Comfort and Joy, page 1
Table of Contents
Blurb
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Keep Reading
About the Author
By Nicki Bennett
More Holiday Romance
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Copyright
Comfort and Joy
By Nicki Bennett
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a widowed Earl must be in want of a wife—or so Marcus Stanthorpe’s grandmother believes. Marcus had done what was necessary to ensure an heir, but now has no patience for his grandmother’s matchmaking. Spending the holidays with his friends, his son, and his valet, William Haworth, brings him enough contentment.
But when a family emergency calls Haworth to London, Marcus’s contentment reveals itself to be fickle. Suddenly he realizes how much William has come to mean to him. But William has never indicated he shares Marcus’s preferences. Can the comforts of the holiday season bring two lonely men joy?
Chapter One
“WILL YOU dress for dinner, my lord?”
His valet’s soft-spoken question wasn’t enough to distract Marcus Stanthorpe, Earl of Langbourne, from his fixed contemplation of the darkening landscape outside his dressing-room window. In truth, the weather had been too cold for riding that afternoon, the chill in the air near to stealing his breath and hardening the ground beneath his horse’s hooves to iron; but he had reached the point that had he not escaped the presence of what his grandmother insisted on calling “a quiet little gathering before the holidays,” if only for an hour or two, he could not have vouched for the consequences. Moulton, his groom, had shaken his head with the license of a retainer who had known the Earl since he was in short coats and had set him on his first mount; but as he’d told the undergroom as the Earl and Lord Aherne galloped out of the stable yard, “You can’t rightly blame him wanting to get away from that lot of dead bores. Her ladyship’s riding him too hard.”
Skerring, despite having served at Langbourne only half as long, nodded sagely and replied, “Happen she’ll be surprised when he’s had enough and kicks against the pricks.”
“My lord?”
The repeated query was no louder in volume, but the note of concern in Haworth’s voice snapped Marcus out of his ruminations. Turning from the window, he regarded his valet with a hint of a smile playing around the corners of his lips that, though he couldn’t see it, added a sparkle to his hazel eyes. “Perhaps I shouldn’t. Coming to dinner in all my dirt might be enough to give this latest paragon my grandmother seems determined to thrust on me a disgust of my manners—or at least of my appearance.”
Haworth glanced over his shoulder from the wardrobe where he was evaluating the Earl’s evening attire. “Surely not,” he replied, an answering sparkle lightening his deep brown eyes. “Your lordship must be aware you are a most handsome man.”
Marcus glanced in the mirror but found nothing out of the ordinary in his form or features to confirm his valet’s assertion: hair that couldn’t decide if it were blond or brown, an aquiline face inclined to appear stern when not warmed by his rare smile, average height and build that were, though he failed to appreciate it, set off by the cut of his riding attire. “Flatterer,” he accused without heat.
“Not at all,” Haworth countered, arranging his selections on the wardrobe door. “More likely, your appearing at dinner in your riding attire would give your guests a disgust of your valet. I would ask you to think of my reputation, my lord, were I to let you descend to dinner smelling of the stables. You might be obligated to turn me off, and I could not hope to find another employer as… accommodating… as yourself.”
“Nor I a valet who plagues me less,” Marcus assured him, sitting on the bed to remove his top boots. Orphaned at fourteen, he had inherited not only the title but also his father’s valet, an elderly servant with a rigid sense of what was due to the new Earl’s dignity. Bretton passed away while Marcus was serving in the Peninsular War, and as he had managed without a valet perfectly well during those years, he had felt no urgency to seek a replacement on his return to England.
His man of business had felt otherwise. On his first visit to the Stanthorpes’ London town house after resigning his regimental commission, Marcus discovered that Waring had arranged for him to interview a selection of the top-notch valets from the city’s most exclusive staffing service. The Earl had rejected the first candidate after listening to the man’s plans to replace his military wardrobe with what Marcus considered to be an exorbitant number of topcoats, shirts, and pantaloons from the finest tailors. The second aspirant was dismissed after offering to retie the cravat around Marcus’s throat into a more à la mode fashion. When the third prospective manservant bemoaned the fact that His Lordship’s hair was cut too short for any of the current styles, Marcus’s patience reached its end. Striding out of the drawing room where the interviews were being conducted, he encountered another group of prospects waiting in the foyer. Fixing his gaze on the first, a slender young man with a head of dark hair too curly to be fashionable, he barked, “You! What’s your name?”
“Haworth—William Haworth, my lord.” The answer was soft, but Marcus noted that there was nothing fawning about the response, the man’s brown eyes meeting his without hesitation.
“That neckcloth you’re wearing—what style do you call the knot?”
The young man looked bewildered. “I am not aware it has a name, my lord.”
“Can you tie a Waterfall, or a Trone d’Amour?”
“No, my lord,” he answered with regret.
“If I engage you, will you promise not to insist on styling my hair à la Brutus, or Titus, or some such nonsense?”
“I can assure you I would do nothing of the kind, my lord.”
“Fine. You’re hired. See to it, Waring.”
“But… my lord…,” Waring stammered, “these men are to be considered as underfootmen, not as your valet!”
“Should you object to serving as a valet?” Marcus asked the somewhat stunned young man. “I expect the remuneration is better than a footman’s, and the duties less onerous by half.”
“I have no objections,” Haworth assented in a tone of wonder, “but your lordship should understand I have no experience in such a position.”
“How difficult can it be to keep my garments in order? I have no aspirations to cut a swathe as a fashion plate, nor do I expect my valet to dress me, and I am fully capable of tying my own cravat. You look a bright enough fellow—you can learn.”
And learn Haworth had. Marcus wasn’t sure where the young man came by his knowledge, but his coats and trousers were always clean and uncreased, he never ran out of fresh linen, and if his boots were not polished with a blacking which owed its gloss to champagne, the Earl had never felt the lack.
“Did you enjoy your ride with Lord Aherne?” Haworth asked, setting said boots aside to be cleaned later. Marcus shrugged out of his cropped riding jacket, which the valet hung to be brushed before setting a towel beside the ewer and bowl for the Earl to refresh himself.
“I think it’s impossible not to enjoy a ride with Stephen,” Marcus answered, pulling his shirt over his head and beginning to wash up quickly. He and Major Lord Stephen Aherne, both late of His Majesty’s cavalry, had been the best of friends since their school days, buying their commissions on the same day and keeping each other alive and sane during the fiercest battles in Portugal and Spain and the sometimes wretched conditions in between. It was Stephen who, recognizing the tight set of his friend’s features during luncheon while the Dowager Countess described the entertainments planned for the holiday week, had convinced Marcus they needed to “break ranks and reconnoiter the countryside.” The crisp breeze flowing around him as they galloped had gone far toward easing the sense of constraint Marcus had felt ever since the arrival of his house guests; and though Stephen forbore from pressing the issue at the root of Marcus’s discontent, the Earl knew his friend would be ready to listen whenever Marcus was ready to talk.
Haworth laid out a clean set of smallclothes, a linen shirt, and pale ivory pantaloons on the bed while Marcus finished his ablutions. After gathering the soiled garments as the Earl stripped, he turned away to dispose them for laundering while Marcus donned his evening attire and tied his cravat in a simple knot. The comfortable silence of the nightly routine helped further ease the restlessness of spirit the ride had begun to dispel, enough that when Haworth held out a deep blue tailcoat to draw over his buff-colored waistcoat, the Earl was able to regard his reflection in the wardrobe mirror with tolerable composure.
“There, now I shall not be obliged to hide my face in the servants’ hall,” Haworth said with a smile. His gaze paused at the Earl’s hair, still windblown from his ride. “With your permission, my lord?” he asked, picking up a silver-backed brush from the dressing table, which held far too few bottles and jars for a true man of fashion. “While the Windswept style has its adherents, at present your hair appears rather to have been pulled backward through a bush. I promise I shall not attempt à la Titus,” he added, winning a small smile at the familiar jest as Marcus seated himself before the mirror.
“See that you don’t,” Marcus growled in mock indignation. While he was as capable of brushing his own hair as he was of dressing himself, letting Haworth attend to it was one small lu
“Can you not simply tell your grandmother you do not wish to wed again?” Haworth asked, sweeping a wheaten lock from the Earl’s brow.
Marcus opened his eyes to meet his valet’s through the mirror. “Have you met my grandmother, Haworth?”
“I have of course encountered Her Ladyship during the years I have resided in your service,” Haworth replied, “though I admit we have never had occasion to share any intimate interchange.”
A bark of laughter broke from the Earl’s throat. “Were it not for the indisputable proof of my own existence, I should doubt even my grandfather knew much intimate interchange with Her Ladyship.” He sat back in the dressing chair, running a hand through the hair his valet had just arranged. “My grandmother is something akin to a force of nature, Haworth. Given my grandfather’s and my parents’ early deaths, she has been used to presiding over Langbourne—and me—as she thinks best since I was a child. In most things I find no reason to override her decisions, but having once given in to her insistence on providing an heir—” He broke off, shaking his head, and rose from his seat. “I should go downstairs. It would not do to keep our guests waiting for their dinner.”
Haworth set the brush on the dressing table and stepped back to open the door for the Earl. “You need not wait up for me,” Marcus instructed, as he did every evening which might end later than his typical bedtime, though he knew that just as every other evening he offered that direction, Haworth would be waiting when he returned to his chambers to hang his garments and turn down his bed for the night.
“Enjoy your evening, my lord,” Haworth answered, watching the Earl’s retreating figure until he disappeared down the staircase before quietly shutting the door.
Chapter Two
MARCUS HAD not expected to enjoy the evening, but dinner proved less of an ordeal than he had foreseen. His grandmother had invited her latest candidate for the role of future Countess, Miss Phoebe Bankston, and her father, Sir Wilfred Bankston, to spend the holiday week at Langbourne. Sir Wilfred’s lands marched alongside Marcus’s, and he could only presume the Dowager considered the prospect of uniting their estates sufficient to promote the daughter of a mere baronet.
Marcus had implored Lord Aherne and his wife Gwennan to join him to ensure, as he confessed to Stephen when extending the invitation, “I’ll have someone sensible to talk with if she proves as tedious as every other debutante my grandmother’s thrust at me. It’s enough to endure for an evening, but a solid week would drive me to drink.”
Since the Dowager had invited the rest of the neighboring gentry to a more formal dinner the following day, this evening’s meal was a simple affair, consisting of only two removes and an assortment of fruit tarts for dessert. Whatever Sir Wilfred’s hopes for securing the Earl as a prospective son-in-law, to Marcus’s intense relief he made no effort to promote the match during the meal, offering only monosyllabic replies when addressed. Not that conversation in general was any livelier, discussion consisting mainly of speculation regarding the coming week’s weather. Miss Bankston did not initiate any topics, though Marcus more than once caught her gazing at him consideringly when conversation lagged.
As Sir Wilfred demurred when offered a glass of port after dinner, the entire party moved into the drawing room, where the Dowager soon beckoned the Earl to her side. “Marcus, Miss Bankston has expressed an interest in seeing your indoor gardens. I have just been telling her how much pleasure I gain from them. Why do you not take her to see them now?”
Since the Dowager had frequently told him what a waste of his time and expense she considered the greenhouse, Marcus made a credible effort to restrain his distaste at the excuse to push the two of them together in a secluded location. Mustering a smile, he offered the young woman his arm. “It would be my pleasure, Miss Bankston. Lady Aherne, would you care to join us?” He ignored his grandmother’s frown at the move to spike her guns. He’d learned more than a few countertactics during his time on the Peninsula.
Unfortunately, his plan came to naught. “I’m afraid I’m feeling a bit tired,” Gwennan said with what appeared to be genuine regret. “Perhaps another day, but I think tonight I will retire to my room.” Stephen was quick to accompany her, leaving Marcus with no allies on the field.
“Perhaps you would like to take your shawl?” he suggested to Miss Bankston, letting no hint of dismay show on his face. “While the gardens themselves are quite warm, the way there is in places a bit draughty.”
After draping her wrap around her shoulders, Marcus again offered his arm and escorted Miss Bankston from the salon and through corridors that led from the public rooms toward the more functional portions of the manor. “I hope you were not simply being polite in wishing to see the gardens,” he began. “My grandmother can be somewhat… energetic in her suggestions.”
“Oh no, it was I who asked her about them.” Phoebe Bankston’s brown curls, pulled back from her face in a style more severe than the current mode, barely reached Marcus’s shoulders, forcing her to look up to meet his gaze. “I have a particular interest in horticulture—it is one of the reasons I agreed to Papa making the arrangements for this visit.”
Marcus could only assume his expression revealed some of his surprise at the suggestion that his companion had any say in the “arrangements” of the visit. “I know Papa has some idea in his head that the two of us would make a suitable match, which I would not normally encourage, but I did so wish to see your greenhouse,” Miss Bankston continued.
“I am humbled to realize I rank beneath the allure of my gardens in your regard,” Marcus replied, managing to master the impulse to smile.
“Don’t tease me—I can tell you aren’t truly offended.” At his raised eyebrow, she continued, “Your eyes twinkle when you are amused and darken when you’re displeased. I’m very observant when it comes to people. And I don’t imagine you actually wish to go along with this fancy of my father’s, do you?”
“I am afraid the idea has taken my grandmother’s fancy as well,” Marcus confessed.
Miss Bankston stopped and tilted her head, considering him for a moment. “If you have any thought of proposing to me, I hope you will discard it at once. I like you well enough from what I have seen of you thus far, but I really have no desire to be married at the moment.”
Marcus had to struggle not to break out into laughter. “Now how am I to respond to that? Whether I had no intention of proposing or agree to cry off so quickly is equally ungallant, and yet pressing a suit so clearly distasteful to you would be even more boorish.”
“Not distasteful, precisely,” Miss Bankston clarified. “If I meant to marry, you might do quite well, but you see, I do not.”
“Ever?” Marcus asked, genuinely curious.
“I cannot foresee it. I know Papa believes I must have a husband, but I can run the estate just as well as he can. Since I am his only child, he let me follow him about since I was old enough to toddle. My mother died when I was quite young,” she explained. “And we went on famously until my meddlesome Aunt Sophronia insisted I needed ‘finishing’ if I were ever to catch a husband. Papa sent me to a private girls’ school in London two years ago. Most of what they taught us was nonsense, but I was able to sneak away enough to visit the museums and even attend several lectures of the Horticultural Society.”
“You found that interesting?”
“Fascinating!” Miss Bankston’s eyes positively glowed as they continued on. “I have so many ideas I should like to implement. Adding clover into a four-crop rotation, for example, instead of leaving the field fallow for a season, which would increase yield and improve the soil at the same time. But how many husbands would allow their wives to involve themselves in such things?”
