Unwrapping a Rogue: A Christmas Regency Boxset

by Samantha Holt

  Edward was silent, absorbing her words. That she had been so honest with him surprised him – it was not common amongst the ton to speak of such personal matters.

  “Thank you for accepting my impertinence, my Lady.”

  She nodded, watching the falling water.

  “It filled my days. With my husband gone, I discovered just how much time we had spent in each other’s company. Ours was not a love match, by any means, but we had become fond of each other, companionable, and I had to find a new way to go on in his absence. But what began as a passing interest, to fill my time, and to work to guarantee the continuation of our line, became a true obsession, a true interest. So much so that I begin to suspect that the ladies of the ton now avoid gossiping in my presence, lest all the peccadilloes of their families be recorded for posterity.”

  “I can only be er, glad that is the case. Selfishly, I find myself unable to wish it any other way – for, if you had not become so er, obsessed, I would not have the gift of your conversation now.”

  She gave a small self-deprecating laugh.

  “I am glad that you find value in it. Most think me slightly mad. And, I must say, I have so far failed in the matter which led me to this in the first place. Sterling is no closer to marrying than he was when my husband died.”

  As if to emphasise that point, she thumped the point of the cane she carried hard against the stone of the wall beside the bench. Edward had watched her, and come to realise that the cane was an affectation – a way for her to appear older and stronger, in an odd way. He saw past it, saw the vulnerability in her – but he wondered if others did. She charmed him, in ways that no other woman ever had. The sharpness of her wit, and the intelligence that she displayed just added to her appeal. He wanted to touch her, he realised in that instant. That fact rather terrified him.

  “My Lady, you cannot fault yourself for the fact that he has not found a woman to marry. Whilst I er, cannot but support your aim of the perpetuation of an honourable family, I cannot easily support the idea of a man marrying where he does not have at least a strong liking for the woman he er, er, marries. In my life, I have seen the misery that can come from a marriage which did not start with at least liking.”

  ‘Yes’, he thought, ‘I have more than seen it, I have lived it. I would not wish that situation on any man’. But he would not speak of that, preferred, in fact, not to even think of it. She looked at him, her expression curious.

  “My own experience was of a marriage arranged for us, where we barely knew each other – yet it worked out well in the end. There was no great passion, but we were happy enough, and I have three decent children from it. As a result, I have always thought love unnecessary. But liking – yes, I can see that I was lucky there – I liked my husband from the first, he me liked me.”

  “I am sure, my Lady, that your son will find his way to marriage – er, perhaps not as fast as you would like, but he will get there. He struck me as a personable gentleman, one women would like.”

  “He is – but it is not women liking him that is the problem, but him liking any of them.”

  She sighed, and he almost laughed at the frustration contained in it. Instead, greatly daring, he reached out and took her hand in his. The warmth of her was palpable through the silk of her glove, and shivered through him, warming him to deep within.

  She stilled for a moment, but she did not draw her hand away.

  “Let us not continue to talk of things that frustrate you, my Lady, let us return our thoughts to the noble families of this nation. I have, since our last meeting, continued my research. I have two rather large mappings of family history to show you – which I suspect you will be able to add more detail to...”

  “Oh! That sounds wonderful... I must confess that I also have done more research, and have information to show you! It is so wonderful to have found another person who cares for these things as much as I do. Thank you!”

  Edward flushed, turning his head from her for a moment, but not releasing her hand. When he turned back, she was studying him, and it felt a little as if she saw past the surface, saw the turmoil of feeling within him. Her next words were gentle, yet devastating.

  “Professor Greenidge... May I return your impertinence with my own? How did you come to be the scholar that you are? What led you to genealogy, and the College of Arms?”

  He swallowed, unsure how to explain, but wanting, with this woman, to tell her the truth of it.

  “My Lady, I suffered the fate that many third sons do. I was er, er, the third son, the least important son, expected to go into the army, or the church, to accept my fate gracefully. But I was never a man er, well suited to either. I am not physically weak, but nor am I er, excessively strong – the military horrified me as a concept – the mere idea of career based on killing... and with my speech hesitation, to give er, a sermon...”

  Her fingers tightened on his, and her expression did not change, as he had half expected it might, to pity.

  “Yes... I can quite see that would not have been suitable.”

  “I was lucky – my father allowed me to persuade him that I should study. He even deeded a small estate to me, and arranged an annuity, that I might have enough to live on. But, in return, he expected that I would excel at my studies. So I did. But somehow, in the process, I came to genuinely enjoy delving into the mysteries of lineage, heritage and noble families. For which I am deeply grateful.”

  She looked at him again, her eyes filled only with interest and warmth. That look heated him through, raising a feeling in him the like of which he had not, ever before, felt.

  “It seems to have led you to a successful life – although perhaps a lonely one? I have discovered, in my own endeavours, how few people comprehend a fascination with genealogy and history.”

  “Indeed, my Lady. I am more used to others finding my conversation impenetrable, than interesting. You have been a delight in that way – to converse with you is a joy, for you... understand.”

  She beamed at his words, and the smile lit her face with undeniable beauty. His heart raced. Greatly daring, he lifted her gloved hand, and placed a kiss upon it. A kiss which he hoped conveyed the sincere depth of his feelings. He knew no other way to show her how much she had come to mean to him, in such a short time. When he lifted his head, her shining eyes met his, and he drowned in their green depths.

  OLIVIA FELT HER HEART stutter in her breast, her breath come short. The warmth of his fingers on hers had been creating the strangest sensations in her, and now, the warmth of his lips on her hand, even through her glove, was exciting, in a way that Drummond’s touch never had been. She did not know what to do with the feelings this man evoked in her, did not, truly, understand them. For, were not these the sort of feelings which she derided as foolish in others?

  Regardless, she found that she liked the sensation, to a startling degree. And liked the companionship of her conversation with him, liked the way in which they seemed, instantly, comfortable with each other. She had been thinking, all evening, about how pleasant it was to spend time with a man, just talking. The idea had come to her, that she had been far more lonely since Drummond’s death than she had realised. Her marriage had not been a love match, but they had liked each other well enough, and been companionable.

  She had not, until now, acknowledged, even to herself, how much she had missed that companionship, since his death. That recognition, followed by this conversation with Professor Greenidge which went so deep into the normally private part of both their lives, left her suddenly hoping, wanting, more than her life currently held. It frightened her a little.

  And now he kissed her hand – it shot a fluttery warmth through her body. His dark eyes met hers, and all else faded away.

  Chapter Five

  Back in the ballroom, Olivia sought out Sterling, realising that she had, yet again, allowed herself to be completely distracted from the search for a suitable girl for him to marry. Internally she berated herself for her
lapse – but it was almost half hearted. For she could not, in any way, regret her conversation with Professor Greenidge – or that moment in the gardens, when he had kissed her hand. It was, on the surface, a small gesture, yet it had affected her profoundly.

  She wanted to go home, she wanted to lie in her bed, and replay those sensations in her mind, to treasure them – for they were something new, and rather delicious. She found Sterling actually conversing with a young lady, much to her shock - although he looked rather bored – it was an expression which did not seem to deter the young woman. At least there was no sign of Lady Duckington, anywhere. She went across the room, to arrive at his side.

  Sterling turned to her with a smile.

  “Ah, there you are Mother. I was just planning to seek you out, to see if you were feeling tired, and wished to return home.”

  His words were all that was proper, but, by his expression, he desperately wanted her to agree with the suggestion, to allow him to escape his current conversation. Olivia sighed. So, this girl had not caught his interest, any more than any of the others had.

  “How astute of you Sterling. For I was just about to suggest that very thing.”

  For dramatic effect, she leant on her cane, and attempted to look exhausted. Sterling’s lips quirked into a small smile, and she could tell that he was repressing a desire to laugh. He turned to the young lady, who looked disappointed at this turn of events, bowed to her, and politely took his leave. Soon, they had gathered their coats and said their goodbyes to the host. She walked out of the door, glad to be gone from conversation, and to have space to think – to remember.

  She was so lost in thoughts of Professor Greenidge – Edward, as she had begun to dare to call him in her thoughts – that she did not notice Sterling share a glance, and the veriest hint of a bow, with Lady Duckington, where she stood, watching them as they left the room.

  EDWARD WATCHED AS LADY Hemsbridge went to her son, who was talking to one of the bland, hopeful young women.

  What might it feel like, to have such a fine upstanding young man as your son? He sighed, pushing the thought away. There was no use feeling melancholy about it – he would never have a child – he had lost the chance for that, many years ago. Still, the feelings tumbling through him now, the feelings caused by the proximity of Lady Hemsbridge, made him regret, for the first time since...

  Had he gone too far, by kissing her hand as he had? He could not be certain – she had not objected, had, in fact, quivered under his touch, emitting a tiny gasp, and when he had lifted his head, and fallen into those green eyes, he had been tempted to kiss her lips as well. But he had not. Who was he to kiss a woman?

  He watched her leave, regretfully, and went in search of brandy. He needed it. She made him feel things he had never felt before, things he had not known that he could feel. Things he did not know how to deal with – yet already, after only minutes away from her, he craved her presence again, craved to feel those feelings. He suspected that it was simply because she was actually interested in the things that he cared about – for surely, she was not interested in him, as a man. He was a fool if he thought that possible.

  He departed the Ball soon after, finding that the evening had lost all interest for him. It was as if her departure had dulled everything.

  UPON REACHING HOME, Edward went to bed, but soon discovered that sleep was elusive.

  Giving up the attempt, he wrapped a silk banyan around himself, and went to the library. Perhaps more brandy, and a book would help. But the library, with its neatly stacked books and documents, all part of his ongoing research, only reminded him of how much he wanted to share with Lady Hemsbridge. For the first time in his life, he did not want to remain there.

  He gathered up a single book, one that he was part way through reading, and a sizeable glass of brandy, and retreated to his rooms. Once there, he added some more coal to the fire, and settled into the armchair, placing the book and the brandy onto the small table set beside it.

  But, in the end, he did not pick up the book. Instead, he found himself staring into the flames, sipping the brandy, and remembering, as he had not done for most of the last thirteen years. The memories rose, despite his intent to ignore them.

  When he had reached thirty, his father had decided that he really should marry – Edward suspected that it was an attempt to make him fit better with his father’s idea of the life of a gentleman. His father had always been kind, but could not comprehend that a man could be happy, living simply as a scholar. And so, Edward had found himself introduced to a respectable young woman, the fifth daughter of an Earl. Her father was a long-term friend of his father.

  At twenty-two, Lady Sarina Hartford was approaching spinsterhood, and her father wanted her married. She had been pleasant enough, if very shy, and somewhat frail of constitution. He had agreed to marry her, and she to marry him, for the sake of their fathers, rather than from any strong feelings on either part. It had been, undoubtedly, the biggest mistake of his life.

  Her face rose in his mind now, as it had been when last he had seen her. Her dark hair fallen from its pins, her eyes welling with tears, and her voice filled with more emotion than he had ever previously seen in her, even though what she said was punctuated with bouts of violent coughing. The words were etched in his memory.

  ‘Edward, I cannot stay. We do not love each other. You do not want me, you never did. I have tried to care for you... but I cannot. I do not understand you, I do not care about the things that matter to you, and you barely notice me. You rarely come to my bed. I would be better off as a spinster. I have decided – I will leave. I will not make a scandal, I will simply disappear. My old nanny has a large cottage – my father gave her an annuity – and I will live with her, as I had thought of doing before we were driven into this ill-advised marriage. I ask that you leave me be, let me have my own life in peace.’

  He had not known what to say. Had not, in truth, been able to deny her words. He did not love her. He had tried to care, but the best he had achieved was a distant regard. Even the intimacy of the bedchamber had not brought them any closer – although he was, he hoped, a courteous and gentle lover, if not a well-practised one. Her words had struck to the core of things. He had failed as a man. He was not what society wanted, not what his father wanted, not what he wanted to be.

  His speech hesitation had always set him apart, and his failure as a husband had broken something in him. He had, in the end, simply nodded, and said, ‘as you wish’. Her tears had fallen harder, as if he had stripped from her the last hope. She had been gone the next morning.

  At first, her absence had been a relief, although it reminded him each day of his failure. Then he had become accustomed to it, and allowed time to slide past, whilst he retreated more from the world. Not quite a year after the day that she had left, a message was delivered to his door. It was written in the shaky hand of an old person, although the words were well enough put.

  ‘Mr Greenidge,

  I regret to inform you that your wife has, this last week, passed from this earth. The illness that Lady Sarina suffered when she arrived here was persistent, and she has never quite been well. In the end, it took too much of a toll on her, and she succumbed. By her wishes, she has been buried in the Hartford family crypt. She asked, at the last, that I let you know that God had granted you release from the marriage.

  Yours

  Nanny Bentick’

  For eleven years thereafter, he had not ventured into society at all, had simply immersed himself in his research, and only spoken to others as he needed to, to further that research. Bitterness dwelled in him, that he had failed at almost everything in his life, and he had not believed that there was any point in considering marriage again.

  If he could not love, if he could not even successfully care for a woman, what woman would tolerate him?

  It was safest to simply be a scholar, and to succeed at that one thing, where he had failed at everything else. But his very succes
s had led him back into society.

  His scholarship had led him to the Royal College of Arms, and an esteemed position, and his research there had led him to pursue the acquaintance of a number of members of society, to discover, he had hoped, the lost branches of some noble families. And that he had done.

  Which had brought him, over the last two years, back into society, by the agency of Viscount Bellham, whose wife’s lost family history he had discovered.

  He should have stayed away.

  ‘But,’ the thought arose, ‘if you had not gone back into society, you would never have met Lady Hemsbridge.’

  And there was the centre of it. For Lady Hemsbridge had woken something in him, something he had thought long buried. Something that might, perhaps, be called desire, and which bore a strong resemblance to hope. Foolish, terrifying hope. Hope that she might see him as a man, as more than simply a person who supplied an interesting conversation, who shared an obsession.

  But to hope for such a thing was only to put himself in a position to fail again. He had thought himself past that, secure in his aging scholarship, yet one private conversation, one touch of a warm silk-clad hand, and all of those years of ignoring it were swept away. He was nothing any woman could want, nothing that could satisfy any woman, beyond passing conversation. He was a complete fool.

  But he wanted to see her again, as soon as possible. Wanted to share his research with her. Wanted, in his heart of hearts, to kiss her – to kiss far more than her hand.