The Cavalier's Christmas Bride

by Lauren Royal

  “In this weather, whoever’s at that c-castle will feel obligated to take us in, even if the owners aren’t p-p-present.” Arabel was shivering so hard that Chrystabel suspected it was half for show.

  Chrystabel nodded. “Think of our staff, Matthew. We must find them shelter. If you’d rather freeze to death, you’re welcome to wait in the carriage.”

  “Oh, very well,” he grumbled. “But I fear this will prove a waste of time.” He knocked on the carriage roof and told the bundled-up coachman to turn off the road, trusting the rest of the train would follow. “If we have to turn back, I’m going to say ‘I told you so,’” he warned afterward.

  The castle turned out to be more than a mile off, and Chrystabel held her tongue the entire way. But her heart sank when they got close enough to see the structure was only half-built.

  With its tall, decorative brickwork chimneys and other Tudor architectural touches, she’d assumed the castle belonged to the previous century—but now she feared it might be new and still under construction. What if they found the place deserted and uninhabitable? Picturing her family’s carriages turning around to head back to the main road, she felt colder than ever.

  But to her very great relief, a footman greeted their arrival. Chrystabel showed remarkable restraint as the man asked their names, scurried off to “consult with milord,” and reappeared to graciously welcome them all into the castle. Only then did she turn to her brother and crow, “I told you so!”

  Matthew may or may not have looked daggers at her as she led the way inside. She didn’t see, because she was too busy noticing the young man who waited in the wood-paneled entry hall.

  Or rather, not just noticing. To her astonishment, she found herself gaping. Tall and trim, the gentleman had deep green eyes and long, wavy jet-black hair—Cavalier hair, which meant he was Royalist, like her family.

  Just occupying the same space with this stranger was having peculiar effects on her body. She didn’t feel nervous, as she sometimes had around other good-looking young men. Instead, she felt soft and warm both inside and out. She felt thawed in a way that had nothing to do with coming in out of the cold.

  She couldn’t not look at him. She willed him to glance her way. His gaze met hers—

  —and her heart came to a stop.

  It just paused, as if suspended in time for as long his eyes held hers.

  A sudden truth occurred to her: This is the man I will marry.

  Which was ridiculous, when she thought about it. Maybe she was overtired.

  Yes, she had to be overtired. The frozen, uncomfortable journey had been exhausting.

  When he looked away to address her brother, the perplexing moment passed. “Welcome to Tremayne, Lord Grosmont.” His voice was deep and as beautiful as the planes of his face, making Chrystabel melt a little more. “I would ask what brings you to my home, except I fear I know the answer. I hope the weather will not delay your travels long.”

  “My profound thanks, uh…” Matthew trailed off, apparently realizing too late that their host hadn’t named himself.

  Chrystabel suddenly had to know his name. “Who are you?” she blurted.

  Thoughtful eyes fixed on her again, and again her heart paused. “My name is Joseph Ashcroft, my lady. The Viscount Tremayne,” he added with a little formal bow she found amusing.

  Or maybe it was bemusing. She was certainly feeling bemused.

  Matthew poked her in the ribs. “This is my rude sister, Lady Chrystabel Trevor. My courteous sister is Lady Arabel Trevor. And we are most grateful for your hospitality, Lord Tremayne.”

  The viscount flashed straight white teeth in a smile that nearly reduced her to a puddle. “The hospitality is my father’s. He’s regrettably detained, but he hopes you and your lovely sisters will join our family supper tonight.”

  Lovely! Could he have meant Chrystabel? Or was he just being polite?

  “We’d be delighted,” Matthew answered for all three of them.

  Lord Tremayne nodded. “The dining room is rather hidden, so shall we meet here again at seven? In the meantime, our housekeeper will settle your staff and belongings, and Watkins here will show you to our guest chambers. Please make yourselves at home.”

  With another droll little bow, the viscount took his leave. Chrystabel stayed rooted in place until he was entirely out of sight. When she blinked herself awake, her siblings were gone.

  She caught up to them on a wide flight of stone stairs, which had twisted wrought-iron balusters and a dark oak handrail. The staircase led to a long corridor that appeared to run the length of the building, torches lighting it at intervals.

  Though she’d expected a half-built castle would be unfinished inside, too, this portion was a beautiful and sumptuous home. Trailing Watkins, Chrystabel passed a costly gilt mirror and several impressive tapestries, skimming her hand along stone block walls polished to a subtle sheen.

  Watkins hurried ahead to open a door on the left. “Would one of the ladies like this chamber?”

  Chrystabel peeked into a spacious, splendid room. “I would love it,” she said, rushing inside before her sister could claim it.

  The first detail that caught her eye was a set of magnificent oriel windows. Why, the glass window panes were curved. Marveling, she drifted closer and counted four banks of curved windows projecting out from the back wall, each shaped like a rounded flower petal. She’d never seen anything like them. They afforded a stunning view of the walled Tudor landscape below.

  The geometric garden was lightly dusted with snow. “The grounds were designed by the young viscount,” Watkins explained, “in the style of Tradescant the Elder.”

  Chrystabel loved flowers and knew John Tradescant had brought seeds and bulbs to England from all over the world. She found herself as entranced by Lord Tremayne’s gardens as she was by the gentleman himself. “Oh, these grounds must be enchanting in summer!” She longed to see them in full bloom.

  Too bad she’d be in godforsaken Wales.

  Excusing himself with a bow far more proper than his master’s, Watkins ushered Arabel and Matthew back out. “My lady, I hope you’ll find the next room over to your liking,” Chrystabel heard as he led them down the corridor. “Lord Grosmont, you’ll be installed across the way.”

  When she finally tore herself from the view, Chrystabel closed the room’s door and then surveyed the rest of her surroundings with almost equal glee. Her bedchamber at Grosmont Grange had been nice, but not as nice as this one. It boasted a four-poster bed with red curtains and a red canopy, much like her tester bed at home, but newer and finer. A carved stone fireplace blazed merrily on one wall, and a red Oriental carpet cushioned the floor beneath her feet. Besides the bed, she had a carved wardrobe cabinet and a lovely dressing table with another costly mirror. In the cozy rounded space created by the oriel windows sat an inlaid hexagonal table with two well-stuffed chairs.

  She was already regaining the feeling in her fingers and toes, and with any luck, she’d get to stay warm and snug in this gorgeous room through Christmas. The impending misery of Wales felt like a distant bad dream. Tremayne seemed no place for such unpleasant thoughts.

  Remembering she was overtired, she crawled into the big bed and burrowed beneath the plush counterpane. While waiting to doze off, she pictured Lord Tremayne designing an exquisite new garden. A rose garden. For her.

  Goodness, but he looked darling when he was concentrating.

  In the summertime, the rose garden he’d planted for her bloomed. The colors were spectacular, the fragrances breathtaking. And she was here to enjoy it all. She lived here, at splendid Tremayne. And she lived here because—

  A knock startled her awake.

  Chrystabel scrambled out of bed to open her door. “Is it seven o’clock already?” she asked Arabel, patting her hair back into its austere knot.

  “It will be in five minutes. Matthew went on ahead, and he said we’re to meet him on time.”

  Matthew was very punctua
l and well-mannered and nauseatingly polite out in company. Quite different from the real Matthew that Chrystabel saw at home.

  She looked her sister up and down. “Shouldn’t we change for supper?”

  Arabel shrugged. “What would we change into?”

  “Something more elegant,” Chrystabel said, though something more alluring was what she meant. Her thoughts had returned to the handsome viscount.

  Thanks to her nap, she was no longer overtired—and she still wanted to marry him.

  Unfortunately, she feared her current attire might hamper her chances. Cromwell had forbidden bright or immodest clothing, so the gowns she wore in public were of plain fabrics in tedious browns and grays. Each one had a vast, stark white collar that tied at the throat and flopped shapelessly about her shoulders, making her appear sallow and bulky. The Puritans couldn’t have chosen a style less flattering to Chrystabel’s ivory complexion and tall stature.

  “This will never do,” she muttered, looking down at herself in dismay.

  “It will have to, at least for tonight.” Arabel took her arm. “They haven’t brought our trunks up yet.”

  With a sigh of resignation, Chrystabel let her sister march her down to supper. Oh, how she longed for the fine pre-Cromwell gowns hidden in the bottom of her trunk. “Don’t you miss silk, Arabel? I miss silk. And damask. And embroidery and lace. And rosettes and pearls and oh, I could go on all day.”

  “Please don’t,” Arabel said good-naturedly. “You’d make us late for supper. Then Matthew would be angry, our hosts would be insulted, and we’d still be stuck wearing these hideous sacks.”

  Chrystabel giggled. “What about velvet? Mmm, wouldn’t fur-lined velvet be ever so snug on an evening like this?”

  Arabel put a finger to her lips. “You forget we’re in a stranger’s home. Tremayne folk might frown on such talk.”

  “They’d better not frown at me,” Chrystabel grumbled. “It’s Yuletide, and just as soon as my trunk arrives I’ll wear red and green whether they like it or not.”

  “Suit yourself.” Arabel shook her head. “But we haven’t seen how the lady of the house dresses yet, and I, for one, would rather look dreadful inside a warm castle than ravishing tossed out into the snow.”

  As usual, Arabel was right. Sometimes Chrystabel thought Arabel should be the older sister. They’d simply been born in the wrong order.

  Chrystabel cast about for a safe subject. “How is your chamber?”

  “Marvelous. It's done up all in yellow with a very pretty four-poster bed. And best of all, it’s warm.” Arabel was easy to please. “I hope the storm doesn’t break tomorrow.”

  “You’d like to stay longer?”

  “I’d like to stay forever.”

  “Me, too. I think I shall marry the viscount.”

  That startled a laugh out of Arabel. “Don’t be a goose.”

  “Who’s being a goose?” When they passed the fancy mirror she’d noticed earlier, Chrystabel was careful to avoid her reflection. It would only upset her. “I’m perfectly serious.”

  “No, you’re not. You don’t know anything about him.” Arabel gave her a sidelong glance. “Except that he’s handsome and doesn’t live in Wales.”

  Chrystabel lifted her chin along with her skirts as they started down the staircase. For once, her younger sister was wrong. “I’m not wedding him to avoid Wales. I’m wedding him because I love him.”

  “You cannot be in love with him. You haven’t even had a proper conversation with him yet.”

  “‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’” Chrystabel quoted triumphantly. “It seems Shakespeare would beg to differ.”

  Since Arabel was the academic of the family—she’d read nearly every book in the Grange’s library—Chrystabel could rarely best her with scholarship. She relished every opportunity.

  “As You Like It is fiction, not philosophy,” her sister pointed out. “And incidentally, Shakespeare didn’t write that line. He was referencing a poem by Christopher Marlowe.”

  Hmmph. So much for besting Arabel.

  “There’s no such thing as love at first sight, Chrys. That only happens in plays and poems.”

  Yesterday, Chrystabel would have agreed with the sentiment. But today she knew differently.

  “What a sad, unromantic soul you are, dear sister.” She patted Arabel on the shoulder. “Since it’s happened to me, I suppose I’ll have to prove you wrong.”

  FOUR

  WHEN LORD TREMAYNE walked the Trevors into the dining room, his parents were already at the table. While Chrystabel and her siblings took their seats, the young viscount introduced them—which happily provided enough of a distraction to allow Chrystabel to maneuver herself into a seat beside him.

  Lord Trentingham looked like an older version of his son, and Chrystabel was pleased to see that her future husband would remain attractive into his later years. Lady Trentingham was petite, with gleaming brown hair and her son’s thoughtful green eyes. To Chrystabel’s delight, she wore a lovely hyacinth-blue gown in a flattering silhouette that Cromwell would deplore. Right then and there, Chrystabel decided she’d be donning one of her own pretty gowns tomorrow. The red brocade, perhaps.

  She couldn’t wait for Lord Tremayne to see her in it.

  While inquiries were being made—and condolences offered—on the direction and purpose of the Trevors’ journey, another guest entered and headed toward Chrystabel. Then she paused in apparent confusion before making her way to the last remaining empty chair, on the other side of the table.

  She was a fair young woman in a modest tawny frock. “I’d be pleased for you to meet our dear friend, Mistress Creath Moore,” Lady Trentingham said by way of introduction.

  Seated directly across from Chrystabel, Matthew blinked. “Pray pardon, could you repeat that name?”

  “Creath. It rhymes with breath,” the girl said with a fetching smile in his direction. “It’s a family name,” she added, looking pleased about that.

  When the viscount leaned closer, Chrystabel caught a whiff of his scent. Rich soil, fresh greenery, and spicy wood smoke—with a hint of something she couldn’t identify underneath.

  “Creath is recently orphaned,” he whispered, “so bearing a family name brings her comfort, even if it is unusual.”

  His warm words tickled her ear. She could barely suppress a shiver. What was that unfamiliar fragrance? She’d never smelled anything like it, in her perfumery or outside it.

  Whatever it was, she wanted to bottle it.

  All at once her heart was pounding madly. Why on earth did Arabel think a ‘proper conversation’ was a prerequisite to falling in love? The way Chrystabel felt had nothing to do with talking.

  Oh, yes, she was going to marry the viscount. But she would have to be patient and give him time to catch on. Silly as it seemed—given the inevitability of the outcome—she’d have to work on making him fall in love with her. Men could be blasted dim creatures when it came to this sort of thing.

  No matter, she could wait. They had years and years of romantic bliss ahead of them, after all. She was a reasonable girl. She could accept that he might not propose to her tonight.

  Tomorrow would suit her just as well.

  It seemed she was becoming her own matchmaker. Now that it occurred to her, she rather thought she’d be a natural. Already, instinctively, she knew where to begin: getting Lord Tremayne to touch her.

  She liked this plan. She liked it so much, her skin tingled all over. His right elbow was just inches from her left, making her picture that arm slipping around her shoulders or that hand enveloping hers. Her body was acutely aware of the warmth emanating from his. She found herself drawn to that warmth, no matter that she was thoroughly thawed-out now and the dining room was at a perfectly agreeable temperature.

  Like everything else in this castle, the dining room was impressive. The gate-leg table they were seated at had all its leaves folded away and looked dwarfed in the big chamber. Th
e room had dark-paneled walls, an embellished stone fireplace, handsome paintings and tapestries, and an elaborately carved wooden minstrel’s gallery at one end.

  But she couldn’t help noticing that something was missing.

  “You’ve no Christmas decorations,” she said to no one in particular, while two footmen set out an array of steaming dishes. “Are you not celebrating?”

  “Of course we’re not celebrating.” Judging by the young viscount’s expression, he was wondering if she were daft. “It’s illegal. Meaning that would be a crime.”

  Chrystabel unleashed her silvery laugh. “Indeed, Lord Tremayne.” Oh, he was too darling. “But who would catch you celebrating all the way out here?”

  He raised a brow. “Out here?”

  Her expansive gesture was meant to encompass the many miles between here and civilization. “Out here in the wilderness.”

  Tremayne wasn’t quite as much in the wilderness as Wales, but it was close. The castle was in sight of the River Severn, and Wales was just across it.

  A corner of his mouth twitched. “We have Justices of the Peace here, as elsewhere. And surely you know that Cromwell’s Roundhead spies abound.” His eyes held hers for what felt like a long time, though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. “And please, call me Joseph. We don’t stand on ceremony out here in the wilderness.”

  Arabel and Creath let out little gasps at that impertinent request, while Joseph’s parents wore matching incredulous expressions. Even the viscount seemed surprised by his own audacity.

  But even though she suspected he’d said “out here in the wilderness” to poke fun at her, Chrystabel only smiled. She was liking her future husband better and better. “Then you must call me Chrystabel.”

  “And you can call me Creath,” Creath announced, apparently loath to be excluded. Unless…had her remark been directed at Matthew? Her gaze appeared to be fastened on his. “It rhymes with breath,” she reminded him.

  Now Matthew looked incredulous.