A Grosvernor Square Christmas Read online

  “Surely, there must be someone else,” Nigel said, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. “One of the other servants, perhaps.”

  Lucy shook her head. “The footmen are too big and the scullery boy is too small.” When the corner of her mouth quirked up, Nigel had the sneaking suspicion she was beginning to enjoy the absurdity of the situation. Lucy knew he disdained costume balls and masquerades as undignified romps and refused to step foot in them. “I know it’s a lot to ask, Nigel, my dear, but you are certainly the best candidate to replace Philbert.”

  Amelia was still clutching his sleeve, but now she brought her pleading gaze to bear on him as well. “Please, Mr. Dash, it would mean so much to the children. I would be enormously grateful if you would be so kind as to play the part of Father Christmas.”

  Her beautiful brown eyes, full of concern for her younger siblings, pleaded with him. Blast it, the young ones had probably been looking forward to the treat for days, and would be sorely disappointed if it failed to materialize. And he had a feeling Amelia had been looking forward to it too, if for no other reason than to see the excitement on the children’s faces.

  With a mental sigh, Nigel consigned his dashing new persona to the dust heap. Life, it would seem, had consigned him to play only one role—that of dependable old Nigel Dash, always ready to take on whatever necessary task fate and the ladies of the beau monde decreed for him.

  “Of course, Miss Easton,” he said. “I am only too happy to help.”

  Amelia smiled as she watched Nigel Dash make his rounds of the drawing room dressed as Father Christmas. He was truly the nicest man she’d ever met—nicer even than her dear Papa, an exemplary husband and father. But while Papa was prone to the occasional flash of impatience, Amelia had never seen Mr. Dash lose his manners or his cheerfully tolerant approach to life, no matter the provocation.

  True, there had been an uncharacteristic display of tooth and claw this evening when he’d ripped up at Lord Broadmore. Although merited, that the normally unflappable Nigel Dash had responded so sharply had surprised her, indeed.

  Equally surprising was his red waistcoat and the effusive compliments he’d bestowed upon her during their tete-a-tete. Amelia hadn’t known what to make of such unusual behavior. After some thought, she decided she approved of the waistcoat but found his attempted flirtation disconcerting. Mr. Dash never engaged in flattery or fulsome compliments. Instead, he always treated her with respect and thoughtful attention, as if she had more than simply a pretty face and a fortune to recommend her. In his company she could be herself, and not merely the target of fortune-hunting aristocrats and matchmaking mammas intent on catching one of the ton’s top matrimonial prizes.

  Fortunately, Mr. Dash’s strange behavior had been fleeting. Now, he was once more his genial self, taking to his holiday role with such good cheer that even the adults—especially the women—laughingly insisted he pay them as much mind as he did the children. Amelia didn’t blame the ladies one bit, not when Father Christmas was as kindly and attractive as Nigel Dash.

  And strange behavior or not, she’d been profoundly grateful when he rescued her from Lord Broadmore’s increasingly irksome company. Contemplating a future with his lordship—something she was now forced to do—was enough to make her want to throttle herself with swags of holiday greenery.

  No matter how hard she tried, Amelia couldn’t find the words she needed to tell Broadmore how she felt about him. She loathed sharp exchanges of any sort, a regrettable character flaw that hampered her ability to stand up for herself or push back when imposed upon by others. Amelia had received numerous compliments over the years about her biddable, sweet temperament but, ironically, that seemed far more a curse than a blessing. Her inability to simply say no meant too many evenings in the company of unwelcome suitors like Broadmore and endless rounds of social inanities when she’d rather be home reading a book and spending time with her family.

  But all that was nothing to the fatal lack of backbone which had caused her to accept not one but two proposals of marriage, and only six months apart. Both times, she’d known immediately that she’d made a mistake. She’d simply been ensnared by a reluctance to bruise her suitors’ feelings, because both men were quite decent and it wasn’t their fault she didn’t really wish to be married to them. It had taken her weeks to work up the courage to cry off, infuriating not only her erstwhile fiancés but both sets of parents as well.

  Those mistakes had led to her current predicament. Her mother and father, normally the most accommodating of parents, had all but ordered her to marry Lord Broadmore. Worried about her growing reputation as a jilt, her parents had decreed that she couldn’t afford to say no to the most eligible bachelor currently on the marriage mart. According to Mamma, Amelia should thank her lucky stars that Broadmore was willing to overlook the trail of salacious gossip she’d left in her wake. Amelia thought they were vastly overstating the problem, but her parents remained adamant.

  But Amelia just knew Broadmore would make a terrible husband. She didn’t doubt he found her attractive and he certainly liked her money. But he was arrogant, conceited, and, when it came down to it, simply not a kind person, unlike her previous fiancés who at least didn’t order her about or treat her with a disrespectful intimacy that made her skin creep with prickles.

  And certainly not like Nigel Dash, who right at this moment was playing Father Christmas to a gaggle of over-excited little ones with truly exemplary patience. She couldn’t imagine Lord Broadmore lowering himself to play with grubby children. Amelia could only lament that Papa would never let her marry someone as charming and decent as Mr. Dash.

  With her glass of champagne halfway to her lips, Amelia froze as everything went still inside her. She mentally circled the idea of Nigel Dash as her suitor, almost afraid to think too hard about it. But as each second ticked by, the thought began to ring in her mind with the clarity of church bells on Christmas morning, and it struck her how oddly familiar the notion felt. As if on some deep level she’d been thinking about it—about Nigel—that way for a long time. That must explain why she’d instinctively begun to look for him at every social event she attended, and why she always felt out-of-sorts whenever he failed to appear.

  Without her being aware of it until this very moment, it seemed she was more than halfway in love with the self-effacing but enormously attractive Nigel Dash.

  Amelia put her champagne glass down with a sigh. Papa would be livid if she rejected Lord Broadmore in favor of someone like Nigel. True, Nigel came from a genteel and well-regarded family, but he wasn’t a nobleman and, as far as she knew, his fortune was merely respectable and not nearly sizeable enough to win Papa’s approval. The situation had all the makings of another matrimonial disaster and she hadn’t a clue what to do about it. Nor, for that matter, did she know what Nigel would want to do about it, either. She thought he liked her very much, but a girl couldn’t be absolutely sure until a man came right out and said it, could she?

  The only thing she did know was that she could never marry Broadmore—especially not with her newly-discovered feelings for Nigel.

  Aunt Lucy, sitting beside her on the settee, glanced at Amelia. “Is something wrong, my dear? You just heaved a very mournful sigh and you’re looking quite flushed and bothered.”

  Amelia flashed her godmother an apologetic smile. “No, Aunt Lucy, I’m fine. Just a trifle, um, hot.”

  Her gaze drifted back to Nigel. He was crouched down, his green robe flared out in a dramatic sweep, as he spoke with little Ned Haythrop. Ned’s ancient spaniel had died only last week and, according to his grandmother, Lady Peterson, he’d been inconsolable. But Nigel got him smiling and soon drew a giggle from the boy with a joke about swallowing the bean in the Twelfth Night cake. Even Amelia’s sister, Penelope, who at fourteen considered herself too old for such things as holiday pantomimes, had clearly fallen victim to Nigel’s quiet charm.

  As had Amelia. She’d only been too stupid to
realize it until it bashed her over the head.

  Aunt Lucy looked at her skeptically but didn’t probe. Like Amelia, she turned to watch Nigel laughing with Ned and Lady Peterson.

  “He does make a splendid Father Christmas, doesn’t he?” her godmother said with approval. “Much better than Philbert. That man carried on as if he were about to submersed in a vat of flaming wassail. Just between us, I suspect his twisted ankle might be more imaginary than real. Philbert can be so dramatic.”

  Amelia blinked. One could characterize Philbert as rather mysterious, but dramatic?

  “Er, I’m sure you’re right, Aunt Lucy, and I agree about Mr. Dash. He’s a perfectly splendid, considerate man. He didn’t blink an eyelash when Lord Broadmore so rudely made fun of his costume.”

  She scowled at the memory of his lordship’s jeers when Nigel came into the drawing room dressed as Father Christmas, leading Thomas the footman who carried the large tray of treats. Amelia thought Nigel looked wonderful in the dark velvet robe. The ermine trim brought out the cobalt depths in his eyes and the mistletoe wreath looked positively kingly atop his thick brown hair. Amelia had helped him with the wreath, and when he’d bent down a bit so she could adjust the fit, she’d been tempted to stroke her fingers through his silky locks. She’d blushed madly when he straightened up and thanked her with a teasing smile.

  Aunt Lucy scowled with her. “I was tempted to box Broadmore’s ears. No man likes to be made a figure of fun, and Nigel is to be honored for taking on the role. The children would have been sorely disappointed if Father Christmas had been unable to make an appearance. It is entirely to Nigel’s credit that he stepped into the breach.”

  “I could tell Mr. Dash wasn’t very keen on the idea, at least at first,” Amelia said, a trifled worried that he might be annoyed with her. “I probably shouldn’t have pushed him, but I’ll be eternally grateful to him for his kindness.”

  Aunt Lucy gave Amelia what could only be described as a sly grin. “I’m sure your gratitude and approval are all the thanks he needs. In fact, I suspect Nigel would be willing to do a good deal for you, my dear.”

  Amelia felt hard-pressed to respond. Fortunately, she was spared the necessity when the object of their discussion joined them.

  “Well, that’s everyone,” Nigel said, “although we do have one extra basket. Perhaps I could interest you in taking it, Miss Easton. Surely you deserve a Christmas treat as well.”

  His eyes gleamed with a teasing light, and Amelia could feel her cheeks flushing hot. Having finally acknowledged her feelings for him, it was difficult to meet his gaze.

  “I think I’ve eaten too many treats already,” she said with a forced chuckle. “I’ve been terribly self-indulgent tonight.”

  “I cannot agree with you, Miss Easton. To my mind, you aren’t spoiled nearly enough.”

  His smile fueled her blush. Amelia suspected her cheeks were now as red as his waistcoat.

  “I am in complete agreement,” Aunt Lucy chimed in. “Amelia is always thinking of others, never of herself. But as much as she deserves additional treats, that extra basket is for her sister, Gwen.”

  “Ah, the youngest Easton,” Nigel said. “She didn’t join us tonight.”

  “She’s confined to the nursery with an earache, poor thing,” Amelia explained, “and she’s very sad to be missing all the fun.” She paused to watch Nigel gingerly extract the mistletoe wreath from his hair. “I know it’s a great deal to ask, Mr. Dash, but do you think…” She trailed off, hating to impose on him yet again.

  Nigel placed the crown back on his head with a rueful smile. “Why not? It’s not as if I could look any more of a fool that I already do.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on that,” Broadmore said, barging in to the conversation. “You’ve outdone yourself this time, Dash. Wait till everyone around town hears how you played the fool.”

  Aunt Lucy gave his lordship her most imperial glare as she rose. “I am vastly grateful to Mr. Dash for his generosity and kindness. His charitable spirit is certainly a great deal more admirable than yours, Lord Broadmore, and entirely in keeping with the holiday season.” She turned her back on him to speak with Thomas.

  In the face of that forceful snub, Broadmore could do nothing but silently fume. Nigel gave him a bland smile but saved a wink for Amelia.

  Choking back a laugh, she came to her feet. “I’ll escort you to the nursery, Mr. Dash. I promised to visit Gwen before her bedtime, and I know she’ll be thrilled to have a visit from Father Christmas.” She plucked the ornate basket of sweets from the footman’s tray. “I’ll take that, Thomas.”

  Broadmore looked thunderstruck. “Amelia, that’s a dashed irregular thing to be doing, scampering off with another man in the middle of a party. I can’t believe your mother would approve of such a thing.”

  As she slowly turned back around, Aunt Lucy’s features froze in a glacial stare. “Lord Broadmore, are you suggesting that my niece’s reputation is at risk while she is under my roof? I wonder what your grandmother, one of my dearest friends, would say to such an accusation.”

  Apparently nothing good since Broadmore flushed to the roots of his hair. While he blustered out a stuttering response, Nigel glanced at Amelia and nodded his head in the direction of the door. They quickly made their way into the hallway, leaving Broadmore to try to explain himself to his irate hostess.

  “That was a lucky escape, wasn’t it?” Nigel said. “I can almost feel sorry for the fellow for sticking his foot in it.”

  “I don’t feel sorry for Lord Broadmore at all,” Amelia huffed. “He’s been horrible all evening.”

  “Can’t disagree with you there. I say, do you need help with that basket, Miss Easton? I swear Lady Winterson stuffed ten pounds of sweetmeats into each one.”

  While Nigel helped her rearrange the contents of the basket, the door to the drawing room opened and Lord Broadmore came charging out. “Amelia, I must insist that you remain with me in the drawing room. You’re making a cake of yourself and I don’t like it one blasted bit.”

  Nigel’s eyes narrowed in warning as he took a step forward. Amelia shot out a hand to stop him. “I do not appreciate your tone of voice, my lord, nor your ungenerous implication,” she said. “I have my aunt’s approval. I certainly do not need yours.”

  Broadmore drew himself up to his full, outraged height. For once, Amelia didn’t care if she offended him. She was tired of his rudeness and resented his assumption that they were already engaged.

  “Amelia,” Broadmore said through clenched teeth, “I will not countenance this sort of behavior from the woman I expect to marry. Everyone will think you prefer Dash’s company to mine, which is bloody ridiculous. Even you can’t be that much of a birdwit.”

  Amelia sucked in a harsh breath, dumbfounded by the vile insult. She darted a quick glance at Nigel, expecting to find a seething male.

  Nigel’s blue eyes had gone so cold and flinty it made her shiver, but instead of ripping up at Broadmore he seemed to be waiting for her to respond. His eyebrows arched in polite inquiry as if to say to her, well, what are you going to do about that?

  It took Amelia a few moments to realize Nigel was deferring to her judgment instead of simply assuming the right to defend her regardless of her feelings.

  Good for you, dear Mr. Dash.

  She handed Nigel the sweets basket, then faced Broadmore. “My lord, I have had quite enough of your outrageously rude behavior. Rest assured that I will be escorting Mr. Dash upstairs to see my sister, and you are not to say another word about it.”

  Then, giving into an impulse that had been building within her for a long time, she jabbed Broadmore sharply in the chest with her index finger. “Please go back into the drawing room and do not dare to pass judgment on my behavior to anyone. In fact, if you say another word about this I will never speak to you again.”

  Then she whirled around, her anger propelling her like a cannonball up the staircase.

  Nigel caught up
to her outside the nursery. “Well done, Miss Easton.” It sounded like he was choking back laughter. “You routed the enemy with commendable aplomb.”

  Amelia let her forehead thunk against the thick oak panel of the door. Now that her anger was cooling, her display of temper mortified her. “You must think me completely mad, Mr. Dash. I apologize for acting so disgracefully.”

  When he leaned in to whisper in her ear, she shivered at the exhalation of his breath on her neck.

  “Actually, I thought you quite splendid, Miss Easton. I was hard-pressed not to give a resounding cheer.”

  She tilted her head sideways to look at him. His eyes, tender and amused, smiled back at her.

  “Shall we?” he asked. Reaching around her, he opened the door.

  Amelia took a deep breath to bring her nerves under control. It wouldn’t do for Gwen to see her so flustered.

  The spacious nursery also doubled as a playroom for visiting children. Aunt Lucy’s nieces and nephews were always welcome at No. 3, and she’d created a cheerful and cozy space for them to read, play with toys, or tuck themselves into the wide window alcoves and gaze out over Grosvenor Square.

  Excited to see them, Gwen bounced up on her bed. While Nigel went to greet her, Amelia asked the young housemaid in attendance to bring up a tea tray.

  “Oh, Amy,” Gwen exclaimed, “I was waiting forever for you and Father Christmas. I’ve missed all the fun and I’ve had to hold this wretched onion to my ear for the last half hour. I don’t think it’s helped the ache one bit.” She waved the offending object under Nigel’s nose.

  “Good Lord,” he said. “That’s ghastly. No child should be subjected to such hideous torture.”

  When Gwen giggled, Nigel wisely tapped the side of his nose. “I think it’s time to do away with it, don’t you agree, Miss Gwen?”

  “Yes!” She bounced on the bed again.

  “Someone is clearly feeling better,” Amelia said.