A Christmas Promise

by Mary Balogh

  “Ellie.” Her father extended a hand to her, and she took it carefully in both her own and lifted it against her cheek. “Now I can die a happy man. Not quite yet, though. I’ll live until your wedding day and perhaps a day or two longer. But you must not mourn for me very long. I have done all that I wanted in this life and more. And I will know that you have a life of security and respect and happiness ahead. I am well blessed.”

  “Papa,” she said, turning her face so that she could kiss his hand and setting it down carefully in his lap again. And she blinked her eyes determinedly. There would be time enough to weep. But not now. “Let me help you to your room. You will be more comfortable when you are lying down.”

  “I think you are right,” he said. “I’ll go now, then. Is he handsome enough for you, eh, Ellie? They don’t come much handsomer with a title and a large country estate to boot.” He chuckled. “My Ellie a countess. And he is a young man—not even ten years older than you. Better than Lord Henley that I had my eye on for a while. He is almost my age. Are you happy, girl?”

  “I will be happier when you are in bed,” she said severely.

  He chuckled.

  3

  SHE WAS A COLD FISH, THE EARL OF FALLODEN thought as he left Mr. Transome’s house. And the same thought chilled him during the coming week, when he saw nothing of his prospective bride and father-in-law but carried on with his usual activities almost as if nothing extraordinary was happening to his life. It all seemed unreal until acquaintances began to comment on his betrothal and some even congratulated him, and he discovered the announcement in the Morning Post.

  He was about to be married to a cold fish. He shuddered at the memory of his interview with her. He had expected warmth, excitement, triumph, gratitude, chatter, vulgarity—something. He had expected something. Not the silence and the immobility and the thrust-out chin and the look of contempt in her eyes.

  But why? She was getting what she wanted, was she not? She was getting her precious title and her entrée into society. Perhaps it was that she felt him enough her victim—and she was perfectly correct in that—that she did not need to pretend to an ardor or a gratitude she did not feel. Or perhaps it was that she had not been brought up to sensibility and the niceties of courteous behavior.

  Certainly her coldness extended beyond himself. Her father had worked hard and schemed hard to net her an aristocratic husband and the life she wanted. And now he was dying, evidently in some pain. And yet she cared not one jot for him. When he had held out his arms to her, she had ignored them and kissed him coldly on the forehead. When he had wanted to celebrate her betrothal, she had told him to go to bed. They might have seemed to be words of kindness and concern, perhaps, if one had not heard the chilly tones in which the words had been uttered.

  It was only after he had left the house that he realized that the father had been correct about one thing. She was a beauty. She was of medium height and slim and curved in all the right places. Her hair was a dark red, her eyes green, her mouth wide and generous. Neither the hair nor the mouth seemed to suit the girl’s character, though, suggesting as they did warmth and passion.

  She was a beauty. He was to have a beautiful countess, if that was any consolation. But he found her totally unappealing. The thought struck him that it was going to take an effort of will to consummate his marriage on his wedding night. Fortunately—if there was anything fortunate about the whole situation—Transome had specified only that there be a consummation and that they inhabit the same house for the first year. He had said nothing about occupying the same bed.

  And so the Earl of Falloden resolutely shut his mind to Dorothea Lovestone—small, sweet, feminine Dorothea—and the hurt look there had been in her eyes when he had told her of his betrothal. And he spent every night of the week before his wedding—including the last—with his mistress. Alice had been the one expensive luxury he had allowed himself during the more than a year since he had inherited his title and all the nightmare debts that had come along with it.

  She smiled placidly at him as he sat up on the edge of her bed during the early dawn of his wedding day. Alice did everything placidly, including making love. He knew that she did not love him, that she was merely happy to have the security of a regular protector. Perhaps that was what he liked about her. She satisfied his needs without imposing any sort of obligations on him.

  “I’ll not be coming tonight,” he told her, looking down in distaste at his crumpled clothing, strewn about the floor.

  “No, of course not,” she said. “This is your wedding day.”

  Even the announcement of his coming nuptials had not shaken Alice’s complacency.

  “I’ll be here tomorrow night,” he said.

  “So soon?” She stretched and burrowed farther beneath the blankets. “Will your wife not mind?”

  He turned to look at her. Her dark curls were tousled, her eyes sleepy. “Will you mind?” he said. “I’ll be here tomorrow, Alice.”

  “And so will I.” She smiled at him. “You are not happy about this marriage, are you, Falloden? You have been very cross all week. But you can always come to me.”

  The bed looked warm and untidy and inviting. The outline of her body, curled up beneath the blankets, was alluring. He would have liked nothing better at that moment than to join her beneath them once more and spend the day in lovemaking and sleep and forgetfulness.

  But it was his wedding day.

  He got to his feet, shivered in the chill of the early morning, and reached down for some clothes with which to warm himself.

  SHE WAS TIRED. HER maid had clucked her tongue at the paleness of her cheeks and the shadows beneath her eyes and had tried to make up for the fact that she was not in her best looks by curling her hair more elaborately than usual. It was a good thing, she had said, that Miss Ellie was wearing pale blue—and such a lovely, simply styled dress with matching cloak—and not a brighter shade to sap even more color from her face.

  But she was glad she was tired, Eleanor thought as she walked downstairs to join her father in the parlor. Perhaps she would see her wedding day as if through the haze of drugs. And then she discovered on entering the room that the earl was there already. He was early. And he was magnificent, looking twice as handsome as she remembered him, clad all in shades of blue as if he had known what she was going to wear. He looked as if he were on his way to an audience with the king or Prince Regent. And yet totally unappealing to her. She turned colder at the sight of him and inclined her head unsmilingly. She still refused to curtsy.

  And then they were in the carriage and on the way to church and Papa was talking—somehow, through some miracle of willpower, he had succeeded in getting up from his bed that morning despite her protests. The Earl of Falloden was as silent as she.

  And then they were at the church and her future husband was introducing another immaculately dressed gentleman—his friend Sir Albert Hagley. If it were possible to turn colder, she did so as he bowed to her and she inclined her head to him. She recognized him instantly and knew that he recognized her too, though he was far too well bred to say anything, of course. He had been the first to try flirting with her at Pamela Hutchins’s country party—if flirting were a strong enough word.

  “I am charmed to meet you, ma’am,” he said now.

  “Good morning, sir,” she said.

  And then the cold, empty church and the smiling rector. And Papa giving her hand into that of the earl, and the earl’s voice repeating the responses dictated by the rector. And her voice doing the same. And then her husband’s lips, briefly, motionless, against hers. And the rector’s smiles and bows. And Sir Albert’s kiss on the cheek and her father’s hug, which she could not prevent. And the outdoors again and the earl’s carriage.

  Her husband’s carriage.

  Her husband.

  They drove to the Earl of Falloden’s house on Grosvenor Square—to her house. To her new home, where she was bowed to and curtsied to and smiled at by ro
ws of liveried servants and led by her husband to the grand dining room, where the wedding breakfast for four was set out. As befitted her new status as Countess of Falloden, she was seated at the foot of the table, opposite her husband. Her father and Sir Albert Hagley sat at either side of the table.

  There was conversation. There must have been. She did not afterward remember any awkward silences. But she did not participate in the talk. She could not remember afterward if she ate or not. But finally the meal seemed to be over. Her father got to his feet, a wineglass in his hand, and she began to stretch out a hand to stop him. But she returned it to her lap.

  “A toast,” he said, beaming around at the other three occupants of the table. “To my beloved daughter and my son-in-law. To the Earl and Countess of Falloden.”

  Her husband’s lips thinned for a moment, she noticed, before relaxing into an arctic smile as his eyes met hers across the length of the table. Sir Albert was on his feet too, repeating the toast and clinking glasses with her father.

  Even willpower should not have been enough to have brought Papa from his bed on that day, she thought, looking at him. But it had been. He had scarcely been out of his bed during the past week, and several times he had been delirious. His physician, whom she had summoned two afternoons before, even though he called regularly each morning, had declared that his hours were numbered, that he might go at any time. She had sat up with him for the last three nights, making sure that he had his medicine promptly, straightening his blankets, fluffing his pillows, watching to see that the fire did not burn too low, and snatching sleep in her chair and waking with a start of dread if the room seemed too quiet.

  She had begged him not even to try to get up that morning. But he had not only tried but also succeeded. And he had smiled all through the short wedding service and the wedding breakfast. She twisted her hands in her lap and watched him seat himself again and gasp for breath.

  “Papa,” she said, “you must go home. You must lie down.” But her words were stiff and her heart ached in secret. There were two strangers in the room—one of those strangers being her husband.

  “I think I will, Ellie,” he said, smiling at her in what looked more like a ghastly grimace than a smile.

  And fortunately the earl took the hint and got to his feet and sent a servant scurrying to summon her father’s carriage.

  She wanted to go with him. She must go with him. She must stay with him—there was so little time left. And he needed her. She was always the first person he had looked for during the past week on waking up. She had always been the light of his life. He had said it more times than she could remember since the death of her mother when she was five years old. He needed her now.

  But he had reminded her that morning that she was to be married, that from that day on she would owe loyalty and obedience to her husband rather than to him. And this was her wedding day and she was in her husband’s home. She did not feel close enough to him to ask a favor of him. If there had been an affection between them, if he had been Wilfred, she might have asked permission to return home with her father, wedding day or not. But he was not Wilfred and there was no affection between them.

  She could only hope that he would show some sensitivity to the situation and make the suggestion himself. She looked up at him when the two of them moved into the hall to see her father on his way, but she would not beg him, even with her eyes.

  “I shall bring your daughter tomorrow to see how you do, sir,” he said rather stiffly.

  “No hurry, no hurry,” her father said, chuckling. “If you two wish to lie abed until noon, I can wait, my lord.”

  She felt the earl stiffen at the suggestiveness of the words and willed herself not to flush.

  “Well,” her father said, opening his arms to her. “The Countess of Falloden, Ellie. Perhaps you are too grand a lady now to give your father a hug.”

  He was so very pleased. So very happy. So very much at the end of his strength. She stepped forward so that the earl would not see her face. But she dared not relax it anyway. Her chest and her throat were raw with the ache of her pain. She kissed him very lightly on the cheek and allowed him to set his arms about her. But she did not put hers about him.

  And suddenly that seemed the most cruel part of the whole situation. She wanted to wrap her arms about him and hug him and hug him. She wanted the memory of his aliveness within her arms to carry with her into the days ahead.

  “Don’t delay any longer, Papa,” she said, stepping back. “I shall see you tomorrow.”

  And she held her chin high and clasped her hands loosely before her, and watched him leave. She felt frozen to the very core. She no longer belonged with him even for the short time that remained to him. She belonged in this strange, large, cold house with the cold stranger who stood at her side. And they had a guest to entertain. Or he had a guest. She did not know if she was expected to play hostess or to withdraw.

  “What is your wish?” she asked, turning to look at him and noticing again without any leaping of the heart how very handsome he looked.

  “My wish?” He raised his eyebrows. “We will go up to the drawing room, my lady, and you may ring for tea.” He extended his arm to her and she took it after a moment’s hesitation.

  HE HAD DELAYED LONG enough, the Earl of Falloden decided, turning determinedly from the window of his bedchamber, through which he had been staring into darkness. He glanced longingly at his bed, neatly turned down for the night, and he thought even more longingly of Alice’s wide and soft bed and of Alice’s pretty, plump, comfortable body.

  There was no point in delaying longer, he thought. He might as well get the deed done, since he had no choice in the matter. He could be back and in his own bed for the night in no time at all if he would just make up his mind to go through his dressing room into his wife’s and through to her bedchamber.

  His wife! The thought appalled him. If he had thought her cold during their first meeting, there was no word frigid enough to describe her as she had been today. Proud and cold and silent, reveling in her new status, only sorry that he was a necessary adjunct to it. And as unfeeling as marble with her father, who was so obviously desperately ill.

  He set his hand on the knob of the door connecting their dressing rooms, tapped firmly with his free hand, and turned the knob.

  She was not in bed, as he had expected her to be. She was rising from a chair by the fire when he came through from her dressing room. And she stood there straight and proud, looking rather regal, he thought, despite the fact that she was wearing a nightgown and had her hair loose down her back.

  The thought that she was beautiful struck him again, quite dispassionately. Her nightgown, all silk and lace—it must have cost Transome a fortune—accentuated the slender curves of her body. And her hair was thick and shiny and wavy, and lay like fire along her back. He thought again of the incongruity of her hair and her character.

  “So, my lady,” he said, walking toward her across the carpet, “you have become the Countess of Falloden today and gained membership in the beau monde. A lifetime’s ambition fulfilled?”

  There was a half smile on her lips, an expression he had not seen there before. “So, my lord,” she said, “you have become debt-free today and rich beyond your wildest dreams. A lifetime’s ambition fulfilled?”

  He stared at her for a moment, taken aback. “Touché,” he said softly at last. “It is a happy day for both of us, it seems.”

  “Yes.” The word was clipped, almost triumphant.

  “Except that it is not quite complete yet,” he said. “It is not quite a marriage yet.”

  “No.” Her chin moved up a fraction.

  “We will proceed to put the final seal on our happiness, then,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes mocked him. I have what I want, they told him. The rest does not matter. And righteous indignation was denied him. He had got what he wanted too. Except that he had expected a meek, submissive wife. He felt
a surge of anger, and with it the desire to wipe that look from her eyes. The desire to hurt her, to humiliate her. And he was too angry—with himself, perhaps—to be appalled by his desire.

  It might all have been over within a very few minutes. He might have laid her down on the bed, raised her nightgown and his nightshirt, and effected a quick consummation. He might have been back in his room within five minutes, a married man in every sense of the word, free to carry on with his life as it had always been except for the inconvenience of having to share his home with his wife for a year.

  But he was angry.

  He spread one hand behind her neck, pushing his fingers up into her hair, and tilted her head back and sideways. He brought his open mouth down on hers and worked at her lips with his own and with his tongue. He exulted at the immediate stiffening of her body and tightening of her lips, at the way she jerked her head back against his hand, which did not yield one inch. He lifted his head and smiled at her.

  “One might almost think that you were made of marble, my lady,” he said. And he ignored the voice of decency, very far back in his brain, which reminded him that however objectionable her character, she was in all probability a virgin who had never even been kissed before.

  Perhaps he would have relented if she had not chosen to stare steadily back into his eyes and to smile slowly. Except that it was not quite a smile. There was something almost feline about it.

  He watched her eyes as he reached out very deliberately to undo the delicate pearl buttons down the front of her nightgown. She lifted her chin even higher when he slid his hands inside to mold her shoulders with his palms and to move them down slowly to cup her breasts. They were warm and silky, firm, not over-large.