The Rogue of Her Heart: A Regency Romance (The Other Bennet Sisters Book 2)

by Nina Mason

“It gladdens me to hear it,” he replied with a smile. “For I feel in top form myself this morning.”

  “Since we are both in such fine health,” she said, squeezing his thigh under the table, “perhaps we should take a ride in my sleigh after breakfast. For the roads are now clear, my poor horse could certainly use the exercise, and I have a letter to deliver to the post office.”

  “I’d be delighted, Miss Bennet,” he replied, setting his hand atop hers. “For, after being housebound for so long, I am in desperate need of fresh air and nature.”

  Across the table, Miss Stubbs looked most displeased, but only said, “Do you not have a play to rehearse?”

  “I am sure we’ll have time to do both,” said Georgie with a grin that more closely resembled a grimace than a smile.

  Withdrawing his hand from hers, Christian resumed eating his breakfast. A few minutes later, he heard footsteps approaching. They belonged to the butler, who said from the doorway: “Lieutenant Churchill, your brother has just arrived. I have asked him to wait in the parlor until you have finished your breakfast.”

  “Thank you, Murphy. Tell him I shall be with him presently.”

  “Very good, sir,” the butler said with a bow before backing out of the room.

  “Shall I accompany you?” Georgie asked very softly.

  “Why should you accompany him?” Miss Stubbs sharply protested. “If anyone accompanies him to meet his brother, it should be me.”

  “No one need accompany me,” Christian said to settle the matter. “My brother and I have not seen each other in quite some time. I would, therefore, prefer to meet him alone.”

  A minute or two later, after sopping up the egg yolk on his plate with his toast, he tossed his napkin on the table, rose from his chair, and swiftly exited the room.

  * * * *

  Shortly after Christian left the table, Georgie, too, took her leave. She had no desire to linger with Miss Stubbs giving her the evil eye. Besides, she was far too anxious to eat more than a few bites. There was still her letter to write to Christian’s father—a letter with the potential to change both their lives forever—and she still had no idea how to state her case delicately enough not to give offense.

  Georgie went up to her room, locked the door, and seated herself at the writing desk under the window. Outside, the sunshine reflecting off the snow was blindingly bright. It really was a perfect day for a sleigh ride. She just hoped Miss Stubbs would not try to stop Christian from going along. The little jade might be ignorant, but she was far from stupid. She clearly suspected something was in the works between Christian and Georgie. Something that might loosen the thumbscrews she’d placed on her prisoner.

  Speaking of which … how should she phrase her plea for help to his father?

  Dear Lord Wingfield,

  There. She’d made a start. Now, how to continue? I am writing to you on behalf of your son. No. That implied that Christian had asked her to write, which he hadn’t. I am writing to you as a friend of your son’s. Yes, that was better, but she should probably be more specific.

  I am writing to you as a friend of Christian’s.

  Should she say who she was before going on? Probably. If the Earl was indeed as class-conscious as was her late father, he would take more notice of her letter if he knew it came from a person of quality.

  I am the second-eldest daughter of the late Baronet, Sir Malcolm Bennet. I met your son last year, while he was visiting a friend in Much Wenlock. Over the course of our acquaintance, we have developed an attachment. We would marry at once, if not for an impediment of which I have only lately become aware: Christian is already betrothed to someone else—a barmaid and actress who tricked him into engaging himself to her.

  Though he has asked the woman on numerous occasions to release him from the engagement, she has refused, threatening him with a lawsuit and the scandal that would result from that action. She does not love your son. Her only goal in enforcing the betrothal is to gain the title and fortune he stands to inherit upon your demise.

  I am certain you desire better in a wife for your son. I will not presume to tell you how to intervene on his behalf, for I am certain you know better than I what to do in such a delicate circumstance. I will, however, implore you to do what you will as soon as you’re able, as the lady is pressuring him to lead her to the altar very soon.

  Yours very respectfully and sincerely,

  Georgianna Bennet

  Georgie re-read her entreaty several times before pouncing, folding, and sealing the letter. That done, she grabbed her woolen cloak and fur muff. A few steps along the hallway, she heard an opening door. The sound had come from the direction of Miss Stubbs’s bedchamber. She heard whispers before a man hurried past her, avoiding her gaze. He was dressed in the clothes of a servant, but was not one she recognized as belonging to her sister’s household.

  Letting it go, she went downstairs to find Christian. She came upon him in the entry hall, putting on his greatcoat and long, knitted scarf.

  “How does your brother do?” she asked as she approached him.

  “Very well.”

  “When will I have the chance to meet him?”

  “This afternoon, when we all gather to rehearse our theatrical.”

  “Did you speak to him about the play?”

  “I did indeed … and also offered him his choice of roles.”

  “Which did he choose?”

  “Anhalt.”

  “Anhalt!” she cried, both shocked and alarmed. “But—”

  “I have my reasons, which I shall explain while we’re out in the sleigh.”

  “Do you mind if we stop by the post office?” she asked, keeping her voice low. “For I want to ensure no eyes but mine see the letter before it is mailed.”

  He crooked an eyebrow. “So, you have written it, then?”

  “I have.”

  “May I see what you wrote?”

  “It is already sealed,” she told him, fearing somewhat his censure. “But I will gladly give you a summary, once we are safely away.”

  “Then let us make haste,” he said, moving toward the front door. “I took the liberty of ordering the sleigh, which is waiting for us in the drive.”

  They went outside. As they approached the sleigh, Georgie took in the blanket on the seat and the coal-heated foot-warmer on the floor, grateful for them both. The air was quite brisk, but the sun being out made it tolerable enough. The groom holding the reins handed them to Christian, naturally.

  Christian got into the sleigh and held out his hand to her. She got in too, and, when she was settled, he wedged in beside her. Far from uncomfortable, she welcomed the press of his body. As she spread the blanket over their laps, he shook the reins and clucked to the horse. The sleigh started forward, runners squeaking and bells jingling.

  As they drove at a steady trot along the road through the property’s coppice, the freezing wind burned her cheeks and nose. Their breaths formed little white clouds that hovered ever-so-briefly before dissipating. The sunlight shining through the deciduous trees cast pale gray shadows of their barren branches across the glittering snow. The woods were eerily silent, apart from the occasional snap of a twig or twitter of a bird.

  Christian looked her way, his countenance rather somber. “Now that we’re away, may I know what you put in the letter to my father?”

  “Only that, if he would prefer you to marry a lady instead of a woman of no birth, he must intervene on your behalf.”

  “Is that all?”

  “More or less.”

  A smile spread across his face. “What a shame you brought your muff along. I was rather hoping you would put your hands on me to keep them warm.”

  She grinned at him gleefully. “Is that the only reason?”

  He laughed. “Not the only reason, no.”

  Setting her muff aside, she wrapped her hands around his upper arm and set her head against the layered cape covering his shoulder. She felt vastly contented. Still anx
ious about the future, of course, but blissfully happy at the moment.

  They came out of the trees into a clearing whose snowy expanse sparkled in the sunshine. All was quiet except for the horse’s jingling harness, labored breathing, and thudding hooves.

  “Is this not beautiful?” she observed in awe.

  “Not half as beautiful as you are, dearest.” Christian brought his face nearer to hers. “I would kiss you if I thought the horse would not drag us into a ditch.”

  “Kiss me anyway,” she said, raising her mouth to his.

  He did as she bade, but, to her disappointment, merely brushed his lips against hers. It was a kiss as fragile as their future together, and as fleeting as she feared her present joy might be. Wanting more, she put a hand on his cheek, turning his face back to hers.

  “Give me something more lasting,” she said, referring not only to the kiss.

  He slowed the horse to a walk and kissed her again, this time with considerably more fervor. He tasted of sugared tea and smelled of a subtle, woodsy blend of bergamot, orange, patchouli, and amber. She parted her lips, welcoming his tongue, which he moved against hers with a sublime sensuality that warmed her all over.

  They broke apart when they came out on the main road. He pulled the reins to one side and flourished the whip. The horse broke into a canter, dragging them along. Christian brandished the whip again and, as the sleigh picked up speed, Georgie felt like they were flying.

  But what were they flying toward? Happiness or heartbreak?

  Her eyes soon returned to the scene through which they were traveling. All was solemn, soothing, and lovely in the brilliancy of an unclouded day. “Here is felicity and tranquility,” she said, expressing her feelings. “Here is what painting, poetry, and music can only attempt to capture. Here is what can lift the soul to ecstasy and calm the nerves. On such a day as this, I feel as if there could be neither evil nor unhappiness in the world; and there certainly would be less of both if more people took the time to appreciate the beauty of Nature.”

  “I like to hear your enthusiasm for the natural world,” Christian told her with a smile as bright as the sky, “which I share, by the way. It is indeed a lovely day, and those who do not share our love of Nature are much to be pitied. For, I daresay, they deprive themselves of a great deal of peace and serenity.”

  He clicked his tongue. The horse picked up speed, his flying hooves flinging snow in their faces. She felt so alive and carefree, she burst forth in song:

  “God rest ye merry gentlemen

  Let nothing you dismay

  Remember Christ, our Savior

  Was born on Christmas day

  To save us all from Satan’s power

  When we were gone astray

  O tidings of comfort and joy

  Comfort and joy

  O tidings of comfort and joy…”

  Christian merrily joined in on the second verse.

  “In Bethlehem, in Israel,

  This blessed Babe was born

  And laid within a manger

  Upon this blessed morn

  The which His Mother Mary

  Did nothing take in scorn

  O tidings of comfort and joy

  Comfort and joy

  O tidings of comfort and joy.”

  Christian stopped singing and slowed the sleigh just in time to make the turn toward town. Georgie, jubilant, dropped back in her seat and watched the scenery go by. First, the barren woods, then the scattered cottages and farmhouses on the outskirts of the village, and finally, the huddled shops and stands lining the main thoroughfare.

  When they reached the post office, he stopped the sleigh and turned to her, his scarf, eyebrows, and fine tall hat crusted with frost. “Well, I suppose this is it.”

  She licked her lips, craving his kiss, despite a sudden attack of anxiety. “Let us dare hope your father acts in a way that makes it possible for us to marry.”

  Picking up her muff, Georgie withdrew the letter and exited the sleigh. Within minutes, the letter was posted and she was back in the sleigh. They set off along the road back toward Greystone Hall, which was where she presumed they were heading until he reined the horse into the woods.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, turning toward him.

  “I thought we might cut down a Christmas tree while we’re out.”

  “A Christmas tree?” she asked, surprised.

  He looked at her, his eyes wide with astonishment. “Have you never had a Christmas tree at Craven Castle?”

  “No,” she said, embarrassed. “For my father, believing Christmas to be a papist celebration, refused to honor the day except by going to church.”

  He raised an eyebrow in her direction. “Your father was a Catholic-hater then, in addition to being a classicist?”

  “Show me a peer who is not.”

  “I can show you several, my father among them,” he said, clearly affronted. “For he has argued tirelessly in favor of Catholic emancipation these many years in the House of Lords.”

  Georgie was shocked, and began to wonder if Christian and his family might not be Romanists themselves. If they were, would she still be disposed toward marrying him?

  Admittedly, she knew little about Catholics apart from the incendiary things her father had told her: “Papists are dangerous characters, my dear, who worship idols and conspire in secret to return the British crown to the Stuarts, so they can rule by proxy for the Pope in Rome.”

  Yes, his claims seemed outlandish, but there must be some truth to them, surely. Why else would the government forbid those of the Catholic faith to hold public office, practice law, own firearms, or inherit property from Protestants?

  On what grounds does your father support Catholic emancipation? Is he perchance a Romanist himself?”

  Christian gave her a sharp look. “Would it matter to you greatly if he were?”

  Hesitantly, she asked, “Is he?”

  “He is not,” he said, clearly incensed. “He is simply a compassionate person who can see the senselessness, the impolitic senselessness and galling absurdity, of keeping such oppressive, tyrannical laws in place. And what is the argument of those who would keep them? That is the greatest question of our time—and the hardest to get answered! Is it the political or religious ground they object to? For there can be no fear in Eighteen-Sixteen that the Catholics want to bring in the French…or the Stuarts…or to dethrone the House of Brunswick in favor of any royal house designated by the Pope. There can be no idea in this century of massacres for the faith…or of gunpowder plots…or Smithfield fires…or another Inquisition. And surely there cannot be in our day any notion of converting five or six million Catholics to Protestantism by a system of exclusion and insult. So, what then is the avowed ground of the opponents of the Catholic claims?”

  Georgie, being an uneducated gentlewoman, understood little of what he’d said, although he left her in no doubt of his passion for the issue. She said nothing for several moments, nor did he. Then, hoping to steer the conversation to safer ground, she asked, “Pray, what sort of tree are we on the look-out for?”

  “Yew trees work well, as do firs, boxes, or spruces of the appropriate dimensions.” He paused for a long moment, as if thinking, before saying, “And just for the record, your father was mistaken in his belief that decorating trees at Christmas was a practice initiated by Catholics. It was the Germans who first brought trees into their homes to celebrate the Feast of Yule, though the Paradise Tree is the more likely ancestor of the modern tradition. Back in medieval times, Christians put on what was known as a ‘Paradise Play,’ which told the story of Adam and Eve from their creation to their banishment from the Garden of Eden. The only prop in the play was a fir tree adorned with apples. Eventually, Germans started putting up similar trees in their own homes on Christmas Eve.

  “Candles were added in the Sixteenth Century, not by Catholics, but by the great Protestant reformer Martin Luther. Legend has it that he was walking home one
winter evening, mentally composing a sermon, when he saw stars twinkling through the branches of an evergreen tree. To simulate the effect, he wired lighted candles to the boughs of his family’s Paradise Tree.”

  Stopping the sleigh, he turned suddenly, seized her face between his hands, and cried in desperate exultation, “Oh, Georgie. When we are married, we shall put up a tree every year, twice as tall as I am, and attach to its branches bunches of sweetmeats, strings of alternating almonds and raisins, and an abundance of tiny tapers. And once we have children, we will add to the display sugar plums, candied fruit, and toys—skipping ropes, wax dolls, and such—from which they may choose.” He paused and turned to her, his eyes bright with excitement. “Oh, Georgie, a Christmas tree is the most wondrous sight in the world! And I feel quite determined to find an especially magnificent one this year so that you might behold the splendor for yourself.”

  “I shall look forward to it,” she said in earnest.

  Leaning closer, he kissed her quickly before grinning at her impishly. “Unless I convert to Catholicism, I suppose.”

  “I could learn to live with it,” she said, kissing his grin. “Provided you did not sleep at night with a statue of the Virgin Mary under your pillow.”

  “What?” he cried, feigning shock. “And displace my miniature portrait of the Pope! Never!”

  They both laughed heartily and when they had sobered, they stared into each other’s eyes with unspoken longing. Slowly, he moved closer to her. When his face was only inches from hers, she tilted back her head and closed her eyes. His mouth met hers, softly at first and then with more ferocity. Their lips parted, their tongues engaged, their arms went around each other, merging their bodies. She clung to him desperately, kissing him as fervently as he was kissing her.

  Desire avalanched over her—a mad, unreasoning desire made the more voracious by the impossibility of fulfillment. She might have let things go further had they not been in a tiny sleigh in the freezing-cold woods. But they were, and he was still engaged to another woman—a woman who would never love him the way Georgie did.