Deck The Halls With Love: Lost Lords Of Pembrook Novella

by Heath Lorraine

  Deck The Halls With Love: Lost Lords Of Pembrook Novella

  Lost Lords Of Pembrook [2.50]

  Lorraine Heath

  Avon Impulse (2012)

  *

  Rating: ***

  Tags: Romance, Historical Romance, England, Love Story, Regency Romance

  Christmas is a time for miracles … and second chances at love.

  In her dazzling first Season, Lady Meredith Hargreaves gave her heart to Alistair Wakefield, the Marquess of Chetwyn, only to have it shattered when he proposed to another. And now that he’s free to pursue her? It matters little, because she’s on her way to the altar, heartbreak be damned.

  Chetwyn once set aside his dreams in favor of duty and honor. But as Christmas approaches, he is determined to put his own desires first and lure Lady Meredith back into his arms, where she’s always belonged.

  First he steals a dance; then he steals a kiss. But when they find themselves alone in an abandoned castle during a snowstorm, reignited passion consumes them both. And Chetwyn will have one last chance to steal back Meredith’s heart, once and for all.

  DECK THE HALLS WITH LOVE

  A Lost Lords of Pembrook Novella

  LORRAINE HEATH

  CONTENTS

  *

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  An Excerpt from Lord of Wicked Intentions

  About the Author

  Also by Lorraine Heath

  An Excerpt from Nights of Steel by Nico Rosso

  An Excerpt from Alice’s Wonderland by Allison Dobell

  An Excerpt from One Fine Fireman by Jennifer Bernard

  An Excerpt from There’s Something About Lady Mary by Sophie Barnes

  An Excerpt from The Secret Life of Lady Lucinda by Sophie Barnes

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  *

  Pembrook Manor

  Yorkshire

  December 1858

  Standing alone beside a window a short distance away from the midst of the gaiety, Alistair Wakefield, the Marquess of Chetwyn, slowly sipped the Scotch that he had pilfered from his host’s library on his way to the grand salon. He’d known that attending this holiday gathering at the Duke and Duchess of Keswick’s new country manor would be unpleasant, but then he was not in the habit of shying away from the distasteful. It was the reason that on the morning he was to be married, he had encouraged his bride to seek out her heart’s desire. He’d known his being abandoned at the altar would be cause for gossip, that he would be considered weak and inadequate, but he didn’t much give a damn. He believed in love, and he’d recognized that Lady Anne Hayworth had given her affections to Lord Tristan Easton. So he’d willingly granted her the freedom to go, and then with as much dignity as possible he’d set about bearing the brunt of what many considered a humiliating affair.

  From his shadowed corner, he now watched Lady Meredith Hargreaves dance with her betrothed, Lord Litton. Based on her smile and the way her gaze never strayed from his, she appeared to be joyous and very much in love with the fellow. Although perhaps she was simply imbued with the spirit of the season. He could always hope.

  He knew he should look about for another dance partner. The problem was that she was the only one with whom he wished to waltz. Hers were the only eyes into which he longed to gaze, hers the only fragrance he yearned to inhale, hers the only voice he wanted whispering near his ear as passion smoldered.

  It had been that way for some time now, but he had fought back his burgeoning desire for her out of a sense of obligation and duty, out of a misguided attempt to make amends regarding his younger brother, Walter, who had sacrificed his life in the Crimea. Chetwyn was destined to pay a heavy price for trying to assuage his conscience, unless he took immediate steps to rectify the situation. Lady Meredith was scheduled to marry a few days after Christmas. The decorated tree in the parlor, the sprigs of holly scattered about, and the red bows on the portraits that had greeted him upon his arrival had served as an unwarranted reminder that the auspicious morning was quickly approaching, and then she would be lost to him forever.

  But if she loved Litton, could he deny her what he had granted Anne: a life with the man she loved?

  It was a quandary with which he struggled, because he wished only happiness for Lady Meredith, but he was arrogant enough to believe that he could bring her joy as no one else could. No other gentleman would hold her in such high esteem. No other man would adore her as he did. Convincing her that she belonged with him was going to be quite the trick, as he suspected she’d rather see him rotting in hell than standing beside her at the altar.

  Despite the fact that she was engaged to marry, he kept hoping that she would glance over, would give him a smile, would offer any sort of encouragement at all. Instead she waltzed on, as though for her he no longer existed.

  Lady Meredith Hargreaves, the Earl of Whitscomb’s daughter, absolutely loved to waltz. Quite honestly, she enjoyed any sort of physical activity. She had loved running, jumping, skipping, and climbing trees until her father had sent her to a ladies’ finishing school, where they had taught her that if she did not stifle her enthusiasm for the outdoors, she would never marry. So stifle she did with a great deal of effort and the occasional slap of the rod against her palm.

  But dancing was acceptable, and because she was known for being charming—which was no accident—she never lacked for dance partners. She didn’t care if they were married, old, young, bent. She didn’t care if their eyes were too small, their noses too large, and they stammered. She didn’t care if their clothes were not the latest fashion, their skills at interesting conversation nonexistent. When they swept her over the dance floor, she adored every single one of them. And well they knew it.

  It showed in her eyes, her smile, and the way she beamed at them. She made them feel as though they mattered, and for those few moments they mattered a great deal because of the pleasure they brought her. But dancing with a lady did not mean that a gentleman wished to marry her. Because she was also known for being quite stubborn, strong-willed, and prone to arguing a point when most ladies would simply smile and pretend that they hadn’t the good sense to know their own minds.

  She did know hers, and therefore she knew without question that Lord Litton was the man for her. He often praised her strong points. He sent her flowers. He wrote her poetry. He danced with her, a daring four times the night they met. Four, when only two times was acceptable. He had told her that he simply couldn’t deny himself the pleasure of her presence.

  His inability to resist her was what had led to them being caught the night of Greystone’s ball in the garden in a very compromising situation that had resulted in a rather hasty betrothal. Her father had managed to limit the damage done by ensuring that no one other than he and her brothers knew of the discovery. Litton had been quick to propose on the spot, but then her father could be quite intimidating. As they were discovered before they had moved beyond a kiss, the wedding was not being rushed. Meredith knew Litton was an honorable man. He could have run off, but he didn’t. He stood by her and offered to marry her. She didn’t like the little niggle of doubt that surfaced from time to time and made her wonder if he arranged to be caught. If he did, was it because he so desperately wanted her or her dowry?

  As he smiled down on her now, she sent the irritating doubts to perdition and accepted that he was madly in love with her. They would be wondrously
happy together. If only her heart would cooperate.

  She did wish she hadn’t noticed when Lord Chetwyn had strolled laconically into the room before the strains of the first dance had started. Based upon what had happened in the church earlier in the year, she hadn’t expected him to make an appearance where he would be forced to encounter his former fiancée and her husband. Lord Tristan was, after all, the Duke of Keswick’s twin brother, so Chetwyn had to know that he couldn’t avoid them. But he had cut such a fine figure in his black tailcoat as he had greeted his host and hostess. His fair complexion stood out next to the duke’s black hair and bronzed skin. His blond hair was perfectly styled, but even from a distance Meredith had seen the ends curling. She suspected by midnight the strands would be rebelling riotously, and he would no doubt be searching for some lady to run her fingers through them in order to tame them. She had once considered performing the service herself when they had taken a turn about a park. Thank goodness, she’d not been that foolish. It would have hurt all the more when he began to give his attentions to Lady Anne.

  He was now standing in a corner, coming into view from time to time as though she were riding on a carousel, rather than swirling over a dance floor in Litton’s arms. Even when she couldn’t see him, she could sense Chetwyn’s gaze lighting upon her as gently as a lover’s caress. She had once thought that he might ask for her hand. But he had moved on, and so had she.

  Litton was as fair, but his hair would not be misbehaving by the end of the evening. She rather wished it would. She longed for an excuse to run her fingers through it, although she suspected he might be rather appalled to know the direction of her thoughts. He did not have as easy a grin as Chetwyn, but his seriousness was endearing. She only wished he would reclaim the passion that had resulted in a near scandal.

  “You’ve drifted away again,” Litton said quietly.

  “I’m sorry. I was just noticing how the snow is growing thicker beyond the windows.” A small lie, but she rather doubted that he would welcome knowing that Chetwyn was occupying her thoughts.

  “Yes, we’re in for quite a storm tonight, I think. I hope we shall all be able to travel home when the time comes.”

  “I’m sure we will.”

  “You’re such an optimist. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

  Touched by his comment, she squeezed his shoulder. “We shall be happy together, won’t we?”

  “Immeasurably.”

  The music drifted into silence. He lifted her gloved hand to his lips. “As your card is filled and you’re gracing other lords with your presence for a while, I’m going to the gaming room for a bit. Just remember the last dance is mine.”

  “I would never give it to anyone else.”

  Watching him walk away, she could not help but think that she was a most fortunate lady indeed. Then she looked over and saw her next dance partner approaching.

  Lord Wexford smiled. He was a handsome enough fellow, recently returned from a trip to Africa. Bowing slightly, he took her hand. “My dance, I believe.”

  “Quite. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

  “Not as much as I have. The last lady with whom I danced is not yet spoken for, and she was quite adept at listing her wifely qualities as though she were delivering a shopping list.”

  Meredith was familiar enough with Lady Beatrix’s habits to know that Wexford was speaking of her. Bless Lady Beatrix, but she seemed to think that if she didn’t point out her good qualities, no gentleman would discover them. She had such little faith in the observational powers of the males of the species.

  “Did you know that she is so talented with her sewing that she can weave twenty stitches into an inch of cloth?” Lord Wexford asked. “I am sure it is quite an impressive feat, but as I’ve never taken the time to measure and count stitches—”

  “My lord?”

  Wexford spun around. Lord Chetwyn stood there, extending a small slip of paper toward him, and Meredith’s heart beat out an unsteady tattoo. She had vainly hoped with so many guests in attendance that she might avoid encountering him entirely. It wasn’t that she was cowardly, but she reacted in the strangest fashion when he was near—as though she were on the cusp of swooning.

  He smelled of bergamot, a scent she could no longer inhale without thinking of him. Thank goodness Litton smelled of cloves. Harsh, not particularly appealing, but it didn’t matter. Nothing about him reminded her of Chetwyn, which made him perfect in every way.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you,” Chetwyn murmured as music once again began to fill the ballroom, “but a lady asked me to deliver this to you as discreetly as possible. She said it was quite urgent.”

  Meredith couldn’t help but think that Chetwyn didn’t comprehend the term “discreet.” He should have secreted Wexford away or waited until the dance was over. She would have preferred the latter.

  Wexford furrowed his brow. “Which lady?”

  “She asked me not to say. I think she desired to remain a bit mysterious, but I was given reason to believe you were … well acquainted.”

  Wexford opened the note, then smiled slowly. “Yes, I see.” He turned to Meredith. “I fear I must attend to this matter.”

  “Of course. I hope all is well.”

  “Couldn’t be better.”

  And with that he was gone. Staring after him, she was certain he would be rendezvousing with the woman, whoever she was.

  “I would be honored to stand in his stead,” Lord Chetwyn said. Then, as though she had acquiesced, he was leading her onto the dance floor.

  “I fear I’m no longer of a mind to dance. I thought to get some refreshment. Alone.”

  “Surely, you would not pass up your favorite tune.”

  “Greensleeves.” He remembered. The first dance they’d ever shared was to this song. She had gazed up at his sharp, precise, patrician features and decided that he would age well, for there was nothing about him that would sag with time. He was one of those fortunate gentlemen upon whom the gods of heredity smiled kindly. She had been smiling upon him as well, giddy at his nearness, excited by his attentions. She thought she might have fallen a little bit in love with him during that first encounter. “Chetwyn—”

  “One dance, Merry.”

  “Please don’t call me that. It’s far too personal, too informal.” But she didn’t object when he took her into his arms and glided her over the floor. She hated that he was such a marvelous dancer, that he exuded confidence, and that he made her feel as though only the two of them were moving about the room. Everyone else receded into the woodwork. Everyone else ceased to matter.

  Giving herself a mental shake, she refused to succumb to his charms once again. She could be distant, pretend indifference, give the impression that he had never been more than a dance partner.

  “Rather fortunate timing that Wexford received a note before this particular song started,” she said pointedly. Did his eyes have to hold hers as though they were examining a precious gift?

  “Not really. The note was from me, you see. Although he doesn’t know that, as it was unsigned.”

  She didn’t know whether to be angry or flattered. “You took a chance with that ploy. How did you know he would not question an unsigned note from a lady?”

  “All gentlemen welcome notes from mysterious ladies suggesting a tryst in the garden.”

  Her eyes widened. “But it’s storming out there.”

  “As I’m well aware, but I’m not familiar enough with the residence to know where else to send him.”

  “What if he freezes to death?”

  “I don’t think that’s likely to happen. He strikes me as being fairly intelligent. I’m sure he’ll head back in once he gets too cold and the lady doesn’t show.”

  She studied him for half a moment before it dawned on her. “You purposely stole his dance.”

  “I did. I saw all the gentlemen circling you earlier, so I knew your dance card was filled. And if it wasn’t filled, I rather
doubted that you would take pleasure in scribbling my name—”

  “I do not scribble.”

  He grinned. Why did he have to have such an infectious smile that begged her to join him?

  “I’m sure you don’t. Forgive me, Meredith, but I wanted a moment with you, and I didn’t think you would be likely to meet me in a garden. Not after our last meeting among the roses.”

  Inwardly she cringed at the reminder of when he had informed her that he would be asking Lady Anne to marry him. “I thought you should know,” he’d said quietly, as though Meredith cared, as though he knew she’d pinned her hopes on him. When those hopes had come unpinned among the roses, her heart had very nearly shattered. Thank goodness she was made of stern stuff. She’d taken a good deal of satisfaction in the fact that her voice had not trembled when she’d replied, “I wish you the very best.” Then she had strolled away with such aplomb that she had considered going onto the stage. What a scandal becoming an actress would cause, and the one thing her father could not abide was scandal.

  Yet Chetwyn had found himself in the midst of one that still had the ladies wagging their tongues. Lord Tristan was seen as a heroic romantic for claiming his love on the day she was to marry another, and Chetwyn was viewed as that unfortunate Lord Chetwyn. She decided she could be gracious. “I’m sorry that things did not go as you’d planned for yourself and Lady Anne.”

  “I’m not sorry at all. I’m happy for her. Do you love him?” he asked, taking her aback with his abrupt question. They were supposed to be talking about him, not her. If he wasn’t holding her so firmly, she thought she might have flown out of his arms.

  “You say that, my lord, as though there is but one him in my life when there are several. My father, my brothers—there are five of them, you know—my uncles, cousins—”

  “Litton,” he cut in, obviously not at all enchanted by her little game.

  “It seems a rather pointless question. I favor Viscount Litton immensely. I’d not be marrying him otherwise.”