Page 1 of Moaning Under the Mistletoe
Chapter One
December 1829
Ambrose, Earl of Bennington, waited beside his sister Jane as his soon-to-be bride, Lady Lavinia Waterhouse, the oldest daughter of the Duke of Frinton-Travers, walked along the receiving line. He would propose to Lady Lavinia tonight, and they’d form an innately sensible union which would continue the thousand-year heritage of the Earls of Bennington. A short bald man accompanied her.
“Who is that with her?” Jane asked.
“I’m sure he’s of no consequence.”
“Bennington.” Jane’s admonishment meant nothing. He wasn’t even sure why she liked coming to society parties, since she spent all her time with the wallflowers. He ignored his sister, and everyone else, as he walked towards Lavinia with the special license folded in his jacket pocket.
“Good evening, my Lady.” He bowed appropriately, then turned slightly to her father and bowed again. “Your grace.”
“Good evening, Lord Bennington.” Lady Lavinia was the epitome of elegance, with a gown befitting the daughter of a Duke. She was this season’s finest catch, and she would be his. The perfect acquisition for the Earldom.
“If I may be so bold as to request an audience with you, my Lady?” He continued to ignore the short man.
“Anything you want to say can be said here.”
His confidence stuttered at her unexpected remark, but he quickly regained himself with a nod. He’d courted her the correct way over the last two months. She must realise that a proposal was in the offing.
“Lady Lavinia, it would be the greatest honour if you would become my wife.” He didn’t bother with any pretence of love or romance. She knew the deal.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
He started to automatically respond thanking her for her acceptance, but caught himself. “Excuse me?” A dizziness caught the edges of his scalp, and he swallowed. Everything slowed down. Lady Lavinia held out a gloved hand with a simple gold ring on her wedding finger.
“I was married three days prior to my wonderful Mr Smithson.”
“Who?” He’d been pipped at the post by a mere mister? This wasn’t to be countenanced. “But I was courting you.”
“Yes. You, a few others, and most of the fortune hunters.”
He stiffened, pride infusing his spine. “I am most certainly not a fortune hunter.” He had one of the largest land holdings in England on the best agricultural land. Unlike many of his peers, he hadn’t needed to invest in the colonies, although there had been some tempting offers for investing in New South Wales where sheep were showing strong returns. The Earldom had survived this long by not rushing into investments or marriages, and yet, here he was having done all the appropriate research and having it go wrong.
“Forgive me, my lord, I didn’t mean to make that connection. Only that you were one of many of my suitors, perhaps one of the most suitable, to be fair, and yet, I have decided to marry for love.”
“Love?” The concept didn’t align with how he viewed marriage, which was a business arrangement for the long term good of the estate. His Grace, the Duke of Frinton-Travers, surely agreed as he’d been open to his offer last week. He glanced sideways at the older man who shrugged one shoulder indulgently as if to say that he had no control over his daughter’s choice. If only he had the same options fall in love, rather than keep his focus on what was good for the Earldom.
“Yes.”
“To whom?” He regretted asking as soon as he blurted it out, because he didn’t need to know who had bested him.
Lady Lavinia nodded towards the short balding man who stood beside her and tucked her hand on his elbow. “My darling Mr Smithson.”
“Him? But I am superior in every way.” He couldn’t understand how this could possibly have happened. His union with her made complete sense. It was logical and now it wasn’t going to happen. He would have to begin again with this lengthy and, frankly, irritating process.
“Perhaps from society’s viewpoint but not from mine. I do esteem you, Lord Bennington, but I have chosen Mr Smithson as my husband.”
“I see.” He didn’t. This odd pain in his chest was unfamiliar as if his heart was struggling to beat at all. “I bid you all the best with your choice, my Lady, and must take my leave.” He barely noticed the flutter of fans and the titter of gossip around him as he held his head proudly and walked slowly from the room. It was a lie. He absolutely noticed and the prickly heat of humiliation grew with every stride. She should have married him. He was the logical choice, not that ... that ordinary man. He didn’t care if she wanted to have an affair with such an unassuming character—there was no accounting for taste as he well knew—and if she waited until after she’d given him an heir, as was the usual arrangement among the ton. He ignored the lump in his stomach that showed up whenever he thought about making an heir and focused instead on how he planned to satisfy his needs outside the marriage bed. It was the point of having an arrangement like he’d proposed.
But this? This ... rejection ... was not in his plans.
It wasn’t until he’d ignored his driver and marched down the street mulling it over that he realised that the Duke of Frinton-Travers had said nothing. He must approve of the marriage to this Mr Smithson. How decidedly odd. He hadn’t heard the name. Was he that railway man? No, that was Stevenson whose Rocket had won the Rainhill Trials a couple of months ago. Smithson... It was of little consequence who the man was, because he had won society’s brightest prize, snatched away from everyone else. Ambrose had lost.
Judging by the weakness in his legs, Ambrose needed a stiff drink to reassert his position in the world. Having people stare at him while he was soundly rejected gave him the urge to hide behind a pillar. It wasn’t like him.
He walked through the streets of Mayfair into Soho towards his gentleman’s club, the King’s Book Club. He had long standing memberships to all the proper clubs too, Whites and the likes, but the King’s Book Club catered to people like him. People with unusual tastes. It was the only place in the world where he was free to be completely himself and naturally it would be where he wanted to go to lick his wounds. She had rejected him. He couldn’t believe it. For a non-descriptive untitled mister. It was completely illogical.
