De Vere dropped the note. “I am.”
She eyed him skeptically. “You are what?”
“Your devoted husband.” His voice was raw when he continued. “I've come to realize I'm in love with you. I will do anything in my power to win your affection.”
“There is nothing you can do now to win my affection.”
His face fell, but not as thuddingly as his heart.
Her blue eyes flashed with mirth. “Because you already possess it.”
He drew both her hands into his. “Truly?”
She nodded. “Always. I have loved you since I was a little girl and dreamed of growing up and marrying my dear William.”
“I am your William, your slave, your eternal conquest.” His arms then closed around her, and she fused to him like bark to a tree.
“It's already dark, my dearest,” she whispered. “Do you think we can go upstairs?”
“I can think of nothing that would give me greater pleasure, Lady de Vere.”
The End
Home For Christmas
By
Cheryl Bolen
Copyright © 2012
by Cheryl Bolen
Home For Christmas
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.
Chapter 1
Only a mad man would be riding his horse along a remote country road on so bitterly cold a day. Captain David St. Vincent was not mad. His impatience to be home in Ramseyfield after a six-year absence accounted for the rash judgment that brought him so close to the village where he'd spent his youth. In defense of his sanity, it should be noted the skies were perfectly sunny, and the temperature had been mild when he had set off from Fulchester earlier that day.
His eagerness to behold his family in Ramseyfield—as well as a certain beauty who resided there—was more powerful than the misery from chilling winds and strengthening snowfall. Neither his greatcoat nor his leather gloves offered sufficient protection against the elements. The prospect of riding within an enclosed carriage held vast appeal, though Captain St. Vincent would never ask a coachman to expose himself to such foul weather on his behalf.
During his six years in the Royal Navy sailing the seas and fighting the bloody French, the captain had learned not to dwell on unpleasant experiences—like gales that pitched his frigate on its side or French sailors trying to take off his head with a cutlass. He had nearly mastered the art of replacing the horrifying with the sublime. At least in his mind.
And nothing was more sublime than Miss Elizabeth Balfour. The memory of her fair blond beauty had sustained him during the years of his absence. Every day for the past six years he had lamented he'd not offered for her before he left. At the time, he had expected to be home in a year, two at the most. During that time, she would reach a more acceptable marriageable age.
No one had then known how that Corsican monster would trample an entire continent. Thank God the fiend was now on Elba.
As welcome as his mother's letters had been, nothing had been more welcome than her observation about Miss Balfour still being unmarried. He would tell himself she had not found anyone who could supplant him in her heart. By her previous actions toward him, he believed she favored him over all the other young men who made cakes of themselves over her.
He could still recall the last time he saw Miss Balfour as if it were the past week. It had been May Day, and the sixteen-year-old Miss Balfour had been twirling around the Maypole in the village green, her saffron skirts swirling, her silvery-blond locks whipping into that flawless face with its wide eyes as clear a blue as an Alpine lake. Every male in the shire was there that day, and not a one was immune to her abundant charms.
Now, as Captain St. Vincent's face stung and his ears throbbed from the miserable cold, he could picture Miss Balfour's lovely smile and her perfect white teeth, and he could almost hear the sweet trill of her voice. These memories nearly made him forget his discomfort.
He smelt a wood fire and looked up to see its source. The Mintons’ cottage was just ahead. As he rode past the wattle-and-daub thatched cottage with smoke spiraling from its chimney, a deep sense of wellbeing spread over him like his grandmother's counterpane.
He was almost home.
He hoped he could get to Rosemary Hill, his family's big comforting farmhouse, before it became completely dark. It seemed as if the skies were blackening as quickly as an artist's brush could spread jet paint.
A kick in the forelock spurred his mount to a faster clip.
Ten minutes of hard and fast riding later, he thought he saw a lone woman walking alongside the road. Surely it could not be! Not in this weather. And not so far away from any houses. Were her cloak not of a light color, he might never have seen her against the darkening skies.
As he drew nearer, he saw that she pressed her cloak's dove gray hood to her head so the assaulting winds would not blow it off. The slender female sped down the lane, her step youthful, her boots leaving indentations in the fresh snow. The wind behind them sounded like the forlorn howl of an injured animal.
She must be mad.
Mad or not, she was a helpless female, and he was a gentleman who intended to offer her assistance. He had to get her into a warm place before she froze to death. But what manner of lady would climb upon the horse of a stranger and ride off with him?
There was nothing for it. He must insist on trading places with her. Surely his sturdy boots were better suited to traipse across snow than were a lady's thin-soled ones. There was also the consideration that as a man, he was much more physically capable of coping with nature's brutality than a frail female.
His horse pulled up beside her. He knew he must shout to be heard over that dashed wind. “I say, miss!”
Her hand still pressing the wind-ruffled hood to her head, her gaze spun to him, and a smile instantly replaced the quizzing look that had been on her face.
She was even younger than he'd at first thought. Not having been in the company of English ladies of good birth for many years, he was not confident he could determine her age with any accuracy, but he was certain she could not exceeded twenty—which would make her seven years younger than he.
At first glance, the sight of her had sent his stomach flipping like a fish in its net. For a fleeting second he thought this girl was the incomparable Miss Balfour, but his lingering gaze told him this young lady lacked Miss Balfour's considerable beauty.
Had he been so long removed from decent females that he would think every blond lady bore a resemblance to his Incomparable?
“Why, if it isn't David St. Vincent! Welcome home.”
Uh oh.
The lady remembered him. But he did not remember her. How should he respond? He mustn't injure her feelings by admitting he had no memory of the lady. “It's glad I am to be home, and it appears I'm just in time to rescue a maiden in distress. I beg that you climb up here and allow me to take you home.” Once he knew where she lived, he would know who she was.
Thank God he wouldn't have to trade places with her. Owing to their previous acquaintance—even if he had no recollection of it—she should have no aversion to sharing his mount. He dismounted in order to assist her in mounting.
She favored him with a wondrous smile. Perhaps she was pretty, after all, even though she was not the great beauty Miss Balfour was. He saw now that the hair beneath her hood was almost the same silken blond as Miss Balfour's. “Oh, David, you're my knight in shining armor!”
David?
What lady would call him by so intimate a name? Only one who knew him well would do so, one who knew him very well. Which made him feel bloody stupid.
“You mustn't think me an empty-headed female who gets lost in blizzards. I assure you I'm normally an excessively prudent . . . woman. I never would have left Stoneyway had I any inkling the weather would change so dramatically.”
Stoneyway!
Why, that was the name of the house where Miss Elizabeth Balfour resided. Which would make this. . . this girl/woman her younger sister, Catherine. He never would have taken her for Cathy. The last time he'd clamped eyes on her, she was a bitty thing. “Cathy! I can't believe it! You're all grown up. Why, I still think of you as . . .” He leveled his hand out to show a height somewhere between his waist and his shoulders. “You couldn't have been more than twelve the last time I saw you.”
“I was twelve and a half. I'm nineteen now.” Pride gave stridency to her voice.
His brows elevated. “I trust your last name remains unchanged.”
She nodded.
“Do you remember what you called me when you were a wee little girl?”
“Of course I do, but surely you're not going to embarrass me by bringing it up.”
“There's nothing to be embarrassed over. I thought it was delightful when you called me Dabid.”
She giggled.
He gave her a leg up, handed her the reins, then he hopped up and swung his leg over the beast to mount behind her. His arms coming around her, he took control once again. “Do you remember what you told me before I left?”
She stiffened. “Pray, Mr. St. Vincent, I beg that you not embarrass me by referring to that!”
He chuckled. “Then I won't refer to it.”
Obviously, the very mention of the topic embarrassed her into silence. After a few minutes of clopping along over the fresh snow, he spoke. “Now, my dear young lady, you must tell me what lunacy brought you out on a day like this. I daresay this involves an unfortunate dog or cat.”
She shook her head, almost dislodging the gray hood. “No dogs or cats. Since Mama died, I've moved up from aiding unfortunate animals to aiding unfortunate widows and children and the elderly.”
He remembered the kindly Mrs. Balfour always coming to the aid of the needy in her husband's flock. His mother's letters had informed him of Mrs. Balfour's death three years previously. “I am so sorry for your loss. Your mother was one of the finest women it's ever been my honor to know.”
She lowered her head and spoke in a barely audible voice. “Thank you.”
“It's good that you're carrying on your mother's benevolent ways. Pray, Cath, who were you aiding today?”
She shook her head. “You wouldn't know her. She's from down in Sussex. Fredrick Williamson met her when he was visiting with his sister. They fell in love, married, and he brought her back to Ramseyfield.” Her voice lowered. “She's Frederick's widow now.”
He winced. “Poor Frederick. I hadn't heard.”
“You wouldn't have. He died just weeks ago.”
“In the mines?”
She nodded ruefully. “His poor wife is prostrate—and her babe is due any day. I cannot tell you how my heart goes out to her.”
“In what way were you able to help her?”
“I took her some fresh cheese, and I like to look in on her each day since she's so alone now. It would be terrible if the babe came and no one was there to help her.”
“She's very fortunate, then, to have you.”
They rode on in silence for a few moments before he spoke again. “I expect your sister's of great assistance in such matters of charity.”
“Elizabeth's exceedingly tender hearted, so much so that it's difficult for her to observe the less fortunate. She prefers to turn her attention to happier matters. At present, there's no room in her head for anything save preparations for an assembly on Christmas Eve.”
“I recall how much she liked to dance.”
“Who wouldn't—when every male in the shire is queuing up to dance with one?”
“So she's still as beautiful as ever?”
“Indeed she is.”
“I will own, I was surprised to learn from my mother's letters that Miss Balfour remains unmarried.”
The younger sister shrugged. “It is not because she hasn't had ample opportunity to marry.”
“Then she's rejected many offers?”
“Many.”
Just as he would have thought. “Is there a particular reason why she has avoided matrimony?” Dare he hope she was waiting for his return?
“Particular is the key word, my dear Mr. St. Vincent.”
So now she addressed him in the manner Society demanded. A pity. He liked it better when she'd called him by his Christian name.
Cathy shrugged. “I daresay someone as lovely as Elizabeth might aspire to something. . . more than can be found in Ramseyfield. There is the fact my aunt—you will remember my father's sister, Kate?—keeps putting ridiculous ideas into Elizabeth's pretty head, keeps telling her that one as beautiful as she could aspire to marry at least a baronet—or possibly higher.”
His heart sank. Would marriage to a mere captain in his majesty's Royal Navy not suffice?
It had never occurred to him that he could be rejected now that he was in possession of an income many times greater than he'd ever thought to possess. When David had left Ramseyfield, he'd been a younger son with no financial prospects. Now, six years later, he could afford to buy his own farm. He'd even thought he might be able to afford one with a substantial house, larger than that which had been passed down in the St. Vincent family for the past two hundred years.
It had never crossed his mind that the lovely Elizabeth Balfour would hunger for a title. He did a quick mental survey of Ramseyfield and the surrounding villages in an attempt to identify the men who bore titles.
Fortunately, Ramseyfield was void of titled gentlemen. Over in Swinford, there was Sir Reginald Boddley, but he was many years older than Miss Balfour and quite happily wed.
David's mind raced over the surrounding villages. Ah! Belford Manor in Ashton Mill was owned by the Earl of Haworth, but since Belford was one of his smaller properties, the wealthy peer had never visited there during David's entire childhood. That didn't mean an heir of his—perhaps a bachelor heir—wouldn't take a fancy to Belford and make his home there. Who wouldn't want to live here? In David's opinion, the Cumbria landscape was the loveliest in all of England.