The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance)

by Anne Gracie

  Freddy smiled faintly. “I do. She has the makings of a very pretty whip.”

  “You drove her in your curricle?” his mother exclaimed. “In this weather? Honestly, Frederick, have you no idea of the proper way to treat a lady? You should have sent for your father’s traveling chaise, or hired one, at the very least.”

  “Oh, he did, and very comfortable and luxurious it was, too,” Damaris interjected coolly, hoping her outrage didn’t show. So very rude to dress Freddy down in front of his new fiancée as if he were a naughty schoolboy. Not to mention unfair. “But I preferred to ride in the curricle.” She glanced at the window. “We were very lucky with the rain. I see it’s coming down rather hard now, but we had fair weather all the way from London.”

  Again a well-plucked brow arched in haughty surprise. Damaris had a feeling she was going to become rather familiar with it over the period of this visit. Lady Breckenridge did not like to be contradicted, even politely.

  Damaris could see now why Freddy had not been precisely eager to spend much time here. He’d received no sort of welcome at all, no warmth, only criticism.

  She knew exactly what that felt like. She’d had it all her life from Papa. And she wasn’t going to take it from these two strangers.

  “Now, if you don’t mind,” she said sweetly, “it’s been a long trip and I would like to wash and tidy up.”

  Lady Breckenridge stiffened at the implied slur on their hospitality. Lord Breckenridge’s brows drew together in a frown.

  The atmosphere in the big ugly room had chilled perceptibly, and it was nothing to do with the fire, which was still blazing.

  “Of course,” Lady Breckenridge said. “Horwood will show you to your rooms. Dinner will be at eight. Frederick, you will collect Miss Chance and escort her to the dining room.”

  They didn’t like even a tiny taste of their own medicine, Damaris thought. Good. If they didn’t have the good manners to allow their son and his betrothed time to freshen up and visit the privy after a long journey, then they should be embarrassed.

  When she was rushed in to meet them immediately on arrival, she’d assumed it was because they were eager to see their son and meet his fiancée. She understood now that was far from the case. They’d given no thought to their guests’ comfort. She hoped they hadn’t intended to put her—and by association, their son—at a disadvantage, but the suspicion lingered.

  Freddy must have expected it. His insistence on breaking the journey at the village inn now made sense. If she hadn’t used the privy, washed her face and hands and tidied her hair then, if she’d met that cold, elegant woman all blowsy and blown about and in need of the privy, well, what a first impression that would have made.

  “Thank you for arranging that stop in the village,” she murmured to Freddy as they mounted the stairs in Horwood’s wake.

  He gave a quick half smile of acknowledgment.

  “Your parents are not particularly happy with this betrothal, are they?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Noses out of joint, that’s all. Would have preferred I chose one of the muff—girls they’d picked out for me. Hope they didn’t upset you.” He gave her a searching look as they reached the landing.

  “Not in the least,” Damaris said. “In fact, I quite enjoyed it.”

  “Enjoyed it?” One mobile brow rose. She knew where that came from now. Odd how on one person it was annoying and on another it could be quite endearing. He was worried about her, she realized.

  “After this visit I won’t ever see them again,” she reminded him. “You did say you’d prefer they didn’t much like me.”

  “Yes, but the way they spoke to you—”

  “Was not nearly as rude as how they spoke to you.”

  He shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

  “So am I. My father was constantly critical. I doubt he ever had a kind thought or word for me—or anyone—in his life.” She squeezed his hand. “Family can hurt you much more than outsiders can.”

  He snorted. “Doesn’t bother me. It was you I was worrying about.”

  She smiled at him. “Then don’t. After a lifetime with Papa, whatever your parents direct at me will be water off a duck’s back.”

  • • •

  At dinner the interrogation continued. Lord and Lady Breckenridge had, it seemed, no interest in discovering what their son had been doing in the last year; it was all about Damaris.

  “Did your mother, the marchesa, teach you how to manage a large household?” Lady Breckenridge asked.

  “She did.” At least, her mother had; and Damaris had managed the mission and controlled the purse strings since she was twelve. Not that there was much money left by then.

  Lady Breckenridge sniffed. “I don’t suppose Italian houses are the same.”

  “As Venetian ones? There is some similarity, apart from the canal frontages. Oh, you mean compared with English houses? I know a little about the running of a large London house and have stayed with my sister Abby in her country home, Davenham Hall, but otherwise it’s hard to generalize. These parsnips are excellent. You grow them yourself, I presume?”

  “Not altogether a bad thing for an ancient family to gain fresh broodstock.” Lord Breckenridge entered the fray. “Don’t know about Italians, though.”

  “Venetians,” Freddy said.

  “Hmmph!” The old man eyed Damaris critically. “Eat up, gel, you’re a bit thin for my taste. There’s the succession to think of.”

  Lady Breckenridge cleared her throat meaningfully and eyed her husband.

  He grunted. “Take your point, my dear. M’wife here’s always been slender as a willow and still managed to throw two healthy sons.” He pointed his fork at Damaris. “We breed sons in this family, missy, d’you hear me?”

  “Damaris has three sisters,” Freddy put in helpfully.

  Lord Breckenridge frowned. “What, no boys?”

  “None at all,” she admitted cheerfully.

  “I like girls,” Freddy said.

  “Young idiot, what do I care what you like? It’s the succession that counts!” He turned to Damaris. “You hunt, of course.”

  “No. I don’t even know how to ride,” Damaris said serenely. It was wonderfully liberating not to have to please them; and the ruder they were to their son, the freer Damaris felt to say whatever she chose. When his parents had first started firing questions at her, Freddy had bristled in her defense but once he saw she was quite capable of dealing with them—even quite enjoying it—he sat back.

  “Not know how to ride?” Lord Breckenridge glared at his son. “What sort of an upbringin’ is that for a future bride of Breckenridge?”

  Freddy shrugged. “I don’t suppose there’s much call for horses in Venice.”

  Damaris nodded. “Gondolas yes, horses no. A gondola is a kind of boat,” she explained kindly. “The canals, you see.”

  The old man glowered at her. “I know what a gondola is.”

  She smiled at him. “Then you understand why I don’t ride.”

  Freddy leaned forward. “I thought I’d teach her to ride while we’re here. Give us something to do.”

  “Harrumph! Not much point at her age,” his father growled. “Only time to learn to ride is when you’re a child.” He gave Damaris a flinty look. “I was ridin’ to hounds by the time I was seven.”

  “Good for you,” she responded. “But even if I could ride, I wouldn’t hunt foxes.” She’d had a taste of how it felt to be hunted and she wouldn’t wish that on any creature.

  “Not hunt foxes?” His eyes almost popped with the heresy. “Why on earth not? They’re vermin! And it’s excellent sport.”

  “All God’s creatures have their place.”

  “A fox’s place is to be hunted, dammit, gel!”

  “Not by me.” She nibbled on a macaroon, then added provocati
vely, “Besides, foxes are sweet.”

  “Sweet?” he echoed in disgust. “Foxes are sweet?” He turned to glare at Freddy. “And this is the bride you choose to bring home to Breckenridge?”

  “It is,” Freddy agreed. “Delightful, isn’t she?”

  “Harrumph!” His father hunched over his wine and after a moment muttered, “Almeria Armthwaite is English and a bruisin’ rider to hounds. You could have had her.”

  Freddy smiled. “Anyone can, I believe, as long as he enjoys the whip.”

  There was a short, stunned silence, into which Freddy rose. “Excellent dinner, Mother; convey my compliments to Mrs. Bradshaw. It’s been a long day and my bride-to-be must be tired, so we’ll bid you good night.” And before his parents could recover, Freddy and Damaris made their escape.

  The moment the door closed behind them, Freddy gave a small whoop, seized Damaris in his arms and swung her around in an exuberant whirl. “That was wonderful!” he exclaimed. She laughed and as he came to a halt and let her slide back to earth, his voice deepened. “You were wonderful.”

  He gazed down at her for a long moment, his arms loosely locked around her; tall and warm and strong. She stared back, breathlessly aware of the way her body was still pressed against him, the tips of her breasts just touching his chest, her palms resting lightly on his forearms. His hands were warm as they slid slowly down to circle her waist. Her skirts were twined around his legs. Every nerve in her body thrummed with awareness of him.

  She moistened her lips. His blue eyes darkened and he bent his head, angling it to—

  A discreet cough behind them caused Freddy to release her and step back. A footman carrying a large tray of crockery passed them by, looking embarrassed and muttering an apology.

  Damaris’s cheeks were burning. What must he think of her, pressing herself against him like that? There for the taking, right outside his parents’ dining room. This was a business arrangement, she reminded herself.

  Freddy offered her his arm and together they mounted the stairs. “I meant it,” he said in a low voice. “You were wonderful at dinner. So composed and unruffled. Are you sure they didn’t upset you?”

  She strove to make her voice cool and matter-of-fact. “Not at all. But I was very annoyed by their rudeness to you. Are they always like that?”

  “Don’t let it bother you,” he said. “I don’t.”

  It did bother him, she could tell, and now what he’d told her about only coming here once a year, and not even for Christmas, was starting to make sense. But despite his light dismissal, she recognized the underlying message of “keep out, private family business.” And since she was a faux fiancée she had to respect that. For now, at least.

  They climbed the stairs in silence. Outside, the rain drummed steadily, pouring off the roof and rattling down spouts and gutters.

  “Foxes are sweet?” he quizzed her when they reached the landing.

  She chuckled. “I couldn’t resist. And what about your comment about Miss Armthwaite?”

  “Father walked into that one.” They’d reached the door of her bedchamber and paused. His hand came up, as if to cup her cheek, and she stiffened and quickly stepped back.

  “I think it’s best if we don’t,” she said and, in a moment of inspiration, added, “We had that moment in the hall in front of that footman—surely that should suffice. It’s not necessary now, is it? For our pretense, I mean.”

  “Necessary?” He looked at her as if trying to fathom her thoughts. “No, it’s not . . . necessary.”

  She fought a blush and said in as crisp a voice as she could manage, “Then I’ll bid you good night.” She hurriedly let herself into her bedchamber, closed the door and leaned against it in relief. What must he think of her? She’d promised she had no interest in him, no interest in marriage. And it was true, so what business did she have in encouraging him to . . . flirt?

  “Tired, miss?” Her maid, Polly, came forward. “I’ve put a warming pan over your sheets, miss, and your nightgown is warming by the fire. There’s hot water in the jug, and I can fetch a hot brick for you if you want one.”

  “Thank you, Polly, that will do very nicely.” She quickly washed, changed into her nightclothes and slipped into bed. Polly blew out the candles and slipped into her own bed in the adjoining room.

  Damaris snuggled down. She was cozy and warm, almost too warm. Her body was hot with remembered awareness.

  Lust, her father whispered in her head. . . .

  She buried her face in her pillow.

  • • •

  After breakfast the next morning, Lady Breckenridge announced she would show Miss Chance over the house—the more domestic areas, which would, naturally, be of most interest to a future bride.

  Minutes into the tour her true purpose soon became apparent: to impress on Damaris her unworthiness for the position.

  “I’d arranged a house party to start next week,” Lady Breckenridge said. “I had invited the flower of English young womanhood, and their mothers.”

  “Mmm?” Damaris made a vaguely interested sound. “These linen closets are most impressive.”

  “Every girl invited I’ve known since birth; even before that, you might say. Our families have known each other for generations.” She fixed Damaris with a look. “Generations.”

  “No surprises there for you, then,” Damaris said cheerfully and looked around for something else to comment on. Did the woman think she was going to wither up and creep away?

  “Each girl gently born, delicately bred, skilled in all the womanly arts, each one born to step into the position, knowing everyone, and everything . . .”

  “But you had to cancel it. What a shame. Do you make your own cheese?”

  Lady Breckenridge’s pale blue eyes glittered. “Instead, here you are, a girl I’ve never met before, some connection of Lady Beatrice’s but otherwise entirely unknown to English society. And half Italian.” As if Damaris were some mongrel puppy. Which, come to think of it, was not far off the mark, Damaris thought. Papa’s family was quite undistinguished.

  “Yes, and half English too. Interesting, isn’t it?”

  From the look on Lady Breckenridge’s face, it wasn’t. “Do you play any musical instruments, Miss Chance? The harp, or perhaps the pianoforte?”

  “No, I’m afraid my musical skills are barely adequate, though I do like to sing, and we are learning to dance—my sisters and I.”

  The well-plucked eyebrows almost disappeared. “You don’t dance?”

  “My father didn’t approve of it.”

  “Good heavens, how very peculiar. I would have thought dancing was an essential skill for any young woman aspiring to become a lady. But then, I suppose when one has had a foreign upbringing . . .” Lady Breckenridge tailed off on a disparaging note. “You embroider, of course.”

  “Not very well, though I do stitch a neat hem, if I say so myself.”

  “Hems,” Lady Breckenridge declared, “are for maids to sew.”

  “It’s a skill I’ve found very useful over the years,” Damaris said cheerfully.

  Lady Breckenridge sniffed. “Do you have any ladylike accomplishments at all, Miss Chance?”

  Damaris smiled. “I’m not sure how ladylike it is, but I do like to draw and paint.”

  She was rewarded with a thin smile. “Indeed. Watercolors are quite an acceptable medium.”

  “I paint china,” Damaris said brightly and inaccurately. “Cups, bowls, chamber pots, that sort of thing.” She’d been trained to paint with watercolors. The china painting was a new skill. But she wasn’t aiming to please.

  There was a chilly silence, then: “I should hate to see Frederick marry to disoblige his parents.”

  “I should hate even more for him to marry simply to oblige them,” Damaris said, and when Lady Breckenridge’s eyebrows flew up on cue, sh
e added, “I think a man, if he’s truly a man, ought to marry to please himself, don’t you, Lady Breckenridge? So this is where you dry the washing in wet weather. How ingenious. And of course, necessary—I didn’t realize it rained so much in England until I came here.”

  “This has been an unseasonably cold winter,” Lady Breckenridge said, adding waspishly, “I suppose the sun shines all the time in Italy.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Damaris said carelessly. “I’ve never been there.”

  “What? But—”

  “Venice,” she said. “And this is the storeroom? So interesting that English people confuse the two countries. Venice was an independent republic for centuries until Napoleon’s invasion. Currently it’s part of the Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia, though we have every hope that the Austrians will leave and the republic be reestablished.” And how grateful she was for Abby’s insistence that they learn something of their supposed country of birth.

  She smiled at Lady Breckenridge, who was looking exceedingly sour, and continued, “I would never mix up England and Scotland, or England and Wales. But then, my mother ensured I had an excellent education. Heavens. What a large flour bin. Do you not find that the flour gets stale in such a large container?”

  “No,” Lady Breckenridge said thinly. “We do not.”

  The rain had stopped and they proceeded to the kitchen gardens. Having tended gardens most of her life, Damaris was truly interested and asked the head gardener a great many questions.

  As they left the high-walled kitchen gardens, Lady Breckenridge commented, “You seem to have a great deal of practical knowledge of gardening, Miss Chance. So unexpected in a lady. One could almost imagine you were the gardener’s daughter.” She tittered at her own joke.

  “Mama never approved of my grubbing around in the dirt, either. She held that a lady should have a variety of accomplishments and interests to occupy her; hers were music and sewing—she did truly exquisite embroidery.” Her eyes clouded, remembering how the pieces Mama had embroidered for Damaris’s bride chest had been burned. “But I preferred to grow things.” It was a necessity as well as a pleasure: The garden helped keep them fed.