Once Upon a Christmas Wedding

by Scarlett Scott

  Harold had told her men were animals and that Mr Carrington would use her as if she was nothing to him, like a dog. Mr Hardy was not like such men, men who would indeed use her, but would he deny himself just to make her feel safe?

  Yes.

  She’d known him a matter of hours, but every instinct told her that Ned Hardy was a good man to his core. He was solid and dependable, and he’d never use his strength against her. He reminded her of a towering English oak tree, proud and quiet in its solid dignity.

  Grace smiled at that, and went to bed happy and hopeful for the first time she could remember.

  Chapter 4

  “Wherein our heroine dares to dream of the future.”

  Grace watched out of the window, wrapped in a blanket from the bed. Mr Hardy was busy in the yard, his breath blowing steamy clouds on the freezing air. The sun was coming up, a brighter patch glowing on the horizon against a grey-white sky.

  She watched him haul bales of hay and trudge back and forth with buckets of water. He’d greeted the pigs and stopped to rub the huge sow’s big belly, laughing as Rufus got jealous and demanded equal attention. He’d tugged at the dog’s silky ears with affection and stroked his head, and Grace had smiled. Her brother would never have treated one of his dogs with such fondness. She watched as Mr Hardy carried on with his work, sending handfuls of corn scattering across the cobbles for the hens to fuss over before moving on to see to the horses.

  If Harold didn’t find her and ruin everything, this would be her life. Fear prickled beneath her skin as she realised how ill-equipped she was for this life. Not only could she not cook anything but bread, she had no knowledge of how a farm ran. She barely knew one end of a sheep from the other, or a pig. Mr Hardy’s late wife would have known; she’d have been raised for such a life and been a help to him, someone he could turn to. What use would Grace be?

  Well, she would learn, and she’d do it quickly, too.

  She knew most of her class would pity her for marrying a man so far beneath her, but Grace knew better. The only gentlemen she’d ever known hadn’t been worthy of the name, and had only ever viewed her as a possession. If she’d been lucky, she’d have been dressed in finery and jewels, and paraded about until the time her husband got her with child. If she survived that, she could turn a blind eye as he took a mistress. Such was the life of a lady, as far as she could tell. It was the life her mother had lived until she’d died, when Grace was still a little girl.

  If she found herself married to Mr Carrington, life would be a good deal worse. She closed her eyes against the memory of his hand on her wrists, holding them above her head as his free hand burrowed beneath her skirts. It had been instinctive to raise her knee, though it had been more luck than judgement that she’d found her mark.

  Mr Carrington had made a strange sound and gone the oddest colour, but Grace hadn’t waited to see what came next. She’d taken to her heels and run, hiding in the attics until Mr Carrington left and her brother had gone to bed before she’d come down again. The next morning, Harold had beaten her for her behaviour, though nowhere the bruises would show.

  It had still been worth it. Anything was better than having that vile man’s hands upon her.

  With a sudden rush of guilt for having spent so much time watching Mr Hardy work and not lifting a finger herself, Grace hurried to wash and dress. She decided she must ask him for a needle and thread so she could alter the clothes he’d given her to fit. That was at least something with which she had some skill; she could mend for him, too. Altering these clothes would be a thrifty, wifely thing to do, would it not? Grace paused. Perhaps he’d not want that. He’d kept the clothes, after all, so perhaps they were precious to him. Had he been desperately in love with his wife? Did he keep her things close from sorrow? Did he mourn the loss of her still?

  Grace’s heart clenched, and she told herself it was pity for him that made her chest tight, though she knew better. What an ungrateful wretch she was, to have a man like this give her so much in such a short time, and yet still resent the fact that he might have loved his wife. Shame washed over her and she hurried down to the kitchen, determined to make amends and make herself useful.

  The door opened just as she set foot in the kitchen, and Grace felt awkward as Mr Hardy came in. She froze as he set eyes on her. He stared for a moment, unmoving, and then let out a huff of laughter.

  “I still can’t believe you’re real, lass,” he said with a crooked grin, putting down the dirty boots he carried on an old cloth in the corner of the room, apparently set aside for the purpose. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it up, the scent of icy, winter air reaching her as he moved. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone.”

  “Wishful thinking, I’m afraid,” Grace said, trying to make him laugh, but his face fell, and he frowned, his dark eyes serious.

  “Don’t say that. It’s far from true. You’re the best Christmas present I ever had in my whole life. Certainly the prettiest,” he added, flashing that grin again as Grace noted a dimple in his cheek.

  Her chest tightened, the air caught and held in her lungs as pleasure filled her chest. How easily he said such lovely things.

  “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” she said, aware she sounded breathless. She was breathless. That dimple had been disarming in the most devastating way.

  He stared at her and shook his head, consternation in his eyes. “If that ain’t the most tragic thing I ever heard, I don’t know what is.”

  She watched as he scratched his head, setting this thick, dark hair all in disorder. It was a touch too long and Grace had the sudden urge to reach out and smooth it back down again.

  “Hungry?” he asked, looking relieved as Grace nodded. “Right. Breakfast, then. Sit yourself down.”

  “Oh, but… I….” He paused as she protested, and Grace flushed. “Isn’t that a wife’s job, to… to make breakfast for her husband?”

  She watched, fascinated, as two spots of colour burned high on his tanned face.

  “Aye,” he said, his voice low and gruff. “Reckon it is, though you’ll have Mrs Tucknott most days, and we can get a maid, too. Not much point with just me here, but you’ll need one, I know. I’ll not work you to the bone, lass.”

  “I want to help, though,” Grace objected. “And I would like to cook… for you.”

  Pleasure warmed his eyes, and Grace didn’t bother to fight the quiver of anticipation inside her at the sight.

  “D’ye know how?” he asked, his voice soft as he knew the answer as well as she did. It was his innate kindness that framed the question gently, not wanting to embarrass her.

  Grace bit her lip, humiliated as she reminded herself what a bad bargain the man had made in rescuing her. She hadn’t the first idea how to be a farmer’s wife. “N-No,” she stammered, praying he’d not change his mind about marrying her when he realised how useless she was. “But I should like to learn. I must learn. Please.”

  “Right ye are, then,” he said. “Fetch the last of the bread from the pantry. We’ll be needing some fresh when that’s gone.”

  “Oh, I can do that,” Grace said with a rush of satisfaction at being able to do something useful. She hurried off to fetch the bread.

  “Bring that dish of eggs, too,” he called.

  The next half-hour was spent companionably as he instructed Grace on the art of frying bacon and eggs, and then frying slices of bread in the bacon fat. One half of the bread was darker and crispier than the other, as she’d cut the slices and made a mess of it. One half was as thick as a doorstep, the other wafer thin.

  The kitchen was filled with delicious scents and by the time their plates were full, and the table set ready for them, Grace’s stomach was growling with anticipation.

  “Ye did a grand job,” he said, smiling his approval at his full plate.

  “Oh, but the bread is all lopsided, and I broke your eggs,” Grace said with a frown as she reached for her knife and for
k.

  “I like them that way,” Mr Hardy said, shrugging.

  Grace watched as he cut a thick bit of bacon, then a piece of the fried bread, speared both with his fork, and dipped it in the egg. He closed his eyes as he sighed with pleasure and Grace experienced a rush of something hot and liquid low in her belly at the sound, and sat riveted by the sight of his throat working as he swallowed.

  He opened his eyes to discover her staring at him, open-mouthed. Flushing hard, Grace averted her eyes and returned her attention to her breakfast.

  They ate in silence for a while as Grace did her best to keep her gaze from returning to his. She’d never been so aware of another person in this way before, as though her body were in some way linked to the man beside her by invisible strings. To her, they thrummed with tension, every movement triggering a response inside her. It was exciting, invigorating, and a little daunting, and she wondered at her boldness in wanting him to feel the same. Grace licked the bacon grease from her lips and dared another glance at him, only to find he was gazing at her this time, his eyes fixed on her mouth. Her heart skittered in her chest. He cleared his throat and looked hastily away.

  “There’s a cookery book in the pantry. I bought it for my wife, years back, but she preferred plain fare and never took to it. Mrs Tucknott has used it, though, and made some fine dishes. If ye were wanting to learn such things, ye are welcome to use it.”

  “Oh, yes,” Grace said eagerly, grasping at the opportunity to bring something useful to this marriage. “I should like very much to learn. I want to be a help to you about the farm, so I beg that you will instruct me in all the things I must know. I’m sure I could help with the animals in the morning, too.”

  Mr Hardy frowned, his expression troubled. “That’s not necessary,” he said, shaking his head. “I can see to the beasts, there’s no need to stir yourself so early. You’ll not be used to it.”

  “No,” Grace allowed, her voice hesitant as she sensed his unease. “But if this is to be my life, I should learn. Did your first wife help you in such a way?”

  “Aye, of course, but Sarah was born to such a life. You’re a lady, and—”

  “Mr Hardy,” Grace said, surprised by the force of her own voice, “you are taking on a wife you neither wanted nor expected. I’m aware of what you sacrifice to do so, that perhaps you had plans to… to court someone.” Grace pushed down the troubling sensation that rose in her chest at that and ploughed on. “I’m bringing nothing but trouble to you, but I’ll not compound that trouble by sitting back and watching you work twice as hard to support a wife who is of no earthly use to you.”

  She ground to a halt as she realised he was staring at her, quite obviously bewildered.

  “Not want ye?” he said, and she became aware of the quality of his voice, somewhere between outrage and astonishment. “Where in blazes did ye get that hare-brained idea from? ’Cause it weren’t from me.”

  There was amusement in the words and, as delighted as Grace was to hear him say such things, she felt a flash of indignation at the falsehood.

  “Yes, it was,” she shot back.

  His dark eyebrows rose, and he set down his knife and fork. “Lass, I’ve known ye less than twenty-four hours, though I admit that’s hard to credit with all that’s gone on, but I know dam—very well that I’ve never said I don’t want to wed ye.”

  “N-No,” Grace said, wishing now she’d never started this conversation, as she’d be forced to explain herself. “But you… you did imply that… that you didn’t….”

  Her courage deserted her, and she stared down at her plate.

  “Didn’t what?”

  Grace took a deep breath, her cheeks hotter than the pan in which they’d fried the bacon. “Didn’t… desire me.”

  There was such an absolute silence that she simply had to raise her head and dare to meet his eyes.

  He looked dumbstruck. After a time, he collected himself and closed his mouth, which had been hanging open. Grace watched as he rubbed a hand over his face and got to his feet. He paced to the fire, stared at it, and paced back. She looked up at him as he stared down at her, watched him take a breath to speak, stop, rub the back of his neck.

  Finally, he cleared his throat and sat down.

  “Miss Honeyfield.”

  “Grace,” she corrected. “We’re betrothed, after all.”

  He smiled at that, his dark eyes warm. “Grace,” he said, and the sound of her name, spoken with that rich country burr, did something to her. It was so tender. Her heart thudded, her skin so alive that she was aware of everything, from the warmth of the fire at her back and the garters tied about her thighs, to the too big clothes bunched at her waist, the fabric rasping against flesh that seemed suddenly oversensitive.

  “Grace,” he said again, as her chest rose and fell at the intimacy of the moment. “Did ye have no looking glass where ye came from?”

  “Of course,” she said, perplexed, and more so when his eyes darkened.

  “Then, do ye not understand the effect ye have on a man?”

  Her pleasure at his words faded almost at once as she remembered Mr Carrington and the way he’d told her she was a tease, that she’d been flaunting herself to him, that she’d been asking for him to lay hands on her when she’d done nothing but try to avoid him at all costs.

  “Nay, lass.”

  She jolted as Mr Hardy moved from his chair and went to his knees before her, taking her hand in his.

  “Don’t look like that. It wasn’t an accusation. I know well that some men are pitiful creatures governed by lust and selfishness. Ye cannot help your beauty any more than the birds can help flying. Both are wondrous things and I shall never tire of looking upon ye, but ye cannot think I don’t desire ye, surely?”

  Grace swallowed, considering the question. Last night she’d believed he’d only been trying to reassure her with his words about never touching her as a husband touched a wife. Surely he didn’t mean for her to be nothing more than a pretty ornament, with no use or part in his life? She knew he was troubled by the idea he was below her, but last night she’d believed that was something she could easily overcome.

  That belief had wobbled this morning in the light of a new day. When she’d considered his wife and how inexperienced and ill-suited she was to replace her, she’d felt uncertain of her ability to take Sarah’s place, to make him happy, even to bring him pleasure, but she could not question the look in his eyes now.

  “I did doubt it,” she said. “When… you said you’d not touch me.”

  His eyebrows rose, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and giving a tantalising glimpse of that adorable dimple. “I’m a damned fool for saying that, and I wanted to cut out my tongue the moment I’d said it. I only meant for you to be comfortable, to feel safe. To understand that I’d not touch ye before ye felt ready for it, and never if ye didn’t welcome me. I never said I didn’t want to.”

  “Oh,” she said, with a deep sigh of relief, and then the blush which had faded returned with a vengeance as she realised how telling that sigh had been.

  “I cannot wait to wed ye, Grace,” he said now, the low growl of his voice making awareness of him thrum under her skin. “But we have a week to get to know each other and, if ye should change ye mind, I’d… I’d understand.”

  “No!” she exclaimed, alarmed by the idea. “I shan’t change my mind.”

  He smiled then, and the dimple was a sweet little divot in his rugged features. It tempted her, inviting her to make assumptions about his nature, about a playful side to his character she’d not yet seen but suspected was there.

  “What?” he asked, a curious look in his eyes, as Grace realised her attention had been captivated.

  She released a breath of laughter, gesturing to his face. “You… you have a dimple.”

  “I do not,” he retorted, looking rather disgusted by the idea.

  “You do,” she insisted and then found herself chuckling as she added.
“When you smile it’s quite visible. Only one, mind. Don’t you have a looking glass, Mr Hardy?”

  He snorted, aware she was teasing him. “Aye, but I don’t go around smirking at myself when I’m shaving.” He rubbed a hand over his face, as though he could seek the thing out and remove it. “Where?” he demanded.

  Grace watched that strong hand move over his face and remembered the warmth of it wrapped about her fingers, the feel of it at her waist. “Just here,” she said, daring to raise her hand to his face. She held her breath as she touched a fingertip to his cheek, in the place where that distracting little dimple had appeared.

  “Are ye sure?” he asked, his eyes darker still as he gazed up at her and she felt he was asking her something else, quite different.

  “Very sure,” she said breathlessly.

  He raised his hand and slid it over hers. Her skin burned where he touched her, conscious of every callus, of the rough texture of a working man’s hands on her. He lifted her hand and turned it palm side up, and she watched, her heart thudding loudly in her ears as he pressed his mouth to the tender flesh.

  Grace drew in a sharp breath as his lips met her skin, part shock, part delight as sensation shot through her. It was as though his mouth had tugged at something within her, something connected to a private part of her that blazed to life and clamoured for more of his touch, his kisses.

  He was breathing hard too, she realised, and she recognised the effort it took for him to release her hand and move away from her.

  “Eat up,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “Be a pity to let yer breakfast go cold when ye worked so hard to make it.”

  Grace did as he told her, finding herself ravenously hungry, and discovering that the hearty breakfast, good as it was, did not entirely satisfy the need.

  Chapter 5