by Lauren Royal
“Are you sure?” she asked wanly.
“I’m sure,” he said, and if a vision of Chrystabel seemed to flash across his vision, he knew better than to pay it any mind. “Are you all right?”
“I suppose so. Yes, I’m fine.” Mustering a small, brave smile, Creath picked up her book. “Do feel free to go about whatever it was you were doing.”
“I’ve been summoned to the kitchen. I dug up twenty potatoes earlier, but I suspect they want more.”
“I like potatoes.”
“Me, too. See how compatible we are?” Glad to see her familiar smile widen, he considered giving her a kiss for reassurance. But he didn’t feel like it just now. “Enjoy your book,” he said instead on his way out.
Everything will be fine, he told himself as he continued on toward the kitchen. It’s going to be fine. Creath was loyal and steady and a good friend, and theirs would be a pleasant, serene marriage. Young people of his class rarely had the luxury of wedding for love—or lust, for that matter—so marrying for other reasons was no great sacrifice. He could easily have faced a much worse choice.
Or had no choice at all.
Reaching the enormous kitchen, he found it crammed with Ashcroft and Trevor servants, all of them hard at work. Given the last-minute decision to celebrate Christmas, he wasn’t surprised. But he was surprised to find Chrystabel there, too.
Surprised and none too pleased. Aside from wishing to avoid her in general, he was specifically vexed that she’d put Creath at risk by taking her out for a walk.
“What are you doing here?” he burst out peevishly.
“Tasting the potato pudding,” she said, perfectly pleasant in the face of his rudeness. That was vexing, too. “Your potatoes are delicious, Joseph! You truly are a marvel.”
He liked the way her lips formed his name, as though clinging to each syllable. Once again, he found himself wanting to kiss those lips. And he couldn’t help liking how she always made him feel good about himself. He didn’t know whether she was loyal and steady like Creath, because he didn’t know her at all, really. But she was certainly enthusiastic and warmhearted.
And adorable, not to mention desirable, tied into a pretty cutwork apron that cinched her trim waist but stopped short of obscuring her enticing décolletage. Standing at the big wooden worktable over a bowl of potato pudding, she slowly licked the spoon clean.
Now he wanted to kiss potato pudding off her lips.
He found himself moving closer, unable to stop himself. She was a paradox. Though everything she did seemed calculated to arouse him, she had an air of innocence about her as well.
Another damned i word, he thought, cursing his mother silently.
“Mmm,” Chrystabel hummed, her contented noises conjuring up the worst sort of disturbing thoughts. “Whoever would have thought those ugly brown things could make such a savory pudding? Come, you must try some. We used onions, cloves, and nutmeg—”
“Thank you,” he snapped, “I’m not hungry.” Then he felt instantly ashamed of his rudeness. He was lashing out at Chrystabel, when in truth he was just angry with himself for being a faithless, lascivious worm.
Well, he was a little angry with Chrystabel—for taking Creath on a walk and for wearing that damnable red gown with its low-cut, tight bodice—but that was no excuse to act ungentlemanly. It seemed he couldn’t keep his head on straight whenever Chrystabel was near. He needed to finish his business here so he could leave the kitchen and go back to avoiding her.
“My valet told me I’d been summoned here,” he told her, “but he didn’t know why. Do you know if Mrs. Potter needs more potatoes?”
“Thank you, but we have plenty,” Mrs. Potter said, bustling by.
“I agree.” Chrystabel gestured toward the large bowl of potato pudding. “This dish seems to be quite enough for all of us, don’t you think? I asked you here to—”
“You asked me here?”
“Yes, I was hoping you’d help me make some mulled wine. My family always drinks mulled wine while we sing carols on Christmas Eve.”
“Then wouldn’t you rather make it with your family? Why don’t you ask your sister or brother to help?”
“I’ve set them to doing other tasks.” Two kitchen servants deposited a massive strawberry tart on the worktable. “Matthew is seeing to the yule log, and Arabel—”
“How about Creath?” he interrupted. “You could ask Creath. She’s just sitting in the library.”
“I went to ask her, but she looked a little sad. She seems happier with a book.”
Chrystabel was perceptive. Which should be a positive trait, but today it only annoyed him. He gritted his teeth—he found himself doing that a lot around her. “I’ve never made mulled wine. What makes you think I can help?”
“Anyone can help. It’s easy.”
Anyone could help, but she’d asked him. What had he done to deserve this temptation? It wasn’t right to feel tempted by Chrystabel when he had to marry Creath.
He could only thank his lucky stars that at least she wasn’t kneeling down or leaning over. Maybe they could get this done quickly, so he could leave here relatively unscathed.
“Let’s get started, then,” he said. “We’ll need to get some wine from the cellar.”
“So Mrs. Potter told me. But I was just about to hide some tokens in the strawberry tart, since we don’t have plum pudding to put them in.”
“I thought we were making mulled wine.”
“After we hide the tokens.” She dug in her skirt pocket and pulled out a few trinkets, setting them on the table. “We’ll take turns. Do you want to go first? Don’t forget to make a wish.”
Wanting to get this over with, he grabbed the silver penny and closed his eyes momentarily—not because he was wishing for anything, but rather to pray for the strength to control his runaway emotions. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, then shoved the penny between two strawberries.
“What did you wish for?” she asked.
Nothing, he thought, because wishing for things was pointless.
“If I tell you, it won’t come true,” he said aloud.
“Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed you were superstitious.”
“Isn’t wishing on a token superstitious in the first place?”
She smiled and picked up a small ring, drawing his attention to her graceful hands. The small ring would easily fit such slim fingers. When she closed her eyes, he saw her lips move. He had no talent for lip reading, but from the way her tongue flicked behind her front teeth, he thought she’d mouthed the word “love.”
Was there a man she loved? he wondered, feeling an inappropriate stab of envy, then feeling terrible for having had the feeling.
Why should it matter who she loved? He was marrying Creath.
She pushed the ring into the tart, then brought her fingers to her mouth to lick off the sticky sweet sauce that coated the strawberries. He felt his body quicken and felt ten times worse.
He was marrying Creath.
He had to remember he was marrying Creath.
After that, he made sure the rest went very quickly. He buried the thimble, she hid a small, boiled wishbone, and then he snatched up the last—and smallest—item.
“What on earth is this?”
“It’s an anchor. To symbolize safe harbor.”
“Isn’t it one of those hooks for fastening clothes? It doesn’t look like an anchor.”
“It resembles one,” she said defensively, as though there were any distinction. “It’s symbolic, as I said. And it was the closest thing to an anchor shape I could find on short notice. Hide it, will you?”
He did, and this time he did make a wish. He wished to look at Chrystabel and feel nothing from now on.
When he opened his eyes, his wish failed to come true. What a shock. “Can we make the mulled wine now?”
“That’s the plan. Where’s the cellar?”
“This way,” he said, leading her around many busy servants
and down a dimly lit flight of stone stairs.
The cellar was a vaulted stone room lit with torches. The walls were lined with racks holding casks of wine and ale, and a narrow wooden worktable ran down the center of the chamber. The arched stone ceiling and thick stone walls hid the sounds of everyone bustling overhead.
“Oh, it’s so quiet in here,” Chrystabel said. “And so busy in the kitchen right now. Let’s make the mulled wine in here.”
“Let’s not,” Joseph said, fearing nothing good would come of being alone with her.
But she’d already left the cellar, and he found himself following. In no time at all, he was trailing her back down the steps, carrying the small cauldron full of ingredients and implements they’d collected with Mrs. Potter’s help. Chrystabel carried a pitcher of boiled water.
He set the cauldron on the cellar’s table and emptied it of its contents: cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, a loaf of sugar, a grater, a long wooden spoon, a ladle, a knife, and a small roll of muslin. He’d also thrown a couple of his winter oranges and a lemon into the cauldron, thinking they might improve the flavor.
If he were being forced to make mulled wine, he might as well make it taste good.
“Do you have a decanter?” Chrystabel asked from the back of the cellar, where she’d found the casks of red wine.
He fetched one from a cupboard and began filling it from the tap. “This goes in the cauldron, yes?”
“It does.” She followed him back and watched him pour. “There will be seven of us singing carols. Do you expect two decanters of wine will be enough?”
The cauldron still looked empty to him. “I think we should make it three,” he said dryly. “I have a feeling some of us may drink a fair amount of wine tonight.”
And he himself would be topping that list.
“And we’ll also drink some during the making, for samples,” she said cheerfully. “Let’s use four.”
“What else do we need?” he asked while going back and forth, filling and emptying the decanter. “Have we everything here?”
“Everything but brandy.”
“Over there.” He waved her toward the casks on the opposite wall. “You’ll find another decanter in the cupboard.”
She collected the brandy, poured some into the wine, grated some sugar into the cauldron, and stirred everything together. “Now we taste,” she announced, lowering the ladle into the mix. “This is why I wanted help—it’s always good to have a second opinion.” She took a sip, then handed him the ladle. “Do you think it’s a little strong?”
He sipped. “Maybe. A bit too much brandy?” He added some water. “See what you think now.”
She stirred and dipped again. “Too watered down, I fear. I think we need more wine. And then we’ll need more sugar.”
While she grated the sugar, he fetched more wine and poured it in.
“Now it needs more brandy,” she declared after tasting it again.
So it went, back and forth with tasting and adding, until the cauldron held yet another full decanter of wine, more brandy, more sugar, more water, and Joseph was beginning to feel lightheaded.
“Just a little more brandy,” he said after tasting for the tenth time.
“Maybe we should add the spices before we add more brandy.” She unrolled the muslin and tore off a large piece. “I’ll start with four sticks of cinnamon.”
“I’ll slice the oranges and lemon.”
“I’ve never heard of putting fruit in mulled wine,” she said diplomatically while grating nutmeg onto the fabric.
“That’s only because most people cannot get fresh fruit around Christmastime,” he told her, even though he’d never heard of anyone putting fruit in mulled wine, either. “I think it will taste good.” He dipped the ladle again and took a healthy swallow to evaluate. “Yes, I think it could use some fruit.”
Now his head seemed to be spinning just a little. The oranges smelled delicious as he sliced them, and he moved closer to Chrysanthem—um, Chrystabel—because she smelled delicious, too. He wondered which flowers she used to make her own perfume. Did he grow all of them?
No, roses were her favorites. And he didn’t have any roses.
She added a small handful of cloves to the muslin, tied up the corners, and dropped it into the cauldron.
He moved to toss in some orange slices.
She caught his free hand. “Are you sure you want to add those?”
In the cool cellar, her hand felt warm on his. Then she maneuvered her fingers to mesh with his, and he began to feel warm, too. He had drunk too much wine and brandy. She was close, so close he met with another heady view down the front of her bodice, which made his entire body come to attention.
Especially the lower parts.
She smelled incredible. Flowery. He loved flowers. She was vibrant like his flowers, too. Even her name reminded him of his favorite flower.
Without thinking any further—without thinking at all—he leaned in and kissed her.
He caught her little gasp in his mouth, and then she was wrapping her arms around him and moving closer. The orange slices dropped to the cellar floor as he reached to crush her to him.
The press of her strawberry-sweet lips on his set him aflame. She threaded her fingers into the long hair at the base of his neck, which made his scalp tingle. He felt her everywhere they touched, through her gown and his clothes, and he wanted to feel more.
When he parted her lips, she hesitated, as though she didn’t know what to do. But then he touched his tongue gently to hers and she responded with reckless abandon, sending his blood searing through his veins. They explored each other’s mouths until they were both breathless. He might have kissed her forever, but it ended when her knees began to give and he was forced to seize the table to support them both.
For a moment they just gazed at each other, speechless.
He wasn’t sure why she was speechless, but he was speechless because he didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say.
Kissing her had not felt like kissing Creath. Kissing Creath had only felt nice. Nor had kissing her felt like kissing the more experienced village girls, which had felt fun, dangerous, and daring.
Kissing Chrystabel had felt like none of those things—or maybe kissing her had felt like all of those things—but kissing her had also felt special, exciting, and entirely new.
Kissing her had felt right.
But he had to marry Creath.
“Chrysanthemum,” he began—then stopped. “I mean, Chrystabel—”
“I like Chrysanthemum,” she said with a tender, tentative smile. “Your favorite flower, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but—”
“You can call me Chrysanthemum. I’d love for you to call me Chrysanthemum. I love you, Joseph—I’ve loved you since the moment I set eyes on you.”
She couldn’t. “But…but we just met. You cannot possibly love me. Not that I’m not lovable,” he added quickly, then wanted to smack himself on the forehead. “What I meant was, you cannot love me already.”
“I can, and I do,” she said, and moved closer, and then they were kissing all over again.
She tasted divine. For a long time he just kissed her, long kisses that made his heart ache. Then he kissed a path down her throat, over her shoulders, and across the wide expanse of skin exposed in the neckline of her tantalizing, Parliament-banned gown.
His lips trailed down, just brushing the swell of each perfect breast, before he cupped her face in his hands and returned to her mouth. And when he caught her lips again with his, she felt and tasted and smelled so sweet he thought his heart might melt.
And then he thought it might break in two.
He shouldn’t be doing this. But he couldn’t tell her why. His head might feel woozy, but his brain still functioned well enough to know he shouldn’t be kissing her, and that he couldn’t tell her the truth.
He’d made a promise, and he had to keep it. He couldn’t tell Chrystabel he was betrothe
d. He couldn’t risk ruining Creath’s life by revealing their plans to her or anyone else.
Wracked with guilt, he pulled himself together and broke the kiss. “I shouldn’t be kissing you,” he said on a gasp.
She looked disappointed and adorable, her strawberry red lips even redder from their kisses. “Why shouldn’t you kiss me? You’ve kissed girls before. It wasn’t your first kiss—I could tell.”
Because it had been far from his first kiss, he felt his face heating. “It was your first kiss, though—I could tell, too.”
“You could?” She bit her adorable lower lip. “Did I do it wrong?”
“You did it very, very right. But I shouldn’t be kissing you.”
“Why?” she repeated.
What on earth could he tell her? “I should respect you more than that. You’re a proper high-born lady, and—”
“I’m not that proper,” she interrupted. “I very much enjoyed kissing you, and I’m not-proper enough to want more kissing. I promise I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what has you worried.”
“You won’t tell anyone because I’m not going to kiss you again.”
“Why?” she persisted.
“Because I like to think I’m a gentleman.” It was the only reasonable explanation he could come up with. “And gentlemen don’t kiss ladies.”
“What, gentlemen only kiss harlots? You already kissed me. Why should kissing me again matter now?”
Because if he kissed her again, he might find himself unwilling to marry Creath. But he couldn’t say that. So instead he said, “It matters because it’s better to do the right thing late than not at all. And now I consider this subject closed.”
She huffed. Adorably. “Now what?”
“Now we finish making the damned mulled wine.” Grabbing more orange slices off the table to replace the ones that had fallen on the floor, he tossed them into the cauldron and used the wooden spoon to stir the mixture viciously. “Taste it,” he said through gritted teeth.
Sixteen
“I’M SO GLAD you talked us into having a secret Christmas,” Lady Trentingham told Chrystabel toward the end of their Christmas Eve supper.
