Once Upon a Christmas Wedding

by Scarlett Scott

  It took Hugo a full five minutes to pace the length of the long drawing room and back while he waited for his father to make an appearance.

  How he hated this place and how glad he’d be to see the last of it. It was a house, not a home, with no evidence of a woman’s touch since his mother had died so many years before.

  No flowers in vases or paintings other than austere landscapes and portraits.

  No feminine, decorative touches.

  His father channelled his wealth into accoutrements that showcased his success, his power. Not his appreciation of culture for he had none. He’d been a lad when his father had amassed his fortune. Thomas Adams’ own home had been modest for the first few years of his life, his schooling rudimentary. Success was based on grit and grind and, as far as he was concerned, anything soft or beautiful indicated weakness.

  Of course, a potential wife from the upper classes might present herself as soft and beautiful but it would be her breeding papers that would concern Thomas Adams.

  Having failed to fulfil his own marital ambitions — Hugo knew this from the servants’ whispers — Thomas Adams wanted just the right wife for his son. He’d go to his grave having overseen the Adams family’s elevation from traders to aristocrats within his lifetime.

  Hugo stopped by a wall of paintings. Landscapes and horses, mostly. Turners and Constables. It was Hugo’s favourite room in the house but he doubted his father considered the artworks themselves. He’d bought them as investments.

  Just as he’d seen it as an investment to nip Hugo’s love of beauty in the bud by sending him off to boarding school.

  However, a gruelling regime at Eton had only reinforced Hugo’s hatred of vigorous pursuits rather than turning him into the man his father wanted him to be. Fencing lessons, pugilism bouts with the English heavyweight champion, and various other efforts to desensitise Hugo in the hope he’d develop manly interests and abandon his whimsies, had had the opposite effect.

  Hugo moved to the end of the landscapes and stood facing a portrait of a pretty, finely dressed young woman standing by a horse. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that his mother had been relegated to the shadows. His father never spoke of his late wife. She’d been a solicitor’s daughter, too inferior to fulfil his marital ambitions, yet beguiling enough to entice Thomas Adams into a sexual indiscretion he’d regretted his whole life. The resulting pregnancy had required that honour be fulfilled but the marriage had been doomed. Twelve years of miscarriages had finally resulted in Hugo. His mother had died five years later giving birth to another son who’d died within the week.

  Hugo turned away with a sigh.

  His father was keeping him waiting for effect. He wanted to rattle Hugo so he’d have the advantage.

  Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Loud and intimidating, as they were intended to be. Hugo squared his shoulders and positioned himself with his back to the fireplace as the door opened. The room was cold but the warmth from the flames would provide some meagre bolstering, he hoped.

  “Your trunks have gone ahead of you, boy?”

  It was the kind of greeting he’d have expected having not seen his father for three months. The scathing correspondence had become a torrent, but his father was more economical in speech.

  Hugo nodded. “They have.”

  “And what do you have to say for yourself.”

  “I was a fool.”

  “A fool to squander the inheritance your great aunt kept in trust, enabling you, these past two years, to enjoy a freedom most young men can only dream of.”

  “It was not much but I was glad not to have to call on you, Father.”

  “But now I’m the one who has to get you out of this mess of your making.”

  “If sending me to India is what you mean by that, then yes. I, as you well know, would prefer to remain in London and make my own way in the world until I come into my inheritance in two years.”

  “So you can marry your little whore? I don’t think so.”

  Hugo steeled himself to remain impassive. His father would goad and goad until he forced the passionate response he was after. He’d done it so many times before, but Hugo was older and wiser now. Charity had helped him see that biting back was futile. And although he despised himself for not defending her good name right now, he felt sure she’d be the first to counsel him against rash words.

  Just the thought of what he’d condemned her to was enough to make his knees buckle and his mind whirl with shame.

  Though, strangely, it seemed the skills and fortitude Hugo had reluctantly acquired were proving their value. He wasn’t shaking like the seven-year-old who’d wept when his father had beaten him. Or his nanny, for that matter. Her swing was, if anything, even more deadly, and Hugo hadn’t mourned her for a moment when she’d dropped dead in front of him on his eleventh birthday.

  The first time any woman — or man, for that matter — had shown him tenderness was when his father had shoved him into a bedroom at Madame Chambon’s and he’d found himself face to face with a trembling, equally terrified, girl.

  Now, there was a thought to bolster him.

  In the nearly two years since he’d met Charity, Hugo’s life had become something he could bear. Something that gave him pleasure, in fact.

  He swallowed past the lump in his throat. Now he’d ruined it as effectively as if he’d blown it up with gunpowder.

  “You’ve done your best by me, Father, and I know you want me to show the gratitude you feel is your due. But I have no gratitude when my hand is forced. I do not want to leave England.”

  “But fools who lose at the gaming table deserve no sympathy, and I am doing what any concerned parent would do who only desires their son to become a man and not throw away his future.” Thomas Adams’s moustache twitched. He moved towards a cluster of chairs but neither sat nor invited his son to sit. This interview would be over within a couple of minutes. And, within the week, Hugo would be on a boat for far distant shores and his father would be shooting grouse at his country estate.

  “Cyril — ”

  “Made you do it? Come now! You’d blame your cousin for your own actions? That’s beyond anything. Disgusting! I can’t bear to hear you blather excuses like that. Your cousin is twice the man you’ll ever be, and I only wish he were my son.”

  “He’ll be a willing pupil if I should perish and he finally becomes what he and you have always wanted — your heir.”

  “What rot! Blood will out, and I still have hope that you will become a man I can be proud of. Just because Cyril was with you when you dropped a fortune is of no account to me.”

  Hugo knew better than to ask his father if he’d put Cyril up to it. His father would have no compunction in using a left hook to defend his dubious practises and Hugo did not want Charity’s last sight of him to be in the guise of the victim with a bloodied nose. At least let him face her with what dignity he could.

  “Nothing to say for yourself, as usual?”

  Hugo shrugged. It was safer to remain silent when his father was in this mood. He concentrated on the clock on the mantelpiece rather than his father’s face, though he could tell by the air of tense anticipation that his father was spoiling for a fight and would be disappointed if Hugo didn’t bite.

  “So, that’s it then.” The older man looked disappointed. He rolled his shoulders and balled his fists briefly before adding, “Your uncle will meet you at the docks at dawn the day you leave.”

  “Then I wish you all the best, father,” Hugo said without warmth though nearly lightheaded with relief that this interview was over as he took a step towards the door.

  “You can save your farewells for I shall be on the quay, also.” His father stopped him with a mirthless laugh. “No need to look surprised. I’m doing my due diligence to ensure you don’t bring your little harlot on board. The captain has also been given orders to keep an eye out for stowaways.”

  Hugo clenched his teeth and turned. “Her name is Charity
and she is the most decent and honest woman I have ever met,” he muttered.

  “Well, I’m sure she knows better than to knock at my door asking for my charity when you’re gone.” His father laughed as if he’d made the greatest joke.

  Hugo waited for his mirth to subside. “Charity is the proudest woman I’ve met. She’d rather die than beg.”

  “Shows how little you know women, my boy,” his father said, still seemingly light-hearted from his unusual foray into levity. “A girl’s got to eat and you’re no longer her meal ticket. She’ll be spreading her legs for the next fellow she’s already got lined up before your boat has left harbour — "

  His sentence was truncated by a cry of outrage rather than pain as Hugo’s fist shot out, collecting him on the jaw.

  But the response was quicker than Hugo could see coming.

  As he knew it would be.

  “Puling, pathetic creature,” his father taunted, looking down at Hugo lying at his feet. “Wipe that bloody nose and get out of here.” With a hefty kick that collected Hugo’s rib cage, his father loomed over him, his eyes bulbous over his thick nose and luxuriant moustache. His teeth were bared and his pleasure was genuine for, once again, he could end his latest altercation with his son as the clear victor. “It’s a big bad world out there, my boy, and you need to learn that it’s deeds and actions that make a man. Not pretty words and paintings.”

  Chapter 3

  Hugo wove his way through the streets and alleyways, holding his ribcage and trying not to limp, until he was in Soho. He could navigate his way to Madame Chambon’s blindfolded if he had to.

  And right now, he’d never been more desperate for a pair of tender arms to fall into and a kind word. He didn’t deserve any of it, of course, and if he wanted to be truly hard on himself, he’d deny himself even this pleasure — if he didn’t know how much Charity also needed whatever comfort he could give her.

  She ran down the stairs with a cry of pleasure when he was announced while the other girls looked on with mixed expressions. He could read the pity and the condemnation in their eyes, but that didn’t matter compared with being alone with the only girl he cared about. The only girl he ever would care about.

  “Hugo, I wasn’t sure when I’d see you again!”

  “I’ll see you every moment I can until I’m dragged away,” he muttered, taking her hand and leading her to the stairs. “Come, dearest, there are some matters I need to talk to you about.”

  “Oh, but Hugo, you’re hurt!” She stopped halfway up the stairs, gasping when she saw him wince. “Your cheek is swollen. And why are you holding your side? Who did this to you?”

  Her concern and outrage that someone should have harmed him made up for all the other times there’d been no one to dress his cuts or offer him a word of sympathy. Gently he kissed the top of her head before squeezing her hand and indicating that they continue to her room. She didn’t need to know how powerless he was in the face of his father’s determination that Hugo be removed from her orbit. It might make her lose heart when, even in his darkest hours, he still held out hope that one day, yes, one day, they might be reunited when he’d carried out his sentence and regained his freedom.

  He wouldn’t deserve her if, by some miracle, she was there waiting for him on the docks in two years, but right now it was the only hope he had.

  After a long look, Charity forbore to question him, pressing herself close to his uninjured side, as if in silent solidarity with the pain she instinctively knew he was suffering.

  Charity didn’t need to be told what he was feeling. She was like some angel of goodness sent to earth to give him the strength he needed to navigate each day.

  With the door closed behind them, she pointed to the bed, all practicality. “Now, take off your shirt and let me see the bruising. I’ll find some liniment.” She helped him loosen his clothes, trailing her hand gently down his side.

  “Will you tell me who did this to you? And why?” Her voice was infinitely tender.

  Hugo shook his head. “It’s best I don’t, my love.”

  She didn’t press the point. “Come, let me look after you,” she said, kneeling on the bed beside him after she’d ordered him to lie on his back.

  Hugo closed his eyes and let his mind wander, revelling in her gentle touch and the quiet comfort of her presence as she rubbed in the soothing lotion.

  “I love you so much,” he whispered.

  “I know you do.” Rhythmically, she massaged his chest, avoiding pressure on his injured side. “And you mustn’t despair, Hugo.”

  Hugo felt the lump in his throat grow. How could he not despair? His actions had ramifications that could destroy the angel beside him. How could he have been such a fool as to take the bait Cyril had offered? He’d never trusted his cousin when they were children so why had he accepted that fatal final whiskey and that ridiculous challenge? First Hugo had lost to Cyril, then Cyril had suggested he could win back, not only what he’d lost, but a vast sum more from another bosky fellow who clearly had been in on the ruse.

  He clenched his fists and fought the tears — and the little voice always perched on his shoulder that parroted the poison his father had spouted his whole life: you’re worthless, you’re a fool. You deserve nothing!

  He was a fool and he certainly didn’t deserve Charity. But allowing himself to be defeated so easily was hardly going to save Charity from the sordid life to which he’d condemned her if he didn’t do something to rectify the situation.

  Sitting up abruptly, he put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. Blue and beautiful and pools of innocence. She was innocent and he’d give his life to keep her as safe and protected as she was in this moment.

  Right now, she had him to pay the bills that would keep her benefactress satisfied, and a roof over her head and food on the table. He paid for her clothes and any other necessities and entertainments. It was a modest life but at least it meant she didn’t have to take on other clients. And it seemed to satisfy Madame Chambon.

  “I sold a painting this morning. It didn’t fetch much.” No need to know that Lord Cowdril had haggled Hugo down to half his asking price after he’d voiced appreciation having seen the picture by chance when he’d stopped Hugo in the street. Hugo had been on his way to give it to Charity. “Also, a couple of pieces of my mother’s jewellery and my boxing gloves and fencing equipment. It’s very little but it’ll buy you a couple of weeks.” His heart was pumping. It all sounded so inadequate. What were two weeks when he needed to cover one hundred and three? That was how many remained until his twenty-fifth birthday when he’d come into his grandfather’s inheritance. “I’ve spoken to Madame Chambon and she’s promised to continue to house you provided I keep the funds coming.”

  Charity stroked his cheek. “You’re sweet. The girls are very jealous of me, you know.” Her smile was gentle. She was trying so hard to make this easy for him. Yet he knew how terrified she must be feeling inside. He had to make sure she knew he’d not let her down. That he’d send her whatever he could.

  “Jealous? That you’ve allied yourself with a good-for-nothing who loses his entire fortune at the gaming table so he can’t follow through on his promises?”

  Charity shrugged, then leaned into him, drawing his head against her breast and stroking his cheek. “What other gentleman here visits with anything else on their minds other than their own self-gratification?”

  “I swear you will never become one of Madame Chambon’s girls! You’re my girl and I’ll find some way to look after you until we can marry.” He closed his eyes and breathed in the sweet scent of her freshly bathed skin. She was intoxicating. “When I sail you will lose my protection here,” he whispered.

  She was silent a long time, digesting his words. She knew how much he wanted her. Needed her. “Perhaps I could join you, later?”

  It was painful to answer. “Don’t think I’ve not gone over every such possibility but…” He shook his head, shifting so he c
ould look at her. “There’s a reason none of the other fellows take wives until they’re thirty. One needs to be in a decent financial position and able to settle down somewhere that’s safe for a wife and family. The conditions are intolerable. The heat, malaria…Diseases like cholera and dysentery are rife. It’s no place for a woman, or so I’ve been told by anyone who’s experienced it.”

  The lamp flickered and Hugo stared at the red flock wallpaper as his mind did its ever-revolving circuit of drawing in one possibility or another, only to discard each one. “My father will keep me on short rations, while my uncle will be ever vigilant. Father is determined I marry whom he deems a respectable wife.”

  Charity let out a short laugh. Hugo could not believe her restraint in letting him off the hook when she could have wept and thrown things at him for ruining what they had and for destroying their future together.

  No, jeopardising their future together. He would be back. He had to believe he’d not die of jungle fever before he’d returned to London to save Charity.

  “The irony, my darling,” she went on, almost as if she were at a tea party and discussing some amusing on-dit. “If my respectable papa had honoured his promise to marry my once-respectable late mama, I’d have been the legitimate daughter of a viscount.”

  The irony had often struck Hugo, too.

  “Sadly, there are many of us by-blows in similar positions to me,” she went on, indicating her sordid surroundings, her voice lighter than it ought to have been, considering the sorry truth of it. “It’s all too easy for an entitled gentleman to have a bit of fun with the staff. He wouldn’t dream of marrying one of them, though.” She shrugged. “Or acknowledging a bastard. It’s just not the done thing, my darling.”

  Hugo looked her in the eye. She rarely spoke about her father but a sudden hope had taken root. “Do you know who your father is? Where he is?”

  Charity’s smile was indulgent. “Yes. But I’m not going to approach him, if that’s what you’re implying. Mama tried that and the distress of his dismissal nearly undid her. He questioned whether I was his. He’ll hardly say any different, now, more than ten years later.”