Charmed at Christmas (Christmas at Castle Keyvnor Book 1)

by Claire Delacroix

  And why did she care, when anything more meant she’d have to lie to him about Margaret?

  “I don’t understand.” She frowned. “You used to tease me. You’d tell me I was too mechanical, and that I was strange. Now you tell me you wanted me to kiss you. These two things do not compute.”

  “I—” Nicholas opened his mouth and shut it twice before finally settling on a response. “It’s complicated.”

  “I do not like complicated.” Felicity’s frown became a glower, for it seemed everything in her life was complex. The very last thing she needed was another problem to solve—especially when she already knew the solution would bring her heartbreak. She wiped her hands on her apron, and walked toward the kitchen door.

  Once there, she turned back around to face him. “You need a duchess, Nicholas. I am many things, but I am not duchess material. You were right before when you said I was an automaton. That has not changed. I have not changed.”

  Except she had. She knew it, and he probably did too, from the disbelieving look he was giving her.

  He picked up the apple from the counter, taking another bite from it. “What do you want, Felicity?”

  A direct question. She liked that—so much time was lost in subtleties.

  “Friendship.” That was safer. As long as they were friends, when he left, she wouldn’t be devastated.

  He stuck out his palm, and they shook hands. “Friends, then. As we were before, so shall we be again.”

  If only she could convince herself that was really all she wanted.

  Chapter 11

  The next morning, Nicholas unlatched the gate, stepping out onto the sand of the shoreline. The Atlantic Ocean was quiet today, the waves gently lapping against the beach. This time, he did not take the straight path he had walked with Felicity so many times before in their youth, but instead turned to his left, where the orderly gardens of Tetbery turned into bramble-beaten woods.

  He’d never liked this forest. In fact, when he’d first visited the estate as a boy, he’d asked Uncle Randall why he didn’t cut down some of the trees, and expand onto the garden. Uncle Randall had smiled as he informed him that a man could only hope to tame some of nature—the rest, he had to let grow wild. He’d said that these twenty unruly acres reminded him of his real place in the world, because when he hiked through the woods, he wasn’t the Earl of Tetbery anymore.

  He was simply a man, enjoying nature the way nature was supposed to be.

  That had never made sense to Nicholas. He’d never wanted to be “just any man.” He’d wanted to be a duke.

  Now, he didn’t know what he wanted. Everything he’d valued before didn’t seem to matter, not when compared with Felicity’s fresh-faced beauty. Or the fire of defiance lit in her jade eyes. And the taste of her, cinnamon spice and honey.

  He thought of her as his, even after they’d agreed upon friendship. The steady, dispassionate way she approached life had made him think she was not capable of great emotional depths.

  He’d been wrong.

  Wrong about Felicity, wrong about his bill, wrong about his duty—a bloody triangle of wrongness, making him question everything.

  I am not duchess material.

  He couldn’t deny that. Hell, she wasn’t society material at all. Georgina was supposed to help with that. But what right did he have to insist Felicity change? She’d always been so sure of herself, until Margaret’s death.

  And so it was with Tolsworth’s warning in mind that he’d struck out toward the crypt. The old butler had been concerned about Felicity, and now more than ever, Nicholas needed answers. Did she really want only friendship? She’d always been unflinchingly honest, giving him no reason to doubt her words.

  But he wanted her to be lying. He wanted her to think of them as more.

  Even if she wasn’t duchess material.

  Even if he knew damn well the beau monde would never treat him the same again.

  Because when he was with Felicity, he was different too. Less concerned with what the world wanted of him—and more concerned with what he wanted. He was a man, outside of being a duke.

  Funny that it had taken him hiking to the Grantham family mausoleum to realize that.

  In the distance, the mausoleum loomed, high atop the hillside. It was a tall, rectangular building, with a triangular roof that had always seemed too simple when compared with the ornately carved door, and the flower border etched into the stone of the exterior walls. In the crypts were buried every Earl and Countess of Tetbery for the last two hundred years. Two centuries worth of ancestors, with the rest of their family and servants buried in the copse to the left of the mausoleum. To the right of the building was the rushing water, giving the inhabitants a perpetual sea view.

  He liked that. It seemed…peaceful.

  As he climbed the stone steps up the hillside, he already knew what advice Aunt Margaret would have given him about his current predicament. She’d tell him he ought to let Felicity stay at Tetbery, and that he was a fool for thinking he could ever, ever get that girl out of his mind. He’d thought of Felicity when he was a lad at Eton, as a green adolescent roaming these wild Cornwall shores, and as a man sponsoring his first bill for Parliament.

  She’d never been far from his thoughts. Hell, maybe he’d avoided Tetbery these last six years because he knew damn well that the second he set foot on this land, he’d be in her thrall again.

  So it was with equal parts bewilderment and solemn reverence that he pulled open the heavy stone door to the mausoleum, the cold burst of air taking his breath away. If he had thought the beach was cold, then the mausoleum was positively artic. He did not remember it ever being this frigid, in all the times he’d visited with Felicity in the past.

  She’d always liked it here—she’d said it was quiet—but he’d always thought it eerie. Too many ghosts and all of them probably found him lacking. The whoosh of his released breath echoed, and the tap of his booted feet against the stone floor banished the unearthly silence.

  Pulling out his tinderbox, he lit the lantern by the door and unhooked it. Light filled the room, filtering into the cold gray corners. He closed the door behind him. Each room held twelve crypts—usually three grouped together, and then another column beside that. Husbands and wives were buried together in larger tombs. As time passed, the mausoleum had been extended; always further back, never cutting into the graveyard to the left.

  With the lantern held high in his hand, he continued on, valiantly attempting to ignore the hair rising on the back of his neck, and the ever-present chill seeping deep into his bones. Finally, after passing through several chambers, he came to the room where Uncle Randall and Aunt Margaret had been buried.

  Except nothing was the same.

  For a minute, he stood there, mouth agape, eyes wide with shock. His mind sputtered, words not reaching his lips, as he struggled to process what he was seeing.

  This did not make sense.

  None of this made sense.

  And if Felicity had anything to do with this, then Tolsworth was damnably right to be worried about her.

  Chapter 12

  When Nicholas barged into the parlor that afternoon, interrupting her notation on an alchemical manuscript, Felicity knew he’d found Margaret before he spoke. She set her book down and stuck her quill in the ink well, getting up from the desk to face him.

  His face was devoid of color, his eyes bulging. “Felicity, when did Aunt Margaret die?”

  “The third of June.” She didn’t have to think about it, not when the date was so emblazoned on her mind. “You know that.”

  She crossed the room, closing the door firmly behind him. It wouldn’t do for the servants to hear them.

  “That’s what I thought.” Nicholas’s brows furrowed. “But it’s not possible. I just saw her body in the mausoleum. There’s barely any decay. I don’t know how this is possible, Felicity, but she couldn’t have died six months ago.”

  “Did you close the door?�
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  The urgency of her question snapped his head up. “What?”

  “Did you close the door to the crypt? It’s important. The door has to be closed tightly, or the temperature will rise.”

  “Of course I did.” His forehead wrinkled. “I don’t want the servants to see the corpse.”

  Neither did she. She’d ordered that no one enter the mausoleum, not since she’d embalmed Margaret’s body.

  That had been the hardest thing she’d ever done—and if she needed any encouragement to proceed, all she had to do was remember that night, when she’d had to autopsy the woman who was like a mother to her. She shuddered at the memory.

  “Felicity.” That hint of something more was gone from his tone, replaced by his standard officiousness.

  She could deal with that—she was used to him ordering her around. “Yes?”

  When he looked at her now, there was none of the concern he’d exhibited before. “Why does Aunt Margaret’s body look like she died but a few days ago?”

  She was out of time. He’d already seen the body, so there was no point in hiding her research anymore. Even if she didn’t explain everything to him, he’d find out from the servants that she was the one who had ordered the glass coffin for Margaret. It’d be a short leap from there to assuming she was the one who had anatomized Margaret, since none of the servants would know how to do it.

  Heaven’s bells, he’d probably already confirmed travel arrangements with Tolsworth to take her to Wycliffe Manor after the wedding at Castle Keyvnor.

  She might as well get this over with. If nothing else, at least he’d no longer want to be near her. He’d unload her on his sister, rather than deal with her himself. Her logical mind knew that was a good thing—he brought too many complications into her life.

  If only her heart agreed.

  “I embalmed her with a solution of formalin, zinc salts, alcohol, salicylic acid and glycerin.” She did not meet his eyes—though she knew she should not care, she did not want to see revulsion take over his face, as it had Tressa’s. “The glycerin has kept her from drying out, and the zinc salts keep her body from caving in. It’s important for the process.”

  He jumped back from her, words tumbling out of his mouth so fast she almost couldn’t understand him. “Bloody hell, Felicity, are you mad? What process? Why in God’s name would you do that?”

  She sucked in a deep, fortifying breath, reminding herself that she was a scientist, not some silly ninny who’d let his disgust stop her. “Because if I am going to bring Margaret back to life, her body has to be in good condition.”

  Nicholas’s jaw dropped for the second time that afternoon. “You can’t be serious. This is some sort of hocus-pocus, isn’t it? Probably by the witches Lockwood dealt with on All Hallows’ Eve. Is this your revenge upon me for not attending Aunt Margaret’s funeral?”

  He’d never thought Felicity was a particularly vengeful person, but he’d gladly accept that over the far more terrifying possibility that she actually thought she could resurrect Margaret.

  Felicity shook her head. “The coven has nothing to do with my experiments. I did this.”

  She spoke with that same finality she’d used all those years ago to assure him ghosts weren’t real. Except now there was a note of accomplishment he didn’t want to recognize—how could she possibly be proud to have defiled her guardian’s body? She, who claimed to love Margaret so much.

  Unless this was all a great joke. Then she’d be delighted to finally be the one to pull the wool over his eyes for once, instead of vice versa.

  Lord, please let it be that.

  “Devil of a time to develop a sense of humor, Felicity.” He carded a hand through his hair, still trying to work through this all in his mind. “I think I preferred when you were humorless, for this is the least funny joke I’ve ever had played upon me.”

  Felicity blinked. “It’s not a joke.”

  “I don’t know how you managed to procure a replica of Aunt Margaret as she was in her last days, but I suppose it’s true what they say about idle hands being the devil’s work.” He couldn’t stop himself from shuddering, remembering how lifelike Margaret had looked. It wasn’t right. “This is why I didn’t want you to remain at Tetbery, all alone.”

  “I wouldn’t be alone, if Margaret was here,” Felicity hissed, a heavy wrinkle creasing her forehead. “You don’t understand. You never have. Margaret is all I have.”

  Her use of the present tense was enough to send a chill down his spine. She looked so lost—so small—standing there. The dark silk of her mourning gown swallowed her up; the only break in the blackness was the silver pendant she wore, featuring four triangles, two with lines through them. She’d once told him the symbols were for the four elements.

  She reached up, tucking a loose tendril of red behind her ear. Her fingers were streaked with ink. Somehow, that made her seem more human—this girl, who was meticulous in all things, could not avoid making a mess when taking notes. How long had he set her up in his mind as some otherworldly creature, devoid of anything but solid, unflustered logic?

  “You’re right,” he admitted. “I don’t understand. But I want to. Make me understand, Lissie.”

  She sat down on the settee, crossing her arms over her chest. As if she were the one who needed protecting—she, who apparently thought she could bring the dead back to life.

  All his life he thought he’d been the one with power.

  He’d been wrong about that, too.

  “Why, Felicity?” he asked.

  The direct approach worked, as it had before in the kitchen. Her forehead scrunched with thought. Again, she spoke with slow deliberateness, which he now realized was not meant to belittle him—she was precise in everything, even her speech.

  “Margaret shouldn’t have died,” she stated finally. “She was middle-aged, with a full life ahead of her. We had so many hopes and dreams for the future.”

  “Death isn’t fair. Life isn’t fair.” He held up a hand to stall the response he knew was coming. “Before you claim I have no place to say that because of my title, remember that I lost my mother and father, and my aunt and uncle too. I mourned them.”

  “You didn’t even like your mother and father.” She spat this out, another arrow that hit its target, the truth stinging.

  “It’s not so simple.” He rolled his shoulders in a vain attempt to relieve the tension in his body. “They were not the best of parents, but they were still my parents. Perhaps I mourned the loss of what could have been, too.”

  Her nose wrinkled at this. “Grief is complicated.”

  He nodded.

  “I want her back. Margaret should be here.” She scrubbed a hand across her face, leaving a smudge of ink across her nose.

  “I miss her too.” He softened his tone, making it the caress he didn’t dare give. “But I don’t think that playing God is the right thing to do. We are born and then we die. It’s the natural order.”

  “But what if it’s not?” she asked. “What if I can bring her back? I’d never be alone again.”

  “You’re not alone now.” He wanted so badly to take her in his arms and soothe all her fears of abandonment. To tell her that he’d stay with her. Yet that was not a promise he was prepared to make—not now, when he didn’t know how she’d respond.

  So instead he kept his hands to himself, and he hoped his words sounded more like those of a friend, not a suitor. “You have me. And Tolsworth, and all of the servants.”

  Apparently he’d achieved his goal a little too well, for that brought her no comfort. She shook her head. “It’s not the same.”

  “I’m sorry, Felicity,” he said.

  “What are you sorry for? You didn’t kill her; the sickness did.” She stated this in her usual matter-of-fact way, frowning at him. “If you want to be sorry for something, be sorry you didn’t come to her funeral.”

  “I am.” If he’d realized then how much it would hurt Felicity, he would hav
e left London for Cornwall immediately. “If I could change that, I would.”

  She eyed him skeptically. Then, as if she had seen something she approved of, she gave a perfunctory nod. “I believe you.”

  That shouldn’t matter so much to him—yet it did. “As much as I wish Margaret was still alive, she’s not, and I can’t support your efforts here. You’re fooling with forces far outside your ken.”

  “You won’t say that once you see my work.” Earnestly, she turned toward him, grabbing his hand. “I’m so close, Nicholas. I just need more time.”

  He ought to tell her no. He shouldn’t need—shouldn’t want—to see her research to know that this was the crux of insanity. There were real reasons, good reasons, that people were not resurrected from the dead. It simply wasn’t done.

  Yet when he heard the anguish in her voice, and her penetrating jade gaze locked in on him, he couldn’t refuse her.

  Felicity was off, tugging him along with her toward the hall. She came to a stop outside the kitchen, pressing a stone in the wall underneath a tapestry depicting a lion stalking a lamb. The wall receded, revealing a secret passage.

  On any other day, he might have been shocked by the reveal of yet another tunnel he did not know about—but today, after all he’d already seen, he didn’t even raise a brow.

  “Tetbery,” he grumbled under his breath, as Felicity climbed up the stairs in front of him. The press of her hand in his made his heart beat faster with every step, and the view of her pert arse as she climbed was the best thing he’d seen all day.

  Except that she was leading him into the bowels of hell, to discuss work that most likely would get them branded as social misfits at best, and heretics at worse. As she pushed open the door to her laboratory, he wondered if people were still burned at the stake.

  At least if he died first, Felicity could resurrect him.

  Chapter 13

  Felicity’s heart slammed against her chest as they climbed up the stairs. Tension knotted her stomach; made her breath come in uneven pants. She pushed open the door to the laboratory with Nicholas on her heels, fighting against the voice in her head that screamed she shouldn’t let him in. Once she explained what she’d been working on he’d put a stop to it.