Winter Wishes: A Regency Christmas Anthology

by Cheryl Bolen

“Bollocks,” his lordship answered crudely. “It’s a damned good thing you’re not marrying my daughter. You would have wasted my money and then battened on me for the rest of your life. Have your man pack your bags. You are no longer welcome here.”

  Sir Andrew hobbled to the door and turned. “Good luck to you, Burke. She may be pretty, but she’s cold as ice.”

  Gawain forced himself to say mildly, “What a pity your injury prohibits me from planting you a facer, Sir Andrew.”

  “Just you wait,” Sir Andrew said. “She’ll poison you like she did the others.” He limped out, shouting for his valet.

  Isolde let out a whoosh of relief, but Papa immediately returned his attention to Gawain. “You burst into my house for nothing. Isolde loves her mother. She would never agree to marry a Burke.”

  “Why not? I think it’s an excellent notion.”

  Isolde whirled at the sound of her mother’s voice. Lady Statham stood in the doorway, with Mrs. Denton and Jane behind her.

  “Damnation, Heloise!” cried Lord Statham. “What the devil has got into you?”

  “All I want is my Isolde’s happiness.” She entered the drawing room. “How delightful to see you, Sir Wally, and dear Gawain. Are you acquainted with Mrs. Denton and her daughter, Jane?”

  Once the introductions were performed, she smiled contentedly. “What excellent news. There is nothing better than a love match.”

  Appalled, Isolde gathered her wandering wits. “I haven’t agreed to marry anyone, Mama.”

  “Come now, child, I’m not blind. I wondered why you were blushing earlier, and now I know. It’s obvious that you’re in love with dear Gawain, and he with you.”

  Isolde caught Gawain’s eye. He nodded gravely. He was so kind, and chivalrous too, but while Mama might be able to read her own daughter aright, she couldn’t know Gawain’s mind.

  “Gawain has asked to court me, that is all. I repeat: I have not agreed to wed him or anyone else.”

  “He wants to marry you?” Jane cried. “Oh, you lucky, lucky thing!” She flushed to the roots of her hair, clapped her hands to her burning cheeks, and ran from the room.

  “Please excuse her,” murmured Mrs. Denton. “She is very young.” She followed, doubtless as much to escape what threatened to be a rousing quarrel as to remonstrate with her daughter.

  Papa had been staring in astonishment at his wife, but now he recovered himself. “You are forgetting something, Heloise. Even if this absurd match were to take place, there is the little matter of a disputed pendant. Which family will have it after we are gone?”

  “Both,” Mama said, beaming. “For the two families will be joined.”

  “Ha!” Papa said. “If Isolde is so deluded as to accept this offer, she will become a Burke. Think about it, Heloise.”

  “I am thinking about it,” Mama said. “Isolde will live nearby. I shall see her often. I shan’t lose her, as I have done James.”

  “That’s the consequence of his folly, my love.” Papa dismissed James—and Mama’s sadness—with a flick of the wrist, and instantly Isolde decided to bring Mama with her to visit James.

  “I believe I should return the pendant,” Mama said, “as a gesture of friendship and goodwill. I wouldn’t have kept it at all if the ghost hadn’t pestered me half to death. But now he has apologized. I think I should apologize, too.”

  “A Statham, apologize? Never! Not that it would do the least good. Lady Burke will never forgive you for keeping the pendant in the first place.”

  Sir Wally’s usually cheerful countenance darkened, and Gawain sucked in a breath.

  Mama pouted. “Nevertheless, I wish to return it. When Isolde and Gawain marry, we shall all be friends once more.”

  Papa crossed his arms. “Think, my love. If Isolde marries young Burke, his mother will have the ideal weapon of revenge. She will prevail upon her son to prevent you from seeing Isolde ever again.”

  Mama burst into tears.

  Chapter 8

  Pandemonium broke loose. Gawain leapt forward to restrain his father. Sir Wally roared furiously and would have punched Lord Statham, if Gawain hadn’t held him back. “Ignore him, Father. He’s an old brute.”

  Isolde ran to her mother’s side. “Gawain would never do that, and nor would Lady Burke.”

  “Of course not,” Gawain said in disgust. “My mother would be happy to see the feud come to an end and cordial relations resume. She is a kind-hearted woman. It would never occur to her to separate a mother from her child.”

  Isolde led Lady Statham to the door. “Go to your bedchamber, Mama, and have your maid bring you a composer. I’ll be up soon to reassure you.”

  “Indeed you will, daughter. It is your duty to inform your mother that you will not marry that libertine,” Lord Statham added in a feeble attempt to regain control.

  Isolde didn’t respond. Did that mean she never would marry him? Gawain wondered.

  Or that she didn’t intend to indulge in a fruitless argument with her father? He hoped that was the case.

  “Let’s go, Gawain,” Sir Wally said, “before I pummel Statham into insensibility.” This was no empty threat, for he was still strong and fit—far more so than Lord Statham—but a fistfight would only make matters worse.

  Gawain sent a tentative glance to Isolde. Regardless of whether she chose to marry him, they could clear up the problem of the pendant immediately, if what he suspected about the missing heart was true.

  She returned the slightest of nods. “Pray accept my apologies for my father. I’m so sorry that what should have been a civil conversation degenerated into a horrid quarrel. Allow me to escort you to the door.”

  They left the library, shutting the door behind them, and once they were out of earshot, Isolde said softly, “Gawain, we should search for the pendant while we have the chance. Papa won’t know you haven’t left the premises if we go by the back stairs.”

  He smiled at her. He couldn’t help it. He was besotted, damn it all, for better or worse. “An excellent notion. Go on home, Father, and I’ll follow soon.”

  Isolde braced herself for an extremely uncomfortable conversation. Difficult though it might be, she was grateful for the necessity of seeking the pendant, for it forced her to make her position regarding marriage completely clear.

  And yet she found herself hesitating. Rehearsing her words. After that first moment of relief, matters had become rapidly worse. Mama supported the proposed marriage, and so did Gawain’s father. Noble, chivalrous Gawain might feel obliged to persist in his suit.

  They fetched a lantern and a branch of candles. She hurried ahead of him up the stairs. Perhaps if she simply concentrated on searching for the pendant, he would realize she was serious about not wedding him.

  Or maybe they could pretend to court for a short while…but no, that would be torture, and it would also be dishonorable with regard to the ghost. Best to settle the matter now and avoid Gawain in future, as the most effective method of falling out of love.

  Ah! If she fled to James and brought Mama along, he couldn’t insist on coming, for she wouldn’t be alone.

  Now that was an idiotic notion. He would merely insist on escorting them both. On the other hand, he wouldn’t be able to wangle his way into her bed again with Mama there.

  For she was no fool, and his alternate suggestion to courtship would have provided him with ample opportunity to persuade her how very pleasant marriage could be.

  She stifled a sob.

  “Isolde?” He was right behind her, and he’d heard it.

  “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” She pushed open the door to the attic and moved aside to let Gawain pass, but the lantern hardly pierced the darkness. Directly ahead, chained bleeding on a ghostly bed, was the Cavalier—mercifully silent for now. She doubted he would remain so if he realized she still had no intention of marrying Gawain.

  “He does look ghastly,” Gawain said.

  “At least he’s not moaning. We’ll put the candles
on that old chair.” She shoved aside the cobwebs that festooned the space and marched past the ghost. There was little furniture in this section of the attic, which contained mostly ancient luggage, as well as discarded swords, a battered shield, and a couple of old clocks. The trunks were intact, the valises less so, and the bandboxes had been chewed to bits by vermin or used as nests. She set the candlestick down and returned to take the lantern from Gawain, who still contemplated the ghost.

  She lit the branch of candles. “Ignore him. He’s long dead. He no longer suffers from those wounds.”

  “Some wounds never heal,” the ghost whispered.

  She glared at him. “Hush! That’s your fault and no one else’s.”

  Gawain frowned, then realized. “He’s speaking to you again.”

  “As I said, don’t pay him any heed.” She scowled at several trunks—some of which, she realized now, were directly under the ghost. The Cavalier had returned to Statham from war, then died at home of his festering wounds. Why would his ghost choose to lie above these very trunks unless to keep people away from them?

  She gritted her teeth. The ghost was cold to the touch—far worse than the chilly breeze he often used to announce his presence—but she refused to let him prevent her from searching. “I’ll wager the other heart is in one of those trunks.”

  “Stay away,” the ghost hissed. “You may not search until you agree to marry your lover.”

  “I will search them if I want to,” she retorted. “You, like my father, will just have to stop being stubborn and accept that friendship and agreement fulfills the requirements of your oath.”

  “What oath?” Gawain asked.

  She explained about the poem on the Cavalier’s grave, and the star-crossed lovers of more than a hundred and fifty years earlier. “I assume his daughter’s lover was a member of your family who subsequently died fighting against the parliamentary forces.”

  “Or for Parliament,” Gawain said. “The Burkes were very much divided on that score.”

  “Puritanical young fool,” the ghost said. “Unworthy of a Blakely woman.” He paused. “Or so I thought, to my chagrin.”

  Gawain looked a question. “He’s bemoaning his error of judgment regarding his daughter and her lover,” Isolde said. “I wish he would consider his error of judgment regarding me.”

  Immediately, the ghost reassumed his stubborn pose.

  Gawain said mildly, “It doesn’t look as though he’s going to get out of the way.”

  “I don’t care.” She marched right up to the ghost. Frigid air met her. “Stop it. You can’t make me go away.” She shivered, but got down on her hands and knees. She felt around until she found a handle at one end of a trunk. She grasped it—oh, it was deathly cold.

  The Cavalier let out a frightful wail.

  “Maybe he can’t get out of the way,” Gawain said. “He is in chains, after all.”

  “They are chains of his own making.” Isolde dragged the trunk inch by frigid inch from under the ghost. She let go of the handle, shaking her fingers to warm them. “You could at least have the—ugh—decency to help me!”

  “I’m rather torn between you and the Cavalier,” Gawain said. “You’re in distress, but so is he. He will calm down if you stop tormenting him, but what, I ask myself, will calm you?”

  She stood, furious. “I’m tormenting him? What do you think he’s doing to me?” She clenched her fists. “Getting this over with will calm me!”

  “And then what?”

  “Then I will leave for the North. With my mother, if I can persuade her. And without you.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Gawain said, struggling to control his anguish. “I didn’t mean to distress you, Isolde. I was trying to protect you.”

  “Yes, you are all that is chivalrous and kind, but you don’t want to marry. You told me so when you were in disguise—that you knew all about parents pushing one into marriage.”

  “Not my parents,” he said. “I was thinking of you and James.”

  “But you implied…” She paused. “Don’t try to convince me you were being devious. I won’t believe it.”

  “I was trying to reassure you that you were safe with me. I never said I didn’t wish to marry.”

  “So very kind of you, but truly, you mustn’t persist in this folly,” she cried. “Now my mother expects me to marry you, and your father does, too.”

  “Our parents have no say in this.” Gawain clenched his jaw, but his voice shook nevertheless. “I want no unwilling bride.”

  Her face crumpled. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s just that…”

  She whirled, facing the ghost. “Stop it! Yes, you say you mean well, but all you really care about is an oath you made ages and ages ago.” A silence, and then, “It doesn’t matter what I want.” Another silence. “Oh, come now. We don’t all want the same thing.”

  “Maybe we do,” Gawain said, taking a hopeful guess at the side of the conversation he couldn’t hear. “I’m not being chivalrous, Isolde. I’m in love with you.”

  Told you so, whispered the Cavalier.

  Isolde wanted desperately to believe Gawain, but she couldn’t. “You’re most kind, but after you helped me avoid being married against my will, how could I possibly inflict the same fate on you? It would be damnable.”

  “Sweetheart.” He drew her into his arms, and she subsided against him. It felt so good. And warm. And right.

  He caressed her hair. “You’re not inflicting anything on me. If anything, I’m the one doing the inflicting. I would have asked you to marry me last night, but I thought it was too soon. I wanted to give you some time to get accustomed. Then Marcus came and told me your father had betrothed you to Sir Andrew. I had to intervene immediately, come what may.”

  “He is a noble lover,” the ghost said. “I apologize for thinking him dishonorable.” With a sigh, he added, “It is yet another stain on my character.”

  “Don’t be maudlin,” she retorted, reluctantly pushing herself away from Gawain. “We all make mistakes.”

  Gawain stilled, then blew out a breath. “The ghost again?”

  She nodded. “He had temporarily reversed his favorable opinion of you, and now he regrets it. He insists that we agree to marry before we search for the pendant. He is as stubborn as my father. It’s not right for him to insist on compromising my honor to satisfy his.”

  “No,” Gawain said, “it’s not.”

  The ghost moaned. “I shall never, ever make amends.”

  Isolde buried her face in her hands. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “I do,” Gawain said. He addressed the Cavalier. “Sir, you have more than satisfied the requirements of honor. I humbly request that you withdraw and allow me to court Lady Isolde in my own way, without hindrance, however well-meant.”

  The ghost eyed Gawain for a long moment, then heaved a sigh. He rolled over, bloody wounds, chains, and all, and was gone.

  Isolde raised her head. “As easy as that?”

  “He is more able to appreciate my point of view than yours.”

  “And to believe you, too. If only my father were so easy to sway.”

  “Lord Statham knows full well he shouldn’t have made a promise he couldn’t keep. Once he thinks it through, honor will require him to change his mind—with your mother’s help, no doubt. He is a stubborn old coot, but he loves her in his hidebound way.”

  She frowned, but more in thought than disagreement, Gawain judged. He reached for the trunk Isolde had partly pulled from under the ghost. The clasps were rusted shut. He pried them open with one of the old swords. He beckoned to Isolde, who looked more worried than ever.

  “What does this have to do with courting me?” she asked.

  “Everything,” he said.

  Doggedly, Isolde set about searching for the missing heart. The sturdy leather trunk had kept out the larger sort of vermin, and lavender and other herbs had discouraged insects. Carefully, she
unfolded a blanket scarcely touched by moths, and pulled out yellowed linen shirts, stockings in dire need of mending, and a pair of immaculately embroidered gauntlets. Then a well-worn Book of Hours, which must be very old and worth far more than the second heart.

  But not to the ghost.

  She was about to give up and go on to another trunk when she saw it—a tiny bag so worn and dark with age that it was almost invisible in the bottom of the trunk. The drawstring fell to pieces when she opened the bag.

  She tipped the contents into her palm. The little golden heart gleamed cheerfully in the candlelight. Sure enough, it was the opposite of the stolen heart, with a tiny hook that would fit into a hole in the filigree of the other.

  Gawain removed the stolen heart from his pocket. “What now?”

  “You return that to your mother, I suppose,” she said. “And my mother can keep this one.”

  “If you wish,” he said, “but I think they’ll both be disappointed.”

  “Why? They can’t feud if they each have one.”

  “No, because, like me, they are both in favor of—forgive me for waxing poetic—two hearts joined by love.”

  She bit her lip. Resisting Gawain was so very, very hard.

  “Last night at dinner, when I told my mother of my intentions, she advised me to warn you about my poetry. ‘Make sure Isolde knows you will inflict it on her for the rest of her life,’ she said.”

  Helplessly, Isolde laughed. “That wouldn’t be inflicting.” She paused to collect her thoughts. “You decided you wished to marry me before you…before you came to me last night?”

  “Yes, I asked for my father’s approval yesterday. He twitted me about kissing you under the mistletoe and gave me his best wishes for success.”

  “And before everything that happened today.” Obviously, but she wanted to be sure.

  He nodded.

  “So…so you truly don’t feel obliged in any way?”

  “No, I feel besotted. Completely, hopefully, helplessly in love with you.”