Chapter 1
Hertfordshire, England
LADY MELLORIA WHITMORE stood on the ridge that served as the dividing line between Hockcliffe land and her family home, Tapton House.
The frigid December cold had long ago numbed her face.
The sweeping winds pulled her skirts back toward Hockcliffe but blew her hair in the direction of Tapton House.
Which was very fitting, for Mellie was a woman torn between two lands, two lives, and two choices.
She breathed deeply, allowing the numbness to overtake her and banish the shivers that traveled down her spine. The punishing weather was soothing, in a way. It gave her something to focus on instead of the decision she need make.
Pulling her cloak tighter, Mellie thought about reaching up to return her hood to its place. It would not do to become ill on the eve of Brigham’s arrival for their Christmastide celebration.
Not that there had ever been much of a celebratory mood since they wed.
However, this year was different.
Tilting her chin skyward and closing her eyes, she allowed what little sun seeped through the patchy clouds to kiss her face.
Yes, everything was different.
She knew she should return to the manor and complete the preparations for Brigham’s arrival, but Mellie lingered ever longer.
Bringing her stare back to her childhood home, her heart ached to see the destruction of the Montfort land and, in the far distance, Tapton House, abandoned for nearly three years now.
Her cousin had come, threw her and her mother from their home, plundered the land for all its coal, and then fled when the property was no longer of value to him.
The land was barren, and the house in disrepair.
No longer was it her home, either.
Not that her mother ever had the strength to make the short journey to Tapton House after her cousin abandoned the estate; however, Mellie was certain it had been the thing to push her the final step toward death.
Her mother’s home, where she’d raised Mellie and spent every moment dedicated to her husband, was gone forever.
Her mother had been gone for five months now—though it felt like years.
Mellie, with several Hockcliffe and Tapton servants at her side, had laid her mother to rest beside her father.
And now, Mellie would be facing Brigham for the first time in nearly a year without the all-consuming burden of caring for her mother. Persephone and Saxton would not be joining them this holiday due to the impending birth of their fourth child.
It would be only Brigham and her.
Why did that terrify her so much?
But Mellie knew the answer; hadn’t any doubt why this Christmastide season was so very different than the five previous holidays.
Melloria, Viscountess Whitmore, planned to seduce her husband.
As if the cold winter day agreed with her decision, the winds grew in strength, reassuring Mellie and reaffirming she’d chosen the correct path.
She’d loved Brigham at one point—many, many years ago before fate intervened, and she’d had to suppress her own longings to care for her ailing parents. Over the years, her girlish affection for him had been overpowered by her grief and loss.
But that obstacle no longer existed.
A certain measure of freedom had come the day her mother passed.
Mellie once again suppressed her feelings of guilt over embracing that freedom.
Caring for her mother hadn’t been a burden, it had been her duty as a daughter. She would have stayed by her mother’s side another ten years if it had been needed.
She could not blame her mother—or her father—for the course her life had taken.
Although, she did blame herself for stealing Brigham’s chance at love.
The time had come to at least attempt some form of repayment. And that left Mellie with two choices: consummate her marriage and give Brigham an heir, or step aside and allow him to find a wife who could.
A wife who could both love him and give birth to another generation to continue the Whitmore line.
Mellie recognized the selfish choice of her decision.
Providing an heir also meant the end of her loneliness.
A baby would need care, and Mellie would dedicate herself to that task.
She could no longer allow Brigham to live as he had for all these years. It was past time Mellie gave back some of the kindness, compassion, and sympathy he’d shown her.
Lifting her chin, her conviction strong, Mellie turned away from her past…and looked to her future.
Hockcliffe Manor lay in the distance, nestled in a large grove of willow trees.
It had been her home for over five years, yet everything about the manor had changed in the last several months.
The mourning period was still upon everyone, but the smell of sickness had been banished from the house, the windows thrown wide in every room without regard for the chill outside, and though she could not see it from this distance, Mellie had hung a wreath of holly on the front door.
The servants no longer tiptoed about the house, and Cook no longer prepared broth for every meal.
It was Mellie who led the household into a new type of mourning, one free of grief and sorrow, it was the cloud they’d all lived under since she and Brigham wed.
Mellie started down the hill toward the manor, her gait not one of heaviness and burden, but light and confident.
Brigham had sent word the prior week that he’d arrive at Hockcliffe Manor on Christmastide Eve, as his reform bill was to be voted on before Parliament recessed for the holidays and the new year.
She looked to the road Brigham would use when coming from London.
How long would he stay this year?
As if her musings had conjured him from thin air, a lone figure on horseback appeared, a trail of dust in his wake as the rider leaned close to the animal’s neck and raced toward Hockcliffe.
Brigham was home a day early.
Mellie took her hands from the deep pockets of her cloak and pulled her hood over her wild curls before lifting her skirts and sprinting toward the manor.
brIGHAM SLUMPED FROM his horse outside Hockcliffe Manor, his eyes blurry from the dust of his travels as he attempted to focus on what hung from the front door.
It was green and red—and very large—but squint as he might, he could not bring the thing into clear focus.
He reached into the pockets of his coat, but they were empty.
Next, he tried his trouser pocket and found what he searched for.
Placing his rounded spectacles on the bridge of his nose, Brigham noted the thing appeared to be a wreath of some sort, evergreens mixed with holly and plump, red berries.
He hadn’t seen a wreath adorn the door of Hockcliffe in many years.
Giving his head a quick shake, Brigham turned to collect his bag that was tied to his gelding.
The journey from London had left him tired, filthy, and chilled to the bone. The only saving grace had been the lack of precipitation; muddied roads would have made the trip far more perilous, and risked his horse’s safety as well as his own.
There had been no need to rush out of London and push his steed at breakneck speeds, only to arrive at Hockcliffe and confess to Mellie that he’d failed.
It wasn’t so much that he’d failed, but that his bill calling for stiffer regulations for coal mine operations did not make it to a vote.
Two years—incalculable hours spent meeting with lords all across England—championing a much-needed reform bill, only to have it cast out before Brigham could even speak to Parliament at large.
Bloody hell, but he’d had to miss Mellie’s mother’s funeral because he’d been in Dover courting Lord Caruthis as if he were a bloody innocent debutante…and Brigham in need of a rich wife.
And in the end, he’d disappointed Mellie once more.
Looking her in the face would be impossible knowing he’d failed her.
Brigham leaned his forehead against his horse, the animal’s heated skin a welcome sensation against his chilled face.
Perhaps it would have been best to call off his trip to Hockcliffe and send word he’d been waylaid in London for business. However, it was one thing he’d never done to Mellie: lie to her. And he would not start now.
Nor could he keep himself away from her.
It had taken all his strength to leave her at the end of each Christmastide night to go back to his cold, empty London townhouse and live an entire year before seeing her again.
There was no doubt his cause was a worthy one, but the time away from Hockcliffe had begun to weigh heavily on him.
Seeing Mellie despite her years of deep anguish brought light to Brigham’s world.
He longed to love her the way she deserved and show her the affection and love his heart had kept hidden all these years.
To prove to her that wedding her hadn’t only been an offer to care for her ailing mother and provide a home for the pair; no, his motives that day had been selfish.
She’d been in peril, and he’d taken advantage of that by offering for her hand.
Could they have grown to love one another without the necessity of the union?
Brigham hadn’t the answer to that.
And even in marriage, he feared his love was one-sided and was not to be returned.
“My lord,” Peters, his footman, called as he exited the house. “I can take your bag and call for Joseph to come ‘round for your horse.”
He’d been so preoccupied, he hadn’t heard the door open. The shock in the servant’s voice at Brigham’s unexpected early arrival was warranted. Brigham, and his father before him, had always been timely men, never arriving a moment early nor a moment late.
“Thank you, Peters.” He handed his traveling satchel to the servant and started for the front door. Though he only managed a few steps before he halted and turned back toward the footman. “Before we part ways, I have something important in my bag.”
He leaned over the satchel, his glasses sliding down his nose, but thankfully, he did not need them to see things up close. Undoing the tie, he rummaged through his hastily folded clothes and books, locating the small, paper-wrapped box.
Melloria’s Christmas gift.
A pendant with a long chain, holding the images of her mother and father.
He’d had the necklace commissioned shortly after her mother’s death and had meant to journey to Hockcliffe long before Christmastide to give it to her.
He sighed, slipping the box into his coat pocket as he started for the house once more.
He longed to bring a smile to Mellie’s face and banish the sorrow that had settled upon her in recent years.
He’d witnessed her transformation from a happy, joyous young girl, looking forward to her first London Season, to a woman who was too thin, her shoulders slumped, and her hair hanging limply about her shoulders.
Brigham had been so worried the year before at her crestfallen, sickly appearance he’d sent another London physician to exam her. Thankfully, the man had proclaimed Mellie free of the illness that had robbed her of both her parents.
Even if the pendant brought only a speck of light to her sea-green eyes, it would be worth it.
As he crossed Hockcliffe’s threshold, he noticed the silence that lingered. Though a maid could be heard somewhere above stairs, and quiet laughter floated from the kitchens, Brigham was nearly overtaken by the sense of emptiness.
It must be his exhaustion taking over. He needed a bath and sleep before he sought out Mellie.
Instead of heading for the main stairs, he veered toward his study.
If he were stalling in making his presence known, he was more the coward than he thought.
His study was as quiet as the rest of the house and blessedly vacant.
His desk was as he’d left it the previous year. His shelves housing the same hundreds of books on British law and social reform policies. Even the sideboard stood at the ready with finely crafted glass tumblers and decanters brimming with spirits of every sort.
For the first time in Brigham’s life, he wished he were a drinking man.
The conversation to come would be made far easier if he were deep in his cups.
Alas, he was not a man who favored spirit stronger than a dinner sherry.
Only the future would tell if his avoidance of drink continued.
Walking around his large, mahogany desk, he slumped into his chair and laid his head upon the smooth desktop. It was not warm like the neck of his horse, but it was welcome all the same.
Perhaps a few moments’ rest and he’d drag himself up to his chambers for a bath and proper attire before going in search of Mellie.