Her friend shot her a sideways glance. “Lord Trent?”
Where most members of the ton prided themselves on sharing nothing of themselves with other peers, this woman had been more sister than friend through the years. There were no secrets between them. Winnie managed a jerky nod. After all, when you knew a soul as long as the girls had known one another, secrets were few and far between.
Prudence brought them to a stop before a door at the far end of the hall. She pressed the handle and motioned Winnie inside. With wooden steps, Winnie entered the opulent chambers adorned in shades of pale pink and white. Her friend closed the door behind them and leaned against it. “Well?” She folded her arms at her chest.
“I don’t—”
Prudence scowled. “Do not insult our friendship by claiming you do not know what I’m speaking about.” She looked at Winnie from the top of her head to her toes. “What has he done? Lord Trent,” she cut in when Winnie made to issue another false protestation.
She bit her lip hard and gave her head a shake, fearing the moment she turned over one detail to her friend, that she’d be reduced to a pathetic, sobbing mess. And years ago, they’d all agreed—tears were unbecoming of a lady.
“Winifred Isolde Grisham,” Prudence scolded, in a tone better suited to their oft-displeased mamas.
With a frustrated sigh, Winnie spun about and marched deeper into the chambers. Her footsteps echoed quietly on the plush Aubusson carpet. “There is nothing to say. I told Trent I loved him.”
Her friend’s gasp cut into her telling. “Never say he did not return your sentiments. Surely not. I have seen the way he looks at you.”
Distractedly, she stopped beside the vanity and picked up the floral French perfume bottle; the crystal cool in her palms. “No,” she said softly. “Just the opposite.” And with that pledge he’d given her everything she’d ever wanted in life.
Prudence moved in a flurry of noisy skirts. “He professed his love.”
Her fingers trembled and she forced herself to set down the tiny bauble. For years, she’d thought the greatest hurdle to her happiness was managing to convince Trent he loved her. What irony to know that her blasted brother had represented the divide between them. “H-he did,” she whispered.
Prudence took her by the shoulders. A wide smile formed on her lips. “That is wonderful. Why are you so—”
“My brother discovered us.”
Prudence froze. She cocked her head. “Discovered you?”
Heat scorched a path from her chest, to her neck, all the way to her cheeks. “Embracing.” More than embracing, but certainly no details she’d share with anyone, including her dearest friends. Those exchanges belonged to no one but Winnie and Trent.
Her friend released her and sank back on her heels. “Oh, dear.”
“Oh, dear, indeed.” Eager to have the whole rotted tale done, she shared all with Prudence. From the billiards lesson one week earlier to skating at the River Thames, and then to James’ threat of a duel. When she’d finished, silence rang through the room.
“Oh, Winnie,” Prudence whispered. She took Winnie’s hands in hers and gave a gentle squeeze. “I have to believe he will not simply set aside what you two both share. He—”
“Is not coming for the holiday season.”
The other young woman frowned. “Well, I do say it would be rather difficult to arrive when a duel has been threatened by your great lummox of a brother.” She released Winnie’s fingers and tapped her lip distractedly. “We will solve this.” Ever the doer of the group, Prudence demonstrated a confidence Winnie had never possessed.
She nodded and dropped her gaze to that perfume bottle. To give herself something to do, Winnie picked it up again and studied the faint crystal snowflake etched on the glass.
“Come,” Prudence urged. “Join me and Jane and Leticia in the parlor. It will give you something else to think on.”
Winnie mustered a smile for her friend’s benefit. “I am tired from our travels. I am going to stay behind.” At Prudence’s sound of protest, she set the crystal bauble back down. “I will be fine. I merely wish to rest before the evening’s meal.” Prudence hesitated. Indecision raged in her eyes. “Go,” Winnie urged. She didn’t want anyone’s company at this moment.
“You are certain? Because I would not leave you—”
“I am certain,” she said with far more conviction than she felt. For as Prudence took her leave, she readily acknowledged she wasn’t altogether certain of anything anymore.
Chapter Ten
The noisy chatter and the joyous laughter had often been Winnie’s favorite part of the Countess of Weston’s holiday parties. So much so, that over the years, when the Christmastide celebrations joined by their families became less and less frequent, she’d lamented the quieter, more intimate ones celebrated by her own family.
Yes, Mama and Papa sat beside one another, periodically whispering and boldly praising the mince pie. Lady Weston studied the guests present, a meddling glimmer in her eyes. Winnie skimmed her gaze over her friends, and then she shot it back to Prudence. The young lady held her fork but made no move to take a bite of the contents on her plate. Instead, her attention remained…
She widened her eyes and took in Christopher Chance, the heir presumptive to the Earl of Arundell. When Lady Weston had performed the necessary introductions that evening, Winnie hadn’t paid any attention to the gentleman brought along by Jane’s older brother, Stephen. Now she noted the furtive glances her friend stole at the tall gentleman and… A vicious, ugly envy stabbed her. And longing. The gentleman stared boldly at Prudence through thick, hooded lashes. She gripped her fork hard, aching for another gentleman’s presence. A man who’d looked at her in that very way.
Trent…
He and his blasted sense of honor and her brother’s blasted obstinacy. Yes, she’d always eagerly anticipated Lady Weston’s gatherings. This occasion, however, proved the exception. To drive back the lump in her throat, she grabbed her glass and took a sip of her tepid wine.
From the head of the table, the countess called out to no one in particular, “I daresay, I expected Lord Trent to join our festivities.”
The glass tumbled from Winnie’s fingers. Servants rushed forward. But the damage had been done. Liquid filled the untouched contents of her plate and stained the tablecloth. It dripped from the edge and marred her ivory skirts. Her skin pricked as the absolute silence of the table registered. Blinking wildly, she picked up her head. Heat slapped her cheeks. The large collection of lords and ladies present stared curiously at her. Nay, not everyone. Prudence stared on with a gentle concern.
“Is everything all right, my dear?” Mama called loudly from across the table.
Oh, yes. Splendid. My brother all but called out the man I love. Perfectly splendid. Winnie gave a murmur of thanks to the servants who finished cleaning off her place setting and returned with a new, unsullied plate. From across the table, her brother glared at her. She held his stare and glowered in response. “I am fine,” she said tightly.
Then, everyone returned to their previous discourse. Mama and Papa whispering in one another’s ears. Prudence making eyes at Christopher Chance. All the evidence of other peoples’ happiness came with their laughter and giggles until the chatter about the table blurred into one large cacophony of incoherent sound in her ears. She balled her hands to keep from slapping them over her ears.
It was too much. She could not feign indifference or happiness, even for her family’s benefit… Winnie shoved back her chair with such alacrity it scraped the hardwood floor. She jumped to her feet. Heart thundering, she rushed out from behind her seat.
“Winnie?” Mama asked, concern underscoring her words.
“I can’t,” she rasped. “I need,” to flee, “my gown,” she finished lamely, stringing together fragments that together made little sense to even her. Footsteps sounded in the hall. “I—”
The Earl of Weston’s butler cleared his throat. �
��Lord Trent Ballantine.”
Winnie stilled and stared unblinkingly at her mother. The butler’s nasal intonation of a name…nay, his name, sucked what had remained of rational thought inside her head and left her frozen.
“My goodness, Trent, whatever happened to your face, my dear boy?” Her mother’s concerned words drew her back from the abyss of confusion.
Winnie swung her gaze to the front of the room, and her eyes collided with his. Pain lanced at her heart. The bluish-black about his eyes and slightly bent nose bore the evidence of that horrific day. Through that nearly swollen shut left eye, a fierce intensity still blazed through and singed her with the heat. He is here. She momentarily closed her eyes. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“Yes, what are you doing here?” James gritted out. The fury underscoring his question hinted at his thinly veiled rage. “I thought I’d made myself very clear when last we spoke.”
Trent’s face contorted and she hated he should be so hurt at the hands of a man he’d called friend for almost eleven years.
“James!” Their mother gasped.
“Lord Trent,” Lady Weston called out over the family squabbling, ever the gracious hostess. “We did not expect you, but what a pleasure it is.”
Trent cleared his throat and looked about the table. “It was not my intention to interrupt your families’ holiday revelry.”
“Do not be silly,” Lady Carlisle intoned. “Isn’t that correct, Lady Weston?”
“Indeed.”
He momentarily slid his focus over to James. “You were clear I was not to enter your household.”
Her brother gritted his teeth, loudly. “Go to the devil, Ballantine.”
Another round of shocked gasps met her brother’s ungentlemanly outburst. “James,” Mama scolded and glared him into silence like he was a boy of seven and not a man of twenty-seven.
A grin pulled at Winnie’s lips; the first smile she’d worn since he stormed from the billiards room. Ah, God, how she loved him.
His garments wrinkled and dusted from his journey, Trent took a step forward. “I have no right to be here,” he directed those words to her.
“Don’t be silly, boy.” Her father’s low baritone boomed from the walls. “You are very much a part of this family, and as such, welcome.”
The muscles of Trent’s throat worked. Her heart tugged. Did he not know how much a part of her family’s fabric he’d become? He turned his gloved palms up and continued walking toward her. “Your brother is indeed correct. Any one of these gentleman present would make you a worthy husband.”
“I do not want any of these other gentlemen,” she said softly. From the corner of her eye, she saw the looks exchanged by the four mothers present. Her poor mama was the only one whose furrowed brow bespoke her confusion.
Trent stopped before her. With a tremulous hand, he reached inside the front of his pocket and withdrew a familiar sack. Her heart tugged as he held up the bag with its ice-skate embroidered upon the front. “I am selfish and self-serving, but this is not enough.” He palmed her cheek, and she leaned into his touch.
James leapt to his feet. Rage burned from his eyes. “Take your bloody hands off my sister, Ballantine,” he thundered.
“But I love you, Winnie,” Trent continued as though her brother hadn’t spoken. He dropped his brow to hers. “I love your spirit. I love the way you pretend to not know how to play billiards to wheedle something from me.”
His words rang a breathless laugh from her. “You know that?”
“I know everything from how your eyes sparkle when you’re scheming to how you despise mince pies.”
“But the mince pie is delicious,” her mother moaned.
She and Trent laughed softly, and then his amusement faded. He stroked his hand down her cheek. “I’ve spent the better part of two years fighting myself, but you have proven me hopelessly weak.” He fell to a knee.
Winnie widened her eyes. “Wh-what are you doing?” She touched her fingertips to her mouth.
Gasps went up about the table.
Her brother slumped down in his chair. “Oh, bloody hell.”
Mama leaned over and pinched James on the arm. “Why do you not apply yourself to something your sister wants for a change, my boy?”
“I love you, Winifred Isolde Grisham,” Trent said quietly. “And with your father’s permission,” he raised his gaze.
All four mothers called out in unison. “You have it.”
A twinkle lit her father’s eyes. “I think you have your answer, boy.”
Trent gave a slight nod and looked once more to Winnie. “I would have you as my wife.”
A shuddery sob escaped her and she hurled her arms about him. Trent staggered under the force of her movement. He righted them and ran his hand over the back of her head. “I love you,” he whispered against her ear. “You see, I left, and pledged to stay away and do you know what I realized?”
Tears misted her vision, and she gave her head a slight shake. “What?” she managed to whisper.
He captured a single teardrop with the pad of his thumb. “I promised I would never let you go, and I never intend to. Never again.”
A smile played on Winnie’s lips. Why, it seemed her mother had been correct, after all.
Anything could happen at Christmas.
Epilogue
Kent, England
Trent Ballantine was going to die, and he deserved his fate.
Nay, to be more precise, Trent was going to be murdered—and murdered good—in the corridor of his own Kent household, no less. And by none other than his brother-in-law of just ten months.
Said brother-in-law, who’d been his best friend since Eton…and had remained Trent’s steadfast friend until Trent had gone and married the other man’s sister.
After he’d declared his love for Winnie at Lady Weston’s holiday party, Trent been met with only fury from his friend. And in fairness, Trent well-understood the other man’s reservations about entrusting Winnie, a woman far better than Trent deserved, with one of Trent’s—now former—reputation. In the months following, he and James had managed to arrive at a truce.
The truce however, had proven short-lived.
A god-awful scream split the hallway, and Trent exploded to his feet. Yes, James should have. Bile climbed his throat, and he choked it back to keep from casting the contents of his stomach up in the middle of the hallway.
With his back rested against the damask wallpaper, and a leg up, James glared at Trent. “I should have killed you.”
And it was telling that the viscount’s father, Trent’s recent father-in-law, only lifted his son’s silver flask to his lips in response.
“I caaaaan’t,” Winnie cried.
Was her voice fainter?
Did it sound fainter?
It’d been…three hours now. Three hours of this hell that his wife was suffering through.
Ignoring the black glower James had pinned on him, Trent began to pace. Ignoring his father-in-law taking another swallow from a flask, Trent fixed his gaze on the oak door of his chambers. For a short while, everything had been perfect. Upon his and Winnie’s marriage, Trent’s brother had gifted them properties in Kent. Here, Trent and Winnie had spent their days and nights planning for their future. Considering different business ventures.
For what? There was no future without her in it.
Another cry went up.
Winnie’s cry.
It came as a tortured wail that ripped through Trent’s soul.
“I should kill you,” James squeezed out between tightly gritted teeth.
Slouched in a chair beside his son, the Earl of Portland thumped a fist on his leg, calling Trent’s attention briefly away from the hell unfolding on the other side of that oak slab. “Thattt’s not riiiight,” the earl slurred, with a loyalty Trent didn’t deserve. “You shoulddda killed hiiiiim nine months ago to avoid thiissss,” his father-in-law clarified, disabusing Trent of the idea that
there’d been any paternal-type loyalty from the older man. Bending down, the earl searched around for the flask he’d borrowed some time ago.
James took a long swig, and then wordlessly handed those spirits over to the earl.
The always proper Earl of Portland that was, who’d commandeered his son’s flask about three hours earlier, who’d never overindulged in spirits as long as Trent had known the man, was three-sheets to the wind.
Increasing the length and speed of his strides, Trent dragged both hands through his hair.
And never more had he himself needed a drink.
A whole bottle.
But a bottle of brandy or whiskey would have been the coward’s way out. It would have been an escape he wasn’t entitled to. Not when his wife was on the other side of that door, giving birth to their first child.
What have I done?
“Pleeeeease,” Winnie’s agonized entreaty stretched out into the hall. “Not again.”
Sinking to his haunches, Trent yanked at his thoroughly disheveled hair. He moaned.
“Never again. Never again. Never again.” It was a hoarse litany. A promise.
He’d never touch her.
Ever.
“Damn straight this won’t happen again,” James spat, pushing away from the wall. “Because if she survives this, I will see you dead to be sure you don’t ever put another hand on her.” By god, what was he doing out here? Rules?—“And—just a moment! I’m in the middle of threatening you.” –Societal rules be damned. Trent broke off into a run. “Where are you going?” his friend shouted after him.
Not breaking stride, Trent skidded to a halt outside the chambers he shared with his wife.
“You cannnnot go in there,” his father-in-law called. “Not proper.”
Trent shoved the door open, and stumbled inside.
Absolute silence met his entry; more deafening for the sea of people surrounding his and Winnie’s bed: her mother, along with the doctor and midwife whom Trent had paid a sizeable sum to remain with them in anticipation of the arrival of this moment, and an army of maids. That crowd formed an arc around Winnie; a curtain of people that shielded Trent from the only person he needed to see.
Her Christmas Rogue Page 11