The Duke Before Christmas - Bianca Blythe Page 0,48
that this woman was your wife? And how is it that you’re not actually married?”
“Even though you did share a room,” Charlotte added.
Memories of their bedtime activity inundated Colin’s mind, and he shook his head, as if the action might dispel the memories. He changed the subject.
“Portia was supposed to elope to Guernsey with Mr. Rupert Andrews.”
“That title is not nearly impressive as yours,” Charlotte said.
“The Honorable Rupert Andrews,” Colin amended. “And I’m certain he must have all sorts of wonderful qualities.”
“Well, if she chose him over you,” Charlotte agreed.
“Not helpful, dearest,” Vernon said.
“I’m only being logical.”
“I’m afraid logic might be the problem in this situation,” Vernon said.
“Anyway,” Colin continued, conscious he wanted to tell the story quickly so he could forget it forever. “They were supposed to elope to Guernsey, but I—er—took his cabin on the ship.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I told the porter my name was Rupert Andrews, then the ship sailed.”
“That sounds unlike you.”
Colin shrugged. “I’m carrying some important documents for Sandridge. It was vital that I leave London at once.”
“Well, Mr. Andrews must have been late.” Charlotte looked at her husband. “It’s very important not to be late.”
“Evidently, Mr. Andrews did not feel that way,” Vernon said. “He couldn’t have expected someone to pretend to be him.”
“A duke, no less,” Charlotte exclaimed.
Colin hung his head. “It was not my best moment.”
“So you were trying to stop her wedding then?” Vernon asked.
“Oh, I didn’t even know she would be on the ship,” Colin said. “But she needed to marry someone, so I—er—volunteered.”
Puzzlement shone over Charlotte’s and Vernon’s faces.
“It’s a more complicated story,” Colin said defensively.
“She’s eloping in the town,” Charlotte said finally. “Does she know you love her?”
“We haven’t said the words.”
“You have to tell her,” Vernon said.
“Because she loves you,” Charlotte said.
“No she doesn’t. She’s eloping—”
“She’s not marrying you because she loves you,” Charlotte said. “She doesn’t want to trap you into a marriage.”
“Precisely,” Portia’s maid said.
“I would venture the same hypothesis,” Niles said.
“Oh.” Colin stared at them. “You might be right.”
“Of course,” Vernon said gallantly. “My wife is always right.”
Colin rose. “I need to get to the town.”
Vernon nodded. “I suggest you run.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
EVERYTHING WILL BE fine.
Perhaps she wasn’t marrying Colin, perhaps her heart would never be the same, but this was the way things should be.
Besides, Mr. Andrews didn’t expect her to love him. He simply expected her to have money, and she would. Everything was as it should be.
If she glanced back at the manor house from time to time, that only meant she had enjoyed her time there. That didn’t mean she had to change her life and Colin’s forever.
No.
This was the correct thing to do.
Snowflakes soared down, with a speed she associated with warships, not fluffy, beautiful bits of snow.
She forced herself to stride in the direction of the town, even though the wind was blowing fiercely, and the surfaces were slippery.
“If you like this, you’ll love Staffordshire?”
“Staffordshire?” she asked.
“Near Stoke,” he said.
“Stoke?” She jerked her head toward him. She’d heard stories about Stoke. Everyone had.
He beamed. “Best town in the world.”
Well.
Perhaps everyone had been wrong.
“Is it like this in winter?” she asked.
“No, no. You needn’t worry about that.”
“Good.”
“Much more snow,” Mr. Andrews declared. “More Christmasy.”
“How appropriate,” Portia said faintly, even though it seemed like this was sufficient snow.
“This is simply a few centimeters,” Mr. Andrews said. “Practically insignificant.”
“Ah. Do you spend much time in Staffordshire?”
“All the time I can have,” Mr. Andrews said. “Do you like the country?”
“I-I don’t know. I’ve never truly lived in the country. I was raised in Bath, then moved to London.”
“You poor thing,” Mr. Andrews said with a sympathetic expression on his face. “Well, we will fix that straight away.”
“How lovely,” Portia said faintly.
Mr. Andrews beamed. “We’re almost in the town.”
“How nice.” Portia gave a tight smile.
The town was nice. But somehow it had seemed nicer before.
The pastel-colored buildings poked out of the snow in an aesthetically appealing manner, but right now, Portia didn’t think she particularly cared about the aesthetically appealing.
“Perhaps there’s no vicar who can do the ceremony,” Portia said. “Since it’s Christmas and everything.”
“I’ve already arranged it, my dear,” Mr. Andrews said. “Besides, they’ve already given sermons today. They’re in the mood to do more.”
“How nice.”
“Yes, my dear.”
Portia didn’t particularly like how he called her ‘my dear’, as if they’d already been married a long time, but then, perhaps it was simply good to marry a husband who would call her my dear.
Everything was wonderful, she reminded herself.
She continued to remind herself