A Snowflake at Midnight

by Anne Renwick

  Reason insisted that they stop.

  But this kiss exceeded her every hope, and so she shoved the sensible admonishment aside and kissed him back, pouring passion onto the fire.

  His hands caught at the embroidered lapels of her jacket. Fingers slid behind their folds while thumbs traced the winding path of the vines downward, twisting and writhing across her chest, over the slope of her breasts. He tugged her closer, swallowing the gasp that escaped her throat when his teasing fingers brushed over the peaked tips of her nipples, when the delightful friction stoked the flames yet higher.

  Dangerous, this heat between the shelves, with so much dry paper available as kindling.

  And yet she uncurled her fingers and reached for his cravat—

  Without warning, his hands gripped her waist, pushed her down onto her heels and away from his warmth. Her eyes flew open. “Why—”

  Nearby, footsteps echoed in the stacks. A patron wandering about, searching for a book. Alarm raced down her spine.

  He held out a hand. “Pass me a book,” he demanded, breathless. A lock of hair had tumbled over his forehead and color darkened his cheeks. “Books. Stack them upon my arms and quickly. We’ve been out of sight for far too long.”

  Her hand still gripped the spine of The London Dispensatory. She pulled the text free and dropped it into his hands.

  “More, Miss Brown. Anything remotely relevant.”

  Focused now, she yanked a number of books from the shelf and stacked them upon his outstretched arms. He turned and strode away, leaving her amidst the books, heart pounding. She pressed hands against her overheated cheeks and dragged in a deep breath. Then smiled. Such wanton behavior.

  And she regretted none of it.

  Seated at their usual reading table, Ash forced himself to convey every impression of serious scholarship. He cracked open the brown notebook, flipped to a fresh page and snatched up a pen. By rote, he scratched out the names of all plants known for their use as eye salves, willing away the ache of denied pleasure that still flooded his body. But the list was barely legible. His grip on the blameless fountain pen was too tight, and his mind refused to concentrate on anything save the memory of Evie’s curves, the faint taste of spun sugar upon her lips, the soft whimper of protest as he broke their kiss.

  With her invitation, Miss Brown had turned all his plans upside down. He tugged the ring he’d purchased from his pocket. Between his fingers, the dull gold band glowed in the bioluminescent lamplight. Impatience urged him to drop onto one knee, to propose this very minute so that they might spend the entirety of the holiday celebrating. Prudence advocated for a private moment, one more favorable to romance.

  He shoved the ring back in his pocket.

  Where was she? He struggled not to glance over his shoulder. He’d left her standing in the stacks. Abruptly. Callously. But, by aether, the urge to ravish her among her beloved books had been overwhelming. They weren’t alone, not even remotely, and he had no business letting his hands wander over her sweet form. Not here.

  Before him, the balcony provided a grand view of the vaulted reading room below. Only a few dedicated souls remained. Many had closed their texts and slipped from the library, heading home on a cold, December evening to settle into a cozy holiday with family. Tomorrow the library was closed, as were the other offices and facilities of the Lister Institute. A rare day when all activities on the campus ground to a complete halt. Almost. For it was impossible to keep all scientists from their laboratories.

  Or him from his greenhouse. His own parents were miles upon miles north in Boroughbridge, celebrating with his sisters and brothers and nieces and nephews. Proud of his work, they nonetheless struggled to comprehend how he could find happiness in such a crowded, hazy city. But they’d not yet laid eyes upon the amazing glass and iron houses that arched above the roofs of the Lister Institute, where plants from around the globe flourished, where scientists strove to unlock various botanical mysteries. True, some ten miles removed from the institute, a larger facility had been built upon the grounds of Kew Gardens and many from his department now vied for the honor of moving to a more rural setting. But London—and one particular librarian—had captured his heart.

  The air shifted—carrying a hint of honeysuckle soap—a moment before Miss Brown deposited a new stack of books upon their table and slid into the chair beside him.

  “Thank you,” she breathed. “For emphasizing the potential for wen-salves. I’d tell you Papa would be thrilled to learn of our minor victory on his behalf, but when you meet him tomorrow, you’ll find that he defines grumpy, old patriarch.”

  “Still resistant to your ministrations?”

  “Always.” She huffed. “The skin lesion has continued to spread. He’s taken to wearing a mask and is refusing all further surgeries. Under protest and only because I’m his daughter does he submit to my herbal concoctions.”

  “We’ll keep looking,” he reassured her. Her father’s condition was, after all, the inspiration for their project.

  When Ash arrived at the library under Mr. Thistleton’s orders to comb the texts for any reference to amatiflora, a medicinal plant known only to gypsies, he’d discovered most of the old herbals stacked upon Miss Brown’s desk. During stolen moments and after hours, she was hunting for a remedy that might treat her father’s malignant skin lesion. They’d soon struck up a working relationship and, though she’d been handing various formulas to a local chemist, he’d taken over the task of compounding the various botanical ointments and creams in the stillroom adjacent to the greenhouse.

  A few remedies had shown initial promise, then gradually lost their efficacy. Most did nothing. Possibly because the reference assumed a trained, experienced practitioner and offered no measurements, leaving them guessing at the various quantities and ratios of ingredients to incorporate. But neither of them voiced aloud the possibility that no such cure existed, within the ancient manuscripts or without. Miss Brown refused to give up.

  She was a woman that any man would be lucky to have at his side.

  Would that he, a gardener’s son, be able to win her.

  The dalliance of the lord’s youngest son with Mary, the vicar’s daughter Ash had been courting, had resulted in a fraught situation—one resolved by a hasty marriage and a distant military posting—and the lord’s offer to smooth the path of Ash’s future by offering him an advanced education. Reeling from the revelation that Mary had been accepting his attentions only to cover her dalliance with another, Ash—bitter and disappointed—had snatched at the chance to expand his world.

  It had been exactly the push he’d needed.

  Though he had graduated from Victoria University of Manchester, he’d disappointed everyone by earning a degree in botany, rather than engineering, and by heading to London, rather than by returning to apply his knowledge in the lord’s service.

  Hard work and not a small amount of luck had earned him the title Research Assistant at the Lister Institute. Without this project, without earning a more advanced degree, there he would stay.

  But he had plans. Ones in which Miss Brown featured prominently.

  From the passion she’d poured into their kiss, he hoped she might have similar designs. Yet, beside him, she’d fallen silent, her eyes fixed upon a single page as if the words upon them blurred and ran together.

  Ash slid his left hand beneath the table to catch at her fingers, careful to keep his gaze directed at the notebook before him. “Have I shocked you?”

  “Not at all.” Her lips twitched as she threaded her fingers through his. “You know of my past, that I’m no innocent.”

  He did. Once she’d been engaged and, by society’s standards, her conduct ought to have seen her married. She’d shared that particular secret from her past when his courtship became clear. “I see no reason for that to mean I should treat you with less respect.”

  “Ah.” Evie hummed. “I’m glad to hear it. Though I must admit to a certain frustration requiring a
drastic step to entice you to act.”

  He huffed a soft laugh, gratified that he didn’t suffer alone. “It’s true, I’d planned to be more circumspect.” Sliding a finger beneath the cuff of her sleeve, he traced a path across the delicate interior of her wrist.

  Her breath caught.

  A risky glance revealed heat creeping into her cheeks, and his mind began entertaining a number of fantasies about how else his touch might inflame her desire.

  “About your botanical family,” she ventured, sliding him a coy glance. “Am I to be introduced tomorrow?”

  The only day they could hope to be entirely alone. He quirked an eyebrow. “So you do wish to cross that line?”

  “Did I not make that clear a few minutes past? Weeks of botanical gifts have whet my appetite for an invitation to enter your greenhouse. Where,” her hand crept onto his thigh, “one might, presumably, find a vine-covered arbor in the dead of winter.” A bold and forward statement to match her touch.

  The sensation of her palm skimming over the wool of his trousers sent blood rushing back into his groin. Was she determined to drive him mad? “A grave oversight that I intend to rectify immediately. Tomorrow, then, after Christmas dinner?” Risking censure, he leaned closer and whispered, his voice rough and raw. “I have every interest in peeling those vines of yours away to explore what lies beneath.”

  Gratifying, the way his words made her hand tighten upon his thigh and her next words emerge as a breathy whisper. “I look forward to entertaining your rising expectations. I do hope they are… substantial.”

  Ash choked and nearly swallowed his tongue. He caught at her hand before she attempted an investigation. Aether, he was about to spontaneously combust.

  “Will you let me escort you home this evening?” Perhaps there might be mistletoe hanging in her home. Not that a few chaste kisses in her family’s home would do anything to cool his ardor. The sooner Ash spoke with her father, the better.

  “My sister isn’t expecting you until tomorrow,” she demurred. The light of her features dimmed. “With the exuberance of six nephews whirling about tonight, there’ll be nothing but chaos and confusion. And the evening will be bittersweet. Mum and her Christmas expectations were always… weighty. Papa will be lowering the level of household rum, and my sister won’t yet have run through her baking stores. She’ll likely carry on past midnight. It’s best we don’t add to the chaos.”

  Disappointment dragged his stomach to his knees. A cold grate and an empty room waited for him at his boarding house. But he understood why she would not force her sister to play hostess, to feign a false joy for unexpected company.

  Enlightenment broke. All those long hours spent bent over her many books of late? A way to hide from the pain of losing her mother during the holiday season. Five years past. And so soon after the death of her fiancé.

  Hard to regret Miss Brown’s subsequent availability, but he was sorry that she’d endured such pain. An airship engineer, he recalled. For a vast sum, the boy—for he’d been all of nineteen—had signed aboard a ship known to travel dangerous routes. Presumed lost to the Carpathian air bandits, none of the crew had ever been heard from again.

  In the adjacent alcove, pages rustled. A reminder that they were not at all alone. He gave her hand a squeeze, then released it. As her warm touch slid away, he found himself bereft.

  Evie cleared her throat and nudged her leg against his. “Now, about this project of ours. It’s pure brilliance, and it’s time the committee learned about it.” Her voice held a note of false cheer. “Remember, despite our presentation to Mr. Davies, I want equal credit for all the work. We’ll either rocket to fame together, or we’ll both sink back into academic obscurity.”

  “Never fear, you’ll make your mark in the field of medieval herbals.” Time to focus. There was much to accomplish before they would be ready to present to the review committee. “Prestige will be ours.”

  Kissing in the library.

  He’d caught the faintest glimpse of them through the screen of books. A disgusting display of lust, and it burned low in his gut that Miss Brown had succumbed to the gardener’s charms. What was Lockwood but some peasant’s son who’d grown up in a cottage with dirt floors?

  He was of the aristocracy. Wealthy and well-bred. But for the unfortunate gender of his mother, the title viscount would have passed to him. Though the family estate now descended through his cousin, as was lawful, he was not without resources. Mother had a generous annuity and was in good health. His own investments in Captain Oglethorpe’s Luxury Airways kept the coffers brimming. And eventually, the London townhome would pass to him.

  As a spouse, he was by far the better choice.

  Alas, it appeared he must educate Miss Brown as to the error of her ways. All he needed were a few private minutes of her time.

  Impatient, he’d waited for the library to empty of its patrons, its librarians.

  True to form, Miss Brown was among the last to leave. He started forward, then stopped and frowned. Lockwood was among the knot of stragglers.

  Perhaps it was for the best, what with the blood and grime that marred the knees of his trousers. He’d change first. Approach her later. Then rip out the roots of this budding romance.

  Bracken hung back in a shadowed alcove of the hallway, watching as Miss Brown pulled a great iron key—such poor security—from her pocket to lock the library’s carved, wooden door. Too many were careless, even those who worked in secured laboratories.

  Lockwood walked at her side as they exited the building. Together. Careful to retain an appropriate space between them. Even so, he cast her lustful glances, no doubt entertaining improper thoughts about the rights that would be his once he slipped that ridiculous ring onto her finger.

  Copper, if he had to guess. Likely to turn her skin green. Such a band was far too simple, too common. Faceted gemstones ought to grace his fiancée’s hand. A cut-glass bottle with a gold atomizer ought to perfume the air that surrounded her, not a simple cluster of holiday greenery that could be purchased on any street corner.

  He could do better.

  He would do better. He would secure her as his muse. A holiday present to himself, along with a clear path to the Hatton Chair. With her at his side, bound to him, her access to knowledge at his disposal, academic honors and recognition would be his. Smiling, he stroked his mustache, twisting its end about his finger.

  He watched from the doorway of the Lister Institute as Miss Brown’s better sense returned. She waved off Lockwood’s attentions, choosing to board an omnibus that would carry her home.

  Good. With the gardener out of the way, it was time. He’d stop by his townhome, change, and collect an appropriate engagement ring before paying Miss Brown a formal call. Imagine her joy when he graced her parlor with his company on Christmas Eve, then bent upon one knee to declare his undying affection.

  Chapter Four

  “Hurry, Aunt Evie!” Four small boys cried, immediately countermanding their order by throwing their arms about her knees and ankles.

  Delightful smells wafted from the warm kitchen. Flour and yeast. Cinnamon and sugar. Nutmeg and cloves. All recalling many happy memories of holidays past, if tinged with a touch of sadness. Evie smiled. Feeding six grandsons would have filled Mum’s heart to overflowing. Though they wouldn’t remember, each of the eldest three had made quite the mess gumming Grandma’s iced biscuits on past Christmas Eves. A tradition their mother clung to, never deviating from the recipe.

  A prick of sadness threatened to bring tears to her eyes.

  “Why the hurry?” She pretended ignorance as she tugged off her gloves, unable to so much as unbutton her coat amidst the swirl of nephews that engulfed her in the foyer.

  Timmy, at the advanced age of nine, hung back. He feigned a quiet dignity, but strategy danced in his eyes. He’d already shifted in the direction of the kitchens, ready to race his siblings in a mad dash to reach the treats first, certain of his victory. “Mum said we
can’t touch the gingerbread—”

  “Or pies! Or tarts!”

  Timmy sighed. “Or the pies and tarts, until you’ve taken the first bite.”

  The holiday baking was extensive. A time when her sister, Beatrix, would tie on an apron and disappear into the kitchens for a full week. The steam cook and various implements that kept a family of ten fed, would be pushed beyond their design specifications, baking around the clock to churn out a feast fit for kings. Though most treats were off limits until Christmas Day.

  “Well then.” She ruffled silky curls. “You know how this works. Who has it?” A grubby hand waved in the air. “A crust? Without even a hint of filling?” She feigned exasperation as she plucked the pastry fragment from Joey’s fingers and sniffed. Currents. Candied orange peel. Cinnamon. And hints of so many others met her nose. “It must be mincemeat!”

  “You guessed!”

  “Well, then. Are you ready?” Her nephews released her legs. “Set. Go!” The moment she bit down, the boys bolted. Pushing and shoving and laughing, they tumbled through the door into the kitchens.

  She hung up her coat and carefully placed the vase of gifted cuttings of greenery upon the hall table. A small offering beside the swags of garlands that were tied to the railings with red, velvet ribbons. Alone for the moment, she permitted herself to indulge in the memory of Mr. Lockwood’s delicious kiss, of his hands brushing over her. A feverish flutter stirred deep inside her. Tomorrow, during her private tour of his leafy domain, she intended to encourage those strong, wandering hands of his to pick up where they’d left off.

  Bang! With a thump and a crash, the kitchen door swung open. Laden with tea and stacked with individual mincemeat pies, the roving tea table wheeled past, clattering and clanking as it made its way to Papa’s study.