Same Time, Next Christmas Read online

"And we have already established that you are never rude." His gaze shifted between his canvas and the bay. "If you have now fulfilled the requirements of polite society regarding the exchange of greetings and the avoidance of rudeness, you might want to take your leave." His eyes flicked to mine. "I would hate to intrude on your solitude."

  "And I do appreciate your thoughtfulness." Although loneliness might well have been preferable to having anything whatsoever to do with Mr. Fletcher Jamison. He certainly wasn't making this easy. I shoved the thought aside and forced a pleasant smile. "Might I be perfectly honest with you?"

  "I have always preferred honesty."

  "Have you? I have always thought honesty to be a bit inconvenient." I shrugged, amazed that I had confessed such a thing.

  "Oh?"

  "Well, yes. Most inconvenient and often unpleasant." I searched for an example. "Say, a gentleman goes on and on about something he considers a great accomplishment." I leaned forward in a confidential manner. "If you are perfectly honest and tell him what you really think, that said accomplishment was not at all great and you did wonder if it could be termed an accomplishment at all, he'll be most offended."

  "No doubt," he said cautiously.

  "But that's neither here nor there, really, because I do intend to be perfectly honest at the moment."

  "Because it's . . . convenient?"

  Obviously he did not understand the various shades of honesty as well as I did. I ignored him.

  "I discovered last night that solitude is not to my liking." I beamed at him. "So, since we are both alone, for the length of our stay, I propose we should be friends."

  "So you are offering the hand of friendship but only in a temporary sense?"

  "I'm not sure I would phrase it quite like that, but I suppose it is accurate. We will both go our separate ways when we leave here, after all." I paused. "It just seems to me that it would be foolish of me—of both of us—not to be friends now, as we will be spending Christmas in the same house, and we're both subjects of Her Majesty and . . ."

  "And I'm the only one here you can talk to, as I'm the only one here who speaks your language." A slight, wry smile played across his lips.

  "You needn't say it like that. As if I were extending the hand of friendship only because you are the only possibility."

  "And yet I am the only possibility."

  "There is that, but that just makes it all the more perfect, don't you agree?" Again, I smiled brightly.

  "Lady Smithson—"

  "Portia."

  "If you insist, Portia then." He considered me for a moment. "I must confess that yesterday when you suggested we keep our distance, I was a bit taken aback. I have always considered myself to be a friendly, amicable sort, and I had rather looked forward to the prospect of furthering our acquaintance. On a strictly companionable basis, you understand," he said quickly, as if to alleviate any concerns I might have had about his intentions. I wasn't sure if I found his comment reassuring or slightly insulting. "However, the more I thought about your desire for solitude, the more I liked the idea. My life in Calcutta is unceasingly hectic, leaving no time to savor those things that I especially enjoy."

  "Painting?"

  "Among other pursuits." He nodded. "I came here for a respite from the day-to-day demands of my life. Just as you came for solitude, I suppose I came seeking peace. And while usually I would put interesting conversation with a pleasant female companion on the list of those things I enjoy, our brief discourses have convinced me that, at the moment, I would prefer to keep to myself. So, just as I was not included in your plans, neither are you included in mine." He smiled politely. "Therefore, I shall leave you to enjoy your solitude as I fully intend to savor my peace."

  "I see." Indignation rose in my throat. "It's entirely your loss, Mr. Jamison. I am an excellent friend. Loyal, dependable—"

  "I had a dog as a boy, Lady Smithson," he said, his gaze returning to his canvas in obvious dismissal of me.

  "Poor creature!" I snapped. "Very well, then. I shall spend Christmas alone in my rooms with a romantic novel that will make me swoon and sigh and weep with joy at the end. It will be an excellent Christmas!"

  There was more I could say, but at the moment, I felt both triumphant and righteous. Veni, vidi, vici, as the Romans would have said, and here in the land that Rome once ruled, I felt very much like a conqueror.

  Admittedly, in many ways I had brought this on myself, which made me just as annoyed with myself as I was with him.

  "Good day, Mr. Jamison."I nodded, turned and headed back along the balcony toward my door, chin held high. So much for my attempt at cultivating friendship. I had offered him an olive branch, and he had refused it. No matter. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be friends with someone who considered me lovely yesterday but only pleasant today. No, I would spend my days here with the books I had brought and long invigorating walks to the village. I would catch up on my correspondence and do whatever else struck my fancy. I was, after all, an independent woman, and I was sure last night's bout of loneliness was nothing more than an aberration. I was simply not used to being alone. There was nothing more to it than that. I certainly didn’t need the companionship of some arrogant stranger.

  Although—I glanced back down the balcony, Mr. Jamison again hidden from view—I could take his rebuff as a challenge. Or better yet, a game. That would take my mind off being alone, and it would be fun. I smiled. I had always liked games. Particularly at Christmas. Especially when I won.

  I had nearly reached my room when I heard the faint but distinct sound of a man's amused chuckle. I was glad he was amused. I would have hated for our meeting to have been completely futile.

  I resisted the urge to slam the door behind me. I would not give Mr. Jamison the satisfaction of knowing how irritating I found our exchange. Besides, his behavior only strengthened my determination.

  I would forge a friendship with this man, in the spirit of Christmas if for no other reason. The only question was how. And perhaps, once we were friends, I would admit I found him right in one respect.

  Plans did indeed change.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Exactly how to cultivate Mr. Jamison's friendship occupied my thoughts well into the afternoon. Even attempts to immerse myself in Belinda, the novel by Miss Broughton that I had thought would fill my time, failed to engage my attention.

  Between my phrasebook and a rarely used skill for pantomime, Agostina and I had managed a form of rudimentary communication. I somehow conveyed to her my desire to have afternoon tea on the loggia, and she somehow understood my meaning. We were both quite delighted at our accomplishment. I considered it a minor Christmas miracle, although she was no doubt used to serving tea when Lady Wickelsworth was in residence. The tiny sandwiches that accompanied the tea were quite nice, but the pastries—most of which incorporated in some manner the lemons that grew so abundantly here—the pastries were glorious. I could quite happily spend the rest of my days on this loggia, eating what Agostina called zeppole, or something like that. Regardless, these light-as-air wreaths of pastry piped with a lemon lemon-flavored cream were a heavenly concoction. And a pleasant accompaniment to pondering the dilemma that was Fletcher Jamison.

  I was not used to being rebuffed, and I did not like it. Unfortunately for Mr. Jamison, his rejection of my overture only made me more determined. And curious. Why, if he resided in Calcutta, had he come as far as Italy for Christmas? Surely there were any number of places far closer and equally serene where he could find peace. And if he was going to travel this distance, why not go all the way to England for Christmas? He had mentioned his family—why not visit them? Unless, of course, they disapproved of either his vocation or his art. Given Mr. Jamison had termed his family stuffy, I suspected the latter.

  Or was he perhaps, like myself, looking for a measure of escape? And if so, what was he escaping from? I very much doubted that he had an Aunt Helena thrusting every unmarried female at him like a Christmas offering. Wha
t if he was already married and escaping from the bonds of wedded bliss? That was a most disturbing thought. Not that I had any romantic intentions toward him, but I could never be on friendly terms with a man who had abandoned his wife. And perhaps the most intriguing question of all: Was Mr. Jamison more gentleman civil servant or hedonistic artist?

  I gazed out at the bay and the volcano in the distance and popped the rest of a third zeppole into my mouth, vowing, as I had with the second, that this would be my last.

  "Good afternoon, Lady Smithson." Mr. Jamison's voice sounded slightly behind me and to my right.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Jamison," I said without looking at him. I was trying very hard not to choke on the zeppole.

  He paused, no doubt waiting for an invitation to join me. One I was not inclined to extend until I had swallowed my pastry and surreptitiously wiped the sugar from my lips.

  "I was wondering if I might have a word with you," he said at last.

  "Of course," I choked out the words and waved in the general direction of the chair on the opposite side of the table.

  He took his seat, and almost immediately, Agostina appeared with a second cup and a plate for his use. Once his cup had been filled, and he had exerted what appeared to be a considerable amount of charm in Italian, judging by the way the older woman fluttered and giggled around him in the affectionate manner of a mother hen, she took her leave.

  "So, Mr. Jamison." I picked up my cup and took a sip. "What word would you like to have?"

  "For one thing, I wish to offer my apologies for my behavior this morning." He shook his head. "I am not usually so ill-mannered."

  "You are on holiday, Mr. Jamison."

  "That is no excuse."

  "I didn’t think it was."

  "Yes, well, as I said, I do apologize."

  "And I accept your apology."

  He stared at me rather pointedly. "Well?"

  "Well, what?"

  "Well, don't you wish to apologize for your manner last night?"

  "I don't wish to." I sighed. "But I suppose I will if only to be cordial, mind you." I chose my words thoughtfully. "You have my heartfelt apology if you considered me at all rude. I don't always think before I speak."

  He gasped in feigned astonishment. "No!"

  "Sarcasm, Mr. Jamison—"

  "Fletcher."

  "Very well, then. Sarcasm, Fletcher, is not nearly as charming as it might seem."

  "Perhaps not." His tone was somber, but a definite gleam of amusement lingered in his eyes. "If your offer of friendship for the length of our stay has not been withdrawn, I would be honored to accept."

  I considered him for a moment. In spite of my determination to be friends, it had been my observation that no man values that which comes too easily. Mr. Jamison—Fletcher—had his opportunity and let it slip through his fingers. "Might I be perfectly honest?"

  "Twice in one day?" His eyes widened. The man was a master of sarcasm without saying a word. "I am indeed honored."

  I ignored him. "You rebuffed my offer of friendship because I annoyed you last night. I am tempted now to reject yours because of our exchange this morning."

  "I see," he said slowly.

  "This is a game we could play forever." I met his gaze directly. "I do enjoy playing games, Fletcher." The moment the words were out of my mouth, I knew they were a mistake. I saw the speculation in his eyes. I pretended I hadn't. "Backgammon, croquet and all those lighthearted games one plays at parties. However, I do not wish to play a never-ending game of Offense and Apology."

  His brow quirked upward.

  "Therefore, I propose we start over." I refilled my cup from the teapot festooned with fanciful paintings of lemons and leaves and swirls of blue. "Perhaps each of us could list what we have to offer the other, as friends, that is."

  "An application of sorts for friendship?"

  "I suppose you could put it that way. Shall I go first?"

  He bit back a smile. "Please do."

  "Very well." I thought for a moment. "Aside from those sterling qualities I share with hounds"—I cast him a chastising look—"I can converse on any number of interesting subjects and a fair number of dull ones. I am better read than most people suspect. In addition to the games I have already mentioned, I also enjoy a variety of card games. I can play chess, but I'm not very skilled at it." I stared firmly into his dark eyes. "I prefer games that I'm good at, games I can win. And I always play to win."

  "Good to know," he said under his breath.

  "As I suspect we may spend some of our evenings engaged in healthy competition, I should like to know beforehand if you are one of those men who has difficulties being defeated by a woman. I warn you, I will not allow you to win simply to avoid offending your fragile sensibilities."

  "Nor would I expect you to."

  "Good." I nodded. While there were any number of ways in which I would allow a man to feel he was superior, one did not grow up in a large family—or at least in my large family—without learning it was to no one's benefit to give anything you did no less than everything you had. A similar sentiment was expressed in Latin on the Hadley-Attwater family crest. "Let's see, beyond that . . ." What did my friends say about me? "Oh yes, I am usually quite cognizant of the rules of proper behavior, which is extremely helpful to those of my friends who have no sense of propriety at all."

  "I can see where it would be."

  "You have no idea." I shook my head. "I have several friends—well, one in particular who pays no mind to appropriate behavior unless it suits her purposes, very often skirting the edge of scandal itself."

  "And you do not approve."

  "Absolutely not. There are rules, Fletcher, that dictate how we are expected to behave. Why, if everyone did exactly as they wished, we would have anarchy."

  "Not that!"

  "I realize you think this is amusing."

  "Extremely amusing, given that you have agreed to share the villa with me, which, I believe, you called the height of impropriety."

  "That’s entirely different." I waved off the comment.

  "Is it?" He took a sip of his tea. "It seems to me that impropriety is impropriety."

  "That's a decidedly male way to look at it." I glanced at him in a pitying manner.

  "It's a decidedly accurate way to look at it."

  "Don't be absurd. Our mutual occupancy of the villa is the product of misunderstanding and confusion through no fault of our own. In spite of Silvestro's initial assumption, this was not the planned rendezvous of separated lovers."

  Fletcher choked on his tea. Apparently, he wasn't used to women being direct. But I was enjoying saying exactly what came to mind without any thought or concern as to the consequences and with no apology. I wondered if this was how Veronica felt with every unguarded word she uttered. No doubt why she always seemed so smug.

  "What we have here is only the appearance of impropriety. And while one should always avoid the appearance of impropriety, in this particular case, we can't." I shrugged. "However, as you pointed out, this is no different than if we were both staying at a small hotel."

  "Except it's not a hotel."

  "But it certainly could be." I glanced around our delightful surroundings. "And a charming one at that."

  His brow furrowed, and he stared at me. "Do you always bend things to fit how you wish to see them?"

  "Not at . . ." I considered his question, then smiled. "Why, yes, I suppose I do."

  He laughed. "Your candor is both unexpected and refreshing."

  "I'm not sure how to respond to that." I put another zeppole on my plate and ignored the thought that I might have to loosen my corset before dinner. "Why is it unexpected?"

  "Given your somewhat flexible view of honesty, I wouldn't have anticipated you to be so forthright. Couple that with your comments about proper behavior, well . . ." He shrugged. "You're just not as I imagined you'd be."

  "And you're basing that on what? My manner yesterday?" I tore off a small pi
ece of pastry, popped it in my mouth and savored the flavors.

  "You were rather indignant."

  I swallowed, then lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. "As I had every right to be."

  "For someone in the wrong, I suppose."

  "I was no more in the wrong than you were," I said in my loftiest manner. "Now then, it's your turn."

  "My turn?" Poor man looked confused. I had no idea why. Our conversation thus far had been quite straightforward.

  "To tell me why we should be friends." I settled back in my chair, folded my hands on my lap and considered him in the same manner I would someone applying for a position in my household. "Tell me, Fletcher, why should I be friends with you?"

  "I could list my more sterling qualities, but it seems to me there is only one that at this juncture has any merit whatsoever." A slow smile spread across his face. A decidedly smug and superior smile.

  "If you think arrogance is a desirable quality, you are sadly mistaken."

  He laughed. Again. It was a deceptively contagious laugh. Hearty but not booming, shaded with genuine pleasure and just the tiniest hint of wickedness. Or perhaps that was the look in his eyes. Both were difficult to resist.

  "I don't think it's the least bit arrogant to acknowledge that the greatest quality I have to offer you as a friend"—his grin widened—"is that I am the only one here who speaks your language."

  I stared for a moment. "I've never had a male friend before." Although I had grown up with four male cousins, which was probably quite similar. "Is this what I can expect?"

  "Absolutely."

  I laughed at the look in his eye. "Very well, then, Fletcher. I certainly can't argue with that."

  "Come now, Portia. You strike me as the type of woman who would argue about anything."

  "Do I?" I considered the charge. In truth, I had always tended more toward the avoidance of arguments than leaping into them. "That's very interesting and not at all how most people see me. Not how I see myself, for that matter. At least before I came to Italy."

  "Oh?" He reached for his second zeppole, apparently finding them as addictive as I did.