The time had come to at least attempt some form of repayment. And that left Mellie with two choices: consummate her marriage and give Brigham an heir, or step aside and allow him to find a wife who could.
A wife who could both love him and give birth to another generation to continue the Whitmore line.
Mellie recognized the selfish choice of her decision.
Providing an heir also meant the end of her loneliness.
A baby would need care, and Mellie would dedicate herself to that task.
She could no longer allow Brigham to live as he had for all these years. It was past time Mellie gave back some of the kindness, compassion, and sympathy he’d shown her.
Lifting her chin, her conviction strong, Mellie turned away from her past…and looked to her future.
Hockcliffe Manor lay in the distance, nestled in a large grove of willow trees.
It had been her home for over five years, yet everything about the manor had changed in the last several months. The mourning period was still upon everyone, but the smell of sickness had been banished from the house, the windows thrown wide in every room without regard for the chill outside, and though she could not see it from this distance, Mellie had hung a wreath of holly on the front door. The servants no longer tiptoed about the house, and Cook no longer prepared broth for every meal.
It was Mellie who led the household into a new type of mourning, one free of the cloud of grief and sorrow they’d all lived under since she and Brigham wed.
Mellie started down the hill toward the manor, her gait not one of heaviness and burden, but light and confident.
Brigham had sent word the prior week that he’d arrive at Hockcliffe Manor on Christmastide Eve, as his reform bill was to be voted on before Parliament recessed for the holidays and the New Year.
She looked to the road Brigham would use when coming from London.
How long would he stay this year?
As if her musings had conjured him from thin air, a lone figure on horseback appeared, a trail of dust in his wake as the rider leaned close to the animal’s neck and raced toward Hockcliffe.
Brigham was home a day early.
Mellie took her hands from the deep pockets of her cloak and pulled her hood over her wild curls before lifting her skirts and sprinting toward the manor.
Brigham slumped from his horse outside Hockcliffe Manor, his eyes blurry from the dust of his travels as he attempted to focus on what hung from the front door. It was green and red—and very large—but squint as he might, he could not bring the thing into clear focus. He reached into the pockets of his coat, but they were empty. Next, he tried his trouser pocket and found what he searched for. Placing his rounded spectacles on the bridge of his nose, Brigham noted the thing appeared to be a wreath of some sort, evergreens mixed with holly and plump, red berries.
He hadn’t seen a wreath adorn the door of Hockcliffe in many years.
Giving his head a quick shake, Brigham turned to collect his bag that was tied to his gelding.
The journey from London had left him tired, filthy, and chilled to the bone. The only saving grace had been the lack of precipitation; muddied roads would have made the trip far more perilous, and risked his horse’s safety as well as his own.
There had been no need to rush out of London and push his steed at breakneck speeds, only to arrive at Hockcliffe and confess to Mellie that he’d failed. It wasn’t so much that he’d failed, but that his bill calling for stiffer regulations for coal mine operations did not make it to a vote. Two years—incalculable hours spent meeting with lords all across England—championing a much-needed reform bill, only to have it cast out before Brigham could even speak to Parliament at large.
Bloody hell, but he’d had to miss Mellie’s mother’s funeral because he’d been in Dover courting Lord Caruthis as if he were a bloody innocent debutante…and Brigham in need of a rich wife.
And in the end, he’d disappointed Mellie once more.
Looking her in the face would be impossible knowing he’d failed her.
Brigham leaned his forehead against his horse, the animal’s heated skin a welcome sensation against his chilled face.
Perhaps it would have been best to call off his trip to Hockcliffe and send word he’d been waylaid in London for business. However, it was one thing he’d never done to Mellie: lie to her. And he would not start now.
Nor could he keep himself away from her.
It had taken all his strength to leave her at the end of each Christmastide night to go back to his cold, empty London townhouse and live an entire year before seeing her again.
There was no doubt his cause was a worthy one, but the time away from Hockcliffe had begun to weigh heavily on him.
Seeing Mellie despite her years of deep anguish brought light to Brigham’s world.
He longed to love her the way she deserved and show her the affection and love his heart had kept hidden all these years. To prove to her that wedding her hadn’t only been an offer to care for her ailing mother and provide a home for the pair; no, his motives that day had been selfish. She’d been in peril, and he’d taken advantage of that by offering for her hand. Could they have grown to love one another without the necessity of the union?
Brigham hadn’t the answer to that.
And even in marriage, he feared his love was one-sided and was not to be returned.
“My lord,” Peters, his footman, called as he exited the house. “I can take your bag and call for Joseph to come ‘round for your horse.”
He’d been so preoccupied, he hadn’t heard the door open. The shock in the servant’s voice at Brigham’s unexpected early arrival was warranted. Brigham, and his father before him, had always been timely men, never arriving a moment early nor a moment late.
“Thank you, Peters.” He handed his traveling satchel to the servant and started for the front door. Though he only managed a few steps before he halted and turned back toward the footman. “Before we part ways, I have something important in my bag.”
He leaned over the satchel, his glasses sliding down his nose, but thankfully, he did not need them to see things up close. Undoing the tie, he rummaged through his hastily folded clothes and books, locating the small, paper-wrapped box.
Melloria’s Christmas gift.
A pendant with a long chain, holding the images of her mother and father.
He’d had the necklace commissioned shortly after her mother’s death and had meant to journey to Hockcliffe long before Christmastide to give it to her.
He sighed, slipping the box into his coat pocket as he started for the house once more.
He longed to bring a smile to Mellie’s face and banish the sorrow that had settled upon her in recent years. He’d witnessed her transformation from a happy, joyous young girl, looking forward to her first London Season, to a woman who was too thin, her shoulders slumped, and her hair hanging limply about her shoulders.
Brigham had been so worried the year before at her crestfallen, sickly appearance he’d sent another London physician to exam her. Thankfully, the man had proclaimed Mellie free of the illness that had robbed her of both her parents.
Even if the pendant brought only a speck of light to her sea-green eyes, it would be worth it.
As he crossed Hockcliffe’s threshold, he noticed the silence that lingered. Though a maid could be heard somewhere above stairs, and quiet laughter floated from the kitchens, Brigham was nearly overtaken by the sense of emptiness.
It must be his exhaustion taking over. He needed a bath and sleep before he sought out Mellie. Instead of heading for the main stairs, he veered toward his study. If he were stalling in making his presence known, he was more the coward than he thought. His study was as quiet as the rest of the house and blessedly vacant.
His desk was as he’d left it the previous year. His shelves housing the same hundreds of books on British law and social reform policies. Even the sideboard stood at the ready with finely crafted glass tumb
lers and decanters brimming with spirits of every sort.
For the first time in Brigham’s life, he wished he were a drinking man.
The conversation to come would be made far easier if he were deep in his cups.
Alas, he was not a man who favored spirit stronger than a dinner sherry.
Only the future would tell if his avoidance of drink continued.
Walking around his large, mahogany desk, he slumped into his chair and laid his head upon the smooth desktop. It was not warm like the neck of his horse, but it was welcome all the same.
Perhaps a few moments’ rest and he’d drag himself up to his chambers for a bath and proper attire before going in search of Mellie.
Chapter Two
Mellie paused outside the study door to catch her breath. Glancing about the winter-shrouded garden behind her, she marveled at how dissimilar it appeared to the day she and Brigham were wed; no blossoms held tightly to their stems, all the leaves had abandoned their branches to make room for new ones to bud in the spring, and, perhaps the most startling difference, the area’s lack of green. It was as if the garden sensed the house was in great mourning.
Her inhales and exhales returned to normal, and she lowered her hood to run her fingers through her knotted hair, made all the more tangled from her mad sprint back to the house.
There was nothing she could do to right her haphazard appearance, however. Not that she’d ever noticed if Brigham took interest in her with regards to her dress and hair.
Mellie listened at the door for a moment but heard no sounds from inside Brigham’s study. She favored the room because she could come and go without the pitying looks or words of condolences from the servants. In this space, she could read, write, or just sit in silence. No one entered the room except to perform the normal weekly dusting and polishing of the wood. In the study, Mellie was not the pitiful, pauper daughter of a baron. She knew the servants only meant to be kind, yet their delicate treatment of her did more to make her feel like a guest in her own home rather than the lady of the manor.
Shaking her head to clear her last thought before tears sprang to her eyes, Mellie pushed the door open on silent hinges and slipped inside, quick to close and latch the door behind her to keep out the winter cold.
With any luck, she’d be able to hurry up to her chambers and have Lilly brush and pin her hair before Brigham sent for her. Perhaps he wouldn’t call for her but retire to his own room.
Something had to be amiss, for Brigham had sent word he’d arrive on the morrow.
Mellie turned toward the door as a loud exhale sounded in the room, causing her to jump in fright, her hip hitting the table and scattering the collection of figurines that had been arranged with precise care on top.
Brigham lifted his head from his desk, his glasses askew, and his short curls disheveled. Straightening his glasses, he looked as if he attempted to focus on what had disturbed his slumber.
“My lord,” she squeaked, glancing down at the floor and the strewn figurines. “I did not mean to wake you…nor knock your collection from the table.” She quickly knelt down and collected the tiny statues, arranging them as best she could.
He remained silent as Mellie stood and turned to face him once more, begging herself to look contrite over her trespassing into his private study, waking him, and spilling his figurines to the floor. Thankfully, her clumsiness hadn’t resulted in any of Brigham’s collection breaking.
To her shock, it wasn’t anger or irritation she saw in his expression, nor even frustration at her unexpected distraction.
Mellie stood still before her husband as his stare trailed from her wild, windblown hair to her open cloak that revealed her black gown beneath, to her boot-clad toes then back again, settling somewhere between her bosom and her neck.
Her stomach tightened when she noted his eyes darkening, his lids closing slightly as he gazed up at her from his seated position. If he’d ever looked at her thusly, Mellie did not remember…and it would be very difficult to forget the raw longing in his eyes. Her nipples tightened into hard buds under her coarse shift. If she were not standing before Brigham, she’d dispel with her clothing, as its touch irritated her sensitive skin.
Her chin notched an inch higher. A pure, scorching warmth pooled between her legs and her knees quivered.
The slight magnification of his brown eyes behind his spectacles only intensified the desire evident in his eyes. The orbs, normally a deep cocoa hue, now flamed like honey as he continued to stare at her. He pushed back his chair and stood, making her nerves jitter as he refrained from uttering a single word.
Perhaps words are unnecessary, Mellie mused.
The lust in his stare was like a thousand utterances, and each had pulses of pleasure coursing through her. She may be as yet untouched, but Mellie was not ignorant of what transpired between a man and a woman when the door was closed.
Could seducing one’s husband be such a simple feat?
Unfortunately, or likely fortunately, they were not in a private chamber but the study. A servant could enter at any moment with a meal or tea for Brigham.
She swallowed, the sound echoing in the quiet room, and she demanded her heart stop racing and her breathing return to normal.
Certainly, he was tired from his travels, hungry for his noonday meal, and looking forward to a few private moments—which Mellie had interrupted.
“I will leave you to some privacy,” she mumbled, breaking their stare. “My apologies for interrupting—“
“No.” It was spoken quietly, but with a force no amount of volume could match. “Please…stay.”
The simple plea had Mellie transfixed. Even if a fire raged around them both, she would be unable to flee the room and Brigham’s presence.
Chapter Three
His fists balled at his sides as the thickness in his throat threatened to cut off the air his body so desperately needed. All the while, his shame boiled to the surface. He never should have come back to Hockcliffe, at least not in such a wrecked demeanor.
Brigham was helpless to stop the shame, remorse, and scorn that followed.
He was a scoundrel like no other. Mellie stood before him, her mourning attire evident in the black gown nearly hidden under her winter cloak.
She was in pain, swallowed by grief at the recent death of her mother, and all Brigham could ponder was how her soft, wild, strawberry-gold waves would feel against his skin. What glorious curves her gown kept hidden from his view. In his mind, he was stripping the offending fabric from her body. Unfastening the buttons he knew lay at her back, pulling free her stays, and watching as layer after layer fell to the floor, revealing first her smooth shoulders, then the creamy flesh of her breasts, and next the flare of her womanly hips and long, toned legs. He would remove her stockings one at a time as he knelt before her, pressing his lips to her exposed skin. Certainly, he would not walk away unharmed for the very touch of her would scorch him thoroughly.
If that were the case, Brigham would perish a satisfied man.
He pulled his stare from her, making a show as he removed his glasses and scrubbed at his eyes.
Bloody hell but this was the woman he’d spent countless nights, months, years dreaming of.
Here she stood before him, and he could not speak, could not think, could not bring himself to keep his lustful longings within.
Brigham replaced his spectacles, determined to treat Mellie with the respect and reverence she deserved. But when his eyes lit on her once more, Brigham was startled to see not the woman he’d left the previous Christmastide—wary, broken, and her eyes devoid of life—but the lady he’d fallen in love with all those years ago. Her hair had returned to its former luxuriant waves and would certainly shine under the sun that had returned her sallow complexion to a healthy, sun-kissed glow. She stood taller and was no longer reduced to the lanky, rail-thin shell of a woman who spent every ounce of her energy caring for another.
“You have arrived early, my lord
.”
The melodic note to her voice was that of his dreams, as well. Yet, there, Mellie never spoke of him as my lord. No, it was Brigham, always Brigham—or my love, my dearest, or my everything.
My lord was never what he longed for her to say… not to him. They’d known each other since birth. They’d climbed trees together in their youth; they’d shared a chaste kiss several years later. And now, they were man and wife, even if Brigham had used her grief to bring them to that position.
He swallowed the lump that had settled in his throat and unclenched his fists to run his damp palms down the front of his trousers. “Yes, matters in London concluded earlier than anticipated.”
“I do hope all went well.” Her gaze had shifted away from him to the stack of papers on his desk.
“It was as fate deemed it to be,” he retorted, making no attempt to keep the bitter note from his voice. Odd how fate seemed to have a hand in altering his life at every turn.
“I would not know of such things.” Mellie tugged her cloak tighter about her body, blocking his view of her gown beneath, its bodice straining across her bosom and the skirts flowing from her waist to the floor.
However, her words belied the truth. Melloria was quite possibly the most knowledgeable person in the room on the matter of fate. Had fate not stepped into her life, as well, and wreaked havoc? Had fate not altered her course as a London debutante and made her a wife in under two years?
Hell, fate—that evil taskmaster—hadn’t so much changed Brigham’s course as shortened it. He’d been willing to stand aside and allow Mellie her time in London, her Season among society; though he’d always known he would offer for her hand. After time in town, surrounded by dashing, honorable men, and beautiful, guileless ladies, Mellie may have chosen to accept his proposal, or she might have turned up her nose at him.
They would never know if they would have chosen one another willingly, had other options been available to them.
Bedded Under The Christmastide Moon_Regency Novella Page 2
