Christmastide with his Countess
Ellie St. Clair
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
THE DUKE SHE WISHED FOR
Chapter 1
QUEST OF HONOR
Prologue
Chapter 1
More from Ellie St. Clair
About the Author
Also by Ellie St. Clair
♥ Copyright 2018 by Ellie St Clair - All rights reserved.
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Also By Ellie St. Clair
Standalone / Box Sets
Unmasking a Duke
Christmastide with His Countess
Seduced Under the Mistletoe Multi-Author Box Set
(featuring Duke of Christmas)
Happily Ever After
The Duke She Wished For
Someday Her Duke Will Come
Once Upon a Duke’s Dream
He’s a Duke, But I Love Him
Loved by the Viscount
Because the Earl Loved Me
Searching Hearts
Quest of Honor
Clue of Affection
Hearts of Trust
Hope of Romance
Promise of Redemption
Prologue
August, 1813
“Wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
An eerie silence came over the church as Scarlett stood there, breathing shallowly, heart pounding hard in her chest. She longed to toss her bouquet of herbs and pansies over the altar and turn on the heel of her soft pink kid slipper and run down the aisle — alone — just as fast as she possibly could.
She heard a cough behind her, a few muttered words, some whispers.
Out of the corner of her eye, she studied the stranger who stood at her elbow, now shifting back and forth from one foot to the other.
He was tall, much taller than her own average height. He was attractive, to be sure, the structure of his face chiseled as though it had been sculpted by a master. His dark, nearly black locks circled his head in a symphony of curls. She wasn’t sure what color his eyes were, for she had yet to actually look at them.
The first time they had met was moments ago, when her father had deposited her here, at the front of the quaint village church.
She ran all of her options through her mind once more and eventually came to the only possible conclusion, the one that had led her here this morning.
“I will.”
When she finally said the words, they rang out with strength and clarity, for Scarlett never said anything she didn’t truly mean. She would marry him. She had no choice, despite the stirrings deep inside her soul that cried out for freedom. But freedom, it seemed, was proving elusive — for the moment, at least.
After confirming it was her father giving her hand away — of course, for she was moving from being considered one man’s property to another’s — the minister continued, placing her right hand in her betrothed’s.
Her skin tingled where they touched, despite the thin material of her glove between them. As he repeated the words given to him by the minister, Scarlett finally looked up at him. She hadn’t meant to, but it was as though she had no choice. She locked eyes with him, and once she did, she wished she hadn’t.
For his eyes were of a blue-green unlike any color she had ever seen before, except perhaps in a body of water on a dark day. And it seemed they almost … twinkled? She blinked, trying to break the spell they had seemingly cast over her, but it was as though she was losing herself in their depths, drowning despite her best efforts to break through to the surface.
His voice was a silky smooth baritone, though she hardly heard a word that he said.
Suddenly there was silence again, and his lips turned up as he looked down at her. Was he nearly laughing? She stared back at him incredulously — what on earth was funny about this? Until she realized it was her turn to speak. Again.
“Can you repeat that?” she whispered to the minister, and he looked perturbed but did as she asked.
“I, Scarlett, take thee.…” Oh, blast. What was his name again? Had the minister told her? She looked from him to her betrothed once more, and now his lips really did stretch out into a grin.
“Hunter,” he supplied in a murmur, leaning into her, flustering her even more.
“Yes, I know, Hunter,” she said. Get a hold of yourself, Scarlett. You don’t even want this wedding. “I, Scarlett, take thee, Hunter, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”
The blessings and prayers went by quickly, and suddenly, nearly before she even realized it, the wedding was over, and her new husband — husband — was walking her down the aisle and out of the church.
Good Lord. What had she done?
Hunter eyed the woman standing beside him. She was an attractive woman, that was to be sure. Her hair was a deep chestnut with a touch of color that reminded him of cinnamon flowing through it. A smattering of freckles dusted her flawless skin, which was somewhat darker than the porcelain of other young women with whom he was familiar. It was as though she spent time outdoors. Not that he would know. He knew nothing about her. He had barely known her name until today, for goodness sake, and she had certainly forgotten his.
Their marriage had been an arrangement between their parents. His father was a powerful marquess, hers an earl. There had been a planned meeting between the two of them, of course, but her parents had told him she was ill. As he spent nearly all of his time in London and she had always been in the country, another suitable time never arose. Finally, the wedding day was planned, arrived, and here they were.
He hadn’t even been sure she would be in attendance at the ceremony, despite her father’s assurances. When she had walked down the aisle toward him, her face was set in a grimace so fierce that he had nearly hidden behind the minister. Did she really abhor him so, a man she had never met?
And yet when she stood beside him, he could sense something else. She was angry, true, but perhaps almost — afraid?
S
he did not say a word to him through the wedding breakfast, nor to anyone else for that matter. She simply sat, as stoic as a soldier about to be sent into battle, as though she were waiting for the entire event to be over and done with.
Not that he blamed her for that, at the very least. This entire affair was so forced, there was nothing at all natural about it, and that very tension pervaded the room.
Eventually, all of the guests blessedly left, and he was standing alone with her at the cusp of the entryway of his — their — country estate.
“Scarlett,” he began, turning toward her, but she remained resolutely stiff, looking out after the dirt kicked up by the carriages as they trundled away down his drive. “I gather this is not quite what you had imagined. I—”
“How did you gather that, oh, wise husband?”
He raised an eyebrow at her sarcasm. “By the petulant way in which you have conducted yourself since the moment you walked into the church.”
“Excuse me?” Finally, he had her attention. She turned and looked at him with those eyes that had befuddled him so when they caught his during that moment in which he said his vows. They were hazel, as light as the cinnamon pieces running through her hair but with flecks of gold that danced when she had watched him closely as he had spoken the words to her that bound them together for the rest of their lives.
“I said—”
“I heard what you said. Is that any way to speak to your new wife?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. Who did she think she was, to snipe barbs at him so when he had done nothing but do as was expected of him, the same way she had?
“You have hardly uttered a word since you arrived in the village. You certainly have not spoken to me. You avoided me until the moment our wedding actually began. And now you are doing your best to push me away. Am I really so repulsive, Scarlett?”
She was silent for a moment, breaking their locked gaze as she stared out over the glorious gardens sweeping away from the front door, around the drive and out behind the house.
“I do not wish to be married,” she said, her words stilted and angry. “Not to you, nor to anyone else.”
“Then why did you agree to marry me?”
“I had no other choice. My father deemed this wedding to be, and so be it. It was that or try to make my own way in the world, and as much as I would like to, I simply … could not. And you? Why agree to marry me, a woman you have never met?”
“I had business to see to, as I always do. I did not have time to meet and properly court a woman. My father was anxious for heirs. He assured me that you were a well-bred woman who would fit well within my life. He may be a cold man, but he has always seen to my best interests and I trusted him in this.”
“You trusted your father to find the appropriate women with whom to spend the rest of your life?” She looked at him incredulously, and he shifted from one foot to the other. When she put it like that, it did sound rather idiotic, but at the time it had made sense. His father had told him she was beautiful, from a good family, and with a significant dowry. That had all been true. What he had never mentioned was her temperament.
Hunter was surprised when she was the first to break the ensuing silence.
“You have a beautiful home, at the very least.”
“Thank you,” he said, resolving to try to be civil with her. He had no wish to spend a life in conflict with his wife. He had enough of that in his day-to-day affairs, which he spent within the House of Lords. “I primarily live in London, but I have always loved Wintervale. It seemed the ideal place to hold the wedding celebrations. The village is lovely at this time of year, and I have known the minister since I was a child.”
“You don’t spend much time here?”
“Not really,” he said with a shrug. “It seems I have too much requiring my attention in London.”
“I see,” she said, a contemplative look coming over her face, and he wished he could read her thoughts.
“I thought perhaps we could spend a month or so here before returning to London?” he asked. “I know it will be well in advance of the Season but—”
“Go,” she said with a wave of her hand.
“Go?” he asked, confusion filling him. “We will travel together when the time comes.”
She looked at him now, her hands on her hips. “I will be honest with you, Lord Oxford. I have no wish to go to London. Not in a month, not for the Season. I think I like it here, and here I will stay.”
“But—” He desperately rifled through his mind for the right words to say. It would be rather untoward to show up to London without his wife for the entire Season. He must convince her to come, even for a short time. He took a breath. He was sure she would change her mind. She just needed time. “We will discuss it,” he finally said, and she quirked up one side of her lips — the first resemblance to a smile he had seen since he’d met her.
“Very well,” she said. “Now I wish to remove this monstrosity of a gown. If you will excuse me.”
And with that, she turned, calling for her lady’s maid. He followed her from a distance, studying her as she walked through Oak Hall, looking one way and then the other until she discovered the staircase at the end of the connecting Stone Hall. She lifted her “monstrosity,” which was, in fact, a beautiful pink gown, though a bit frothy for his taste, up from the floor and started up the grand staircase. He followed her with his eyes all the way up, around the balustrade, and down the balcony that hung over the great room beneath, where he stood, wondering what in the hell had just happened.
He didn’t see her again. Not through the afternoon, not even for dinner, despite persistent knocks on her door. “I don’t feel well,” she had called out. And when he tried her door that evening, to determine how she felt and whether she had any interest in a marriage night, it was as he thought.
The door was locked.
1
December, 1813 ~ London
“Spicer? I’m running late, unfortunately, and the House is to sit in but an hour. Is everything prepared?”
“Of course, my lord.” Rupert Spicer had been his faithful valet for the past five years, and Hunter didn’t know what he would do without him. The man helped him shrug into his coat, and passed him his hat as he ran out the door. It was the last day the House of Lords was to sit before Christmastide. Hunter diligently attended, unlike his father, who had always abhorred what he called the dull and dreary proceedings.
“Three times!” he would thunder at Hunter. “Three times I would have to sit there and listen to the same bill read. I am done with it!”
Despite his initial hesitation, Hunter had found that he enjoyed the opportunity to sit within the House, to affect decisions that could make change in the world. There was nothing of consequence to be discussed today, although Hunter agreed that the recess until March did seem inexplicably long. There was much to be discussed — not only the war with Bony and France, but after his recent visit to the mill and his ensuing horror at what he found there — children not even ten, worked to the bone — there was much to be done.
While he agreed with Sir James Mackintosh on the fact they should move up the next year’s sitting date, the man droned on and on without saying much of anything, and Hunter found his mind wandering. Christmastide. Should he stay in London? Should he attend a house party? He had been invited to several. He attended select parties throughout the Season, but unlike many men such as himself, his primary purpose for remaining in London was not so much the social scene but the true reason he was there — the politics. If he did attend a party or some such event, often it was simply to gain the ear of another lord or cabinet minister.
London would be fairly empty at the moment, however. Should he return to his own country home — to Wintervale? Wintervale, where his bride awaited. At least, he assumed so. He hadn’t heard from her since he had left in August. He figured his steward would write him a note if she actually did leave. Stone had informed him that she v
isited her mother now and again, their homes being but a couple of hours’ journey between. Hunter had never been a particularly attentive lord, but his father had insisted he take over Wintervale, as he and Hunter’s mother preferred to remain in London and had many other estates they could escape to if they found the need for time in the country.
By the time Hunter returned to his townhouse that evening — the townhouse he had purchased for his bride, he thought regretfully, having been perfectly happy in his rented rooms — he was still undecided, and after a quick dinner alone, instead of sitting in his library stewing, he picked his hat up off the desk and called for his carriage to be readied once more. He could always find company at White’s. He hopped into the carriage and it soon deposited him in front of the Portland stone building on St. James’ Street.
He was relieved to enter and find his friend, Lord Wimbledon, awaiting him.
“Wimbledon!” he called, and the man poured another glass of brandy, leaving it awaiting Hunter across the table.
“Oxford,” the man greeted him. “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought with the break in Parliament you would be off to see that new wife of yours.”
“Yes, well…” Hunter shifted uncomfortably as he took his seat, unsure of how to answer that. He knew his relationship was on the tongues of many of the ton, but there was not much he could do about it. His wife hated him, and he had no idea why.
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