by Kelly Bowen
“You come with me,” Henrietta said, taking Michael by the hand. “We’re seeing to more refreshments.”
He came along docilely—brilliant man—while one of the girls snatched Henrietta’s serving of punch and nipped up the steps with it.
“My sisters have come to call,” Michael said. “I’ve been hinting and suggesting for weeks, but they never acknowledged my overtures. Now they’re here, and all I want is to see them off so I can have more time with you.”
“Where’s the formal parlor?” Henrietta asked.
“Two doors down, to the right. My staff has doubtless lit the fire there, because they’re certain the vicar will soon be joining the riot that passes for my household at present.”
Henrietta escorted Michael to the formal parlor, a lovely room full of gilt chairs upholstered in pink velvet, thick carpets, an elegant white pianoforte, and a pink marble fireplace.
“The quiet,” Michael said as Henrietta closed the door. “Just listen to the quiet.”
The only sound was the fire crackling in the hearth, though Henrietta could feel her heart pounding against her ribs too.
“Listen to me,” she said. “I don’t like that you stole my book, Michael Brenner. You should have asked me for it.”
He stuck his hands in his pockets, though the parlor was cozy. “Would you have given it to me? I was a stranger to you, a man you had no reason to trust.”
“Then you should have taken the time to earn my trust.”
“I should have, and I am profoundly sorry I didn’t. I behaved badly, but Henrietta…”
From the library came the happy shrieks of children loose for the first time in their uncle’s home. The sound nearly broke Henrietta’s heart, though at least Michael’s family had come, however dubious their timing.
“But what, Michael?”
He put his hands behind his back and approached her. “I do not regret the intimacies I shared with you. I can’t, and I never will. If I’d approached you as Beltram’s negotiator, bargaining that book away from you with coin, charm, or threats, would you ever have allowed me close enough to become your lover?”
She’d wondered the same thing. “I don’t know.”
He stepped away, and the silence grew to encompass Christmases past, future, and all the years in between. Without Michael, those Christmases would be terribly lonely, even if Henrietta became the doting aunt and spinster daughter her family now invited her to be.
A revelation, that.
“I do know,” Henrietta said, “that I treasure those moments shared with you too. I should have thrown that book in the fire years ago, but hadn’t the courage. I wouldn’t be here, calling on you, if my father hadn’t kidnapped me and demanded I accompany him on a holiday call, as a proper daughter ought. He’s gone daft.”
“He’s apologizing, in his way. He and I had a frank talk the day after you left his household. Will you accept his apology, Henrietta?”
“You and Papa had a frank talk? What did you and he have to talk about?”
One corner of Michael’s mouth lifted. “I wanted to ask him if I could pay you my addresses, but the topic didn’t come up. I was too busy lecturing him.”
Henrietta sat on the nearest reliable surface—a tufted sofa. “There’s too much pink in this room.”
“Then redecorate it,” Michael said. “May I sit with you?”
“You wanted to ask Papa if you could court me? You’re a baron, and I’m a…” A woman in love, among other things. Henrietta patted the place beside her. “This is all very sudden.”
“This is all ten years too late.” Michael came down beside her and took her hand. “Can you forgive me, Henrietta? I have wronged you, but I also hope I’ve nudged things with your family in a better direction. I couldn’t think what else to do.”
Michael had had a talk with Papa. Henrietta shuddered to think what that conversation had entailed, but Papa had introduced her not an hour past as a proper young miss, which she most assuredly would never be again.
“Whatever you said,” Henrietta replied, “it opened a door that all of my wrenching and wrestling couldn’t budge. Papa and I will never get back the last ten years, but you’ve given us the years to come, and that’s miracle enough.”
Michael’s grip on her hand was loose and warm. “You’ll allow me to court you?”
Henrietta didn’t fly into giddy raptures, though she was tempted to. Ten years ago, she might have. Michael apparently didn’t expect giddy raptures, and that made up her mind.
“Papa has the right of it,” she said. “You will court me, right down to asking his permission before he leaves here today. You’ll walk out with me, when the weather moderates.”
“And join your family for Sunday dinner,” Michael said. “Sunday dinners are very important.”
“I’ll get to know your sisters—I wrote to them, by the way.”
He kissed her knuckles. “You put them up to this invasion?”
“You looked so lonely and they hadn’t had a formal invitation, only hints and suggestions. They were waiting for the great baron to do the pretty, never having had a great baron in the family before.”
“Thank goodness you came along to translate the brother into the baron, then. Will we cry the banns?”
This discussion was so odd, and so right. This was two people discussing a shared future, not an arrangement. This was solving problems, forgiving, loving, and moving forward, not choosing jewelry or signing a lease on a love nest.
This was what a happily ever after in the making looked like.
“We’ll decide whether to cry the banns or use a special license if you propose,” Henrietta said. “First, you must have permission to court me.”
“No,” Michael said, taking her in his arms. “First, I must kiss you, then I must gain permission to court you—provided you’re willing?”
Henrietta kissed him with all the willingness in her, and not a little stubbornness, along with heaps of gratitude and bundles of hope. Desire was making the list just as the door flew open, and a small red-haired girl pelted into the room.
“Can I hide in here?”
“You may,” Michael said. “But only for a short while. I’ll need this room for a private chat with Miss Whitlow’s father.”
The child darted behind the sofa. “Good! Don’t tell anybody I’m here.”
So it came to pass that Michael asked Squire Whitlow for permission to court Henrietta while one of Michael’s nieces giggled and fidgeted behind the sofa. Henrietta fidgeted in the library—but did not giggle—until her Papa returned from the formal parlor to offer her a cup of punch from the nearly empty bowl on the sideboard.
“He’ll do, Henrietta,” Papa said. “The fellow’s besotted, worse even than I was with your mama. Don’t make him wait too long, please. A man’s dignity matters to him.”
“So does a woman’s,” Henrietta said. “I want to be married in spring, with my family all around me, and Michael’s family too. You’ll give me away?”
Michael returned to the library, a little girl carried piggyback. “Nobody found me!” she cried. “I won!”
Michael found me, and I won too.
“Of course I won’t give you away,” Papa replied. “I’ll walk you up the church aisle, but don’t ever expect me to let you go again.”
He passed Henrietta his serving of punch so she held two nearly full cups, kissed her cheek, then crossed the library to pluck the child from Michael’s back.
Michael joined Henrietta and took one of the cups of punch from her. “If the squire made you cry, I’ll thrash him, and I will not apologize for it.”
“He made me cry, but don’t you thrash him, not for that.”
The children were thundering out of the library, every bit as loudly as they’d arrived, and mamas and papas were calling for wraps and finishing servings of punch. A game of fox and geese was being organized, and nothing would do but Uncle Michael must referee.
“Sh
all I return you to your family, Henrietta? Your father was most insistent that all proprieties be observed.”
“You already did return me to my family, and we’ll observe the proprieties only when privacy is denied us. I’ll marry you, Michael, gladly, but I’d like some courtship first. Not for my sake, but for—”
“Your family’s,” Michael said. “You’ll go from your father’s household to this one. I understand.”
His kiss said he did understand and confirmed for Henrietta that early spring would do for a wedding date, possibly even late winter.
Uncle Michael presided over the holiday game of fox and geese, which became a tradition that grew into a family tournament. Michael and Henrietta’s own brood joined the hunt, along with cousins, aunts, uncles, and—when the snow wasn’t too deep—the squire himself.
Then all would repair inside to enjoy the Christmas punch and listen to a version of the story of how Michael and Henrietta had found each other—and happiness—in the midst of winter’s chill. Some of the details were edited, but Christmas after Christmas, the ending was always the same, a happily ever after, forever in progress.
Grace Burrowes grew up in central Pennsylvania and is the sixth out of seven children. She discovered romance novels when in junior high (back when there was such a thing), and has been reading them voraciously ever since. Grace has a bachelor’s degree in political science, a bachelor of music in music history (both from Pennsylvania State University); a master’s degree in conflict transformation from Eastern Mennonite University; and a juris doctor from the National Law Center at the George Washington University.
Grace writes Georgian, Regency, Scottish Victorian, and contemporary romances in both novella and novel lengths. She’s a member of Romance Writers of America, and enjoys giving workshops and speaking at writers’ conferences. She also loves to hear from her readers, and can be reached through her website, graceburrowes.com, and Twitter @GraceBurrowes.
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