Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

"Oh, Father, are you sure you're not up to joining us tonight?"

Eleanor bent to rest the back of her hand against her father's forehead. "I don't see any signs of fever and the doctor pronounced you the picture of health."

Mr. Westbury grunted as he rearranged himself in his chair. "I dare say I am not up to being taxed at the dinner table. But you will do a wonderful job of hostess, my dear, as you always do."

Eleanor regarded her father who sat in his favorite chair in his study, closest to the fire, feet up, dog in his lap, with a finger of whisky and a good book. The picture he painted was inviting, she had to admit.

Yet she had a dinner to host. And now their numbers would be uneven and she wouldn't have someone to sit at the head of the table, which vexed her more than she could explain.

"Whatever am I to do about my seating arrangements?"

"There is no harm in my chair being empty. Or you can move Mr. Ambrose to my seat."

"No, that won't do at all."

Eleanor wrung her hands. All her careful plans were crumbling. Mr. Ambrose needed to sit next to Sarah to facilitate their falling in love. No couple had fallen for each other from across a dinner table.

"Well do what you want, my dear. All I require is my tray sent into me here while I warm my old bones by the fire."

Eleanor huffed and turned to retreat to the kitchen to check on the meal. It was less an hour before guests were due to arrive. Crossing the threshold, she came face to face with Mr. Ambrose, who stood in the doorway, a smirk on his handsome face.

"Oh! You surprised me. What are you about, lurking in the doorway?"

The smirk depended. "I dare say I just arrived and was waiting to be announced when your conversation drew to a close."

Eleanor glanced to the side, where their butler waited patiently to announce their guest. "Mr. Westbury and Mistress Westbury, may I present Mr. Ambrose." His tone was a bit drier than usual, and Eleanor admired his steadfast patience.

"Ah, Mr. Ambrose," her father bellowed. "Come in and have a drink with me before dinner."

Mr. Ambrose glanced between her and her father. "Surely, I shall. Miss Westbury, do you require any assistance?"

Her heart warmed at his kind offer. It was most unusual for a guest to offer assistance but Mr. Ambrose was a neighbor and a family friend. She shook her head no but before she could get the words out, her father interrupted.

"Surely she does. She is at a lack of a host to complement her most excellent hosting skills."

Mr. Ambrose nodded sagely. "Yes, I seem to have heard as much. I'm happy to step in to assist." He turned his attention on Eleanor. "Please arrange to move the place settings as necessary. I'll gladly sit in for your father this evening."

Eleanor fumed inside at her father's meddling. While well-intentioned, he didn't realize he'd just disrupted her carefully laid plans to match her best friend with Mr. Ambrose. The new seating arrangement would make it that much more difficult to demonstrate to them how well suited they would be for each other .

Too polite to disagree, Eleanor retreated to make the arrangements and to check on the meal preparations.

Before she knew it, her guests arrived and the drawing room was soon buzzing with lively conversation. Eleanor sat in her favorite chair, observing her friends. This was her most favorite part of any gathering—watching her guests enjoy themselves.

Miss White was seated on the settee with Mrs. Bridges, who was regaling her with tales of her dog's misadventures in a mud puddle. Mr. Ambrose stood at the fireplace, whisky in hand, overseeing the party. He looked as if he belonged at her hearth, as if he'd always had the role of host in her family home. Her heart twisted at the thought. She rarely entertained thoughts of marriage for herself as she knew her opportunity had come and gone. For a vulnerable moment, she imagined that she and Mr. Ambrose were married and hosting their neighbors as a couple. The picture sent a thrill through her, much like champagne bubbles popping.

That would not do at all. She glanced back to Miss White, who was still engaged in conversation with Mrs. Bridges. "And, then he tracked the mud all over my new rug!" Her friend seemed to be enjoying herself greatly.

Eleanor had an idea. "Oh, Mrs. Bridges," she called across the room. "That reminds me, I haven't shown you the new curtains in the morning room. May I show you?" She'd moved across the room to offer her arm before Mrs. Bridges could protest.

"Of course, my dear," she agreed and rose to accept the invitation.

"Wonderful. Mr. Ambrose would you be so kind as to keep Miss White company? I'd hate for her to be alone."

Mr. Ambrose raised a brow, but moved to sit next to Miss White. As he passed Eleanor, he muttered under his breath, "I dare say she is not alone in a room full of people."

He sat on the settee as far as possible from Miss White. "This weather is quite lovely, isn't it? I dare say I enjoy the unusual warmth we have been experiencing."

Which was another example of the universe conspiring against Eleanor's mission to join her two closest friends. How could she coax Mr. Ambrose in escorting Miss White on a walk if there wasn't snow or ice to stimulate his natural chivalry?

"Oh yes," Miss White agreed. "I have not fallen while walking yet this season."

Mrs. Bridges tapped her arm lightly. "I'm ready to see these curtains."

Eleanor sighed. She fervently hoped that Miss White would take this opportunity granted to her and make use of it. Her friend hadn't attempted to flirt and there was an unfortunate lack of simpering observed. A matchmaker's work was never done. She still had one last hope—the mistletoe she had hung in the doorway to the dining room. She would ask Mr. Ambrose to escort Miss White to dinner and then make comment of their proximity to the mistletoe. She was confident that Mr. Ambrose and Miss White could not be impervious to the romantic notion of a chaste kiss under the mistletoe.

"It is time for dinner," Eleanor announced. She waited until Mrs. Bridges and the other matrons entered, then asked "Mr. Ambrose would you be so kind as to escort Miss White into the dining room?"

Mr. Ambrose directed a look towards her that said he was very much becoming suspicious of her motives. He offered his arm to Miss White, while keeping his eyes pinned to Eleanor.

He then held out his free arm. "Miss Westbury, will you do me the honors?"

Eleanor stared him down, willing him to retract his ridiculous offer. She dared to shake her head subtlety in an attempt to dissuade him. He would not be distracted from his task, however, as his arm remained outstretched awaiting her to take it. The moment drew out and Eleanor was aware that the rest of the dinner party was watching them from the dining room. She had no choice but to submit to this ridiculous charade.

"Why thank you," she said, hoping that he interpreted the tone as she intended, which was that she hoped he'd spill wine on his favorite trousers to pay for this transgression.

She took his arm lightly, yet felt the current of electricity that passed between them at any glancing contact. She was immediately transported back to the autumn storm, where he loomed over her, foreboding and powerfully charismatic all at once. Her stomach danced with butterflies, a development she could most seriously do without.

They crossed the doorway to the dining room and just as Eleanor meant to pull away and remark upon the convenient location of the mistletoe, Miss White tripped and lunged forward. She grasped the back of an empty dining chair to stop her fall.

"Oh my, I'm quite clumsy," she remarked, clearly used to stumbling her way through life.

"Are you all right, Miss White?" Mr. Ambrose asked.

"Oh quite, thank you." She glanced at where Mr. Ambrose and Eleanor stood. "Oh my, you two are under the mistletoe!"

All heads turned to look and Eleanor paled. This evening was not going at all to plan. She moved to step away, yet found Mr. Ambrose's hand held hers firmly in place where it rested on his arm. His eyes were wide and dark, and he looked the way she imagined a deer would look immediately before a hunter released its bow.

"Mr. Ambrose, we should sit for dinner." Eleanor attempted to encourage the man who stood as still as a statue.

"Not yet," Mrs. Bridges cried. "It is bad luck to leave the mistletoe before a kiss."

Eleanor gasped. "Oh, that would be most improper."

Mrs. Bridges tutted. "On the cheek, my dear. Mr. Ambrose is a dear friend to your family. Surely a brotherly peck on the cheek is within propriety."

Eleanor was well and truly trapped in a situation of her own making. It was Miss White who was supposed to receive the demure kiss, not Eleanor. To her dismay, Miss White looked just as eager as the rest of the party to witness the tradition.

Eleanor glanced to Mr. Ambrose, eyes begging him to address this issue.

"Well, I suppose a brotherly peck would be in order," he said instead of putting a stop to this madness.

Before Eleanor could object, his face was moving much closer, his eyes narrowed to focus solely on her. His full lips loomed over hers for the briefest of moments. Enough that she could feel his breath ghost across her mouth before he turned his head to place a kiss on her cheek.

As promised, it was brief and chaste, yet Eleanor felt as if she'd been burned at the place where his lips had touched her skin. Mr. Ambrose led her to her seat, then pulled out the chair. She sat mindlessly and raised her hand to her face. She sat, dumbfounded as the conversation resumed around her. The group picked up their conversations where they left off, as if the world had not just tilted on its axis.

The brief kiss had been more contact than Eleanor had ever had with Mr. Ambrose, or any man besides her father. Yet it felt like nothing she'd ever experienced before. She felt nothing but care when she leaned in to kiss her father on his cheek. Mr. Ambrose's kiss set her aflame. Her entire body felt flushed and the high neck of her blouse was choking her. How did no one notice that she was about to erupt in a blaze?

Mr. Ambrose took his seat beside Eleanor at the head of the table and gazed across the table with a stern look on his face. He seemed completely unaffected by their exchange. He responded to an inquiry by Mrs. Bridges with his usual aloof calm.

There was no sign that Mr. Ambrose's world had just been turned upside down.