The Earl's Snow-Kissed Proposal

by Nina Milne

‘Take your time—and wish Cathy a merry Christmas from me.’

  True to her word, minutes later she sat opposite Gabe and looked at her heaped plate. ‘Wow!’ The thick golden pancakes had been torn into bite-sized pieces, sugar-dusted and piled into an artistic tower. Berries bedecked the concoction and gave the dish a festive edge.

  He wiggled his eyebrows. ‘I thought you might be hungry after last night.’

  ‘You thought right.’

  She dug into the pancakes and nearly moaned at the light texture, at the taste of custard and sugar melting on her tongue.

  ‘These are amazing. But now it’s your turn for a present.’

  Sudden discomfort made him shift on the brocade chair. ‘You didn’t need to...’

  ‘I wanted to. It’s Christmas.’

  One more spoonful and then she rose and went over to the cabinet, returning with a beautifully quilted deep red stocking, embroidered with an image of Father Christmas—presumably purchased from one of Vienna’s numerous Christmas markets.

  ‘Here you are. Happy Christmas. I’m sorry if it’s a bit over the top. I thought that because you said your parents didn’t do stockings...’

  ‘Thank you.’ There was a small awkward moment. ‘Really. I’m not sure what to say. The Derwents aren’t very experienced in receiving presents. But I really mean the thank you.’

  ‘The best way forward is to open them.’

  Her small chuckle, the eager expression on her face, suddenly made it easy to smile and Gabe grinned at her.

  ‘Here goes!’

  He delved a hand in and tugged out his gifts. First a bottle of Viennese wine, then sandalwood soap, a snow globe, and chocolates.

  ‘Etta, thank you. I’ll always remember my very first stocking.’

  For a millisecond a cloud hovered: the realisation that it would in all likelihood be his last, that he wouldn’t ever hang up a stocking for his own children.

  As if she’d read his thoughts she reached out and quickly touched his arm, before reseating herself opposite him. ‘I know you will have thought about this, but not being able to have birth children doesn’t mean you have to give up on having a family. You can adopt.’

  ‘No, I can’t. Adopted children are prohibited from inheriting a title or the land. I won’t bring up a son on Derwent Manor and then tell him he can’t inherit because he’s adopted. It wouldn’t be fair. As for adopting a daughter... It wouldn’t feel right to deliberately adopt a girl just because she couldn’t inherit anyway.’

  ‘I truly believe if you tell the truth from the start it wouldn’t be a problem. If my parents had done that I think it would have made a monumental difference to our relationship. For them and me.’

  ‘I won’t take that risk. I know what it feels like to face the prospect of watching another man take over the land I have learnt to love.’ It was exactly the scenario Gabe now faced. ‘The Derwents have to have children to further the Derwent line.’

  ‘I don’t believe that. Surely you want children for yourself? Because you want to be a dad?’ Etta frowned. ‘Is it that you don’t want to adopt because you don’t want any children who don’t carry your blood?’

  ‘No. It is truly the children I am thinking about.’ His lips straightened into a grim line. ‘If I inherit the title I can’t adopt. If I stand aside I won’t marry at all. My “shallow playboy life” can continue apace. But let’s not talk about this—it’s Christmas, after all.’

  For a moment he thought she’d pursue the topic, but then she nodded. ‘OK.’

  ‘Good. I’ve got a gift for you as well.’

  Etta’s face creased into puzzled lines as she accepted the small wrapped piece of card and opened it. ‘“Max Woodstock, Martial Arts Master”,’ she read out.

  ‘I want you and Cathy to go and get some lessons. I want to know you can defend yourself. Max is the best. I’ve spoken to him and he’ll teach you himself. Lifetime of free lessons.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Etta rose and came round the table, wrapped her arms round him. The unfamiliarity of being hugged caused him to tense for a moment, and then he followed suit, inhaled her vanilla scent as her hair tickled his nose.

  ‘That’s incredibly thoughtful.’

  ‘Knowing martial arts makes you walk taller, with more confidence, and you’d be surprised how far that alone goes in getting people to back off.’ People such as Tommy. ‘Now, let’s go and enjoy a Viennese Christmas.’

  ‘Maybe we could go to the service at the cathedral?’ Etta suggested. ‘I know it’s not the same as a country church, but it would at least be one of your traditions.’

  So they strolled the illuminated Viennese streets, called out greetings to strangers, all smiling and full of festive cheer. Horse-drawn carriages clip-clopped down the road, the horses’ breath showing in clouds in the crisp December air. They stopped to join a cheery crowd that surrounded an outdoor piano-player whose fingers flew over the keys with breathtaking skill.

  Then there was the cathedral, dominating the skyline with its four towers and famed roof tiles in a colourful zig-zag pattern that depicted the coat of arms of the Austrian Empire. Gargoyles spouted water in figurative defence of demons, and the Gothic portals displayed a wealth of detail that had absorbed Etta’s attention for nigh on an hour on their previous visit as she’d examined the biblical scenes, beautifully portrayed with glorious symbolism, alongside the more macabre winged sirens, entwined dragons and two dogs with a single shared head.

  In truth, Gabe had been more captivated by her absorption than by the undoubted craftsmanship. He’d studied the focus in her brown eyes, the curl of her chestnut hair against the delicate nape of her neck, her grace as she’d hunkered down to examine a detail more closely.

  The interior of the cathedral was filled with people, a mixture of those there for the Christmas service, and tourists enthralled by the statues, frescoes, and paintings. The ambience was weighted with history, and above them the immensity of the arched ceiling inspired awe.

  It was an awe that resounded throughout the beauty of the service—in the language that rolled out from the ornamental pulpit and the sound of the choir soaring and swooping in choral harmony, touching the air with a feeling of universal peace and goodwill.

  Once it was over they mingled with the crowds and headed to the entrance, though Etta lingered to study the thoughtful figure of St Augustine with a book, mitre and an inkwell, leant down to peek at the self-portrait of an unknown sculptor under the steps.

  ‘I want a last look. That’s the trouble—there is so much in the world to see, but I fall for places and I want to come back.’

  ‘Like the café?’

  The one Etta had fallen for on day one and insisted on returning to.

  ‘Exactly like the café. I’m a creature of habit.’ Her smile was rueful. ‘So can we go back there today? I checked and it’s open on Christmas Day.’

  They entered the café, a historic haven, chock-a-block with tradition and frequented by philosophers and royalty over the years. High vaulted ceilings, painted archways and splendidly covered seats sprinkled with damask cushions gave the coffee house a regal glory. Notes tinkled from the piano as jacketed waiters glided over the floors with silver trays held aloft with stately expertise.

  ‘I can’t believe I can be hungry after that breakfast, but I am. I’ll have the Viennese potato soup with mushrooms followed by a piece of sachertorte.’

  This brought a smile to his face—Etta had also completely fallen for the torte that Vienna was famed for—especially the café’s speciality: a dense chocolate cake with thin layers of jam.

  The rest of the day passed by in a magical Viennese swirl.

  They walked the gardens of the Schönbrunn Palace, then returned to the hotel and luxuriated in the depths of the black ma
rble bath, complete with Christmas bubbles scented with marzipan. Then their dinner was brought and served by a butler so stately that Gabe blinked.

  ‘He looks more dukelike than me,’ he said as the man made his dignified exit, and Etta gurgled with laughter.

  Conversation flowed—easy talk, with both of them skirting any conversation that would remind them this was the end. Course followed course. Pheasant, goose ravioli, boiled beef and then gingerbread mousse. Each and every dish complemented the one before, and when it was over they stood by the window and gazed out over the still busy streets, illuminated in gold and white.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Etta.’

  ‘Happy Christmas, Gabe.’

  As he took her hand to lead her to the bedroom it occurred to him that it had been. It had been the interlude he’d needed before harsh reality set in.

  But now he needed to face his parents and set about carving out a new life.

  * * *

  Etta shifted on the bed, fought the idea of waking. She wanted to stay asleep, meshed in drowsiness, her mind and body still ensconced in the memories that fizzed and bubbled. The night had been magical—a magic wrought of Christmas and happiness, passion and sweetness and love.

  Her eyes sprang wide in shock... Love?

  Oh, no. No, no, no, no. Etta forced herself to remain still, to keep her breathing even as panic threatened to engulf her. This could not have happened.

  It dawned on her that a noise had awoken her—it was still pitch-dark outside but a faint buzz provided a welcome distraction from the enormity of her stupidity. Until her brain and her ears connected. Oh, God. Was it her phone? Where was her phone? The phone she faithfully placed next to her bed every night. In case Cathy needed her.

  Panic swarmed her brain cells as she scrabbled on top of a gold leaf cabinet. Not there. Scrambling out of bed, she tried to think... It must still be in her bag, probably nearly out of charge...

  She ran into the enormous lounge, tried to recall where she’d dropped her bag, found it on the sofa and fumbled the phone to her ear.

  ‘Cathy? Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum. Actually I was worried about you. But I’ve just realised the time—did I wake you up? Sorry... I miscalculated the difference. We tried you twice yesterday. I wanted to tell you about...’

  Etta sat perched on the chaise longue, listening to the babble of her daughter’s conversation, and relief washed over her. Cathy was safe. But what if she hadn’t been? What if she had been trying to get hold of her and it had been an emergency? What if the unthinkable had happened and Tommy had tracked her down? What if Cathy had needed her?

  Guilt slammed into her, caught her breath.

  ‘Mum? You sure you’re OK? Your Christmas sounded pretty good... What’s the plan now? Is the fake-girlfriend gig over?’

  ‘Yes.’ Etta forced brightness into her voice. ‘It’s over. I’ll be flying out of Vienna today. I’ll be in England when you get back, and we’ll work out where to meet.’

  She couldn’t risk going home yet—there had been no sign of Tommy in Vienna, but there had been enough publicity that he would know exactly where she was.

  Cathy’s sigh carried down the phone and across the miles with gale force. ‘Mum. Please. Let’s drop the cloak-and-dagger stuff. We’ve already missed Christmas together. Let me meet Dad, let him into my life, and it will all be fine.’

  The words sounded so reasonable but Etta knew she was wrong. ‘I can’t do that, Cathy. Your dad is dangerous and abusive.’

  There came the memory of pain, physical and mental, of the sensation of worthlessness, the belief that she deserved to be hurt, the twisted certainty that Tommy loved her—would love her if she could only be less useless. She could not let Cathy be sucked into that vortex in her need for a father. A need she understood all too well.

  ‘So the “cloak-and-dagger stuff” continues. In the meantime enjoy the rest of the cruise and I’ll call you later.’

  ‘Fine.’ Cathy gusted out another tornadic sigh.

  ‘I do get how you feel, Cathy, and I love you lots.’

  ‘Love you too, Mum.’

  Etta disconnected and tried to think—she was an idiot, a fool, a disaster zone. Once again she’d allowed herself to get sucked in. Gabe might not be Tommy, but that wasn’t the point. The problem here was Etta—she couldn’t handle relationships of any sort—not even a fling. Instead she flew out of control, lost perspective. Last time the cost had been her self-respect and her family. This time she might have lost her daughter.

  ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid.’

  ‘Who’s stupid?’

  Etta started and looked up to see Gabe standing between the open mirrored doors that separated the living room and the bedroom. Instant reaction shook her.

  Get it together.

  No matter what happened, Gabe must not suspect she’d fallen for him—stupid didn’t even touch the sides of her folly.

  Say something. Anything.

  ‘Cathy. That was Cathy. She still wants to see Tommy. Which is pretty stupid. But really I meant myself. I haven’t exactly come up with a plan.’

  Slow down, Etta.

  She sounded deranged—like Daffy Duck on helium.

  ‘Let her see him. Once.’

  ‘We’ve been through this. I will not take that risk.’

  ‘She loves you, Etta. Her loyalty is with you. Give her a chance to prove that. She’ll see through Tommy.’

  ‘You don’t know what it’s like to want a dad—to fantasise about the perfect man who will turn up and look after you. I do know.’

  Somehow it seemed important that before she left, Gabe should know everything. She wanted him to understand, not to judge her and find her wanting. It shouldn’t matter to her, but it did.

  ‘I was a doorstep baby. My birth parents left me on the doorstep of a church in Henrietta Street. That’s where my name came from. The authorities tried to trace my parents but they never came forward. I’ve tried to trace them too, but I haven’t managed it. I have fantasised about their identity for years, and if someone turned up claiming to be my dad I’d believe whatever he said, whoever he was. Cathy will be the same.’

  There was silence as he absorbed her words. Then he stepped forward and tugged her into a hug, and for a treacherous second she rested her head on the breadth of his chest and drew solace from his strength.

  ‘That’s tough. You must have so many questions.’

  Stepping back, she knew with crystal-clear certainty that it was the last time he would hold her, and she could feel the crack appear in her heart. The pain made her catch her breath.

  ‘I do. But I accept now that they won’t ever be answered. My parents—my adoptive ones, I mean—assumed the worst. That my birth parents were drug addicts who simply didn’t care about me. I think that’s why they had trouble bonding with me. They were desperate for a child, and they convinced themselves and the social workers that it would all work out, but it didn’t. They tried to pretend I was their child, but the whole time they were watching me, waiting for my blood to out itself. They tried to love me, but when Rosa came along they had an instant bond—they loved her without effort. I guess that didn’t happen with my birth parents and me.’

  Sadness touched her—what had been so wrong with her that they hadn’t left her any clue as to her identity?

  ‘You don’t know that. They may have left you because there was no alternative.’

  ‘Maybe. The point is, whether that’s true or not, if they had turned up when I was a teenager and claimed to be saints I would have believed them—no questions asked. Cathy will be the same about Tommy.’

  ‘No. Because Cathy has you. You had no one—you have always had to face things alone. Your adoptive parents weren’t there for you when you needed them most. Hel
l. They weren’t there for you at all. Little wonder you dreamt about your birth parents being perfect. Cathy won’t do that. Trust yourself, Etta.’

  His voice was deep with sincerity, but how could she trust herself when she’d blithely fallen in love with Gabe? A man who wanted a suitable aristocratic wife or a playboy lifestyle...a man who eschewed love and closeness.

  She got why—Gabe had been packed off to boarding school, abandoned to the bullies, and expected to work it out for himself. He’d been brought up without love and believed that to show love was to show weakness. And Gabe wasn’t a weak man. He was a man bound by duty and choice to follow a certain path in life. A path he couldn’t share with Etta even if she wanted that. And she didn’t—wouldn’t risk what love did to her. How it messed with her head. She was safer, happier alone.

  Yet misery weighted her very soul at the idea that she would never see him again. Never touch him, laugh with him, or wake up cocooned in his arms. If she didn’t leave now she’d cave, throw herself at him, and in the process lose all self-respect.

  What was wrong with her? Her relationship with Cathy was forged in bonds of steel and love—how could she have let herself be distracted from that? For a man who didn’t want her? Her lungs constricted and a band of grief tightened her chest. She had to get out of here.

  ‘I need to go. Thank you for everything.’

  Gabe’s forehead was etched with a deep frown. ‘Whoa. Not so fast.’

  * * *

  Gabe tried to force misplaced panic down. ‘What’s going on, Etta? I thought your plan was to leave tomorrow.’

  Think, Gabe.

  But for once his brain refused to cooperate. Strands of thought whirled and swirled and he couldn’t correlate them, couldn’t formulate a strategy.

  Part of his mind was still trying to assimilate the extent of what Etta had faced in her life. To learn that she had been abandoned by her birth parents at the same time as learning she was adopted and then being rejected by her adopted parents... Little wonder she’d rebelled in a bid to win her parents’ attention. But the consequence had been a plunge into an abusive relationship and a teen pregnancy.