Mistletoe Kisses and Yuletide Joy (13 page)

The meal came blessedly soon, served in the adjoining parlor. They sat in an awkward silence, but then tucked in heartily. It had been a long and arduous day.

He should make conversation.

"
Where did your family come from?" he asked.

"
Manchester."

"
Did you like the move?"

She looked up from roast pork.
"Not particularly. There's more to do in a city."

"
You don't like the country?"
Fine time to find that out.

"
At times. Don't worry, my lord. I will be content enough at Greystoke if I am busy."

"
Good. And please do try to call me Will, in private at least."

"
I'll try." She put down her knife and fork and drank some wine. "Do you like the country? You're often away."

"
I'm often in other parts of the country. The Shires in hunting season. Shooting country. Angling parties. Country house parties. But I enjoy London, too."

"
I've never been to London."

He should say she would come with him, and was ashamed of his reluctance. Damn it all, he could hardly park a wife in the country and ignore her nine-tenths of the year. But this marriage business was going to be uncomfortable in ways he hadn
't anticipated.

He must remember this was her sister's fault, not hers.

"Would you like to go?" he asked.

"
I'm not sure. Balls and such don't interest me, but the theater, lectures and such might."

"
A bluestocking, eh?" Not that surprising, and he didn't mind. "You must do just as you wish, my dear."

"
I may hold you to that."

He searched the words for mischief, but of course there was none. She resumed steady consumption of her dinner.

Then she asked, "Do you often speak in Parliament."

"
Never."

"
Never?" That was definitely disapproval.

"
I attend to vote when it's important, especially on northern issues. I'm not the speechifying type."

They finished the meal entirely in silence, but that in itself wasn't entirely a bad sign. He'd known some women who thought any chatter was better than silence.

She put down her dessert spoon, drained her wine glass, and looked at him with obviously serious intent. "Midnight nuptials," she said, "isn't to my taste."

He hadn't the slightest idea what that meant. He smiled vaguely as he tried to figure it out. Was it a complaint? Their wedding, as best he remembered, had taken place sometime between six and seven.

Oh Lord. It must be her way of referring to the marital bed! She was bashfully indicating that she didn't want him in her bed tonight.

"
Oh, quite," he said cheerily. "Don't worry about that." But then he thought of a problem. "We do need to sleep together, however. There's only one bed, you see, and I think us being together for the night is part of the marriage proof here."

Her brow wrinkled as if she didn't understand.

Perhaps she didn't.

Perhaps she thought merely being in the same bed did the deed.

"That's all it need be, my dear," he added. "Sleep."

"
I'm sure we both need our sleep," she said calmly as she rose. She went into the next room. When he ventured in after a suitably long time, the curtains were drawn around the bed. He undressed, washed, put on his nightshirt, and then slipped in carefully beside her, thankful that she was asleep or pretending to be.

His wife.

He was married.

He was taken unawares by a wave of regret, of grief for the grand love and the beautiful, adored wife me might have known one day.

He had, as they said, made this bed, however, and now lay in it. No point repining now.

Chapter Three

They set off early the next day and thus reached their home area before dark. Frances had found it a most peculiar day, but that was hardly surprising.

Last night, exhaustion had tossed her rapidly into sleep, so she hadn't been aware of him in the bed with her until she awoke. Then she'd stayed still, absorbing sensations -- his warmth, a slight pressure of some part of him against her hip, his particular smell. Strange longings had stirred and she'd gingerly rolled to look at him, relaxed again in sleep. She'd wanted to reach out and touch him. Brush hair from his brow, perhaps, but touch him lower -- his arm, even his leg.

It had still frightened her, the thought of being intimate in the extraordinary way necessary for children, but it would happen, and she wanted it.

She'd slipped out of the curtained bed and rung for hot water, then told the maid to return soon to help her dress. She'd done her hair in its simple knot, wondering if the maid could arrange it in some other way.

She hadn't. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, and she knew she'd only look foolish to try. For that reason, she wasn't wearing one of her two new dresses. That and the hemming. Foolish to soil them.

They had talked a little more on the journey home than they had on the way to
Gretna, for they'd had practicalities to talk about. They would go first to Greystoke, of course, where he would inform his household of the wedding. Frances hadn't anticipated a simple thing like that and shriveled at the thought. What would they think?

When they had tidied themselves, they would drive over to Green Brow Hall to make the announcement. They would leave as soon as possible and return home, the worst over.

All very well, but up to that point it was going to be awful, awful, awful. She couldn't even imagine what Celia might do.

The coach drew up in front of his handsome, stone house. Hers, too, now, she supposed. She remembered creeping in the night before last.  She'd had to open and shut about ten doors before finding his room. Where had she found the courage, never mind the brass-faced effrontery? She wished she had more of it now.

The well-trained footman showed only a twitch at sight of his master entering with a woman, never mind an unattractive one. He summoned the staff as ordered, and the announcement was made.

Frances
saw flat astonishment on the faces of many and wanted to run. She started when Greystoke took her hand and almost tried to pull free when he raised it to his lips. Gazing into her eyes, he kissed it and said, "Welcome to your new home, my love."

At the words
"my love" all kinds of places trembled, and she dearly wished he meant it. It was almost enough that he cared enough to make it appear before his servants that theirs was a love match.

"
Thank you, Will," she whispered in return.

He tucked her hand into his arm and led her upstairs, along a corridor, and into his bedroom.

"We can have the adjoining one ready for you shortly," he said, separating. "I'll give the orders but you must ask for anything you wish. This is your home now."

He left and she wondered exactly when a wife took over the running of a house.

The room was warm so she shed her cloak, then wandered restlessly, at loose ends, but wound tight at thought of the confrontation to come. Another reason not to be wearing one of the new gowns. Celia might try to rip it off her.

He returned.
"It will take a little while to warm. I've ordered tea and refreshments in here."

He was followed almost immediately by a maid bearing the tray. Taking some control,
Frances directed her to put it on a table and indicated that she'd take care of it.

The tea had been made in the pot. She supposed she'd soon need to take charge of the keys and supplies. So many things to do. So many challenges. She poured tea and Greystoke came to sit across from her, drink three cups and eat a great deal of cake.

Did he feel no anxiety?

But then he said,
"It might be wiser if I go to Green Brow alone."

"
Why?"

"
It's bound to be unpleasant, my dear, but there's little they can do to me."

Shockingly, tears threatened.
"Oh, thank you. I know I should, shouldn't, but Celia..."

"
With any luck she'll still be prostrate in her room."

Not if she hears what's happened, she thought. Should she warn him?

"I'll instruct that your possessions be brought here, and I'll exert my husbandly authority to forbid you to visit your parents' house until peace is restored. They may visit you here, of course."

"
You're very kind."

"
Then use my name again."

She smiled.
"Will."

"
Good." He rose and went into the adjoining room then came back to say. "It's ready for you."

Dismissed,
Frances went into her own quarters, and the door shut between them. He was going to be kind, courteous, and pleasant at all times, and once she would have thought that heaven. Now it might break her heart.

She didn
't even know how to become mistress of her own home. She felt as excluded and unwanted as she had at Green Brow. They would all be whispering about her below stairs. She couldn't even bring herself to ring for a maid, but unpacked her cheap portmanteau herself, placing the clothing carefully in drawers.

What had possessed her to buy these gowns, even at a bargain price?

A piece of paper rustled and she pulled it out. It must be the one the girl had slipped in. An advertisement for the shop?

No. A drawing.

Frances stared at it. It was a mere sketch, but it was herself, clearly recognizable. And yet not. This smiling, bashful woman was not her. Not with that lush shape and almost pretty face. Yet it was. She vaguely recognized the drawing as the image of herself in the mirror when wearing the red dress. Then, however, she'd raised her hand to cover her chest, but here she did not. A hint of the cleft between her breasts showed. And it was… appealing, she supposed.

In a few clever black lines the girl had capture the image of an appealing young woman in a pretty red dress.

The picture formed a message.

Did she have the courage to respond?

She put the picture away in a desk and then rang the bell. When a maid arrived, Frances asked if there was a seamstress in the house.

"
I can do plain sewing, milady."

Milady. She was Lady Greystoke. That bolstered
Frances's courage.

"
Excellent, for I need two dresses hemmed."

<<<->>>

Greystoke rode to Green Brow, thinking he'd never taken such a reluctant journey in his life. Early winter night was falling, sending a clammy chill down to his bones, but his coming meeting with the Guysleys was his deeper concern.

Would they believe the story?

Would they politely pretend to?

Or would Peter Guysley call him out anyway?

He knocked and was given instant admission. A fire burned in the hall, giving a bit of relief.

Guysley, thin but pot-bellied and with unhealthily high color, came into the hall.
"You've come with good news, I hope, Greystoke."

"
I hope so, too, sir."

The man's frown eased and Greystoke was ushered into the manly study where the previous interview had taken place. Before he could speak, however, the rest of the family piled in -- Peter, Mrs. Guysley, and a bright-eyed, triumphant Celia.

He realized that she wasn't the slightest bit pretty because there was nothing pretty inside her.

"
I would prefer to speak to you alone, Guysley," he said.

"
Nonsense, my boy. It's all family business."

Greystoke moved toward the fire, largely because it distanced him from Celia.
"Very well, sir. I bring you happy news. Frances and I are married."

He was surrounded by gaping silence.

"Frances
?"
queried Guysley.

"
Frances!" exclaimed his wife.

"
That's not possible," said Peter Guysley.

"
Frances?" Celia Guysley's voice was quiet. "You're teasing, my lord."

"
Not at all." Despite everything, he couldn't help enjoying her narrow-eyed expression. "We had formed an attachment. In view of the situation, we decided the simplest act would be to settle things. We regret a Gretna marriage, but...."

"
Frances!
"
Celia's voice mounted in pitch and volume. "Fat Frances? You can't! She can't!
Mamaaaaaaaaaa!
"