Once Upon a Christmas Wedding

by Scarlett Scott

  Lila had to admit she had been grateful for that.

  He’d walked a great deal of the remainder of their journey. He must have been exhausted.

  She rolled over and examined his chamber with the benefit of the full light of day.

  A wardrobe. A desk.

  Two windows, both with drapes that must be centuries old.

  Sitting up, she dangled her feet over the edge of the tall bed. The carpet looked even older than the drapes.

  Personal objects of her husband’s lured her to lower her feet to the floor so that she could examine what he felt necessary, or precious enough, to keep close at hand.

  She smiled at the strands of his curling blond hair left behind in a well-used brush. And at the razor and comb he left casually strewn atop his bureau. The thought struck her that he did not keep a valet.

  Perhaps another item to add to her list.

  Trailing to the desk, she sat down and picked up an unfinished document he’d been writing. Supplies to be purchased, from what she could surmise, printed in an almost child-like script. A few other notes that she didn’t understand about sheep in the third quarter… repairs.

  She did not open the drawer.

  On a small table beside the bed was a small jewel box. Inside, a ring with the same faded crest that had adorned the door of their carriage.

  Why did he not wear his ducal ring?

  Sounds at the door had her hastily replacing it and turning around.

  “Fran!” It seemed as though a lifetime had passed since she’d seen her dearest maid and companion. She flew across the room into the older woman’s arms and squeezed her with all her might.

  “No tears, then? He has treated you kindly?” Fran stood back and examined her closely. “His Grace asked that I did not awaken you, but that I assist you in dressing so that he can show you about the estate.”

  “No tears.” Lila sniffed. “And I believe he is a good man.”

  So far. Unless her instincts were wrong. He’d been kind.

  He’d been more than kind.

  He wanted to spend the day with her. Showing her the estate. Her new home! He was not going to turn back into the sullen stranger she married.

  “There’s a room across the way where he told me to unpack your belongings. What kind of duke is he, that he doesn’t have a proper chamber for his bride? Anyhow, come along with me, dearie, and I’ll get you prepared for the day. You look as though a rat has been sleeping in your hair.” Lila followed the energetic woman across the hall into the other room.

  “We’ve a good deal of work to do,” she told her cheerfully.

  And for one of the first times in her life, she felt she might have something to offer this world.

  “Come in.” Vincent barely glanced up from the journal of transactions as he bid Calvin to enter.

  Only it wasn’t Calvin.

  The first day, his wedding day, his wife had deliberately chosen unflattering garments in some rebellious gesture against her father or him or both of them. The second morning, his wife had dressed without the assistance of her maid.

  Today, she appeared every inch a duchess.

  So much so that he wondered how on earth he was going to manage to keep her satisfied. Two people could not spend all of their time in the bedchamber, after all.

  She wore her silken strands of coffee-colored hair in a braided coronet wound about the top of her head. Her skin glowed and the vibrant azure gown she’d chosen matched her eyes almost perfectly.

  Vincent awkwardly pushed back his chair so that he could rise. “Your Grace,” he addressed her.

  A secret light danced behind those eyes. Ah, she might look the duchess, but this was the same woman he’d had writhing and bucking beneath his mouth the day before.

  “Your Grace.” She dipped into a graceful curtsey.

  For all of thirty seconds, Vincent seemed to lose track of any intelligent thought. He’d sent her maid up when he’d discovered the luggage coach had arrived early.

  Ah, yes.

  He cleared his throat. “Are you rested enough to see some of the estate today?”

  She gave him a sideways smile. “I am, Your Grace.”

  His mouth twitched. “And have you broken your fast?”

  Fluttering lashes. “I have.” Her tongue peeked out from between plump vermillion lips. “Your Grace.”

  Was she flirting with him?

  And then she seemed flustered. “If you’d rather, we could stay here and go over some of those reports.”

  He was inclined to believe the best of her, but he could not forget whose daughter she was.

  And then she shrugged. “Or not.”

  “Tomorrow we will ride.” And then. “Do you ride?”

  “Of course. I can change if you’d prefer—“

  “What you’re wearing is beautiful.” He did not want her to change. He cleared his throat. “I’d thought to give you a tour of the castle.”

  She’d seemed stunned by his compliment but managed to nod. “I would love to learn more about your family. Your history. Saint-Pierre?” She tilted her head with a smile. “I had not even considered my new name until you called me by it yesterday.”

  Vincent offered an arm and walked them to the door. He’d not considered that she knew very little about him. About a man she now belonged to. She’d left her home, her family. “You were happy to see your maid?”

  She gave him her smiles all too easily. “I was.”

  Although his legs were much longer than hers, he hardly had to slow his steps at all. She moved eagerly beside him.

  “This is the formal drawing-room.” Vincent opened a door and winced. The furniture appeared faded and worn. “I would suggest refurbishing it or replacing it all together but…” He would not refer to their empty pockets this morning.

  “The windows are lovely.” She released his arm to stroll slowly toward the center, just beneath an elaborate but dust-covered chandelier.

  A duchess indeed. She stood in the middle of the room—a blaze of color set in a portrait painted using only black and whites. Watching her, he realized that the room was grand. If only…

  He waited a moment and then closed the door behind her after they exited to the corridor once again.

  “Did you love him?” He wasn’t certain why he’d asked. But she had been betrothed for nearly two decades.

  “My father?”

  “No. The man who jilted you.” Although he wondered that, too…

  But she was shaking her head. “He was my… escape. I didn’t know him, really. I was horribly disappointed to learn he’d married another lady. I had hoped… And then my father made all of us move from where I’d lived all my life. I didn’t understand at the time, but I think perhaps he had no choice. It was as though he was… running.” She pinched her lips together.

  “Was it me, in particular, that you did not wish to marry? Is there someone else?”

  Her eyes grew wide, as though the thought had just occurred to her. “No.” And then she narrowed her eyes. “What of you?”

  He shook his head.

  There was no one in particular. He’d not courted any of the local landowners’ daughters because he’d considered himself a sorry prospect, just as he’d told her. Keenan had been the prize.

  “Tell me some of what you learned from spying on your father.” He would call it what it was.

  She stiffened beside him.

  “I meant no insult. But that was what it was, was it not?”

  “He kept us in the dark about anything that mattered.”

  “And what did you discover?” Would she tell him or were her loyalties still with her miscreant of a father?

  They had arrived at a set of double doors and Vincent paused, awaiting her answer, before opening them.

  “I learned that in order to turn a profit, estates must look beyond agriculture. There are various investments… Machinery is going to overtake the labor of many men.” She stared at the floor, blu
shing almost, as she spoke such insight.

  Vincent opened the doors in a sweeping gesture. The ballroom. Unused since his mother’s death.

  She peered inside, at the vast parquet floor set beneath sixteen different chandeliers. When she looked back at him, Vincent thrust his hands into his pockets.

  “Perhaps you can take a look at our books once you’ve settled in.”

  “Our?”

  In for a penny, in for a pound. “Ours.”

  “So this pile is correspondence and reports; this one is for receipts; this pile is…?”

  “Unknown?” He winced as he said the word. It was the tallest stack by far.

  After discovering his wife to be an accomplished horsewoman, they’d spent the past week riding over the estate and visiting tenants who had not yet decided to abandon him. The weather had been cold and crisp, but everywhere they went, they’d been invited inside for hot tea or coffee and to ‘warm the wee duchess up.’ The tenants loved her already.

  As did his servants.

  This morning, lazy flakes of snow had been falling from the sky and Vincent had convinced his energetic wife to remain inside while he met with his steward and three of his most stalwart tenants. Last year’s crops had yielded less than the year before. They needed to make some decisions before proceeding into the next growing season. Vincent had heard of estates becoming more profitable by increasing herd sizes and focusing on maintaining greater land areas in order to support the demand.

  He needed money to increase the herd sizes but would figure that out later. With larger herds, the future promised income from mutton, wool, and even some dairy products.

  He’d also been wondering which of these machines Lila mentioned might increase efficiencies.

  He’d returned from the vigorous discussion to find his wife sitting at his brother’s—nay—his desk, sorting through paperwork that he’d been avoiding for weeks now.

  “Pemberth?” She pulled him back to the task at hand. “You did say you didn’t mind.”

  He scrubbed one hand down his face in an attempt to wipe away his embarrassment. He hated the fact that something so seemingly benign had defeated him.

  “I don’t mind.” He exhaled. “I’m just…” She trusted him with so much. Her security, her safety.

  Her body.

  The only night he had not bedded her had been the night of their arrival. They’d both been too exhausted.

  And she was not shy. She’d enthusiastically agreed to almost anything he thought to suggest. And once… it had been she who had been creative.

  And now she was making an attempt to unravel this mess he’d allowed to accumulate.

  The swishing of her dress recaptured his attention as she rose and slowly moved around the desk. She surprised him then by wrapping her arms around his waist and squeezing. “My sister is one of the smartest people I know. She paints the most beautiful portraits using watercolors but give her a page of math problems to solve and she’s like to pull her hair out.” Vincent rested his chin atop his wife’s elegantly braided coiffure. “I, on the other hand, enjoy such tasks. You are doing me a favor by allowing me to sort through such a puzzle.”

  “You needn’t placate me this way to soothe my ego.”

  “What ego? You are the least arrogant man I’ve ever met.”

  Vincent shook his head. Who is this woman?

  “You are a good man, Pemberth. And quite on the way to making an excellent duke.”

  At this, he laughed outright at her optimistic faith in him.

  “You are a good man,” she scolded. And then that smile of hers cracked open the seals on his heart. “Now, you’re cold as ice. Sit by the fire and I’ll see what I can do about deciphering your brother’s handwriting.” She released him and proceeded to rub her hands together as though anticipating a great meal. “This way, you’ll be right here in case I have any questions.”

  Vincent had stopped on his way home to repair a section of fence. He hadn’t realized until that moment how cold he’d become.

  And as long as she might require his assistance… He lowered himself into the large wing-backed chair near the hearth, leaned back his head, and closed his eyes.

  He listened as she efficiently sorted through one of the piles.

  She’d told him she’d paid attention to her father’s business dealings. Something he’d failed to do. He’d been more interested in learning about soil and animals and the people who worked the land.

  “I believe you are correct about agriculture. Crop yields are diminishing annually.” Vincent opened his eyes to stare at the fire. “Miller, Freddy, and Simon are open to moving toward planting more pasture and increasing the herds, but Helmsworth wants to wait.”

  “Helmsworth, he is your steward, correct? And the others… They have tenant houses.” He’d introduced her to dozens of families over the past week, and yet, she remembered.

  “Correct.”

  “What are his reasons?” Now she was flipping through the correspondence as though she was dealing cards.

  “We need funds to increase the herd sizes. I was hoping to get a loan.” The idea sounded outlandish to him as he spoke the words. Merely the fact that he would require a loan to accomplish something so simple was humiliating. And now he was telling his wife, no less.

  “So we need money.” She stated the fact baldly. “Not simply to refurbish the drawing-room.”

  Vincent nodded, still not looking at her.

  “Very well. I’d best look hard at all of this, then. If anyone can find a source for revenue, it’s the Earl of Quimbly’s wayward daughter. Trust me.”

  Vincent let out a scoffing sound.

  “Pemberth.” Her voice demanded his full attention.

  He turned his head to meet her serious gaze.

  “If there is a possible way, I will discover it.”

  Chapter 8

  Estate Details

  Lila had never imagined she could find so much satisfaction in her daily routine as a wife.

  In the mornings, she and Pemberth went riding, visiting various farmers and tenants in the area, and if the weather did not permit, sometimes explored secret nooks and crannies inside the estate. They shared a nuncheon and went their separate ways for the afternoon—he attended to fences and horses and sheep and whatnot, and she continued reading through the documents that had accumulated over the past two years.

  The former duke, Keenan—she had come to feel almost as though she knew him—had kept only slightly better records than her duke.

  She’d found a few interesting items and set them aside. She didn’t want to bring them to Pemberth’s attention until she was certain they actually meant something.

  Aha! This was what she was looking for. A previously opened letter from Findlay and Nottingham Imports and Exports. She opened the journal and confirmed her suspicions.

  And then she realized that another note had been stuffed inside along with the statement. One that had very recognizable handwriting scrawled across it.

  Her father’s. Dated 19 August 1826

  Your Grace,

  As per your promise, made on 1 Sept, Year of our Lord, 1825, and since payment of eight thousand pounds has not been forthcoming, I demand you follow through with said alternative promise of marriage to my eldest daughter, Lila Catherine Breton, making her Duchess of Pemberth before 31 December of this year. Failure to comply will result in damages taken by three particularly unpleasant gentlemen in my employ.

  Please acknowledge receipt of this demand within one fortnight.

  Salutations,

  Quimbly

  Another note in what Lila now recognized as Keenan’s handwriting.

  Paid in full, 30 August.

  But this made no sense at all!

  She traced back events in her mind. Blakely had called off his betrothal to her in June of 1825 and shortly afterward, her father had moved their family under what had seemed to be havey-cavey circumstances up to Bryony Manor.
<
br />   Apparently, her father had negotiated some sort of devil’s bargain with Pemberth’s brother last summer.

  But if Keenan had paid the debt in full, then why had Pemberth been forced to marry her?

  She frantically began searching through the accounting journal once again. She needed to figure this out. Something was not right.

  What if her Pemberth had married her under false pretenses?

  What had really happened to Keenan?

  There must be more here! She began opening drawers and checking for any files she might have missed. At the bottom of the lowest left-hand drawer, she noticed something odd. The drawer appeared shallow in depth.

  Feeling like something of a sleuth, investigator, or spy, she located the knife she normally used to open envelopes and began wedging it around the wooden bottom.

  Pop!

  It lifted off. And beneath the false drawer, a small stack of papers sat innocently beckoning her to peruse.

  Certificate of Death

  She skimmed over the information.

  Keenan David Timothy Saint-Pierre, Died 8 September, Year of our Lord 1826.

  And then her eyes moved to the next line.

  Cause of death: Suicide

  “Has the desk finally consumed you completely?” Pemberth’s voice had her slamming the drawer shut and jolting up. He obviously had not intended her to discover the death certificate. He would have informed her of the hidden papers if he’d wanted her to know.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Something cold took hold of her heart at the information she’d discovered earlier. Why had he married her if the debt had been paid?

  What has Father done now?

  “Oh, um. Not yet.” And then she forced a smile. “You’re back early.” Should she ask him now? He looked more handsome than ever today, dressed somewhat formally in a waistcoat and black jacket. He’d been visiting their neighbor on the north, an elderly man who wanted to thin his herds. Vincent had hoped he might be able to strike a bargain.