A Christmas Bride

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  When Timothy turned to hand her out, she asked, “How long has it been since you were last here?”

  “About six months.” He chuckled. “Long enough for this lad to sprout up.”

  Smiling, Serenity—she must always think of herself that way, so she would respond to the name without hesitation—started to answer.

  Instead, Felix said, “It seems ludicrous to be sitting here in this damp carriage on this damp day when there are fires on the hearths within.”

  “Pay him no mind,” Timothy replied as he took her hand and helped her out. “He shall find fault with the whole of this visit. Cheyney Park has been home to him as well, but he will claim no address but Town now.” He gestured toward the house. “The others you will meet here shall be much more cheerful, I suspect.”

  “Yes, I hope so.” Her heart thudded against her chest as he continued to hold her hand. His long fingers were rough from riding or work, but they held hers as gently as if her hand had been made of the most fragile soap bubble.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, consternation stealing his smile.

  “Yes.”

  “You sound quite breathless. If you think the walk up the steps will be too much for you—”

  “I shall be fine.” As soon as you release my hand, she wanted to add. Did all men affect her like this? She wished she knew. Certainly Felix Wayne did not, because she tried to avoid any chance that he might get too close. She was not sure why. If they had met before, she could not recall it. And why should he? She was a lady’s maid. He was the grandson of an earl.

  Remembering Lord—Timothy’s comment about his cousin’s habits, which suggested he had led a life as licentious as his comments, she wondered if her lady and Felix had been lovers. That would explain why she was uneasy in his company. Yet that made no sense, for surely he would recognize her.

  “Then allow me, Serenity.” Timothy drew her hand into his arm.

  The lad stared at them as Timothy led her up a pair of steps toward the door. She could not chide the boy, for she knew how poorly she and Timothy matched. He wore a dark coat and breeches that were in prime twig. Her gown, which had been of coarse cloth to begin with, bore the scars of the many repairs Mrs. Bridges had done yesterday.

  “Pay him no mind,” Timothy murmured.

  “Can you ascertain my thoughts even when I don’t speak them?” she asked as quietly.

  “No, I am only guessing, for I know what I would be thinking if our situations were reversed.” He smiled as the door opened. “I would be asking myself how I had come to be in such an absurd assembly of circumstances.”

  “As I am.”

  “It takes no great skill to perceive what a perceptive woman like you would be thinking. I am glad you are not want-witted, Serenity, for you shall need every bit of wits you ever possessed from this point forward.”

  Her reply vanished as sound erupted out toward them. When she stepped into a foyer, it was as crowded as a village green on a fair day. People rushed up and down ladders and called orders in so many voices that no one could possibly comprehend a single one. Aromas of freshly cut pine were so strong it was nearly intoxicating. Despite Felix’s words, the foyer was as damp and chilly as the carriage.

  Through the commotion, a short man called, “My lord, welcome back to Cheyney Park. As you can see, you have arrived just in time for the hanging of the greenery in the foyer.”

  Timothy took off his hat and handed it to a footman. “If I had guessed, Branson, I would have waited another day.”

  “Or gotten here earlier, more likely.” The man pushed his way through the crowd, sidestepping a footman carrying an armload of green branches to another man standing on a ladder and lacing them along the lower edge of the gallery that edged two sides of the foyer. He wore an immaculate coat of unblemished black. In spite of the chaos in the foyer, the dark-haired man had a sense of dignity and tranquillity that labeled him as the butler.

  Again, she fought back her frustration at being able to recognize that Branson was Cheyney Park’s majordomo. If she knew that, why couldn’t she remember something as simple as her own name?

  “’Tis not like you to miss a moment of the excitement before Christmas,” Branson continued.

  “You know me too well,” Timothy said.

  “No one could have mistaken your excitement, my lord, with the approaching holidays when you were a child.”

  Serenity pushed her disquiet from her head and listened to the jesting exchange with interest. That the butler was comfortable enough to tease Timothy told her much. In the past day, she had come to believe that Timothy Crawford was a man of uncommon concern for others. It had been that solicitude that led him into this mess of creating a fantasy fiancée.

  When he turned to take the cloak that he had lent her, she noted how the servants working to hang the greenery turned and stared as the boy had outside. She wanted to put her hands over the hasty stitching that held the rents in her gown closed. Even if she had enough hands, she must not forget that a lady would keep her poise under the most extreme circumstances.

  “Branson,” Timothy said, glancing at her, “I trust my grandfather has been informed of our arrival.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The butler kept his gaze steady and aimed at Timothy.

  “My cousin is lost amidst this hullabaloo. If you chance to see Felix, let him know that Miss Adams and I are on our way to speak with Grandfather.”

  “Of course.” A hint of a smile tugged at the butler’s lips. “Do you wish me to look heartily for him or hardly look?”

  Timothy chuckled. “Today it must be the former, Branson.”

  “As you wish, my lord.” He turned and gestured to a couple of the lads who were watching the greens being hung along the banister.

  Leading her through the press of people, Timothy continued to laugh under his breath. He said, as they gained the first step of the staircase that curved up toward the right, “You may see it as unseemly to jest so with a member of my grandfather’s staff, but—”

  “You need not explain, my … Timothy,” she corrected herself hastily when his brows started to lower.

  Another laugh came from behind them—Felix Wayne’s arrogant laugh. “That has a decidedly possessive ring to it, Miss Adams.” His lips drew back in a grimace as he spoke her name. “Mayhap that jealous nature will be the very thing that brings an end to your betrothal.”

  “’Tis not the time to speak of such things.” Timothy’s hand over hers tightened like the muscles along his jaw.

  Looking from one man to the other, she wondered how Timothy tolerated his cousin’s pomposity. There must be some reason, but she could not fathom what it might be. Telling herself not to make this more complicated than it already was, she took a deep breath when they reached the top of the stairs.

  “Grandfather is probably in his office enjoying a pipe at this hour,” Timothy said.

  Serenity nodded, although questions pelted her lips as the icy rain did the Palladian window that was set above the front door. It had been hidden by the porte cochere, but would offer anyone who stood by it an excellent view of the road leading up to the house and the moor beyond the curtain wall. If she had half a lick of sense, she would rush back down these stairs and along that road to … Where could she go when she had no idea where she should be?

  When they paused before a heavy oak door, she took a steadying breath. The charade was about to begin, and she must not make a single error, although, she realized, she already had. Lost in her musings, she had not taken note of the turns they had taken along the corridor that led away from the stairs. The house had looked convoluted from the outside. She could not imagine how much more twisted and interconnected the passages would be within its walls.

  “Come in.”

  Serenity barely heard the words through the thick door, and they were repeated in an impatient tone as Timothy was opening the door. Her eyes widened as she saw the large room, which did not appear to be an office,
but instead a gracious parlor. No desk or bookshelves suggested this was a place where work was done. Rather, settees and chairs were grouped in front of the white marble hearth and near the trio of windows that created a bay. Thick carpets covered the floor, crisscrossing each other in a haphazard pattern that somehow led directly to the center of the room.

  A man sat on a chair facing the fireplace. Smoke wafted around his head, sending the scent of sweet tobacco toward them. She took a deep breath of it and was amazed at the sense of comfort it brought. She must have known someone who used this same tobacco. Later, she would ask Timothy what type of tobacco mixture his grandfather used. If it was a rare combination of tobacco leaves, it might provide a clue to her lost past.

  A tug on her arm warned her that she had been standing and staring for too long. She struggled to breathe—in and out, slow and deep—as Timothy led her toward the white-haired man who was regarding them with eyes as earth brown as both his grandsons’. A cane was set next to where his feet were propped up on a stool, but there was no weakness in his motions as he drew the pipe from his lips and set aside the book he must have been reading.

  He stared at her until she wanted to step behind Timothy to hide from those uncompromising eyes. Unlike the others in the foyer downstairs, he did not try to hide his curiosity at her unsuitable appearance.

  “I had not expected you for another hour,” the white-haired man said.

  “We rushed to beat this next storm to Cheyney Park.” Timothy smiled as he drew her forward another step. “Grandfather, allow me to introduce Miss Serenity Adams. Serenity, my grandfather, Harold Crawford, Earl of Brookindale.”

  The earl pushed himself to his feet, looking very spry for a man of his advanced years. He smiled. “I have been awaiting this meeting with much anticipation, Miss Adams.”

  “My lord,” she said, dipping into a deep curtsy. She feared she had made a horrible mistake when the room spun like a child’s toy.

  A hand captured her elbow, keeping her from collapsing to the floor. When an arm went around her waist, she fought to keep from screaming. A jagged breath cut through her, and she doubted if she could have cried out. The ache threw itself down her left leg even as it exploded in her head.

  She leaned her face against a firm chest. Timothy’s, she knew, but was shocked when a memory told her that she had rested her cheek against him before. He must have carried her from the wrecked carriage to his. If he had not chanced to stop … She grasped the front of his waistcoat before the whirl of the room made her ill. She must not think about what would have happened if he had not found her.

  Timothy cursed under his breath when Serenity’s legs sagged against him. He had told her to have her wits ready for this introduction, but apparently he had forgotten to have his own prepared as well. Putting his arm beneath her knees, he scooped her easily into his arms.

  Grandfather grasped his cane and took a pair of steps toward him. “I trust she does not swoon at every introduction.”

  “No, sir.” He stared down at Serenity’s face, which was bleached with pain. In the shadow of the shallow brim of the bonnet he had obtained for her from Mrs. Bridges, he could see the angry color of the cut along her forehead. “Serenity was the victim of a carriage accident.”

  His grandfather’s face became as ashen as Serenity’s. “How did that happen? Jenkins controls a carriage with rare skill.”

  “Not Jenkins, Grandfather. Serenity’s carriage went off the road and—”

  “She was not traveling from London with you?”

  Again Timothy wanted to spout his prayers backward, but he must act as calm as his supposed fiancée’s name. He hated having to compound his lies with more out-and-outers. Yet this had gone too far to turn back now. “We had planned to meet just north of York. We chanced to find her carriage overturned off a slippery section of the road.”

  “Her companions?”

  “Dead.” Felix stepped forward, surprising Timothy, because his cousin usually did not wait this long to become a part of any conversation between Timothy and their mutual grandfather. “That she is alive is a miracle.”

  Grandfather scowled. “This young woman was in a carriage accident, and the two of you brought her here to jaw over formalities that could have waited until she was feeling better? Timothy, I expected better of you.”

  Felix grumbled, and Timothy did not have to look at his cousin to know he was scowling. This was one thing that Timothy did find vexing about his cousin. If Grandfather complimented—or even chided—Timothy, Felix acted affronted that he was not included. Timothy could not guess why his cousin wanted to be dressed down for being a widgeon.

  “Serenity has been eager to put the anxiety of her first meeting with you behind her with all due speed,” he said. That, at least, was the truth. Her fingers had dug into his arm more on every riser.

  When she shifted in his arms and moaned softly, Grandfather said, “See to her comfort, Timothy, and then return here. I have several matters I wish to discuss with you alone.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.” As he turned toward the door, he caught a glimpse of Felix’s face in the reflection of a mirror set by the windows. His cousin was glowering.

  He was tempted to tell Felix that his cousin was welcome to stay here and speak with Grandfather alone. His own conversation with Grandfather was one that Timothy did not anticipate with pleasure.

  Five

  Serenity opened her eyes, but the world was still in motion. She looked up at the ceiling. It was not the painted one of the earl’s parlor. What …?

  “Take care!” came a warning that echoed close to her ear.

  She gasped when she realized she was being carried along a passage. Carried by Timothy! “Sweet heavens! What happened?”

  “You nearly toppled on your pert nose in front of my grandfather.” He chuckled. “If I had not caught you, you would have made an indelible first impression in the middle of his rug. How are you feeling?”

  “Good enough to walk on my own, I daresay.”

  “Do you daresay?” His smile grew tight. “I daresay I would rather not test that on the runner in this hall.” When she opened her mouth to reply, he cut her off with, “Here we are.”

  She hunched and drew in her feet as he paused by a door, but he bumped neither her head nor her toes when he pushed it open. When he kicked it closed behind them, she asked, “Do you think that was wise?”

  “What?”

  “Closing the door. We are supposed to be only betrothed, Timothy, not wed.”

  “I shall open the door again once you are settled comfortably. With your skittishness, you must have safeguarded your lady’s virtue well.” Instantly he added, “Forgive me, Serenity, for my thoughtless words. I should not remind you of your loss.”

  “’Tis no loss, for I cannot recall anything about the lady I served.”

  “That may be to your benefit now as you make yourself at home in your rooms.”

  Serenity looked around the chamber that was beautifully decorated, completely unlike the plain room at the inn. Windows arched toward the distant ceiling. They were swathed in navy velvet that brushed the carpet, which was only a shade lighter. White furniture seemed to be floating on that sea of blue. Chairs were scattered about next to small tables where books were stacked. A dressing table was set beside a trio of windows where the drapes had been pulled back to allow in the faint sun’s glow through the swirling clumps of snow.

  When he carried her across the Persian rug set atop the carpet by the door, she bit her lip to silence her dismay. She might be a lady’s maid, but even a lady’s maid knew that a gentleman should not be carrying her toward a bed in a deserted bedchamber.

  “Timothy, I can manage to get to a chair on my own now.”

  “Your words sound more certain of that than your voice. You still have a gray tint to your face. Allow me to do the right thing.” He laughed without mirth. “For once through this whole debacle.”

  His self-deprecation
dismayed her. She had most likely made the situation worse. How could she make it better? He would not want her sympathy, because that would exacerbate his remorse at lying to his grandfather.

  Forcing a smile, she asked, “You like playing the hero, don’t you?”

  “It seems I have no choice.” He set her on the pale coverlet atop the oak tester bed. “You keep offering me the opportunity by threatening to swoon at the most inopportune moments.”

  She let the pillows enfold her. “I will try to recall that I should threaten to swoon only at the most opportune moments.”

  With a chuckle, he leaned one hand against the headboard. “How did you curb that tongue of yours when you were in service?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Timothy swallowed his curse as the desolate expression stole the light from Serenity’s eyes. Blast! He could not let her lighthearted jests tease him into hurting her by constantly reminding her how much had been taken from her in that accident. Not only her employers, who must have thought highly of her to have her riding in the coach with them, but she had lost her very self.

  “I am sorry,” he said softly. “Again. I fear, no matter how I try to watch my words, I will continue to say the mistaken thing.”

  “You need not be sorry.” She put her hand over his on the bed. “I appreciate all your kindnesses, Timothy. You have been a tip-top gentleman about the whole of this. I know you hate lying to your grandfather as you are.”

  “It shows that much?”

  She nodded.

  “If he is as perceptive as you, this scheme shall be for naught.”

  Pushing herself up, she said, “I promised to help you, and I shall.”

  He knew he should answer, but he could not find a single word as he looked down into those silvery eyes he had never guessed he would see beyond his fantasies. His gaze slid along her slender nose to the warm curve of her mouth. It was a mouth that invited his kiss. And why not? This was the very woman he had created from his imagination. How many nights had he and Felix spent sitting in his book-room and making up details about Serenity Adams and the outings Timothy had enjoyed with her on their way to a betrothal? Egad, how would he recall the lot? Mayhap Grandfather had kept the letters. If so, he would have Branson obtain them for him.