The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (35 page)

“I must learn to brook being happier than I deserve.”

—
JANE AUSTEN,
PERSUASION

“Y
our sister is a glutton for punishment,” Freddy commented as he helped Damaris over a stile. They were walking back to the cottage from Davenham House. Only a fifteen-minute walk from the main house, it was their own, very private retreat. Damaris adored it.

“Do you mean Abby? Why do you think that? She’s having a wonderful time.”

He feigned a shudder. “Getting everyone, all the family, under one roof for Christmas? It’s madness. Max should have put his foot down.”

“Max is enjoying it as much as Abby and I are, and so will the others when they get here.” Damaris was loving every single thing about it—the excitement, the decorations, the baking, the rituals—all the things her mother had told her about English Christmases but which she’d never experienced for herself.

“Thank God you wanted a cottage. Think if you’d asked for a diamond necklace that day. How useless would that be? Can’t hide out from relatives in a diamond necklace.”

She laughed. “You’re a fraud, Freddy Monkton-Coombes. You’re enjoying it as much as any of us.”

“I won’t when my parents get here. Why on earth would she invite my parents?”

“Because you’re part of the family now, and so, therefore, are they.” Damaris had been delighted when Abby had told her Lord and Lady Breckenridge had accepted her invitation to come for Christmas. Little by little the barriers were being whittled away.

Freddy grunted. “It’s taking the notion of family to extremes.”

He didn’t mean it. Damaris knew he was as pleased as she was. He just hid it. He’d been hurt too many times to show his feelings openly. It would take time.

“Abby invited my grandparents too.” She gave a little skip. They were almost at the cottage.

In the time Freddy had stayed away from London while his injuries faded, he hadn’t just visited his parents, he’d come here and furnished her cottage for her. Thick rugs lined the floor; there was a large and comfortable bed, a cozy sofa—everything needed to keep them warm and comfortable. He’d stocked it with provisions too: enough food and wine to last them through a blizzard.

He’d even included a shelf of books, just for her, getting Abby to give him a list of anything she thought Damaris might enjoy. He’d also included a box of paints, brushes and an easel. That had touched her most of all.

They walked up a small rise. This was the part of the walk home she liked best, the part where from the top of the rise she could see her lovely little white stone cottage, and beyond it the sweep of the sea. She never tired of the view.

They reached the top and she stopped, frowning. “What’s that?” There was a sign over the front door. She couldn’t quite read it.

“Come on, let’s run,” Freddy said and, grabbing her hand, he tugged her down the hill so they arrived at the front gate laughing and breathless.

Damaris stared at the sign. “Roon? You named our cottage
Roon
?”

“Not me. You can blame that little she-troll from the pottery for that.” Freddy’s eyes were dancing, bluer than the sea.

Damaris blinked at him in utter bewilderment. “Mrs.
Jenkins
? What has
she
to do with my cottage?”

“She predicted it.”

“Predicted what? I don’t understand.”

“That I’d lead you down the road to Roon.” He opened the door then swept her up into his arms. “And here we are.” He carried her over the threshold.

Laughing, they fell on the bed.

“Roon Cottage, was there ever such a name?” she said much later. She was sleepy and sated and so happy she could burst. “We’re never going to live it down.”

“Don’t explain, then.”

She stroked his chest. “She was right, you know. Mrs. Jenkins.”

“In what way?”

“You were a rake and you did have your wicked way with me.”

“Ah, but I’m not a rake anymore,” he said, kissing her. “But I did seduce you. I probably deserve to be flogged.”

“Flogged?” She opened her eyes, shocked. “No one deserves to be flogged. It’s a terrible punishment.” She’d seen it done on board the ship.

“Oh, I don’t know. You could manage it, I’m sure.” He darted a look at her from under his lashes. “Perhaps with a silken whip?”

“A silken—”

“You could wear a corset.”

“A corset?”

“One of those French ones. Red with black lace. Or white,” he said, warming to the theme. “Pure virginal white in that lacy stuff with the holes.”

“Broderie anglaise?”

“No, it’s French. And you’d let your hair down, streaming over your not-quite-corseted breasts like a black silken waterfall, and you’d stand over me with those long, glorious legs of yours and—”

She laughed. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Yes, but you knew that when you married me. I need taking in hand.”

“Do you, now?” she said, taking him very firmly in hand.

He groaned in appreciation.

“So you think you need to be punished?” she said thoughtfully.

“Just treat me as I deserve,” he said humbly.

“I think I know a much more effective punishment,” she purred, squeezing him gently.

“What?” He moaned.

“Nanny McBride,” she said with a straight face. His old nanny.

His eyes flew open.
“Nanny McBride?”

“I’m sure she’d be much better than I am at administering a good whipping. Yes, I can just see Nanny McBride in a red French corset with black lace—”

“Stop!” he roared. He shuddered. “That’s an image that’s going to stick in my mind forever. Horrible.”

She laughed. “You didn’t really want me to whip you, did you?”

“No.”

“See? I’ve got your measure, Freddy Monkton-Coombes.”

He looked at where her fingers were wrapped around him and grinned. “Is that what they call it in China? By all means, take my measure. Do with it whatever you like. I’m all yours.”

And he was.