Christmas Eve
“You, my son, have been avoiding me.”
Lucas shrugged into the coat of black wool his valet held out and smiled affectionately at his mother as she crossed the threshold of his bedchamber. “Mother, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you look quite so beautiful as you do this evening.”
The Dowager Duchess of Bascomb smoothed the skirt of her deep blue lace-over-silk gown, clearly pleased by his comment. She made an elegant figure, sapphires and diamonds glittering at her throat and ears. “Lucas, you are so like your father—God rest his soul.”
Lucas acknowledged his dearly departed father with a respectful dip of his chin. “God rest his soul.”
The valet straightened the line of the coat across Lucas’s shoulders and awaited further instructions.
“That will be all, Meeks. Thank you.”
The aged servant bowed and exited the room noiselessly.
“Shall we?” Lucas asked his mother, offering his arm.
“As I said, so like your father,” the dowager duchess continued as though she’d never left off. “But you should know, a compliment will not stand between a determined woman and what she desires. Now, what news of Jane?”
Lucas escorted his mother out into the hall, where he found his sister-in-law, Matilda, and his two adorable nieces loitering.
He wasn’t fooled by their innocent expressions.
“Yes, Uncle Lucas, what news of Jane?” the seven-year-old twins parroted, mischief twinkling in their enormous green eyes.
Lucas narrowed his gaze at the dowager duchess. “Is this what it’s come to, then? I’m being waylaid outside my bedchamber by curious females?”
“Girls, do behave,” Matilda chided as she adjusted her deep aubergine sash. “If you seek news of Jane, perhaps you should ask Lord Needles.”
“Are any of you on my side?” Lucas asked with mock irritation, though the mention of Lady Pearson’s nephew had pricked his ire ever so slightly.
“Come now, son,” his mother said, gesturing for Matilda and the girls to lead the way down the marble stairs of Castle Bascomb. She held tight to Lucas’s arm as she took the first tread. “We are all on your side. But Lord Needles does present a threat, my dear. Juniper Hall is falling down about the Merriweathers’ ears and neither Alice nor her endearing, impractical husband can do a thing to stop it. A favorable marriage for Jane is all that stands between them and utter ruination.”
Lucas’s chest tightened at the very idea, flames of anger licking at his heart. “Merriweather should have acted some time ago—”
“The entire county would agree,” his mother interrupted, giving him a knowing look. “But there is no use laying blame now. Jane must marry. And if you do not swoop in and sweep her off her feet, it will be Lord Needles who does.”
Lucas hardly needed his mother to remind him. Ever since Jane had told him of Lord Needles he’d been thinking of nothing else.
“You needn’t remind me, Mother,” Lucas replied as the sound of merry voices in the salon reached his ears. “I’ve agreed to aid Jane in her pursuit of a husband. If Lord Needles does not sabotage himself with an ugly personality and face to match, then I will step in to ruin his chances.”
The dowager duchess stepped onto the marble foyer floor and paused to kiss Lucas on the cheek. “Devious, to be sure. But I approve. I only hope you aren’t too late. You must be brave, my boy.”
She released his arm and smoothed out her skirts once again. “Come along, there is no time to waste,” she commanded, then marched toward the salon as a colonel would approach an enemy lookout or mountain stronghold.
Lucas envied his mother’s confidence as he moved after her and considered her order. Be brave. He’d never before had to think upon such a directive. Courage came naturally to him—or at least it had before Jane’s inebriated declaration of love.
He reached the salon and paused to survey the room. The connecting doors between the formal drawing room, the blue salon, and the expansive music room had been pushed wide to create one long room. Beneath the glow from chandelier candles, the space gleamed with holiday decorations. His mother and sister-in-law had sent the servants out to cut pine boughs and then supervised the weaving of garlands. Scarlet ribbon wound through the greenery and fragrant swags draped the fireplace mantels, outlined windows, and nestled atop tables.
The dowager duchess and Matilda had also made good use of the greenhouses, and flowers in deep reds and glowing whites added their beauty and sweet scent to the mix.
The guests were clearly enjoying the gathering. The sound of their chatter was interspersed with laughter, and the crowd shifted in swirls of color as the ladies in their festive gowns moved amongst the more sober blue, black, and greens of the gentlemen’s attire.
Lucas accepted a glass of ratafia from a footman and stepped into the throng, eyeing the cheerful gathering for Jane.
Pirates in the straits. A tiger attack in the West Indies. Marauding bulls in India. The more dangerous, the better it had always been for Lucas.
But this wasn’t thrill-seeking. This was love. This was Jane.
He saw her near the fireplace, speaking with her mother. She wore a moss green muslin gown, the neckline accentuating her long, slim neck. Her blonde hair was gathered on top of her head, wisps of soft curls framing her face. The mellow light from the fire cast a subtle glow upon her fair skin and deepened the alluring rosy hue of her full lips.
Lucas wove his way through those gathered, smiling automatically at Jane’s endearing habit of using often wildly dramatic waves of her hands to underscore a point or illustrate a particularly thorny topic. From the looks of it, she and her mother appeared to be discussing something involving a tree. Or perhaps a church steeple.
Jane glanced up and her gaze met his, light dancing in her beautiful blue eyes. She ceased gesturing and captured Lucas with an utterly charming grin.
Why he’d never noticed its crooked tilt when they were young he could not say. But now it made his head buzz with anticipation in a way the ratafia never could.
He stopped directly in front of the two, noting the way the fire shone about Jane. Ethereal, if he wasn’t mistaken.
God, but he better get on with it. Sentimentality was sure to drown him otherwise.
“Lady Merriweather, I am thankful you braved the elements this evening,” Lucas said, taking the woman’s outstretched hand and kissing her fingers lightly. “It would not be Christmas without the Merriweathers.”
“You are your father’s son, Lucas,” Lady Merriweather replied distractedly.
Jane rolled her eyes, her expression both exasperated and affectionate. “What Mother means to say is, happy Christmas, Lucas.”
“That, too,” Lady Merriweather added, looking at Lucas and offering him a distracted smile. “Please forgive me. I am afraid my attention is rather divided this evening. And—”
Jane elbowed her mother in the ribs.
“Oh,” Lady Merriweather exclaimed, dragging her gaze from across the room to stare at Lucas as if seeing him for the first time. “Excuse me, won’t you? I must speak with Lady Pearson.”
The woman trundled off in the direction of the pianoforte before either Lucas or Jane could respond.
“Is she on pins and Needles, then?” Lucas joked, watching Lady Merriweather disappear into the cluster of ladies gathered near the harp in the music room.
“It’s awful, isn’t it? The name,” Jane asked, cringing as she did so. “Do you think it’s an omen of some kind?”
The temptation to fill Jane’s sometimes superstitious head with all sorts of truly disturbing ideas was overwhelming. He resisted, though. Jane needed to choose Lucas because she loved him—not because she had no other choice.
“Not at all,” Lucas assured her, nudging her shoulder with his. “It’s only a name.”
Jane turned to him, her eyes wide with uncertainty. “Only a name? Surely you remember Miss Dreary, my governess. And of course Mr. Root, who broke his neck—”
“When he fell into his root cellar,” Lucas finished for her. “Come now, Jane. You’re letting your imagination run wild.”
She shook her head to disagree, but stopped suddenly. “I am, aren’t I?”
Lucas grinned and chucked her under the chin. “Well, yes. It’s always been rather an adorable trait of yours. But hardly of use in this situation.”
Jane smiled shyly at him and leaned in. “Adorable?”
“Yes, Jane,” Lucas confirmed, fighting the desire to close the small gap between them. “Absolutely adorable. One can only assume Lord Needles will be able to see the same.”
Jane frowned and took a small step back, concern clouding her face. “Quite the opposite, I’m afraid. Mother told me he is a botanist and terribly serious. I doubt anything is adorable to a botanist.”
“Botanist?” Lucas repeated, certain he’d misheard her. “Are you sure?”
“Quite. Mother told me not five minutes before you arrived,” Jane replied, looking in the direction of where her mother had disappeared. “I’d mistaken a botanist for an arborist—trees and such. A silly mistake, flowers for trees. He’s also a widower, did I mention that?”
So she had been discussing trees with her mother earlier. Lucas knew her so well.
“A widower and a botanist?” Lucas answered, an unattractive sense of satisfaction blooming in his chest. No serious scientist with a dearly departed wife could keep up with Jane. “Interesting, Jane. He sounds as different from Lord McKee as a man could be.”
Jane returned her gaze to him, a wounded quality mingled with the brilliant blue. “Yes, let us hope so.”
For the first time in his life, Lucas felt clumsy. And nervous. And desperately impatient. He needed to tell Jane how he felt, as much for himself as for her.
“Jane, I wonder, might I speak to you in private?”
Insecurity and fear could take a bloody dip in the River Styx for all Lucas cared. He couldn’t wait any longer.
“Oh, oh!” Jane whispered urgently, batting at Lucas’s arm as she’d done since they were children. “There is Mother. And Lady Pearson. And that can only be—”
“Lord Needles.”
Bloody hell, but the man had to be the only handsome widower botanist in all of the empire. Lucas looked him up and down, noting, with some reluctance, the apparent lack of infirmities. Nary a hunch nor ghastly mole to be found.
“Oh,” Jane gasped, batting at Lucas once more. “He looks very much like you, only …”
“Different,” Lucas suggested, nearly gasping himself when the man smiled at Lady Pearson and revealed perfectly white, gleaming, straight teeth.
Jane could not abide bad teeth, this he knew.
“Yes, different,” Jane observed, mesmerized by Lord Needles’s toothy display. “Dark hair, dark eyes. Similar build. But there is something I cannot quite put my finger on.”
Lucas narrowed his eyes over the widower botanist and attempted to refrain from seething with irritation. “Let us keep it that way for now, Jane. No need for anyone’s fingers to go wandering. Not just yet.”