December Heart

by Farmer, Merry

  “Papa.” Mariah hugged him back, soaking in every bit of the rare and wonderful hug. Suddenly, none of the frustrations of the afternoon mattered a bit. Her irritation was gone, and all she could feel was affection for her father.

  “Now, Poppet,” her father said, letting go of her at last. Mariah didn’t even mind that he used the term of endearment he’d used when she was a tiny girl. “Let’s sit down and have a chat. Your mother and I have something exciting to discuss with you.”

  Mariah glanced to her mother, whose hands were clutched to her heart in expectation. On top of that, she looked near tears.

  “What’s going on?” Mariah asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, no. Far from it.”

  Rather than gesturing for her to sit in the chair in front of his desk in a businesslike manner, her father guided her to the long, leather sofa near the fireplace, his arm around her waist. Her mother came to sit on one side of her as her father sat on the other.

  “I just want you to know that I’m very happy about this,” her mother said. “And your father has my full support.”

  “Full support for what?” Mariah asked, half laughing, half crawling out of her skin with impatience.

  Her father took a breath, then shifted to face her. “My dear, I’ve found a husband for you.”

  Mariah blinked, convinced she hadn’t heard her father right. “I beg your pardon.”

  “I’ve found a husband for you,” her father repeated as though the Queen had given him a medal.

  Mouth open, Mariah turned to her mother. But where she’d been expecting confusion equal to her own, Mariah found only wide-eyed excitement. Her mother nodded enthusiastically and gestured to her father.

  “You’ve found me a husband.” Mariah blinked. “I didn’t know I was looking for one.”

  “Well, you might not have been looking,” her mother said, bearing a sudden resemblance to Victoria. “But all women need husbands. And we’ve been so concerned for you since Robert died.”

  “Yes, yes. Terrible business, that.” Her father flushed and looked embarrassed.

  “Besides, darling.” Her mother rested a hand on Mariah’s knee. “The life of a spinster doesn’t suit you.”

  Mariah let out an undignified grunt of total agreement before she could stop herself. It was a little embarrassing to have what she knew so well pointed out to her, though. And by her mother.

  “But….” She squirmed in her seat, glancing from mother to father. “How did this come about? It’s not the Middle Ages, after all. Fathers don’t simply go out and procure husbands for their daughters anymore.”

  “No, of course not,” her father said, then burst into a smile. “It was a happy bit of coincidence, actually.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, do tell the story, Edmund,” her mother said with a girlish gleam in her eyes. “It’s such a lovely story.”

  “Well,” he said, “it all started about eighteen months ago—”

  “Eighteen months?” Mariah shook her head. “And you’re just telling me about it now?”

  “About eighteen months ago,” her father repeated, with more emphasis, “a good friend of mine, Lord Peter deVere, expressed to me his wish to remarry.”

  “Oh?” Mariah searched her memory, but she couldn’t remember her father ever mentioning a Lord Peter deVere before.

  “Yes,” her mother added. “His first marriage is such a tragic story.”

  Mariah pressed her lips together. No doubt her father had seen her romantic past as tragic as well and felt she and Lord Peter had something in common.

  Her father held up a hand to brush her mother’s interruption away. “Peter is a trusted friend, and his first wife, Anne, died without giving him an heir. I took the liberty of mentioning you, Poppet, and of putting you forth as a candidate to provide him with that heir.”

  “Papa!” Mariah pressed a hand to her suddenly hot face. “Please tell me you didn’t present me to this man as breeding stock.”

  “No, no.” Her father’s brow furrowed, then his eyebrows popped to his hairline. “Oh dear, no. I didn’t mean it like that at all.”

  “Thank heavens.” Mariah pressed a hand to her thumping heart. She winced slightly and asked, “How did you say it?”

  Her father shrugged. “Peter mentioned he needed to remarry. I said I had a daughter who would make a good wife.”

  Mariah bit her lip, not sure that was much better. “And he said…what?”

  “He said he’d be interested in meeting you,” her father said.

  Mariah searched her memory once again, scrambling to remember if she had ever met anyone who might even remotely be the man her father was talking about. She’d had a season in London before Robert declared his intentions, but after his death, she’d stayed far away from town. She remembered quite a few young men, but her father’s friends tended to be older. He was particularly close with a group of men who had served with him in the Crimean War, but that was ages ago. All of those friends served in either the House of Commons with him or the House of Lords, and Mariah had met them so few times that she couldn’t match the bits and pieces of names she remembered to faces.

  She shook her head, bringing herself back to the present. “If that conversation was eighteen months ago, why am I only hearing about it now?”

  “Well, er….” Her father cleared his throat. “I may have mistaken the seriousness of Peter’s intent for a while. Apparently, he warmed to the idea of marrying you right away and, uh, has had his heart set on it for all this time.”

  “But you didn’t tell me?” Mariah wasn’t sure whether to be offended or to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

  “Your father is a very busy and important man,” her mother reminded her. “He and his colleagues are engaged in a valiant struggle in Parliament to increase the rights of women throughout the country.”

  It was true. Her father was well known as a champion of property and personal rights for women in Great Britain. He and his friends were hard at work writing a bill that would extend a variety of legal protections to women—married women, that was—which they currently didn’t have.

  “But surely you could have found time to inform me that a man had determined to marry me, Papa,” Mariah said.

  “I wasn’t aware of his level of intention,” her father defended himself, red-faced with embarrassment.

  “When did you become aware of it?”

  Her father hesitated, cringed, then answered, “Three days ago.”

  “Three days?” Mariah nearly leapt from the sofa in alarm. “You found out three days ago that this friend of yours was serious about marrying me?”

  “Yes.” At least her father had the good sense to look sheepish. “The timing was my oversight entirely. But that doesn’t mean I don’t approve of the match. On the contrary. Peter is as fine a man as any woman could hope to marry.”

  “He is,” her mother agreed. “I’ve met him. He’s a kind and generous soul.”

  “But I don’t know him,” Mariah argued.

  “Precious few women truly know their husbands before they are married,” her father blustered on.

  Mariah could have argued with him. Times had changed from when he and her mother were young, after all. But before she could form an argument, her mother blurted. “He’s an earl, Mariah. The Earl of Dunsford. You would be a countess.” She beamed with glee.

  Mariah was speechless. She’d never been the sort to hunger for things like titles and wealth. All she needed to survive in life was a modest home and the freedom to read what she wanted to without being treated like a child. But to suddenly be offered the title and life of a countess? It didn’t seem real.

  “Peter has a lovely estate in Cornwall,” her father explained. “Part of the property is on the English Channel, but the majority of it is inland. The deVere family have made their fortune through mining these last few generations. And Starcross Castle is listed as one of Southwestern England’s most be
autiful manor houses.

  “Starcross…Castle?” Her last word came out as a squeak.

  “I can picture you as the mistress of a castle,” her mother said, clasping her hands to her heart.

  Mariah’s brain felt as though it were working through molasses. It was utterly impossible that an earl would appear out of nowhere, wanting to marry her and make her mistress of a castle by the sea. Her, poor Mariah Travers, forgotten and rejected, and on the verge of permanent spinsterhood. The notion of being pursued by a wealthy earl was ridiculous.

  “When—” Her voice cracked, so she cleared her throat and started again. “When will I have a chance to meet Lord Peter?”

  “Ah. Well.” Her father shifted and tugged at his collar. “The thing is, he’s coming tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Mariah’s eyes went wide.

  “Yes, and he’s under the impression that the two of you will be married this Friday.”

  “This Friday?” Mariah could only gape for a moment before asking, “Why is he under that impression?”

  “Because that’s what I told him,” her father confessed with a sigh, his posture slipping. “But if you don’t want to marry him, I can call the whole thing off and send him on his way.”

  “But darling.” Her mother grasped her arm, looking at her seriously. “You won’t get another offer of marriage after this.”

  The room went silent. Mariah licked her lips, staring at her mother. The instinct to contradict her made a weak attempt to assert itself, but quickly withered. Her mother was right. At her age, it was unlikely enough that she would receive another proposal. But considering that almost everyone of their acquaintance knew she hadn’t been good enough to keep Robert interested, the choice before her wasn’t much of a choice at all. She could either marry this friend of her father’s, whom she didn’t know, or she could continue with her life of perpetual childhood, never fully admitted to adult society. It was a choice between freedom and the unknown or a lifetime of sameness.

  “All right,” she said, her voice barely more than a wisp.

  “All right?” her mother asked.

  Mariah glanced between her mother and her father. “I’ll marry your friend, Papa,” she said. “I’ll marry him Friday.”

  “Excellent, Poppet.” Her father let out a loud breath of relief and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his brow. “You had me worried for a moment there. I don’t know what I would have told Peter if you’d said no.”

  “You won’t have to tell him anything but yes, yes, yes,” her mother said, giggling with joy. “Oh, this is wonderful,” she sighed. “My daughter, a countess. And this means that you will be able to introduce Victoria to suitable, titled gentlemen as well.”

  “One thing at a time, Mama,” Mariah said, cracking a smile at last and resting a hand on her mother’s knee.

  She probably would have an opportunity, as a countess, to introduce Victoria to a better class of men than she currently seemed drawn to. And it would be a formidable challenge to administrate a castle, as would be her duty. And providing Lord Peter with an heir? Well, she would worry about that particular duty when she had to, and not a second sooner.

  Chapter 2

  Hope was a sentiment Peter deVere had given up on more than a decade ago. Hope led to expectations, and when those expectations weren’t met, it led to disappointment. And, at fifty, Peter was tired of being disappointed. He was tired of chasing dreams that never became reality, and he was tired of picking up the pieces of hearts that had been broken, especially his own. He was just tired.

  So when the carriage his friend Edmund had sent to pick him up from the train station rattled along the sunny streets of the idyllic English village, past cottages with window boxes bursting with flowers and small, thriving businesses, he focused on the scenes around him, not what awaited him at Edmund’s house. A group of children chasing a goose in the yard beside one of the cottages caught his eye and made him smile, but he was quick to tamp down the hope that by this time next year, he would have a child of his own to love and indulge. His expectations of a child had been disappointed so many times now that even such a joyful sight as children playing pierced him with pain.

  He turned away from the carriage window, cleared his throat, and rolled his shoulders to shake some of the stiffness of travel from his limbs. He wouldn’t let himself hope, but he could list the facts. Edmund’s daughter was of child-bearing age. She was not Anne. And Anne’s fifteen miscarriages had proven that he was, in fact, capable of siring offspring. It was not hope, but rather statistics which said that this time, things would be different.

  That didn’t stop the mantle of weariness from pressing down on him, though. This time could be different, but what if it wasn’t?

  The carriage slowed before turning into a half-circle drive in front of a moderately large house. Edmund did well for himself, but he was known for being frugal. His Aylesbury house looked comfortable, its gardens well-tended, and the footman that scurried to open the carriage door for him disciplined. But it wasn’t the outer trappings of Edmund’s prosperity that sent a jolt of wariness straight to Peter’s gut. It was the neat, happy line of people waiting to greet him—Edmund, his wife Emily, and their two daughters. The younger was spritely and fresh, but it was the older daughter, his fiancée, that captured his focus.

  Mariah Travers looked younger than he imagined she would. Her oval face was lovely, with shapely lips and warm, brown eyes. She was a bit pale, but a healthy flush painted her cheeks. The purple dress she wore was fashionable and suited her coloring. She looked a bit nervous, which was unsurprising, considering the circumstances.

  As soon as the footman had the steps in place, Peter cleared his throat again, brushed his fingers through his hair—he should have had it cut before coming, as curls on a man of his age were ridiculous and only emphasized how white it had become—straightened his jacket, then stepped down to face his future.

  “Thank you,” he murmured to the footman, then drew in a breath and started toward Edmund.

  The girls looked right past him, still watching the carriage expectantly. Peter’s heart sank in an instant.

  “Where is he?” the younger daughter—Victoria, if he remembered correctly—asked. She frowned at the empty carriage, then turned to him. “Are you Lord Peter deVere’s father?”

  The sinking feeling in Peter’s gut expanded to dread. “No,” he answered, painstakingly polite, with what he hoped was an apologetic smile. He shifted that smile from Victoria to Mariah, hoping, praying she would forgive him for being old.

  “Ah, Peter.” Edmund stepped forward to greet him, more flushed than usual. His glance darted anxiously to his daughters as Victoria gasped. “Such a pleasure to see you’ve arrived in one piece.”

  “Edmund.” Peter nodded and took his friend’s hand. A shake wasn’t enough for Edmund, and Peter found himself drawn into an embrace. It gave him the split-second he needed to study his intended before having to face her directly.

  Mariah’s eyes had gone wide with surprise, and her blush deepened, but it was clear as day that he was not what she was expecting. Not by a long shot. Hope, once again, had descended into disappointment. Only this time, he was the disappointment.

  “You remember my wife, Emily.” Edmund let go of him and stepped back, gesturing to his wife.

  “It’s such an honor to have you in our home, my lord,” Mrs. Travers greeted him with warmth that bordered on adoration.

  “Please.” Peter shook his head slightly. “Under the circumstances, Peter will do.”

  “Oh no,” Mrs. Travers protested. “You are an earl. It must be ‘my lord’.”

  Peter tried not to wince. “As you wish, madam.”

  “And these are my daughters,” Edmund went on, gesturing to the young women. “Victoria is my youngest, and, of course, this is Mariah.” He smiled at Mariah with a pride that Peter found admirable.

  But before Peter could do more than make fleeting eye-c
ontact with Mariah, Victoria burst out with, “He’s ancient!”

  Mrs. Travers gasped audibly. Panic flooded Edmund’s eyes. But Mariah’s reaction was the only one Peter cared about. Her reaction determined the course of the rest of his life. And she merely pressed her lips together, flushed harder, and glanced down in embarrassment. Peter had no idea if that embarrassment was for her sister or because of him.

  “How do you do?” He fell back on the manners that had been drilled into him, both by his strict father and by his years of military service, standing straight and bowing crisply. Every nerve in his body was taut, until Mariah glanced up through her thick lashes and met his eyes. His heart thudded against his ribs, and he managed a smile.

  “I’m quite well,” she answered, bobbing an awkward curtsy, as if she weren’t sure how she should be greeting him.

  It wasn’t the most passionate or smooth meeting of future spouses that had ever occurred, but at least it wasn’t a total disaster. At least it wasn’t—

  “You can’t marry him,” Victoria whispered to her sister. She hid behind her hand, but her eyes remained locked on Peter, and she wasn’t quiet enough. “He’s an old man. He has white hair.”

  “Victoria, hush,” Mrs. Travers snapped at him.

  “But Mama, she can’t,” Victoria went on, trying not to move her mouth as she spoke. “She just can’t. He’s all wrinkled.” She smiled politely at Peter, unaware that he’d heard everything she’d said.

  He shouldn’t have let the indelicate observations of a girl barely out of the schoolroom affect him, but he was only human. He squared his shoulders, trying to ignore the pang of self-consciousness squeezing his stomach. Time was the enemy of all men, but he’d thought he’d done well fighting it. He stayed active and had kept his physique from turning soft, but he was well aware that he had lines around his eyes, and there was no denying his white hair.

  “I can assure you, neither of my feet are in the grave,” he replied, praying that his attempt at humor wouldn’t make things worse.