His Mistletoe Bride Page 29

  Their carriage bowled smoothly up a tree-lined drive that wove through spacious parkland, finally drawing to a halt under an imposing portico. A liveried footman stepped forward to let down the carriage steps, and a moment later Lucas handed her out onto a well-maintained sweep in front of marble steps. He quickly ushered her through the high front doors into a hall at least twice the size of the one at Mistletoe Manor. Every bit of wood, marble, brass, and silver had been polished to a high gleam.

  She glanced at her husband. His jaw had squared with tension and his eyes had cooled to resemble flint. Cousin Stephen’s domain spoke of wealth, elegance, and a power that made Mistletoe Manor seem small and rather shabby in comparison.

  Well, the manor was still shabby, but it was hardly fair to compare the two estates. But the look on Lucas’s face indicated he was doing exactly that.

  She sighed. The infamous Esme Newton was obviously the root of the problem between Lucas and Cousin Stephen, but there were clearly other points of resentment, at least for her husband.

  Meredith appeared from the back of the hall, festive in a cherry red gown trimmed in white velvet ribbons. With her tall, elegant figure and her glossy black hair piled on her head, she was stunning.

  “I’m so happy to see you both,” she exclaimed. She held out her arms and took Phoebe in a warm, enthusiastic embrace.

  “You look simply lovely,” she murmured in Phoebe’s ear. “Marriage obviously agrees with you.”

  At a loss to devise an appropriate reply, Phoebe settled for giving her cousin a fierce hug. Meredith returned it, then drew back and ran a swift, perceptive glance over Phoebe. A tiny frown appeared between her brows, but when she turned to Lucas her face showed nothing but kindness and cheer.

  “And you are looking very dashing, Lucas. How goes the battle at the manor?”

  He took her hand and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I’ll let you know once I’m winning.”

  Meredith laughed. “You must tell me all about it later. The others are in the drawing room, but I know you will wish to go to your rooms and freshen up. Dinner is in an hour. Lucas, you needn’t look at me like that. Of course it’s ridiculously early, but you know the General. He insists that there’s no point being in the country if you can’t keep early hours.”

  Lucas had been regarding her with an ironic eye. “Gay to dissipation as always, I see. You must forgive me for forgetting my flannel waistcoat and arthritis liniment. Perhaps I can borrow Silverton’s.”

  “You could if he had any,” she retorted. “But truly, it won’t be as bad as all that. We do have some entertainment planned, including a visit from the Waits.” Her eyes twinkled. “And don’t forget the poetry recitation. The General has been practicing all morning.”

  Lucas gave an exaggerated groan. “God. It gets worse every year.”

  “I have no idea what either of you are talking about,” Phoebe interjected. “Who are the Waits? And why is Uncle Arthur reciting poetry?”

  “My love, you are about to be inducted into the Stanton family Christmas traditions,” Lucas said. “Guaranteed to strike terror in the hearts of stout men.” He leaned down, pretending to whisper. “It’s not too late to escape. Say the word and I’ll have the carriage brought round at once.”

  Meredith swatted him on the arm. “You beast! Stop your nonsense or you’ll frighten the poor girl. Now, let me show you to your rooms. If you’re late, then you will put the General in a mood, and then we’ll all want to run away.”

  Lucas grasped Phoebe’s hand and they followed Meredith up the central staircase to the first floor. They strolled through a grand corridor lined with marble busts on graceful pedestals, and enormous portraits that reached almost from the ceiling down to the floor. Everything at Belfield Abbey seemed to be larger than life, and Phoebe could not help being awed by its magnificence. But it made her feel rather small and insignificant, and she could not help feeling a twinge of longing for Mistletoe Manor. The manor might be drafty and run-down, but in the short time she had lived there she had come to love it. Somehow it suited her, and it felt like home.

  “Here is your suite of rooms. I do hope you like them,” Meredith said. She opened a pair of doors and stepped aside, waving them in before her.

  Phoebe smiled as she glanced around. After the rather alarming magnificence of the rest of the house, she could not help but be delighted. The suite was spacious but not overly large, and was decorated in cheerful shades of yellow and pale green. The furniture looked overstuffed and comfortable, covered in a pretty cotton fabric patterned with cream and yellow stripes. Crystal bowls of gorgeous red roses adorned the polished tabletops, and a roaring fire in the large marble chimneypiece warmed the room.

  She turned to Meredith. “It’s very beautiful. Where did you find roses at this time of year?”

  Meredith’s eyes gleamed with happy pride. “They’re from our succession-houses, which are the best in the country as Silverton is very fond of telling me.”

  Phoebe sensed Lucas stiffen beside her. The manor had succession-houses, too, but they had fallen into disrepair. He had told her it would take a great deal of money to restore them.

  “Then I shall be sure to ask Cousin Stephen all about them,” she said politely.

  “You will make him very happy if you do. Now, I beg you both to hurry. Lucas, your dressing room is through there.” She pointed to a door to the right of the fireplace.

  After Meredith took herself off, Lucas excused himself to change. Worried, Phoebe watched him go. Though he was trying not to show it, he was battling to keep his rising resentment in check. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come to the abbey after all, but now she had to make the best of it, and hope the two men would have the good sense to act like reasonable adults.

  With a quiet knock on the door, Maggie let herself in. Phoebe quickly washed and dressed, then sat for Maggie to dress her hair. While the maid was putting the finishing touches to her coiffure, Lucas prowled into the room, devastatingly handsome in the black and white evening attire that set off his lean, muscular build to perfection. Phoebe almost wished they could remain right where they were, snuggled up in the sinfully luxurious four-poster bed that dominated the room. A mere few days ago she had still been a virgin, but she could easily imagine becoming utterly addicted to her husband’s lovemaking.

  He studied her, his eyes heating with appreciation. “You look beautiful, my sweet. I believe you are more than ready to face the collected might of the Stanton family and their noble guests.”

  She gave him a grateful smile and stood, letting him take her hand to lead her out of their suite.

  “I hope you know your way to the drawing room,” she said as they strolled down the long corridor. “I should be lost if I had to find it myself.”

  “Yes, it’s quite the pile,” he said in a cynical voice. “What do you think of it so far?”

  “It is very impressive, of course, but I prefer our home.”

  He threw her a startled glance, then seemed to chew on the notion for a few moments. “I think I agree with you, which surprises the hell out of me.”

  “Lucas! You must watch your language. You know how Uncle Arthur scolds whenever you swear.”

  “I think you can match him very well in the scolding department, Madame Wife.”

  She protested, but he simply laughed, keeping up his teasing until they descended the staircase to the entrance hall. As they reached the bottom step, one of the doors off the hall opened and a young woman carrying a swaddled baby emerged. Both petite and voluptuous, she was one of the most beautiful women Phoebe had ever seen. Her auburn hair glowed with a fiery hue, and her complexion was as rich as cream. She glanced up, her green eyes filling with pleasure as she spied Lucas.

  “It’s the Earl of Merritt, arrived at last,” she said in a warm voice. “I see marriage has yet to mend your bad habits, my friend.”

  Lucas smiled, obviously delighted to see her. “Ah, Mrs. Blackmore! I didn’t realize you w
ould be here for the holiday, although I can’t blame you for wanting to escape the wilds of Yorkshire. My dear ma’am, how do you bear it?”

  The beauty scowled with mock fierceness. “Lucas, do not call me ma’am. You make me sound like an old hag.”

  He laughed, then gave her a kiss on the cheek when she offered it. “No one could ever accuse you of that,” he said. “Trust me.”

  Phoebe stood quietly, wondering if her husband had forgotten her. He seemed so taken with the other woman, who, despite the fact that she juggled a baby on her shoulder, exuded a sensuality no man could possibly ignore.

  The woman gave her a disarming smile. “And you must be Lady Merritt. I’m very pleased to meet the woman finally able to bring Lucas Stanton to heel. Dozens have tried, but only you succeeded.” She tilted her head, studying Phoebe. “And I can see why. You’re absolutely gorgeous.”

  Phoebe’s mouth dropped open. “Ah, thank you, ma . . . madam. It is very kind of you to say so.” The woman’s frankness was disconcerting, to say the least.

  “Don’t worry, Phoebe. You’ll get used to her soon enough,” Lucas said with a wry grin. “And now, let me formally introduce you to Mrs. John Blackmore, known to her friends as Bathsheba. You must remember that I told you about Dr. Blackmore, her husband.”

  Phoebe blinked, surprised that such a stunning beauty had married a country physician. Of course she had heard all about Dr. Blackmore from Meredith, and how he had delivered her twins. Phoebe knew from the harrowing story that the babies and probably Meredith would have died without the doctor’s dramatic intervention.

  “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Blackmore,” Phoebe said, giving her a slight curtsy.

  “You mustn’t curtsy to me, my dear. You are a countess and I’m simply the wife of a country doctor,” she said with an easy smile.

  “But you were a countess, were you not?” asked Phoebe. She had assumed that once a countess, always a countess. The arcane social conventions of the aristocracy never failed to trip her up.

  “Once,” she replied cheerfully. “But those days are over, thank God. Now I live in the back of beyond—as Lucas so kindly pointed out—and do my feeble best to help my husband with his work.”

  “You do a great deal more than that, I hear,” Lucas said in an admiring voice. Mrs. Blackmore shrugged away his praise.

  Phoebe reached out to gently stroke the baby cradled in her arms. “And is this your child, Mrs. Blackmore?”

  The woman carefully pushed back the cambric and lace cap obscuring the baby’s face. “This little monster? No. I’m happy to say he’s the son and heir of Lord Silverton. I thought I would rescue his mother by taking him back to the nurse.”

  She immediately offset her flippant remarks by kissing the baby and cuddling him close. The infant gave a sleepy, contented sigh and nestled closer.

  Phoebe smiled. “Of course. Now I recognize him. He’s a lovely boy.”

  “Tell that to his mother when he’s feeling colicky,” she said. “Which seems to be a great deal of the time. My husband claims little Stephen should grow out of it very soon, but I have my doubts.”

  Lucas pointed to Mrs. Blackmore’s shoulder. “Speaking of colic, you look a little worse for wear. Is that what I think it is?”

  She glanced down at her dress. “Sadly, yes. Viscount Thornbury just disgraced himself all over my gown. Once I deposit him in the nursery I’ll be changing forthwith.” She wrinkled her pretty nose. “Take it from me, there is nothing worse than baby vomit for ruining one’s clothes. If you wish to avoid a sartorial accident, I suggest you stay clear of this little one.”

  Lucas laughed again, and even Phoebe had to smile. She thought she might grow to like Bathsheba Blackmore, for her plain manner of speech if nothing else. But she was not so sure she liked the way her husband studied the other woman with so warm an expression.

  Mrs. Blackmore tucked the blanket around the sleeping child. “Run along, my dears. The others are waiting for you in the drawing room. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  With a gracious nod, Mrs. Blackmore disappeared up the stairs. Lucas stared after her, a little smile playing around the edges of his mouth. “The most beautiful and witty woman in the ton, and now she spends her time soothing colicky babies and tending to her husband’s medical practice. It’s extraordinary.”

  A shaft of jealousy stung Phoebe, sharp and cold. Her husband obviously thought Bathsheba was extraordinary, and he made no bones about stating it.

  “You like her very much,” she ventured, striving to keep her voice neutral.

  He glanced at her. “She’s easy to like. At least now she is. And once you get to know her, I’m sure you’ll like her, too. She can be very blunt, and I would think you’d appreciate that quality.”

  Phoebe opened her mouth, then closed it, not sure if Lucas meant to compliment or insult her. She did not think it was the latter, but the encounter with Mrs. Blackmore—whom she suspected had been one of Lucas’s flirts—had left her rattled. Compared to the sophisticated beauty, Phoebe could not but feel awkward and shy. She had not felt like that since leaving London and the fishbowl of the ton, but her husband’s evident appreciation of Mrs. Blackmore brought all her inconvenient insecurities charging to the surface. She had not expected to feel that way, not once they were married, and her confidence slipped another notch.

  “Phoebe, what’s wrong?”

  She glanced up to meet her husband’s frown. Was he concerned, or was he merely impatient with her lack of social polish? She could not tell. “Nothing.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “Well,” she amended, “perhaps I am a little tired.” And suddenly she was. Tired of lying, tired of wondering if Lucas would ever love her, tired of wondering if she would ever truly feel like his wife.

  His gaze softened and he raised her hand, pressing a kiss on the tender skin of her wrist. She shivered, her body responding to his lightest touch.

  “I know, love. You’ve been much too busy with all this Christmas nonsense. You need to sit and have a sherry and stay quiet for a bit. All this gallivanting about is obviously too much for you.”

  She repressed a sigh. If it were only that simple, she would be a happy woman.

  Chapter 29

  Phoebe’s gaze wandered the length of the table, sumptuously decorated with silver bowls of Christmas greenery and plump oranges, offset by handsome crystal vases filled with red roses. At the center of the table stood a remarkable flower basket composed entirely of sugar, so lifelike she could swear she caught a hint of scent. Everywhere in the abbey she saw the joy and beauty of Christmas, and most especially in the happy expressions of the family and friends gathered together in the elegant dining room.

  Emotion tightened her throat, and she sent up a silent prayer of thanks to God for leading her to the Stanton family and to this time and place. Aunt Georgie and Uncle Arthur, Annabel and Robert, and all the rest had greeted her with genuine affection. To be gifted with a loving and kind family was truly the greatest of blessings.

  Except for the blessing of a loving husband who did not make a habit of flirting with every pretty woman who crossed his path.

  From the moment Bathsheba Blackmore returned to the drawing room, Lucas had attached himself to her side. Phoebe suspected he had done so to avoid Cousin Stephen, who had greeted him with a cool manner that made her heart sink. After that, Lucas had given his cousin a wide berth, resisting all attempts by Aunt Georgie to draw him into the family circle. He had sat with Bathsheba on an elegant settee in the corner, and the two had kept up a lively conversation until they were called in to dinner.

  Unfortunate luck had also placed Lucas and Bathsheba next to each other at dinner, which had more the feel of an intimate family gathering than a formal occasion. And none seemed to enjoy the evening more than those two, who chatted and laughed throughout the long repast, exchanging gossip about mutual acquaintances in London. Phoebe tried to be happy that her husband was finally enj
oying himself, but his actions reminded her too much of his flirtatious behavior the night of Lady Framingham’s ball.

  She tore her gaze away to stare at the roasted pheasant in front of her, concentrating on its artful display on a bed of its own feathers. Her anxiety was ridiculous. She was seated in splendid comfort, enjoying a wonderful meal in celebration of the Lord’s nativity. She had everything she had ever wished for. A family who accepted her with open arms, a home to call her own, and a husband who might not be madly in love with her but who—

  Lucas’s husky laugh cut through her thoughts, pulling her gaze back across the table. He and Bathsheba had their heads close together again—his burnished gold to her flame—as they shared a joke. He leaned an elbow on the table as he talked in an animated fashion, more at ease than Phoebe had seen him in weeks. Unlike her, the former countess certainly had a knack for making a man comfortable and happy. Perhaps Phoebe should ask her for advice on how to manage husbands. Once she got over the horridly uncharitable impulse to throttle the woman, she might do just that.

  “They make quite a striking pair, don’t they?” Dr. Blackmore’s cultured voice interrupted the downward spiral of her thoughts.

  Phoebe blinked, and then dredged up a smile, turning slightly to address him. “They do. One might even think they belonged together.”

  She winced. Would she never learn to control her wayward tongue? For all the wrong reasons she was grateful her brother, George, could no longer see and hear her. He would be ashamed of her conduct, and rightfully so.

  “I . . . I am sorry,” she stammered. “I do not know why—”