Joanna Maitland - The Earl’s Mistletoe Bride

Jon took a deep breath. George had been the cause of all this? His brother? Jon knew he had every right to have George thrown into the gutter for such wickedness. But he knew, too, that he could not do such a thing. Not any more. He would threaten George with penury, and make sure he believed it, too, but that would be all. ‘Thank you, Miss Mountjoy.’ She looked up, surprised by his tone. He smiled at her. ‘I wish you a long and contented life in your new home. Let everything else that has passed between us be forgotten.’

She did not speak but her face cleared. As she picked up the lease that guaranteed her future, Jon fancied that her eyes were shining. There was nothing more to be done now. He bowed.

She sank into a deep curtsy.

‘I will show myself out. Goodbye, ma’am.’ Jon closed the parlour door gently and made his way out into the fresh, crisp air of the winter morning. He felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders by an unseen hand. Alicia was gone. And all the heartache that had been part of his first marriage was gone, too, washed away by Beth’s love and the generosity she showed to everyone around her. Jon would never have a fraction of his wife’s goodness, but he would try to learn from her example. Today’s gift to Miss Mountjoy had been his first small step on that hard road. Dealing with George would be the second.

He walked through the cottage gate to see his curricle approaching at a fast trot. He held up his hand, waiting to judge how well Beth was handling the ribbons. She halted her pair very successfully, but not before they had gone a good thirty yards beyond him. He marched down the lane until he stood at the side of the curricle, arms akimbo, and shaking his head. ‘Dear, dear. Is that the best you can do, Lady Portbury?’ He climbed up beside her and held out his hands for the reins.

She ignored him, smiling wickedly. ‘You were clearly much in need of the exercise, sir. As to what I can do…’ She rearranged the reins in her gloved fingers and tightened her grip on the whip. Then she grinned. ‘Watch!’

Seconds later, the Countess of Portbury was springing her horses with such vigour that her husband was thrown back in his seat and robbed of the power of speech.

His laughter was echoing round the lane as the curricle disappeared from sight.