Читать книгу The Wallflower's Mistletoe Wedding - Amanda McCabe, Amanda McCabe - Страница 12

Chapter Three

We are having a true, merry, family sort of holiday here at Barton Park, where we hope to see all our old friends.

We have not seen you seen you since Lord Fitzwalter attended Lord Fallon’s funeral and we hope that your mourning will not deprive us of your company.

Her mourning. Helen, Dowager Lady Fallon, laughed as she dropped Jane Ramsay’s letter at the side of the bathtub. She sank deeper into the rose-scented water and stared up at the painted tile ceiling of her bathing room in her London town house. Everyone had thought it so extravagant when she’d had it built on to her dressing room, with its marble walls and painted fireplace. But it was her favourite place, a small, cosy space where no one would bother her.

She had once thought being Lady Fallon would be a grand thing indeed, a life of ease and grandeur, full of pretty gowns and parties and fun. So different from her own family, their façade of liveliness and prosperity that hid a distinct lack of funds. She had given up Harry St George, so handsome and gallant, to marry a man thirty years older in order to get that life. But being Lady Fallon had not been what she’d expected.

It hadn’t been worth it.

Helen sat up in the tub, the water frothing around her, and caught a glimpse of herself in her gilt-framed mirror. Her golden hair, curling with the damp air, her pink and white skin, it was all still youthful and beautiful. And she did have old Lord Fallon’s money now, too. Surely it was not too late for her?

She reached for the letter again. Old friends. Did that mean Harry St George would be there? She had heard he had returned to England, more heroic than ever. What could she not do in society, with her new money and a war hero at her side?

Maybe a Christmas in the country was just what she needed.

* * *

Charles St George swirled the brandy in his glass and stared out into the darkness of the night. Winter clouds had lowered, extinguishing the stars and moonlight, but that was good. In the darkness, the shambles of the garden at Hilltop, the garden their mother had once so loved, that he had painted so many times, could not be seen. It was just a blank, like everything else.