Christmas Brides (Three Regency Novellas) (8 page)

Still unconsciously stroking the angular planes of his beloved face, she nodded. She was still too breathless to speak, too stunned to speak without her voice trembling like her entire body already was.

A moment later she said, “I pray you don't catch my cold.”

He ran a seductive finger down the length of her pert nose. “I would have no regrets.” Then he turned to stride to his chamber.

Chapter 6

He dreamt that his mother was still alive. But she was dying with each hacking cough. He jerked awake and sat up. Total darkness surrounded him because the heavy velvet curtains closed around his bed. It took a moment before he came fully awake and realized his mother had been buried many years ago. The anguish of her drawn-out death flared anew, and his melancholy spread like spilled ink.

Good God, had Bell's coughing awakened him? He sat completely still, holding his breath, afraid that his own breathing would obscure the sounds from her room.

Nothing.

How foolish he'd been! A house built by the staggeringly wealthy Mr. Pemberton would have walls so thick one could scarcely hear a cannon were it fired in the next room.

Attempts to return to sleep failed. At dawn, he rose and tried to read Burke, but his worries about Belle mounted. A frown etching into his face, he began to pace the chamber's soft broadloom carpet. Damn, he'd been married but one day, and its effects were already wearing on him.

What had he gotten himself into?

A pity he was powerless to push away his melancholy thoughts. He kept picturing Belle as his mother had looked when last he'd seen her in the coffin. He would know no peace until he saw Belle with his own eyes, saw that she was her delightful self.

At midmorning, they met in the drawing room. Relief rushed over him. She looked perfectly fit—even if he could not approve of what she wore. That thin pale blue muslin that exposed much of her arms and chest would offer little protection against a chill. Did she have no more sense than to dress in such a way? It was if she were inviting lung fever!

Oddly enough, he no longer thought of her as a girl. She suddenly looked like a woman. He even found himself happily observing her womanly breasts. Without guilt. After all, she
had
encouraged him to do so. “How are you feeling today?” he asked.

She helped herself to a cup of hot tea. “Much better since I had my morning tea.”

“How did you sleep?”

“Wretchedly. Do you know of a cure for coughing?”

He went to ring for a servant. “Aqua cordials. I'm going to request one for you.”

Before he reached it, their butler entered the chamber with a silver tray bearing but a single card. “For you, my lady.”

De Vere thought the young man just might have what it takes to be a good butler. Belle had elevated one of her father's footmen to the post, and he had arrived at Upper Barrington the previous day, along his wife's maid and his own valet.

Belle read the name on the card, and her face brightened. “Show him in!”

“Who, my love, are you showing in?” de Vere inquired once the footman left the chamber.

“My friend and neighbor, Sir George Bennington. Do you know him?”

He shook his head.

A moment later, the neighbor came striding into the room with an insufferably proud bearing. The man's height may have exceeded de Vere's, and de Vere was a couple of inches over six feet. Sir George was likely closer to Belle's age, probably five and twenty. He dressed as a well-tailored country gentleman with his fine woolen jacket hugging his narrow waist, buff breeches, and soft brown leather boots. Too fine for de Vere's taste. Everything—even his hair—was some variation on the same shade of medium brown, the ivory of his linen shirt the only thing breaking up the monochromatic look.

The man was incapable of disguising his deep affection for de Vere's wife. Had his appreciative gaze been confined to Belle's face, de Vere might have looked more favorably upon the intruder, but the man had the audacity to whisk his shimmering gaze over
de Vere's wife's
body!

She had risen when he entered the chamber and happily rushed to him, offering her hand to be kissed. “It's been an age since we've seen each other!” she exclaimed.

“Far too long.” He continued to hold her hand as he sensed they were not alone. “You and your father have come for Christmas?”

“Papa will arrive soon.” She turned slightly away, facing de Vere. “Sir George, I must make you known to my husband.”

Were the man a pup, his wagging tail would have stilled. The smile completely disappeared from his face.

And for the first time, de Vere was proud to stand up and say he was a married man. Not that he really
wanted
to be married to anyone. He rose and glared at Sir George while his wife facilitated the introductions.

The visitor grumbled a salutation, then directed his attention at Belle. “I had no inkling you were getting married! When did this occur?” He did not sound happy.

She bestowed a smile upon the newcomer. “We married yesterday.”

“Oh, dear me. I don't suppose you and your father will be gathering holly up at Happy Hill Farm now.”

De Vere moved close to his wife and set a protective hand to her waist. “My wife is nursing a nasty cough. I'm not allowing her out of doors until we see improvement.” He smiled down at her.

Sir George's eyes narrowed as he glared at de Vere. “
You're
not allowing her?” His angry gaze flicked to Belle. “Since when have you ever let anyone dictate to you? Why even your own father always said no one could tell his daughter- - -”

“Now, now, Sir George,” she chided, “dear de Vere is merely concerned over my welfare. I assure you he's not at all the ogre you must think him.”

“I am deeply concerned over
my
wife's wellbeing.” Now de Vere's eyes narrowed.

“Come, gentlemen,” Belle said, “let us sit down. I am so looking forward to you two getting to know one another.”

De Vere was quite sure he could die happy without ever having to get to know the man who so obviously had eyes for
his
wife. He stayed as close as a shadow as she went to a silken sofa, and when she sat, he sat next to her. Close. For good measure, he drew her hand into his. Show that demmed baronet the former Miss Annabelle Pemberton was now a married woman!

The baronet's civility restored, he peered at de Vere and spoke in a more calm voice. “So you're the Lord de Vere of Hamptonworth Hall?”

“I am.”

“I cannot believe the two of you have never met since you've been my two best male friends all of my life.”

De Vere did not know why Belle ever needed any other male companions when she had him.

“Wasn't your father his guardian?”

“Yes, indeed. Our fathers were lifelong best friends.”

If de Vere was not mistaken, Sir George gulped. “Then you've always known each other?”

De Vere smiled down at his wife. “You might say we, too, have always been best friends.”

She looked up adoringly at him. He had not known Belle was so accomplished an actress. “And then the friendship deepened, and here we are!”

His head lowered to brush a kiss across her cheek. “And I am the most fortunate man in the kingdom.” He wasn't such a bad actor himself.

Then his wife's wretched coughing returned. Each hack was like the slice of a knife through his own flesh. He couldn't stand to hear it. He got up and stormed to the bell pull to summon the servant for the aqua cordial he'd forgotten to request in Belle's excitement over her caller. The servant promptly came, and de Vere sent him off to fetch what he hoped would be a restorative for his poor, hacking wife.

“I see what you mean, de Vere, about Miss Pemberton's nasty cough.”

DeVere stiffened. “Lady de Vere, if you will.”

“Sorry.” Sir George eyed Belle. “Your father always did want you to marry a peer.”

“Unlike my dear father, I don't care a fig about titles.” Once again she adoringly looked up at him. Even though he knew it was all a bluff, his insides tightened and his chest seemed to expand. “I'm quite sure I would have fallen in love with de Vere were he a . . . a country solicitor!”

He thought of Pemberton's comment.
She loves you, you know?
He hadn't believed it for a moment. Still didn't. But when she acted as she was acting now, it etched those words so deep in his memory, it was impossible to suppress them.

As he gazed down into his wife's face filled with mock adoration, he was nearly overcome with a strong desire to kiss here. Not a brush across the cheek, but a deep, wet, hungry kiss. Which he couldn't do as long as Sir George was sitting there staring at them.

She pulled her gaze away from him. “But that's enough about us, Sir George. You must tell me, are your brothers and sisters coming for Christmas?”

He shook his head solemnly. “None of my sisters. They're all busy filling their nurseries. Freddie, though, will come. He should arrive tomorrow. I would have waited until he came to call on you but, but when I saw your carriage drive past the farm yesterday, I knew you'd be here, and I was impatient to see you.”

Cheeky blade!

“It has been an age since I've been here, since I last saw you.” She shrugged. “I know one pines away for good company here in the country—and what I mean by good company is the companionship of dear, old friends.”

“That is true. So true, my lady. I suppose I should spend more time in Town, but you know I'm happiest shooting and such.”

She nodded, then eyed her husband. “Sir George is not enamored of London life.”

“Then that explains why we haven't previously met.”

The servant bought the aqua cordial in a slender glass, handing it to de Vere. “Here, love, drink up,” he told his wife. He wished like the devil he had a shawl to drape around her shoulders, to keep off the chill.

And to keep Sir George's hungry gaze off
his
wife's bosom.

Once again, de Vere got up and stormed to the bell pull.

“Now why are you summoning Robertson?” she asked when she put down her drink.

“He needs to fetch your shawl. Have you, my lady, looked out the window? Snow is all over the ground! You're not dressed nearly warm enough—especially for one whose health is already so compromised!”

Even as he spoke, de Vere saw Sir George's lascivious gaze lower to Belle's very fine breasts.

When Robertson came, Belle told him where to find her shawl.

“In addition to the aqua cordial,” Sir George said, “I have found chamomile tea aids in suppressing coughs.”

Belle nodded. “I did notice that after my morning tea, my cough seemed to improve.”

When the servant entered the room with the Kashmir shawl, de Vere dispatched him to the kitchen for chamomile tea.

“Make that for three,” Belle said.

Sir George stood. “None for me, thank you. I must be going.”

“So soon?” Belle sounded disappointed.

“I have many things to see to before Freddie arrives. I merely wanted to say hello—and invite you over, but under the circumstances, what with your nasty cough and all, Lord de Vere's right to keep you indoors.”

Lord and Lady de Vere rose to bid their visitor farewell. Once he was gone, Belle's honeyed gazes were quickly replaced with a sour lemon expression. “I am excessively embarrassed over your hostility to my dear friend.”

“I wasn't hostile.”

“You most certainly were!”

“In what way?”

She thought on it for a moment. “Your facial expressions. You
glared
at him! It wouldn't have hurt you to crack a smile or to tell him it was nice to make his acquaintance—neither of which you did.”

Just thinking about that. . .that
neighbor
made him glare again. “If you must know, I didn't care for the fellow.”

“That was obvious, and you have no reason whatsoever to feel that way. I assure you, Sir George is the sweetest man possible.”

What man wants to be thought of as
“sweet”
? “Especially to
my
wife! Has it never occurred to you that man is in love with you?”

“Oh, that!” She shrugged. “There is the fact he once proposed marriage to me, but I couldn't possibly marry a man I think of as a brother.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, a sadness swept over her face.

Was she remembering that just a few days ago he told her he thought of her as a sister? He'd had no idea that his brotherly affection was so repellant to her. Could that possibly mean . . .? Mr. Pemberton's words intruded again. Could she possibly have married him because she
was
in love with him?

“And one more thing!” She was still out of charity with him. “You come across as being a dictatorial, overbearing, obtuse husband, ordering me about as if I were some errant child.”

“You're just angry because you think I act fatherly when what you really want is a doting lover, and I'm not that man!” Good lord! He'd raised his voice to her—something he'd never before done. And he'd said something cruel, to boot. But he was not in a good humor. And it was all her fault.

All because he had taken the irrevocable leap into matrimony.

Now she was the one doing the glaring. “Then why are you so jealous of Sir George?”

Jealous?
Him? “If I were a jealous man—which I'm not!—Sir George is the last man in the kingdom I'd envy.” He stormed from the chamber, muttering.
“Sweet! What man wants to be sweet?”

* * *

He had hurt her when he said he couldn't be her doting lover. It had been difficult for her to fight back the tears, but Belle was too proud to allow him to know how really vulnerable she was, how close he had come to the truth.

In her emotional distress, the intensity of her coughing strengthened. She poured herself more hot chamomile tea, oblivious to the tears that spilled into her cup.

Alone, her thoughts turned to . . . William. Thinking of de Vere by his Christian name gave her a comforting warmth. There was consolation in the fact no other woman in the kingdom—except for his sisters—could call the devilishly handsome man she had married by his first name.