Christmas Brides (Three Regency Novellas)

by Bolen, Cheryl

  “And one more thing!” She was still out of charity with him. “You come across as being a dictatorial, overbearing, obtuse husband, ordering me about as if I were some errant child.”

  “You're just angry because you think I act fatherly when what you really want is a doting lover, and I'm not that man!” Good lord! He'd raised his voice to her—something he'd never before done. And he'd said something cruel, to boot. But he was not in a good humor. And it was all her fault.

  All because he had taken the irrevocable leap into matrimony.

  Now she was the one doing the glaring. “Then why are you so jealous of Sir George?”

  Jealous? Him? “If I were a jealous man—which I'm not!—Sir George is the last man in the kingdom I'd envy.” He stormed from the chamber, muttering. “Sweet! What man wants to be sweet?”

  * * *

  He had hurt her when he said he couldn't be her doting lover. It had been difficult for her to fight back the tears, but Belle was too proud to allow him to know how really vulnerable she was, how close he had come to the truth.

  In her emotional distress, the intensity of her coughing strengthened. She poured herself more hot chamomile tea, oblivious to the tears that spilled into her cup.

  Alone, her thoughts turned to . . . William. Thinking of de Vere by his Christian name gave her a comforting warmth. There was consolation in the fact no other woman in the kingdom—except for his sisters—could call the devilishly handsome man she had married by his first name.

  It was very small consolation for having married a man who could never love her.

  As her coughs subsided and her tears dried, she remembered how delighted she had been when she had thought William might be jealous of Sir George. Even if she had been angry with him.

  He had been right about one thing. It was too cold for her to venture out of doors—at least as long as this nasty cough lingered.

  How much more satisfying it would be to sit reading in the library's nook before a crackling fire, the lovely view of Upper Barrington's winter landscape glimpsed from the nearby window.

  She went there straightaway.

  Only to find the room was already occupied by her maddening husband. As she entered, he looked up from the book he was reading. “Forgive me if I've taken your favorite spot, but you were right about the view from here. It's difficult to concentrate on one's reading with so much loveliness beckoning.”

  He no longer sounded angry. “There's room enough for two—if I'm not intruding on you.” She spoke stiffly.

  “Not at all.”

  She picked up the same book she'd been reading the night before and went to sit on the sofa where he sat, but several feet away from him. Not at all like they had sat when Sir George had called and she had flattered herself that William had been jealous.

  For half an hour they read in silence. Not that she could have explained a single word written by the normally erudite Edmond Burke. Her mind kept racing over the confrontation she'd had with her husband, and she felt wretched over it. Had she been the didactic one? How did a marriage of four and twenty hours give her the right to tear into him? The more she dwelt on their cross words, the lower she became. Any misgivings he already harbored about his marriage would be magnified tenfold now. Now that he'd come to realize he'd married a self-centered, spoiled only child who was accustomed to having things her own way. What could she do to undo the harm?

  Robertson entered the chamber. “A package has been sent to your father, my lady, and I thought you might like to see it.”

  He held a small box wrapped in string. It looked to be the size that would accommodate a jar of pickles. “Has it come from a Mrs. Blaine-Ramsbury of Edgemont Farm?”

  The butler peered at the box. “Indeed it has, my lady.”

  “Then it's Cousin Betsy's pickles. No doubt she's sent them to Papa for Christmas. Please take them to the kitchen.”

  The butler's diversion gave her the break from reading she needed to address her husband. Gripped by remorse, she flung aside her book and addressed him. “Pray, William, can you possibly forgive me for my shrewish outburst?” She hoped that by calling him his Christian name she could establish some degree of intimacy.

  He quickly discarded his book and faced her, his black eyes shimmering with warmth, so different than they'd been when he'd stormed from the drawing room. “It's I who should be asking for forgiveness.” He scooted closer and drew her hand into his. “I'm beastly sorry for the way I spoke to you. And I apologize, too, for my shameful conduct to your sweet friend.”

  They both broke out laughing.

  “I still don't like him,” de Vere snapped.

  “I assure you, he's perfectly sweet.”

  “About the jealousy. . . I've never been jealous, but I am possessive.”

  Her breathing hitched. He felt possessive toward her! Surely that was a good thing. She nodded, her heartbeat thumping in her chest.

  “I admit I don't like a not-unattractive baronet making a cake of himself over my wife.”

  She tried to imagine how she would feel if an attractive woman threw herself at William. And a smile leapt to her lips. She would have quickly latched on to him as close as pages in a book. Which is exactly what her husband had done!

  She scooted even closer. “I'm sure I would have felt the same, were the tables turned.”

  Her comment obviously made him uncomfortable for he looked away, his gaze captured by the solitary scene out the window. “I'm reminded of Christmases at Hamptonworth Hall.”

  “I hope we can be there next Christmas,” she said, her voice soft. “I believe the view from its folly overlooking the lake is one of the most beautiful scenes in all of England. I do believe I'd rather be there than anywhere else.”

  His eyes widened. “I feel the same.”

  So they really did have a great many things in common. Was that not a good foundation upon which to build a marriage? But what of love, she thought, dejected. She definitely needed to divert the trajectory of her grim thoughts. “You mustn't think I wed you in order to be mistress of Hamptonworth just because I prefer it over any property in the three kingdoms.”

  “And with your fortune, my Lady de Vere, it will be beautiful once again.”

  She did adore being addressed as Lady de Vere. “William?”

  He gazed at her, his eye flicking to the shawl which had begun to slip from her shoulder. He tenderly settled it close to her neck. “Yes?”

  “When will we be able to go there? How I would love to once again see Hamptonworth in the winter.”

  “We will, love. We could have gone directly from here, but I thought you'd not want to be leaving your father.”

  Her shoulders sank. For the past hour she'd been able to forget the heartbreaking reality that her father was dying. She sighed. “You're right. I will not leave Papa.”

  Her husband quickly changed the subject. “Your cough has improved.”

  She was touched that he'd redirected the conversation away from so melancholy a topic, touched over his obsession over her cough. “It must be that aqua cordial you practically forced down my throat!”

  “I take my husbandly duties seriously.”

  “What wifely duties can I fulfill?” She solemnly looked up into his face.

  Just as his head lowered to hers. . .

  Chapter 7

  His mouth greedily claimed hers as he swept her into his arms like a hungry predator. To his astonishment, her arms came fully around him, and the potency of her kiss matched the passion of his. He was powerless to lighten his touch, powerless to ease his crushing hold on this delicate woman. Any grip he'd had on rational thought fled under the onslaught of the intense emotions that consumed him. He was completely submerged in the thundering of his own heart, the sweet, low whimpers low in her throat, the debilitating need that strummed through every cell in his body.

  When he recovered enough to loosen his hold, he peered down into her face. It was a face ravaged by the vestig
es of passion.

  Such an intoxicating vision was like throwing kindling upon his fire. As she pressed sultry circles into the muscles of his back, he began to trace a path of wet butterfly kisses along the smooth curve of her elegant neck. And lower.

  When he realized what he was trying to do to the innocent he had married, he bolted up. “You must forgive me,” he managed, his voice still husky and uneven. “I don't know what I was thinking.” He leapt to his feet, his hands curled into balls.

  Her voice trembled when she spoke. “You have no need to apologize. I am you wife, William.”

  He felt so blasted guilty, he couldn't look her in the eye. “If you will forgive me, my lady, I have to sort out a few things.” He turned his back on her and strode to the door.

  What the hell had he been thinking? With his fists still balled, he raced across the cold stone floors of the hall, snatched his greatcoat from the cloak room, and stormed from the house. His boots made indentations in the crunchy snow as he ambled toward the stables that were located a couple of hundred yards behind the big house. What he needed was a good, bruising ride.

  Less than ten minutes later, he was astride one of his former guardian's fine stallions and galloping across the carpet of snow that rose and dipped according to the terrain. As fine a property as Upper Barrington was, it wasn't Hamptonworth. How he wished to be there at the family home where he'd spent every Christmas of his life. It was the home where he hoped to raise his family.

  His family? Since when had the dissolute William Addison, Viscount de Vere, wanted a family? He had never really given the matter much consideration before. Before he learned Robert Pemberton was dying. Before he married Belle. Before he found himself desiring her as a man desires a woman.

  The very memory of holding her in his arms was so indelible he could not purge himself of the continuing pleasure it gave. It was so different from any other physical encounter with any other woman, he was utterly perplexed. He tried telling himself different was not necessarily bad, just perplexing.

  His horse pounded across the snow-covered valley where the only things visible were white slopes and tall, barren trees laced with white against the soft brown of their trunks. So befuddled was he over these novel feelings he was experiencing, he was not even conscious of the cold, not conscious that the snow had begun to come down again, much heavier even than on the previous night.

  As he rode, the sky darkened. Because of his own stormy countenance, he did not notice that, either. It seemed like an affirmation of his mood.

  Why in the blazes was he so awkward about this intimacy with Belle? It wasn't as if he hadn't passionately kissed a woman before. But Belle, he realized, wasn't just another woman. Belle was now his wife. Belle was a woman to be cherished. Good Lord! Belle was the woman who would bear his children.

  That simple explanation cleared his murky thoughts. Belle was not only his wife. Belle was to be his life's partner. And suddenly such a prospect no longer annoyed. Had he looked over the entire kingdom, never could he have found a woman better suited to him.

  She loved Hamptonworth in the same way he loved it. She was attracted to the same authors he was. They moved in the same circles and shared many friends. She was possessed of keen intelligence. In addition, she was loving and generous and was kind to her servants. Her pretty face had become his obsession, and her petite body, his lingering aphrodisiac. But most important of all, they were friends.

  He thought of what he'd told Sir George earlier that day. He and Belle were lifelong best friends. Which was true—though he hadn't realized it when he'd sniped at Sir George.

  Sir George! Now de Vere realized the veracity of his wife's accusation. He was jealous of Sir George in the same way he would resent any man who was in love with his wife.

  He quickly turned around his horse. He needed to behold Belle, the woman with whom he had fallen in love. The acknowledgement that he was in love with her was as liberating as coming out of shackles.

  But could she possibly return his feelings? He remembered her father's words. Could she really be in love with him? He remembered the way she had kissed him with such intensity. No one could feign a response like that. Then he remembered her face as it looked when he last beheld her. Those heavy-lidded eyes were as sultry as a tropical night.

  The very memory sent a surge of heat bolting through him even though his cheeks were red from the frost, his hands shivering from the piercing cold. His hunger to see her, to declare himself to her, propelled him like an Atlantic gale. He went straight to the front door of Upper Barrington and handed off the reins to a young footman who wore the Pemberton scarlet livery.

  And there in the doorway stood Belle, the red Kashmir shawl swaddled around her, a forlorn look on her sweet face. “I've been so worried about you! Look at how dark it's gotten. I was afraid you would get stranded and . . . freeze to death.”

  A gleam in his eye, he came to her and set a gentle hand at her waist. “Back to the library, my love. We need to talk.”

  They returned to the same sofa where they had shared the passionate kiss. Though there were some eight different velvet sofas in the chamber, he would forevermore think of this one as theirs.

  She sat, her face solemn as she eyed him.

  He fell to his knees before her and drew her hand into his.

  Then a knock sounded upon the library door. He grimaced, annoyed.

  “Yes? You may come in,” she answered in an elevated voice.

  What would the servant think if he saw his master on his knees? De Vere quickly moved to the sofa, close to Belle.

  Robertson strode into the chamber. “A letter arrived for you about an hour ago, my lady. Since it's from your father, Mrs. Farraday thought you might want to see it before you examined the rest of the day's post.”

  “Indeed I do.” She took the letter and began to read.

  De Vere watched as her expression became as solemn as one reading Scripture in church. Then she began to softly weep.

  “Whatever it is, my dearest love,” he said tenderly, “we can face it together.”

  She looked up from the paper in her hand, and a stupendous smile brightened her face. “It's good news! See, read for yourself.” She handed him the letter from her father.

  My Dearest Belle,

  I am quickly writing this to ease your mind. I have only this day realized that Marsden is the fool I've always taken him for. I am not dying! I have discovered—much to my disappointment—that I can no longer eat Cousin Betsy's delicious pickles. Every time I eat one, I suffer the most severe pains in my chest. Two days ago I snapped to the correlation between the pickles and the pains; after your wedding, I put my theory to the test, and I experienced severe chest pain within minutes of eating one of Betsy's pickles. Consultation with others of my age has convinced me that as one ages, one is not always able to continue eating the same things one enjoyed when younger. Lord Sefton admitted he has been forced to give up broccoli, which causes him chest discomfort now, though he has eaten great amounts of it throughout his life.

  I will arrive at Upper Barrington on Christmas Eve so that we may all celebrate Christ's birthday—and my continued good health—together at St. Stephen's on Christmas morning. We have much for which to be thankful.

  I hope you and your husband are becoming acquainted as a loving couple is expected to do on their honeymoon. I fully expect de Vere to be the doting husband by the time I arrive.

  De Vere dropped the note. “I am.”

  She eyed him skeptically. “You are what?”

  “Your devoted husband.” His voice was raw when he continued. “I've come to realize I'm in love with you. I will do anything in my power to win your affection.”

  “There is nothing you can do now to win my affection.”

  His face fell, but not as thuddingly as his heart.

  Her blue eyes flashed with mirth. “Because you already possess it.”

  He drew both her hands into his. “Truly?”
<
br />   She nodded. “Always. I have loved you since I was a little girl and dreamed of growing up and marrying my dear William.”

  “I am your William, your slave, your eternal conquest.” His arms then closed around her, and she fused to him like bark to a tree.

  “It's already dark, my dearest,” she whispered. “Do you think we can go upstairs?”

  “I can think of nothing that would give me greater pleasure, Lady de Vere.”

  The End

  Home For Christmas

  By

  Cheryl Bolen

  Copyright © 2012 by Cheryl Bolen

  Home For Christmas is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

  Chapter 1

  Only a mad man would be riding his horse along a remote country road on so bitterly cold a day. Captain David St. Vincent was not mad. His impatience to be home in Ramseyfield after a six-year absence accounted for the rash judgment that brought him so close to the village where he'd spent his youth. In defense of his sanity, it should be noted the skies were perfectly sunny, and the temperature had been mild when he had set off from Fulchester earlier that day.

  His eagerness to behold his family in Ramseyfield—as well as a certain beauty who resided there—was more powerful than the misery from chilling winds and strengthening snowfall. Neither his greatcoat nor his leather gloves offered sufficient protection against the elements. The prospect of riding within an enclosed carriage held vast appeal, though Captain St. Vincent would never ask a coachman to expose himself to such foul weather on his behalf.