed that Lord Addison favoured Emily’s company above anyone else. They were often speaking together or partnered together. Indeed, they had skated on the pond for some time as a pair.

Clarissa would never indulge in gossip. She hated how much of it she had had to endure herself. However, she could not help watching Emily with interest whenever Lord Addison was in the room. It reminded her, rather ashamedly, of how she was with Lord Bolton. Emily never let her eyes linger too long but always sought him out.

As the evening drew near, everyone admired the newly hung decorations. The house was beautiful and smelled of pine wherever you walked. There was a multitude of foliage around every door and the boughs looked very pretty dotted amongst them.

As she stood beside the window, Clarissa was surprised to feel a presence at her back. She turned and felt her palms clench as she saw Lord Bolton approaching.

He came to stand beside her as they looked out of the window at the white world before them.

“I wished to compliment you, Miss Crompton, on your kissing bough.”

The word kissing from Lord Bolton’s mouth gave her a pleasant thrill.

“Thank you,” she said. “It is not the finest of the bunch. Lady Wilde has done an excellent job.”

He looked at her quizzically, and she wished she could ask him outright if he desired her. Lady Wilde was a far easier option than herself and far more moneyed than she. An unpleasant thought occurred to her. Perhaps Lord Bolton was showing her attention to make Lady Wilde jealous. She had heard of men and women of her acquaintance employing such tactics. She hoped it was not true.

She met his warm gaze with a smile of her own. His face was shadowed in the dim light from the window and the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones were highlighted. He looked startlingly handsome and more serious than she was used to seeing him.

“Did you not wish to make a bough yourself?” she asked.

“Indeed not; I should be very loathe to take the attention away from the creativity of the ladies. My talents do not lie in making things. I am far better with a good book or a deck of cards than I am at beauty.”

His eyes lingered on her face for some moments after that, and Clarissa was not entirely certain he was still speaking of the beauty of the boughs.

“Lord Bolton,” her mother said as she came up behind them. “The house is looking most festive, is it not? Your aunt has outdone herself again, it seems.”

Lord Bolton turned politely to her mother and nodded. “She has always loved this season, and it is evident in the love and care she shows to the house. Where is your own bough, my lady?”

“Ah, just above the top step of the stairway. You shall see it when you ascend. I was very pleased with it, although I think I used too much ivy. I have never liked that plant. And what did you think of my daughter’s efforts?”

Her mother’s eyes flicked to Clarissa; their meaning obvious. It was humiliating to watch so evident a display.

“Very beautiful indeed; I have always favoured silver in decorations of that nature. It has been placed at the optimum area of the house.”

“She has always been a very creative girl,” her mother continued, as though Clarissa were not standing beside her.

Clarissa could not bear to watch such a display. She longed to remain in Lord Bolton’s affable company but did not wish to watch her mother disgrace herself. Lady Crompton was desperate to regain her social standing, and Lord Bolton would be her ticket toward such a conclusion.

Clarissa was mortified at her mother’s blatant cajoling as she continued to list her abilities. Her mother had never complimented her daughter so much in the space of only a few minutes. Clarissa could feel herself shutting down as she watched them. She hated everything to do with this blatant persuasion, and she could only hope Lord Bolton could overlook it.

Her palms were sweating, her jaw tense as her mother continued without pausing for breath.