A Secret Christmas

by Lauren Royal

  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.”

  “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 i
n 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.”