Once Upon a Christmas Wedding

by Scarlett Scott

  “Hells bells, ye are frozen, lass,” Ned cursed, rubbing her arms with vigour.

  “I’m-m p-perfectly w-well,” she managed, which might have been more convincing if her teeth hadn’t been chattering quite so violently.

  “Ah, lass,” he said, and hauled her into his arms and kissed her.

  Grace submitted, although they were in plain sight of the church, melting into him and feeling the warmth of his mouth upon her frozen lips with a sigh of pleasure. He drew back, and she smiled up at him a little hazily.

  “That’s warming me up nicely. Could you just do that again and I’ll be quite—”

  He did, not waiting for her to finish the sentence but kissing her again, hard and deep. She let out a deep breath, giddy and fuzzy-headed as he released her once more. Goodness, but her husband could kiss. It was impossible to think when his lips touched hers. Thinking was overrated in any case, she decided as she gazed up at him, smiling like a happy drunk, intoxicated with him.

  “Come along,” he said, taking her hand as they hurried up the snowy path towards the church.

  Ned paused outside the great oak doors, his hand gripping hers so tightly it was almost painful.

  “Grace,” he said, his voice low and serious. “There’ll be no changing your mind after we speak the words. Ye will be my wife and… and I’ll not give ye up then, not for anything. I… thought I’d best warn ye.”

  “I should think not,” she said, her voice tart and tugged at his hand, dragging him inside.

  She could not help but smile a little as he faced the vicar of his parish and haltingly explained that they wanted to be wed at once, that moment, and that he had a common licence ready. The vicar plainly thought Ned had been up to no good, and no doubt believed Grace was in an interesting condition. He was barely civil, and Ned looked a good deal like a scolded boy until the vicar turned his frosty gaze upon Grace.

  “Miss…?” he asked with obvious distaste as he verified the details on the licence.

  “Miss Grace Honeyfield,” Ned said before she could open her mouth. He sounded terse now, his dark eyes glinting. “We’re marrying in haste because her brother is a cruel man who has treated her ill, and because he’ll be furious when he discovers she means to marry me when she could have had a wealthy gentleman. The lady has done nothing to deserve anything less than your respect and kindness on her wedding day, unless choosing to marry beneath her is a crime against God?”

  The vicar, who was a sparse man with a thinning patch of grey hair that stuck out like the feathers on a baby bird, regarded them both for a moment.

  “Miss Honeyfield,” he said, his tone a deal gentler. “If you would be so good as to confirm your date and place of birth?”

  She felt rather than heard Ned sigh, and squeezed his hand before answering the vicar’s questions.

  A mere ten minutes later and it was done.

  Ned walked out of the church holding his wife’s hand and feeling dazed at how easy it had been. He paused in the same spot he’d given Grace her last chance to change her mind, looking down at her with wonder.

  “No regrets?” he asked hoarsely.

  By way of answer, Grace grasped the lapels of his coat and lifted herself up onto her toes. Obligingly, he bent his head and received the kiss she offered.

  “Not one,” she whispered against his lips.

  Ned smiled.

  When they were back beside the cart, he picked her up and set her down on the seat with care and then fussed about, covering her with the only dry blanket remaining. Grace snuggled into him as he took his place beside her.

  “Well then, Mrs Hardy,” he said, quite unable to keep the stupid grin from his face.

  “Well then, husband,” she replied, her blue eyes twinkling.

  Ned took the reins up and forced himself to keep his gaze upon the road and not stare endlessly at his lovely wife.

  Grace frowned as Ned guided the horse on, and out of the village.

  “We came from that way,” she said, turning her head to look behind them.

  “Aye,” Ned replied, nodding.

  “Then why are we going in the opposite direction?”

  He glanced at her and she waited for him to answer, sensing hesitation. “I… I wanted tonight to be special for ye so… I thought we’d go into Hastings.” He paused for a moment. “And because we’re not legally wed until….” He swallowed and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Until we have consummated the marriage,” Grace finished for him.

  Ned cleared his throat and nodded. “I don’t want to risk returning to the farm until….” He reached and took her hand, and she looked into eyes as rich and dark as chocolate. “Until I have made ye mine, Gracie.”

  She smiled at him, something hot and needy burning fretfully inside her as she wondered how long it would take to get to Hastings.

  “Besides,” he added. “I’d like to buy ye something pretty to wear. The kind of thing ye ought to have married in, then we’ll have a good dinner at The Stag. I thought we’d spend the night there, too. They say the rooms are the best in Hastings.”

  “Oh, Ned,” she said, leaning into him. “I don’t need you to spend your money on me.”

  He stiffened at that and she cursed herself, aware she’d said the wrong thing. How stupid. She’d lived with men far different from Ned; vain, prideful men who would become violently angry if that pride was dented. She should have realised that even a man like Ned, as sweet-natured as he was, would be sensitive to such subjects such as his ability to provide for her.

  “I’m not a rich man, Grace,” he said, and the words were stilted. “Not by the standards ye are used to, but I’ve blunt enough to see my wife well dressed.”

  She nodded, cheeks burning. “I know that, I… I didn’t mean to imply…. Forgive me,” she said, feeling wretched for having ruined the perfection of the morning.

  There was a taut silence and then Ned sighed and shook his head.

  “Nowt to be sorry about,” he said, his tone gruff. “I’m all on my pride and I know it, only… only, I’d give ye the world, lass. I will, as far as I’m able.”

  Grace blinked hard as her heart expanded in her chest. “I don’t need or want the world, Ned,” she said. “But I’m so very glad I married you.”

  Chapter 9

  “Wherein a wedding night to remember.”

  The snow stopped falling and the sun rose higher while the horse trudged up the rise to Netherfield and they made their way to the seaside town of Hastings. Netherfield was a nothing much sort of village which straggled for a mile or more with no real centre, no church or anything to focus its inhabitants into a coherent community. It was on a high spot of land, though, and the view across the woods and the patchwork of fields below was stunning as the morning light glittered upon the sparkling scene beneath.

  “How beautiful it is,” Grace said, tucking her hand into Ned’s arm.

  “Aye,” he said, and she turned her head to discover his gaze on her, not the view. “Most beautiful thing I ever saw.”

  She rewarded him with a kiss and laid her head on his shoulder.

  Farther on they came to the village of Battle, with its great abbey. It was an attractive village, more so nestling in the brilliant white quilt that settled peacefully about them. Grace had visited the abbey once as a child, when her mother was still alive. On this quiet, snow-covered morning it seemed nothing bad could happen in such a place and she reflected then how strange it was that the village was named for one of the bloodiest battles the country had ever seen, and famous as the provider of the finest gunpowder in the country, possibly in Europe. Its production had provided powder for battles all over the world, from Blenheim, Quebec and India, to Nelson’s Trafalgar and the Battle of Waterloo.

  “Are ye frozen, Gracie?” Ned asked, tucking his arm about her. “We could stop at an inn and warm ye up a bit?

  Grace leaned into him and shook her head. “No,” she said. “I want to get to Hastings
.” She held his gaze, surprised when the blush didn’t come as he stared at her, his eyes darkening.

  “Eager for yer wedding night, are ye?”

  His voice was low and a little hoarse and Grace did feel a rise of colour then, but did not look away.

  “Yes,” she said. “I am.”

  Ned glanced about to see if they were being observed before leaning down and kissing her hard.

  “Get on,” he said to the horse, urging it into a trot and snapping the reins.

  Grace laughed and Ned turned to grin sheepishly at her.

  The Stag, on All Saints Street in Hastings, was a handsome building, though a much more ancient timber body hid behind the elegant facade which had been added in the last century. It towered over the narrow street before it, raised up on a higher level as though it thought itself above the rest of the town with its fine new appearance.

  Hastings had become a fashionable seaside resort in the past twenty years or more and, in the summer, the great and the good came for the sea bathing and the fine air, and to see and be seen. Now, in the dead of winter, the crowds vanished and it reverted to the simple fishing village it had once been. The Stag was bustling, however, the inclement weather a good inducement to stop and get a drink or a bite to eat by a warm fire.

  Ned thought he might burst with pride as he guided Grace inside. They’d stopped at the dressmaker to order a deal of new things for his wife and, to his relief, the woman had a gown she altered on the spot for Grace to wear at once. It had been ordered for a lady who had never come to collect it, and was last year’s style—which Ned had frowned about—but Grace only rolled her eyes and said it was perfect.

  Last year’s style or no, Grace looked every inch the lady she was. The dress was a bright blue, with a darker blue pelisse of heavy velvet trimmed with silk. A bonnet with a velvet bow and ostrich feathers dyed the same colour as the pelisse completed the ensemble. To Ned’s eye she looked like a duchess, and something had shifted in his chest as she’d taken his arm, smiling up at him as they left the shop. It had felt as if the ground had lurched beneath his feet and settled again, but her presence had reshaped the world; it was brighter and warmer and would never be the same.

  Now, he felt like the proudest man who ever lived as heads turned and people stared at the fine lady on his arm when they entered the inn.

  “I’d like one of your best rooms for the night, for myself and my wife,” he said, a thrill of pleasure rolling through him at the right to call her his own. “Also, the lady requires a hot bath, and we want a private parlour for dinner as soon as is possible.”

  “Certainly, sir,” said the inn keeper, beaming at them. “If you would like to come this way.”

  They followed the man until a hand reached out and grasped Ned’s arm.

  “Hardy? That you?”

  Ned turned to see a tall, thin man with an improbable violet waistcoat. Mr George Howarth fancied himself a man of fashion and at this moment his curious gaze was fixed on Ned. They widened so far Ned worried they might pop from his head as the man discovered Grace on Ned’s arm.

  “Mr Howarth,” Ned replied, taking the man’s hand and hiding his dismay at being recognised.

  Howarth was minor gentry who played at farming, and a silly fellow who didn’t know one end of a sheep from the other. He was not a bad chap, however, and Ned liked him well enough. At least he wasn’t a snob, and would chat amiably enough to Ned when their paths crossed. He was a tattle monger, though, with tongue enough for two sets of teeth, and the story of Ned’s marriage to a fine lady would spread like wildfire. Not that it wouldn’t have done so, soon enough, but Ned had hoped they might keep it quiet for a few days.

  “And may I demand an introduction to the vision beside you, Mr Hardy?” Howarth asked, and Ned realised he must get used to the avaricious look of interest glinting in the fellow’s eyes. There would be many like him.

  “Aye, ye may,” Ned replied. “This is my wife. Grace, this is Mr Howarth. He owns Crockett’s Farm, about five miles south of our own.”

  “Wife?” Howarth exclaimed, his surprise palpable. “When did that happen?”

  “Oh, quite recently,” Ned replied, evading the question and turning to move on.

  “Wait,” Howarth said, frowning. “I know you. Miss Honeyfield, isn’t it?”

  “It was,” Grace said, smiling politely, though her expression was strained, her face pale, and her grip on Ned’s arm tightened.

  “I’d heard you were to marry Carrington,” Howarth exclaimed, and then reddened as he realised he’d have been better off keeping his mouth shut.

  “Ye heard wrong,” Ned said, aware that he sounded murderous, enough so that Howarth took a step back.

  “Yes, of course,” the man said in a rush. “My mistake. Do forgive me.”

  Ned nodded, trying not to glower and instead made an effort to rearrange his face into something less than homicidal. “If ye would excuse us,” he added, striving for good manners and guiding Grace towards the innkeeper, who had been waiting patiently for them.

  The meal was excellent, and their good spirits were revived by an excellent claret and the warmth of the fire that crackled merrily in the grate. The innkeeper’s wife bustled in and cleared away their empty bowls and the remains of a delicious almond torte, which had been served with thick cream.

  “Your room is ready for ye, Mr Hardy, and the bath for Mrs Hardy,” she said as she loaded a tray with the dirty dishes. “I’ll send our boy Thomas in to show ye up, if that suits?”

  “Aye,” Ned said, feeling suddenly breathless.

  He didn’t dare look at Grace as Thomas arrived, but took her hand and led her in the lad’s wake.

  The room wasn’t large, and Ned discovered he couldn’t stand upright at all beneath its low ceiling, heavy with beams. There were thick curtains covering the windows and shutting out the freezing weather beyond, and it was warm and cosy. He knew he’d made the right decision in bringing his wife here for the first night of their marriage.

  A massive four poster took up most of the room, piled so high with thick mattresses he’d have to lift Grace onto it. That idea made him breathless. The air was damp with the perfumed scent of the hot water from the large copper bath before the fire.

  “Shall I send a maid up to help the lady?” Thomas asked, giving Grace a look which Ned wanted to clip him around the ear for, as the lad accepted a coin for his trouble.

  Ned shook his head. “That won’t be necessary,” he said, holding the door open so young Thomas knew in no uncertain terms that he was no longer required.

  The lad hurried out and Ned closed the door before turning to look at Grace.

  She had her back to him and was investigating the room with interest.

  “Will it do?” he asked, wondering if this was fine enough, or if perhaps it was shabby compared to what she was used to.

  “It’s beautiful, Ned,” she said softly. “Perfect,” she added, as one elegant hand slid around one of the pillars of the four poster.

  “Gracie?” he said, finding his voice sounded odd, rough and uneven. “If I’m dreaming, please don’t wake me.”

  Her expression was sweet and happy as she moved towards him and wrapped her arms about his waist, laying her head on his chest.

  “It feels like a dream to me too, Ned.” She looked up at him then, her blue eyes so bright it felt like staring at the sky. “I want to dream this dream for the rest of my life.”

  “Oh, love.”

  He kissed her then, the kiss he’d been longing to give her since the moment he’d seen her that morning, tousled and sleepy, the delicious curve of her shoulder bared to him as she sat up in his bed. The kiss was slow and deep and full of promises, both for the night to come and all the nights to follow.

  With difficulty he let her go, breathing hard. “That bath will grow cold. Ye had best make use of it.”

  “You had best undress me then, sir,” she said tartly, laughter glittering in her eyes
. “As you have decided to be my maid this night.”

  “With the greatest of pleasure,” he murmured, allowing himself one last kiss before he turned her and applied himself to the myriad ties and fastenings and the mysteries of a lady’s clothing.

  Sarah had worn nothing so fine, and would have scorned to do so, in fact, considering it a waste of money. She’d seen to her own clothes and Ned had never even seen her in a state of undress, let alone naked. His conjugal rights had been given to him begrudgingly, in the dark and with Sarah clothed to the neck in a voluminous cotton nightgown, and so Ned had little experience with such complicated details. His hands seemed too big, too rough and clumsy, and he muttered curses whilst Grace giggled at his frustration.

  Finally, he appeared to have come to the end of his travails and only her chemise and stockings remained.

  “Turn around, Gracie,” he said, barely whispering the words. The moment seemed too precious, too sacred to speak at all.

  She did as he asked, her expression a little shy but undaunted as she met his gaze.

  Ned’s breath left him in a slow exhalation. His body had been on the brink of arousal all day, anticipation of the night to come driving him slowly out of his mind whilst worry for all that might go wrong held him in check. Now, though, now she was his wife and he could show her what that meant to him.

  The shift was fine and the firelight at her back did little to hide the curve of her tiny waist, nor the generous flare of her hips. The darker triangle of her sex was a shadowy place between her legs and her nipples were taut, pressing against the shift and making his mouth water.

  “A goddess,” he said in wonder as he stared at her. “That’s what ye are.”

  She laughed at that, a breathless sound of amusement that made his aching cock leap with eagerness.