Page 5 of Bedded Under The Christmastide Moon

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.