His Mistletoe Bride

by Vanessa Kelly

  “The root of Lord Merritt’s desire was to see you safe with your family. He always meant to keep you here in England. An old-fashioned man, he naturally saw the most efficient way to do that was through marriage. He planned to take up residence in London and introduce you to society, in the hopes you would find an acceptable husband. Unfortunately, fate intervened. When he knew he wouldn’t live long enough to complete his plan, he settled on the next best alternative. Me.”

  He softened that last word with a self-deprecating smile, but Phoebe was not fooled. The major struck her as a man who would go to great lengths to uphold his honor, and pledging a deathbed promise would count as an enormous debt of honor.

  “Any discussion of your marriage to me or anyone else is premature,” he continued. “But I did agree to secure your safety, and to provide for all your needs in the same way your grandfather would have done. And that is exactly what I intend to do.”

  He made her sound like an unwelcome obligation, which she probably was.

  “I do not need taking care of,” she snapped.

  “Your grandfather didn’t agree, and neither do I.”

  “Thank you for your consideration, sir,” she ground out, “but it is not necessary.”

  He winced. “That wasn’t very adroit of me, was it? I apologize. Aunt Georgie frequently tells me I have the subtlety of a charging bull.”

  Phoebe had no idea who Aunt Georgie was, not that it mattered. “Even so—”

  He cut her off by touching a finger to her lips. She jerked at the slight warmth, her eyes rounding with astonishment. “Miss Linville, don’t you at least want to meet your family before you make any decisions? They will not reject you, I can assure you.”

  She did her best to ignore her tingling lips and peered into his face, trying to find truth. Her insides twisted into a knot of doubt and worry. “Are you sure?”

  That distracting and much too enticing gleam was back in his eyes. “Am I sure they won’t reject you? Without a doubt.”

  “Oh,” she breathed, finally letting the notion of meeting her mother’s family settle in her mind. “Then if I am not to return to America—”

  The triumphant gleam in his eye brought her up short. She held up a hand.

  “Not that I am agreeing to anything, but if I do not return to America right away, what am I to do? I cannot remain with Mrs. Poole forever, and Mrs. Tanner will soon be leaving to visit her relatives in the north.”

  Even as she voiced her concerns, all the difficulties of her position struck her with blinding force. How could she throw herself on the mercy of a family she had never met, and who would likely think of her as their odd and inconvenient distant relation? The thought that she might be a burden to them made her cringe.

  She took a deep breath for courage. “No, Major. I do thank you for your kindness, but I think it best if I return to America. I am sure Mrs. Tanner will help me make the arrangements.” Better to return to the family she knew than risk an ugly, inevitable rejection.

  He studied her. “Are you so eager to return?”

  She stared into his face—each rugged, handsome line imbued with determination—and felt her fragile, wavering resolution begin to finally crumble. It was wrong of her, but the thought of returning to her former life filled her with a depressing melancholy.

  “No,” she whispered. “I am not.”

  “Then it’s settled. You won’t be going back,” he said as calmly as if they’d been discussing the price of eggs.

  She bristled, torn between shame that he should see her weakness and anger that he could treat her distressing situation so lightly.

  “And how are we to manage this?” she said tartly. “Thee has yet to provide me with an answer.”

  His eyebrows shot up at her verbal lapse, and she almost groaned. Her mother had always insisted she speak the finest King’s English, and Phoebe only lapsed into rhythms of Quaker speech when she was upset or lost her temper. It was an annoying and sharply ironic habit.

  “Well,” he said, trying not to laugh, “I actually do have an answer. Her name is Lady Stanton, and she’s very eager to meet you.”

  Chapter 3

  Phoebe Linville stared up at him, her sherry-colored eyes huge and full of worry. Those eyes and her lush pink mouth were the only color in her drawn face. Lucas hadn’t expected such an enticing mouth on a poorly dressed, skinny little Quaker. It was incongruous and gave him all kinds of thoughts he had no business thinking, especially given the awkward circumstances.

  His cautious, duty-bound marriage proposal had certainly horrified her, and he’d sounded the retreat almost immediately. He’d made a solemn vow to the old earl that he would take care of Miss Linville, but he’d also made it clear to the wily bastard that marriage was very much an open question. Merritt had been desperate to settle the girl’s fate, so the old man had grudgingly accepted the compromise—with the proviso that Lucas would consider a proposal if the girl was amenable to it. To placate and honor a dying man, Lucas had agreed.

  From the looks of it, though, Phoebe was not remotely agreeable to the suggestion. Apparently, she found the idea of marrying a complete stranger as disconcerting as he found the notion of marrying a Quaker rustic from America.

  When Phoebe had walked into Mrs. Poole’s drawing room, Lucas’s fears had been confirmed. She was barely of average height, too slender, and poorly dressed in the most appalling sack of a dress. Her thick dark hair was pulled up in an untidy and unattractive knot. The thought that such a poor dab of a thing could survive either the wolf pack of the ton or marriage to him was demented.

  But the ensuing encounter had surprised him. Though initially stunned in the face of distressing news, she had revealed an inner fire. Closer inspection hinted at quite a lovely figure under her drab, old-fashioned gown. Obviously, her frail appearance resulted from her recent illness. Rest, some good English food, and Aunt Georgie’s mothering would soon set that to rights.

  Recovering from the additional shocks he had delivered, however, would take more time.

  Now, as she stared up at him, Phoebe’s lips parted and her pretty pink tongue quickly swiped between them. A throb of heat flashed to his groin, and he had to clamp down hard on a surprising and ridiculous surge of lust. He did so by imagining his friends’ laughter should he ever reveal he actually considered taking a homespun Quaker girl as his wife.

  “Who is Lady Stanton and what is her relation to me?” Phoebe asked uncertainly. “Why would she be willing to accept me into her household, sight unseen?”

  She had a soft, pleasing voice, which partly offset her direct manner of speaking. He found it an intriguing combination.

  “Lady Stanton is married to General Sir Arthur Stanton, who is my uncle and the second son of the second son of Robert Stanton, the fifth Earl of Merritt. My grandfather was the first son of that particular line, while your grandfather was the direct descendant of Robert, through his oldest son. Since your grandfather died without issue, the title descended through Robert’s second son to me.”

  The girl’s eyes glazed over, a combination of fatigue and her attempt to parse the complicated web of relations that made up the Stanton family.

  “You needn’t worry about it,” he said. “You simply need to know that you are indeed related to the family through your mother and more than welcome in General and Lady Stanton’s home. As the head of the family, my uncle in fact insisted on it.”

  He didn’t bother to add that the General had ordered him to bring Miss Linville home immediately, and not leave her in the company of those damned religious fanatics.

  “I am grateful that Lady Stanton wants to meet me,” Phoebe said, her voice catching a little.

  The glimpse of yearning the girl was trying to hide tugged at his heart, and he gave her a reassuring smile. “She has given me strict instructions to bring you home with me this very afternoon.”

  Startled by that bit of news, she shot up from the sofa, stumbling into the table.
When she swayed a bit, Lucas quickly stood to help her. His fingers closed around her slender wrist, her delicate bones feeling fragile under the thick wool of her sleeves.

  “Phoebe,” he said, deliberately using her first name, “sit down before you fall down. Mrs. Tanner will have my head if anything happens to you.” It was time the girl understood she was family, and that he would take care of her.

  She blushed, the deep pink flying high on her delicate cheekbones. The reaction made her look young and vulnerable. Instinct rustled within him, and it took a considerable effort not to pull her into a protective embrace.

  As she cautiously settled back down on the sofa, he couldn’t help noticing the swell of her breasts, pressing against her plain bodice. She had an alluring shape—too slender, but with some distinctly appealing curves. Not for the first time since he’d entered the room, Lucas could almost see the advantage to taking Phoebe as his wife. She was pretty and modest, but with a touch of fire. He’d also wager that as a gently bred Quaker, she couldn’t tell a lie to save her life.

  The exact opposite of Esme Newton, his first and last love.

  “I could not possibly leave this afternoon,” she protested. “As pleased as I am at Lady Stanton’s generous offer, thee must recognize how inappropriate my sudden departure from this household would be. Mrs. Tanner would be distressed.”

  He smiled, amused by her quaint speech. The ton might label her a bumpkin, but the longer he conversed with her, the more her manner appealed to him. She meant exactly what she said, a quality he had found in abundance among the soldiers in his former command, but was sorely lacking in his new life as a peer.

  Even so, the girl obviously required careful handling. Although full of mettle, she was suffering from exhaustion and shock. Push her too hard and she might break.

  “Of course not,” he replied calmly. “It’s understandable that you wish to remain with your friend until she departs for her trip up north. She leaves in a few days, does she not? That should give you ample time to get your bearings. And there’s no reason you can’t meet the General and Lady Stanton before then. Become acquainted with them first before moving in.”

  He gave her his most persuasive smile, the one that had landed many a beautiful woman in his bed. Phoebe, however, seemed unimpressed. He was either losing his touch or innocent Quaker ladies were immune to his brand of charm.

  Time to pull out the big guns.

  “Phoebe, I understand your hesitation, but your mother’s estrangement was a source of genuine sorrow for all of us, and your presence would heal that breach.”

  That was an exaggeration. He had only been vaguely aware of his distant cousin’s existence until the old earl imposed responsibility for her onto him. But Aunt Georgie and the General were both keen to have her, and since Phoebe’s weak spot was clearly her obvious longing to be reunited with her mother’s family, he had every intention of exploiting it.

  For her own good, naturally. Why should she return to a wretched life in America when she could live in comfort with the Stantons?

  The yearning in her eyes told him he’d hit the mark.

  “Lady Stanton was very fond of your mother,” he added, turning the screws. “Did you know that? She sponsored her first Season in London.”

  “No,” Phoebe breathed. “Mother never told me that. I think it was difficult for her to speak of the family she had left behind in England.”

  But Lucas wagered by the look on Phoebe’s face that Elspeth Linville had told her enough to whet her daughter’s interest.

  “Lady Stanton will tell you all about it,” he assured her. “I will call on you tomorrow afternoon and escort you to Stanton House. Shall we say at three o’clock?”

  She looked so young and innocent as she pulled her lower lip between her small white teeth. Another bolt of sexual heat lanced through him. Phoebe Linville was a great deal more interesting than he first thought, and it suddenly seemed imperative to keep her in London—both because he had promised her grandfather, and because she might be what he was looking for after all.

  She met his gaze. Her eyes seemed to show everything she felt, a characteristic both appealing and useful. “What if they do not like me?”

  He reached over and took her hand, feeling a small surge of triumph when she didn’t pull away.

  “That would be impossible. But I give you my word that if you eventually deem yourself ill suited for life in London, I will escort you back to America myself.”

  Her eyes opened wide with wonder. “You would do that?”

  “I would, indeed.”

  Her lips parted in a genuine smile, one so entrancing it stunned him. If she were to come out from behind that Quaker disguise, she’d have all the rakes of London tumbling at her feet.

  Lucas knew with a disagreeable certainty he wouldn’t like that one bit.

  “Thank you, Major,” she exclaimed with relief. “I will not forget your kindness or how selflessly you have acted toward me.”

  “It is my honor to help you.”

  “In that case, I would be most happy to meet Lady Stanton. And I am sure tomorrow will be acceptable to Mrs. Tanner.”

  As she beamed at Lucas, his satisfaction grew. She was sweet, innocent, and mostly biddable, and he had little doubt he could eventually bend her to his will—gently, of course. He had no wish to break her spirit, which even a hardened soldier like him could perceive to be a delicate thing.

  Yes, Phoebe Linville was nothing like Esme. The more he thought about it, the more he realized she just might be the correct antidote to the woman who had once meant the world to him, but who had demolished his life.

  Chapter 4

  The carriage jolted through a rut, bouncing Phoebe as she made a grab for the leather strap. Major Stanton—or Lord Merritt, as she must now think of him—smiled at her from the other bench, his solid frame undisturbed as they rumbled over London’s cobblestone streets.

  Not that she could possibly hurt herself. That seemed impossible in the velvet and leather cocoon of Lord Merritt’s town coach. Phoebe had never ridden in such a luxurious vehicle, and she had to resist the urge to stroke the rich burgundy fabric on which she sat. She was trying hard to feel guilty about enjoying such earthly pleasures, but could not muster up the appropriate concentration.

  “I hope you slept well last night, Phoebe,” said Lord Merritt. “I imagine London is quite a bit noisier than you’re used to.”

  “Yes, but I am sure I will get used to it.” She hoped so, anyway. London was a veritable din of competing sounds, many of them unpleasant. She had grown up with silence, both that of the country and the Silence practiced by Friends. Rarely had she chafed against the quiet peace of the countryside, but in many a Meeting or in silent family prayer, her thoughts had wandered and her body had betrayed her with a bad case of the fidgets.

  “True silence is the rest of the mind,” George would intone, quoting William Penn in a doom-laden voice. “It is to the spirit what sleep is to the body, nourishment and refreshment.”

  Phoebe had never understood that particular epigram until now.

  Lord Merritt’s eyes held amusement, as if he could see right through her false cheer. He had a disconcerting ability to read her expression or guess her thoughts. Not that one needed a great deal of perception to deduce she had passed a restless night, given her pale complexion and fatigue-smudged eyes. Appalled by her appearance, Phoebe had donned her best gown and allowed Agatha to ornament her just-washed curls with a pretty blue ribbon.

  She had even pinched some color into her cheeks, loathing the idea of appearing before Lord Merritt or her London relatives looking like a poor country miss. Both Mrs. Tanner and Mrs. Poole had looked shocked when she entered the drawing room, but Lord Merritt had given her such an approving smile that Phoebe had silently vowed to spend an extra fifteen minutes before bedtime meditating upon the sins of vanity and false pride.

  He had that same smile on his face right now as his gaze roamed o
ver her body and came to rest on her face. She sat very straight against the velvet squabs, determined not to squirm like an undisciplined schoolgirl.

  “You’ll get used to the noise,” he said. “Soon enough, you won’t even notice it.”

  “I shall look forward to that day with great anticipation.”

  He answered with a low, husky laugh that made her skin prickle with heat. She gave him a small smile and looked pointedly out the window, determined to control her disturbing response to him. Surely, it was all the confusion and distress of the last few days that made her react in such an odd fashion.

  Grandfather’s death had been a terrible blow, but the man sitting across from her had transformed despair to hope. Only one more obstacle lay ahead, and all questions would finally be answered. Would the Stanton family truly be willing to take her in, an impoverished, unknown relation? She hoped so, because the prospect of going back to her dreary life in America filled her with gloom.

  Taking a deep breath, she pressed her hand against her stomach. Lord Merritt eyed her, then launched into a colorful commentary on the various landmarks they passed on their trip to Mayfair. Despite her nerves, she began to enjoy herself. He had a knack for description, and he seemed to know a great deal about history and architecture. She had not thought a military man would be so knowledgeable about the city passing by the carriage window.

  She studied him as he lounged across from her, casually pointing out scenes of interest. Initially, she had thought him arrogant and intimidating, but he had consistently surprised her with his well-informed mind and his no-nonsense compassion. He did still make her nervous, because she was not used to men like him. He was a soldier, and a wealthy and powerful aristocrat. Tough, handsome, and, as far as she could tell, possessed of an outrageously confident character. He was as far from being a Quaker as she could imagine.

  She would certainly ignore Grandfather’s instructions to marry him. Why Lord Merritt had agreed to those instructions was a question that kept her awake much of the night. She had finally concluded that the answer was exactly as he had stated—he felt obligated to honor Grandfather’s dying wish. Why else would a wealthy and handsome peer marry a plain Quaker spinster with barely a penny to her name?