Amanda StoNeS
Historical Regency Romance Author
A Lady's Unexpected
Christmas Match
First Chapters
Prologue
Summer, 1810
Addy Fawcett barely managed to suppress a laugh as she focused on her target across the lawn, tightly clutching the slingshot she’d borrowed from James. He was none the wiser of course, just as oblivious as Alistair Dowden, the prig her brother called his best friend.
The two of them stood chatting together by the fountain in the garden of Fairfield Manor. They were evidently trying to hide from her, but they could try all they liked. She’d found them, and now, she’d enact her revenge.
And what better target than Alistair, with his priggish starched shirts and breeches, his perfectly coiffed hair, his spotless hose? A giggle rose in Addy’s throat as she crouched in the brambles, which provided the perfect concealment. She could be a soldier in the king’s guard—she was meant to, Addy was certain. She’d perfected her silent walk, and loved to blend in, especially when she needed to steal a biscuit from Cook, or spy on her brother and his misdoings.
She grasped the slingshot, lifting it and peering through the twin prongs to ensure she’d hit her target. And James thought she’d be a poor shot. No, she could shoot as well as any man. And she’d prove it now. Biting her lip, she closed one eye, holding her breath as she took aim. The cherry lodged in the sling would make the perfectly round. And what pleasure it would give her to see priggish Alistair Dowden with a blood-red stain upon his crisp white shirtfront. His mama would have fit.
Addy released the slingshot and watched, delighted as it sailed through the air and hit its mark. Alistair let out a cry of dismay and whirled towards her, his blue eyes flashing into her brown ones. Oh heavens, he’s seen me!
“Addy!” he roared. “You little—you little hellion!”
Addy shot to her feet, heart pounding. She’d not been as well-hidden as she hoped. She needed to run, fast.
Luckily, she was the fastest girl in the countryside. She leapt to her feet and sprinted across the lawn, hoping to reach the main path leading back to the house and find a good hiding spot. But Alistair caught up to her in no time at all. Of course, he had the advantage of long, grasshopper-like legs. And it didn’t help that her foot caught on a root in the grass and she toppled to the ground.
“James, you ought to control your sister,” Alistair shouted over his shoulder, looming over her.
James’ laughter floated to them across the lawn. “You know as well as I do that to do so would be an impossibility.”
Alistair had never looked so angry before, though the sternness written across his features was nothing new. He always looked so stern and serious. Stiff. His face was as red as the cherry juice on his clothes.
Addy could not stifle the explosion of laughter that tore from her throat as she stared at the vivid cherry juice that stained his shirtfront.
“When will you learn to behave like a proper young lady, Adelaide?” he demanded, glaring. His words stung her, though she’d die before she let him see that.
“I shall do so when you learn how to stop being a stuffy old bore.” She lifted her chin defiantly and watched as Alistair’s face darkened.
“If by old you mean mature, then I will not argue that. There is nothing dull about wisdom,” he told her, narrowing his eyes.
“Ha!” Addy rolled her eyes, scrambling to her feet. “An old history book would be more riveting than you.”
Something like hurt flashed across Alistair’s eyes, and for a moment, Addy wondered if she’d gone too far. But then, his lip curled into a sneer. “At least I’m more refined than a stable hand. I couldn’t say the same for you.”
Addy’s mouth fell open and she balled her hands into fists. Yes, that was it. Tonight, she’d leave some cherries on his seat at dinner and watch as he sat on them. With relish.
But before she could voice this threat, James stepped behind Alistair, clamping a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t pay her any mind. She’s but a silly little goose. And stop tormenting our guest, Addy. Or Mother will be sure to hear of it.”
“You wouldn’t!” Addy shrieked.
“If you continue to torment Alistair, then perhaps I will.”
“He makes it so wonderfully easy,” Addy muttered, folding her arms and glaring at the both of them.
Alistair began to fuss over the growing stain on his starched shirt. “I pity the gentleman who will be forced to tame you, Adelaide Fawcett.”
Addy’s heart began to pound, anger rushing through her veins. She was probably red now as well. She couldn’t help but shout. “And I pity the lady who must endure your company.” Alistair’s eyes went wide at her outburst and James flashed her an exasperated look.
“Come, you can change into one of my shirts,” he told Alistair.
As they together started walking towards the large double doors that led from the gardens into Fairfield Manor, Addy stared after them, her vision blurring with unbidden tears. She could leave some cherries on his seat at dinner, but then Mother would be furious with her. At least she’d succeeded in today’s ambush.
Yet…why wasn’t it giving her the rush of triumph she’d hoped for? She’d forced that stuffy Alistair to notice her, after all. She ought to be rejoicing, but instead, she couldn’t shake the sense of regret that gnawed in the pit of her stomach. He’d certainly noticed her, but his words echoed through her head in a constant stream. I pity the gentleman who will be forced to tame you, Adelaide Fawcett.
She straightened her shoulders, clenching her jaw. Nobody shall ever tame me, Alistair Dowden. Least of all, someone like you. No matter how lovely your blue eyes are, or how handsome your absurd face is.
Chapter 1
1818
Fairfield Manor
Addy was flying. Yes, flying. At least, it seemed like that each and every time she rode her beloved Ares, the most beautiful horse east of London. Father would have a conniption, but Adelaide released her reins and stretched out her arms, closing her eyes. She trusted Ares wholeheartedly, that she would guide her across the meadows on hooves that scarcely touched the ground, that she would be perfectly safe without keeping hold of the reins.
And now, Addy soared. At least, she pretended she was. Like the sparrows across the sky overhead, like the falcons swooping over a glassy sea.
Her lungs seemed as though they might burst with exhilaration, her heart thudding heavy in her ears, as she relished the way the wind rushed through her dark curly hair. The cold air stung her face, but she didn’t mind.
At last, she opened her eyes as Ares slowed, tossing his head, silky chestnut-brown mane flowing out. A more majestic horse didn’t exist.
Ares’ sides heaved as he slowed to a trot across the remainder of the meadow, and Addy lifted her eyes to the treetops, over which a plume of smoke rose from Fairfield Manor’s chimneys.
She didn’t want to exhaust Ares though. Slipping out early this morning, she had gone for a ride before Mother awoke and tried to intervene—or, at the very least, insist she ride side-saddle. Mother would likely be displeased that Addy had been out riding for so long. It was a wonder she hadn’t sent a servant to fetch her. Addy, however, usually chose different routes to avoid just that.
She stroked Ares’ lathered side, murmuring to him that he was the best horse in all of England. She told him this after every ride, for he was in fact the best. She believed it wholeheartedly.
Addy guided him down the woodland path towards Fairfield Manor until she at last reached the clearing where the Fawcett plot began. Guiding Ares to the stable, she dismounted and began to unsaddle him, handing the bridle, reins and saddle to a stable hand before starting to brush him down. He drank water and munched on oats as Addy ran the brush over his sweaty coat.
This had to be one of her favourite parts of the day, a moment of calm before returning to her mother, to the crush of societal expectations that some days made Addy feel as though she were being smothered.
A stable handled Ares back to his stall, with promises to Addy that he’d feed the horse several apples as a treat. And just like that, her favourite time of the day ended. Addy paused at the pond in the gardens to check her appearance.
She wasn’t surprised to see how much of a mess her curly hair had become, and with a small sigh, she realised that someone in the family was bound to see her. After all, the house had to be up by now. She took pains to comb her fingers through her hair to somehow tame her hair. Her cheeks needed no pinching, rosy from the biting air. It would just have to do. She straightened and turned. Her heart dropped when she spotted the familiar figure of her mother on the terrace, obviously watching her, a frown creasing her forehead.
Addy sighed and hurried across the lawn to the stone steps. Mother was a sight to behold, certainly. Her displeasure was carved across her features indisputably, and she did not return the sheepish smile Addy gave.
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Lady Fairfield made an exasperated sound. “Adelaide, I do not know what I am meant to do with you. God,” she raised her eyes to the heavens, “Grant me the patience to manage this daughter you’ve given me.”
Addy sailed forward, but her mother snatched her wrist before she could slip indoors. “Your hair is a horror, Adelaide.” She still refused to call her Addy. Even after all these years. No matter if Addy hated her given name. It was so pretentious.
“Good morning, Mother,” she called over her shoulder, rolling her eyes to the ceiling.
“Why was I granted such a daughter,” Mother whispered, loudly. She’d wanted Addy to hear that. They hurried into the drawing room as Mother droned on. “You’ve been neglecting your embroidery and pianoforte abominably. Why on earth did your father purchase a pianoforte if you never meant to use it.”
“I did not ask for it,” Addy replied, flinging herself upon the sofa. “And Ares needed his daily exercise.”
Mother held up a finger, wagging it. “I never said that you were not to ride. I simply cannot abide how you do so without a thought for appearances.”
“Are you distressing our mother again, Addy?” James’ voice rang out just then, and distracted Mother from her lecture, thankfully. James and Father entered the drawing room, James casting Addy a critical look that she didn’t miss.
“She is distressing herself.” Addy sat up, combing her fingers through her unruly hair.
“Myself!” Mother’s eyes went wide, her voice pitching up shrilly. “Says the young woman who cares nothing for the nerves of her mother and father.”
James and Father exchanged glances, as if to say, “Ah! Here we go again!”
“May!” Mother called for their housekeeper. “Tea!”
Addy stared out the window gloomily. Perhaps she should have just kept riding and never returned.
“Richard writes that Agatha has requested to rent their neighborhood staff for their Christmas party this year. I’m afraid they’re going to outdo themselves,” Father declared, packing snuff into his pipe by the mantle.
“You know Agatha. She is most eager to see her Eloise married. The poor girl is as shy as a mouse.” Mother cast Addy a pointed look. “But at least she does not shame her family by flying about the countryside like some sort of barbarian on horseback.”
“Ares needed to be exercised,” Addy retorted, leaping off the settee. She walked over to the window to stare out at the lawn. A storm threatened, the sky overhead heavy with rain—or snow. She hoped for snow. Perhaps she could convince James to have a snow fight with her, like in old times. Though it would send Mother into a conniption.
“You know, your aunt writes that she has someone who she thinks would suit you very well Adelaide,” Mother called to her as she rose to fetch her embroidery hoop.
Addy grimaced at the window pane. “Oh, joy.”
“There is no need for that sardonic tone, my dear. You are twenty years of age, and it is high time you settle down with a respectable gentleman and begin a family of your own. You are in great danger of becoming a spinster, I fear.”
Addy stiffened. Her mother would never let a year go by without warning her of the horrors of spinsterhood. She tried to ignore these remonstrances, but all the same, her chest tightened with apprehension.
But she would not marry simply for the sake of marrying. It would be an affront to everything, to her ideals, and the deep-seated resolve to marry for nothing less than love. To marry for anything else would be a horror.
“Addy,” Father’s gentle voice caught her attention, and some of her irritation melted. “Your aunt tells me that the young man in question is a remarkable fellow. She is certain that the two of you may enjoy one another’s company greatly. He is a great rider, I’ve heard.”
He’s just trying to placate me. He does detest when Mother and I quarrel.
She cast him a weak smile, before turning back to watch a pair of sparrows soar through the sky, twirling about each other midair before plummeting ground-ward.
It was exhilarating to watch, and for a moment, she imagined herself and a young man riding together, soaring across fields and heather in tandem. To find someone who matched her heart, who shared her love of adventure…that would be a wonder beyond words.
“I believe his name is Lord Sebastian Badley. Agatha declares in her letter that he is a most remarkable fellow, and seeks to make a name for himself in London, in Parliament.”
“Parliament?” Addy raised an eyebrow, watching as the sparrows vanished into the forest. A politician? She tried to picture what it would mean, to be wed to a politician. Perhaps exciting, exhilarating.
If he enjoyed travel, then even better. But she wouldn’t give Mother the satisfaction of interest in Aunt Agatha’s matchmaking schemes. She’d tried before, twice, with the blandest men in all of England. And as much as she detested bringing Father any pain or worry, she would not let herself be entrapped in marriage for anything less than love.
“Well,” James rose, joining his father at the fireplace. “I pity whoever is brave enough to marry our Adelaide. She is a force to be reckoned with.”
Mother huffed out a laugh at that, and Addy turned to shoot her brother a glare. He grinned at her, affection in his gaze, and she fought a grin of her own. Somehow, she could never stay cross with him, despite his teasing. “This Badley will never know a moment’s peace with Addy as his bride.”
“I could say the same about the young lady who wins your affections,” she retorted, leaving the window to return to the settee.
But that evening, she was restless and considered sneaking out to the stable to go on another ride in the icy moonlight. She would catch her death if she did and send Mother into a fit. So she stayed put in her bedroom, wearing invisible trails into her floor as she paced back and forth before the blazing fire in her hearth.
Perhaps, she could convince Father to give her a year to travel, just as he’d given James. Of course, when she’d asked before, Mother had convinced Father to decline the request. “When she is wed, her husband may take her travelling anywhere she likes. But we would merely be rewarding her for her tomfoolery.”
Perhaps this Lord Badley enjoyed travel as much as Addy did. She would find out soon enough.
At last weary, she sank down into the armchair in front of her bedroom’s fireplace, just as the door flew open and her maid, Gemma, hastened. On her heels, Cushing, one of the footmen, carried Addy’s trunk.
After Cushing set down the trunk for Gemma, the young maid began to go through her wardrobe to begin packing for the annual trip to Aunt Agatha and Uncle Richard’s for their famous Christmas party. They were about half a day away by carriage.
Addy roused from her chair and crossed the room to perch on the edge of the bed, watching as Gemma chose dresses likely selected by Mother. She watched glumly, leaning her head against the bedpost.
Mother had chosen all of Addy’s most fetching gowns, notably her red silk that complemented Addy’s dark hair and eyes, as well as her rosy cheeks. “Did Mother say when we would be leaving?” she inquired of Gemma.
“Tomorrow morning, ma’am,” Gemma replied, eyeing her with a touch of sympathy. She was no stranger to Addy’s grievances or her conflict with her mother.
Someone knocked on the bedroom door and Gemma hurried over to open it. James strolled in, sipping a glass of brandy. “Well, sister. Are you ready to be endlessly paraded before eligible bachelors
by our aunt?”
Addy flopped back onto her bed with a loud sigh. “I do hope you know that you are not safe from Aunt Agatha’s machinations.”
“You know, one thing I have learned in my five and twenty years is that sometimes, the path of least resistance is simple compliance. Humor our mother and aunt, and they’ll leave you be. The more you baulk, the more they’ll push.”
“Ah, what a grand fortune it is to be granted a sage for a brother.”
“Sneer all you like. But I’ve found it’s a proverb to live by, Addy. Let them think they’re having their way, and you won’t be under scrutiny.”
“You wouldn’t understand what it’s like,” Addy told him, sitting up and folding her arms. “You are a man. You have the freedom, the luxury of waiting ‘till your five and thirty to wed, and nobody will bat an eye. But should I do the same, I will be declared a spinster, and be shunned by all of society.”
“It is wonderful to see that you have not lost your flair of dramatics.” James sat next to her on the edge of the bed, ignoring her scoff.
“It is true!” she cried, as Gemma continued to pack in silence behind them. “Scorn by society is always weighing over me, should I decide not to wed. I will be labeled all sorts of things if I choose to not take a husband. And—and it is not that I don’t want to marry. I am merely certain that there is hardly any chance I will meet a gentleman of the right estate and title who will also be my soul’s match.”
“Ah, I see you’ve been indulging in those novels again. They fill young ladies’ heads with notions of passion, mysterious strangers, and forbidden love in dark castles on windswept moors.
“You sound precisely like Vicar Moreland,” Addy sniffed. “And no, I am not so foolish as to imagine that love and marriage ought to be like something out of a novel.” Under her breath, she couldn’t help but add, “Though, it wouldn’t be such a dreadful thing.”
“Ah! I knew it! You’ve got this notion that you are meant to find your true love in some monastery.”
“I knew you took my copy of The Monk,” Addy cried, leaping to her feet.
“Of course I didn’t,” James retorted, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
“You did! And you left it out in plain sight, and Mother burned it in the hearth the moment she discovered it.”
“Fine. I did borrow it. Several fellows at Oxford were speaking of it, and I was…I was intrigued.”
There was another knock on the door, and Mother poked her head in. “Children, we depart for Worthington Manor bright and early tomorrow morn. At half past eight. Do not oversleep.”
“We shan’t, Mother,” James called sweetly.
Addy flopped back again onto the goose-feather mattress, closing her eyes and groaning. Dread cinched tight in her chest.
Chapter 2
Dowden Manor
Alistair Dowden pressed his aching head into his palm as he studied the estate ledgers. Running his finger down the page, he calculated in his head the amount it cost to pay the staff at Dowden Manor. A hefty sum, though necessary. Next line…he ran his forefinger down the page, before reaching over to bring the taper a little closer to the book. It was already well past nightfall, and he had no idea how long he’d been in here, poring over these pages. But if he didn’t do it, who would? And he couldn’t let Dowden Manor fall into disarray.
Tomorrow, he’d have a word with his father’s estate manager, and ask him if anything could be done to reduce expenses. If he hoped to keep Dowden Manor in good standing, he would need to focus on keeping a close eye on these ledgers.
Perhaps it was excessive, to take such measures, but Alistair would not forgive himself if the estate came to ruin on account of his own lack of care. He would not live in the shadow of a legacy clouded by unmet expectations. And the thought of Father, watching him fail…it turned Alistair’s stomach.
A light knock on the door pulled his attention from the book in front of him, to find his mother, Rosalind, hovering in the doorway, her slate-blue eyes filled with concern. “Have you slept at all, my dear?” she inquired, advancing across the room to stand beside his desk.
“Not yet, Mamma,” he replied, managing a slight smile.
“You will make yourself ill,” she sighed, shaking her head.
“Someone needs to tend to these ledgers.” Alistair leaned back in his chair as his mother patted his shoulder. “But I’ll end for the night soon. What time is it?”
“Nearly midnight,” Rosalind murmured. “What did I do to deserve such a son as you?” she caressed his cheek gently, shaking her head. “You must know your father would be most proud of you.”
Alistair let out a humorless laugh. “Our villagers turned a smaller crop this year than last. The ledgers say it all.” He tossed his quill down on the book, rubbing the bridge of his nose again, before removing his spectacles and placing them on the desk. If he kept up nights like this, he’d need to wear them all the time.
“We are to leave for Worthington Manor in but a few days’ time. Do you think you can tear yourself away from all of this for Lord and Lady Worthington’s Christmas party?”
Alistair swallowed down a groan at the sight of his mother’s hopeful expression. She’d been looking forward to this party for the past several months since receiving the invitation back in October. She’d been especially lonely as of late since Belinda married and moved several counties over. Her spirits had been low over the past few months, and he despised the idea of disappointing her.
She could scarcely keep the excitement from her tone. He took a deep breath and nodded.
“But of course, Mother. I wouldn’t think of missing it,” he told her.
She beamed, clasping her hand and pecking him on the cheek. “I shall tell Carson to set about packing your trunk then. And I have a special something for you. Consider it an early Christmas present.”
Alistair made a show of flipping through the ledgers. “I suppose I should make a line in here for Christmas presents, then.”
Rosalind laughed, shaking her head. “Don’t worry, you shall be able to make good use of it in a few days’ time. I will have it packed away in your trunk.”
He picked up his quill to resume his work, but Rosalind brought him up short when she said, “Do you remember the Fawcetts? You were very good friends with their boy—James? They will be in attendance at the party, I am told. They are relations of the Worthingtons.”
Alistair’s smile flagged, but he could not be faulted for it. Truly.
In his mind’s eye, he glimpsed a younger version of himself, in the gardens at Fairfield estate. And Adelaide stood before him, hands on her hips, her dark curls untamed, her eyes flashing. Her eyes had always flashed, with defiance, with fury, with something wild that always lurked just beneath the surface.
They’d always been arguing about something, but in this particular memory, he recalled how they’d been quarreling about whether it was better to maintain decorum, or to freely speak one’s mind. Of course, Adelaide had declared she should be able to speak freely if it was called for, never mind decorum. Alistair might have conceded if it weren’t for the fact that it was Adelaide espousing this position. Her mocking voice had needled him, and his irritation flared. There was no chance he’d concede to her.
And of course, there was James, trying to keep the peace. He’d always sought to intervene when Alistair and Adelaide—Addy—quarreled about this and that. And yes, they’d always been going at it. Of course, he’d valued his friendship with James, but Adelaide had always seemed intent upon tormenting him, getting a rise out of him. She usually succeeded, if he were to be honest.
But that was years ago. He’d been a boy, she’d been a girl. He hoped she had given up being such a disruptive young lady, but he doubted it. It was as ingrained in her nature as was his tendency for…priggishness. She’d loved calling him a prig, he recalled. Just the memory stirred renewed irritation towards her.
“Ah, well, it will be quite nice to see James again.” I can hardly say the same about that sister of his.
“Speaking of the party,” Rosalind’s expression into something almost sheepish. “The Ashworths shall be in attendance as well.”
“The Ashworths?” Alistair nearly sighed but swallowed it at his mother’s eager expression.
“That Cordelia Ashworth is a delightful girl. Do you remember her? We met them in town this summer.”
“Ah. Indeed, I do recall.” Though, he truly didn’t—at least not much. The last several months blurred together. Is it really December already?
“She is a beauty, and quite accomplished. Her parents, the Baron and Baroness of Ashford, are highly admired in society.”
Alistair kept his smile pasted on, twisting his quill between his fingers as apprehension sent his stomach churning. Rosalind had only somewhat subtly persisted in bringing up Cordelia Ashworth in conversation since they’d first met her in the summer. She might be a sweet girl, but he could not say he was particularly intrigued or attracted. And now, his mother hoped to play the matchmaker between him and the girl.
Of course, Cordelia was everything a young lady ought to be. Decorous, modest, gentle. Yet…something lacked. It was not her fault whatsoever, but his own. He told himself it was simply the strain of managing the estate—how Father managed it all those years so effortlessly was beyond him.
Rosalind pecked a kiss on his cheek and hurried out, reminding him over her shoulder to get some rest.
Alistair did sleep, eventually. But at his desk. When he woke, he was stiff and groaned as he rose and stretched before walking over to the commode and splashing water into the porcelain bowl. Early morning sunlight glowed into the study.
He washed his face and gazed out the window as a falcon soared across the pale sky, and he caught his breath. A ride would do him good this morning, or at the very least, he would welcome the solace he found in tending his stallion, Apollo.
After drying his face, he slipped out of the study, the entirety of Dowden Manor quiet, still. But faintly, he could hear the servants stirring downstairs in the kitchens.
He strode out a side door that opened upon a path leading to the stables and could not help but sigh with relief as he reached them. He entered Apollo’s stall and began to brush him, stroking the beast’s neck and giving its muzzle a pat. Pulling an apple from his pocket, he let Apollo eat it from his palm and tried to forget the pressures of running his father’s legacy. It was easier said than done, of course.
“What do you say to a ride about the country,” he murmured to Apollo.
Instead of calling one of the hands, he saddled the horse himself, sliding on the bridle and securing the girth-strap. Then, he was ready for a ride. But the morning was bitterly cold, the chill biting deeper now that December had settled in. He sent a hand in for his coat as he finished up readying Apollo, his face stinging from the winter chill.
Once he’d received his coat and donned it, he pulled himself up into the saddle and set off on his ride through the frost-covered heather. The rising sunlight set everything a-sparkle, and he caught his breath as he took in the beauty of it all. A guilty thought stole through his mind—what he wouldn’t give for a chance to steal away from the duty of running the estate, just for a time—just for a chance to travel, perhaps. See the Alps or Mont Blanc. Or he could visit Spain, even. He would welcome the reprieve.
Heaving a sigh, he chastised himself inwardly. Even if the opportunity did present itself, he could not in good conscience simply abandon his duty to his father’s estate. Duty, after all, was his father’s motto, if mottos could be but one word. It was something he’d instilled in Alistair’s very being, that one’s duty was paramount to all else.
Patting Apollo’s neck, he urged the horse into a canter down the dirt road and off onto a quieter side road that wound through the countryside. It was lined by poplars and beeches, and it was wonderful to escape the confines of the office, stretch his muscles and feel the wind against his face.
These rides alone were his solace. Guilt pricked in him again as he gave Apollo a tap against his sides to urge him on faster. At last, he reached his favourite place, a giant oak that spread its boughs far and wide on a slight crest. He was afforded a good look at the country, at his father’s land, from the Dowdenshire village to the manor itself.
Once he tied Apollo’s reins to a low-hanging branch, he walked to the tree trunk and leaned against it, pulling his pipe from his pocket and lighting it. The plume of smoke lit in the silver-and-gold light of dawn, and he exhaled it in a long breath, grateful for the tobacco’s calming effect.
If he had to name his vices, he would say smoking his pipe, and perhaps his inflexibility. He did not need Adelaide Fawcett to point the latter out, certainly. He was more than aware of it. Would he be so fortunate to endure her cutting mockery this Christmas? He prayed not. Perhaps she would be wed by now, off gallivanting with her husband, and he could enjoy a peaceful holiday, catching up with James and reminiscing about old times.
Alistair drew again on his pipe, closing his eyes as the tobacco smoke burned through his lungs. Of course, there would be Cordelia Ashworth. There was no doubt that Rosalind Dowden would attempt to pair him with the girl. And who knew how many other matrons would attempt to foist their daughters upon him?
Another memory flickered through his head, of his visit years ago to Fairfield, the country parties, the cricket games on the lawn. Adelaide’s cutting wit might tickle other gentlemen, but for whatever reason, she’d always counted Alistair as her special target.
Grimacing, he snuffed out his pipe and pushed it into his pocket, grasping Apollo’s reins to remount him. Giving him a light nudge, he urged the horse into a gallop and flew across the meadow. On his way back to Dowden Manor, he rode through the village, with its bustling inhabitants already stirring for the day.
From the rectory to the pub, everything was under his management, and it pleased him to see the townspeople of Dowdenshire flourishing, despite the poor crops this year. Children raced each other about the streets, and many waved to him, greeting him blithely.
Already, wreaths and ribbons decorated the village, lending a festive air to the place, and carolers stood before the church, warbling merrily like a flock of songbirds. The vicar and his wife greeted Alistair as he rode into the churchyard.
“Well, well, if it isn’t our young Lord Dowden,” said Vicar Kent with a smile, lifting his hat for Alistair.
“We hear from your mother that you are departing for Christmas. For Worthington Manor. Their Christmas parties are quite illustrious, so I’ve heard,” Mrs. Kent remarked.
“Indeed. My mother is most eager to attend.”
“Mayhap we shall hear of a new Lady Dowden when the new year comes around?” Mrs. Kent beamed.
“Mayhap,” Alistair forced a grin, and Vicar Kent let out a hearty chuckle, slapping Alistair’s leg so hard he nearly winced.
Wheezing, the portly vicar shook his head. “No doubt of it! You are a capital young man, exactly like your father. The very spitting image, isn’t that so, my dear?”
“Oh, without question,” Mrs. Kent clasped her hands. “The very likeness of the late Lord of Dowdenshire.”
“When do you and your mother depart?” Vicar Kent inquired.
“In two days’ time. We shall be away but a fortnight. Upon our return, it would please my mother and me greatly to host you both for dinner at Dowden Manor in the new year.”
“But certainly,” Mrs. Kent cried. “We should be delighted.”
Alistair tipped his hat to them and rode on, up the winding road back towards Dowden Manor. He would endure this party and the solicitations by his mother and likely the other mothers and aunts and busybodies who would endeavour to match him with a prospective bride. He would endure it, if only to bring a smile back to his mother’s face.