Her Christmas Earl Read online

  But by daylight, Lord Erskine had returned to the supercilious creature she’d so disliked. And she was sick to death of the world acting as if in marrying him, she won some wonderful and completely undeserved prize. Just as she was sick of the pity and surprise directed at Erskine when people heard of his sudden engagement.

  Nobody apart from her mother and Amelia had the nerve to say it aloud, but Philippa knew that everyone thought such a plain girl was lucky to capture this rich, handsome man. The sly glances silently congratulating her on her clever game were almost worse than the pity.

  Generally Philippa prided herself on her self-control. In her family, only her calmness and cool reason held their fragile world steady. Right now, she was ready to scream and throw china and slam doors like the most spoiled debutante. After four days of playing Lord Erskine’s inadequate bride, she burned to end this horrible farce.

  But devil take the man, despite a heavy fall of snow, he’d left for London on Boxing Day and she hadn’t seen him since. It was enough to make even the most complacent woman want to smash something. Preferably Blair Hume’s thick skull.

  His absence meant that she was yet to share her plan for their mutual rescue. He’d written to her uncle since reaching London, she knew. Only because Sir Theodore, who spoke to her almost as rarely as Amelia did, had informed her at last night’s dinner that Lord Erskine was expected back today, with the wedding to take place the following morning. The dizzying speed of events left Philippa queasy with helplessness. This was like being tied to the back of a runaway horse.

  Well, this afternoon, the runaway horse submitted to the bridle. Philippa heard the quick, confident step approaching through the barren woodland behind the Chinese summerhouse. On wobbly legs, she rose from the wooden bench outside.

  “My lord,” she said flatly as her betrothed turned the corner of the icy gravel path. She curtsied briefly. When she straightened, she huddled into her old black winter coat, several seasons out of date but warm. Thick drifts of snow lay about them and the cold was perishing. “You got my note.”

  “Apparently, or I wouldn’t be here,” Lord Erskine said lightly, although his green eyes were watchful. A faint smile twitched his lips and when he spoke, his breath clouded in the chilly air. “And good afternoon to you, Miss Sanders.”

  She blushed. She kept forgetting that he wasn’t her enemy. He was a victim, too. She supposed a real fiancée would inquire after his health, ask about his journey. But of course, she was only the girl he’d been cornered into marrying. “Good afternoon.”

  He smiled fully and despite her determination to end this travesty, her foolish heart skipped a beat. He really was a spectacular man. “Is this meeting wise?”

  Wise? She suppressed a hollow laugh. She’d moved beyond reach of anything resembling wisdom. Desperation had driven her to ask Mills to deliver the note requesting a private conversation. Over the last days, she’d come to approve of Mills. Nothing seemed to disconcert him and he treated her with a sincere respect that she’d encountered nowhere else since Christmas Eve.

  “My reputation couldn’t get any worse,” she said morosely, rubbing her gloved hands together to warm them.

  Erskine’s amusement drained away, leaving deep concern in its place. “Has it been bad?”

  This time the hollow laugh escaped. “How long have you got?”

  “I’m sorry, Philippa. I left you in a damned spot, but I had to get the special license. The sooner we’re wed, the better for everyone.” He didn’t sound like the haughty rake she loathed. He sounded like the man who had been unfailingly good-natured sharing a cupboard with a woman he’d never have chosen as companion. The man she’d kissed so ardently.

  His apology soothed her resentment, although she’d spent the last four days cursing his high-handedness. She stifled a complaint about him calling her Philippa. After all, if their marriage took place, he’d have rights to much more than the use of her Christian name.

  She met his eyes, then wished she hadn’t. If he’d been lethal to her common sense in the dark, here lit with gold in the late sun, he was devastating. He was dressed for the country in buff breeches and a dark blue coat that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and his height. His thick dark hair was disheveled as though he’d recently run his hand through it.

  “That’s…that’s what I want to talk about.” She wished she sounded more confident. But something in the way he studied her reminded her of his discomfiting kisses.

  He watched her as though he guessed how unhappy and confused she’d been. “I know you’re worried—”

  She spoke quickly. “Can we go into the summerhouse? It’s freezing, and I feel exposed out here.” If anyone reported her meeting Lord Erskine, it would only add fuel to the catty gossip about her brazenness.

  “Very well.” He gestured for her to precede him up the shallow flight of stairs into the wooden pagoda. Even when determined to dislike him, she’d noted Lord Erskine’s perfect manners.

  He paused in the doorway as she subsided onto the red lacquer bench running around the room. The building, cleared of furniture and fabrics, felt cavernous and cold. She’d chosen this place for its seclusion. She wanted a frank and uninterrupted discussion. Only now as she looked up at Lord Erskine’s shadowed face did she question that decision. Something about the isolation and the pretty, empty room suggested a lovers’ rendezvous.

  The last impression she wanted to convey.

  “Please sit down,” she said shakily, staring down to where her hands twined together in her lap. It wasn’t much warmer inside than it had been outside. “I’m sure you know why I asked you to meet me.”

  He stepped into the summerhouse, sitting beside her but not, she noted with relief, too close. “I’m hoping it’s because you want more kisses.”

  She choked on appalled laughter as her gaze flickered away from his. Clearly the romantic isolation had struck him as well. “I wouldn’t be so presumptuous.”

  “That’s a pity. I’ve been thinking about kissing you ever since Christmas Eve. I enjoyed it. I’d very much like to do it again.”

  She gasped and stared at him. He appeared sincere, but of course, he couldn’t be. “Stop it.”

  In the enclosed space, their voices echoed oddly. The sun on the snowdrifts outside created a white, eerie light inside.

  Those slashing black brows lowered with displeasure. “If we’re to marry, it’s best if we’re honest.”

  Philippa leaped to her feet and began to pace. Nervous energy made her steps quick and staccato so that the heels of her half-boots clicked across the chinoiserie tiles. “That’s precisely it.”

  She sucked in a breath and told herself to be resolute. Which was harder than she’d expected when she’d skulked in her room plotting this meeting.

  “What’s precisely it, my love?”

  The endearment, however meaningless, spoken in his soft Scottish burr made her shiver with a mixture of pleasure and discomfort. “Don’t call me that.”

  He shrugged and lounged back against the sill, pushing the window behind him open a fraction. The breeze played with his hair, free to touch him when she wasn’t. At her sides, her fingers curled as she bit back a surge of longing.

  Seeing him again proved more…difficult than Philippa had expected. She hadn’t counted on quite how many barriers their captivity had shattered. It must be her imagination, but her nostrils flared at a hint of his clean, sandalwood scent. Since Christmas Eve, sandalwood had haunted her dreams.

  “What is it, Philippa?”

  She stopped her restless pacing and leveled her shoulders like a soldier facing a cavalry charge. “We can’t marry.”

  Although he maintained his casual pose, Erskine’s muscles tightened with denial. Damn it, he wasn’t backing out and if he had his way, neither was she. “Of course we can.”

  That ruffled his sparrow’s delicate feathers. Temper added color to cheeks that had been too pale when she’d met him outside in the snow
. That neat, rounded body also seemed slighter than it had when he’d left for London.

  Hell, he shouldn’t have left her alone, but he hadn’t had any choice. Still, he could imagine how her bloody awful family had treated her in his absence. After he married Philippa, he’d make damned sure that they showed more care.

  In the days since he’d seen her, his uncharacteristic urge to protect this girl hadn’t faded. He’d taken one look at the spiritless, unhappy young woman who had greeted him and he’d wanted to punch someone. Then kiss her until she became once more the soft, passionate armful of a few nights ago.

  “You’re not listening, my lord.” To his relief, she sounded much more like the girl who had challenged him in his room. “Nobody can force me to marry you.”

  Without straightening from his slouch, he arched his eyebrows. He knew his cool reaction threw her off balance. Just what he wanted while he worked out how to convince her against jilting him.

  He should have anticipated something like this. Despite her outward quietness, Philippa Sanders wasn’t meek and obedient. Married life promised to be interesting. “You agreed—”

  Her lips tightened. “Actually I don’t believe I got in a word that night you arranged everything with my uncle.”

  Dismay made him forget strategy and sit up. Good God, she was right. No wonder she was disgruntled. “Philippa, what a blasted dunderhead I am. I should have asked you.”

  His immediate capitulation seemed to mollify her and some of her stiffness drained away. “You didn’t have much chance.”

  He stood, covered the few feet separating them and dropped to one knee, seizing her hand. “Let me remedy that lack right now.”

  “You misunderstand,” she said sharply, trying to pull free.

  “I’ve never proposed before. I should do it properly, bonny lassie.”

  Color flamed in her cheeks. The wan creature of a few minutes ago became only a memory, thank God. “I pray you, Lord Erskine, please stop this.”

  He refused to give up. “My delightful Miss Sanders, darling Philippa, will you marry me tomorrow and make me the happiest of men?”

  Her eyes narrowed and she stopped fluttering. “This is such a joke to you, isn’t it?” She rushed on before he could answer. “I don’t know why you find it so amusing. You’ll be trapped too—although I suppose you intend to maintain your rakish ways and act as if I don’t exist.”

  He frowned, all pretense at nonchalance evaporating. “That’s not very flattering. To me or to you.”

  “Perhaps.” Her voice bit. “But accurate.”

  He released her and rose, glaring. “A sweeping statement, considering how little you know of me.”

  She didn’t retreat, although he’d used the tone that made grown men cower. “Surely you want to avoid this disaster as much as I do.”

  His vanity pricked under her open reluctance to marry him. “In honor, I can’t—”

  One hand made an emphatic gesture, negating his protests. “Honor will be poor comfort when we’re condemned to a lifetime of misery.”

  “Please don’t spare my feelings,” he retorted, turning to stare out at the bleak wintry landscape. He fought to calm his breathing. This uncompromising girl tested his temper. Nobody tested his temper. He never cared enough about anything to get angry.

  She sighed and when next she spoke, she sounded less adamant. “I’m sorry. This isn’t your fault. And…and I appreciate you stepping in to try and save me from ruin.”

  His lips twitched at her grudging thanks. Women generally worked like the devil to turn him up sweet. He must be mad, but her frankness appealed to him. “Was that apology painful?”

  “A little,” she admitted after a pause. He heard the soft click of her heels as she came up beside him. “Lord Erskine—”

  He glanced at her. “Don’t you think you should call me Blair?”

  She no longer looked cross. Instead, she looked sweet and earnest and breathtakingly lovely with her pretty hair bundled in a loose knot. Her serious brown eyes focused on him and emotion colored her ivory skin. With every moment he spent in this girl’s company, he found himself more astonished that the world considered Amelia the beautiful Sanders sister.

  Philippa’s cheeks turned dusky rose and when doubt pursed her lips, he couldn’t help thinking of kisses. Privacy tested his restraint. He’d dearly love to haul her into his arms as he had in the dressing room. The only thing stopping him was that in her current frame of mind, she’d probably slap him.

  To his surprise she didn’t haver about using his Christian name. “Blair, if I jilt you, no blame will attach to you.”

  “Of course it will. I’ll forever carry the reputation of a man who seduced an innocent girl and left her alone to bear the world’s insult.”

  For the first time, a glimmer of genuine admiration sparked in her eyes. “Good heavens, I really did have you all wrong, didn’t I?”

  He shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. “I’m not a good man, but there are some things even I won’t do.”

  “All the more reason not to sacrifice yourself to a loveless union.”

  He floundered here. He hadn’t expected his betrothed to want to cancel the wedding. When he’d received her note, he’d imagined she hoped to soothe her fears of marrying a stranger by deepening their acquaintance. Hopefully with a kiss or two. He hadn’t lied about how the memory of her kisses had plagued him. “If I don’t marry you, your life will be untenable.”

  She swung away and slumped onto the bench. “Life as your neglected wife will be untenable.” Before he could argue, she raised one hand. Surprisingly, it was completely steady. “Now that Amelia’s settled, I’ll return home to run the family estate as I’ve done since my father’s death. If I retreat to Essex and live as a blameless spinster, any scandal will eventually blow over.”

  He sat beside her and this time when he took her gloved hand, she didn’t withdraw. Satisfaction filled him at this small sign of trust. Inevitably, he recalled holding her hand in the dressing room. And the enchanting interlude that had followed. “Is that really what you want? To hide away for the rest of your life?”

  He expected a heated response, but when she turned to him, tears swam in her huge dark eyes. It was the first time he’d seen her cry. Her misery punched him in the gut.

  “At this stage, what I want doesn’t matter. What matters is making the best of things.”

  He kept his voice calm, reasonable. With another woman, a demonstration of passion might persuade her to his point of view, but not with this one. The irony was that with every moment, his need to touch her grew.

  “What about your mother and sister?” Distantly he wondered why he was so determined on maintaining their engagement. She was a sweet little thing and she stirred his interest more than any other woman he could remember. But he enjoyed his freedom. Surely he should seize this chance for escape when she offered it. “What about your aunt and uncle? And your cousin? Your loss of reputation will affect everyone in your family. When we set the world on its ears, we did it with style, my love.”

  This time the endearment didn’t turn her as stiff as a ruler. Instead her fingers tightened around his as though she sought reassurance. His gut gave another of those unfamiliar lurches. He couldn’t remember anyone turning to him in their troubles. Philippa’s trust placed a weight upon his heart. It made him want to prove himself worthy. Why out of all Creation did this one girl rouse his rusty honor?

  “People will forget,” she mumbled without conviction.

  “People never forget scandal. Believe me, I know.” He made himself ask the question that hovered unspoken. “Do you dislike me so much?”

  She frowned as if he made no sense, which went some small way toward soothing his bruised feelings. Dear God, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d cared about a woman’s opinion. His London friends would laugh their heads off at his dilemma. He was accounted a dab hand with the ladies. He’d believed that himself. Until he encountered
Philippa Sanders. Who apart from a few sizzling kisses, seemed completely immune to his vaunted charms.

  “I don’t know you.”

  He laughed, delighted despite himself. “Well, that’s honest at least.”

  Her sternness didn’t relent. “And you don’t know me. Surely in a marriage, that’s a recipe for disaster.”

  He shrugged. “I’m no expert on the institution.” He paused. “But we have solid foundations.”

  “Like what?” she asked with such disbelief that he hid a wince.

  “Well, whatever you think of me, I definitely like you. And physically we’re compatible.”

  Her cheeks heated and she avoided his eyes with delightful shyness. “A few kisses prove nothing.”

  His grip firmed. “This is where I can claim some expertise. We’ll have no difficulties in the bedroom.”

  He heard her shocked gasp. “You’re very blunt, my lord.”

  “You strike me as a woman who appreciates a direct approach.” His voice deepened into sincerity. “I’m sorry, though, that you’ll miss out on a courtship. If we had more time, I could convince you that we’re very compatible indeed.”

  Her smile was faintly wistful. “I never expected anyone to court me.”

  Anger pricked him at how her dreadful family had disparaged her—and convinced her that they were right to do so. At that moment, he swore on his unlamented father’s grave that she’d never feel insignificant again. “We’ll postpone the courtship until after the wedding.”

  She still looked suspicious. “I’m surprised that you’re taking this in such good spirit.”

  “I can imagine worse fates than being married to you.”

  “You speak rashly, my l…Blair.” The tension eased around her eyes and for the first time, he caught a glimpse of the intriguing humor he’d so enjoyed during their sojourn in his cupboard. “I might be bad tempered in the morning. I might slurp my soup.”

  It was a relief to hear her sounding more like his redoubtable companion in adversity than the unsure girl who had met him outside the summerhouse. “I might tramp mud into the carpets or feed the dogs under the table.”