A Kiss At Christmastide: Regency Novella (9 page)

“Yes, Mother, I am here.”

“I knew you were,” she continued. “You bring a heart far heavier than this season calls for.”

“My disposition will improve before the holiday comes, Mother, I promise,” Pippa said, wishing she'd departed instead of making one final trip to the kitchen. She did not seek to cast a dark shadow on everyone. “When I return from the village, my spirits will be joyous and cheerful once again.”

With a smile, Cordelia turned to face her daughter, and Pippa's chest ached at the pain she'd caused her mother.

“May I offer a few words of advice?” Cordelia wiped her hands on her apron as she walked towards Pippa. “It is something my mother told me many years ago, but during any time I doubt my decisions, I repeat the words aloud.”

Pippa nodded as her lip trembled. It would only serve to make her mother feel worse if Pippa let the sob she held back pass her lips.

“Very well. And know you may not find meaning in my words now, but one day…one day, you will.” Her mother gathered Pippa in her arms and hugged her tightly, whispering the next words in her ear—as if it were a long-kept secret they could not risk others overhearing as the magic within them would fade. “Life—and love—are much like a storm. The storm that kept your father and me away, in fact, and even now threatens to return. The clouds, the wind, the rain may make it impossible for you to see a clear path to your fated destination, but with time and a lot of faith, you will find the correct path once more—or a better path, one that could not be seen before the storm made it visible. But remember, another storm may try to dissuade you, but keep going, keep moving, and when the storm passes, so will your doubts and concerns be pushed away with the clouds, revealing your next course.”

Her mother was correct as only hints of the meaning behind her mother's advice stuck with Pippa. The storm had brought Lucas to her—and with its departure, it had taken him from her. If that was where her path led, away from Lucas, then so be it. But that did not make her long any less to be on the same path as he.

“Promise me something, my dear girl,” Cordelia said before pulling back, holding Pippa at arm's length.

“Anything, Mother,” Pippa agreed, knowing she'd likely not be able to keep the promise she was about to make.

“Have faith, open your heart and, most of all, listen to what others have to say.”

It all sounded so very simple. “Yes, I will always hold tight to my faith and listen to others.”

“And your heart—it will remain open?” her mother asked.

“I will do my very best,” Pippa said.

“Very good.” She placed a kiss to each of Pippa's cheeks. “Now, hurry along. Do give my best wishes to all in the village. I have much work to do before tomorrow.”

Pippa fled the kitchen as her mother returned to knead the dough.

“
A
s you can see
, my family and our lineage are not in question,” Sheridan said as he led Lucas and his father into the study. “I understand the importance of marrying my daughter to the future Marquis of Bowmont, but this…”—he paused to pour three tumblers of scotch—“…this new development calls for a renegotiation of our contract, Bowmont.”

Lucas's father stood a foot inside the study door, refusing to accept the proffered spirits. Lucas had no qualms about accepting the drink, and threw it back in one gulp, holding the glass out to the duke for a refill.

Sheridan raised a brow at Lucas's forward nature, but took the tumbler and poured a healthy portion before turning back to the pair.

“I do not think the dowry needs adjustment,” his father countered.

“Sit, Bowmont,” the duke said, taking his own seat behind his massive desk. It was a move to show dominance and to remind Lucas's father that they were on Sheridan ground, not Bowmont—which meant his father needed to give up the upper hand. Reluctantly, his father moved farther into the room and set his hand on the high, winged-back chair, making no further move to sit. If he wasn't going to take the seat, Lucas was. He settled heavily into the chair with a loud creak. Sheridan cleared his throat before continuing. “Very well, stand, we can talk either way. I am leery of this match, if I'm honest.”

Beyond his decision to stand, the marquis seemed unfazed by Sheridan's declaration. “My son is a man, and is therefore afforded certain liberties and freedoms. We had not presented the contract to Lucas yet—there are no grounds for redrafting the marriage settlement.”

It was in Lucas's best interest to remain silent while his father and Sheridan openly discussed his future. If Lucas disputed the match, Pippa's name would be ruined. However, on the other hand, if these men came to an agreement, then he'd be tied to a woman he didn't know and would never love. What other choice did he have to save Pippa? She didn't deserve her name being tarnished or her family being ostracized within society. And he wouldn't jeopardize any match she could later make.

Lucas wanted Pippa for his own—yet, he could never be worthy of a woman such as she: loving, compassionate, and giving. Bloody hell, she spent her free time knitting caps for the less fortunate.

“My daughter has been injured—and if this betrothal is to go forward, she will be compensated for the injury your son has caused,” Sheridan declared.

“My charity only runs so deep.” Lucas didn't have to imagine the indignation in his father's words. The degradation of feelings was not something his father would ever admit as a genuine injury.

The only act of charity Lucas could claim was housing a mistress who'd been tossed from her bordello after her relationship with Lucas became public.

That had been many years ago. A lifetime ago, when he'd still thought to do anything to gain his parents' attention; good or bad. Though the Marquis and Marchioness of Bowmont had ignored his insolence and refused to address the scandal of their son coexisting with a woman of loose morals. He'd even dared to bring the woman to a society ball.

When it hadn't worked—and the woman expected marriage—Lucas had to break ties.

She deserved more, though he did not confuse this with an act of goodness. No, he'd allowed his mistress to seek other entanglements to save himself.

Aiding one's mistress was in no way comparable to helping a village full of children. Lucas was not foolish enough to think he was, in any way, worthy of Lady Pippa.

His best decision was to make this all disappear. Thankfully, that was something he had experience in. People around him disappeared—his little brother, his parents, his university friends, and a mistress or two.

And with them, their problems.

Though, Randolph's disappearance directly started Lucas's family breakdown; but his friends and his mistresses, when he pushed, they fled. Ultimately, they were better off without him.

Pippa would be best without him and the problems his presence would cause in her life. The only fail-safe plan was to wed Lady Natalie—and make sure no one ever spoke of his unchaperoned time with Lady Pippa. He'd known that demanding shelter was highly inappropriate, but he'd been wet, cold, and had a deuced headache from a night of drinking. And when he'd seen Pippa, well, Lucas wanted nothing more than to stay in her company as all sorts of sordid thoughts invaded his mind.

He was everything his parents claimed him to be.

Never to his face, of course, but behind closed doors, in whispers.

The Marquis and Marchioness of Bowmont would not admit it, but they were afraid of their son. Part of him wondered if they believed Lucas had led Randolph out to that slew, that none of it had been an accident, that Lucas hadn't lived with the pain and agony every moment of every day since.

How would they know anything—they'd never asked?

Never once had they asked if Lucas had known his brother followed him that night.

Not once had they asked if Lucas wished harm upon his younger sibling.

Never had they inquired whether Lucas wanted to go away and never return to his family home.

No, this was all discussed in hushed tones behind his parents' locked bedchamber door with Lucas brokenhearted and alone in the hall. The servants ignored him as if they'd all been instructed that both of the Bowmont boys had perished that fateful night by the creek—and no heir remained.

It was much like today, but Sheridan and his father did not speak in whispers nor did they hide behind a locked door.

“Now we speak of my daughter as if you are taking pity on her—doing me a gentlemanly favor, no less,” Sheridan spit out, “…by taking her off my hands and wedding her to your degenerate of a son?”

“No matter my son's many shortcomings, he is my heir, and will one day be a marquis—and with that, will come everything I have amassed.”

“
We
have amassed,” the duke reminded Lucas's father. “I will not have you forget my instrumental part in your family's good fortune since our partnership began.”

“I would dream of no such thing,” Bowmont retorted. “In fact, I am doing the complete opposite by working toward marrying our families and solidifying our continued success.”

His father seemed to know that Lucas would not fight any decision the two men settled on.

Not once, since the night of his brother's death, had Lucas forced his father—or his mother—to answer any of the questions he had, and neither had they addressed theirs. They were content with living separate lives, never asking, but also never hearing Lucas's side of all that had happened.

How Lucas had grieved for Randolph, the many times he'd thought relief would only be found once he joined his brother in the hereafter.

Peace—it was something Lucas had never experienced since that day.

To dream…

Lucas never dreamed, never thought or longed for what could be. He'd learned at a young age that it only led to tragedy and loneliness.

Except, that wasn't entirely true.

He'd forgotten himself, his past, his burdens, and his sorrows during those brief hours with Pippa. She'd banished his demons.

They'd tried to drag him back down during his walk about her estate—but he'd escaped them with her help and her Christmastide spirit. She'd refused to let him sink, though the weights dragging him down were invisible to her. Unbeknownst to Pippa, she'd untied the great burden that kept him below and allowed him to finally surface, something he couldn't remember doing since the night of his last adventure.

He'd taken his first breath in almost fifteen years.

Her light expelled his darkness, an obscurity he hadn't realized had turned from a hazy grey to a deep midnight void he hadn't wanted to escape.

Yes, in London he was never alone—there was always a rousing game of cards to be had, or a new ladylove to entertain. But he knew not one of them remembered him past their brief moments together.

Would Pippa remember him now that he was gone?

The thing about being forgettable is that Lucas also forgot those he left behind—or did they leave him behind?

Deep down, he knew he'd never forget Lady Pippa. In the late night hours, or noonday sun, she would be all he thought about, though he would be tied to another.

Christmastide would forever more be a time of loss, much like the frigidly cold nights had been since Randolph was taken from him. Possibly more painful as the years passed and he saw Pippa about London—she would certainly find a good match. She would even fall in love, have children, and live a life many could only dream of.

Not Lucas—he did not allow himself to dream.

But for Pippa, he would have dreamed again. Dreamed of being a better man, a man not weighed down by his past, a man with a heart to give…not an empty shell.

Lucas took heart in knowing that scandal would never touch Pippa—she may not know what he'd given up for her, but he knew. He would marry—dooming himself and, likely, Lady Natalie—to a life without promise, only so it freed Pippa to find all she deserved.

“Maybe it is I who should be leery of the match,” his father proclaimed, bringing Lucas back to his current situation. “My son will be a marquis and will have the choice of any young lady he desires.”

“Oh, I have certainly heard rumors of how frequently he desires such ladies,” Sheridan retorted.

Lucas should take offense to the harsh comment about his rakehell tendencies, but there was no point. At one time, Lucas would have brought his mistress to the opera, or a grand dinner within one of London's most elite homes—and dare anyone to say a negative thing about it to his face. He'd found pleasure in flaunting his scoundrel ways to make sure his parents heard of his antics.

“Besides, you, Bowmont, have no valid causation for withdrawing from the signed marriage contract. It is my family—and my daughter—who are the victims here,” Sheridan thundered, his fist slamming against this desk, rattling his ink pot. “My daughter will be scandalized, and her chances of securing a favorable match will decrease exponentially after this mess makes the Post.”

“And how will it make the Post?” Lucas spoke for the first time, and both men looked to him as if they'd forgotten he was in the room. “We are all here—your family, my family—I have yet to sign any agreement. And the match was not spoken about in London. There will be no scandal—no lasting shame. I am here, and I am…agreeable—if not happy—with this match.”

Both men were shocked into stillness. Lucas didn't bother turning to see his father's reaction. But if Sheridan was any indication of the utter bafflement in the room as his mouth opened and closed much like the small fish Lucas had used to catch in his family's creek, he knew his father was certainly perplexed.

“Do I need to sign something?” Lucas raised his brow in question. “All of this bickering is unnecessary. As all of London knows, you are partners in many business ventures—very successful ventures, I might add—and it only stands to reason you would both like to keep all the profits within the family. What better way to ensure that than to merge our families?”

Odd that Lucas had never thought much of the way women were used like chattel; traded and bartered in exchange for land, titles, and business. Though, it seemed entirely different when it was a man's life that hung in the balance while awaiting a favorable negotiation and terms.

He understood the reasoning behind the match. They were two very powerful, very wealthy families.

“If we void this contract and end marriage settlement talks, I—and my investment—will walk away from your planned changes in the village,” Bowmont said. The victory in his tone told Lucas that his father knew this was his final hand, and it was all he needed to win. “All your hard work would be wasted. Is that what you want, Sheridan?”

“Bloody hell, you know I do not want any such thing!”

“But you are willing to haggle over this marriage settlement all because my son was caught in a storm and sought shelter?” his father asked. “What if he had been lost during the storm—do you know what that would have meant for the future?”

Sheridan remained silent, likely knowing the answer, but also confident Lucas's father was going to remind him.

“I do not have a spare,” the marquis said. “After I pass, my estate and title would go to some distant cousin—including all entailed money I've invested in our business dealings. You would be saddled with a new business partner…and likely, one without my cunning business sense.”

Sheridan sighed and shook his head. “Rest assured, you have won. The contract will stand.”

“I am no longer satisfied with my family's portion of the contract,” Bowmont hissed, knowing he held the upper hand at last. “There are a few things I'd like to amend.”

“You are not satisfied with taking my daughter? Now you intend to bleed me dry?”

“I have no such demands…” Bowmont allowed the room to go silent as Sheridan pulled his cravat lose as sweat broke out on his forehead. “I want Lady Natalie's dowry doubled.”

“Done,” the duke agreed without hesitation, knowing the added dowry did not even begin to skim the surface of his wealth—and overjoyed it was all Lucas's father demanded.

“And the project for the village will start immediately.”

“You know that cannot be done,” Sheridan said, throwing his arms wide. “It is winter. It is impossible for the villagers to be relocated. We must wait until the coldest weather passes and carriages can be attained to move them.”

“Move whom?” Lucas asked, alarmed. “And to where?”

“Until I am deceased, and you take over my estate—Lord help my soul,” his father muttered, “that is none of your concern, Maddox.”