The Captain's Christmas Bride

by Annie Burrows

  She averted her head swiftly, but not before he’d seen tears streaming down her face.

  He planted his feet firmly into the carpet, unconsciously adopting the same stance he’d have taken had he been bracing himself against the recoil of a broadside. He had no experience, as an adult, of female tears, not personally. He’d heard accounts from brother officers, or overheard the ratings talk about weeping women. But he’d never come face-to-face with one. Not one who was crying because of something he’d done.

  He had no idea what to do.

  Because men didn’t cry. Not even boys did, more than a couple of times. Because they learned that the ones who snivelled and complained were universally despised. Whereas the midshipmen who climbed the rigging without protest, even though their hands were already raw from the ropes, and were terrified of the swaying of the ship, and the wind whipping across the deck, were admired for their pluck.

  Julia clearly hadn’t learned that lesson. Because, after that one, brief, horror-stricken glance in his direction, she buried her face in her hands and begun sobbing in earnest.

  For his benefit? Was she trying to gain sympathy? Or had she correctly guessed that the sight of his wife in tears was the one thing most likely to drive him away?

  Damn women for being so complicated!

  Even so, she wasn’t going to drive him away. Inexperienced though he was with women’s tears, it was something he was clearly going to have to learn to deal with, now that he was married.

  How did other men cope? He swiftly reviewed all he’d heard about how to placate and soothe a weeping woman. Which invariably involved the giving of gifts, or apologies, or even cuddles.

  Well, he didn’t have a gift to give her. And he was not about to apologise. He’d already backed down about exactly when to leave here and go to London. To apologise as well would make her think she could get her own way every time she turned on the tears. And anyway, hadn’t her own father warned him she needed a firm hand? And as for putting his arm round her—no. That would only goad her into slapping his face. For, inexperienced though he was with weeping women, he wasn’t a fool. There was a deal of anger mixed up with whatever had made her cry.

  In the end, Alec did the only practical thing he could think of.

  He crossed the room to her side, tapped her on the shoulder, and proffered a clean handkerchief.

  ‘Oh. Th-thank you,’ she sobbed, taking it. ‘I d-dare say I shall be done in a minute. P-please don’t let me st-stop you d-doing whatever it w-w-was...’ She made a strange, indeterminate gesture with her free hand.

  ‘I was only dressing for dinner—’ he began.

  ‘Dinner,’ she wailed. ‘D-don’t talk to me about dinner! I sh-shall have to go d-down to d-dinner, and sm-smile...’

  She broke down into a fresh gale of angry, bitter sobs.

  He’d heard the expression all at sea. But never had he truly understood what it felt like, until now. He could only stand still, and watch while she cried herself out. He manfully resisted the temptation to look at the clock on the mantel. She’d stop when she was ready, and not before.

  Though, as she’d forecast, the storm turned out to be nothing more than a squall after all. Blown out almost as quickly as it had blown in. She gave one last shuddering sob, and blew her nose.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said to the surface of her dressing table. ‘I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.’

  She could tell? Even though she’d had her face buried in her handkerchief the whole time? Women must have some kind of intuition where men were concerned. They didn’t need to look directly at a man to know exactly where he was and what he was doing—aye, and apparently what he was thinking, too. Hadn’t he spent all day watching Lizzie demonstrate just such uncanny ability with young Ben?

  ‘I just...’ Julia explained. ‘I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.’

  ‘And it doesn’t really matter if you weep in front of me anyway, does it?’

  She lifted her head to look at him, wide-eyed.

  ‘I am the one person you don’t need to hide anything from,’ he explained. ‘The one person who has already seen beneath your mask.’

  She made a moue of annoyance. But she didn’t start shrieking at him. On the contrary, after a frown had flickered across her face, she gave a little sigh. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s true.’

  It was a strangely intimate moment. An uncomfortable sort of intimacy, which he would have avoided, given the choice. But then who else did she have to turn to, to talk to, about the things that were upsetting her? Nobody else knew that she wasn’t in love with him. That she’d had to marry him to save face.

  ‘Would you care for a brandy?’ He could think of nothing else to offer her. She’d finished with the handkerchief now. Except as an object to twist between her fingers as though she needed to strangle something. Or someone.

  ‘Brandy?’ She wrinkled her nose. Then shook her head. ‘No. I don’t drink brandy.’

  ‘You look as though it might do you good, just this once.’ It would certainly do him good. He went through to the sitting room, where he’d had a helpful footman set out a tray with a selection of decanters and tumblers for just such an eventuality. Not that he’d expected to have to tip alcohol down his distraught wife’s throat. He’d just thought he might want fortification, at some point.

  ‘Here,’ he said, going back to her, and setting one of the drinks he’d poured onto the dressing table before her.

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea. In vino veritas, and all that.’

  ‘You feel you need to keep your wits about you, is that it?’

  She nodded. Then her face crumpled again. ‘God, I feel like such a fool!’

  He downed his own brandy swiftly. If she was going to start crying again, he’d need all the help he could get.

  ‘I’m sorry you feel like that,’ he bit out. ‘I had thought we were starting to get used to each other.’

  ‘What? No! I mean—’ She looked up at him in horror. ‘It’s not you—why I’m crying. It’s...’ She gulped. Gave her handkerchief another savage twist.

  It wasn’t him? Then someone else must have upset her.

  ‘Tell me,’ he barked, setting his empty glass down next to her full one. Once he found out who’d caused his wife to break down like that—the proud, spirited woman who’d married a stranger rather than admit to having made a terrible mistake—he’d make them rue the day they were born!

  ‘No, I...really, it’s too...painful...’ She gave an expressive shudder.

  Which was rather a relief. He would have listened, naturally, had she wanted someone to talk to. Even though he’d had a day of gritting his teeth in the face of torrents of inane feminine confidences.

  There must be something else he could do to help her through this...whatever it was. He studied her for a second or two as she strove in vain to recover her composure.

  Appearances mattered to her. Very much. She’d even married him, rather than have her schemes exposed. And she’d run in here to weep so that nobody would know she was upset.

  What she needed was an excuse to hide away until she felt ready to face the world with her composed mask firmly back in place.

  Right. He could give her that. Give her the space to recover, at her own pace. Give her a good reason for avoiding whatever, or whoever, it was who’d upset her so badly. So that she could save face.

  ‘I’m going to ring for some tea,’ he said, crossing to the bell pull, and tugging it hard. Then he went to the bed, ripped off the covers, tossed them about, and slung them haphazardly back onto the mattress.

  That got her attention.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘Creating a diversion,’ he informed her gruffly. ‘Stay out of sight when the maid
comes up with the tea tray, and let me do all the talking,’ he told her. ‘She’ll think you are too embarrassed to face her.’

  ‘What? Why would I be...?’ He saw comprehension dawn on her face. ‘Oh!’

  He nodded. ‘Exactly. She’ll inform everyone that we cannot keep our hands off each other, and nobody will be a bit surprised when we don’t put in an appearance at dinner. Or ask you awkward questions after.’

  ‘That’s...that’s...’

  ‘The kind of ruse I should have thought you’d appreciate.’

  * * *

  Just when she was starting to think she could like him, he went and said something cutting, like that.

  ‘I don’t appreciate having to resort to ruses at all,’ she snapped. ‘I would rather people would be honest. And not tell beastly lies. And make you believe...believe...’

  Oh, good grief. She was going to start crying again.

  Just as someone came to the door to find out why her husband had been ringing. He gave her one blistering look, then went to the door and opened it just a crack. She put the handkerchief to her mouth and bit down on it, to stifle her sobs. As little as she wished the maids to think she’d been...frolicking in bed during the afternoon, did she wish any of them to know she’d been crying?

  Which they were bound to think, what with her husband angling his body so that the maid could glimpse the bed he’d so artfully destroyed, and the low murmur with which he gave the order for tea and a cold collation, as though he was trying not to wake whoever was lying in that wrecked bed.

  And the fact that he was shirtless. Shirtless! How could he wander around the room in a state of undress, when she was here?

  Though to be fair, he’d been here first. He’d been changing for dinner, perfectly innocently.

  And even though he hadn’t been wearing a shirt, he had produced a handkerchief.

  And he was doing his best to shield her.

  He’d managed to convey a totally erroneous impression of what was going on in this bedroom without telling a single lie.

  It was...masterly, actually.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, as soon as he’d shut the door on the maid. ‘For snapping at you, when you are just trying to help. You must think I’m an ungrateful shrew.’

  He didn’t immediately contradict her.

  Strangely, she liked that about him—that he was showing no inclination to be untruthful with her, not even to spare her feelings. It looked as though she would always know where she stood with him.

  Unlike with some people.

  ‘I think,’ he said slowly, as though measuring his words, ‘that something has upset you very much, something you cannot admit to the world that you are upset about, and you feel the need to lash out in retaliation. And I’m the only one here.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not your fault.’ The more reasonable he was being, the worse she felt. ‘It’s...’

  No, it was no good. She couldn’t even speak the name without a pang of terrible pain shooting through her. She hadn’t realised she’d actually bowed over, and clutched at her stomach until she felt him patting her on the shoulder.

  ‘There, there,’ he said. As though completely at a loss as to what to do with her.

  ‘You really don’t have much experience with women, do you?’ She glanced up and caught an expression of chagrin on his face.

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘Oh, yes. A skilled philanderer would have a stock of smooth phrases at his disposal. He wouldn’t hand me a handkerchief, or pat me on the shoulder and say there, there, as though I were a child who’d fallen and scraped her knee.’

  ‘I beg your pardon...’ he began stiffly.

  ‘Oh, don’t poker up. I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m glad you aren’t the kind of man who finds it easy to tell lies, or pretend to feel something he doesn’t. Not like...’ She swallowed. ‘David.’ There. She’d finally managed to force the name between her teeth.

  She swivelled round on the stool to face her husband fully. Studied his face to see how he felt about having the name of his former rival brought into their bedroom.

  It didn’t look that much grimmer than usual.

  Though suddenly, he spun away from her, went to the wrecked bed, and sat down on the edge of it, his hands on his knees. Gave her his full attention.

  ‘You had better tell me the worst.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘He’s...’ She swallowed. ‘He’s got engaged to...to Marianne.’

  ‘And...’ His brows drew down into a frown so deep they almost met in the middle. ‘And you are upset about this? Even though you knew there was never any chance of a reconciliation, now you have married me?’

  ‘Yes, I’m upset. But not because—’ She waved a hand between them. ‘It’s because I’ve just discovered they’ve been...been carrying on in secret for years. And using me as cover. And generally betraying me in every conceivable way. And making a fool of me. When I thought they were my friends!’ She pressed one hand to her forehead as if she could stuff the terrible thoughts back into place.

  ‘I don’t see why they couldn’t have told me in the first place. I would have supported them, then. Made sure they could have met each other. Given Marianne time off, or chaperoned them, or...or anything they wanted! They didn’t have to make me think that David...that David...’

  It was no use. Her emotions were in such turmoil she couldn’t possibly sit still a moment longer. Getting to her feet, she paced across the floor to the fireplace. Whirled round.

  ‘When I went to London, for my first Season, he...he...’ A wave of humiliation crushed the rest of it up against her teeth.

  Alec made for the dressing table, retrieved the brandy glass, and brought it across to her.

  ‘In vino veritas,’ he said, handing her the glass.

  He wanted her to be able to speak of David’s perfidy? And Marianne’s? And was urging her to take Dutch courage?

  Very well. She accepted the glass, and took a swift gulp.

  It burned the back of her throat, making her wheeze.

  Then hit her stomach in a warm rush.

  Alec didn’t press her to continue. He just stood there, watching her with that grim face of his. That grim, yet utterly trustworthy face.

  ‘You’d never speak to a girl of seventeen, on her way to her first Season, of all her faults, would you? And imply she was shallow? And tell her that she was bound to forget her childhood friends, and come back married to some wealthy, titled fop? And make her feel that if she did, it would break your heart? Would you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I thought he was making a declaration. Instead he...’ She closed her eyes and shuddered. ‘I don’t know what he was doing. What made him try to prevent me from getting married, when even then, apparently, he and Marianne had an understanding.’

  She took another gulp of the brandy. She didn’t know whether it was the drink, or telling her husband about David, but whichever it was, she was starting to feel less hurt, and more angry. And with the fresh rush of anger came a startling clarity of thought.

  ‘Actually, perhaps I do,’ she said, setting the brandy glass down on the mantel with a snap. ‘If I’d married, I would have moved away. And probably taken Marianne with me, because I’d promised she’d always have a home with me. I most definitely wouldn’t have left her here, alone, because none of the others like her. And I didn’t want her to be miserable. I was trying to protect her, for heaven’s sake! She was my friend. And I was hers. Why couldn’t she just have told me she was in love with David, and he with her? Why did she have to be so...sly?’

  When she kept on looking at him for a moment or two, as she gathered her thoughts, he spread his hands in open admission of ignorance.

  ‘I couldn’t say
,’ he said, appearing to think she expected an answer.

  ‘Of course you couldn’t. No more could I. Though I suppose she did suffer a twinge or two of conscience about...us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t you notice her crying all the way through our wedding? I suppose I have to give her that much. She was sorry I was marrying someone I didn’t know, let alone love. And felt guilty, too, apparently.’

  ‘Guilty?’

  ‘Oh, yes. You haven’t heard the best part yet,’ she replied bitterly. ‘The reason I ended up with you, in the orangery, rather than David, was because the pair of them had taken advantage of the mummers’ play to sneak off together. That was why I couldn’t find him. Because the pair of them were both up in Marianne’s room for...a tryst.’ She spat the word out. The word that Marianne had spoken so archly. With a defiant glint in her eye.

  ‘To think that she pretended to be so set against my plan to make David propose, when all the time she was planning to make use of it herself!’

  He took a breath, as though about to say something.

  ‘And don’t you dare throw my words back in my face, about using stratagems to confuse the enemy, or flying under false colours, or anything of that nature. Or I shall...’

  She couldn’t carry that sentence to any conclusion. Because she didn’t know what she’d do. She only knew that if he mocked her now, she wouldn’t be able to bear it. All Marianne’s perfidy, and David’s duplicity, could not hurt her as much as having this man laugh at her.

  Which was an appalling discovery to make.

  Because it meant that in only a few short days, he’d become as important to her, as dear to her, as either of them had ever been.

  ‘I was only going to say,’ he said icily, ‘that it sounds as though they are well suited to each other. And that you are better off without either of them.’

  He turned on his heel and stalked away.

  She hoped it was only because somebody had just knocked on the door.