The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (23 page)

“Wonderful?” Lord Breckenridge made a rude noise. “He’s an idle, feckless—”

“You have
no
idea of the man Freddy has become,” she flared. “You dismiss him as feckless and idle but I ask you—how has Freddy lived all these years?” She glanced at Freddy, but he made no move to explain himself.

“I make him an allowance, of course,” his father said.

Damaris shook her head. “I don’t know anything about that, but—”

“Haven’t touched it since I was eighteen,” Freddy said mildly. “Don’t you ever check the accounts, Father?”

The old man’s brows gnashed together.

Freddy leaned back, as if there was no more to be said on the matter. Damaris wanted to shake him. Why would he not defend himself? Why not explain the way he’d built a fortune?

She leaned forward. “Ask yourself how he has supported himself all these years in the elegant style for which he’s so well known.”

Lord Breckenridge shrugged. “No doubt his women give him—”

“Don’t be insulting!” Damaris flashed. She glanced at Freddy again, wishing he would bite back for once. He gave her a cool, unreadable glance.

“Aunt Adelaide’s legacy,” Lady Breckenridge said triumphantly.

Only to have her husband snort. “The merest pittance. Wouldn’t have kept him much more than a year.”

“It did, actually,” Freddy said but offered no further explanation. He sat back in his chair, his legs crossed, as if he were watching a play. Pretending it didn’t matter what his parents thought of him.

Well, it mattered to her!

“You don’t know him at all, do you? My brother-in-law, Lord Davenham, told me Freddy built up a fortune from a tiny nest egg. His friend Mr. Flynn, the founder of a worldwide company—in which your son is a partner—says Freddy has real business acumen.”

“Eh?” His father grunted in surprise. “Acumen?”

“Yes, acumen. But you have no idea of your son’s talents, or what he’s been doing in the last sixteen years, do you? Because you don’t care to know. You’re mired in the past, stuck, like flies in amber—”

“Flies?” Lady Breckenridge echoed angrily.
“Flies?”

“Yes, like flies in amber, whining like little children about the unfairness of life.”

“I do not
whine
!” Lord Breckenridge snapped.

She ignored him. “Life is unfair. Death is unfair. But while you’re brooding on the unfairness of it all, think on this—sixteen years ago, when George fell through the ice and died, you only lost a son—”

“
Only?
How dare you say such a thing?” Lady Breckenridge glared daggers.

“We know what we lost,” her husband stated.

Damaris smacked the table again. The sound echoed. “Think, for
once
in your selfish lives, about
Freddy
. He lost his beloved older brother, the person he loved most in all the world, his best friend and boyhood hero. But he didn’t just lose George—he lost
his whole family
.”

There was a short silence. Damaris let that sink in a moment.

“What do you mean?” his mother asked stiffly. “We’re here.”

Damaris couldn’t believe it. Had they
never
reflected on what they’d done? “You two treated him like an assassin, when he was just a little boy who liked to play cricket with his brother. Twelve years old, and you pushed him out of the family—”

“Rubbish!” Lord Breckenridge growled. “We did nothing of the sort.”

She turned on him. “You sent him away to school immediately after the funeral and didn’t even allow him to come home for Christmas, not two weeks later. A grief-stricken,
innocent
little boy of twelve. It was heartless and wicked and cruel.

“And
then
you had him painted out of the family portrait.” She shook her head. “The entire time I’ve been here all you’ve done is make cutting remarks about him to me—and I’m
his betrothed
. I’ve heard nothing but criticism, disparagement and negativity. I cannot credit it. You are his mother and you, his father. He is your
son
—your
only
son.” Her eyes prickled with angry, frustrated tears. “What kind of parents
are
you? You lost one son, but
you threw the other away
.”

There was a long silence. Nobody was looking at anyone else.

The silence stretched so long Damaris started to shake. She’d gone too far, said the unforgivable. Never in her life had she been so outspoken, so rude. And to her elders and her hosts.

But she was glad of it. It needed to be said. They needed to know what they had done. For sixteen years.

She’d well and truly burned her bridges now. When she put an end to this sham betrothal, Freddy would get no blame. They’d probably be delighted that he was free of the harpy.

She rose and turned to Freddy, who was regarding her with an expression she could not read. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think it’s best if I leave.”

He frowned and stood abruptly. “Leave? Leave for where?”

“Davenham Hall? You said it was only a few hours’ drive from here.”

“Four, possibly five hours, depending on the state of the roads.”

She nodded. “If you will lend me your coach and a driver, Lord Breckenr—”

“I’ll drive you,” Freddy said.

“There is no need—”

“I said I’ll drive you,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument. He glanced at his parents, who hadn’t moved or spoken since her outburst. “How soon can you be ready?”

“It will take but a few minutes to pack.”

He gave a brusque nod. “Then I’ll meet you at the front steps in half an hour.” His voice was almost harsh, quite unlike his usual manner. He sat back down at the table.

She could see his resemblance to his father now. And his mother. Neither of them had looked at her; neither now said a word. They sat like rigid statues, in frozen, aristocratic disapproval, waiting for her to leave.

She left the room and hurried upstairs.

 • • • 

F
reddy poured himself another cup of coffee and waited. He was curious to see how they’d taken it, whether anything had sunk in.

He couldn’t remember when anyone had last defended him. Not that he needed it, but, God, she was magnificent, the way she’d ripped into his father, his mother—all of them, himself included.

His parents were showing definite signs of shock. Neither of them had looked at him yet. Or said a word. His mother was tidying the table in front of her with fussy little movements, her mouth tight and pinched with displeasure. His father was staring at nothing, his brow knotted, whether in anger or thought, Freddy couldn’t tell.

He glanced at the portrait over the mantel, the catalyst of it all. Was that how she saw him? Quite handsome, but with a vulnerability about the eyes and mouth that he was sure wasn’t there. It was a little unsettling to see himself through her eyes.

It was damned good, though. He’d had no idea she was so talented. He’d imagined her work in the pottery to be just a matter of painting patterns—he hadn’t given it any thought.

Finally his father broke the silence. “Well, I hope you’re happy, upsetting your mother like that. Fine sort of bride you choose to bring home to Breckenridge.”

Freddy sipped his coffee. “Extraordinary, isn’t she?”

“Extraordinary? More like outrageous. How dare she speak to us—how dare you allow her to speak to us like that.”

“I’ve never met such an ill-mannered, disrespectful, impertinent creature in my life,” his mother joined in. “Such insults—I’ve never heard the like.”

“Tell me, Mother, which did you find most insulting, her accusation that you were a heartless and cruel parent or her likening you to an insect?”

There was enough truth in the accusation to bring a flush to her thin cheeks. “How dare you!”

Freddy smiled. “Not much fun when you’re on the receiving end, is it, Mother?”

His father slammed a fist on the table. “Don’t speak to your mother like that! It’s a damned good thing that little bitch is leaving; otherwise I’d have to throw her out on her ear.”

“That’s enough!” Freddy spoke coldly, but it was like a whiplash. Both his parents stared at him. “I will tolerate no insult of my betrothed, do you hear me? You will speak of Miss Chance with respect.”

“Respect?” his father said when he’d recovered from the surprise. “When the chit abused me at my own breakfast table?”

“And did you not deserve it?” Freddy said in a hard voice. “Did we not all deserve it?”

“What she said was utterly offensive,” his mother declared.

“But true, nevertheless,” Freddy said silkily. They didn’t like that. “We
are
stuck in the past. This is the first time in sixteen years we’ve talked about George’s death. And what happened after it. Sixteen
years.
”

“We have the memorial service,” his mother said defensively.

“Yes, but we don’t talk. Yesterday when we went for a walk, Damaris saw the grave. She asked me about it, about George, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.” He swallowed. “It was the first time I’ve ever talked about him. To anyone. And he was my
brother
.” He clenched his fist, willing away the threat of unmanly tears.

“What is there to talk about?” his mother muttered.

“George,” he said simply. “We were the ones who loved him best.”

“It’s none of that blasted vixen’s business what we talk about,” his father said. “Damned impertinence, that’s what it is. I won’t have her in the family! You will sever this betrothal at once.”

“Will I?”

His father thrust his head forward. “What’s got into you, boy?”

“I’ve just had an epiphany,” Freddy told him.

“Epiphany? What nonsense!”

“For years I told myself if I could ignore your insults and your indifference, and pretend I didn’t care, it wouldn’t affect me. But it’s wrong, that old rhyme. Sticks and stones can break my bones, but names, repeated often enough from a young age, can indeed hurt me.”

There was a short silence.

“Deep down I was still hoping it might one day happen.”

“What? Speak up, boy. What might happen?”

“That you’d see me. Accept me. Forgive me.” God, he sounded pathetic. But he had to say it. “But Damaris just shattered that illusion. You’re never going to change. And there was nothing to forgive.”

He stood. “I’m not a boy, Father, I’m a man, and I will no longer tolerate any rudeness to me or any member of my family.”

“Your family?” His mother’s eyes widened. “Frederick, you can’t mean that dreadful girl! You cannot marry her! Not after the way she insulted us.”

“Girl’s a raging harridan,” his father agreed.

“She’s a young lioness,” said Freddy unable to keep the pride from his voice. “And she’s going to make a magnificent mother.”

“Mother?” his mother echoed, startled.

Freddy grinned. “Can’t you see her defending her cubs?” His cubs. He wasn’t sure how he was going to do it—she was as marriage-shy as he had been. But somewhere during that magnificent tirade she’d delivered, the realization had burst upon him that he was going to marry her, had to marry her, that she was the woman he’d been waiting for all his life.

“Damn it, boy, if you dare to marry her against our express wishes, I’ll—”

“You’ll do what, Father? Cut off the allowance I haven’t touched in years? Forbid me from entering the house I only step into one day a year? Disinherit me from an estate that’s fully entailed?”

His father muttered a curse.

“Face it, Father, I don’t actually need you or Mother for anything. You taught me that from a young age, or weren’t you listening to my fiancée?” He turned and gestured to the painting. “About that painting. If you don’t want it, give it to Nanny McBride.”

His mother blinked. “Don’t you care whether we want to keep it or not?”

He gave her a weary smile. “I’m long past caring about what you do, Mother.”

“But we’re your parents.”

“Are you? Excuse me, I need to pack. I don’t want to keep my bride waiting.” He strode toward the door.

“Freddy?” His mother’s voice stopped him in his tracks. She hadn’t called him Freddy for sixteen years. Dammit, some part of that pathetic needy boy was still inside him.

He turned, feigning indifference. “Yes?”

“You will be here for the memorial service . . . won’t you?”

He hardened his heart. “I’m not sure.”

“They parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never meeting again.”

—
JANE AUSTEN,
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

D
amaris took her leave of Lord and Lady Breckenridge, thanking them politely for their hospitality in the most hypocritical fashion. But good manners must prevail.

In turn they stiffly wished her good-bye and a safe journey. They’d probably prefer her to break her neck, so no doubt things were even.

She stepped out onto the steps at the front of Breckenridge House, where Freddy was waiting with the carriage, and halted in surprise. “The curricle?”

“Best thing for a quick journey,” he said. “Besides, you get sick in closed carriages, remember?”

“But what about my maid, Polly?”

“She can ride with my groom and tiger. I’ve sent my man to hire a vehicle. He’ll be back soon.” Clearly he didn’t want to borrow any vehicle from his father. He glanced at the bags her maid and a footman were bringing out. “Leave all that here—bring only what you think you’ll need on the trip. The others will follow with the baggage as soon as they can—they won’t be more than an hour or two behind us.”

She hesitated. “But don’t I need a chaperone?” It was absurd for her to be worrying about propriety after what had happened to her on leaving China, but she had to keep up appearances.

Freddy shook his head. “Betrothed woman traveling with her affianced husband in an open carriage for a few hours in plain sight of everyone—nothing for the tabbies to worry about there.”

He sounded very confident, and, given the awkwardness of her sudden departure, she didn’t feel inclined to argue. “Very well.”

They loaded her bag into the small boot of the curricle and, with only a few servants to wave them off, were soon tooling down the drive away from Breckenridge House.

“Quite the little firebrand, aren’t you?” he said when they were out on the open road.

“I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I lost my temper with your parents.”

He laughed. “You don’t say!”

She darted him a cautious glance. “You’re not angry with me?”

He turned his head and gave her a very Freddy look and the tension instantly drained out of her. “I didn’t mean to be so rude. And I didn’t hang your portrait or remove your brother’s—I meant it just to sit on the mantelpiece. But Horwood misunderstood, and then I couldn’t let him be blamed.”

“Never mind. I doubt anything else would have made my parents sit up and take notice half so well.”

“I’m not usually such a virago.”

He laughed. “You were hardly that.”

“Oh, but I was. Once I started—and your father was so angry, and so dismissive of you—and your mother so righteous! And so wrong! My temper got the better of me.”

It had shocked her, to tell the truth. She’d never lost her temper in such a way before. It was as though she’d tapped into a well of deep anger that had surged upward, flowing out of her in a scalding flood. Strangely, she felt remarkably calm now.

“They really didn’t seem to understand how unjust they’d been to you.”

He chuckled. “They know now.”

“I hope so. Do you think it will make any difference?”

“To them? Probably not. To me?” He turned his head and gave her a lazy smile that sent a delicious shiver through her, all the way to her toes. “I’m hoping it will make all the difference in the world to me. There’s just one small problem I need to sort out first.”

She wanted to ask him what the problem was, to see if there was anything she could do to help, but she’d already poked her nose into his business far too much already. She ought to sever the betrothal soon. The thought made her feel oddly heavy. Not that she wanted to marry him, of course, but it had been fun. And surprisingly companionable. She would miss him when he was gone.

They passed through the village and headed west. A heavy bank of gray cloud had settled sullenly along the distant horizon. “With any luck we’ll beat that rain,” Freddy commented and snapped the reins. His grays picked up speed.

“Want to take the ribbons for a bit?” he asked after they’d been traveling at top speed for ten minutes or so.

“You’d trust your precious grays to me?” she said in surprise.

“Yes, now that the freshness has been taken off them.”

She laughed. He passed her the reins and for the next hour they traveled in silence. Her concentration was almost wholly on the horses, but some part of her was aware of her traveling companion. She’d expected him to be rather blue-deviled after the confrontation with his parents, but he seemed quite lighthearted, even happy.

“What’s the matter?” he asked her after he’d caught her several times giving him a surreptitious glance. “Frightened I’ll fall out of the curricle or something?”

She laughed. “Of course not. It’s just that you’re . . .”

“What? Handsome? Charming? Irresistible?” He gave her a rakish leer and she laughed again.

“You seem . . . I don’t know . . . happy.”

“I am.” He leaned back and crossed his booted legs, resting them on the front bar of the curricle. “I usually am when I leave Breckenridge.”

“That’s sad.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you love it.”

He gave her a curious look. “How did you work that out?”

“The way you talk of it, the places you showed me, the stories you told.”

“Ah, well, we can’t have everything we want,” he said and though he said it in a light manner, Damaris recognized a “keep out” sign when she met one. For a lighthearted rattle of a rake, he had rather a lot of those.

But then, so did she.

“How are you feeling?” Freddy enquired as they came to a posting inn a few hours later. “We’ll change horses here, but we’ve made good time—we’re about halfway to Davenham Hall, so if you want to rest for a while . . .”

“I wouldn’t mind some breakfast.”

“Breakfast? But—”

“I was so nervous about the painting I didn’t eat a thing,” she confessed.

 • • • 

T
he farther west they went, the wetter the country was. The last few days of dry weather had made the roads passable enough, but the low-lying land remained saturated: Sheets of silvery water lay everywhere.

“Talk of flooding farther on, sorr,” an ostler at the next staging point warned Freddy as he led out a fresh pair of horses. “Best be careful. Folks say river’s about ready to bust its banks.”

“Is the main road flooded at all?”

“Not yet, sorr, not as I know of, but any more rain like we’ve had the last weeks and there’ll be trouble.”

Freddy nodded. He wasn’t too worried. They’d made good time so far, and the bank of cloud that had loomed threateningly ahead the last few hours hadn’t seemed to move. Another two hours and they’d be at Davenham.

They set out again.

Half an hour later they came to a wooden bridge across a fiercely swollen river. Dirty brown water gushed and tumbled, carrying with it all sorts of refuse—mud, branches and bits of broken palings—swirling and eddying, spilling out over the banks in places, taking everything with it. The surface of the bridge was about an inch deep in water.

“Do you think it’s safe to cross?” Damaris asked.

“For the moment, which is all we need,” Freddy said briskly, and he urged the nervous horses across the bridge.

For the next mile or so the road ran beside the river. “Won’t be long before it bursts its banks,” Freddy observed, “but the road leaves the riverside soon and the rest of the way is on higher ground.”

He spoke too soon. Rounding a bend, they were confronted with an angry brown sea of swirling floodwater, into which the road disappeared.

“Dammit, we’ll have to go back.” He backed the horses and turned the curricle around. There was no side road, no other way except back to the flooding bridge.

By the time they got back, the wooden bridge was shuddering under the sweeping barrage of water and debris. Under their horrified gaze, a section of the bridge broke and was dragged into the swirling torrent. In minutes the remainder of the bridge was swept away, tossed around on the current like a handfuls of sticks.

They were stranded.

“Well, we won’t be going that way,” Freddy said lightly. He scanned their surroundings. The floodwaters were already nibbling at the edge of the road. “We’ll have to move to higher ground.”

“There’s a cottage back there.” Damaris pointed. “I noticed it as we passed. It’s on that hill. From here, you can’t see it for the trees, but it’s there.”

“Right, then.” Again Freddy turned the curricle around and they headed back, searching for a way up to the cottage on the hill. They found a gate with a narrow track winding upward. Freddy jumped down, opened the gate, then led the horses through it.

“It’s too rough and narrow for the curricle,” he said. “We’ll have to leave it here. We’ll take the horses with us. Let’s hope there’s some sort of shelter for them at the cottage.” He unhitched the horses and, slipping and sliding on the steep and muddy track, they made their way toward the cottage.

Damaris glanced at him at one point. “You’re quite enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Sorry.” He pulled a guilty face. “I must confess I have a sneaking fondness for the odd small adventure. We’re going to be all right, you know. We’re more in danger of discomfort and inconvenience than actual danger. The floods won’t come up this high.”

“I know. I’m not worried.” Truth to tell, Damaris didn’t mind a small adventure herself. Her upbringing had better prepared her for physical danger and discomfort than for London drawing rooms and the pitfalls of polite society.

He turned to look at her. “You’re not, are you? Remarkable. Nine out of ten females of my acquaintance would be loudly castigating me for the ruination of their shoes, not to mention their damp and muddy hems. They’d be complaining about having to walk, and screeching at me to ‘do something, Freddy, do something!’”

“But what could you do?” she said, puzzled.

“Carry them, probably.” He gave her a hopeful look. “Do you want me to carry you?”

She laughed. “Of course not. You have quite enough to manage with those horses.”

“Oh, well,” he said with a downcast sigh. “If you must be so distressingly independent.”

Damaris couldn’t help but smile. Even in the midst of trouble, he could find an opportunity to flirt.

The clouds were thickening by the minute and they were barely halfway up the hill when there was a flash, then a rumble, and the first few fat drops of rain fell. “Uh-oh,” Freddy said, glancing at the sky. “Hurry.” But within seconds the heavens opened and the rain was pelting down.

By the time they reached the cottage, they were drenched. “You get inside; I’ll find somewhere to put the horses,” Freddy shouted over the rain.

Damaris knocked, once, twice, but there was no answer. Shivering, she tried the door. It opened. “Is anyone here?” she called as she entered. But there was no answer.

The cottage was small, just one main room, with a kitchen scullery at the rear, a small table in the middle with a couple of wooden chairs, and a bed in the corner covered with a bright patchwork quilt. The floor was made of stone flags, made cozier and more cheerful with some homemade rag rugs. It was clean and neat as a pin.

Whoever the owners were, they hadn’t been gone more than a few hours, Damaris thought. The fire was out, but a faint warmth remained in the bricks. A bunch of parsley sat in a jar of water, still fresh. She checked the kitchen and found half of a loaf of bread in the crock, a bowl of eggs, and some vegetables in a bin.

They’d need to dry off.

Feeling uncomfortably like a thief, she looked in the chest at the end of the bed and found several lengths of rough towel and some folded clothes—all for a woman, an old woman, by the look of the clothes. She must live here alone. She took out the towels and used one to towel-dry her hair and soak up as much of the dampness as she could.

There was no sign of Freddy. Presumably he was getting the horses settled.

The storm was getting worse. Lightning flickered, thunder rumbled and rain hammered at the roof and windows in a deafening tattoo. They’d be here for a while. She should light a fire. It was taking a liberty in a stranger’s house, but she was wet through, and Freddy would be even wetter, and they didn’t want to catch a chill.

She swept out the ashes of the old fire, found some kindling and began to set a fire.

The door crashed open and she jumped. “Only me,” Freddy shouted over the noise. “Here, I’ll do that.” He came forward, dripping, and shivering with cold.

She shooed him away. “I am well able to light a fire, thank you. You’re soaked, so go over there and get out of those wet clothes before you catch your death.”

“You’re wet too.”

“Not as wet as you and you’ve been outside in it longer. You’re practically blue with cold, so don’t argue—strip.”

His eyes danced and she knew he was about to say something cheeky, so she waved him away. “Not another word. I found you a towel and some clothes—they’re there on the bed. I’m afraid there are no men’s clothes in the cottage—I think an old woman lives here alone—but there is a red flannel nightgown there you can put on while your clothes are drying. It might be a little tight across the shoulders, but I think it will fit. And be warm.”

“A
nightgown
?” He picked up the red flannel nightgown between finger and thumb and regarded it with a dubious expression.

She hid a smile. “Don’t look like that; there are no frills. It looks much like the nightshirts my father used to wear. More to the point, it will cover you decently and keep you warm while we dry your clothes by the fire. And don’t worry, I’ll turn my back while you change.”

He gave her a slow smile. “I’m not worried in the least.”

She busied herself arranging kindling in the fireplace, but her imagination was only too aware that he was stripping off his clothes, one by one. She recalled how he had looked shirtless, chopping wood, and her mouth dried. Just a peep, she told herself.

But that would be wrong. More, it would be dangerous.