“Do you think I don’t know that?” He cupped her cheek and gazed into her dark eyes with rueful blue ones. “Why do you think I rode through the storm tonight?”
“Because you’re mad,” she said with a muted laugh. “It’s positively dreadful out.”
He grinned. “I’m only mad for you, darling.”
“But you’re home early,” Charlotte said. “I didn’t expect you for another week. Did something happen—?”
“No, everything went well.” He’d left five weeks ago to visit his grandfather, Viscount Belmaine, and try to restore some familial connection. Only this summer Stuart had learned that his supposed father was really his uncle, his presumed mother was only his adoptive mother, and that his grandfather had helped conceal the truth for decades.
Charlotte had been unsure when he declared he needed to visit Lord Belmaine, but Stuart assured her it would be fine. As his visit had lengthened, Charlotte prayed it was for good reasons and not for bad ones. She herself wouldn’t have forgive such deception so easily. But Belmaine controlled the family fortune, and there was no doubt that they could use some funds.
“Not only did I persuade Grandfather to part with some of his best sheep in the spring, I ordered supplies for the new roof. He’s of a mind to come and see you for himself this spring, you know. The old bounder still likes a pretty woman, and I daresay he’s curious to see who could possibly have won my faithless heart. But we’ll have a good flock come spring, a new roof, and perhaps—just perhaps—the dining room chimney rebuilt. All in all, a trip well worth the inconvenience.” He paused and his gaze heated. “But then I thought of my beautiful wife, all alone in the wilds of Somerset—”
She scoffed. “Susan has been with me,” she said, naming her niece. “I’ve hardly been alone.”
“Alone—desperately lonely— in the wilds of Somerset,” he repeated willfully. “Pining for my presence. No doubt crying herself to sleep every night.” Charlotte laughed. “And it is our first Christmas, and I’ve not given you a gift.”
“I don’t need a gift now that you’re home.” Despite his wet clothing, she rested her cheek against him. “I missed you.”
“And I you.” His fingers brushed her cheek. “Happy Christmas, darling Charlotte.”
“Happy Christmas, Stuart.” She stepped back and surveyed him from head to toe. “Take off your clothes.”
“Here?” His wolfish grin flashed at her as she reached for the lamp.
She smiled coyly and backed toward the stairs. “You’re soaking wet. We should get you before a hot fire … or into bed …”
“Lord, yes.” He yanked at his cravat.
Charlotte ignored the pile of wet clothing on the floor; there would be time enough to deal with that tomorrow. He’d been gone over a month, five very long and lonely weeks. Christmas had come a few hours early for her. “I shall do my best to warm you.”
Her husband caught her on the stairs. “You always do, my love,” he whispered against her mouth. “And always will.”
Read Stuart’s and Charlotte’s story in What a Woman Needs.
A Scot of Her Own
A holiday epilogue to
A Rake’s Guide to Seduction
1
Christmas Eve 1824
“I don’t know why you invited him.” Rosalind, Dowager Duchess of Exeter, stood staring out the window at the snow flurrying outside.
“He’s Anthony’s uncle, Mama,” said her daughter. “And he would be alone in Scotland otherwise. Surely you don’t wish that upon him.”
Rosalind pressed her lips together, feeling churlish and anxious, which in turn made her feel guilty. It was Christmas Eve, a day for joy. “Of course not. But it is a very long journey, dear, and a man of his age—“
Celia’s peal of laughter cut her off. “His age! Mama, he’s barely fifty, and the heartiest gentleman I know. Do you know…” Her voice dropped although the admiring tone lingered. “Anthony says he swims every day in the River Anan. Can you imagine? I never would have put one toe into the lake in Cumberland, not even on the most sweltering day of summer, and Anandale is even further north.”
Before she could stop herself, Rosalind pictured the man in question dropping his kilt and plunging into the water. “He’s not long for this life, then,” she said to banish the image. “Encouraging him to travel in this weather may finish him off.”
“I’m sure he would have written to say he could not come, if he were unwell, but he assured Anthony he would be here by Christmas.”
“He may not have wanted to disappoint you.” Rosalind turned and couldn’t help smiling at the scene. Celia, her only daughter, was on the floor with her son, Rosalind’s first grandchild. Far from keeping the baby off in the nursery, Celia seemed to have recovered some of her own carefree youth and could regularly be found playing on the floor with her baby.
Rosalind remembered her own mother counseling her to remember her station and dignity at all times, but the sight of her daughter’s luminous smile crushed any impulse she might have ever had to say anything like that. Celia had endured a disastrous first marriage, ending in her widowhood at the age of twenty-two, and she’d returned home so silent and somber Rosalind had feared for her health and even her sanity.
But now… now she was married again, blissfully happily this time, with a child of her own and a husband who adored her. It was enough to make any mother smile.
If only her son-in-law hadn’t had a vexingly attractive uncle, who was invited to spend Christmas with them.
The baby, Louis, had just started to sit up by himself, and now he was surrounded by a mountain of cushions, blue eyes fixed on the silver rattle his mother held. He reached for it and slowly toppled forward until he caught himself on his little hands.
Celia glanced up, her face still bright with adoration. “He’s going to crawl, Mama. Look at him!” The baby rocked back and forth, still focused on the rattle Celia waved. He lifted one hand to reach for it and managed to grab it before tumbling onto his side and then his back, the rattle in his mouth.
Rosalind smiled. “You might put the rattle farther from him, in that case. He’s devoted to it.”
“He likes to make noise.” Beaming, Celia tickled her baby’s feet, and he responded with a gurgle and a kick.
The door opened and Celia’s husband Anthony came in. “Warfield’s arrived,” he said, before catching sight of his son on the floor. “There’s my fine boy!” He went down on one knee and put his arm around Celia’s shoulders. “Crawling by the New Year, don’t you think?”
“No, I think by Christmas,” Celia replied.
“Did you say Warfield has arrived?” Rosalind interrupted, her pulse still racing.
“Yes, he rode his horse straight to the mews and needed a moment to dry off from his ride,” said Anthony, not even looking up from his child. “Do you really think as soon as tomorrow, darling?”
“I do. And how wonderful that Lord Warfield will be here to see it,” said Celia. “Show your papa how you shake the rattle, Louis,” she cooed.
“Wonderful,” murmured Rosalind. Of course she had expected him to come, but knowing he was under the same roof at this moment sent her nerves skittering wildly. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll fetch a warmer shawl.”
“Of course, Mama.” Celia barely managed to look up. “Anthony, ring for someone to build up the fire. I’m sure Lord Warfield will be chilled as well.”
Rosalind let herself out of the room, leaving the young family alone. Celia’s new happiness brought unspeakable joy to her own heart, it truly did. But as delighted as she’d been by the birth of young Louis, his arrival had marked a distinct turning point in Rosalind’s relationship with her own daughter. Rosalind had never wanted to be the sort of mother who lived only for her children, but now that her daughter, as well as her two step-sons, were married and had children of their own, she felt a bit… useless.
She started up the stairs, trying not to feel old. She o
ught to find a cause to patronize or a society to sponsor. That’s what most women did at her stage of life: neither feeble nor infirm, but widowed and no longer responsible for children. A single dowager in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a charitable cause. She had admired those women from afar but somehow never quite thought she would be one of them before she was fifty.
Of course, the arrival of the Earl of Warfield had nothing to do with her feeling of growing old. A year ago, he had paid her some significant attention. The day Celia married Anthony, Lord Warfield had pulled her into his arms, kissed her, and asked if he could call on her. Over the next several months, he had come to call several times. They had discussed, and argued over, philosophy and politics, art and literature. They’d taken drives in the park, walks in the garden, visited the museum and attended the opera together.
For a while, Rosalind had felt like a young woman again, worrying about her hair and her wardrobe, with a suitor sending her flowers. And when Warfield told her he had to return to his property in Scotland, but would call on her when he returned and hoped to discuss something very important with her, she had even begun to imagine that his attention was serious; that he meant to propose marriage; that she would have to decide what answer to give him.
Rosalind had been gripped by a wholly inappropriate flutter of nervous excitement, awaiting his return. She had even begun to believe she would say yes if he came back to London and went down on bended knee and asked her to marry him. The man was vexing and opinionated but he was also good-humored and terrible attractive and he made her laugh and lie awake at nights thinking of him.
But he didn’t—come back to London, that is. Throughout the summer, she’d understood; letters arrived from Scotland every fortnight assuring her he hoped to return by the end of summer, lamenting that he was still detained. By the fall, the stream of letters had trailed into a trickle; only one letter arrived. And as of this day, Rosalind hadn’t heard from the earl in almost two months.
There was only one conclusions, really. He had changed his mind. Whatever interest he’d had in her had waned. Rosalind had had plenty of time to be perplexed, then annoyed, then sad, before finally accepting, and carrying on with her life.
She was a duchess, after all. She was not pining for that vexing man. She had assured Celia that they did not suit, and that her heart was unaffected. And she’d meant it.
But she did not look forward to seeing him at Christmas.
She hurried up the stairs, telling herself she was not trying to avoid him. She would be poised and reserved, as if he had never called on her and made her think he meant anything by it.
At the top of the stairs she turned toward the gracious suite of rooms Celia had assigned her. Perhaps she would linger there with a book… ring for a cup of tea… write some letters by the fire. There was no earthly reason for her to rush back to the drawing room; in fact, she should probably remain in her room until dinner. Let Anthony have the chance to welcome his uncle in privacy, she told herself.
And no sooner had she assured herself this was the genteel thing to do, the Earl of Warfield stepped out of the door across from hers and squarely into her path.
2
Patrick Murray, Earl of Warfield, had been rushing for the better part of two months, so after he’d hastily changed his coat and scrubbed his face, he charged into the corridor without looking, and nearly ran down the woman he’d been racing to see.
“Goodness!” she gasped, one hand flying to her throat.
Patrick winced. The one thing he hadn’t worked out yet was exactly how to explain and apologize to her. He had told himself the words would come when he saw her, and now he realized that was a lie. “Your Grace. I beg your pardon.”
Her chin came up. Rosalind, Dowager Duchess of Exeter, was possibly the finest looking woman he’d ever set eyes on. Not too tall, not too slim, he admired her from the top of her silver-blond curls to the tips of her dainty silk-shod toes, and every inch in between. He’d met her at a house party the previous year, where he took one look and felt Cupid’s arrow strike him in the heart.
Even now, when he knew he probably ought to fall to his knees, just the sight of her face made him feel warm inside. She had spirit and wit and the sweetest smile when he kissed her—
“Lord Warfield.” Her cool, polite tone threw ice water on his increasingly heated thoughts. She tilted her head in the merest suggestion of a curtsy. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”
It had been terrible, riding through icy rain down rutted roads. The carriage had got stuck so many times he’d taken to the saddle in desperation, leaving his valet and baggage to muddle along behind him. Any sensible person would have stayed in Dumfriesshire until spring.
“I hardly felt a moment’s discomfort,” he told her, “anticipating the holiday here.”
She smiled, but not that soft, tempting smile. That was the duchess’s frosty curve of the lips. “Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton are expecting you in the drawing room. I shan’t keep you.”
No, no, no. He wanted her to keep him, very much. “Won’t you walk down with me?”
“I was on my way to my rooms.”
“May I escort you there?” he countered.
“That is unnecessary, sir.”
“It would be my pleasure.” He extended his arm hopefully.
Something flitted over her face, half annoyed, half awkward. “My room is there,” she said with a delicate motion at the door across the corridor. “I believe I can manage the distance unaided.”
Oh Lord. Her door was opposite his own. Patrick wasn’t sure if he ought to thank or curse his host for that bit of temptation. How the devil was he supposed to sleep now, knowing she was only a few feet away?
“Well, I never thought you’d need my arm, even if the room lay on the other side of Mayfair,” he said, abandoning all subtlety. “I was hoping you might want it. I would be very glad for a stroll with you.”
Her brow went up. “It has been raining all day.”
He grinned. “Has it, now? ’Tis very mild out, to a Scot.”
“I am not a Scot.”
“I didn’t mean to walk in the garden. Just…” He looked around. His nephew’s house was spacious, for London, but that didn’t mean much. “Here,” he finished lamely.
“Up and down the corridor?” she asked archly.
“And the stairs, maybe.” Ah, good; now she was laughing at him. He could see the smile fighting its way to her lips. Gads, she was beautiful when she smiled. “A promenade about the dining table, if the mood takes us.”
“Lord Warfield,” she began, her lips trembling.
“Ah, lass, don’t call me that,” he begged. “Call me Patrick, as you once did. Patrick You Bloody Idiot would also serve, or Patrick, Damned Fool—“
“Stop it.” She took a deep breath, obviously to restore her composure. “That was a long time ago,” she said evenly. “Best forgotten. You must pardon me—“
“I don’t want to!”
Her brows shot up. “How rude.”
“More like desperate. I know I owe you an explanation—“
“Of course you do not,” she said coolly. “You owe me nothing. Anthony and Celia will be wondering what’s keeping you. Go down and see them, and young Louis. They’re taking sides on how soon he crawls. I have some letters to write. Until dinner, sir.” With a graceful dip of her head, she moved past him and disappeared into her room.
And Patrick said a curse under his breath before going downstairs to find his nephew.
* * *
He did not see her again until dinner. That was good, he told himself. It gave him time to observe the formalities of greeting and conversing with Anthony and his wife. He didn’t want to make it obvious that he’d come mainly because Anthony’s invitation had mentioned that Rosalind would also be with them for Christmas.
Patrick loved his nephew and had done his best to provide familial support after his sister died, but the lad was well sit
uated now, with a beautiful wife and a son of his own. Anthony didn’t require an uncle’s company any longer. And London was far from Anandale, a trying journey in the best of weather, let alone in December.
But he’d made a monumental mistake regarding Rosalind, and Patrick thought he’d ride through a hurricane on a sheep for a chance to fix it.
There was no chance at dinner; it was only the four of them, and Patrick didn’t want to explain everything in front of Anthony and Celia. But Celia excused herself from the drawing room, saying she was going to check on her son and would be back soon. Anthony gave him a quick glance before leaping out of his seat and declaring that he also wished to look in on the baby, and he whisked his wife out of the room before Rosalind could speak. Her lips, in fact, were still parted in amazement when he caught her eye.
“The baby must be fast asleep by now,” she protested.
He shrugged. “They’re new to this. Did you never want to look on your sleeping babe?”
“Of course, Lord Warfield. I also did not wish to wake the sleeping babe.”
“Oh,” he said. “I never thought of that. I’ve no children of my own, of course.”
She smiled very briefly.
Patrick hesitated, then moved to sit opposite her. “May I help?” She was sorting little balls of thread.
“If you like. The greens, please.”
He nodded and began picking out the coils of green. “I’m glad of a chance to talk to you alone.”
“Oh?” She didn’t look at him, and her tone was utterly disinterested.
“Aye. It’s about Ned.”
That name brought a spark of animation—and fury—to her face. “I’ve no interest in hearing about him,” she said coldly.
“I know,” he said quickly. Ned was his cousin’s child, a fatherless boy who’d been often at Anandale as a child. Anthony’s father was a cold and rather heartless fellow, so Anthony had also come to Anandale at times. Patrick had thought they’d been like brothers.
A Kiss for Christmas Page 4