A Christmas Bride (3 page)

He hoped.

The upper floor was so silent, he could hear the ice pelting overhead. The snow must have warmed to sleet again. It was a good thing he had made arrangements with Mrs. Bridges to spend the night here. Traveling would be even more treacherous as night closed in around them.

The second door on the left was where he had carried the young woman. He knocked on it, but got no reply. Opening it, he saw it was empty. Mayhap it had been the third door. He had been in such a hurry to leave her here and go to the authorities that he had not paid that much attention.

He rapped on that door.

“Who's there?”

“Felix,” he said, resisting the temptation to shout, “'tis Timothy.” What silly thing was Felix about now? He lifted the latch, but the door would not budge. This was absurd. “Open up.”

The door opened only far enough so Felix could peer out. “Are you alone?”

“Of course. I do not need someone to come up here with me because I am afraid of the dark.”

“The constable?”

“He and the vicar are back in their comfortable houses. I would like to be equally comfortable with dinner in front of me, but first I would like to speak with the young woman.” He put his hand on the door and shoved it and his cousin back slowly. “I understand she is awake.”

Felix jerked the door back so suddenly that the wood burned Timothy's hand. “See for yourself.”

He took a single step into the room, then paused as he stared at the young woman sitting among the pillows on the bed. Her hair had dried into a cascade of ebony curls around her shoulders. The bandage across her forehead had more color than her wan face, so her lips appeared a vibrant wine red. With the blanket pulled up to her chin, he could not see the rest of her, but he had held her close enough to recall the lithe curves that were hinted at beneath the blanket.

He noticed all that in a single heartbeat. Then he was caught by her wondrous eyes. Not quite blue, not quite gray, they glistened like polished steel in the glow of the single lamp. Even in his imagination, these silver-blue eyes had not been so lustrous.

Felix chuckled, but Timothy could not pull his gaze from the woman on the bed. Those eyes had depths only a fool or a brave man would dare to explore.

“It seems,” Felix said with another laugh, “that no introduction is necessary, but, Timothy Crawford, Lord Cheyney, allow me to present to you your fiancée, Serenity Adams.”

Three

That man was Timothy Crawford? She must have misunderstood. How could
this
be Lord Cheyney? Why would such a handsome man be in such need of a fiancée that he had to hire a stranger to play that role?

Even in the dim light, his hair glowed as gold as an angel's wings. His firmly drawn face was as appealing as the devil's own, and the excellent cut of his clothes could not disguise muscles that appeared to come from long hours of hard work—mayhap outdoors, for his face had a healthy bronze that did not seem to match the life of a London gentleman. A viscount who worked like a laborer? None of this made the least bit of sense.

The man in the doorway continued to stare at her. Why did he look so shocked at Mr. Wayne's pompous announcement? Mayhap Lord Cheyney had not guessed that she would agree to this want-witted scheme.

She would not have, if Mr. Wayne had not brought to her a water-stained letter that had been in the apron of her skirt. It addressed her only as “Dear Sister,” but it spoke of how her younger sister and brother were depending on her to send them money to continue their schooling, so they did not have to be sent to the almshouse. The ink had run together, so it had revealed little more than that she had been an abigail to some nameless peer's wife and had planned to send money to her siblings to pay for their next term before the year's end.

Her hope that the letter would give some clue to the identities of the others in the carriage with her had been for naught. If there had been another page with an address on it, that page was not in her apron pocket.

Because of that letter, she had heeded Mr. Wayne's endless prattling about how Lord Cheyney had spun a tale for their mutual grandfather, the Earl of Brookindale. His voice had taken on a wheedling tone that was irritating and seemed to pierce her skull with each word. She could not earn the needed money to send to her brother and sister if she could not recall where she had been in service. When Mr. Wayne had offered her an alternative, she had known she had little choice.

Lord Cheyney rounded on Mr. Wayne. “This young woman has taken quite a knock to her head. What is your excuse for this absurdity?”

“Trying to help you.” Mr. Wayne gestured toward her with all the exaggeration of an inept actor. “You need a fiancée, and I have provided you with one. This woman has agreed to pretend to be Serenity Adams for the duration of Grandfather's birthday and Christmas celebrations.”

“Why?”

She realized that question was aimed at her.
Bother!
She knew Lord Cheyney was right to ask it. After all, she had asked it as well. Although something churned in disgust in her stomach, she lifted her scratched chin higher as she said, “Because of the five hundred pounds Mr. Wayne has told me you will gladly pay for my help.”

“Five hundred pounds?” Lord Cheyney scowled at the shorter man. “Have you completely taken leave of your wits?”

“I am thinking only of how you did not want to upset Grandfather during the celebration of this important birthday.” Mr. Wayne's voice was as soothing as if he were speaking with a dim-witted child.

She wondered why Lord Cheyney endured it. When the viscount's brows lowered in a fearful expression, she knew he had heard the condescension as well.

“I do not need you to tell me how best to protect Grandfather from my folly.” He came into the room, leaving wet footprints in his wake.

She flinched when he turned to close the door, but he did not slam it. He was unquestionably angry, for each motion was as stiff as if he had been frozen by a winter wind, but he controlled his emotions with an ease that was almost frightening. She could not govern a single one of hers, because each was as new as if she had been born only this morning.

“Are you mad?” Lord Cheyney asked. “I intend to tell Grandfather the truth of my miserable lies.”

Mr. Wayne put his hand on the viscount's arm. “But now there is no need. Look at her. She has the appearance of the woman you described to Grandfather.”

“Mayhap, but I am going to Cheyney Park to be honest with Grandfather, not to—”

“Ruin his birthday?” Mr. Wayne's voice grew as icy as the sleet striking the low roof. “Timothy, think for a minute, if you will. Why distress Grandfather to the point that he might suffer apoplexy and be bedridden for his birthday celebration? Here is a woman who can prove your lies are the truth.”

“But they are not the truth! They are lies.”

She stared at the viscount. No one could accuse him of being willing to seek an easy solution to the quandary he found himself in now. If he had those good looks plus this sense of integrity, why had he cluttered up his life with falsehoods? She understood none of this.

Mr. Wayne glanced at her, then back at the viscount. “Timothy, I know that. You know that.
She
knows that. However, Grandfather does not. Why do you want to ruin his birthday gathering simply to alleviate your guilt?”

“And this”—Lord Cheyney gestured toward her—“
this
is supposed to make everything all right? You are mad!”

Mr. Wayne grabbed the viscount's sleeves before he could walk away. “Once Grandfather's celebration is past, you can arrange an argument with Miss Adams that will put an end to your betrothal. You can stage something that will persuade Grandfather that the betrothal was a mistaken thing right from the beginning. That will give you time to find yourself a real fiancée.” He laughed tersely. “After all, Timothy, this woman is a lady's maid. Grandfather may decide on his own that she is not the proper one for you to marry.”

“But he will not know she is an abigail.”

“How many abigails do you know who could act like a lady among the
beau monde
?”

Lord Cheyney arched his brows. “I shall leave the answer to that question to you and your superior experience in knowing the staffs of various ladies' boudoirs.”

“So will you look at this as a gift of Providence and take advantage of it?” Mr. Wayne chuckled again. “How many times have you told me that the difference between success and failure is recognizing an opportunity when it comes along?”

Instead of answering, Lord Cheyney looked back at her. She could see distress etched into his face. If he had been on his way to confess his lie to his grandfather, he must be, at heart, an honest man who had been caught up in a single mistake that had compounded to threaten disaster.

Dismay struck her. What if he decided not to accept her assistance in this masquerade? How then would she provide for her sister and brother? She wanted to plead with him to listen to Mr. Wayne, but feared that anything she might say would compel him to decide just the opposite.

Lord Cheyney sighed. “Felix, I should have listened to my instincts weeks ago and told Grandfather the truth straightaway.”

“Mayhap, but what are you going to do now?”

Taking another deep breath, Lord Cheyney sighed. “You are right. I would be a beef-head to allow this chance to pass me by when revealing the truth before Grandfather's birthday celebration might cast a horrible shadow over everything that is planned.” He scowled at her. “I do not like this a bit.”

“That is because you are far too honest.” Mr. Wayne slapped him companionably on the arm. With a broad smile, he asked, “Aren't you going to greet your beloved Serenity?”

Lord Cheyney crossed the room to stand beside her bed. “What is your name?” he asked.

“Serenity Adams, my lord.”

“No, your real name.”

She closed her eyes, wishing all of this would go away and be nothing more than a bad dream. “My lord, I do not know my real name.”

“As you said yourself, Timothy, she bumped her head quite hard,” Mr. Wayne interjected. “Her injuries from the accident seem to have wiped her memory quite clean. She cannot recall even her name.”

Instead of firing another question at her as Mr. Wayne had done, Lord Cheyney sighed. “Miss, you would be wise to rest. We will delay our journey to Cheyney Park until the morrow. Mayhap with some sleep, your mind will heal.”

“I hope so.” She gazed up at him, wanting to thank him for his unexpected compassion and wanting to apologize for this bumble-bath that she had made worse by agreeing to Mr. Wayne's offer.

As if he could sense her thoughts—a most discomforting idea, for she could barely sense her own—Lord Cheyney said in the same subdued tone, “Felix, I would speak with this young woman a few minutes alone.”

“I can understand that. You should get better acquainted with your betrothed.” His laugh faded away, and he quickly lowered his eyes as Lord Cheyney regarded him with a cool stare.

Uncomfortable silence settled on the room as Mr. Wayne took his leave. Lord Cheyney brought the chair closer to the bed.

“May I?” he asked, motioning to it.

“Of course.” She had heard Mr. Wayne tell the viscount that she was a lady's maid, but Lord Cheyney was treating her with the courtesy he would show a lady.

He sat and fisted one hand on each knee. “Let me ask you what I should have immediately. How are you feeling?”

“Confused.”

“I meant your injuries.”

She touched her brow, then winced. “I have plenty of aches and I suspect many bruises, but the cut on my forehead seems to be the worst injury.”

“Other than your missing memory.”

“Yes.”

He sighed and shook his head. “I own to being at a loss as to how to respond. This is the first time I have encountered someone who has suffered such a loss.”

“I would offer you advice, but, if I have met such a person myself, I cannot recall it.”

He laughed. “Do not think me too bold to say that you are quite amazing, miss, to be able to be amusing when you are suffering from such a dire experience.”

“You are not too bold. If I am to pretend to be your fiancée, you should be comfortable treating me with a certain amount of camaraderie.”

“Camaraderie?” He chuckled again. “May I say, miss, that you chose a very tepid word to describe the heartfelt love that should exist between two people who are planning to marry?”

“Love? We are supposed to be in love?” Her eyes widened; then she put her hand to her forehead again. Every motion, even one so slight, continued to make the room spin.

“Miss?”

She heard dismay in his voice, but she could not answer. Clutching the coverlet, she was not sure whether to close her eyes or open them. Either way added to the nausea swarming through her. Myriad images filled her head, but she was not sure what was real and was memory and what was only imagination. Shouts and screams filled her head. Pain slashed through her.

A warm cloth settled on her forehead, and she sank more deeply into the pillows, letting the relief the warmth brought ease the speed of the spinning. Her heartbeat slowed, and she was able to breathe without fearing each breath would be her last. Gone were the maddened scenes that might be memories of the carriage accident or just the remnant of a forgotten nightmare.

“Are you all right?” Cool hands took hers between them, cradling them gently.

“I believe so.” Her voice was unsteady even to her own ears. Slowly she opened her eyes to see Lord Cheyney on his feet, his hands surrounding hers. His expression of anxiety spoke more loudly than his words. “Forgive me, my lord. I am afraid I overreacted to your comments.”

“You had assumed this betrothal was an arranged one with little affection on either side.” One side of his mouth tilted up in a tired smile. “That would have been the better part of wisdom, I see now, but, in an effort to soothe my grandfather's dismay that I had not found someone to wed in the wake of—” He released her hand and cleared his throat. “I thought the tale of a true-love match would please him greatly.”