by Lauren Royal
All at once, he wished he were growing flowers for her.
And even worse, he wished he weren’t marrying Creath.
He wondered if he might be falling in love.
But that was absurd. He barely knew Chrystabel—a relevant fact in itself—but he knew enough to know they were wrong for each other. Here was yet another i word: incompatible. How could a fellow as cautious as he fall for a girl as reckless as Chrystabel?
And in any case, a man couldn’t fall in love in one day. He wasn’t falling; he was reacting to the sight of luscious breasts—and to the ideas Mother had put in his head. All her talk of delightful this and refreshing that had shaken him.
No matter what his mother said, Chrystabel wasn’t irresistible.
He was just finding her hard to resist.
But resist he must, because an innocent young woman was counting on him. He couldn’t think of anything that would be more dishonorable than abandoning his best friend.
While he’d mused about love and honor and cleavage, Chrystabel had been wandering his conservatory, examining the plants here and there. “Strawberries!” she exclaimed now. “I’ve been wanting to see where you grew them.” She paused in the middle of reaching for one. “May I?”
“Of course.”
She plucked it and popped it into her mouth. Strawberry red fruit between her strawberry red lips—the vision was shockingly sensual. “Mmm,” she murmured appreciatively. “I cannot wait for strawberry tart tonight.”
He couldn’t wait to watch her eat more strawberries.
And now he wanted to kiss the strawberry juice off those tempting strawberry red lips.
He was pathetic.
She wandered over to his next planter box and bent to sniff the small flowers there, treating him to another view. He quickly averted his eyes.
“Oh! I’ve never smelled this scent before. It’s lovely.” With obvious delight, she ran her fingers over the delicate white petals. “What kind of flower is this?”
“Those are potato plants,” he told her, still trying to get the image of kissing her out of his mind. “The fact that they’re flowering means the potatoes are ready to be harvested.”
“Harvested?” She straightened—to his great relief—and cocked her pretty head to one side. “You don’t grow these for the flowers, then? What’s a potato?”
“It’s a tuber—a much-thickened underground part of the stem. It bears buds from which new plants grow, and it also serves as food for the plant. And it’s a good food for us.” He knelt down and dug around one, then pulled it out and rose with it. “You can eat it.”
It was brown, lumpy, and covered in dirt. She grimaced.
He found that grimace charming.
Which was not the same as delightful.
“It’s ugly,” she said.
“It’s delicious.”
“I’ve never heard of a potato before.”
“They aren’t common in England. They’re from the New World. My uncle sent me my first few plants, and they’re easy to grow, so now I have many. A whole field of them in growing season—it’s one of our crops. I planted these in here so we wouldn’t run out over the winter.”
“You really like to eat them, then.” She licked her lips, sending a stab of hot lust through him. “Are they eaten raw or cooked?”
“Not raw!” He laughed, which made him feel a little less hot. Or maybe it made him feel a little less lust. Whichever, he felt better. “They taste awful raw,” he added with more than a little relief. “Our cook prepares them many ways, but my favorite is a pudding with lots of butter and spices.”
“Can we have some tonight? I love trying new things.”
She suddenly struck him as the kind of girl who would try anything. The thought filled him with unwelcome excitement. The image of kissing her was gone—well, faded, anyway—but his heart was galloping regardless.
Bloody hell. What on earth was he going to do about this? It wasn’t right. He’d never felt so disloyal and despicable in his life.
“Of course we can have some tonight,” he forced out through gritted teeth. “Let me dig up more, and I’ll take them to the kitchen.”
Fourteen
SEATED THREE HOURS later at the pretty hexagonal table in her bedchamber, Chrystabel cocked her head. “If you’re sure there’s no lavender, rosemary should do.”
A knock sounded only seconds before Matthew opened the door.
“Uh oh.” Arabel’s eyes widened as she handed over the vial of rosemary oil. “I warned you,” she whispered, “he’s going to be furious.”
But Chrystabel hadn’t been worried, and she wasn’t worried now. When Matthew approached, one look at his face told her he was not furious, although she suspected he’d pretend he was for a while.
She knew her brother.
“You said you were coming back,” he scolded, just as she’d expected. “Why didn’t you come back?”
“I was awfully cold, and I realized I had too much to do.” Wearing her best mask of blithe innocence, she unstoppered the vial and took a delicate sniff. “I had to finish decorating, and now I’m making perfume for gifts. And I still have to oversee Christmas Eve supper. Did you find a good tree to cut for the yule log?”
“Yes. That took us only a few minutes.”
Purposely delaying her reply, she made a note on a little card before dipping her dropper into the rosemary oil. She’d run out of lavender oil, but the rosemary would add a lovely lavender-like top note to the scent she was creating for Lady Trentingham. “If finding the log took only a few minutes, then why did you and Creath take so long to return?”
“Maybe because we were waiting for you?”
She peeked up at him through her lashes. “Or maybe not?”
Shying away from her knowing gaze, he skirted the table and wandered over to the curved oriel windows. Then he just stood there, looking down on the snow-blanketed Tudor gardens in silence.
She added two drops of the rosemary oil to her bottle and swirled it gently. “Spill it, Matthew.”
“I don’t know what happened.” He remained facing away, his warm breath fogging the glass as his words tumbled out in a rush. “We talked and talked. And walked and talked some more. It was cold, but I didn’t care, and she didn’t seem to, either. I think I could talk to Creath forever and never run out of things to say. I just met her yesterday, yet I feel I’ve known her for years.”
Chrystabel’s mouth hung open. Never in her life had she heard her brother speak this way about a woman—or speak about women at all. Not in front of his sisters, anyway. Though her heart soared, she made no response. Instead she sniffed her concoction, decided she was pleased, and corked it. One more gift crossed off her list.
Passing over another empty bottle, Arabel’s big brown eyes flashed with disbelief and excitement.
Chrystabel couldn’t suppress a grin. Thankfully, Matthew couldn’t see it.
She forced herself to focus on the bottle. “Creath is sweet, don’t you think?” she said conversationally, using a little silver funnel to add alcohol and water from two pewter flagons. “I think a floral scent will fit her. Orange blossoms, and maybe some vanilla. Lilac, I think…Arabel, do you see lilac oil?”
Arabel searched the rows of vials with their tiny, neatly lettered labels. After handing over the requested lilac, she looked to her brother’s turned back. “Did you kiss Creath?” she asked bluntly.
Matthew’s shoulders tensed, but he said nothing.
“Chrystabel said you would kiss her. She also said you two would fall in love. Are you two in love, Matthew?”
“Hell, no,” he ground out, sounding miserable. “Maybe I did kiss her. But if I did, it was a mistake. It was—” With a strangled noise, he cut himself off. His head drooped, his forehead banging into the glass. “Anyway, she hated it. She ran away right after, even though things had been going so well.”
Chrystabel’s insides churned with shock over his candid admissions a
nd sympathy for his hurt and confusion. She’d never seen him fall to pieces like this before. He’d scarcely ever appeared less than composed and in control.
But besides all that, she couldn’t help feeling a stab of childish envy, too. Matthew had kissed seventeen-year-old Creath, and yet she, nineteen-year-old Chrystabel, still had yet to be kissed.
How unfair was that?
“I suspect she was just startled,” she told her brother. “You took her by surprise. Her new feelings took her by surprise.”
He finally turned from the windows, his dark eyes glazed. “She wasn’t the only one taken by surprise.”
“Of course you’re both surprised. Your feelings grew very swiftly. But just think, Matthew—you can save her from that awful Sir Leonard! If you marry her before he returns, she’ll be safe from his fiendish designs. You can be her knight in shining armor like in days past.” She gave a romantic sigh. “You must marry her, and quickly.”
Now it was his turn to look shocked. “Marry her? I just met her! And my whole life has just been turned upside down. I’m being forced to move to Wales and start over, and I…I cannot begin to contemplate marriage, not on top of everything else.”
“I know the timing isn’t ideal.” Adding three drops of lilac to Creath’s scent, Chrystabel set down the bottle to fix her brother with an earnest gaze. “It’s true the two of you just met, but some things are meant to be. Not every man is lucky enough to meet his perfect match. Don’t you see that you have to act now, or she’ll be lost to you forever? She’ll be married to Sir Leonard and having his babies instead of yours.”
“Babies? One kiss and you’re talking babies? I cannot listen to this.” Matthew stomped to the door.
“Where are you going?” Arabel called after him.
“Away!” he growled. “To see that our servants cut and haul the yule log for your deranged sister’s illegal secret Christmas.”
The door slammed behind him.
“He wasn’t furious,” Chrystabel pointed out to her sister calmly.
“He is now.”
“He’ll get over it. Can you pass me the vanilla?”
Arabel didn’t. “I think you were right about Matthew and Creath,” she said slowly, tracing one of the stars embroidered on her gown. “He’s in love, even I can see that. And your plan brought them together—at least for a little while.” She met her sister’s gaze with reluctant awe. “Perhaps you are a bit of a matchmaker.”
“It would seem so,” Chrystabel said modestly, not wanting to appear smug. Though she had known she was right all along. “Matthew will sort things out with Creath, I’m sure of it. All that’s left now is to secure Joseph’s heart for myself. I’ve decided what to give him for Christmas.”
“A bottle of scent?”
Searching for the vanilla herself, Chrystabel shook her head. “Not a bottle of scent.”
“Why not? Men wear perfume too, you know.”
“Not Joseph. He likes growing flowers, not wearing them.”
“How do you know?”
“You think I don’t know the man I’m going to marry?”
Arabel laughed. “So what are you going to give him?”
“My roses.” Just saying it aloud filled her with anticipation. She couldn’t wait to see his reaction.
“What roses?” Arabel paused in thought. “You can’t mean your roses—”
“My roses,” Chrystabel confirmed. “He grows flowers, and he doesn’t have any roses here at Tremayne. They’re the perfect gift for him.”
“But you love those roses—you fought tooth and nail to bring them along. Lord, I thought you would rather have left Matthew behind than those bushes! Why on earth would you give them away now?”
“You’re not seeing the situation clearly,” Chrystabel said, adding two drops of vanilla to the bottle. “Joseph will have my roses, but I will have Joseph. He’ll care for them, I’ll have my essential oils, and we’ll live happily ever after.”
“Oh, Chrys…” Concern in her eyes, Arabel cleared her throat. “You know happily ever afters only happen in fairy tales. Shouldn’t you lower your expectations, at least a little? Elsewise you’re bound to be disappointed.”
“I disagree. I think I’m destined for a happily ever after, and so are you. After Joseph and I get married, I’m going to find your match.”
“Not that I’m convinced you can, but please don’t. I’m not ready to get married.”
Chrystabel swirled the bottle. “Whyever not? Being in love feels wonderful.”
“But making love doesn’t.” Her sister bit her lip. “Don’t you remember what Martha and Cecily told us?”
“Oh, pish, they said it only hurts the first time. You cannot avoid marriage just because you’re worried about that,” Chrystabel told her, though she sometimes worried about that a bit herself.
“I have no intention of avoiding marriage. I’m just not in any hurry, either.”
“You will be when I find your perfect match. And then, once again, you will have to admit I was right. Now, smell this.”
Arabel rolled her eyes—good-naturedly, because she was Arabel—and raised the bottle of perfume to her nose. “It’s lovely. Creath will adore it.”
“Excellent.”
Arabel corked the bottle. “Are we done, then?”
“With perfuming. But there’s still so much to do.” Rising, Chrystabel took out her penknife and went to the wardrobe cabinet. Opening it, she pulled a dress forward and cut off half of a hook-and-eye fastener.
Arabel gasped. “Why on earth did you do that?”
“I need something that looks like an anchor.” Chrystabel handed her the little hook. “Don’t you think this resembles an anchor?”
“A little, I suppose,” Arabel said doubtfully. “What’s it for?”
“For a pudding token.”
“Oh!” Arabel’s eyes lit up. “We’re having Christmas pudding tonight?”
“Well, no. Tremayne’s staff was told not to make any beforehand, and it’s too late to begin now. We’re having strawberry tart instead.”
Arabel’s pout looked out of place on her normally cheerful face. “Strawberry tart is a sad substitute for plum pudding.”
“It’s the best substitute we’ve got,” Chrystabel retorted. “Plum pudding takes weeks to mature, and we have but a few hours. Anyhow, aren’t you amazed that we’re going to eat strawberries in wintertime?”
“That’s certainly…exotic. And I’m sure the tart will be lovely. It just won’t be Christmasy.”
“But strawberries are red,” Chrystabel persisted. “That’s festive! And we’ll still have the pudding tokens. It’ll be plenty Christmasy, you’ll see.”
Her sister’s shrug was noncommittal. “I wonder what happened to the plum pudding we made on Stir-Up Sunday.”
“I tried to sneak it into the wagon, but Matthew caught me.” As luggage space was limited, their brother had drawn the line at bringing sticky Christmas pudding with them to Wales.
Arabel sighed. “Such a waste.”
“Not entirely. I left the pudding out on our kitchen worktable for whoever comes to claim Grosmont Grange. But first…” A tiny smile curving her lips, Chrystabel waited for her sister to look up. “First I doused the thing in vinegar and added enough pepper to choke an army.”
While Arabel dried her tears of mirth, Chrystabel rummaged in her sparsely filled jewel box to find her daintiest ring. As she slipped one on and off her pinkie, her maid knocked and entered.
“Oh, there you are, Mary.”
“Here’s the thimble you asked for, milady.”
“Just in time.” Chrystabel tucked the ring and thimble into her pocket, together with the little hook. Her tasks here were finished. “Mary, do you think you could locate my store of fabric cuttings and bring it here? If you’ll wait for her, Arabel, I’d like you to leave you in charge of the gift wrapping.” On her way out, she paused before the fancy gilt mirror and tweaked her neckline back into
place.
“Where are you off to?” Arabel asked.
“A meeting in the kitchen.” Dipping her finger into a little pot, she smoothed berry-red pomade over her lips.
For this particular meeting, she wanted to look utterly kissable.
Fifteen
HAVING NO IDEA why he’d been summoned to the kitchen late that afternoon, Joseph was on his way when he passed the library and decided to take a detour.
As he’d expected, Creath was inside. But for once she wasn’t reading. A book lay open and forgotten on her lap while she stared at the dancing flames in the fireplace.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, startling her from her reverie. “What are you thinking about?”
A vague expression clouded her face. She still seemed preoccupied. “Well, you know I went for a walk, and—”
“You what?” All the air seemed to have left his lungs.
“I walked. You knew I was going to.”
“I most certainly did not.”
A little crease appeared between her brows. “Yes, you did. Chrystabel disguised me as a boy, which ended up not mattering because no one saw us.”
He might’ve known Chrystabel was behind this. More proof of the recklessness that made her unsuitable. More reason to avoid her—and disturbing thoughts of her—at all costs.
He pulled a deep breath into his now-functioning lungs. “Thank God you weren’t seen.”
She managed to wave off his concern while still looking concerned herself. “That’s not what I was thinking about. It’s just…well…I guess things felt different out there.” She looked away from him, back toward the fire. “And ever since, I’ve been thinking about how you shouldn’t marry me. About how it really wouldn’t be fair to you.”
“Not that again.” He was tired of having this argument with both her and his mother, but he wouldn’t berate Creath when she was looking so anxious. Instead, he chucked her under the chin. “You can’t change my mind, sweetheart. Not now that I’ve finally got used to the idea. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. Forever.”
