Regency Christmas Wishes(37)

In the end, as he made his way north from Greece, he ended up following the stars.

Now, in fresh clothing, pleasantly tired and hungry, he wandered downstairs to join the Ashes for the requisite predinner gathering. He hadn’t noticed before, but the house looked slightly different than it had when he’d left. The paint looked fresh, the wood paler and glossier. A few notable pieces of the heavy Gothic furniture his parents had favored had disappeared from the hallways. In their places were smaller, lighter tables and chests he recalled from his early childhood when his grandmother had still been in residence.

There was a massive, full-length portrait of his brother on the stairway landing. It was an Arthur Gareth had never known: a bit portly, uniformed, whiskers coming to a point nearly halfway to his nose. And next to that picture was one of Gareth himself. It was the last one painted, the year before he left. God, how young he looked. It was a good picture, he mused now. The painter had been talented, and astute. The window behind the boy he’d once been was open, with green fields stretching to the horizon; his hand rested on his heavens-and-earth globe. His eyes didn’t meet the viewer’s, but looked toward something beyond.

He wondered who had hung the pair there. Their old portraits had been in the gallery when he left: Arthur front and center, he well off to one side. His parents wouldn’t have bothered moving them. It was their images that had adorned this space. Perhaps Clarissa . . .

“I hope you don’t mind.”

He glanced down to find Alice at the bottom of the sweeping stairs. She had changed into a pale yellow dress that glowed slightly in the waning light. “Mind?”

“That we moved your parents. It seemed right at the time.” Her lips curved. “And, with all due respect to the departed, it grew a bit wearing to be frowned upon each time one went up or down the stairs.”

He knew exactly what she meant. “A nice landscape might have been a better choice.” But he smiled back. “The house is different.”

“Oh, not so very,” she insisted quickly. “We’ve only moved a few things, changed some upholstery—”

“Alice.” He walked down to join her. “You don’t have to explain. I don’t particularly care. And it is Clarissa’s right to do as she pleases. Although”—he stared intently into the little upturned face, so pretty and so easy to read—“I daresay Clarissa has done little, unless she got it into her head to redo the countess’s chambers in pink and gilt, with rampaging cherubs and red-cheeked china spaniels.”

Alice laughed. “Shepherdesses, actually. She doesn’t much care for dogs.” She gestured toward the drawing room. “I was just going in. Clarissa and my grandfather will be glad to see you.”

Clarissa, certainly. Gareth wasn’t so certain of Sir Reginald. Their only meeting thus far had involved vague threats of violence.

Alice watched the emotions play across his face: amusement, resignation. Clearly he wasn’t looking forward to the evening. She wondered if he was looking forward to anything, save leaving. As they headed to the drawing room, she darted a quick glance up at the portrait, then at the man beside her. Still so handsome, but grown so hard. She regretted snapping at him earlier. It served no purpose and only made her feel small. And tired, as if she were going head-on into a stiff wind.

“Gareth!” Clarissa brightened at the sight of him. “At last. I am so terribly bored and no one seems to care. Alice will keep flitting in and out of the room and Grandfather has not yet come down. Do come tell me what you did today!”

He crossed the room to take a seat beside the sofa. “I toured the estate, actually.”

“How dismal. And what else?”

“Well, I helped your sister find a Christmas log in the woods.”

Clarissa rolled her eyes. “Oh, Gareth, how dull that must have been.”

Perhaps for him, Alice thought, but not for her. For her, it had been illuminating. And rather lovely while it lasted.

“It wasn’t a day in London,” Gareth replied with a smile. Clarissa’s eyes lit, as they always did, at the mention of London. “But it wasn’t a bad day at all. Would you care to hear more? I wandered through the village, saw a few members of the neighborhood, and a great many sheep.”

That, Alice decided, must not have been particularly interesting. In fact, it was probably enough to send him running back to the Continent. “You must have seen how Kilcullen has grown,” she offered. “The Ingrams have opened a bookshop and there is even a haberdashery of sorts.” As if an extra shop or two might make a provincial little backwater more appealing to a man who’d seen most of the capitals of Europe. “Lord Clane has been known to purchase gloves there when passing through. And Arthur was even able to have his uniforms made at Doolan’s.”