Once Upon a Christmas Wedding

by Scarlett Scott

  “We spoke of the art, of course,” she replied, though the statement didn’t even begin to touch on the unspoken things that had passed between herself and the lieutenant.

  How could she explain it when she hardly understood it herself? All Josephine knew was that she’d seen such sadness and pain in the man’s eyes, and it had been so acute her heart had squeezed at the sight of it. Yet, she’d been unable to look away. She felt like a bit of metal drawn toward a magnet, pulled in by a force beyond her control. It was ludicrous. She’d never met the man, and they only exchanged a handful of words. Nevertheless, there had been an undercurrent to their entire exchange, a dozen words going unsaid.

  Look at me, his gaze seemed to cry out.

  And why shouldn’t it, when everyone else in the room either went out of their way to avoid looking him in the eye, or had ogled his injured leg?

  I see you, she’d thought as she stared back into those turbulent blue eyes.

  In fact, during their brief time together, she’d seen only him.

  But, Josephine could never explain any of that to Adelaide, nor did she wish to share the private musings of her confused mind.

  “He showed me the portrait of the first earl, as well as a few of the battle scenes. That was all.”

  Adelaide reached for her with the swiftness of a whip cracking through the air, gripping Josephine’s jaw in a vice-like grip. She drew Josephine closer, venom lacing her every word.

  “If I didn’t feel obligated to bring you here to even out the numbers, this week would prove far more pleasant. I might be forced to tolerate your presence in my life and in my home until your twenty-first birthday, but I will not allow you to ruin Violet’s chances.”

  Josephine snatched her face free of her stepmother’s hold and took a step back, jaw clenched as she gave Adelaide a warning look. “Don’t touch me. And I assure you, I have no desire to be here any more than you want me to be. But here we are, with only one year until my twenty-first birthday. Then, you can be certain I will take my leave of you, and you’ll never have to tolerate my offensive presence ever again.”

  Violet clung to the edge of the vanity, her reflection wide-eyed in the mirror as she watched the exchange through the glass. She remained silent as she always did when Josephine and Adelaide began to butt heads.

  “That day cannot arrive fast enough for my liking,” Adelaide grumbled. “In the meantime, you will do your best to be as unobtrusive as possible during this house party. Pretend you are a potted plant, or a statue, or some other voiceless, lifeless thing. I cannot fathom how offended the Davies’ will be if they think for a moment that you are out to seduce their son under their own roof.”

  “I was not—”

  “You can hardly help your carnal nature,” Adelaide said with a disdainful sniff. “After all, you are your mother’s daughter. Still, you’ve been raised in my household as a lady—like my dear, departed husband demanded in his will. You know how to conduct yourself, and you will prove that by remaining out of the way so that Violet can shine. Her future depends upon Lord Davies taking a liking to her during this party. My daughter will be a countess … and you will do as you are told, or I will ensure you come to regret it.”

  Before Josephine could reply, she turned on her heel and strode for the door to her room. “Violet, change into your riding habit. I overheard the countess mentioning an afternoon ride, and Lord Davies will be in attendance. Josephine, you are to remain in this room until a maid comes to ready you for dinner. I don’t want to see your face again until then.”

  Leaving neither girl with room for argument, she disappeared, slamming it with a forceful yank.

  Josephine let out a forceful breath, the tension in her shoulders melting away in the absence of Adelaide’s overwhelming presence. She darted a glance at Violet, who relaxed a bit now that they were alone. Their gazes met in the mirror, and her half-sister gave her an apologetic look. Over the years, she’d tried to think of Violet as a sister in truth, not just someone she shared a father with. And while Violet had always been kind to her, they had never been particularly close. Their relationship had never gone beyond polite conversation and a shallow camaraderie. They rarely spoke of their father, nor did Violet ever come to her defense when Adelaide treated Josephine to her special brand of cruelty.

  And why should she? Violet was quite comfortable in her position as the legitimate daughter and the sole object of what little affection Adelaide had to give. She wouldn’t see it as being in her best interest to interfere and risk losing her mother’s favor.

  “Mother might not have said this quite as eloquently as she wanted to,” Violet ventured, turning on the bench to face Josephine. “But she is right to warn you away from the lieutenant. I cannot explain it, but something about that man frightens me. Some of them never return home from war the same, you know. And there is something … off about him.”

  Josephine bristled, annoyed at Violet’s quick judgment of Maxwell Davies. “He is a man like any other, and he was kind to me. Besides, he can hardly help that he was sent off to war and returned injured. Those people in that drawing room ought to have applauded him instead of treating him like a leper.”

  Violet’s mouth opened into a little ‘o’ of surprise, and Josephine cursed herself for speaking her thoughts aloud. It made no sense for her to leap to the man’s defense so passionately when she hardly knew the man.

  “Of course everyone admires him for his service to England,” Violet replied. “But a man like that isn’t right for you, Jo, and I think you know that. His family … your background … I suppose what I mean to say is that you should not let yourself think anything can come from his kindness toward you. At least, nothing respectable.”

  Typically, she had more patience for Violet—who was only a sheltered girl spouting the nonsense her mother had been spoon-feeding her their entire lives—but after her stirring introduction to Maxwell Davies and Adelaide’s harsh words, Josephine’s nerves were worn thin.

  “Right,” she snapped, turning her back to Violet. “Of course. I am my mother’s daughter, just like Adelaide said. Why would any man want me for anything other than a Negress bed-warmer?”

  Violet’s voice rang out before her, heavy with regret. “Jo, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know very well what you meant,” she muttered, stooping to open the trunk storing the novels she’d brought from home. “Don’t you have a ride to prepare for?”

  She detected the sound of Violet rising and crossing the room toward her. Josephine straightened with a book in hand, swiveling to avoid any bodily contact. She could still feel the burn of Adelaide’s hand on her face, and couldn’t bear to be touched just now.

  Violet drew her hand back, her brow furrowed as she studied Josephine with mournful eyes. “I’m sorry. I did not mean it that way. I only … well, we are sisters of a sort, and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “I can hardly be hurt so long as I follow your mother’s edict to act as a house plant. You don’t need to worry about me, Violet. Go, get ready to charm your future earl. He seems quite taken with you.”

  Violet smiled at that, the momentary upset forgotten in an instant. “He’s gotten even more handsome with time. God, I fear I’m half in love with him already.”

  It sat on the tip of Josephine’s tongue to remind Violet that, family acquaintance aside, she barely knew Lord Davies. However, she held the words back as she thought of the man’s brother and her instant, visceral reaction to him. She was in no position to lecture Violet when all she could think of was seeing Maxwell again at dinner.

  “I wish you luck with him,” she said, turning to lay her book on the bed before unbuttoning her jacket. “Don’t worry about me. I have a rather absorbing novel to finish. Enjoy your ride.”

  Just then, a knock sounded at the door and Violet opened it to reveal the maid who had come to help her dress. Josephine removed her own garments before requesting assistance with her corset. Pulling on a dr
essing gown over her chemise, she slid into the bed she would share with Violet and opened her novel.

  After Violet had departed, she spent the rest of the afternoon trying to lose herself in the book, but found her thoughts straying often. Each time, her wandering mind settled on blue eyes, the fathomless depths concealing a wealth of secrets and pain.

  Chapter 5

  “Miss Brewer … what do you know about her?” Maxwell asked while staring into a tumbler half-filled with brandy.

  He’d gathered in the private family drawing room with his father and brother for a drink before dinner. It would be a welcome reprieve before he was again forced into the odious company of their guests. The afternoon spent trying to remember how to make small talk had taxed him sorely, and he now had a splitting headache. If one more person told him his walking stick was ‘dashing’ or that he ‘looked well’, he would throttle someone. He was already weary of the looks people cast his way—ones filled with pity, curiosity, or outright fear. More gazes had been leveled at his leg than his actual face, and it didn’t take long for him to realize that his presence caused them all some level of discomfort. No one seemed to know how to talk to him anymore, and damned if he knew how to interact with any of them.

  The only person he actually wanted to speak with had been taken away by her stepmother, but his mind remained on her for most of the day. Thus, the question he’d just blurted to Thaddeus and his father.

  Lord Reuben Davies, Earl of Windthorne and Maxwell’s father, turned away from the sideboard clutching his own brandy with a frown. “You mean Mrs. Burton’s stepdaughter? The mulatto?”

  Maxwell nodded, tearing his gaze away from his father’s. He didn’t want to let on just how deep his interest ran when it came to Josephine, but craved any scrap of information he could gather about her.

  “I’ve never seen her before today, even though Mrs. Burton has been a friend of Mother’s for decades now. And, of course her heritage and relation to the family has me curious.”

  “Oh, it’s all very scandalous,” Thaddeus said from where he slouched on the couch beside him. “I didn’t realize you hadn’t heard the story.”

  “I have no use for gossip, as you know.”

  Though, he would now use it to his advantage. He couldn’t deny this urge to know more about her, but didn’t know her well enough yet to begin delving into her life with personal questions.

  Yet? The thought struck him like a blow to the head.

  He couldn’t come to know her past a brief acquaintance. A few weeks stood between now and his new life in Cornwall. Besides, once this house party ended, she would leave and he would likely never see her again. So, a few shreds of gossip to appease his curiosity was as far as this was likely to go, and he’d have to be content with that.

  “Burton was a fool,” the earl said, sinking into a nearby armchair. “No one can blame the man for taking Philomena Brewer for a mistress. It’s no more than other men in his position would have done. Even siring a bastard on her wasn’t beyond the pale. Half the House of Lords have their by-blows and former mistresses tucked neatly away. It’s what the idiot did on his deathbed that created one devil of a scandal.”

  At Maxwell’s curious glance, Thaddeus picked up where their father had left off. “Burton was in a riding accident four years after Josephine’s birth. Philomena had died the year prior, but Burton continued caring for his daughter, setting the girl up in a cottage in Hampshire with her grandmother and a nanny there to look after her. However, upon his death, all the money that went toward caring for the girl would dry up. Mrs. Burton had resigned herself to the fact that her husband had been in love with his Negro mistress and sired a child on her. There wasn’t much she could do about it, after all. But, she would never have allowed the monthly stipend for the girl’s care to continue.”

  “So, while he lay on his deathbed, Burton called in his solicitor,” the earl chimed in. “He had the man make changes to his will just hours before he cocked up his toes. In it, he added a clause for Mrs. Burton. If she wished to inherit his wealth, their country home, and their London townhouse, she needed to undertake the care of Miss Brewer under her own roof. She must be raised alongside his legitimate daughter until her twenty-first birthday, and given every luxury and courtesy shown to Violet—clothing, shelter, schools, the best of everything.”

  Maxwell paused with his glass halfway to his lips, momentarily stunned. He’d never heard of such a thing in his life, but had to admire Burton for his forethought. If he hadn’t acted before his death, Josephine might have lived a far different life—one of poverty that could have seen her selling her body for coin as her mother had.

  “Burton’s solicitor would visit every year to ensure the terms of the will were being followed to the letter,” Thaddeus explained. “And so long as Miss Brewer was cared for, everything would belong to Mrs. Burton, with an inheritance set aside for the girl when she reaches her majority. No one knows the amount, but it will be enough for her to live on … provided she does not marry before then, in which case the money may be used as a dowry.”

  “What would have happened if Mrs. Burton refused the terms?” Maxwell asked. “Surely the woman found the idea repugnant.”

  She still seemed bitter about the circumstances; Maxwell had seen it for himself in the way the woman looked upon Josephine. The disgust in her gaze was clear.

  “Of course she did,” the earl said with a scoff. “But the poor woman didn’t have a choice. Had she refused, everything would have gone to Miss Brewer, with the exception of the country home and a pittance of a settlement that would have seen Mrs. Burton living below her station. Can you imagine?”

  Maxwell couldn’t have conceived it before today, but he’d seen it for himself this afternoon. Mrs. Burton adhered to the terms of her husband’s will, though she obviously did it grudgingly.

  “She’s hardly ever seen in polite society, and is only here because your mother needed another female to round out the numbers,” his father continued. “And if Thaddeus chooses Miss Violet as his bride, I suppose we shall have no choice but to accept the imposition of such an unsavory relation. However, it shouldn’t prove to be much of a problem as long as the girl continues living a quiet life out of sight.”

  Maxwell’s hand clenched tight around his tumbler at the callous way the earl spoke of Josephine. Unfortunately, he knew any effort to defend the woman would fall on deaf ears. His father was descended from a long line of earls, and the Davies’ blood proved bluer than a sapphire. The plight of those they deemed beneath them seldom occurred to any of Maxwell’s family. He realized with some shame that he’d never given much thought to such people either, until he’d been sent off to war. There was no difference between him and the son of a merchant, or a bastard from the stews on the battlefield. Not when the boom of canons and the crack of bayonets made everyone’s blood flow the same, in one endless, red river.

  Pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, he closed his eyes and did his best to chase away the images that thought brought up. If he lingered on them for too long, he’d slip into a haze where the smell of blood, smoke, and the cries of dying men reached out to him from the depths of his memories. When that happened, he could seldom be held responsible for his actions, for a black cloak seemed to fall over his mind, suffocating him in a blanket of death. His brother once had to pry him off a footman who’d taken him unawares during such an episode, and he nearly bludgeoned the man half to death with a paperweight.

  “Are you all right, Max?” Thaddeus asked, his soft voice breaking the spell and bringing him back to the present.

  Clearing his throat, he took a sip of his brandy and focused on the feel of it burning a path to his belly. “Fine.”

  The earl eyed him with concern, but also a touch of pride. “It was good to see you making an effort today. Your mother and I were pleased you decided to join everyone in the drawing room this afternoon.”

  Maxwell muffled a sigh, u
nderstanding that his father meant well enough. But the earl simply didn’t understand. He thought of Maxwell’s ‘affliction’ as something that could be overcome by sheer force of will. If he would only try to be amongst other people again, he’d begin to feel more like a man and less like a ghost. His father could never understand Maxwell’s reasons for wanting to be around as few people as possible. He simply didn’t fit anywhere any longer, and had no idea how to mingle with people who were once his peers. No one seemed to understand that Mr. Maxwell Davies, rakish son of the Earl of Windthorne, was dead. He’d died on that battlefield in Balaclava, and no amount of will could bring him back.

  “I promised Mother I would show my face at least once a day, and I intend to hold true to that.”

  “It wouldn’t have been the same without you,” Thaddeus said, dripping with his usual optimism.

  He attempted a smile for his brother, but couldn’t quite manage it, so he nodded instead. As they finished their brandy and left to join the other guests downstairs, Maxwell steeled himself for a few mind-numbing hours among his mother’s guests. He couldn’t help succumbing to the hope that Mrs. Burton would be seated at the same table as his family, which would place Violet in close proximity to Thaddeus, and thereby place him back where he most wanted to be: in Josephine’s magnetic presence.

  Chapter 6

  After dinner that evening, Josephine was exhausted, yet somehow too restless to sleep. Dinner was a sumptuous affair, the dining room filled with tables dressed with polished silver, fine china, and enormous floral arrangements. The meal itself consisted of nine courses, during which wine and conversation flowed. Josephine did her best to remain silent, not wanting to give Adelaide an excuse to accuse her of acting in an unseemly manner. She murmured a few one or two-word responses to the few who attempted to draw her into conversation between courses of vermicelli and julienne soups with bread, sole fried in butter, curried lobster with rice, mutton, and venison pasties.