Her bewilderment shattered. Whatever else she believed, she was sure of one truth. Blair Hume wasn’t a man to beg.
If he could lower himself to plead, he wanted her and not her sister, however beautiful, however manipulative. She sucked in what felt like the first clean air since she’d caught Amelia in Blair’s arms. Even that was up for interpretation. He could have been trying to push her away, instead of holding her close.
“Let him go, Amelia,” she said sharply. “It hasn’t worked.”
“Philippa?” Blair’s voice was as shaky as minutes ago, hers had been. “You’ll still marry me?”
Amelia had unwittingly done her a favor. At last, she felt in control of her life. She met Blair’s troubled green gaze. “Of course I will.”
Amelia paled and sidled closer to him. “You can’t mean to hold him against his will.”
Philippa found it in her to smile at her sister. How odd that this nasty little scene had shown her what she wanted from life. “You overdid the theatricals, sister,” she said drily. “I hope you’re saving some acting talent for when you stand up as my bridesmaid tomorrow morning.”
Fury distorted Amelia’s pretty face until she wasn’t pretty at all. Her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned. This was genuine emotion, Philippa realized, not the false love she pretended for Blair.
“You will not have him!” Amelia finally released Blair to launch herself at Philippa, arms raised and hands extended into talons. Philippa gasped with fright and whipped her hands up to protect her face.
Amelia never made contact.
Slowly, Philippa lowered her arms while her sister abused her in language that would shame a stablehand.
“No, you don’t, lassie.” Erskine wrapped his arms around a struggling Amelia. “You’ve done enough damage.”
“I…I don’t know what this is all about,” Caroline said shakily from behind Philippa. “Amelia, you’re not behaving like a lady.”
“Amelia, it’s over,” Philippa said quietly. “You’re just making a fool of yourself.”
“You stupid slut!” Amelia hissed, fighting Blair.
“That’s enough!”
Blair’s bark of command silenced Amelia. She twisted to fling herself sobbing into his arms. Philippa wondered if this was another ploy, then realized that her sister was genuinely distraught.
“You can let her go,” Philippa said softly.
“She might attack you again.”
Warmth filled Philippa. Nobody had ever worried about her before. Nobody had ever stepped in to save her. The fragile seedling of optimism that had unfurled when she’d decided to trust Blair sprouted a few more leaves.
If she was lucky, if she was right, that seedling might grow into a great tree that would shelter her for the rest of her life. She still felt like she launched herself into the void, but with every moment, her hope of a safe landing strengthened.
“I don’t think so.” The defiance drained out of Amelia and she hardly reacted when Philippa placed an arm around her. “I’ll take you upstairs.”
“Perhaps Miss Liddell can help her.”
“None of this is my fault,” Caroline insisted. She was an even worse actress than Amelia. “You can’t blame me.”
Ignoring her cousin, Philippa tightened her grip on her sister’s suddenly fragile shoulders. “Amelia, come with me.”
Amelia raised a tear-stained face to stare at her blankly. “What about Gerald?”
In Philippa’s opinion, Mr. Fox deserved a better bride, but what could she say? “He doesn’t know about this.”
Amelia’s expression sharpened. “You’ll tell him. I would.”
Impatience tightened Philippa’s lips and she met Blair’s steady regard across her sister’s blond head. Despite everything, she smiled at him and he nodded in open approval. The warmth in her heart surged anew. She couldn’t remember anyone ever approving of her before either.
Then she returned her attention to Amelia. “You have my word I won’t.”
Amelia started to cry again and slumped in Philippa’s arms, playing the tragic heroine for all she was worth. “If he finds out about this, he’ll hate me.”
Blair still watched Philippa and she felt a pang of longing for a private moment with him, to examine the miracle that had taken place between them. He’d asked her to trust him and she had. It sounded simple, yet it was the most complicated, magnificent event in the world.
“Come upstairs, Amelia,” she said again, wishing she wasn’t parting, however temporarily, from the man she’d marry in the morning. “I’ll put you to bed with a headache powder and a cup of tea and nobody need be any wiser about what’s happened.”
Blair’s mobile mouth quirked into a conspiratorial smile, as if he guessed how reluctantly she accompanied Amelia. Not long ago, Philippa had wondered if she’d ever smile again. Now she found herself smiling back. Silently his lips formed the word “tomorrow.”
He caught her free hand in his. The strengthening heat of his touch flowed into her.
“I honor you,” he whispered, bowing over her trembling fingers with a reverence that made her unruly heart cramp with yearning. His lips brushed her skin, sweet promise of caresses to come. She couldn’t wait.
With a regret she noted and appreciated, he stepped back. She reached out to touch his cheek in a feather-light acknowledgment of the link between them before she turned back to Amelia.
Gently she coaxed her sniffling sister past Caroline and toward the door. Tomorrow would come quickly. Until then, it was enough to know that she and Blair had made an excellent start on their life together.
Chapter Seven
CANDLES LIT THE cavernous bedroom to gold, setting shadows dancing in the corners. Christmas greenery decked the walls, adding a festive touch.
Wearing a crimson dressing gown over his nakedness, Erskine quietly closed the door from the adjoining chamber. He stepped toward the huge four-poster in the center of the room. Carved oak columns stretched toward the high ceiling. Lords and ladies in faded gilt costumes pranced across the headboard. He guessed that some previous landlord of Salisbury’s best inn, the Boar’s Head, had bought the furnishings from a once-grand family. This particular bed wouldn’t be out of place in Hampton Court.
Sitting against piled pillows in the midst of all this grandeur was one small woman wearing a plain white flannel nightgown. She clutched the blankets to her chest and her expression brought Christians and lions to mind, with the Earl of Erskine playing the lion. He didn’t need to see her slender throat move as she swallowed to know that the girl was petrified.
“My lord,” Philippa whispered.
“My lady,” he responded, smiling in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion. The impulse rose to take her in his arms and tell her everything would be fine, but he beat it back. He had a horrible feeling that if he touched her right now, she’d shriek louder than her mother had on Christmas Eve.
His bride had been quiet all day. She’d hardly eaten at the wedding breakfast and appreciating how difficult the last days had been, he’d given her a few hours alone on the journey from Hartley Manor. He’d ridden through the cold afternoon while she’d traveled inside his luxurious carriage. Now that he noted how scared she looked—much more frightened than earlier—he wondered if he’d have done better to keep her company. On her own, she’d clearly tormented herself with imaginary terrors. They’d stopped for dinner at an inn along the way, but the place had been busy and private conversation had been impossible.
Aware that tonight he set the tone of his future, he diverted from his path. He veered toward the sideboard, set out with delicacies and, more importantly, a decanter of claret.
“Would you like something to eat?” Her pale face and glittering eyes told him that he needed to work up to discussing anything important.
She shook her head. Her hair lay loose around her shoulders. He’d never seen her hair undone, although it had been beguilingly untidy by the time they left his dressing
room. The flowing curtain of mahogany transformed her into a mysterious and sensual creature. A dryad or a fairy. There was a masculine satisfaction in knowing that only he had seen this secret, enchanting version of his wife. Watching him with her characteristic gravity, she was beautiful beyond fantasy. And he’d fantasized a lot.
What a lucky devil he was.
Which made what he did now even more important. He’d always approached bed sport with a light heart, if heart was involved at all. How strange to recognize that despite his experience, tonight he was a novice like his bride. Never had getting everything right mattered so much. He respected Philippa’s strength, but despite her strength, she was delicate. And she’d been shockingly undervalued by the people who should love her the most. At this moment, he made the silent vow that he’d never let her down.
He poured claret for both of them and approached the bed, sitting to face her. Her mysterious dark eyes widened at his nearness but at least she didn’t shrink away. He passed his wife a glass of wine.
His wife…
He liked the sound of that. It made him feel disgracefully proprietorial.
With his marriage, he took his place in the world in a way that he never had before. He remembered his overbearing father dismissing him as a wastrel with his dying breath. But now Blair Hume was a married man who looked forward to creating a family.
Perhaps he’d start that family this very night.
Another male thrill coursed through him.
“Shall we toast our wedding?”
“Yes,” she said. Still quiet.
He smiled and raised his claret in her direction. His wife…
He’d always known it was his duty to marry. But there was nothing of duty in what he contemplated doing tonight and everything of longing and desire and, God willing, joy. “To our happiness.”
After a hesitation that jabbed at his heart, she took a sip. “Should I lie down?”
He hid a wince at the stoic little question. He’d hoped the memory of their kisses might ease her fears. That had been too optimistic. He kept smiling, wishing she’d smile back the way she’d smiled yesterday afternoon, as if he set the sun shining in the sky.
“Shall we talk for a few moments first?” The flash of relief in her eyes pricked his vanity. “Do you know what’s going to happen?”
“My…my mother told me last night.”
Bloody hell. He could imagine how that had gone. No wonder his bride looked ready to bolt. “What did she say?”
Philippa blushed and studied her claret as if it held the answers to every eternal question. “That you’d hurt me. That I must submit. That this is a wife’s lot and I’m paying for Eve’s sin.”
To blazes with the old bat. “Have some more wine.”
Her gaze darted up to meet his. “Will it help if I’m foxed?”
“It will help if you’re not expecting me to torture you,” he said shortly, yet again damning his harridan of a mother-in-law. “I swear it won’t be as bad as you think.”
He hoped to Hades he spoke the truth. He’d never taken an innocent girl to his bed before. The thought of Philippa’s ardent kisses bolstered his confidence. With understanding and patience, the roué who still lurked beneath the new husband was certain that he and this woman could scale the heights of pleasure. The prospect of those heights made him hotter than the fire in the hearth.
“I hope not.”
He almost laughed. That cautious response was very much hers. She’d never butter a man up with meaningless flattery. “You trusted me yesterday. Will you trust me now?”
Another of those heart-stopping hesitations before she nodded and drank a little more wine. “I’ll try.”
A surge of fondness and gratitude jammed his throat so his voice turned husky. “I can’t tell you what it meant when you believed me yesterday.”
It was the first chance they’d had to discuss that harrowing scene in the library. He couldn’t think of another woman who would have stood by him. He still hardly believed that she had. At that moment, his decision to marry Philippa Sanders had become his choice rather than something he did for honor’s sake. He’d always wanted and liked her, but her stalwart faith had rocketed his feelings into a new universe.
“I know Amelia.”
“But you don’t know me.”
“When I had a chance to think, I assumed that she must have tricked you.” She no longer sounded likely to faint away at his slightest move, thank God. “After all, if you wanted Amelia, you’d have proposed to her.”
He fought back another, stronger urge to sweep Philippa into his arms. “What a fortunate fellow I am, to have such a level-headed wife.”
That drew the first hint of a smile from her, a tiny twitch of her lush mouth. He’d kissed that mouth. He knew how delicious it was. With an eagerness that would have astonished him five days ago, he looked forward to kissing it again.
Soon. But not yet. Not until the wary light left her big brown eyes.
From where she leaned against the stacked pillows, she regarded him steadily. “I didn’t feel very level-headed when I walked into the library.”
“Perhaps not.” His gut knotted at the memory of the distress on her face. He’d been so sure she’d believe he was up to his bad old tricks. Given his reputation and their brief acquaintance, why would she think anything else? “Amelia sent me a note saying you needed to see me. When I got there, she must have listened for your cousin outside because she didn’t touch me until just before you appeared. Then she was like a blasted octopus, all arms, and I couldn’t control what she did with any of them. I should have been suspicious when the note wasn’t directly from you.”
“I guessed the truth might be something like that.” She paused. “I was so glad to leave Hartley Manor. Thank you for deciding not to stay there tonight.”
“I thought you’d feel more comfortable away from curious eyes.” He drank some wine. Befitting this hostelry’s exorbitant prices, its quality wouldn’t disgrace his own cellars.
“Oh, I do,” she said fervently, coaxing a laugh from him. She once more sounded like the delightful woman he’d discovered after a jammed door delivered his destiny. “There’s so much we need to talk about.”
He damn well wanted more from tonight than conversation, but he could already see that taking things slowly eased her into her new role. “Not all at once, surely,” he said mildly, not feeling mild at all.
“Maybe not, but I’d like to know where we’re going after Salisbury. London or your estates in Scotland?”
“Whatever you prefer.” He shrugged as he set his glass on the nightstand. “Scotland at Christmas can be bleak, but beautiful. There’s London, but perhaps you’ve had your fill of Town. We could stay here. Or perhaps you’d like to travel. I cheated you out of a courtship. The least I can do is offer you a honeymoon. I am a man of some fortune. The world, my dear, is your oyster.”
He saw the precise moment when she realized that her old, circumscribed life was over. Excitement sparked in her eyes and for the first time tonight, she smiled properly. “Perhaps I’ll like being a countess after all.”
“I hope so.” He risked touching the hand resting open at her side. When he’d come in, she’d gripped the covers like a shield. Now her fingers lay loose and relaxed.
He waited in an agony of suspense for her to withdraw. How his raffish friends would guffaw to see the famous libertine in such a lather about touching a lady’s hand.
His heart gave a mighty thud of thankfulness when she curled her fingers around his. She took another sip of wine. Whether it was the warm room or the claret or his presence—he dearly hoped it was his presence—she looked considerably more spirited than she had earlier.
“When you were so kind to your sister yesterday, you impressed the hell out of me. She tried to do you a very bad turn.” And him, he thought with a shudder. Thank heaven Philippa had invaded his room on Christmas Eve and not Amelia. The idea of a lifetime with Amelia Sande
rs brought him out in a cold sweat.
“She’s not as bad as you might think. Amelia has always been discontented and unhappy. My mother has encouraged her to think that because she’s pretty, she doesn’t need to be anything else.”
Erskine could imagine. Although understanding didn’t make Amelia’s spiteful little games any more forgivable.
He lifted his wife’s hand and kissed the spot below her wedding ring, glinting bright gold in the light. “You’re too good for her.” And for me.
But she was his, however undeserving he was. He had a piece of paper to prove it. And it was time he introduced her to some of the benefits of married life.
He unlaced her fingers from her wineglass and placed it on the nightstand. She’d nearly emptied the glass, thank goodness. He leaned in and placed his lips softly on hers. She released a little huff of surprise, but didn’t draw away.
Because her mother had told her to submit? Or because she wanted him to kiss her? He prayed it was the latter.
Exquisitely aware of her innocence, he kissed her chastely, rediscovering the satiny texture of her lips and her tart, intriguing taste. To support his weight, he splayed his hands on the counterpane. With encouragement from the claret, she’d stopped acting as if he was about to devour her, but he knew he hadn’t banished her fears.
After an interval both delightful and frustrating, she pressed forward with a breathy sigh. Reluctantly he withdrew. He lifted one hand to brush his thumb across her plump, glistening lips, pulling the lower one down to reveal a glimpse of straight white teeth. Her eyes were as dark as a starless night. He could dive into her gaze and never come up for air.
Puzzlement creased her forehead. “You kissed me.”
She didn’t sound entirely pleased. A tender smile curved his lips. “I promised I would, remember?”
“After I married you.”
He said what he must, although every word cut like a razor. “I’m prepared to wait.”
The faint line remained between her dark brows. “You don’t have to.”
Her Christmas Earl Page 7