The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance)

by Anne Gracie

  “Good, and since I am to be your husband, I insist you believe it too.”

  In the silence that followed she heard voices. Male voices, coming from outside.

  He heard them at the same time. “Damn. I think we’re about to be rescued. We’ll finish this conversation later.”

  He seemed more irritated by the inconvenience of being interrupted, but Damaris knew it was the end of their brief idyll.

  He saw her expression and misunderstood. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell them you’re my wife.”

  She pushed herself off the bed and stood up. “Get dressed,” she told him. “I’ll tidy the cottage.”

  He stood and stretched as if he had all the time in the world, sublimely, carelessly naked. It was probably disgraceful of her to want to look her fill of him, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him; he was so magnificently made.

  The voices were coming closer, but she couldn’t prevent herself from watching every move he made as he pulled on his shirt, boots, waistcoat and coat, caressing him with her eyes, the elegant, sculpted body, the carelessly graceful moves, the firm backside, the proud masculinity.

  Memorizing him.

  He finished dressing. “Do I look sufficiently respectable?” he asked. “Good God, listen to me. My friends would never believe I asked a question like that—and was serious about it. But do I?”

  She reached up and tidied his hair.

  “Very wifely,” he said. “Wish me luck.” He pressed a quick kiss on her mouth, then let himself out the front door. She heard a shout as he appeared.

  I’ll tell them you’re my wife.

  Doubts still lurked in the corners of her mind, but she refused to think about them. She had tried to do the right thing, had done her best to refuse his offer. She’d explained about the captain, and proved she wasn’t a virgin, and he’d still said they needed to marry. He didn’t even mind that she’d behaved like a vixen in bed.

  So if he still insisted on marrying her, who was she to argue?

  Wasn’t it everything she’d ever wanted?

  Apart from love.

  She swiftly cleared the bench and wiped it and the table down, then glanced at the bed. They’d slept two nights in that bed. She couldn’t just make it and leave it for the old woman to find that strangers had slept in it. And rutted in it.

  She ripped the bedclothes off and found fresh sheets in the chest. From the slight yellowing of the cotton and their stiff, pristine creases, she thought they might have been a long-ago wedding present, but she didn’t care.

  She swiftly remade the bed then took the used sheets out to the scullery. She hesitated a moment and buried her face in the sheets, breathing in the faint scent deeply. Essence of Freddy. Essence of lovemaking.

  Not rutting; lovemaking.

  She shoved the sheets in a bucket of cold water.

  Outside they seemed to be in a dispute of some kind, a debate rather than a fight, she was relieved to note. Freddy sounded amused rather than intimidated, so she decided not to worry. Yet.

  She hurried around the cottage, flicking things into place until it looked almost as tidy as when they’d found it. She seized the old woman’s brushwood broom and started to sweep the floor.

  “Stranded, were ye?” The cracked old voice came from behind her.

  Damaris whirled around. An old woman stood just inside the entrance, her bright dark eyes roaming the interior of the cottage. What she saw seemed to reassure her, for she gave a little nod and came right in, shutting the door behind her.

  “We saw the smoke. The lads came wi’ me a’cos I were worried that you be gypsies, see?” She gave a toothless smile to Damaris, her face a mass of weathered wrinkles. Her accent was thick, but Damaris could just follow her.

  “Your man be gentry-born, anyone can tell—a few words from him and they gurt lummocks out there be eatin’ out of his hand and all but tuggin’ their forelocks.” She gave a scornful snort. “But I can see you be a lass what knows how to keep house proper.” She nodded at the broom. “Never saw a lady sweep before.” She sat down at the table. “And you took good care of my girls.”

  “Your girls?”

  “My hens. I counted ’em. Not a one missing—neither by fox nor gypsy nor hungry gentleman,” she added with a twinkle.

  Damaris smiled. “If the flood had lasted much longer we might have had to resort to that. I’m afraid we’ve eaten most of your food. And used up a lot of your wood.”

  “Never you mind, my lovely, your man paid me a proper handsome sum, he did. Keep me livin’ high on the hog for a few good years, it will.”

  “We slept in your bed.” Damaris tried not to blush.

  “You be right welcome to it.”

  “I haven’t had time to wash the sheets. They’re soaking in the bucket.”

  The old woman cackled. “Newlyweds, are ye?”

  Heat rushed into her cheeks. Damaris turned and put the broom away. The door opened again, and Freddy stepped in. Three burly middle-aged men, locals by the look of them, in rough frieze coats and muddy boots, went to follow him.

  The old woman jumped up, saying sharply, “Stay out o’ here wi’ thy gurt, mucky boots, Jem Eales. You too, Billy Payne and Frank Eales.” The men stepped back sheepishly. Freddy glanced at his own equally muddy boots, but there was no mention made of him, so he stayed where he was. Dancing blue eyes met Damaris’s, silently inviting her to share the humor of it.

  “All a’right inside, then, Granny Meg?” the oldest man called in.

  “’Course ’tis, ye young fool; don’t insult the lady and gentleman.” She shook her head and said to Damaris, “Pack of old wimmen, they be. Panicking about a little bit of smoke from a chimney.” There was a gasp of indignation from the other side of the threshold, but before recriminations could start, Freddy said smoothly, “We’ll be going now. Thank you for the use of your cottage, Mrs. . . . Er. Gentlemen, if I could prevail on you to assist my wife and me with the curricle and horses, I’d be most grateful.” He reached into his pocket and there was a clink or two as money changed hands and the men abruptly departed.

  My wife and me. She swallowed.

  “Ready to leave, my dear?” Freddy asked Damaris.

  She wasn’t, but she nodded and slipped on her coat. She thanked Granny Meg for her inadvertent hospitality, bid her good-bye and took a last long look around the little cottage where so much had happened.

  Ten minutes later they were back in the curricle, which was damp but otherwise no worse for wear, and were heading along the road. The horses were fresh, champing impatiently at their bits, but Freddy reined them in firmly, frowning in concentration as they made slow and careful progress. Mud and refuse covered the road, making it slippery and dangerous.

  There was no conversation, for which Damaris was grateful. She had too much to think about. In an hour or so they’d reach Davenham Hall, and somewhere close by was the cottage she’d been promised in exchange for a false betrothal. She supposed she wouldn’t get it now.

  They’d be returning to London soon and she’d be back with her sisters and Lady Beatrice. She’d fled them before, unable to bear the lies she was telling them. Now the betrothal was real and, somehow, she was going to have to explain it all to them and hope they wouldn’t be hurt by her deception.

  How had something that had started off so simple end up so complicated? But it would all work out. It had to.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “What is right to be done cannot be done too soon.”

  —JANE AUSTEN, EMMA

  Just after noon they turned in at the big gates that marked the beginning of the oak-lined avenue that led to Davenham Hall.

  “It feels a bit strange coming here when Abby and Max are still away on their honeymoon,” Damaris said.

  They’d made a short stop at a large posting inn on the way
, where Freddy had ordered a bath for her and a bath and shave for himself. She felt much better for it, and Freddy, bathed, freshly shaved and with his coat, buckskins and boots cleaned by the inn’s valet, looked his usual elegant self again.

  It was almost as if they’d come straight from his parents’ home. Almost.

  “Are you sure it will be all right?”

  “Of course,” Freddy said. “Abby’s your sister, isn’t she? I mean, as far as the world is concerned. And I’m Max’s oldest friend.”

  Their arrival must have been observed, because before the curricle came to a complete stop, a groom came running out to meet them, going straight to the horses’ heads and taking the halter. Freddy jumped down and by the time he’d helped Damaris to alight, the front door had opened and a man in a plain dark suit, a butler, she supposed, waited at the head of the steps to welcome them.

  They had just started up the stairs leading up to the door when Abby appeared in the doorway. “Damaris!” she cried. “I saw you arriving from the window. Oh, Damaris, I’m so happy to see you.” She ran down the steps to seize Damaris in an exuberant hug.

  Damaris hugged her back, feeling suddenly a little teary. It was so good to see Abby again. She was more to her than a sister.

  “And . . . Mr. Monkton-Coombes?” Abby added with faint surprise.

  Of course, Damaris thought. Abby would have no idea of the betrothal, fake or otherwise. She’d only known Freddy as Max’s friend.

  Abby glanced down the driveway, clearly expecting another carriage at least. She gave Damaris a questioning private glance. “Are the others following? And why are you in a curricle, of all things?”

  “I’ll explain later,” Damaris said in a low voice. “But why are you here? I thought you’d still be away on your bride trip. Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s perfect.” Abby hugged Damaris again. “Oh, Damaris, marriage is wonderful! We decided—well, I decided—to ask everyone to come here for Christmas, and I want it all to be perfect—our first ever Christmas together—and so we came back early to get everything ready.”

  She turned and held out her hand to Freddy. “Mr. Monkton-Coombes, please forgive my rudeness in greeting you so tardily. I was so happy to see my sister again I forgot my manners. What a delightful surprise. Max will be pleased to have some masculine company for a change.”

  “Miss—Lady Davenham.” Freddy bowed over her hand. “You look lovely. I can see that marriage suits you.”

  She beamed at him. “Thank you, it does indeed. Now, come in, come in, I don’t know why I’m letting you stand around in the wind like this. I’m just so surprised and happy to see you.” Linking arms with Damaris, she led her up the steps. “You must be tired. Have you come far? And why in a curricle? Don’t you have any luggage? Oh, listen to me, running on like a perfect fool, tossing questions at you and giving you no time to respond.” She laughed. “I promise you I will be sensible shortly.”

  In the hallway she turned to the butler. “Proule, this is Mr. Monkton-Coombes, Lord Davenham’s oldest friend, and my sister, Miss Chance.” To the others she said, “Proule was sent to us by Featherby, and he’s proving an absolute treasure.”

  “Thank you, m’lady.” Proule gave a dignified yet fluid bow. “Welcome to Davenham Hall, Miss Chance, Mr. Monkton-Coombes.” His voice, though not loud, seemed to carry to all corners of the house.

  Damaris thanked him, but it was Abby she was finding most impressive. She seemed to have grown in confidence and ease, every inch the lady of this grand house. Despite her start in life as an orphan and a governess, she seemed quite comfortable with her new title and having an army of servants at her fingertips. And yet she was still the warmhearted Abby Damaris knew and loved.

  It was quite an achievement, Damaris thought. She glanced around the grand entry hall and tried to imagine herself doing the same at Breckenridge House. She couldn’t see it.

  Abby turned to Proule. “Please conduct Mr. Monkton-Coombes to the blue guest bedroom and allow him to wash and refresh himself. I will take my sister upstairs to do the same in the yellow bedchamber. And then inform his lordship we have guests, but don’t say who they are. I’d like to surprise him. We’ll all take tea and cakes in the drawing room in—shall we say fifteen minutes?”

  “Very good, m’lady.”

  “Where is Max?” Freddy asked.

  “In the library, wading through a mountain of correspondence that came in our absence,” Abby told him. “We only arrived last night, so he’s only just started on it. We, er, slept in.” A faint blush rose to her cheeks. Damaris observed it interestedly.

  Abby was blooming, her eyes bright, her skin glowing with health and happiness. Clearly this marriage suited her in more ways than one.

  “Why don’t I surprise him myself?” Freddy said. “There’s something I need to talk to him about.”

  Damaris gave him a sharp look. What would he need to talk to Max about? Something about her? About their situation?

  But Freddy gave her the blandest of smiles, saying, “You go with your sister, my dear. I’m sure you ladies have a lot to catch up on.”

  Abby laughed. “Very well, go ahead and surprise Max. Proule, my sister and I will take our tea and cakes upstairs in the sitting room adjoining the yellow bedchamber. The gentlemen, I’m sure, will prefer wine or brandy, or coffee, and perhaps something a little more substantial and masculine than cakes. And we shall all meet at dinner.”

  “Lady Davenham,” Freddy said with the kind of charming, playful bow he was famed for, “so new to marriage, yet already the queen of hostesses.”

  Abby laughed. Damaris observed him thoughtfully. He was playing the frivolous fop again. Why? But Abby was tugging her toward the stairs, eager to catch up on all the news, and Damaris forgot to wonder. It was so lovely to see Abby again.

  • • •

  Freddy pushed open the library door. Max was seated at a large oak desk, frowning over a mound of papers, making notes. “Yes, what is it?” he said, not looking up.

  “Strange thing for a man to be doing on his honeymoon,” Freddy said.

  “Freddy!” Max set down the pen and rose, smiling. “Where the devil did you spring from?” He moved toward Freddy, holding out his hand in greeting, then pulled up short. “Is there a problem? Has something happened to my aunt? Or the girls?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. They’re all well, as far as I know,” Freddy assured him. “Mind you, haven’t seen them for a couple of weeks—well, Damaris is with me, but I’m sure Lady Beatrice and Jane and Daisy are well. Featherby keeps a pretty good eye on them.”

  “But I specifically asked you to—” Max broke off. “Did you say Damaris is with you? You brought her here from London?” He frowned. “With her maid, I assume.”

  “We came from Breckenridge, actually.” Freddy decided not to mention the lack of maid. Marriage seemed to have brought out an inconvenient moralistic streak in Max. He supposed being responsible for a pack of unmarried girls would do that to a man. It might even happen to him. But not yet.

  “Breckenridge? Your parents’ place?”

  Freddy nodded. “Yes. Introduced her to them.”

  “You introduced Damaris to your parents? Why? I thought you never went there if you could help it. I thought you were avoiding your mother. Because of the muffins.”

  Freddy said airily, “As a matter of fact, Damaris and I are betrothed.”

  Max’s jaw dropped. “Betrothed? Good God. I don’t believe it.” He stared at Freddy for a moment then laughed. “You’re serious. Oh, this is too good. The eternal rake, captured at last.” He yanked on the bellpull. “We must drink a toast to you both!”

  “If you must know, I did the capturing,” Freddy said testily. “Very beautiful girl, Damaris, but stubborn. Took me all my powers of address to convince her to accept me.”

&nb
sp; Max laughed again. “Good for her. You say she came here with you? Where is she, then?”

  “Upstairs talking with Abby. Sisters, you know. Girlish confidences and all that.”

  “You rang, m’lord?” The butler arrived with a tray containing a coffeepot and two cups, a plate of ham sandwiches, a couple of slices of cold pie and half a roast chicken. To Max he said, “M’lady thought you might like some refreshments, m’lord.”

  “Excellent,” Max said. “The very thing. Only I think for this occasion we need”—he glanced at Freddy—“brandy?”

  Freddy nodded.

  “Brandy, if you please, Proule.”

  “At once, m’lord.” The butler bowed and departed.

  Freddy inspected the tray of food and selected a chicken leg. Munching on it, he wandered over to the desk and glanced down at the correspondence. “Business?”

  “Yes. Blasted stuff mounted up while I was away.” Max cut himself a slice of pie. “Don’t know why Bartlett sent it here, though, when Flynn’s in London, right under his nose.”

  “Yes, but Flynn’s not really the paperwork type, is he?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Is that a letter to Bartlett?” Freddy pointed with the stripped chicken bone, then tossed it in the fire.

  “Yes. I was just finishing it off. I want to catch the afternoon post.”

  “Can you pop in a message from me?” Freddy picked up a sandwich, ate it in two gulps and took another one. He was surprisingly hungry.

  “About your betrothal? Why not? Bartlett will be thrilled.”

  “Not about my betrothal. It’s about business. Sort of.”

  Max gave him a quizzical look.

  “Tell him to let me know the minute he gets any word of the Liverpool Lass.”

  “That’s one of our ships. Why do you want to know?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just tell him to tell me at once. As a matter of utmost urgency.”

  “Utmost urgency?” Max frowned. “The Liverpool Lass trades mostly in China silk and spices. Is that what you’re after? Because we might have something in the ware—”