The Duke's Christmas Promise (Regency Christmas Romance)

by Sandra Masters

  Pembrooke handed a full glass to Abingdon who, out of habit, twirled the goblet under his nose to inhale the bouquet of the fine liquor, then looked over the rim to a picture on the wall, of his father dressed in the East India House Uniform.

  “Father, what have you done to me? Why did you interfere?”

  His stomach roared at the discontent.

  His mind rebelled at his acceptance of a lie.

  His mouth wanted to scream out in pain.

  Myriad questions whirled and assailed him. Deceit came to mind, and facts were far from the truth. He’d chosen to believe them as gospel.

  “Pembrooke, if anyone enquires about me, I have some legal documents to review. I’ll return in a few moments. If Lady Fenwick asks further, assure her I’m fine.”

  Abingdon made his way to his quarters on the second floor, his mind still perplexed. Certain timelines needed verification. The name Trevor was not a common Christian name. Duke was not a common middle name. He opened the door and scanned the room in the soft candlelight.

  He went to the box of letters and documents, found the ones he sought, and reread them at his desk. Feverishly he wrote down dates with quill and parchment.

  It was as he had found before, when he had first looked through the box. Noelle had begged him to meet due to an important circumstance. Though dated prior to when he’d left for the Grand Tour, he had never seen the note before. A frown crossed his forehead. Why not? He still had no answer to that question.

  A marriage certificate registered with the Parish declared Noelle Girard married Sir Robert Fenwick on May 8, 1802, thirty-three days after he, Abingdon, had left for India. Why did his father need such information? Why had he kept it?

  He recalled that his father had written to him, telling him that Noelle had given birth to a child, six months later, in December. From what he could gather, that meant that Noelle had married with full knowledge of her being increasing. Again, he asked himself, did she have an affair with me and this Fenwick man, at the same time? If she did, how could I not have known of her infidelity? We were inseparable. Who fathered the child?

  The questions astounded him still. He had allowed them to slip from his mind, since he had first looked at the papers, so overwhelmed had he been by the perfidy revealed by the other items in the box. Now he looked at it all again.

  There was the letter to Noelle from him, breaking their engagement, which he would swear in a court of law that he hadn’t authored. There was the witnessed testimony of some person who wrote that he ‘knew’ Abingdon’s fiancée in the biblical sense. He could not trust any of it, could not believe it, yet…

  The letters in his hand might well have served as a medieval torture screw. His mind reeled. He searched for the letter which Noelle had supposedly sent him, dissolving their engagement. He would assess her demeanour as she read it and then, perhaps, he’d know what to do next.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Small talk. Noelle tired of small talk. The world this night overflowed with small talk. Curious, she decided to meet Abingdon in the Gardens near the fountains after all. Even if Barbary pirates had captured and held him captive for twenty years, she’d not forgive him the falderal and poppycock.

  Whenever she made decisions based on emotion, it never turned out well. Logic, common sense, and protocols were the tenets of her life when it came to her business. She applied them to her personal life too, and would never trust her heart again, except where her children were concerned.

  All the emotion expended in the last few hours with Abingdon, on Abingdon, and for Abingdon, drained her. She tripped on a clay pot of roses, and stubbed her toe.

  “Posh, that hurts,” she muttered and limped to a chair tucked in a dark corner.

  She removed her shoe, wiggled her toes, and since it did not appear broken, she replaced the shoe with the utmost care. Tucking her legs underneath her, with her dream-wand in her hand, lost in her memories, she made a secret wish for love and happiness, and fell asleep listening to the distant music.

  “Ahem, Lady Fenwick, did you intend to meet me at the fountains? Or was I to secretly discover you in your hidey-hole?”

  Noelle jolted awake.

  “Abingdon, be quiet and please tell me the time.” She rubbed her eyes and yawned.

  He removed his pocket watch with care.

  “It’s 3:27 in the morning. The musicians have packed their instruments, and the guests have left the ballroom. Others have returned to their rooms.”

  “Oh, dear. You are perverse in your enjoyment of my laxity.” She turned her gaze away from his insensitive eyes. Laughter erupted from her mouth. “What a pair we make. I disrupt your routine. You make me angry. We argue. I fall asleep. You find me.” Her eyes locked to him in their intensity yet she spoke in a soft voice. “But I wasn’t lost, Your Grace.”

  Somewhere in a few the myriad rooms, clocks chimed the half hour. Normally, the sound of musical chimes pleased her, but tonight they and the man beside her were bothersome.

  “Did you intend to meet me at the fountains?”

  His voice softened somewhat, and she perceived a sly smile.

  “Yes, I did intend to meet you. I came out, stubbed my toe, and forgot all about my rendezvous. What could you ever show me to change my mind about your callous disregard for me?”

  “The truth. Perhaps you prefer to wallow in lies for sympathy?”

  Sarcasm dripped from his tone.

  “You flatter yourself. However, since you’ve awakened me, let’s proceed to the fountains to view whatever. I want to dip my handkerchief in water and apply it to my head. The way I awoke near you gave me a headache.”

  “That wasn’t always the situation, Noelle,” he whispered with such passion that she wanted to thrash him — or make love to him.

  He knelt in front of her, “Which foot, my dear?” She pointed to the left one. He took off her shoe, and fondled her toes. When she winced in pain, he touched the toe. “I don’t believe it has broken, but it’s bruised.”

  While he spoke, he massaged the tiny digit. The gentle stroke of his hand became a deliberate seductive ploy, she assured herself. Damned arrogant man. In afterthought, how could he know the effect that she experienced? Why, oh why, had she consented to this employment?

  She arose with assistance from him.

  “I don’t need your assistance either.”

  Contrary to her spoken words, she joined her arm to his. They walked in silence. The noise of the fountain did soothe her, but she wanted to come to her full senses. She removed her long gloves, took out her handkerchief, and found a home for her gloves in his pocket.

  His pocket. The gesture was intimate. She had done it often in their prior years, and somehow she knew that he remembered the habit, too.

  Noelle returned to her normal controlled self as he walked her along the lantern lit path. She’d made a shambles of her life early on. How could she set everything right?

  A cliché came to mind, ’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

  Some male fool had to have written those idiotic words.

  Soon they stood by the statue centred fountain, and she did refresh herself while he watched. He broke the silence.

  “I’m about to remove a letter from my pocket. Read the words and tell me if it’s your handwriting.” He unfolded the parchment and handed her a letter. “Did you write this, my dear?”

  With her left hand, she accepted the letter. Horrified at the first paragraph, her eyes searched his face, a gasp escaped her lips, and she said, “No. I didn’t.” She quelled the urge to cast up her accounts, assailed by inner quandary and the slam to her heart which that paragraph had delivered. “It appears to be my hand, but I never wrote those words. Trevor, I could never say such things, would never impugn your masculinity in that way.”

  “This is one step towards reconciliation because you called me Trevor, my sweetling.”

  “Allow me to finish these, Your Grace.
Stop your words of endearment. They fall on deaf ears — or haven’t you noticed?” She examined the letter. “No. I ask you to believe that I never wrote this. I loved you much too much. It’s a fair imitation of my hand, but you may believe what you wish. There’s no need for me to lie.”

  “I believe, you, dear Lady. Both our fathers, for different reasons, did not want us to wed, but my father was the worst offender.”

  “Why is it that these have just now surfaced, and not decades ago?” She rested her head under his chin, her hand on his heart. “I’m weary, Your Grace. Who are you? Why am I here? Are you Trevor? Abingdon? Your Grace? Do the honorifics matter anymore? Why are you still a presence in my life?”

  Embarrassed, she wiped the dampness of her tears from his jacket with her hand.

  “There is so much to show you, for you to read, and then maybe we can place this ugliness to rest where it belongs, in the cemetery of tattered and broken hearts. Come to my room. There’s a trunk full of letters and records.”

  “You were always apt at lyrical phrases. Tattered hearts cannot mend.”

  Noelle moved away from his nearness.

  “Follow me to my suite. You have nothing to fear. I’ll prove that my devotion for you never wavered.”

  He extended his hand.

  Noelle grasped it to walk to his rooms by the servants’ door, unseen by unwanted eyes. Quick to respond, her question pounced.

  “Never? These past two decades you claim you didn’t hold derision in your heart? I find it hard to believe.”

  At the entrance, his valet opened the door for them to enter. Abingdon dismissed his servant.

  “Come, sit here, Noelle.” He pointed to a settee where she held herself tall and aloof. “Talk to me.”

  “It’s too late. In all these past years, I heard that you did return to England sometimes. How could you not come back for me no matter what? You proposed to me on Christmas day. We were lovers pledged to each other. Why did you not confront me?”

  “I did visit, but only for short periods of military leave. You were at the Witherspoon house party to which I received an invitation. My father had informed me of your marriage, which should have been indication enough that I should stay away, but I wanted to see you once again in the hope that we could talk. I never understood why you had jilted me and married without an explanation. Why didn’t you wait?”

  “Not too many choices were available, for a woman in my condition.” Her fist connected with his chest. “Damn you, Trevor Sutton. Damn you.”

  He grasped her hand to him.

  “I saw you with the babe in your arms, it shredded my broken heart into a thousand pieces. I claimed some excuse and left. The picture of you and the child, the contented smile on your face, and your apparent happiness tore me apart.”

  “For the sake of our son, I believed that we were never meant to be. I held sincere gratitude to my husband, and accepted my fate as best I could. I paid heavily for my indiscretion. But my son would not be born a bastard.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Noelle pondered the new information. Any woman’s resources in England, in that day and age, regardless of her station, were limited. Most of all, what about poor Robert’s memory? How could she take away the love their son had, for the only father the boy had ever known? Her mind went back to the day that Robert had passed. Trevor, then thirteen-years-old, at her side, tried not to cry.

  “Papa, don’t leave me. I have so much to learn from you.”

  He’d thrown himself onto the bed, his hand clutching his father’s shirt. Robert had smiled weakly, and told him, “I’ve written a letter which my barrister will give you when you come of age, or sooner, as circumstances allow. Know that I loved you with all my heart and soul. University education will get you a fine start. I set up a trust fund for that, when you were born.” Robert had coughed, exhaled, and his eyelids had started to close. “I regret I couldn’t leave you more.”

  His eyes had closed, his breath no longer laboured, a small smile had crossed his face, and then his hand went limp.

  Trevor had gazed at his mother, “Is he…? Is he gone?”

  She’d nodded, “No more tears.”

  Yanked to the present by Abingdon’s voice calling her, her breath raced.

  “Noelle, is something wrong? You were far away in thought. Is there something you need to say? You’re trembling. Are you unwell?”

  She moved her hands to her temples. Her mouth opened, but words did not emanate. Those same hands moved over her eyes to shut out the view.

  “I did have a life before you returned. Memories relegated to a corner of my mind just resurrected themselves. I’ve sent them back to their hibernation.”

  “Share your troubles with me. I am back in your life. I want you in mine. There are no hindrances. First, let me show you the time again.” A grin escaped as he flipped the latch on his pocket watch. “It’s 4:15 a.m. and neither of us has rested – oh, I’m incorrect for you took a nap.” He took his watch, eyes honed to hers, and attempted to read the thoughts behind those wide orbs. Handing her the engraved timepiece, he clicked the lid to show her the miniature painting.

  In apparent shock, she fondled the watch.

  “You’ve kept my picture with you all these years?”

  Somehow, to convince her of his sincerity, he’d have to draw from the deep reservoir of pained love that had caused them to part, all because of their fathers’ determination.

  “Yes. You can say I tried to forget you, but couldn’t. Your face, your lips, your nose, and your precious smile were embedded in my heart and soul. Though you despised me, I wanted no other companion but you. The saddest part was that I had your picture, but I didn’t have you.” He remembered well his search for other women, more times than he cared to mention. “You were the one woman I loved completely, unselfishly, and with all my heart.” As he moved closer, he whispered in her ear and blew a warm kiss. “Therefore, I didn’t marry anyone. She’d be a poor imitation. I could not settle for less than you — only you.”

  He withdrew and accepted his watch and fob from her shaking hands and returned it to his pocket.

  “Take a look at these other letters.” He handed her at least seven of them. They were all forgeries damning us.”

  She was intent on reading, and he watched her expression as she worked through them, tears trickling down her cheeks. Abingdon moved closer and thumbed them away, then kissed each cheek with reverence. Alert to her soft, choked whisper, he listened with infinite attention.

  “I survived by allowing myself to be driven by my contempt for you. I believed that you had never loved me. How could I have been so blind?” She placed both her hands to her mouth, and a letter dropped to her lap. “I know they were our parents, but this was perverse cruelty.”

  He tilted her head and kissed her with lingering fervour. Lips tarried and savoured until he swallowed her essence. He moved his mouth away a moment.

  “It’s now five-thirty in the morning. All of the guests have departed, and the others are abed.” Abingdon drew her up from the settee and into his full embrace. “Stay the night with me. I’ll have food sent up. We can decide how we’ll put the past behind us because I predict a brilliant future. We’ve earned happiness.”

  Her non-committal reaction pained him.

  “How do we achieve inner peace in the face of all of this? Is it possible, Abingdon?”

  His lips were close to hers. Noelle’s fragrance permeated his senses.

  “You have to decide if you want our future to be determined by the malice of two long deceased old men, or by our renewed love.”

  He meant the sincere words, but when she withdrew from him, he suspected that she feared what he might find.

  “Please. I know it’s morning, but my nerves are frazzled. Would you pour me a tot of cognac?”

  “I’ll join you in a drink. It has been an incredible evening, and I might add, morning. Why don’t we sit on the balcony and watch the daw
n of a new day?”

  “Someone may see us and draw the wrong conclusion, Your Grace.”

  “I don’t give a damn, and neither should you.” He paused, and kissed her hand. “I’m Trevor, my darling. Try to remember.”

  For comfort, he removed his jacket and waistcoat, threw them onto a chair, waved her to the seats and soon joined her with the libations. Whilst he understood her unease, after all they’d been through, he dared anyone to impugn them. But her skittishness was more than understandable.

  “I’d like to toast you, my dear. You were a fascination twenty years ago, but at this moment I find you the most exquisite creature in all of England.”

  He intertwined their arms so that she sipped from his glass and he drank from hers. Then they set the goblets on the table.

  With a gentle hand extended, he led her inside, aware of her possible embarrassment. His moist wet lips claimed her soft mouth, enhanced by the taste of the liquor, and his feverish ardour. His tongue demanded entrance. With a glazed look in her eyes, she opened to him, accepting his inquisitive tongue while his hands sought her breasts.

  His mouth coaxed while his hands undid the bodice as the bounty of her fullness spilled out into waiting hands. He lavished attention on her taut nipples, delighted at her racing breath, and made it his goal to show the ecstasy of pleasure which he could gift her. She stepped out of her clothes, and allowed the garments to fall to the floor aimlessly.

  This moment was theirs to make up for all they’d lost. He remembered her passion. The thought of such desire rekindled, pooled in his lower body, and the simmer scorched and demanded satisfaction. He ripped off his shirt then suckled her pebbled nipples harder, licking one, then the other.

  He cupped her breasts and lifted them, pulled her against his bare chest. Bloody hell, the sensation of her hot nakedness caused instant full arousal.

  “If you don’t want to continue because it’s too soon, I’ll stop.”