Christmas Brides

by Suzanne Enoch

  She could find no answer in his response. “Mmm,” he mused. “But you didn’t bring a horse?”

  “No, sir. My sisters and I shared.”

  “Ah. Yes, of course. And what about sailing? I have a small ketch—very small, mind you—that I use to sail to Portsmouth and back.”

  “I’ve never been in a boat, sir. Except a rowboat once. On the River Parrett. Near home. In Bridgwater.” But Anne didn’t think a drifty little rowboat would count with a seagoing navy man like the lieutenant.

  “Do you think you should like to learn?”

  She glanced up at him, and noted that although he smiled, he appeared to be serious enough. Though why he should ask, she had no idea, except that perhaps, just perhaps, he was trying to hold out a sort of olive branch. An olive branch she could ill afford to refuse. “Yes, I should like to try it sometime, sir.”

  “Look.” He stopped, and stepped directly in front of her. His blue eyes were a stunning, exact amalgamation of sea and sky.

  He reached out, and laid his hand to her elbow. The press of his bare fingers through the stout wool of her cloak was a jolt of something new and entirely different that made her breath seize up in her chest.

  “I know it’s not the done thing,” he was saying, “but do you think, given the circumstances, that you could stop calling me ‘sir’? You make me feel quite ancient, like my father.”

  “No.” There wasn’t an ancient thing about him, a foot away from her and towering over her like a tall yew tree.

  “No? Do I overstep the proprieties? But see here, Miss Lesley, I’m not one for flummery. You do know why you’ve come, don’t you? To see if we can get on. To see if, despite everything I’ve said, we can be married. And made to become as one.”

  Chapter Five

  As one.

  The words echoed down from her ears, through her chest and deep into her bones, until Anne felt her resolve begin to give way beneath the relentless sunniness of his smile.

  “We are contemplating marriage, you know, Miss Lesley, not just a couple of country dances at an assembly. Some … informality is called for.” He smiled at her in a way that was probably meant to knock her knees out from under her—very slowly, with the corners of his mouth slowly curving upward until his eyes warmed. And just as slowly, his eyes dropped to stare at her bottom lip.

  And despite herself, despite her determination not to be charmed, his smile made her insides turn little cartwheels of unbridled delight.

  Informality is what he said, but intimacy was what he had meant. Anne knew it as plainly as if he had said it out loud, because she felt a shiver of something prickly and not altogether uncomfortable skitter down the length of her spine. Despite all his easy, almost boyish charm, he was clearly a man. A man who lived alone, said what he wished, did as he pleased, and arranged for a wife as casually as if he were buying a horse from the marketplace on a three-day trial.

  “Forgive me.” The all-too-familiar admixture of indignation and embarrassment made her tone pert. “I will address you however you wish, sir.”

  “Will you?” His smile spread wider, making his eyes crinkle in mischievous delight. “Good. But as you’re clearly loath to give up ‘sir,’ I’m going to make a bid against lieutenant, and for just plain Worth, if you can manage it. I can see that it will be quite some time before I can convince you to attempt ‘Ian.’”

  This, then, must be his version of teasing. But was he laughing at her as well? It was hard to tell from his steady smile. She had been acquainted with him for less than an hour, but it seemed to her that he smiled rather easily—as though his mouth were completely at home relaxing into a ready grin. As if he were quite used to being happy. As if he expected to be.

  Anne didn’t know when she had last felt like that—happy. Or when she next expected to be. The anticipation of the journey there had only made her feel hopeful, however fleetingly. “Pray tell me, lieut—Pray tell me if what my father says is true … that you mean to return to the sea?”

  “Yes. In three days’ time.” This time he looked much less sure of himself, those smiling blue eyes sobered with apprehension. “It is my intention to return to the sea, to my career in His Majesty’s Navy, if we marry—indeed, even if we do not. That is the life of every sailor. And every sailor’s wife. The colonel said he thought you would not mind. Would you? Do you think, even alone, you could be happy here?”

  The admission was exactly what she wanted to hear—and everything that she had been too afraid to hope for. “Yes.” She was determined to be happy in her own way. She did not need to smile easily, or laugh out loud to be happy.

  Yet it was seductive, his laughter—his breezy way of seeing the world.

  But his breezy laughter and charm would wound her as easily as his careless words, were she not careful. So she would be careful. She would keep reminding herself that a man like him—a young man, handsome and carefree, and in possession of his own fortune—was only seeking her for a wife because he had no other choice. He was ready to marry her to suit his own ends, just as surely as she would marry him to suit hers.

  The thought gave her something to use as a shield while he accompanied her in blessed silence on the rest of her walk down the cold, windswept beach; the only sound accompanying the wind was the simple rhythmic crunch of their boots in the ever shifting sand.

  * * *

  Miss Anne Lesley spoke only eight words at dinner. Ian counted.

  God’s balls. If they continued to have this little to say to each other when their every topic of conversation was fresh and new, what on earth would they have to say years from now, when his store of suitable topics had already been canvassed? She had spoken with him this afternoon, although not quite easily, then at least clearly, but at dinner, she seemed to fade before his eyes. Whatever her declaration about overcoming her shyness on the beach, she had reverted to type in the presence of her parents.

  Of course, it could have been the mother. The confounded woman nattered on endlessly, asking all sorts of inquisitive questions about the house and the income from the property. “And do you entertain often, Lieutenant Worth? Such lovely porcelain plates,” Mrs. Lesley praised in between bites. “I see that this dining room is large enough to accommodate a larger party. How many have you been able to seat here for an evening dinner?”

  Ian was sorely tempted to shock the dear old biddy right out of her overstrained stays with an account of the long-ago night his friend Marcus Beecham, and half a dozen other assorted rogues and rascals, had turned this very dining room table into a live buffet of young, nubile opera dancers. The entire corps de ballet had been served up as hot, fresh, and steaming as any Christmas pudding.

  Having fortified himself with ample whisky before dinner, and sufficient claret throughout, Ian had nearly persuaded himself to recount the whole of it, with special attention paid to the stout construction of the mahogany table. But that was also the very moment when the little brown wren chirped up.

  “I understand you have traveled quite extensively, sir.”

  Eight elegantly breathless words, all at once.

  He rewarded her with an encouraging smile, and re-doubled his effort to be charming. “Hard not to in the navy. Isn’t that true, colonel? Well, let’s see. All over the coast of France and Spain—Brest, Saint-Nazaire, La Rochelle. Beautiful and treacherous, the coast of France is, especially the Finistère, in Brittany. Then Lisbon, Cádiz, Cape Trafalgar, and Gibraltar—and into the Mediterranean in old Audacious, under Captain McAlden. But it was nothing compared to the lush green islands of the West Indies and the Bahamas, where I went on several cruises under Captain Colyear. Marvelous days, those. Do you remember, colonel, the night Will Jellicoe nearly set the old Audacious ablaze with his illicit fireworks? And when she caught fire as well, and Captain Col grabbed her up and went right over the side? Famous night.”

  “Oh, my. I’m sure we ladies don’t want to hear such colorful tales,” Mrs. Lesley cautioned.

&
nbsp; Ian thought differently. Ian thought the look on Miss Anne Lesley’s face—a narrowing frown above her wide, dark eyes, and the open “o” of her mouth when her mother interrupted his narrative—was surely disappointment. For a moment there, when he had leaned back in his chair and relaxed into telling her his tales, she had appeared almost animated—her dark eyes had sparked with keen curiosity as he had described the wonders of the wide, unseen world beyond her experience.

  She had been entirely, lividly still, her eyes pinned to his as he spoke. She had seemed almost … interesting.

  Or perhaps she was merely interested. Or just being polite.

  Whichever it was, it was gone now, the spark, snubbed out just as quickly as it had this afternoon, when he had inadvertently—no, he had done it quite deliberately, though he had not done it on purpose—insulted her beyond all bounds of propriety. But propriety and following of rules had never been his strong suit. Not while growing up under the exacting and dictatorial hand of his father, and not during his formative years in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, learning the hard way to acquit himself in the honorable and proficient execution of his duty.

  But in the navy he had had friends—friends who had looked after him and showed him the way to get things done, even if it occasionally meant bending the rules. Friends who stood by him. Friends who had shared his good luck.

  And what he needed to do was make Miss Anne Lesley his friend, and get her alone again so she might talk to him as she had on the beach—as if she did not hate him.

  Ian refilled his glass with claret from the dusty bottle at his elbow—purloined from his father’s expensively overstocked cellars—and let Mrs. Lesley have her noisy way with the rest of the conversation. “How often do your parents, the Viscount and Viscountess Rainesford, come to visit you here? Or are you quite at home in Ciren Castle? I understand it’s a very large estate…”

  Ian shut his ears to her ceaseless drone, and concentrated on that glimpse of whatever it was—intelligence, defiance, curiosity—he had seen in Anne Lesley. His intended bride—and despite their monstrously bad start, he reckoned he still had a chance with her—was smart. He had not imagined her quick-wittedness when she had exerted herself on his behalf.

  Of course, it wouldn’t do to have her so enthralled with him she wanted to wander the world with him. Bugger up his career quite badly, a wife aboard would. On the other hand, if she were content to wait at home, and listen with breathless attention to his colorful stories, that would be another thing entirely.

  And she really wasn’t as ordinary as he had originally thought. There was something about her—he was not yet quite sure what—that was intriguing. Her eyes were too brown, her nose too long, and her mouth too wide to conform to any accustomed standards of beauty. But there was something else, some glint of something wise and warm in the golden depths of those eyes. And there was something elegant in the length of her nose, which made her something of a silent, dark swan among the more conventionally plumed beauties. And what was more, there was something desperately solemn in her countenance, that made him want to exert himself to ease the grim line of her mouth, and make her smile.

  And really, what choice did he have but to make the best of it? Even if he did bolt off to London, there was no guarantee he could find something—someone—better. Pinky was right—a wren in the hand was worth more than the possibility of an empty bush.

  He made himself consider her afresh. Her skin, though it seemed pale, appeared smooth and even enough. And for another thing, now that he looked closely, he found her figure—at least the small portion of it he could discern across the top of the table—quite unobjectionable. She was tallish, but fine-boned. Though her clothing was rather nondescript—plain brown wool, buttoned up to the collar, and entirely unadorned—the high-waisted garment fit well through her shoulders. And, oh, yes, there at the top of her bodice resided the lovely evidence that she was in fact a young woman. The sweetly rounded swells of her breasts might just about fill his palms, if he—

  God’s balls.

  Dining room. Claret. Smile and nod politely, and keep eyes well away from bodices, and all thoughts of the corset that must be pushing her small but perfectly formed breasts up, presenting them for his perusal and enjoyment.

  Devil take him. So much for indifference.

  Ian shifted restlessly in his chair. He was sure he could find more mitigating faults, if he but looked for them again.

  Her dark hair was parted severely down the center, as was the current fashion, but instead of dangling ringlets, it was pulled back and severely knotted at her nape, each and every strand kept scrupulously in place. The severity of the hairstyle, and the dark, unappealing color of her hair did little to set off her high cheekbones and firm chin, making her appear a bit grim and angular.

  That was it, concentrate on grim and angular, and forget about the appeal of her lovely breasts. She was rather slight, and perhaps too tall—side by side at the table, she was a full head taller than her mother. Yet, out on the beach, the girl’s head hadn’t reached any higher than his collar. Of course her unassuming, fadeaway air probably made her seem smaller. But perhaps once he got her alone, and got her angry, he would see that spark. Perhaps, if he took matters literally in hand, and simply backed her up against a wall, and filled—

  No. He would not think about walls, or bending over chairs, or spreading upon dining room tables, though it was nearly impossible not to think of such things when all he was meant to be doing was deciding if he liked the girl enough to get her with child. But judging from the growing state of his own arousal, he liked her bloody well enough, indeed.

  “Cap’n?” Pinky—tricked up in an old blue bosun’s coat that he evidently thought suitable to the grandness of the occasion—was at his elbow, bending to speak in close confidence, as he presented Ian with a plate of fruit.

  Ian snagged a tangerine orange. “What is it?” Devil take him if they’d run out of claret.

  “I was thinking as maybe how it might be a lovely time to show the maidy round the house? While I bring the colonel and his missus some port and chocolate. The music room, cap’n? Per’aps the maidy plays? We could sore use some music round here.”

  For all of Pinky’s lack of subtlety, it was an excellent suggestion, just as the old tar’s prompting to follow the wren down to the beach had been. One that would give him time alone with her.

  “Miss Lesley,” Ian said as amiably as possible once he had finished both his callow ogling and his fruit. “Would you care to take a tour of the house?” An informal tour would be an unobjectionable activity that would occupy them away from her parents for a decent interval, and give him another chance to charm her into agreeing to the marriage.

  “Oh, goodness, no,” Mrs. Lesley objected. “It’s far too late for that. Anne will need her rest, and want to retire, I’m quite sure.”

  To Ian’s eyes, Anne did not look ready to retire. Anne looked ready to advance. Anne looked, in fact, as if other people making decisions for her might be kindling the fire of that magnificent, contained rage he was so curious about.

  “Nonsense.” Ian skated a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece—it was not yet nine o’clock. “It’s early yet.” He rose, and simply reached out and took his would-be bride’s hand, and he walked her toward the door. “We’ll leave you to your sherry.”

  “See if you can get more than two words out of her,” the colonel mouthed as they passed.

  Ian saw Anne color deeply—a hot flush streaked up the side of her neck, and she turned her face to the floor in mortification. Or perhaps in that subtle, restrained anger that so intrigued him. Ian found himself eager to find out.

  “Well, you have your marching orders, Miss Lesley,” he said for her ears alone as he ushered her out the door of the dining room. “You are hereby required to contribute more than two words as you inspect the premises. Or perhaps you might defer them until some later time. Perhaps in the morning, on another walk, when w
e march resolutely toward the village of St. Helens.”

  His teasing had goaded her into looking at him then, giving him a glimpse of heat firing in the depths of her eye. “As you wish, lieutenant.”

  The words were quiet, but hot.

  “Four already. But I shan’t let you off that lightly. And you did promise not to call me lieutenant.”

  “I never did.”

  She was so resolutely battened down, he could feel his own sail shaking loose to run before the wind. “Ian,” he insisted, just as determined as she. But he was determined to find out what made the quiet, serious Miss Lesley tick. So far, her pleasure was limited to walking.

  “Sir—”

  “Ian. Give it a try.” He gave her his best, most winning smile—the one that made barmaids forget to charge him for his beer, and offer up other delights instead.

  And it was working. She was having trouble keeping her determined look in order—she had to keep pursing her lips. “I—”

  “Almost. Almost. But you didn’t say ‘sir,’ so I shan’t object any more this evening. This way.” He walked her all the way up the central corridor to the other side of the house, to begin the tour in the small front parlor that Ian had come to think of as the music room. There was a pianoforte and a harp that had come with the house, but they were never used. Well, just that once by the corps de ballet—a lovely “performance” involving a picturesque shedding of clothing that had preceded the memorable dinner the night he had moved into the house. Ian was half afraid there might still be a silken shift left carelessly about, draped over the harp perhaps, but thanks to the able Totts, there were no echoes of evenings past.

  “Do you play, Miss Lesley?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was hushed, and almost reverent. “I had no idea you would have—May I play on it sometimes? When you’re not here?” The words came in a quiet rush, as if she didn’t know quite what to do with them in her mouth.

  He did—use them to charm and ease her along. “Excellent. Of course you may play it. Anytime you like.”