December Heart

by Merry Farmer

  “Yes, please,” Peter said. “And if you would have Miss—that is, Lady Dunsford’s things taken to the countess’s suite, I would appreciate it.”

  Mariah nearly stumbled. Lady Dunsford. The countess. Somewhere in the maelstrom of surprise weddings and nights spent discovering the wonders of bodily pleasure, she’d completely forgotten that she was now a countess. And Lady Dunsford at that. She really had stepped into a whole new life.

  Mr. Wright motioned for two of the footmen to retrieve the trunks from the back of the carriage, and to take them into the house. Peter took Mariah’s hand, leading her on.

  “Mrs. Wilson, may I present my lovely new wife to you, Mariah deVere, Lady Dunsford.”

  “How do you do, my lady.” The housekeeper dropped into a low curtsy that had Mariah near to panicking.

  The woman was as old as her mother, and Mariah’s instinct was to show her the respect she would to an elder. But she was a countess now, and countesses didn’t show respect to servants.

  Well, she would show respect, whether she was supposed to or not. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Wilson,” she said, taking the older woman’s hands as if greeting an old friend.

  Mrs. Wilson blinked in surprise, smiled, then schooled her expression as though smiling were against the rules.

  “I expect that the two of you will want to meet as soon as possible to discuss the running of the castle,” Peter said.

  “Yes, my lord,” Mrs. Wilson answered, then turned, still somewhat baffled, to the younger woman standing beside her. “This is Ginny, my lady. She will be serving as your personal maid. That is, unless you already have one.”

  “I don’t,” Mariah said, then turned to study Ginny.

  The young woman seemed a bit overwhelmed, but wore a broad smile. She had blonde hair secured under a cap, and a pretty, round face. Mariah liked her at once.

  “My lady.” She curtsied.

  “I’m sure you’d like to come inside and relax after your travels, my lord,” Mr. Snyder said. “Perhaps a bath for Lady Dunsford and supper for both of you?”

  It took Mariah a moment to remember that Mr. Snyder was talking about her. “Oh. Yes, a bath would be lovely.” She didn’t know whether to look to Mr. Snyder or Mrs. Wilson or Ginny.

  Ginny was the one who curtsied. “I’ll see to it right away, my lady.” With a final smile, she turned and rushed into the house.

  “And I’ll see to supper.” Mrs. Wilson hurried after her.

  Peter hooked her arm through his and escorted her up the stairs and into the house.

  “I’ve never had so many people rushing about to do things for me,” she whispered to him.

  “But your parents have a maid and footman,” Peter whispered back.

  “Yes, they mostly saw to the house while we saw to ourselves.”

  Peter chuckled. “Don’t try that with Snyder, Wilson, and this lot. They’ll be mortally offended if you don’t allow them to wait on you hand and foot.”

  Mariah laughed and started to say, “I doubt that,” but at that moment they crossed through over the threshold and into the castle’s front hall.

  The air left her lungs and her mouth hung open as she looked around. Her family’s house in Aylesbury was nothing to scoff at, but the immensity of the room she found herself in—only a front hall at that—was as grand as any she’d ever set foot in. It was easily two stories tall, maybe more, with a grand staircase of warm, polished wood that split halfway up, leading to two wings, one on either side. The floor was marble, but had been covered with a vast, Turkish rug. At least four doorways led off to various corridors and side rooms. On top of that, the walls were hung with paintings that ranged from portraits to landscapes, some of them in the style of well-known masters. In fact, Mariah was certain that one of the landscapes was by JMW Turner.

  “It’s amazing,” she said, still looking around.

  “It’s home,” Peter replied.

  She dragged her gaze down from the paintings and looked at him. He was studying her with as much appreciation and excitement as she felt for the castle around her. His look brought heat to her face and, of course, made her want to laugh.

  “You’re going to have to stop looking at me like that,” she murmured, leaning closer to him so that the swirl of servants who had burst into motion around them wouldn’t hear.

  “Like what?” He led her on to the stairs and up to the left.

  “Like I’m more interesting than the art,” she said, then added, “Is that a Vermeer?”

  Without checking to see which painting she had nodded to, he said, “Yes. And you’re far more interesting.”

  She shook her head, feeling warm all over—and more than a little guilty for enjoying his appreciation so much. Particularly if it would lead to more of what had kept them from getting sufficient sleep for the past two nights.

  The flash in Peter’s eyes hinted that he was thinking the same thing, but it came to an abrupt stop when Mr. Snyder caught them at the top of the stairs.

  “My lord, there’s something you should know,” he began.

  Peter stopped, facing his butler with a slight frown. “Is it about the mine?”

  Mr. Snyder hesitated. He shot a quick glance to Mariah, then cleared his throat. “No, my lord. You should know that Lord William arrived this morning.”

  Mariah was surprised that lightning didn’t strike as Peter’s expression and mood changed so quickly. He tensed, shifting back to the serious, anxious man she’d first met four days ago. She hadn’t realized how quickly or thoroughly he’d changed into the relaxed, ardent man she’s spent the last two nights with.

  “Where is he now?” he asked Mr. Snyder, his frown growing darker.

  “Not at home,” Mr. Snyder said. “I presume he took himself into Truro, to one pub or another.”

  Peter nodded. “Which room is he staying in?”

  Mr. Snyder cleared his throat and glanced down for a moment. “I insisted he take the Lion Room, in the east wing. I assumed you and your new bride would not want to be disturbed.”

  “Thank you, Snyder,” Peter said with the sort of gravity that was usually reserved for death or wars.

  He started to lead Mariah on, but Mr. Snyder stopped him with, “My lord, he wasn’t happy.”

  “No, I don’t suppose he would be,” Peter said, his tone laced with foreboding.

  They continued down a hall lit by gas lamps in sconces on the wall to a door near the end.

  “Lord William is the nephew you told me about?” Mariah asked, already knowing the answer.

  “He is,” Peter mumbled, his frown as deep as ever. He turned the handle and pushed open the door. “I was hoping he’d stay in London.”

  As soon as her eyes settled on the room before her, all thoughts of nephews drifted right out of her head. The room Peter escorted her into was like something out of a fairy tale. It was decorated in shades of rose and violet, exactly in line with a fine woman’s taste. The bed was sumptuously fitted out with quilts, pillows, and curtains that hung from the tall canopy. A matching wardrobe and vanity, along with a pair of comfortable-looking chairs were spread through the rest of the room. A fire was already crackling merrily in the fireplace, and Ginny was there, directing a pair of maids as they filled a brass tub.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Peter said, nodding to the tub but leading Mariah on to another door at the far end of the room. “The next project I’d like to undertake in the castle is installing modern plumbing and bathing facilities.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Mariah said, eager to see what new wonder was behind the door at the far end of the room.

  It turned out to be a dressing room the likes of which she had only dreamed of. Her trunk had already been brought to the room, and looked ready for unpacking. Yet another door stood open at the far end of the dressing room which led to a second, more masculine dressing room. It had much more of an appearance of use, and right away, Mariah breathed in Peter’s scent.
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br />   At the far end of that room was another bedroom, obviously his. It was decorated in dark blue, with paintings of the sea and exotic ports. It had much more of an air of being used than her room—at least, she presumed it was her room—had. The furnishings were more worn, and several small personal items sat on the fireplace mantle and on a small desk near the window.

  Mariah took it all in with the same sense of wonder she’d had while studying the front hall. This was Peter’s inner sanctuary, the room that was most private to him. He probably had an office somewhere else in the house, but this room was distinctly his. Everything from the colors to the scents to the trinkets on the desk and side table were just as intimately him as the sight of his naked body.

  A small, old portrait of a woman, sitting on the mantelpiece, caught her eye. Anxiety shivered through her.

  “Is that….” She felt too awkward asking if the portrait was Anne to finish the question.

  “My mother,” Peter answered, walking her to the mantle.

  “Oh.” Relief rushed through her, which brought with it a twinge of guilt. She shouldn’t feel jealous of the wife Peter had lost years ago, especially when she’d been left with the impression that all hadn’t been right between them.

  “And this is my father, my older brother, Arthur, and younger, Will.”

  Mariah studied the portraits, which also formed a short history of photography. There was a distinct family resemblance between all of the men, but Mariah also found some of Peter’s facial features in the portrait of his mother.

  It was only after she realized she was looking at almost all of Peter’s family, and that all of them were dead, that her heart squeezed in her chest. “You must miss them.”

  His only answer was a weary smile.

  Mariah’s sense of treading on sacred ground increased as she looked around. She glanced back toward the door to the dressing rooms. “Was that Anne’s room?” she asked, cursing herself for sounding like it mattered to her.

  But to her surprise, Peter answered, “No,” and lowered his eyes. Something dark and disturbing seemed to hang over him. “At least, it wasn’t for the last ten years or so of our marriage.”

  “Why….” she started, but pressed her lips shut when she saw the warning not to ask in his eyes. It was more than a warning. It was a haunted look, one of misery. It made the sadness she’d seen in him at their first meeting pale in comparison.

  A soft knock sounded from the dressing room, and Ginny poked her head cautiously around the corner. Peter took a step back from Mariah and straightened. Mariah wanted to move with him, to hold him until he felt safe telling her what he was thinking.

  “My lady.” Ginny cleared her throat. “Your bath will be ready momentarily. Would you like help undressing?”

  Mariah glanced to Peter, who nodded subtly and walked over to his desk. There would be a time to talk, but not yet. She started toward the dressing room with a smile for Ginny.

  “Yes, that would be lovely, thank you.”

  The bath turned out to be exactly what Mariah needed to soothe her sore muscles. But having a few minutes alone after days of being by Peter’s side also gave her a chance to reflect on her situation. She was happy, overwhelmed, and grateful that her father had thought to promise her to Peter, even if he should have told her about the match sooner.

  Other thoughts poked at those contented ones, though. Why had Peter reacted so seriously when Mr. Snyder told him his nephew was home? What was it about the younger man that made Peter so unhappy? And was it just Lord William, or did the memory of his first wife have something to do with the unease that Mariah could see he felt? Come to think of it, why had Anne only used the room that adjoined his for the first part of their marriage but not the last?

  Her bathwater cooled before she came up with any answers. She climbed out of the tub on her own and dressed in her nightgown and robe, then braided her own hair rather than calling Ginny back to help her. She wasn’t used to anyone helping her to dress, other than enlisting Victoria to fasten a few gowns whose buttons she couldn’t reach. It felt anticlimactic to climb into her new bed without at least saying goodnight to Peter, though, so rather than crawling between the covers that Ginny had turned down, she tip-toed through the dressing rooms and poked her head into Peter’s room.

  For a brief moment, she saw him before he saw her. He sat at his desk, wearing a look of fierce concentration. His head was bent over whatever he was reading, which highlighted his white hair in the lamplight. The light and his frown also accented the lines on his face. It struck Mariah how much experience of life he had. Much more than her. She’d spent two days lulling herself into a belief that she knew him completely. She’d given everything she had to him, trusted him with the most intimate parts of herself. But the man she spied on, with the cares of the world sitting on his shoulders, once again felt like a complete stranger to her.

  Then he looked up, and the stranger was once again the man she’d married.

  “You’re still up?” he asked as she walked slowly toward him. “I was sure you’d go straight to bed after your bath.”

  She shrugged, leaning against the side of his desk. “I wanted to come say goodnight.”

  His smile heated, and he reached for her, settling her across his lap. Prickles of uncertainty raced down her spine in spite of the tenderness of his embrace. Did she know him? Did she really know him?

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  Self-consciousness enveloped her, but rather than admitting to her uncertainties, she asked, “Do you not get along with your nephew?”

  He let out a long sigh, resting his forehead against her shoulder for a moment. When he looked up at her, every bit of the weariness that he’d had when she first met him was there.

  “William is a difficult person. He was against me marrying, obviously, as any child of ours will be my heir, usurping him. But he is my responsibility. I had an agreement with his father, my brother, to always give him shelter at Starcross Castle if he asked for it.”

  She believed him, but sensed there was more. “You’re worried that he will cause trouble?”

  “I am,” Peter admitted with a long exhale. “But it’s not anything you need to concern yourself with.”

  “Really?” She arched a brow. “You’re telling me that a man in this house has reason to resent me, but I shouldn’t worry about it?”

  “I’ll keep you safe,” he said.

  Mariah smiled, even as a shiver went down her spine. She liked feeling protected, but the thought that she needed protection was unsettling.

  “It will be all right,” he said, then stood, taking her with him. His mood had shifted, though Mariah had the feeling it was a deliberate shift, designed to make her think about something else. “Now. I have something for you.”

  “For me?”

  He crossed to the dressing room, but before she could follow him in, he returned with a small parcel. “I intended to give this to you on our wedding night, but we were distracted.” The look he gave her sent a wave of excitement sizzling across her skin. “It isn’t wrapped, but I hope you’ll still like it.”

  “I’m sure I will,” she said, recognizing the small book he held out even before she took it. Her heart thrummed in her chest and excitement filled her. “Walt Whitman.”

  He grinned, stepping toward her with a triumphant grin. “Of course, it would have been more of a prize if you were able to buy it from MacTavish’s bookshop yourself.”

  “Oh no, this is wonderful.” She smiled up at him, and the way he watched her almost made her want to throw the book aside and fling herself into his arms. Which was unsettling in itself, since, a minute before, she’d been uncertain whether she knew him or not. She glanced to the book, tracing her fingers over the imprinted title. “Leaves of Grass.”

  “We could read a bit of it together, if you’d like.” He moved close enough to rest his hands on her waist. The spark she’d grown so familiar with over the last two night
s was back. That was the part of him she knew.

  Her grin grew teasing as she peeked up at him. “You know what’s in these poems, don’t you?”

  “I might have read one or two…or all of them before.” His expression turned downright sultry.

  From serious stranger to ardent lover, all in a matter of minutes. Mariah suddenly doubted whether she had the mettle to keep up with her new husband and his moods. Although, as he brought his lips to hers and kissed her in the way that ignited showers of sparks deep in her core, she ceased to care.

  “Maybe some other night,” she sighed when he ended their kiss. “I don’t think I could possibly concentrate on poetry at the moment.”

  “Me either.” He plucked the book from her hands and tossed it on his desk before sweeping her in his arms and carrying her to his bed.

  She shed her robe and nightgown as he undressed, and when he climbed into bed with her, their bodies twined together as though they were meant to be one. But before they could do more than kiss and warm the sheets, he stopped and glanced down at her with an expression that was suddenly serious.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He took a long time to answer, his frown deepening as if in confusion, his thoughts so intense that she could practically see them in his eyes.

  “I want to ask you something,” he said at last, as hesitant as she was curious.

  “You can ask me anything.” She caressed his cheek, which was rough with stubble. She had the uncanny feeling that their positions had reversed and he was suddenly the anxious one.

  “Would you,” he started, paused, bit his lip, then continued. “Would you consider sleeping in my bed?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Every night.”

  Her heart raced, and the sense that he was asking something deeply important, something that made him feel vulnerable, struck her. But it was such a simple question. It was obvious, really. Her parents slept in her mother’s room, even though her father technically had a room of his own. Before seeing the rose and violet room, Mariah had always assumed married couples slept together. Had it not been that way with Peter and Anne?