They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping the excellent brandy and contemplating the crackling flames in the large grate. Lucas sensed they both knew the time had come to confront their past, but that neither knew how to begin. While a fragile sense of companionship hovered between them, a single misspoken word could plunge them back into enmity and discord.
Finally, Silverton shifted in his seat and let out a weary sigh. “It was your fault, you know,” he said.
Dammit. Not a good beginning. Even though Silverton’s pronouncement held a great deal of truth, Lucas wasn’t yet ready to wave the white flag. After all, he was a soldier, and surrender didn’t come easy.
“Bugger you,” he replied, keeping his voice genial and light.
Silverton narrowed his eyes, but maintained his relaxed sprawl in the chair. He didn’t fool Lucas, though. Tension hummed in the air between them.
“The women do have the right of this,” Silverton replied after several charged moments. “For the sake of the family, we must put the animosity behind us. It’s idiotic and a waste of time and energy.” His lips twisted into a wry smile. “I’m not going to ask you to apologize, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
That was probably the best opening Lucas could expect, and it was a fairly magnanimous one at that. Might as well get it over with, because Lord knew he was tired of the bloody awful mess it had become.
“You’re right,” he admitted. “It was my fault, and we both know it. But you need to know something else if we truly intend to put this behind us. I did love Esme. Quite obsessively, in fact, and I was convinced you didn’t. Not until it was too late. And by that point, I couldn’t step back or even talk to you about it.”
Silverton tilted his head to study him. Lucas saw no anger in those extraordinary light blue eyes, only curiosity and something that might be akin to sympathy.
“Why ever not?”
Lucas forced the difficult words out of his mouth. “I was ashamed, dammit.”
“Ashamed of loving Esme?”
“God, no. That came much later.”
“Then of what?”
Lucas avoided Silverton’s perceptive gaze by staring at the fire. He had repressed his shame for so long, allowing only anger to live within him. But the dreaded emotion now came flooding back, and he couldn’t bear to look at the man whose trust and friendship he had betrayed.
But he had to face it. Not only did honor demand it, his wife expected this from him, too. The memory of Phoebe’s heartfelt gaze in the drawing room rushed into his mind. She trusted him to do the right thing. God only knew why, but it gave him the courage to put his resentment aside and give Silverton what he deserved.
The truth.
Lucas turned to squarely face his cousin. “I envied you, and that made it impossible for me to beg forgiveness. You had everything I ever wanted, and it all came to you so easily. It always did. Everyone doted on you. And why not? You were Marquess of Silverton, the golden-haired lad who could do no wrong. Compared to you, I always came up short, as my father and Uncle Arthur made a point of reminding me on a regular basis.”
The bitter-tasting words made him cringe. Still, he’d been a fool all these years and he would finish this if it killed him. The fact that Silverton was now gaping at him, mouth open, made it a bit easier.
“It wasn’t that I wanted everything you had,” Lucas explained. “God knows, I led a life of privilege and never had cause to complain. What I envied was the respect everyone handed you on a gold platter.”
Silverton was slowly shaking his head at him, like he was a damned fool.
Lucas spread his hands. “All right, it was stupid. But that was how I felt. And when Esme chose me, it restored the balance somehow. But then when she rejected me for you, it told me I could never measure up. No matter what I did, I would never be anything but a shadow of the Marquess of Silverton.”
Silverton slumped back in his chair, his expression pained. “My God, Lucas. You were an idiot to believe that, but so was I. If it wasn’t so pathetic, I would be laughing at our stupidity.”
Lucas frowned. It was hardly the reaction he was expecting. “What are you talking about?”
A rueful smile touched his cousin’s lips. “I’d always been jealous of you. You had the freedom I wanted. You could do whatever you wanted, be whomever you wanted. But from my earliest days I had nothing but duty and responsibility drummed into my head. The estates, the family, and all the people I had to watch over—I was never allowed to forget, even for a moment.”
He raised an arm in an encompassing gesture. “All this, for example. I can’t tell you how often it has seemed a millstone around my neck.”
Now it was Lucas’s turn to gape. “You’re the Marquess of Silverton. Who the hell wouldn’t want to be in your boots?”
“Believe me, I’m well aware of my good fortune. But it’s a burden, too, at least if you’re a man who takes his duties as seriously as I do. Now it’s the same for you. After all these years, I suspect you finally understand.”
Lucas let that sink in. He did feel different, now that he had a wife, and the manor and its people to look after. The army had carried its own set of duties and concerns, but its success hadn’t rested on his shoulders alone. In civilian life, he had people depending on him for everything, and to fail them would blight their lives. For his cousin, with his huge estates, the demands were even greater.
“You possessed the freedom I craved,” continued Silverton, “or at least I thought you did. And when Esme obviously preferred you, only wanting my name for the wealth and status it carried . . . well, it had the unfortunate result of confirming everything I believed. That you were the lucky one, someone who was judged on his own merit rather than on his title or the size of his purse.”
Lucas choked out a disbelieving laugh. “Good Christ, you’re right. We are idiots.”
Silverton shrugged and rose to his feet. He grabbed the brandy bottle and replenished their glasses. “We were young. Worse mistakes came later, when we were old enough to know better. Truly, Lucas, the best thing to do is put all that foolishness behind us. It serves no purpose to lament what might have been. It’s only the future that matters, and the people who love us.”
Lucas’s throat tightened with emotion. He stood and offered his hand. “Thank you, Cousin,” he said gruffly.
They shook, and for an awful moment Lucas was afraid Silverton would hug him.
His cousin rolled his eyes. “Don’t be more of an idiot than you already are.”
Lucas grinned and they tapped their glasses, offering a silent toast. After they drank, Silverton put down his glass and gave him an easy, charming smile. It was the first genuine smile Silverton had directed at him in years. God, it felt good.
“Are we ready to rejoin the ladies?” Silverton asked.
“Perhaps we should torture them a bit longer,” Lucas said in jest.
Silverton smiled. “We could break a few glasses, I suppose.”
“It’s tempting, but I’m not that brave. I fear Phoebe and Meredith would come storming in to box our ears.”
They walked to the door together, and Silverton called out, “Meredith, we’ve kissed and made up. You can let us out.”
“I don’t believe you,” she yelled through the door. “You haven’t been in there long enough. And it’s been too quiet. You obviously didn’t even talk about it.”
The two men stared at each other in disbelief.
“Good Christ. How long do they expect us to talk about this rubbish?” Lucas asked.
Silverton let out a sigh. “You’ve been away from women for too long.” He glanced at the longcase clock by the door. “They obviously insist that we either start yelling at each other, or spend at least another half hour in here.”
“Perhaps we should just break down the door,” Lucas said dryly.
“No need, Cousin. We’ll take the other way out of here.”
Lucas glanced over at the French doo
rs out to the terrace and lifted an eyebrow.
Silverton smiled. “Exactly.”
They slipped out into the cold, wind-whipped night. The snowfall had ended, laying down little more than a dusting of white over the terrace stones. Crunching down the wide steps to the lawn, they skirted the east wing and came around to a small side entrance to the abbey. Silverton stopped and turned to look back over the broad expanse of lawn and the home woods, stretching into the distance under a sky rapidly clearing of clouds. A frigid half-moon rolled through the endless, inky vault, its beams painting a canvas of shadows and pale crystal on the snow-covered landscape.
Lucas stepped up beside him, gazing out over the grounds of Belfield Abbey. A fugitive peace stole over him, settling deep in his bones. He recognized that it came not only from the quiet of a winter’s eve, but from an acceptance of the past—mistakes and all—and from looking forward to what lay before him. A few times these last few weeks he had felt something similar, but only in Phoebe’s company.
If he wasn’t such a cynic, he might even call it hope.
Silverton spoke quietly. “It was worth it, Lucas.”
“What?”
“Esme. The fight between us.”
Startled, Lucas stared at him. “How do you figure that?”
His cousin kept his gaze fixed on the sky, as if the answers to all life’s questions were writ large in the stars. “I would never have married Meredith, nor had the twins. I would never have understood the real worth of life or what was truly important to me. I’m sorry for what happened between us, but I can’t regret any of it.” He clapped Lucas on the shoulder. “And neither should you, with the wife you’ve got. The woman obviously adores you.”
Lucas snorted. “When she’s not reading me a lecture.”
“That’s a wife’s privilege. And I know you, Lucas. You’re completely mad for her, and rightly so.”
Well, he was something for Phoebe. But before he could acknowledge what it was, there remained a few matters that needed resolution—starting with her owning up to her secrets.
Silverton gave him a sly grin. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
“Oh, sod off,” Lucas growled.
His cousin laughed and led the way into the house. Although happy to abandon their long-standing feud, Lucas had no intention of discussing Phoebe, or his marriage, with Silverton or with anyone else.
Not until he figured it out for himself.
Chapter 32
Balancing the tea tray on one arm, Phoebe eased open the door to her husband’s study. Her new pet, ensconced in a basket by the fire, tumbled out to greet her. Yipping with excitement, the dog frisked around her skirts, almost tripping her.
“Hush,” she scolded. “Behave yourself, Holly, or I’ll put you out in the hall.”
The ragtag rescue from the woods gave her a doggie smile and trotted beside her as she carried the tray over to the desk. Lucas put down his book and stood to help her.
“I told you that animal would be trouble,” he said. “And whatever gave you the demented idea to call him Holly? I trust you noticed he’s a male.”
Phoebe smiled at the dog. Though hardly handsome, with his dust-colored coat and floppy ears, he had a sweet, loyal temperament. Lucas had rolled his eyes when she insisted on keeping him, but had finally said to consider him an early Christmas present.
“Holly is a perfectly appropriate name,” she replied. “After all, I found him tangled up in a holly bush. Everyone else likes the name, too. Mrs. Christmas said it fit right in at Mistletoe Manor.”
“She would.”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose at him as she fixed his tea, then sank into a chair to enjoy her own cup. Her feet hurt and her back ached from all the work of the last few days, but she was enjoying every minute of her first official Christmas holiday.
“I presume the festivities are still going on in the servant’s hall?” Lucas asked.
“Yes. Quite vigorously, I might add.”
Lucas grinned. “Ah, that explains the charming blush on your cheeks. Who did you stumble across? Maggie and one of the footmen?”
Phoebe sighed. “How did you know? She and Philip were in the pantry when I went to fetch the tea tray, kissing under a sprig of mistletoe. Thank goodness, Christmas only comes once a year. I was not entirely aware how enthusiastically the younger servants would observe that particular tradition.”
“They’re not the only ones,” her husband purred.
The sensual gleam in his eye—and the memory of what had put it there—brought heat rushing to her cheeks. Earlier that afternoon, Lucas had pulled her into a window alcove in the east corridor that Mrs. Christmas had decorated with a large bough of mistletoe. Standing directly under the hanging cluster of berries, he had drawn her into a scandalous kiss. Things had quickly escalated, and he had soon reached out a hand to pull the drape over the alcove opening. Phoebe had put up a weak protest, but within seconds her husband had one hand up her skirt and the other hand down her bodice. If one of the servants had not come clattering up the stairs at that moment, goodness only knows what might have happened next.
“Perhaps we should not put up quite so much mistletoe next year,” she said pensively.
“There does seem to be an alarming amount of it around the manor. I’d say you outdid yourself with the decorations.”
Phoebe glanced around the study, which nearly resembled a forested bower. Swags of evergreen and ivy, interwoven with cuttings of holly, draped the mantelpiece. More ivy twined the bookshelves and up the bookcase ladder, and she had encircled the lamps with wreaths of evergreen dotted with small apples. More mistletoe, tied up with red and green satin ribbon, hung from every window frame. The rest of the house, including the bedrooms, had received much the same treatment. Even the entrance hall, where they had entertained the villagers today, was smothered in greenery, with gigantic garlands of fragrant laurel framing the great fireplace and twined around the columns of the old oak staircase.
She sighed. “Too much?”
Lucas smiled and shook his head. “It’s perfect. You did a splendid job of upholding the old traditions. If the servants and villagers didn’t already adore you, they will after today.”
She blushed again, but this time it was his praise that warmed her. “Thank you. But I had no idea it would require so much work. I will be better prepared next year.”
But despite the hard work, she had loved it, from the moment Lucas and the footmen dragged the gigantic Yule log into the hall last night, through the church service this morning, with its beautifully sung carols, to the merry feast in the afternoon with the villagers and farm tenants. She had found the large boar’s head fairly alarming, but the villagers had roared their approval when the two strongest footmen carried it into the hall, resplendent on a silver platter.
Her favorite part, however, had been the children’s rendition of The Second Shepherd’s Play. There had been a few mistakes and some bungled lines, but also a great deal of merriment and enthusiastic applause from the audience. At the play’s conclusion, young Sam Weston had stepped forward to recite the stanzas of an old Christmas hymn. All had fallen silent, as the words rang out in his clear voice.
“Come, let us join with Angels now,
Glory to God on high,
Peace upon Earth, Goodwill to men,
Amen, Amen, Amen, say I.”
Tears had filled Phoebe’s eyes, both for the beauty of the hymn and for the lack of peace in Sam’s life. Mr. Weston had not come for the festivities, which was not surprising given her ill-fated encounter with him in the woods. Sam had pretended not to be troubled by his father’s absence, but Phoebe had noticed the lad casting his gaze about the hall, clearly expecting and hoping his father would appear.
“What’s the matter, Phoebe?”
Startled, she glanced up to find Lucas studying her. “Oh, I was just thinking about poor Sam Weston. I do wish Mr. Weston had come today. He was noticeable by his absen
ce.”
Not the whole truth, but close enough. Still, she hated keeping secrets from him, no matter how necessary.
He eyed her thoughtfully, and a whisper of unease drifted through her. “I imagine he was at the tavern, as usual,” he finally said.
“You mean the tavern was open on Christmas Day? That’s dreadful!” The idea scandalized her.
“At least Sam has a father who works to keep a roof over his head.”
Lucas did not know the half of it, but the thought of what he would do when he found out made her stomach clench.
“Besides,” he continued, “Sam and the other children had you to watch over them. And give them presents. Very generous presents.”
She winced at his dry tone. Perhaps she had been a tad overgenerous, but the children had been so thrilled—board games and tin soldiers for the boys, and dolls and puzzles for the girls. She had objected to the soldiers, but Lucas had insisted. “You do not really mind, do you? It made them so happy.”
He smiled. “One can never have too many presents, I always say. Which reminds me. I have another one for you.”
She stared at him, disconcerted. “Lucas, you have already given me too much. All the books and my new fur tippet, and that lovely silk workbox. Not to mention Holly, the best present of all.”
At the sound of his name, the dog thumped his tail.
Lucas snorted. “That seems more like a piece of bad luck than a present.”
“Oh, but—”
“No,” he said, holding out his hand. “Come here and get your real present.”
Obediently, she went round the desk and stood by his chair. When he tugged her down into his lap, she gave a little laugh, very aware of his hard thighs under her bottom. And something else that was hard, too.
His Mistletoe Bride Page 32
