Lady Catherin'es Scandalous Christmas by Maggi Andersen

London,
1816
    Lady Catherine Bellingham had never minded
spending time alone. But this Christmas, with her niece, Althea,
absent from London, the empty corridors of Catherine’s manor house
in Hampstead echoed under her feet. For some reason, she had been
restless since she’d returned from a sojourn on the Continent.
    Catherine had long since come to terms with
the passing of her beloved husband. Bellingham had been a quiet
man, but tonight, his absence seemed to speak louder than his
presence ever did. Although she had never been blessed with
children, she had been fortunate enough to have a generous
companion who gave her respect and affection.
    She paused at a Vermeer oil painting hanging
on the wall. Without giving it her full attention, Catherine knew
the picture to be a pleasant, domestic Dutch scene depicting a
contented woman going about her daily tasks. Marriage should bring
contentment. Her thoughts turned to her niece, Althea, trapped in a
bad marriage to Brookwood. Althea had looked so pale and wan of
late that Catherine had grown alarmed about her.
    Like her niece, Catherine had entered into an
arranged marriage with an older man when she was barely out of the
schoolroom. If she was honest, she had never experienced true
passion with Bellingham, and now that she was in her forties, it
was unlikely to happen.
    Thoroughly sick of her own company, she
fingered the silver-edged invitation that her dear friend Marina
had sent her.
    “Please come to my Christmas ball, Catherine.
Tonight is for lovers of romance!”
    “Lovers of romance.” She chuckled. Marina
always had a nice turn of phrase. Catherine hadn’t planned to go,
but Marina’s bright company would be most welcome. Lady Marina
Montague was a trifle outrageous, but her balls were enormously
popular. Even at this time of year when members of the ton retired to their country estates, her ballroom would be packed with
guests.
    Catherine instructed Brigitte to lay out her
lavender silk gown and prepare her a bath. She would like to wear
the sapphires Bellingham had said matched her eyes, but they did
not complement this gown. She would wear her diamonds.
    Stepping from the fragrant bathwater,
Catherine stood before the gilt mirror in her boudoir. Her body
remained trim and firm, but there were faint smile lines at the
corners of her eyes, and while she didn’t look old, neither did she
look like a girl. There was a maturity to her face now that she
rather liked.
    Some hours later, after her carriage was
delayed in the heavy London traffic, Catherine arrived at the ball
to find it already in full swing. The dancers performed a country
dance as she entered the ballroom in search of her hostess. Maria
had created a lovely scene. A thousand candles flickered from every
corner and above in chandeliers. Huge urns of hothouse flowers
perfumed the smoky air, and wreaths of holly with scarlet berries
decorated the walls. A stately yew tree stood in a tub at one end
of the room, aglitter with tinsel, glass, and lit tapers, the
boughs heavy with dried fruit, nuts, and sweets.
    Her hostess wore deep violet. As Catherine
had done, Marina had forgone her favored bright gowns, dressing
instead in mourning for Princess Charlotte, who had died a month
ago in childbirth. Maria greeted Catherine with an affectionate
smile. “I am so pleased you decided to come, Catherine. How very
well that gown suits you. Did you enjoy your travels in France? We
have missed your witty and spirited exchanges. So many dull people
in London this Season. What has happened to good conversation? Does
one have to travel to Paris to find it?”
    “The years of war have repressed our spirits,
Maria. England will rally; you can’t keep the English people down
for long.” Catherine glanced around. Lord Liverpool, the Prime
Minister, stood with Lord Castlereagh and Lord Sidmouth. “And I see
you have little to complain about. There are many eloquent guests
here this evening.” Her gaze settled