A Christmas Bride

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Lord Cheyney crossed the room to stand beside her bed. “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Serenity Adams, my lord.”

  “No, your real name.”

  She closed her eyes, wishing all of this would go away and be nothing more than a bad dream. “My lord, I do not know my real name.”

  “As you said yourself, Timothy, she bumped her head quite hard,” Mr. Wayne interjected. “Her injuries from the accident seem to have wiped her memory quite clean. She cannot recall even her name.”

  Instead of firing another question at her as Mr. Wayne had done, Lord Cheyney sighed. “Miss, you would be wise to rest. We will delay our journey to Cheyney Park until the morrow. Mayhap with some sleep, your mind will heal.”

  “I hope so.” She gazed up at him, wanting to thank him for his unexpected compassion and wanting to apologize for this bumble-bath that she had made worse by agreeing to Mr. Wayne’s offer.

  As if he could sense her thoughts—a most discomforting idea, for she could barely sense her own—Lord Cheyney said in the same subdued tone, “Felix, I would speak with this young woman a few minutes alone.”

  “I can understand that. You should get better acquainted with your betrothed.” His laugh faded away, and he quickly lowered his eyes as Lord Cheyney regarded him with a cool stare.

  Uncomfortable silence settled on the room as Mr. Wayne took his leave. Lord Cheyney brought the chair closer to the bed.

  “May I?” he asked, motioning to it.

  “Of course.” She had heard Mr. Wayne tell the viscount that she was a lady’s maid, but Lord Cheyney was treating her with the courtesy he would show a lady.

  He sat and fisted one hand on each knee. “Let me ask you what I should have immediately. How are you feeling?”

  “Confused.”

  “I meant your injuries.”

  She touched her brow, then winced. “I have plenty of aches and I suspect many bruises, but the cut on my forehead seems to be the worst injury.”

  “Other than your missing memory.”

  “Yes.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “I own to being at a loss as to how to respond. This is the first time I have encountered someone who has suffered such a loss.”

  “I would offer you advice, but, if I have met such a person myself, I cannot recall it.”

  He laughed. “Do not think me too bold to say that you are quite amazing, miss, to be able to be amusing when you are suffering from such a dire experience.”

  “You are not too bold. If I am to pretend to be your fiancée, you should be comfortable treating me with a certain amount of camaraderie.”

  “Camaraderie?” He chuckled again. “May I say, miss, that you chose a very tepid word to describe the heartfelt love that should exist between two people who are planning to marry?”

  “Love? We are supposed to be in love?” Her eyes widened; then she put her hand to her forehead again. Every motion, even one so slight, continued to make the room spin.

  “Miss?”

  She heard dismay in his voice, but she could not answer. Clutching the coverlet, she was not sure whether to close her eyes or open them. Either way added to the nausea swarming through her. Myriad images filled her head, but she was not sure what was real and was memory and what was only imagination. Shouts and screams filled her head. Pain slashed through her.

  A warm cloth settled on her forehead, and she sank more deeply into the pillows, letting the relief the warmth brought ease the speed of the spinning. Her heartbeat slowed, and she was able to breathe without fearing each breath would be her last. Gone were the maddened scenes that might be memories of the carriage accident or just the remnant of a forgotten nightmare.

  “Are you all right?” Cool hands took hers between them, cradling them gently.

  “I believe so.” Her voice was unsteady even to her own ears. Slowly she opened her eyes to see Lord Cheyney on his feet, his hands surrounding hers. His expression of anxiety spoke more loudly than his words. “Forgive me, my lord. I am afraid I overreacted to your comments.”

  “You had assumed this betrothal was an arranged one with little affection on either side.” One side of his mouth tilted up in a tired smile. “That would have been the better part of wisdom, I see now, but, in an effort to soothe my grandfather’s dismay that I had not found someone to wed in the wake of—” He released her hand and cleared his throat. “I thought the tale of a true-love match would please him greatly.”

  “Because you never imagined it would bring you to this contretemps?”

  “Mayhap if I had considered the story of this betrothal of the least importance, I would have given it deeper thought.” He folded his hands behind his coat, which was still damp from the winter storm. “I do not condone my cousin’s methods, miss, but Felix is right about one thing. Our grandfather is not a young man. It might be better to humor him on this one thing.”

  “You care deeply for him, don’t you?”

  “My cousin?”

  She shook her head, then wished she had been more cautious. Leaning her head back again into the pillows, she whispered, “I see that you tolerate your cousin. No more.”

  “You apparently do not see too clearly just now. Felix and I have been tie-mates as well as cousins for all our lives.”

  “Really?” she asked, looking up at him.

  He was not hoaxing her, for puzzlement filled his eyes. Or was this no more than a part of the greater charade that he was drawing her into? She knew nothing of this man or his cousin or his grandfather. She knew nothing of anything but what had transpired in this rough room since she awoke.

  Now it was obviously her turn to apologize. In little more than a whisper, she said, “Forgive me, my lord, if I spoke out of turn. I was judging only on what I saw ensue between the two of you during a very short conversation when, it is obvious, you both were not at your best.”

  “You have a true skill at understatement.”

  “I am so uncertain of everything, so it is not easy to compare one thing to another.” When his eyes narrowed as he looked down at her, she sat straighter, drawing the cloth off her head, and hastened to add, “My lord, we were speaking of your grandfather. I had remarked that I believed you care deeply for him. Is that so?”

  Lord Cheyney sat once more on the chair. “You need not make that a question. I do not recall my own parents, for they both died when I was very young. My grandfather raised me at his country estate of Cheyney Park on the North York moors.” His mouth tilted into an ironic grin. “Now I have confused you even further, for I can see that you wonder how I could be false with a man I profess to care for so much.”

  “It is not my place to question your motives, my lord.”

  His grin became a grimace. “You should call me Timothy.”

  “And you will call me Serenity?”

  “Will you have trouble answering to that?”

  She kneaded her fingers against her drawn-up knees. “No more than answering to anything else, for I would not recognize my own name if you were to speak it to me.”

  “It seems very likely that you will eventually recall your past.”

  “I hope you are correct. Now I do not even remember either my brother or sister.”

  Her voice must have sounded even more despairing to his ears than to her own, because he took her hands in his again and said, “As soon as you remember anything, even the most insignificant fact, come to me. I promise you that I will make arrangements to have you sent back to where you truly belong, so you can continue your life as it should have been.” He smiled. “And do not fret about your brother and sister. I will make some inquiries as to what school they are attending in London.”

  “What makes you think my brother and sister are in London?” She was curious what he had seen in the letter that she had missed.

  “May I?” He pointed to the folded letter on the bed.

  “Of course.”

  When he reached past her to pick up the s
lip of paper, the scents of soap and horseflesh surrounded her. She gazed up at him as he lifted the page from the coverlet and scanned it. Again, she wondered why he had needed to ask a lady’s maid with no memories of her past to pretend to be his betrothed. She was certain—as she was of little else—that this handsome man would have had no trouble persuading a lady to help him ease his grandfather’s concerns.

  Her fingers tightened on the coverlet. Lord Cheyney’s father was dead, and his cousin had introduced himself as Mr. Wayne. Lord Cheyney must be the earl’s heir. Mayhap that reason was why he had not asked a lady of his acquaintance to assist him. A betrothal to the heir of an elderly earl would be the talk of the ton. Its dissolution might very well shame the lady involved.

  Why did she know these things with such confidence, but could not recall her own name?

  “Ah, here it is,” the viscount said, tapping the letter. “I was certain I saw it amid all the blotches of ink. It is impossible to guess if this was written by a child or an adult.”

  “Saw what amid the blotches?”

  “The mention of an outing in the Park. I doubt if it could be any park other than Hyde Park. No other city, but London, to my knowledge, has a park like it, and no other park surrounding the city matches the description here, save for Hyde Park.” Folding the page, he handed it back to her. “Once I have had my solicitor determine where they are attending school, I will make arrangements for the money to be transferred to pay for their schooling.”

  “Before this has even begun?”

  His eyes became dark slits again. “Why do you think I should be so suspicious of you that I don’t trust you to do as you have promised?”

  She started to answer, then realized she had none. Even though she had been distressed by something she could not name when she spoke with Mr. Wayne, Lord Cheyney had treated her with respect and kindness. Judge a man by the company he keeps. Whose voice was that? A man’s voice that reached out of the jumble of her lost memories, but she could not guess who might belong to it.

  “You know nothing of me,” she said softly.

  “Neither do you know anything of yourself or of me.” He sighed. “Do you deem yourself trustworthy?”

  “Yes.”

  “You answered that quickly. Have you recalled something?”

  She shook her head as she held the precious page, her only connection with what had been, close to her heart. “I would not have reached the position of abigail if I were deemed untrustworthy.”

  “True. Therefore I shall trust you with the important details of what I have told my grandfather. Serenity Adams is a young woman who looks much like you. She has been well educated and is respected throughout the Polite World for her gracious skills as a hostess as well as her sense of humor. When we met at Almack’s, where Miss Adams was sponsored by her uncle, who is retired from the army, we were much taken with each other. Our first outing together was a luncheon on the banks of the Serpentine with friends.” He frowned. “Or mayhap it was at the duchess’s rout near the end of the Little Season. Blast it! I never thought I would be called upon to recall every absurd detail.”

  “I doubt if your grandfather recalls every detail either.”

  His frown cleared. “You can say that only because you have not met my grandfather yet. He may be reaching the seventieth anniversary of his birth, but his mind is more sharply honed than most men half his age. I am sure he recalls every single detail.”

  “Then how can you expect to betwattle him?”

  “I am not sure we can. Felix is often wrong, but in this I believe he is right. I owe my grandfather the truth, but not until after his birthday celebration on Christmas Eve.” He hesitated, then asked, “So will you be a part of this madness?”

  She did not hesitate, because, like him, the ones she loved depended on her. “Yes.”

  Four

  Cheyney Park was everything Serenity had anticipated. Beyond its ancient gate in what once had been a curtain wall of a hilltop fortress, the stone front of the house that spread across the hill had been darkened by years of sitting alone on its lonely moor. The steep road leading up to it offered a view of the undulating hills leading off into the distance, but she saw no other sign of houses. A few trees had found a foothold against the winds and storms off the North Sea.

  “It is fearfully isolated here,” Lord Cheyney said quietly.

  Serenity peeked back over her shoulder to find him looking at her as if she were a puzzle he could solve if he only stared at her long enough. It unsettled her that he had discerned her thoughts again, as he had too often in the past day while they continued his interrupted journey to Cheyney Park, when she could not unravel the tangle of twisted memories herself.

  He leaned toward her, and she fought not to cringe away. After all, if she were to do a good job persuading others that she was his betrothed, she could not recoil each time he came near. Yet it was difficult to act as if this stranger were her fiancée.

  “There,” he said, pointing past her.

  “What? Where?”

  His chuckle warmed her ear before slipping along her neck like the sweetest caress. “Look past that copse. There are several cottages in the dale beyond. Mayhap you will be able to see, through the fog, a sliver of smoke rising from one of the chimneys.”

  “I see it!” She smiled, trying to ignore her own pleasure at his closeness. That was something she must put an end to at once. This was no more than a pantomime. Not for a moment could she allow herself to forget that he was a viscount, the heir to an earl, and she was a lady’s maid. “At least, I think I see it. With the fog it is not easy to tell.”

  “Those cottages form the edge of the small village that clings to the stream that divides this moor nearly in two. If you follow that stream far enough, I understand it empties into the Tyne before going into the North Sea. That may have been the only connection to the rest of the world in olden times. The locals would send their produce down the stream and—”

  “Egad,” grumbled Felix from the other seat. “Must you turn everything into a school lesson, Timothy? You know that I care for neither history nor business.”

  “I am only acquainting her with the facts that she should be familiar with,” the viscount replied in the taut tone he had used with his cousin all day. “If she is to be believable as my betrothed, it would be assumed that she is familiar with the places that I have visited often in the past.”

  “If conversations of such boring subjects is your idea of how a woman should be wooed, ’tis no wonder—”

  “Felix,” he stated, his tone becoming even colder, “we have only a few seconds before we arrive at the house. Let me use the time to my best advantage.”

  “Talking about that silly village is your idea of using this time to your best advantage?” He guffawed.

  Serenity was sure her face must be bright red, for it was as hot as the stones in the box at her feet had been when they left the inn this morning. When Lord Cheyney put his hand on her arm, she stiffened, and he drew it back as if the flame on her face had raced all along her.

  His voice returned to its pleasant tone as he went on. “In the village, they have mumming for the Christmastide.”

  “How wonderful!” She could pretend, as he was, that his cousin had not interrupted with his salacious comments. “I have always enjoyed them.”

  “Always?”

  She smiled. “I seem to find it simple to remember things like that. Things that have only the least importance. I can remember that I like sugar in my tea, but not where I last drank it.”

  “’Tis a beginning.”

  Felix grumbled, “Always the optimist, are you not, Timothy?” He stretched and peered out the window as the house blocked the view along the moor. “’Tis about time we arrived. I swear, any part of me that was not bruised by your coachee’s poor driving since we left London is cramped from sleeping in that hard bed last night.”

  Lord Cheyney frowned at him before looking back at her.
“He is always like this when he is away from Town. Pay him no mind, Serenity.”

  Her reply was halted when Felix suddenly smiled. He did that each time anyone used this name she had agreed to pretend was hers. He had spent most of breakfast chuckling while Mrs. Bridges served them and asked if Miss Adams would like anything else. If Felix thought to convince his grandfather that this flummery was the truth, then he must learn to hide that farcical grin.

  The more she had had a chance to think of this scheme, the more certain she was that it was doomed to failure. She wished she could tell both the men that, but she must hold her tongue. She needed to keep her sister and brother safe and in the school that obviously cost dear, so she must remain a part of this.

  When the carriage stopped in front of a door, she was delighted to see that a porte cochere arched over them. The fog was congealing into cold rain. An icy wind was beginning to keen along the house, and it might turn the rain into sleet again.

  She shivered while she hoped no other travelers would suffer on a slick road as she and her companions had.

  “Cold?” asked Lord Cheyney.

  “Not on the outside.”

  He ignored Felix, who was groping on the floor for something he had lost. As he moved his leg aside to let his cousin search, he asked, “Memories, Serenity?”

  “I am not sure, but I know there are some things I would rather not remember.”

  “Yes, I am sure you are right about that.” Again he seemed to understand what she meant without an explanation. He was very insightful. If his grandfather shared that trait, they were lost before they began.

  Before the viscount could say more, a boy ran forward to throw the door open. He peeked in, then dipped his head. “Welcome to Cheyney Park, my lord.”

  “Is that you, Curt?” Lord Cheyney asked as he stepped out.

  No, not Lord Cheyney. She must think of him as Timothy.

  “Yes, my lord.” The boy straightened with a grin.

  “You must be twice as tall as you were the last time I was here.” He ruffled the lad’s hair.