Christmas Brides (Three Regency Novellas) (3 page)

Her heart fluttered. And, of course, his stunning good looks could not be forgotten. Not that anyone born with a womb could.

The movement of her father's hand caught her eye. He clutched at his chest, his brow furrowed.

She leaped from her chair. “Papa! Papa! Are you all right?”

A pained expression on his face, he nodded. “It's that same dashed pain.”

At least he could speak. She sank back into her chair. And suddenly she realized she just might be able to grant her father his last Christmas wish.

Chapter 2

Her hands stuffed into an ermine muff, a thick Kashmir muffler wrapping her neck like plump layers of tobacco leaf about a cigar, and a heavy rug secured over her lower extremities, Miss Pemberton settled back in the family's luxurious carriage. Whether the distressingly queer feelings in the pit of her stomach could be attributed to Papa's dire prognosis or to her impending meeting with Lord de Vere—if he should be at home—she did not know. Throughout the short carriage ride to Cavendish Square, her heart beat unaccountably rapidly.

When the coachman came to a stop in front of de Vere House, she grew even more nervous. The burst of cold air when he opened the carriage door nearly persuaded her to slam it shut and stay within the secure confines of the coach.

But then she thought of Papa's wish.

Her own feelings seemed rather insignificant. Therefore, she held her head high, stepped down to the pavement, and strode to his lordship's front door. Because the coachman had already announced her, the butler swung open the door before she could knock. “I have sent word to Lord de Vere that Miss Pemberton is calling. Allow me to show you to the drawing room.”

She followed the fairly youthful fellow up a flight of stairs in the airy stairwell which was lighted from a glass-domed roof. The drawing room was much smaller than the one at her house but was furnished in the same neoclassical lines adopted by Robert Adam—whom Papa had engaged to do the London interiors before she was born.

“I beg your forgiveness,” the butler said. Each word he spoke was accompanied by chilled puffs of vapor. “For not having a fire lit here. It is just that his lordship seldom receives callers.”

A char woman noiselessly entered the room and began to light the fire.

Miss Pemberton had heard her housekeeper remark on the high cost of coal. Was Lord de Vere so strapped for funds that he slept in freezing cold rooms?

Wickedly, she hoped that it was so. Then he might be more agreeable to her bizarre proposal. She turned to face the butler. “I believe I prefer to keep my pelisse and muff.” Her pelisse of coral colored velvet, trimmed with ermine kept her adequately warmed.

Whilst the woman was building the fire, Miss Pemberton strolled to the street-facing window. It was tall and narrow in the Italianate style and was draped in faded green silk so brittle that she feared it would fall away like an ash if she touched it.

She had expected to be able to look over the square, but she saw nothing save the fog as heavy as curtain obliterating any view.

“Belle.”

She had not heard him enter the chamber. Her heartbeat roared as she turned to face him. Her solemn gaze stroked him. “You've shaved.”

He nodded. “Please, come sit on the settee. We shall have a fire warming things in a few minutes.”

The gilt settee she sat on was covered in striped gold and green silk that did not appear to be faded. She supposed it had rarely been sat upon. De Vere had lived here as a bachelor for the past dozen years. She supposed even the draperies to this chamber had seldom been opened during that time.

De Vere sat next to her, a concerned look on his exceedingly handsome face. “You haven't been here since you were a girl.”

She smiled up at him. “Not since I was twelve. Nothing has changed.”

“Except me,” he said with a frown.

“You sound as if you don't approve of what you've become.”

“Can you blame me?”

As she looked into those dark, soulful eyes, something melted inside her. Even her trembling subsided. All she could think of was the frightened, sad boy he'd been the day of his father's funeral. Gaining a title at so tender an age was bound to affect a lad on the precipice of manhood. And
not
for the better.

A shrug was her only answer.

“Pray, Belle, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I'm afraid I've not come on a pleasurable mission.”

He lurched toward her. “Has something happened to your father?”

In that fraction of a second she understood that this man who sat next to her cared very deeply for her father. No one could feign such a look of distress or alter a voice to convey such genuine fear.

She nodded. Which had the effect of releasing the floodgates. Great, whimpering sobs broke forth from her.

“Has he died?”

She shook her head, a torrent of tears streaming down her face, her shoulders hitching on each fresh sob.

He drew her into his embrace, tracing circles upon her back, stroking her hair, and murmuring comforting words. “It's all right, love. We can face this. You must tell me everything.” He offered her his own very large handkerchief.

She blotted her tears and attempted to blow her nose in a dainty manner while gathering her composure. “You must forgive my outburst,” she finally said.

“There's nothing to forgive. I'd like to think I am the one you would turn to in your time of distress. I want you to think of me as your elder brother.”

That comment sent her wailing anew. How could one propose marriage to a man who thought of her as a sister?

He hauled her into his embrace. “Belle, Belle. You must tell me what's wrong.”

Once more she took his handkerchief and wiped away the evidence of her crying, drew a long breath, then looked up into his stupendously handsome face. It was a face she could never tire of. What would it be like to be married to him, to be able to gaze upon his physical perfection the first thing every morning and the last thing every night for the rest of her life?

“I had Marsden to look at Papa today. He's been complaining of discomfort in his. . . chest.”

De Vere's brows lowered.

Her eyes watered again. This was very difficult, but she was determined to speak of it without bawling. “Marsden said this will be Papa's last Christmas.”

He winced and buried his head in his hands.

She was completely unprepared for such a blatant specimen of masculinity to take the dreadful news in such a way.

Now their roles were reversed, and she needed to stay composed until he recovered. A few minutes later he looked up and addressed her. “I must ease your father's mind. I must assure him that I will look after you.”

She felt as if a huge chestnut was lodged in her throat. “That is precisely why I've come to you today.”

He gave her a quizzing look. “Enlighten me, please.”

“Papa says save for one thing, he could die perfectly happy today.”

“And that one thing?”

“He wishes to see me wed.”

“I don't see how I can hel- - - Oh, dear God, you can't mean. . .?”

She nodded ruefully. “My poor, delusional father thinks you and I would suit.”

He sighed. “I couldn't possibly consider such a ridiculous thing! Why, it would be like marrying my own sister!”

“I assure you, Lord de Vere, I have never thought of you as a brother.”

“Surely you can't put any credence to this silly notion of your father's?”

“Of course I don't think you and I would suit! You would be one of the last men in the kingdom whom I would ever consider for a husband. I shouldn't at all like being wed to profligate who keeps mistresses.”

His eyes narrowed. “You're not to know of such things. And, besides, I no longer have any woman under my protection.”

She put her hands to her waist. “And I shouldn't at all wish to wed a man who would take the fortune my grandfather built and wager it away at Newcastle and White's.”

“You assume I would beg to marry you—which,
Miss Pemberton
, I have no intention of doing!”

His words were like a slap in the face. She had been prepared for him to reject her proposal, but she was unprepared for the vehemence of his objection. Tears stung her eyes once more. “I assure you, I have no intention of marrying a debauched man such as you.”

She pounced to her feet, and the muff that had been in her lap fell to the Aubusson carpet. Lord de Vere stooped to pick it up. As he offered it to her, he asked, “Then why have you come?”

“Because I was prepared to sacrifice myself in order to grant my father his last Christmas wish.”

His eyes flared with anger. “You,
Miss
Pemberton, are singular in the opinion that marrying me would be a sacrifice.”

“Why, of all the arrogant men I have ever known, I do believe you go to the head of the queue.” She shoved her hands in the muff, flipped the Kashmir muffler about her neck, and stormed to the door. “I cannot understand how my father could be so blinded to your multitude of faults!”

* * *

How could he let that sanctimonious spinster get him so riled? It was only by the greatest restraint he prevented himself from trailing in her stormy wake like some dumbstruck lad begging his governess's forgiveness. He had done nothing for which he needed to apologize! It was she who had impugned his character, she who asserted her abhorrence of marriage to him.

Shaking with anger, he went to his library, slammed the heavy door behind him, and poured himself a tall glass of brandy. Damn, but this room was cold! He rang for Majors.

Anticipating his master's needs, the butler eased open the door. “I perceive your lordship would like a fire built in the library.”

“Why in the devil is this house so blasted cold?”

“Because your lordship suggested that to reduce the expense for coal we eliminate fires in the public rooms, since you never receive callers. Except for today.”

“I'm sure it seemed like a very good idea at the time, but since I shall not brave the elements on this beastly day, I will require warmth in this chamber.”

Before he completed his sentence, the char woman came waddling into the library and set about starting the fire.

“It appears, Majors, you've anticipated my request before I made it.”

Majors bowed his head. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

De Vere's eye skipped to the empty decanter on the silver tray. “Yes. Fetch me another bottle of brandy!”

Once the fire was going strong, de Vere began to pace the chamber, mumbling angrily to himself over the annoying Pemberton chit. After the passage of an hour and the consumption of three glasses of brandy, his anger toward his guardian's daughter subsided.

But it was replaced by something much worse.

Raw sorrow as painful as acid began to eat at him. Even though he was a mature man of thirty, he felt the need to turn to his former guardian in both good times and bad. The constancy of Robert Pemberton had given a certain solidity to his otherwise vagrant ways. Deep down, he'd always known that were he truly in need—whether that need be for a sympathetic ear or a timely financial rescue—he could always count on Mr. Pemberton. In many ways he'd been closer to him than he'd been to his own erratic, devil-may-care father.

He was reminded of Pemberton's words that very afternoon when he'd said de Vere had more in common with him than he had with his father. It was true. Except that by his fiftieth year, Pemberton replaced his wild ways with the affection and fidelity of a good father—something his own father had never managed.

Deep down, de Vere had always hoped to turn out in the same way as his guardian. For Robert Pemberton had become a man who was widely admired.

Most of all by William Addison, Viscount de Vere.

How painful it was to think that by the next Christmas, Robert Pemberton would be cold in his grave. De Vere finished the last swig in his glass. How horribly he would miss the man, how lonely his own world would become.

When night fell, de Vere wobbled up the stairs and collapsed upon his tall tester bed, sending Smith away without even allowing him to remove his boots. He wished to lose himself in the oblivion of a deep sleep, but he was not able to do so.

For his thoughts had once again turned to Annabelle Pemberton and why she had sought him out that day.

He felt honor bound to do his duty to the man who had always been there for him. Pemberton doted on Belle. De Vere understood her father would not want to leave her unprotected, uncared for.

He really ought to promise. . . No, he could
not
marry her! He didn't love her. At least not like a man loved a woman.

Why was he even thinking of this? Hadn't she made it perfectly clear that marriage to him repulsed her? Then why in the blazes had she come that day? Why had she brought up the topic of a marriage between them?

Because it was her father's last wish. His last Christmas wish.

And because they both loved Robert Pemberton, he knew he must grant the wish.

Chapter 3

How could she have said such wretched things to Lord de Vere? It wasn't as if he had ever treated her in any way that could possibly provoke such rebuke. Not once in her entire life had he ever been anything but exceedingly kind to her. Exactly as he was to his four sisters, three of whom were happily wed.

She frowned to herself. She did not like to admit it, but it was his very brotherliness that ignited her uncharacteristic fury. Truth be told, she had always wanted Lord de Vere to see her as a desirable female. Her thoughts flitted to the Beauties of the Ton with whom he had been linked over the years. In every physical comparison to those beauties, she came up wanting. To think a handsome viscount such as he could ever find her appealing (she couldn't aspire to attractive) was to demonstrate that she'd taken complete leave of her senses.

In her entire three and twenty years Miss Annabelle Pemberton had never displayed as regrettable conduct as she had at Lord de Vere's the previous day. She had scarcely slept all night as she mentally drafted a hundred notes of apology to him, not that any note could exonerate her from such an unwarranted attack upon his character. For the rude manner in which she had criticized him, she ought to fall on her knees and beg his forgiveness.