Yet their country house on two thousand acres of rolling parkland and pastures seemed as far removed from London as Istanbul. Many happy Christmases had been spent there with those she loved, gathering holly and skating on the frozen lake and lighting the Yule log and worshiping at tiny St. Stephen's on the morning of Christ's birth.
She wouldn't like it at all if a snowstorm prevented them from going to Upper Barrington.
After the passage of a quarter of an hour, the door to the drawing room came open, and Mr. Marsden stood there, framed by the massive, pedimented doorway, an achingly solemn look on his ruddy face.
Her breathing accelerated violently. Her palms sweat. Her throat went dry. She was incapable of giving voice to that which she dreaded most. She merely stared at the physician, noticing absurdly unimportant things like the bulbous nose indicative of a man who overindulged in strong spirits and the sterling buttons on his gray wool jacket.
She came to realize Mr. Marsden wanted to tell her the grievous pronouncement no more than she wanted to hear it. Eventually he cleared his throat. She fought the urge to cover her ears as she'd done as a girl when she did not want to hear unwelcome words. She was no longer that child. Now she was a woman of three and twenty. She rose, held her head high, and faced the physician, a querying expression on her face.
“I must prepare you, Miss Pemberton. This is likely the last Christmas you will ever spend with your father.”
A burst of hot tears gushed to her eyes. She made no effort to wipe away the rivulets that began to drip from her cheekbones and chin. “You have told my father?”
He nodded solemnly.
“Then I must go to him.” A sob broke as she turned toward the door.
Before she could face her dear Papa, though, she must attempt to cheer him. For the past two weeks, his sole source of pleasure had come from sampling the pickles sent from his cousin, Betsy Blaine-Ramsbury, who zealously guarded the recipe that had been used in Papa's grandmother's home and, according to Papa, produced the only crave-worthy pickles on the planet.
She descended the stairs to the basement and raced to the kitchen where she fetched one, long, delicious pickle. Cook noticed her reddened eyes and glistening cheeks but was too polite to comment upon it. She wiped her hands on her apron, took the pickle, and placed it on a delicate ivory and gilt saucer. “Yer papa will want more than one.”
“If my papa was permitted to have his way, all of Cousin Betsy's pickles would already be gone.”
Cook smiled. “Indeed they would.”
By the time Miss Pemberton had mounted three flights of stairs to her father's library, her tears had dried.
She tapped upon his door.
“I know it's you, Belle, and I'll not allow you in if you're crying.”
A smile tweaked at the corners of her mouth. “I'm not crying.”
“Then you may enter.”
Her white-haired father sat before the fire, a blanket spread across his lap, his discarded book fanned open on the Turkey carpet beneath his chair. He had never looked so frail.
“I've brought you one of Cousin Betsy's pickles.”
He smiled at her. “I knew I could count on you to brighten my day, my dearest.” Neither the sparkling blue of his eyes nor the stridency of his voice bespoke a man in his decline.
He greedily bit into the pickle. “You've spoken with Marsden?”
She nodded solemnly as she lowered herself into the chair next to him. She supposed it was the chair Lord de Vere had sat upon.
“I suppose he told you this will be my last Christmas?”
“You mustn't believe everything the fellow says. After all, he's a man, and man is not infallible.”
“You, my dearest, must not always be so optimistic. I am an old man. I've lived a long, exceedingly happy life. For nine and forty years I indulged my every whim. Then I was blessed to fall in love with the best of women, whose last act on this earth was to give me the child who would be the joy of my life and the comfort of my old age. Save but one thing, I could die perfectly happy right now.”
She knew very well what that one thing was. “You mustn't worry about leaving me alone. It's by my own choice that I'm not wed.”
He availed himself of the last bite of pickle and savored it for several seconds of appreciative um-um-umming before speaking. “I've worried that you refused to marry because you did not want to leave me alone.”
She shook her head. “First, my dear parent, you must realize that any man who was ever foolish enough to attempt to court me did so in order to secure my fortune. I know it's difficult for you to realize, but I am not considered a beauty.”
“But you are pretty!”
“I am short and plain and far too particular in my tastes to settle for any man desperate enough to pay me homage.”
“We have had this discussion before, and we shall never see eye to eye on it.”
“Then I must change the topic of discussion. Pray, Papa, will you feel up to the journey to Upper Barrington?”
“Of course I will! I've spent every Christmas for the past thirty years there, and it's my next-to-fondest desire to spend my last one there.”
She must humor him. Bless her dearest father, he was taking the news of his demise remarkably well. “It does seem that since this may be. . .” She had to pause, to fortify herself in order to utter that which was so very painful to acknowledge. “. . . your last Christmas, I should seek to grant you one last wish. What is it that is your next-to fondest desire?” She knew very well what his answer would be.
“I cannot die content unless I know you will be taken care of by a husband who loves and cherishes you.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “'Twould be easier to find forests in the desert.”
He shook his head adamantly. “I strongly disagree with you.”
“I daresay you're just worried I'll turn out to be a peculiar spinster of dubious repute like Lady Hester Stanhope.”
Her father rolled his eyes. “If I believed that, I'd shoot myself right now.”
She giggled. She could not believe she was sitting there giggling just minutes after the physician had informed her Papa was dying. “Pray, Papa, have you ever encountered a man whom you think would suit me?”
He nodded sheepishly. How could a man with such spark in his eyes be nearing death?
“Oblige me, then,” she said, folding her arms across her chest, “by revealing to me who this man is.”
“He was at our home this very afternoon.”
Her eyes rounded. “I believe Mr. Marsden is already married.”
“I wasn't referring to Marsden,” he snapped.
Her pulse began to pound. Not once in her three and twenty years had her father ever tried to play matchmaker between his well-loved daughter and his well-admired ward. Had he always held the opinion that she and de Vere would suit?
It was true he had never maligned de Vere no matter how debauched the viscount was. She was shocked her protective father would even consider marrying her to so dissolute a man.
Of course, de Vere did have his good qualities. He was vastly intelligent. He had always been excessively kind to her, even when she was but six years old and he a lad of thirteen—which, she had to admit, many lads of that age would not have been. He also took his duties in Parliament seriously and was respected by his peers.
Her heart fluttered. And, of course, his stunning good looks could not be forgotten. Not that anyone born with a womb could.
The movement of her father's hand caught her eye. He clutched at his chest, his brow furrowed.
She leaped from her chair. “Papa! Papa! Are you all right?”
A pained expression on his face, he nodded. “It's that same dashed pain.”
At least he could speak. She sank back into her chair. And suddenly she realized she just might be able to grant her father his last Christmas wish.
Chapter 2
Her hands stuffed into an ermine muff, a thick Kashmir muffl
er wrapping her neck like plump layers of tobacco leaf about a cigar, and a heavy rug secured over her lower extremities, Miss Pemberton settled back in the family's luxurious carriage. Whether the distressingly queer feelings in the pit of her stomach could be attributed to Papa's dire prognosis or to her impending meeting with Lord de Vere—if he should be at home—she did not know. Throughout the short carriage ride to Cavendish Square, her heart beat unaccountably rapidly.
When the coachman came to a stop in front of de Vere House, she grew even more nervous. The burst of cold air when he opened the carriage door nearly persuaded her to slam it shut and stay within the secure confines of the coach.
But then she thought of Papa's wish.
Her own feelings seemed rather insignificant. Therefore, she held her head high, stepped down to the pavement, and strode to his lordship's front door. Because the coachman had already announced her, the butler swung open the door before she could knock. “I have sent word to Lord de Vere that Miss Pemberton is calling. Allow me to show you to the drawing room.”
She followed the fairly youthful fellow up a flight of stairs in the airy stairwell which was lighted from a glass-domed roof. The drawing room was much smaller than the one at her house but was furnished in the same neoclassical lines adopted by Robert Adam—whom Papa had engaged to do the London interiors before she was born.
“I beg your forgiveness,” the butler said. Each word he spoke was accompanied by chilled puffs of vapor. “For not having a fire lit here. It is just that his lordship seldom receives callers.”
A char woman noiselessly entered the room and began to light the fire.
Miss Pemberton had heard her housekeeper remark on the high cost of coal. Was Lord de Vere so strapped for funds that he slept in freezing cold rooms?
Wickedly, she hoped that it was so. Then he might be more agreeable to her bizarre proposal. She turned to face the butler. “I believe I prefer to keep my pelisse and muff.” Her pelisse of coral colored velvet, trimmed with ermine kept her adequately warmed.
Whilst the woman was building the fire, Miss Pemberton strolled to the street-facing window. It was tall and narrow in the Italianate style and was draped in faded green silk so brittle that she feared it would fall away like an ash if she touched it.
She had expected to be able to look over the square, but she saw nothing save the fog as heavy as curtain obliterating any view.
“Belle.”
She had not heard him enter the chamber. Her heartbeat roared as she turned to face him. Her solemn gaze stroked him. “You've shaved.”
He nodded. “Please, come sit on the settee. We shall have a fire warming things in a few minutes.”
The gilt settee she sat on was covered in striped gold and green silk that did not appear to be faded. She supposed it had rarely been sat upon. De Vere had lived here as a bachelor for the past dozen years. She supposed even the draperies to this chamber had seldom been opened during that time.
De Vere sat next to her, a concerned look on his exceedingly handsome face. “You haven't been here since you were a girl.”
She smiled up at him. “Not since I was twelve. Nothing has changed.”
“Except me,” he said with a frown.
“You sound as if you don't approve of what you've become.”
“Can you blame me?”
As she looked into those dark, soulful eyes, something melted inside her. Even her trembling subsided. All she could think of was the frightened, sad boy he'd been the day of his father's funeral. Gaining a title at so tender an age was bound to affect a lad on the precipice of manhood. And not for the better.
A shrug was her only answer.
“Pray, Belle, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I'm afraid I've not come on a pleasurable mission.”
He lurched toward her. “Has something happened to your father?”
In that fraction of a second she understood that this man who sat next to her cared very deeply for her father. No one could feign such a look of distress or alter a voice to convey such genuine fear.
She nodded. Which had the effect of releasing the floodgates. Great, whimpering sobs broke forth from her.
“Has he died?”
She shook her head, a torrent of tears streaming down her face, her shoulders hitching on each fresh sob.
He drew her into his embrace, tracing circles upon her back, stroking her hair, and murmuring comforting words. “It's all right, love. We can face this. You must tell me everything.” He offered her his own very large handkerchief.
She blotted her tears and attempted to blow her nose in a dainty manner while gathering her composure. “You must forgive my outburst,” she finally said.
“There's nothing to forgive. I'd like to think I am the one you would turn to in your time of distress. I want you to think of me as your elder brother.”
That comment sent her wailing anew. How could one propose marriage to a man who thought of her as a sister?
He hauled her into his embrace. “Belle, Belle. You must tell me what's wrong.”
Once more she took his handkerchief and wiped away the evidence of her crying, drew a long breath, then looked up into his stupendously handsome face. It was a face she could never tire of. What would it be like to be married to him, to be able to gaze upon his physical perfection the first thing every morning and the last thing every night for the rest of her life?
“I had Marsden to look at Papa today. He's been complaining of discomfort in his. . . chest.”
De Vere's brows lowered.
Her eyes watered again. This was very difficult, but she was determined to speak of it without bawling. “Marsden said this will be Papa's last Christmas.”
He winced and buried his head in his hands.
She was completely unprepared for such a blatant specimen of masculinity to take the dreadful news in such a way.
Now their roles were reversed, and she needed to stay composed until he recovered. A few minutes later he looked up and addressed her. “I must ease your father's mind. I must assure him that I will look after you.”
She felt as if a huge chestnut was lodged in her throat. “That is precisely why I've come to you today.”
He gave her a quizzing look. “Enlighten me, please.”
“Papa says save for one thing, he could die perfectly happy today.”
“And that one thing?”
“He wishes to see me wed.”
“I don't see how I can hel- - - Oh, dear God, you can't mean. . .?”
She nodded ruefully. “My poor, delusional father thinks you and I would suit.”
He sighed. “I couldn't possibly consider such a ridiculous thing! Why, it would be like marrying my own sister!”
“I assure you, Lord de Vere, I have never thought of you as a brother.”
“Surely you can't put any credence to this silly notion of your father's?”
“Of course I don't think you and I would suit! You would be one of the last men in the kingdom whom I would ever consider for a husband. I shouldn't at all like being wed to profligate who keeps mistresses.”
His eyes narrowed. “You're not to know of such things. And, besides, I no longer have any woman under my protection.”
She put her hands to her waist. “And I shouldn't at all wish to wed a man who would take the fortune my grandfather built and wager it away at Newcastle and White's.”
“You assume I would beg to marry you—which, Miss Pemberton, I have no intention of doing!”
His words were like a slap in the face. She had been prepared for him to reject her proposal, but she was unprepared for the vehemence of his objection. Tears stung her eyes once more. “I assure you, I have no intention of marrying a debauched man such as you.”
She pounced to her feet, and the muff that had been in her lap fell to the Aubusson carpet. Lord de Vere stooped to pick it up. As he offered it to her, he asked, “Then why have you come?”
“Because I was prep
ared to sacrifice myself in order to grant my father his last Christmas wish.”
His eyes flared with anger. “You, Miss Pemberton, are singular in the opinion that marrying me would be a sacrifice.”
“Why, of all the arrogant men I have ever known, I do believe you go to the head of the queue.” She shoved her hands in the muff, flipped the Kashmir muffler about her neck, and stormed to the door. “I cannot understand how my father could be so blinded to your multitude of faults!”
* * *
How could he let that sanctimonious spinster get him so riled? It was only by the greatest restraint he prevented himself from trailing in her stormy wake like some dumbstruck lad begging his governess's forgiveness. He had done nothing for which he needed to apologize! It was she who had impugned his character, she who asserted her abhorrence of marriage to him.
Shaking with anger, he went to his library, slammed the heavy door behind him, and poured himself a tall glass of brandy. Damn, but this room was cold! He rang for Majors.
Anticipating his master's needs, the butler eased open the door. “I perceive your lordship would like a fire built in the library.”
“Why in the devil is this house so blasted cold?”
“Because your lordship suggested that to reduce the expense for coal we eliminate fires in the public rooms, since you never receive callers. Except for today.”
“I'm sure it seemed like a very good idea at the time, but since I shall not brave the elements on this beastly day, I will require warmth in this chamber.”
Before he completed his sentence, the char woman came waddling into the library and set about starting the fire.
“It appears, Majors, you've anticipated my request before I made it.”
Majors bowed his head. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
De Vere's eye skipped to the empty decanter on the silver tray. “Yes. Fetch me another bottle of brandy!”
Once the fire was going strong, de Vere began to pace the chamber, mumbling angrily to himself over the annoying Pemberton chit. After the passage of an hour and the consumption of three glasses of brandy, his anger toward his guardian's daughter subsided.
Christmas Brides (Three Regency Novellas) Page 2
