The Viscount's Only Love: Christmas Belles, Book 2

by Cerise DeLand

  He took her delicate jaw between his two hands. "That man was young, in thrall to a father he wished to escape. The army was his means, his pride, his purpose in life. Without the army, without the integrity and pride that battle was to impart, that young man had no future to offer a bride. He was beholden to his father for money. A father who withheld it out of spite and yet had lost thousands at the tables. A father who refused to support him in his request for separation. That young man was under a tyrant's rule with few ways to escape, save the honor that combat might bring him. That young man could love, wisely, but not well. He could want, but had not the means to support those wants.

  "But now," he said and stroked her cheeks with his thumbs, "now that man is his own man. He has friends to declare his integrity. Medals to proclaim his worth. Pride to assert what he did for king and country. More, he holds the title and lands his father ignored. He possesses the means to repair the damages his father wrecked on all in his domain. Most important of all, he has the will and the intention to ask forgiveness from the young woman whom he met at a friend's house party, whom he has never forgotten—and for whom, there is no equal in this world."

  He saw his truths register in her expression one-by-one. Her sorrow for his plight, her sympathy for his losses, her compassion for his endurance and her pride in him. "And when I forgive you, what do I do with the sadness of the past few years without you?"

  "Let it go. As I have. It merits nothing but regret. We live today and tomorrow. Today we have new life. Give me a chance to prove that to you."

  She flowed closer, her lips a hot breath from his. He could reach out and take her and kiss her senseless.

  But he would not claim what was not his to take. He'd rushed to love her the last time and the haste of their courtship, the catastrophe of his father's actions had soiled the finest moments of his life.

  He would not presume to persuade her to act. That would be more lust than love. This time, he wanted the most noble elements to bless the rightness of his love for her.

  She waited, her eyes challenging his.

  And when he did not move, she nodded. Then she pushed away and left him where he stood.

  She'd taken the stairs as if the house were on fire.

  She'd been so tempted to kiss him, put a blessing and an ending to the torture of wanting him that had comprised her days, and months of rejection, nights, and years of self-criticism. Had she been too naive? Too gullible? Too needy? Too stupid to see what he really was? A rake? A man who duped young women?

  She gained her room, opened the door and shut out the horrid judgments of herself and him.

  She'd outgrown the hurt of his rejection. She'd overcome the self-criticism that said she was to blame for the events. She'd regained her pride, her objectivity, her logic. And in that she saw what he truly had been. A kind man, handsome and charming. Not a seducer. But a man who had truly come to know her through conversations about books and playwrights, theater and painting, artists of all mediums, from paper silhouettes to iridescent Carrara marble. Her love of him had been, she came to see, well founded. And in truth, she had believed that he had loved her and that some larger impediment blocked their marriage.

  So many existed for people who loved each other, didn't they? Her oldest sister Belinda loved Alastair Demerest, a second son with no inheritance, no title, no money to support a wife. Her next older sister Marjorie posed as if she cared for no one, yet Del had an inkling Marjorie had a tendre for a man far above her station, far from her reach as the daughter of a penniless, shamed viscount. The earl of Marsden, Griffith Harlinger would probably marry a duke's daughter and a rich one at that. Never Marjorie.

  Del marveled that Neville had found his way here. To her. To this party. Complimented that he had, she let a smile carry her into her bedroom.

  There, straight before her upon her dressing table sat an item which commanded her attention. She blinked, squeezed her eyes once and then again. Grinning, she strode forward to touch it.

  A pale parchment box stood two feet tall. Stenciled with floral and scroll design, it appeared to be delicate and expensive. A name printed on a band across the top proclaimed its origin. Maison de Madame Giselle Depuy. 164 Rue de Rivoli.

  Folding her arms, she tipped her head this way and that.

  She giggled at the froth of the big pink satin ribbon that secured the lid. Oh, she clasped her hands. To touch the bow, untie it, open the lid was to suppress the tingles that ran up her spine at the very idea that someone… No. Not someone. But Neville. He had bought this. He had ordered this. Brought this from Madame's.

  For me.

  She undid the bow with a simple tug of one end. Inside…oh, inside nestled in soft muslin lining were ivory feathers. Ostrich? Other? Oh, it did not matter! She pushed the muslin aside, carefully, carefully, and there emerged an ice blue velvet cottage bonnet with a quilling round the inside brim of Vandyke ivory lace and atop that, a string of tiny pearls. The double plume of ostrich feathers atop the crown had her laughing through new tears.

  Gingerly, she lifted the precious thing from its box.

  Oh, my.

  Tears dribbled down her cheeks.

  But she put it on. And stared at herself. Her jaw lax. Her arms at her sides. This hat had come from Paris.

  This hat had come from Neville.

  She ran for the hall, flung wide the door.

  Where was Neville? In his rooms, most likely. Well, where the hell were they? She had to ask.

  She ran for the stairs. There, there below stood Simms, the family butler, fortuitously in the middle of the hall! Was he on guard? For her? Hmm.

  She glanced about. No one was near.

  "Simms! Simms!" she called down to him in a loud whisper.

  He shot her a glance. "What's amiss?"

  "Nothing!"

  "But you—ah—" He pointed to his head to indicate her own in the hat.

  "Yes, I know. No matter." It was indeed a very big matter to ask, but she had to find Neville, thank him. To the devil with propriety. "Where is Lord Bromley's room?"

  "To the left of Lord Marsden's."

  She sped off as she heard Simms say, “‘twere well it were done quickly.'"

  "So true," she said and threw him a silent thanks. Ha! Simms and his Shakespeare!

  One knock upon Neville's door and she did not wait for permission.

  "Neville!”

  He was removing his frock coat. Facing her, his coat falling from his shoulders, he was dressed only in his waistcoat and a shirt, his stock gone, too. "Del?"

  Then he registered that she had her hat on and he grinned. "You like it? You must. You look divine in that. Matches your eyes. When I saw that color velvet in Madame's win—"

  She rushed against him so quickly he staggered back against the wall. But he got his balance as he took hold of her and she of him.

  And she kissed him. Kissed him. Once. Quickly. Twice. Deeply. A third time and this was languid, daring, as she reveled in the luxury of his firm lips and the intimacy of his tongue. She came up for air to give a laugh and she caught his jaw to aim for his lips once more.

  This kiss was flame and ecstasy, a leisurely pleasure out of time. She pulled back to admire him, the rakish lock of his auburn hair across his brow, his square jaw, his firm mouth, his dove grey eyes that said how dearly he valued her. "Oh, Neville, I could kiss you all night. I do not want to let you go."

  He crushed her to him, his sweet eyes a daring invitation. "Consider that you never did. I have always been yours, my darling."

  So many truths tonight made her smile. With him she smiled more than with any other man. "I do not blame you for what your father did," she blurted.

  "Thank you." He brushed her lower lip with his thumb. "Kiss me again to seal that in my heart, will you?"

  She pushed away. "You said you wanted one kiss for Christmas. But you've had many more."

  He snorted, crossed his arms and cocked a long dark red brow. "I'm greedy." />
  She brushed her skirts, straightened. "Perhaps tomorrow I'll give you more as we skate."

  "In public?"

  "We could find a tree to hide behind."

  "That, my dear woman, is a tree I will go out to find now!"

  "And freeze? Never risk your health again, will you, please?"

  "Will you be my reward for good health?"

  "A kiss for that? Perhaps." She picked up her skirts and winked at him. "See you tomorrow."

  "You will! And wear your hat," he said as she headed for his door and over her shoulder, waggled her fingers at him in good night.

  Chapter 7

  “Thank you, Mary," Del said as her maid brushed the shoulders and skirts of a new morning dress. She'd chosen a gown she adored. Made of pale mezereon green gros de Naples, it was a stunning piece worthy of mingling with the guests this morning and afternoon. "No skating today, I fear. The snow accumulates too quickly. I expect her ladyship and the earl to cancel it."

  "A shame. You could have worn your new hat." The maid tittered. "It'd match your new walking coat, down to the ermine trim."

  It would have complemented the cerulean blue wool very nicely, but she'd have her chance, perhaps tomorrow. Tomorrow. She suppressed a chuckle. When she might find a tree to conceal a kiss she'd steal from Neville. "Do you and Farnsworth plan any more secret activities?"

  The maid's cheeks colored bright red.

  Oh, dear. "I meant, Mary, are there more surprises you plan to place in my room?"

  "Oh, Miss, oh. I don't know. Farnsworth don't tell me. Not before, you see."

  "I do. Thank you, Mary. Forget I asked. I do enjoy the surprises."

  "Oh. Good, Miss." She curtsied and bustled away.

  Del took the stairs and entered the breakfast room. Lady Goddard was at table, beside her Riverdale and across from her Lady Eliza Kent. The widow, the rake and the heiress all seemed quite happy this morning.

  "I never liked skating," said Lady Eliza.

  "I'd try while it's snowing if someone else is interested," declared Lady Goddard in an invitation to the others.

  "Not me," said Riverdale with a palm up. "I barely manage the art when the sun is shining."

  That seemed odd to Del. Weren't most men rabid for all sorts of physical exertions?

  He gave her an arched look. "Hurt my back when I was in knee pants. Did something strange to my balance."

  "I see. I am sorry."

  "I can ride. Shoot. Can't box or wrestle. Limits a man."

  "But that is not the measure of his character, is it?" Del said with a sympathetic smile.

  "Indeed not." Lady Goddard agreed. "Finer elements prove the worth."

  They finished their meal in pleasant conversations about nothing of any import and Del made her excuses.

  She searched the Red Salon. The Yellow. The gaming room. The orangerie. The ballroom. Guests congregated in each room in small numbers. Neville was not among them.

  Driven to find him and greet the day with him, she finally decide to do the obvious. She took the stairs up to the private floors and turned for his rooms. With a gentle knock upon his door, she waited and eyed the hall lest anyone spy her at this scandalous act.

  Farnsworth opened the door.

  "Is Lord Bromley in?"

  The valet swept aside.

  "Who is it?" Neville called from his dressing room.

  "Miss Delphine, my lord."

  "Dear god." Neville peeked around the corner, his cane firmly in his one hand. Attired in a loose linen shirt, he also wore loose trousers the lengths of which he'd rolled up past the knee. Far from her as he was, she could still see, the hideous red scar on one knee.

  "Are you well?" She strolled toward him.

  "Farnsworth, you may leave us."

  The valet hurried away.

  Neville lumbered toward her. The effort cost him and the white lines at his eyes and mouth proved the stress.

  She went and looped her arm through his. "Come sit. What's wrong? I didn't see you downstairs. Have you had breakfast?"

  He sank into an upholstered Chippendale chair with a grunt, his cane to hand. "Pardon my undress. Yes, I've eaten."

  "When? Here? Downstairs?' She knelt by his side and ran her fingers through the wealth of his hair. He was disheveled, in pain. But he must have shaved to appear in public in the breakfast room.

  "Downstairs. Yes. An hour or more ago." He gave her a smile that was half his normal one. "You mustn't be here, darling."

  "I'll go after I've seen to you. Tell me what's wrong."

  "Nothing terrible."

  "Major Lord Bromley, do be honest."

  "I have aggravated my knee, my foot. I must stand less, sit more."

  She cupped his cheek. "What can ease the pain?"

  He turned to place a kiss in her palm. His lips seduced. His eyes caressed. "You are here."

  "May I increase my worth by providing a hot brick, a warm bath or spirits?"

  "Ah. All sound restorative."

  She got to her feet. "You shall have them."

  As she turned to go, he caught her wrist. A wicked gleam in his grey eyes met her curious gaze. "A kiss would be the best medicine."

  "Dear man, you already have more than you earned."

  "They salve many wounds, my dearest."

  "They do," she affirmed on a whisper and bent to peck him on the lips.

  But he caught her and pulled her to his lap. She laughed as he sank his fingers into the hair at her nape and held her still as he nibbled his way up her throat, across her chin to brush his lips on hers. His kiss was a full assault upon her senses, the mint of his breath and the spice of need irresistible. So she spread her arms around his shoulders and sank into the charm of submitting to his insistence.

  He broke away with a sigh. "You must leave."

  "So you keep saying."

  One of his hands slid along her ribs, his fingers splaying to rub the fullness of her breasts.

  Her body blossomed at his touch, all heat, all curling desire. "This is no way to send me away."

  He captured her chin and took one long lavish kiss from her. " You will go now, before I cannot let you leave."

  She sighed. "I'll find Farnsworth and send him back with anything I think may help."

  "He told me that skating has been cancelled. I'm glad. I'd be jealous of any man who held you in his arms."

  She tingled at the compliment. "We're to have parlor games instead. Gambling and reading are the order of the day."

  He cringed. "I can think of other things I'd rather do."

  She let out a laugh.

  He struggled to his feet and she tried to stop him. "Let me up. I can stand. I must to let you out."

  "I can open a door, sir."

  He chastised her with a dark look through his lashes. "Before you open anything, I will check the hall."

  Hands on her hips, she complained. "Oh, the challenge of scandal."

  "Indeed." Leaning on his trusty cane, he headed for the hall door. When he opened it, he stepped out, looked both ways and raised a hand in recognition of someone.

  When he stepped inside again, she asked, "Who's there?"

  "Simms." He chuckled. "The man is everywhere."

  "How true." She crossed her arms as she considered the gossip that might ruin her if anyone discovered she'd been here alone with the handsome Major Lord Bromley.

  "Come, sweetheart. Simms urges you out quickly."

  Reluctant, she frowned. "I hope to see you later when you're recovered."

  "You will. The card room. Two o'clock. Join me."

  Del sailed into the room soon after luncheon. Neville had not joined the guests for the meal and though Del had worried, she had not dared go to his room again.

  Stopping near the threshold, she felt her heart sink that he might still be suffering pain. Rest, she hoped, was the cure. And in the meantime, she waited.

  Lady Goddard who sat alone at a deal table raised a smiling face to Del and beck
oned her. When Del was beside her, she put down her cards. "Your family and you have done so well by us here."

  "You're enjoying yourself then?"

  "Very much. I've had an opportunity to deepen my acquaintance with many. One cannot often do that in London. Too many, too much to attend to."

  "I have rarely been in London," Del told her. Her father's death had cut short any hope of a proper coming out for her.

  "But you'd be popular. One need not have a past in London to have a future."

  "I like that idea." If I ever have need of future in London. She concentrated on the empty doorway.

  "Bromley's not feeling well, I assume?"

  "Pardon me, what?" A glance at the lady told Del the lady had sensed intimacy between Neville and her. "Yes. His wounds grieve him."

  "The weather. As soon as it stops snowing, he'll feel much better. One of my husbands had old wounds. The war in the Americas, you see. Bouts of aches and pains whenever it rained or snowed. Odd, yes? But Bromley is younger than my husband and he does not appear to be totally incapacitated."

  Del hoped that was true.

  Lady Goddard leaned forward, folding her hands on the table. "I hope you will not consider me brash if I give you a suggestion?"

  Without an idea of the topic, Del could tell by her tone what she'd offer would be sensitive information. "I'll consider what you tell me."

  The woman cleared her throat. "I've known Bromley all his life. His parents. We are family, after all."

  "Yes, I understand."

  "He is and always was a kind boy. Never a bully. Never a cheat. Never one to build his reputation in the air."

  "He always seemed substantial, stalwart, principled to me," Del told her.

  "The woman he married did not deserve him."

  That pinned Del to her chair.

  "If you love him, if you wish a future with him, you need to know what his marriage was like. If he has not told you, ask him."

  The lady fixed her with stark concern. "It's for your benefit too."

  How could she disagree with that?