She hated feeling as though she was always standing on pins and needles whenever she and Eric were in the same room together, but she couldn’t help it. Not when she knew he was pretending to be someone he wasn’t for reasons she couldn’t understand.
She knew he wasn’t the cold, unfeeling duke he pretended to be. There was warmth in him. Humor as well. Even kindness. But for some reason he always kept the best parts of himself hidden from her, only revealing them when they were completely alone and at their most vulnerable.
It was those parts she had fallen in love with first.
Knowing it was folly, knowing nothing good could come of it but unable to deny the yearning in her heart, she’d committed the worst mistake a woman in the ton could possibly commit: falling in love with her own husband.
Every time he touched her, every time he murmured in her hear, every time he wrapped his arms around her and held her to his chest as though he never wanted to let her go, she felt her love for him grow deeper, like roots sinking into the soil.
And every time he left her, every time he saw her enter a room and looked the other way, every time he treated her with distant cordiality instead of desperate passion, the roots were ruthlessly yanked out of the ground.
Then he would come to her in the middle of the night and his hard countenance would soften and he would touch her so sweetly, so gently, that the roots replanted themselves all over again.
It was a cruel cycle. One she was growing wearier of by the day. What she needed – what they both needed – was a miracle. And what better time to find one than at Christmas?
“Is something the matter?” she asked when Eric jerked his chin at a chaise lounge in front of the fireplace, indicating she should sit. Perching nervously on the edge, she smoothed out a small wrinkle from her dress as he closed the door.
And locked it.
“Your Grace,” she gasped when he pulled off his waistcoat and started to unbutton his shirt. “What – what are you doing?”
“What does it look like I am doing?” he growled as he kicked off his boots.
“But it’s the middle of the day!”
“I don’t think that’s a problem.” Before Caroline could muster a reply he had crossed the library and had her flat on her back, one hand pinning her wrists above her head while the other dove up her skirts. “Do you?” he whispered silkily.
“No,” she gasped, her spine arching off the chaise lounge as he used two fingers to drive her to a fast, breathtaking orgasm. “I – I don’t.”
Last night he had lingered over her body for what felt like hours, withholding her pleasure until she was all but begging for him to take her. Now the waves of release came so quickly and with so much intensity that she was left dazed and disoriented when it was finished, her mind numbed to anything but the trembling aftershocks of being thoroughly loved by her husband.
“I am leaving for London first thing tomorrow morning.” Standing, Eric pulled on his trousers and reached for his shirt. The muscles in his back bulged and rippled as he tugged the tunic down over his head. “I will be gone for at least a fortnight. Mayhap two.” Turning to face her, he raked a hand through his hair, pushing the inky mass off his forehead. “I will send word before I return.”
“But Christmas is in twelve days.” She’d lost a stocking, Caroline realized as she sat up and straightened her skirts. Drats. That made the third one this week!
“And?”
“And you cannot mean to be gone for Christmas.” She lifted up one velvet seat cushion, frowned, and then lifted up the other. “Have you seen where my stocking went to? I really can’t lose another.”
“Here.” Bending down, Eric plucked her silk stocking from underneath the chaise lounge and held it out. “Newgate will remain here, so if you require anything you have only to ask him for it.”
“You’re serious,” she whispered. “You’re – you’re really leaving.”
So much for Christmas miracles.
“At first light. What?” he demanded when she gazed silently up at him, gray eyes filled with disappointment. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I just thought…this being our first holiday together that…well, that we’d spend it together. How foolish of me.” Her fingers tightened reflexively around her stocking, nails tearing into the delicate fabric.
A line creased Eric’s brow. “If I gave you the impression that we could be spending Christmas together, I apologize.”
“No, you didn’t. But I assumed…” she trailed off with a dismal shake of her head.
Stupid, she chastised herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Did you honestly believe anything would change, just because it’s Christmastime? He did not love you yesterday and he is not going to love you tomorrow, or on Christmas Eve, or on Christmas. He is incapable of love. He said so himself.
But it did not make the pain any easier to bear.
How much longer could they go on like this? Another month? A year? Indefinitely? Strangers in the daylight, lovers at night. Would it stop when she gave him the heir he so desired? Or would he demand a second? The heir and the spare, so the old saying went. And then what? Would he leave her here to raise their children and grow old by herself while he frolicked in London with his mistresses? Her eyes closed as pain cut through her like a knife, slicing across a heart that was already tender and raw.
“I can’t do it any longer.” Her eyes opened. “I won’t.”
“You won’t do what?” Eric sat down across from her and began to lace up his boots.
“This. I won’t do this.” She didn’t care that her voice was shrill or that it lashed through the library like a whip. The stocking floated to the ground as she leapt to her feet, her diminutive frame vibrating like a plucked bow string with all of the words and emotions she’d been struggling to suppress. “I am not your – your plaything. I am your wife!”
“Yes,” the duke said with the wariness of someone who realized they’d missed something important, but hadn’t the faintest idea what it was. “And I am your husband. I believe that has been thoroughly established. Caroline, why don’t you sit back–”
“NO!” she shouted, surprising them both. “I don’t want to sit.”
“Then stand, but keep your bloody voice down.” His eyes narrowed. “And for the love of God do not start crying.”
“These are angry tears, you – you – you dolt!”
One dark eyebrow shot up. “I’m a dolt now, am I?”
“Yes!” Her heel drove down into the rug for emphasis. “Yes, you are.”
“And why is that?” he asked coolly.
“Because you have not figured out that I am falling in love with you! Or maybe you do know, and you simply don’t care.” She flung her arms in the air. “It does not matter. What matters is that I cannot go on like this any longer! You cannot pick me up when you want me and then put me back on the shelf when you don’t. I am not a doll to be played with and then cast aside when the mood strikes.”
His eyes flashing a deep, dangerous shade of midnight blue, Eric stood up and towered over her. “I did not realize being my wife was such a hardship for you.”
Too incensed to be intimidated, Caroline stiffened her shoulders and jabbed a finger at his chest. “Any woman would find being married to you a hardship! On your very best day you are cold, callous, and cruel.”
“And yet you claim to be in love me,” he scoffed, clearly not believing her.
“I never said it made any sense!”
“If this is about your allowance–”
“Oh!” she cried. “You are the most infuriating man I’ve ever met! Go to London. Stay there for a fortnight. Stay for ten! I don’t care. Do you hear me? I don’t care!” Shoving past him, she ran out of the library and up the stairs to her bedchamber before he could catch a glimpse of her tortured countenance and see that she did care. She cared very much.
But oh, how she wished she didn’t.
“Step out of the way N
ewgate, I am going for a ride.” Stalking across the foyer, Eric threw open the door, admitting a gust of freezing wind so strong that it rattled the windows.
“Another one?” Nonplussed by the tumultuous storm cloud hanging over his employer’s head, Newgate pulled a heavy greatcoat out of the closet and held it up. “Might I suggest you wear this, Your Grace.”
Glaring out at the frigid landscape, Eric abruptly slammed the door and leaned back against it. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he closed his eyes and muttered a short, savage curse. “She told me that she loved me.”
“Your wife?”
“Yes, my wife!” He opened his eyes to glare at the butler. “Do you see a mistress skulking about? My wife, Newgate. My wife said she was falling in love with me.” His brow furrowed. “Then she told me I was cold, callous, and cruel.”
“If I may be so bold as to speak openly, Your Grace…”
Eric waved his hand. “Go on then. We both know you’re going to say what you want anyways.”
The butler returned the greatcoat to the closet before he said, rather bluntly, “You are all of those things. And worse.”
“Then why the devil would she be in love with me?”
Newgate shrugged. “Stranger things have been known to happen.”
“Do you think it’s a ruse to increase her allowance?” He suddenly recalled a conversation he’d overhead between his parents. It was from when they had still been living under the same roof, which meant he’d been a small boy of only five or six. They had been arguing – they were always arguing – and his mother had said something that had struck a chord deep inside of him even though he’d been too young to understand what it really meant.
“If you loved me,” she’d wept, “you would try to make me happy.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” the late Duke of Readington had blustered.
As if someone had turned off a leaky faucet, his mother’s tears had immediately stopped. “You could buy me the emerald necklace I saw in the shop window yesterday. Then I would know that you truly loved me.”
That was the first time Eric had learned love was not something to be freely given, but something traded. It was a lesson he’d never forgotten…whether he realized it or not.
“Or perhaps she wants a new piece of jewelry,” he said thoughtfully.
“I hesitate to speak on the duchess’s behalf, but I do not believe her to be the sort of woman who is interested in material possessions.”
Eric’s frown turned into a scowl. “Then what the hell does she want?”
“If I may be so bold, I believe what she wants is you.” A touch of gruffness was detectable in Newgate’s voice when he said, “You don’t see it, but your wife looks at you the same way my Adelaide used to look at me. True love is a precious gift.” Affection for the young man he’d raised as his own son softened the rigid lines around the butler’s eyes. “You would do well not to squander it.”
Chapter Eleven
The storm arrived with a vengeance. It snowed all through the night, and by the time morning came everything was covered in a heavy blanket of white, including the road to London. Standing with his arms crossed and his legs braced apart, Eric scowled out the drawing room window at the stone drive. Or at least where he imagined the drive to be. Given all the snow, it was impossible to tell precisely where anything was.
He’d already gone out and checked on the horses. They were all tucked safely inside, contentedly eating their hay. But they wouldn’t be going anywhere soon.
None of them would.
“Blast and damn,” he cursed, turning away from the wintry landscape to glare at the hearth. The crackling fire, along with the velvet bows pinned to the curtains and the evergreen boughs draped along the mantle, gave the room a distinctly festive air. His brow creased as he noticed a clump of mistletoe hanging from the door. When the devil had that gotten there?
Stalking over to the doorway, he yanked the mistletoe down and tossed it onto the nearest table. Then he happened to glance out into the foyer and his eyes widened, then narrowed.
Bloody hell.
Mistletoe, holly, and evergreens were everywhere.
Dangling down from every doorway, wrapped around the staircase bannister, in vases on the windowsills. There wasn’t a drape or a doorway that had escaped decoration.
“You there,” he barked at a maid passing by the drawing room. “What’s the meaning of this?”
A flicker of fear crossing her face, the maid stopped short. “The meaning of what, Your Grace?”
He gestured around the room with a vague sweep of his arm. “This. And that. All of it!”
“Oh.” The maid’s nervous frown gave way to a beaming smile. “Isn’t it lovely, Your Grace? Why, I cannot recall a time the manor has ever looked so festive! Have you seen the gingerbread house in the solarium yet?”
Eric blinked. “The ginger what?”
“It’s absolutely marvelous,” the maid gushed. “Why, Her Grace even made little gingerbread men!”
His jaw tightened. For most people, Christmas was a time of joy and celebration. But the winter holiday had never brought him much joy, and listening to his parents scream at one another had hardly been cause for celebration.
On the rare occasion his mother hadn’t been in the arms of another man and his father had been sober enough to recall what day it was, they’d managed to have breakfast together as a family, but that was always where the revelry ended. There had never been any opening of presents in front of the fireplace, or kissing under the mistletoe, or burning the yuletide log. And there’d certainly never been any gingerbread men.
“Where is she?” he growled.
“I – I believe Her Grace is still in her bedchamber,” the maid squeaked. “Is there anything I can–”
But he was already gone.
“Anne, could you leave us please?” Caroline said calmly when her husband stormed into her bedroom, his face as dark as a storm cloud and his steely eyes flashing with temper.
Dropping the comb she’d been using to style Caroline’s hair into a neat chignon, the maid was only too happy to scurry from the room. She closed the door neatly behind her, and in the brittle silence that followed her departure the quiet click of the tumbler falling into place sounded like a gunshot.
Drawing her robe more closely around her shoulders, Caroline met Eric’s hard gaze in the silvery reflection of her dressing mirror. Like Perseus and Medusa, she thought, the corners of her mouth twitching. An apt comparison, given how Gorgonesque her husband had been acting as of late. If only defeating him could be so easy. Cutting off a monster’s head was a straightforward endeavor. Melting a duke’s heart was much more difficult.
Mayhap even impossible.
Picking up the comb Anne had dropped, she began to work it through her long hair, careful not to let the ivory spines catch on any tangles. “I see you have not yet left for London.”
He jerked an irritable shoulder at the window. “We are completely snowed in. I wouldn’t be surprised if the roads were not cleared until well after Christmas.” He paused. “I see you have been decorating.”
Surprised that he had noticed, she inclined her head ever-so-slightly. “There are still the second and third floors to be done, but the first is nearly finished. I’d planned on completing the library this afternoon.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you decorating?” he asked between gritted teeth. “No one asked you to.”
“Because it is Christmas,” she said, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. “I did not realize I needed your permission.”
“You don’t. It’s just…never mind,” he muttered, glancing away from the mirror as a muscle ticked in his jaw.
Caroline frowned. “Do you not like Christmas?”
“No. Not particularly.”
“But it is the happiest time of the year,” she said, aghast at the idea of someone disliking Christmas
. Who didn’t love a house that smelled of fresh evergreens and carolers singing by candlelight and finding the perfect yuletide log to burn in the hearth?
“For you, perhaps. But not for me.”
“How can you hate Christmas?” she asked, genuinely puzzled. “It’s a time of joy and giving. Of celebration and festivity. Of hope and–”
“I get the bloody idea,” he said curtly. “Not everyone was raised in the same fairytale family as yours. For some of us Christmas is simply another day.”
She barely managed not to snort. “I would hardly call my family a fairytale. You’ve met my mother.”
“And you should consider yourself lucky that you’ve never met mine.”
Something in the way he spoke caught her attention. Her winged brows drew together over the bridge of her nose. “I…I am afraid I do not understand. I thought your mother was…”
“Deceased?” he drawled when she hesitated. “Hopped the twig? Popped her clogs? Gone to a sticky end?”
Caroline gasped. “I really don’t think you should speak of the dead in such a manner. Especially your own mother.”
“The old witch isn’t dead.” He rubbed his chin. “Or at least I don’t think she is.”
“You mean you do not know?”
“How would I? We haven’t spoken in nearly ten years after she made it clear that her various lovers were more important than her own sons.” Although he managed to keep his voice steady, he couldn’t quite disguise the flash of pain in his eyes. “Your Christmases may have been spent roasting chestnuts by the fire, but I can assure you I do not have such happy memories.”
It was the first time Eric had ever revealed anything of a personal nature, and her heart ached for the boy whose mother had been so callously selfish that she had preferred the company of another man to her own children.
Regency Christmas (Holiday Collection) Page 37