Her Christmas Earl (9 page)

“Devil take you, leave me be,” he snapped at Amelia.

Amelia cried out in rage as he shook free and strode right up to Philippa, stopping mere inches from her. Instead of letting him go, Amelia staggered after him, clawing at his arm.

“Blair, it’s too late,” she gasped. “She knows now.”

“Don’t listen to her, Philippa lass.” He sounded more Scottish than she’d ever heard him as he extended his hand in her direction. Distantly she noticed that it was unsteady, but the knowledge offered no comfort. Even if he tried to escape Amelia’s clutches, Philippa could have told him that what her sister stole, she kept. That had been true from the moment Amelia had snatched Philippa’s first doll.

“Don’t—” Philippa retreated a pace before he could touch her. She focused on Amelia and spoke in a raw voice. “What about Mr. Fox?”

Amelia attached herself to Blair’s side. “He’ll have to let me go. As you’ll have to let Blair go.”

How Philippa loathed hearing his Christian name on her sister’s lips. This afternoon, she’d felt privileged to call him Blair. Now she felt cheap and stupid and shabby.

“But there will be a scandal.” A stupid thing to worry about. Scandal had tarred this Christmas gathering from the moment Amelia had written to Erskine.

“Better a scandal than two broken hearts,” Amelia said, visibly savoring the drama.

The urge to cry was nigh overwhelming. She’d had no reason to believe Erskine would be faithful. No reason to believe—except that fragile bond between them woven in the darkness of a cold Christmas Eve. Better by far to discover his treachery before becoming his wife.

If only Philippa’s despairing heart believed that she meant that.

But even as she stood trembling in the center of the library, shock receded. Her usually reliable mind started to work.

And her mind, as it was inclined to, questioned the evidence.

On the surface, it made perfect sense that sophisticated Lord Erskine would prefer her sister. But the man she came to know wasn’t at all a careless, destructive rogue who rode roughshod over honor’s demands. In fact, if Blair meant to jilt her, she’d offered him the perfect opportunity mere hours ago.

Yet despite her arguments, he’d stuck stubbornly to his commitment.

And if he was such a rogue, he’d had plenty of chances to have his way with Philippa, and still evade penalty, apart from some extra gossip linked to his already infamous name. He could have taken her in the dressing room. He could have leaped on her this afternoon.

She blushed to remember how she’d invited his caresses. And still he’d played the gentleman.

As confusion receded, Philippa met Blair’s gaze. He didn’t look like a man about to claim his darling. He looked like he struggled against a nightmare. His attention didn’t shift from her, as if sheer force of will could convince Philippa to follow the ridiculous demands of her heart.

Were her growing suspicions of Amelia wishful thinking?

But this lovers’ tryst felt staged. Something about the way Amelia grabbed Blair didn’t ring true. As if she was terrified he’d run away. Not the behavior of a woman confident of a man’s love.

As Philippa’s silence continued, Blair tried once more to remove Amelia. Even now, he was too much of a gentleman to give her the jolly good shove she deserved.

“Philippa, I swear it’s not as it looks.” His hand remained extended. “I know how damning this appears, but I…
beg
of you, trust me.”

Her bewilderment shattered. Whatever else she believed, she was sure of one truth. Blair Hume wasn’t a man to beg.

If he could lower himself to plead, he wanted her and not her sister, however beautiful, however manipulative. She sucked in what felt like the first clean air since she’d caught Amelia in Blair’s arms. Even that was up for interpretation. He could have been trying to push her away, instead of holding her close.

“Let him go, Amelia,” she said sharply. “It hasn’t worked.”

“Philippa?” Blair’s voice was as shaky as minutes ago, hers had been. “You’ll still marry me?”

Amelia had unwittingly done her a favor. At last, she felt in control of her life. She met Blair’s troubled green gaze. “Of course I will.”

Amelia paled and sidled closer to him. “You can’t mean to hold him against his will.”

Philippa found it in her to smile at her sister. How odd that this nasty little scene had shown her what she wanted from life. “You overdid the theatricals, sister,” she said drily. “I hope you’re saving some acting talent for when you stand up as my bridesmaid tomorrow morning.”

Fury distorted Amelia’s pretty face until she wasn’t pretty at all. Her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned. This was genuine emotion, Philippa realized, not the false love she pretended for Blair.

“You will not have him!” Amelia finally released Blair to launch herself at Philippa, arms raised and hands extended into talons. Philippa gasped with fright and whipped her hands up to protect her face.

Amelia never made contact.

Slowly, Philippa lowered her arms while her sister abused her in language that would shame a stablehand.

“No, you don’t, lassie.” Erskine wrapped his arms around a struggling Amelia. “You’ve done enough damage.”

“I…I don’t know what this is all about,” Caroline said shakily from behind Philippa. “Amelia, you’re not behaving like a lady.”

“Amelia, it’s over,” Philippa said quietly. “You’re just making a fool of yourself.”

“You stupid slut!” Amelia hissed, fighting Blair.

“That’s enough!”

Blair’s bark of command silenced Amelia. She twisted to fling herself sobbing into his arms. Philippa wondered if this was another ploy, then realized that her sister was genuinely distraught.

“You can let her go,” Philippa said softly.

“She might attack you again.”

Warmth filled Philippa. Nobody had ever worried about her before. Nobody had ever stepped in to save her. The fragile seedling of optimism that had unfurled when she’d decided to trust Blair sprouted a few more leaves.

If she was lucky, if she was right, that seedling might grow into a great tree that would shelter her for the rest of her life. She still felt like she launched herself into the void, but with every moment, her hope of a safe landing strengthened.

“I don’t think so.” The defiance drained out of Amelia and she hardly reacted when Philippa placed an arm around her. “I’ll take you upstairs.”

“Perhaps Miss Liddell can help her.”

“None of this is my fault,” Caroline insisted. She was an even worse actress than Amelia. “You can’t blame me.”

Ignoring her cousin, Philippa tightened her grip on her sister’s suddenly fragile shoulders. “Amelia, come with me.”

Amelia raised a tear-stained face to stare at her blankly. “What about Gerald?”

In Philippa’s opinion, Mr. Fox deserved a better bride, but what could she say? “He doesn’t know about this.”

Amelia’s expression sharpened. “You’ll tell him. I would.”

Impatience tightened Philippa’s lips and she met Blair’s steady regard across her sister’s blond head. Despite everything, she smiled at him and he nodded in open approval. The warmth in her heart surged anew. She couldn’t remember anyone ever approving of her before either.

Then she returned her attention to Amelia. “You have my word I won’t.”

Amelia started to cry again and slumped in Philippa’s arms, playing the tragic heroine for all she was worth. “If he finds out about this, he’ll hate me.”

Blair still watched Philippa and she felt a pang of longing for a private moment with him, to examine the miracle that had taken place between them. He’d asked her to trust him and she had. It sounded simple, yet it was the most complicated, magnificent event in the world.

“Come upstairs, Amelia,” she said again, wishing she wasn’t parting, however temporarily, from the man she’d marry in the morning. “I’ll put you to bed with a headache powder and a cup of tea and nobody need be any wiser about what’s happened.”

Blair’s mobile mouth quirked into a conspiratorial smile, as if he guessed how reluctantly she accompanied Amelia. Not long ago, Philippa had wondered if she’d ever smile again. Now she found herself smiling back. Silently his lips formed the word “tomorrow.”

He caught her free hand in his. The strengthening heat of his touch flowed into her.

“I honor you,” he whispered, bowing over her trembling fingers with a reverence that made her unruly heart cramp with yearning. His lips brushed her skin, sweet promise of caresses to come. She couldn’t wait.

With a regret she noted and appreciated, he stepped back. She reached out to touch his cheek in a feather-light acknowledgment of the link between them before she turned back to Amelia.

Gently she coaxed her sniffling sister past Caroline and toward the door. Tomorrow would come quickly. Until then, it was enough to know that she and Blair had made an excellent start on their life together.

CANDLES LIT THE cavernous bedroom to gold, setting shadows dancing in the corners. Christmas greenery decked the walls, adding a festive touch.

Wearing a crimson dressing gown over his nakedness, Erskine quietly closed the door from the adjoining chamber. He stepped toward the huge four-poster in the center of the room. Carved oak columns stretched toward the high ceiling. Lords and ladies in faded gilt costumes pranced across the headboard. He guessed that some previous landlord of Salisbury’s best inn, the Boar’s Head, had bought the furnishings from a once-grand family. This particular bed wouldn’t be out of place in Hampton Court.

Sitting against piled pillows in the midst of all this grandeur was one small woman wearing a plain white flannel nightgown. She clutched the blankets to her chest and her expression brought Christians and lions to mind, with the Earl of Erskine playing the lion. He didn’t need to see her slender throat move as she swallowed to know that the girl was petrified.

“My lord,” Philippa whispered.

“My lady,” he responded, smiling in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion. The impulse rose to take her in his arms and tell her everything would be fine, but he beat it back. He had a horrible feeling that if he touched her right now, she’d shriek louder than her mother had on Christmas Eve.

His bride had been quiet all day. She’d hardly eaten at the wedding breakfast and appreciating how difficult the last days had been, he’d given her a few hours alone on the journey from Hartley Manor. He’d ridden through the cold afternoon while she’d traveled inside his luxurious carriage. Now that he noted how scared she looked—much more frightened than earlier—he wondered if he’d have done better to keep her company. On her own, she’d clearly tormented herself with imaginary terrors. They’d stopped for dinner at an inn along the way, but the place had been busy and private conversation had been impossible.

Aware that tonight he set the tone of his future, he diverted from his path. He veered toward the sideboard, set out with delicacies and, more importantly, a decanter of claret.

“Would you like something to eat?” Her pale face and glittering eyes told him that he needed to work up to discussing anything important.

She shook her head. Her hair lay loose around her shoulders. He’d never seen her hair undone, although it had been beguilingly untidy by the time they left his dressing room. The flowing curtain of mahogany transformed her into a mysterious and sensual creature. A dryad or a fairy. There was a masculine satisfaction in knowing that only he had seen this secret, enchanting version of his wife. Watching him with her characteristic gravity, she was beautiful beyond fantasy. And he’d fantasized a lot.

What a lucky devil he was.

Which made what he did now even more important. He’d always approached bed sport with a light heart, if heart was involved at all. How strange to recognize that despite his experience, tonight he was a novice like his bride. Never had getting everything right mattered so much. He respected Philippa’s strength, but despite her strength, she was delicate. And she’d been shockingly undervalued by the people who should love her the most. At this moment, he made the silent vow that he’d never let her down.

He poured claret for both of them and approached the bed, sitting to face her. Her mysterious dark eyes widened at his nearness but at least she didn’t shrink away. He passed his wife a glass of wine.

His wife…

He liked the sound of that. It made him feel disgracefully proprietorial.

With his marriage, he took his place in the world in a way that he never had before. He remembered his overbearing father dismissing him as a wastrel with his dying breath. But now Blair Hume was a married man who looked forward to creating a family.

Perhaps he’d start that family this very night.

Another male thrill coursed through him.

“Shall we toast our wedding?”

“Yes,” she said. Still quiet.

He smiled and raised his claret in her direction.
His wife…

He’d always known it was his duty to marry. But there was nothing of duty in what he contemplated doing tonight and everything of longing and desire and, God willing, joy. “To our happiness.”