His Mistletoe Bride

by Vanessa Kelly

  Lucas gave her a reassuring smile. Although her mouth lifted in a shy smile in return, it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Then Annabel said something to her and Phoebe turned back to respond.

  His aunt let out a quiet sigh. “You do know that you make her anxious, Lucas.”

  Stunned, he jerked his head to stare down at her. “Has she told you that?”

  “No, dear. Phoebe is very loyal. And it’s not that she’s afraid of you. It’s more your . . . manner. Your way of dealing with the world. It makes her uneasy.”

  The tight knot in his stomach eased a fraction. Still, he didn’t like the idea that he gave Phoebe any cause for concern.

  “I’m a soldier, with a soldier’s manner. I won’t apologize for that, but I would never hurt her in any way. Never,” he said with quiet emphasis.

  His aunt passed in front of an allegorical painting of the battle of the Titans. She took her time studying it while he tried to quell his irritation.

  “Phoebe has a very spiritual nature, Lucas. After all, she was raised as a Quaker,” she finally said.

  His impatience spiked. “I am well aware of that fact. Surely Phoebe doesn’t expect me to ride off to battle, pistols blazing. And when would I have time for warfare, my dear aunt, what with all my present obligations to keep me busy?” This time, bitterness slipped into his voice.

  Another slow nod from his aunt. “Yes, you are an earl now, with all the obligations and privileges the position entails. But in your heart you are still a soldier, and Phoebe senses that. A very significant part of you has not left the battlefield.”

  He let out a ghost of a laugh. No one who had lived through war could ever completely turn his back on it. And part of him didn’t want to. Not the killing, of course, but the purpose and clarity that came with knowing what must be done, and then doing it. No messy relationships or extravagant emotions, no broken promises or betrayals that could turn a man’s life into a complicated hell.

  Lucas shrugged. “She’ll have to accept me as I am, and know that she will never have anything to fear from me.”

  Aunt Georgie huffed at him. “I have no doubt she will eventually understand, if you would bother to make the effort.”

  He gave her an incredulous look, but she just laughed. “Yes, dear. The General tells me you’ve been very good. But Phoebe doesn’t have any idea how you feel about her.” She frowned. “Come to think of it, neither do I. Other than the fact that you obviously find her attractive as a potential wife.”

  Blast it. Did she really expect him to make some dramatic declaration of love? He’d been done with that sort of nonsense for years.

  “I am well aware of Phoebe’s qualities, and I will always cherish her. I’m convinced she will make me a fine wife,” he said in a cool voice. With any luck, his tone would end this gruesome discussion.

  “How romantic. I’m sure you will sweep her right off her feet,” his aunt caustically replied.

  If he wasn’t in public, he’d gladly utter a string of curses that would turn the air blue. Better than anyone, Aunt Georgie knew he would never put himself in thrall to a woman again. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t do right by Phoebe, or even care for her. Hell, he already did.

  “I thought you wanted this,” he exclaimed. “I promised I would protect Phoebe, and you want her to stay in England. This is the best way to achieve both goals. Besides, I do need a wife. One I can actually respect, and who’s nothing like—”

  He clipped back the words. He didn’t even want to utter Esme’s name. And unlike Esme, Phoebe was sweet and innocent, and he would see to it she remained that way.

  “I do want it,” Aunt Georgie replied, “and it pleases me that you wish to protect her. But remember. Phoebe may be vulnerable and innocent but she is not weak. Once her principles are engaged, she will stand firm. You cannot manipulate her into thinking you care for her when you do not.”

  He ground his teeth. “Of course I care for her. A great deal. I have every intention of making Phoebe happy, I promise you.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, but Phoebe needs convincing, not I.”

  “What would you suggest?” he asked, exasperated.

  “You might try actually wooing her instead of merely holing up with her and the General in the library. As much as I love your uncle, he can hardly be called an inducement to romance.”

  He gave a reluctant laugh. True, he’d been very careful with Phoebe these last few weeks, but perhaps the time had come to exert pressure. “You make a valid point. I will adapt my strategy accordingly.”

  She arched her imperious brows. “She is not a battle to be won, Lucas. It would be wise if you remembered that.”

  He was hard put not to roll his eyes again.

  His aunt gave him a little grin. “Don’t fall into a huff, my boy. I’m simply offering you the voice of experience.” She nudged him in Phoebe’s direction. “Well, get to it.”

  Phoebe studied the vibrant and thoroughly outrageous painting. While it depicted a classical theme, one could hardly call it proper given the fleshy goddesses whose diaphanous garments revealed more than they concealed. Her brother, George, would have been scandalized, which rather increased her enjoyment than diminished it.

  Frowning, she leaned forward and peered at a detail she had only just spotted. Goodness. Was that really a woman’s—

  “You seem much taken with that painting, Phoebe. Any particular reason why?”

  She gave a guilty start and looked up into Lucas’s face. His eyes glittered with amusement, and she had a sinking feeling he knew exactly what had drawn her attention. Her cheeks flooding with heat, she took the coward’s way out.

  “Not particularly. All the paintings are lovely, are they not?” she said in a bright voice. “I have already discovered several by Benjamin West, which was the reason I asked my aunt to allow me to visit Somerset House. Mr. West was originally from Philadelphia. Did you know that, Lucas?”

  His lips pressed into a thin line as he fought to hold back laughter at her ineffectual evasion. Inwardly she winced, knowing full well she sounded the definition of a hen-witted female.

  She cast a quick glance past him. At least Aunt Georgie had not seen her peering at that painting, since she had taken Annabel’s arm and moved to the other side of the gallery.

  Lucas placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. “I did not know that, Phoebe. Perhaps you could show me some of Mr. West’s paintings.”

  His mouth twitched and his eyes still held that telltale gleam.

  She sighed. “Very well, although I know you are humoring me. And I also know it was very bad of me to be looking so closely at that indecent painting. But I have never seen anything like it, and you cannot blame me for being curious.”

  “My sweet, there’s nothing wrong with curiosity. Besides, you’re bound to see more scandalous sights if you remain in London. I’ve attended balls where more than one lady’s wardrobe malfunctioned in the most spectacular way. Not everyone would think that’s a bad thing, either,” he mused.

  Her jaw slackened. She could not decide if she was more shocked by his casual acceptance of vulgar behavior, or by the fact that he called her my sweet.

  Too flustered to respond, she let him guide her at a measured pace around the room. Fortunately, the din from the crowd minimized the need for conversation. She studiously gazed at all the paintings, trying to ignore the way he studied her. Even more importantly, she tried to ignore the way his very masculine presence made the breath shallow in her lungs and her legs go wobbly. She had to resist the urge to clutch his arm and lean against him, but that would only heighten the alarming sensations flooding through her body.

  “Phoebe,” he prodded in a deep, quiet tone.

  “Yes?”

  When he didn’t answer, she looked up at him. His smoky gaze snagged hers, and her knees knocked against each other. Lucas affected her in the strangest way, and the fact that he was so much taller and broader than she was prompted some rather naugh
ty and wholly embarrassing thoughts.

  His lips curled in a roguish smile. “You’re looking lovely today, did you know that? Your new bonnet is charming. In fact, everything about you is charming.”

  His extravagant praise made her pause. Why had he taken to complimenting her so effusively these last few days? He had never cared about her clothes and appearance before. She could not be sure she liked it. It made her too aware of him when her nerves were already stretched tight.

  “Thank you,” she said cautiously.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen that brooch before.” He touched the cameo on her shoulder. “There’s a larger, similar portrait of your grandfather as a young man at the manor.”

  She touched it, letting her fingers rest there for a few seconds. For years, she had fancied she could draw strength from the cherished heirloom. It somehow connected her to the family she had never known, serving as a lifeline to something precious in the lonely days after her father’s death.

  “It was my mother’s most prized possession.” She flicked him a tentative glance, hoping he would understand. “I know that seems odd, given they remained estranged to her death.”

  “Your grandfather had a portrait of your mother, from her first Season. He kept it in his study, where he could always see it.” He made a subtle movement, bringing her closer to his side. Phoebe knew she should resist, but thinking of her parents left her with an aching heart, and Lucas offered comfort.

  “I didn’t know your grandfather that well,” he said. “I saw him very little, during those years in the Peninsula. But I spent a fair amount of time at his side in the months before his death, and I know he deeply regretted the parting with your mother. He truly loved her.”

  A joy that felt more like sadness closed her throat. Taking a deep breath, she focused on a large canvas of a farmer’s field on a bright summer’s day. The colors swam in a haze of tears, forcing her to blink them away. “Then why do you suppose he never wrote to her?”

  He gently turned her so her back was to the canvas and his body shielded her from any curious onlookers. “Pride, I suppose. From what Uncle Arthur has told me, the earl was never one to admit a mistake. But the fact that your grandfather wanted you with him should tell you how much he loved your mother, even if it came too late.”

  He tipped her chin up, brushing a finger along her jaw before dropping his hand down. Such a small gesture, but she trembled nonetheless. “I know he would have loved you, too,” he said. “Those last months, all he cared about was your future. He worried about you, Phoebe. That’s why he asked me to take care of you.”

  His eyes probed hers, intense and watchful. She inhaled a tangled mix of emotions—longing, anxiety, and something that had the power to completely devastate her if she let it. Her mind skittered away from it, frightened that Lucas might see it in her eyes.

  She cleared her throat. “Thank you, Lucas. But as I have told you before, I do not need taking care of.”

  His eyes got that flinty look. Not a good sign. “Phoebe, what do you want from life?”

  The abrupt question surprised her. She peered up at him, wondering if he really expected an answer.

  His patient, watchful silence indicated he did. Shifting uneasily, she glanced around the room. Aunt Georgie and Annabel were sitting on a bench in the center of the room, talking to a woman in a purple-plumed hat. The rest of the room was a whirl of noise and motion, everyone too busy to notice her or Lucas. She felt separated from the rest of the world, encased in an odd little bubble with him.

  She raised her eyes back to his face. “I wish not to be a burden to my family or friends.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “That’s it?” he asked incredulously. “That’s the sum total of your worldly ambitions?”

  She shrugged. What else could she tell him? That she wanted what everyone wanted—home, family, love? How could she say that to him, knowing the burden her grandfather had placed upon him? He would surely take it as a reminder of his obligation to her—or what he believed his obligation to be. She no more wanted to be a burden to him than to her brother, George, or to the Stanton family.

  He muttered something under his breath. Taking her arm, he started them back on their round of the room. “And how does this grand desire of yours translate into practicalities?” he asked, his voice hinting of sarcasm.

  She cast him a scowl. “I did have a life before I came to England. It might not mean much to you, but it had purpose and meaning for me.”

  “Ah, so we’re back to that. Do you really wish to return to a life of drudgery in your brother’s household?”

  “It was not drudgery,” she replied stiffly.

  He snorted. “You’re avoiding the question.”

  “I believe we have discussed this before, Lucas. You already know I do not wish to return to that life,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “Not if I have a choice. But nor can I spend all my days living off General Stanton’s generosity.”

  Except the thought of leaving her uncle’s household made her positively ill. She felt at home at Stanton House, more at ease with life than any time since the death of her father. But that sense of belonging did not make it right, nor did it justify a life of idleness at the expense of her aunt and uncle.

  “But apparently you could spend the rest of your days living off your brother’s generosity,” he said with a charming smile. “I think there’s a flaw in your logic, sweetheart.”

  She stared at him. How was it possible he could both annoy and flatter her at the same time? His condescending attitude deserved a set down, and yet her treacherous heart melted with pleasure at his teasing affection.

  She took refuge in the irritation. “I do not have to be a dependent. There are other things I could do.”

  “Really? Like what?” he asked with great interest.

  “I am very well educated. I taught my nieces and nephews. Surely I could teach other children, as a governess.”

  His amusement evaporated. “The hell you will.”

  Disconcerted, she looked away. “I will not spend the rest of my life as a dependent.”

  His finger tapped her chin again, provoking her to look at him. A tiny gasp escaped her when she beheld the stern, proud expression on his face.

  “You are the granddaughter of an earl, and a Stanton. You were raised by a gentleman in genteel circumstances, and a life of servitude will never be in the cards for you. Do you understand ?”

  His tightly repressed anger hollowed out her stomach, but she would not allow him to intimidate her. She thrust out her chin. “I will do whatever I believe is right.”

  He bent his head, coming nose to nose. “Phoebe, I will not repeat myself. You will not again speak of this madcap idea of being a governess, do you understand?”

  As she glared back at him, she heard a titter from beside her. Glancing to her right, she saw two young women watching them with avid interest. She groaned inside. The last thing she wished for was to make a spectacle, but the determined look on Lucas’s face showed he held no similar compunctions.

  “Very well,” she grumbled, desperate to end the discussion.

  “Very well, what?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I understand I must give up any notion of being a governess.”

  He studied her for a moment before nodding his head. “Good. And I suggest you never mention it around the General, in particular. I guarantee you wouldn’t like the reaction.”

  She sighed, deflated. “I promise. But what am I to do with myself? I cannot go on like this forever, no matter what you and my aunt and uncle might think. It is not right, Lucas, and such an aimless existence would not make me happy.”

  As tempting as it was to disregard the future, her life with the Stantons could only be a temporary respite. Even Lucas must think the same, since he had raised it in the first place. Given that, what choice did she have but to return to America, to George and his family? At least there she had her brother’s children
to love.

  But anguish speared through her just at the thought of leaving England . . . and Lucas. Her chest grew tight and she found it hard to pull in air.

  “Phoebe, look at me.”

  His voice was quiet but carried a commanding tone. She looked up. His eyes were gentle with understanding, but that only made her throat tighten more.

  “There’s no need for you to worry about anything until after Christmas,” he said. “Everything will be sorted out in due course. I promise.”

  She wanted desperately to believe him. His gaze heated as she studied him, and a coil of that all too familiar yearning spun out from the center of her body to her limbs.

  “You do trust me, don’t you?” His voice went low and husky.

  Repressing a shiver, she nodded.

  “Then let it go for now, and try to enjoy yourself,” he said. “You’ve more than earned it.”

  “I will try,” she whispered.

  “Good. Now let’s collect Aunt Georgie and Annabel. I’m taking you to Gunter’s for ices. Have you ever had one?”

  She shook her head.

  “I thought not,” he said with a grin. “Consider it all part of the plan to enjoy yourself as best you can. Whether you want to or not.”

  Then he took her hand and settled her against his side, as if she had always belonged there and always would.

  Chapter 10

  Lucas glanced at the casement clock in the corner of his uncle’s library, impatient for the women to join them. Tonight was Phoebe’s first ball and an important one at that, since Lady Framingham’s semiannual extravaganza marked the official close of the Little Season. Tonight would herald Phoebe’s formal introduction into London society.

  But how long did it take to put on a gown and dress one’s hair, especially with a whole bloody regiment of lady’s maids to assist?

  Uncle Arthur cleared his throat, bringing Lucas back to the stilted conversation in the library.

  “Forgive me, sir,” Lucas said. “What did you say?”