A Secret Christmas

by Lauren Royal

  “You won’t have to do a thing,” Colin added, his tight expression easing into a wry half-smile. “You might try talking with your niece, though. It’s time you learned to communicate with the lesser species. You know, those of us of insufficient age or intelligence to grasp the deepest secrets of the universe.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Maybe that was your problem with Tabitha.”

  Ford gritted his teeth. He’d never fooled himself into thinking he understood the opposite sex. His science was what drove him. But he’d had no problems with Tabitha, and he was finished with this discussion.

  “Of course I’ll take Jewel,” he said, consciously relaxing his jaw. “Bring her out—I’ll be waiting in my carriage.”

  “LISTEN TO THIS.” Sitting with her two sisters while their mother worked nearby, Violet Ashcroft cleared her throat. “‘To say that a blind custom of obedience should be a surer obligation than duty taught and understood…is to affirm that a blind man may tread surer by a guide than a seeing man by a light.’”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” her youngest sister, Lily, asked. Busily stitching her tapestry in the grayish light from the large picture window, Lily probably had little real desire to know what the quote meant. But she was unfailingly kind, and Violet would never turn away from anyone willing to listen.

  She hitched herself forward on the green brocade chair. “Well, now—”

  “Why do you care?” their middle sister, Rose, interrupted. Rose cared little for anything that didn’t have to do with dancing, clothes, or men. Looking up from the vase of flowers she was arranging, she tossed her gleaming ringlets. “It’s nothing but a bunch of gibberish, if you ask me.”

  “Nobody asked.” Violet pointedly looked to Lily. “Did you hear anyone ask?”

  “Girls.” Clucking her tongue, their mother poured a dipperful of water into the kettle over the fire. “I used to comfort myself that when you all grew up, this bickering would cease. Yet it never has.”

  Lily’s blue eyes were all innocence, despite having reached the advanced age of sixteen. “But Mum,” she said sweetly. Their mother’s proper name was Chrystabel, but as their flower-obsessed father called her Chrysanthemum, they’d taken to calling her Mum. “It’s loving bickering.”

  “And a bad example for your young brother.” With a sigh, Chrystabel resumed plucking petals from a bunch of lush pink roses. “What does it mean?” she asked Violet. “And who said it?”

  “It means we should understand why we are doing things instead of blindly following orders. Rather like our Ashcroft family motto: Interroga Conformationem, Question Convention. But said much more eloquently, don’t you think? By Francis Bacon.”

  Violet snapped the book closed, its title, Advancement of Learning, winking gold from the spine in her lap. “But I’m wondering,” she teased. “When did my Mum become interested in philosophy?”

  “I’m interested in all my children’s hobbies.”

  “Philosophy is more than a hobby,” Violet protested. “It’s a way of looking at life.”

  “Of course it is.” The kettle was bubbling merrily, spewing steam into the dim room. The fire and a few candles were no match for this gloomy, rainy afternoon. “Will you come and hold this for me, dear?”

  Violet set down the book and wandered over to the large, utilitarian table she always thought looked somewhat out of place in what used to be a formal drawing room. “Did Father bring you more roses this morning?”

  “Doesn’t he always?” Chrystabel’s musical laughter warmed Violet to her toes. “Sweet man, he is, rising early to gather them between dawn and sunrise, when their scent is at its peak.”

  Violet’s laughter joined her mother’s. “Insane man, you mean.” Sweet wasn’t a word she’d use to describe the Earl of Trentingham—eccentric fit her father much better. But her parents both seemed to be blind where the other’s oddities were concerned.

  Not that that was a bad thing. For certain, if Violet were ever to wed—an event she considered unlikely indeed—her husband would have to be more than a little bit blind. She didn’t have rich chestnut hair like her sisters—hers was a blander, lighter brown. And her eyes were plain brown as well, not the mysterious almost-black of Rose’s or the fathomless deep-blue of Lily’s. Just brown.

  Average, she decided. Neither fat nor thin. Not tall like Rose nor petite like Lily, but medium height. Average.

  But, happily, she didn’t mind being average. Because average was rarely noticed, and the truth was, she’d never liked being the center of attention.

  Rose thrived on it, though. “Let me help, Mum,” she squealed, dropping the stem of blue sweet peas she’d been about to add to her floral arrangement. “Violet probably won’t get the top on straight.”

  Tactless, at best, but at seventeen, Rose still had some time to grow up. With an indulgent sigh, Violet stuck a wooden block upright in the big bowl. She held it in place while Mum sprinkled in all the rose petals, then turned to lift the kettle.

  In a slow, careful stream, Chrystabel poured just enough water over the fragrant flowers to cover them. Quickly Rose popped another, larger bowl upside down on top of the wooden block, using it as a pedestal. The steam would collect beneath and drip down the edges to the tray below. As it cooled, it would separate into rosewater and essential rose oil.

  Distillation, Mum called it.

  A rich, floral scent wafted up, and Violet inhaled deeply. As hobbies went, she did appreciate her mother’s unusual one of perfume-making.

  “Thank you, girls,” Chrystabel said when Violet released the bowl. “Would you hand me that vial of lavender essence?”

  Violet turned and squinted at the labels, then reached for the proper glass tube. “I read in the news sheet this morning that Christopher Wren is going to be knighted later this year. And he was just elected to the Council of the Royal Society.”

  Mum took the vial. “That odd group of scientists?”

  Violet smiled inside, thinking Chrystabel Ashcroft a bit odd herself. “There are philosophers as members, too. And statesmen and physicians. I’d love to hear one of their lectures someday.”

  “The Royal Society doesn’t allow women at their meetings.” Chrystabel pulled the cork stopper and waved the lavender under her nose. “Besides, most of the men are married.”

  “I don’t want them to court me, Mum.” On the whole, she didn’t want anyone to court her, much to her mother’s distress. “I only wish to cudgel their brains.”

  Frowning, Chrystabel lowered a dropper into the vial. “Cudgel their—”

  “Talk to them, I mean. Share some ideas. They’re so brilliant.”

  “Men aren’t interested in talking to women,” Rose told her, “and the sooner you learn that, the sooner you’ll find one of your own.”

  “Faith, Rose. I’m only twenty. You’d think I was in my dotage, the way you’ve become set on marrying me off.”

  “You’re expected to wed before I do.”

  The words were uttered so innocently, Violet couldn’t find it in her to hold a grudge. Of course Rose wanted to marry, and convention dictated the girls wed in order.

  But Violet was nothing if not realistic. She knew her plain looks, together with her unusual interests, were likely to make it difficult—if not impossible—for her to find a compatible husband. But that didn’t really bother her, and she would never want her own dim prospects to keep her lovely sisters from finding happiness.

  Besides, when had the Ashcrofts been conventional? They could marry in any order they chose. Or in her case, not at all.

  She watched her mother add three drops of lavender to the bottle of fragrance she was creating, then swirl it carefully.

  “Is that a new blend?” Violet asked.

  “For Lady Cunningham.” Chrystabel sniffed deeply and passed the bottle to her oldest daughter. “What do you think?”

  Violet smelled it and considered. “Too sweet. Lady Cunningham is anything but sw
eet.” The woman’s voice could curdle milk. Violet handed back the mixture, hunting for the vial of petitgrain she knew would soften it.

  Nodding approvingly, her mother added two drops, then made a note on the little recipe card she kept for each of her friends.

  “Look,” Lily said, her embroidery forgotten. She rose and settled herself in the large, green-padded window seat. “There’s a carriage about to pass by.”

  Chrystabel and Rose hurried to join her at window, while Violet returned to her chair and opened her book. “So?”

  “So…” Lily brushed her fingers over one of the flower arrangements that Rose left all over the house, sending a burst of scent into the air. “We get so little traffic here, I’m just wondering who it might be.”

  “The three of you are too curious for your own good.” Violet flipped a page, hoping to find another sage insight. Not that she’d bother sharing it this time.

  “It’s our occasional neighbor,” her mother said. “The viscount.”

  Violet’s attention strayed from Bacon’s brilliance. “How do you know?”

  “I recognize his carriage. A hand-me-down from his brother, the marquess.”

  “How is it you know everyone’s business?” Violet wondered aloud.

  “It’s not so very difficult, my dear. One need only take an interest, open her eyes and ears, and use her head. I believe the viscount is in tight straits. Not only because of the second-hand carriage, but heavens, the state of his gardens. Your father nearly chokes every time we ride past.”

  “I’m surprised Father hasn’t made his way over to set the garden to rights,” Lily said.

  “Don’t think he hasn’t considered it.” Chrystabel leaned her palms on the windowsill, studying the passing coach. “Why, I do believe Lord Lakefield isn’t alone.”

  Despite herself, Violet rose, one finger holding her place in the book. “And how do you know that?”

  “The vehicle’s curtains aren’t drawn.” Chrystabel gave a happy gasp of discovery. “There’s a child inside! And a woman!”

  Her interest finally piqued, Violet wandered to the window to see, but of course the carriage was only a blur.

  Everything more than a few feet from Violet’s eyes always looked like a blur. It was the reason she preferred staying at home with her books and news sheets, rather than going about to socialize with her mother and two younger sisters. She was afraid she’d embarrass herself by failing to recognize a friend across the room.

  “Well, well, well,” Mum said. “I must go bring the lady a gift of perfume and welcome her to the neighborhood.”

  “You mean find out who she is,” Violet said.

  Her mother’s second hobby was delivering perfume and receiving gossip in exchange. Not that anyone begrudged her the information. To the contrary, Chrystabel Ashcroft never needed to pry a word out of anyone. Warm and well-loved, she barely walked in the door before women began spilling their secrets.

  On the rare occasions her mother had succeeded in dragging her along, Violet had seen it happen, her bad eyes notwithstanding.

  “I wonder if the viscount has married?” Rose asked.

  “I expect not,” Chrystabel said. “He’s much too intellectual for anyone I know.” As the carriage disappeared into the distance, she turned from the window. “Why, he’s a member of that Royal Society, isn’t he?”

  “I believe so.” Violet watched her mother wander back to the table, wishing she’d never mentioned wanting to attend a Royal Society lecture. The last thing she needed was Mum plotting her marriage. “Perhaps he would suit Rose or Lily.”

  “I think not.” Mum sniffed the perfume in progress, then chose another vial. “I cannot imagine whom he would suit, but certainly not your sisters.”

  “It’s just as well,” Rose said, “since you know we three have a pact to save one another from your matchmaking schemes.”

  It was one thing—perhaps the only thing—the sisters agreed on.

  “Heavens, girls. It’s not as though I arrange marriages behind the backs of my friends.” Everyone Chrystabel knew was her friend. Literally. And they all adored her. “All of my brides and grooms are willing—”

  “Victims?” Violet broke in to supply.

  “Participants,” Chrystabel countered.

  Lily sat and retrieved her handiwork. “How many weddings have you arranged this year, Mum? Three? Four?”

  “Five,” their mother said with not a little pride. She tapped her fingernails on the vial. “Only seven months in, and a banner year already. But none, I assure you, against the participants’ will.”

  Rose plopped back onto her own chair. “You’re not matching me up, Mum. I can find my own husband.”

  “Me, too,” Lily said.

  “Me three,” Violet added.

  “Of course you all can.” Chrystabel’s graceful fingers stilled. “I wouldn’t dream of meddling in my own daughters’ lives.”

  Like it? Buy it!

  Or…

  buy the boxed set to read all three daughters’ stories!

  LAUREN’S NEXT BOOK IS…

  Lost in Temptation

  Book One of

  Chase Family Series: The Regency

  The eldest of three sisters, Lady Alexandra Chase has always done what was expected of her. But when the man she’s loved since her girlhood returns from a long spell abroad, she quite suddenly finds herself hoping the fine lord her brother has picked for her won’t propose. She decides that if he does, she’ll quite improperly turn him down—that is, until the man of her hopes and dreams informs her he has no intention of marrying her.

  The last time Tristan Nesbitt saw Alexandra, he was a common man with no hope of ever wedding the daughter of a marquess. Seven years later, he’s now Lord Hawkridge, which should make him eminently suitable for the woman who long ago captured his heart. But a dreadful scandal has tarnished his name in England—a scandal so horrid that marrying Alexandra would ruin not only her flawless reputation but her whole family. For Alexandra’s own good, he must fight his relentless desires and stay far away…

  Read an excerpt…

  Cainewood Castle, the South of England

  Summer 1808

  IT WAS ALMOST like touching him.

  Lady Alexandra Chase usually sketched a profile in just a few minutes, but she took her time today, lingering over the experience in the darkened room. Standing on one side of a large, framed pane of glass while Tristan sat sideways on the other, she traced his shadow cast by the glow of a candle. Her pencil followed his strong chin, his long, straight nose, the wide slope of his forehead, capturing his image on the sheet of paper she’d tacked to her side of the glass. Noticing a stray lock that tumbled down his brow, she hesitated, wanting to make certain she caught it just right.

  Someone walked by the open door, causing Tris’s shadow to flicker as the candle wavered. “Are you finished yet?” he asked from behind the glass panel.

  “Hold still,” she admonished, resisting the urge to peek around at him. “Artistry requires patience.”

  “This is a profile, not oil on canvas.”

  True, and she often wished she had the talent to paint, like her youngest sister, Corinna. But the fact that she was missing something Corinna had—that elusive, innate ability to see things others missed and convey them in color, light, and shade—didn’t keep her from taking pride in her own hobby.

  Alexandra made excellent profile portraits.

  She’d been asking Tris to sit for her for years, but he’d never seemed to find time before. “You promised you’d sit still,” she reminded him, knowing better than to read malice into his comment. “Just this once before you leave.”

  “I’m sitting,” he said, and although his profile remained immobile, she could hear the laughter in his voice.

  She loved that evidence of his control, just like she loved everything about Tris Nesbitt.

  She’d been eight when they first met. Her favorite brother, Griffin, had
brought him home between terms at school. In the many years since, as he and Griffin completed Eton and then Oxford, Tris had visited often, claiming to prefer his friend’s large family to the quiet home he shared with his father.

  Alexandra couldn’t remember when she’d fallen in love, but she felt like she’d loved Tris forever.

  Of course, nothing would ever come of it. Now, at fifteen, she was practical enough to accept that her father, the formidable Marquess of Cainewood, would never allow her to marry plain Mr. Tristan Nesbitt.

  But that didn’t stop her from wishing she could. It didn’t stop her stomach from tingling when she heard his low voice, didn’t stop her heart from skipping when she felt herself caught in his intense, silver-gray gaze.

  Not that he directed his gaze her way often. It wasn’t that he was unfriendly, but, after all, as far as he was concerned she was little more than Griffin’s pesky younger sister.

  Knowing Tris couldn’t see her now, she skimmed her fingertips over his shadow, wishing she were touching him instead. She’d never touched him, not in real life. Such intimacy simply didn’t occur between young ladies and men. Most especially between a marquess’s daughter and an untitled man’s son.

  The drawing room’s draperies were shut, and the resulting dimness seemed to afford them an odd closeness alone in the room. She traced the flow of his cravat illuminated through the glass onto her paper. “Where are you going again?” she asked, although she knew.

  “Jamaica. My uncle wishes me to look after his interests. He owns a plantation there; I’m to learn how it’s run.”

  He sounded sad. During this visit he’d seemed sad quite a bit. “Is that what you wish to do with your life?”

  “He doesn’t mean for me to stay there permanently. Only to acquaint myself with the operation so I can make intelligent decisions from afar.”

  “But do you wish to become his man of business? Do you want to manage his properties? Or would you rather do something else?”