Tremaine noticed as well, and gave a small flinch. It was most gratifying.
Harry looked up from his drink into Tremaine’s startled face. ‘And, by the by, how is Elise?’ It was a bold conversational gambit, and he was rewarded with a slight choke from his opponent.
The other man turned to him and sat up straight, his indolence disappearing. His eyes glittered with suppressed rage. ‘She is well, I think. If you care, you should go and ask her yourself. She would be glad of the call.’
She would be no such thing. As he remembered their last conversation, Elise had made it plain that if she never saw Harry again it would be too soon. ‘Perhaps I will,’ he answered, and smiled as though they were having a pleasant discussion about an old friend and nothing more.
It must have disappointed their audience to see the two men behaving as adults on this most delicate of subjects. But their moderate behaviour had not quelled the undercurrent of anticipation. He could see from the corner of his eye that the room had begun to fill with observers. They were reading newspapers, engaging in subdued chat, and gazing out of the bay window while sipping drinks. But every man present was taking care to be uninterested in a most focused fashion, waiting for the cross word that would set the two of them to brawling like schoolboys.
If only it were so easily settled. If Harry could have been sure of a win, he would have met his opponent on the field of honour long before now. The temptation existed to hand his jacket to the nearest servant, roll up his sleeves, raise his fists and lay the bastard out on the hearth rug. But physically, they were evenly matched. A fight would impress no one, should he lose it. And Elise would think even less of him than she did now if he was bested in public by Nicholas Tremaine.
He would have to strike where his rival could least defend himself. In the intellect.
Tremaine eased back in his chair, relaxing in the quiet, perhaps thinking that he had silenced Harry with his indifference. Poor fool. Harry set down his empty glass, made a great show of placing his hands on his knees, gave a contented sigh and continued the conversation as though there were nothing strange about it. ‘Any plans for the holiday?’
‘Has Elise made plans?’ There was a faint reproof in the man’s voice, as though he had a right to take Harry to task on that subject. Harry ignored it.
‘You, I mean. Do you have plans? For Christmas?’ He smiled to show all the world Elise’s plans were no concern of his.
Tremaine glared. ‘I am most pleased to have no plans. I intend to treat the day much as any other.’
‘Really. May I offer you a bit of advice, Tremaine?’
He looked positively pained at the idea. ‘If you must.’
‘Try to drum up some enthusiasm towards Christmas—for her sake, at least.’
In response, Tremaine snorted in disgust. ‘I do not see why I should. People make far too big a fuss over the whole season. What is it good for, other than a chance to experience diminished sunlight and foul weather while in close proximity to one’s fellow man? I find the experience most unpleasant. If others choose to celebrate, I wish them well. But I do not wish to bother others with my bad mood, and I would prefer that they not bother me.’ He stared directly at Harry, so there could be no doubt as to his meaning.
Perfect. Harry’s smile turned sympathetic. ‘Then I wonder if you will be any better suited to Elise than I was. She adores this season. She cannot help it, I suppose. It’s in her blood. She waits all year in anticipation of the special foods, the mulled wine, the singing and games. When we were together she was constantly dragging trees where they were never intended to be, and then lighting candles in them until I was quite sure she meant to burn the house down for Twelfth Night. I doubt she will wish to give that up just to please you. There is no changing her when she has an idea in her head. I know from experience. It is you who must alter—to suit her.’
A variety of emotions were playing across Tremaine’s face, fighting for supremacy. Harry watched in secret enjoyment as thoughts formed and were discarded. Should he tell Anneslea what to do with his advice? It had been offered innocently enough. Accuse him of ill treatment in some way? Not possible. Should they argue, Tremaine would gain nothing, for society would find him totally in the wrong. Harry’s only offence was his irrational good humour. And Tremaine was at a loss as to how to combat it.
At last he chose to reject the advice, and to ignore the mention of Elise. ‘I am adamant on the subject. I have nothing against the holiday itself, but I have no patience for the folderol that accompanies it. Nor am I likely to change my mind on the subject to please another.’
‘That is what I thought once.’ Harry grinned. ‘And now look at me.’ He held out his arms, as if to prove his honest intentions. ‘I’m positively overflowing with good will towards my fellow men. Of course, once you have experienced Christmas as we celebrate it at Anneslea Manor…’ He paused and then snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it, man. Just the thing. You must come out to the house and see how the feast is properly done. That will put you to rights.’
Tremaine stared at him as though he’d gone mad. ‘I will do no such thing.’
The other men in the room were listening with obvious interest now. Harry could hear chuckles and whispers of approval.
‘No, I insist. You will see how the season should be shared, and it will melt your heart on the subject. I doubt there is a better gift that I could offer to Elise than to teach you the meaning of Christmas. Come to Lincolnshire, Tremaine. We are practically family, after all.’
There was definitely a laugh from somewhere in the room, although it was quickly stifled. And then the room fell silent, waiting for the response.
If it had been a matter of fashion, or some caustic witticism he was directing at another, Tremaine would have loved being the centre of attention. But today he hated the idea that he was the butt of a joke, rather than Harry. There was a redness creeping from under Tremaine’s collar as his anger sought an outlet. At last he burst out, ‘Not in a million years.’
‘Oh, come now.’ Harry pulled a face. ‘We can make a bet of it. What shall it be?’ He pretended to consider. ‘Gentlemen, bring the book. I am willing to bet twenty pounds to Tremaine, and any takers, that he shall wish me a Merry Christmas by Twelfth Night.’
Someone ran for the betting book, and there was a rustling of hands in pockets for banknotes, pens scratching IOUs, and offers to hold the stakes. It was all accompanied by a murmur of agreement that hell would freeze before Tremaine wished anyone a Merry Christmas, so well known was his contempt for the season. And the chance that anything might induce him to say those particular words to Harry Pennyngton were equal to the devil going to Bond Street to buy ice skates.
But while the room was raised in chaos, the object of the wager stared steadfastly into the fire, refusing to acknowledge what was occurring.
Harry said, loud enough for all to hear over the din, ‘It does not matter if you do not wish to bet, Tremaine, for the others still wish to see me try. But it will be easier to settle the thing if you will co-operate.’ Then he addressed the room, ‘Come out to my house in the country, all of you.’ He gestured to include everyone. ‘Bring your families, if you wish. There is more than enough space. Then, when Tremaine’s resolve weakens, you will all be there to witness it.’ He stared at the other man. ‘And if it does not, if you are so sure