The butler entered the chamber, and de Vere dispatched him for the shawl and milk.
“So you really thought I was cold and impersonal when I quit calling you William?”
Their eyes locked.
“Can you deny it? You've betrayed more emotion in the past eight and forty hours than you have in the past twelve years.”
She spoke solemnly. “I was schooled that to be a proper lady, I needed to be an elegant icicle.”
“Then, my lady, you were an apt pupil.” He fleetingly thought about reminding her that his sisters had continued to call him William after he succeeded, but he knew she did not want to be linked with his sisters—and not because she wasn't on terms of intimacy with each of them.
For the first time, he could honestly say he no longer thought of her quite like he thought of his sisters. Yet it wasn't the same as it had been with his inamoratas, either. He did have to acknowledge —if only to himself—he and Belle had progressed to an uncommon hinterland over the past four and twenty hours, but it was still bloody difficult to believe Belle was his wife. He still was not comfortable with the realization he was a married man, a man married to a woman with whom he was not in love.
Some ten minutes passed before the butler returned with a glass of warm milk and a bright red Kashmir shawl. As if she were a complete invalid, De Vere took the items, setting the milk down on a table beside her, then proceeding to drape the shawl about her bare shoulders. “Here, love. As pretty as your gown is, it offers little protection against the chill to your delicate body.”
And he needed to cover up that damn necklace that drew attention to her breasts like an arrow to its target.
“I do wish you would not think of me as so decidedly delicate.” A subsequent coughing spell belied her words.
Each harrowing cough reminded him of his poor mama.
* * *
Though it angered her that he would coddle her in the same way as would a brother—or, worse yet, a father—there was no way she could remain angry with a man who treated her with such deep concern.
As long as her coughing intruded on their silent reading, her bridegroom was incapable of concentrating on his book. She needed to engage him in conversation. She lay her book in her lap. “William?”
A slow, bone-melting smile eased across his handsome face as he looked up at her, a nearly black brow cocked.
“You must share with me your plans for Hamptonworth. I'm greatly looking forward to making our home there.”
“I had no idea you father was so attached to the place. Now, due to his generosity with the wedding settlement, needed improvements can be made.”
“For which I am as happy as Papa.”
A troubled look passed over his face. “I would never want you to think. . .”
“I know you would never marry for fortune. Don't ever believe I would think that.”
“Good. Because I'd give away Hamptonworth before I'd marry for money.”
“I do understand that.”
He leaned back and stared into the roaring wood fire. “It will cost a small fortune to make all the repairs that are necessary.”
“Do you plan to do anything new there?”
“If engaging a complete gardening staff which we haven't had for more than a decade is considered something new, then yes.”
“I'm so happy to hear that. I can only barely remember sitting in the rowboat on Hamptonworth's lake surrounded by all those lovely walks, all the beautiful flowers, the well-trimmed shrubberies and sculpted trees.”
He nodded. “I vividly remember that, too, but the place has become overgrown and unkempt in recent years. I haven't allowed visitors to witness its demise.”
She averted her gaze. “So I've heard. I'm so happy we're going to bring it back. It will be a wonderful place for our childr- - -” What was she saying? How forward she was being! What happened to her resolve to make him want to come to her bed? The last thing she wanted was for him to feel compelled to make love with her. She quickly shook her head. “Honestly, I don't want to rush things between us.”
“There will be time. I, too, have no desire to force what should occur naturally.”
Her cheeks stung. She was trying to determine if he had just repelled her or not.
Then she was once more overcome by a coughing fit.
He drew her hand within his own. Her chest expanded. “It's been a long, eventful day,” he said when she stopped coughing, “and now, my dear, you need nothing more than a good night's sleep.” He handed her the glass of milk. “Drink up.”
As they climbed the stairs to their bedchambers, she realized he was right. She was uncommonly tired. He was right, too, about her wellbeing. She wasn't really feeling quite the thing.
Her heart raced, but she wasn't sure if that was not owing to the fact she had never before held hands with a gentleman in such an intimate fashion. For those few fleeting moments, she thought she knew what it must feel like to be cherished by a man.
The corridor on the bedchamber floor was only dimly lit from a scattering of wall scones, and the candle had burnt out in one of those, the one beside her door. They both came to a stop there.
He stood so close, she could feel his heat, smell his musky scent. She lifted her face, and he lowered his head to kiss her.
This time it was not a peck on the check. His arms came fully around her, and she hugged him close as the kiss deepened, as their mouths opened to each other, intensifying the connection between.
When the magical kiss was over, he spoke in a husky voice. “I assure you that is not how I kiss my sisters.”
Still unconsciously stroking the angular planes of his beloved face, she nodded. She was still too breathless to speak, too stunned to speak without her voice trembling like her entire body already was.
A moment later she said, “I pray you don't catch my cold.”
He ran a seductive finger down the length of her pert nose. “I would have no regrets.” Then he turned to stride to his chamber.
Chapter 6
He dreamt that his mother was still alive. But she was dying with each hacking cough. He jerked awake and sat up. Total darkness surrounded him because the heavy velvet curtains closed around his bed. It took a moment before he came fully awake and realized his mother had been buried many years ago. The anguish of her drawn-out death flared anew, and his melancholy spread like spilled ink.
Good God, had Bell's coughing awakened him? He sat completely still, holding his breath, afraid that his own breathing would obscure the sounds from her room.
Nothing.
How foolish he'd been! A house built by the staggeringly wealthy Mr. Pemberton would have walls so thick one could scarcely hear a cannon were it fired in the next room.
Attempts to return to sleep failed. At dawn, he rose and tried to read Burke, but his worries about Belle mounted. A frown etching into his face, he began to pace the chamber's soft broadloom carpet. Damn, he'd been married but one day, and its effects were already wearing on him.
What had he gotten himself into?
A pity he was powerless to push away his melancholy thoughts. He kept picturing Belle as his mother had looked when last he'd seen her in the coffin. He would know no peace until he saw Belle with his own eyes, saw that she was her delightful self.
At midmorning, they met in the drawing room. Relief rushed over him. She looked perfectly fit—even if he could not approve of what she wore. That thin pale blue muslin that exposed much of her arms and chest would offer little protection against a chill. Did she have no more sense than to dress in such a way? It was if she were inviting lung fever!
Oddly enough, he no longer thought of her as a girl. She suddenly looked like a woman. He even found himself happily observing her womanly breasts. Without guilt. After all, she had encouraged him to do so. “How are you feeling today?” he asked.
She helped herself to a cup of hot tea. “Much better since I had my morning tea.”
“How did you sleep?”
“Wretchedly. Do you know of a cure for coughing?”
He went to ring for a servant. “Aqua cordials. I'm going to request one for you.”
Before he reached it, their butler entered the chamber with a silver tray bearing but a single card. “For you, my lady.”
De Vere thought the young man just might have what it takes to be a good butler. Belle had elevated one of her father's footmen to the post, and he had arrived at Upper Barrington the previous day, along his wife's maid and his own valet.
Belle read the name on the card, and her face brightened. “Show him in!”
“Who, my love, are you showing in?” de Vere inquired once the footman left the chamber.
“My friend and neighbor, Sir George Bennington. Do you know him?”
He shook his head.
A moment later, the neighbor came striding into the room with an insufferably proud bearing. The man's height may have exceeded de Vere's, and de Vere was a couple of inches over six feet. Sir George was likely closer to Belle's age, probably five and twenty. He dressed as a well-tailored country gentleman with his fine woolen jacket hugging his narrow waist, buff breeches, and soft brown leather boots. Too fine for de Vere's taste. Everything—even his hair—was some variation on the same shade of medium brown, the ivory of his linen shirt the only thing breaking up the monochromatic look.
The man was incapable of disguising his deep affection for de Vere's wife. Had his appreciative gaze been confined to Belle's face, de Vere might have looked more favorably upon the intruder, but the man had the audacity to whisk his shimmering gaze over de Vere's wife's body!
She had risen when he entered the chamber and happily rushed to him, offering her hand to be kissed. “It's been an age since we've seen each other!” she exclaimed.
“Far too long.” He continued to hold her hand as he sensed they were not alone. “You and your father have come for Christmas?”
“Papa will arrive soon.” She turned slightly away, facing de Vere. “Sir George, I must make you known to my husband.”
Were the man a pup, his wagging tail would have stilled. The smile completely disappeared from his face.
And for the first time, de Vere was proud to stand up and say he was a married man. Not that he really wanted to be married to anyone. He rose and glared at Sir George while his wife facilitated the introductions.
The visitor grumbled a salutation, then directed his attention at Belle. “I had no inkling you were getting married! When did this occur?” He did not sound happy.
She bestowed a smile upon the newcomer. “We married yesterday.”
“Oh, dear me. I don't suppose you and your father will be gathering holly up at Happy Hill Farm now.”
De Vere moved close to his wife and set a protective hand to her waist. “My wife is nursing a nasty cough. I'm not allowing her out of doors until we see improvement.” He smiled down at her.
Sir George's eyes narrowed as he glared at de Vere. “You're not allowing her?” His angry gaze flicked to Belle. “Since when have you ever let anyone dictate to you? Why even your own father always said no one could tell his daughter- - -”
“Now, now, Sir George,” she chided, “dear de Vere is merely concerned over my welfare. I assure you he's not at all the ogre you must think him.”
“I am deeply concerned over my wife's wellbeing.” Now de Vere's eyes narrowed.
“Come, gentlemen,” Belle said, “let us sit down. I am so looking forward to you two getting to know one another.”
De Vere was quite sure he could die happy without ever having to get to know the man who so obviously had eyes for his wife. He stayed as close as a shadow as she went to a silken sofa, and when she sat, he sat next to her. Close. For good measure, he drew her hand into his. Show that demmed baronet the former Miss Annabelle Pemberton was now a married woman!
The baronet's civility restored, he peered at de Vere and spoke in a more calm voice. “So you're the Lord de Vere of Hamptonworth Hall?”
“I am.”
“I cannot believe the two of you have never met since you've been my two best male friends all of my life.”
De Vere did not know why Belle ever needed any other male companions when she had him.
“Wasn't your father his guardian?”
“Yes, indeed. Our fathers were lifelong best friends.”
If de Vere was not mistaken, Sir George gulped. “Then you've always known each other?”
De Vere smiled down at his wife. “You might say we, too, have always been best friends.”
She looked up adoringly at him. He had not known Belle was so accomplished an actress. “And then the friendship deepened, and here we are!”
His head lowered to brush a kiss across her cheek. “And I am the most fortunate man in the kingdom.” He wasn't such a bad actor himself.
Then his wife's wretched coughing returned. Each hack was like the slice of a knife through his own flesh. He couldn't stand to hear it. He got up and stormed to the bell pull to summon the servant for the aqua cordial he'd forgotten to request in Belle's excitement over her caller. The servant promptly came, and de Vere sent him off to fetch what he hoped would be a restorative for his poor, hacking wife.
“I see what you mean, de Vere, about Miss Pemberton's nasty cough.”
DeVere stiffened. “Lady de Vere, if you will.”
“Sorry.” Sir George eyed Belle. “Your father always did want you to marry a peer.”
“Unlike my dear father, I don't care a fig about titles.” Once again she adoringly looked up at him. Even though he knew it was all a bluff, his insides tightened and his chest seemed to expand. “I'm quite sure I would have fallen in love with de Vere were he a . . . a country solicitor!”
He thought of Pemberton's comment. She loves you, you know? He hadn't believed it for a moment. Still didn't. But when she acted as she was acting now, it etched those words so deep in his memory, it was impossible to suppress them.
As he gazed down into his wife's face filled with mock adoration, he was nearly overcome with a strong desire to kiss here. Not a brush across the cheek, but a deep, wet, hungry kiss. Which he couldn't do as long as Sir George was sitting there staring at them.
She pulled her gaze away from him. “But that's enough about us, Sir George. You must tell me, are your brothers and sisters coming for Christmas?”
He shook his head solemnly. “None of my sisters. They're all busy filling their nurseries. Freddie, though, will come. He should arrive tomorrow. I would have waited until he came to call on you but, but when I saw your carriage drive past the farm yesterday, I knew you'd be here, and I was impatient to see you.”
Cheeky blade!
“It has been an age since I've been here, since I last saw you.” She shrugged. “I know one pines away for good company here in the country—and what I mean by good company is the companionship of dear, old friends.”
“That is true. So true, my lady. I suppose I should spend more time in Town, but you know I'm happiest shooting and such.”
She nodded, then eyed her husband. “Sir George is not enamored of London life.”
“Then that explains why we haven't previously met.”
The servant bought the aqua cordial in a slender glass, handing it to de Vere. “Here, love, drink up,” he told his wife. He wished like the devil he had a shawl to drape around her shoulders, to keep off the chill.
And to keep Sir George's hungry gaze off his wife's bosom.
Once again, de Vere got up and stormed to the bell pull.
“Now why are you summoning Robertson?” she asked when she put down her drink.
“He needs to fetch your shawl. Have you, my lady, looked out the window? Snow is all over the ground! You're not dressed nearly warm enough—especially for one whose health is already so compromised!”
Even as he spoke, de Vere saw Sir George's lascivious gaze lower to Belle's very fine breasts.
When Robertson came, Belle told hi
m where to find her shawl.
“In addition to the aqua cordial,” Sir George said, “I have found chamomile tea aids in suppressing coughs.”
Belle nodded. “I did notice that after my morning tea, my cough seemed to improve.”
When the servant entered the room with the Kashmir shawl, de Vere dispatched him to the kitchen for chamomile tea.
“Make that for three,” Belle said.
Sir George stood. “None for me, thank you. I must be going.”
“So soon?” Belle sounded disappointed.
“I have many things to see to before Freddie arrives. I merely wanted to say hello—and invite you over, but under the circumstances, what with your nasty cough and all, Lord de Vere's right to keep you indoors.”
Lord and Lady de Vere rose to bid their visitor farewell. Once he was gone, Belle's honeyed gazes were quickly replaced with a sour lemon expression. “I am excessively embarrassed over your hostility to my dear friend.”
“I wasn't hostile.”
“You most certainly were!”
“In what way?”
She thought on it for a moment. “Your facial expressions. You glared at him! It wouldn't have hurt you to crack a smile or to tell him it was nice to make his acquaintance—neither of which you did.”
Just thinking about that. . .that neighbor made him glare again. “If you must know, I didn't care for the fellow.”
“That was obvious, and you have no reason whatsoever to feel that way. I assure you, Sir George is the sweetest man possible.”
What man wants to be thought of as “sweet”? “Especially to my wife! Has it never occurred to you that man is in love with you?”
“Oh, that!” She shrugged. “There is the fact he once proposed marriage to me, but I couldn't possibly marry a man I think of as a brother.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, a sadness swept over her face.
Was she remembering that just a few days ago he told her he thought of her as a sister? He'd had no idea that his brotherly affection was so repellant to her. Could that possibly mean . . .? Mr. Pemberton's words intruded again. Could she possibly have married him because she was in love with him?
Christmas Brides (Three Regency Novellas) Page 6