Chapter 3
Sebastian stared out the tall set of windows embossed with roses in stained glass. The windows overlooked acres of snow covered grass and old forest.
How the hell it had come to this?
He hadn’t been in an English great house in almost a decade.
Oh, he’d been in many opulent family homes throughout Europe. Palaces, really. He was, after all, a lord by birth. He knew his way around these kinds of people. But for some inexplicable reason, setting foot in Northly and facing that horde of servants downstairs had sent him rattling back to his boyhood. His father and mother were cold and unyielding in their determination to produce a perfect little lord. They wanted a perfect little lord that would be an even greater soldier than his father.
The great house he had spent his childhood in had never been a home. It had been a beautiful, unkind prison of marble and gold. And the servants had been his jailers.
Escaping away to school had been the greatest relief of his life. . . Until he was able to escape the country, of course.
Now, he owned one of the largest estates in the country and he hated it.
“Forgive me, but I do believe we’ve been introduced.”
Sebastian dug his fingers into his palms then turned to face whoever had decided to venture into his self-imposed solitude.
My God.
He felt a smile begin to ease his scowl.
“Your Grace?” Sebastian asked, already knowing the answer.
The Duke of Huntsdown nodded. “I felt certain it was you.”
They’d seen action together. Years ago now.
The Duke of Huntsdown had been the kind of solider and leader that any man would dream of having. Instead of treating soldiers like they were fodder for cannon, he saved as many as he could. . . By using spies.
Spies like Sebastian Rutherford.
It hadn’t mattered that such a tactic was considered unsporting. The Duke of Huntsdown cared about information and how to use it to save his men.
Sebastian had only ever had direct interaction with the duke once. But it had been an honor.
“Come. Let’s go have a proper drink,” the duke suggested.
Sebastian nodded but then he paused. “I don’t know where—”
“I do,” the duke replied easily. He set off towards a door at the back of the room.
They eased out of the crowd, despite several pairs of eyes on them.
“I’ve been coming here for years,” the duke said unapologetically. “I even hoped at one point that Marabelle would be my duchess, you know. I even asked her to marry me. Thank goodness, Olivia came along. Marabelle and I were not suited, wonderful lady that she is.”
The information sent him into a bizarre series of emotions. Marabelle?
The duke’s sense of familiarity with her sent a surprising spike of jealousy down Sebastian’s ramrod straight spine. For God’s sake, he’d known his wife for less than two inauspicious hours. He’d no right to be jealous. And yet, she was his and he wanted her.
Those two points were undeniable no matter how hard he was attempting to pretend otherwise.
“And why did she turn you down?” he found himself asking as they entered into a small study. The walls were lined with books.
He loved books. So, immediately, he felt himself relaxing, surrounded by what felt like old friends.
The duke laughed. “Marabelle wouldn’t have me, thank God. I did keep asking her though. Terribly bullheaded of me. But I’m grateful Marabelle never yielded to my barrage.”
“Grateful.”
“Mmm,” the duke confirmed casually. “If she’d agreed, I would never have wed the love of my life.”
Love of my life.
Bloody hell. Sebastian longed to sigh with frustration. But he held too much respect for the duke to be quite so blatantly disrespectful of the man’s clearly foolish views on love.
The duke cocked his head to the side. “I see it upon your face.”
“What? A spot?” Sebastian played at ignorance. He didn’t want to offend the duke. “I haven’t gotten one since I was young.”
The duke rolled his eyes. “Your skepticism. You don’t believe in love. But it is like the plague, my friend. We all catch it.”
“An apt comparison.” Sebastian stalked to the fire. “Death will also, no doubt, be imminent after a great deal of suffering.”
The duke, undaunted, laughed again. He headed for the decanters on the table by the window. As he poured two generous portions into the matching crystal snifters, he said, “My apologies for acting the host but you do seem–”
“Not at home?” finished Sebastian, warming his hands.
“Ill at ease, at best,” the duke amended.
“I’m not. You know my sort. It’s why you had me selected all that time ago.”
“You don’t put down anchor. You don’t make connections. Not lasting ones.” The duke crossed the short distance to Sebastian, glasses in his hands.
Sebastian took the glass with the offered drink, ready for a bit of a slow burn. Angling the amber liquid towards the cold winter sunlight, he nodded. He hadn’t given meaningful affection to another person in all of his life. It certainly had never been given to him. He’d been taught early on that affection was a misguided emotion.
Well, there had been one nanny. One kind woman who had taken care of him for four years. She’d tried to put a glimmer of hope and kindness into his life. If it hadn’t been for her, he was fairly certain he would have turned out to be a monster. A perfectly precise monster.
His parents would have thought him, no doubt, the perfect product of their tutelage. Another cold fish, not giving a damn for anyone except for the few people continuously repopulating their class. He’d always been meant for the army. His father had been a colonel and he’d wanted his son to go even further. Mercy had been a quality that had been despised in their house.
Mercy was something he still struggled to practice every day, but he knew it was the best of all qualities one could have. It was why he admired the duke so much. He’d seen the effects of such leadership.
“Marabelle is a very good sort, Gray,” the duke said softly.
Gray. It was his title now. He wasn’t certain he would ever grow accustomed to it.
“I’m sure she is. But I don’t like. . .”
The duke’s brows rose. “Yes?”
How to say it? He thought of the rigid and polite ballrooms he’d visited. Of the women who had nothing to say or hid their vicious thoughts behind polite masks. “I don’t enjoy ladies of our society.”
“Good God, man. You can’t exactly wed a whore.”
Sebastian’s scowl returned. “I hadn’t planned to wed at all. Besides, I never said whore. There are a vast many women who aren’t ladies, who live interesting and complex lives. And don’t be so condescending of whores. Most of them are far better than our ilk will ever be.”
The duke groaned. “I suppose this is all coming out very strangely. I have no issue with women who aren’t born to our class—”
“They’re usually far more interesting,” Sebastian emphasized.
“Marabelle is educated, kind—”
“A breeder—”
“My goodness. Am I a horse or a Jersey cow?”
That voice. That lovely, lilting voice, which should have been ice cold at hearing such an insult, flowed over him in merry tones.
He could have, turtle-like, attempted to hide and pull his head in. Instead, he squared his shoulders and faced her.
She was magnificent.
The coils of her black hair shone ebony in the winter light. The diamonds in her hair winked, highlighting the mischief in her eyes. And that mouth, that red mouth, as bright as the holly berries hanging above the door, begged to be kissed.
God, he could nibble that lower lip of hers for the better part of an hour and be content. If he was to forget that she was Lady Gray, nothing would stop him in the all-out pursuit of her.
But he didn’t need to pursue her. She belonged to him. As the English upper class ensured, he could do whatever he wished with her.
And perhaps, he would do exactly what he wanted. . . And soon.
It was the only possible pleasurable thing about this whole endeavor.
“Sir,” she asked, folding her hands before her waist, “do you make a habit of falling into silence or is it I who strikes you dumb?”
He blinked and answered honestly, “It’s you.”
She laughed. “I must be fearsome, indeed.”
Sebastian very slowly surveyed her person. “You’re very beautiful, Countess.”
The duke cleared his throat and put his glass down. “I’m certain my wife is looking for me.”
Her cheeks burned at Sebastian’s comment. She said, “She’s discussing the deplorable state of the next county’s mills with Lord Brakenbury.”
“All the more reason to make certain no blood is spilled at your wedding,” the duke said with forced cheer. “Brakenbury is a ponce.”
Marabelle nodded. “He is, indeed.”
“Go rescue your wife then,” Sebastian put in.
The duke’s eyes widened. “Oh, I’m not saving Olivia. She can fight her own battles marvelously.”
With that, the duke strode from the room, leaving Sebastian with his wife.
His wife.
Those were two words he had, for years, never imagined uttering.
But the letter from the Earl of Gray had moved him deeply and he had been unable to glibly cast aside the old man’s wishes.
So, he’d agreed to marry the daughter.
If he had to marry, he had supposed this was ideal. After all, he hadn’t had to find her, court her, or do any of the things that a typical man with a powerful title and a fortune would do.
No, she’d come with the title and estate, so to speak.
“You truly don’t wish to be here, do you?” she asked, a rueful smile on her lips.
He could lie. It might be kind. He considered for a long moment before finally shaking his head. “I don’t.”
“Why did you come?” she asked without recrimination. “Why did you marry me if this is all so very terrible?”
Had he made his displeasure so very obvious? Yes, he had.
Mercy.
He was failing again. His spirit sank. Would he never be able to be kind? He longed to be. To be that one thing his parents had done everything they could to pound out of him.
“You know, I met your father,” he offered, in hopes of bridging the gap between them. “Once. Years and years ago. Did you know that?”
Her face softened. “No, I didn’t. When?”
“Oh, I was a boy. And. . .”
Her stance softened as did her expression at the hope of hearing about her father. “Yes?”
“He was kind to me.”
At the time, he’d struggled with that kindness. He could still recall the day he’d been thrown from his horse at a hunt. His father had cursed him and threatened to whip him if he didn’t get back up immediately.
He’d sprained his ankle and could barely stand.
The old Earl of Gray had gotten down off his bay and offered to take him back to the house.
Of course, he couldn’t retire. His father would have been disgusted.
But instead of having to heave himself back onto his horse, the Earl of Gray had insisted that he be allowed to help.
And so, someone, for once, had lifted him up.
It had been the moment when he realized how much kindness was truly important in this world.
“Your father. . .” He cleared his throat as a surprising well of emotion hit him. “Well, we met at a house party. I never forgot it. He was a good man.”
“Very,” she agreed easily. “I’m glad you knew him.”
“I didn’t want to let him down, you see. But I’d promised myself I’d never come back to England. Quite frankly, if I’d inherited anyone else but the Earl of Gray’s title, I’d still be abroad.”
“You hate it here so very much?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
She bit her lower lip. Then she ventured forward. She desperately hoped he’d answer not as she already expected, “And you hate Christmas?”
He nodded.
She sighed. “Allow me to deduce that you also hate weddings.”
A dry laugh tumbled out of him. She was so blunt. “Indeed, it’s true. Can you forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive.” She shrugged. “Why should I dislike you for having your likes and dislikes?”
It was all very strange, her degree of understanding of his situation. He’d not met such willingness to make the best of things in all his life. “That’s very magnanimous.”
“Not at all. Your feelings have little to do with me.” She hesitated then added, “At present.”
At present. An interesting contribution to her statement. Did she think that he might one day have feelings for her? Aside from noting her cleverness and beauty? If so, she was mistaken.
She unfolded her pale hands, squared her shoulders and appeared to be gathering her resolve. “I knew this wouldn’t be without its challenges. We are strangers, after all. But I confess I didn’t understand how little you wished to be the earl. I thought, perhaps, once you were here, you’d be pleased about being such an important man.”
He sighed. “Lady Marabelle–”
She raised a gloved hand. “Allow me to finish, if you please.”
“By all means.”
Any mischief about her vanished. She said with all seriousness, “I should like you to do your best to find the next days pleasant.”
He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
Her breasts rose, pressing tightly against her gown, emphasizing the twin swells above the low cut, sage green silk. “You see, I love Christmas. So did my father and. . . My brother.”
The deepness and softening of her voice was suddenly punctuated by the glistening of water in her eyes.
Another person might have attempted to console her. But the honest truth was he wasn’t sure what he should say to his new wife. They knew nothing of each other. Would she wish him to spout clichés or to take her in his arms?
He found he could do neither lest he intensify her grief. So, he listened, instead.
“We loved Christmas.” A soft nostalgic smile tilted her lips. “Mother did, too, when I was little. But we have always celebrated it. This will be my first Christmas without any of them. . . And I do not think I could bear a Christmas with someone who will not attempt to enjoy it.”
The declaration sent a wave of dread through him. “I see. Then—”
She raised a hand to stop him. “I must be terribly plain. If you cannot make the attempt to enjoy the festivities, I would prefer you leave. You don’t truly wish to be here, so that might be a relief to you.”
He let out an astonished breath. “You wish me to go?”
She shook her head, her dark hair brushing the elegant line of her neck. “I would prefer you to stay. . . If you can find it within you to be open to a happy Christmas.”
“A happy Christmas,” he repeated. “I have never known one, I must confess.”
“I am terribly sorry for that.” Then her face brightened. “Allow me to remedy your situation.”
“But will you not be. . .” He searched for an excuse. Any excuse to save him from the threat of a happy Christmas. “Too grieved?”
“My grief is a constant companion,” she admitted without a touch of self-pity. “One which will not let me be. Yet, I carry on. If I do not, I might as well go out to the churchyard now and take my place with my family.”
He couldn’t believe how forthright she was being. Grief was something he understood. He’d seen it, of course. He’d felt it, too, for soldiers-in-arms as they died on the battlefield and co-spies who’d been caught.
Still, he couldn’t imagine the sort of grief she was experiencing. For he had never had a family like she had. One that cared. One that was close.
He glanced towards the door and the sounds of their guests. Could he do it? Could he go into that gilded hall and make pleasantries and continue to make them for the celebrations of Christmas.
Slowly, he studied Marabelle.
God, those eyes of hers. Intense blue, heightened by glassy, unshed tears, they pierced him whilst she awaited his reply.
It was like she was reaching into his soul and willing him to find his best self.
And in that moment, he remembered similar blue eyes. The eyes of a kind older man; the man reaching down to him, pulling him up out of the mud and assuring him that all would be well, despite the cold disdain on his father’s face.
He wouldn’t let the old Earl of Gray down. Just for this Christmastide. He could do anything for a few days.
So, he held out his hand to her. “I agree.”
A soft smile parted her lips and she slipped her small hand into his infinitely larger one.
His body tensed at that gentle touch. And without doubt, he knew that the next days were going to be the most dangerous days in all his life. For though this wasn’t a battlefield, Lady Marabelle was the sort of woman who might try to lay siege to his heart. And with Lady Marabelle, it might be all too tempting to give in.