A Christmas Bride / A Christmas Beau

by Mary Balogh

  He looked back at her and stopped singing. He smiled and lowered his head to kiss her briefly on the lips. A small token of—affection. Was he going to pay her warning no heed, then?

  “Such a bleak look, Helena,” he said. “Yet you have been looking so happy.”

  “Let us not start this again,” she said.

  But his next words had her jumping to her feet in terror and panic.

  “Tell me about your stepson,” he said. “Tell me about Sir Gerald Stapleton.”

  She turned and stumbled off in the direction of the house. She tried to shake off his arm when he caught up to her and took her in his grasp.

  “I was right, then,” he said. “I picked on the right person. Steady, Helena. You cannot run all the way home. We will walk. You cannot run from yourself either. Have you not realized that yet? And you will not run from me. But we will take it slowly—both the walk and the other. Slow your steps.”

  A chaplain praying over a condemned man must speak in just that quiet, soothing voice, she thought.

  “Damn you, Edgar!” she cried. “Damn you, damn you, damn you!”

  “Calm yourself,” he said. “Walk slowly. There is no hurry.”

  “I hate you,” she said. “Oh, how I hate you. You are loathsome and I hate you. Damn you,” she added for good measure.

  14

  INCREDIBLY, NOTHING MORE WAS SAID ON THE SUBJECT of Helena’s stepson. They walked home in silence and Edgar took her straight to their bedchamber, where she slumped wearily onto the bed, taking the time only to remove her boots and outdoor garments before she did so. He went to stand at the window until he looked over his shoulder and noticed that she had not covered herself, though the room was rather chilly. He wrapped the top quilt carefully about her to the chin. She was already asleep.

  She slept deeply for two hours while Edgar first watched her, then returned to his place at the window, and finally went downstairs when he saw that everyone else was coming back to the house, loaded with greenery. He helped to carry armfuls inside while their original bearers stamped snow-packed boots on the steps and slapped at snowy clothing. He took the Bridgwater baby from the duke’s arms and had unwound him from his many layers of warm clothing before a few of the nurses came hurrying downstairs to whisk him and most of the other children back up to the nursery with them. They were to be tidied and warmed and fed and put down for an obligatory rest before the excitement was to resume with the decoration of the house.

  Edgar told several people who asked that his wife had merely felt herself tiring and was now having a sleep.

  “I warned her that it would be too much for her,” Mr. Downes said. “You should have taken a firmer hand with her yourself, Edgar. You must not allow her to risk her health.”

  “I believe Helena is not one to take orders meekly, Papa,” Edgar said.

  “Oh, dear, no,” Mrs. Cross agreed. “There was never anyone more stubborn than Helena, Mr. Downes. But she was exceedingly happy this morning. She still has a way with children, just as she always used to have. Children warm quickly to her, perhaps because she warms quickly to them. Yes, thank you, sir. You are most kind.” Mr. Downes was taking her cloak and bonnet from her and looking around in vain for a footman who might be standing about doing nothing.

  “Let me take you to the drawing room, ma’am,” Edgar said, offering his arm, “where there will be a warm fire and probably some warm drinks too before nuncheon.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I must admit to feeling chilly. But I do not know when I have enjoyed myself as much as I have this morning, Mr. Downes. You cannot know what it means to me to be part of such a happy family Christmas.”

  “You always will be from now on, ma’am,” he said, “if my wife and I have anything to say in the matter. Did you ever visit Helena during her first marriage?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed,” she said, “two or three times. She had a gift for happiness in those days. I suppose the marriage was not entirely to her liking—Sir Christian Stapleton was so much older than she, you know. But she made the best of it. She had that vibrancy and those smiles.” She smiled herself. “Perhaps they will come back now. I am confident they will. This is a far better match for her.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I hope you are right. Did you know Sir Christian’s son?”

  “Poor boy,” she said. “He was very lonely and timid and not much loved by his father, I believe. But Helena was good to him. She set herself to mothering him and shielding him from his father’s impatience—she could always wheedle him with her sunny ways. They both worshiped her. But you do not want to be hearing this, Mr. Downes. That was a long time ago. I am very glad Helena has a chance at last to have a child of her own—and a husband of her own age. I was shocked at first and was perhaps not as kind to you as I ought to have been. I do apologize for that. You are a fine young man, I believe.”

  “You were all that was gracious, ma’am,” he said. “Take this chair while I fetch you a drink. You should be warm again in a moment.”

  By the time Helena woke up nuncheon was over—Edgar had a tray sent up to her—and the drawing room, the dining room, the ballroom, and the hall were being cleared, ready for the decorating. The older children had already come downstairs and the younger ones were being brought just as she came down herself. There was much to do and many people to do it. It was certainly not the time for a serious talk.

  Edgar had been appointed to direct most of the men and some of the bigger children in the decoration of the ballroom. It involved much climbing of ladders and leaning out precariously into space. Cora shrieked when she saw her eldest son, ten rungs up one of the ladders, intent on handing his father a hammer. She showed every intention of climbing up herself to rescue him, though she was terrified of heights, and was banished to the drawing room.

  Stephanie, Duchess of Bridgwater, and Fanny Grainger, self-proclaimed experts in the making of kissing boughs, were constructing the main one for the drawing room with the help of some of the other ladies. Helena, self-proclaimed nonexpert, was making another with the help of far too many children for any degree of efficiency. She had thrown herself into the task, Edgar noticed, with bright-faced enthusiasm. Of course the sleep had done her good, she had assured his father and a few other people who had thought to ask. All her energy was restored and redoubled. She smiled dazzlingly. She ignored her husband as if he did not exist.

  She could not continue to do so indefinitely, of course. Finally all was done and they were summoned to the drawing room for hot punch—hot lemonade for the children—and for the first annual ceremony of the raising of the kissing bough, Mr. Downes announced when they were all assembled. Adults chuckled and children squealed with laughter.

  It was finally in place at the very center of the room below the chandelier. They all gazed at it admiringly. The Marquess of Carew began a round of applause and Fanny blushed while the duchess laughed.

  “It would seem appropriate to me,” Mr. Downes said, “for the bough to be put to the test by the new bride and groom. We have to be sure that it works.”

  There was renewed applause. There were renewed shrieks from the children. The Earl of Thornhill whistled.

  “Pucker up, Edgar, old chap,” Lord Francis said.

  Well, Edgar thought, stepping forward and reaching for his wife’s hand, he had not kissed her at their wedding. He supposed he owed everyone this.

  “Now, let me see.” He played to the audience, setting his hands on Helena’s shoulders and looking upward with a frown of concentration. “Ah, yes, there. Dead center. That should work.” He grinned at her. She gazed back, the afternoon’s bright gaiety still in her face. “Happy Christmas, Mrs. Downes.”

  They lingered over the kiss, entirely for the benefit of their cheering audience. It was not exactly his idea of an erotic experience, Edgar thought, to indulge in public kissing. But he was surprised by the tide of warmth that flooded over him. Not physical warmth—or at least not sexual warmth. J
ust the warmth of love, he and his wife literally surrounded by family and friends at Christmas.

  He smiled down at her when they were finished. “It works exceedingly well,” he said. “But we do not expect anyone to believe it merely because we have said so. Do we, my love? You are all welcome to try for yourselves.”

  Rosamond, young daughter of the Carews, pulled the marquess out beneath the bough, and he bent over her, smiling, and kissed her to the accompaniment of much laughter. No one, it seemed, was prepared to take Edgar at his word or that of anyone who came after him and confirmed his opinion. Hardly anyone went unkissed, and those who did—those children of middle years who were both too old and too young to kiss and pulled gargoyle faces at the very thought—did so entirely from choice.

  Jack Sperling and Fanny Grainger were almost the last. Edgar had watched them grow progressively more self-conscious and uncomfortable until finally Jack got up his courage, strode toward her, and led her onto the recently vacated space beneath the bough with all the firm determination any self-respecting man of business could possibly want in an employee. Their lips clung together with very obvious yearning—for perhaps the duration of one whole second. And then she scurried away, scarlet to the tips of her ears, her eyes avoiding those of her suitor—and those of her barely smiling parents.

  The elder Mr. Downes was last.

  “Well, Mrs. Cross,” he said heartily, “I am not sure I believe all these young folk. There is something sorry seeming about that bough, pretty as it is and loaded down with mistletoe as it is. I believe you and I should see what all the fuss is about.”

  Mrs. Cross did not argue or even blush, Edgar was interested to note. She stepped quietly under the bough and lifted her face. “I believe we should, sir,” she said.

  It felt strange watching his father kissing a woman, even if it was just a public Christmas kiss beneath mistletoe. One tended not to think of one’s own father in such terms. It was not the sort of smacking kiss his father often bestowed on Cora and his grandchildren. Brief and decorous though it was, it was definitely the sort of kiss a man exchanges with a woman.

  “Well, what do you say, ma’am?” His father was frowning ferociously and acting to the audience of shrieking, bouncing children, who had lost some interest in the proceeding until Grandpapa had decided to take a turn.

  “I think I would have to say it really is a kissing bough, sir,” Mrs. Cross said calmly and seriously. “I would have to say it works very nicely indeed.”

  “My sentiments entirely,” he said. “Now I am not so sure about the monstrous concoction of ribbons and bows that is hanging in the hall. The children’s creation with the help of my daughter-in-law, I believe. That is no kissing bough.” He still had his hands on Mrs. Cross’s waist, Edgar noticed, while grimacing from the noise of children screeching in indignation.

  “What?” his father said, looking about him in some amazement. “It is?”

  The children responded like a Greek chorus.

  And so nothing would do but Mr. Downes had to tuck Mrs. Cross’s arm beneath his and lead them all in an unruly procession down the stairs to the hall, where Helena’s grotesque and ragged creation hung in all its tasteless glory. He kissed Mrs. Cross again, with a resounding smack of the lips this time, and pronounced the children’s kissing bough even more effective than the one in the drawing room.

  The children burst into mass hysteria.

  It had been a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon for all. But parents were only human, after all. The children were gradually herded in the direction of the nursery, where it fell to the lot of their poor nurses to calm their high spirits. Something resembling quiet descended on the house. The conservatory would be the quietest place of all, Edgar thought. He would take his wife there. They could not suspend indefinitely the talk that this morning’s revelation had made inevitable.

  He had to find out about Gerald Stapleton.

  But Cora had other ideas. She reached Helena’s side before he did. “The children’s party on Christmas Day needs to be planned, Helena,” she said, “as well as the ball in the evening. Papa has had all the invitations sent out, of course, and the cook has all the food plans well in hand. But there is much else to be organized. Shall we spend an hour on it now?”

  “Of course,” Helena said. “Just you and I, Cora?”

  “Stephanie was a governess before she was a duchess,” Cora said. “Did you know that? She is wonderful with children.”

  “Then we will ask her if she wishes to help us plan games,” Helena said.

  They went away to some destination unknown, taking the duchess with them as well as the wife and daughter of one of Edgar’s Bristol friends. After they returned, it was time to change for dinner. And dinner, with so many guests, and with so many Christmas decorations to be exclaimed over and so many Christmas plans to be divulged and discussed, lasted a great long while. So did coffee in the drawing room afterward, with several of the young people entertaining the company informally with pianoforte recitals and singing.

  But it could not be postponed until bedtime, Edgar decided. And certainly not until tomorrow. He had started this. He had thought methodically through all he knew of Helena, and all she had told him, and not told him, and had concluded that her first husband was not the key figure in her present unhappiness and bitterness. It was far more likely to have been the son. Her reaction to his question this morning had left him in no doubt whatsoever. She had been so shocked and so distressed that she had not even tried to deceive him with impassivity.

  They must talk. She must tell him everything. Both for her own sake and for the sake of their marriage. Perhaps forcing her to confront her past in his hearing was entirely the wrong thing to do. The bitterness that was always at the back of her eyes and just behind her smiles might burst through and destroy the fragile control she had imposed on her own life. The baring of her soul, which she had repeatedly told him she would never do, might well destroy their marriage almost before it had begun. She might loathe him with a very real intensity for the rest of their lives.

  But their marriage stood no real chance if she kept her secrets. They might live together as man and wife in some amity and harmony for many years. But they would be amicable strangers who just happened to share a name, a home, a bed, and a child or two. He wanted more than that. He could not be satisfied with so little. He was willing to risk—he had to risk—the little they had in the hope that he would get everything in return and with the very real risk that he would lose everything.

  But then his life was constantly lived on a series of carefully calculated risks. Of course, as an experienced and successful businessman, he never risked all or even nearly all on one venture. No single failure had ever ruined him, just as no single success had ever made him. This time it was different. This time he risked everything—everything he had, everything he was.

  He had realized in the course of the day that he was not only in love with her. He loved her.

  He might well be headed toward self-destruction. But he had no choice.

  She was conversing with a group of his friends. She was being her most vibrant, fascinating self, and they were all charmed by her, he could see. He touched her on the arm, smiled, and joined in the conversation for a few minutes before addressing himself just to her.

  “It is a wonderfully clear night,” he said. “The sky will look lovely from the conservatory. Come and see it there with me?”

  She smiled and he caught a brief glimpse of desperation behind her eyes.

  “That is the most blatantly contrived invitation a man ever offered his new bride, Edgar,” one of his friends said. “We have all done it in our time. ‘Come and see the stars, my love.’ ”

  The laughter that greeted his words was entirely good-natured.

  “Take no notice, Edgar,” one of the wives told him. “Horace is merely envious because he did not think of it first.”

  “I will come and see the stars,” Helena said i
n her lowest, most velvet voice, leaving with their friends the impression that she expected not to see a single one of them.

  Which was, in a sense, true.

  HE STOOD AT one of the wide windows of the conservatory, his hands clasped at his back, his feet slightly apart. He was looking outward, upward at the stars. He looked comfortable, relaxed. She knew it was a false impression.

  She liked the conservatory, though she had not had the chance to spend much time here. There were numerous plants and the warmth of a summer garden. Yet the outdoors was fully visible through the many windows. The contrast with the snowy outdoors this evening was quite marked. The sky was indeed clear.

  “The stars are bright,” she said. “But you must not expect to see the Bethlehem star yet, Edgar. It is two nights too early.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  She had not approached the windows herself. She had seated herself on a wrought-iron seat beneath a giant palm. She felt curiously calm, resigned. She supposed that from the moment she had set eyes on Edgar Downes and had felt that overpowering need to do more than merely flirt with him this moment had become inevitable. She had become a firm believer in fate. Why had she returned to London at very much an off-season for polite society? Why had he chosen such an inopportune time to go to London to choose a bride?

  It was because they had been fated to meet. Because this had been fated.

  “He was fourteen when I married his father,” she said. “He was just a child. When you are nineteen, Edgar, a fourteen-year-old seems like a child. He was small and thin and timid and unappealing. He did not have much promise.” Because she had been unhappy herself and a little bewildered, she had felt instant sympathy for the boy, more than if he had been handsome and robust and confident.

  “But you liked him,” Edgar said.