A Wallflower Christmas (16 page)

Hannah knew that Annabelle was right. But the truth was not exactly liberating. It made her feel hollow and small. She drew the toe of her shoe on a flowered medallion pattern on the carpet. “I hope I can be that brave,” she said, more to herself than to the others.

“Love is worth the risk,” Daisy said.

“If you don't tell Rafe,” Lillian added, “you'll regret it forever. Because you'll never know what might have happened.”

“Tell him,” Evie said quietly.

Hannah took an unsteady breath, looking at the four of them. They were a peculiar group, all so bright and pretty, but…different. And she had the feeling that these women encouraged each other's eccentricities, and relished their differences. Anything could be said or done among them, and no matter what it was, they would accept and forgive. Sometimes, in some rare and wonderful friendships, the bond of sisterly love was much stronger than any blood tie.

It felt nice to be around them. She felt comforted in their presence, especially when she looked into the Bowman sisters' familiar dark eyes.

“All right,” she told them, her stomach dropping. “I will tell him. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow night is the Christmas Eve ball,” Annabelle said. “Do you have a nice gown to wear?”

“Yes,” Hannah replied. “A white one. It's very simple, but it's my favorite.”

“I have a pearl necklace you could borrow,” Annabelle offered.

“I have white satin gloves for her,” Daisy exclaimed.

Lillian grinned. “Hannah, we'll adorn you more lavishly than the Christmas tree.”

The maid brought in tea, and Lillian sent her back for extra cups. “Who wants tea with brandy?” Lillian asked.

“I do,” said Daisy.

“I'll take m-mine without the brandy,” Evie murmured.

“I'll take mine without the tea,” Annabelle said.

Moving to the space beside Hannah, Daisy gave her a fresh handkerchief, and put her arm around her shoulders. “You know, dear,” Daisy said, “you're our first honorary wallflower. And we've brought very good luck to each other. I have no doubt it will extend to you, too.”

 

Slightly tipsy from a glass of straight brandy, Lillian said good night to the wallflowers, including their newest member. They all left the Marsden parlor to go to their rooms. Wandering slowly toward the master's suite, Lillian pondered her brother's situation with a troubled frown.

Lillian was a straightforward, blunt-spoken woman, who far preferred to handle a problem by bringing it out into the open and dealing with it directly. But she understood that this matter must be handled with discretion and sensitivity. Which meant she needed to stay out of it. And yet she longed for Rafe to find the happiness he deserved. Even more, she longed to shake her stubborn ass of a father and command him to stop manipulating the lives of everyone around him.

She decided to talk to Westcliff, who could always be
counted on for comfort and common sense. She could hardly wait to hear his opinions on the matter of Rafe and Hannah and Lady Natalie. Guessing that he would still be downstairs with the guests, she headed toward the grand staircase.

As she reached the top of the grand staircase and prepared to descend, she saw her husband standing in the entrance hall below, talking to someone.

Lady Kittridge…
again.

“Marcus,” she whispered, feeling a sick pang of jealousy. Followed swiftly by rage.

By God, this was not to be endured. She would not lose her husband's affections to someone else. Not without a fight. Her hands clenched into fists. Although every instinct screamed for her to storm downstairs and jump between her husband and the blond woman, she managed to restrain herself. She was a countess. She would do the dignified thing, and confront Marcus in private.

First she went to the nursery to say good night to little Merritt, who was snuggled in a lace-trimmed crib, with a nurserymaid watching over her. The sight of her precious daughter calmed Lillian somewhat. She smoothed her hand lightly over the baby's dark hair, drinking in the sight of her.
I'm the mother of his child,
she thought vehemently, wishing she could hurl the words like daggers at the glamorous Lady Kittridge.
I'm his wife. And he hasn't fallen out of love with me yet!

She went to the master bedroom, bathed and changed into a nightgown and velvet dressing robe, and brushed out her long sable hair.

Her heart began to thump madly as Marcus entered the room. He paused at the sight of her, the long locks of hair flowing down her back, and he smiled. Here in private, his autocratic demeanor faded away, and the all-powerful earl became a warm, loving, very mortal man.

He stripped off his coat and dropped it onto a chair. His cravat followed, and then he came to stand beside her.

Lillian closed her eyes as his hands came to her head, fingers sliding gently through her loose hair, and his fingertips massaged her temples. She was acutely aware of him, the coiled power of his body, and the dry, sweet outdoors scent of him, like fresh-cut hay. He fascinated her, this complex man with complex needs. Having been raised with the unstinting criticism of her parents, it was no wonder that she occasionally doubted her ability to be enough for Marcus.

“Are you tired?” he asked in that gravel-wrapped-in-velvet murmur, so distinctive and pleasant.

“Just a little.” She sighed as his hands slid to her shoulders, working the tension from them.

“You could just lie back and let me have my way with you,” he suggested, his dark eyes glowing.

“Yes, but…there is something I must talk with you about first.” Damn it, there was a quaver in her voice, despite her attempt to sound calm and dignified.

Marcus's expression changed as he heard the distress in her tone. He pulled her up to face him, and he stared down at her with instant concern. “What is it, my love?”

Lillian took a deep breath. Another. Her fear and an
ger and worry were so great, it was hard to force the words out. “I…I should not stand in the way of your…pursuits outside of marriage. I know that. I understand how it is with your kind…I mean, you've done it for centuries, and I suppose it was too much for me to expect that you—that I—would be enough. All I ask is that you be discreet. Because it isn't easy to watch you with her—the way you smile, and—” She stopped and covered her face with her hands, mortified to feel tears springing to her eyes. Bloody hell.

“My kind?” Marcus sounded bewildered. “What have I done for centuries? Lillian, what the hell are you talking about?”

Her woeful voice filtered out from behind her hands. “Lady Kittridge.”

There was a short, shocked silence.

“Have you gone mad? Lillian, look at me. Lillian—”

“I can't look at you,” she muttered.

He gave her a little shake. “Lillian…Am I to understand that you think I have a personal interest in her?”

The note of genuine outrage in his question made Lillian feel the tiniest bit better. No guilty husband could have feigned such baffled anger. On the other hand, it was never a good idea to provoke Marcus. He was usually slow to anger, but once it started, mountains trembled, oceans parted, and every creature with an instinct for self-preservation fled for cover.

“I've seen you talking with her,” Lillian said, taking her hands down, “and smiling at her, and you've corresponded with her. And—” She gave him a look of miserable indignation. “You've changed the way you tie your cravat!”

“My valet suggested it,” he said, looking stunned.

“And that new trick the other night…that new thing you did in bed…”

“You didn't like it? Damn it, Lillian, all you had to do was tell me—”

“I did like it,” she said, turning scarlet. “But it's one of the signs, you see.”

“Signs of what?”

“That you've tired of me,” she said, her voice cracking. “That you want someone else.”

Marcus stared at her and let out a string of curses that shocked Lillian, who had a fairly good command of filthy language herself. Seizing her arm, he pulled her with him out of the bedroom. “Come with me.”

“Now? Like this? Marcus, I'm not dressed—”

“I don't give a bloody damn!”

I've finally driven him mad,
Lillian thought in alarm, as he tugged and pulled her along with him, down the stairs and through the entrance hall past a few bemused-looking servants. Out into the biting December cold. What was he going to do? Toss her off the bluff? “Marcus?” she asked nervously, hurrying to keep pace with his ground-eating strides.

He didn't answer, only took her across the courtyard to the stables, with their central courtyard and drinking fountain for the horses, into the warm central space with rows of superbly appointed horse stalls. Horses stared at them with mild interest as Marcus pulled Lillian to the end of the first row. There was a stall with a large, cheerful red bow tacked at the top.

The stall contained an astonishingly beautiful Arabian mare about fourteen hands high, with a narrow,
eloquent head and neck, large lustrous eyes, and what appeared to be perfect conformation.

Lillian blinked in surprise. “A white Arabian?” she asked faintly, having never seen such a creature before. “She looks like something out of a fairy tale.”

“Technically she's registered as a gray,” Marcus said. “But the shade is so light, it looks like pale silver. Her name is Misty Moonlight.” He gave her a sardonic glance. “She's your Christmas present. You asked if we could work on your riding skills together—remember?”

“Oh.” Lillian was suddenly breathless.

“It's taken me six damn months to make the arrangements,” Marcus continued curtly. “Lady Kittridge is the best horse breeder in England, and very particular about whom she'll sell one of her Arabians to. And as this horse had been promised to someone else, I had to bribe and threaten the other buyer, and pay a bloody fortune to Lady Kittridge.”

“And
that's
why you've been communicating so often with Lady Kittridge?”

“Yes.”
He scowled at her.

“Oh, Marcus!” Lillian was overcome with relief and happiness.

“And in return for my pains,” he growled, “I'm accused of infidelity! I love you more than life. Since I met you, I've never even thought of another woman. And how you think I could have the desire for someone else when we spend every bloody night together is beyond my powers of comprehension!”

Realizing that he had been mortally offended and his outrage was increasing by the second, Lillian offered him a placating smile. “I never thought you would
actually betray me that way. I was just afraid that you found her tempting. And I—”

“The only thing I find tempting is the idea of taking you to the tack room and applying a saddle strap to your bottom. Repeatedly. With vigor.”

Lillian backed away as her husband approached her menacingly. She was filled with a combination of giddy relief and alarm. “Marcus, everything's settled. I believe you. I'm not at all worried now.”

“You should be worried,” he said with chilling softness. “Because it's clear that unless there are consequences for this lack of faith in me—”

“Consequences?”
she squeaked.

“—this problem may arise again in the future. So I'm about to remove all doubt about what I want, and from whom.”

Staring at him with wide eyes, Lillian wondered if he was going to beat her, ravish her, or both. She calculated her chances of escaping. Not good. Marcus, with his powerful but agile build, was superbly fit and accomplished. He was as fast as lightning and could probably outmaneuver a hare. Watching her steadily, he removed his waistcoat and tossed it to the hay-covered floor. Picking up a horse blanket from a folded stack, he spread it over a pile of hay.

“Come here,” he said quietly, his expression implacable.

Her eyes went huge. Wild, half-hysterical giggles rose in her throat. She tried to stand her ground. “Marcus, there are some things that shouldn't be done in front of children or horses.”

“There are no children here. And my horses don't gossip.”

Lillian tried to dart past him. Marcus caught her easily, tossing her onto the blanket-covered hay. And as she yelped and protested, he tore the nightgown from her. His mouth crushed over hers, his hands sliding over her body with insolent demand. A cry snagged in her throat as he bent to her breasts, clamping the tips gently with his teeth, then soothing the little aches with his tongue. He did all the things that he knew would arouse her, his lovemaking gentle but ruthless, until she gasped out a few words of surrender. Unfastening his trousers with a few deft tugs, he thrust deeply inside her with primitive force.

Lillian shivered in ecstasy and gripped his muscular flexing back. He kissed her, his mouth rough and greedy, his body moving in a powerful rhythm. “Marcus,” Lillian gasped, “I'll never doubt you again…oh,
God
…”

He smiled privately against her hair and pulled her hips up higher against his. “See that you don't,” he murmured. And long into the night, he had his way with her.

Hannah tried in vain to find an opportunity to talk to Rafe the next day. He was impossible to find. And so were Natalie and the Blandfords, and the Bowmans. She had the uneasy feeling that something was brewing.

Stony Cross Manor was swarming with activity, guests singing, eating, drinking, while the children put on productions with a huge toy theater set up in one of the common rooms.

Quite late in the day, Hannah finally caught a glimpse of Rafe as she passed by Lord Westcliff's private study. The door had been left open, and he could be seen inside talking with Westcliff and Mr. Swift. As she paused uncertainly, Rafe glanced in her direction. Instantly he pushed away from the desk he had been leaning against, and murmured to the others, “One moment.”

He came out to the hallway, his expression unchar
acteristically sober. But a smile tipped the corners of his mouth as he looked down at her. “Hannah.” The softness of his voice sent a ripple of awareness down her back.

“You…you said you wanted to, talk with me,” she managed to say.

“Yes, I did. I do. Forgive me—I've been occupied by a few matters.” He reached out to touch her as if he couldn't help it, lightly fingering the loose fabric of one of her sleeves. “We'll need time and privacy for what I want to discuss—both of which seem to be in short supply today.”

“Perhaps later tonight?” she suggested hesitantly.

“Yes. I'll find you.” Letting go of her sleeve, he gave her a slight, gentlemanly bow. “Until tonight.”

 

When Hannah went upstairs to help Natalie change into her ballgown, and then ready herself, she was mystified to discover that Natalie was already fully dressed.

Her cousin looked magnificent in a pale blue satin gown trimmed with bunches of matching blue tulle, her hair dressed in upswept golden curls. “Hannah!” Natalie exclaimed, leaving their room in the company of Lady Blandford. “I have something to tell you—something very important—”

“You may tell her later,” Lady Blandford interrupted, seeming as distracted as her daughter. “Lord Blandford and Lord Westcliff are downstairs, Natalie. It will not do to keep them waiting.”

“Yes, of course.” Natalie's blue eyes sparkled with excitement. “We'll speak soon, Hannah.”

Bemused, Hannah watched them hurry along the hallway. Something was definitely afoot, she thought, and a rush of worry caused a cool sweat to collect beneath the layers of her clothes.

A lady's maid waited for her inside the bedroom. “Miss Appleton. Lady Westcliff sent me to help you get ready for the ball.”

“Did she? That is very kind. I don't usually require much help, but—”

“I'm very good at arranging hair,” the maid said firmly. “And Lady Westcliff told me to use her very own pearl hairpins for you. Now, if you'll sit at the dressing table, miss…?”

Touched by Lillian's generosity in sending her own maid, Hannah complied. It took an eternity to curl her hair with hot tongs, and arrange it in pinned-up curls, with gleaming white pearls scattered amid the dark locks of her hair. The maid helped her into the white ballgown, and gave her a pair of silver-embroidered silk stockings from Evie. After fastening a pearl necklace from Annabelle Hunt around Hannah's neck, the maid helped her to tug on a pair of long white satin gloves from Daisy Swift. The wallflowers, Hannah thought with a grateful smile, were her own group of fairy godmothers.

They finished with a dusting of powder on her nose and forehead, and some rose petal salve for her lips.

Hannah was vaguely startled by her own elegant reflection, her eyes wide and green, the elaborate coiffure contrasting pleasingly with the simplicity of the white gown.

“Very beautiful, miss,” the maid pronounced.
“You'd best hurry downstairs…the ball will be starting soon.”

 

Hannah was too nervous to be tempted by the magnificent buffet of delicacies laid out on long tables. The refreshments would be enjoyed by the guests during the dance, and later in the evening a formal supper would be served. As soon as she appeared in the ballroom, she was joined by Lillian and Daisy, who exclaimed over her appearance.

“You are both so very kind,” Hannah told them earnestly. “And to loan me the pearls and the gloves, it is beyond generous—”

“We have ulterior motives,” Daisy replied.

Hannah gave her a perplexed glance.

“Very good ulterior motives,” Lillian said with a grin. “We want you as our sister.”

“Have you spoken to Rafe yet?” Daisy asked sotto voce.

Hannah shook her head. “I've hardly seen him all day. It seemed he was missing for a while, and then he was talking with a great many people.”

“Something is brewing,” Lillian said. “Westcliff was busy all day as well. And my parents were nowhere to be seen.”

“The Blandfords as well,” Hannah commented apprehensively. “What does all that mean?”

“I don't know.” Lillian gave her a reassuring smile. “But I'm certain everything will be fine.” She slipped her arm through Hannah's. “Come look at the tree.”

With all the candles lit, the Christmas tree was a brilliant, spectacular sight, hundreds of tiny flames
glowing amid the branches like fairy lights. The entire ballroom was decorated with greenery and gilt and red velvet swags. Hannah had never attended such a dazzling event. She looked around the room in wonder, watching couples swirling across the floor while the orchestra played Christmas music in waltz-time. Chandeliers shed sparkling light on the scene. Through the nearby row of windows, she saw the glow of torches that had been set in the gardens, glowing against a sky the color of black plums.

And then she saw Rafe across the room. Like the other men present, he was dressed in the traditional evening scheme of black and white. The sight of him, so charismatic and handsome, made her light-headed with yearning.

Their gazes caught across the distance, and he surveyed her intently, missing no detail of her appearance. His mouth curved with a slow, easy smile, and her knees turned to jelly.

“Here, miss.” A servant had come with a tray of champagne. Glasses of the sparkling vintage were being passed out among all the guests. The orchestra finished a set and paused, and there was a clink of what sounded like silver on crystal.

“What's this?” Lillian asked, her brows lifting as she and Daisy took some champagne.

“Apparently someone is going to make a toast,” Daisy commented.

Seeing Lord Blandford draw Natalie with him on the other side of the room, Hannah gripped the stem of her champagne glass tightly. Every nerve tensed with foreboding.

No…it couldn't be.

“My friends,” Blandford said a few times, attracting the attention of the crowd. Guests quieted and looked at him expectantly. “As many of you know, Lady Blandford and I were blessed with only one child, our beloved Natalie. And now the time has come to give her into the keeping of a man who will be entrusted with her happiness and safekeeping, as they embark upon their life's journey together—”

“Oh, no,” Hannah heard Lillian whisper.

The coldness concentrated in her chest until she felt it needling through her heart. Lord Blandford continued to speak, but she couldn't make out the words through the blood rushing in her ears. Her throat closed on an anguished cry.

She was too late. She had waited too long.

Her hands had begun to shake too badly for her to hold the champagne. She thrust the glass blindly at Daisy. “Please take this,” she choked. “I can't…I have to…” She turned in panic and anguish, and made her way to the nearest exit, one of the French doors that led outside.

“On this most joyous of holidays,” Blandford continued, “I have the honor and pleasure of announcing a betrothal. Let us now make a toast to my daughter and the man to whom she will bestow her hand in marriage…”

Hannah slipped out the door and closed it, desperately pulling in huge lungfuls of cold winter air. There was the sound of a muffled cheer from inside.

The toast was done.

Rafe and Natalie were engaged.

She nearly staggered under the weight of her own grief. Wild thoughts coursed through her mind. She couldn't face it, any of it. She would have to leave tonight and go somewhere…back to her father and sisters…she could never see Natalie or Rafe or the Blandfords again. She hated Rafe for making her love him. She hated herself. She wanted to die.

Hannah, don't be an idiot,
she thought desperately.
You're not the first woman with a broken heart, nor will you be the last. You will survive this.

But the more she fought for self-control, the more it seemed to elude her. She had to find a place where she could fall apart. She headed out into the garden, following one of the torchlit paths. Reaching the little clearing with the mermaid fountain, she sat on one of the hard, freezing stone benches. As she covered her face with her hands, hot tears soaked into the white satin gloves. Each sob tore through her chest with knife-like sharpness.

And then through the wrenching gasps of misery, she heard someone say her name.

For anyone to see her like this was the ultimate humiliation. Hannah shook her head and curled into a ball of misery, managing to choke out helplessly, “Please leave me—”

But a man sat beside her, and she was gathered up in warm, strong arms. Her head was pulled against a hard chest. “Hannah, love…
no
. No, don't cry.” It was Rafe's deep voice, his familiar scent. She tried to push him away, but Rafe gripped her firmly, his dark head bent over hers. Murmuring endearments, he smoothed her hair and pressed kisses against her forehead. His lips
brushed her wet lashes. “Come. There's no need for this, sweet darling. Hush, everything is fine. Look at me, Hannah.”

The exquisite pleasure of being held by him, comforted by him, made her feel even worse. “You should be back there,” she said, and let out a few coughing sobs. “With Natalie.”

His palm stroked her back in firm circles. “Hannah. Sweetheart. Please calm yourself enough that we can talk.”

“I don't want to talk—”

“I do. And you're going to listen to me. Take a deep breath. Good girl. One more.” Rafe let go of her long enough to remove his evening coat, and he wrapped it around her shivering body. “I didn't think Blandford would have made the announcement so damned quickly,” he said, pulling her close again, “or I would have made an effort to reach you first.”

“It doesn't matter,” she said, her despair congealing into sullenness. “Nothing matters. Don't even try to—”

Rafe put his hand over her mouth and looked down at her. Lit by the torches, his face was cast half in shadow, his eyes dark and bright. His voice was thick and warm, and tenderly chiding. “Had you stayed in the ballroom about thirty seconds longer, my impulsive love, you would have heard Blandford announcing Natalie's engagement to Lord Travers.”

Hannah's entire body stiffened. She couldn't even breathe.

“With the exception of a brief errand in the village,” Rafe continued, “I've been talking with people all damn day. With my parents, the Blandfords, Westcliff…and
most importantly, Natalie.” He took his hand from her mouth and rummaged in the pocket of his coat. Extracting a handkerchief, he wiped her wet cheeks gently. “I told her,” he continued, “that as lovely and appealing as I found her, I could not marry her. Because I would never be able to care for her in the way that she deserved. Because I had fallen in love, deeply and forever, with someone else.” He smiled into Hannah's dazed eyes. “I believe she went straight to Travers afterward, and in giving her comfort and counsel, he probably confessed his own feelings for her. I hope she hasn't rushed into an impulsive betrothal merely to save face. But that's not my concern.”

Cradling Hannah's face in his hands, Rafe waited for her to say something. She merely shook her head, too overwhelmed to make a sound.

“That day in the library,” he told her, “when I nearly made love to you, I realized afterward that I had wanted to get caught with you. I wanted to compromise you—anything that would allow me to be with you. And I knew then that no matter what, I wasn't going to be able to marry Natalie. Because a lifetime is too long to spend with the wrong woman.”

His head and shoulders blotted out the torchlight as he bent over her, his mouth taking hers with a slow, penetrating kiss. He coaxed her trembling lips to part, exploring her with an ardent tenderness that caused her heart to thump with painful force. She gasped as she felt his hand slide inside the coat, caressing the fine skin exposed by the low-cut bodice of her ballgown.

“Darling Hannah,” he whispered. “When I saw you crying just now, I thought ‘Please, God, let it be be
cause she cares for me, wicked scoundrel that I am. Let her love me even a little.'”

“I was crying,” she managed to tell him unsteadily, “because my heart was breaking at the thought of you marrying someone else.” She had to set her jaw against a quiver of emotion. “Because I…I wanted you for myself.”

The flare of passion in his eyes sent her pulse rioting. “Then I have something to ask you, my love. But first you must understand…I'm not going to inherit Bowman's. That doesn't mean I can't provide for you, however. I'm a wealthy man in my own right. And I'm going to take my ill-gotten gains and put them to good use. There are opportunities everywhere.”

Finding it difficult to think clearly, Hannah had to concentrate as if she were translating a foreign language. “You've been cut off?” she finally whispered in concern.

Pulling back a little, Rafe nodded. His face was sober and purposeful. “It's for the best. Sometime in the future, my father and I may find a way to accept each other. But in the meantime, I won't live according to any man's dictates.”

Her hand stole up to the side of his face, caressing his cheek gently. “I didn't want you to make such a sacrifice for me.”