Marry Christmas (Zebra Historical Romance)

by Jane Goodger

  That afternoon they went for a walk holding hands. Rand couldn’t stay morose for long. After all, he was in love with a beautiful woman who pleased him far more than any woman he’d ever known, and she was his for all time. She would come to love him, he knew she would. Certainly she was not pretending to enjoy their lovemaking or giving him false smiles. He was not so blinded by love not to see that. And she had held out her hand for him to take. That meant something, did it not?

  They talked about their childhoods, argued about how many children they should have. She happily reminded him that she was only required to produce the heir and perhaps a spare, while he insisted they have ten children.

  “A dozen,” he said, pulling her to him for a quick kiss.

  “I shouldn’t know what to do with all those children,” she argued.

  “We could have a cricket team. The Bellewood Blackmores. That sounds rather nice, doesn’t it.”

  “If we had two they could be tennis partners,” she pointed out. “Girls don’t play cricket.”

  “My girls would,” he said.

  “Why not baseball? Baseball is a far grander sport.”

  “Baseball is for heathens,” he said, teasing her.

  That was what they did all day. They discovered favorite colors and foods, they teased and kissed and held hands. When they came in from their walk, their cheeks rosy from the cold, they ran up the stairs to his room and made love again, falling asleep in each other’s arms.

  Elizabeth woke up and stretched, feeling slightly sore in places that had never been slightly sore before. She was completely naked and completely happy. It was amazing, really. Just that morning, she’d been miserable thinking she’d never fall in love with her husband, and here she was, smiling, drowsy, and completely satisfied. And thinking that perhaps she might be falling in love.

  She looked over to him to find him watching her.

  “Hello,” she said, and kissed him.

  “Hello.”

  “I think today was the best day of my life,” she said, meaning every word. “I have never gone without a corset for so long and I feel wonderful.” She was teasing him, of course, and he growled and pulled her to him.

  “You shall never wear one again,” he said, nuzzling her neck. “I must say I like the results.”

  “Rand, I am happy. I am,” she said, feeling ridiculously close to tears.

  “I’m glad,” he said, and pulled her close, tucking her head beneath his chin.

  It was so warm in bed beside him. She was quite surprised with herself, that she could feel completely comfortable in bed naked with a man.

  “I’m also glad to hear you say my name.”

  “I’ve thought of you only as ‘the duke’ for so long, I have to admit it was difficult. But you don’t seem much like a duke without any clothes on.”

  He chuckled and kissed the top of her head. It seemed he liked kissing her, and that was just fine, too. Elizabeth let out a long contented sigh. “Twelve children might do,” she said sleepily.

  “Don’t you dare fall asleep. All we’ve eaten all day was cold chicken. You have to cook us something, wife, else I will lose all strength and be unable to do anything but sleep.”

  She turned in his arms. “That would be a tragedy,” she said. “I just hate to get out of bed.” She snuggled down further. “It’s just so nice here with you.”

  With that, he tore off the covers and stood up.

  “You are mean,” she said, pouting.

  “No. I’m hungry. Come on. I’ll help.” He held out his hand and dragged her from the bed. After they were dressed, they snuck down to the darkened kitchen like naughty children and prepared a simple meal of boiled potatoes and soup warmed up.

  “I wish the servants weren’t coming back tomorrow,” she said, spooning some rich beef soup into her mouth. Once she smelled the food, she found herself absolutely famished.

  “I shall send them away,” he said, her knight in shining armor.

  “Alas, this is the last of the food and I absolutely refuse to toil with my fair hands,” she said, ending on a giggle.

  “They are fair,” he said, his gray eyes darkening as he lifted one up to his mouth.

  “You, sir, think nothing except the bedroom.” She pulled her hand away and crossed her arms over her chest. Rand went about clearing the large wooden worktable in the center of the room and said devilishly, “Who said anything about a bedroom.”

  The next three days were fairly magical. Elizabeth ripped up the first letter she’d written to Maggie, glad it had never been sent, and wrote another one filled with happiness.

  “I wish we could stay here forever, make Rosebrier our home and never, ever have to go into society again,” she wrote fervently. Indeed, Elizabeth thought she could happily live out her life there, raising a family, making love with her husband, taking long walks in the brisk air. Making love some more. It was one of the nicer surprises of her marriage and she could not believe she had been so dreading it. She vowed that when it was time for her daughter to marry, she would tell her to do what she wanted and make certain her husband did the same.

  I’m falling in love, she realized. And that is how she ended her letter, smiling down at the words with a slight bit of disbelief. But how could she not fall in love with a man as handsome, as kind and thoughtful, as loving as Rand was? She found herself looking forward to seeing him, feeling her heart pick up a beat when he walked into a room, missing him when she did not see him for just a few hours. It was insane, she knew, but there it was. She would tell him soon, tell him when she felt he would believe her and when she believed it herself. She would tell him and watch him smile down at her. But for now, she wanted to hold the feeling to herself, to make sure it was real, for this was all so new and wonderful.

  She finished writing her letter to Maggie just as Rand walked into the small study. She’d taken to writing there instead of her room, for the study was the warmest room in the house.

  “Writing home?” he asked, coming over to her and kissing her.

  “Writing to Maggie to tell her what a fine husband you turned out to be.”

  “And kind. Don’t forget to mention that,” he said, teasing her. “Shall we go for our walk now?”

  Elizabeth glanced at her coat and nodded. “I’m ready when you are,” she said, noting he already was in his overcoat and gloves. “Except for my gloves.” She let out a sigh. “I’ll have Trudie fetch them.”

  “Don’t bother. I have forgotten my hat. I’ll get your gloves at the same time.” He kissed her nose. “You are very right, love, I do need a valet.”

  Rand left her, taking the stairs two at a time. God above, he was the luckiest man alive. He didn’t even care if the world knew how much he loved his wife, because he had a very good suspicion she loved him, as well. At least she was coming ’round to that emotion. He went to his room and grabbed his hat, then strode into her room and scared a poor maid nearly to death. She’d been dusting Elizabeth’s desk and screamed like a banshee, upsetting half the contents when he entered.

  “I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you,” the girl said rather comically.

  “I fear I’m the one who startled you. It is I who should apologize.” She was about to argue, but he interrupted. “I’ve just come to fetch my wife’s gloves.” He looked around the room, finally spying them on the ground with several other items. Bending down, he picked up her pair of fur-lined gloves. He was about to straighten, when a bit of pink paper peeking out from her overturned address book caught his eye.

  “Would you go tell Her Grace I shall be down shortly,” he said, his eyes never straying from that familiar pink paper.

  “Yes, sir,” Trudie said, bobbing a quick and inexpert curtsy.

  Rand stared at that paper a good long time before he reached out for it, telling himself it was likely nothing, perhaps even that old note Ellsworth had given her all those months ago in Newport. She’d put it there and for gotten about
it. That’s all. He picked up the address book and slipped the paper out, unfolding it carefully.

  And he read the words Ellsworth had written to her just a couple of weeks before their marriage. He knew, because the scoundrel had conveniently put the date—

  December 12. He read the words until his hand shook with rage and he was struck with a despair so deep he nearly collapsed from it.

  Do what you must to deceive and be safe, pretend any thing to get you through the months ahead and know that I will always know the truth: that you love me alone.

  He neatly refolded the letter and placed it back in her address book, took up her gloves and walked down the stairs as if nothing untoward had happened.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, handing her the gloves.

  “Yes. I do hope it snows later today. It feels like snow, does it not?” she said happily, heading out the door.

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said absently. It isn’t true. It can’t be true. She loves me, she does.

  “Does it snow much at Bellewood? It’s so pretty in the snow. Not Bellewood, but snow in general. Of course I’ve never seen Bellewood in the snow. Or the sunshine, come to think on it.”

  She was babbling on happily, as if the world had not just tilted crazily, as if everything were wonderful, as if every word out of her lovely little mouth wasn’t a horrible lie.

  “I’m not feeling well,” he said, suddenly unable to be with her, see her.

  She put on a look of concern. “What is wrong?”

  “Something,” he said, before turning back to the house. He went directly to his room and shut his door and lay on his bed to stare at the ceiling. The shadows lengthened and the room went dark before he heaved himself out of bed again, and that was only because he had to relieve himself.

  Later, he heard a knock, then a maid asked if she should send up a tray for him.

  “No. I’m not hungry.” He wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t anything at the moment, simply very, very numb. His dutiful wife checked up on him twice, but then left him alone. He couldn’t bear to look at her.

  It wasn’t until nine o’clock, when he saw her light on through the crack in their adjoining door, that he got out of bed again. He walked into her room to find her sitting on her bed already in her nightclothes and brushing her hair. She smiled at him and his heart hurt, God it hurt so much to see that smile.

  “Are you feeling better? I was growing worried.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, sitting down next to her. He moved her hair from her neck and kissed her there, trying not to let his hand tremble as he touched her. It was there, the delicate chain, and he felt his heart tear a little bit more.

  Elizabeth smiled, glad he was feeling better. She’d missed him terribly all afternoon and had done nothing but wander about the house. She felt his mouth on her neck and tilted her head over to accommodate him.

  “This necklace,” he said.

  And she stopped breathing, just like that.

  “You wore it on our wedding night. I remember it.”

  Elizabeth felt her stomach wrench painfully. She’d forgotten it, she had, she had. It was so light and she’d gotten used to it and, oh, God, she had forgotten she was still wearing it. And he knew. Somehow he knew.

  “You’re wearing it now,” he said, his voice so strange, his eyes looking at her in such an odd way.

  He knew. He knew. She touched the thin chain, watched as his eyes followed the gesture. “It’s nothing,” she said. Please, please, God. “Rand.” Why hadn’t she taken it off? Why, why, why? “It’s nothing.”

  Suddenly he changed, as if her words had enraged him, as if had she said one more word all his control would completely snap. “It is not nothing!” he shouted, his voice ending on a crescendo of pain. She winced as if he’d struck her. He was breathing harshly, looking at her as if she were some sort of monster. He closed his eyes and jerked his head away as if the very sight of her was too painful for him to bear.

  “Take it off,” he said, low and harsh.

  She immediately moved her hands to her neck, but she was shaking so badly she couldn’t find the clasp, never mind undo it.

  “Take it off!” he shouted, coming toward her.

  She started to cry. “I can’t,” she sobbed. “My hands.”

  He pushed her hands roughly away and yanked the necklace from her neck in one sharp motion. Then he looked at it in his hand, as if he held something vile. “We are leaving within a week. As soon as I find a ship, we are going to England. So there will be no time for tearful good-byes with Ellsworth. So he cannot see you wearing this…this…thing.”

  “Rand. I forgot about it. I didn’t know I was wearing it. I swear I didn’t.”

  “I don’t care,” he roared. And then, softer. “And I don’t believe you. You are a liar. You told me you had not seen him. But then how did you get this little gift, I wonder.”

  “I knew you’d be upset.”

  “Upset?” he asked, as if that word could not come close to what he was feeling. “My dear wife,” he sneered, “you have not seen upset.”

  Chapter 18

  Elizabeth knew what was coming. Already she was sweating and the nausea was starting and she could still see Manhattan Island on the horizon, like tiny dark teeth jutting above the Atlantic.

  She could not believe that just three days before she had felt happier than she’d ever been, looking forward to long, luxurious days with a husband she was coming to love. All that was gone and she knew in her heart she could only blame herself. Certainly, she had forgotten she was wearing the necklace Henry had given to her, but she had worn it purposefully beneath her wedding gown and on her wedding night. It had offered some comfort then. But it had been so wrong of her to do, adultery in her heart, if not her body.

  Rand, in the space of a day, became a completely different person. His easy smile was gone, his kisses, his caresses, his laughter. His love. And Elizabeth had no idea how to get it all back, or truly whether she wanted to. She was barely getting to know the pleasant kind man and now he was someone entirely unpleasant. Her tears, her pleading had been met with only stony stares or his back. His only kindness was in allowing her to say good-bye to her mother and father.

  Elizabeth swallowed, trying to keep the sickness at bay as long as possible. The journey on this wretched boat would take more than a week, a week of pure misery. Her mother had been more than surprised when she’d arrived home after only four days of their honeymoon to announce they were leaving in two days. Her mother, who’d never coddled her as a child, had blanched.

  “Is he aware of how sick you become at sea?” she’d asked, her lips pressed tight with anger. “It is the whole reason we planned a spring departure, to save you the sickness. In winter, my God, Elizabeth, it will be impossible.”

  Elizabeth had forced a smile. She could never let her mother know what had transpired; there was no need to anger her mother when she might not see her for many months or even years. She knew Alva would take the duke’s side, would be livid that she had allowed Henry to interfere with her marriage. If she knew she had worn that necklace, Elizabeth feared her mother, like Rand, would never forgive her.

  “He knows only that I am a poor sailor. He’s terribly homesick and the journey won’t be that long. I’ll be fine.”

  “I hope the ship is a large one. And comfortable,” she said.

  “Very large and very comfortable.”

  The ship was neither of those things. It was an ancient cargo vessel with an antiquated engine that shook the ship so much, Elizabeth wondered that it did not shake apart simply from that. The captain had already told them it was unlikely they would reach England on the coal they had on board, and very likely would have to hoist sails for part of the journey. That meant, of course, it would take even longer, and her torture would be extended. The ship was rusted and wholly the sorriest vessel Elizabeth had ever laid eyes on. But it was the only ship in port that would accommodate them on such short notice. T
he finer passenger ships did not travel in the dead of winter when seas were roughest and the danger of icebergs so great.

  The English captain did keep an impeccable ship. He was polite, his men deferential to them—after all, it wasn’t every day a sorry vessel like theirs carried a peer of the realm. The captain’s cabin, which he had willingly given up to them, while tiny, was well heated. He’d told them the food was fine, as well, though Elizabeth knew she wouldn’t be putting a morsel into her mouth until they reached the Thames and London.

  Outside was frigid. She knew from experience that the best place for her to be was outside and staring at the horizon. She’d tried this, but had gotten so numb she was forced back inside in a matter of minutes. The ship heaved and Elizabeth let out a groan, more sick about what was to come than actually ill. More than one captain had remarked that he had never seen anyone get quite as ill as Elizabeth had. On the way home from Europe the last time, her mother had promised Elizabeth that she would never force her to travel to Europe again. She’d actually feared her daughter would succumb to the illness, and to be honest, Elizabeth had as well. Her mother conveniently forgot her promise, however, when she was looking for a titled husband for her daughter.

  Three hours into the trip, Elizabeth vomited for the first time. Her head throbbed unmercifully; her body was bathed in a cold sweat. Moments later while she was still heaving over a chamber pot, Rand stuck his head into the room, took one look at her, and said rather cheerfully, “I suppose you won’t be joining the captain and I for dinner. It’s scrod.” She shook her head and he left, and she swore she could hear him whistling lightly as he walked toward the dining hall. Apparently, His Grace had a stomach made of steel, she thought miserably, wondering what she had ever seen in the man.

  Later that night, Rand returned, then immediately called for one of the crew to empty the chamber pot and clean it out. It was not a kindness, Elizabeth realized, but simply a way to make his own stay more bearable, for the stench was rather potent.