Christmas Brides (Three Regency Novellas) (6 page)

His words wounded. Must he so indirectly refer to the situation which precipitated this marriage? How she wished he could easily move on to the next chapter in their lives without dwelling on the last.

They settled into a strange silence, and she found herself wondering what kind of wife he would have selected, had he free choice. It was a most morose matter to contemplate. Of course, she would have been possessed of extraordinary beauty. And her family would have been one of the oldest, most respected in the kingdom. And, sadly, he would have loved her deeply.

What had she gotten herself into? Dare she hope de Vere would ever come to love her?

First, she had to ensure that he thought of her as a woman. Perhaps she should not act the innocent. Would it even be possible for her act in another way? How did one become seductive? She was sadly ignorant of such matters.

Kissing had to be one of the components of being seductive. She could not deny she had excessively enjoyed the short kiss that concluded their wedding ceremony, and she most certainly hoped they could revisit such an activity.

“Do you think,” she finally asked him, squeezing his hand that intertwined with hers, “I could call you
dearest
?”

He shrugged. “If you'd like.”

She smiled. “Do you think perhaps we could kiss, too?”

He started laughing again.

She glared. How could a woman be seductive when the man she was attempting to seduce found her comical? “I see nothing funny about wanting to kiss one's husband.”

“There is nothing funny about a husband and wife kissing. It's just that you are so very. . .” He peered down at her. “Cute, actually.”

Since she could not aspire to great beauty, she thought she would be quite content to be considered
cute
. “I do hope you mean that in a good way.”

Now he squeezed her hand. “I mean that in a good way.”

“I have no objections if you should wish to call me by some affectionate term.”

“Like
love
?”

That is how he had referred to her when she collapsed into tears before him.
Love
. It quite melted her heart. “I shall
love
it!”

He chuckled again.

“I am wondering if it is a good thing that one's husband finds her so amusing.”

“Forgive me. It's just that I find you refreshing.”

Not what she wanted to convey. She frowned. “Milk that comes straight from the cow is refreshing—but not what a bride wishes to be compared to.”

“I do beg your forgiveness.”

“It has occurred to me there are many things I don't know about you.”

He turned to face her, and his handsomeness nearly stole away her breath. This close she could clearly see that the pupils of his eyes were so deep a brown as to appear black. They were completely free of goldish flecks that were present in lighter pupils.

Even the dark stubble where he had shaved that morning was easy to detect this close, as was his exotic musk scent. She fought the urge to press her finger into the deep cleft in his square chin.

He emanated such masculinity that she had the distinct feeling that were their coach stopped by highwaymen, her powerful husband could singlehandedly pummel every last one of them.

“Such as?” he asked.

“Children. I know you have admitted that you've given no thought to marriage. What about to children?”

“I find children delightful.”

“Should you want sons or daughters?”

“It never occurred to me that I wouldn't have sons to take shooting and to teach all the things I learned from. . . your father.”

Both of them grew solemn. Her father had not only been a wonderful father to her, he had served much as a father to de Vere as well. And their love for her father bound them to one another as surely as chains.

How they would miss him!

* * *

Once they were beyond the foggy environs of London, the landscape from their window was much lovelier, even if winter had stripped away all of its color. There was a certain peacefulness in the isolated little thatched cottages with smoke curling from their chimneys.

He still had difficulty believing he was a married man. Married to the tiny young woman who now sat beside him, her small hand resting within his, the tiny young woman he'd known most of his life. It would take time to become accustomed to marriage under any circumstances, and the haste under which this marriage—his marriage—had occurred made him feel as if he were rolling down a hill at breakneck speed.

Now he was reeling from her question about children. His children, to be precise. Something, some novel emotion, unfurled inside him when he spoke to Belle about having sons. It seemed almost incomprehensible that he would have sons with Belle. The very notion had him picturing sons who looked as Robert Pemberton had looked at fourteen when Gainsborough had painted him with his dog and musket. Only these young Robert Pembertons he pictured were short!

He found himself wondering of what stature Mrs. Pemberton had been, found himself wondering why he could not remember what the woman looked like. There had to be a portrait of her, but he had never noticed.

Then his thoughts came back to this marriage. He would be expected to share a bed with Belle, but blast it all, he could not contemplate such a thing!

Once again, he recalled her asking him to think of her breasts whenever he doubted she could be his wife. He visualized her as she had appeared strolling up to take her place beside him for the marriage ceremony. How lovely she had looked! The bodice of her gown dipped low enough in front to reveal the plump tops of her breasts. The vision had erased his conception that she was an eleven-year-old child. She was a grown woman. A woman with womanly breasts.

“I must say, Belle, this is the longest you've gone in a great while without finding something to criticize about me. Why is that?”

“I take vows seriously. This morning we pledged to become one flesh; therefore, I will try to never hurt you again. You are now part of me, and I shall be part of you.”

Good Lord! The prospect was nearly terrifying. Nevertheless, he found himself patting her hand.

“Since you're to be my other half,” she said, peering up at him, “I suppose I need to learn more about you. I don't mean those things men like to know about like how well you ride or stand your own with Gentleman Jackson or how fine a cricket player you are. I assure you, my knowledge of cricket is so lacking that I would not be able to determine who was good or who was bad at the sport.”

He shrugged. “What else is there to know?”

“I shall endeavor to tell you what I do know about you. I know you're more bookish than others of your set.”

He nodded. Was that something he should deny? Would women find such a trait less manly?

“I know that you value truth.”

“That I am proud of.”

“As you should be. I find truthfulness a most noble quality. Let me see, what else do I know about you? You're affectionate to your sisters.”

He nodded. “It occurs to me I don't know a great deal about you.”

“I share your love of books. What a grand marriage we'll have, sitting before the fire reading our respective books in complete silence!”

They both laughed.

“Let me guess as to your favorite authors.” He made a great display of pinching at his clefted chin. “Shakespeare.”

She nodded. “Of course. I adore him.”

“I should think the tragedies.”

She shook her head.

“The histories?”

She shook her head again.

A slow smile eased across his face. “The comedies! I confess I, too, prefer the comedies.”

“I don't like any kind of tragedy.”

She always had been soft hearted. “Then I suppose you like poetry.”

“Of course. Can you guess which poets I admire?”

“Lord Byron. All the women adore him.”

She shook her head. “He's lived his life so wickedly, I can't divorce the man from the poet. I refuse to read him anymore.”

“Then I imagine you like the Lake Poets. Women like to worship nature.”

“You'll find I'm not very modern in my poetic tastes. Though there is much to admire in Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey, I look to the last century for my favorites.”

It was the same with him. “Pope?”

She shook her head.

Dare he hope she felt the same affinity for Cowper as he did? It would be far too extraordinary. “Who, then?”

“Cowper.”

He could not believe it! “How did you know he was my favorite?”

Her eyes widened. “I did not know it. What an extraordinary coincidence!”

Yes, it was. “Now, my lady, allow me to ask what you think about children.”

“I adore them. I've always adored them. I love babies, and toddlers, and six-year-olds who've lost their front teeth, and nine-year-olds whose teeth are too big for their little faces. I suppose because I had no siblings, I always craved being around children who were younger than me.”

“And do you prefer girls or boys?”

She grew solemn. “I had always hoped . . . my father would live to see a grandson.” Her voice broke, her eyes misted.

He drew her close and planted soft kisses in her hair. “He may, love. He may.”

She began to cough, separating from him, and turning her head away.

She had coughed a great deal on their journey, and it now seemed to him her cough had worsened. He turned to her, his brows lowered with concern. “How long have you been suffering that wretched cough?”

She shrugged. “It does seem a little worse each day.”

“You should be snug in a warm room, not in this frigid coach.” He put his arm around her and gathered her close. “Perhaps you should put your face beneath the rug so the air you inhale won't be so cold to your compromised lungs.”

Her little arm came around him as she nodded and nuzzled her face just below the rug that spread over their torsos. Soon she was asleep.

Hers was a surprisingly comforting presence but disappointingly different than he felt with others of her sex. A pity. With Belle, he felt protective, not seductive.

Chapter 5

“Put me down! I am not child!” She looked around to discover they had arrived at Upper Barrington under dim late afternoon skies. Her maddening husband was carrying her from the coach to the house as if she were a helpless babe.

She would almost rather he loathe her than to treat her so blasted fatherly.

He stopped in mid-stride and stood her up. “It's just that I hated to awaken you. You were sleeping so soundly, and that nasty cough has to be wearing on you.” His gaze fanned over the gravel drive which was blanketed with a fresh snow. “I was trying to protect you from the cold.”

She should be grateful for his concern, but she was not. He acted far too much like a father than a man who could ever come to desire physical intimacy with her. They silently trod to the massive front door of the equally massive house which looked far more like a medieval castle than a country home built during her father's lifetime. Her thoughts turned melancholy.
Will he ever desire me as a man desires a woman?

She made up her mind on the spot she would not force this marriage. He would not be welcome in her bed until such time as she could be convinced that her bed was where he truly wanted to be. Up until this moment she has assumed she would give herself to him that very night, but now she knew it could be a very long time before this marriage would be consummated.

If it ever was.

Only a handful of servants stayed on at Upper Barrington year-round, the chief one being the housekeeper. She rushed to greet them, smashing her mobcap on her brown and silver curls. Belle understood that the middle-aged woman would have had no need to dress her hair since she'd been rattling around the big house almost alone for months.

Mrs. Farraday's quizzing gaze went first to de Vere.

“Lord de Vere,” Belle said, “I should like to present our housekeeper, Mrs. Farraday.” Turning to the woman, Belle added. “His lordship is my husband.”

Her eyes wide with surprise, the bony Mrs. Farraday curtsied. Belle knew her marriage must be a shock to the housekeeper. Most people had assumed Miss Annabelle Pemberton was entrenched into spinsterhood.

Despite that de Vere was being beastly brotherly, Belle was rather overjoyed to be able to introduce this magnificent creature as her husband.

“Oh, dear me,” Mrs. Farraday said, “I haven't prepared a room for his lordship. Will he be in yours, your ladyship?” The silly woman had wasted no time in addressing Belle by her new title. What was there about servants that made them so snobbish? All her servants back in London had swelled with pride to now be engaged by
a real lady
and wasted no time in addressing their mistress as such.

At the very idea of sharing her bedchamber with this man she had married, Belle's heartbeat roared. “The one next to mine, I should think.” Somehow, she had managed to maintain her composure. She gazed up at de Vere and tried to speak casually. “Will that be agreeable to you, my darling?”

His dark eyes glittered. “A wise husband always defers to his wife's judgment.”

He was likely thrilled not to have to sleep with her.
Odious man!

“I'll have the room freshened up in a just few minutes,” Mrs. Farraday reassured them. “And I'll see to it that a nice fire's built in each chamber.”

While they waited for the fires to warm their personal chambers, Belle whisked him about the common areas of the big, chilly house to refresh him on the floor plan. They soon went to their chambers to change for dinner, which would be served at five o'clock—total darkness at this time of the year. She was looking forward to the peaceful hours kept in the country.

They climbed the broad brick stairway, her hand skimming along its solid Romanesque banister that could compete with the ancient statuary that was scattered throughout the house and grounds. On the third floor, they stopped at the first chamber in the corridor: hers. She was conscious of feeling awkward standing there in front of its closed door.