His Mistletoe Bride (33 page)

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Authors: Vanessa Kelly

BOOK: His Mistletoe Bride
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“Yes, very glad, as I discovered during my first Christmas at the abbey,” Meredith said in a rueful voice. “Until the next morning, when I felt anything but. It is a
very
strong recipe.”
Everyone laughed. Silverton tipped up Meredith's chin and gave her a quick kiss. That elicited more laughter and a few good-natured jests.
Phoebe glanced at Lucas. His easy manner had disappeared, and he studied his cousin with a grim expression, suddenly looking like he would rather be anywhere else. Obviously, the sight of Cousin Stephen's prosperous contentment grated on him; no doubt he was comparing it to his own problems at Mistletoe Manor and in his marriage.
She repressed the impulse to rub her forehead with frustration. She did not know which was worse, a flirtatious Lucas or a resentful Lucas. Not for the first time this evening, she almost wished they had stayed at home.
Cousin Stephen began ladling out the wassail. The guests crowded around the table, each taking a cup.
“Here you go, Phoebe,” said Robert, handing her one. “You wouldn't believe it, but in the old days everyone had to drink directly out of the wassail bowl.” He glanced over at one of the guests, an elderly gentleman who seemed to be wearing half his dinner on his cravat. “Take Sir Mortimer, for example. Could you imagine having to drink out of the bowl after he's had a go of it?” He gave a dramatic shudder.
Annabel elbowed him in the ribs. “That's disgusting, Robert. And you know poor Sir Mortimer has terrible eyesight. I'm sure he doesn't mean to keep dropping his food down his front.”
“Just be grateful
you
didn't have to sit across from him,” Robert parried. “Almost put me off my feed.”
“Nothing puts you off your feed,” said Lucas. “Your stomach is a bottomless pit. How you manage to remain so thin is a miracle of nature.”
“No such thing,” Robert protested.
Annabel laughingly agreed, and the young couple fell into a good-natured argument. Smiling, Phoebe raised her cup and took a cautious sip. Both sweet and highly spiced, the brew was strong enough to burn a trail of delicious fire down her throat.
“Careful,” Lucas murmured. “Wassail is very potent. If you drink too much I'll have to carry you up to bed.” He brought his mouth close to her ear. “And then I'd be forced to have my way with you. Over and over again.”
The shock of his words heated the air around them. Their eyes met, and his flared with desire. A coil of yearning twisted low in her belly and, suddenly, she, too, wished more than anything they could be alone.
Then she remembered how annoyed she was with him. She pinched his arm. “Lucas, behave yourself!”
He responded with a sardonic smile. “Hush, my love. You wouldn't want anyone to know what we're talking about, and that blush on your face is a dead giveaway.”
The sound of voices from outside the hall saved her the trouble of answering. Breathing a sigh of relief, she turned her back on Lucas to see the butler opening the front door. A chorus of singing voices drifted into the hall, along with a rush of frigid air.
“Wassail, Wassail, all over the town!
Our bread it is white and our ale it is brown;
Our bowl is made of the maple tree,
With the wassailing bowl, I'll drink to thee.”
“At last,” Meredith exclaimed.
A group of men and women, warmly dressed, clustered into the hall, each wearing a silver chain around the neck. Phoebe glanced behind her to ask Lucas about the visitors, but he was gone—back to the other side of the hall, where he again was speaking with Bathsheba.
She ground her teeth. Her husband was fast becoming the most frustrating man she had ever met.
“Have you ever heard the Waits sing before?” Annabel asked her. “They're really quite wonderful.”
Deciding to ignore Lucas for now, she smiled at Annabel. “No, I have not. Who are they?”
“They're organized groups from the village, who go from house to house to perform Christmas carols and share the wassail bowl. It's a very ancient tradition.”
Phoebe blinked. The drive from the abbey gates to the house must be two miles long. “You mean they walked all the way from the nearest village?”
“No, silly! Meredith arranged for it. She had carriages pick them up.”
Phoebe studied the merry group, who were eagerly accepting cups of wassail from Meredith. Cousin Stephen stood behind her with a long-suffering expression on his face.
“Why do I sense that Cousin Stephen is not thrilled?” Annabel laughed. “A few years ago some of the men were quite drunk by the time they reached the abbey. They caused a bit of a scene.”
“A bit!” Robert hooted. “One of them fell right into the bowl and sent it crashing to the floor, and then another one cast up his accounts, narrowly missing Grandfather's toes. As you can imagine, Silverton was not pleased, especially since it was Meredith's first Christmas as marchioness.”
Phoebe laughed at the expression on his face.
Annabel wrinkled her nose. “It sounds comical now, but Silverton was furious and swore he would never let any Waits step foot in the house again. Fortunately, Meredith was finally able to convince him to relent. And Silverton
does
understand the importance of keeping up the local traditions, however reluctantly he might do so.”
Phoebe shook her head. “Why do men have such a problem with Christmas traditions? It all seems wonderful to me, and it makes everyone so happy.”
“I don't,” Robert protested. “I love Christmas. Especially the food and the presents, and I quite like the singing, too.”
Annabel went up on tiptoe and kissed her husband's cheek. “It's one of the reasons I love you.”
Phoebe repressed a sigh. She was delighted her cousins were all so happily married, but right now their contentment felt like a rebuke. Especially since
her
husband had chosen to stand as far away from her as he could, obviously preferring the company of another woman.
Except he was no longer enjoying Bathsheba's company. She had rejoined Dr. Blackmore, while Lucas now stood by the staircase, clearly brooding and appearing . . . lonely.
She hesitated, wondering if she should go to him, but then the Waits began to sing. Reluctantly, she turned back to listen.
“Come, let us join with Angels now,
Glory to God on high,
Peace upon Earth, Goodwill to men,
Amen, Amen, say I.”
She listened, letting the rich voices and the beautiful words wash over her. Her worries leached away, replaced by gratitude and an almost prayerful sense of awareness of how fortunate she was to be in this magnificent place, and with her new family.
“The Christ he come to do us Good,
To Christ art thee yet come?
A burthene'd, weary, thirsty soul,
A lost sheep to bring home.”
She cast her gaze behind her, searching for Lucas, wanting to share the precious moment with him. But the space where he had stood was empty.
Chapter 30
Lucas poured himself a brandy from the drinks trolley, casting a glance over his shoulder as the door to the drawing room opened. Family members strolled in, having had their fill of the wassail bowl, the singing, and all the other mawkish amusements celebrated during the Christmas Season. As a boy, he had reveled in the singing, the games, and the good cheer. Now all that simply served as a reminder of how cynical he had become.
He replaced the decanter as Phoebe drifted toward him, her big eyes wary. His military career had made him impatient of frivolity, but that didn't excuse the way he'd abandoned her. Still, if forced to spend another minute in that damn hall watching Silverton play lord of the manor, he might have snapped someone's head off. Irrational, yes, but Silverton's perpetually charmed life always felt like a rebuke, illustrating by effortless example the ways Lucas had failed in so many aspects of his life.
Starting with his wife. Poor Phoebe didn't deserve to be saddled with his problems, and he probably counted as a selfish bastard by manipulating her into marriage.
She approached, her gaze now full of worry and concern. That made his gut clench, and his desire to protect her warred with his need to keep her at a safe distance. Phoebe's open and generous heart made them both too vulnerable. Her because he would surely disappoint her, and him because her willingness to love made him vulnerable in a way he wished never to be again.
Especially since he was damn certain she must be keeping something from him. Her recent behavior had been wholly unlike the Phoebe he had come to know, and that bothered him more than he cared to admit.
“I missed you in the hall,” she said tentatively. “I hope you are not unwell.”
Perversely, even when he most wished to keep his distance from everyone, including her, he longed for her voice and company. She soothed him, much like an experienced groom could quiet a skittish stallion. That bothered him, too, because it spoke of a dependence that weakened him.
He managed a smile. “I apologize for abandoning you, but I'm not keen on all this Christmas business. As you know,” he finished, all too aware he sounded like a mutton-head.
She nodded. “I understand. I am sorry to have dragged you here, but I am so very grateful to have the chance to spend some time with the family.” She gazed up at him, not a shred of judgment in her expression. “Thank you, Lucas. It was very kind of you to bring me to the abbey.”
He exhaled a sigh. “Phoebe, I truly wouldn't mind if you ripped up at me. I'm sure I deserve it.”
She blinked in surprise, then her eyes filled with unexpected amusement. “If that would please you, I will be happy to oblige once we return to our room. I daresay by the time I am finished, you will regret that suggestion.” She wagged her finger at him. “I can be quite terrifying, you know.”
He laughed. How could he not when he had a wife who constantly surprised him? “Then I shall look forward to it. Thank you, love. I certainly don't deserve your consideration.”
“No one would disagree with that,” Silverton's voice interjected from behind them.
Lucas swung around to meet his cousin's challenging gaze. Irritation flared, but he managed to hold back a retort. Not for Silverton's sake, but for Phoebe's. Lucas had inflicted enough trouble on her for one evening, and he'd be damned if he'd make a scene in front of her.
Not unless his cousin forced him to.
“Cousin Stephen,” Phoebe said, stepping between them, “what a lovely scene in the hall. As you know, this is my first real Christmas and I am thoroughly enjoying it.”
Silverton unleashed a charming smile. “I'm so glad.” He flicked a glance at Lucas. “How unfortunate your husband can't say the same.”
Before Lucas could respond, Phoebe's chin went up in an aggressive tilt. “I am sure that is not the case. Lucas has been most helpful with the Christmas preparations at Mistletoe Manor. In fact, he told me just this morning how much he is looking forward to our own celebrations. He is convinced they will quite exceed the festivities at the abbey.”
Lucas had to choke down a laugh. He would have been shocked that his sweet little Quaker had told a bold-faced lie, but he was too busy enjoying her impassioned defense.
Silverton's jaw dropped for a brief moment, but he quickly recovered. “I stand corrected, Cousin. Please forgive me.”
She returned him a dignified nod, then switched her attention to Lucas. “Aunt Georgie wishes you to sit with her. She says she has been missing you greatly these last few weeks.”
As Phoebe practically dragged him off, he couldn't help throwing Silverton a taunting grin. His cousin narrowed his gaze, but Phoebe tugged him away before anything could happen.
“Behave yourself, Lucas, or else,” she threatened in a low voice.
He widened his eyes at her. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”
She shook her head, muttering imprecations under her breath.
His mood improved another notch. Clearly, he had been a terrible influence on her. He couldn't wait to get her alone so he could spend more time corrupting her morals.
His aunt, seated on a sofa before the fire, greeted him with a gentle smile. “Ah, Lucas. We are so honored you have decided to grace us with your presence, despite your well-known boredom with these occasions. We must count ourselves grateful you have put away your scruples in order to visit with us.”
Christ.
The royal
we
had come into play. Obviously, it was time to bow and scrape. “I don't know how you've tolerated me all these years,” Lucas said in a contrite voice. “Since I'm such a very bad seed.”
She laughed and patted the seat next to her. “You've been horrible, but I forgive you. Phoebe, come sit next to your husband. We'll have a nice chat while we're waiting for tea.”
Once they'd all settled themselves, Aunt Georgie let out a comfortable sigh. “I'm sorry the other guests had to leave early, but I must confess I'm relieved to have only a family party tonight. Well, except for the Blackmores, but one counts them as family.”
Lucas glanced around at the elegantly decorated but comfortable space, one of the smaller drawing rooms in the sprawling pile that made up Belfield Abbey. He was torn between pleasure at its refined sense of comfort and annoyance that everything in Silverton's home was always so bloody perfect. He and Phoebe couldn't possibly receive guests at the manor, given that the windows in the large drawing room leaked and the new furniture for the family parlor had yet to arrive.
And he could hardly invite anyone to sit on chairs that had been found to conceal more than one rodent's nest. Not to mention the dismaying state of most of the chimneys, belching smoke back into the house every time the wind came from the north.
“Why did the other guests leave so early?” Phoebe asked.
“It's starting to snow,” Aunt Georgie replied. “The roads can turn bad very quickly out here in the country, and the squire's wife thought it best they not linger. The other guests agreed.”
Lucas almost groaned.
Snow.
If it came down heavily and they got trapped at the abbey for more than a day, he would likely shoot himself. Or Silverton.
Phoebe's face, however, glowed like a branch of candles. “I love snow. It makes everything look so different, especially the formal gardens. The statues wear white velvet coats and cone hats, and the hedges are iced cakes.”
Aunt Georgie smiled at the imagery. “I agree it's lovely, but we're fortunate the snow rarely lingers in Kent. At your uncle's estate in Yorkshire, we can get snowed in for weeks.”
“God help us all,” Lucas muttered.
His aunt laughed. “You spent more than one winter holiday snowed in with us, and I clearly recall you quite liked it. You and Silverton used to spend hours tramping over the downs and skating on the village pond, or sledding down the hill behind the house. I don't remember you complaining one bit at the time. Oh, wait. One winter, you tumbled down the icy hill and broke your wrist. Then you complained loudly because you were trapped indoors for the rest of the holiday.”
A reluctant smile tugged his lips at the distant memories. He'd enjoyed the fun back then, when life was uncomplicated and straightforward.
They chatted for several more minutes while Meredith served tea and the men drank their brandies. No one seemed in the mood for cards or games, preferring conversation instead. Lucas found himself gradually relaxing, even starting to enjoy himself. Bathsheba was her usual witty self—although a loving marriage had obviously taken much of the amusing acid from her conversation—and Robert kept everyone laughing with his ridiculous jokes. Cantankerous Uncle Arthur was in good humor, and even Silverton had the grace to sit quietly and not ruin things.
And Phoebe was having a grand time as she chatted with her aunt and cousins. For once, it seemed they might get through a holiday without any kidnappings or poisoning, or without him and Silverton tearing up the dining room.
“I say, Lucas,” piped up Robert. “I hear you've got a smuggling problem down your way. Damned impertinent of the blackguards to use manor lands, if you ask me.”
“Language, Robert,” Aunt Georgie admonished.
Uncle Arthur, dozing in a comfortable wingback chair, came to full alert. “What's this? Smugglers on the manor's lands? Not that I should be surprised, given the way Merritt ignored the problem. Ridiculous, turning a blind eye to it like he did. But he insisted it was better to leave it alone than confront the gangs. Some claptrap about protecting the locals. Personally, I always believed he allowed them free passage because they kept him well-supplied with French brandy. Bloody fool.”
“Language, Arthur,” Aunt Georgie said in a long-suffering voice.
“What's that? Oh, sorry, my dear. Well, out with it, boy,” he demanded of Lucas. “Are the smugglers still at it?”
So much for a pleasant evening in the Stanton family bosom. Lucas dodged the question. “Robert, how did you come to hear about this?”
Robert blinked. “Oh, Meredith told Belle, and Belle told me. Can't keep a thing like that a secret, old man. Not in this family.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Lucas caught Phoebe and Meredith exchanging a guilty look. Obviously, his interfering wife had written to his equally interfering cousin, who hadn't been able to keep the news from her sister. Now he'd have the entire family weighing in on his problem, which was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid. “It's nothing I can't deal with. I should have the matter resolved to my satisfaction within a few weeks.”
Next to him, Phoebe made a little squeaking noise and went as stiff as a board. Understanding suddenly lit up his brain.
Oh, good Christ
. Could that be what she'd been hiding from him? Something to do with the smugglers? He might have known she couldn't keep her inquisitive little nose out of it.
“How bad is the smuggling?” Silverton asked.
Perfect. His cousin had clearly deduced he wanted to cut off the conversation, so naturally he had to prod.
“It's nothing I can't handle,” he grated out again.
“That's not what Meredith said, old chap,” Robert insisted in his usual, ham-fisted manner. “Something about excise officers bursting into the house in the middle of the night, pistols at the ready. Sounds rather worrisome to me.”
“Robert, you're exaggerating,” Meredith said with annoyance.
Storm clouds began to gather over Uncle Arthur's head. “Lucas, what the devil is going on? Is Phoebe in danger from this business? Sounds to me like you should keep her here at the abbey until you track these blackguards down. It would not be well done to put your wife in danger, my lad. Not well done at all.”
Lucas clenched his fist, trying to keep his temper under control.
“Oh, no,” Phoebe broke in earnestly before he could respond to his uncle. “I am sure the problem is not nearly as alarming as it sounds. It is just that life has been wretched for the people in the district. Now that Lucas is restoring the manor and estate to prosperity, I am sure the problem will fade away on its own soon enough.”
Lucas gave her a disbelieving stare. She looked flushed and guilty, but she didn't drop her gaze.
“I doubt it will be that easy,” he said.
“It won't be,” said Uncle Arthur. “Smugglers are like rats. You have to poison them or flush them out of the nest, by any means necessary. You'll never get rid of them if you don't.”
Aunt Georgie's mouth rounded with horror. “Arthur! That is positively uncivilized.”
The old man grimaced. “Just a euphemism, m'dear. You understand.”
“Grandfather's right,” Robert said. “You can't let those criminals get away with it. Why, look what happened to the Blackmores and me last summer with that bounder O'Neill. He almost killed all of us.”

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