Christmas Brides (Three Regency Novellas) (4 page)

For it was nothing to her if Lord de Vere chose to ruin his life in gaming hells and courtesan's beds. His debauched ways hurt no one save himself.

Upon rising the next morning, the first thing she did was to jot down a single line to beg the viscount's forgiveness. She sealed it, called for her maid, and instructed her to see that it was delivered to de Vere.

Not five minutes had passed when Simms brought her a letter. She immediately saw that it came from de Vere, but she knew he could not possibly have received her apology that quickly.

With lowered brows, she broke his distinctive stag seal—the same his father had used.

My Dear Belle,

I beg that you do me the goodness of allowing me to call upon you at two this afternoon. In private.

de Vere

Dear God! Could this possibly mean what she thought it did? The very fact that he'd not addressed the note to Miss Pemberton—the name he'd called her in anger the previous day—indicated a softening toward her. Which she did not deserve.

She began to tremble.
He's going to ask me to marry him!

Were he any other man, she would have been vastly suspicious of monetary motives. But a man—a titled man—of such extraordinary good looks could easily take his pick of any heiress in all of the three kingdoms. Besides, de Vere was far too proud to accept even sixpence from her generous father, no matter how desperate his need.

He was preparing to offer himself as the last gift to a man beloved by them both.

And she had never been more ashamed of herself.

She immediately rang for Sally, and when that devoted servant came, Miss Pemberton said, “I wish to charge you with a nearly impossible task.”

The maid cocked her fair head. “What would that be, miss?”

“You are to render me pretty. Do something exotic with my hair and help me select my most flattering gown.”

They had three hours in which to prepare her, and in that time Miss Pemberton slipped into and subsequently discarded some fifteen gowns before she found one that satisfied her. When two o'clock came, she knew she had done all that was possible to appear worthy of a proposal of marriage from the most handsome aristocrat in the
ton
.

* * *

Somehow, he'd never thought he would marry before he reached nine and forty. Without ever giving it much thought, he supposed he'd always wished to emulate the man he admired so thoroughly. But never—not even in his most inebriated state—had he ever thought he could marry a woman he didn't love.

As he sat there in the Pemberton drawing room awaiting the young woman whose hand in marriage he was going to seek, he realized he did love Belle—but not like he had hoped to love a wife. Despite that she was a sharp-tongued, self-assured only child of a doting, elderly father who just happened to be in possession of one of the heftiest purses in all of England, Miss Annabelle Pemberton had always elicited in him a strong sense of protectiveness. One could not wish to protect a female one did not care about. He loved Belle as he loved Libby, Charlotte, Anne, and Georgiana—his sisters.

He thought of Pemberton's words the day before when he spoke of a husband and wife growing to love one another. After they had children together.

Bedding Belle, begetting a child with Belle? Even the pondering of such a thing was shocking, but the fact such a plan met with Mr. Pemberton's favor sanctioned it.

De Vere respected no man as much as he respected Robert Pemberton.

The door to the drawing room opened, and Belle glided into the room. He found himself observing her as if for the first time. Now he attempted to regard her as a prospective suitor. Which was deuced difficult! Look at her! She was as short as an eleven-year-old girl. His gaze whisked over her from the top of her flaxen locks, which were swept back from her face like that of a Grecian goddess, and along the gentle curve of her pale blue gown that swelled at her breasts.

What the devil? When had Miss Pemberton grown such womanly looking breasts? Because he was knowledgeable about women's undergarments, he knew how stays smashed a woman's bosom until the tops of the breasts spilled out of the tight laces. Is that what Miss Pemberton had done today? He could not remember ever before being aware of Miss Pemberton's . . . ah, breasts.

How old was she now? He distinctly remembered she was seven years younger than he, which would make her three and twenty. She obviously had not just sprouted a bosom. How could he have failed to notice such . . . protuberances before? Because he was not in the habit of lusting after his guardian's well-protected, much-beloved only child.

He stood, favored her with a smile, and bowed. “Your beauty robs me of words.” Surprisingly, he spoke the truth.

He had never previously thought of Miss Pemberton as a beauty, but on this day she was truly pretty.

Her face, while not gawk-worthy, was free of flaws. And her pale blue eyes were very fine.

She opened her mouth as if to protest, then must have thought better of it. Was she so unaccustomed to receiving praise? “Thank you, my lord. Please have a seat. Should you wish to be closer to the fire? It's another wretchedly chilly day.” She eyed him, smiling. “It was very good of you to bestir yourself.”

Was this the same chit who'd castigated him the previous day? She was being much more agreeable than normal. She even waited to see where he sat before she took her own seat beside him. They ended up on a silken settee closest to the hearth.

“I thank you for sending me the very kind note,” he began.

“A note can in no way express my remorse, my lord. I had no right to speak to you in such a manner. I don't know what came over me. I could not sleep last night because I so desperately wished I could retract the awful things I said.” She swallowed and peered up at him. “Because of my cruel words, it may be difficult for you to believe that I
am
excessively fond of you.”

“As I am of you, Miss Pemberton.” What in the blazes had gotten into him? He hadn't meant to lie to her and claim an attachment that wasn't there. Not that being fond of someone translated to being in love with them. He would never tell a woman—especially Belle—he was in love with her unless he meant it.

“Then can you forgive me?”

He took her hand. He hadn't meant to touch her. “I have forgotten it already.”

He continued to hold her small hand within his. She had likely never before been in so intimate a setting with a man.

“Why the change in your address to me, my lord?”

It took him a minute to realize what she was referring to. Since she had walked through that door today, he had not once called her by the name he had used for three and twenty years. Was it because he was suddenly seeing her as something other than Mr. Pemberton's little girl, something different than a sister? He drew a deep breath. “I suppose it's because I'm doing my dashed best
not
to think of you as a sister.”

It took several seconds—seconds as silent as a graveyard—before he could look her in the eye. Neither of them was foolish enough not to know why he had come that afternoon.

* * *

Their eyes met and held. Because his strong, long-fingered hand continued to clasp hers, the connection between them was profound. At least it was to her. It was certainly the most intimate gesture she had ever shared with a member of the opposite sex. (A pity the mere holding of a hand would seem rather insipid to a well-known rake like he.)

Her heartbeat began to pulse. “Oh,” she finally managed. He was going to ask for her hand in marriage. She felt unbelievably feminine. And small. And, most of all, remorseful.

This was not how it was supposed to be! In her dreams, Lord de Vere begged for her hand in marriage while professing his deep love. Even if he asked for her hand today, she knew he would not lie and say he was in love with her.

But
her
feelings did not signify now. A union between her and Lord de Vere would bring joy to her father. It was, after all, his last Christmas wish.

Lord de Vere cleared his throat. “Because you are your father's daughter and are blessed with his intelligence, you realize why I've come today?”

She answered with a nod.

“Then I must ask if you're prepared to sacrifice yourself in order to grant your father his last Christmas wish.”

To her complete mortification, she began to wail. Again. Lord de Vere was merely speaking his mind. Marrying her would be a mammoth sacrifice on his part—which was not even remotely like the romantic declaration she had always hoped for.

For the second time in as many days, she flattened the side of her face into his manly chest while he—rather too much like an elder brother—attempted to comfort her whilst handing her another handkerchief.

“What's the matter, love? You know this union will cheer your father.”

“I am,” sniff, sniff, “not crying because of my father.”

He stiffened. “Then you object to me?”

“That is not why I am crying, either.” She attempted to wipe away her tears with his handkerchief.

There went those blasted circles he was tracing upon her back! Did he have any idea how seductive such a gesture was?

“Then I am relieved.”

“I am not.” She straightened and glared at him, even knowing she must look wretched with her reddened eyes.

His brows lowered. “What have I done to offend you, Belle?”

At least he had reverted to calling her Belle. Even if it was being “brotherly” on his part, it sounded much more intimate, much more in keeping with the mood evoked with the hand-holding business. (Which, she had to admit, she rather liked.) “I daresay there's not another lady in the kingdom who is being told marriage to her is a sacrifice.”

“I didn't say marrying you would be a sacrifice! I said your marriage to me would be a sacrifice.”

“It's what you were thinking. Admit it. Marrying me would be a sacrifice—a sacrifice you'd be willing to offer on the shrine to my father.”

He remained silent. “I will
not
say that. Allow me to ask you one thing.”

Her eyes rounded. “What?”

“Why do you hold me in animosity?”

As she sat there studying his pensive face from the black eyes to the notch in his chin, something softened inside her. De Vere was without a doubt the most noble man she had ever encountered. Yet despite the “sacrifice” he was prepared to make, she had treated him shabbily. And despite his abundance of attributes, her cruel words had wounded him.

She was obliged to assure him of her admiration. “I could never hold you in animosity. Forgive me if I gave that impression. If I didn't have strong feelings of affection toward you, I wouldn't be sitting here right now.”

“Then, my dear Miss Pemberton,” he began, now tracing circles on the palm of her hand, his dark eyes never leaving hers, “I beg that you do me the goodness of consenting to become my wife.”

Even though this man requesting her hand in marriage, this man who destroyed her complacency with those incessant circles pressed into her hand, was the only man she had ever aspired to wed, this wasn't the way she had always pictured it. Her eyes misted, but she was determined not to cry. “It is very kind of you to offer yourself, my lord. While there may be some who will believe you're marrying me for my fortune, I know that is not your motive. Are you prepared for the wicked things which may be said of you for marrying a plain heiress?”

“First of all, you are not plain! If you think that, you have not peered into your looking glass today. Secondly, you have not actually accepted my proposal.”

Her gaze never leaving his, she nodded solemnly. “Despite the wretched things I said to you yesterday, there is not another man in the kingdom whom I would prefer over you.” At least she hadn't blathered on about being in love with him. A lady had her pride.

“Would that I were worthy of your flattery.”

She was disappointed he hadn't countered with a similar compliment. “You do have many fine traits, and I do accept your proposal of marriage.”

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Your father believes marriage would be a steadying influence upon me, one which would restore respectability to the de Vere name.”

“I agree with my father.”

“There is one problem I see with this . . . this sham marriage.”

“It's not to be a sham marriage, my lord. Only a real marriage would please my father.”

“Oh, I intend to marry you in a legally binding ceremony.”

“Then what is this problem you foresee?”

“No matter how fond your father is of me, he will require that you marry a man who will love and cherish you.”

Yes, her father would. “A rather difficult requirement.”

He gave her a kindly smile. “Not entirely. I have always held you in great fondness, the same brotherly affection I have for my sisters.”

She drew in a deep breath. “As much as I want this marriage—in order to grant my father's last Christmas wish—I cannot consent to it without extracting one promise from you.”

“What is that?”

“You must give me your solemn promise that you will
not
think of me as a sister!”

He looked perplexed. “How can I govern thoughts I've held for two decades?”

She put hands to hips. “May I suggest you force yourself to think of my breasts!”

His gaze flicked to those plump objects on her chest, then quickly returned to her face. She was serious.

And she was likely right. If he forced himself to think of Miss Pemberton's breasts, he was much less likely to think of her as a sister. “I shall do my best to comply with your wishes, Miss Pemberton.”

“And now that I am to be your wife,” she said with some authority, “I shall not object if you call me Belle.”

Your wife
. It seemed almost unfathomable to him that he was having this discussion, that he was on the precipice of marriage. If someone had told him a week ago that he was going to marry Annabelle Pemberton, he would have told that person he had attics to let. Yet here he was, making preparations to wed Belle. He nodded. “Soon you shall be Lady de Vere.”