Page 20 of Bedded Under The Christmastide Moon

She’d never set about truly being Viscountess Whitmore.

Had she suspected all along that their marriage would meet this fate?

A gust of wind pulled at her hair, whipping it about her face before settling once more. Mellie tilted her head back and stared up at the full moon. How she wished she’d embraced change, like the passing phases of the moon, and not remained in her own personal frozen wasteland.

Perhaps after Brigham departed, she would move back to Tapton House, her family home. It had been left abandoned since her cousin drained the earth on her family lands and fled back to whence he came—where that was, Mellie had never cared. She had little resources beyond the dowry her father had established before his death. Would Brigham give her the funds? They wouldn’t last long, but it might be enough to make it through a few years.

…and then what?

She’d lived for so long not thinking about what was to come on the morrow that, as of late, she couldn’t find the willpower to live in the present.

The hour grew late, and the night chill settled about her. She should return to the house, seek out her meal, and find her bed.

A full night’s rest might be enough to dim the sting awaiting her when Brigham announced his impending departure from Hockcliffe once more.

The snap of a twig had Mellie pivoting around toward the terrace, but the darkened space made it impossible to see what had caused the noise. Glancing upward, she noted a dim glow coming from the third-floor servants’ quarters, but none from any of the lower two floors.

Had Brigham sought his own bed?

There was a certain lack of Christmastide cheer at Hockcliffe.

“Melloria?” His voice came from the darkness as if she’d conjured what her heart longed for, but that which her mind knew was not destined to be.

She scanned the midnight-kissed darkness for him, the light from the moon suddenly dimming as if it sought to play games with her.

Brigham.

He was there, stepping from the shadows with a tiny, red-wrapped box in his outstretched hands.

Mellie remained where she was, making him journey the several paces to stand before her. She would not embarrass herself further by making this any more than it was. Brigham presented her with a simple Christmastide gift each year.

This year was to be no different, though Mellie’s stomach hardened at the thought that this might very well be her last gift from him. She needed to set him free, give him her blessing to find happiness—wherever that may lie.

Maybe, in turn, she would find her own peace.

Not happiness, never that, but perchance contentment?

“My lord.” Her voice was barely loud enough to hear over the subtle evening breeze.

Before her, Brigham was the man she’d known all her life, the man she’d given herself to in marriage, and the man who’d cared for her when her cousin cast her out.

He was kind, compassionate, and possessed an abundance of understanding.

Gone was the lord who’d pulled away from her embrace in anger that morning.

Mellie could not bring herself to believe that man and the one in front of her were one and the same.

“I have been searching for you all day.”

Mellie glanced at her feet and willed her stomach to stop fluttering. He could have been seeking her out only to speak of his intentions to depart. “I was in the village delivering Christmastide gifts.”

“I would have accompanied you,” he mumbled.

She brought her stare back to his, searching his face for any sign that the meaning of his words was not the same as what she heard. “I did not wish to disturb you.”

His hands fumbled with the wrapped box he held between them as hers remained safely in her muff. “You have never, nor will you ever be a disturbance.”

How she longed to believe him.