Christmas Brides (Three Regency Novellas) by Cheryl Bolen Page A

wife.
    He quickly turned around his horse. He needed to behold Belle, the woman with whom he had fallen in love. The acknowledgement that he was in love with her was as liberating as coming out of shackles.
    But could she possibly return his feelings? He remembered her father's words. Could she really be in love with him? He remembered the way she had kissed him with such intensity. No one could feign a response like that. Then he remembered her face as it looked when he last beheld her. Those heavy-lidded eyes were as sultry as a tropical night.
    The very memory sent a surge of heat bolting through him even though his cheeks were red from the frost, his hands shivering from the piercing cold. His hunger to see her, to declare himself to her, propelled him like an Atlantic gale. He went straight to the front door of Upper Barrington and handed off the reins to a young footman who wore the Pemberton scarlet livery.
    And there in the doorway stood Belle, the red Kashmir shawl swaddled around her, a forlorn look on her sweet face. “I've been so worried about you! Look at how dark it's gotten. I was afraid you would get stranded and . . . freeze to death.”
    A gleam in his eye, he came to her and set a gentle hand at her waist. “Back to the library, my love. We need to talk.”
    They returned to the same sofa where they had shared the passionate kiss. Though there were some eight different velvet sofas in the chamber, he would forevermore think of this one as theirs.
    She sat, her face solemn as she eyed him.
    He fell to his knees before her and drew her hand into his.
    Then a knock sounded upon the library door. He grimaced, annoyed.
    “Yes? You may come in,” she answered in an elevated voice.
    What would the servant think if he saw his master on his knees? De Vere quickly moved to the sofa, close to Belle.
    Robertson strode into the chamber. “A letter arrived for you about an hour ago, my lady. Since it's from your father, Mrs. Farraday thought you might want to see it before you examined the rest of the day's post.”
    “Indeed I do.” She took the letter and began to read.
    De Vere watched as her expression became as solemn as one reading Scripture in church. Then she began to softly weep.
    “Whatever it is, my dearest love,” he said tenderly, “we can face it together.”
    She looked up from the paper in her hand, and a stupendous smile brightened her face. “It's good news! See, read for yourself.” She handed him the letter from her father.
     
    My Dearest Belle,
    I am quickly writing this to ease your mind. I have only this day realized that Marsden is the fool I've always taken him for. I am not dying! I have discovered—much to my disappointment—that I can no longer eat Cousin Betsy's delicious pickles. Every time I eat one, I suffer the most severe pains in my chest. Two days ago I snapped to the correlation between the pickles and the pains; after your wedding, I put my theory to the test, and I experienced severe chest pain within minutes of eating one of Betsy's pickles. Consultation with others of my age has convinced me that as one ages, one is not always able to continue eating the same things one enjoyed when younger. Lord Sefton admitted he has been forced to give up broccoli, which causes him chest discomfort now, though he has eaten great amounts of it throughout his life.
     
    I will arrive at Upper Barrington on Christmas Eve so that we may all celebrate Christ's birthday—and my continued good health—together at St. Stephen's on Christmas morning. We have much for which to be thankful.
     
    I hope you and your husband are becoming acquainted as a loving couple is expected to do on their honeymoon. I fully expect de Vere to be the doting husband by the time I arrive.
     
    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