Carola Dunn by Christmas in the Country Page A

the gloom. A thought struck her as she reached the threshold and she turned. His black bulk loomed close behind her. A trifle breathless, she begged, “Pray don’t tell any of the marquis’s family I stigmatized their ballroom as gaudy.”
     “Too late again, Miss Savage,” the tall gentleman drawled, unmistakably amused. “Permit me to introduce myself: Rusholme at your service. Lord Easthaven is my father.”
    * * * *
     With a smile, the Earl of Rusholme watched the young woman scurry away. As soon as they reached a lamplit passage, she had put on speed and dashed ahead, leaving him sauntering after.
     He still had not seen her face, but her figure was trim enough, even in the sober gown more suited to abigail than actress, and though tall she moved with a sprightly grace. Her short, curly hair glimmered in a halo not quite red, rather the tawny colour of autumn beech-leaves.
     Delightful—and he was tiring of Yvette, who grew more rapacious every time he visited the small house in Bedford Street.
     Though the little Savage would no doubt turn out as avid for expensive gifts as any of the sisterhood, she was, despite her denial, different from any actress he had ever met. For a start, that gown: he’d like to see her in silks and satins, prior, of course, to seeing her in nothing at all.
     Then there was her speech. Any moderately good actress could ape the accents of the gentry but her vocabulary was another matter. “Stigmatized as gaudy,” indeed! Rusholme grinned. Mama’s taste was notoriously outré though no one dreamed of saying so in the marchioness’s hearing. He would not betray the girl’s candid judgment.
     She had refused to take his arm. A little coyness did her no harm in his eyes. Perhaps she had a jealous lover from whom he’d have to woo her, or perhaps she was simply teasing, leading him on. Either suggested a practised Paphian, which suited him very well. Given that few actresses earned a decent living on the stage, nonetheless he had no stomach for beguiling any female onto the primrose path. Nor had he any desire to teach an inexperienced ladybird the tricks of her trade.
     His pleasant ruminations on the joys of a new mistress cut off when he heard voices in the entrance hall ahead. He was tempted to escape up the back-stair to his chamber. However, he had promised his parents to be on hand to greet their guests and he was already late, due to Salamander’s cast shoe. Best make his excuses before removing the travel-dirt from his person.
     “Confound it!” he swore sotto voce as he strode into the spacious, domed vestibule, brightly lit by a huge chandelier, and saw the new arrivals.
     Only one possible reason for the Winkworths’ presence came to mind. Rusholme had hoped to have Christmas free of the machinations of match-making mamas. He should have known better. His own mother was as anxious to see him married as any mother of an eligible damsel.
     Before he could cut and run, Lady Winkworth spotted him. “Dear Rusholme,” she gushed as he reluctantly approached the group. “How obliging of you take the trouble to be here to welcome us when you have clearly only just arrived yourself.”
     He bowed. “A fortuitous encounter, ma’am.”
     She beamed, obviously under the impression that fortuitous was a synonym for fortunate. He found himself wondering whether Miss Savage knew the difference.
     Turning to his parents to apologize for his tardiness, he was taken on the blind side by Lady Anne Winkworth, who clamped herself to his arm. “So kind of you to invite us, Lady Easthaven,” she cooed, fluttering long, dark eyelashes at Rusholme. “I quite dreaded being parted from so dear a friend over the holidays.”
     “I trust you will enjoy the festivities,” said the marquis jovially.
     Lady Easthaven’s manner was considerably cooler. Beckoning to the nearest puce-liveried footman, she said, “Samuel will show you to your chambers, Lady Winkworth. If your