December Heart

by Merry Farmer

  After breakfast, Peter excused himself to run an errand in town. He was surprised to find that his wedding was the topic of gossip on every street corner.

  “Out of the blue, it is,” a grocer’s wife told a customer as she set out the day’s produce in front of her store. “Miss Travers didn’t have the slightest clue she’d been affianced.”

  “None at all?” the customer balked.

  “Sir Edmund forgot to mention it.” The grocer’s wife laughed.

  “Blimey. If I forgot to mention a whole entire fiancé to my Bess, she’d likely beat me over the head.”

  And then, up the street, Peter caught the edge of a conversation in MacTavish’s Bookshop.

  “Apparently, he’s some lord her father dug up in Parliament,” a middle-aged man said to the bookseller, leaning on the counter. “Old and grizzled, he is.”

  “Edmund Travers has never seemed like the type who would shove his daughter off on a crony with one foot in the grave,” the bookseller replied with a frown. “He loves those girls.”

  Peter searched for the book he wanted to purchase, then brought it to the counter.

  “I’m just telling you what I heard,” the middle-aged man said. “Mind you, none of us thought Miss Travers would ever marry. Not after Robert.”

  “God rest his soul,” the bookseller said, then turned to Peter. “That’ll be one pound fifty, sir.”

  The middle-aged man straightened and nodded to Peter. “Here. What do you think about old men marrying young girls?”

  A grin tugged at the corner of Peter’s mouth. “I’m not the right person to ask.”

  He focused on the bookseller as he wrapped the book in paper, but the middle-aged man went on with, “Are you married?”

  Peter took his pocket-watch out, opened the cover to check the time, then said, “In about two hours I will be.”

  Realization dawned in the middle-aged man’s eyes, and he burst into laughter. He slapped Peter on the back. “Good luck to you then, my lord. And you’re not so old as all that.”

  Whether it was the exchange at the bookshop or the other rumors flying around town, by the time Peter arrived at the parish church with Edmund and the special license he had procured in town, a small crowd of curious onlookers had arrived. As he waited with Edmund at the front of the church, a surprising number of people filled the pews. By the time Mariah appeared in the doorway at the back of the church, her mother beaming on one side and Victoria weeping on the other, the church was nearly filled.

  The ceremony was simple. The tiny church had an organ, and Edmund left Peter at the front of the church to rush back and escort Mariah to the altar while a hymn played. Victoria stood up with her sister, but couldn’t bring herself to look at Mariah or Peter. Edmund handed Mariah off to Peter, then shifted to the side to serve as his best man. The whole thing had an air of the ridiculous about it, which was only made worse when he met Mariah’s eyes.

  She smiled at him. Victoria wailed behind her. Then Mariah snorted, almost as if sneezing. Peter flinched and blinked, concerned that something was wrong with her, that she would back out, leaving him at the altar. But then her eyes crinkled at the corners, her cheeks flushed pink, and her shoulders shook.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, slipping his arm into hers and taking a step toward the vicar, who waited for them, Bible in hand, with an air of celestial patience.

  “No,” Victoria groaned, and Mariah choked again.

  Peter grinned, seized by a sudden tickle. Mariah’s eyes sparkled. She pressed her lips firmly together as if…as if trying not to laugh. He could feel the tension of it rippling off of her. She held a small nosegay of flowers in her free hand, but as the vicar cleared his throat to begin the ceremony, she swallowed an explosion of laughter and raised the flowers to her face, unable to do anything but press the back of her wrist to her mouth.

  It was contagious. As the vicar began with, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together in the sight of God and friends to join this man and this woman,” Peter could hardly keep a straight face.

  He ventured a sideways glance at Mariah as the vicar launched into a scriptural explanation of the beauties and benefits of marriage. Mariah must had felt him looking and stole a glance, meeting his eyes. Whether it was Victoria weeping behind them, the spectacle of the church filled with curiosity seekers, or the general absurdity of the marriage, that fleeting look broke both of them.

  Mariah struggled to contain a peel of laughter as the vicar said, “Therefore, if anyone knows of any lawful impediment, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”

  Behind them, Victoria muttered, “Oh, blast it.”

  Mariah laughed outright, and Peter was helpless but to break down with her. His whole body shook with unexplainable mirth, and his heart felt as though it had grown too large for his chest. That feeling only doubled when he snuck another peek at Mariah and found her grinning up at him, tears of jollity in her eyes. He reached over to lay his free hand on top of hers as it rested in the crook of his arm and tried to blink away his own silly tears.

  “Do you, Lord Peter Charles Horatio deVere, take Miss Mariah Travers to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forth, until death do you part?”

  Somehow, Peter mustered the nerve to turn to Mariah and say, “I do,” without dissolving into a fit on the spot. Thank God they had opted for the shorter version of the vows.

  “And do you, Mariah Travers, take Lord Peter Charles Horatio deVere to be your lawfully wedded husband, to honor and obey, from this day forth, until death do you part?”

  Victoria squeaked, but Mariah answered, “I do,” barely getting the words out before Victoria groaned. That set Mariah over the edge, and she laughed openly, her shoulder pressing into Peter’s as she sagged to the side.

  Behind them, a chorus of giggles grew amongst the congregation. It seemed only right, even though it was the last thing he would have expected. But why shouldn’t the crowd of curious townsfolk laugh with them? It was better than laughing at them.

  “Then by the power invested in me by God and the Holy Church, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

  Peter let out a breath that sounded more like the sort of sigh that ends a bout of raucous laughter and turned to Mariah. She was still giggling, which was a damn sight better than weeping or shrinking away from him in horror. He leaned close and brought his lips to hers before either of them could lose the joyful feeling that so much laughter brought on, and was pleasantly surprised by the spark he felt. She seemed surprised as well, and swayed toward him when he straightened. Her whole face shone as though she’d found a new penny by the side of the road and was eager to see what it could buy.

  As he turned with her to face the congregation and walk out of the church as man and wife, he swore to himself that he would be worth the price she paid.

  It came as a surprise to Mariah that, in spite of the fact that three days before, she hadn’t known it was about to happen, she enjoyed her wedding day. At least, once she got through the first few hours of fussing, fretting, and tears. None of which were hers or her doing. Her mother had driven Mariah to distraction as she dressed her, groomed her, and fixed her hair as though she were a small child or a doll. But the result was more impressive than she’d have been able to accomplish on her own. And even though she didn’t have a white dress—or any new dresses, for that matter—her mother had dug deep into her wardrobe in the middle of the night, found a rose-pink frock that Mariah had worn before Robert’s death, and stayed up letting the seams out and embellishing it with lace.

  At the other end of the day, after the ceremony—which, she had a feeling, would make her giggle every time she thought about it for the rest of her life—a wedding breakfast that proved Mrs. Boyce, their cook, was worth every penny they paid her, and an afternoon filled with visitors dropping by unexpectedly to wish them well—or to gape at Peter, she suspected—Mariah was once again alone with her
mother, this time as she was undressed and prepared for the one part of the whole marriage deal that left her frozen with trepidation.

  “Remember what I told you last night,” her mother said, taking the pins out of Mariah’s hair as she sat on the bed in one of the guest rooms at the far end of the house. Not only was Hannah busy packing up Mariah’s room, her mother had insisted that she and Peter would appreciate the privacy of being well away from the rest of the family for the night.

  “I remember,” Mariah said, trying not to let the dread show in her voice. How could she ever forget the vivid picture her mother had painted of her own marriage bed?

  “Just trust Lord Peter, and you’ll be fine.” Her mother finished with the pins, then took a step back and studied Mariah, her expression full of sentiment. If Mariah didn’t know better, she would have said her mother was near tears. “My own, sweet girl,” she sighed, as if Mariah were on her way to the guillotine.

  A soft knock at the door cut off any last-minute questions Mariah might have been tempted to ask. She stood, brushing the front of her robe and flushing with self-consciousness.

  “Come in,” her mother said, pressing a hand to her heart.

  The door opened, and Peter peered cautiously into the room before opening it wider and stepping in. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “No, oh, no.” Her mother sighed, then stepped forward and lifted onto her toes to kiss Mariah’s head. She then turned and headed for the door. “Take care of my darling baby,” she told Peter, her voice cracking at the end. She let out a watery sigh that reminded Mariah of Victoria’s weepy dramatics, then left, shutting the door behind her.

  And with that, Mariah was alone…with her husband.

  She pried her eyes away from the door and glanced cautiously to Peter. He was wrapped in a maroon robe tied at the waist. The cuffs and legs of his pajamas were clearly visible at the sleeves and below the bottom. In spite of herself, Mariah let out a sigh of relief. She wasn’t sure how she would have reacted if he’d been obviously naked under the robe. He’d brushed his hair as well, and if the clean, spicy scent was any indication, he’d shaved again before coming to bed.

  She wasn’t sure how long she’d been studying him before he cleared his throat and said, “Well. Here we are.”

  Mariah swallowed and focused on his face. “Here we are.” A distinct tingling started in her hands and feet and spread quickly inward. It centered in her frantically thumping heart and in the part of her that she was desperately trying not to think of as viscous.

  “Listen,” Peter said, taking a step toward her.

  Mariah gasped and took a step back. Instantly, she felt like a heel. “I’m sorry,” she said, pressing a hand to her face. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to flinch like that.”

  Peter chuckled, holding up both of his hands. “I don’t blame you. I understand.”

  “It’s just that this might be the most awkward situation I’ve ever been in,” Mariah rushed on.

  “I can’t recall very many situations in my own life that were more awkward,” Peter agreed. “Although I was caught weeing on a statue of Cromwell my mother had in her private garden when I was five.”

  Mariah burst into laughter. Once it started, just like at the ceremony, she couldn’t make it stop. “I can only imagine.”

  “I’m not sure you want to.”

  “Oh, but I’m sure you were adorable.”

  “My mother didn’t think so.”

  There was a pause. They both stood where they were, Mariah giggling and Peter smiling.

  Before things could grow any more awkward, Peter said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to place too many expectations on each other tonight or to rush into anything.”

  This time, when he took a step toward her, she didn’t flinch or flee, she merely said, “You don’t.”

  “No. We’ve got all the time in the world to reach the point where we’re ready.”

  Mariah smiled. It was a far cry from the pressure Robert had heaped on her. “I suppose we do.”

  “So why don’t we just start by sharing a bed tonight,” Peter went on. “Believe me, that takes enough getting used to in itself.”

  “It does?” She followed him with her eyes as he walked around to the other side of the bed, and removed his robe, revealing simple, blue pajamas.

  “Absolutely. For example, how do I know you won’t steal all the covers while I’m asleep?”

  Mariah laughed and peeled down the bedcovers in question. “Victoria and I used to share a bed when we were younger. She was the cover thief.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” he said with a wry grin.

  She liked him. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but then again, everything about the situation was different than she expected it to be. Not that she’d been given the time to form expectations. She shrugged out of her robe, laid it over the closest chair, and climbed into her side of the bed as Peter slid into the other. There were plenty of pillows behind them, and in no time, they were lying side by side, the coverlet pulled up to their shoulders. It was a cool night, but not cold, and the breeze wafting through the open window was filled with the scent of May flowers.

  Mariah chuckled to herself. “May-December,” she said.

  “I beg your pardon?” Peter turned his head to her.

  “I was just thinking about the May flowers you can smell in the garden.”

  “And the December fool lying in the bed beside you?”

  Mariah smiled, settling onto her side. “You’re no fool.”

  “But I am December to your May. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I like December,” Mariah shrugged her free shoulder. “December is full of excitement, Christmas, New Year’s Eve, and all sorts of celebrations.”

  “It’s not cold and lifeless and, what was the word? Desiccated?”

  Mariah rolled her eyes and hid her face in one hand for a moment. “Please forgive Victoria,” she said, peeking between her fingers. “She’s nineteen and full of herself and the idea that all men of worth are strapping young bucks in officer’s uniforms.”

  “She’s not wrong,” Peter said, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “I cut quite a figure in my red coat when I was twenty, or so I’m told.”

  “I’m sure you did.” Mariah grinned.

  “I still have it, you know.”

  “Have what?”

  “My red coat. My entire uniform, actually. I would have brought it to be married in, but I gave up my commission a decade ago. I’ll dig the coat out of mothballs and try it on for you when we get back to Cornwall, if you’d like.”

  A shivery thrill zipped down Mariah’s spine at the thought of Peter in an officer’s uniform. She blushed and dismissed her moment of excitement as something worthy of Victoria, but said, “I’d like to see that.”

  “Speaking of which,” he went on, shifting as if trying to get comfortable. His knee bumped into hers, and she didn’t pull away. “You looked lovely today.”

  “Did I?” She blushed, then glanced at the exposed skin above the top button of his pajamas.

  “Of course you did,” he chuckled. “You’re a beautiful woman.”

  She hummed in assessment of his statement. “I haven’t thought of myself that way in years.”

  “Why not?”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter whether you’re pretty or not when no one looks at you that way.”

  He let out a surprisingly firm breath. “I’m not so sure I like the way people have treated you in all the years that I didn’t know you.”

  His words were as good as a caress, and the pulse of warmth deep in Mariah’s gut grew. “People have expectations of single, young women who are still on the marriage market,” she said. “And they often have expectations about widows, even young widows. But no one knows what to do when a fiancé dies so shortly before a wedding. Therefore, no one has ever known how to approach me or where I fit since then. And it doesn’t matt
er one way or another if a woman is beautiful when she exists in a permanent limbo.”

  She’d lowered her head during her explanation, and Peter surprised her by caressing her cheek and lifting her face to look at him again. “It matters to me.”

  She smiled, and was certain he could feel the heat of her blush against his palm. He had fine hands too, strong with long fingers. The warmth inside of her pulsed and expanded, and she had to resist the urge to scoot closer to him.

  “Were you close to your mother?” she asked, eager to keep the conversation going, but completely inexperienced when it came to talking to a man while in bed, their bodies mere inches apart. “When she caught you weeing on Cromwell, that is.”

  He laughed. The vibration shifted his legs closer to hers. “I adored her, of course. All boys adore their mothers.”

  “Did you still adore her when you grew up?” she asked, remembering how she had thought she was too grown-up and sophisticated to show affection to her father when she was in her teens.

  Peter’s expression turned sad. “I’m sure I would have, but she died in childbirth with what would have been my younger sister.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” On instinct, she reached out and touched his chest. His heart thumped against her fingers. Propriety begged her to pull her hand back, but she didn’t.

  “It was a long time ago,” he sighed, gently placing his hand over hers. “I was ten at that point, with one older brother and one younger brother.”

  “Two brothers?” She blinked. “I thought you only had the one, the older brother you told me about.”

  “No,” he said. “Arthur was my older brother and died while I was at university. But I had a younger brother too, Will.”

  “Don’t tell me you have another sad story in your past.” Her heart squeezed for him, which had the paradoxical effect of making the rest of her pulse with life.