Page 11 of Bedded Under The Christmastide Moon

The time was upon him and certainly long overdue.

He owed her the option to cast him from Hockcliffe—as was her right.

Returning to his seat, he lowered down with a heavy sigh.

After stating his piece, Brigham had to be man enough to accept whatever dictate Mellie set forth.

Her mercy was something he was uncertain he was worthy of.

Perhaps a few more hours away from the manor would strengthen his resolve, and he’d find the right words to tell her all while keeping his longing for her from spilling forth and further muddling their precarious situation.

He was hiding…and he damn well bloody knew it.

The question was, what was he willing to do about it?

# # #

Mellie watched Brigham through the thick grime on the window as he rubbed his temples, knelt to start a fire, and then sat lax in his chair. He was an academic man, a lord more accustomed to the darkened halls of Parliament than the stalls at Tattersalls, yet that did not diminish his presence. He did not appear any less broad of shoulder or tan of skin than the servants who worked the fields around Hockcliffe. Perhaps Brigham had taken up fencing or bare-knuckle boxing while in town to hone his physique and remain active.

Closing her eyes, she envisioned him, not in the full garb of a fencer, but bare-chested with his hands wrapped in cloth, and short pants to enable easy, swift movements—his hands raised in defense as he danced around the boxing area, keeping space between him and his opponent.

A sound from within had her lids snapping open once more to see Brigham standing again and pacing before the hearth, his hands shoved deeply into the pockets of the coat he had yet to remove.

Something was amiss with him, Mellie was certain of it.

Never had he arrived at Hockcliffe with such a dark cloud looming over him, his shoulders caving in, and dark shadows under his eyes, indicating he hadn’t slept well for some time. His usual carefree manner and jovial nature was lacking, as well, and never had he outright avoided her presence when in residence. It was a fact that they’d never shared a marriage bed, but Brigham hadn’t ever called off on a meal with her or evaded her company.

Whatever weighed on him was great enough that he did not seek to burden Mellie with it. What the man did not realize was that his avoidance made it all the more important to her to discover what had him so crestfallen…and repair it.

In any way she could.

Yet, Mellie was at a loss for how to discover anything if he continually sought to evade her.

But she had her own plans for his short stay at Hockcliffe.

Perhaps it was possible to combine those two goals: help banish his melancholy mood and repay his kindness.

She’d lived for so many years under a black cloud of grief, and Mellie did not want that for Brigham. All she needed was time to reconnect with him, and she could certainly restore his happiness.

The last several months, with no ailing mother to keep her occupied, had opened her eyes to many things—namely, hope for her future. She’d been blessed with a kind, compassionate husband who had done everything in his power to help Mellie and keep her mother comfortable during her last years. It was time Mellie was there for her spouse.

On the morrow, Christmastide morning would dawn, and Brigham would likely speak of his intentions to depart Hockcliffe.

Her future—and his—hinged on the present.

Not tomorrow, not a fortnight from now, and certainly not a year from now when once again Brigham returned for his short holiday stay.

Mellie glanced down at her tightly bound cloak and hastily unbuttoned it until her midnight blue sash was visible beneath. A quick touch at her ear confirmed that her hair was as it should be, pinned at one side and hanging freely down her back. Her cheeks were already rosy from the harsh December cold.

She lifted her chin and grasped the latch on the door; the freezing metal could be felt even through her gloves. A part of her shouted to withdraw her hand and return to the manor, await Brigham therein. But another—much louder—part of her, willed her to push open the door.

And greet her husband as if they both belonged at the steward’s office.

An overpowering heat gathered at the apex of her thighs, and her breasts swelled, pulling the material of her gown tight across her chest.

Something about the entire situation was intoxicating, and her mind swam as if she’d overindulged in dinner sherry.

As soon as she entered the cottage and closed the door solidly behind her, she and Brigham would be alone, without a soul to interrupt them.