Deck The Halls With Love: Lost Lords Of Pembrook Novella
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She could not mistake the look of satisfaction that settled into his deep brown eyes, as though she’d revealed something extraordinary. “Favoring is not love.”
“I’ll not discuss my heart with you.” Not when you’d once come so close to holding it, and then set it aside with so little care.
“I don’t know that you’ll be happy with him.”
She straightened her shoulders, angled her chin. “You’re being quite presumptuous.”
“You require a man of passion, one who can set your heart to hammering. Is he capable of either of those things?” His eyes darkened, simmered, captured hers with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. Her mouth went dry.
Ignoring his question, she released an awkward-sounding laugh. “You think you are?”
“I know I am. Within your gloves, your palms are growing damp.”
Blast it! That was where all the moisture in her mouth had gone. How did he know?
“Your breaths are becoming shorter. Your cheeks are flushed.” He lowered his gaze, her nipples tautened. Whatever was the matter with her? Then he lifted his eyes back to hers. “Correction. All your skin is flushed.”
“Because I’m dancing. It’s warm in here.”
“It’s the dead of winter. Most women are wearing shawls.”
“Only the wallflowers.”
“You would never be a wallflower. You are the most exciting woman here. Meet me later. Somewhere private so that we may talk.”
“What do you call this current movement of the tongue? Singing?”
“It’s too public. We need something more intimate.”
An image flashed of him kissing her. She had often wondered at his flavor, but she would not fall for him again, she would not. “For God’s sake, I am betrothed.”
“As I’m well aware.” She saw a flicker of sadness and regret cross his features. “You should know, Merry, that I am here only because of you.”
“Your flirtation is no longer welcome, Chetwyn. I shall be no man’s second choice.”
“You were always my first.” His eyes held sincerity and something else that fairly took her breath: an intense longing. Dear God, even Litton didn’t look at her like that. Chetwyn’s revelation delighted, angered, and hurt at the same time.
She released a bitter laugh. “Well, you had a frightfully funny way of showing it, didn’t you?” She stepped away. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve become quite parched.”
Before he could offer to fetch her a flute of champagne, she was walking away. His words were designed to soften her, but she wouldn’t allow them to breach the wall she’d erected against him. She was betrothed now. Nothing he said would change that.
For Chetwyn, it was too late. Her course was set. She wished that thought didn’t fill her with sorrow.
CHAPTER TWO
*
Chetwyn discovered that being left at the altar wasn’t nearly as humiliating or as infuriating as being abandoned on the dance floor. Or perhaps it simply seemed so because he cared a good deal more about Merry traipsing off without him than he did about Anne.
As people swirled around him, they gave him a questioning glance, an arched eyebrow, pursed lips. Then the whispers began, and he had a strong urge to tell them all to go to the devil.
Wending his way past ballooning hems and dancing slippers, he fought to keep his face in a stoic mask that revealed none of his inner thoughts. He suspected a good many of the women would swoon if they knew that he wanted to rush after Merry, usher her into a distant corner, and kiss her until the words coming from her mouth were sweet instead of bitter. It didn’t lessen his anger that she had every right to be upset with him. But then the fury was directed at himself, not her. He’d handled things poorly. He needed to be alone with her to adequately explain, and furthermore to sway her away from Litton. But he could see now that he had misjudged her loyalty to Litton and her dislike of himself.
“Chetwyn?”
Turning, he smiled at the gossamer-haired beauty standing before him. “Anne.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes, of course.” Even as he spoke the words, he realized that had they married, he’d have spent a good deal of his time being untruthful with her, as he was now. He liked her, adored her, in fact, but he didn’t love her. He doubted he ever would have fallen for her as Walter had before he left for the Crimea. And certainly not as Lord Tristan had.
“I’m so very glad you came,” she said.
“Yes, well, I must thank you for sending me the list of guests who had accepted the invitation.”
“I daresay that I needed to send only one name: Lady Meredith.”
To imply he was taken aback by the accuracy of her words was an understatement. He thought he was so skilled at hiding his emotions. “How did you know?”
Taking his arm, she guided him over to an assortment of fronds that provided some protection from prying eyes. “While you were courting me, I noticed the way you looked at her with longing on a few occasions when our paths crossed with hers. I thought perhaps she had rebuffed you, which I certainly didn’t understand, but after observing the drama on the dance floor, I don’t think the rebuffing happened until tonight.”
The drama that everyone had observed. He thought in public he’d be spared her wrath. Where Merry was concerned, he seemed destined to constantly misjudge. “I’m not quite certain rebuffed is the proper word. She is betrothed, after all. What sort of gentleman would I be to try to steal her away from Litton?”
Anne smiled. “A very determined one, I should think, and I would wager on your success.” She glanced around as though fearing that she might be overheard. “As you know, my brothers are the worst gossips in all of England. Jameson tells me that Litton is up to his eyebrows in debt to Rafe. While I don’t know my brother by marriage very well, Tristan has assured me that Rafe is someone to whom I’d never wish to owe anything.”
Chetwyn was of the same mind. Lord Rafe Easton owned a gambling establishment, and while it had a solid reputation, Chetwyn preferred one with a bit more class, better clientele, and no rumors of thuggery surrounding it. “You think Litton is marrying Meredith only for her dowry?”
“I’ve heard it’s substantial. I wish Society would do away with the entire dowry business. It always leaves a lady wondering at a man’s true motivations.”
“Surely you have no doubt where Lord Tristan is concerned.”
She laughed. “Oh, absolutely not. No, my concern is with Lady Meredith. One of my other brothers, and I can’t remember which one now, hinted that this betrothal came about under unfortunate circumstances.”
Chetwyn felt as though he’d taken a punch to the gut. “You think he compromised her?”
“I don’t know. It was something about a garden and witnesses—” She held up her hands. “Dear God, I’m as bad as they are. Forgive me. I know not of what I speak, and so I should not be speaking. I just dislike seeing her with Litton—whom I don’t much care for—when she could be with you, whom I favor a great deal.”
Reaching out, Chetwyn squeezed her hand. “What matters, Anne, is that she is happy.”
“Of course, you’re right. It’s just that she didn’t look as happy with him as she did with you.”
He chuckled. “Now I know you’re biased. She was quite put out with me the entire time we were dancing.”
“I was put out with Tristan a good bit of the time after I met him, but it didn’t stop me from falling in love with him.” Rising up on her toes, she bussed a quick kiss over his cheek. “I wish you luck with your endeavors here.”
As she wandered away, Chetwyn decided that his best course for the moment was to enjoy another glass of Scotch. He was heading toward the doorway when Wexford stepped into his path, his nose red, his cheeks flushed, his eyes radiating panic.
“Who the devil was she?” he asked. “I never saw anyone. She’s no doubt wandered off and is in danger of freezing to death by now. We must ceas
e the music, form search parties, call out the hounds.”
“Steady, old chap,” Chetwyn commanded, placing his hands on Wexford’s shoulders, attempting to calm him before damage was done. “There was no woman.”
Wexford blinked and stared at him as though he’d spoken in Mandarin. “Whatever do you mean?”
Obviously the man’s ability to reason had frozen while he was outside. “I wrote the note. The entire thing was a ruse as I wished to dance that particular dance with Lady Meredith.”
“You sent me out in the cold? For a dance? Why didn’t you just ask, man?”
“Would you have stepped aside?”
“That is beside the point.” Wexford held up a finger. “I shan’t soon forget this, Chetwyn.” With that ominous warning, he stormed off.
Considering Wexford had once shot a rhinoceros, Chetwyn considered himself fortunate that the veiled threat was quite mild. Then he saw a young lady grinning in the doorway. “I don’t suppose it would be my good fortune to discover you’re deaf.”
With a giggle, she shook her head and disappeared into the hallway. Lovely. More fodder for the gossip mill.
“He sent Lord Wexford out into the storm so he could dance with you,” Lady Sophia said.
Meredith had come to the retiring room to regain her calm because it was too early to retire to her chambers. She found herself surrounded by Ladies Sophia, Beatrix, and Violet.
“Terribly romantic,” Lady Violet said.
“Terribly selfish,” Lady Beatrix insisted. “Wexford could have died.”
Meredith wondered if she was hoping for more than a dance from the fellow. She wondered if she should tell Lady Beatrix that she shouldn’t strive so hard to impress men with her litany of accomplishments, then wondered if things might have been different if she, herself, had tried harder with Chetwyn—if she had thrown a fit in the garden instead of giving the impression that she could hardly be bothered by his change of heart. Was she as much to blame for their diverging paths as he?
“Perhaps we shall have a duel at dawn,” Lady Sophia said, her voice rife with excitement.
“Between Chetwyn and Wexford?” Meredith asked.
“I was thinking more along the lines of Chetwyn and Litton. I daresay it is one thing to dance with a lady, an entirely different matter to go to such great lengths to do so.”
“My dance card was filled. He wanted a dance. Make no more of it than that.” Even now she should be in the ballroom fulfilling her obligations. Perhaps she would claim a headache.
“It’s no secret his family coffers suffer for want of coin. His father made some ghastly investments, from what I hear. He needs an heiress with a substantial dowry. He lost Lady Anne—”
“You say that as though he misplaced her,” Meredith interrupted, impatient with the conversation. Standing quickly, she shook out her skirts. She wanted to be more than her dowry to some man. Was she to Litton? She was no longer as sure. “I’m returning to the ballroom.”
It was nearing midnight, the last dance would be soon, and she was anxious to see Litton, to have him wash away any lingering evidence that Chetwyn had danced with her. But she waited for him in vain, stood among the older matrons whose hips no longer allowed them the luxury of dance. Her only consolation was that Chetwyn wasn’t about to witness her disappointment. She wondered if he’d taken his leave. She could only hope.
CHAPTER THREE
*
The residence had grown quiet, the only sound the wind howling beyond the windows. Sitting alone in a chair by the fire in the billiards room, Chetwyn savored his Scotch and reminisced about the first time that he’d set eyes on Merry.
For more than a year he’d been in seclusion, grieving the loss of his brother. Finally, the Season before last, Chetwyn had taken the first step out of mourning by attending a ball. He had felt as though he were a stranger in a strange land. All the finery, the food, the laughter, the gaiety—did any of them deserve any of it when so many had died?
Suffocating in that overly flowered ballroom, attempting to talk about weather and theater and books, had made him feel as though his clothing were strangling him. He was merely going through the motions of being present, wishing he’d not been so quick to return to Society.
And then his gaze had landed on Lady Meredith. He was struck with the romantic notion that she was the sort over whom men fought wars. He’d desperately wanted to release her raven hair from its pins. The pink roses that adorned it matched the ones embroidered in her pale pink gown. It had draped off her alabaster shoulders, enticing a man to touch them. She was talking with three other ladies, and then she tilted back her head slightly and laughed. The glorious tinkling had wafted over to him, and for the first time in a good long while he didn’t feel dead, didn’t feel as though he had been buried alongside Walter. He was ever so glad that he was alive to hear such sweet music.
As though noticing his regard, she looked at him with eyes of clover green, and he had to take a step back to maintain his balance. The force of her was like nothing he’d ever experienced. Initially, he attributed it to being out of the ballrooms for so long, but he slowly came to realize that it was simply the power of her.
Throughout the Season, he danced with her at every opportunity, strolled with her through gardens and parks, sent her flowers and sweets. She returned to her father’s estate for the winter. Chetwyn returned to his, but he’d been unable to forget her. She was more than a passing fancy.
Then in early spring a soldier delivered a letter from Walter, long after he was gone. The man hadn’t posted it for fear it would become lost on the journey from the Crimea. Walter’s words had shaken Chetwyn to the core. As he lay ill, he must have known that the Grim Reaper was hovering nearby, because he asked Chetwyn to promise to ensure that his betrothed was happy. Chetwyn, numbskull that he was, had thought the only way to ensure Lady Anne’s well-being was to marry her himself, so he’d held his growing feelings for Lady Meredith in check. When the next Season was upon them, he turned his attentions to securing Lady Anne’s happiness while Lady Meredith slipped beyond reach.
He had no right to ask her for forgiveness, no right to ask for a second chance. She had moved on with her life, she had found another. It was time for him to do the same, to stop living in the past, to stop focusing on what might have been—
If he’d not been so insistent on restoring his estates to their former glory.
If he’d not been hoarding his coins for that purpose rather than giving his brother an allowance so he could live the life of a gentleman.
If he hadn’t purchased Walter a commission so he was forced to live the life of a soldier.
If he hadn’t read Walter’s final letter and allowed it to skew his perspective and overwhelm him with remorse.
It mattered little to him now that Walter had once commented that he enjoyed being in the army, had felt he had gained purpose. He had died as a young man, while Chetwyn would no doubt die as an old one. And without Merry at his side.
He downed the contents of his glass, reached for the bottle he’d set beside the chair, and refilled the tumbler. As the room was beginning to spin and his head was feeling dull, he knew he should be abed, where in sleep he would dream of Merry, of her raven hair and green eyes and the way she had once smiled at him as though he could do no wrong. Yet he had managed to do wrong aplenty.
He barely moved when he heard the door open. Slowly shifting his gaze over, he wondered briefly if he’d already fallen asleep, because there she was in a much simpler dress than she’d been wearing earlier. No petticoats. Possibly no corset. It was designed for comfort, not company. It could also be discarded in a flash if a man were to set his mind to removing it. He had imbibed a bit too much because he was already envisioning the joy he would experience in giving all those buttons their freedom.
Her braided hair fell past her hips, her slippers were plain. Nothing about her was intentionally enticing, and yet he was thoroughly beguiled.
He wondered if she was waiting for Litton. Chetwyn thought that if the viscount came through the door, he might very well lose any semblance he had of being a gentleman. He wouldn’t stand for it, watching them behave as lovers. It could be the only reason for this late-night tryst, and dammit all to hell, she appeared to be anticipating it. Her eyes took on a glow, her smile was one of someone doing what she ought not to be caught doing. Dear God, help him, but he wanted to kiss those lips, he wanted to be doing things with them that he ought not to be doing.
She wandered over to the billiards table and scraped her fingers over the baize top as she slowly walked its length. Against the taut cloth, her nails made a faint raspy sound, and it was all he could do not to groan as he imagined her trailing those fingertips over his chest, circling around his nipples, pinching, leaning in—
She stilled, and his thoughts careened to a stop as though she’d heard them. She glanced over her shoulder, and he feared that he had made a sound. He wasn’t quite ready for her to know that he was there. Again, he wondered if she was meeting Litton, if she was going to stretch out on the table for her lover. Would he unravel her hair and spread it across the green? Would he worship her as she deserved to be worshipped?
Chetwyn imagined removing her slippers, kissing her toes, then taking his mouth on a slow, leisurely journey up her calves, over her knees, along her thighs—
Christ! If he carried on with these imaginings, he was going to be unable to stand when Litton showed. If the rumors being bandied about were true, he’d compromised her once in a garden. He wouldn’t hesitate to do so here, long after the stroke of midnight, when most were abed and no one was about to interrupt. Chetwyn flexed the fingers not holding the glass. He rather fancied the idea of introducing his fist to Litton’s nose.