by Lauren Royal
Joseph’s mother pulled the end of the bow that secured the fabric, which fell open to reveal the bottle of perfume. “Oh, my heavens, thank you.” She uncorked it and sniffed. “It’s exquisite. Is that lavender?”
“Rosemary, actually.”
“How refreshingly unexpected!” Lady Trentingham’s eyes sparkled. “Somehow you figured out just what I like.”
Chrystabel shrugged. “I just seem to know what fits a lady.”
“For you.” Arabel handed a similar package to Creath. “We hope you’ll like it.”
Creath held the package gingerly. “I haven’t offered you hospitality.”
“You’ve offered us friendship,” Arabel said. “Go on, open it.”
Still looking uncertain, Creath slowly untied the bow. As she uncorked the bottle and waved it beneath her nose, her expression of concern changed to one of delight. “Lilac?”
Chrystabel nodded. “And vanilla and a few other sweet things. Do you like it?”
“I love it. Thank you so much.” Creath dabbed a little on her wrist. “I shall make it last as long as I can.”
Chrystabel had to bite her tongue to keep from saying she’d make her more when she ran out. Creath wasn’t matched with her brother yet.
“Lord Trentingham, this is for you.” Arabel rose to hand him a square package.
“This is unnecessary—and heavy.” He untied the bow, and as the fabric fell away, a smile spread on his face. “A set of books. Dell’istoria civile del Regno di Napoli.”
It was four volumes, bound in vellum over boards. “What does that mean?” Lady Trentingham asked.
“It’s a history of the Kingdom of Naples. Written in Italian.”
Arabel nodded. “Your son told me you’re something of a linguist. I can read only a little bit of it myself, so we hope you’ll enjoy the books more than we can.”
He laughed and assured them he would. “And I’ll teach you some Welsh before you leave, if you’d like.”
“Oh, that would be the best Christmas gift!” Arabel all but bounced back to her seat.
She was soon off her chair again, because when she opened her gift from Chrystabel she danced around gleefully, holding the marigold gown to her front as though she were wearing it to a grand ball. Even though grand balls were forbidden now.
Arabel gave Chrystabel two beautifully decorated hair combs that had belonged to their grandmother. Their fancy scrollwork tops were inlaid with seed pearls and many tiny diamonds. “I hid them when Father took the jewels to sell,” she explained.
“Since you mentioned jewels…” Lady Trentingham reached into a drawstring purse she’d brought downstairs with her. “I hope you girls will wear these in the very best of health,” she said, pulling out three long, lustrous strands of pearls.
Chrystabel gasped. “We cannot accept these!”
“Of course you can,” Lady Trentingham said, rising to hand a strand to her and the others to Arabel and Creath. “I still have a dozen or more strands of my own. Every young lady should own a nice strand of pearls. I wish I could see them on you next Christmas,” she said almost wistfully.
If Chrystabel got her way, she would. “Thank you,” she breathed as she slid the pearls over her head and settled them around her neck.
As Arabel and Creath echoed her thanks, Chrystabel smiled down at her strand. “I will treasure this always and remember how kind you were to allow me to make a secret Christmas.”
It had turned out to be her best Christmas ever. Here, among strangers who had become friends, she’d proven to herself that she didn’t need her mother to plan and celebrate a magical Christmas.
Suddenly knowing what to give her brother, she all but leapt off her chair.
As she walked toward him, he held up his hands defensively. “I need nothing,” he said. “I have nothing for you. I had plans, but then the Dragoons arrived, and—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she interrupted, slipping her hand into her pocket and drawing something out. “I want to give you this.”
The silver glinted in the firelight.
“Father’s pendant?” Matthew’s eyes widened. “He gave it to you, Chrys. It’s yours.”
Coming closer, she draped the long chain around his neck. “It’s yours now. As it should be. Passed down the generations from father to son.” She touched the lion one last time. “I was just keeping it for you.”
Silently, she bade her father goodbye. Silently, she forgave him for leaving her. She had a new man to love now, and Arabel had been right: At nineteen, she didn’t need her parents anymore. Though she’d miss her father always, she was at peace with his passing. She’d remember him every day, and she’d especially remember him every Christmas, when she honored his memory by keeping the traditions he’d loved.
The pendant looked right on Matthew, and when he tucked it beneath his shirt as their father had worn it—next to his heart—that seemed right, too. Evidently this tradition had more value than she’d thought.
“I have one gift left,” she said, swiveling to face Joseph. “Will you come with me?”
Nineteen
“ME?” JOSEPH LOOKED at Chrystabel’s empty hands and back up to her shining eyes. “Where are we going?”
“To your conservatory.” She glanced around at everyone else. “May we be excused for a few minutes? We’ll be right back.”
“Just the two of you?” Father frowned. “That strikes me as rather improp—”
“Oh, let them go,” Mother interrupted. “She said they’ll be right back. In the meantime, what game shall we start playing?”
Apparently taking that as permission, Chrystabel left the room.
Joseph followed, feeling thickheaded as he trailed her through the corridors. How did she always manage to get her way? What could she possibly have for him in his conservatory? And how on earth would he keep himself from kissing her when she gave him whatever it was?
He feared he knew the answer to the last question: He wouldn’t. Though he’d awakened this morning with renewed determination, every moment in her presence seemed to chip away at his resolve. Following her, he couldn’t help but notice her shapely back and the graceful sway of her hips. His fingers ached to span her slim waist.
He clenched his fists.
Today she was wearing some sort of shimmery Christmas-green fabric that set off her milk and roses complexion. The gown had another low-cut bodice that drew his attention to all the wrong places. They hadn’t even reached his conservatory yet, and he wanted to rip that gown off her already.
“Here we are,” she said unnecessarily when they got to the door. Uncharacteristic for her, she looked anxious. “Do you want to go inside?”
He wasn’t sure he did. Which mattered not, because she didn’t wait for an answer before reaching across him to undo the latch and push past him into the cavernous chamber.
He would have to remember she wasn’t patient, he thought—
—then chided himself.
There was no need to remember anything about Chrystabel. Her family was leaving tomorrow, probably around the same time he’d be marrying Creath, and it was unlikely he’d ever see her again.
He still hadn’t found the right way to tell her he couldn’t marry her, but he had to do it anyway. Here. Now. There was no sense in putting it off any longer.
Determined to get the confession over with, he steeled himself and followed her inside. Then stopped short when he saw what awaited him in the center of the massive chamber.
Chrystabel stood beside a dozen big pots she’d evidently borrowed from his stash along the wall. Each had a dormant plant stuck inside, not planted but rather just leaning this way and that, their roots wrapped in canvas. Bright red ribbon bows were tied to a few of the thorny canes.
“Roses?” he asked on a gasp.
“Yes,” she said in a nervous rush. “I brought them from Grosmont Grange. I was planning to replant them at Grosmont Castle, but I want you to have them instead. You
said you don’t have any roses.”
For a moment he just stood there, stunned. And touched. There wasn’t a more perfect gift for him in all the world. He was astonished to find she knew him so well after just three days’ acquaintance.
But he couldn’t take her roses.
Not when he was about to crush her heart.
“Chrystabel.” He was vexed to hear his voice break. “I thank you with everything I have in me. But I cannot take your roses. They’re your favorite flower. Your favorite scent.” Seeing a stubborn look come into her eyes, he had a thought. “Maybe one bush, if that makes you happy, but not all of them.”
“I want you to have all of them.” If anything, the stubborn look only got stubborner. “I’d probably kill them anyhow—I know nothing about caring for roses, and our groundskeeper chose to stay in Wiltshire.”
“I’m certain your brother will hire groundskeepers in Wales. And I don’t need a Christmas gift from you, Chrysanth—Chrystabel.” Holy Hades, he had to stop calling her that. It was only making things worse. “I don’t have anything to give you in exchange, anyway.”
“Yes, you do,” she said in a tiny little unChrystabel-like voice.
“I do?” For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine what.
An odd look came into her eyes before he saw her square her delicate jaw. “You do,” she repeated more firmly. “You can give me you. And then you’ll be able to give me roses for my perfumery. Years and years of roses.”
And with that, she threw herself into his arms.
Unbidden, his own arms went around her—he was but a man, after all. A man who wanted her, and she felt heavenly and smelled better than his garden in full bloom. He was terribly moved by her generous gesture, and now he was horrified to find himself holding her—until she crushed her mouth to his. Then he wasn’t moved or horrified anymore, because he was too busy being consumed.
They hadn’t shared many kisses, but the rush of heat he felt seemed familiar anyway. It smacked him in the gut and spread out, and it felt right.
And it seemed she had learned a lot from their first kisses. Her lips parted, inviting him in, and they both sank into the caress. His remaining resolve disintegrated, no match for the force that was their overwhelming need for each other.
When he found his hands moving to detach her stomacher, he caught himself and pulled back with an almost painful effort.
What in the name of heaven, hell, and the rest of the universe was he doing?
“I’m betrothed,” he choked out. “I cannot do this.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m betrothed. To Creath.” Seeing shock flood her face and tears well in her eyes, he hastened to explain. “I swore to keep it a secret, but I cannot keep it secret anymore—not from you. Because no matter how much I wish I could wed you instead, I must marry Creath tomorrow to save her from Sir Leonard.”
His Chrysanthemum went white. He preferred pink chrysanthemums, he thought absurdly.
“Oh,” she said, looking devastated. “Oh.” He saw her swallow hard, as though she had a giant lump blocking her throat. “I had no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Guilt churned in his stomach. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you earlier, but my parents and Creath and I—we all pledged to keep silent, for fear of the news reaching Sir Leonard. How could you have known?”
“I don’t know, but I feel like I should have known somehow. Everyone tells me I’m observant—and I am. I should have figured it out.” She blinked back the tears. “I should have realized when you wouldn’t kiss me again in the cellar, because I knew you wanted to. Because we so clearly belong together, don’t you think? I mean, don’t you know?”
He did know—he had never felt that rush of heat with anyone besides Chrystabel, and somehow he knew he’d never find anyone else who could make him feel that heat again. But he wasn’t about to admit that now. It would only make this even harder.
Instead he said as calmly as he could, “Creath is my best friend, my oldest friend. I cannot abandon her. I cannot. I gave her my word. I’m sorry.”
And then she shocked the holy hell out of him by saying, “You don’t need to be sorry, because I can fix this.”
The color had returned to her face. Her voice had grown stronger, more confident. Apparently she was over her upset already. Devastated Chrystabel had transformed back into impulsive, impertinent, irresistible Chrystabel—the Chrystabel he’d fallen in love with—in the space of a few sentences.
The leap of hope he felt was ridiculous. “How? How do you propose to fix this unfixable thing?”
“Matthew can wed Creath tomorrow in your place. He can save her from Sir Leonard, and then you’ll be free to marry me.”
“What?” He couldn’t have come up with a more harebrained solution if he’d tried. “What on earth makes you think your brother would agree to that?”
“He will be happy to agree to that. He as much as admitted to me that he’s fallen for her, and I’m sure she cares for him, too.”
Last night he’d decided she might not be irrational, but irrational didn’t even begin to describe her plan. “Don’t give me hope where there is none, please. The two of them cannot be in love. She would have told me—she tells me everything. And besides, she just met him.”
“I just met you, you just met me, and—well, look how we both feel. At least, I think you feel like I do.” Evidently his eyes gave her the answer she was looking for, because she rushed on without him saying anything. “If we could fall in love in less than three days, why can’t they?”
“One day,” he admitted miserably. “I cannot credit it, but I fell in love with you in one day.”
He knew that now.
He’d been denying it, but there was no sense in trying to fool himself any longer.
“I fell in love with you in zero days, Joseph. The minute I saw you. There’s no reason Creath and Matthew can’t be in love, too. Maybe she doesn’t tell you everything. Maybe you’re wrong.” She drew a deep breath and crossed her hands over her Christmas-green bodice, as though she were trying to hold her heart inside. “I think you’re wrong. I think we need to go back to the great room, so you can talk to Creath and find out how she really feels.”
“Very well,” he said. He didn’t hold out much hope, but her plan was his only hope, so he’d ask. “I’ll go talk to her right now.”
Chrystabel pulled him out of the conservatory so quickly, he had a hard time keeping up with her.
Back in the great room, their families were playing Hunt the Slipper. Despite his emotional turmoil, Joseph felt a tiny twinge of amusement at seeing his father on the floor playing such an undignified game. Pacing back and forth, he waited until Creath had passed the slipper before tapping her on the shoulder and beckoning her from the room.
He drew her up the grand staircase and around six times to the top floor of the castle, where they couldn’t be overheard.
“Are you in love with Lord Grosmont?” he asked with no preamble.
“What?” Her eyes widened in astonishment. “What on earth gave you that impression?”
“Chrystabel.” He blew out a breath. “She thinks you and her brother are in love, and she said you’d rather marry him than me.”
“Joseph! How could you believe such a thing? I don’t know Matthew at all—I just met him—and I’ve known you forever. Of course I wouldn’t rather marry him!”
He took note of her use of the man’s given name. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Unless…” Her gaze turned speculative. “You wouldn’t rather I marry Matthew, would you?”
“Of course not.” It struck him that they were both uttering a lot of of courses, which could also mean the opposite. But Creath was the most honest, straightforward person he knew. And he couldn’t crush her by telling her anything but, “I want to marry you, Creath. You’re my best friend, and I look forward to marrying you tomorrow.”
Wh
en God didn’t strike him with lightning for that lie, he figured He approved of that decision.
Which did nothing to alleviate the knot of pain that was twisting in his gut.
“Oh, my God, Joseph, look.” Creath was staring out the window at the distant road, barely visible even from their lofty height. “It can’t be…?”
He peered out. “What the devil? It’s still two days till Saturday—”
“It’s him.” Creath had gone white as death. “He’s early.”
Twenty
CHRYSTABEL PASSED the slipper beneath her skirts to Lord Trentingham, wondering what Creath was telling Joseph. She wished she were as confident in her plan as she’d led him to believe.
What if she were wrong? What if Matthew hadn’t quite fallen in love with Creath yet, or what if he had but was too cautious to tie the knot quickly? When she’d mentioned marriage yesterday, he’d dismissed the notion out of hand.
Or what if Matthew loved Creath, but she didn’t love him back? Creath had run away when he’d kissed her, after all. Chrystabel was fairly certain she’d seen signs of love, but this was her first matchmaking endeavor.
Or worst of all, what if Creath loved Joseph and wanted to marry him regardless of whether there was another alternative? What if she rejected Matthew’s proposal and held Joseph to his promise?
She was so preoccupied with her worries that it took her a moment to react when Joseph stumbled back into the great room, closely followed by Creath.
“Sir Leonard’s on his way!” he hollered. “Half a mile distant at most!”
Icy fear gripped Chrystabel’s heart. Doom approaching. It felt like the Dragoons all over again.
“Why aren’t you in the priest hole?” Joseph looked to Creath as if he’d just noticed she’d trailed him into the chamber. “Go get in the priest hole!”
She shook her head wildly. “I-I can’t,” she gasped, looking terrified. “It was so dark I couldn’t breathe, I just—”
“I’ll take a candle and go with her.” Matthew jumped up from the floor and grabbed Creath’s hand. “Let’s go!” As he pulled her from the room, he called over his shoulder, “Someone will need to follow us and close the false bottom over our heads.”
