“I love you dearly, Your Grace,” she said with a wicked grin. But her eyes spoke of the depth of her feeling and the clear understanding that she recognized that this was no ordinary homecoming.
He wrapped his arms about her slight form and pressed her to his heart as if that could somehow anchor him to this moment and keep the past far, far away. It could. It already did. “I love you, too, Wife.”
“Just you remember that,” she teased, poking him lightly in the chest. “And you remember that if the past decides to pull at you this Christmas, I am holding your hand and will happily pull you back.”
“Don’t let go,” he whispered.
“Never,” she replied.
And he knew, deep in his bones, her help would be more than enough. For despite the darkness of the corridors of Blackdown and the tarnished pain of his family’s descent into deepest misery, they had all emerged phoenix-like from the ashes to a new and glorious day.
This Christmas, together, they would light the Yule log and bring in the mistletoe. . . and cast out all ghosts for good.
Chapter 2
Harry all but danced up the stone steps of the towering, great house, not giving a whit for what anyone might think of her. Luckily, there wasn’t a trace of ice on the stone, having been well sanded. The servants of the ancient seat were once again a force to be reckoned with, keeping the house in perfect working order.
Good wages, board, particularly good fare and a cheerful environment had done a wonder of good.
It had not been easy to assure the servants that Blackdown was to see a new day. She had worked long and hard to ensure that the estate shed the layers of tragedy it had absorbed just as thoroughly as she had seen the wrecked plaster and stained silk wall hangings be swept away.
While Rob had spent some extremely important hours working in Parliament changing the fate of nations, she had come down to the country and assessed how terrible it truly was. To her surprise and happiness, she’d discovered in herself what she’d realized was quite a remarkable talent for restoration.
Poring over plans, silk swatches, plasterwork designs, marble, and wood samples had not bored her. Not one bit. It had excited her. It had been clear to her that she was making choices which might, one day, please people hundreds of years in the future. Such a thing had been thrilling.
Each day had not been a trial of work and setbacks. No, it had been a revelation in her own ability and in the way art was created to last. She’d thrived in the discovery of each new beautiful element of the house. ’Twas as if she were befriending the old place, seeing its scars, loving it in any case, and helping it to heal. No, it had not just healed. Now, it positively shone.
She could not wait to show Rob. Not only was the house a stunning tribute to history now, and a quite comfortable place to live, she had also sent orders for festive decorating to be implemented.
Mary, her sister-in-law, and her mother-in-law, the dowager duchess, had been in the country now for two weeks, preparing for the Christmas season, too.
It had been, in the very end, a joint effort of the Deverall women to rejuvenate the ancient estate. An effort they were all very proud of. The spirit of the servants and tenants was now one of hope for the future.
Rob had been far more wary, as if the possibility of being within the vicinity of his childhood home might open a tide of memory and emotion he’d hoped to keep dammed up quite safely.
Still, he was here now, right behind her and he did not seem like a man being led to the gallows. In fact, his strong step was sprightly. He seemed cheerful even. Which was a good thing, for her own emotions had been rather full these last weeks. His steadiness had been most helpful as she had begun to feel waves of great happiness and waves of great irritation. Still, she knew she was going to have to become used to the unreliability of her emotions for several months.
She smiled to herself at the thought.
The double doors at the head of the wide stairs opened, revealing the marvelous butler, Stevenson. Much to her good fortune, they had formed an immediate accord and the long-suffering family servant had been eager to help her to return Blackdown to its former glory. At first, she had been frightened that she would tire him with her efforts given his years. Instead, he had only increased in vigor at the task.
She smiled then felt Rob’s hand touch her back as they stepped into the spacious foyer which was as large as some people’s entire houses. The ceiling soared above them and their footsteps echoed on the ornate, green, marble floor.
Unlike so many of the newer, prestigious houses of the ton, this beautiful place had been built before Henry VIII. Somehow, it had survived almost entirely intact and the ceiling fairly glittered what with its elaborate gold cornices and carved wood.
Painted a brilliant blue, flowers of all of England’s counties twined about the arched ceiling, but there was no mistaking the Tudor Rose in several prominent places which showed the loyalty of the Blackstone family.
That loyalty had seen the family through several revolts and uprisings of many of the most powerful families of England.
Others had fallen to the dust. The Blackstones had remained.
There was no doubt in her mind that there would be a Blackstone at the helm of the English government for all time.
Still, she hesitated, unsure how Rob might take to the changes. The tall windows had been replaced with perfect panes, and many of the blackened tapestries had been taken down and sent away for restoration which might take years. In the meantime, a series of paintings featuring the great deeds of the first Blackstones hung upon the walls.
She glanced back over her shoulder, hoping to see some sign of acceptance.
She did not see it. No, it was not acceptance. His face had all but transformed with pleasure. A wide smile parted his wicked lips and his eyes, so often given to mischief, lit with delight.
“What a marvel,” he declared. “How proud you both must be.”
The butler all but bounced on his ancient toes, unable to hide his glee. “We are, Your Grace. We are. But it is Her Grace who is most responsible. She has brought the place to life again.”
“She has brought us all to life again,” Rob corrected kindly.
“No ghosts could dwell here,” he whispered very quietly before giving himself a little shake.
Harriet barely heard his declaration but hear it she did, and her heart warmed. It was no easy thing for him to choose happiness. Her heart swelled with pride at his strength.
“Now,” Rob proclaimed, clasping her to him, “show me our home, Your Grace.”
Harry all but hummed with relief and joy at his reaction. Rob had always danced on the edge of the sadness of his childhood. But when one had known such tragedy as he had, it was to be expected. The horrific depths of dissipation to which Rob’s father had descended and which Rob had witnessed would be the heart break of any son.
As of late, the shadows of the past had released him more and more.
So, delighted, she took his hand and began pulling him towards the curved stairs.
“Where to first?” he asked, following happily.
She stopped and popped onto the tips of her boots. Pressing a kiss to his cheek, she then whispered, “The bedrooms, I’d think. Don’t you agree?”
Chapter 3
Mary scribbled fiercely at her writing desk before the frost-tinged windows. A soft blue, winter light bathed her room and the single taper she’d lit to illuminate her pages danced cheerfully.
The guests had been arriving all afternoon and she knew she should be glad. She was! For they were all free now of the prison her father had made for her, Rob, and their mother.
That darkness was gone now forever with her father’s passing. Bitterness had given way to joy. Dawn had come to Blackdown. Even now, cloudless blue sky caused the snow-blanketed ground to wink as if covered by millions of priceless diamonds. Everything fairly glittered.
She bit the end of her wooden quill as she contempla
ted the vast estate unrolling before her.
No. She would not think about him. The man who had changed everything from the moment she had set eyes upon him.
His rough voice and rough hands were not her concern.
Mary looked back to the parchment, half-filled with quickly scrawled words.
Richard Heath. . .
Her heart all but skipped in anticipation.
He was coming for Christmas.
What ever would she do?
She had not seen him since he had so bluntly proclaimed that a lady such as she was no longer to keep company with a man such as he.
But it was his company she preferred to all. It drove her mad that she could not make him see that.
Truly, it amazed her he had agreed to leave London for the polished halls of aristocrats at all given his general dislike of the upper classes. But he had formed the most unlikely of friendships with her brother and his closest friends.
And that made everything all the more complicated. What would Rob truly think of her friendship with Heath? Was friendship truly the proper word? Of that, she was not certain.
Sighing, Mary flung her quill down. Ink spattered the ivory page and she folded her arms beneath her breasts.
It did seem that she was destined to play a role she had no interest in. Even Heath had made it seem like that was what she should do.
Duke’s daughter, indeed. She snorted.
The very idea. For far too long, she had been forced into a submissive guise, unable to be herself. Now was her chance to shed all that and choose her own path.
No, it was not her fate to marry some silly arse of a man who cared naught but for dogs, lace, and snuff boxes.
Oh, how she longed for a man who had looked into this hellish life and laughed, unbowed.
As if the bidden devil had heard his name, Heath’s voice boomed up from the drive and she realized that the most recent coach to arrive was his!
Mary bounded up from her chair, all but knocking it over. She pressed her face to the cold glass, desperate to catch sight of him.
To no avail.
His voice filled the frigid air, but he was already mounting the steps, vanishing beneath the elaborate portico.
What to do? She bit the inside of her cheek.
Stay here?
No. She would not hide. He might have told her to avoid him, but surely even he would agree such a thing would be impossible at a Christmas party?
And so, anticipation lacing through her veins, Mary dashed out of the room, certain that this Christmas, Richard Heath’s presence was almost certainly the greatest present of all.
Chapter 4
Richard Heath hated Christmas presents. Rightly, he should have hated Christmas, too, having spent more than a few of his sleeping in gutters, guarding whore houses, or cleaning up dubious liquids in taverns.
For whatever reason, he’d never quite been able to hate it the way some people he knew did. For, whilst it had been a sort of hell, he’d always been swept away by the way his sort could still lift a cup of gin, salute the season, and revel in a few hours of undiluted joy.
Christmas, he knew, was not about the goose, pudding, marble halls, or oranges.
No, it was about the company one kept.
That was the only reason he’d stepped into this gilded box which usually would have made him wish to snarl with disgust.
No, the people in this house were most acceptable to him, unlike most of the upper classes.
It was still a marvel to him the way he had taken in Rob, who had come to him lost, and looking as if a cannon had exploded right before him. There was no good reason that he could recall to deciding to guide the young duke through the rings of debt and trouble his father had immersed himself in. Rob hadn’t been arrogant or superior. He’d been curious, determined to learn, and terrifyingly clear that he would not be repeating the disastrous mistakes of his sire.
And he clearly cared about Mary. Unlike the man who’d tried to all but sell her away to clear his debts.
Richard admired Rob for his sheer determination to do the right thing, though Richard had been loath to admit it at first.
And then, he’d been pulled inexplicably into the small, secret circle of the Number 79 club. He still wasn’t sure how he’d become a member. It boggled even his jaded mind.
After all, only dukes were members. . . all but him.
Footsteps clattered down the ornate stairs at the center of the sprawling foyer and his heart suddenly did a damned inconvenient stutter.
Lady Mary stopped at the center of the landing, her green silk skirts, edged with gold, swinging about her legs. The swish of the fabric bared white, silk-stockinged ankles and green slippers.
Her dark hair was wild about her face, as if she had not bothered with an elaborate coiffure.
She looked completely different than the timid girl he’d first met. God, how she had infiltrated his sympathies. He’d been appalled by his sentimentality. But now, he knew it was because he had seen the survivor in her.
Mary was not a mouse, following the bidding of her monstrous sire. Instead, she was a lioness ready to tear all apart to protect her mother.
That realization had solidified his deep admiration and devotion to her.
She’d never known that. She never would.
It was imperative he keep the damned high kick away from him. A brutish fellow, no matter how smoothed out with highly applied gloss, was not for her.
In the end, for all his schooling, for all his practiced airs, he was a man of the gutter.
He would not drag her deeper into his sordid world. No, her beauty would not be marred by it. Her heart had known enough suffering without him causing her more.
“Hello, Richard,” she said, the corner of her mouth quirking up in the way it did when she was secretly thinking thoughts that titled young ladies were not supposed to think.
He knew that smile. It had nearly led him down a path he could not return from.
He inclined his dark head. “Lady Mary,” he replied.
Sighing, she started down the steps, head held high. A slight red colored her pearl white cheeks. Not rouge, not the color of the women of his birth, which was meant to feign desire.
This color. . . this color was pleasure at the sight of him.
His breath all but stopped. How had he ever thought he could be in her proximity again and not be tempted?
He clenched his jaw. Damnation. He was stronger than that. He was Richard Heath, ruler of the bloody underworld of London. A chit of a girl, an aristocrat, was not going to move him.
Except. . . except, he knew in his soul, in his bones, in what little was left of his heart, she was so much more than that.
Mary was glorious.
She was the sort of creature that made men kneel, breathless, ready to worship, and give their hearts over even when they knew only hell would result.
Luckily, he had more self-discipline than most.
“Now,” she began, her voice surprisingly deep for one of her years. Richard—”
“Heath,” he cut in quickly.
She cocked her head to the side. “Surely not.”
“Surely yes,” he countered, every inch of him aching at her sudden nearness. He fairly towered over her. She had to crane her head back to meet his eyes, causing her dark hair to spill over her ivory shoulders. It didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest, his height.
Her brow furrowed. “But—”
“We are not friends, Lady Mary,” he said with forced gentleness. “And only friends use each other’s given names.”
“Only friends?” she asked, her brows rising as she teased him.
The two words which should have been so completely ineffective with a man who had known every type of seduction or intimation of desire, sent a wave of longing through him.
Bloody hell, how had he ever let it get this far? How had he ever let her think she could be so intimate with him?
He lean
ed down and whispered, “We are not lovers, either, Lady Mary.”
She smiled up at him, unrepentant. “Alas.”
“Get yourself a husband,” he growled, suddenly impatient and desperate to be away from her lest she see the power of her effect upon him. “And then, if you’re still after your bit of rough, you’ll know where to find me.”
She winced. “I—”
For one moment, he hated himself. For one moment, he started to reach out to her and tell her how much he hungered for her, how he admired her above all others. But he never could and never would.
And he sure as hell would not be the one to ruin her.
With that, he forced himself to turn and leave her. One foot stepped after the next, having no bloody clue where he was going, as long as it was away from the only woman he’d truly ever wanted.
Chapter 5
The close friendship of Harry’s husband, the Duke of Blackstone, to the Duke of Drake had begun in a hospital tent, on the edge of a battlefield, just before Christmas. It had not been on England’s green shores that their powerful alliance had begun but at war on a far-flung field.
She could only imagine that the air had not smelled of evergreen, cinnamon, oranges, and a good fire. Surely, the air had smelled of gunpowder and dying men.
But as Harriet understood, it had been in that tent that the Duke of Blackstone and the Duke of Drake assessed each other warily then committed to what would soon be an undeniable tradition.
She’d always been rather fond of the distant, wickedly sharp Duke of Drake. He’d held himself with such power, such cleverness, and stayed above the antics of everyone else about him. And yet, he’d often spared kind smiles for her. Most recently, she’d begun to believe that he was not nearly as jaded as he liked others to believe. In fact, she was almost certain that his cutting stare and blade of a tongue stemmed from a kind heart that had been sorely misused.
It had been known to all and sundry when he and her husband had first begun their friendship that Damian, then future Duke of Drake, was not welcome at his own estate. He had been hated by his own parents who had decried him to all of society.
'Tis the Season: Regency Yuletide Short Stories Page 21