Once Upon a Christmas Wedding

by Scarlett Scott

  Still, Maxwell remained calm and steady, clinging to her and guiding them toward what she soon realized was a cottage.

  “The place is mostly for show,” he said, dipping his head to speak directly into her ear. “A folly structure to enhance the landscape. But, it’s completely inhabitable. We’ll be warm and safe there.”

  It seemed to take ages to arrive, with Josephine uncertain whether the walk took them hours or mere minutes. The stark white landscape and onslaught of snow made it difficult to keep track of distance or time, but before long they arrived, Maxwell throwing the door open to usher her inside.

  Chapter 9

  Maxwell glanced at Josephine, who stood near the fire he’d just stoked in the hearth. She had peeled off her gloves and now held her hands out toward the warm blaze. The firelight danced over her face, illuminating the lines of worry pulling at her mouth. She was holding up well considering how quickly the weather had changed, the sky darkening and the snow falling so thick they’d been unable to find the manor. But, she had to be worried about being so far from the house in such weather, as well as the implications of them being forced to remain alone together away from the rest of the party.

  His leg ached like the very devil, frozen into a heavy block of ice, but he would not rest until he saw to her comfort.

  “The snow has begun to melt on your clothes,” he said as he approached her while peeling off his gloves. “Come, let’s get you out of those wet things. Then, I’ll go retrieve blankets from upstairs. There might be a dressing gown or some such up there as well.”

  “What of you? You must be freezing.”

  “You first,” he insisted. “Then I’ll take care of myself.”

  She gave in to his ministrations without argument, her curious gaze roaming the front room of the cottage as he removed her bonnet. Shivers wracked him, but he forced his numb fingers to move so he could unclasp her cloak and start on the buttons running down the front of her jacket.

  “This place is surprisingly well-stocked for a folly cottage,” she remarked, glancing about the partially furnished parlor. “It almost looks as if someone lives here.”

  “I did,” he said, going to one knee to begin unlacing her boots. “While I was recovering from my wound. I only moved back into the manor a few months ago, after Mother had a downstairs drawing room transformed into a bedroom for me. If we are lucky, the servants have all but forgotten about returning to clear it of the things left behind—candles, coal, linens. There might even be food in the kitchen that is still good. We will be fine here until it is safe to leave or help arrives.”

  She relaxed a bit at that, pulling one foot free of her boot as he went to work on the other. “It must have been lonely separated from your family.”

  He shook his head, partly to deny her assertion, but also to shake free of the memories assaulting him at being in this place again. If the walls could talk, they would tell of his cries of pain, his senseless moaning and ramblings as fever plagued him. Surprisingly, the stench of sickness and infection had long since faded, though Maxwell would be hard-pressed to forget its sting in his nostrils.

  “It was better that way. I did not want everyone hovering nearby, and no one but Thaddeus could stand to be near me while I went through the worst of it. It was difficult for my parents and sisters to see me that way, I suppose.”

  Pulling her second boot free, he glanced up just in time to find a look of annoyance crossing her face.

  “It had to have been much harder for you. If someone I loved were hurt and ill, I would want to be with them every moment.”

  Maxwell had a fleeting moment of fantasy, in which he imagined Josephine at his bedside, her sweet voice filling the sickroom and her hand a warm comfort on his sweating brow. The notion appealed to him as much as it disturbed him. A woman like Josephine shouldn’t be trapped at the side of a dying man. She ought to be free to wander flowering meadows or skate on frozen ponds. Death and illness should never be a part of her life.

  Glancing down at her sodden skirts, he experienced a moment of profound hesitation. “Your skirt and petticoats …”

  She bit her lip and followed his gaze to the limp garments dripping all over the rug. She seemed to understand what he was suggesting, but didn’t appear as reluctant as he was.

  “They’ll have to come off, too, so I can lay them out to dry,” she said, turning her back.

  He forced a swallow past the lump in his throat, his vision going hazy at the edges as he imagined her undressed before him. He’d gotten a peek at her through her thin nightgown last night, and had been as close to her as could be during their kiss. Yet, this felt different somehow—as if the moment he removed her clothing, they would step over a line they could never retreat behind again.

  “It’s all right,” she urged, standing erect before him, shoulders squared. “It is necessary.”

  Her permission freed him to act, and he swiftly opened the skirt, then untied her petticoats, pulling it all to rest in a pile at her feet. As he worked, she’d unbuttoned her shirt, which she now removed, leaving her standing before him in only her corset, chemise, drawers, and stockings. The cut of her habit left no need for cages or crinoline, and he wasn’t certain whether he should be grateful for that or not. There were now too few layers separating them, and every bountiful curve of her body had been left on display. His gaze traveled over her back, the nip of her waist drawn in by the corset, to the swell of her plump buttocks and shapely legs. Christ, this was worse than seeing her in her nightgown. It only made him fantasize about undoing the laces of her corset, and peeling away the remaining layers to bare her completely.

  “I’ll go try to find that dressing gown now,” he said, his voice hoarse as he swiftly whirled away from her and left the room.

  The frigid chill that struck him as he limped down the corridor did little to cool his desire. Being alone with her in close quarters for what promised to be a long afternoon and evening would wreak havoc on his senses. But, going back out into the storm was out of the question, so he would simply have to bear it and pray it let up before he lost his head and did something stupid.

  He wanted to cringe away from what had once been his sickroom, but entering it was necessary to find the things they’d need to weather the storm. Maxwell did his best to avert his gaze from the bed where the sheets had once been stained with a mixture of his sweat, blood, and pus, and went about gathering everything he thought could be of use. After a time, he returned to Josephine and the warm room with his arms overflowing with blankets, two dressing gowns, and several tapers.

  He helped her into the dressing gown, then set about lighting the tapers to further illuminate the room.

  Josephine turned to him after cuffing the sleeves of his robe to free her hands. “Now you’ll let me assist you. You’re shivering and have gone quite pale.”

  Allowing her to touch him right now was a terrible idea, but he could hardly avoid it in this situation. He could no longer feel his fingers, and couldn’t seem to stop shivering. Maxwell remained passive, hands at his sides as she freed him of his overcoat, then his coat and cravat. He wanted to help her, but the tremors wracking him didn’t allow it. Still, she worked swiftly and without complaint to strip him down to his shirt, trousers, and braces.

  “Now sit so I can remove your boots,” she commanded, gesturing toward the chair she’d just occupied.

  He stiffened, resistance steeling his spine as he thought of what she’d find if she tried to remove his boots. “I’ll keep them on.”

  Her brow furrowed as she gave him a quizzical look. “You’ll be far more comfortable—”

  “I’m comfortable enough,” he snapped, reaching for the second dressing gown and shrugging into it. “Leave them.”

  The barest hint of hurt showed in her eyes, and he cursed himself for being a cad. Reaching out to take her hand, he squeezed it, absorbing some of the warmth from her fingers.

  “I’m sorry. I’m only concerned about ma
king sure you are all right. Are you warm now?”

  “Warm enough,” she replied.

  “Still, you ought to wrap up in these blankets and sit near the fire.”

  “Only if you sit with me. Our combined body heat will help with the warming.”

  He could hardly argue with that when his teeth chattered and his leg had become like a dead, frozen weight. Taking up his walking stick again, he shuffled across the room with her. They sank onto the floor in the circle of furniture pointed at the hearth, reaching for the pile of blankets he had found. The sofa offered a backrest for them, solid and heavy. Wrapping two sheets and a thick, damask counterpane around them both, he nestled her against his side and stretched his feet out toward the fire. A painful pins-and-needles sensation traveled up his left leg, but he gritted his teeth and bore it, knowing he’d feel better once the fire had thawed him.

  He flinched when her hand came down on his thigh, and glanced down to find her watching him.

  “I’m so sorry I got you into this mess,” she whispered. “We ought to have returned indoors the moment you encountered me at the pond.”

  He shook his head, resting his hand atop hers. “I told you, there is nothing to be sorry for. I knew what I was risking by venturing out in this weather. My desire to see you superseded good sense. Besides, you might have been caught in the storm alone, and the thought of that disturbs me far more. My leg will be fine once warmed.”

  Reaching for another blanket, she used it to cover his left leg, tucking it beneath his thigh and calf until it was encased in the warm wool. The prickling sensation grew less intense, giving him a modicum of relief.

  “Better?”

  No longer able to resist touching her, he cupped her chin and pressed a short kiss to her lips. “Worlds better.”

  Pain be damned, he had never felt so good, pressed against her and closed away from the world.

  Silence fell between them for a while, companionable and comfortable. Through the parted drapes, Maxwell watched the snow descend, the entire landscape beyond the cottage painted a stark shade of white. The fire popped and crackled, lending a poignant intimacy to the silence of the room. Josephine’s voice broke through the quiet, though she kept her voice low as if loath to disturb it too much.

  “I was born in a home very similar to this cottage. I lived there until my mother died and Mr. Burton sent for me. I was very young, but I remember quite a bit about my time there. Mostly the way it smelled—like beeswax and lemon oil. My mother smelled of jasmine.”

  The sadness in her voice pricked him somewhere deep in his chest. “It must have been terribly difficult for you to lose her so young. I’m so sorry, sweet.”

  “I did not know her well, but I cling to the memories I do have of her. She had a pleasant singing voice. I recall her singing to me often, mostly at night before tucking me into bed. We had a small staff of servants provided by Mr. Burton, but she preferred to dress me and style my hair herself, like a little doll.”

  He perked up at the mention of her sire, realizing that she referred to the man very impersonally as ‘Mr. Burton.’ “Did you know your father? I know he did not live long past your mother.”

  “I remember very little about him. I think he must have loved me. I know he loved my mother, for that love is what drove him to provide for me so well in the event of his death. He was a handsome man … Violet looks a lot like him, actually. I do have memories of his visits. He would come bearing gifts for both Mama and I. Fabrics and trimmings for gowns, dolls, toys, sweets. I cannot remember him giving me peppermint sticks, but he must have carried them on his person because when I think of him the taste of peppermint comes to mind. I do have one memory of him and Mama dancing. There is an old music box among the things I inherited when she died, and its melody calls to mind the sight of them, swaying and twirling about a parlor with that song playing through the air.”

  Maxwell wanted to feel disdain toward the man who had created a separate family from the one he’d had with Mrs. Burton, but looking at Josephine he could only be grateful it had resulted in her birth. Besides, the man might not have been brave enough to follow his heart and take his mistress to wife. Or, perhaps he’d met her too late and found that keeping Philomena in a separate home and having what little time he could with her would have to be enough. Having known Josephine for even a short time, he’d begun to experience the need to be near her at all times, to drink her in through his eyes, his senses, the very pores of his skin. How miserable Mr. Burton must have been, loving Philomena and Josephine as he had and not being able to give them his all.

  “Your life with the Burtons,” he ventured, realizing he pressed against a sore subject. “Have they treated you well?”

  She sighed, laying her cheek against his chest. “If one were to judge based on the stipulations of my father’s will, then yes. His solicitor arrives like clockwork on my birthday each year to ensure my needs have been met. I received the same education as Violet, had the same governess, and had my own bedchamber is as opulently appointed as her own. I have a lady’s maid and a monthly allowance to spend as I please. I am well fed, well taken care of, am fitted for new clothing twice a year and allowed the same selection of rich fabrics as my sister. As for the rest … well, I suppose one could not expect Adelaide to love me. I am told I look a great deal like my mother, though I have only one poor miniature of her for comparison. Apparently, the sight of me is enough to remind her that her husband’s heart belonged to someone else.”

  “You were innocent in all of it. She cannot possibly blame you.”

  “Who else can she blame? With both my parents dead, there is no one for her to take her anger and betrayal out on. There is only me—the product of her husband’s years-long affair with my mother. She resents me for existing, and my mother for bearing Mr. Burton a child years before she was able to conceive. No … she could never have loved me. I am tolerated by her, though I suppose Violet does feel some affection for me.”

  He ran a hand over her mussed coiffure, finding a stray curl and twining it around his finger. “It bothers me to think of you going throughout life being merely tolerated and graced with mild affection. You deserve so much more than that.”

  “Perhaps,” she murmured. “But I have survived thus far. What of you? What is your relationship with your family like?”

  “Far different than it was before. As a lad, I was the troublemaker of the family.”

  “For some reason I don’t find that the least bit surprising,” she quipped, tipping her head to grin at him. “When you smiled at me out at the pond, I think I saw a peek of the boy you were. You must have been so adorable.”

  He snorted and shook his head. “I’m not sure my parents and governess would have used that word. I landed Thaddeus and I in trouble more times than I could count. We pulled pranks on our sisters, tore through the house putting up such a racket, and sneaked away from our lessons to romp outside whenever the mood struck. I’m surprised the palms of my hand weren’t stripped of their skin by the lashings I received with rulers when I disrupted our lessons. Sadly, I grew no better with age.”

  “Hmm, so I’ve heard. Your reputation as a rake and a hellion precede you.”

  “I’m not proud of it now, but I lived with no regard for how my actions might affect others. I drank and gambled away every penny to my name before crawling back to Father for more. I practically lived in the London brothels, and found myself dodging the city watchmen on more than one occasion for my exploits about Town with the other young men of my set.”

  “Tsk, tsk,” she chided between giggles. “Such an unruly young man you were.”

  “I was. That’s what drove my father to purchase a commission for me. He thought the rigors of military life might make a real man out of me. Thaddeus had already settled into his role, letting Father groom him for when he inherits the earldom. As a second son, I had no such obligations. But with that commission, my life changed. Not long after my training, England
joined the conflict in Crimea. Even that didn’t do much to change me. It wasn’t until we reached the thick of the war and the most violent of our skirmishes that things began to change. My razor sharp wit and talents at gambling and whoring wouldn’t save me in the heat of battle. Any man who tells you he can go through such a thing and come out of it unscathed is a liar. Even if I hadn’t been injured, I would have returned altered.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting against the clinging talons of his darkest memories. Frigid nights huddled in the trenches with other men, the pitiful cries of soldiers dying slow and painful deaths as well as the sharp cries of those ended with the single slash of a saber or crack of a rifle. The acrid odors of smoke and blood filled his senses and he almost felt as if he were there again, fighting for his life while wishing someone would kill him so it could all come to an end.

  Josephine’s hand came to rest atop his, jolting him back to the present. He glanced down to find his fingers clenching at his thigh, which had now eased from intense shooting pains to a dull ache.

  “How did it happen?” she asked, her gaze flitting to the blanket covering his limb. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, I just … I want to understand you, Maxwell. I want to know you.”

  For the first time, he found he did not mind speaking of it. At least, not to her. Everyone else wanted to know what had happened to his leg, hoping to have their curiosity appeased. Josephine, however, wanted to know what had happened to him. She saw him as a whole person, and not just a fragment of one to be studied for the sake of morbid curiosity.

  “I believe we were doomed from the start,” he began, threading his fingers through hers. “When we arrived in Kalamita Bay in September of 1854, we encountered terrible weather. The storms held us back from disembarking for five days, cramped quarters and shifting moods setting the tone for what would turn out to be a disastrous campaign. Our arrogant commanding officers believed the conflict would be over quickly, and we arrived unprepared for the harsh winter, our clothing nowhere near warm enough to keep us from freezing half to death. A cholera outbreak swept through our ranks. It is a wonder we did not go running back home with our tails tucked between our legs. But, those of us who did not succumb to illness pressed on. What few victories we won were followed by even more poor decision-making and miscommunication between our forces and those of our French allies. With every gain came losses that made it all seem worthless. We routed the Russians at Alma, forcing a retreat, but then they sank our ships and made it impossible for the Navy to offer assistance. Without them, the French balked, leaving us with no choice but to back off as well, allowing the Russians to regroup and mount their defense at the port of Sevastopol. By the time we came upon them, they’d had plenty of time to strengthen their forces and prepare for us. They attempted to attack our supply base in a small fishing village called Balaclava, but were pushed back by the Heavy Brigade. Things were finally going our way… we had them on the run and could easily overtake and wipe them out. But, yet again, the ineptitude of our leadership would prove our destruction. Orders were sent to our commander, Lord Cardigan, that the Russians were moving stolen artillery and that the Light Brigade was to put a stop to it at all costs. We were to advance and rout them. Only … either Lord Cardigan misheard the order, or it became lost in translation, because the man took that to mean that we were to advance to the front lines of the ensuing battle and charge.”