The Christmas Wager

The Christmas Wager |
Jamie Fessenden

2

Chapter 1

LORD THOMAS BARRINGTON rolled over, shielding his face

from the harsh sunlight coming through the window of his

room at the University Club.

―It‘s no good, Thomas,‖ came a man‘s voice, ―I‘ve already

summoned a carriage. You‘d better get up.‖

Thomas opened one eye and saw his friend, Andrew Nash,

sitting near the bed, dressed in his finest riding clothes and

looking far too cheerful.

―I feel wretched.‖

―No doubt,‖ Andrew replied unsympathetically. ―You

finished off that entire bottle of Scotch last night.‖

Both men were in their mid twenties, recently having

graduated from Oxford. It was here, at the club, that they‘d

first made each other‘s acquaintance three years earlier. Nash

wasn‘t nobility, but he‘d managed to turn his late father‘s

import business into an exceedingly profitable enterprise, and

Thomas was shamed to see that Andrew‘s traveling clothes

were of a far finer make than he himself could afford.

He sat up and tentatively placed his feet over the edge of

the bed.

―What kind of friend lets me drink a fifth of Scotch by

myself?‖ he asked irritably, running his hand through his thick

chestnut hair, as if that might somehow soothe the dull ache

that gripped his head. The floor was cold against his bare feet,

but he lacked the motivation to find his slippers.

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Jamie Fessenden

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Andrew found them for him and slid them across the floor

with his walking stick until they were within Thomas‘s reach. ―I

could hardly have stopped you,‖ the handsome blond

commented. ―Besides, being drunk made you more

susceptible.‖

―Susceptible?‖ Thomas asked. ―Susceptible to what?‖

Then it all came back to him, and the significance of

Andrew‘s outfit finally filtered through his alcohol-muddled

brain. ―Oh no. Andrew, you couldn‘t possibly hold me to a

promise made while I was in my cups.‖

―Couldn‘t I?‖

The young man‘s blond curls and mischievous smile

always made Thomas think of an angelic Michelangelo

sculpture turned bad. Long-lashed blue eyes watched him as

he dragged himself over to the nightstand to splash some water

on his face.

―Unless you‘d care to settle your gambling debts

yourself….‖

―Andrew,‖ Thomas said, raising his face to regard him in

the mirror. ―It‘s crude to talk of money matters so blatantly.‖

Andrew shrugged, unconcerned. Normally, a man of his

station would be more respectful of the son of a duke. Indeed, a

man of his station would normally never wake a nobleman up

in the morning and watch him stagger around before he‘d

made himself presentable. But their friendship had long ago

grown to the point where such formalities were dispensed

with—at least in private.

―I‘m afraid I lack your breeding. So forgive me. But you

were the one foolish enough to bet Stratford money you knew

you didn‘t have.‖

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Jamie Fessenden

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Thomas reached for his shaving brush, wet it, and began

swirling it around on a bar of soap. ―I thought I could win.‖

―But you didn‘t.‖

Slathering the soap on his chin was easy enough, but

Thomas‘s hands were shaking a bit, making the idea of

running his straight razor along his neck somewhat

frightening. ―I do appreciate you saving me from humiliation,

Andrew, but you must understand. I am no longer welcome at

Barrington Hall, at Christmastime or any other. I simply can‘t

take you there.‖

―Nonsense,‖ Andrew replied, setting his cane aside to come

close and take the potentially deadly weapon out of his friend‘s

unsteady hand. ―It‘s been years since you left. I‘m sure your

father would love to see you.‖

―You don‘t know him.‖

―Well, neither do you. Not after six years. He may have

changed his mind about a great many things. And you

promised last night to take me to the country, in exchange for

forgiving your debt.‖

―I was tricked.‖

―Absolutely.‖

Thomas allowed Andrew to take his chin in hand and

begin shaving him. It was mildly embarrassing, but Andrew

was so much better at it than he was. And Thomas had been

forced to dismiss his valet years ago, when his allowance

proved too paltry to afford such a luxury.

He would be lost without Andrew, truly. The man was the

dearest friend one could ask for, always there when he needed

companionship, always willing to cover his debts, even nursing

Thomas when he was ill.

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And what was he asking for in return? To spend the

holidays in the country, just this once. At Barrington Hall.

Andrew had never been there, of course, so he no doubt had an

overly idyllic image in his head about life in a country manor.

But he had no family, after the passing of his mother four years

ago, and the holidays seemed to weigh upon him. And Thomas

certainly did not have enough money to repay him for last

night. Nor would he for a very long time.

Thomas sighed. ―Very well. But I warn you, we may be

turned away at the door.‖

Andrew simply gave him that mischievous smile again.

THOMAS had insisted on tea before leaving the club, which

delayed them further and made the driver of their carriage

irritable. But Andrew simply gave the man a large tip for

waiting and helped Thomas climb into the carriage. Then they

were off for Barrington.

Thomas, of course, fell back to sleep immediately. Andrew

sat across from him, watching his friend sleep, the tousled hair

and sensuous mouth so beautiful and sweet in repose. The

blond sighed and forced himself to look away, at the dirty

London streets slipping past the window, at the novel he was

pretending to read, at anything else.

What would happen, he wondered, if Thomas ever opened

those soft jade-colored eyes and saw Andrew watching him

with eyes full of not only affection, but desire? It was too

horrible to contemplate.

Someday, Andrew knew, Thomas would drift away from

him. Their intense, close friendship would fade; Thomas would

find comfort in the arms of a woman. It was inevitable. But

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until that day, Thomas was his. Not in the way Andrew

desperately longed for, but in the only way it could ever be. So,

for now, he would revel in it, and fight to keep the truth from

ever slipping out—that he loved Lord Thomas Barrington with

all of his heart.

My God
, Andrew thought,
if he ever were to discover it!

Thomas would be horrified. Repelled. As any respectable

English gentleman would be. At best, he would turn Andrew

away and never see him again. At worst, he might press

charges as well. This sort of thing was against the law, as

Andrew well knew.

He forced these dire thoughts out of his head, and turned

back to the carriage window as they left London behind.

The village of Barrington was several hours away from

London, and somehow Thomas managed to sleep through the

entire journey, except for brief stops in Sevenoaks and

Tonbridge, where he managed to rouse himself for relief and

something small to eat. Andrew let him sleep, though he found

the journey dull without a companion to talk to. His novel

quickly bored him, so he contented himself with watching the

scenery out the carriage window.

He‘d never been to the country as a boy, as his family had

lived in London and had no living relations outside the city.

Andrew‘s mother had spoken often of how she missed the small

country cottage she‘d lived in as a young girl, painting a

charming picture of the English countryside that made Andrew

yearn to see it. But his father had been born in London and, to

the best of Andrew‘s knowledge, never set foot outside the city

until the day he died.

Perhaps he was being foolish. Most likely, he would find

that Barrington Hall was drafty and unpleasant, and he would

quickly find himself longing for the modern amenities London

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had to offer. But his best friend was a lord, the second son of

the Duke of Barrington! How often did one get an invitation to

spend the holidays with a noble family—even if the invitation

was forced? Thomas had described the great hall full of candles

and gay Christmas balls, and feasts of goose and pheasant and

Christmas puddings. It sounded so wonderful.

Too, Andrew desperately wanted to see where Thomas had

spent his childhood. Perhaps some part of him thought it

would strengthen the bond they shared.

He was concerned, of course, that the holiday would prove

an unhappy time for Thomas. The young man described his

father as a tyrant who had tried to force Thomas into a

marriage to a woman he hadn‘t loved. Just as he‘d forced

Thomas‘s older brother, Edward, into an arranged marriage.

Thomas had fled to London, and it was only through the

intervention of his mother that he did not find himself cut off

entirely, but at the receiving end of a small allowance.

Andrew prayed that his foolishness wouldn‘t make matters

worse for Thomas, but his friend had spoken fondly of the

mother he feared he might never see again, and the niece he‘d

read about in her letters, but never met. After losing the last

member of his own family, it seemed tragic to Andrew that

Thomas should remain cut off from those he loved because of

an argument six years in the past. Surely there was a

possibility of reconciliation.

If worse comes to worse
, Andrew told himself,
I’ll support

the bastard. For as long as he’ll let me.

The sun was beginning to set when the carriage rounded a

small hill. And suddenly there it was—Barrington Hall, lit

orange by the setting sun against a darkening sky, with the

glass of hundreds of windows reflecting red-gold fire. Andrew‘s

breath caught at the sight of it. He‘d never imagined it being

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this spectacular. The hall was enormous, rivaling any of the

buildings Andrew had seen in London, and surrounded by

immaculately manicured lawn—though that was withered and

brown at this time of year—and evergreen hedges. A vast forest