Brenda Hiatt (2 page)

Though she had met many of the guests at her betrothal ball a fortnight since, Holly despaired of ever remembering the names and faces presented to her during the interminable reception. At length, though, the guests had filed past and the new couple were allowed to leave their posts by the door.

“Now for the next bit of pomp,” murmured Hunt into Holly’s ear. She smiled in relief at this evidence that he disliked the overwhelming formality as much as she did.

There were toasts and speeches by all and sundry to the health and future of the new marchioness, and then the orchestra began to play. Hunt led Holly out to begin the dancing.

“Only a few more hours, my sweet, then it will just be us,” he whispered.

As they danced the minuet with their eyes locked, Hunt’s gaze spoke volumes about the pleasures in store. Holly drank it in, her vague nervousness dissipated by champagne.

The rest of the afternoon and evening passed in an ecstatic blur. The only thing that marred the otherwise perfect day was Noel’s absence and her nagging worries about him that could not quite be stilled. Had Uncle Henri found him a post where he could uncover useful information for the British? Had he found a way of communicating it? She longed to know.

Finding herself alone for a brief, breathless minute early in the evening, Holly was accosted by her new mother-in-law, Camilla, the Duchess of Wickburn.

“My dear, you are holding up wonderfully, I must say. Most girls would have wilted by now under the whirl you have been subjected to all day. How excessively strong you must be!” The duchess’s lovely brown eyes were guileless, so Holly decided to interpret her words as a compliment.

“Yes, my mother often remarks on my energy, your grace.”

“Ah, your dear mother! I trust she has given you some idea of what you may expect tonight? But then, I am forgetting—she is French. No doubt you have received a most
thorough
education in matters of that sort.”

Holly regarded her doubtfully, trying hard to construe her meaning as other than an insult. “My mother spoke to me, yes,” she replied carefully.

“Good, good!” The duchess showed her teeth in a breathtaking smile, though her eyes glittered with curiosity. “Then I need not add my own advice, I am sure. I vow, I was terrified on my own wedding night!” She lowered her eyes modestly. “My mama was English, you understand, and not so forward about such things.”

Holly frowned slightly. “There is nothing forward about my mother, I assure you, your grace.” Still, she strove to keep her tone polite. She would be spending a large part of her life in this woman’s company, after all.

“Oh, no, of course not, dear,” said the duchess quickly. “I merely meant that there are certain…differences between the English and the French. No offence was meant to your mother. Ah, there is dear Lady Mountheath! I have been trying to catch her for a word all afternoon. If you will excuse me, dear.” She flitted away.

Differences? Did the duchess consider her marriage to Hunt to be unequal in some way? Unconsciously, Holly straightened her shoulders. Her family was as good as theirs. Papa had been a son of the Earl of Ellsdon, and Grand-père was a French comte, even if he
had
lost his lands in the Terror. And the Paxtons were a far older family than the Maitlands, dating back to the Norman invasion.

A touch on her arm recalled her to her surroundings. “Most of the guests have gone, you know. The ones that are left plan to stay the night. What do you say to slipping away?” Hunt’s voice was low, but it thrummed with an
emotion that struck an answering chord in Holly’s midsection. At once, all thoughts of the duchess fled.

“I thought you’d never ask, my lord,” she replied breathlessly, her heart hammering in her breast. Placing a hand on his sleeve, she accompanied her new husband from the ballroom, through the Great Hall and up the grand staircase.

“O
H
, H
UNT
, how lovely!” exclaimed Holly when he threw open the door to what would now be her suite. He’d had it redecorated for her, she knew, and this was the first time he had allowed her to see it. The sitting-room was done in vibrant floral tones, giving the impression of a garden. The wall hangings, upholstery and curtains were all new. Behind it was the bedchamber, more softly decorated in lilac and white. All Holly’s favourite colours, in fact. How had he known?

“I’m glad it pleases you,” said Hunt gravely, gazing down at her. “There is a dressing-room through that door—” he pointed “—and my own chambers just beyond. I’ll show them to you…in the morning.” He closed the door quietly and turning towards her, he lowered his lips to hers.

This kiss was even more thorough than the one in the carriage, and Holly felt she was drowning and coming alive all at the same time. Hunt began to unpin the lace veil from her hair.

“Should…should I ring for my maid?” she asked reluctantly.

“Not tonight, I think.” His blue eyes were smoky now. “I will do her office instead.”

He turned her around, removing her veil and undoing the tiny hooks down her back with deft fingers. His touch sent a shiver of anticipation through her. With firm hands on her shoulders, he pivoted her to face him again for another lingering kiss.

“You’re not afraid. That’s good.”

Holly could not help recalling the duchess’s words, but now, with Hunt so close, they had no power over her. She was nervous perhaps, and a little excited, but not afraid. “I want to make you happy, Hunt,” she murmured against his throat as he held her. The deep chuckle she loved rumbled for an instant beneath her lips.

“You will, my sweet. I’ll show you how.” As carefully as her maid could have done, he removed the costly wedding dress and laid it aside. “And now your hair. I’ve wanted to run my hands through it since the first night I saw you.” He unpinned the ebony mass one lock at a time, kissing her after each one, until she longed for him to finish and go on to whatever the next stage might be.

Finally, her hair was down and he stepped back. Holly felt oddly vulnerable clad in only her sheer chemise and the black mantle of her hair, but seeing the glow in Hunt’s eyes, she relaxed.

He smiled. “Lovely. Even more so than I’d imagined. And now—” He drew her down with him to the bed.

Her mother had been right—there was nothing at all to be afraid of. Hunt was as gentle as he was thorough, slowly guiding her to a state of wondering arousal. At first Holly’s inexperience hampered her response, but soon eagerness swamped hesitancy and she urged him on. The prick of pain she felt when he first entered her was quickly forgotten as other, pleasurable sensations took its place.

“Did I succeed?” she asked, as they lay cuddled together afterwards.

He rolled onto his side to regard her in surprise. “Succeed?”

“In making you happy.”

His slow smile answered her. “Happier than I can ever remember being, my Holly Berry.”

“Then you must be a good teacher,” she said playfully. Now that the dreaded—and longed-for—first time was behind
her, she felt liberated from the last vestiges of anxiety. “But surely I will need further lessons?”

Hunt’s smile became a grin. “You are an apt pupil, my dear. We will run over the basics once more, I think, then move on to more advanced studies.” He pulled her to him again and she responded eagerly.

As she finally drifted to sleep hours later, Holly felt as if a whole new world had opened up to her. The most amazing discovery of all was that she could bring Hunt such pleasure. It made her feel that theirs could not be such an unequal marriage, after all.

She was now truly Hunt’s wife, she thought dreamily, his lady in every sense of the word. The years ahead glittered with promise. She would learn even more ways of pleasing him, both within the bedchamber and without. She would teach him to laugh, to enjoy life. And they would spend long hours talking, discovering everything about each other—becoming friends. Enveloped in happiness, she slept.

At the touch of Hunt’s lips on hers, Holly awakened from a delicious dream to find the morning already well advanced. They had neglected to draw the bed curtains, and the morning light streamed in across them, picking out the golden highlights in her husband’s hair as he gazed down at her. Holly’s heart turned over. He looked so handsome, so loving.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “My, but you wake prettily.” His eyes roved over her possessively.

Suddenly realizing that she had nothing on, not even a sheet, Holly blushed and his smile broadened.

“Such maidenly modesty! You needn’t be embarrassed before me, my little Holly Berry—ever.” He bent his head to hers and Holly quickly forgot her uncharacteristic shyness in a renewal of last night’s pleasures.

A discreet tapping at the door roused them from a nap sometime later. The angle of the sun showed it to be past noon.

“My lord, my lady?” came the voice of Mabel, the smart young maid who had been assigned to Holly. “The duchess wishes to know if you will be down for Christmas dinner.”

“By Jove! I’d dashed near forgot this was Christmas Day,” whispered the marquess. Then, raising his voice, he called, “Give me five minutes, then you may come in to help your mistress dress.” He gave Holly another kiss, but quickly. “They must have gone to service this morning without us. Grandmama’s doing, I doubt not. I’m glad she managed to overrule Father and Camilla on it—I wouldn’t have relished being wakened at sunrise!”

He never called the duchess “mother,” Holly had noticed.

After one last embrace, he disappeared through the dressing-room door. Burning with embarrassment at what the maid would think, Holly called out for her to enter.

Though she smiled rather a lot as she fastened her new mistress into a cream wool morning gown, Mabel said nothing, for which Holly was profoundly grateful. She wondered how on earth she was going to face a houseful of people. They all must know why she and Hunt had missed the early morning church service. Just as she reached the door, however, the maid put her mind at rest on that point.

“Oh, I almost forgot, m’ lady! Her grace, the dowager, wishes the family to attend evening service, as so many of the guests slept in this morning. Not surprising after the number of bottles they went through last night, if you ask me.” She tittered at her own boldness.

Holly breathed a sigh of relief just as Hunt emerged from his chamber, conservatively dressed in dark blue and cream. He offered Holly his arm and together they went downstairs.

Christmas Day was one of the liveliest Holly could remember, mainly owing to the presence of Lady Anne’s three children, as well as a few other youngsters who had come with their parents. They entered into the old traditions with such enthusiasm that even the adults got involved, exclaiming over gifts the children had made, playing blind man’s bluff and putting on their own mumming play complete with Old Father Christmas, portrayed by the Duke of Wickburn himself.

The Christmas dinner served late that afternoon was the most extensive feast Holly had ever seen or imagined, dwarfing even the lavish buffets that had been spread to celebrate her wedding yesterday. Geese, capons and pheasants jostled for space on the groaning tables with jellies, tarts and trifles. Long before the splendidly blazing plum pudding was carried triumphantly from the kitchens, Holly was stuffed to capacity.

Across the table, Hunt sent her a wink and a slow, seductive smile that whetted her appetite even more than the fabulous food had. Her pulse quickened as she suddenly longed for Christmas Day, the happiest she’d ever spent, to draw to its close.

“W
HEN
I
WAS
a child, Boxing Day was always my favourite part of the whole Christmas season,” Lady Anne confided to Holly as they paused just inside the barn where the traditional Feast of St. Stephen was being held. “In fact, I believe it is still.”

Holly could understand why. On her own father’s small estate, this day had been observed only perfunctorily, with gifts carried by servants to the poorer tenants. But she had already discovered that the Duke of Wickburn never did anything shabbily.

All the Wickburn tenants and villagers were gathered, along with the wedding guests, for a dance and celebration on the biggest of the tenant farms. Mr. Miller, the resident
farmer, greeted people, noble or humble, as they entered, as graciously as though he were welcoming them to a fine ballroom furnished with gilt chairs, instead of a barn, decorated only with greenery and with bales of hay for seats.

The duke himself was plainly in his element, handing out cheeses, smoked sides of ham and brandied cakes to all and sundry, and directing the placement of the beer barrels himself. Hunt, by his side, seemed to be enjoying himself, as well, as did Lord Reginald, Hunt’s half brother, and the Dowager Duchess Aileen. Class distinctions were apparently laid aside for this day—at least by most. The duchess stood off to one side, deep in conversation with Lady Mountheath and a few other high sticklers, apparently trying to ignore the peasantry.

When the gifts were all distributed, the band struck up a country tune and Wickburn led Mrs. Miller out for the first dance. With a wink at Holly, Hunt partnered old Mrs. Crockett, the butcher’s wife, while Holly and Lady Anne seated themselves on bales of hay beside Anne’s two youngest children.

“I cannot get over the change in Hunt since he met you!” Lady Anne exclaimed. “Why, in years past, ’twas all we could do to convince him to attend the St. Stephen’s dance, much less join in the revelry. Only when Grandmama forbade him to work on estate or Foreign Office business would he come.” She smiled warmly at Holly. “Thank you.”

“He has always been so serious, then?” Holly had been drawn to Lady Anne from the first and hoped now to discover a bit more about Hunt, who was in many ways still a stranger to her.

“Oh, as a child he enjoyed these parties as much as I did, I believe. But with each passing year he has seemed to take more and more responsibility on himself, wrapping himself in duty, honour and protocol, until there was no room left for enjoyment—except on the hunting field, of course.”

“Of course.” Holly already knew of Hunt’s fondness for fox-hunting. It was the reason she’d seen so little of him between their betrothal and marriage.

“But there he need not open himself up to people. I am so happy to see him regaining his ability to trust.”

“To trust?” asked Holly curiously. “But why—”

At that moment, however, Anne’s eldest son, William, ran full tilt into one of the beer kegs, knocking it over. His mother rose hastily to intercede in the ensuing argument between William and young Jeb Miller, another sturdy lad of seven, over whose fault it had been.

Before she returned, Holly was claimed for a dance by one of the local farmers. When she questioned Lady Anne later about her comment, Hunt’s sister merely said vaguely that a combination of events in recent years had conspired to make Hunt close himself off from even his family.

“But now it is plain he has got over that phase, and is back to being the big brother I love and remember. What a marvellous Christmas present you’ve given me, Holly!”

It was plain that Lady Anne had no further wish to pursue the subject of Hunt’s earlier problems, so Holly let the matter drop. Hunt himself came to claim her for a reel just forming, and in the revelry she found it easy to forget what was plainly in the past.

D
URING THE DAYS
that followed, Holly discovered that even though they were married, her only private moments with her husband were in her bedchamber at night. At least before the wedding, they’d had opportunities to talk, or to wander the estate, as they’d done during the mistletoe hunt the week before Christmas. But now her days were filled with games and excursions, singing and feasting, while the marquess and most of the gentlemen took advantage of the continued fine weather by hunting.

Each night there was a dance, fully as grand as any ball Holly had attended in London. It was usually long after
midnight before she and Hunt could graciously retire, though once or twice the dowager nudged them up the back staircase earlier and made their excuses for them. In contrast, however, Holly sometimes received the impression that the Duchess of Wickburn disliked the very notion that she and Hunt spent their nights together, strange as that seemed.

The dowager, for her part, made no secret of the fact that she could scarcely wait to hold a great-grandchild in her arms. Owing to her machinations, Holly found herself beneath the kissing bough with amazing regularity. If anything, Hunt seemed more embarrassed than she by the frequent necessity to kiss before an audience. Holly’s mother had been quite correct, it seemed, about English gentlemen’s unwillingness to display their feelings, at least in public.

One evening, however, as the orchestra tuned their instruments for the nightly dancing, Hunt deliberately led her beneath the mistletoe and paused to kiss her lingeringly.

“Perhaps we should keep one of these delightful things up year-round,” he suggested, surprising her further. Indeed, it seemed that her liveliness was helping Hunt to unbend somewhat, just as Lady Anne had said.

N
EW
Y
EAR’S
E
VE
saw festivities nearly as magnificent as those of her wedding day a week earlier. The local gentry had been invited to partake in the revelry, and at intervals throughout the evening, groups of the common folk came wassailing to the door, singing their letting-in songs and bearing huge wooden bowls which were cheerfully filled with lamb’s wool punch by the duke.

He would merrily call out, “There’s nothing like a wellfilled bowl/ To make the yuletide carols troll,” or some other spur-of-the-moment rhyme, and everyone would laugh politely, as they always did at Wickburn’s little sallies.

The other guests offered coins, which the wassailers graciously accepted before moving on to other, lesser estates. However, as nearly everyone in the county was here, Holly doubted whether they would receive much elsewhere.