A Yuletide Invitation: The Mistletoe Wager / The Harlot's Daughter. Christine Merrill
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five years.
There was no grey in her hair, either. And she took special care that when they met she looked as fresh and willing as she had at eighteen. Her coiffure was impeccable and her manner welcoming. And her dress was dotted with sprigs of flowers that perfectly matched the blue of her eyes.
Or so Harry had always claimed.
She gave a little shake of her head to clear away that troublesome memory, and gazed soulfully at the man still holding her hands. She was not the naïve young girl he had courted. But surely the passage of time on her face had not been harsh?
If he noticed the change the years had made in her, he gave no reason to think it bothered him. He returned her gaze in the same absently devoted way he always had, and she could see by his smile of approval that he found her attractive.
‘Come, sit with me.’ In turn, she took his hands in hers, and pulled him down to sit on the divan beside her. He took a place exactly the right distance away from her body—close enough to feel intimate, but far enough away not to incite comment should someone walk in on them together.
She hoped that she had not misunderstood his interest. For it would be very embarrassing if he were resistant to the idea, when she had raised sufficient courage to suggest that they take their relationship to a deeper level. But she had begun to suspect that the event would not happen until she had announced herself ready. It would be so much easier if he were to make the first move. But he had made it clear that he would not rush her into intimacy until she was sure, in her heart, that she would not regret her actions.
For a well-known rake, he was annoyingly protective of her honour.
‘Are you not glad to see me?’ She gave a hopeful pout.
‘Of course, darling.’ And after a moment he leaned forward to kiss her on the lips.
There was nothing wrong with the few kisses they had exchanged thus far. Nicholas clearly knew how to give a kiss. There was no awkwardness when their mouths met, no bumping of noses or shuffling of feet. His hands held her body with just the right level of strength, hinting at the ability to command passion without taking unwelcome liberties. His lips were firm on hers, neither too wet nor too dry, his breath was fresh, his cheek was smooth.
When he held her she was soft in his arms, languid but not overly forward, giving no sign that he need proceed faster, but neither did she signal him to desist immediately.
The whole presentation smacked of a game of chess. Each move was well planned. They could both see the action several turns ahead. Checkmate was inevitable.
Of course if it all seemed to lack a certain passion, and felt ever so slightly calculated, who was she to complain of it? She had thought about Nicholas in the darkest hours of her unhappy marriage and wondered how different it might be had she chosen otherwise. Soon she would know.
And if it would ever be possible to gain a true divorce from Harry she must accept the fact that at some point she would need to take a lover, whether she wanted one or not. Her confirmed infidelity was the only thing she was sure the courts might recognise as grounds. But even then, whether she could persuade her husband to make the effort to cast her off was quite another matter.
The matter was simple enough, after all. Harry must have an heir. Since she had been unable to provide one for him, he would be better off free of her while he was still young enough to try with another. But she had grown to see a possible divorce as one more thing in her marriage for which she would need to do the lion’s share of the work, if she wished the task accomplished. The last five years had proved that Harry Pennyngton could not be bothered with serious matters, no matter how she might try to gain his attention.
And now Nicholas had pulled away from her, as though he could not manage to continue the charade.
She frowned, and he shook his head in embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry if I seem distracted. But the most extraordinary thing happened at White’s just now, and we must speak of it. I received an invitation to Christmas.’
She stared at him with a barely raised eyebrow. ‘Hardly extraordinary, darling. Christmas is less than two weeks away. It is a bit late, I suppose. You should have made plans by now.’
‘Certainly not.’ Nicholas, had he had feathers, would have ruffled them. ‘I do not make it a habit of celebrating the holiday. It is much better to use the time productively, in reading or some other quiet pursuit, and to avoid gatherings all together. With so many others running about country drawing rooms like idiots, hiding slippers and bluffing blind men, it makes for an excellent time of peaceful reflection.’
Nicholas Tremaine’s aversion to Christmas was well known and marked upon. She had commented on it herself. And then she had placed it on the list of things that she would change about him, should their relationship grow to permanence. ‘You are most unreasonable on the subject, Nicholas. If someone has chosen to call you on it, it can hardly be a surprise.’
‘But the invitation came from a most unlikely source.’ He paused. ‘Harry. He’s asked me up to the house ‘til Twelfth Night, and has bet twenty quid to all takers that he can imbue me with the spirit of the season. He says the celebration at Anneslea Manor is always top drawer, and that I cannot fail to bend. And he invited all within earshot to come as well.’ He paused. ‘I just thought it rather odd. He’s obviously not keeping bachelor’s hall if he thinks to hold a house party.’ He paused again, as though afraid of her reaction. ‘And to induce me to yield he gave me this.’ He removed a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to her.
She read it.
I, Harry Pennyngton, swear upon my honour that if I cannot succeed in making Nicholas Tremaine wish me a Merry Christmas in my home, by January the fifth of next year, I shall make every attempt to give my estranged wife, Elise Pennyngton, the divorce that she craves, and will do nothing to stand in the way of her marriage to Nicholas Tremaine or any other man.
It was signed ‘Anneslea’, in her husband’s finest hand, and dated yesterday.
She threw it to the floor at her feet. Damn Harry and his twisted sense of humour. The whole thing had been prepared before he’d even entered into the bet. He had gone to the club with the intent of trapping Nicholas into one of his stupid little jokes, and he had used her to bait the hook. How dared he make light of something that was so important? Turn the end of their marriage into some drawing room wager and, worse yet, make no mention of it to her? Without thinking, she reverted to her mother tongue and gave vent to her frustrations over marriage, divorce, men in general, and her husband in particular.
Nicholas cleared his throat. ‘Really, Elise, if you must go on so, please limit yourself to English. You know I have no understanding of German.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘It is a good thing that you do not. For you would take me to task for my language, and give me another tiresome lecture in what is or is not proper for a British lady. And, Nicholas, I am in no mood for it.’
‘Well, foul language is not proper for an English gentleman, either. Nor is that letter. If you understood the process, Elise … He is offering something that he cannot give. Only the courts can decide if you are granted a divorce, and the answer will often be no.’
‘We will not know until we have tried,’ she insisted.
‘But he has done nothing to harm you, has he?’ Nick’s face darkened for a moment. ‘For if he has treated you cruelly then it is an entirely different matter. I will call the man out and we will finish this quickly, once and for all, in a way that need not involve the courts.’
‘No. No. There is no reason to resort to violence,’ she said hurriedly. ‘He has not hurt me.’ She sighed. ‘Not physically.’
Nicholas expelled an irritated sigh in response. ‘Then not at all, in the eyes of the court. Hurt feelings are no reason to end a marriage.’
‘The marriage should not have taken place at all,’ she argued. ‘There were no feelings at all between us when we married. And as far as I can tell it has