Christmas with His Wallflower Wife

by Janice Preston

  ‘When would I tell you? You are never here and, in London...it’s not the same somehow.’

  ‘But... Oh, God, Janey. I’m sorry. What are you riding now?’

  Horses had always been their shared passion and they were the love of Alex’s life. He bred and trained horses at Foxbourne Manor and had built a solid reputation for producing first-class riding and carriage horses.

  ‘Sandy.’

  ‘Sandy?’ Alex burst out laughing, but quickly sobered. He searched Jane’s expression, a frown knitting his brows. ‘I thought you were joking, but you’re not. How can a plod like old Sandy be a suitable mount for a rider of your quality?’

  ‘Papa said it’s not worth me having a new horse when Sandy is there doing nothing.’

  ‘Your father said that? Now I know you’re gammoning me—he’s always been so proud of your skill as a horsewoman. It was the old witch, wasn’t it? What is her game?’

  Jane burned with humiliation. Her stepmother’s game was to make Jane’s life so intolerable she would view marriage to Sir Denzil as preferable. But she wouldn’t discuss such a subject with Alex of all people.

  ‘Shall I have a word with your papa, Janey? I’ve got a filly at Foxbourne that would be perfect for you... I’d give him a good price. Half what she’s worth.’

  Alex hadn’t changed. He’d always been ready and willing to take up cudgels on Jane’s behalf whenever she was treated unfairly. To see that protective streak still in evidence infused her with a warm glow. She might not have Alex’s love, but he did care for her. With that, she must be content.

  ‘I would rather you said nothing, Alex. He’ll only tell Stepmama and you know how cross she’ll be if she thinks I’ve been complaining about my lot. It’s not worth the upset, but I do appreciate the offer.’

  ‘You’re too forgiving, Janey. I’ve always said so. Look at the number of times you’ve forgiven me!’ He winked at her and they both smiled at the shared memories. ‘But I’ll not say anything if you prefer me not to. Now, I really ought to mingle. Not that I want to, but I did promise Aunt Cecily and my stepmother I would be sociable.’ Alex’s father had remarried five years before. ‘I’ll see you later, I expect.’

  Off he strode, leaving Jane deflated and with a headache pinching her forehead. She rubbed it absently. The thought of joining one of the loudly chattering groups clustered around the lawn held little appeal. Stepmama was talking to Sir Denzil Pikeford and Jane turned away before Stepmama could wave her over. She really couldn’t face that bore with her emotions in such a raw state.

  She slipped through a gate into the apple orchard next to the lawn and on into the copse beyond, on the far side of which was the Abbey lake where, it was said, the monks used to raise fish to supplement their diet. The fresher air by the water would hopefully help her headache. And no one would miss her.

  Chapter Two

  Tension gripped Alex as he made polite conversation with his father’s guests. He didn’t belong here. Even in this crowd, even among his family, he felt alone. Separate. For ever the outsider.

  He hadn’t been back to the Abbey since Olivia’s wedding and was only here now because it was the first time in over four years the entire Beauchamp family had all been together under one roof. The rest had been here a month already and he had only finally agreed to attend the annual Abbey garden party because Dominic threatened to drive up to Foxbourne to fetch him. He’d arrived yesterday and fully intended to leave tomorrow.

  * * *

  An hour or more of small talk and sipping cider-apple punch was enough to try any man’s patience and Alex had less than his fair share of that. When dealing with people, at least. Horses...now that was another matter. There, his patience knew no bounds. With a smile and a gesture towards the house, he extricated himself from an in-depth conversation about last year’s appalling weather—still the main topic of conversation for country folk—and he slipped away, feeling his tension dissipate as he left the crowds behind. Once inside, he hurried through the library, and out on to the terrace that hugged the east wing of the Abbey. Down the steps, along the stone-flagged path that bisected the formal garden, through the arch cut into the beech hedge and out on to the path beyond. It took less than a minute to reach his goal: the small gate that opened into a copse of ornamental trees.

  He closed the gate behind him.

  Alone. As always. As he liked it.

  Nothing but trees. No need to put on a charade. No need for polite conversation about trivialities.

  He leaned back against the trunk of a copper beech and closed his eyes. It had been as painful as he feared, coming back. The family had all come out to greet him. Alex had tolerated hugs from his aunts and his sister, but when Father had come forward, his arms opening, Alex had thrust out his hand for a handshake, quashing his guilt at his father’s sorrowful expression. He couldn’t explain the aversion he felt for his father, but it was undeniable. Every time they met, Alex felt like a cat having its fur rubbed the wrong way and he couldn’t wait to get away.

  Then last night, in his old bedchamber, the dreams returned. Not as badly as in his childhood, but enough to unsettle him and for him to wake this morning with that old feeling of impending doom pressing down on him.

  It was good to see the rest of the family, though. And dear Jane...his childhood playmate: the squire to his knight, the soldier to his general, the pirate to his captain. Shame about Pippin... God knew what her father was about, allowing that old witch to pick on poor Jane the way she did.

  Alex pushed away from the tree and shrugged out of his jacket, then rolled up his shirtsleeves. Warm, dry days had been few and far between this summer—although it was still an improvement on last—but today was one of them: the sun high in a cloudless sky and insects humming. Alex wandered through the trees, his jacket hooked over his shoulder, absorbing the peace, disturbed only by the occasional burst of laughter from the garden party, taking little notice of where he was going. It was only when the sun reflecting off the surface of the lake dazzled him that he realised where he was. He stopped, his guts churning in that old familiar way.

  He’d had no intention of coming here, to the place where it had happened. His mother’s favourite place. And yet his feet had led him there. Unerringly. As they always did. The summer house overlooking the lake was no more—destroyed by his father after his mother died, a weeping willow planted in its place, in her memory.

  The willow had grown in the years since he had last seen it, its fronds now sweeping the ground, and the surrounding trees and shrubs—also planted after her death—had matured, isolating the willow in a clearing bounded by woodland and water.

  He stood, just looking, the dark memories close, clawing their way slowly, inexorably, out of the chasm of the past. His heart drummed in his chest, nausea rising to crowd his throat as he shoved those chilling memories of his childhood—of that day—back into the depths and slammed a mental lid on them. He’d had enough practice at keeping them at bay. Eighteen years of practice—he’d only been seven when his mother died...when she was killed.

  He shoved harder, feeling sweat bead his forehead. He shouldn’t have come here, should’ve stayed with the others, endured their chatter and their laughter, but it was the same every time he returned to his childhood home. No matter his best intentions, this spot drew him like a lodestone.

  The sound of a scuffle and a scream, quickly cut off, grabbed his attention. He scanned his surroundings, still shaken by the past that lurked, ready to catch him unawares. He saw no one, but a muffled cry and a grunted oath sounded from beyond a clump of rhododendrons. His heart thudded. Those sounds... The memories swirled, trying to form. He swore and strode into the copse, rounding the bushes. Whatever he saw would be preferable to the images hovering at the edge of his mind.

  ‘No! Please! Stop!’

  Breathless. Pleading. Scared.

  No
...terrified. Alex broke into a run, deeper into the trees, even as the sound of a slap rang out. He rounded another thicket.

  Rage exploded through him—a starburst of fury that electrified every single nerve ending and muscle. He hauled the man off the woman beneath him and jerked him around, vaguely registering the stink of alcohol. His fist flew and he relished the satisfaction of the crunch of bone and the bright claret spurt of blood. He cast the man aside.

  She was curled into a defensive ball, her back convulsing with silent sobs. Alex knew that feeling...he shoved again at the memory that threatened to burst free. The past needed to stay in the past. He fell to his knees and gathered the woman into his arms.

  ‘Shh...shh. You’re safe. He’s gone.’

  He’d recognised him. Sir Denzil Pikeford, a local landowner, who’d been well into his cups when Alex spoke to him earlier and now stumbled away through the trees, hands cupping his bloody nose. Pikeford would suffer the consequences for this, but he could wait.

  He held the woman’s head to his chest as he stroked down her back, soothing her, registering the bare skin, the ripped clothing. Her shuddering sobs gradually subsided. Her breathing hitched. Slowed. Hitched again.

  ‘There now. You’re safe.’

  Alex looked down. And realised for the first time she was a lady...one of his father’s guests then, not a maid, or an unwary farm girl caught off guard.

  ‘Alex?’

  A quiet, halting enquiry. She looked up, face blotchy with tears, one cheek stark red, eyes puffy, ringed by spiky wet eyelashes. Recognition thumped Alex square in the chest. He recalled the slap and another surge of fury rolled through him. How could anyone single out a girl as kind and inoffensive as Jane?

  She pulled away from him with a gasp, frantic hands scrabbling to gather the tattered remnants of her gown to cover her exposed breasts. Then her eyes rounded with horror as voices called out. The sound of feet trampling the undergrowth came closer. Swiftly, Alex reached for his jacket—fallen nearby—and slung it around Jane before, still on his knees, twisting his torso to face her parents.

  ‘By God, sir! What is this?’

  Lord Stowford, Jane’s father, was mottled with rage. Alex stood to face him, but before he could speak Jane’s stepmother reached her husband’s side.

  ‘Oh! You wicked, deceitful girl! You are ruined!’ She turned to her husband. ‘Stowford! Do something!’

  ‘Beauchamp! You shall answer—’

  ‘Papa! No! Alex saved me. It was Sir D-Denzil.’ Jane scrambled to her feet.

  ‘I knew it!’ Lady Stowford pressed one hand to her bosom and plied her fan vigorously with the other. ‘As soon as I saw you sneaking off with him!’

  Alex frowned, glancing down at Jane. Surely she knew better than to be so careless? But...he took in Lady Stowford’s expression. The smug smile in her eyes. If she’d seen Jane and Pikeford, why not follow them straight away, and intervene?

  Jane swayed and Alex moved closer, cupped her elbow, supporting her. Shivers racked her body and tears rolled down her face. Alex stared in disgust at Jane’s stepmother. Cold-hearted witch! What kind of a female...a mother...was she? Where was her concern for another female in distress, let alone one she had raised from a baby? But, then...she had always resented Jane.

  ‘I didn’t.’ Jane was shaking her head in frantic denial. ‘I s-s-swear it, Papa! I had the headache and hoped a walk by the water would help. He followed me. He grabbed me.’

  ‘It matters not! You are ruined!’ Lady Stowford’s words rang with triumph. ‘Stowford! Go and find Sir Denzil at once. He must make an honest woman of Jane. Then all will be well.’ She eyed Jane with pitiless disdain. ‘I will not allow your disgrace to taint your sisters.’

  ‘Noooo!’ Jane sagged against Alex as she uttered a low moan of despair.

  ‘Have you no compassion?’ Alex glared at Lady Stowford. A memory surfaced...of Her Ladyship trying hard to promote a match between Pikeford and Jane during last Season. And Jane’s disgust at the idea. ‘That foul drunkard attacked your daughter! He was forcing himself on her and you would have her marry him?’

  Her haughty gaze raked Alex. ‘I would, as would any responsible parent. At least she will have a husband at long last! She should be grateful.’ She turned to her husband, his expression that of a man wishing he was a thousand miles away. ‘Well, Stowford? Do not just stand there. Go and find Sir Denzil. You must see Jane has to be wed now she is no longer pure.’

  ‘No! He didn’t... I am still... Alex stopped him in time, Papa! Please, Papa!’

  ‘Stowford! You must think of our other daughters. Their reputations are what is important now. Jane must be wed.’

  ‘Then I shall marry her.’ Alex released Jane’s elbow and wrapped his arm around her waist, hauling her into his side.

  ‘Alex?’

  His heart plummeted at that voice. Behind the Stowfords three figures came into view: Alex’s father in the lead of his uncles, Vernon and Zach. Father’s eyes swept the group. Returned to linger on Jane, then levelled a searching look at Alex.

  ‘What happened? Pikeford? We saw him stagger out of the copse just now.’

  Grateful for his father’s swift understanding, Alex nodded. He held that silver-grey gaze, his gut churning with the same mix of hopeless love and unwanted revulsion he always felt towards this man he so desperately longed to love unconditionally. Father walked forward, ranging himself alongside Alex and Jane.

  ‘This matter can be contained, Stowford. No one will know but us. There is no need to force Jane to marry anyone.’

  The swell of relief was brief. One look at Lady Stowford’s expression—even as she was agreeing with his father—was enough to stir Alex’s doubts. That old witch wouldn’t rest until she had her wish—Jane married off, no matter the circumstances.

  Jane was still trembling, like an injured bird...fragile...terrified.

  ‘No,’ he heard himself say. He slid his arm from around Jane’s waist and grasped her shoulders, manoeuvring her so he could look straight into her swollen eyes. ‘Lady Jane Colebrooke...will you do me the honour of being my wife?’

  * * *

  Jane’s head pounded. She shouldn’t accept him. She knew she shouldn’t—this was just like Alex. Impulsive. Doing things he would later regret. He’d been like it all through their childhood. But Jane had no energy. No strength. No courage. The fear Stepmama would, somehow, force her to marry Pikeford was all-consuming.

  She had dwindled until she was a mere husk and, like a husk, she allowed herself to be carried on the wind. ‘Yes.’

  All she wanted was for all of this—and all of them—to go away. The Duke, she could see, was uneasy. But Stepmama—oh, she was delighted! Not only was her nuisance of a stepdaughter finally off her hands, but the family would now be irrevocably connected to that of the Duke of Cheriton, one of the most powerful and influential men in the land.

  Jane’s conscience made a valiant late attempt at fairness and she clutched Alex’s hand.

  ‘Alex! No... I should not have... I am not thinking straight... You need not...’

  Her breathless protest died away as he held her gaze with those gorgeous golden-brown eyes of his. Alex grinned that old reckless care-for-nothing grin that had stolen Jane’s young heart years before. He pulled her close and put his lips to her ear.

  ‘C’mon, Janey. It’ll be all right. It’ll be fun.’

  The same words with which he had led her into devilment during their youth—he to prove he wouldn’t be confined by rules; she, willing to do anything to escape Stepmama and to please her childhood hero. There had always been consequences, of course, but now—here was her chance to escape Stepmama for good. Never again would she have to bite her tongue as she endured one of Stepmama’s diatribes about how plain and useless she was.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She caught
the Duke’s frown from the corner of her eye and quailed inside. But it seemed Alex had noticed, too, because his arm snaked around her waist again and he faced his father, chin jutting, head high, bringing to mind the defiant boy, full of bravado.

  ‘Father?’

  His challenge was unmistakable. A muscle leapt in the Duke’s jaw, but he nodded.

  ‘If it is your wish, then we will make the arrangements. Wait here.’

  He turned on his heel and strode away and Jane felt the tension leach from Alex. She eyed those left in the clearing. Stepmama was already crowing to Papa about the connection and the splendid society wedding she would arrange. Alex’s uncle, Lord Vernon Beauchamp, walked over to Alex and Jane, followed by Mr Graystoke—a half-Romany whose father was an earl, and who was married to Alex’s Aunt Cecily, but refused to be called ‘uncle’. Stepmama—for all she fawned over the Duke—held his brother-in-law in disdain and made no secret of the fact.

  ‘Alex? What can I do to help?’ Concern etched Lord Vernon’s face as he gripped his nephew’s shoulder.

  ‘You can shut her up about lavish society weddings,’ Alex growled. He looked down at Jane. ‘Come and stay at the Abbey, Janey. Don’t go back there and let her terrorise you into having what she wants. Unless...do you want a big wedding?’

  Jane shook her head. She could think of nothing worse. ‘Stepmama only wants one because she thinks it will help my sisters attract husbands.’

  Mr Graystoke’s lip curled. He strolled unhurriedly across to where Stepmama was still talking at Papa. Silence descended.

  ‘The young couple prefer a quiet wedding. Family only,’ he said.

  Papa flushed red as Stepmama visibly bristled.

  ‘Who do you think—?’

  Her mouth shut with a snap as Lord Vernon joined them.

  ‘And Lady Jane will stay at the Abbey until Alex obtains the licence,’ he drawled. ‘I foresee no objection from the Bishop and you may rest assured Jane will be well chaperoned in the meantime.’