A Christmas Bride

by Viveka Portman

  After a time, she slipped her hand away and pulled her nightdress down. Her body throbbed with remnant pleasure and her heart beat rapidly. She rolled over and gazed into the smouldering coal embers, her eyes half closed, and sighed.

  Chapter 8

  Why could he simply not forget about it? Why did he have to moon and dream of seeing her again? There were plenty of other women in London, probably slightly more chaste as well. Yet he didn’t want one of those women, he never had. He wanted his mystery woman, a woman who had gone out and given herself the Christmas gift of freedom. A daring woman, a strong woman, a woman with conviction.

  And what about Miss Smith?

  She, like his mystery woman, had remained something of an enigma, drifting into his thoughts and dreams when he least expected it.

  After meeting her at the stationer, he wasn’t entirely convinced she was not the mystery woman. Though her clever talk of angels and Christian theology made him doubtful, the juicy lobe of her lip and the sweet curves of a womanly body beneath her pelisse gave him pause.

  Still, he had decided to follow the lead of Miss Pickering’s dress. If there were other dresses like it about London, then the chance that Miss Smith was his mystery lover would be lower.

  Frustratingly, it had taken the entire week to get an appointment with Miss Pickering’s dressmaker, and he had high hopes the lady of the establishment may know something of a replica dress that may point him in the right direction of his lover.

  Miss Pickering’s dressmaker was Howell’s, a very fine establishment, and upon entry, he realised exactly why it had taken a week to get the appointment. The gowns on display were exquisite. The rolls of fabric rich, bright and expensive.

  To keep his investigation secret from his daughter, he had come under the ruse of having Penelope fitted for a new winter gown.

  He sat taking tea with the lady of the establishment, Mrs Harcourt, whilst a seamstress took Penelope for measurement. Mrs Harcourt was a tall grey-haired woman, who was as graceful as she was stern.

  ‘Have you a particular design in mind for your daughter, Mr Carring? She has a fine figure and a perfect complexion,’ she asked, and gestured to a book of dress designs on the table. ‘You may peruse those, they are this season’s newest and I suspect would suit her best.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Robert said, and took the book. It was weighty and thick.

  Carefully he flicked through a few pages. The sketches of the gowns were well executed and brightly colourful. He paused on the page of a rather ostentatious pink and green spring gown.

  She raised an eyebrow at his choice. He coughed and turned the page, but dismissed the next golden yellow and blue dress. ‘My daughter tells me you made a lovely brown and gold gown for Miss Pickering earlier this year? May I see that design?’ he asked.

  Mrs Harcourt looked up from the design on the open page and paused thoughtfully, ‘Oh yes, I recall it,’ she nodded. ‘If I am not mistaken, Miss Pickering has a talent for dress design and she drew the pattern herself. We were only too happy to make it for her. You will not find its like in our design book, however.’

  Hope swelled in his chest. ‘And have you used the design since?’

  Mrs Harcourt looked away and patted her mob-cap as if assessing it for loose strands. ‘Only once, and with Miss Pickering’s approval of course,’ she added hastily. ‘It was for a lady who has a haberdashery shop on Fleet Street.’

  Robert’s heart thumped. ‘Do you happen to recall that lady’s name?’

  ‘Of course, I purchase many of our fabrics from her, it’s Mrs Debenham.’

  Robert felt his heart thump with nerves. There was a chance that Miss Smith was not his lover. He wasn’t sure how that made him feel.

  It certainly opened up many questions.

  Perhaps the other woman with the dress was married? Had she come to Hackney Road to experience some excitement away from the confines of her marital home?

  He paused, no, that could not be. His lady had been a virgin, he remembered the tightness of her sheath around his cock, milking him quickly to completion.

  Heat crawled up his neck at the memory.

  He coughed, trying to cover the increasing lewdness of his thoughts. ‘I think I may know the lady, is she a blonde, youthful, well-bred sort?’ he asked.

  Mrs Harcourt tittered behind her hand. ‘I don’t know to which Mrs Debenham you are referring, but my Mrs Debenham is just shy of fifty and nine and as grey as a goose.’

  Robert recalled the plump fullness of his lover, and the youthful spring in her step.

  ‘Most definitely not the lady to whom I refer, then.’

  ***

  That same evening, Ellen found herself supping alone. The Sneddons had been called away. Mrs Sneddon’s sister had fallen abruptly ill and they had rushed to her side; if all was well, they would return in a day or two. Initially, Ellen had been secretly delighted by their absence but soon the silence of the schoolhouse was all encompassing. The clock ticked obnoxiously loudly, and the coals crackled in the fireplace, taunting her with their own merriment. The minutes seemed to crawl past, unwilling or unable to go any faster. Ellen thought she may go mad.

  She constantly chided herself. She ought not be so ungrateful. She was warm, Mr Sneddon had kindly left ample coal for her to restoke the fires. Her belly comfortably full, Mrs Sneddon had left two suppers and cold porridge so that she would not starve. Perhaps less kindly, Mrs Sneddon had also left a list of multiple chores to keep her busy.

  Alas, without the distraction of cups of tea and conversation, Ellen had completed most of the chores by midmorning, leaving some for the following day, lest the boredom became too great. Thus, since luncheon, there had been precious little for her to do but take tea, sew or read. All of which she’d spent hours doing, and now with the sun setting so early, the prospect of a long dark evening seemed incredibly depressing. Worst of all, she couldn’t stop thinking of Mr Carring. The tedium made her mind fractious, constantly drawn to him, to his touch, to the memory of his manly affections.

  Ellen had thought she’d be relieved when Miss Pickering’s gown was returned, for in its absence, her desire to wander the streets of London seducing gentlemen had dissipated. But a mortifying realisation had quickly followed. The only man in London she wished to seduce again was Mr Carring and as she had told herself many, many times, doing that again was out of the question. Her wild, extravagant night with Mr Carring was swiftly turning into a delicious dream, a wonderful Christmas treat that she could always, and only, revisit in memories.

  But…

  Ellen stood in a swish of skirts and stalked to the window, pulling open the thick curtains. Her breath instantly fogged the window as she gazed out over the street.

  Oh, how she wished she could have another night like that. Another night with him. For it was not just the act, the freedom or impropriety that had thrilled her, but the man with whom she’d done it all. He was passionate, considerate, kind—everything she could ever have wished to find in a gentleman.

  She pressed her hot forehead against the cold smooth glass. Did he think of her? Miss Smith, schoolteacher, or did he think of her only as the lusty, wild woman? She remembered the intensity of his gaze at the stationers, the searching looking as he wondered who exactly she was.

  Had she just been a fun dalliance? Did he make a habit of sating himself on willing women outside public houses? She frowned and pressed her forehead harder into the glass. The very thought of him finding another, or worse, marrying another woman made her feel hot and cold and torn with confusion.

  It should not, but it did.

  She had no claim on the gentleman, no matter how much she wished to.

  No, she needed to gather her wits and common sense. After all, she would see him again. Albeit not in the way she would like. He could not see her as the sultry wanton he’d worshipped with his tongue in that alley way, but as a very proper schoolmistress, and when he did, Ellen had absolutely no idea how she
could behave. She’d have to be calm, collected, indifferent even. If she gave anything away he would quickly discover the truth; why, he almost had the other day.

  Ellen opened her eyes and looked down at the street, she could hear carollers singing outside, or perhaps they were patrons of the public house spreading some Christmas cheer. She looked up the street and saw them, dressed warmly for the cold. A tall gentleman threw his head back and laughed, his voice booming through the wintery air.

  Her skin prickled.

  She wanted desperately to join them. She wanted to laugh and sing too. Walk around the streets spreading cheer.

  She glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was five o’clock, she could go and sing for an hour or so before retiring for the night. Singing wasn’t a wicked or wanton thing to do. The carollers were probably part of the church choir. There was naught wrong with joining them for just an hour or so. At the very least it would get Mr Carring from her mind and some Christmas cheer would do her good.

  She was decided. Quickly she ran upstairs to grab her pelisse and a warm winter bonnet. She pulled off her mob-cap, freeing the riots of golden curls before tying the neat grey ribbon beneath her chin, finally she pulled off her slippers and laced up her boots, then hurried out the servants’ entrance.

  However, when Ellen reached the street, the carollers were nowhere to be seen. She’d taken too long lacing her boots and tying her bonnet.

  If she’d been a lesser woman, she may have cursed her rotten luck.

  She looked around. A few stalls selling candles and Christmas decorations remained, the vendors hunched in greatcoats and hats, hiding from the wind that suddenly gusted. She strained her ears over the bustle of carriages and the chatter of salesmen, but she could not hear the carollers. She felt herself frown.

  Still, not to be disheartened, she strode up the street towards the teashop. Perhaps the singers had headed there and were getting a warm brew to wet their throats before continuing.

  She hurried past a family browsing the remaining stalls, and up to the teashop.

  Instead of the usual warm lamps and the murmur of chatter, the teashop was closed, a sign on the door indicating they’d not open until two days hence.

  Ellen shivered. It had been a silly idea to join the carollers. She stopped and paused, realising exactly where she was.

  The alleyway was to her left.

  Memories rushed around her. The sounds of their carnal passion, the cold of the wet bricks on her back.

  She bit her lip and stared into its gloomy depths, her breath catching in her throat.

  Chapter 9

  Robert Carring knew it was her immediately.

  Late in the evenings, usually after supper and Penelope had retired for the night, he came to the public house in Hackney in the hope she’d return.

  And return she had.

  This evening, when Robert stepped out of the smoky warmth of the pub he’d noticed a woman, her head covered with a modest grey bonnet. Beneath the bonnet, unbound golden curls swayed in the wind. She was staring down the alleyway. Even in the lamplight he could see the familiar tilt of her chin, and the curve of a well-formed lip. He recognised her immediately.

  ‘Miss Smith,’ he called. For all her clever talk of cherubim and seraphim, she must be his lover. What other reason could there be for her being here? The sense of familiarity was overwhelming.

  His voice carried well in the cold air, and she stiffened immediately. She turned, her pelisse and skirts wrapping around her legs.

  Large eyes widened, dark colour roared up pale cheeks, and her mouth fell open.

  He knew in his heart it could be no coincidence that Miss Smith was here, staring down the alley where they had been so intimate.

  But if he were wrong ...

  The thought paralysed him.

  If, through some mighty error in his understanding of circumstance, Miss Smith was not the woman he had deflowered in the alley—what possible lie could he concoct to explain his presence now or his questioning of her?

  There was no lie. He had to be right.

  His heart pounded in his ears at the prospect of confronting her with his suspicion. If he left now, no one would be the wiser. He need not embarrass himself, he could disappear back home and never think of it again.

  No, that simply was not good enough.

  He had been traipsing about London nearly every night in search for her, and now he’d found her. His blood warmed with excitement. He wanted to taste that vivacious zest for life, and her raw uncensored passion. If Miss Smith was indeed that woman, then he simply had to let her know and hope that his own feelings were returned.

  ‘Miss Smith?’ There was silence; it seemed at that moment that not a soul in London existed but them.

  ‘Mr Carring?’ Her voice carried through the frigid air, soft, incredulous, but undoubtedly the voice of the woman for whom he had so ardently searched. ‘What are you ...’

  But Lord! How could he ever have mistaken her?

  Elation filled his chest. He needed to hear her say it.

  ‘Tell me it was you,’ he demanded breathlessly.

  ***

  Ellen’s head pounded. The sound of her own blood roared in her ears.

  She stared at Mr Carring. He stood proud, tall, and strong.

  She’d been discovered.

  It was terrifying, it was exhilarating.

  But the cold reality would likely be humiliating.

  Unthinkingly, Ellen ran a hand through a knot of hair that had tangled in the wind. The hand shook. Mr Carring stared at her, waiting for her answer. His broad shoulders tense and his expression unreadable.

  He will expose me. The realisation ran through her head.

  She had been so foolish to speak of angels earlier, she should have made other excuses, been more vague, been ...

  ‘Miss Smith, I insist we speak immediately,’ Carring demanded.

  What was the sound in his voice? Outrage? Anger? At this distance, she couldn’t quite discern.

  ‘Really, this is not appropriate, sir, I have ... I have ... no chaperone,’ her voice shook, and a few slow lazy snowflakes began to fall from the sky.

  He barked a laugh. ‘You had no chaperone last week,’ he declared. ‘Yet that certainly did not stop you.’

  Nausea boiled in her body. Would he make a scene if she tried to dismiss him? ‘Please, Mr Carring ...’ She implored. If he was any sort of gentleman he’d let her go, forget what had happened. ‘I know nothing of what you speak,’ she said.

  He laughed again and stepped closer; she could smell his cologne, and its scent was evocative. His hand moved and captured hers.

  Even through the leather of gloves, she could feel his heat.

  ‘Come now, you must think me a fool.’ His words were silky and he was so close now she could see his lips curl with the slightest smile. She remembered the feel of them against her skin.

  She swallowed. ‘No,’ she stammered. ‘I could never think you a fool.’

  ‘Then what exactly do you think, Miss Smith? I simply must know.’

  ‘I cannot say,’ She answered.

  Ellen bit her lip hard, was he playing some cruel game with her? She knew at any moment he could rail at her, call her a whore, and insist upon her dismissal from the school. It was expected.

  The hair on her neck curled as she glanced up and down the street, praying no one was eavesdropping on their intense, strange intercourse.

  She shivered.

  ‘How rude of me,’ Carring exclaimed, ‘Come into the public house, we can discuss matters there, or I could walk you back to the school, if you would prefer?’ he said, as if noticing the cold for the first time.

  She straightened, ‘No, not the school,’ she whispered.

  ‘Then the public house it is,’ his tone was firm.

  Her stomach fluttered, then twisted. To return to the scene of her debauchery had been foolish.

  The snow had begun to fall in earnest and a flurry of
snow swept into the entrance of the pub as they opened the door. His hand gripped her elbow as he steered her into the smoky pub. The grip was not tight, but she felt it acutely.

  The poor lighting made him seem larger, fiercer. His eyes glittered with a silent appraisal that she couldn’t quite decipher.

  She her body felt torn; in part, the situation was thrilling, but also very frightening. She may very well lose everything this night.

  The public house’s dim smoky warmth embraced them as Carring drew her to a quiet nook table and gestured her to sit. ‘Do you wish for refreshment?’ he asked.

  Ellen watched his mouth move and swallowed.

  She ought to say no, offer some modicum of ladylike decorum, but ale would be very welcome, if only to settle her trembling hands.

  ‘Ale, thank you,’ she said after a pause.

  He nodded, that cryptic smile playing on the corner of his lips again.

  Her heart thudded.

  ‘Do not go anywhere,’ he said, his voice soft but stern. ‘I have been coming near here every evening searching for you, I do not want to be disappointed.’

  Ellen swallowed, and watched him walk through the tables towards the bar.

  He’d been searching for her? Why? Was that what most gentlemen did after a liaison with a woman? She thought it most unlikely.

  She watched him speak with the publican and order their drinks. He made a few gestures and the publican handed over the drinks and a small key.

  She frowned.

  ‘The frown does not suit you, Miss Smith,’ he said as he deposited a tankard of ale before her and slipped the key in his pocket.

  Ellen gripped the cool tankard and gulped to steady her nerves.

  ‘But now you must tell me. It was you, was it not?’ He asked, and swept down into the nook beside her.

  The snow had turned to crystalline droplets on his coat, they shimmered in the poor light of the pub.

  She lifted her gaze to his.

  She had to be clever about this, admit nothing until she knew his intentions.