Page 4 of Bedded Under The Christmastide Moon

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 the cloud of grief and sorrow 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.