Snowbound Wedding Wishes: An Earl Beneath the MistletoeTwelfth Night ProposalChristmas at Oakhurst Manor (Harlequin Historical)

by Allen, Louise

  ‘Very much.’ He heaped steaming beef on the plates around him.

  ‘You did not expect to, did you?’ she asked, her smile quizzical and somehow sad.

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I thought I would feel out of place, that people would not truly welcome a stranger in their midst.’

  ‘You are not a stranger,’ she said softly. ‘You have helped the old folks, worked and drunk with the men, and made this feast possible. They like you.’

  He wanted to ask, Do you like me? She desired him, she had said so and her kisses told him so, without words. But perhaps she would feel the same about any halfway decent man who intruded so intimately into her life. She enjoyed being with him, he knew that. Emilia was too honest and too transparent to hide that she liked his company. She trusted him with her sons, and perhaps that trust was the hardest to win from her.

  He wanted more and he did not have the words for it, only that strange tight sensation in his chest and a feeling of impending unhappiness. And that shifting sensation again, as though everything familiar was moving out of alignment.

  Tomorrow he would be gone, back to his ancestral home. Back to his duties and responsibilities. Back to the search for the right, the correct, the proper wife for the Earl of Burnham. Duty and responsibility. That was what he was good at.

  They ate until they were stuffed and then sat comfortably digesting while the remainder of those willing to perform did their recitations, songs or, in the case of Mr Daventry, the carpenter, conjuring tricks involving coins in small boys’ ears, a bemused chicken and vanishing playing cards.

  Hugo cheered, laughed and clapped with the rest and then realised that the company was calling for Emilia to sing. She came out willingly enough, obviously used to performing. Her voice was clear, light, untrained, but very sweet and carrying. The songs she sang were all happy ones and yet Hugo found his vision blurring and realised, to his horror, that he was on the edge of tears.

  He blew his nose under cover of the applause and thought he had himself under control by the time Emilia made her way back to his side, blushing a little.

  ‘What is wrong?’ she asked, cocking her head to one side the better to study his face. ‘Was my singing that bad?’

  ‘Nothing is wrong.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Your singing was very lovely, it is just this smoke. Look, they’re starting the dancing again—shall we?’

  She was still looking quizzical, but she gave him her hand and they launched into an energetic set of Strip the Willow, which was, Hugo discovered, quite sufficient to drive any maudlin sentimentality out of his head. Because that was what it was. It had to be.

  * * *

  An hour later, in dire need of a rest, he looked around for Emilia to see if she would like a drink and could not find her. The miller’s daughter was catching her breath by the door. ‘Have you seen Mrs Weston?’ he asked.

  ‘She went out ten minutes past,’ she said and frowned. ‘That’s a while to be out in this chill.’ The frown became a look of concern. ‘Come to think of it, Lawrence Bond followed her out. No harm in it, of course, only I wouldn’t want to be alone with him myself. He watches.’ She gave a theatrical shudder. ‘Creepy-like.’

  It was enough to give Hugo the creeps. ‘Thank you.’ He turned up his coat collar and went out into the gloom.

  * * *

  ‘Mr Bond...Lawrence. I came out for a breath of air and now I am cold and I really do not want to stand out here conversing.’ Emilia took a step forwards, expecting him to retreat, but the smallholder stayed square in her path and the steep snow banks were too high to let her go around him.

  ‘It wasn’t conversation I had in mind,’ he said with the arrogant smirk she so disliked. ‘I can keep you warm.’

  She should never have come around the corner of the barn, but she had wanted a clear view of the sky to see if it was beginning to cloud over, heralding the promised thaw. ‘I told you, I wish to go back inside.’ It was ridiculous to feel a twist of fear, not with all those people so close. But if she called out, would anyone hear over the music and the talking?

  ‘Come on, stop this coyness. If you can give it to that major, you can give it to me. I see you watching me, batting your eyelashes and pretending to be so virtuous.’

  ‘If I watch you, Lawrence Bond, it is because I do not trust you! And I am a virtuous woman, you slimy-tongued lecher.’

  ‘If you’re not, then you can stop being coy and if you are, then you’ll be missing a real man between your legs.’ Her insults just seemed to roll off him.

  Emilia snatched a comb from her hair and gripped it. ‘You touch me and I’ll rake your face with this,’ she threatened.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ He was too big and too fast for her and her instinctive shrinking from violence made her slow to retaliate.

  Emilia found herself lashed tightly into his arms, hard against his chest as he sought for her mouth with his. His lips were wet and his breath smelled of onions. She kicked out and then suddenly he was gone, yanked backwards and then slammed into the knapped flint wall of the barn.

  Hugo pulled him forwards by his neckcloth, rammed his right fist into his chin and tossed him into the snow bank. He looked at Emilia in the faint light, and she knew what he saw—her hair tumbled down her back, her dress askew. Would he think she had encouraged Bond?

  ‘What did he do to you? Has he hurt you?’ Hugo demanded. He was going to kill the lout. He had touched her, frightened her. Emilia.

  ‘He wouldn’t let me go, he tried to kiss me,’ she stammered, dragging her hand across her face as if to obliterate the feel of Bond’s mouth on her cheek.

  He put his mouth on her and he had wanted more than that, would have taken more than that if he’d had the chance. My woman. He tried to ravish my woman.

  Hugo bent down, dragged the snow-encrusted man to his feet and thrust his face close to his while he fought the killing rage. If Bond had been a gentleman, an officer, he would have called him out and put a bullet through him. Some faint trace of restraint penetrated through the red mist. He couldn’t call him out and he could not beat him to a pulp in front of Emilia.

  When he finally found his voice, it sounded as if he was speaking through gravel. ‘You will apologise to this lady for your words and your actions and I might, just might, refrain from taking you apart.’

  Lawrence sagged in his grip, too much a bully to have the courage to fight back, Hugo realised. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.

  ‘Try again.’ Hugo shook him.

  ‘I am very sorry, Mrs Weston.’

  ‘That’s better. Now, you listen to me, you snivelling lout.’ Hugo punctuated each sentence with a brisk shake, like a terrier with a particularly large rat. ‘Tomorrow I will call on Sir Philip and I will tell him how you have behaved, without naming the lady. And I will ask him, as a favour to me, to ensure that, if any complaint of such behaviour comes to his ears again, you are tried for assault and harassment. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bond muttered.

  ‘Right, get out of here.’ Another shove sent the man sprawling. If he held on to him for a moment longer he was going to go back on his word and dismember him. Bond scrambled away as a sudden gust of wind threw moisture into Hugo’s face.

  Emilia tugged at his arm. ‘Hugo, it is raining, the thaw has begun.’

  ‘Come here.’ He pulled her gently into the shelter of his coat, opening the sides around her. ‘We need to get you tidied up before we go back inside. I saw a lean-to around the side.’ He could feel her heart pounding. Emilia allowed him to steer her around the corner and into shelter.

  ‘I did not go outside with him,’ she said and stepped away so they were no longer touching.

  If he did not do something, he was going to yank her into his arms and kiss her until they both forgot every iota of sense. Hugo took the comb from her limp fingers and scooped up the fallen hair. His woman, and it had taken that lout Bond to make him see it. The thought of her with another man made him want to snarl wit
h primitive male possessiveness.

  ‘I realise that.’ He managed to keep his voice calm. She would be terrified if she realised the raw sexual hunger he felt. ‘There, your hair is respectable again. Just straighten your gown and no one will be any the wiser.’

  ‘I...I want to go home.’

  Her voice shook and for the first time she let him see her vulnerability. Something inside him shifted into certainty. I love her. Oh, God, I love her. So this was what it felt like? It was supposed to be a wonderful emotion, but he felt fear and longing and the vertiginous certainty that his entire life was slipping out of control. I can’t do this. I don’t understand it. I’ll hurt her.

  ‘Go and find the boys and get them into their coats.’ He gave her a gentle push. ‘I’ll watch your back, but I won’t come in for a few minutes.’

  He watched her along the path and into the spill of warmth and light and sound before he leaned back against the wall and swore viciously and inventively. He should leave her. He understood now that she needed love and trust and warmth and he did not know if he could ever break down those walls around his emotions enough to give her what she deserved.

  But she was not safe. She was too pretty, too trusting, too vulnerable and unprotected, earning her living in a manner which exposed her to men, familiar or strangers, day and night. She had opened her door to him with complete trust and he could have been a thief, a murderer, a rapist, for all she knew.

  He could speak to Sir Philip about Bond tomorrow, but while it might deter that individual it could not protect her from another and the thought made his skin crawl. He would be gone and she would be alone. Stamping the snow off his boots, he made his way back into the barn and found Emilia shepherding two yawning, but reluctant, boys in front of her.

  ‘Major, we were just going back. I’ll leave the door on the latch for you.’

  ‘I will come, too,’ he said. ‘If you will just wait while I find my cloak and gloves.’

  They tramped back through the drizzle, the path slippery and treacherous underfoot with the runnels of melting snow. Joseph was complaining that the snowman they had built with their friends would wash away and Nathan added to the gloom by pointing out that their lessons with the vicar would start again.

  ‘And the major will leave,’ Joseph wailed, suddenly realising what the disappearance of the snow would mean for their guest.

  ‘And I am sure he will be delighted to be home after all this time,’ Emilia said in a cheerful tone that Hugo was beginning to recognise. It was the voice she would use if they were on a boat sinking in the middle of the river surrounded by crocodiles, her Mother is keeping calm, there is no need to worry voice.

  She doesn’t want me to go either, he thought. He checked on the animals, made up the fire, then put the kettle on to boil, listening to the murmur of voices upstairs, the soft sound of Emilia’s footsteps as she put the boys to bed. At last she came downstairs, her feet slow and hesitant on the steps as though she was unutterably weary.

  ‘I’ve made tea.’ Hugo held out the cup. ‘Come and sit down and relax.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She curled up in her chair, hands tight around the warmth of the cup. ‘You enjoyed the Feast?’

  ‘Very much, especially your singing.’ Such banal conversation. Say what you feel. But the words would not come. ‘I am sorry it was spoiled for you at the end. Has Bond been a persistent problem?’

  ‘No. He stares, but he has never tried anything like that before. I doubt he will again.’

  She fell silent, gazing into the tea as though she could read the future in the brown depths.

  Suddenly he knew what he had to do. ‘Emilia, I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Yes? I am sorry, I was drifting. You will want to have an early breakfast, no doubt, and be off at first light.’

  ‘That was not it.’ Now that it came to the point Hugo was not sure how to say this. It was hardly the sort of thing a man had practice in, unless he was very unlucky. ‘Will you marry me?’

  Chapter Eight

  Emilia stared at Hugo. Surely she had not heard him correctly? ‘Did you just ask me to—?’

  ‘Marry me. Yes.’ He might have been asking her to pass the salt.

  ‘But why?’

  It was his turn to stare at her. Perhaps she was dreaming. She was very tired, had drunk at least two mugs of mulled ale and Bond accosting her had been upsetting. It was her fantasy, this man proposing to her. But not like this—it must be a dream. Or a nightmare.

  ‘Why? Because it is completely untenable you living like this. The work is too hard for you, the future uncertain, the boys are growing up fast. You have been born and raised a lady, you should not be here.’

  ‘Forgive me, but what has that to do with you, Hugo? Or should I say, my lord?’

  ‘How did you know I have a title?’ As he asked it she saw the realisation dawn in those intelligent blue eyes. ‘Ah, yes, that slip when we were all drinking here the other night.’

  ‘Who are you, precisely?’ There was a cold lump of misery in her chest. He was her dream and he was offering her marriage because a lady should not be working as an alewife. Her parents had rejected her because she had disgraced them, now this man was dismissing everything she had toiled to build up—her hard-won business, her independence, her plans—as demeaning, something to be rescued from by a gentleman doing his duty.

  ‘I am Hugo Travers, Earl of Burnham.’ Her reaction was obviously not what he had been expecting.

  But of course, any rational woman would fall weeping at his feet in gratitude, she thought savagely.

  ‘I hardly felt it appropriate to march in here proclaiming my title. It was irrelevant.’

  ‘If you had dropped in for a mug of ale, then you could be Hugo Travers the night-soil carter for all I care.’ Tears were stinging the back of her eyes, but she blinked them back furiously and set her cup down with a snap. ‘You should have told me who you were instead of living in my house under false pretences. And then you have the effrontery to make me a proposal like this!’

  ‘Like what?’ he demanded. ‘I am hardly offering you a carte blanche, Emilia. I made you an honourable proposal.’ He hesitated. ‘From the heart.’

  Wonderful! He suddenly decides to introduce feelings into this! ‘A completely irrational proposal, you mean. I repeat, what has my life and my circumstances got to do with you?’

  He stood up, towering over her. ‘I feel responsible for you.’

  ‘Why? If that storm had not happened, you would not so much have passed my door. You would never have heard of me.’

  ‘But it did happen and I am here and now I know you and I cannot simply ride away from here and trust that a few words to Sir Philip will keep you safe. And even if they do, you should not be labouring like this, working so hard, past your strength.’

  ‘I am not your responsibility,’ she said. So that was it. He would lead and nurture his troops, care for his tenants, rescue a drowning kitten because that was what earls did. Noblesse oblige. Presumably she came into the drowning-kitten category.

  Emilia got to her feet, toe to toe with Hugo. She had to tip her head back to be able to look him in the eye, but it was better than cowering in the chair. ‘You will ride away tomorrow, my lord, and you will forget me because I am nothing to you and I can be nothing to you. I might have been born a lady, but I threw my cap over the windmill, disgraced myself and my parents, lived like a gypsy with a gamester and now I am an alewife and a mother and I live in a little Hertfordshire hamlet.

  ‘A lady would, no doubt, thank you for your obliging proposal. I, on the other hand, have the greatest dislike of being patronised and, having had the infinite blessing of being loved, I know what a proposal of marriage should be. And that, my lord, was not it!’

  Memory and loss, and what she was very much afraid was a new, fragile love for this man, was suddenly too much to deal with. She had let herself dream, weave fantasies, feel desire and much more, knowing that those dr
eams could never come true. And now, here he was, the man of those dreams, offering her marriage because he felt responsible for her, because he thought she needed rescuing from the life she had built for herself.

  ‘I have made a mull of this,’ Hugo said, his mouth a hard line. ‘I should have told you how I feel.’

  ‘You, my lord, have made a complete pig’s ear of it,’ she retorted roundly. ‘And I do not want to know how you feel.’

  ‘I was abrupt and I have hurt your pride.’ He was obviously working it out. Sooner or later he was going to come to the correct, humiliating conclusion—that the main reason he had hurt her was because she had been foolish enough to fall in love with him.

  ‘I do not want to discuss this any further.’ She tried to sidestep in the narrow space between his body and her chair.

  ‘Emilia, there was something, surely? Something when we touched, when I held you.’ He caught her by the shoulders, his big hands cupping bones that suddenly felt very frail. ‘When we kissed. Under the mistletoe...’ He bent and took her lips, gently, possessively.

  It was so different from the other kiss she had experienced that night, this man was so different, that she found she could not move, only open her mouth to the urging of his, let his tongue sweep in to explore and tease and tantalise. She felt heat and found she had arched into his body, her own in its thin silk moulded to his. She could feel the muscles of his thighs, the strength of his chest, the erection that proclaimed beyond any doubt that, whatever else he felt, he certainly desired her.

  Hugo’s right hand slid down to cup her behind and he lifted her against that blatant ridge, moving his hips to tease and arouse. She moaned into his mouth, heat and passion and desire clamouring to break down the flimsy barricade that common sense and self-preservation were holding up against his sensual onslaught.

  When he broke the kiss she simply hung there, quivering and tense in his arms. ‘Let me show you, Emilia. Let me come to your bed tonight and prove we can be good together. You want to, you cannot hide it.’ His hand cupped her aching breast, smoothed over the nipple that was pressing against the taut fabric almost to the point of pain.