His Mistletoe Bride (32 page)

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Authors: Vanessa Kelly

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He studied her, his eyes heating with appreciation. “You look beautiful, my sweet. I believe you are more than ready to face the collected might of the Stanton family and their noble guests.”
She gave him a grateful smile and stood, letting him take her hand to lead her out of their suite.
“I hope you know your way to the drawing room,” she said as they strolled down the long corridor. “I should be lost if I had to find it myself.”
“Yes, it's quite the pile,” he said in a cynical voice. “What do you think of it so far?”
“It is very impressive, of course, but I prefer our home.”
He threw her a startled glance, then seemed to chew on the notion for a few moments. “I think I agree with you, which surprises the hell out of me.”
“Lucas! You must watch your language. You know how Uncle Arthur scolds whenever you swear.”
“I think you can match him very well in the scolding department, Madame Wife.”
She protested, but he simply laughed, keeping up his teasing until they descended the staircase to the entrance hall. As they reached the bottom step, one of the doors off the hall opened and a young woman carrying a swaddled baby emerged. Both petite and voluptuous, she was one of the most beautiful women Phoebe had ever seen. Her auburn hair glowed with a fiery hue, and her complexion was as rich as cream. She glanced up, her green eyes filling with pleasure as she spied Lucas.
“It's the Earl of Merritt, arrived at last,” she said in a warm voice. “I see marriage has yet to mend your bad habits, my friend.”
Lucas smiled, obviously delighted to see her. “Ah, Mrs. Blackmore! I didn't realize you would be here for the holiday, although I can't blame you for wanting to escape the wilds of Yorkshire. My dear ma'am, how do you bear it?”
The beauty scowled with mock fierceness. “Lucas, do not call me
ma'am.
You make me sound like an old hag.”
He laughed, then gave her a kiss on the cheek when she offered it. “No one could ever accuse you of that,” he said. “Trust me.”
Phoebe stood quietly, wondering if her husband had forgotten her. He seemed so taken with the other woman, who, despite the fact that she juggled a baby on her shoulder, exuded a sensuality no man could possibly ignore.
The woman gave her a disarming smile. “And you must be Lady Merritt. I'm very pleased to meet the woman finally able to bring Lucas Stanton to heel. Dozens have tried, but only you succeeded.” She tilted her head, studying Phoebe. “And I can see why. You're absolutely gorgeous.”
Phoebe's mouth dropped open. “Ah, thank you, ma . . . madam. It is very kind of you to say so.” The woman's frankness was disconcerting, to say the least.
“Don't worry, Phoebe. You'll get used to her soon enough,” Lucas said with a wry grin. “And now, let me formally introduce you to Mrs. John Blackmore, known to her friends as Bathsheba. You must remember that I told you about Dr. Blackmore, her husband.”
Phoebe blinked, surprised that such a stunning beauty had married a country physician. Of course she had heard all about Dr. Blackmore from Meredith, and how he had delivered her twins. Phoebe knew from the harrowing story that the babies and probably Meredith would have died without the doctor's dramatic intervention.
“It is a great pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Blackmore,” Phoebe said, giving her a slight curtsy.
“You mustn't curtsy to me, my dear. You are a countess and I'm simply the wife of a country doctor,” she said with an easy smile.
“But you were a countess, were you not?” asked Phoebe. She had assumed that once a countess, always a countess. The arcane social conventions of the aristocracy never failed to trip her up.
“Once,” she replied cheerfully. “But those days are over, thank God. Now I live in the back of beyond—as Lucas so kindly pointed out—and do my feeble best to help my husband with his work.”
“You do a great deal more than that, I hear,” Lucas said in an admiring voice. Mrs. Blackmore shrugged away his praise.
Phoebe reached out to gently stroke the baby cradled in her arms. “And is this your child, Mrs. Blackmore?”
The woman carefully pushed back the cambric and lace cap obscuring the baby's face. “This little monster? No. I'm happy to say he's the son and heir of Lord Silverton. I thought I would rescue his mother by taking him back to the nurse.”
She immediately offset her flippant remarks by kissing the baby and cuddling him close. The infant gave a sleepy, contented sigh and nestled closer.
Phoebe smiled. “Of course. Now I recognize him. He's a lovely boy.”
“Tell that to his mother when he's feeling colicky,” she said. “Which seems to be a great deal of the time. My husband claims little Stephen should grow out of it very soon, but I have my doubts.”
Lucas pointed to Mrs. Blackmore's shoulder. “Speaking of colic, you look a little worse for wear. Is that what I think it is?”
She glanced down at her dress. “Sadly, yes. Viscount Thornbury just disgraced himself all over my gown. Once I deposit him in the nursery I'll be changing forthwith.” She wrinkled her pretty nose. “Take it from me, there is
nothing
worse than baby vomit for ruining one's clothes. If you wish to avoid a sartorial accident, I suggest you stay clear of this little one.”
Lucas laughed again, and even Phoebe had to smile. She thought she might grow to like Bathsheba Blackmore, for her plain manner of speech if nothing else. But she was not so sure she liked the way her husband studied the other woman with so warm an expression.
Mrs. Blackmore tucked the blanket around the sleeping child. “Run along, my dears. The others are waiting for you in the drawing room. I'll see you at dinner.”
With a gracious nod, Mrs. Blackmore disappeared up the stairs. Lucas stared after her, a little smile playing around the edges of his mouth. “The most beautiful and witty woman in the ton, and now she spends her time soothing colicky babies and tending to her husband's medical practice. It's extraordinary.”
A shaft of jealousy stung Phoebe, sharp and cold. Her husband obviously thought
Bathsheba
was extraordinary, and he made no bones about stating it.
“You like her very much,” she ventured, striving to keep her voice neutral.
He glanced at her. “She's easy to like. At least now she is. And once you get to know her, I'm sure you'll like her, too. She can be very blunt, and I would think you'd appreciate that quality.”
Phoebe opened her mouth, then closed it, not sure if Lucas meant to compliment or insult her. She did not think it was the latter, but the encounter with Mrs. Blackmore—whom she suspected had been one of Lucas's flirts—had left her rattled. Compared to the sophisticated beauty, Phoebe could not but feel awkward and shy. She had not felt like that since leaving London and the fishbowl of the ton, but her husband's evident appreciation of Mrs. Blackmore brought all her inconvenient insecurities charging to the surface. She had not expected to feel that way, not once they were married, and her confidence slipped another notch.
“Phoebe, what's wrong?”
She glanced up to meet her husband's frown. Was he concerned, or was he merely impatient with her lack of social polish? She could not tell. “Nothing.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Well,” she amended, “perhaps I am a little tired.” And suddenly she was. Tired of lying, tired of wondering if Lucas would ever love her, tired of wondering if she would ever truly feel like his wife.
His gaze softened and he raised her hand, pressing a kiss on the tender skin of her wrist. She shivered, her body responding to his lightest touch.
“I know, love. You've been much too busy with all this Christmas nonsense. You need to sit and have a sherry and stay quiet for a bit. All this gallivanting about is obviously too much for you.”
She repressed a sigh. If it were only that simple, she would be a happy woman.
Chapter 29
Phoebe's gaze wandered the length of the table, sumptuously decorated with silver bowls of Christmas greenery and plump oranges, offset by handsome crystal vases filled with red roses. At the center of the table stood a remarkable flower basket composed entirely of sugar, so lifelike she could swear she caught a hint of scent. Everywhere in the abbey she saw the joy and beauty of Christmas, and most especially in the happy expressions of the family and friends gathered together in the elegant dining room.
Emotion tightened her throat, and she sent up a silent prayer of thanks to God for leading her to the Stanton family and to this time and place. Aunt Georgie and Uncle Arthur, Annabel and Robert, and all the rest had greeted her with genuine affection. To be gifted with a loving and kind family was truly the greatest of blessings.
Except for the blessing of a loving husband who did
not
make a habit of flirting with every pretty woman who crossed his path.
From the moment Bathsheba Blackmore returned to the drawing room, Lucas had attached himself to her side. Phoebe suspected he had done so to avoid Cousin Stephen, who had greeted him with a cool manner that made her heart sink. After that, Lucas had given his cousin a wide berth, resisting all attempts by Aunt Georgie to draw him into the family circle. He had sat with Bathsheba on an elegant settee in the corner, and the two had kept up a lively conversation until they were called in to dinner.
Unfortunate luck had also placed Lucas and Bathsheba next to each other at dinner, which had more the feel of an intimate family gathering than a formal occasion. And none seemed to enjoy the evening more than those two, who chatted and laughed throughout the long repast, exchanging gossip about mutual acquaintances in London. Phoebe tried to be happy that her husband was finally enjoying himself, but his actions reminded her too much of his flirtatious behavior the night of Lady Framingham's ball.
She tore her gaze away to stare at the roasted pheasant in front of her, concentrating on its artful display on a bed of its own feathers. Her anxiety was ridiculous. She was seated in splendid comfort, enjoying a wonderful meal in celebration of the Lord's nativity. She had everything she had ever wished for. A family who accepted her with open arms, a home to call her own, and a husband who might not be madly in love with her but who—
Lucas's husky laugh cut through her thoughts, pulling her gaze back across the table. He and Bathsheba had their heads close together again—his burnished gold to her flame—as they shared a joke. He leaned an elbow on the table as he talked in an animated fashion, more at ease than Phoebe had seen him in weeks. Unlike her, the former countess certainly had a knack for making a man comfortable and happy. Perhaps Phoebe should ask her for advice on how to manage husbands. Once she got over the horridly uncharitable impulse to throttle the woman, she might do just that.
“They make quite a striking pair, don't they?” Dr. Blackmore's cultured voice interrupted the downward spiral of her thoughts.
Phoebe blinked, and then dredged up a smile, turning slightly to address him. “They do. One might even think they belonged together.”
She winced. Would she never learn to control her wayward tongue? For all the wrong reasons she was grateful her brother, George, could no longer see and hear her. He would be ashamed of her conduct, and rightfully so.
“I . . . I am sorry,” she stammered. “I do not know why—”
“You mustn't apologize,” he said with a kind smile. “I understand completely.” He flicked a glance across at his wife, a wry expression shaping his noble features. “Believe me. I know exactly how you're feeling.”
Puzzled, she put down her fork and stared at him. “And it does not bother you?”
“That my wife so easily charms other men? No. Not anymore. It's second nature to her. I might as well ask her to stop breathing.”
“But it used to bother you?”
He grinned, his unusual silver eyes filling with warmth. Dr. Blackmore was a truly handsome man, but even more attractive was his kind and forthright nature, readily apparent from the moment she had met him in the drawing room. “You have no idea, my lady. When I first met Bathsheba, I didn't know whether to throttle her or kiss her.”
Phoebe choked back a startled laugh.
He nodded sagely. “I see you know exactly what I'm talking about.”
Her brief spurt of amusement faded, and she could not hold back a sigh. “It is very wrong of me to be jealous. But I cannot seem to help it.”
“It's human nature, although in your case I would think you have nothing to worry about. But don't fall into the habit. It's a sickness, and nothing will poison a relationship more quickly.”
“How do you avoid it?” she asked, genuinely curious.
He smiled. “Bathsheba and I have no secrets from each other. I know her as well as I know myself, and vice versa. It's almost impossible to be jealous under those circumstances.”
Oh, Lord
. Secrets. No wonder she felt so awful.
“And I trust her,” Dr. Blackmore continued. “When you trust the person you love, you trust her no matter what. You accept everything about her, even her less attractive qualities. Because without those qualities, she would not be who she is. My wife is the sum of all her parts, and I would not change a single detail about her.”
A sad little yearning twisted in Phoebe's heart. What would it be like to love like that, with total trust and devotion?
“And you never succumb to doubt?” she asked softly.
He gazed thoughtfully across the table at his wife, still deep in conversation with Lucas. “No. Never.”
His deep voice rang with quiet conviction and bone-deep satisfaction. As if he had called to her, Bathsheba switched her attention from Lucas to her husband. Her expression of social enjoyment fell away, replaced by one so intensely loving—so
private
—that Phoebe had to shift her gaze. She pushed food around her plate, trying not to wish so desperately that Lucas would someday look at her with that same intensity.
When she looked up, the moment had passed and Bathsheba was once again talking to Lucas. Dr. Blackmore raised an eyebrow at Phoebe as if to say,
see?
She had to laugh. “Yes, I do take your point. You are indeed a fortunate man to be so loved. I congratulate you.”
“I am. And I expect you are equally fortunate, Lady Merritt, if I am any judge of the matter.”
Phoebe had no idea how he could draw such a conclusion, but it would be rude to voice the thought when he clearly meant to be kind.
“Thank you,” she said politely. “I am indeed fortunate in the love of my family.”
Dr. Blackmore frowned and started to say something, but a rumbling noise from the other side of the table interrupted them as Uncle Arthur cleared his throat in a portentous fashion. He had risen to his feet, obviously preparing to make some kind of pronouncement.
Phoebe glanced at Lucas, who widened his eyes at her in mock alarm. When she swallowed a giggle he gave her a wink and a sly grin, and the knot in her chest eased by several degrees.
“Ahem,” Uncle Arthur began. “On behalf of my nephew, the Marquess of Silverton, I would like to welcome all of you to the abbey. For those of you who are spending Christmas with us for the first time, I bid you a special welcome and good cheer.”
He paused to lift his wineglass and everyone—the Stantons, their guests, and a few local families from the neighborhood—lifted theirs in return, followed by a few hearty cheers.
“Some of you may not know,” her uncle continued, “but we have a long-standing family tradition of reciting a special poem on Christmas Day.”
Robert, seated on the other side of Phoebe, leaned close. “Actually, we don't,” he said in a penetrating stage whisper. “But Grandfather read this poem in
Gentleman's Magazine
a few years ago, and decided it would make a good family tradition. No one has the faintest clue why.”
“Hush,” Phoebe hissed softly as her uncle glared at them.
“As I was saying,” Uncle Arthur said in a slightly aggrieved voice, “I always recite this poem on Christmas Day. But since Phoebe and Lucas will be celebrating the Lord's birth in their own home, I thought it proper we break with tradition this year, and hold the recitation tonight.”
Phoebe smiled at him, touched by his thoughtfulness. Reciting poetry at dinner seemed a rather odd thing to do, but she appreciated the gesture nonetheless. Unfortunately, she chose that moment to look at Lucas, who was clearly struggling not to laugh. A giggle again made its way up her throat, but she forced it down, giving her husband a severe frown.
Uncle Arthur grasped the bottom of his waistcoat and assumed a dramatic pose. An expectant hush fell around the table, although she could also sense Robert quivering with repressed laughter.
“This piece was written by Robert Southey on Christmas Day,” Uncle Arthur began.
“How many hearts are happy at this hour
In England! Brightly o'er the cheerful hall
Flares the heaped hearth, and friends and kindred meet,
And the glad mother round her festive board
Beholds her children, separated long.”
As the dignified old man recited the poem, Phoebe let her gaze drift around the table. Everyone had turned to watch her uncle, and every face held a smile. Poetry readings at dinner might be considered rather quaint, but there was no doubting the goodwill and cheer around the holiday table this night.
Uncle Arthur proceeded dramatically through the verses, rising to a crescendo.
“As o'er the house, all gay with evergreens,
From friend to friend with joyful speed I ran,
Bidding a Merry Christmas to them all.”
He ended with a flourish. Everyone broke into enthusiastic applause and even Lucas joined in, looking genuinely appreciative. The old man acknowledged their acclaim with a dignified bow and resumed his seat.
“Thank you, General,” Cousin Stephen said from the head of the table. He rose, and they all came to their feet.
“In honor of another family tradition,” he said, “I'll ask the men to dispense with their usual after-dinner brandy and join my wife and me in the great hall. I do believe Meredith has a treat in store for us.”
Phoebe could not fail to detect the note of sarcasm in his voice.
“I certainly do,” Meredith said. “And I know you will all enjoy it.” She smiled down the length of the table at her husband. “Or else.”
They all laughed, and in the general commotion of rising from the table and getting organized, Phoebe found herself once more with Lucas. He drew her hand through his arm and led her to the great hall. “Did you enjoy dinner, Phoebe?”
Only parts of it, thanks to his flirtatious behavior, but she would face another trip across the Atlantic before admitting it. “I certainly enjoyed my conversation with Dr. Blackmore. He is a most interesting and kind man.”
“Yes, he is. I'm glad you enjoyed his company.”
She peered up at him. He still looked relaxed and at ease. Clearly, he had not suffered any pangs of jealously to see her conversing so intently with the doctor. That meant he either trusted her completely, or could not be bothered to care.
“And you clearly enjoyed talking to Mrs. Blackmore,” she said. “Have you been friends with her for many years?”
“Bathsheba? Lord, no. I only met her this past summer.”
Her heart sank. If they had been old friends, she might have understood the nature of his attentions to her. She was trying very hard not to be jealous, but her husband made it a challenge.
“What's wrong, Phoebe?”
“What? Oh, nothing.”
He tilted his head, a concerned frown marking his brow. “Do you wish to retire? I'll take you upstairs if you do.”
She wanted to sigh, but then he might think she suffered from the vapors, or something equally annoying. “No, thank you. I am just wondering what will happen next. Do you know?”
He glanced at a door in the back of the hall. “I'm assuming it's the . . . yes, the wassail bowl. Here comes the butler with it now.”
From a partly concealed door the butler emerged, and behind him two liveried footmen carried an enormous and elaborately worked silver bowl, which they carefully set on a table decorated with evergreen branches and swags of ivy. Cousin Stephen stepped up to the table, and Meredith joined him a moment later.
“Dear friends,” he began. “My lady and I welcome you to our hall tonight, and wish you good cheer at this festive time of year. This wassail bowl, so symbolic of the generosity of the Season, is from an old family recipe. I prepared it myself before dinner, and I can assure you that a cup of it will chase away all worries and cares, and bring glad hearts to all who drink it.”

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