Christmas Candles, page 8
part #2 of Holiday Hearts Series
It was a wonder they didn’t melt the snow.
Anthony and his wife finished a thoroughly decadent day by napping after their walk. When they rose and prepared for dinner, he wondered if his intrepid bride would have been as eager for another passionate session as she had been for the earlier ones. He’d been too drained to find out, but was sure that by the end of the evening, when they went to bed again, he would have recovered sufficiently to offer another example of husbandly devotion.
Smiling for no particular reason, he glanced at Emma, who was putting a pair of gold earrings he bought for her. Even though he’d always fancied petite blondes, he must admit that his wife, who was exactly the opposite, was quite irresistible. Even now, when desire was temporarily sated, he wanted her. It was impossible to imagine not wanting her, no matter how many years they were married.
The dinner bell jangled through the long halls. Emma rose from the dressing table and turned slowly. “Do I look all right?”
He found her lack of confidence rather endearing. “You look magnificent,” he said with complete sincerity. “That shade of russet silk is perfect for your coloring.” And this time she was not covering her bountiful curves with a gauze scarf.
She smiled and took his offered arm. “The only drawback to a formal dinner is that I can’t sit next to you.”
He said meaningfully, “That doesn’t matter, since you’ll sleep next to me.”
Her blush was so enchanting that he paused to nibble from her ear to her shoulder. She tasted delicious. Both of them were breathing more quickly when he escorted her from the room. If it weren’t for Brand’s enmity, this would be a perfect holiday.
After a long and lavish dinner, the duchess rose in the signal for the ladies to withdraw. As the crowd of women made their laughing way the drawing room, the dowager duchess appeared beside Emma. “Come, child. I want to talk to you. We’ve scarcely had a chance so far.”
“So many Vaughns, so little time,” Emma said with a laugh. “You’re in such demand, Grandmére, that I didn’t wish to monopolize you.”
“Then I shall monopolize you instead,” the dowager said tranquilly. In pale, ice-blue silk and ostrich plumes, she was as lovely now as in the portrait Gainsborough had painted when she was twenty and a newlywed duchess.
When they reached the drawing room, the dowager steered Emma to a pair of wing chairs set in a quiet corner. As they seated themselves, she said, “Is Verlaine treating you well?”
Emma blushed. “Very well, Grandmére. We have much still to learn about each other, but we…we seem to suit.”
“I guessed as much,’ the dowager said, her faded blue eyes twinkling, “when I saw you coming in from your walk this afternoon. Such a quantity of snow on you both.”
Another blush. Really, Emma thought with resignation, she’d blushed more in the last few days than in the previous ten years.
“I’m so glad you married Verlaine,” the dowager said seriously. “He has a good heart, but he needed an anchor, a sense of direction. You’ll give that to him, I think.”
Startled, Emma said, “I thought the benefits of this marriage went mostly to me.”
“Not at all. A good marriage is a benefit to both partners,” the dowager said briskly. “You will give Verlaine stability, and he will teach you to laugh and enjoy life.”
Emma looked down at her wedding ring, absently turning it on her finger. “I haven’t had many opportunities for laughter in the last ten years.”
The dowager sighed. “I wish you had come here. Even if you wouldn’t stay at Harley, surely we could have found better employment for you than what you had.”
Emma glanced up. “You were responsible for the fact that every year I received a Christmas invitation, weren’t you? That’s how you know about my various employers.”
The dowager nodded. “I was afraid you might be lost to us, so I did my best to ensure that wouldn’t happen. You should have come long ago.”
Emma had not known that anyone was so interested in the welfare of an orphan who was a mere connection, scarcely a member of the family at all. A little defensively, she said, “I wanted to be here, Grandmére, but I could not have left my work for so long. Nor could I have come as a beggar.”
“You have your share of Vaughn pride,” the dowager said dryly. “I know it well.” Laying a gentle hand on Emma’s, she continued in a softer voice, “But my dear girl, I want you to know that you would have always been welcome.”
Emma swallowed hard, torn between tears and a strong desire to kick herself. The dowager was right—it was foolish pride that had kept her away, far more than her circumstances. Still, she was here now. She gave the dowager a heartfelt hug. It healed a loneliness deep inside to know that she never really stopped being a Vaughn.
When the Duke of Warrington gave the signal that it was time to leave the port decanter, Anthony held back as the rest of the men—including Brand—got to their feet and ambled off to rejoin the ladies. In a group so large, it was proving fairly easy to avoid his glowering cousin.
It was a Harley custom to have casual dancing the evening before Christmas Eve. Anthony had always enjoyed the event more than the grand Twelfth Night ball that would end the house party. For some of the younger guests, this would be the first public dancing of their lives. That had been true for Anthony a dozen years earlier. He smiled at the thought of how grown up he had felt then, when in fact he’d been the merest boy.
He joined the stream of Vaughns heading toward the ballroom, where a pianoforte was playing seductively. Emma would have been too young to dance at Harley during her last visit. He looked forward to introducing his wife to the polished dance floor.
A small hand touched his arm. He turned and found Cecilia regarding him with great tragic eyes. “Anthony, I must talk to you,” she said urgently. “In private.”
He hesitated. “It would not look good for us to go off together.”
“No one will notice.” She touched his arm again, seeming on the verge of tears. “Please, Anthony.”
He glanced around, but didn’t see Brand. With so many people milling about, a brief absence would not be noted. “Very well, Cecilia,” he said without enthusiasm. “Where shall we meet?”
She thought. “The gallery.”
“You go ahead. I’ll follow in a few minutes.”
She nodded and headed down the passage that ran to the main hall. Anthony waited until she was out of sight, then followed at an unhurried pace. The gallery was a long chamber on the floor above. It served several purposes, from displaying paintings and fencing foils to providing a walking area in inclement weather.
When Anthony arrived, Cecilia was lighting more candles with a Christmas candle from one of the windows. She glanced up nervously at his entrance, then replaced her candle in its window fixture. In the soft light, she looked fragile and almost unbearably lovely, as petite and exquisite as a gilded marzipan holiday angel.
Wryly recognizing that he was not the kind of man who could stay angry with an attractive woman, Anthony said, “What did you wish to discuss with me, Cecilia? Is something wrong?”
She nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. “Will you talk to Brand? He has the absurd notion that you and I have been having an affair!”
“What!” Anthony stared at her, shocked. “Where did he get such a ridiculous notion?”
“I have no idea.” Tears began spilling from Cecilia’s blue eyes. “Oh, Anthony, everything has gone wrong and I don’t know what to do!”
According to Anthony’s mother, it was a gentleman’s duty to allow a lady to cry all over his best waistcoat if she was in distress. Recalling that Cecilia had always had a tendency toward melodrama, he put an arm around her soothingly. “Surely things aren’t that bad, Cecy.”
She clutched at him, weeping harder than ever.
Brand chose this inauspicious moment to enter the gallery. He stopped dead in the doorway, his face going dead-white. Then he strode forward, eyes blazing. “Damn you, Verlaine! I knew I’d find you with Cecilia in your arms.”
“If so, you’re cleverer than I,” Anthony said with exasperation. “She’s your wife, Brand. Let her cry over on your shoulder.” He disentangled himself from Cecilia, hoping that would defuse a potentially volatile situation.
No such luck. Brand stalked over to the rack of fencing foils and grabbed two of the weapons. “Tonight I’m going to do what I should have done nine years ago.” Grimly he flicked the protective buttons off the points of the foils, then tossed one of the weapons hilt first to Anthony. “I challenge you to a duel. Right now, right here.”
“For God’s sake, Brand!” Anthony exclaimed as he reflexively caught the foil. “It’s bad form for you to challenge a guest, or for me to accept. For that matter, if you’re the challenger, I get to choose the weapons, and I don’t choose swords.”
“We’ll do it now!” Brand barked at he stripped off his close-fitting coat. “En garde!”
Beginning to feel seriously concerned, Anthony removed his own coat, keeping a wary eye on his angry cousin. “This is ridiculous. I’m damned if I know what I’ve ever done to make you determined to kill me.”
“Oh, you most assuredly will be damned,” Brand said in a voice like a whip. “Prepare yourself, Verlaine, because tonight justice will be mine.”
Then, as Anthony stared in stunned disbelief, the man who had once been his best friend lunged at him with glittering blade and murderous eyes.
Chapter 9
After her audience with the dowager duchess, Emma left the nearly empty drawing room to go to the ballroom. She was looking forward to her first waltz with Anthony. He undoubtedly a superb dancer. She was badly in need of practice, but she didn’t think that would matter.
As she entered the hall that led to the ballroom, she saw Cecilia slip away from the crowd ahead and go down the cross passage that went to the foyer and the main staircase. Emma thought nothing of it, until she saw Anthony leave as well, and he was heading the same way as Cecilia.
Emma stopped in her tracks, her stomach turning. Surely Anthony could not be having an assignation with Cecilia, not after what had transpired between him and Emma last night and today!
She swallowed hard and told herself not to be a ninny. The fact that Anthony and Emma had gone off in the same direction was hardly proof of amorous intentions. In fact, they’d both looked rather tense, not at all like a couple in pursuit of illicit pleasures.
Fiercely she told herself that she must learn to trust her husband, or she would go mad, for there would always be women hovering around him. Nonetheless, not feeling ready to face the laughing people in the ballroom, she sank into a chair tucked beside a massive carved console table.
Until now, she had not let herself wonder if Anthony would be a faithful husband, because the answer was probably not one she would like. Many men of his class had mistresses, and a man who loved women as Anthony did was a prime candidate for infidelity. Her heart bled a little at the thought.
Would she still love her husband even if he was unfaithful? Probably—but if that ever happened, part of her would retreat from him. Never again would there be the openness and trust that had occurred today.
She sat very still and concentrated on her breathing until it was regular again. There. She had faced the worst. If Anthony was unfaithful, at least she would be a little prepared. But please God, don’t let it happen!
She was about to continue to the ballroom when she saw Brand stalk out and head in the direction that Anthony and Cecilia had gone. His face was like granite. Merciful heaven, had he seen them leave? If he caught the two of them together, there would be hell to pay, even if the meeting was perfectly innocent.
Swiftly Emma considered what to do. Go for the duke? He would certainly put a quick end to any conflict. But by the time she found him, it might be too late. Better to follow Brand and hope that she could head off any trouble.
She got to her feet and walked after Brand, her long legs covering the ground quickly. By the time she reached the great hall, he was disappearing from sight on the upper floor, heading toward the gallery. Emma followed, praying that she was being an absolute idiot and nothing untoward was going to happen.
Halfway up the stairs, she was halted in her tracks by a woman’s scream. Merciful heavens, Cecilia! Lifting her skirts indecorously, Emma raced upward, knowing with icy certainty that years of festering anger had reached the explosion point.
Though Anthony’s mind was stunned by Brand’s attack, years of fencing practice saved him. As Cecilia shrieked, Anthony knocked aside his cousin’s blade. Retreating, he exclaimed, “Christ, Brand! Have you gone mad?”
“It’s you who are mad, to meet my wife in my own house.” Brand attacked again, this time controlled and far more dangerous than in his initial lunge.
With a shriek of clashing steel, Anthony countered well enough to save himself from injury, but this couldn’t last long. Brand had always been a better swordsman, and now he was in a blind rage.
Hearing the door open, Anthony spared a swift glance, hoping to see the duke or one of the duchesses. They were the only people Brand might heed. Instead, Emma entered. Christ, she was the last person he wanted to see. If he was going to be spitted like a lamb for roasting, he did not want his wife to have to witness it.
In the instant that his attention was divided, Brand drove in again, slashing at his opponent’s sword arm. Anthony managed to block his cousin’s blade, but only just. The sleeve of his shirt was ripped from elbow to wrist. Knowing he could not retreat forever, Anthony stood his ground, fighting back furiously. He managed to battle Brand to a standstill as their blades shrilled together with metallic fury.
Then heavy folds of fabric whipped violently between them, trapping the foils and knocking them downward. With amazement, Anthony saw that Emma had wrenched one of the great tapestries from the wall and slammed it over the dueling weapons. She looked like a furious Valkyrie.
“Bloody hell!” Brand sneezed from the dust released by the tapestry. “For God’s sake, Emma, stay out of this, or you’ll get hurt.”
Not moving, Emma snapped, “What the devil is this all about?”
“It’s none of your affair.” Recovering from the shock, Brand wrenched his weapon free from the heavy fabric and prepared to resume fighting.
“None of my affair when you’re trying to kill my husband?” she exclaimed. “Men! Of course this is my affair.”
Deciding it was time to take a hand, Anthony hurled his foil away. The sword flew across the gallery and stabbed into the wall about a yard above the floor, then hung there, quivering. “Enough, Brand! I won’t fight you any more, not when I haven’t the faintest idea why you’re so outraged.”
For a terrifying moment, it appeared as if Brand might renounce a lifetime of gentlemanly training and attack an unarmed man. Then Emma grabbed the cowering Cecilia’s hand. “Come on, Cecy, make yourself useful.”
She hauled her smaller cousin between the men so that the two women formed a barrier. Then, with a practiced schoolteacher voice, she ordered, “Brand, explain yourself.”
He looked mulish, which at least was an improvement over homicidal. Since he seemed unwilling to speak, Anthony said helpfully, “From what Cecilia told me, Brand suspects me of having an affair with her.”
Emma’s face tightened, but her voice was calm when she asked, “Are you?”
“Don’t be absurd!” he retorted. “Until yesterday, I hadn’t laid eyes on Cecilia in nine years.”
Emma turned to Brand. “You heard what Anthony said. Do you honestly think they’re having an affair?”
Brand wiped his brow with one forearm. Though he still looked dangerous, the wildness had faded from his eyes. “There might not be a physical affair,” he admitted gruffly. “But Anthony has stood between Cecy and me every day and night of our marriage. When he fought me after she accepted my proposal, he said...” Brand stopped and swallowed hard. “He said that whenever I bedded my wife, she would be thinking of him. And he was right, damn him.”
Cecilia gasped. “Brand, how can you say that? I could have married Anthony if I wanted to, but I chose you. What made you think I secretly preferred Anthony?”
“Everyone always did!” Brand stared at his wife, his expression anguished. “He was always the leader. Smarter, more charming, more handsome, everyone’s darling—including yours. You only married me because I have a greater fortune and title.”
Anthony cringed as he remembered how he’d flung both those taunts in Brand’s face when they’d fought over Cecilia. Who would have believed that his angry words would have taken such poisonous root?
Exasperated, Emma said, “Don’t you two ever talk to each other?” She unobtrusively removed Brand’s foil from his relaxed grip. “Cecilia, why did you marry Brand instead of Anthony? I’m sure you had your reasons.”
“I married him because I loved him, of course.” She hesitated, then said painfully, “I loved them both, really, even though they’re so different. But I’d always thought that Brand’s feelings for me were more those of a brother. Anthony was the one who treated me like a sweetheart. He and I drifted into thinking that we would marry, even though he hadn’t formally offered.”
By this time, tears were running down Cecilia’s cheeks. Emma wordlessly produced a handkerchief from somewhere and handed it over. After Cecilia had blotted her eyes and blown her adorable little nose, she continued, “Then Brand asked me to be his wife, and I realized instantly that he was the husband I wanted, not Anthony.” She stared at Brand beseechingly. “Do you remember what happened after I accepted?”
Her husband turned an interesting shade of red. “Of course I remember,” he said stiffly. “But that is hardly something to be discussed before others.”
Blushing herself, Cecilia gave a nod of agreement. “I didn’t accept because of your fortune or your title, though of course I didn’t object to becoming a duchess. But what I loved was your…your steadiness. The way you made me feel cherished. Special.” She gave Anthony an apologetic glance. “Marrying Anthony would have been very jolly, but he would always have mistresses and we might have ended up in debtors’ prison. I didn’t want that. I wanted you.”
