Mistletoe Wishes: A Regency Christmas Collection

He patted the dog, who gazed up at him in an ecstasy of adoration. “You mightn’t

have known how much I love him.”

Love… Such a potent word, and one she’d never heard her husband use before.

“Of course I know.” Her voice remained husky, but she couldn’t do anything about that. “During our fortnight together, he was your shadow.”

“He’s well?”

She managed an unsteady smile. “Right now, he’s ready to fly to the moon.”

This time when Canforth’s gray eyes settled on her, they were warm. “Thank you for looking after him for me.”

“Oh, Canforth,” she said helplessly, wanting to cry again. “Don’t be such a fool. I tried to look after everything for you. I just pray I succeeded.”

He stared into her eyes, and she saw deeper into his soul than ever before, even the few times when they’d shared a bed. Especially the few times they’d shared a bed. “Thank you for that, too.”

She blinked back more tears, and when he spoke, she had a feeling that he tried to save her from succumbing to unseemly emotion. Unseemly emotion had never been part of their marriage. “He must be deaf as a post.”

She gave a laugh, cracked but genuine. “He is, at that. And close to blind.”

“He won’t like that at all. How he used to love chasing rabbits.” With an open affection that made her heart ache anew, he ran his hand over the dog’s graying head.

“The rabbits of Otway Hall thrive untroubled, as you’ll see.”

Digby butted his master’s thigh to regain his attention, and Canforth smiled down at him with transparent fondness. “It’s all right, old chap. I’m here now, and I’ve got no plans to go away again.”

The smile made him look younger, more like the man she’d married than the stern stranger who had ridden in today. It also made the abomination of his scar stand out harsher than ever.

The Earl of Canforth had never been conventionally handsome, but his features had been remarkably appealing, conveying intelligence and interest and kindness. The scar seemed incongruous, cruel. But then, Felicity had always thought the man she’d married, with his gentleness and whimsical humor, wasn’t born to be a soldier. Yet he’d fought valiantly through years of arduous campaigning. He’d been mentioned in dispatches, promoted, and decorated, and she’d heard—not from Canforth—that Wellington had called him one of the bravest men he knew.

Her husband was a complex creature. Even as an inexperienced girl, Felicity had known that. The question was what state was he in, now he was home. And what were his plans for life after the army? For himself, the estate. And his wife.

Could she and Lord Canforth establish a life together after so long apart? She’d been so young and naïve when they’d married, and they’d only had two short weeks together before he embarked for Portugal with his regiment. In most ways, they were strangers yoked together for life.

She reminded herself to let this day be sufficient unto itself. There was plenty of time to sort out the future. Every decision needn’t be made the instant her husband arrived home.

“Your leg must be hurting. And it can’t be good to rest your knee on those hard flagstones.” She stepped forward and spoke calmly, now she’d regained some vestige of control. “Let me help you up.”

Felicity waited for his pride to reject her offer, but he let her assist him with reasonably good grace. She knew despite his discomfort, he did his best to keep his weight off her. Digby didn’t make it easy either, winding about his master’s legs and threatening to trip him.

She gripped Canforth’s hand to keep him from falling and frowned down at the shiny skin that covered his fingers. More scars. These looked like burns. The pain must have been unimaginable. She bit her lip against more tears. With every moment, it became clearer that he’d been through a hell even worse than the one she’d pictured. And he’d never thought to confide in his wife about any part of it.

“Young Master Edmund!”

The quavering voice took Felicity by surprise and made her look toward the entrance to the pantry. Digby’s whimpering had masked any sounds of approach.

Canforth turned so fast, he almost overbalanced. “Biddy!”

“Oh, Master Edmund.” The old woman burst into noisy tears and flung herself at the earl. “Your poor, poor face. What have those wicked Frenchies done to you?”

“It’s all right, Biddy.” He patted her shoulder and returned her embrace. “It’s all right.”

“But look at you,” she sobbed. “I can’t bear it.”

“I was never very pretty, so no great harm has been done.”

“What nonsense is that?” The old lady wrenched away and placed her hands on either side of his head so she could inspect him. “I always thought you were a handsome lad. And my lady agrees with me.”