The Viscount's Christmas Bride
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Bronwyn Scott
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A spicy second-chance romance to warm up your winter nights! Pretend proposal under the mistletoe… Real wedding by Christmas? Newly minted viscount Julien has his desire for a peaceful Christmas thwarted by some unwelcome houseguests… Years ago, Lady Aurelia refused Julien's marriage offer. Now she's on his doorstep, and this time her recently impoverished father is encouraging a betrothal! But proud Julien won't risk his heart again… Being forced to reject Julien left Aurelia stricken, and now she guards her feelings closely. Tired of being a pawn, she proposes a pretend courtship to prevent further meddling from her father. But will the terms of their festive union change when they're reminded of their passionate connection?
Chapter One
There was no place like home for Christmas. Especially when home was Brentham Woods, just outside Hemsford Village, on a crisp, dusky evening in early winter. Julien Lennox, the newly minted Viscount Lavenham, drew his horse to a halt at the fork in the road and inhaled deeply of the fresh night air. To the left was Heartsease, home of his infant niece and rumbustious three-year-old nephew, home of his brother, Tristan, and his wife, Elanora, a place aptly named because of the love it was wrapped in. He would be welcome there. Or he could continue on to the right, to Brentham Woods, the Lennox family home where his parents expected him, where supper would be waiting for him punctually at seven of the clock.
Julien smiled to himself. His father was as well known for his appreciation of punctuality as his mother was for always setting a table with a full complement of silver and china. And he loved them for it. He chuckled and turned his horse, a big, pure-bred Cleveland Bay, to the right and headed for Brentham Woods. Far be it from him to upset the clockwork precision of his father’s house. His father’s house. A place where he was welcomed, but a place that was not quite his. Just like the town house, which was also not his, but his father’s.
Well, that at least would change. He smiled a little to himself at the thought. This time next year, he would have his own place not far from here. He’d closed the deal right before he’d left town. His stay would be punctuated by several visits to the estate. There would be renovations to plan. He would need to enlist his mother’s and Elanora’s help on decorating. He could hardly wait to show them the property.
A mile later, Brentham came into view, soft lamplight emanating from each of his mother’s lace-curtained windows, each lamp casting its golden glow into the indigo night like the welcoming beacon of a lighthouse calling ships to the safe harbour of home. This was the home he’d come of age in. They’d moved to Hemsford when he was thirteen and Tristan, ten, his father in search of a more genteel life for the family than the one they’d lived in Bloomsbury amid the bustle of London. That house, the house of Julien’s extreme youth, was long gone now. Traded in by the Lennoxes for their country estate and a more upscale town house in Mayfair where Julien spent most of the year carrying out the family investment business.
Julien paused just beyond the gate to privately savour his homecoming before announcing his return. He let his gaze rove over the house with its many lamp-lit windows, let his lungs breathe in the cold, fresh country air, let his mind admit to the bittersweetness of the homecoming. The sweetness was in Christmas, in them all being together, celebrating the end of another year full of achievement: his father’s aspirations for the family were alive and well. The coffers were full, business was growing, as was the family’s name.
Julien had seen to it, devoting his time in London not only to business but to philanthropy. He’d seen a new foundling home established, a new school opened, and he socialised with the likes of the Dukes of Cowden and Creighton and their sons. Earlier in the year, he’d been bestowed the title Viscount Lavenham in recognition of his philanthropic efforts. It should be enough for any man—official recognition, wealth, a sense of purpose, a family who cared for him. Therein lay the bitterness. It should be enough, but he wanted more.
Specifically, he wanted a home of his own, a family of his own. The viscountcy had not come with any land, which was why it had been bestowed on him—the son of a banker. The family—his parents, his brother, his brother’s wife and children—was not Julien’s own. Whenever he saw his young nephew and little niece, the craving for family grew.
Once, he never would have dreamed he’d attain his thirty-eighth year without a wife and family beside him. Yet, despite the best efforts of his sister-in-law and the relentless matchmaking of the ton, here he was—thirty-eight and sans wife. He had only himself to blame for that, he supposed. He’d given his heart away in his youth and never quite got it back.
The sound of a dog’s far-off bark drawing nearer cut through Julien’s thoughts, recalling him from his ruminations as the dark blur of a black-and-tan hound barrelled towards him. Julien gave a joyful shout and dismounted to greet it, the hound’s exuberance nearly knocking him to the ground. ‘I’m home, boy. I’m home.’ He laughed and ruffled the dog’s short fur, to which the dog gave a happy, deep-chested bark. The house would surely be alerted to his arrival now.
Still, Julien lingered in the dark, playing with the hound. Benjamin was his in a way no one or nothing else was. When Julien had found him, Ben had been a stray puppy barely twelve weeks old, wandering the Hemsford countryside lost, alone and on a collision course with death, the little pup gallantly struggling to hunt and feed himself. The same desire that prompted Julien to fund orphanages and found schools had prompted him to scoop the pup up and warm him in the folds of his greatcoat.
Now Benjamin was five, the best hound in the field when it came to the Hemsford Hunt Club, and loyal. That’s what Julien liked best about Benjamin. When he was home, Benjamin followed him everywhere. Ben slept on the floor beside his bed and lay at his feet, waiting patiently while he worked, or ran beside him when Julien went riding. Julien knew the rarity of such devotion and he did not take it lightly in animals or in people.
Julien gathered the reins of his horse in one hand and gestured for Benjamin to fall in beside him for the short journey to the house. The head groom, Joseph, waited for him there to take his horse. No sooner had the horse been led away than the front door opened, his mother and father coming out to welcome him. A sense of peace fell over him as his mother hugged him and his father asked the usual questions: How was the trip down? Was the train on time? What did he think of the new branch line straight into Hemsford? Didn’t it make the trip from London so much more efficient?
Amid the questions and conversation of homecoming, he was ushered into the cosy front parlour, a drink pressed into his hand, Benjamin lying at his feet, a fire in the grate to take off the evening chill. Julien let the peace engulf him, let the sweetness of arrival sweep over him, and he pushed away the sadness that lingered on the edges. There was no place for it when one was home for Christmas.
The sweetness of homecoming sustained him right up until the cheese plate was served at the end of supper—a meal which had featured all of his favourites. His mother and Cook had no doubt deliberately laboured over the menu quite intentionally to please him, and Julien had been effusive in his thanks. ‘Food always tastes better at home.’ He smiled at his mother, who beamed with pleasure. She was a born hostess who could put even a stranger at ease in her home and who loved nothing more than her grown sons at her table even if only in temporary doses.
‘Are you not happy with your cook at the town house?’ she asked. ‘I could make enquiries.’
‘Cook is fine, I think it’s the eating alone that gets tiresome,’ Julien confessed. If he wasn’t eating alone at home, he was eating out in the company of others for business or for pleasure and he’d learned that the joy of eating at home was only in part the food one ate. The other part was whom one ate the meal with. In London he seemed unable to put those two parts together.
His father smiled. ‘Well, it’s Christmas, so there’s no risk of eating alone at Brentham. In fact, we shall have a full table starting tomorrow night.’ He divulged the information with a twinkle in his eye that had Julien on edge. These were plans and guests that he’d not been apprised of.
‘For business or pleasure?’ Julien enquired, splitting his gaze between his parents. He’d heard nothing of guests visiting at Brentham for Christmas, neither in his mother’s letters to London nor in his father’s weekly business missives. Perhaps he’d missed it? He had been busy these past weeks in London, what with the Duchess of Cowden’s Christmas charity ball and other festivities ramping up in town while he tried to ramp business down long enough to depart for a month in the country. November had passed in a whirlwind of parties and calls as he wrapped up the year.
‘A bit of both, I suppose,’ his father said jovially. Truth be told, Julien didn’t share that joviality. He was disappointed to hear it. He’d been hoping for some quiet and for some privacy in which to plan for his new home. Hemsford was a special place during Christmas. He’d wanted to enjoy it with his family.
His mother rose with a soft smile for his father. ‘I’ll leave you two to discuss the business of our visitors. I have a long overdue letter to my sister to write.’ Julien watched his mother depart with growing trepidation. She’d used the word ‘business’ and that was the last thing he wanted to do over Christmas. He’d worked all month to avoid it.
His father poured himself a glass of port and passed the decanter to him. ‘First order of business is a toast. Cheers to my son. Welcome home.’ Their eyes met over their glasses as they drank the toast, his father’s gaze punctuated by the lateral canthal lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, and grey dominated his temples these days rather than teased at them, all reminders that his father had turned sixty-three this year—something Julien did not spare much thought for until he was forced to, as he was in this moment when reality was staring back at him. His father was getting older. Time was passing.
His father set down his tumbler. ‘Now, to discuss our visitors. The Earl of Holme and his family are coming.’
The Earl of Holme, his sworn enemy, was coming here? Julien’s usually organised thoughts were a riot of disarray as he tried to make sense of this illogical association. His father held up the decanter, the gesture silently asking the question, More? Julien shook his head. He didn’t think there was enough brandy in the world to handle his father’s news. Of all the people in the world he would have chosen to spend Christmas with, Holme would have been last. Dead last. And he rather thought the Earl of Holme would think the same. On that one item at least they would both be agreed.
‘I’m counting on your new title to smooth the way for both parties, given that you’re a viscount now.’
‘Have you forgotten he refused my suit for his daughter’s hand?’ Julien asked with all the sangfroid he could muster.
‘No, I have not,’ his father answered, but did not elaborate. It made Julien wonder what he was playing at, what sort of plan he was hatching.
‘Why are they coming?’ His father didn’t know them except through him, and the impressions he’d passed on had hardly been favourable. There was no reason for the Earl to spend the intimate season of a family Christmas with them—the family of the man who’d been turned away, deemed not worthy enough for Holme’s esteemed daughter.
His father gave a wry smile wrapped in smug humility. ‘The same reason anyone comes to the Lennox Consolidated Trust. He is in need of funds.’ Desperately so if he was willing to come to the father of the son he’d refused. Cynicism crept in. Or was it that Holme thought the Lennoxes would beg for his business? That they’d be so glad for the chance to loan money to a ‘real’ aristocrat that they’d give him more favourable terms than what he’d receive elsewhere? And there was an ‘elsewhere’, which prompted the question of why he’d chosen them if it wasn’t because he thought they’d beg.
‘There are banks for gentlemen with financial needs,’ Julien posited his hypothesis. ‘Holme does not need to come to us. We’re business people.’ An important point indeed. Bad blood or not, it seemed odd that the Earl would come to them.
Coutts was the bank of the peerage and there were others as well that had long histories of discreetly handling the financial concerns of Britain’s aristocracy. Lennox Consolidated Trust was a business investment firm before it was anything else. It wasn’t even in truth a bank. The money they lent was primarily for business investments and joint ventures.
His father leaned in. ‘I think that’s where the Earl’s story gets interesting. His coffers are empty to the degree that the usual avenues are closed to him. Coutts will not advance him any further funds and his lands are mortgaged to the hilt. Between the mortgages and the entailment, he has nothing the banks perceive as collateral.’ His father gave a shrug of one shoulder. ‘Not even a son to secure an heiress and the promise of future wealth.’ No, but the old man had a daughter. Lady Aurelia Ripley, as exquisitely beautiful as she was cold-hearted. Julien had experienced both up close and personal seven years ago.
Julien gave a harsh chuckle. ‘The Earl of Holme does not sound like a good investment. No funds, no collateral. Why ever would we loan him money? He’ll just sink it into the never-ending pit of failing estates and mounting debt.’ It was an unfortunate pattern card for the aristocracy these days. If one did what one always did, the results did not vary, no matter how much money was thrown at the problem.
‘On the contrary, I do think he is an investment in the future. He might not have money to offer us, but I think he offers us inroads into the next level of society. You’ve made progress there with your title. I suspect your new title is the reason he’s sought us out. He feels comfortable doing business with a peer, someone like him.’
‘We are not like him,’ Julien cut in sharply. ‘The man embodies the height of snobbery. He is not a kind man.’ Especially when rejecting a young man’s sincere suit. Julien had believed he loved Aurelia and that she’d loved him, too. Worse, he’d honestly and perhaps naively believed love would be enough to overcome any opposition to their union. After seven years, he still felt the sting of those moments.
His father waited patiently before continuing. ‘He is a desperate man, Julien. Desperate enough to ask for a loan from us and we can name our terms. There’s more than one way to claim interest on an investment. We can ask him to open doors for us. If others see the business association, they will come to us with their needs as well. We may not currently be a bank to the aristocracy, but we could become one.’
Julien grimaced. ‘Why would we want that? They’re broke and, within a few generations, they’ll be obsolete, defeated by their own avarice.’ It was no less than what the man deserved for his arrogance.
His father arched a brow. ‘Who is the snob now?’ he said pointedly. ‘I thought I’d taught you better than that. It can’t hurt to have an earl or a duke in one’s pocket. One can never have too many friends.’
Julien chuckled, sensing the true direction of his father’s thoughts. ‘That’s the moral of “The Quackling”, the French folk tale about the duck who undoes a king. I remember it. So that’s the game, is it? You want to be financiers to the Queen.’ Not just the aristocracy. He should have known his father wouldn’t stop at earls and dukes. His father hadn’t simply been rusticating in the country, building his image as a country gentleman. He’d been thinking and plotting.
His father gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘Well, why not, Julien? You’re a viscount now. You’ve found favour with her. Why shouldn’t we aim for the throne? With the rate the empire is expanding, we’re the sort of money the Queen needs.’ There was no arguing that. Julien knew his father’s reasoning was sound, as always. The empire didn’t need just money, but the expertise of men like himself and his father who knew how to invest and spend that money wisely.
But first, one had to prove their worth, cut their teeth on other aristocrats before being allowed access to the throne. That’s where his father obviously saw Holme come into it. Doing business with Holme was a chance for the Lennoxes to pay their dues, put in their time and prove their worth. He understood the reasons, but that didn’t make him like the idea any better.
Julien pressed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. ‘If Holme thinks we’ll beg for his poor business, he’ll be disappointed.’ Holme was not a friend Julien needed or wanted in his arsenal of social contacts. It was the larger concept of what Holme represented. In that, Holme was merely a placeholder. ‘I may not do your cause any good,’ he cautioned his father. ‘Holme did not approve of me once upon a time.’ The history between them shadowed and shaped the present. It could not be ignored.
‘You weren’t a viscount then and he wasn’t desperate. Seven years is a long time. Things have changed.’ His father smiled. ‘We have the upper hand now. If you’re willing to humour me, my son, and allow me to extend on the fowl metaphors, I might say his situation is such that he is willing to eat a little crow.’
Julien laughed at his father’s humour in spite of his need for caution. ‘Well, if so, it sounds to me as though he ought to be the one currying favour, not us. Yet, we are hosting him.’ And the man’s family. Which meant Lady Aurelia Ripley, Julien’s very own ghost of Christmases past—a reminder of the one time he’d given his heart, only to have it thrown back at him.
Seven years on and his gut still twisted with the memory. An upwardly mobile financier had not been good enough for the daughter of the Earl of Holme to consider as more than a dance partner. And now she was coming here, invading his home during Christmas, the season he loved. Julien didn’t like it one bit.
