by Lauren Royal
With a sigh of resignation, Chrystabel let her sister march her down to supper. Oh, how she longed for the fine pre-Cromwell gowns hidden in the bottom of her trunk. “Do you miss silk, Arabel? I miss silk. And damask. And embroidery and lace. I could go on all day…”
“Please don’t,” Arabel said good-naturedly. “You’d make us late for supper. Then Matthew would be angry, our hosts would be insulted, and we’d still be stuck wearing hideous brown sacks.”
Chrystabel giggled. “What about velvet? Mmm, wouldn’t fur-lined velvet be ever so snug on an evening like this?”
Arabel put a finger to her lips. “You forget we’re in a stranger’s home. Tremayne folk might frown on such talk.”
“They’d better not frown at me,” Chrystabel grumbled. “It’s Yuletide, and just as soon as my trunk arrives I’ll wear red and green whether they like it or not.”
“Suit yourself.” Arabel shook her head. “But we haven’t seen how the lady of the house dresses yet, and I, for one, would rather look dreadful inside a warm castle than ravishing tossed out into the snow.”
As usual, Arabel was right. Sometimes Chrystabel thought Arabel should be the older sister. Perhaps they’d been accidentally born in the wrong order.
Chrystabel cast about for a safe subject. “How is your chamber?”
“Marvelous. It's done up all in yellow with a very pretty four-poster bed. And best of all, it’s warm.” Arabel was easy to please. “I hope the storm doesn’t break tomorrow.”
“You’d like to stay longer?”
Arabel grinned. “I’d like to stay forever.”
“Me, too.” When they passed the fancy mirror Chrystabel had noticed earlier, she was careful to avoid her reflection. It would only upset her. “I think I shall marry the viscount.”
That startled a laugh out of her sister. “Don’t be a goose.”
“Who’s being a goose?” Chrystabel lifted her skirts to descend the staircase. “I’m perfectly serious.”
“No, you’re not. You don’t know anything about him.” Arabel gave her a sidelong glance. “Except that he’s handsome and doesn’t live in Wales.”
For once, her younger sister was wrong. “I’m not wedding him to avoid Wales. I’m wedding him because I love him.”
Now Arabel rolled her eyes. “You cannot be in love with him. You haven’t even had a proper conversation with him yet.”
“‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’” Chrystabel quoted triumphantly. “It seems Shakespeare would beg to differ.”
Since Arabel was the academic of the family—she’d read nearly every book in the Grange’s library—Chrystabel could rarely best her with scholarship. She relished every opportunity.
“As You Like It is fiction, not philosophy,” her sister pointed out. “And incidentally, Shakespeare didn’t even write that line. He was referencing a poem by Christopher Marlowe.”
Hmmph. So much for besting Arabel.
“And there’s no such thing as love at first sight, Chrys. That only happens in plays and poems.”
Yesterday, Chrystabel would have agreed with that sentiment. But today she knew differently.
“What a sad, unromantic soul you are, dear sister.” She patted Arabel on the shoulder. “Since it’s happened to me, I suppose I’ll have to prove you wrong.”
Four
WHEN LORD TREMAYNE walked the Trevors into the dining room, his parents were already at the table. While Chrystabel and her siblings took their seats, the young viscount introduced them—which happily provided enough of a distraction to allow Chrystabel to maneuver herself into a seat beside him.
Lord Trentingham looked like an older version of his son, and Chrystabel was pleased to see that her future husband would remain attractive into his older years. Lady Trentingham was petite, with gleaming brown hair and her son’s thoughtful green eyes. To Chrystabel’s delight, she wore a lovely hyacinth-blue gown that revealed a fair expanse of skin. Right then and there, Chrystabel decided she’d be donning one of her own pretty gowns tomorrow. The red brocade, perhaps.
She couldn’t wait for Lord Tremayne to see her in it.
While inquiries were being made—and condolences offered—on the direction and purpose of the Trevors’ journey, another guest entered and headed toward Chrystabel. Then she paused in apparent confusion before making her way to the last remaining empty chair, on the other side of the table.
She was a fetching young woman in a modest tawny frock. “I’d be pleased for you to meet our dear friend, Mistress Creath Moore,” Lady Trentingham said by way of introduction.
Seated directly across from Chrystabel, Matthew blinked. “Pray pardon, could you repeat that name?”
“Creath. It rhymes with breath,” the young woman said with a broad smile in his direction. She was fair and looked to be about Arabel’s age. “It’s a family name,” she added, looking pleased about that.
When the viscount leaned closer, Chrystabel caught a whiff of his scent. Rich soil, fresh greenery, and spicy wood smoke—with a hint of something mouthwatering and male underneath.
“Creath is recently orphaned,” he whispered, “so bearing a family name brings her comfort, even if it is unusual.”
His warm words tickled her ear. She could barely suppress a shiver. What was that delicious fragrance? She’d never smelled anything like it, in her perfumery or out.
Whatever it was, she wanted to bottle it.
And her heart was pounding madly. Why on earth did Arabel think a ‘proper conversation’ was a prerequisite to falling in love? The way Chrystabel felt had nothing to do with talking.
Oh, yes, she was going to marry this man. But she would have to be patient and give him time to catch up. Silly as it seemed—given the inevitability of the outcome—she’d have to work on making the viscount love her in return. Men could be blasted dim creatures when it came to this sort of thing.
No matter, she could wait. They had years and years of romantic bliss ahead of them, after all. She was a reasonable woman. She could accept that he might not fall in love with her tonight.
Tomorrow would suit her just as well.
It seemed she was becoming her own matchmaker. Now that it occurred to her, she rather thought she’d be a natural. Already, instinctively, she knew where to begin: getting Lord Tremayne to touch her.
She liked this plan. She liked it so much, her skin tingled all over. Her body felt acutely aware of the heat emanating from his. Something in her craved that heat, although she was thoroughly thawed-out now and the dining room was at a perfectly agreeable temperature.
Like everything else in this castle, the dining room was impressive. The gate-leg table they were seated at had all its leaves folded away and looked dwarfed in the big chamber. The room had dark-paneled walls, an embellished stone fireplace, pleasing paintings and tapestries, and an elaborately carved wooden minstrel’s gallery at one end.
But she couldn’t help noticing that something was missing.
“You’ve no Christmas decorations,” she said to no one in particular, while two footmen set out an array of steaming dishes. “Are you not celebrating?”
“Of course we’re not celebrating.” Judging by the young viscount’s expression, he was wondering if she were daft. “It’s illegal. Meaning that would be a crime.”
Chrystabel unleashed her silvery laugh. “Indeed, Lord Tremayne.” Oh, he was too darling. “But who would catch you celebrating all the way out here?”
He raised a brow. “Out here?”
Her expansive gesture was meant to encompass the many miles between here and civilization. “Out here in the wilderness.”
Tremayne wasn’t quite as much in the wilderness as Wales, but it was close. The castle sat beside the River Severn, and Wales was just across it.
A corner of his mouth twitched. “We have Justices of the Peace here, as elsewhere. And surely you know that Cromwell’s Roundhead spies abound.” His eyes held hers for what felt like a lon
g time, though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. “And please, call me Joseph. We don’t stand on ceremony out here in the wilderness.”
Arabel and Creath let out little gasps at that impertinent request, while Joseph’s parents wore matching incredulous expressions. Even the viscount seemed surprised by his own audacity.
But even though she suspected he’d said “out here in the wilderness” to poke fun at her, Chrystabel only smiled. She was liking her future husband better and better. “Then you must call me Chrystabel.”
“And you can call me Creath,” Creath announced, apparently loath to be excluded. Unless…had her remark been directed at Matthew? Her gaze appeared to be fastened on his. “It rhymes with breath,” she reminded him.
Now Matthew looked incredulous.
“Wine, Lord Grosmont? My ladies?” Lord Trentingham motioned to an etched glass decanter. “It’s Tremayne’s own vintage,” he added with a touch of pride.
“Yes, please,” Matthew answered for all three of them, tearing his gaze from Creath’s to nod to the earl. “And our thanks.”
Chrystabel watched a footman pour the pale amber liquid. “You make wine here?” she asked, anticipating her first taste. Since the Roundheads had banned liquor, wine had become a luxury.
“You passed the vines on your way in,” Lady Trentingham said. “Of course, they’re dormant now, but we had a nice harvest this year. Enough for our needs and more.”
“A vineyard where everyone can see it?” Chrystabel darted Joseph a look of triumph. “How fortunate that you’ve managed to continue the enterprise without incurring the wrath of Cromwell’s spies.”
Beside her, Joseph couldn’t quite suppress a chuckle. “Growing grapes is not illegal.”
It was her turn to raise a brow. “And what you do with the grapes…?”
“Is well hidden within the castle walls.” Saluting her with his goblet, he drank.
“Wreaths and garlands would stay hidden within the castle walls as well.” Chrystabel sipped the Tremayne wine. It was light, refreshing, and a little sweet, similar to Rhenish. She liked it. And it seemed to make her bold. “My sisters and I have made Christmas trimmings together every year since I can remember. It was our father’s favorite holiday. During the war, he so loved coming home to see Grosmont Grange all done up in greenery and red ribbon, with all of us dressed to match. He said it reminded him what the Royalists were fighting for.”
Sometimes Chrystabel was almost glad Father hadn’t lived to see the outcome of the war. He would have chafed at the dull, colorless existence prescribed by the Commonwealth government. Even more than she did, he would have hated seeing beauty and joy constrained.
“What a lovely tradition,” Lady Trentingham said, sounding genuine.
Chrystabel nodded. “Arabel and I were on our own with the trimmings this year, but we did our best to keep our tradition alive.”
Even after Martha and Cecily had married and moved away, they’d always come home for the Yuletide season—until this year. Reluctant to incur the new regime’s displeasure, the two eldest Trevor siblings and their families had kept their distance.
“I’m sure your decorations were magnificent.” Lady Trentingham’s smile was wistful. “It’s a shame nobody will get to enjoy them.”
The sisters shared a look. “Actually…” Arabel began, then bit her lip.
“We brought them with us,” Chrystabel blurted.
Joseph’s expression turned wary. “Oh?”
Ignoring him, she carried on addressing the countess, trying not to sound too eager. “This storm doesn’t seem to be letting up,” she began. As if to underscore her point, a mighty gust of wind rattled the leaded windows.
“We’re in the midst of a dreadful freeze,” Lady Trentingham said. “Even if it clears, you ought to stay a few more days.”
Matthew nearly spit out a mouthful of wine.
“Don’t you agree, dear?” the countess asked her husband.
Lord Trentingham shrugged. “I wouldn’t travel in this weather, but if our guests want—”
“My thoughts exactly,” his wife interrupted, then looked to the Trevor siblings. “You’ll stay through Christmas Day, at least?”
“It would be our pleasure,” Chrystabel rushed to say, thinking Matthew wasn’t the only one who could answer for all of three of them. Though he’d doubtless avenge himself later, he was far too polite to contradict her in front of their hosts.
The countess nodded with satisfaction. “It’s settled, then.”
“And I know just how to express our gratitude,” Chrystabel said. “With your permission, my lady, Arabel and I would be delighted to make you a gift of our Christmas decorations.”
“Absolutely not,” Lord Trentingham protested. “It’s far too risky.”
Chrystabel wasn’t giving up. “Surely a few garlands carry no more risk than a winemaking operation—my lord,” she added deferentially.
“The wine is different.” Chrystabel could see why he’d want to think that: The earl was on his second glass already. “It stays hidden in the cellars. Your garlands would festoon the whole place. Anyone entering the castle could see.”
“But surely no one can really threaten your family.” Chrystabel watched Lord Trentingham exchange a look with his wife. “Only the House of Lords can convict a peer, and the House of Lords has been abolished.”
The man shook his head. “Everything’s changed. The old king is dead, and the new king is exiled. The war is over. We Royalists lost. We don’t have the power we once did.”
“But you’re an earl.”
“I’m an earl, too,” Matthew unhelpfully pointed out, “and Cromwell just confiscated my home. There’s no telling what will happen going forward. It would behoove us all to be careful.”
Chrystabel scowled at her brother. He’d never raised these concerns before, not even when they’d been roaming the countryside with their Yuletide greenery peeking out from beneath their baggage wagon’s tarpaulins. It seemed Matthew had chosen the manner of his retribution.
“There will be no Christmas celebration,” Lord Trentingham declared. “Not in this house.”
And that was that, Chrystabel supposed. For now. And at least they’d secured an invitation to stay a few more days.
Which should give her plenty of time to make Joseph fall in love with her.
As the next course was served, scents of roasted chicken made Chrystabel’s mouth water. Having dined at inns for the length of their journey, she was grateful for the excellent meal. But when a footman offered her a dish of creamed spinach, she took just a dollop, wanting to look dainty and feminine in front of the viscount.
How could she get him to touch her?
Lady Trentingham served herself a far more generous helping of creamed spinach. “Do you enjoy any pastimes, Lady Arabel?”
“I like to read. To study, really.” Arabel waved the footman on; she’d never cared for spinach. “I enjoy learning new things.”
Creath likewise refused the spinach. “I enjoy reading, too.” She would make a nice friend for Arabel, Chrystabel thought. The two were just the same age, and they both liked to read and disliked spinach.
“Enjoy reading strikes me as rather an understatement,” Joseph said, bestowing a fond smile on Creath. “If I leave you alone for two minutes, I always come back to find you with your nose buried in a book.”
Chrystabel wanted him to smile at her, not Creath. “Perfuming is my pastime,” she volunteered. “Making and mixing scents, mostly from flowers and other plants. I noticed you have a wonderful Tudor garden here at Tremayne.”
“That’s my son’s garden,” Lord Trentingham told her proudly.
She’d known that, of course, but she turned to his son with feigned surprise. “How extraordinary! I’ve never met a viscount who gardens.”
Joseph shrugged. “It’s something I’ve always enjoyed.”
“You’ve a true talent,” she told him sincerely. “E
ven with the snow cover, I could tell your garden is exquisite.”
He blushed faintly. “You’re far too kind. It’s not much to look at, really, this time of year.”
“You must long for the summertime,” she said, thinking of her dream.
“I prefer summer,” he allowed, “but I garden in the winter, too. Indoors, in an unfinished wing of the castle. I call it my conservatory.”
“An indoor garden? That’s fascinating.” She saw an opportunity to get him alone. “Will you show me?”
“Perhaps tomorrow, when it will be light,” Lady Trentingham suggested. “He can give you and your sister a tour.”
Oh, bother. Now Chrystabel would have to find an excuse to leave Arabel behind. And she’d have to wait until tomorrow.
She didn’t want to wait that long for Joseph to touch her. She wanted it to happen tonight. It seemed very important—altogether necessary—that he touch her tonight.
She pondered that through the third course, while conversation rattled around her. Meaningless conversation. Conversation that had nothing to do with getting Joseph to touch her or fall in love with her, which meant she wasn’t interested.
The fourth course was sweets. When a footman set a dish of trifle in front of her, she took a recess from pondering to savor the sugar and cream dancing on her tongue. And that gave her an idea. “Do you like to dance, Lady Trentingham?”
“I adore dancing.” Joseph’s mother dipped her spoon into her own trifle and sighed. “It’s been ages since I danced.”
Chrystabel smiled. “Should you like to dance tonight?”
“For pity’s sake,” Joseph burst out on a laugh, “are you a secret Roundhead attempting to entrap us?” Though she could tell he accused her in jest, the charge still stung a bit—her father had died fighting the Roundheads, after all. “Perhaps it would help if we list every way in which we should not like to break the law. No, we don’t wish to attend the theater. No, we don’t wish to play dice. No, we don’t wish to take up highway robbery—”
“Joseph, dear, I think you’ve made your point,” Lady Trentingham said dryly.
Falling silent, the viscount discovered a renewed interest in his trifle. He frowned in what looked like consternation, as if unsure what had come over him.
