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

by Cerise DeLand

  Heaven knew, she did. So it was time to end her avoidance of Neville. She wanted him. Forever, if she could have him. No moves by Lady Renfield would separate her from him. Other things might. Had. Time, money, fathers, wars. It was time to heal any breach she could.

  Dinner had been hell. Neville had watched Del and he worried he'd not catch a few minutes with her to put their world back on its axis. He worried that the man next to her was overbearing. Hallerton, he believed his name was. Del had foiled him time and again when he'd come too close, and flirted too much.

  Hell. From what Neville had glimpsed of all at dinner, no one had been happy. Belinda looked trapped, next to a male creature who leered at her. Alastair, far down the table from her, had seethed at the sight. Marjorie sat with Griff to one side, yet the two of them appeared to do nothing but take more bites out of each other than from their dinner.

  His problems were as momentous. If Del and he could not weather the small storm of inebriated Lady Renfield, if Del did not love him enough to see that as a trifle, how could they survive the torrent of his biggest revelation? How could she consider leaving her sisters, her home, her country for another? Hundreds of miles away. With strangers.

  Neville strode toward Griff just as Alastair shot up from his chair. He was muttering, his fists clenched, his eyes narrowed.

  Griff and Bromley went to him.

  "I say, are you well?" Griff whispered.

  "Incensed."

  Griff placed a hand on his shoulder. It looked to be as much comfort as restraint.

  "I have problems controlling my anger," Alastair told Bromley. "Griff knows. He's seen it. I apologize. I can usually master it, but...ahem...this man beside Bee incensed me. I think he's drunk too much and assumes too much."

  Neville glanced toward the door and wished to offer some humor as restorative. "I saw him. If Wellington's men can't surround him and usher him up to his room, who can?"

  Griff nodded. "He does need to retire from the field."

  "Let's go." Neville rubbed his hands together, eager to help this man whom he'd never met until a few days ago. But Alastair was a comrade, a deeply wounded one, more severely than Neville certainly. And he deserved happiness, had planned for it, even to the point of obtaining a special marriage license for him and Bee while in London. He had to help the man. And even himself. "If we'd also eliminate his friend Hallerton, I'd be most grateful."

  Alastair brightened, happy for the help. "Nothing like friends in arms to win the day."

  The three strode to the music room. Inside, Carlson moved toward Bee. But Marjorie and Delphine outmaneuvered him and inserted themselves between him and his prey.

  "Time to intervene, don't you think?" Alastair told Griff and Neville.

  "With pleasure," Griff said as the three men strode toward the three sisters.

  Alastair took up his place next to Bee.

  Griff went to Marjorie.

  And Neville smiled down at Del.

  In her sweet blue eyes, he saw an apology. It was enough for him for now. And when for only a moment, she curled one small finger around one of his, he knew that in this gilded ivory room, ablaze with Yuletide candles, they both might find a way forward.

  Griff's step-mama rose before her guests. "Good evening, my dear ones. I hope you are refreshed. This wonderful holiday, my step-son and I are honored to have so many accomplished musicians with us for the Christmas party. Our first will be our own, my niece, Miss Delphine Craymore. My dear, please, do come to the pianoforte."

  Del went forward. One hand to the instrument, she scanned those in the room. Ever the performer who loved an audience, she announced her selections for the evening. "A bit of Mozart. A new Bach I learned only today, which I hope you will enjoy. All of which means I do need someone to turn the pages for me."

  A few young men—Riverdale and Trevelyan included—volunteered.

  She looked past them.

  "Lord Bromley," said Del with a tremulous look at him, "might I ask your assistance?"

  Hope in his heart, he strode toward her.

  Delphine took her place on the piano bench, he turned the sheets, and she filled the room with the marvels of her talent. Her rendering of the Bach he'd purchased for her was superb and he told her so as she rose to polite applause.

  "Lady Eliza is to sing," she told him in an aside and he left her to stand beside Alastair. The woman offered only one song, a little country ditty, which was a very good thing because, poor dear, she sang off key. The guests applauded her in any case, polite to the end.

  Another young woman stood, took the harp and in a few bars, made him wonder who had taught her so badly. Her tenure was as short as her skill, thank god.

  A young man went forward to play the violin. He took up his bow, the violin to his chin and off he charged. What a catastrophe! He either had no ear for his talent or no care for his reputation because his attack was devoid of tempo, accuracy or harmony. The bow screeched.

  The guests squeezed shut their eyes. Or coughed. Or shifted in their chairs.

  Alastair jammed two hands through his hair and moaned.

  Neville bent to him.

  Griff too.

  All went silent in the room.

  A few turned toward Alastair.

  Bee took his arm as she appealed to him.

  But as if she were a stranger, Alastair stared at her, tore away and rushed from the room.

  Bee glanced at her sisters, shock white on her face. But in a flashing moment, she picked up her skirts and rushed after him.

  Del clutched Neville's arm. "She loves him so."

  Marjorie moved to followed Bee.

  Griff caught her wrist. "Let him go. He suffers."

  "But Bee—"

  "She loves him, doesn't she?" he asked her. "He loves her. She's the best one to help him."

  She nodded. "She is. No matter what anyone says about it."

  Del feared many might have quite a bit to say about it and ridicule Bee for leaving alone to help Alastair.

  Griff patted her hand and tucked it over his arm. "No one is more important than the one you love."

  Would that Del heard that. And believed it.

  Chapter 9

  The guests wandered off from the music room in jolly spirits, the footmen having done well to appear with snifters of brandy and short glasses of mulled wine.

  Del lingered until most had left, save for Neville, Griff and his step-mama. She said her thanks to her aunt for the evening, kissed her on the cheek, then waited as Neville bid his host and hostess a good night.

  On the threshold, she looped her arm through his. "Will you come talk with me awhile?"

  He glanced around. "Most have gone to bed. Perhaps we just stand here rather than call a maid."

  "I don't want a chaperone, Neville. I should. But are we not past that?" She gave him a heartwarming smile and tugged him toward the stairs. "Come to my room."

  "Dangerous territory."

  "Ah, yes, ever so." She teased. "But I must wish you a happy Christmas and you should be there when I open tonight's present."

  "Ha! How do you know there is one?"

  Her face fell. But then her pale blue eyes turned mischievous. "How could you bring me one for each night and not one for the most important night of the year?"

  He shrugged, playing with her. "Sounds logical."

  And so she giggled, raced up the stairs and he followed her as quickly as his legs might carry him. She waited for him on the landing, clasped his hand and tiptoed down the hall carpet to her room.

  Inside, a few candles burned in her sitting room and beyond in her bedroom. Muted pinks gave a rosy glow to her boudoir. The fragrance of lavender heightened his senses because he was here where he should not be.

  "Would you like a glass of brandy?"

  He snorted. "You keep a bottle here?"

  "Tonight I do." She walked backward toward her bedroom and beckoned him forward with a toss of her blonde curls. "I planned to
offer it to you. Before the incident in the orangerie, that is."

  He was happy she'd broached the subject. He wanted resolution of that silly incident. "You must see what that was.

  "I knew from the second I saw her. Ahem. In your lap." She wiggled her brows at him and he chuckled. "The lady has a reputation for attacking handsome bachelors who look lonely."

  They'd reached her bedroom. She with her back to the four poster. He with the maddening urge to throw his arms around her and not let go. Ever. Instead, he contented himself with striding so near, he could put one hand to the poster above her head and trace his lips down the long column of her silken throat. "Do I look lonely?"

  She let her head fall back against the post and purred. "Are you?"

  "I've been empty, wanting only you since the first minute I saw you so very long ago. If empty is lonely, darling, if sorrow is palpable, then I ache to be with you."

  "Oh, Neville, I knew you weren't responsible for Renfield’s actions." She put her hands to his chest. "But I used the scene. Silly of me. Childish really. But I did. And I apologize for it. I needed time, you see, to think. An odd way to go about it. But I had to settle in my mind if I was truly angry with you for her actions…or angry with you still because you married Carolyn."

  "And what is your conclusion?" He held his breath. If she could never forgive him, how could they love fully? How could they marry? They couldn't.

  She slid her arms around his waist and pressed her warm lush body to his own. "I am not angry with you for Lady Renfield or for Carolyn. Both were out of your control."

  "One more egregious an offense than the other."

  She nestled her head into the crook of his shoulder. Her breath tickled his throat as she hugged him close. "No matter. Both are in the past. Gone. And this is what we have now."

  Up on her toes, she put her lips to his and kissed him. Their previous kisses—his to her, hers to him—paled to this. A brush of discovery, a peck of urgency, a claim of gratitude or mad delight. Each had come in a rush. Each ended in one.

  This kiss was sumptuous, extravagant. An declaration of love and an exploration of the senses. Her lips opened on his in a surrender to a passion they had not dared to seize.

  He tore away to stare at the ceiling. This embrace must end or he'd have problems dousing his desire. "Find your gift, sweetheart. Leave me with my dignity."

  She narrowed her lovely eyes on him. "You are a hard man to seduce."

  Not very. He stepped backward and threw out his arms. "Where might this elusive item be?"

  "Let's see." She let out a deep breath, then spun in a circle at first quickly, then again more slowly. "None here. My sitting room, do you suppose?"

  He crossed his arms, lifted his brows and exaggerated his bewilderment.

  "Maddening man." She headed off toward the front room. In a second, she was back, hands on her hips. "Nothing there. I know there must be one."

  He fluttered his lashes, an actor upon a stage would not have exaggerated the part more.

  She mashed her lips together and headed for her dressing room.

  In there, silence fell.

  He'd instructed his valet Farnsworth to have her maid Mary place each night's gift in a different location. Tonight's gifts, he'd told his valet, needed to stand upright to be viewed best. Mary must've chosen Del's dressing room where shelves might serve the purpose.

  But the silence drifted on.

  His concern rose. Panic set in. Had Farnsworth done his task correctly? Or had he himself chosen his gifts so very poorly that Del knew not what to say to him? That could not be. She'd told him often the value of the three pieces, and that was even before they, as all else in her home, had been taken from her and her sisters.

  He took a step toward the room.

  In a moment, she flew in his arms. The impact and her kisses nearly sent him to his knees.

  "Oh, Neville. Oh, darling. Oh, you wonderful man." She snorted back tears and if he'd had a free hand he might have offered her a handkerchief but as it was, he would not let her go.

  "You like them?" he asked, foolish to think she would not, but he cared—cared!—that she loved them.

  "Like? What is it to merely like? No!" She kissed him and kissed him again. She giggled. She sniffed. She laughed. "How did you get them? I bet he drove up the price. When he came to take the house, he let us have nothing."

  He was the new Viscount Worthing, the distant relative who had inherited by entail, their father's title and estate. A stuffed sausage of a man, covetous, angry that the Worthing estate had gone to him indebted to creditors, he'd agreed to meet Neville only if he had a profitable proposition to offer. "He is a bit of a bastard."

  "I bet he cheated you, the old roué."

  "Sweetheart, do you think the price mattered to me?" He had more money than he'd ever possessed in his life and more to come, if his solicitor had his bank accounts and the new French estate to rights. "I bargained with him. But I'd known he was in need of funds. Besides, he wished to keep them only to irritate the three of you."

  She let her gaze flow over him. "You are an extraordinary man. To seek him out, to do this for me. My mere thanks are not equal to the task." She stepped nearer, her eyes misting. "I love you."

  The words sang in his head as he drew her so close breath could not divide them. "Might you repeat that?"

  "I love you, Neville."

  He nodded, not tired of her declaration. "Best thing I've heard in years."

  She gave him a little hug, her brow furrowed. "Will you marry me?"

  "Would you like me to?" he whispered.

  "Oh, please. If you can find it in your heart."

  "I left my heart with you long ago. My only desire has always been to marry you, Delphine. Only you."

  "Are you accepting me, sir?"

  "Quickly too, before you decide to ask some other man at this party."

  She hooted. "I want no other man. Never have or will. And I want nothing more in this world but to be your wife. Only yours." She undid the buttons of his frock coat and waistcoat then unfurled the knot of his stock. She hooked a finger in the collar of his shirt and led him forward as she walked backwards to her bed. "Come, let me prove it."

  "Del." He was skeptical.

  She stopped at the mattress and flung herself down, one leg stroking his calf. "I think it must be midnight by now, don't you? You've given me so many gifts, these special ones tonight. May I give you a Christmas gift? I have no other. Yet it's all I might ever offer, worth only what you think it to be."

  Humbled, proud she'd have him, he put one knee to the bed and settled there. He cupped her cheek and kissed her deeply. "You are worth all to me, Delphine Craymore. All that I have I would give to make you my wife."

  "Then come. Make it so now. Give me you."

  In the hours that followed, as the earth slumbered toward a new Christmas morn, she found the pleasures of the love match she'd yearned for and thought she'd never enjoy. Naked with him under the eiderdown and linens, she stroked her fingers over his arms and ribs, his hips. She learned the contours of his injured knee and kissed the scars that hindered him. She inspected the foot that bore the marks of the Frenchman's misdirected shot.

  He sat silent as if in wonder as she learned him. "May I do the same?" he asked her.

  She lay back, arms open to permit him access to all of her. Modesty seemed irrelevant when they'd taken from each other the maximum of bliss.

  He ran his open palms over her in a reverence that brought tears to her eyes. As he stroked her shoulder, her throat, lifted the fullness of her breast and set his mouth to draw her inside him, she arched in gay abandon. Then she curled her legs around his hips and welcomed him inside her where she rejoiced once more in the miracle of each reclaiming the other.

  Nestled against him minutes later, she stirred. "Would you like that brandy now?"

  He traced her lips with his forefinger. "Tell me where you keep it. I'll get it. You need to get your Ch
ristmas gifts and tell me about them."

  She squeezed him with ferocious energy and bounded from the bed. Naked and chilly, she rushed to her dressing room and donned a dressing gown.

  Without need of a candle, she lifted the three frames from her shelf and brought them back to bed. She laid them down in a row and crossed her legs.

  He returned to her naked, and she allowed herself the delectable sight of her husband-to-be in all his glory.

  "Sir," she said, her breath a bit unsteady, "I fear I'd rather look at you than these. Tomorrow will do just as well."

  He chuckled then held out the glass of brandy. "Drink! I need rest and you must tell me about these watercolors."

  She took the glass, downed a healthy drink and set it to her bedside table.

  Turning back, she settled to enjoy the sight of her gifts and rubbed her hands together. "Well, now!"

  There before her were the very items she'd never expected to see again. She knew Bee nor Marjorie did either. They'd consigned them to the lost treasures of the past where they had no claim to anything of heritage or home. Their loss had been of pride and possession. What remained was a hope to find some saving grace. Bee to catch smugglers for the prize money and the family reputation. Marjorie to gamble for enough money to feed them, perhaps more. She, well, she to make some kind of profession of teaching children.

  This before her was the epitome of their loss.

  Here were the paintings by their mother of Worthington, the family estate not far from Brighton. One watercolor their mother had done in a wash of ivory and creams, beiges and blues, the front of the century-old stone mansion sat on angle to the pebbled circular drive.

  "This one, I do believe, was her first of the house. She loved winter, setting high the fires in the rooms for warmth. This," she said and picked up the next, "shows the parterre off the terrace in springtime. She mixed rose bushes with evergreens in a geometrical pattern and trimmed them to a fare thee well.