Aunt Georgie nodded.
Meredith uttered a disbelieving laugh. “Will wonders never cease?”
Aunt Georgie grinned. “Silverton made a strong case on his behalf, stating that Lucas had no choice but to defend you against the insults of Lord Castle.”
Phoebe ground her teeth at that, but let the matter drop. In the scheme of things, the issue of the viscount's insults no longer seemed very important. “What are they doing now?”
Aunt Georgie turned serious again. “I left them to discuss the details of what must happen next, as should we. We must come to a decision, Phoebe, and there is only one course of action, at least the only one to keep you safe from damaging gossip.”
Foreboding seeped through Phoebe. “And that course is?”
“You must marry Lucas, of course. As soon as possible.”
Phoebe closed her eyes, wishing she could shut everything out of her mind as easily. She hated that she possessed so little control over events, and hated even more that her foolish heart clamored to accept the solution so readily offered.
How could she marry him if he did not love her? Her heart told her he might, despite his words to the contrary, though her head told her otherwise. But it was in the heart where love resided, not the head. Love was founded on trust, not logic, and yet logic warned her with absolute clarity that she must answer this question before she could move ahead.
“Phoebe, open your eyes,” Aunt Georgie said.
Reluctantly, she obeyed, and met the combined gazes of three very concerned women. They regarded her with so much affection and worry she almost burst into tears.
“Are
you
in love with Lucas?” Aunt Georgie asked.
Phoebe bit her lip, hating to reveal all her insecurities, even to her closest female relatives. “How can I answer that?”
“Honestly, I would think. You're the most forthright person I've ever met, and it's a quality that has served you well and will continue to do so in this situation.”
She grimaced. Aunt Georgie was right. Honesty was always the correct course of action, even when courage flagged. “Yes, I love him. But Lucas has been very circumspect in expressing his feelings. How can I give myself into his keeping when he withholds so much?”
Aunt Georgie studied her with a thoughtful air. “From what I understand, Quaker men approach matters of affection more simply and openly than the average aristocratic male. It's no wonder you find men like Lucas so confusing.”
Meredith snorted. “Don't expect that to change any time soon.”
Phoebe sighed wearily. “You make them sound like some kind of exotic species of animal.”
Her aunt unleashed a quick, charming grin. “In some respects, they are. But my point is that men like your uncle, or Lucas or Silverton, have not been raised to express their emotions as directly as the men of your community. I do believe it was one of the things that attracted your mother to your fatherâthat he had such an affectionate and kind nature.”
That was certainly true. Her parents' deep and abiding love for each other had shone through in their words and actions. Even her brother, George, as solemn and stiff as he often was, made no secret of the fact that he adored his wife and children.
“Why should I expect anything less from my husband?” Phoebe asked with a show of defiance.
“You shouldn't. I believe Lucas does love you, but that particular emotion has not served him well. He doesn't trust easily, and he sometimes lacks faith in the goodness of others. You must teach him differently.”
“How?” she asked, feeling desperate.
Aunt Georgie took her by the shoulders. “By loving him and by being yourself. That's why Lucas wants you in the first placeâbecause of who you are.”
Phoebe eyed her aunt doubtfully. She did love Lucas, she could admit that now. But what the family wanted from her seemed somehow dishonest. And she hated that she had to make the most important decision of her life as a result of stupid gossip and a trumped up scandal.
“Could we not wait?” she said. “Perhaps the gossip will die down.”
Aunt Georgie gave an impatient jerk of the head. “I assure you, it won't. Whether you realize it or not, Lord Castle called your honor into question. You then disappeared with your supposed fiancé for a considerable length of time. When you reappeared, looking considerably flushed and agitated, you made your exit from Framingham House under the eye of several notorious gossips. Believe me, the scandal will only grow, damaging your reputation and casting Lucas in a very bad light, if you were not to marry. And it will not reflect very well on the rest of us, either.”
Stricken by the catalogue of her offenses, Phoebe lapsed into silence. Put like that, the situation sounded very bad.
Still, it felt so wrong to marry a man who might not love herâa man who now more than ever would see her as an obligation and a burden. “I should return to America,” she said, feeling wretched. “That way, no one will have anything to gossip about, and Lucas will not be forced to marry me.”
“For heaven's sake, Phoebe,” Meredith exclaimed. “No one is forcing Lucas to marry you. As if anyone ever could! He
wants
to marry you. We can all see that perfectly well, even if you can't.”
Phoebe bristled. “Regardless, I do believe my opinion is the one that matters. Besides, I am not sure we would even suit. After all, he is a soldier, and I was raised to reject everything that life represents. Our philosophies and beliefs are a world apart.”
“Lucas is no longer a soldier, my dear,” Aunt Georgie responded in a cool voice. “Besides, he has no need to apologize for defending his country and his honor, nor should you ask that of him. As for your differing philosophies, I do not believe for a moment they represent an insurmountable impediment to a happy marriage. After all, look at your own parents.”
Unable to sit a moment longer, Phoebe jumped to her feet. Turning her back on her relatives, she paced to the alcove window and leaned her burning forehead against the cool glass. She took several deep breaths, trying to find a way through the morass of anxiety and self-doubt.
Her aunt moved to stand behind her. “Has Lucas ever treated you with anything but gentleness and consideration?”
Phoebe winced. “Of course not.”
“And you don't really wish to return to America, do you?”
Honesty compelled Phoebe to admit the truth. Returning to her brother's home would be a soul-shattering retreat. “No. I wish to remain in England.”
Her aunt breathed a sigh of relief. With a touch, Aunt Georgie turned her around, resting her palms on Phoebe's shoulders. “My child, I understand your doubts. I do not share them. Lucas may not yet comprehend his own heart, but I see it clearly. He needs you in his life, and we need you in our lives. You will help him heal and, in doing so, help heal our family. I only ask you to draw on that faith I know you possess in abundance. If you do, all will be well. I promise.”
Blinking back tears, Phoebe felt her resistance start to slip. Her own faith at the moment quivered on shifting sands, but she did believe in Aunt Georgie's wisdom and in the affection of her new family. How could she say no to such a plea from the people she now loved so much, especially when her heart yearned for the same thing? To walk away from Lucas would be like cutting out that same heart and flinging it into the ocean.
“Very well,” she said in a quiet voice. “If he wishes it, I will marry Lucas.”
Her aunt rewarded her with a blinding smile. “You will make us all very happy, my love, especially Lucas. And I think you will make yourself happy, too.”
As Aunt Georgie led her back downstairs, Phoebe tried to convince herself she had made the right decision, both in terms of heart and head. She loved Lucas, and she wanted to be with him. More than anything in her life, she wanted this man and she wanted this family. It was everything she had ever dreamed of in those lonely years back in America.
Why, then, now that her dream was finally within her grasp, did it feel so wrong?
Chapter 16
Phoebe jerked awake when the carriage slowed to a walking pace. She peered out the window into the advancing dusk as shadows and gloom crept over the windswept fields and orchards. Denuded trees thrust their spindly limbs up to the gray November sky, and even the stubbled hay fields, normally glowing with golden color in the setting sun, looked drab and lifeless. They passed through the heart of England's garden, yet everything looked dreary, a perfect match to her own mood. She had spent the last few days in a tumult of anticipation, worry, and outright dread, all leading up to one thing.
Her wedding day.
It did not seem possible that only four days had elapsed since Lady Framingham's ball. Events since then had moved as quickly as the rushing tide, sweeping her along before it. Haste was of the essence, everyone had said, and the sooner Phoebe and Lucas were married and on their way to Mistletoe Manor, the better. She had a sneaking suspicion Aunt Georgie and the rest of the family worried she would change her mind if they left her too long to think about it.
And so a special license had been procured, her new clothes had been packed up in a frenzy, and Phoebe had found herself this morning standing beside Lucas in St. George's Church, in Hanover Square. She could barely recall the details of the ceremony, feeling more an observer than a participant in her own wedding. Only when they recited their vows and Lucas placed a simple gold ring on her finger had she come to full awareness. Then, trembling, she had forced herself to meet his gaze. His careful and kind courtesy of the last few days had vanished, replaced with something akin to triumph.
Confused, she had stared back, trying to understand the light in his eyes. What triumph was there to be found in such a rushed affair, one that had its roots in scandal and disgrace?
Then, her new husband had retreated once more into formality. They had returned to Stanton House for a small wedding breakfast, attended only by their immediate relatives and a few friends, such as Nigel Dash. Lucas
had
held her hand under the table during the toasts, and that had helped. But when it was time to say their good-byes, sadness at leaving her new family rose to choke her, and tears had scalded her eyelids.
Aunt Georgie and Meredith had hugged her, with many assurances that they would see her in only a week. Lucas, impatient to be on his way, had cast a look up at the threatening sky before gently extracting Phoebe from her aunt's embrace. The door to the carriage had slammed shut and the coachman started the horses to trot. Quiet at last, with only her maid to keep her company, a sense of doom as heavy as a sodden blanket had settled over her. Perhaps if Lucas had joined her in the coach the feeling would have passed, but her new husband had decided to ride his huge bay stallion. Since one of his grooms could have ridden the horse instead, the only logical conclusion was that Lucas preferred the company of his horseâin freezing November weather, tooâto hers.
Exhausted and lonely, she had finally wedged herself into a corner and fallen asleep, coming awake only a few minutes ago.
Sighing, she rummaged in her reticule for a handkerchief. Her freezing nose was beginning to drip, which meant she had to find the silly thing or be reduced to wiping her nose on her sleeve. That image almost made her snicker. The new Countess of Merritt wiping her nose on the sleeve of her expensive new pelisse, like a street urchin. It would almost be worth doing it in public some day, just to horrify the snobs of the ton.
Her maid, who had also been dozing, blinked fully awake and reached for a large bag at her feet. “Here, my lady,” Maggie said, extracting a linen handkerchief. “I was so busy seeing to your trunks that I right forgot to make sure you was properly supplied for the journey.”
With a grateful murmur, Phoebe took it from the cheerful young woman, who had previously been an upstairs maid at Stanton House. It felt extremely odd to have her own lady's maid, but she supposed she would get used to it. No doubt a great deal faster than she would to being a countess. It was unfortunate no one had ever written a book of instructions for that particular job.
After dabbing her nose, Phoebe folded the linen into a square and stowed it in her reticule. She peered out the window again as the carriage came to a full stop. “We have not reached Mistletoe Manor, have we?”
“Don't think so, my lady. I could lower the glass and ask, if you'd like.”
A sharp rap on the coach window startled them both. After pressing a hand to her thumping heart, Phoebe scooted across the seat and let down the glass.
Lucas had reined up by the side of the carriage and leaned down to look in at her. At the sight of his tough, handsome features, her heart thumped even harder.
“I'm sorry if I startled you,” he said. “Were you sleeping?”
“No,” she replied in a nearly breathless voice. “We were just about to put down the glass and ask if there was a problem.”
“It's just a flock of sheep crossing the road.” His gaze flicked over her, coming to rest on her face. “Are you cold? There's an inn only five minutes on. We could stop and warm up, if you like.”
Her nose must be as red as she had suspected. “Thank you, but I think not. I am eager to reach the manor.”
As he studied her, his mouth kicked up in a charming smile. Even in the gathering gloom she could see the build of heat in his eyes. The intensity of his gaze made her want to fidget.
“I'm eager as well, my sweet,” he said. “More than you can imagine.”
His masculine rumble brought fire rushing to her cheeks, which he seemed to find amusing. Grinning, he slid an affectionate stroke along her jawline before straightening back on his horse. “Put the window up and get under that blanket, Phoebe. I would be most unhappy if you caught a chill on our wedding night
. Most
unhappy.”
“Really, Lucas,” she huffed, but he had already spurred his horse ahead. She shoved the glass back up as the carriage started forward.
“Goodness, my lady,” exclaimed Maggie, vigorously fanning herself. “If you don't mind me saying so, his lordship is such a handsome man. It's a lucky woman you are, and that's for sure.”
Phoebe blinked, not quite sure how to respond to such a candid pronouncement. But Lucas
had
been very affectionate, which was certainly an improvement on his cool, self-controlled behavior of the last few days.
Feeling rather better about things, Phoebe listened to Maggie's cheerful prattle, even responding now and again. In less than half an hour, the carriage turned into a long gravel laneâone that had seen better days by the jostling that almost bounced them out of their seatsâand eventually came to a halt in front of the lamp-lit entrance of a house.
As they waited for the carriage door to open, Phoebe checked that her bonnet was straight. A moment later, the footman let down the steps and Lucas handed her out. Feeling both shy and nervous, she gave him a smile, suddenly very grateful to have his protective presence at her side. She was about to enter into a strange new life with unfamiliar duties and responsibilities, including running a household considerably larger than anything she was used to.
Lucas bent to whisper in her ear. “Courage, Phoebe. I promise all will be well.”
Taking a deep breath, she nodded her reply and raised her eyes to the front of the house. The entrance blazed with light, and a number of servants clustered in the open doorway of Mistletoe Manor. The house itself, a massive shadow in the deepening dusk, loomed over them with ill-defined shapes reaching into the sky. She would have to wait for full daylight for a true picture of the building. For now, she simply had the impression of a brick sprawl, with many chimneys and a few shadowed towers.
Lucas urged her forward, his gloved hand warmly resting at the base of her spine. A rotund woman with a broad smile came bustling down the steps to greet them. “Lord Merritt, welcome home.”
“My dear, allow me to introduce you to Mistletoe Manor's housekeeper,” Lucas said in a voice as dry as the champagne served at their wedding breakfast. “This is Mrs. Christmas. Mrs.
Honor
Christmas.”
Phoebe froze, wondering if Lucas was jesting.
Honor Christmas at Mistletoe Manor?
When she cut a quick glance to his face, his long-suffering expression told her he was not.
“Mrs. . . . Mrs. Christmas,” Phoebe stammered. “It's an . . . honor to meet you.”
She repressed a groan at her idiotic response. She had a sinking feeling she might have already failed her first test as a countess by unintentionally insulting their housekeeper.
Thankfully, Mrs. Christmas seemed immune to insult. “Lord love you, my lady,” she said with a chuckle. “There's no need to feel one bit uncomfortable with my name. Christmases have been serving the Merritts of Mistletoe Manor since the time of the Jacobite kings, and right proud of the tradition we are. With any luck, there will be many more generations of Christmases to come.”
“Indeed,” interjected Lucas in a sardonic voice. “But I would suggest we introduce her ladyship to the rest of the servants inside, lest we expire of a chill before the holiday comes to the manor.”
Mrs. Christmas's round face scrunched up with comic dismay. “Right you are, my lord. Forgive me, your ladyship, but a woman of my size rarely feels the cold.” She punctuated her comment by laughing heartily, her large form shaking with mirth. The woman was so irrepressibly cheerful that Phoebe wanted to join in the laughter. She likely would have, but Lucas looked increasingly impatient.
He took her arm to guide her inside. As they passed under the portico, she glanced up at him and mouthed
Mrs. Christmas?
She expected him to smile, but he just rolled his eyes, looking aggravated. She did not understand why, because on first glance the housekeeper appeared a cheerful, kind soul.
They stepped into a large, timbered hall that looked ancient, at least to Phoebe's eyes. A giant fireplace, large enough to roast an entire cow, was set into the back wall, and there were a few groupings of old-fashioned-looking furniture that seemed inadequate and rather shabby in the cavernous space. Several branches of candles stood on some side tables and a fire crackled on the hearth, but her instant impression was of a dim, shadowy room, the long passage of centuries stamped irrevocably on the walls.
For all that, it seemed clean and tidy.
“My lady, allow me to introduce you to the rest of the staff,” Lucas said.
Intent on hiding her nerves, Phoebe forced a smile as she faced a line of people stretching down the length of the hall. First up was a gaunt little man dressed neatly in black.
“This is our butler,” Lucas said. “Mr. Christmas.”
When Phoebe's jaw dropped, the butler sighed and gave a morose bow, as if he could not be more pained by the situation. “Your ladyship, welcome to Mistletoe Manor,” he intoned in a gloomy voice.
Phoebe turned to her husband. “Really?” she asked in a faint voice.
This time his mouth twitched suspiciously.
Mrs. Christmas let out another peal of laughter. “To be sure, my lady, he is. That be my cousin, Solomon Christmas, and very aptly named he is, too, since he's the most solemn man I've ever met. Doesn't seem right for a Christmas, now does it?”
Dumbfounded, Phoebe stared at her new housekeeper. Were all the servants so forward? She had never noticed anything like that at Stanton House, but she began to wonder.
She glanced at Lucas for support, but the evil glint in his eye told her not to expect any from that quarter. The wretched man had finally begun to enjoy himself, and at her expense.
“I am certain Mr. Christmas is just as he ought to be,” Phoebe said, sounding anything but certain. “Thank you for such a kind welcome.”
“You're welcome, my lady,” the butler replied, every bit as gloomy as he had been a moment ago. Mrs. Christmas gave another hearty laugh and Phoebe began to wonder if she had wandered into a madhouse, albeit a harmless one.
Fortunately, Lucas intervened and introduced the rest of the servantsâmaids, footmen, most of the kitchen staff, the head gardener, and the head groom. An astounding number of them carried the last name of Christmas, and they all appeared inordinately proud of it.
Except for the butler, who she suspected was perpetually glum. The rest obviously coexisted as one large, happy family, devoting their lives to the welfare of the manor and the Merritt family.
Devoted, but also quite lacking in discipline. The younger ones, especially, whispered behind their hands, and made no bones about carrying on merry conversations with each other and cheerfully commenting on the earl's “pretty lady.” She also thought she heard a few approving if innocent comments from the men. A sideways peek at Lucas's long-suffering expression confirmed her suspicions.
By the time she reached the end of the line, Phoebe was biting the inside of her cheeks to hold back a semihysterical laugh. No wonder Lucas had looked so pained when Robert teased him about the manor. The entire staff might have been transported from one of the holiday pantomimes her mother used to describe, and that was not something that would appeal to a man like Lucas. He was a soldier, and soldiers liked order and organization. On first impression, those qualities appeared lacking in their new home.