Christmas Brides

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Most of it was private,” Gerdens-Daily went on easily, as if he was unaware of the roiling emotions all around him. “But it ended with us shaking hands and agreeing that fer a time, at least, we’d refrain from spilling each other’s blood.” Abruptly he reached up, doffed his hat, and bowed to Julia. “So my best wishes, Mrs. Lenox. Mr. Lenox. We’ll be bidding ye good day.”

  “We—No, we will not!”

  The scarred man wheeled his horse, cutting in front of Bellamy’s mount and making the gelding hop backward nervously. “Aye, we will. And ye will leave them be, or I’ll hear aboot it. Ye’ll not make me a liar because of yer own bloody greed, Hugh.”

  “I—”

  “Tell me ye understand, Hugh,” Gerdens-Daily insisted, pinning his cousin with that amber gaze.

  “I … understand,” Bellamy finally grunted, deflating.

  “Good.” Turning again, Gerdens-Daily replaced his hat and inclined his head at Duncan. “Meala-naidheachd ort,” he said. “Consider this yer wedding gift from the Campbells.”

  “Aye. I will. Thank ye, George.”

  The men turned west, back the way they’d come, with George Gerdens-Daily bringing up the rear. In a few moments they were gone over the crest of the hill. Julia couldn’t stop looking, though, waiting to see if they’d changed their minds, if they would turn back and ride her down and drag her away from her newfound paradise.

  Duncan’s arm slid gently across her shoulder. “Ye look rooted to the spot. Do ye regret marrying me, now that we’re finished with that amadan?”

  She didn’t know what the word meant, but it didn’t sound at all like a compliment. “What did Mr. Gerdens-Daily say to you?”

  “He said, ‘congratulations’.” Slowly he turned her to face him, so she could gaze into his light green eyes. The serious determination she’d seen in them a few minutes ago was gone, replaced by a growing amusement and … affection. “Do ye regret it? I can have Father Ross here annul the whole thing, ye know.”

  Father Ross cleared his throat. “Actually, the Church has to—”

  “What do ye say, Julia? Will ye stay a Lenox? Will ye stay with me and be my wife?” Duncan interrupted, clearly not interested in facts.

  She held his gaze for a long minute, a slow smile curving her mouth. “How do you say ‘wife’?”

  “Bean. And husband is céile, if ye were wondering.”

  “Then I will stay and be your bean, Duncan Lenox, and you will be my céile.”

  He lifted her in his arms. “Forever?”

  Now this was a Christmas gift, better than any she would have ever dared imagine. A gift, and even more. There was truly some sort of magic in the Highlands. She’d thought that might be so when she’d seen Duncan emerging, naked, from the lake. Now, as she looked down at his grinning face and his wild black hair, she knew it. “Forever.”

  Once Upon a Christmas Scandal

  Alexandra Hawkins

  Love sought is good, but given unsought, is better.

  —William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, act 3, scene 1.

  Chapter One

  December 1826, London

  “Bloody hell! What were you and Father thinking? You can’t keep something like this from her. Ellen must be told.”

  It wasn’t the anger she heard in her brother’s voice that gave her pause. Lady Ellen Courtland was used to her older sibling’s blustering. Nor was she surprised by Vane’s unexpected presence. Squires, the family’s butler, had revealed when she had encountered him downstairs that Lord and Lady Vanewright had been escorted upstairs. She assumed Vane and Isabel had also brought their infant daughter, which would have greatly pleased their mother.

  “There is no reason for you to take that tone with me, Christopher,” their mother, the Marchioness of Netherley said, sounding aggrieved.

  It was the pain in Vane’s voice that had Ellen silently debating if she should continue upstairs to deliver the book she had procured from the library on her father’s behalf or linger near the threshold of the drawing room to glean the reason for her sibling’s impassioned outburst.

  Isabel murmured something, but her soothing tones were too soft to be discerned from a distance. Calm and sensible, the young countess had married into a family that often reminded Ellen of a bevy of colorful, highly excitable peacocks, but she was a welcome addition to the eccentric family.

  Vane’s response to his wife was an incomprehensible growl.

  Her mother’s heightening exasperation reached Ellen’s keen hearing with startling clarity. “Do you ever spend time in your sister’s company? No one simply tells Ellen anything. The girl has become increasingly stubborn and set in her ways. Besides, she and your father have grown quite close the past year. She has been faithfully by his side, each time my dear Lord Netherley was ordered by the physician to remain confined to his bed. When she learns…”

  Ellen had heard enough. Stealthily, she turned her back and closed her ears to her mother’s grim confession and continued up the staircase. She was mindful not to put pressure on the second step since it creaked, and the last thing she wanted to do was call attention to her presence.

  Ellen’s heart ached with the knowledge that her brain refused to address. In the last eight months, the family had summoned Dr. Ramsey to the house on seven occasions. Three of the instances had required her father to remain bedridden for more than a week. The last one had occurred only nine days earlier. It was her father’s heart. Dr. Ramsey called the condition angina pectoris. It was a fancy medical term to describe a heart condition that was slowly robbing her father of strength and breath. Lord Netherley was dying, and it broke her heart that she was witnessing her beloved sire’s health steadily decline.

  Ellen reached the next landing as her eyes burned with unshed tears that would only anger her father if she allowed herself to grieve. There would be plenty of time for that later. Christmastide was approaching. The busy household staff was already preparing for the upcoming festivities. Every day, her father could not resist grumbling about all of the clattering downstairs. Since they were remaining in London, he had told Lady Netherley that there was no need for days of grand celebrations, particularly on the final night—Twelfth Night. Her mother promptly agreed, however, the small army of servants cleaning the old house from top to bottom revealed that her mother would get her way in the end.

  She paused in front of the door to her father’s bedchamber and took a deep breath to steady her pulse. No tears. No high emotions. No surprises. Lord Netherley required calm, soothing surroundings in order for him to regain his strength. Over the past year, she had proven to be a competent nurse and companion.

  Ellen knocked, and opened the door at her father’s gruff consent to enter. “What are you doing out of bed?” she scolded at the sight of him standing at the end of the bed, using the bedpost to keep himself upright.

  “What the devil do you think I’m doing?” her eighty-three-year-old father shouted back at her. “If Ramsey has his way, I’ll die in that bed.”

  It was not the first time Lord Netherley had spoken those words. Ellen shook her head in exasperation as she seized the spare blanket folded on a nearby chair. “On your feet or toes up, you’ll catch your death prancing about the house in your nightshirt,” was her crisp reply. She wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. “Now don’t give me any more trouble and settle back into bed.”

  His small act of defiance had already sapped his strength. He clutched the edges of the blanket to his chest as Ellen tidied his bedcovers. “Is that my book?” he asked, his gaze narrowing on the book she had tucked under her arm.

  “It is,” she confirmed. “If you behave, I might linger and read it to you.”

  Ellen grasped the corner of the linen sheet and lifted it, a silent invitation for the marquess to climb into bed. He complied, but he could not resist complaining. “I’m not some weak child who needs coddling.”

  She bit back a smile. “I know, Papa. It is just your misfortune to b
e burdened with a daughter who likes to spoil you.”

  Lord Netherley’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at her bland tone. He was breathing heavily when she covered his bare legs with the sheet and blankets. “I can read my own damn book, if I please.”

  “Of course,” she replied agreeably, handing him the book. “Vane and Isabel are visiting with Mama in the drawing room. I can always join them downstairs…”

  “No.” He freed the book from her loose grasp. “We have business to discuss.”

  Ellen crossed her arms over her breasts. “What business? As your younger daughter, anything related to your estates would fall on Vane’s shoulders since he is your heir. Nor have you desired my assistance in the conservatory. You declared me too spirited and impulsive to look after your precious plants.”

  The marquess rubbed his balding head, causing the remaining hair to stick out in all directions. “If we are going to argue, I prefer not to have you towering over me like a sword-wielding Valkyrie.”

  “We are not going to argue. Dr. Ramsey does not approve.”

  “Ramsey is an old woman. He does not approve of anything.” He gestured at the walnut parcel-gilt bergère behind her. “If we’re not going to argue, then do as you are told. Pull the chair closer and sit.”

  Ellen signaled her displeasure with an audible sigh, but she humored her father. Once she was seated, she gave him an expectant look. “So what is this business between us?”

  Lord Netherley gave her a measured stare that would have made most individuals squirm in their chair. “The business I wish to discuss is what is missing in your life.”

  She frowned in genuine puzzlement. “I do not understand. Thanks to you and Mama, I lack for nothing.”

  “A husband, girl!” he snapped impatiently, ignoring her soft groan. “You should be preparing for an evening out that includes a dozen gentlemen vying for your attention, but I suspect you have already told your maid that you will be staying home.”

  “Mama told you that her attempt to match me with Lord Ely went awry.”

  “Awry?” His cheeks reddened as he dragged in air through his mouth. “You told the poor man that minutes in his presence made you ill. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Ellen bit her lower lip as she struggled not to laugh. Once she had herself under control, she said, “I was merely being honest, Papa. The afternoon I spoke to Lord Ely, it took seconds to realize the gentleman had been remiss in his morning ablution. I would wager it had been days since he had been reunited with his toothbrush.”

  “Enough.” Her father raised the book in his hands as if he was fighting down the urge to fling it at the nearest wall. “And what of Mr. Neese? What was wrong with him?”

  “His right leg is shorter than his left,” she blurted out. “The difference sends him into tables, plants, and walls.”

  She had exaggerated a bit about Mr. Neese’s clumsiness. However, she had sensed her mother’s meddling the moment the gentleman had awkwardly asked her to dance. She had put them both out of misery as quickly as possible.

  “And Lord Rouger?”

  Ellen tried not to stare at the muscle twitching near her father’s left eye. “What of him?”

  “Did you truly liken his handsomeness to your favorite horse?”

  She leaned forward, her face guileless. “It was a sincere compliment, Papa.”

  “The devil it is. How do you expect to marry if you keep insulting each prospective suitor?”

  She shrugged carelessly as she leaned into the upholstered back of the chair. “Perhaps I won’t marry. Between Vane and Susan, you and Mama have plenty of grandchildren.”

  Her father managed a soft sputtering sound of disbelief. “Not marry? You think I want you settled with a husband of your own because I require more grandchildren? Half the time, I cannot recall all the names of your sister’s brood.”

  Ellen’s lips twitched, but she offered no opinion about her older sister and her children. “If it is not more grandchildren, then I see no reason to rush into marriage just because you and Mama insist it is time. I understood the necessity of Vane marrying since he is your heir, but why must I?”

  His bushy eyebrows shot upward in disbelief. “Why? You expect me to give you a reason for something that most daughters consider a duty to one’s family?”

  “Yes.”

  Lord Netherley’s eyes flared with pain and fury, and belatedly Ellen knew she had gone too far. “Unfinished business.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “I am dying, Ellen.” He held up a hand to silence her. “No arguments. Everyone prefers to ignore the truth, especially your mother. I may have lasted longer than Ramsey’s dire predictions, but I can feel it, daughter. I don’t have much time left.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she could not prevent them from slipping down her cheeks. “No,” she said, her throat suddenly raw with emotion. Hearing her father confirm her unspoken fears made them all too real for her. “Perhaps Dr. Ramsey…”

  The elderly marquess shook his head. “Ramsey has done all he can for me. After my last attack, he told me that I should get my affairs in order.”

  Wordlessly, she sprang from the chair and into her father’s arms. Ellen felt his hesitation before he enfolded her into his embrace. She pressed the side of her face against his chest and cried as she listened to the thundering of the heart that would eventually fail her sire. Never comfortable with emotional females, he allowed her to indulge her tears for a few minutes before he grasped her by the arms and encouraged her to stand.

  “Dry your tears, my girl. It wouldn’t do for your mother to see them.”

  “Yes, Papa,” she said, accepting the handkerchief he offered her. She dutifully wiped away the tears from her face.

  “That’s better.” He scrutinized her efforts with a gleam of approval. “You are strong, and rarely allow your emotions to rule you. It’s an admirable trait in a wife.”

  “Papa,” she said, wearily.

  “No arguments, Ellen. Your mother may have failed in finding you a husband, however, I will not.”

  Her eyes crinkled with reluctant humor. “So you have taken up matchmaking?”

  “I have no time for such nonsense,” he said, sounding offended by the suggestion. “There are other ways to attract an eager husband for you.”

  A trickle of unease moved down her spine. “What have you done?”

  Lord Netherley held her gaze. “I’ve tripled your dowry.”

  Ellen gasped. “You had no right.”

  “As your father, I have every right.”

  Shaking her head, she backed away from the bed. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

  Lord Netherley’s eyes narrowed with a shrewdness that sent her heart racing. “I’ve taken the steps necessary to ensure that most men will overlook your sharp tongue.”

  “You have done more than that, Papa.” She glowered at him. “You have placed a bounty on my head. Every fortune hunter in England will insist on an introduction!”

  He was untroubled by her peevish conjecture. “I credit you with enough sense not to marry a penniless scoundrel.”

  Her laughter held a trace of bitterness. “I find little solace in the compliment. Especially since you are literally buying me a husband—a husband that I do not require or desire!”

  “I am not buying anyone.”

  “Call it bribing, if you like,” she shot back, furious at what her father had done. “How long do I have?”

  Her father did not feign confusion at her question. “The decision was made more than a month ago.”

  Curse it all! This meant the news of her enticing dowry had reached well beyond London by this point. And yet, no one had warned her. Ellen wondered if the rest of the family knew of Lord Netherley’s intentions.

  “You should have told me.”

  “I just have,” he said unsympathetically. “Since your mother is insisting on opening the house during Christmastide, I expect you to cond
uct yourself in a manner befitting a lady.”

  Understanding flooded through her. “We are staying in town because Mama is expecting to parade me in front of potential suitors.”

  And she had believed her father’s health was so poor that he could not travel.

  “Lady Netherley has never been able to resist a chance to fill this house to the rafters with guests,” he hedged when he took note of her expression.

  The tears glittering in her eyes had nothing to do with sorrow. She felt betrayed by her own father. Fury bubbled up from within her. Her lips parted, and she wanted to scream at him for his high-handedness, but managed to catch herself. Dr. Ramsey had strict orders about not upsetting his patient.

  Ellen marched to the door and gave the knob a vicious twist.

  “Where are you going?”

  She stiffened at his question. “Sparing myself a scolding from Dr. Ramsey.”

  “We have not finished—”

  “Oh, I believe you have said enough, Papa,” she said over her shoulder as she opened the door and stepped across the threshold.

  “Ellen … come back here!”

  The door shut with a satisfying bang. She continued down the passageway until she reached the staircase. Blindly, Ellen gripped the railing for support as she struggled with the myriad of emotions vying for dominance.

  How could her father have done this to her?

  Too hurt to care about appearances, she released her pent-up feelings with a piercing scream.

  Downstairs in the stately drawing room, Ellen’s scream brought her brother to his feet. Vane exchanged a concerned look with Isabel before he met his mother’s guilt-ridden gaze. “You should have warned her of Father’s plans,” he said, taking no satisfaction in being right.

  * * *

  Lodging in an inn, less than two hundred miles from London, a gentleman was rejoicing. The news of Lady Ellen Courtland’s plump dowry had already reached the man’s ears four days earlier. Seated at a narrow writing desk, he opened his journal with the intention of detailing the journey in which he was embarking to court his future bride. His earlier conquests had involved ladies much younger than the thirty-year-old Lady Ellen. However, he was prepared to make sacrifices. Such a large dowry implied a certain amount of desperation on Lord Netherley’s part to unburden himself of his youngest daughter.