A Marquess for Christmas (Scandalous Seasons Book 5) (14 page)

Weston took her gloved hands. She returned her attention to him. He dropped to a knee. “Marry me, Patrina. Marry me not because my children need a mother or because I’m your only option. I ask that you marry me before the only people who matter, in this place where we met. The rest of the world, the
ton
, polite Society, my sister,” he said pointedly. “They can all go hang. Marry me because I love you and though you don’t—”

She flung her arms around his neck. He grunted and toppled backward into the snow. Her mother’s shocked cry sounded as he tumbled onto his back, catching her to him. “I love you,” she whispered. In spite of the frigid winter chill, the heat of his body warmed her through the thick fabric of her cloak, a contrast to the cold snow.

“Patrina,” her brother’s sharp bark of disapproval carried in the wind.

Weston touched a hand to her cheek. She closed her eyes a moment and leaned into his touch, feeling for the first time in her life—cherished. “And I love you, Lady Patrina Tidemore.”

In the distance Poppy cupped her hands around her mouth. “Is there to be a wedding?”

For nearly nine months she’d resigned herself to the inevitable fate of spinsterhood. Had recognized she’d bartered away her happiness, and given up on the dream of a husband. Only now she realized everything that had occurred before this moment had occurred to bring her
to
this moment. For if there had never been an Albert Marshville, then there never would have been a lonely walk along the Serpentine River, and a chance encounter with a devoted father and once-stern nobleman.

And with Weston before her, she knew she’d not wanted simply any gentleman. She’d wanted no one else but him.

A smile turned her lips upwards at the corner. “There’s to be a wedding,” Patrina whispered.

Epilogue

Patrina looked around the noisy table. Cook had prepared a wedding feast that reflected the Christmastide season. From plum pudding to the marchpane and roast turkey, it was a wholly festive meal, which from the laughter and exclamations was enjoyed by the children of varying ages clustered about the table. She nibbled at the edge of gingerbread.

Prudence buttered a flaky roll. “I wanted to help select a new gown,” she muttered.

Mother glared her into silence.

“What? I did,” Prudence persisted. “All brides should have a new gown for their wedding day.”

Poppy nodded. “It’s true,” she said around a mouthful of bacon. “She at least—”

“Do not speak with your mouth full, Poppy,” Juliet, said gently to the youngest Tidemore sister.

The girl swallowed and then patted her lips with a napkin. “She really…” She glanced to Patrina. “You should have at least had a new gown.” Her gaze swung over to Weston who sat beside Patrina. “You really should have waited so she might have a new gown made.” She winced. “Ouch.”

Penelope frowned at her.

“Don’t kick me, Penny,” Poppy complained.

“My foot slipped.”

She started when under the cover of the table, Weston placed his hand over hers and gave a faint squeeze.

From his other side Charlotte cleared her throat. “Why didn’t you allow her a new gown, Papa?”

Weston leaned close and whispered against her ear. “We really should take care to keep this lot apart.”

Patrina’s shoulders shook with laughter. She took another bite of her sugared treat.

He touched his free hand to his chest and looked solemnly at her frowning sisters. “I promise to have an entire new wardrobe fashioned by the finest modiste and invite you ladies to assist your sister.”

She groaned, the sound lost to her three younger sisters excited squeals and chatter. “You’ve done me no favors, my lord,” she whispered.

He raised her knuckles to his lips and pressed a kiss there. “It seemed like the safest response for me to make.”

She snorted. “Perhaps the most cowardly one.”

His lips twitched.

“I don’t know what all the fuss over a silly gown is anyway,” Daniel mumbled. He shoved his fork around his plate.

Patrina finished her gingerbread and dusted her hands together. She eyed the untouched treat on Weston’s plate and sighed with longing for the last piece of his sugared treat.

“Why don’t you share with everyone again how you met my sister, my lord?” Prudence called from across the table.

Mother and Jonathan shot matching glares in her direction.

Her sister shifted in her seat. “I imagined that was a safe topic of discussion.”

“It wasn’t,” Jonathan snapped.

Weston picked up his glass of sherry and smiled around the rim. “It’s entirely fine,” he assured Prudence.

Her sister jerked her chin up and looked pointedly at Jonathan. “See, he said there is nothing wrong with…” She fell silent at her brother’s darkening glower.

“We met at Hyde Park,” Charlotte blurted. The table went silent and looked to the little girl. Her young years likely made her immune to the intensity of the questioning stares. She dipped her spoon into her plum pudding. “Daniel hit her with a snowball,” she said after she’d swallowed.

Daniel sank back in his seat. “She did it, too.”

Charlotte nodded. “It was a rather impressive hit. Wasn’t it, Lady Patrina?”

Patrina inclined her head. “A splendid one,” she agreed. “She hit me here.” She touched her lip. “And here,” she touched the corner of her eye. “Fortunately, Lord Beaufort handled the situation as any gentleman would.” She winked up at her new husband. Then froze.
Husband
. She rolled the words around her mind.
Husband
. He was her husband. A giddy sensation filled her heart at the idea of him belonging to her just as she belonged to him.

Penelope propped her elbows on the table and sighed, pulling Patrina from her musings. “He defended you.”

“He scolded her,” Daniel said with his first grin of the day.

Weston frowned, but Daniel was encouraged by the interested stares from the table around him. “Papa of course defended us. He reminded her that a lady shouldn’t throw snowballs at children.”

Mother sat forward in her seat. “You threw snowballs, Patrina?”

She winced at the high-pitched squawk of her mother’s voice. Her mother spoke with the same shock as when she’d scolded her for eloping with Albert. “Er…” Well, she’d rather suspected being wed to the marquess she’d be spared Mother’s mothering. Apparently not.

Charlotte and Daniel nodded in unison. “She did.”

“She is ever so good at it, my lady,” Charlotte said with only a seven-year-old girl’s appreciation.

A flurry of discussion ensued, led by Daniel and Jonathan, as to the best snow to be used for making snowballs.

Weston leaned over and said something to Charlotte. She nodded once and then her small fingers closed around the fork. She speared a piece of cold ham and proceeded to eat. He picked up his gingerbread. “I should be grateful you didn’t realize the extent of their mischievous ways until after you’d agreed to marry me,” he said wryly, waving the confectionery treat close to her lips.

“Are you bribing me, Weston?”

Gold flecks danced in his eyes. “It is a bit past a bribe now that you’ve wed the father of the troublesome pair. I would shower you with jewels and trinkets instead to show my appreciation for your wedding this marquess at Christmas.”

“I don’t require jewels and fripperies.” With a smile she plucked the gingerbread from his fingers. “Surely you have realized the truth by now.”

He lowered his head, his lips so close they nearly brushed her ear. “The truth?” Warmth spiraled through her being at his nearness, heated her blood, and set her ablaze from the inside out just thinking of becoming his marchioness in every sense of the word.

She turned and touched a finger to his lips. “I would marry this marquess any day of the year.”

The End

Christi Caldwell is the USA Today bestselling author of historical romance novels set in the Regency era. Christi blames Judith McNaught's "Whitney, My Love," for luring her into the world of historical romance. While sitting in her graduate school apartment at the University of Connecticut, Christi decided to set aside her notes and try her hand at writing romance. She believes the most perfect heroes and heroines have imperfections and rather enjoys tormenting them before crafting a well- deserved happily ever after!

When Christi isn’t writing the stories of flawed heroes and heroines, she can be found in her Southern Connecticut home chasing around her feisty six-year-old son, and caring for twin princesses-in- training!

Visit www.christicaldwellauthor.com to learn more about what Christi is working on, or join her on Facebook at Christi Caldwell Author, and Twitter @ChristiCaldwell

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