His Mistletoe Bride

by Vanessa Kelly

  “Lady Merritt, there’s no need for you to stand,” said the vicar. “Please do be seated.”

  With a murmur of thanks, Phoebe slid into the first pew. Mr. Knaggs settled beside her, clasped his hands in his lap, and gave her a kind but wary smile. “And now, my lady, please tell me how I may be of service to you.”

  Phoebe looked him directly in the eye. “Mr. Knaggs, you can be of great service by telling me everything you know about the smuggling ring that is operating in this village, including those who might be involved. And then I want you to tell me what needs to be done to put a stop to it without anyone getting hurt.”

  The vicar’s mouth fell open like a sagging drawer. It was in that moment Phoebe realized everyone in Apple Hill was likely involved in the smuggling ring in some way.

  Including even the kindly Mr. Knaggs.

  Chapter 22

  Phoebe stood outside the door to her husband’s study, hesitating. Lucas had been avoiding her for several days now. Ever since their argument on their wedding night, he had made certain they were never alone, only sharing meals with her in the semiformal splendor of their decrepit dining room, and only deigning to speak with her if she had some specific question about the household. Scrupulously polite, he treated her with a careful respect, but in subtle ways he made it clear he preferred to keep his distance.

  His conduct was even more striking at night, when he invariably failed to join her in the bedroom. That was her fault but she had never expected a genuine estrangement to develop, never expected they would not discuss the problem that hung like a pall of smoke over their marriage. Countless times in the last week, after staring for hours at the faded canopy of her bed, Phoebe had jumped up and stalked to the connecting door between her dressing room and his bedroom, intending to barge in and force Lucas to acknowledge her.

  And countless times she had lost her nerve, retreating to her cold, virginal bed.

  If only they had finished what they had started on their wedding night she might have been able to work up the courage to confront him. But after the terrible things they had said to each other, she did not know if Lucas even wished her in his bed. The idea that he might not want her—and as every day passed that eventuality seemed more likely—made her nauseous. Add in the unresolved issue of the smugglers, and the chill between them rivaled the December wind seeping under the door of the great hall and swirling around her ankles.

  Phoebe sighed, resting her forehead on the door. How did one address such a situation? She hated that she could find no way around it, especially since Lucas refused to talk about the smuggling problem in the village. To her mind, it was her husband’s job to protect the people of their village, not turn them over to coldhearted officers of the law for an uncertain fate. Unfortunately, it would not be easy to solve the problem since most everyone in Apple Hill was involved.

  Under her prodding, Mr. Knaggs had finally revealed the tale. Desperate to feed their families, a good portion of the men in the village had turned to smuggling. Those who did not—such as Mr. Knaggs—either turned a blind eye or did what they could to throw dust in the eyes of the excise officers. But Mr. Harper was relentless in his pursuit, and the situation was growing more dangerous by the day.

  Even worse, some of the children were being pulled into the ring by their parents. Mr. Knaggs had stewed over that problem for months, and been almost pathetically grateful to confess his concerns to her. Outraged, Phoebe had insisted he reveal which parents were putting their children at risk, but he refused, saying he was duty-bound to protect his flock. She was tempted to march home and tell Lucas immediately, but she had already given her word to Mr. Knaggs she would not.

  Naturally, she informed the vicar that the smuggling must stop. Lucas would eventually restore Apple Hill to prosperity and the locals could then return to a life of law-abiding tranquility, but that would never happen if the people did not invest their trust in the new lord. The fastest way to lose that trust was to turn even one man from the village over to the law.

  She had also tried to discuss the matter in a roundabout way with her husband, but her inquiries about his meeting with Mr. Harper had run into the stubborn wall of his iron will. “You are to stay out of this, Phoebe,” he had ordered. “You don’t know a damn thing about it and you’ll only get in the way. And likely get yourself into trouble, too, which will annoy me profoundly when I have to rescue you.”

  She had bristled as he must have known she would. One thing led to another and before she knew it, they were in the middle of a full-blown argument. When Phoebe refused to comply with his demands, Lucas had read her a lecture on disobedient wives. That had the effect of sending her storming out of the room and slamming the door. Not quite the actions of a dutiful Quaker or wife, but she could not entirely blame herself for her unfortunate reaction.

  And who could she go to for advice about stubborn, hardheaded husbands? Meredith and the rest of the family would be arriving at Belfield Abbey in a few days, but Phoebe cringed at the idea of relating her problems to Meredith because she would probably tell Aunt Georgie, who would tell the General, who would no doubt demand a public airing of the problem. And that would lead to no good for anyone, especially Lucas.

  No, Phoebe had to act on her own, before matters got any worse.

  After one quick rap on the door, she slipped into her husband’s study. The book-lined, cluttered room seemed to welcome her. The study glowed with the light and warmth of a roaring fire and several branches of candles scattered on tabletops and on the burnished walnut desk. The furniture might be old and the carpet faded, but Mrs. Christmas had the maids polish the exposed floorboards until they gleamed, and scrub, dust, or clean every object not nailed down. Despite the evident deterioration of the last few years, the abiding affection held by the servants for Mistletoe Manor and the Merritt family shone forth.

  Lucas propped his elbows on the desktop as he frowned at a massive ledger. By his expression, whatever he was studying displeased him. Lately, she rarely saw him with anything but a stern or unhappy expression on his rugged features. Her heart squeezed with sympathy and a longing to relieve him of at least some of his burdens.

  He glanced up, surprise lifting his brows. A swift but obscure emotion rippled across his features, but then his usual polite mask slipped back into place. “Phoebe, I wasn’t expecting you. Is anything wrong?”

  She gave him a tentative smile. “No, but I do wish to speak to you. Would you like me to come back later?”

  He grimaced. “Frankly, I welcome the interruption. It’s taking me days to straighten out these damn books. For some reason that eludes me, your grandfather let go his last estate manager. He took over the books himself, although Mr. Christmas did inform me that he was occasionally dragooned into service as record keeper.”

  “I take it my grandfather had not a strong head for numbers.”

  “That would be a colossal understatement, my dear,” Lucas responded dryly.

  Phoebe had to repress the urge to defend her grandfather. Even though she had never met the old earl in person, she held him in great esteem. But Lucas needed her loyalty now and, if he would accept it, her love. “Have you made any progress in finding a new estate manager?” she asked as she settled into the wing chair in front of his desk.

  Lucas eyed her, his expression slightly puzzled. Then he gave a slight shrug. “I interviewed three more candidates today. One is a possibility, although he’s young and inexperienced.” The faintest of smiles touched his lips. “But I’m just desperate enough to hire him. God knows, I can’t keep relying on Christmas or Popham to do the job. Popham has been overseeing the most urgent of the repairs on the estate, and he told me today that if he had to deal with one more complaining tenant or leaking roof he would quit on the spot.”

  “Oh, dear! I hope not,” Phoebe exclaimed, worried how Lucas would react to that.

  He laughed. It sounded rather rusty, but she welcomed it. “Actually, you’d have to drag t
he man away from my side. But he’s never spent much time in the country. He doesn’t know one type of grain from another, or have a clue how to mend a fence or fix a roof.”

  He leaned back in his chair, his smile fading into caution as he studied her. Nervously, Phoebe clenched her hands, praying for wisdom and patience. After all, men like Lucas did not easily reveal themselves to others, and especially to women.

  “What did you want to ask me?” he asked.

  “I have several questions, actually. The first is, what would you like to do for Christmas?”

  He arched his brows. “Why do we have to do anything? Besides go to church, that is.” He gave her a sardonic smile. “I’m assuming you do want to go to church.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, refusing to be baited. “But we must also plan celebrations for the servants and the villagers—”

  He cut her off with a dismissive wave. “I expect they’ll have their own celebrations. Why would we need to do anything out of the ordinary, since most of them will be with their families? The servants will have Boxing Day to themselves, and I expect you’ll want to give them the usual gifts. As for the alms for the poor, I’ll give an ample amount to Mr. Knaggs for distribution. Other than that, I don’t see the need to do anything else.”

  Phoebe stared at him. Could he truly be that unaware of his responsibilities? “Lucas, you are lord of an estate called Mistletoe Manor. Half your servants and many of the people in the village go by the name of Christmas, for heaven’s sake. Surely you realize there are expectations and traditions to be upheld. Already the preparations are underway. The puddings have been stirred and put up, and—”

  “Phoebe,” he said, impatiently interrupting again, “you’re a Quaker. You don’t even celebrate Christmas.”

  She crossed her arms, giving him a stern look, but he likely missed it since his gaze followed her motion, fixing on her breasts and remaining there. Instantly, a hot, shivery reaction flashed through her body. Annoyed he could elicit so ready a response, she resisted the urge to squirm in her seat.

  “My lord,” she said firmly, “I would prefer you look at my face when you speak with me, not to other parts of my anatomy, no matter how attractive you might find them.”

  His gaze snapped up to her face and he choked back a laugh. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, my dear wife.”

  His eyes gleamed with mischief and a burgeoning sensuality. It took every ounce of discipline on her part to resist the siren lure of her husband’s powerful masculinity. She did want that from him, but not just yet. Not until they reached an understanding in other areas of their life. “Yes, well. To address your concern, Lucas, although it is true that my father’s family did not celebrate Christmas, that does not mean I do not wish to do so myself. In fact, I find the prospect quite exciting.”

  Lucas rolled his eyes.

  “And as I said,” she continued, ignoring his annoying reaction, “there are certain traditions here at the manor, many of which have been lost in recent years. It would mean a great deal to the locals if we restored them. It would be a wonderful way to show we are now truly a part of their lives, and that we share their concerns and their hopes.”

  That prompted a snort from her husband, but she carried on doggedly.

  “To that end, I have been thinking of what we should do on Christmas Day.”

  “Nothing?” he asked hopefully.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “In the past, the earls of Merritt opened the manor to the tenants and villagers. Food and drink was provided for all, and there was music and games for . . .”

  She stumbled over her words, surprised by the grim look on her husband’s face. “You would not have to do anything,” she said defensively. “Mrs. Christmas has been taking care of this for years, and knows exactly what is to be done. All that would be required of you is to preside over the day’s festivities. And not scowl at everyone like a grumpy old bear with a thorn stuck in his paw,” she could not help finishing in a snippy tone.

  “Is that all?” he asked dryly.

  She sighed. “Lucas, did you never celebrate Christmas? Do you not have any fond memories of the occasion?”

  He shrugged. “As a child, yes. But not in the military. There were years when a celebration of any kind seemed wrong, or at least beside the point.”

  “But you are not in the military now.”

  “So you keep telling me.”

  When she let out a frustrated sigh, he rose and came round to the front of the desk, leaning against it. He was so tall she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.

  “Phoebe,” he said, gently nudging her shoe with his booted foot, “do you know how much it would cost to provide that sort of entertainment?”

  Her stomach jumped. “Are you saying we cannot afford to do this?”

  Another faint smile lifted his lips. “Goose. Of course we can afford it. That’s not the point.”

  “Then what is?”

  He began a restless prowl around the room. “I think sometimes you don’t realize what bad shape the manor and the home farms are in. I’m not poor by any means, but I don’t possess anything like the wealth that someone such as Silverton has.”

  She watched him as he paced, not missing the shadow of bitterness that crossed his face when he mentioned his cousin’s name.

  He came to a halt in front of the fireplace. “I’m pouring all my resources into the manor and the estate, trying to bring them back to life.” Staring down at the flames, he fell into a brown study that she felt loath to interrupt.

  Finally, he glanced up, looking stern and determined. “I will bring it back, Phoebe. The place deserves that, and I believe the estate can be prosperous again. But it’s going to bleed me dry until it does, and I don’t want to waste a penny on something as frivolous as a Christmas party.”

  She nodded, her insides twisting with sympathy. Lucas took everyone’s burdens upon himself, never asking for or expecting help. She wondered if in some strange way he did it to punish himself. But for what? The pain he had caused his cousin and the Stanton family? Surely Lucas realized it was time to forgive himself, and forgive Silverton, too.

  Rising, she joined him by the fireplace. Perhaps he did not want her help, but she would give him no choice. “I am sorry you think I do not understand the complexities of restoring the estate,” she said earnestly. “But you must not regard such things as celebrations as wasted time or money. They are not.”

  Steeling herself against rejection, she reached out and slipped her hand into his. He tensed for a moment, and then his warm hand engulfed her fingers. “You know better than anyone how difficult life has been for the people of the village,” she said quietly. “For too long they have suffered without hope. Under those circumstances, how can it possibly be a waste to lift their spirits and cheer their hearts? People need more than hard work and food on the table to be whole, Lucas. They need fellowship and good cheer in their lives, too.”

  If anyone understood such a lesson, she did. For too many years in her brother’s household, she had been lonely and without joy. But the Stantons had changed that for her. Lucas had changed that.

  He gripped her hand, staring down at her, but his eyes seemed to look through her to something very far away. She tugged on his fingers to recapture his attention.

  His lips twisted in a self-mocking smile. “I suppose that’s what Christmas is all about, Lord help me. All right, my sweet. You shall have your Christmas party. I suppose my pockets are still deep enough to stand the strain.” His smile slid from mockery to mischief. “And you are a Quaker, so I don’t expect you’ll pull me too far into dun territory.”

  His capitulation caught her by surprise. “I will do my best not to bankrupt us, although I make no promises,” she said. On impulse, she went up on her toes and brushed a kiss along the rugged angle of his jaw. “Thank you, my lord. I know everyone will be very excited. Especially the children. They have been preparing for weeks.”
/>   He looked startled by her gesture, but recovered quickly. “What children are you talking about?”

  “The vicar has been preparing the village children for their Christmas pageant. I already invited them up to the manor to put it on for us.”

  He winced, looking truly pained. “God help us all. There’s nothing more gruesome than amateur theatricals. Madam Wife, what were you thinking?”

  “Lucas, I do not think—”

  He shook his head. “It’s fine, really. I doubt I could hold back any of these festivities even if I wanted to. I’ll leave it up to you and Mrs. Christmas to handle all the details.” He squeezed her hand gently, then dropped it, giving her a smile both kind and dismissive. “If you’ll forgive me,” he said, going back to his desk, “I have quite a bit more work to do.”

  “Oh.” She tried to keep the disappointment from her voice. “I do not wish to keep you from your work, but I have another question.”

  He raised his gaze back up from the ledger with mock alarm. “You are turning into a regular pickpocket. What now?”

  “I have no intention of picking your pockets,” she replied in a dignified voice. “I have received a letter from Meredith, inviting us to a party at Belfield Abbey two days before Christmas. She suggests we come in the afternoon and stay until the next morning.”

  The icy expression in her husband’s eyes dropped the temperature of the room by several degrees. Her stomach dropped as well, but she pushed on. “I know it is not comfortable for you, but I would like very much to see the family again. And I know Aunt Georgie and Uncle Arthur wish to see you.”

  He studied her in a silence broken only by the crackle of the fire. It was hard not to fidget under his perceptive gaze. “It’s been hard on you these last few weeks,” he said.

  Not wanting to lie, she simply shrugged.