Lady Catherin'es Scandalous Christmas

Lady Catherine’s
Scandalous Christmas

A Short Christmas Story

MAGGI ANDERSEN

Copyright © 2014 by Maggi Andersen. Published by
Maggi Andersen. Cover design © 2014 by Victoria Vane of Romance
Cover Creations. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means
including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or
reviews—without permission in writing from the author/publisher.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or
are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or
dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Beginning

Middle

End

Author Bio

London,
1816

Lady Catherine Bellingham had never minded
spending time alone. But this Christmas, with her niece, Althea,
absent from London, the empty corridors of Catherine’s manor house
in Hampstead echoed under her feet. For some reason, she had been
restless since she’d returned from a sojourn on the Continent.

Catherine had long since come to terms with
the passing of her beloved husband. Bellingham had been a quiet
man, but tonight, his absence seemed to speak louder than his
presence ever did. Although she had never been blessed with
children, she had been fortunate enough to have a generous
companion who gave her respect and affection.

She paused at a Vermeer oil painting hanging
on the wall. Without giving it her full attention, Catherine knew
the picture to be a pleasant, domestic Dutch scene depicting a
contented woman going about her daily tasks. Marriage should bring
contentment. Her thoughts turned to her niece, Althea, trapped in a
bad marriage to Brookwood. Althea had looked so pale and wan of
late that Catherine had grown alarmed about her.

Like her niece, Catherine had entered into an
arranged marriage with an older man when she was barely out of the
schoolroom. If she was honest, she had never experienced true
passion with Bellingham, and now that she was in her forties, it
was unlikely to happen.

Thoroughly sick of her own company, she
fingered the silver-edged invitation that her dear friend Marina
had sent her.

“Please come to my Christmas ball, Catherine.
Tonight is for lovers of romance!”

“Lovers of romance.” She chuckled. Marina
always had a nice turn of phrase. Catherine hadn’t planned to go,
but Marina’s bright company would be most welcome. Lady Marina
Montague was a trifle outrageous, but her balls were enormously
popular. Even at this time of year when members of the
ton
retired to their country estates, her ballroom would be packed with
guests.

Catherine instructed Brigitte to lay out her
lavender silk gown and prepare her a bath. She would like to wear
the sapphires Bellingham had said matched her eyes, but they did
not complement this gown. She would wear her diamonds.

Stepping from the fragrant bathwater,
Catherine stood before the gilt mirror in her boudoir. Her body
remained trim and firm, but there were faint smile lines at the
corners of her eyes, and while she didn’t look old, neither did she
look like a girl. There was a maturity to her face now that she
rather liked.

Some hours later, after her carriage was
delayed in the heavy London traffic, Catherine arrived at the ball
to find it already in full swing. The dancers performed a country
dance as she entered the ballroom in search of her hostess. Maria
had created a lovely scene. A thousand candles flickered from every
corner and above in chandeliers. Huge urns of hothouse flowers
perfumed the smoky air, and wreaths of holly with scarlet berries
decorated the walls. A stately yew tree stood in a tub at one end
of the room, aglitter with tinsel, glass, and lit tapers, the
boughs heavy with dried fruit, nuts, and sweets.

Her hostess wore deep violet. As Catherine
had done, Marina had forgone her favored bright gowns, dressing
instead in mourning for Princess Charlotte, who had died a month
ago in childbirth. Maria greeted Catherine with an affectionate
smile. “I am so pleased you decided to come, Catherine. How very
well that gown suits you. Did you enjoy your travels in France? We
have missed your witty and spirited exchanges. So many dull people
in London this Season. What has happened to good conversation? Does
one have to travel to Paris to find it?”

“The years of war have repressed our spirits,
Maria. England will rally; you can’t keep the English people down
for long.” Catherine glanced around. Lord Liverpool, the Prime
Minister, stood with Lord Castlereagh and Lord Sidmouth. “And I see
you have little to complain about. There are many eloquent guests
here this evening.” Her gaze settled on another man in the group.
He wore his dark evening clothes well.

He turned and looked her way, and their eyes
met. She took a deep breath.

Marina raised delicate eyebrows. “Someone you
wish to meet?”

“I’ve heard interesting things about the new
member of Lord Liverpool’s government, Gerard Renton, Earl of
Berwick.”

Maria nodded. “A most interesting man. A
member of the rural landowning aristocracy. His country seat is
Berwick Hall in Yorkshire. A handsome fellow, is he not? He’s come
recently from the bar, and his reputation as an advocate precedes
him.”

Catherine’s gaze returned to him where he
stood at Liverpool’s elbow. His abundant dark-brown hair curled
over his broad brow. His strong jaw might have made him look
severe, but for his mouth, which was full-lipped and suggested
warmth and humor. “Is he married?”

Marina gave her an assessing look. “No, he
prefers to remain single for the moment, and many ladies in the
ballroom would like to try to change his mind. Shall I introduce
you?”

“Heavens, no.” Catherine looked away, but
could not deny she found him attractive. “Now, who is here
tonight?”

During the evening, Catherine chatted to
friends, danced, and sipped champagne. True to form, Marina had
delectable Christmas fare served on silver platters, and mulled
wine was offered, although in the close confines of the packed
ballroom, no one needed warming up tonight.

Returning from a quadrille, Catherine saw
Lord Berwick and Maria cross the floor toward her. After Marina
performed the introductions, she excused herself gracefully and
left them alone. Catherine hoped Marina hadn’t orchestrated this
meeting.

Her question was answered immediately.
Chocolate-brown eyes fringed with black lashes smiled into hers. “I
asked Lady Marina to introduce us. I believe the next dance is a
waltz. Would you care to dance, Lady Bellingham?”

At his husky baritone, her heart fluttered.
Silly as a young girl, she thought, admonishing herself. Lord
Berwick was years younger than she was. Up close, he was even more
attractive, his dark eyes flecked with amber and his smooth olive
skin stretched over high cheekbones.

“Delighted, my lord.” She took his arm and
they joined the dancers on the floor as the musicians began to play
Mozart.

“Have you enjoyed the evening?”

“Yes, I always enjoy Lady Marina’s
balls.”

“I intended to ask you to waltz from the
moment you walked into the ballroom, but I’ve been caught up.”

Catherine’s
pulse quickened, but she batted the comment away with a smile. “Do
you say that to all your dance partners, my lord?”

“Only you.”

“Why only me?” she asked with a quizzical
smile.

There was something lazily seductive in his
look. “Because you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

She had received fulsome compliments before
and generally mistrusted them. “Thank you, my lord, but there are
many lovely women here tonight.”

“None that can hold a candle to you,” he said
with quiet emphasis.

Politicians could sound so convincing, and
she didn’t believe it for one moment. But he was charming.
Catherine tried to remain indifferent to the warmth and strength of
his arms—and failed—as he swept her across the dance floor. She
hadn’t been blind to flirtation through the years of her marriage,
or since, but she had always resisted carrying things further.

Glancing up into his face, she searched his
warm eyes and found an intensity in his gaze, that she couldn’t
help responding to as desire flooded through her.

Determined not to let this become a
flirtation, Catherine employed the best way she’d discovered in the
past to dampen a man’s ardor. Most men, she’d found, were more than
delighted to talk about themselves. “You were at the bar until
recently, my lord. What made you decide to enter politics?”

“A need to do more for my country. It might
seem somewhat facile, but I assure you it’s the truth.”

“A noble thought, indeed. And you have chosen
a time when England needs you. The English people suffer hardship
after the years of war.”

“They do indeed. You’re a widow, I believe,
Lady Bellingham.”

“Yes, for some years.” She wondered if he’d
inquired about her.

“Many ladies remarry; why not you?”

He had adroitly turned the topic onto her. “I
haven’t met a man I wished to marry. I very much doubt I will.”

His gaze roamed over her. “Such a shame.”

“Not at all,” she said briskly, attempting to
ignore his raised brows and emphasis on the word “shame.” “I enjoy
my life. I am blessed with good health and a comfortable fortune.
And I love to travel.”

“Have you been to Yorkshire?”

“I have. A beautiful part of the
country.”

“We have our troubles in the North of England
too.”

“Yes, I’ve read in the broadsheets about how
unpopular the Corn Laws have become, raising the cost of grain and
stirring up resentment amongst the people.”

He nodded. “The price of bread is too high.
Many people go hungry and are desperately poor. The government is
under extreme pressure to act, or England could erupt in
anarchy.”

His strong hand was warm on the small of her
back. Odd how such a small gesture could remind her of the lack of
intimacy in her life. She liked to be touched. Catherine was tall,
but he was a head taller than she was, and graceful for a big man.
She gave herself up to the dance, breathing in the scent of fresh
linen and spicy soap and something else, indefinably masculine.

The music ended, and he escorted her from the
floor. “I should like to continue this conversation further. It’s
stuffy here in the ballroom, and so noisy. Would you care for a
breath of fresh air on the terrace?”

She agreed, hiding her surprise. There were
many politicians here tonight who were no doubt discussing matters
of great importance.

“It might be brisk outside. I’ll have a
footman get your wrap.”

“Thank you.”

Once Lord Berwick had placed her evening cape
over her shoulders, they walked out onto the terrace. A man and
woman were descending the steps to stroll the garden paths.

“Shall we?” He nodded toward the garden. “Or
is it too chilly?”

“Let’s,” she said, smiling, ignoring her
common sense, which was urging her to retreat inside. “It’s been a
mild winter to date, has it not? I’m not at all cold.”

Moonlight muted the well-tended gardens.
Braziers threw haloes of light over the sandstone path, and colored
lanterns hung from the trees in a fanciful display. When a
nightingale’s song trilled though the soft night air, Catherine
might have suspected she’d walked into a fairy tale if their
conversation hadn’t remained anchored in everyday matters. She
enjoyed his company and was pleased when he sought her opinion on
several issues and listened intently to her answers. Widows
sometimes became invisible in society, and it was pleasant to have
an intelligent man interested in what she had to say.

Intent on their discussion, they strolled on
through the purple shadows. Lord Berwick told an amusing anecdote
about the Prince of Wales that was a little risqué. They both
laughed. His shoulder brushed hers as he held a branch away from
her hair.

“Just a moment.” He turned her toward him,
and she held her breath. “You have white petals in your hair.” He
plucked them out. “The moonlight has painted your hair silver.
Perhaps I should have left them there; they make a perfect
adornment.”

“Petals would alert the guests as to where we
have been,” she said. “And may give the wrong impression.”

He raised his dark brows. “Should we
care?”

“It might be wise to.” She tried to read his
expression in the half dark. “We’d best turn back.”

“Not yet. It’s delightful here, isn’t
it?”

She breathed in the fragrant air. “Yes, it
is.” She didn’t want this special moment between them to end.