The Earl’s Mistletoe Bride

Chapter Seven

Fratcombe Manor had been a peaceful refuge but Lorrington was utter bliss. Jon had forgotten how wild and remote it was here. George had never visited, probably because the Lorrington estate was too poor to provide him with any ready money. And the place was blessedly free of women, too, for there were no gentry families for miles. Jon was spared the plaguey females that always bedevilled him at King’s Portbury.

After two weeks of riding the land and speaking to all his tenants, Jon was ashamed of what he had allowed to happen here. It was his smallest estate, to be sure, but he had failed in his duty to those who depended on him. Their farms were ramshackle and their livestock was scrawny, barely surviving on the thin hill land. There was some good land, but it was not productive, for the farmers had no money for seed or new tools. He would change all that. Some of the surplus from King’s Portbury would be invested here. Lorrington would never be rich, but his people’s lives would be improved. He was determined on that.

Until now, he had paid them no heed. But Spain had changed him. War had changed him. Among his soldiers, there had been men from the land, good men who had taken the King’s shilling because their families could not afford to feed another mouth. He had seen those men fight, and he had seen some of them die. In the depths of the Spanish winter, he had seen what hunger could do to a man. He would not allow it to touch any of his lands. Never again.

It was a matter of honour, for those who had died. And a matter of duty.

He would discharge his duty here at Lorrington and then he would take a wife. He had delayed for long enough now. There must be no more excuses. Surely there was one lady of rank, somewhere, who was not simply out for herself, simpering and blushing in her efforts to snare a rich husband?

If such a one existed, he had not set eyes on her.

He sighed and reached forward to run his gloved hand over his horse’s glossy neck. As far as he could tell, debutantes were all the same. It was enough to give a man permanent indigestion. Why could none of them be like Beth Aubrey?

He swore aloud. She was intruding again! He kicked his horse into a gallop and began to race across the grass to the foot of the gorse-covered hill. He would make his way to the top for a final check of the Lorrington estate. He might see something he had missed, some out-of-the-way farmstead where the children were barefoot or unable to go to school. It was his duty-he was happy to accept that now-to ensure that all the children on his estates had a better chance in life.

That reminded him that he had promised Miss Beth he would do something for that young protégé of hers. Peter, was it?

Yes, Peter. Jon would speak to his agent about the child as soon as he got back to Fratcombe. He did not want to see the disappointment in Beth’s fine eyes if she discovered that he had failed to live up to his promises. Why had she not challenged him on it before he left?

Because she trusted him to keep his word. She trusted him, and confided in him, as a friend.

He could not return that trust-he confided in no one-but he could rely on her word. He knew that, without a shadow of a doubt, because of the remarkable person she was.

He would rather spend an hour with her than whole weeks among the carp and cackle of the ladies of the ton. Unlike them, Beth was an eminently restful woman, now he came to think about it. Had he been so taken with her luscious curves that he had failed to see that? And value it?

He hauled his horse to a stand and threw himself out of the saddle so that he could make the rest of the steep climb on foot. Beth was the only woman in England who came near to being the kind of wife he wanted, and needed. Yet she was a woman he could not have. Why was fate so determined to laugh in his face?

He plodded on. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a beautiful voice began to sing, softly at first, and then more clearly, so that the bitter fury of his thoughts was calmed. It was Beth Aubrey’s voice, as if from far away. And it consoled him.

Why could he not marry her?

Because he was the Earl of Portbury and his duty required him to marry a lady of rank. Duty. It had driven him for years, but what had it brought him, apart from hardship and heartache? Surely a man could be more than the sum of his duties? Jon was a man of rank and wealth. An earl. An earl did not need to play by the rules of lesser mortals. Nor did he have to pay heed to anyone else’s opinion. Not even his father’s. Not any more. An earl could decide for himself where his duty-and his own best interests-lay.

Jon’s decision was made. He would call at the rectory as soon as he was back at Fratcombe Manor.

Beth was glad when her solo ended and she could resume her place in the rectory pew. Glad, too, that Jonathan had not returned, to hear her sing and to wonder yet again if her memory loss was some kind of fraud.

If only it were! Then she might have some certainty about who she was. There were those dreams-nightmares, sometimes-in which she saw bits and pieces of memories, of places, even of people, but none of it made any sense at all when she woke up.

But last night’s dream had not been like that. It had been full of colour and scent, almost more vivid than life itself. Because of him. Because of Jonathan. She had been dreaming about Jonathan.

‘Let us pray.’ The rector’s voice recalled Beth to her devotions. She knelt and began to pray, fervently, for deliverance from the man who was haunting her. The man she had not dared even to address as her ‘friend’.

The service passed more quickly than usual. Beth knew she had made all the responses, though she could remember none of it. But it was over. The rector was standing in his normal place outside the door, exchanging kind words with everyone, asking after missing parishioners, the sick and the old. From inside the church, he was only a dark silhouette. Beth watched from the far end of the aisle, waiting for her turn to leave. He was such a good man. No wonder the whole district loved him.

‘I think we may go now, Beth, dear,’ Mrs Aubrey said at last, nodding towards the empty doorway. ‘I wonder if the rector has invited any guests?’ she added, as an afterthought. After divine service, he made a habit of inviting needy souls to eat in the rectory kitchen. It was part of God’s charitable purpose, he always said, and his wife did not disagree.

For once, there seemed to be no unexpected guests waiting around when the two ladies emerged, though it was difficult to see clearly. Beth blinked and screwed up her eyes against the sudden dazzle. It had been over-cast when they went into church, but now the sky was a bright, clear blue and the slight breeze was warm from the early autumn sunshine, contrasting with the cool airiness from which they had come. Beth let her shawl drop, closed her eyes and turned her face up into the warmth.

‘Beautiful, is it not?’

That was not the rector’s voice. Jonathan! He had returned!

Beth stepped back so quickly that she almost tripped over her skirts.

A strong arm held her up. ‘You must take more care, Miss Beth, or you will fall. Wait until your eyes are accustomed to the light before you start prancing about.’

He was still holding her arm. She could feel the strength of his fingers through her muslin sleeve. And the warmth of his body-

‘Miss Beth? Is anything amiss?’

She forced herself to turn to look at him. Jonathan. The face from her dreams. This time, he was not surrounded by vibrant colour but starkly outlined against the venerable grey stone of the church. And still he was beautiful.

‘Lord Portbury,’ she said softly, trying to withdraw her arm from his clasp without seeming to struggle. ‘We did not look to see you in Fratcombe again so soon.’ That sounded suitably polite. And distant, too.

‘I’m afraid I arrived too late to attend divine service this morning. I was apologising to the rector, but he will have none of it.’

‘Do you tell me, Jonathan, that you have been travelling on the Sabbath?’ Mrs Aubrey wagged a finger at him. ‘Fie on you, sir. I hope the rector has reproved you soundly.’

‘Unfortunately not, ma’am.’ He was grinning like a naughty schoolboy.

‘No, indeed,’ the rector put in, ‘for what good would it do? But you may take him to task yourself, Caro. I have invited him home to dine with us.’

It was almost over. He must go soon, surely? He seemed to be taking an inordinate length of time to drink a single cup of coffee.

Beth concentrated on listening to the rector’s words. And trying to avoid Jonathan’s eyes.

At last, he rose from his place by the rector and crossed to the table where Beth sat over the tea and coffee pots. He was simply doing her the courtesy of returning his empty cup. Now, he would certainly go!

He seemed a little hesitant. He stood over Beth, but made no move to put down his cup. He half-turned to glance at Mrs Aubrey, and then back to Beth. His behaviour was most disconcerting, and it was making Beth’s inner turmoil even worse. She had known and admired him as a decisive man. What had happened to him during his absence from Fratcombe?

The thought settled around her like a shroud. He was going to announce that he was about to marry again. Yes, that must be it. It was common knowledge in Fratcombe that his mother had been inviting all the most eligible young ladies of the ton to visit King’s Portbury. Even a duke’s daughter, according to the lodge-keeper. Beth told herself it was only what he deserved. He had an ancient title and needed a wife of suitable rank. A duke’s daughter would suit admirably.

Beth tensed her muscles, held her breath and waited for the words she was dreading. She was resolved that she would not betray, by the slightest blush or blink, that his news was a disappointment. For who was she, the supposed Elizabeth Aubrey, to believe she had any claim on such a man? She was, as he said, a foundling. A nobody. Not even high enough to be a friend.

‘Mrs Aubrey, you and the rector have given me the friendliest possible welcome on my return, by inviting me to your table. I am truly grateful. But I wonder if I might impose on you even more? I should very much like to take a turn round your garden before I return to the Manor.’

What on earth was he talking about? Walking round the garden? At the beginning of October?

‘I could not help but notice that some of your trees are looking very fine in their early autumn colours. Especially in the late afternoon light.’

‘I did not have you down as a garden lover, Jonathan,’ the rector said with a hint of laughter in his gentle voice. ‘But even if it be a recent conversion, I will not deny you.’ He made to rise. ‘My dear, will you-?’

Mrs Aubrey shook her head, settling herself more comfortably.

Jonathan quickly raised his hand. ‘Forgive me, sir, Mrs Aubrey, I did not mean to impose my whims on you. Pray do not disturb yourselves on my account.’

The rector nodded and sank back gratefully into his seat. ‘I am sure Beth would welcome a chance to take a stroll, after sitting for so long listening to an old man prosing on.’

‘Come, come, my child,’ the rector said, when Beth began to protest, ‘we cannot let our guest wander our shrubberies without escort. Spare my old bones, if you would be so good.’

Beth knew she was about to lose. She threw one pleading glance at Mrs Aubrey, in hopes that the old lady would change her mind and accompany them, but Mrs Aubrey was gazing at the rector with concern.

‘I am a little tired, Caro, that is all. Sunday is not a day of rest for the clergy, you know.’ He chuckled. ‘I am saving my strength for evensong.’

Mrs Aubrey seemed to be reassured, for her features softened. She turned to Beth instead. ‘And you, my dear. Do make sure you take a wrap with you. The afternoons soon grow chilly at this time of year.’

Beth nodded and looked around for her shawl. She had had it earlier, but in the confusion of the moment, she could not remember where she had laid it down. Before she could move an inch, Jonathan came forward with it in his hands and stroked it round her shoulders without even asking leave. His touch was so caressing that her skin began to burn. Her mouth was suddenly too dry to say a word, even though she knew she ought to upbraid him for taking such a liberty.

He was smiling down at her. ‘Shall we, ma’am? Before the sun goes down and we lose the last of the warmth?’

She gave a tiny nod. It was the most she could manage. Together they strolled out through the French windows and into the garden.

They had gone the length of the shrubbery path before Beth forced herself to break the silence. ‘For a garden lover, sir, you are paying remarkably little attention to the turning trees.’ She had not meant it to sound like an accusation of bad faith, but it did. She could not help herself. She was barely in control.

His voice, when it came, was strained. ‘Miss Aubrey. Miss Beth. I was hoping for a moment’s private conversation with you. My excuse was clumsy, I am afraid.’ He stopped dead. Beth had no choice but to do the same. He took a sideways step so that he was standing in front of her. ‘There are…er…things I need to say to you.’

Beth’s heart began to beat very fast. He was going to do her the courtesy of confiding his plans in private. That was more than she had looked for. He really was treating her like a friend. A tiny spark of warmth flickered around her heart but quickly died. This friendship would be doused as easily as an uncertain flame.

He was gazing out over Beth’s head towards the trees and the graveyard beyond, but he was focused on nothing. ‘I…er…I have decided that I must remarry. It is essential, given my position in society. There needs to be a Countess of Portbury. And…er-’ He glanced down into Beth’s face at that moment. She saw the hint of embarrassment in his eyes, though he was not blushing.

Beth’s emotions might be in confusion, but she was not fool enough to mistake his meaning. He needed a wife, and then a son.

‘I have considered carefully. I find I do not hold with these new-fangled notions of love.’ He was trying to sound matter of fact and uncaring. Perhaps, when it came to marriage, he was both of those? ‘I do not believe in such things. A man must choose a partner who suits him in every way-a lady who will grace his table and take charge of his household, a lady who will create a comfortable, restful home, a refuge where a man can take his ease.’

A refuge? It was clearly of huge importance to Jonathan. Beth was not quite sure why that should be. Perhaps it was to do with his time in Spain? It was strange that such a strong man could also seem so vulnerable.

He took a deep breath. It would be now. He was going to tell her the name of the lady he had chosen to share his peaceful refuge. ‘I can tell from your face that I am making a mull of this. Forgive me. It is not often a man puts such thoughts into words. I was trying only to describe…to set out what I seek. I would not, for the world, mislead you about my motives.’ Abruptly, he took both her hands in his. It was a gesture of kindness, the gesture of one friend to another. But now he was silent, waiting for her to speak.

Beth gulped. ‘I…I never doubted your intentions, sir,’ she said. It was a rather bald reassurance, but it was the most she could manage.

‘No, you would not. You see good in everything, and everyone.’

Beth felt the beginnings of heat on her neck. Such a simple compliment, but she was blushing. He was still holding her hands in his. She looked down at them, just as he gave her fingers a tiny squeeze. That was a shock. Beth jerked her gaze up from their clasped hands to his face.

‘Beth, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

Her mouth fell open, but no words came out. Her head began to spin. Soon she was swaying on her feet. I am going to faint. But I never faint.

He caught her by the shoulders as she staggered, and then he steered her to the bench beneath the massive beech. Its leaves were beginning to turn brown, but most of them still clung to the parent tree. He guided her onto the seat and unceremoniously pushed her head down between her knees. ‘I have shocked you. It was not my intention.’

After a few moments, she straightened. Her eyes were very wide, and very dark in her ashen face. ‘It is unkind of you to make a may-game of me, sir.’ Her voice cracked. She looked away.

Good God! She did not believe he meant those words, the most difficult for any man to utter. Jon had been standing over her, watching her, worrying. Now, he threw himself on to the seat beside her and seized both her hands. He was not about to let them go until he had received his answer.

‘Beth, I value your good opinion far too much to do any such thing. We are friends, surely? Friends do not… Beth, I would never mock you. My proposal is utterly sincere. You are the most restful woman of my acquaintance. I know it is a rather bloodless union that I am offering you, but there must be honesty between us. I will not attempt to dupe you with false protestations of love. For you are not an empty-headed chit who takes her notions from the pages of the latest romantic novel. You are sensible, and practical. I had hoped that my offer would tempt you: a home of your own where you could be mistress; a proper station in society. It would give you certainty, Beth. You would have your rightful place. Will you have me?’

She jerked her hands out of his with a sound that could have been a strangled sob. She surged to her feet as if she were about to flee, but at the last moment, she turned back to him, holding up one small white hand to prevent him from rising. ‘There can be no certainty for me, my lord. I am nothing, nobody. I have no name but the one the Aubreys were kind enough to lend to me. I am no fit wife for any gentleman. And certainly not for the Earl of Portbury. It is wicked to suggest otherwise, but I will forgive your ill-conceived jest. Let us forget the words were ever spoken.’

She had become as rigid as the beech trunk at Jon’s back. He realised he had been clinging to a vision of his comfortable life with her. He had seen Beth there by the fireplace, sitting quietly opposite him, but he had never once considered that she might not share his longing for a peaceful refuge. In truth, he had not considered her at all. He scrutinised her features carefully now, for the first time in a long while. She was holding herself together by sheer force of will. She was affronted by his proposal, and deeply hurt. In a moment, she would regain enough strength to flee. Unless…

Ignoring her still outstretched hand, he stood up and put his arms around her. Since she did not believe a word he said, he had best try something other than words.

He kissed her.

It was Jon’s first real kiss in a long time. He brushed his lips over hers, very lightly, unsure of how she might react. Her lips parted, and he felt the warmth of a tiny sigh on his skin, as if she had been waiting for his touch, holding her breath. And yet her response was hesitant, the response of an innocent girl. She did not have the way of kissing.

A strange feeling surged through Jon, an unfathomable mixture of pride and possession. He was almost sure that Beth Aubrey had never been kissed before. And yet she was trying to respond to him. Her head might be telling her that Jon’s proposal was a wicked jest, but her warm body and her soft mouth wanted to reach for him. Jon stopped trying to analyse her reactions and gave himself up to the simple pleasure of kissing her. He wrapped her even more snugly against his body and put a hand to the back of her head, holding her still so that he could explore. He feathered tiny kisses along her bottom lip. She tasted of coffee, and sweetness. He risked a bolder touch, putting the tip of his tongue to the tiny sighing gap between her lips. This time it was no sigh, but a groan he heard, from deep within her. That was too much.

He deepened the kiss. Now she truly did respond. Her hands slid up his chest and around his neck. She opened her lips to welcome him in. Desire swept through Jon’s body. There could be something between them after all, more than mere companionship. They would sit restfully together by the fire, no doubt, but he fancied the getting of an heir could be pleasurable for them both.

It was as if her body were relaxing into a bath of warm, scented water, which lapped over her limbs and caressed her flesh. She was floating. Yet she had never been so alive. Her skin, all over-from her cheek to her throat to her breasts to her belly-was awake, reaching and yearning. She wanted him to touch her. Everywhere.

She drove her fingers into the thick hair at the back of his head and pushed her body closer into his embrace. She could feel the strength of him, held in check, restrained so as not to alarm her. But it was there, none the less, a warm, reassuring strength. She could feel that what had begun as a simple kiss was turning into something much more demanding. He desired her.

That sudden awareness brought her back to grim reality as surely as if he had scrubbed handfuls of snow on to her naked skin. She pulled her hands down to his chest and pushed hard, with balled fists. She tore her mouth from his. The moment her lips were free, she cried out. ‘No!’

The reaction was instantaneous. His hand had been in her hair, holding her steady for the exploration of his lips and tongue, but he did not try to restrain her. He dropped his hands to his sides and took a very deliberate step away from her.

Beth clasped her hands together very tightly. She refused to let them shake. ‘My lord, you-’

‘Jonathan. My name is Jonathan.’ He did not move to close the space between them, but his gaze softened and the merest hint of a smile curved his lips as he looked down at Beth. ‘Jon,’ he said, in a deeper, warmer voice.

He was asking her to use his given name? She shook her head vehemently, trying to clear her thoughts. He had proposed. He was proposing. To her! And it seemed it was no jest, after all. She could not think straight. That kiss… Oh, heavens, that kiss had turned her bones to butter. Her body was burning hot and icy cold, all at once. She was quivering. Would she melt altogether? Or freeze?

‘Beth?’ He was uncertain, too. She could hear it in his voice. He raised his right hand, palm up, and offered it. ‘Beth, will you have me?’

She dared one look at his face, but she could not read his expression. Whatever his emotions, he was managing to conceal them. All she knew was that his proposal must be sincere. ‘It is impossible!’ she burst out. ‘You know it is so!’

He was standing as still as the statues in his park. His outstretched hand had not moved even a fraction.

‘Oh, you ridiculous man!’ She let anger bury the hurt. ‘You must know it is impossible. You are the Earl of Portbury and I am nobody. I have no past, no family, not even a name. You insult me by suggesting you would take me to wife.’ That spurt of anger had saved her. She was back in control. She had even managed to bury the delicious sensations that his kiss had brought to the surface and that had been threatening to overwhelm her. She would not think of those. She turned abruptly and began to march along the path towards the rectory. That was where her refuge lay. That was where she could be free of this torment.

He caught up to her after three paces. He did not touch her. If he had, she might have cried out, so tense were the feelings consuming her. No, he just strode past her and planted himself like a rock on the path, as if a landslide had suddenly blocked the way. Heavy, impenetrable, dangerous. He was not smiling. He held up a hand, not an offering this time, but a command.

She stopped. She had no choice.

‘You would have a name. My name. You would be the Countess of Portbury. My wife. Your position in society would be alongside mine. No one would dare to question that.’

He was very sure, and absolutely wrong. ‘Of course they would,’ she retorted, trying to swallow the pain that was gripping her heart. ‘You have no idea what black deeds there may be in my past that led me to flee. Have you never thought that my memory is shuttered because of what lies hidden there? The Earl of Portbury cannot risk discovering that his wife is a fugitive. Or worse. What would society say then?’

‘No one would dare to accuse my wife of anything,’ he retorted, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

His tone was so arrogant that Beth was stunned into silence. He frowned down at her for a moment, and then said, in a more thoughtful voice, ‘You are a truly good woman, Beth. If you fled, it was from someone else’s wickedness, not your own. I believe-I know that to be true. No one would dare to suggest otherwise.’

‘Of course they would,’ she said again, though less forcefully. ‘They would say that the Earl of Portbury had taken leave of his senses, in marrying such a woman. They would obey the outward forms, no doubt, but the gossip, the sly, sneering comments, would be made at every turn. Not only about me, but also about you! Can you not understand that, Jonatha-? My lord?’ She winced. His stony expression had softened at the sound of his given name. The moment she retracted it, he had begun to frown again.

‘I understand no such thing. What’s more, I would not care a jot about society gossip. I do not seek to marry for society’s sake, but for my own. I do not seek to cut a fine figure in this world of theirs. I do not give a fig for that. And I had thought that you would not, either. Beth? Beth, do you care for such things? I thought you would wish to live retired from society, as I do. Let the tabbies say what they will of us. We have no need of them, and their stiff-rumped opinions. Our life together will be peaceful, and content. As far from society as we wish to be. It is a delightful prospect, is it not?’

It was more than delightful. It would be paradise. But she could not possibly answer with the truth. Nor could she lie. She just stared at him.

He cleared his throat. ‘I can see that I have shocked you with my proposal. It is no wonder, for you are a gently bred lady.’

At that, her head came up even more. He did not know- He could not know anything about her upbringing. She herself did not know.

‘But I beg you to understand that my proposal is sincerely meant. You would do me the utmost honour if you accepted me. Will you not at least take a little time, a day, to consider what I am offering?’ He took half a step towards her. ‘Please, Beth. Do at least consider.’

She felt an almost overpowering urge to raise her fingers to his face, to stroke away the tension that was so evident in his frown and in his narrowed eyes. She clasped her hands together once again, forbidding them to stray.

She had to stop him, to save him. She must not let her feelings overcome her principles. She fixed her gaze on the ground at her feet, knowing she dare not look at him for this. ‘I suggest that you consider, my lord. Has it not occurred to you that you are proposing to a woman who may be married already?’