by Eva Devon
No, she’d come with the title and estate, so to speak.
“You truly don’t wish to be here, do you?” she asked, a rueful smile on her lips.
He could lie. It might be kind. He considered for a long moment before finally shaking his head. “I don’t.”
“Why did you come?” she asked without recrimination. “Why did you marry me if this is all so very terrible?”
Had he made his displeasure so very obvious? Yes, he had.
Mercy.
He was failing again. His spirit sank. Would he never be able to be kind? He longed to be. To be that one thing his parents had done everything they could to pound out of him.
“You know, I met your father,” he offered, in hopes of bridging the gap between them. “Once. Years and years ago. Did you know that?”
Her face softened. “No, I didn’t. When?”
“Oh, I was a boy. And. . .”
Her stance softened as did her expression at the hope of hearing about her father. “Yes?”
“He was kind to me.”
At the time, he’d struggled with that kindness. He could still recall the day he’d been thrown from his horse at a hunt. His father had cursed him and threatened to whip him if he didn’t get back up immediately.
He’d sprained his ankle and could barely stand.
The old Earl of Gray had gotten down off his bay and offered to take him back to the house.
Of course, he couldn’t retire. His father would have been disgusted.
But instead of having to heave himself back onto his horse, the Earl of Gray had insisted that he be allowed to help.
And so, someone, for once, had lifted him up.
It had been the moment when he realized how much kindness was truly important in this world.
“Your father. . .” He cleared his throat as a surprising well of emotion hit him. “Well, we met at a house party. I never forgot it. He was a good man.”
“Very,” she agreed easily. “I’m glad you knew him.”
“I didn’t want to let him down, you see. But I’d promised myself I’d never come back to England. Quite frankly, if I’d inherited anyone else but the Earl of Gray’s title, I’d still be abroad.”
“You hate it here so very much?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
She bit her lower lip. Then she ventured forward. She desperately hoped he’d answer not as she already expected, “And you hate Christmas?”
He nodded.
She sighed. “Allow me to deduce that you also hate weddings.”
A dry laugh tumbled out of him. She was so blunt. “Indeed, it’s true. Can you forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive.” She shrugged. “Why should I dislike you for having your likes and dislikes?”
It was all very strange, her degree of understanding of his situation. He’d not met such willingness to make the best of things in all his life. “That’s very magnanimous.”
“Not at all. Your feelings have little to do with me.” She hesitated then added, “At present.”
At present. An interesting contribution to her statement. Did she think that he might one day have feelings for her? Aside from noting her cleverness and beauty? If so, she was mistaken.
She unfolded her pale hands, squared her shoulders and appeared to be gathering her resolve. “I knew this wouldn’t be without its challenges. We are strangers, after all. But I confess I didn’t understand how little you wished to be the earl. I thought, perhaps, once you were here, you’d be pleased about being such an important man.”
He sighed. “Lady Marabelle–”
She raised a gloved hand. “Allow me to finish, if you please.”
“By all means.”
Any mischief about her vanished. She said with all seriousness, “I should like you to do your best to find the next days pleasant.”
He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
Her breasts rose, pressing tightly against her gown, emphasizing the twin swells above the low cut, sage green silk. “You see, I love Christmas. So did my father and. . . My brother.”
The deepness and softening of her voice was suddenly punctuated by the glistening of water in her eyes.
Another person might have attempted to console her. But the honest truth was he wasn’t sure what he should say to his new wife. They knew nothing of each other. Would she wish him to spout clichés or to take her in his arms?
He found he could do neither lest he intensify her grief. So, he listened, instead.
“We loved Christmas.” A soft nostalgic smile tilted her lips. “Mother did, too, when I was little. But we have always celebrated it. This will be my first Christmas without any of them. . . And I do not think I could bear a Christmas with someone who will not attempt to enjoy it.”
The declaration sent a wave of dread through him. “I see. Then—”
She raised a hand to stop him. “I must be terribly plain. If you cannot make the attempt to enjoy the festivities, I would prefer you leave. You don’t truly wish to be here, so that might be a relief to you.”
He let out an astonished breath. “You wish me to go?”
She shook her head, her dark hair brushing the elegant line of her neck. “I would prefer you to stay. . . If you can find it within you to be open to a happy Christmas.”
“A happy Christmas,” he repeated. “I have never known one, I must confess.”
“I am terribly sorry for that.” Then her face brightened. “Allow me to remedy your situation.”
“But will you not be. . .” He searched for an excuse. Any excuse to save him from the threat of a happy Christmas. “Too grieved?”
“My grief is a constant companion,” she admitted without a touch of self-pity. “One which will not let me be. Yet, I carry on. If I do not, I might as well go out to the churchyard now and take my place with my family.”
He couldn’t believe how forthright she was being. Grief was something he understood. He’d seen it, of course. He’d felt it, too, for soldiers-in-arms as they died on the battlefield and co-spies who’d been caught.
Still, he couldn’t imagine the sort of grief she was experiencing. For he had never had a family like she had. One that cared. One that was close.
He glanced towards the door and the sounds of their guests. Could he do it? Could he go into that gilded hall and make pleasantries and continue to make them for the celebrations of Christmas.
Slowly, he studied Marabelle.
God, those eyes of hers. Intense blue, heightened by glassy, unshed tears, they pierced him whilst she awaited his reply.
It was like she was reaching into his soul and willing him to find his best self.
And in that moment, he remembered similar blue eyes. The eyes of a kind older man; the man reaching down to him, pulling him up out of the mud and assuring him that all would be well, despite the cold disdain on his father’s face.
He wouldn’t let the old Earl of Gray down. Just for this Christmastide. He could do anything for a few days.
So, he held out his hand to her. “I agree.”
A soft smile parted her lips and she slipped her small hand into his infinitely larger one.
His body tensed at that gentle touch. And without doubt, he knew that the next days were going to be the most dangerous days in all his life. For though this wasn’t a battlefield, Lady Marabelle was the sort of woman who might try to lay siege to his heart. And with Lady Marabelle, it might be all too tempting to give in.
Chapter 4
Dark night had fallen upon Northly. It was the kind of black winter night that had driven the pagans to light fires and pray to their gods to bring back the light. Marabelle had always found those nights rather comforting with the reassurance of a good hearth, books, and an unladylike brandy.
The wedding guests had long departed. Most of them had been three sheets to the wind, delighted, and still proclaiming their well wishes.
The last couple to leave had been the
duke and duchess. And quite frankly, Marabelle was holding Olivia’s promise of a visit the next morning to her heart.
For though her husband had behaved beyond reproach, she felt a wave of apprehension now that night had fallen and they were to be alone.
In a few hours’ time it would be the point in which their marriage would be consummated and the work for an heir would begin.
Marabelle lingered by the fire in the library. She rested her hand along the marble mantel carved with birds and drank in the scent of the boughs that had been brought in from the forest.
The juniper berries washed over her and she closed her eyes. Years and years of wandering through woods with her family, of laughing, of climbing trees, and throwing snowballs hit her. She gripped the mantel so hard she winced.
“Marabelle?” His voice rolled over her, gentle yet rough, like sand on glass.
She swallowed back a wave of tears and she turned to him. “Yes, Lord Gray?”
His brows drew together. “You know you must call me Sebastian.”
She nodded.
“Are you pleased?” he asked, gently.
“I am.”
He frowned, clearly perplexed. “You don’t look it. Has someone upset you? Was it me? It may take me a little time to adjust to—”
“You were splendid,” she broke in, attempting to shake off her grief.
“Then—”
“Memories,” she said simply.
“Ah.” He said nothing else, but the severity of his features eased. Still, he remained across the room.
She looked askance, desperate to find some way to breach the distance between them. “Do you not feel sadness when you recall your family?”
He stared at her for a very long time in that strange habit of his. Little emotion danced over his face.
At last, he said, “No.”
“No?”
“If you must know. . .”
“Yes?” she prompted, leaning forward in anticipation of his confession.
“I feel relief.”
“Relief,” she echoed.
“Likely, this makes me a terrible monster.”
“You don’t seem to be a monster,” she observed. But she couldn’t imagine feeling relief at the loss of her family. “Would you like to tell me about them?”
His lip curled ever so slightly as if the very thought appealed to him. He cleared his throat. “No.”
No, again.
Clearly, her husband was a man that would be very difficult to become intimate with.
“May I play your pianoforte?” he asked abruptly.
She blinked then looked to said mentioned instrument. “Of course.”
It was such an odd and sudden request. She felt quite jarred by it. Was conversing with her really so terrible?
Wordlessly, Sebastian strode to the pianoforte. It was displayed prominently near the dark windows at the end of the salon.
Carelessly, he flicked his frock coattails back and sat on the polished bench.
To her astonishment, he paused reverently. His long, strong fingers rested just above the ivory keys before he stroked the keys ever so softly.
Then, he bent slightly, his head tilting to the side. The small movement caused his obsidian hair to fall over his face.
He pressed the keys lightly.
A shiver ran down her spine as notes began to dance in the air.
She couldn’t tear her gaze away from him as he played. His whole body was engaged in the music.
The song, whatever it was, swept her up in a dark, tantalizing frenzy. For a moment, she felt like she was drifting on some mysterious and magical sea of emotion.
Sebastian seemed totally consumed by the piece.
Her husband, seemingly so distant, so cold, so displeased to be in England at all, was transformed.
He played with a passion she’d not seen in her entire life. A passion she’d never experienced in all her days. It poured out of him into the keys and then those keys struck the metal strings within the pianoforte, which then reverberated into the room and washed over her.
Her breath froze in her throat and, to her astonishment, she realized that his music made her feel utterly alive. Her skin tingled, her heart soared, her whole body felt captivated.
When at last his hands came to rest, the room was engulfed in silence.
He said nothing. He moved not a muscle. But rather, he sat in worshipful quiet before the instrument that he had just awoken to mesmerizing life.
“My God,” she whispered. “I have never heard anything like that before.”
“Herr Beethoven,” he said softly. “There has never been or ever will be a composer like him.”
Words eluded her yet she felt compelled to speak. “I feel. . . I feel. . .”
“Transported?” Sebastian asked without a hint of mockery, still gazing at the ivory keys.
“Yes.”
He looked up to her at last. “It is the only time that I am. . . Happy.”
“When you play?”
He nodded. “When I play, I am at one with myself.”
“I can only imagine what it must be like to produce such music.” She smiled, barely able to contain her envy. “You’re fortunate your parents—”
“My parents would be appalled,” he cut in, his voice flat.
“I beg your pardon?”
“My father was a solider,” he replied simply. “My mother a perfect soldier’s wife. They longed to produce someone who would continue and further their lineage. Great soldiers do not play the pianoforte. That is for artists and other fools.”
Other fools.
That’s what his parents had thought of anyone who reveled in such beautiful music?
“How did you learn then?” she asked softly.
“I heard Herr Beethoven’s music in Austria.” He gave a wry smile. “By sheer audacity, I asked him to teach me.”
“Beethoven?” she exclaimed.
He nodded, stroking his fingertips over the polished wood. “Yes. I’m a lord and had the coin. So, he agreed. He’s quite deaf, you know. A veritable bear of a man. Seems very rude. . . He tries to keep his condition secret. But I think he’s very angry that he can no longer hear the music he sends out into the world.”
She attempted to comprehend it. To study music with such a master? Such a thing would only be in her imaginings. It struck her then that she had what he lacked and vice versa. He had traversed the world and engaged in its delights and foibles but had no affection.
She had seen hide nor hair of anything outside of her own small sphere. But she had been lavished with love from the day she was born.
“I hope you will play often,” she said in all honesty.
“If it pleases you.”
“Pleases is not the word.”
“Oh?”
“Would you think me foolish if I said your playing fills me with rapture?” The idea of her home filled with such music was marvelous.
She waited for him to laugh.
Instead, he replied in all seriousness, “I cannot think you foolish. For if I did, then I would be a fool, too. Or perhaps we both are. My parents be damned.”
She could hardly believe he’d utter such a thing, but then again, she had never known a moment’s unkindness from her family. Even though she and Sebastian had known each other less than a day, she was beginning to believe he may never have known the slightest touch of love all his life. Not the kind of love which sustained one through cruelty and the disappointments of life.
The crackle of logs upon the fire filled up the now somewhat awkward silence.
What did one say after such revelations?
She knew what she should say. She should inform him that she was going upstairs and that she would await him. Yet the idea was. . . Daunting, to say the least.
He was beautiful and strong and her husband. She knew full well that love didn’t matter for the production of an heir. Most husbands and wives didn’t love each other when wed.
It was actually one of her mother and father’s favorite stories, how they had married not knowing each other, not loving each other. After a year, they’d loved each other better than any other couple they knew.
It gave Marabelle hope.
Perhaps, in time, despite his reticence and coldness, Sebastian might come to love her and she him. Then all would be well with the world and she wouldn’t be so entirely alone.
She swallowed, then lifted her chin, determined to be bold. “Shall we go upstairs? I am ready to retire.”
A spark ignited in his dark eyes, smoldering. That look, that single look of passion, burned through her. Slowly, his gaze wandered over her face, then traced over her body. Ever so slowly, it penetrated her as if he were branding her somehow, before he lifted his eyes back up to meet her gaze.
Languidly, he stood, then oh so very pointedly crossed the room. He lingered before her, angling his head down, for he was much taller.
Her stomach danced with anticipation.
Would he kiss her? What would it be like to kiss such a man? A rogue. A man who had seen so much. A man who had largely forsaken the niceties of society.
Carefully, he wound one of her curls around his forefinger then he gently wove his other hand into her coiffure. He tilted her head back and looked down upon her face.
Never in all her life had she felt more exposed. Never in all her life had she allowed someone to take such intimacies and such control.
But to her shock, she wanted him to take control. She wanted to evoke the sort of passion within him that his music had in her. To her delight, it seemed that she was about to.
Her pulse raced and her senses heightened.
His scent, a sort of wild spiciness, surrounded her. The very heat of his imposing body so close to her own made her feel as if every bit of her had been scorched by desire.
All she had to do was lean forward and their bodies would be pressed together.
“Kiss me,” she breathed.
“Oh Marabelle, you do not know me,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “You do not know what you even ask.”
