The Earl's Wagered Bride: Christmas Belles, Book 1

by Cerise DeLand

"You're not conceding. I'm calling a draw. We'll play any card game you wish."

  "Not dice? Do you, too, assume I am unfair?"

  "I say I have no skills at dice and need at least half a chance to win against you."

  She lowered her lashes and thought on that a moment. Then she cocked her head, leery of him. "My room. After the musicale."

  The world tilted right once more for him. "I accept."

  "Don't be late," she warned him with a rap of sticks of her fan to his chest. "I must win this quickly. You've worn me out and tomorrow is Christmas. I must be up to help Aunt Gertrude with festivities for breakfast. You should, too."

  He barely had time to agree before she swept away to catch up to her sister, Bee.

  "Wait for me, Bee." Marjorie had noticed during dinner how Carlson had fawned over Bee during the meal. "You've got two suitors. Maybe three, if we allow Hallerton freer rein and move him down the table next to you for breakfast."

  “Let's not."

  "Coming to your senses over Alastair would fend off Carlson and Hallerton."

  "I don't need to incite rivals to value Alastair's offer for its own merits." Bee pushed open the doors to the music room. Marjorie watched her as she concentrated that every item was in place. The pianoforte's bench. A stack of sheet music. The cello, its bow. The violin. She stopped to shake her head. "Carlson, however, becomes overbearing. I'd like to avoid him. I'll tell Simms not to place me near him."

  "I'll help you." Delphine appeared beside them, fanning herself. Were her cheeks a bit too flushed? "It's Christmas and we shouldn't have to fend off men we don't want."

  "Only those we do?" Marjorie asked.

  Delphine bit her lower lip. "Speak for yourself."

  "Where is Bromley?" She avoided Del's barb in favor of a more important issue.

  Del looked decidedly ill, as if she'd just eaten the curtains for dinner. "From now on, he'll be pursuing another of our guests."

  "You argued?" Bee was alarmed.

  "Yes. Silly, isn't it?"

  Del could be stubborn, but then as Griff had said, the three of them could. "He came here for you, sweetheart."

  "Did he?" Del glanced around the room, tears in her eyes. "Who would know?"

  “Marjorie and I do. And in your heart, you do too.”

  Marjorie fished a handkerchief from her pocket and passed it to her younger sister. She saw in Bee and Del the despair that came of longing. Had she herself worn that expression? Had Griff witnessed that in her? She didn't want his pity. If he saw she loved him and he could not return the passion, what would she do?

  "Shall we sit together?" she offered, straightening her skirts to hide her own pending tears.

  "I prefer to stand," Bee said straightening her backbone.

  "As do I," said Del with a toss of her blonde ringlets.

  "So I'll stand with you," added Marjorie, grateful for her sisters' love and support through all their trials and tribulations. They'd laughed together, mourned together and now, each in their own way, they sought to survive poverty.

  But if Bee and Del each found love with a good man, Marjorie would rejoice for them and support their choices. Then she'd seek her own happiness as she must by building a home of her own. Alone.

  Griff let the other guests drift around him, all headed for the musicale. The scrape of a chair had him turning his head.

  Alastair had shot up so quickly from the table that his chair tottered backward. He caught it before it crashed—but his face was bright red, his eyes murderous.

  Griff went to him, Bromley beside him. "I say, are you well?"

  "Incensed." Alastair curled his fingers into a fist.

  Griff placed a strong hand on his shoulder. His problem was Carlson who'd sat beside Bee at supper and been much too forward—and much too inebriated.

  "I have problems controlling my anger," Alastair told Bromley. "Griff knows. He's seen it. I apologize. I can usually master it, but...ahem...this man beside Bee incensed me. I think he's drunk too much and assumes too much."

  Bromley glanced toward the doorway. "I saw him. If Wellington's men can't surround him and usher him up to his room, who can?"

  Griff nodded. "He does need to retire from the field."

  Bromley rubbed his hands together. "Let's go. If we'd do the same for his friend Hallerton, I'd be most grateful."

  Hallerton had sat beside Delphine tonight at dinner and that man had appeared as forward to Delphine as Carlson to Bee. Add to that, Griff's afternoon visit with Hallerton had not endeared the man to him. He was a prig, talking only of money as if he were poor as a church mouse.

  Alastair brightened, looking grateful for the help. "Nothing like friends in arms to win the day."

  The three strode to the music room. Inside, Carlson moved toward Bee. But Marjorie and Delphine outmaneuvered him and inserted themselves between him and his prey.

  "Time to intervene, don't you think?" he told Griff and Bromley.

  "With pleasure," Griff said as the three men strode toward the three sisters.

  Alastair stood next to Bee. "Are you well?"

  She sent him a wan smile. "I am now."

  He grasped her hand.

  Those two would wed soon. Just as Marjorie should wed me.

  The declaration rooted Griff to his spot. But the rightness of it filled him with resolve.

  Griff swung his focus to Marjorie but she would not look at him. Eagerness made him giddy. Panic followed. What if she refused him?

  He foolishly tried to amuse himself, noting the decorations of the gilded ivory room, ablaze with candles. The well-dressed neighbors who'd come to dine and drink and dance and gossip. The footmen who awaited the merest nod to spring to action. Simms who regarded the room as if he were the king of all he surveyed.

  But Griff returned to regard Marjorie whom he swore gulped back tears.

  "Good evening, my dear ones. I hope you are refreshed." Griff's step-mama rose before her guests and they murmured their thanks. "This wonderful holiday, my step-son and I are honored to have so many accomplished musicians with us for the Christmas party. Our first will be our own, my niece, Miss Delphine Craymore. My dear, please, do come to the pianoforte."

  Del rose to applause. One hand to the piano, she scanned those in the room. Ever the performer who loved an audience, she announced her selections for the evening. "I do need someone to turn the pages for me."

  A few young men—Riverdale and Trevelyan included—volunteered.

  "Lord Bromley," said Del with a tremulous look at the man, "might I ask your assistance?"

  Delphine took her place on the piano bench, Bromley grinning beside her, and she filled the room with the marvels of her talent. One piece, two, and then another. Lady Eliza came to join her and sang, and rather off key at that. But all applauded anyway.

  Another young woman stood and took the harp.

  Griff itched to be gone.

  One young man went forward to play the violin.

  Alastair jammed two hands through his hair and moaned.

  All went silent in the room. A few turned toward Alastair.

  Bee bent over him, taking his arm as she appealed to him.

  But he stared at her as if she were a stranger. Then he ran from the room.

  Bee glanced at her sisters, shock on her face. Without a word, she picked up her skirts and rushed after him.

  Marjorie took a step after her.

  Griff caught her hand. "Let him go. He suffers."

  "But Bee—"

  "She loves him, doesn't she?" he asked her. "He loves her. She's the best one to help him."

  After a glance at those in the room, she stared at him and nodded. "She is. No matter what anyone says about it."

  He patted her hand and tucked it over his arm. "No one is more important than the one you love."

  Finally their guests had wandered off to their beds. He'd stayed behind in the music room to bid them each goodnight. His step-mama sat in her large Chippendale chair
, fanning herself, a huge smile wreathing her face.

  "Will you have another brandy with me, dear?" she asked him as he handed her her glass.

  "No, thank you. I'm off to bed." That was not true, but he did have a card game to play.

  "Are you?" she asked with an arch of one fine grey brow and a hint of disbelief. "You seem at odds with yourself. Anything I might help you do?"

  He grinned at her. "Mama, I think you've already done the best for me this Christmas."

  "Have I?" She wiggled her shoulders like a child who'd just received a sweetmeat. "I do strive."

  He chuckled. "I think you've done a valuable service to many of our loved ones by arranging this house party."

  "Thank you, darling. That you are among those best served is my fondest desire."

  He regarded her with respect. "You surprise me. Always."

  "Ah. Well then. Do return the favor, will you?"

  "Never before have I ever assumed I could surprise you."

  She raised her glass in salute, took a sip and winked at him. "Bring me a gift tomorrow I can savor for years to come."

  He bussed her on the cheek. "I hope I will."

  "Be off with you. I shall drink this alone and congratulate myself."

  "Happy Christmas, Mama."

  "And to you, my dear boy."

  The hall clock struck midnight as Griff took the stairs two at a time. In his chamber, his dedicated valet slept in a chair. Griff removed his shoes and tip-toed around the room, hanging up his new formal frock-coat and waistcoat in his wardrobe. Padding about in his dressing room, he finally found his slippers and donned his banyan. On cats' feet, he made for his sitting room and opened the drawer to his writing desk.

  He fished out the letter he'd prepared earlier today and paused to consider his handwriting. He girded himself for the challenge to come. Napoleon had been a formidable foe. This offer to the woman he loved was not a war.

  But a battle whose outcome was just as vital to his survival.

  He tucked the folded paper into the inside pocket of his robe and made for the door.

  "My lord?" Walters called to him. "May I help you?"

  Griff swung about. "No, Walters. Thank you. Go to bed."

  "But—but, sir?"

  "I shan't need you further, Walters." He had to indicate he had nothing untoward in mind. Reputations were at stake here. His. Marjorie's. "Do get some rest. Tomorrow is Christmas and a very long day."

  He left the young man grinning at him.

  Down the hall, he stopped before Marjorie's bedchamber. He hadn't come home to do what he was about to do. His mission had been simpler. His vision not as clear. But tonight in his heart, he knew he was right. And what better time to make a new start than in a season of good tidings and great beginnings?

  Chapter 9

  The discreet knocking at her door had her heart leaping in her throat.

  Griff, of course, it was. Come to play. Come to play at her game. Come here so that she could win.

  But what were the stakes? Ten thousand pounds. A sum she did not have and would owe Griff if she lost. A cottage she might not need for anyone but herself. Bee had disappeared tonight to care for a distraught Alastair. Del had escaped the musicale with Bromley before Aunt Gertrude called for brandy to be served.

  Griff rapped on the door once more.

  “Come in.” She stood aside, nerves jumping, and quickly closed the door behind him.

  She felt his gaze, hot and inquisitive, as it wended down her body. She’d changed her clothes, just as she had the night before. No corset, no chemise. Her cambric nightgown and her heavy emerald silk velvet robe, which modestly concealed her nudity, were only two layers but they provided warmth on this cold December night. By changing into them, she didn’t intend to imply anything other than the fact that to play a card game into the early hours of the morn, she would need to be comfortable. “I sent Mary to bed. She won’t reappear.”

  “I’ve done the same with Walters.”

  He stood in the center of her carpet in his banyan and slippers, his wavy brown hair dipping over his brow. His blue eyes beseeched her for...what? Understanding? Of what? And his expression struck her as impossibly young and vulnerable.

  Why she should find this man so ineffably appealing at all hours of the day or night, in his military uniform or his new clothes, in a robe and his slippers in her bedchamber, totally escaped her. Except for the fact that she loved him no matter if he wore nothing, in all rooms, all seasons, everywhere. And she’d spend the rest of her life imagining him with her in any state of formality or undress in any room, any house, every season until her last breath.

  She cleared her throat. “I ordered pastries and brandy. Mary said Cook has no more cold roast beef for sandwiches.”

  “I don’t care for any. Thank you for thinking of me, though.”

  “Oh.” Why did she sound like a simpleton? She clasped her hands together, suddenly shy, eager, panicked that he’d leave and their private moments together were forever at an end. “Well then. Um. Shall we start?”

  He didn’t move. “I wish to talk. I want to tell you a few things I’ve discovered these past few years.”

  She balked.

  Without invitation, he strode into her sitting room and took the large winged chair she especially loved. He was so broad in the shoulders, he nearly obscured the bright red and blue crewel upholstery. He didn’t lean back, but sat, his elbows on his knees. And in the dancing firelight, his tanned face, his bold square jaw, his rakish hair, conspired to draw her to him. She did not resist, but went to sit across from him in the matching chair.

  “You and I have known each other all our lives,” he said so softly she hardly heard him. “I have memories of you toddling around in dresses too long for you, tripping you up and toppling you. But you got up. Always up, never to cry, only to murmur. Whether you spoke to yourself of encouragement or ridicule, you never told anyone. Never let your feelings be known. Valiant Marjorie. Self-sufficient Marjorie.”

  She kneaded her hands, tears hot on her lids, his compliments singing inside her like hymns. “Are you going to make me cry now?”

  “I don’t intend it.”

  “Good. Hurry on, will you?”

  Insult raced across his handsome features to be replaced by laughter. “Going somewhere?”

  “Yes. To bed.” She flinched at the unwanted implications of that. Then she waved an impatient hand at him.

  He ignored it and stared at her Turkey carpet. “Young Marjorie became intrepid Marjorie. Running ahead of everyone. Eager to swim, first to climb the tree.”

  “First to fall too.” She recalled at age ten, she’d slipped on a branch and landed on the ground in a heap. Griff was the first to rush to her aid. Ask if she were hurt, anything broken.

  “And then you learned how to outsmart everyone at cards.”

  She clutched her elbows. “I am not allowing you to chastise me for being smart.”

  “I wouldn’t dare. I applaud you.”

  She gaped at him.

  “I do,” he said as he pushed back and relaxed into the chair. Then crossed one leg over the other. The lord in his manor, in command of all he surveyed. She loved the looks of him that way. The way she would never see him. Never. When he came home from Paris and...

  She shot up to pace the floor. “Your point?”

  “I am proud of who and what you are. Valiant. Self-sufficient. Ambitious and—”

  “Cunning?”

  His face fell and she wished she hadn’t been so harsh.

  “Smart,” he said with a rejoinder that made her wince. “You were a nuisance when young. A competitor when older. An imp as a young lady. One who needed boundaries and warnings. But your actions were never wild or risqué.”

  She snorted. “Our father did enough of that. I didn’t have to add any such luster to the family lore.”

  “You were always there in the background. Never outlandish. Never obtrusive. Just simply, bo
ldly you. And I thought you would always be there.”

  Whatever he wished to say next would destroy her. Did he already have a young woman in mind to become his wife? Was he telling her she had to leave here? She held her breath.

  “And now,” he said and turned a hard blue gaze on her that riveted her to the floor, “now you wish to leave.”

  “It’s right.”

  “I don’t want you to go.”

  “I will not have this argument.” She went to the deal table, sat and snatched up the deck of cards. “You said you will play me. Do you now withdraw the offer?”

  “You’re angry.”

  “I won’t be if you play, sir.”

  He set his jaw. “Deal.”

  “Best of three.”

  “Five,” he demanded.

  “So be it.” She shuffled, dealt, picked up her hand and considered her chances. Of winning this hand, they were good. Of winning, they had to be excellent. She bit her lower lip and tapped her toes upon the carpet. Sitting here in the middle of the night with him, whether he was miffed at her or not, was too ripe a temptation. His merry blue eyes danced over her too often. His lush mouth curved up at the corners too charmingly. He stared at her, too intently, too often to give her peace.

  She fumed. She had to be done with this, him, the problem facing her and her sisters.

  At the end of three hands, however, Griff had won two. Surprise at that inspired her to go more slowly making decisions. That tactic helped her marginally for she won the fourth hand.

  By the time he dealt for the fifth, nerves ate at her composure. She played erratically and couldn’t seem to stop.

  “How did you improve your game?” She rose to serve herself and him an apple pasty and return to set the plates before him.

  “At night a soldier must amuse himself. Cards while away boredom and loneliness.”

  “Practice has improved your ability to calculate the odds.”

  “True. I also learned how to read my opponent.”

  “Did you? I should congratulate you. But you win at my expense so....”

  “I could guess what you had in your first hand by the way you acted.”