He had tried to get close to her, truly he had. After their wedding, he had attempted to make peace with her, to find a common ground, but she had completely closed herself off to him, and eventually, not wanting to face any further rejection, he had given up and made his way to London.
Hunter had suffered enough rejection in his life. While he looked up to his father and had spent his life learning from the man, anytime he had spoken a word of his own ideals his father had pushed them aside as though they meant nothing. And as for his mother… Hunter couldn’t think of another soul on the planet who possessed less compassion or love — even for her children. His father had always told him to toughen up, that he didn’t need the love of a woman. But it had created within Hunter a fear of rejection that he never could quite shake. He knew, however, it was much worse for his sister Lavinia, who had to spend much more time in the presence of the marchioness.
And now here he was, facing another woman who wanted nothing to do with him. He’d prefer not to dwell on it. He had enough on his mind as it was. He had hoped for a conventional, cordial relationship, without the need to worry about his wife and whatever it may be that was causing her such vexation. At some point in time, he supposed he would have to deal with it, but for now, he was preoccupied with the concerns of the House. He sighed, noting that Wimbledon still stared at him.
“I look forward to a wonderful break,” he said simply, and Wimbledon took what he wanted from that, leaving it be. Hunter lit a cheroot, sat back in his chair, and stewed. What was he supposed to do now?
He didn’t have to wonder for long.
When he walked into this office the next morning, a footman trailing through the door behind him with a tray holding his coffee and pastries, Hunter found a single envelope on the surface of his otherwise tidy desk. He cut through the seal to find the scrawl of his steward, a man to whom his father had entrusted the estate for many years now.
Lord Oxford,
Forgive me for the intrusion; however, I am aware you are currently on recess. Unfortunately, an urgent matter has arisen that requires your attention. There is an issue with the accounts, one that I cannot solve. I have my suspicions as to the cause of the disturbance. While it should be a straightforward solution, we must speak further.
Sincerely,
Mr. Stone
He sighed. That was certainly cryptic. But his decision was made. He supposed he would be returning to Wintervale after all.
Scarlett smiled as she pulled on her gloves and dipped her head under the stone archway of the young family’s home. The cold bit into her uncovered face, but she paid it no mind. Not now, with the cozy cottage’s warmth still filling her as the cool air blew a whisper of snow across the yard.
The children were tiny and so lovely, one just a babe, snuggled deep in his mother’s arms. Scarlett’s smile faded, however, as she looked out across the fields in front of her. The sun was beginning to set, and she could see the dim light of a candle or fire through windows in the distance. This was but one home, and she had many more to visit over the next few days.
She cursed her husband. The Earl of Oxford. So concerned with his great ideals in the House of Lords that he completely neglected his own tenants. Here were people who needed him, who had barely enough to survive. Did he know? Or did he truly not care?
Scarlett untied her horse from the fencepost and hoisted herself up, hiking up her skirts and swinging one leg over the top of him. No one was around to see her, and she hated riding sidesaddle. When she did, she couldn’t mount without assistance, she could hardly control the horse, and she hated when the saddle was cinched so tight that the horse seemed uncomfortable. Of course, the odd time when anyone saw her riding as she was now, they were absolutely shocked, but Scarlett didn’t overly care. Let them talk. What did her reputation matter, anyhow?
Wintervale had now been home for four months, and Scarlett had to admit that the adjustment hadn’t been nearly as difficult as she had initially thought. The servants were lovely and welcoming, and she had enjoyed visiting the tenants and seeing the lands. Someone had to. The steward, while experienced to be sure, cared only about the numbers and nothing about the people. Any time Scarlett had attempted to discuss anything of importance with him, he had pretended to listen for a moment, then quickly waved away her words with a frown of annoyance. Apparently, he was the sort, as most were, who believed women had nothing to offer.
And then there was Nia. A smile lifted Scarlett’s lips as she returned to Wintervale. Hunter’s sister, Lavinia, had shown up on the doorstep a day after Hunter had returned to London. She had married the neighbor, she told her, and was but a short ride away. Would she mind if she visited Scarlett now and again? At first, Scarlett had resisted. Did she really want the company, day in and day out, of a woman she had met but once — and the sister of her unwanted husband, no less?
But Lavinia had surprised her. She proved intelligent and humorous, and Scarlett began to enjoy her visits more and more. Lavinia abhorred the outdoors and therefore never chose to join Scarlett in a ride or even working in the beautiful grotto within the gardens, but they saw just enough of one another to not become bored with the other’s presence. And it was rather nice to have a friend nearby.
Now, as Scarlett shook off her boots, she heard Lavinia round the corner and come into the foyer.
“Scarlett!” she said as she pushed her spectacles back up her slim nose. “Heavens, I was worried about you. I have been here for hours already! Where have you been for so long on such a cold afternoon?”
“Nothing to worry about, Nia,” she said, placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder as she walked through the foyer, passing the waiting footman her cloak. Lavinia knew the house well, of course, having spent much of her youth there, and made herself perfectly at home. “I was just visiting some tenants, is all.”
“That is lovely of you, Scarlett, but I know my brother wouldn’t expect you to do that,” Lavinia said, biting her lip.
And that was the one and only reason Scarlett sometimes wished Lavinia didn’t visit so often — the continual praise of her brother. Scarlett knew she did it on purpose, but she wasn’t going to fall for Lavinia’s ploys. She had resolved, however, not to speak ill of the man Lavinia loved so much in her presence.
“Of course he wouldn’t,” she said simply, leading Lavinia into the back drawing room, the one she favored with its bright, cheery striped satin walls and furniture of a yellow that was somewhat between lemon and amber. The best part was the windows overlooking the grotto. “I choose to do so myself.”
“That is kind of you,” Lavinia said with a smile as she took a seat on the ornately carved rosewood sofa. “Do you know if my brother is returning for Christmastide?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Scarlett, sitting across from her on the matching smaller piece. “As you well know, Nia, he and I do not correspond. You would be more inclined to know the answer to that.”
“Well, I suggested he come, but really, that is up to you to request, as his wife. Oh, Scarlett, if only you would get to know him. He really is the nicest man, and I am not simply saying that because he is my brother. He is kind and generous, and yes, he can get caught up in his work, but only because he is so passionate about it! And once he loves something, he gives it his all.”
“Clearly this marriage is not something that he particularly cares for,” Scarlett said bitterly.
“You certainly haven’t given him any reason to,” said Lavinia, leaning forward, her arm on the sofa’s Grecian-urn cresting. “All he needs from you, Scarlett, is a word of welcome. Why are you so cold?”
Scarlett sighed. It wasn’t the first time Lavinia had brought this up, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last, not until she understood where Scarlett was coming from.
Scarlett stood, cup of tea in hand, and walked over to the window, looking out into the black of the fallen night.
“Let me tell you a story, Nia,” she said, as a log cracked in the
hearth. “When my mother married my father, she was hopelessly in love with him. He had courted her, and she quickly became infatuated with him. After a typical period of courtship that went entirely as one would expect, they were married in St. George’s Cathedral. They consummated the marriage that night, and the day after he was back in the bed of his mistress. My mother didn’t learn of this until much later, and when she did, her heart was completely broken.”
She had heard Lavinia gasp behind her at her mention of a mistress, and Scarlett turned around to face her, intent with her need for Lavinia to understand.
“My mother loved my father with all of her heart, and he wanted only her dowry. She has lived her life in love with a man who wants nothing from her but to produce heirs, and even in that she failed him, having only me. I will never fall into that trap. I may be married, but as long as I live separate from your brother, I have my freedom. I can do as I please and never have to worry about becoming trapped by my own fickle emotions.”
As Lavinia looked at her in shock, Scarlett felt almost guilty for sharing such morbid thoughts with her, but at least now she knew.
“That is the saddest story I have ever heard,” Lavinia said, dropping her eyes, so like her brother’s but behind spectacles, to her lap. “But you must know that it doesn’t have to be like that, Scarlett. My brother is not that kind of man.”
Scarlett shrugged, her gaze wandering over the gilt Chippendale carvings that stood out prominently on the walls. “So you may think. My father is also a wonderful man to most that he meets. He is charming, he is kind, he provides for others. Despite the fact he wanted a son so badly, he loves me and has done all he can to provide for me. But my mother is nothing to him. Simply a woman who dresses up and accompanies him to balls. That is not the life for me, Nia, not at all.”
“I wish you didn’t think like that,” Lavinia said sorrowfully, and Scarlett returned to her seat and reached across the small table between them to take Lavinia’s hands in her own.
“That doesn’t change how happy I am to have you as a sister,” she said softly. “I am so glad we became friends.”
“Well, on that, Scarlett, we are agreed.”
2
Scarlett eyed the candle that sat atop the small yet elegant mahogany table next to her. The wick was burning dangerously low. Would she have enough to finish this last chapter and still be able to return to her room? She could get up and find another, true, but she was rather comfortable at the moment with the huge quilt thrown over her as she snuggled deeper into the depths of the navy bergère chair in the corner of the library.
She tried to make out the time on the mantel clock overtop one of the room’s three fireplaces, in which just the embers burned low in the grate, the marble chimney stretching far above it. As hard as she squinted, however, she couldn’t quite read it in the dark, though if she had to guess, she would assume it was just past midnight. A time when the rest of the house was asleep, of course. Lavinia had departed for home after dinner, and the servants were now all abed. Scarlett always prepared for sleep early so that Marion, her maid, didn’t have to wait up for her, but then she would sneak back down to the library. She had never been one to sleep early or even overly much. If she did go to bed at what others would consider a proper time, she would spend the night tossing and turning, and so she usually read until her eyes felt heavy enough to promise sleep.
One thing she did have to commend her husband on was the depths of his bookshelves. They were filled with tomes of every sort, from gothic novels to histories to children’s books. Lavinia told her that all of the books from their London home and her parents’ second country estate were sent here when her mother decided to redecorate. They were supposed to have been collected and returned, but her mother decided to instead buy books that “looked like they belonged.” Whatever that meant, thought Scarlett with an eye roll.
She was currently reading a hidden treasure she had found the other day, a history of Wintervale. The first stone had been laid in March of 1650, a fact that had apparently been gleaned from a diary. That, she would have to find as well. Why she was so interested in the family of a man from whom she was doing all she could to distance herself, she had no idea, but she would love to know more of the people who graced the paintings on the walls and who had walked the very floorboards she now haunted herself.
She was reading about the third earl. It was a romantic story. He was originally rejected as a suitor by his initial prospective father-in-law, as the earl was in rather ill health. His friends arranged another marriage for him, and when he met this woman on his wedding day, he instantly fell in love with her; they had two sons and a wonderful life together.
“Hmph.” Scarlett closed the book. Did she trust this romantic portrayal, or was it simply a fairy tale?
She leaned her head back on the cushion behind her. There was a chance it might be true. But that didn’t mean love was worth the risk — at least, not for her.
Hunter eased open the door as he let himself into the house. While he hadn’t been able to see the familiar red brick in the darkness of night, when he stepped into the entrance hall, the home welcomed him like a mother with open arms. Well, like most mothers would. With the exception of his own.
He had always loved this house, and he hadn’t realized how much he had missed it until he had neared it. If only his bride would welcome him, then perhaps he could begin to spend more time here once again, at least when Session was out.
Spicer, his valet, had gone around the back and said he would prepare everything within his chamber before Hunter went up to bed. He was tired — it had been a long trip from London — but he decided a glass of brandy wouldn’t hurt to warm him up some after the frigid air that had made its way into the carriage and through the wrapper around him on the journey here.
He and Lavinia had always preferred this home, and once they were old enough, they chose to spend most of their time here as opposed to the cold, stately home their parents currently occupied and preferred. The oak floorboards creaked under his weight as he strode down the foyer and Oak Hall. He made his way through the Green Room, turning left around the inner courtyard until he came to the room that was always home to him — his library. He was surprised when he pushed open the door and found the room warm, the embers in one of the hearths still lit as though the fire had just died out. Had someone been in here — his wife, perhaps? He made his way over through the dim yet familiar room to find the decanter of brandy just where it always was and he poured himself a drink. Eyes half closed, he meandered around the furniture to find his favorite chair, the one that knew his body better than any woman ever would.
Seeing the quilt his grandmother had made for him already draped over the chair, it was as though it had been waiting for him. Nothing was quite like coming home.
He bent and sat down, letting out a shout as something moved beneath him.
The body emitted a yelp of its own, before coming off the chair faster than he could have ever anticipated, barreling into him with the ferocity of England’s best wrestler.
“What in the hell?” he shouted as his drink went flying, spilling its amber liquid all over the Aubusson carpet as he came down with a thud beside it. But he was currently more worried about the wildcat atop of him.
“Who are you, you brute?” it yelled, and it took Hunter a moment to recognize the voice. He had heard it before, though not often. It was the anger behind it that allowed familiarity to sink in.
“Scarlett!” he yelled out as he attempted to grab hold of her wrists to keep her from continuing to pummel him. “It’s me, your — your husband!”
“My who?” She sounded a bit confused but sat back on her heels, and he took the opportunity to come to his knees and shuffle back, out of her reach.
“Your husband,” he repeated, more calmly now. “Hunter.”
She stood then, making a hasty retreat away from him. “What — what are you doing here?” she asked in confusion.
“Well, this is my home,” he said dryly. “I should be able to come here anytime I wish without fear of being beaten to death.”
“You came upon me in the middle of the night with no word of warning!” she protested. “You could have been anyone. How was I to know that you would decide to return home after darkness, prowling about like a thief?”
“You seem to be forgetting that this is my library, wife,” he said. “I can come and go as I please. If you ever deigned to write me, perhaps you would learn more of my movements.”
Not that he himself had known he would be here until this morning, but it wasn’t as though he was going to share that information with her. She had chosen to distance herself from him, so any lack of communication was solely on her.
“You never told Lavinia,” she accused, and he didn’t need light to know that a smug smile had crossed her face.
“No, I did not,” he said dryly, looking for a match and lantern in the darkness. “Nor do I need my sister’s approval. I am the master of this house, am I not?”
“That is what I am told, though I have yet to see you act as one,” she said, and he took a deep breath to wrest hold of his temper.
“Is that not what you wanted? For me to remain in London?”
“It is.”
“Then don’t pester me about it, Scarlett,” he said.
“Lady Oxford.”
“You are my wife, so Scarlett you shall be.”
They were both silent for a moment as he finally found a match and lit the lantern, though she was far enough from him that he could only see the shadows of her face. They were at an impasse, it seemed.
“You have been making yourself comfortable,” he remarked, now trying to ignore the way her body looked, silhouetted by the dim light. She was wearing nothing but a nightgown, her thin wrapper currently hanging off one arm after their struggles. She must have seen him staring, for she began to hastily pull her other sleeve back up. In his pent-up frustration toward her, he had forgotten how alluring she was. She had curves in all of the right places, her body tempting him to dismiss the words that came out of her mouth. But then she spoke and the tension came rushing back in.
Christmastide With His Countess Page 2