Page 17 of Bedded Under The Christmastide Moon

“A gentleman?” he snorted. “Hardly.”

What sort of man worth anything allowed his wife to wallow and languish alone in the country for years on end?

A coward.

And he’d thought he could return home with a trinket for Christmastide and all would be as it should have been years ago. Perhaps he’d lost all sense with his failure in London.

London.

He’d had plans before her father fell ill. Mellie was to journey to town during her seventeenth year for a proper London Season. Brigham would have followed behind her, watching as she explored life among society while he championed his first reform bill. They would have eventually come together, and he’d thought to offer for her hand before the Season was complete.

Instead, the sickness—which took so many hardworking coalminers—had struck, bringing her father low long before his time. Mellie had selflessly delayed her Season, unknowingly dooming herself to nearly eight years of hardship.

What would have happened if fate hadn’t dealt them the harsh blow it had and made their marriage a necessity?

Would Mellie have chosen another man to wed, perchance a far more suitable lord? A man whose courage and honor dwarfed Brigham’s?

She deserved a man unafraid to speak of love—a man who didn’t find it necessary to hide his true feelings their entire lives.

His cowardly way of securing their marriage had denied Mellie the husband—and no doubt the horde of children—she’d been destined to have. It was a regret he would live with his entire life and be haunted by in the hereafter.

There was no one and nothing to blame but himself.

Pivoting once more and heading back toward the desk, Brigham noted something lying upon the chair. He swooped down and retrieved his glasses. He set them to rights and brought the object into focus.

Mellie’s cloak and gloves.

She’d fled the cottage, into the icy morning, without the benefit of cloak or gloves—and with her gown askew. It was a long, brisk walk back to the manor, especially in the harsh December weather. Even with the snow holding off for the better part of the season, the biting winds would make their way through her gown and chill her to the bone within minutes. She’d be near freezing long before she made it back to Hockcliffe.

Grabbing her cloak and gloves, Brigham departed the cottage, slamming the door behind him but not bothering to replace the ledger in its place on the shelf.

He cared not a whit about the bloody accounts.

The only thing holding his attention and worthy of his time was Melloria.

Brigham pulled his reins free from the post and swung up onto his horse, driving his heels deep into the beast’s sides as he took off in the direction of the manor. She couldn’t have journeyed far on foot; however, glancing up, the sun had progressed in the sky.

How long had he wallowed in his self-pity?

Thundering across the field, he kept his eyes on the landscape and any sign of Mellie. He rode unheeded through crops and barren meadows without regard for anything but finding his wife. All the while, his chest burned, ached with the need for her forgiveness. Her understanding, though he was unworthy of either.

Hockcliffe came into view on the horizon, but Mellie was nowhere to be seen.

Had she gone in another direction? Was she out in the elements, freezing and in danger because Brigham had rebuffed her offer—her generous and selfless proposal?

Leaning low over his horse’s neck, he prodded the beast forward, much as he’d rode into Hockcliffe the previous day.

Yet, the day before, he’d been riding headlong to get away from something. Today, he rode toward someone.

He should have never ridden away from her to begin with.

Brigham had leapt from his horse before the animal even stopped and ran for the door. If she weren’t within, he would return to search for her.

Danvers pulled the door wide before Brigham reached the top step. “My lord. Is something amiss?”

“Your mistress, Mellie,” he shouted. “Is she within?”

“Why, yes, I believe I caught sight of her scurrying up the servants’ stairs not five minutes ago, my lord.”