Chapter 8
Being a rogue, Sebastian wasn’t a stranger to making love to a woman out of doors.
However, Marabelle wasn’t any woman. She was a wife. His wife. And a virgin. For once, he felt entirely at sea with regards to his situation.
Oh, he could pull her aside, out of the notice of the servants. He could press her up against an ancient tree and begin her education. But that didn’t seem like something he should do with a virginal countess.
Surely, sheets and a bed should be involved.
He’d avoided young ladies like her his entire life. And now that he had to interact with her and intimately, he was at a small loss. It was the strangest feeling.
So, somehow, after a long, silent walk, they found themselves back at Northly. Not a single kiss or bit of wisdom had been bestowed.
Marabelle’s passion had been replaced by what seemed to him to be a forced grin. A grin that was on the verge of being a grimace.
He’d made a mistake. And after he’d clearly done so well with the selection of the Yule log.
Marabelle had wanted to be kissed and mussed out of doors.
With each passing moment in her company, one thing was becoming clearer and clearer to him. She was not like other ladies.
Still, there had been much celebration. The staff had come out and veritably trouped in the massive log that would burn all tomorrow night.
In fact, though it wasn’t Christmas Eve, the Duke and Duchess of Huntsdown were throwing parties and dances every night now until the new year. Of course, Sebastian had been informed that he and his wife would attend tonight.
He had no idea how it had all happened. How he’d been lured into such gatherings. But there it was.
Sebastian glanced out the window to the snow-blanketed surroundings. He wondered what the devil he could do to feel at ease in all this, to please Marabelle, and ease her grief.
It seemed a monstrous task. Especially, given that he’d come here strictly out of duty and to begin the task of making an heir.
As he looked out to the parkland, he spotted something. Something in one of the trees at the bottom of the terraced hillside.
A smile pulled at his lips.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect. And without even bothering with a coat, he strode to the door, ready to go. He would make his wife’s Christmas very merry, indeed.
The ballroom was full of laughing individuals. There was clapping and dancing as fires roared in the twin fireplaces in the cavernous but beautifully decorated room.
Chandeliers glowed with hundreds of beeswax candles. The polished mirrors hanging from the walls reflected the golden beams, bathing the room in a warm glow.
Holly, ivy, and juniper decked the room with red ribbons at every conceivable surface and corner.
Laughter exploded from a group of people playing Snap!
A girl was blowing on her delicate fingers having just missed a raisin in the flaming pot of brandy.
Marabelle swayed to the music. She wished to feel the magic that she felt every Christmas at the Duke of Huntsdown’s gatherings.
Instead, she felt a heavy melancholy. Oh, everything was beautiful. She couldn’t ask for a room more inclined to good cheer.
Yet, she missed her father and her brother. She missed dancing with them as she did at every gathering. She missed singing carols with them. And eating sweets. And playing games.
Though surrounded with familiar faces, she felt alone.
She drew in a shaky breath and held her head up high.
She wouldn’t darken anyone else’s Christmas.
That wasn’t how her family did things.
Oh no, they kept on, smiles on their faces, hearts open to the world.
Only. . . Only, they’d always had each other.
“May I have this dance?”
She blinked and gasped as her husband slipped his hand around hers. He easily guided her to the ballroom floor packed with couples ready to dance until the last star had faded into dawn.
The swell of the small orchestra drifted about them as Sebastian encircled her waist with his hand.
She scooped up her trailing lace overlaid skirt and gazed up at him. Before she could think twice, he swirled them around to the lilting cadence of the waltz.
The warmth of the fire and the crush of the guests somehow buoyed her spirits. Amazingly, so did the way he held her.
Sebastian’s command was undeniable.
She never would have thought that such a rogue, who had no desire for English society, could so excel at something as proper as a ball.
Though a Christmastide ball was really one great frolic after another.
“You looked most melancholy just now,” he said softly.
Her shoulders drooped for a moment. “Did I? I didn’t mean to show my feeling with so much transparency.”
“I like you better for it Marabelle,” he said frankly. “The quality that has become entrenched in English life, the quality of reticence, is one that is not always admirable.”
“You have mastered it,” she protested, all the while savoring the closeness of his body and the strength of his arms. “I admire your collectedness.”
“Just because I appear thus doesn’t mean my insides aren’t a raging storm.” His eyes darkened to the shade of the storm he spoke of. “Perhaps it would be better if I allowed myself to be effusive. Perhaps I’d be. . .”
“Yes?”
He looked away for a moment. “I’d be happier.”
“In truth?”
Nodding, he met her gaze again. “You know, everyone admires Field Marshal Wellesley for his wit and sense of noblesse oblige.”
“They do,” she agreed. “We all read about it in the news sheets.”
“Do you know who I secretly admire?” Sebastian twirled them around and away from a less adept couple.
“Who?” she asked, in awe of his skill on the floor.
“Admiral Nelson.”
She blinked. The nation had mourned for the admiral. But some had deemed him wanting as a man.
“Oh yes,” he continued. “My father was appalled by the man’s sentiment. By his emotion.”
This piece of news was completely unexpected.
Of course, Admiral Nelson had been written about often. His relationship with Lady Hamilton was legendary. His death, too. He had been a man who hadn’t been stoic at the end, but rather had wished to die in his friend’s embrace.
Sebastian’s revelation truly surprised her.
She tilted her head to the side. “You long to be like him?”
“Perhaps not so entirely, but I wish I could express my feelings with better skill.” He sighed, appearing to search for the right words. “With more openness.”
Slowly, she lowered her lashes then ventured, “You could always practice.”
“With you?” he added so quietly it was little more than a whisper.
She nodded. “With me.”
Silence fell over them as if they were, for the moment, one. Their mutual desire to be understood, to be cared for, suddenly collided and they gazed into each other’s eyes. She felt something astonishing take root in her heart.
Love.
The first tendrils of love coiled for her husband. It didn’t matter how little they had known each other. Fate was taking hold. Of that, she was certain.
That feeling, that strange, new, wondrous feeling stole her breath as it slid through and filled her whole body with a deep wish to be close to him. And it terrified her.
For, he was a stranger.
Even so, it was undeniable.
Love was now coming over her. Was it the way he had so ardently thrown himself into the getting of a Yule log? Or the way he had just now taken her hand and embraced her at the sight of her melancholy?
It was impossible for her to put her finger on it. But at this instant, she felt that, perhaps, the greatest gift she might receive this Christmas would be the beginning of something marvelous with her husband.
Only . . . Only, what if he never felt the same?
Such a thing almost didn’t bear thinking on. Yet she knew, even from his own words, that he was not a man given to affection.
The strains of the waltz came to a close and propriety dictated that he should lead her off the floor. Yet, he held her in his powerful arms, still.
“Come away with me,” he whispered against her ear. “Come away with me now and let me make you mine.”
Those words were the most thrilling she’d ever heard. And without question, she followed him out of the ballroom, into the isolated hall and down to their coach.
This Christmas, Marabelle realized, her present was a future, waiting to be opened.