Page 1 of The Christmas Ball
CHAPTER ONE
Planning a grand party at Dovington Hall was the easy part, Lady Viola Harrington thought as she finished penning the last of over a dozen invitations. Seeing her brother, Theodore, come out of it with an excellent match, well…
She straightened from her writing desk and shook out her hand, which was cramped from an afternoon spent making out the invites. The small fire burned merrily in the hearth and she caught a whiff of sweet ginger in the air. Mena must be overseeing another batch of gingerbread—or rather, parkin cake, as the traditional Yorkshire version was called.
Her sister-in-law was famous for her recipe, and justly so. Indeed, it was that parkin cake that had made Viola’s brother, the Duke of Beckford, fall in love with his new wife.
Viola laughed softly to herself. Of course, there was far more to it than that—including a clever bit of matchmaking on her part, if she did say so herself—and now Mena and Drew had been married the better part of a year. He’d proposed last Christmas, which only firmed Viola’s resolve that her younger brother ought to be wed, too.
And she was just the person to see to it.
Heavens knew, their mother was inattentive at best, paying little heed to her offspring’s futures. The dowager duchess had only ever meddled once, pushing Viola to make a fool of herself over a gentleman whom, it transpired, hadnotreturned her youthful affections. On the contrary, he’d thought her an idiotically smitten child, and had said as much to her face.
Shoving the still-bitter memory aside, she rose and went to the window. She’d hoped the dark afternoon clouds might bring a bit of snow, but alas. Cold rain drizzled over the sleeping gardens and curved terrace, slicked the many windows of Dovington Hall, and generally made Christmas seem very far away, indeed.
The time would fly, however. She must see the invitations dispatched, and then begin planning in earnest for the festivities. Her brother Theodore Harrington, Viscount Thornton, was a catch, and she’d no doubt the guests would respond in the affirmative.
A knock came at her bedroom door, followed by Mena’s voice. “Vi, are you in there?”
“Yes. Come in.”
Mena stepped into the bedroom, and Viola smiled at her sister-in-law, who had been her friend long before that.
“I brought tea.” Mena set down the tray she was carrying. “You probably need a bit of refreshment, and I was in the kitchens, anyway.”
“No parkin cake?” Viola sent a longing glance at the tea tray. Drew wasn’t the only one at Dovington with a sweet tooth, after all.
Mena laughed. “You know it’s not ready yet.”
“Still, one can hope. I suppose the scones will do, for now.” Viola poured them both cups of tea, then went to the wingback chairs drawn up beside the fire.
“How goes the invitations?” Mena asked, settling in with her cup. “Have you scoured the countryside for any and all suitable young ladies?”
“Of course, though we’ll have far-flung guests, too. The Dunhams will come up from Sussex, and I’m also expecting Lord and Lady Hartley and their daughters.”
“And nearer to home?” Mena asked with deceptive mildness. “Lord Winslow and his sister are in residence at Westbrook, I believe.”
Viola took a sip of tea, delaying her answer. In truth, she hadn’t penned an invitation to the marquess, despite the fact that over the summer he’d purchased the neighboring estate.
The reason for her hesitation was both foolish and mortifying.
“I’m not certain Lady Charlotte would suit my brother,” she said at last, a bit stiffly.
Mena gave her a sidelong look. “Nonsense. There’s nothing wrong with Lady Charlotte. It’s because of what happened at the pond, isn’t it?”
Viola took a deep breath and closed her eyes. It was impossible to forget the events of that afternoon. Mortification twisted in her chest every time her thoughts brushed up against the memory.
It had been a very warm day, especially for July, and after wilting about all afternoon, she’d convinced Mena to go down to the estate’s pond.
“It will be cooler there,” she said. “We can bring a quilt and our books, and sit at the water’s edge.”
Mena agreed, and, accompanied by her maid, Dorothy, they took their parasols and books and made the walk to the pond.
“Perhaps we should’ve ridden,” Mena said, her face flushed from the heat as they finally gained the small grove of alders that edged one side of the water.
“It would’ve still been too hot.” Viola wiped a trickle of perspiration from her temple. “But at least we’re here, now. Come—there’s a good spot further along to spread our quilt.”
They settled on the bank, though the dappled shade provided only a scrim of relief from the sun. Viola bent and unlaced her boots. She removed them, then peeled off her stockings and wiggled her bare toes in the air.
