“You mustn’t apologize,” he said with a kind smile. “I understand completely.” He flicked a glance across at his wife, a wry expression shaping his noble features. “Believe me. I know exactly how you’re feeling.”
Puzzled, she put down her fork and stared at him. “And it does not bother you?”
“That my wife so easily charms other men? No. Not anymore. It’s second nature to her. I might as well ask her to stop breathing.”
“But it used to bother you?”
He grinned, his unusual silver eyes filling with warmth. Dr. Blackmore was a truly handsome man, but even more attractive was his kind and forthright nature, readily apparent from the moment she had met him in the drawing room. “You have no idea, my lady. When I first met Bathsheba, I didn’t know whether to throttle her or kiss her.”
Phoebe choked back a startled laugh.
He nodded sagely. “I see you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Her brief spurt of amusement faded, and she could not hold back a sigh. “It is very wrong of me to be jealous. But I cannot seem to help it.”
“It’s human nature, although in your case I would think you have nothing to worry about. But don’t fall into the habit. It’s a sickness, and nothing will poison a relationship more quickly.”
“How do you avoid it?” she asked, genuinely curious.
He smiled. “Bathsheba and I have no secrets from each other. I know her as well as I know myself, and vice versa. It’s almost impossible to be jealous under those circumstances.”
Oh, Lord. Secrets. No wonder she felt so awful.
“And I trust her,” Dr. Blackmore continued. “When you trust the person you love, you trust her no matter what. You accept everything about her, even her less attractive qualities. Because without those qualities, she would not be who she is. My wife is the sum of all her parts, and I would not change a single detail about her.”
A sad little yearning twisted in Phoebe’s heart. What would it be like to love like that, with total trust and devotion?
“And you never succumb to doubt?” she asked softly.
He gazed thoughtfully across the table at his wife, still deep in conversation with Lucas. “No. Never.”
His deep voice rang with quiet conviction and bone-deep satisfaction. As if he had called to her, Bathsheba switched her attention from Lucas to her husband. Her expression of social enjoyment fell away, replaced by one so intensely loving—so private—that Phoebe had to shift her gaze. She pushed food around her plate, trying not to wish so desperately that Lucas would someday look at her with that same intensity.
When she looked up, the moment had passed and Bathsheba was once again talking to Lucas. Dr. Blackmore raised an eyebrow at Phoebe as if to say, see?
She had to laugh. “Yes, I do take your point. You are indeed a fortunate man to be so loved. I congratulate you.”
“I am. And I expect you are equally fortunate, Lady Merritt, if I am any judge of the matter.”
Phoebe had no idea how he could draw such a conclusion, but it would be rude to voice the thought when he clearly meant to be kind.
“Thank you,” she said politely. “I am indeed fortunate in the love of my family.”
Dr. Blackmore frowned and started to say something, but a rumbling noise from the other side of the table interrupted them as Uncle Arthur cleared his throat in a portentous fashion. He had risen to his feet, obviously preparing to make some kind of pronouncement.
Phoebe glanced at Lucas, who widened his eyes at her in mock alarm. When she swallowed a giggle he gave her a wink and a sly grin, and the knot in her chest eased by several degrees.
“Ahem,” Uncle Arthur began. “On behalf of my nephew, the Marquess of Silverton, I would like to welcome all of you to the abbey. For those of you who are spending Christmas with us for the first time, I bid you a special welcome and good cheer.”
He paused to lift his wineglass and everyone—the Stantons, their guests, and a few local families from the neighborhood—lifted theirs in return, followed by a few hearty cheers.
“Some of you may not know,” her uncle continued, “but we have a long-standing family tradition of reciting a special poem on Christmas Day.”
Robert, seated on the other side of Phoebe, leaned close. “Actually, we don’t,” he said in a penetrating stage whisper. “But Grandfather read this poem in Gentleman’s Magazine a few years ago, and decided it would make a good family tradition. No one has the faintest clue why.”
“Hush,” Phoebe hissed softly as her uncle glared at them.
“As I was saying,” Uncle Arthur said in a slightly aggrieved voice, “I always recite this poem on Christmas Day. But since Phoebe and Lucas will be celebrating the Lord’s birth in their own home, I thought it proper we break with tradition this year, and hold the recitation tonight.”
Phoebe smiled at him, touched by his thoughtfulness. Reciting poetry at dinner seemed a rather odd thing to do, but she appreciated the gesture nonetheless. Unfortunately, she chose that moment to look at Lucas, who was clearly struggling not to laugh. A giggle again made its way up her throat, but she forced it down, giving her husband a severe frown.
Uncle Arthur grasped the bottom of his waistcoat and assumed a dramatic pose. An expectant hush fell around the table, although she could also sense Robert quivering with repressed laughter.
“This piece was written by Robert Southey on Christmas Day,” Uncle Arthur began.
“How many hearts are happy at this hour
In England! Brightly o’er the cheerful hall
Flares the heaped hearth, and friends and kindred meet,
And the glad mother round her festive board
Beholds her children, separated long.”
As the dignified old man recited the poem, Phoebe let her gaze drift around the table. Everyone had turned to watch her uncle, and every face held a smile. Poetry readings at dinner might be considered rather quaint, but there was no doubting the goodwill and cheer around the holiday table this night.
Uncle Arthur proceeded dramatically through the verses, rising to a crescendo.
“As o’er the house, all gay with evergreens,
From friend to friend with joyful speed I ran,
Bidding a Merry Christmas to them all.”
He ended with a flourish. Everyone broke into enthusiastic applause and even Lucas joined in, looking genuinely appreciative. The old man acknowledged their acclaim with a dignified bow and resumed his seat.
“Thank you, General,” Cousin Stephen said from the head of the table. He rose, and they all came to their feet.
“In honor of another family tradition,” he said, “I’ll ask the men to dispense with their usual after-dinner brandy and join my wife and me in the great hall. I do believe Meredith has a treat in store for us.”
Phoebe could not fail to detect the note of sarcasm in his voice.
“I certainly do,” Meredith said. “And I know you will all enjoy it.” She smiled down the length of the table at her husband. “Or else.”
They all laughed, and in the general commotion of rising from the table and getting organized, Phoebe found herself once more with Lucas. He drew her hand through his arm and led her to the great hall. “Did you enjoy dinner, Phoebe?”
Only parts of it, thanks to his flirtatious behavior, but she would face another trip across the Atlantic before admitting it. “I certainly enjoyed my conversation with Dr. Blackmore. He is a most interesting and kind man.”
“Yes, he is. I’m glad you enjoyed his company.”
She peered up at him. He still looked relaxed and at ease. Clearly, he had not suffered any pangs of jealously to see her conversing so intently with the doctor. That meant he either trusted her completely, or could not be bothered to care.
“And you clearly enjoyed talking to Mrs. Blackmore,” she said. “Have you been friends with her for many years?”
“Bathsheba? Lord, no. I only met her this past summer.”
<
br /> Her heart sank. If they had been old friends, she might have understood the nature of his attentions to her. She was trying very hard not to be jealous, but her husband made it a challenge.
“What’s wrong, Phoebe?”
“What? Oh, nothing.”
He tilted his head, a concerned frown marking his brow. “Do you wish to retire? I’ll take you upstairs if you do.”
She wanted to sigh, but then he might think she suffered from the vapors, or something equally annoying. “No, thank you. I am just wondering what will happen next. Do you know?”
He glanced at a door in the back of the hall. “I’m assuming it’s the . . . yes, the wassail bowl. Here comes the butler with it now.”
From a partly concealed door the butler emerged, and behind him two liveried footmen carried an enormous and elaborately worked silver bowl, which they carefully set on a table decorated with evergreen branches and swags of ivy. Cousin Stephen stepped up to the table, and Meredith joined him a moment later.
“Dear friends,” he began. “My lady and I welcome you to our hall tonight, and wish you good cheer at this festive time of year. This wassail bowl, so symbolic of the generosity of the Season, is from an old family recipe. I prepared it myself before dinner, and I can assure you that a cup of it will chase away all worries and cares, and bring glad hearts to all who drink it.”
“Yes, very glad, as I discovered during my first Christmas at the abbey,” Meredith said in a rueful voice. “Until the next morning, when I felt anything but. It is a very strong recipe.”
Everyone laughed. Silverton tipped up Meredith’s chin and gave her a quick kiss. That elicited more laughter and a few good-natured jests.
Phoebe glanced at Lucas. His easy manner had disappeared, and he studied his cousin with a grim expression, suddenly looking like he would rather be anywhere else. Obviously, the sight of Cousin Stephen’s prosperous contentment grated on him; no doubt he was comparing it to his own problems at Mistletoe Manor and in his marriage.
She repressed the impulse to rub her forehead with frustration. She did not know which was worse, a flirtatious Lucas or a resentful Lucas. Not for the first time this evening, she almost wished they had stayed at home.
Cousin Stephen began ladling out the wassail. The guests crowded around the table, each taking a cup.
“Here you go, Phoebe,” said Robert, handing her one. “You wouldn’t believe it, but in the old days everyone had to drink directly out of the wassail bowl.” He glanced over at one of the guests, an elderly gentleman who seemed to be wearing half his dinner on his cravat. “Take Sir Mortimer, for example. Could you imagine having to drink out of the bowl after he’s had a go of it?” He gave a dramatic shudder.
Annabel elbowed him in the ribs. “That’s disgusting, Robert. And you know poor Sir Mortimer has terrible eyesight. I’m sure he doesn’t mean to keep dropping his food down his front.”
“Just be grateful you didn’t have to sit across from him,” Robert parried. “Almost put me off my feed.”
“Nothing puts you off your feed,” said Lucas. “Your stomach is a bottomless pit. How you manage to remain so thin is a miracle of nature.”
“No such thing,” Robert protested.
Annabel laughingly agreed, and the young couple fell into a good-natured argument. Smiling, Phoebe raised her cup and took a cautious sip. Both sweet and highly spiced, the brew was strong enough to burn a trail of delicious fire down her throat.
“Careful,” Lucas murmured. “Wassail is very potent. If you drink too much I’ll have to carry you up to bed.” He brought his mouth close to her ear. “And then I’d be forced to have my way with you. Over and over again.”
The shock of his words heated the air around them. Their eyes met, and his flared with desire. A coil of yearning twisted low in her belly and, suddenly, she, too, wished more than anything they could be alone.
Then she remembered how annoyed she was with him. She pinched his arm. “Lucas, behave yourself!”
He responded with a sardonic smile. “Hush, my love. You wouldn’t want anyone to know what we’re talking about, and that blush on your face is a dead giveaway.”
The sound of voices from outside the hall saved her the trouble of answering. Breathing a sigh of relief, she turned her back on Lucas to see the butler opening the front door. A chorus of singing voices drifted into the hall, along with a rush of frigid air.
“Wassail, Wassail, all over the town!
Our bread it is white and our ale it is brown;
Our bowl is made of the maple tree,
With the wassailing bowl, I’ll drink to thee.”
“At last,” Meredith exclaimed.
A group of men and women, warmly dressed, clustered into the hall, each wearing a silver chain around the neck. Phoebe glanced behind her to ask Lucas about the visitors, but he was gone—back to the other side of the hall, where he again was speaking with Bathsheba.
She ground her teeth. Her husband was fast becoming the most frustrating man she had ever met.
“Have you ever heard the Waits sing before?” Annabel asked her. “They’re really quite wonderful.”
Deciding to ignore Lucas for now, she smiled at Annabel. “No, I have not. Who are they?”
“They’re organized groups from the village, who go from house to house to perform Christmas carols and share the wassail bowl. It’s a very ancient tradition.”
Phoebe blinked. The drive from the abbey gates to the house must be two miles long. “You mean they walked all the way from the nearest village?”
“No, silly! Meredith arranged for it. She had carriages pick them up.”
Phoebe studied the merry group, who were eagerly accepting cups of wassail from Meredith. Cousin Stephen stood behind her with a long-suffering expression on his face.
“Why do I sense that Cousin Stephen is not thrilled?” Annabel laughed. “A few years ago some of the men were quite drunk by the time they reached the abbey. They caused a bit of a scene.”
“A bit!” Robert hooted. “One of them fell right into the bowl and sent it crashing to the floor, and then another one cast up his accounts, narrowly missing Grandfather’s toes. As you can imagine, Silverton was not pleased, especially since it was Meredith’s first Christmas as marchioness.”
Phoebe laughed at the expression on his face.
Annabel wrinkled her nose. “It sounds comical now, but Silverton was furious and swore he would never let any Waits step foot in the house again. Fortunately, Meredith was finally able to convince him to relent. And Silverton does understand the importance of keeping up the local traditions, however reluctantly he might do so.”
Phoebe shook her head. “Why do men have such a problem with Christmas traditions? It all seems wonderful to me, and it makes everyone so happy.”
“I don’t,” Robert protested. “I love Christmas. Especially the food and the presents, and I quite like the singing, too.”
Annabel went up on tiptoe and kissed her husband’s cheek. “It’s one of the reasons I love you.”
Phoebe repressed a sigh. She was delighted her cousins were all so happily married, but right now their contentment felt like a rebuke. Especially since her husband had chosen to stand as far away from her as he could, obviously preferring the company of another woman.
Except he was no longer enjoying Bathsheba’s company. She had rejoined Dr. Blackmore, while Lucas now stood by the staircase, clearly brooding and appearing . . . lonely.
She hesitated, wondering if she should go to him, but then the Waits began to sing. Reluctantly, she turned back to listen.
“Come, let us join with Angels now,
Glory to God on high,
Peace upon Earth, Goodwill to men,
Amen, Amen, say I.”
She listened, letting the rich voices and the beautiful words wash over her. Her worries leached away, replaced by gratitude and an almost prayerful sense of awareness of how fortunate she was to be in this magnificen
t place, and with her new family.
“The Christ he come to do us Good,
To Christ art thee yet come?
A burthene’d, weary, thirsty soul,
A lost sheep to bring home.”
She cast her gaze behind her, searching for Lucas, wanting to share the precious moment with him. But the space where he had stood was empty.
Chapter 30
Lucas poured himself a brandy from the drinks trolley, casting a glance over his shoulder as the door to the drawing room opened. Family members strolled in, having had their fill of the wassail bowl, the singing, and all the other mawkish amusements celebrated during the Christmas Season. As a boy, he had reveled in the singing, the games, and the good cheer. Now all that simply served as a reminder of how cynical he had become.
He replaced the decanter as Phoebe drifted toward him, her big eyes wary. His military career had made him impatient of frivolity, but that didn’t excuse the way he’d abandoned her. Still, if forced to spend another minute in that damn hall watching Silverton play lord of the manor, he might have snapped someone’s head off. Irrational, yes, but Silverton’s perpetually charmed life always felt like a rebuke, illustrating by effortless example the ways Lucas had failed in so many aspects of his life.
Starting with his wife. Poor Phoebe didn’t deserve to be saddled with his problems, and he probably counted as a selfish bastard by manipulating her into marriage.
She approached, her gaze now full of worry and concern. That made his gut clench, and his desire to protect her warred with his need to keep her at a safe distance. Phoebe’s open and generous heart made them both too vulnerable. Her because he would surely disappoint her, and him because her willingness to love made him vulnerable in a way he wished never to be again.
Especially since he was damn certain she must be keeping something from him. Her recent behavior had been wholly unlike the Phoebe he had come to know, and that bothered him more than he cared to admit.
His Mistletoe Bride Page 30
