December, 1817
Hampshire
Slam!
Over the past six days Sebastian Brightworth had begun to hear it in his sleep—the indignant fury of his wife quitting a room upon discovering his presence in said room. Followed by the dainty storm of footsteps down the corridor and a litany of assessments of his character that would put a sailor to the blush. His sweet, proper, vicar’s daughter of a wife had an inventive command of the English language, especially when in high dudgeon. A few more weeks of this and every door in the house would be off its hinges. At least the slamming would cease.
“Colonel Brightworth?”
Sebastian slid the book he’d pulled back onto the shelf. “Yes, Figgs.”
“I’ve brought a fresh pot of tea and a cold collation,” Figgs announced in a stage whisper as he closed the library doors and glanced over his shoulder as if in anticipation of an attack. The man fairly staggered under the weight of the tray he bore.
“Real food?” Sebastian steadied a teetering stack of books on the floor and fairly ran to the hearth where his butler placed the loaded tray onto a low fireside table. “Bless you, Figgs. I don’t think I could stomach another bowl of porridge, runny eggs, and cold tea.”
“Well, if you please, Colonel, not a word to Mrs. Figgs or we’ll both be sleeping in cold beds.” He blanched and ran a finger around the top of his neckcloth. “I do beg your pardon, sir, that was terribly—”
“Honest?” Sebastian mumbled around a bite of one of Cook’s delicious lemon tarts. “Your secret is safe with me, Figgs. No sense in both of us suffering.” He finished off the lemon tart and began to construct a sandwich of thick fresh bread, roast beef, and good Hampshire cheese. “How did you manage the tarts? I thought Cook had those under lock and key.”
“I didn’t,” Figgs said, his hand outstretched, palm up. “Master Edward did.”
At the mention of his industrious stepson’s name, Sebastian laughed and fished half a crown out of his waistcoat pocket to drop into Figgs’s hand. “Worth every penny. Make certain his mother does not see this or we will all be in the soup.” He took a bite out of the sandwich and closed his eyes in silent appreciation. Since his quarrel with his wife, Sebastian had been restricted to the most unpalatable repasts imaginable by the women in his household. He was master here in name only. His wife, his housekeeper—Mrs. Figgs, and Cook ruled the house at Chesnick Wharton. Most days they allowed him command of the rest of the estate.
The matter was made all the worse by the fact Cook had started her Christmas baking, and the house was replete with the sweet aromas of holiday fare.
“Are you looking for one book in particular, Colonel?” Figgs stood in the middle of Chesnick Wharton’s vast library and surveyed the carnage Sebastian had wrought. Shelves of books had been rearranged, some emptied completely. Books had been stacked on tables and on the floor. One of the reasons Sebastian had chosen the estate and house had been the size of the library. Minerva loved books. Minerva, who had not spoken a word to him in days.
“I was hoping to find a book on how to cope with an angry wife. My grandfather spent a great deal of time here, hiding from his. If ever a man needed a book on dealing with a wife, it was him.” He shuddered at the mere thought of his paternal grandmother. “A thousand years of British literature, philosophy, science, history, and religion on these shelves, and not one man thought to write a book on the subject of difficult women.”
“I have it on the best authority no man knows enough about women to write such a book, and women are forbidden to do so. It is against the code,” Figgs said. His solemnity was belied by the unrepentant twinkle in his eye. He set about moving the books on the floor back onto the shelves.
“The best authority?”
“Mrs. Figgs.”
“Ah. What code?” Sebastian emptied half the cup of tea he’d prepared in one long draught.
“The code whereby women make the rules, change the rules on a whim, and take those rules to the grave with them before ever revealing them to any man,” an all too familiar voice replied. D. Harold Forsythe, Earl of Creighton, closed the library doors behind him and crossed the thick Persian carpets to shake Sebastian’s hand.
“What are you doing here, Creighton?” Sebastian had a strange sensation along the back of his neck. He shook his best friend’s hand, but had no idea what had brought him all the way from Kent in the middle of December. Something was most definitely afoot. Any hopes he’d held for a calm, cozy, first family Christmas with his wife and stepson faded like so much smoke. Creighton did nothing calm, nor cozy, and most emphatically did nothing to do with family, for most excellent reasons.
“I let you steal my bride, Brightworth, at the altar, no less. I never said I wouldn’t visit her from time to time,” Creighton said as he settled into the chair on the other side of the fireside table. “It is Christmastide, you know.”
Of course, he knew it. This entire debacle had been caused by Christmas. “I didn’t steal her. Minerva was always mine. Did she invite you here?”
“Not exactly. You may not have stolen my bride, but you did manage to filch my under-butler, my housekeeper’s assistant, my cook’s sister, and one of my best grooms. How are you faring, Figgs? Are you ready to come home yet?”
“We are all faring very well, my lord,” Figgs assured him. “I am most glad to see you, but I have no desire to return to Creighton Hall.”
“Neither do I,” Creighton said. “But I have no choice.”
“Stop trying to steal my staff, and why are you really here?” Sebastian knew his friend too well to give credence to a mere holiday visit as the earl’s reason for sitting before his fire, drinking his tea, and eating his lemon tarts.
The library doors slammed open. “They’re coming,” Lord Xavier Fitzhugh announced as he burst into the room. “You said she’d be happy to see us, Creighton. Brightworth’s wife looks ready to murder someone. Is that roast beef? Is there any mustard, Figgs?”
“Who is coming?” Sebastian asked as Fitzhugh shoved past him and reached for some bread. “The only person my wife wishes to murder is me, but that could change at any moment. Yes, that is roast beef and no, there is no mustard for you. Creighton did you not feed him between here and Kent?”
“You m’know he m’id not,” Fitzhugh mumbled around a mouthful of roast beef sandwich, which he finally managed to swallow. “Lady Aphrodite received a letter from your wife, and nothing would do but we make all haste to see what sort of a mess you’ve made of your marriage. I thought it a grand idea until I saw your wife. Did we know she was with child? Very much with child?”
“I suspect Brightworth has known for a while,” Creighton drawled. He took the cup of tea Figgs prepared for him with a nod and a murmured thanks.
Sebastian’s head began to spin. A frequent occurrence in the presence of these two troublemakers. After the past week, however, he needed his wits about him. He had made a mess of his marriage, no sense in denying it. Apparently, those who’d helped him win Minerva intended to watch him try and win her all over again. Worse, they might feel the need to help him.
“Will you two, stop talking, stop eating my food, and tell me exactly why you are here?”
“That is an excellent question, Colonel Brightworth. I certainly had no need of their escort.” Lady Aphrodite Forsythe, Creighton’s younger sister, strolled into the library and stopped, arms akimbo, to glare at her brother and Lord Fitzhugh.
Sebastian barely noticed her. He only had eyes for the lady at her side. He’d loved Minerva since she was a girl of sixteen. Ten years apart—him at war and her married to another, and seven months of marriage had done nothing to dim the love and passion that coursed through his veins at the mere sound of her name. And now, her body rounded with his child, she was more beautiful than he’d ever thought possible.
“Minerva,” Sebastian murmured.
She only met his eyes for a moment, long enough for him to see the hurt and anger there. Creighton rose and offered her a brief, but elegant bow. Fitzhugh stumbled to his feet and attempted to do the same. Difficult to do with a sandwich in one hand and a lemon tart in the other.
“You’re looking in rude good health, Mrs. Brightworth,” Fitzhugh said.
“Good God,” Creighton said and rolled his eyes.
“What?” Fitzhugh gawked at them whilst Minerva favored him with an indulgent smile.
“Don’t try to turn her up sweet, Fitzhugh,” Aphrodite warned. “You and my interfering brother were not included in my invitation to spend Christmas here. I am arrived safely, you may toddle off back to Creighton Hall and spend Christmas with Mama.”
“You are a cruel woman, Lady Aphrodite,” Fitzhugh said. “I’d rather spend Christmas on a Thames prison hulk.”
“That could be arranged.”
Minerva laughed. “Now, Aphrodite,” she chided. “I would not wish Christmas with your mother on my worst enemy.”
Sebastian’s heart did a little flip. He’d not heard his wife’s laugh in quite some time. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard her laugh.
“If we are imposing on your hospitality, Minerva, I will throw Fitzhugh back into my carriage and make for Kent within the hour,” Creighton said quietly.
“Of course, you must stay, Harry, you and Lord Fitzhugh both,” she assured him.
Minerva.
Harry.
Sebastian’s jaw locked. Creighton, the fiend, had proposed to Minerva first, and the two of them had remained friends. He trusted the man. Most of the time. After all, she’d chosen Sebastian. If slamming doors and cold porridge counted for anything, a choice she was coming to regret.
“In fact, it is fortuitous you are here,” Minerva continued as she gave Sebastian a wide berth and walked to the fireside table. She picked up the plate of lemon tarts and then rejoined Lady Aphrodite, who now stood with her arms folded across her chest and a disparaging look on her face. “Another guest will be arriving tomorrow, and as my husband has forbidden me to welcome him to Chesnick Wharton, perhaps you gentlemen will do so in my stead.”
She walked to the library doors, still graceful in spite of her condition, Creighton’s sister close on her heels. “Figgs, please arrange rooms for Lord Fitzhugh and Lord Creghton.”
“Of course, Mrs. Brightworth,” the butler replied. He eyed the plate of tarts and swallowed hard.
“And if you have secreted another half a crown in your pocket for my son, you will return it to Colonel Brightworth, if you please. Dinner is at seven, gentlemen.” With that, the ladies swept out the doors. The slamming shook the windows.
“You forbade her?” Creighton raised an eyebrow at him.
“Why did she take the tarts?” Fitzhugh groused as he collapsed into a highbacked leather fireside chair.
“You forbade her,” Creighton said once more.
Figgs handed Sebastian the half a crown and hurried out of the library. Sebastian subsided onto the large leather-button ottoman across from the fireplace, his head in his hands.
“Tsk. Even I know you don’t forbid a woman,” Fitzhugh said as he put together yet another sandwich, this one with mustard, which Figgs apparently carried about in his pocket. “No wonder she isn’t speaking to you.”
“How do you know she isn’t speaking to me?”
“Aphrodite,” Fitzhugh and Creighton said together.
Sebastian groaned. Creighton’s sister wasn’t a Christmas guest. She was reinforcements.
“Who did your wife, your wife very much in the family way—a different species of woman entirely—invite for Christmas to make you so foolish as to forbid her, Brightworth? Prinny? My mother? An old mistress?” Creighton asked.
“My brother,” Sebastian mumbled without looking up.
“Your…”
“Anthony Chesnick Brightworth, Earl of Haddenfield. My half-brother. Minerva has been corresponding with him for months and invited him here as my Christmas gift from her. I told her he was the very last person on earth I wanted to see, I had no intention of welcoming him into my home, and I forbade her to do so.”
“You’re right,” Fitzhugh said.
“I am?”
“The only person your wife wants to murder is you. Why did she take the lemon tarts?”
Minerva lowered herself into her favorite chintz chair and toed off her slippers with a sigh of relief. It had been an incredibly long day and tomorrow loomed before her like the sound of drummers calling a soldier to arms. She took the cushion Aphrodite handed her and stuffed it behind her in an effort to soothe the bowstring tautness of her back. In the eight years since Edward’s birth she’d nearly forgotten how uncomfortable this entire childbirth endeavor could be.
“Dinner was… delicious,” Aphrodite said as she settled onto the wide arm of the chair opposite Minerva.
“Dinner was a pleasant disaster and you know it.” Minerva heard footsteps in the dressing room she shared with her husband. He’d left the door into his chambers open. His voice and the voice of the young footman who served as his valet drifted against the door into her bedchamber, muffled but noticeable.
“It was certainly a disaster for Colonel Brightworth. What on earth did Cook serve him?”
Minerva laughed. “I am not certain, but I believe last week’s leek soup and a cut of meat Cook declared ‘Not fit for t’young master’s dog.’ were involved. As to the rest…” She shuddered.
“Is it badly done of me to have enjoyed watching him try to eat it whilst you ignored him utterly, and Lord Fitzhugh described in exquisite detail how delicious each remove was as we ate it?”
“Not at all. I rather enjoyed it myself,” Minerva replied. She hadn’t, not truly. She loved Sebastian with all her heart and had spent the last seven months turning Chesnick Wharton into a comfortable home for him. After the sorrow and depravation of his childhood and his long years at war, her husband deserved a home—a place to lay his head and know he was loved and honored, a place where he belonged. Had she ruined it all by inviting his brother for Christmas?
“How long do you intend Cook to torture the poor colonel like this?” Aphrodite asked.
“Until he comes to his senses?”
“Good Lord, the man will starve to death long before that happens.”
Minerva sighed.
Aphrodite stared at her intently, a sad little smile on her face. “He loves you, Minerva. I have never seen a man so much in love.”
“I know he does. And I love him. Lord Haddonfield is his only blood relation. I don’t count the horrid grandmother. Sebastian has fought so many demons for so long. I thought Christmas was the perfect opportunity to put some of those demons to rest.”
“No one counts Lady Haddonfield. She makes Mama look the very model of motherhood.”
“Lord Haddonfield gave us Chesnick Wharton because Sebastian asked him for it. For me and for Edward. But I don’t think he is truly happy here. Something in this house haunts him, Ditey. Sebastian spent the first eight years of his life here. I don’t know what happened between him and his brother, but it is time to lay it to rest.”
Aphrodite stood and brushed out her skirts. “You make him happy, Minerva. More happy than the stubborn, addlepated arse deserves.” She patted Minerva’s shoulder as she walked past on the way to the chamber door. “Silence never works. I find men prefer it when we leave them alone. Talking to him is a much fitter punishment. It is almost as bad as a week-old leek soup.”
Once the door had snicked closed behind her friend, Minerva hoisted herself to her feet and crept to the dressing room door. She pressed her ear to the door in time to hear a horrendous crash and a string of all too familiar swear words.
“Thomas did you move my travel desk?”
“No, Colonel, I never touched it,” the beleaguered footman replied.
“Fell off that shelf and damn near killed me. Would have saved my wife the trouble.”
“Yes, Colonel. I mean, no Colonel. I mean—”
Minerva opened the door and stepped into the dressing room. “He knows what you mean, Thomas. Might I have a moment with my husband?”
The footman bowed and scurried out of the dressing room, into the master’s bedchamber, and out the chamber door, which he slammed on his way out. Sebastian started and Minerva tried not to laugh. He was such a handsome devil, drat him. In his quilted black velvet dressing gown, his black hair still wet from his bath, he was far more enticing than anything Cook had prepared for dinner.
“Ten years in Old Beaky’s cavalry and now I’m in my dotage a slamming door frightens me,” Sebastian groused. He stared at her, his dark brown eyes alight with the heat and intensity which never failed to make her shiver.
“You are far from your dotage, husband. My proof of it wakes me daily at three in the morning to make use of the chamber pot.” Minerva rested her hand on her belly. “Might I speak with you?”
“I never asked you to stop.”
Minerva rolled her eyes and brushed past him into his bedchamber. Sebastian followed. He tossed the travel desk onto the bed. She spotted several pieces of crumpled parchment next to a chair by the fire. Before he tried to stop her, she scooped one up and eased into the chair by the hearth to open and read it.
Dearest, Minerva
I
She held the parchment out to him.
“I have not been able to finish it,” he said somewhat sheepishly.
“Finish it now, Sebastian. Make me understand.”
“There is nothing to understand. I don’t want Haddonfield here for Christmas. I don’t want him here at all.” He leaned against the thick oak bedpost and crossed his arms.
“Why? Can you make me understand why you want nothing to do with your last connection to your father? You loved your father, Sebastian. I know you did.”
“Love is not a title. It is not passed on with a piece of paper and a royal decree. I wish you would leave this be, Minerva. You, and Edward, and the child your carry are enough for me. Why can you not believe that?”
“Because I see you when you think I am not watching.” She struggled to her feet and padded across the carpets to him. “I know every line in your face, every expression, every sorrow in your eyes. Your brother gave you Chesnick Wharton because he believed you would be happy here.”
“He gave me the estate out of guilt because I asked him.”
“He was ten years old when your father died. What guilt could a ten-year-old boy possibly bear?”
“Leave it, Minerva. No good will come of this. He can live without my forgiveness. He has done so quite handily for the last fourteen years.” Sebastian cupped her cheek. “We can have a good Christmas—you, Edward, and I—even if we must include our interfering friends.” He pressed his lips to her hair and rested his cheek against the top of her head. “I am happy here. I am happy anywhere you are.”
She wanted to give in. It would be so easy to do so. They were happy. Her past was behind her. She’d married the wrong man for the wrong reasons and both she and her first husband had suffered a miserable marriage for it. She’d forgiven herself for it. More important, she’d forgiven Edward’s father.
Sebastian had given her that gift, had shown her and told her in a million little ways her mistakes were simply that, choices she had made of necessity and had survived with tenacity and grace. And Sebastian? He still blamed himself for so much. She saw it in the lightning flash moments of breath caught when he walked into the entrance hall. She heard it in his voice when he guided Edward and his pony around the paddock.
As beautiful as the house and estate were and as much as he loved working to be a good landlord and master, this place held some secret pain for him. And it was all tangled up with his hatred of his brother. She drew a steeling breath and stepped out of his arms.
“The forgiveness isn’t only for your brother, my love. It is for you. I will not share you with ghosts, Sebastian. And your brother loves you. I wish you would find a way to love him too.” She walked towards the dressing room door. Sebastian followed.
“Love him? I don’t even like him, Minerva. He is a pompous, arrogant thief. He is stealing a perfectly peaceful and happy Christmas from us by coming here. And I am certain he knows it. I will not allow you to bring him into this house.”
She put up a staying hand. “I may be speaking to you, sir, but I will not share a bed with a man so narrow-minded and unforgiving as to forbid me welcoming a guest into my own home.”
He threw up his hands. “Be reasonable, Minerva.”
She patted his chest. “For your information, I don’t like you very much at the moment either, Sebastian Brightworth.” She kissed his chin. “But I do love you.”
He braced his arms in the doorway and leaned in to kiss her.
“Good night, husband. I wish you pleasant—”
“He-e-e-lp! For God’s sake get it off me!”
Minerva ducked under Sebastian’s arm and waddled across his bedchamber into the corridor.
“It’s only Fitzhugh, Minerva. Come back here.” Sebastian marched into the corridor after her.
“Precious, you let Lord Fitzhugh go this instant.” Minerva grabbed the brown sausage-shaped dog attached to her husband’s friend’s arm and tugged. “Sebastian, make her release him.”
“Me? She hates me even more than she hates Fitzhugh,” he replied even as he pried Edward’s pet off his friend.
“What in God’s name is going on out here?” Creighton, dressed in a wine-colored banyan, entered the corridor from a door across the way.
“Brightworth’s lunatic dog attacked me,” Fitzhugh declared as he checked his shirt for damage.
“Precious?” Creighton took one look at the dog in Sebastian’s arms and retreated into his room, slamming the door behind him.
Sebastian started and closed his eyes.
Fitzhugh grinned. “Good night, Brightworth. Mrs. Brightworth.” He sauntered back in the direction of his room.
“You must call me Minerva, Lord Fitzhugh. Anyone who is attacked by Precious and lives is allowed to call me Minerva.”
“Good night, Minerva.”
A weariness suddenly hung on her limbs and began to cloud her thoughts. She wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed with Sebastian, but she simply must remain strong. She started towards her bedchamber door. And immediately turned when she sensed her husband’s footsteps behind her.
“I meant what I said, Sebastian. I suggest you go to your bed and sleep on what we discussed.”
“Minerva,” he murmured as he stepped close and used his free hand to trace the contours of her lips. “That bed is cold and lonely. Surely you would not begrudge me a warm bed and some company.”
“Of course not, my love.” She opened her door. “Precious usually sleeps with Edward, but I am certain he can spare her for a few nights.” She patted the dog’s head and offered Sebastian her sweetest smile as she waved him down the corridor towards his chamber door.
“If she bites me I am tossing her out the window,” Sebastian muttered as he walked away.
Sebastian finally succumbed to curiosity and checked his appearance in the peer glass in the corner of his chamber. He’d slept little last night and when he did sleep he was plagued with confusing dreams. He’d breakfasted with Creighton and they’d ridden out to view the estate before Fitzhugh or the ladies had stirred from their beds. Minerva, normally an early riser, had an excuse to lie in and take a tray in her rooms. He had no idea what Fitzhugh or Lady Aphrodite’s excuses might be. Actually, Creighton’s sister had likely joined Minerva for breakfast so they might plan their next move together. His painful demise, perhaps?
A knock on his chamber door interrupted his musings. He glanced at the bed and shook his head at the red dog happily ensconced under the counterpane with her head resting on his pillow.
“I am glad one of us is enjoying the bed.” He strode into the corridor where Creighton and a sleepy-eyed Fitzhugh awaited him.
“You aren’t wearing that, are you?” Fitzhugh looked him up and down and sniffed.
“I’m sorry, Fitzhugh, when did I hire you as my valet?” Sebastian strode down the corridor’s green and primrose patterned Aubusson carpets towards the stairs.
“You didn’t, not to put too fine a point on it, but you are sorely in need of one. I thought your lovely wife had divested you of your parsimonious ways.”
“What is he on about?” Sebastian asked.
“I think he wants to know why you are wearing old buckskins and an even older hunting jacket to greet your brother,” Creighton explained. “Especially as we both know how much you spent on a new wardrobe at Weston’s when you and Minerva went to Town after you married.”
“Precisely. You mentioned the sum in three separate letters to me, if I recall,” Fitzhugh said and gripped Sebastian’s arm at the top of the stairs. “Did you sleep in the kennels last night?” He picked several red hairs from Sebastian’s jacket and proceeded to circle him brushing, plucking, and straightening as he went.
“And in four letters to me,” Creighton added.
Sebastian snatched his arm away from Fitzhugh. “If you touch me one more time, I will toss you down these stairs.”
“You truly have no Christmas spirit, do you, Brightworth? Threatening to throw me down the stairs because I know your wife will not be happy to see you dressed like someone’s poor relation to greet your brother. Not in the Christmas spirit at all.”
“Very well. Fitzhugh, if you say one more word about my clothing I will beat you to death with a branch of holly. Is that Christmas enough for you?” Sebastian asked as he reached the first-floor landing. “You need not worry about Minerva’s opinion of my attire. She will not be here to see it.”
“Are you certain of that, Brightworth?” Creighton asked as he peered over the bannister to the ground floor.
Standing in the entrance hall below them, Minerva consulted with the housekeeper, Mrs. Figgs, who hurried off to do her bidding. Lady Aphrodite came out of the formal parlor and joined Minerva at the bottom of the stairs. Both ladies were stylishly dressed—Lady Aphrodite in a gown of bright gold wool and Minerva in a gown of green velvet.
What the devil was she doing?
The sound of running feet drew their attention behind them. Edward Faircloth, Sebastian’s stepson, pelted down the wide corridor, pausing only a moment to greet him, Creighton, and Fitzhugh.
“The coach is coming up the drive, Papa. It’s very grand. And there are outriders,” the boy called over his shoulder as he took the stairs two at the time. Once he reached his mother, Minerva settled him down and then glanced up towards the first-floor landing.
Amidst his anger, trepidation, and the thousand other things racing through his mind, Sebastian lost the ability to breathe at how incredibly beautiful Minerva was. The vivid green of the gown so complimented her glowing skin and golden bronzed hair she put him in mind of a Renaissance madonna. The drape and fall of the skirts softened the curves of her body. In less than two months’ time, she would bring his child into the world—a child who, if it was in Sebastian’s power, would never know want, or pain, or sorrow.
The clatter of horses’ hooves announced the arrival of the Earl of Haddonfield’s coach outside the front doors. Figgs moved into position. This was not what Sebastian had planned.
“Figgs, wait right there, if you please,” Sebastian ordered and started down the stairs, Creighton matched him step for step.
“I must warn you, Brightworth,” he said quietly enough that only Sebastian might hear. “If you embarrass Minerva I will be forced to draw your cork.”
By the time they descended into the entrance hall, Minerva had spoken with Figgs and now stood ready for the butler to open the tall double doors. Creighton gave Sebastian a shove and he had no choice but to join her.
“I told you not to do this,” he muttered under his breath.
“I am not a soldier under your command, Colonel. Do try and smile,” Minerva said and slipped her arm through his.
He gritted his teeth and curled his lips back.
“On second thoughts, don’t smile. You’ll frighten the poor man to death.”
“A smile is far less messy than pistols at dawn.” Sebastian grunted as his loving wife elbowed him in the ribs.
“You will not do your brother bodily harm two days before Christmas.”
“What about Boxing Day?”
Minerva sighed. “I am afraid I must forbid you spending so much time with Edward. You become more like him every day.”
Figgs cleared his throat and opened the doors to Chesnick Wharton wide. “His lordship, the Earl of Haddonfield,” the butler announced with a dignity far more appropriate to a London townhouse. Minerva fully intended Sebastian’s brother to feel at home.
The earl removed his hat and stepped into the entrance hall. Minerva gave Sebastian’s arm a squeeze and stepped forward, her hands outstretched in welcome. He looked like their father, more so than Sebastian ever did. The hair at his temples was greying. His eyes were a sort of hazel green. And it was those eyes that did it.
Twenty years disappeared as nothing. Sebastian was eight years old and standing in this exact spot as his then ten-year-old brother stood at the top of the stairs and banished him and his mother from the only home Sebastian had ever known. Their father had been dead less than a day.
“You cannot do this, Anthony,” his mother whispered, tears standing in her eyes. “I am your mother. Sebastian is your brother.”
“I am the Earl of Haddonfield now, madam, and my mother is long dead.”
“Where will we go? What will we do? You cannot send us away with no money, with no means to make our way.”
“Goodbye, madam. I wish you and your son well.”
Sebastian still remembered the boy’s stoic face and their grandmother’s triumphant visage as she stood with her hand on Anthony’s shoulder. The servants’ faces, stricken and pitying. The dust of the road as he and his mother walked five miles to the village. They’d spent the first night in the local church. Four years later his mother was dead and Sebastian was alone.
“Sebastian, will you not greet your brother?” Minerva’s voice sounded so far away. She stood with her arm through his brother’s and the man smiled. He actually smiled and extended his hand.
“It is good to see you again, Sebastian.” He even sounded like their father, damn him. Damn him to hell.
Sebastian, his head swimming, turned and walked away. He commanded his feet to move, one foot in front of the other. He wanted to run. He wanted to scream. He wanted the images in his head—his mother growing thinner and more ill, Anthony standing at the top of those stairs, and Minerva, her face stricken as he walked away—to fade away and leave him. Someone was calling his name and he kept walking towards the back of the house. He reached the French windows into the conservatory and stopped, his hand on the latch.
“Papa!” The thick Turkish carpets muffled his stepson’s footsteps as he ran towards him. Sebastian turned to be pummeled by a series of small punches to his stomach. “You made Mama cry. You promised. You promised never to make Mama cry.”
He stared into Edward’s face, tearstained and determined. He had promised the boy. And he’d broken that promise. No words came to him. Sebastian was lost, lost in memory and guilt and shame.
“Edward.” Minerva, her eyes bright with furious tears, stood in the middle of the corridor and beckoned to her son. “Go with Uncle Fitzhugh. He wishes to see your pony.”
Edward dragged his sleeve across his face. “You will make it right?”
“I will try, Edward,” Sebastian replied, his chest aching so badly he could hardly speak.
Fitzhugh, standing just behind Minerva extended his hand. “Come along, Master Faircloth. I dare not visit the stables without you to protect me from that vicious horse of his.”
“Lovey isn’t vicious,” Edward declared as they walked away, hand in hand. “She is merely misunderstood.”
“She is a menace.” Fitzhugh looked back at Sebastian and mouthed “Don’t muck this up!”
Minerva, as glorious as redemption and as fierce as an avenging angel, stared at Sebastian even as she spoke to Creighton who had followed them all from the entrance hall. “I have left Lord Haddonfield in Aphrodite’s care, Harry. Could you make certain she hasn’t driven him to distraction so early in his visit? I wish to speak to my husband.”
“If you are certain, Minerva.” Creighton glanced at Sebastian. “You do not want me to stay?”
She touched her hand to Creighton’s sleeve. “I will be fine, Harry.”
“It isn’t you I am worried about, my dear.”
Once they were truly alone in the corridor, Minerva marched to the conservatory entrance, grabbed Sebastian’s arm and pulled him inside. She dragged him through the thick avenue of banana trees and towering ferns until they reached an arrangement of chairs in an alcove surrounded by towering potted laburnum.
“Minerva, I—”
“Sit.”
Sebastian did as he was told. Sometimes discretion was the better part of valor. When it came to women, it was always the better part.
She took a moment to settle herself into the comfortable damask-covered chair opposite him. “You are not leaving this room until you make me understand why you would humiliate me, insult your brother who has made a long journey to be here, made my son cry, and distressed our friends to the point even Fitzhugh is serious and all the day before Christmas Eve.” She folded her arms across her chest. No woman had a right to such beauty when consumed by righteous indignation.
“Stop it,” she snapped.
“Stop what? I didn’t say anything.”
“Stop looking at me like that, as if I am the most beautiful woman in the world. I have been crying. I am fat. My ankles are swollen. And I am so angry with you I want to punch you in the nose.”
“You are the most beautiful woman in the world, Minerva.” He reached across and took her hands. “I know that, even if I don’t know anything else.”
“What happened, Sebastian? We cannot go on like this. I won’t go on like this. I have given myself to you—mind, body, heart, and soul. Until you free yourself of these demons, you will never be wholly mine.” Her face in all of its anger, pain, patience, and love was his refuge. She was his refuge. She always had been. And suddenly he was so very tired of bearing this last burden alone.
“He sent us away, Minerva. The fever that took your father and half the village took my father, and the next day Anthony stood in that hall and sent my mother and me away with nothing. She raised him until he went to live with our grandmother. Mama was his mother for eight years and he looked her in the eye and sent her away to starve to death. I cannot forgive him. I can’t.”
“Oh, Sebastian.” She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. “I knew you were sent away. I had no idea how awful it was. I had no idea it happened here. Why would you ever come back?”
He stood and let her hands slip from his. Outside the glass panes of the conservatory it had started to snow. The sky was grey and still. “It is the only place I remember my father. It was the perfect place to be a boy. I met you in the village, remember? And there is the library. I don’t know. It was the first property my brother offered and I took it.”
She laughed at his mention of the library and then grew serious. “Why do you think he offered you Chesnick Wharton first?”
“What?” Her question had startled him. Minerva was thinking. Never a good thing for him.
“He has half a dozen unentailed properties, several smaller than this one. Why did he offer you this one?”
“How the devil do you know… I take it your letters have not only been discussions of the weather.”
“I am not only a pretty face, Colonel.”
Sebastian let loose a bark of laughter. “No one knows that better than I do, Mrs. Brightworth.”
“How old was Lord Haddonfield when your father died?” This was typical Minerva. She distracted him with humor and gentle cajoling and then returned to her point. A point that pricked at his memory, and worse, his conscience.
“He was ten. He went to live with Grandmama after our grandfather died and Papa became the earl. He lived with her two years and then Papa died and Anthony became the earl. What difference does it make?” Irritation walked across the back of his neck like the brush of nettles.
“Why? Why did he go to live with that horrible woman?”
“I don’t remember. He wanted to, I suppose. God knows, he has always done as she commands.”
“And he was ten when he sent you and your mother away.” She folded her hands in her lap, her face a composed mask of simple inquiry. Minerva was many things. Simple was never one of them.
“Yes, old enough to know what he was doing.” Sebastian turned to gaze out over the wintery back lawn.
“How do you know, Sebastian? Were you old enough to know what you were doing when you were ten?”
“I don’t know, Minerva. I was too busy gathering firewood at the side of the road and trying to find food enough for Mother and me to eat. He knew what he was doing. He knew he was sending us away to die.”
“At what rank in Wellington’s cavalry does an officer obtain omniscience? You will never know what your brother was thinking until you ask him. Your grandmother is one of the most formidable and evil women in England. What chance did a ten-year-old boy have against her?”
“You don’t understand.” Even as he said it, Sebastian marveled at Minerva’s willingness to see the best in people. It frightened him to think where he would be now if she didn’t.
She struggled to push out of the chair. He stepped to her side and took her arm to help her. “I do understand, Sebastian.” She touched her fingertips to the side of his face and kissed him gently. “Talk to him. This is hurting you both. And you need to remember, what hurts you, hurts me as well. This is the perfect time of year to make things right. Please try.”
“Why is it women think Christmas can change everything?”
“Because it is the season of miracles. Anything can happen. Even if that thing is for a stubborn beyond reason man to attempt to talk to his brother after all these years.
“What if I can’t? He had to know, Minerva. He had to know.”
“Well then, apparently your omniscience is selective, Colonel Brightworth. For if you knew what I was thinking at this moment you would not be standing here.” She delivered a loud smack of a kiss to his cheek. “I expect you to be charming and polite at dinner tonight. And I expect you to think about what I have said.” Far too quickly for a woman in her condition she disappeared through the foliage.
“Do I have a choice?” Sebastian asked the nearest banana tree.
“Probably not,” Creighton said as he strolled into view from the other side of the conservatory. “I am pleased to see you are unscathed for the most part.”
“Is everyone else settled?” Sebastian flushed slightly. He’d made a hash of the morning’s festivities to be sure. And Creighton had ever been the one to clean up their messes.
“Of course. Your brother seems quite smitten with Aphrodite. Should I warn him about Mama now or wait to see if my dear sister frightens him away?”
“Haddonfield can take care of himself. He always has.” Sebastian indicated the path back to the French windows and Creighton joined him as they walked the colorfully paved path.
“So, you have no intention of taking your wife’s suggestion.”
“How long were you lurking in the ferns listening to my conversation with Minerva?”
“Long enough.” Creighton stopped just short of the entrance back into the house. “I am the last person in the world to lecture anyone on forgiveness. Over the last ten years my hatred of my parents for what they have done is often the only thing that keeps me alive.”
“You will find her, Creighton. One day, you will find her.” Sebastian did not want to think what his life would be if someone had hidden Minerva away from him for ten years with no hope of ever seeing her again. Creighton had been searching for the love of his life for all these years, knowing all the while his late father had sent her away, and his all-too-alive mother knew where she was.
“I don’t know anymore, Brightworth. But this I do know. As the years go by… with no hint of a sign she is even alive, I find I need my friends—you, Fitzhugh, your loved ones, and even my hoyden of a sister more and more. Can any of us afford to throw away even one person who wants to love us?”
Sebastian snorted. “After all this time what makes you think Anthony gives a damn about me?”
“He’s here. Why don’t you ask him?”
They left the conservatory and made their way into the library.
“Oh, and Brightworth?” Creighton said as Sebastian turned to ask him if he cared for a brandy.
“Yes?” The next thing he knew, he was on the floor with a bloody nose.
“I told you if you embarrassed her I would draw your cork. Do you want some ice for that?”
Christmas Eve
Somehow, they’d made it through the last two days with no violence and an inordinate amount of painfully polite conversation. Lord Haddonfield was an amusing and considerate guest. Minerva had not failed to notice his interest in Aphrodite. Unfortunately, no one knew what Aphrodite was thinking from one moment to the next. Poor Lord Haddonfield was in for it.
And Sebastian? Sebastian had kept his peace and spent a great deal of time in the library or the billiards room. Alone. She’d allowed him back into her bed for her sake as much as for his. She did not sleep well away from him, and the man’s body and kisses were warmer than any coal-fueled stove.
But he did not sleep well, in spite of his protestations to the contrary. He rose in the middle of the night when he believed her to be asleep. Sometimes he stood at the window and looked out over the snow-covered lawns in the moonlight. Sometimes he left their chambers and wandered the corridors. She feared his brother’s arrival had not put any ghosts to rest, but had rather drawn them out of the very walls. Any other woman would have begged him to share his troubles with her. Minerva knew this man intimately. Some things he had to work out for himself. Her interference would only make matters worse.
The entire party had gone out to gather greenery this morning and with a great deal of laughter and teasing had returned to the house with half the forest. Minerva had been bundled into a landau under a mound of lap rugs and blankets with half a dozen hot bricks at her feet. From there she had supervised the gathering of holly, mistletoe, and other assorted greenery. Each time his brother came to ask her approval, Minerva noticed Sebastian watching him, wary and confused all at once.
Now from her spot on the most comfortable sofa in the upstairs parlor, Minerva surveyed the room as everyone save Sebastian set about creating kissing boughs, holly sprigs and swags of greenery to bedeck the parlor. The servants had taken care of the rest of the house and done a beautiful job. And Cook had undone herself both with dinner and with the buffet of Christmas delicacies set up on the sideboard across the room. Fitzhugh divided his time between there and helping Edward to tie kissing boughs over the doorways.
It was not perfect, but it was not the disaster she’d feared. Perhaps this year she would settle for that. There was always next Christmas.
A quiet knock announced the arrival of Figgs who ushered in two footmen bearing what appeared to be a large painting in an ornate frame. A holland cover was draped over it, obscuring the painting from view.
“It arrived only moments ago, my lord.” Figgs addressed Lord Haddonfield, whose expression might only be described as one of utter trepidation. “Was this where you wanted it?”
“Yes, Figgs. Here will do.”
“What on earth is it, Lord Haddonfield?” Aphrodite settled herself on the arm of the sofa next to Minerva.
“It is a gift, my lady. For my brother and his lovely wife. Would you like to do the honors… Sebastian?”
With deliberate care, her husband placed his glass of brandy on the mantelpiece. He and Creighton exchanged a look. Sebastian crossed the room and stopped before the covered painting.
“Happy Christmas, brother,” Lord Haddonfield said softly.
Sebastian tugged at the cover, which slid to the floor with an audible shush. It was a portrait. A Gainsborough by the look of it. The subject was an exquisite dark-haired lady, dressed in a vibrant blue riding habit. One arm propped on the withers of a magnificent grey her smile was breathtaking. The front façade of Chesnick Wharton stood in the distance.
“Who is she?” Fitzhugh asked. “She is a diamond and no mistake.”
“My mother,” Sebastian murmured. “It is a portrait of my mother.” He turned on Lord Haddonfield. “Where did you find this? Where has it been all these years?”
“I found it here. I had it removed to the estate in Wales for safekeeping.”
“Safekeeping? This was mine. My father left it to me, but no one could find it. You stole it. After what you did to her you had no business keeping her portrait from me.”
“Sebastian, stop this,” Minerva took three tries to rise from the sofa. “It doesn’t matter where it was, it is here now.”
“It matters to me dammit. It wasn’t enough you sent her to her death, you had to take the only thing I had to remember her by too?” Sebastian stood, chest heaving and fists clenched. It broke Minerva’s heart. Would he ever forgive himself for his mother’s death? For that is what his rage was all about. How could he forgive his brother when he could not forgive himself?
“I cannot do this,” he muttered and strode towards the parlor door.
“Stop. Sebastian wait,” Lord Haddonfield said. “This is your home, your family, your friends. You stay. I’ll go.” He reached the door before Sebastian and raised the latch.
“Anthony, no. There is no need for anyone to leave,” Minerva blinked against the hot tears pushing at the backs of her eyes.
He turned to face Sebastian. “I took the portrait because I knew Grandmama would destroy it. I ordered Old Foster and two footmen to load it on a cart and take it to Wales because I knew she’d never visit the estate there. She hates Wales.”
“When did you take it?” Sebastian asked softly.
“The day after she made me send you away. I wrote out orders for the servants who took it to serve the estate in Wales for the rest of their lives. I knew she’d punish them if they returned. She was my mother for eight years, Sebastian. She is the only mother I have any memory of and I loved her.”
“You chose to live with grandmother. After grandfather died and you became Papa’s heir you chose…”
Lord Haddonfield shook his head.
“She had control of the money,” Creighton half-asked.
“She did, Lord Creighton. To a certain degree she still does.”
“I don’t understand,” Sebastian turned towards Minerva, his face a mask of confusion. Always in command—of himself, of his life, of what he knew to be true. Her strong and stubborn husband had no idea what to say or do.
“I know now she blackmailed them, but then I didn’t understand. They sent me away with a cold-hearted fiend of a woman and I blamed them. I blamed her, Sebastian, our mother. In my mind she chose to keep you, her real son, and she sent me away. When Father died I was still angry. I was angry at her for leaving me and angry at you because she chose you. I had no idea it would end the way it did and there was nothing I could do until it was far too late. I should have been stronger. You survived. You made your life on your own. You beat Grandmama, when I never could. And I am so very sorry.” He bowed in Minerva’s direction. “Thank you for inviting me, Minerva. My brother is lucky to have you.” With a quick glance at Aphrodite he quit the room.
Sebastian returned to the portrait, staring at it as if some answer lay there. Minerva came to stand beside him. She rubbed her hand along his back. Sometimes the only thing worse than believing a horrible lie was to finally hear the truth.
Edward was asking one question after another. Minerva wanted to be the one to answer them for him, but in this moment, Sebastian needed her more. She smiled as she heard Fitzhugh’s attempt at answers and Aphrodite’s derisive assessments of those answers.
“Sebastian,” she finally said, stilling her hand against his back.
“I really hate it when you are right, Mrs. Brightworth. It happens so often, however, I should be used to it.” He took her in his arms and kissed her. His lips seared hers in a kiss so fiery and passionate she wanted to melt into the floor.
“There is no mistletoe there, Papa. That isn’t fair.”
Sebastian laughed against her mouth and rested his forehead against hers. “I shall have to remedy the mistletoe situation, but right now I am going after my brother.”
This time she kissed him, but only for a moment. “Go. Go and find him.”
“Someone keep Fitzhugh away from the food,” Sebastian said as he left the parlor. “My brother and I might like to eat when we return.”
Minerva pressed her fingertips to her mouth and ceased fighting her tears. Creighton strolled over and handed her his handkerchief.
“Well done, Mrs. Brightworth. Very well done indeed.”
“Ouch! What the hell!”
Sebastian dashed into the stables to find his brother shrugging out of his coat to inspect a nasty bite on his arm.
“I see you’ve met, Lovey,” he said with a grin.
“Lovey?” Anthony shook his arm and checked it again. “She nearly broke my arm. Yours, I take it?”
“I had her at a very good price.”
“Someone should have paid you.”
Sebastian laughed.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I owe you an—”
Sebastian dropped his head and shoved his hands in the pockets of his greatcoat. When he looked up Anthony had done the exact same thing.
“I remember you, Anthony. You looked out for me. You never ran out of patience. I remember that now. I don’t know how I could have forgotten.”
“Our grandmother knew exactly what she was doing. She knew you’d hate me and that is what she wanted. She didn’t give us any choice. She knew I loved your mother.”
“Our mother.”
“Yes. Our mother. And it drove her mad. And even after Mama died Grandmama was afraid of you. She knew I’d be stronger if I had you in my corner.”
“Well,” Sebastian said as he slung an arm across his brother’s shoulder. “She has every reason to be afraid now. I rather like the idea. Come inside before Fitzhugh finishes off the buffet.”
“Does he always eat like that?”
“God, yes.”
“Wait,” Anthony said as they passed Lovey’s stall. “Is this the horse you rode into the church to steal Creighton’s bride in the presence of his mother?”
“She is.”
“Good God, man. You may well be the bravest man I know.”
“Lady Creighton is nothing. Wait until you have to face down my wife.”
They crossed the stable yard and crossed the front terrace to the portico. The night was bitter cold and the snow had begun to fall once more. Sebastian stopped and they gazed out over the white-covered front gardens.
“I can go, Sebastian. If you’d rather spend Christmas with your family.”
“Absolutely not. You have to come back with me. The bed in the master’s bedchamber is damned uncomfortable and I don’t want to be banished there again.”
“Actually, I heard grandfather made that bed uncomfortable on purpose, so Grandmama would not join him there.”
“Wise man.”
Minerva propped herself on her elbows and watched as Sebastian added a few logs to the fire and then placed the guard before it. He’d shed his dressing gown and she did so love the long line of his back as it tapered to his waist and curved into the muscles of his—
“Woman, if you do not stop staring at my arse as if it is a Christmas pudding I will not be responsible for my actions,” he warned.
“I cannot help myself. Get into bed and I won’t be able to look.”
He leapt under the covers and dragged her across the bed to him. “You may look all you like once this little one arrives.” He patted her belly and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Thank you, by the way.”
“For what?” She snuggled into his embrace.
“My Christmas gift. The one I said I never wanted.”
“Your brother.”
“Yes. And my family and the best part of my childhood. And my home. What gift can I give you to compare to that?”
“You already have, my love. You are happy. That is all I ever wanted for Christmas.”
“He-e-elp! Someone, help me! Get this fiend off me!”
Minerva tried to sit up, but Sebastian would not let her go.
“Precious is after Fitzhugh again,” she said. “We have to save him.”
“That isn’t Fitzhugh,” Sebastian replied. “That’s Anthony.”
“Sebastian, come out here and tell this devil dog to release me.”
“Ask Creighton to help you. He excels at dealing with Precious.”
Minerva struggled not to laugh. “You should not have told him that, Sebastian. You are awful.”
“What should I tell him? I am warm and comfortable in bed with my wife.”
“It is Christmas, Colonel Brightworth.”
“So it is. Happy Christmas, Anthony. Welcome to the family.”
The sounds of running feet, shouts, and a dog barking echoed in the corridor.
“It will be a miracle if we get to sleep tonight,” Minerva said with a sigh.
“It’s the season of miracles, Mrs. Brightworth. Anything can happen.”
Colonel and Mrs. Sebastian Brightworth
are pleased to announce
the christening of their son
Anthony Harold Xavier Brightworth
14th February, 1818
The End