The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance)

by Anne Gracie

  He produced a very tolerable burgundy from his cellar, and Freddy made sure Damaris’s glass was filled. “It will help you sleep,” he told her. It might help him to sleep too.

  She gave a nervous laugh and gulped down a large mouthful. The wine, or possibly the warmth after their brisk walk, lent her complexion a rosy glow.

  He would probably sleep hardly at all.

  The landlord brought in the next course—steak and kidney pie, a fricassee of chicken, which Freddy had ordered in case Damaris didn’t like beef, and a dish of winter vegetables, all served with a cheery grumble about the state of the roads, especially in the wet. He then retired, closing the door behind him.

  In the sudden silence the atmosphere immediately heightened. She put down her knife and fork and picked up the wine, gripping the stem of the glass with a white-knuckled hand. She took a sip. Making up her mind to speak, he thought.

  “Why don’t you wait until we’ve finished dinner to say whatever you want to say?” Without waiting for her to respond, he added, “May I serve you some of this excellent pie? And some of these stewed leeks? And do you like cauliflower?”

  She allowed him to serve her a little of everything, and as they ate, the tension eased.

  “It’s apple tart for pudding,” he said as it arrived, the pastry crisp and golden, accompanied by a bowl of thick, clotted country cream.

  It was a thing of glory, but she had no eyes for the tart: She was drawn tight as a viola string. Her gaze fastened on Freddy with a fixed intensity.

  “You may leave us alone now,” Freddy told the landlord with a meaning look. “Leave everything. You can clear up later.”

  The minute the man had closed the door behind him, she said in a rush, “My name is not Damaris Chance.” Freddy opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off, saying, “I’m not finished yet. I’m not Lady Beatrice’s niece. And Abby and Jane and Daisy are not my real sisters, either.” She took another gulp of wine. “And I don’t have a penny to my name. There, I’ve said it.” She slumped back in her chair.

  “Well, I’m shocked,” said Freddy in as shocked a manner as he could conjure up. “Deeply shocked,” he repeated. “May I serve you some of this apple tart? It looks and smells delicious, doesn’t it?”

  “Apple tart?” she repeated blankly. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

  “What you said?” He cut a generous slice of tart. “You mean about you not being Miss Chance?” He slid it onto a plate and passed it to her. “And not being related to your sisters or aunt and having no fortune—yes, and I told you I was shocked. Deeply. Will you have cream with that?” Without waiting for her answer he lavished her apple tart with clotted cream.

  She frowned and gave him an accusing look. “You knew. All the time I was worrying about telling you, and you knew!”

  “You’re not eating. It’s delicious. Of course I knew.”

  “Then why did you say you were shocked. Deeply shocked?”

  “You seemed to expect it and I didn’t want to disappoint you.” He gave her a wicked grin. “I don’t like to disappoint ladies, you see.”

  But she was too anxious for flirtation. “Did you have me investigated?”

  He snorted. “My dear girl, Max had already told me about the night Lady Beatrice invented your esteemed papa, the marchese di Chancealotto, at dinner. And I was there when she invented your inheritance—a delightful surprise yet in store for Max. Serve him right.”

  “But—”

  “I knew you weren’t related to the old girl. I’ve known Max and his aunt most of my life. No close relatives at all. And from the start Max didn’t believe that you were sisters.”

  “Jane and Abby are. But not Daisy or me.”

  “Yes, so I understand. I gather Lady Beatrice knew of your true identities before she took you in?”

  “Yes, we didn’t want to deceive her in any way.” She stared at him, her lips slightly parted in a way that was seriously distracting. “So you knew I wasn’t who I claimed to be all along?”

  He nodded. “More or less. Your pudding is getting cold.”

  “And said nothing?”

  “Why should I? I don’t mind.”

  “What if your parents have had me investigated?”

  He considered that. “It’s possible. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I ordered that apple tart especially for you, you know.”

  She gave him an exasperated look and ate a mouthful. “But what if—”

  “Nice?”

  “What?”

  “The tart—is it nice?”

  “Yes, thank you, it’s delicious. But what if they ask me about my parents—and they’re bound to ask—”

  He frowned. “What happened to your parents?”

  “They’re both dead. Mama died when I was twelve and Papa some months ago.”

  Only months ago? Freddy braced himself for waterworks, but she remained quite calm, calm enough that he found himself asking curiously, “Were you and your father close?”

  She hesitated. “No.”

  That was blunt enough. There was a story there, but not for tonight. “In that case, if the question comes up, leave it all to me. I’ll tell ’em you’re in mourning. You won’t need to explain a thing.”

  “What will you say?”

  He shrugged. “Lady Bea took you in—distant relatives, cousins, perhaps—I’ll give it some thought. Don’t worry about it.”

  Her eyes were troubled in the candlelight. “I can’t help but worry.”

  “Well, don’t. It doesn’t matter. What’s your real name, by the way? Just out of curiosity.”

  “Tait. Damaris Tait. Abby chose Chance for our surname because it was a fresh chance for all of us. How can you say it doesn’t matter?”

  “Because it doesn’t. So, were you brought up in Italy?”

  “No, China.”

  He blinked. It was not at all what he’d expected. “China?” She didn’t sound Chinese. She sounded like a perfectly ordinary English girl.

  “Papa was a missionary.”

  “Good God.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you know any Chinese, then?”

  “Of course. I lived there since I was four.”

  “Say something in Chinese, then.”

  She hesitated, then uttered a rapid burst of singsong speech. He closed his eyes and listened. She really did sound Chinese. Not that he knew a word of Chinese, but it sounded very authentic.

  “What did you say?” he demanded, but she shook her head, blushing, and refused to translate what she’d said for him. The blush enchanted him. He opened his mouth, about to pursue the matter, then shut it as she stifled a yawn.

  Her eyelids were heavy; she was awake only because she’d been so anxious about making her shocking revelations to him, and now he’d allayed those fears, tiredness was taking over. He’d been on the verge of flirtation, and she was hiding yawns.

  He drained his glass and rose to his feet. “Time for bed.”

  Any other woman of his acquaintance, respectable or not, would have responded coyly to that statement, finding an innuendo in it, regardless of his intention. Damaris simply said, “Oh, is it so obvious? I’m sorry. The wine has made me so sleepy.” She set her napkin aside and stood. “What time do you want to leave in the morning?”

  “Eight, if you can manage it. In case that rain the farmers predict should show up.”

  “So, breakfast at half past seven?”

  He grinned. “That’s a confident traveler speaking.”

  She gave him a sleepy smile. “As long as we travel in the curricle, I have every expectation of keeping my breakfast—oh, dear.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Was that indelicate? I see it was. Sorry. So many things one shouldn’t talk about in England that are perfectly ordinary in Chin
a.” She straightened and gave him a sleepy smile. “Still, you would ply me with wine, so you must share the blame.”

  He led her down the narrow corridor to her bedchamber. He indicated the door opposite. “I’m in here, if you should need me for anything.”

  Again, she could have perceived innuendo in it, but she simply nodded and stifled another yawn. She looked soft and sleepy and very lovely in the soft candlelight of the wall sconces and without thinking Freddy cupped her face in his hands and bent to kiss her.

  Her eyes flew wide and she stepped back against her door with a startled jerk. “What are you doing?”

  Good question. What the hell was he thinking? “Sorry,” he said ruefully. “Force of habit, I’m afraid.”

  She scanned his face with troubled eyes, then nodded. “We can blame the wine for that too, I expect. Good night, Mr. Monkton-Coombes.” Putting him firmly back in his place.

  “Good night, Damaris. Sleep w—” But she was gone and the door was closing. He heard the lock click behind her, and then the murmur of voices as she spoke with her maid.

  Freddy let himself into his bedchamber.

  He shrugged himself out of his coat and tossed it on a chair. It was not the wine. He ripped off his neck cloth and tossed it aside. It was the woman.

  And that was a problem.

  She was an innocent, he reminded himself savagely as he hauled off his boots. And she had no desire to marry.

  Neither did he, and if he didn’t get himself under control both of them would be trapped in a situation neither of them wanted.

  He dragged his breeches off and tossed them on the chair, glaring down at where his blasted little soldier was making a tent in his drawers.

  He had to find some way of squashing this inconvenient attraction.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me.”

  —JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

  “Those gates up ahead on your left, turn in there.”

  Damaris saw the big stone pillars and slowed, ready for the turn. In the last two days she’d become quite skilled at negotiating bridges and narrow roads, and she wasn’t intimidated by the large wrought-iron gates standing open between the pillars.

  She’d been racing against the oncoming storm. For some reason Freddy had insisted on stopping at a village inn only a few miles from his parents’ home, so that she could wash and freshen up. With the storm looming, it had been a ridiculous waste of time, she thought.

  “Steady as she goes . . . well done.” As they passed through the gates, lightning flashed and thunder rumbled all around them. A few fat drops of rain spattered, warning of the downpour to come. A crow cawed his mournful song across the darkening sky. Freddy laughed. “The raven himself is hoarse that croaks my entrance under my father’s battlements. . . .”

  She shook her head. “Nonsense. And anyway, there aren’t any battlements.” She could see the house clearly now, a huge, gray, impressive gothic pile, to which it was apparent several wings had been added in the last century. But no battlements.

  “What? You don’t recognize the quote? Didn’t you have Shakespeare in China?”

  “Yes, my mother had several volumes of collected works—she preferred his poetry but books in English were rare, so we read everything. I know that’s from Macbeth. I’m shaking my head at your pessimism. Or is it cynicism?”

  He shrugged. “A little of both, perhaps. You’ll see. I hope my father can see us approaching.”

  “Why?” They headed down the drive at a crisp pace. Big fat drops were falling now.

  “Nothing will convince him of this match more than seeing that I let you drive my curricle, even if it’s with job horses. I’ve never let a woman do so before.”

  “Really?” She was absurdly flattered, even though she knew that teaching her to drive had simply been to prevent her from being ill again.

  “When my grays arrive I’ll let you drive them too; then my father will truly be appalled.”

  “Appalled?”

  He said in a gruff voice, “Entrustin’ good horses to females? Brr-harrumph! Females are for breedin’, not for ruinin’ the mouths of good horseflesh.” He darted her a wry look. “My father is ever so slightly old-fashioned.”

  She laughed. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.” They reached the semicircular drive in front of the house. Grooms ran out, taking charge of the curricle and the chaise. A footman emerged from the house with a large umbrella, which he held to shelter Damaris as Freddy swung her down. The rain began to pelt down in earnest and they ran up the front steps, entering the house laughing and breathless.

  When they were inside, he stopped and turned her to face him. He straightened her bonnet and tucked a stray lock of hair back into place in a very possessive, not to say intimate, way.

  A little embarrassed, and very aware they were under observation by the servants, she said in a low voice, “What are you doing?”

  “A little billing and cooing of the masculine sort.”

  “I thought we agreed not to—”

  “No, you said it was for birds, but a certain amount is necessary if we’re to convince people, so I’m taking on that job. We agreed that your role is to be cold and dignified and treat me with utter disdain, though not too much, else my parents will adore you.”

  “Why on earth would that make them like me?”

  He shrugged. “Odd people, my mater and pater. In fact, my whole family is peculiar.” He leaned closer and said in a confidential tone, “I wouldn’t marry into it, if I were you.”

  She laughed. “Oh, very well, I won’t.”

  A very dignified-looking butler came forward. “Mr. Freddy, sir. Welcome home.”

  “Horwood.” Freddy nodded. “My dear, I’d like you to meet Horwood, the butler here. Horwood, my betrothed, Miss Chance.”

  “Delighted to meet you, miss,” Horwood said, bowing. “And may I say on behalf of all the staff here at Breckenridge, how thrilled we all are at the news of Mr. Freddy’s engagement.” He beamed at her in a paternal fashion and she felt instantly guilty, knowing for whom that earlier pretense was intended.

  “Thank you, Horwood.” Freddy grinned and said to Damaris, “Horwood’s known me since before I was born, did his best to keep me out of trouble as a boy. Shame it didn’t work.”

  “Nothing but harmless boyish mischief,” the butler said firmly. “Now, her ladyship told me to bring you both straight in the moment you arrived. They’re in the large drawing room.”

  “Did she indeed? And in the chamber of horrors? Gird your loins, my dear, a treat awaits you.” But despite the light words, the warmth had died from his eyes.

  Damaris smoothed her gown with nervous fingers as Horwood announced them.

  The “large drawing room” was more like a medieval hall in size and atmosphere. It was large and richly furnished, the walls paneled in oak, the floors scattered with oriental rugs in dark reds and browns and blues, the furniture heavy, ornate and old-fashioned. A huge fire blazed in a fireplace big enough to roast an ox in.

  Damaris immediately understood Freddy’s reference to a chamber of horrors. The walls were lined with the heads of various slaughtered and stuffed animals: heavily antlered stags, wild-horned goats, a snarling bear, a fierce tusked boar. Their glass eyes glinted in the firelight. Rain battered at the windows.

  “Ah, Frederick, so here you are.” A slender, exquisitely dressed woman rose and presented a delicately rouged cheek for her son to kiss. A beautifully cut dress of heavy blue silk flowed around her; a fine cashmere shawl dangled negligently from thin shoulders. Her hair was silvery white and cut in a severe, extremely modish style. She barely glanced at her son; her pale blue gaze was all for Damaris, taking in everything ab
out her.

  Damaris immediately felt rumpled, grubby and travel worn.

  “And this is your affianced bride? Welcome to Breckenridge, Miss Chance.” She held out a languid hand for Damaris to shake. “We had almost given up hope of him ever marrying. Yet you seem to have brought him, somehow, to the point.” The words were accompanied by a cool smile, but Damaris was in no doubt of the barb buried in the apparent compliment.

  She gave a cool smile in return. “How do you do, Lady Breckenridge?”

  “Bring me to the point?” Freddy interrupted. “Wrong end of the stick completely, Mother. I had the devil of a time getting her to agree. Had to pop the question—how many times was it, Damaris? three? four?—before she’d agree.”

  Damaris smiled. “Something like that.”

  “Indeed?” Lady Breckenridge’s finely plucked brows rose.

  “Harrumph!” came a noise from the window. Damaris turned and saw a tall, lean man, slightly stooped, with iron gray hair and fierce blue eyes, standing there. Freddy’s father. The resemblance was unmistakable. He must have watched them arrive.

  “Ah, Father—” Freddy began.

  “I’ve got eyes, haven’t I?” his father snapped. “So this is the bride-to-be, is it?”

  His hard gaze ran over her, taking in every detail. There was no warmth or welcome in the examination.

  Damaris straightened. She half expected him to examine her teeth and lift up her fetlocks. She held out her hand to him. “How do you do, Lord Breckenridge? Delightful to meet you.” And if he detected any irony in her voice, so much the better.

  His brows gnashed together. “Half Italian, are you?”

  “Father—”

  “Half Venetian,” she corrected him.

  “Hmph! You don’t sound Italian. Or look it.”

  “That’s because I’m not,” she said with perfect truth.

  The elderly man gave her a narrow look, then turned to his son. “You let her drive your curricle, I see.” It was a criticism more than a comment.