His Mistletoe Bride Read online

  “I’m sorry if I startled you,” he said. “Were you sleeping?”

  “No,” she replied in a nearly breathless voice. “We were just about to put down the glass and ask if there was a problem.”

  “It’s just a flock of sheep crossing the road.” His gaze flicked over her, coming to rest on her face. “Are you cold? There’s an inn only five minutes on. We could stop and warm up, if you like.”

  Her nose must be as red as she had suspected. “Thank you, but I think not. I am eager to reach the manor.”

  As he studied her, his mouth kicked up in a charming smile. Even in the gathering gloom she could see the build of heat in his eyes. The intensity of his gaze made her want to fidget.

  “I’m eager as well, my sweet,” he said. “More than you can imagine.”

  His masculine rumble brought fire rushing to her cheeks, which he seemed to find amusing. Grinning, he slid an affectionate stroke along her jawline before straightening back on his horse. “Put the window up and get under that blanket, Phoebe. I would be most unhappy if you caught a chill on our wedding night. Most unhappy.”

  “Really, Lucas,” she huffed, but he had already spurred his horse ahead. She shoved the glass back up as the carriage started forward.

  “Goodness, my lady,” exclaimed Maggie, vigorously fanning herself. “If you don’t mind me saying so, his lordship is such a handsome man. It’s a lucky woman you are, and that’s for sure.”

  Phoebe blinked, not quite sure how to respond to such a candid pronouncement. But Lucas had been very affectionate, which was certainly an improvement on his cool, self-controlled behavior of the last few days.

  Feeling rather better about things, Phoebe listened to Maggie’s cheerful prattle, even responding now and again. In less than half an hour, the carriage turned into a long gravel lane—one that had seen better days by the jostling that almost bounced them out of their seats—and eventually came to a halt in front of the lamp-lit entrance of a house.

  As they waited for the carriage door to open, Phoebe checked that her bonnet was straight. A moment later, the footman let down the steps and Lucas handed her out. Feeling both shy and nervous, she gave him a smile, suddenly very grateful to have his protective presence at her side. She was about to enter into a strange new life with unfamiliar duties and responsibilities, including running a household considerably larger than anything she was used to.

  Lucas bent to whisper in her ear. “Courage, Phoebe. I promise all will be well.”

  Taking a deep breath, she nodded her reply and raised her eyes to the front of the house. The entrance blazed with light, and a number of servants clustered in the open doorway of Mistletoe Manor. The house itself, a massive shadow in the deepening dusk, loomed over them with ill-defined shapes reaching into the sky. She would have to wait for full daylight for a true picture of the building. For now, she simply had the impression of a brick sprawl, with many chimneys and a few shadowed towers.

  Lucas urged her forward, his gloved hand warmly resting at the base of her spine. A rotund woman with a broad smile came bustling down the steps to greet them. “Lord Merritt, welcome home.”

  “My dear, allow me to introduce you to Mistletoe Manor’s housekeeper,” Lucas said in a voice as dry as the champagne served at their wedding breakfast. “This is Mrs. Christmas. Mrs. Honor Christmas.”

  Phoebe froze, wondering if Lucas was jesting. Honor Christmas at Mistletoe Manor? When she cut a quick glance to his face, his long-suffering expression told her he was not.

  “Mrs. . . . Mrs. Christmas,” Phoebe stammered. “It’s an . . . honor to meet you.”

  She repressed a groan at her idiotic response. She had a sinking feeling she might have already failed her first test as a countess by unintentionally insulting their housekeeper.

  Thankfully, Mrs. Christmas seemed immune to insult. “Lord love you, my lady,” she said with a chuckle. “There’s no need to feel one bit uncomfortable with my name. Christmases have been serving the Merritts of Mistletoe Manor since the time of the Jacobite kings, and right proud of the tradition we are. With any luck, there will be many more generations of Christmases to come.”

  “Indeed,” interjected Lucas in a sardonic voice. “But I would suggest we introduce her ladyship to the rest of the servants inside, lest we expire of a chill before the holiday comes to the manor.”

  Mrs. Christmas’s round face scrunched up with comic dismay. “Right you are, my lord. Forgive me, your ladyship, but a woman of my size rarely feels the cold.” She punctuated her comment by laughing heartily, her large form shaking with mirth. The woman was so irrepressibly cheerful that Phoebe wanted to join in the laughter. She likely would have, but Lucas looked increasingly impatient.

  He took her arm to guide her inside. As they passed under the portico, she glanced up at him and mouthed Mrs. Christmas? She expected him to smile, but he just rolled his eyes, looking aggravated. She did not understand why, because on first glance the housekeeper appeared a cheerful, kind soul.

  They stepped into a large, timbered hall that looked ancient, at least to Phoebe’s eyes. A giant fireplace, large enough to roast an entire cow, was set into the back wall, and there were a few groupings of old-fashioned-looking furniture that seemed inadequate and rather shabby in the cavernous space. Several branches of candles stood on some side tables and a fire crackled on the hearth, but her instant impression was of a dim, shadowy room, the long passage of centuries stamped irrevocably on the walls.

  For all that, it seemed clean and tidy.

  “My lady, allow me to introduce you to the rest of the staff,” Lucas said.

  Intent on hiding her nerves, Phoebe forced a smile as she faced a line of people stretching down the length of the hall. First up was a gaunt little man dressed neatly in black.

  “This is our butler,” Lucas said. “Mr. Christmas.”

  When Phoebe’s jaw dropped, the butler sighed and gave a morose bow, as if he could not be more pained by the situation. “Your ladyship, welcome to Mistletoe Manor,” he intoned in a gloomy voice.

  Phoebe turned to her husband. “Really?” she asked in a faint voice.

  This time his mouth twitched suspiciously.

  Mrs. Christmas let out another peal of laughter. “To be sure, my lady, he is. That be my cousin, Solomon Christmas, and very aptly named he is, too, since he’s the most solemn man I’ve ever met. Doesn’t seem right for a Christmas, now does it?”

  Dumbfounded, Phoebe stared at her new housekeeper. Were all the servants so forward? She had never noticed anything like that at Stanton House, but she began to wonder.

  She glanced at Lucas for support, but the evil glint in his eye told her not to expect any from that quarter. The wretched man had finally begun to enjoy himself, and at her expense.

  “I am certain Mr. Christmas is just as he ought to be,” Phoebe said, sounding anything but certain. “Thank you for such a kind welcome.”

  “You’re welcome, my lady,” the butler replied, every bit as gloomy as he had been a moment ago. Mrs. Christmas gave another hearty laugh and Phoebe began to wonder if she had wandered into a madhouse, albeit a harmless one.

  Fortunately, Lucas intervened and introduced the rest of the servants—maids, footmen, most of the kitchen staff, the head gardener, and the head groom. An astounding number of them carried the last name of Christmas, and they all appeared inordinately proud of it.

  Except for the butler, who she suspected was perpetually glum. The rest obviously coexisted as one large, happy family, devoting their lives to the welfare of the manor and the Merritt family.

  Devoted, but also quite lacking in discipline. The younger ones, especially, whispered behind their hands, and made no bones about carrying on merry conversations with each other and cheerfully commenting on the earl’s “pretty lady.” She also thought she heard a few approving if innocent comments from the men. A sideways peek at Lucas’s long-suffering expression confirmed her suspicions.

  By the
time she reached the end of the line, Phoebe was biting the inside of her cheeks to hold back a semihysterical laugh. No wonder Lucas had looked so pained when Robert teased him about the manor. The entire staff might have been transported from one of the holiday pantomimes her mother used to describe, and that was not something that would appeal to a man like Lucas. He was a soldier, and soldiers liked order and organization. On first impression, those qualities appeared lacking in their new home.

  Phoebe exhaled a tiny sigh of relief as Lucas introduced her to his valet, Mr. Popham. Lucas had told her that Popham had served him in the army as his batman, and was a competent man with a good deal of common sense. From the few vague statements her husband had made to her about Mistletoe Manor in the last few days—deliberately vague, she now suspected—he relied heavily on Popham in dealing with the estate’s many problems.

  Now those problems were hers, too. No matter her doubts about the marriage, it was time to take up the responsibilities that had been thrust upon her. In that way, at least, she could be of use to Lucas, rather than adding to his burdens.

  “Thank—” she bit back an errant thee, “you for your kind welcome, and for your work on behalf of my husband and the earl before him, my grandfather. It gives me great pleasure to finally come to Mistletoe Manor, which Grandfather so loved and which will now be my beloved home, too.”

  Her speech won her several approving nods and murmurs, boosting her courage. “I would ask for your patience and help over the next few weeks as I become familiar with you and with the workings of this great house. I have much to learn, and I will be relying on all of you for your assistance.”

  She glanced up at Lucas. His expression was a trifle stern, as it often was, but his eyes smiled and even, she hoped, held a bit of pride. Taking a deep breath, she reached over and took his hand. Immediately, his fingers closed around hers, and a tentative joy stole through her. “I am very happy to be among you,” she said. “With your support, I am confident we will restore Mistletoe Manor to full prosperity and beauty.”

  The staff erupted into a round of cheers. No doubt their behavior would be frowned upon in so correct an establishment as Stanton House, but Phoebe could not bring herself to fault them. As she smiled at the happy little mob in the hall, Lucas tugged her a few inches closer.

  “Well done, my lady,” he murmured in her ear. “You’ll have them eating out of your hand in no time, exactly like your grandfather. God knows I haven’t mastered the trick yet.”

  His praise dispelled the last of her gloom. “Thank you, Lucas. I will try to do my best.”

  “I have no doubt of that, sweetheart.” He cast a quick glance around the hall, then turned his gaze back to her. “And now,” he purred in a seductive voice, “perhaps you would like to see the rest of the house. Starting, I think, with the bedroom.”

  Chapter 17

  Phoebe had almost fainted when Lucas suggested they tour the bedrooms first. The thought of facing her wedding night before unpacking—even before dinner—unnerved her as nothing else had done that day. But, thankfully, he had only been teasing. When she had stammered out a jumbled excuse, Lucas had rolled his eyes before escorting her upstairs to her suite. Once there, he had left her alone to settle in.

  That had been something of a shock. After his smoldering glances and suggestive remarks in the hall, Lucas’s transformation back into the coolly polite aristocrat had left her confused. One moment he studied her with a warm, eager regard. The next, he treated her much as he would any other member of the Stanton family, a truly disconcerting notion for a bride on her wedding night.

  As she sat in front of the old and battered dressing table in her bedroom brushing out her hair, she reluctantly acknowledged that Lucas had treated her with more affection before their precipitous engagement and marriage. Since that fateful night at the ball, he had retreated behind a courteous but rather distant facade that did nothing to ease her doubts about their future together.

  She grimaced at her reflection in the smoky glass. Her new husband was sometimes as obscure as a cipher, and trying to puzzle him out struck her as a waste of time. Only by living with him would she find the answers she sought. She would pray that they would grow happily into their life as man and wife, finding common purpose in restoring Mistletoe Manor and eventually creating a family. Perhaps then he would learn to love her, and she would be able to cast aside her doubts and fears.

  But first she had to get through tonight, and that thought hollowed out her stomach. Part of her longed to be back in his arms, experiencing the thrilling sensation of his touch, but she dreaded the encounter, too. She knew only of the essential details of marital relations, and she worried she would disappoint him. Tonight was not just her wedding night—it would be the cornerstone of their marriage and of their dealings with each other. How well it went would set the tone for much to come. They were alone here at Mistletoe Manor, with no other friends and family to occupy them or deflect blame or disappointment. She and Lucas would find their way to each other, relying only on themselves, or founder on a sea of awkwardness, regret, and lost opportunities.

  Putting down her hairbrush, Phoebe silently vowed she would not let that happen. She would make Lucas happy. If only she was not so ridiculously innocent when it came to—

  The old clock on the mantelpiece whirred and then chimed out the late hour in a rusty tone. Where was Lucas? After their first dinner together as husband and wife—ridiculously separated by the immense length of the dining room table—he had repaired to his study for a brandy. But if she had to wait for him much longer, she would likely expire from a fatal case of nerves. With her stomach twisted in knots and her palms damp, his lingering over his brandy was conducive to neither her confidence nor her patience. As much as she worried over what was to transpire, she wanted to get on with it and hoped her nerves would settle once Lucas began to kiss her. She did quite like the kissing they had done that night at Lady Framingham’s, and she hoped to like it even more now as his wife.

  To give herself something to do with her fidgety hands, she began to weave her hair into a tight braid until Maggie’s horrified exclamation stopped her. “No, my lady! Don’t be pulling it back so tightly. You’re like to yank half your hairs out of your head.”

  The maid bustled over from straightening up the old press cupboard in the corner and pushed her hands away, quickly undoing the braid. Smiling over Phoebe’s shoulder, she took a hank from the top, wove it into a loose, attractive braid, and let the rest tumble over her back and shoulders.

  “But I always put my hair up for bed,” Phoebe protested. “And wear a cap.”

  “Not tonight, my lady. You have beautiful hair, and men like to see their ladies wear it down like this. As for your cap—” She grabbed Phoebe’s white sleeping cap and whisked it away under her apron. “His lordship won’t be wanting his bride to be looking like some old granny now, will he?”

  Then Maggie gave her a broad wink, which had Phoebe biting down on her lip to hold back a horrified laugh. She would have to do something about the girl’s carefree regard for bedroom matters, as soon as she mustered up the nerve and the appropriate words to address the subject.

  Not right now, though. Dealing with her husband was enough for one night. “Oh, very well,” she said. “I’ll keep it down for tonight.”

  She leaned forward, peering into the mirror. Her eyes seemed almost feverish and her cheeks were flushed, but Maggie was right. The tumble of dark, curling locks around her face and shoulders suited her, and Phoebe possessed enough vanity to wish to look pretty for her new husband. She just hoped she looked as enticing as Esme Newton, the only other woman Lucas had ever wanted to marry.

  Fortunately, before she could worry that idea to the bone, a quiet knock sounded on the connecting door from Lucas’s suite. “Enter,” she called, wincing at the break in her voice.

  The door opened and Lucas strolled in. He had removed his coat and waistcoat, and was clad only in an open-necke
d shirt and trousers. In one hand he deftly balanced two crystal tumblers of amber liquid. Brandy, she assumed. Phoebe usually turned her nose up at strong spirits, but tonight she was more than prepared to make an exception.

  On legs that trembled, she rose to greet him, managing a shy smile.

  “Good evening, my love,” Lucas said in that husky voice she was beginning to recognize. It did nothing to still the tremors in her legs—or in her stomach, for that matter. Gazing at his strong, broad-shouldered body did the oddest things to her insides. Not unpleasant things, but certainly unsettling and unfamiliar.

  Maggie bobbed a curtsy even as she gave Phoebe a knowing little smile. “Will you be needing anything else, my lady?”

  “No, Maggie. You may go.”

  The maid threw her another wink so broad Phoebe almost gasped, then whisked herself out of the room. Mortified, Phoebe met her husband’s ironic gaze. “I do apologize for Maggie’s behavior,” she sighed. “I cannot imagine why she is so interested in our private intimacies.”

  Lucas gave a little snort as he strolled up to her. “She’s not the only servant in this house to remark upon it. I must say, their manners do seem to harken back to the older generation. I’m surprised they didn’t insist on attending the bedding, like some damn medieval ceremony.” He shook his head, looking baffled. “And they all seem to blurt out whatever they’re thinking and to hell with the fact that I’m supposedly their lord and master. It’s remarkably unnerving, though I must say your grandfather never seemed to mind it.”

  Phoebe gratefully took the glass he offered, wondering at the glimpse into Grandfather’s life.

  “Perhaps in his loneliness he found their manners a comfort,” she said. “I understand he was quite reclusive, especially after the death of my uncle.”

  “He was reclusive indeed,” Lucas replied absently as he wandered over to one of the mullioned windows. The housekeeper had left it open a crack to air out the room, but now a cold wind stirred the thick, faded drapes and swirled with a nasty bite around Phoebe’s bare ankles. He seized the handle, wrestled with it, and finally managed to yank the window shut. It closed with an unexpected bang, and a little shower of plaster dust filtered down from somewhere above the window.