Enchanted at Christmas (Christmas at Castle Keyvnor Book 2)

by Christy Carlyle

  “I’m waiting,” her aunt said, and Angel realized she’d been standing there, mute, for a long moment. Her cheeks were aflame, her heart galloping, her ears whooshing, as if she stood at the bottom of the ocean.

  “Oh, erm…” She cast her gaze down, shuffled her feet and cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should wait for Aunt Tilly,” she hedged.

  Aunt Agnes ambled across the small space between them and held out her hand. “May I?”

  Angel had little choice. She’d not be able to keep it from them, especially now that one of them already knew about it. The pair were quite relentless in their pursuit of the truth, on any plane.

  With a deep breath, she pulled the invitation from her pocket and handed it to her aunt, then she watched as the older woman perused the small card. Not that Aunt Agnes was old – no more than forty, Angel thought, though neither of her aunts had ever admitted their ages to her. But they both had the look of wizened witches, which was exactly what they were. Agnes had hair black as a raven, with streaks of silver cutting through the darkness. And Tilly had hair so red it was almost orange, save the stripe of solid white that started on the right side of her forehead and cascaded all the way to the end.

  Of course, no one truly knew what they were here in Mousehole, though there was plenty of speculation. Thankfully, in this part of Cornwall, folklore and legends abounded, making people like Angel and her aunts simply part of the curious landscape rather than people to be shunned or evicted.

  Aunt Agnes looked up at her, one perfectly arched brow raised. “I will show this to Tilly upon her return.”

  Angel swallowed. “Does that mean you are not decided on if I should go or not?”

  Her aunt gave a loud guffaw. “Oh, you are most certainly going,” she said, tucking the invitation into her own pocket, probably out of a fear that Angel would burn it before Aunt Tilly ever got a chance to see it. “Tilly will most certainly insist upon it.”

  “And you?” Angel asked. “Are you going to insist upon it too?”

  “It is time you left this village, my Angel, even if only for a few days.”

  “But I love this village.”

  “I know you do.” Aunt Agnes’ pale blue eyes turned soft. “But there is a whole world out there for you to explore. Your wandering spirit will die if you stay here, and I think you know that.”

  Maybe she did. Her heart ached to see more, do more, understand more. “Then why am I so scared to leave?”

  “We are always afraid of what we do not know.” Her aunt crossed the small room again and took Angel’s hands in hers. “But you will never know until you go.”

  The door creaked open then, bringing with it a gust of winter wind and her flame-haired Aunt Tilly, looking quite windblown and just a bit overset.

  “Aunt Tilly?” Angel said, rushing to her side. She ushered her aunt into the cottage and closed the door behind her. “Are you all right? What happened at the Taylor’s?”

  But she immediately trained her eyes on Angel, and Angel knew that she knew there was something wrong.

  “The Taylors are fine…now,” she said. “But what is the matter with you?”

  Angel turned to Aunt Agnes, who pulled the invitation from her pocket and handed it to Aunt Tilly.

  She scanned it quickly. “Oh, my darling,” she said, glancing up at Angel with tears in her eyes. “They have finally come to their senses.”

  “She doesn’t want to go,” Aunt Agnes offered.

  Aunt Tilly moved closer and gently moved a stray strand of hair off Angel’s face. “Of course she doesn’t. But of course…she will.”

  “What about Tom Bawcock’s Eve?” Angel exclaimed, searching for any possible way out. “I haven’t missed a single one since I came to live with you ten years ago.”

  “Eleven,” Aunt Tilly clarified. “And our little festival is hardly worth missing your cousins’ weddings. This is what we’ve waited and hoped for all these years – the opportunity to be with your father’s family again.”

  “But why would I want to be with them when they turned him away.”

  Aunt Agnes held up a single finger. “Perhaps a bit of perspective is in order.”

  Angel blinked at her aunt. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means,” Aunt Tilly said, “that perhaps your father and mother made a choice of their own volition.”

  “What kind of choice?”

  “The choice to hide away rather than admit the truth to his family.”

  Angel had never even considered the possibility that Mama and Papa had chosen to abandon family. She’d always thought the family had abandoned them.

  “This is a chance that may never come again,” Aunt Agnes pressed. “You are part witch, yes, but you’re also part--”

  Angel held up a hand. “Don’t say it!” she cried. “Please.”

  “You can’t deny it forever, dear,” Aunt Tilly muttered as she moved to stoke the fire in the grate. “You are a Cushing, whether you want to be or not, and you will head for Bocka Morrow in a few days.”

  Chapter 2

  December 20, 1811

  Castle Keyvnor

  Cornwall, England

  The task of watching out for two eligible young ladies was, in a word, exhausting, as Ethan Dallimore, the Duke of Westbury, well knew. He’d certainly not planned for such an undertaking, not when he’d been at Eton or Oxford, and certainly not when he’d been cavorting about London as a young man. Yet here he was, warding over his youngest sister, Ivy, and his best friend’s sister, Miss Holly Prescott. Deceased best friend, that was. Of course, when she’d shown up on his doorstep five years ago, in the care of his friend’s solicitor, armed with David’s will, Ethan couldn’t very well turn them away. Especially with that look in Holly’s light blue eyes. A look that told him she was sad and terrified all at once and desperately needed to know what her future was to be.

  Turned out that her future was to hound Ethan’s every step, wherever he went. She was a sweet, lovely girl, but no eligible man would ever know, since she tended to traipse after Ethan all the damned time.

  He shook his head, trying to calm his nerves. He simply had to marry her off, and soon. If only they could get his cousin Oliver to come up to scratch. It was obvious the pair cared for one another in some capacity, otherwise they wouldn’t spend so much time together. Even if it was only friendship now, they could learn to love one another in time, couldn’t they? And hadn’t all the happiest couples claimed that friendship was just as important as love?

  That was it. He was going to have a talk with Oliver.

  As if he’d conjured her up with his thoughts, Holly suddenly appeared in the billiards room where he’d been enjoying the company of his male companions. But of course she was there – she was everywhere.

  The room grew quiet upon her entrance. It wasn’t that women weren’t welcome, it was just that they rarely cared to darken the doorway of a room that was more bent toward gentlemen’s tastes.

  “Might I have a word, Your Grace?” Holly asked, singling him out.

  His brow furrowed of its own accord, as it usually did when Holly or Ivy asked to speak with him. What blasted bit of drama would he have to solve today? “Is all well, Miss Prescott?”

  “Yes, I just need a moment of your time.”

  She turned on her heel and left the room, clearly expecting him to follow, which he did, after handing his cue off to Viscount Blackwater. “What is wrong?” he demanded as he stepped into the corridor.

  Holly stared up at him for a moment, her blue eyes so much like David’s it was alarming. “I visited the Gypsies on your behalf.” She reached into her pocket and procured a small, black velvet pouch.

  Ethan raised an eyebrow in question. What the devil was this girl about now? “My behalf?” he clarified, to make certain he’d heard her correctly.

  “Yes, well, you know my concerns…”

  “Holly, enough.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You do not n
eed to protect me.” That was always her argument – that Ethan somehow needed protection from calculating young women.

  “But, I do,” she argued. “You don’t know how conniving the female mind can be.”

  Ethan had raised three younger sisters. He had a very good idea how conniving the female mind could be.

  He narrowed his eyes on Holly, and she had the good sense to look the slightest bit sheepish. Damn it all, the girl was incorrigible. The sooner he could marry her off…

  “Anyway, I’ve obtained a talisman to protect you.”

  As annoyed as Ethan was, this struck him as somewhat amusing, but he did his best to school his features back into their usually, steely expression.

  “You must promise to keep this with you at all times.”

  “What’s it supposed to do?” he asked, holding the tiny drawstring between his thumb and forefinger, and allowing the little sack to dangle in the air.

  “Madam Boswell assured me that as long as this is on your person, you will know your love when you meet her.”

  “How, exactly?” It was complete fluff and nonsense, but he was the tiniest bit curious to know what the woman claimed it would do. Not that he’d believe a word of it.

  “Your fingers will tingle when you touch and your heart will race.”

  It took all of Ethan’s willpower not to snort at his ward. She was otherwise a fairly practical girl, but this…this was quite the most unpractical thing a person could believe in. “And if it doesn’t?” He turned the pouch over in his hand and tested the weight, not that there was much to it.

  “Then the miss in question is only interested in your title and not you for yourself.”

  “What of you?”

  “What do you mean?” She blinked up at him.

  “If I have this, what is to become of you, or will you still watch from the shadows, hoping I don’t succumb to a manipulative lady.”

  Damn. Her cheeks were the color of ripe tomatoes. Had he embarrassed her by stating the obvious? A fact they both well knew – that she did dog his every move.

  “The Gypsy said that I must stay away. Keep my distance.” She cast her gaze to the floor. “I’m the interference that keeps you from your future.”

  Well, now he felt horrible. “Never that, Holly,” he said, trying to soothe her concerns as best he could. He knew she meant well, and as frustrating as she could be at times, he appreciated that someone cared so much to sacrifice their own time and maybe even happiness to make certain he wasn’t being taken advantage of.

  “I only want what is best for you, Ethan,” she said, lifting her face to meet his eyes again.

  “I know, and I thank you for your concern.” He slid the pouch into his pocket, deciding he had to carry it now, if for no other reason than to make amends with his ward. “I’ll make a bargain with you. I’ll keep the talisman on my person if you promise to enjoy this holiday and not worry about me being ruined. Do we have an agreement?”

  She gave him a little smile, clearly pleased with the arrangement. “Yes.” Then she picked up her skirts and rushed quickly away from him. Perhaps this agreement would be good for both of them.

  Ethan returned to the billiards room. It was rather quiet – too quiet – and Redgrave was studying him as if he were some kind of rare specimen. Had the other fellows heard their conversation in the corridor? Did they all know that the unflappable Duke of Westbury now carried a bloody talisman because his little ward had insisted as much? It was a bit humiliating, to be honest.

  “How is your ward, Westbury, and why haven’t you married her off? She’s what, one-and-twenty?”

  This came from the Earl of Hayfield, one of Ethan’s least favorite people in all of England. Nay, in all the world, perhaps. A penniless earl, tupping his governess, and simultaneously looking for a new wife – an heiress, to be more precise – to solve all his financial woes. Holly wouldn’t be a concern in regard to the odious man, but Ethan wouldn’t let him within a hundred yards of Ivy, if he could help it.

  Ethan shot a black glare toward Hayfield that he prayed would serve as sufficient warning that the women in his care were not to be pawns in his scheme. “Miss Prescott is well, and she will marry in her own time.” Then he turned and retrieved his cue from Blackwater.

  But Hayfield hadn’t read the malice in Ethan’s tone, apparently, for he went on. “It must be quite a strain to be guardian to a miss with little to recommend her, at least by way of a dowry. You’re a better man than I.”

  It was all Ethan could do not to lurch across the room and wrap his hands about the man’s neck.

  Somerton gave a little snort. “It’s a shame that Miss Prescott is in love with you, Westbury.”

  And just like that, the desire to throttle Hayfield was gone. He turned to Somerton, his mouth agape, but unable to speak.

  “The rest of us don’t have a chance with her,” Somerton finished, raising his glass into the air before taking a swig of his brandy.

  “L-love?” Ethan stuttered, and then he gave a little snort of his own. “I can assure you that Miss Prescott only holds a brotherly affection for me.” At least, he hoped that was all it was. Good God, was it possible the little pouch possessed some kind of love spell? Was this why she was so intent on keeping women away from him? So she could have him for herself?

  No. He shook his head as he poured a healthy tumbler full of scotch. That was absurd.

  “What is this?” His cousin, Oliver Dallimore, stood at the entrance to the billiard room, leaning casually against the door jamb, as if he had not a care in the world. “Who is in love with Westbury this time?”

  “Miss Prescott,” Somerton called out, and Oliver had the good sense to laugh.

  Although, he didn’t have to laugh so hard.

  “I agree with you, Oliver,” Ethan snipped. “But I see no reason to laugh as if the very idea is an absurdity.”

  “My pardon.” Oliver flourished a mock bow, though the smirk remained on his lips.

  Somerton leaned forward, a bit too interested all of a sudden. “Are you saying that Miss Prescott is not in love with His Grace?”

  “Hardly,” Oliver snorted. “As far as Miss Prescott is concerned, His Grace is much like an older brother, whom she does care deeply about.”

  Thank God. If Holly did hold any kind of romantic affection toward Ethan, she most certainly would have told Oliver. The two were thick as thieves, after all. No doubt they shared all their secrets with one another. Which once again made Ethan wonder why the two couldn’t be married. They’d really make a fine couple.

  “Then why haven’t you courted her?” Hayfield asked the one question they’d all been wondering about. “You’re practically always in her pocket.”

  “It isn’t that I don’t wish to court Miss Prescott,” Oliver answered, and Ethan couldn’t help but raise a brow at this. “In fact, she has everything I could ever want in a wife, save one thing?”

  “That would be?” Somerton asked.

  “Wealth!”

  Ah. So that was what was holding him back. But perhaps Ethan could sweeten the deal by bestowing a dowry upon Holly, larger than the small bit that her family had left for her. After all, it sounded as if Oliver might actually hold a bit of a tendre for the girl, and who was Ethan to stand in the way of true love?

  Chapter 3

  December 21, 1811

  “Are you certain I must go?” Angel asked of her aunts, though admittedly, it was a little late to ask such a thing, seeing as she was standing on the step of the carriage that was to take her to Bocka Morrow.

  “You must stop doubting your decision,” Aunt Agnes said.

  “This was your decision,” Angel corrected. “I’m doubting your decision.”

  “You’re only delaying the inevitable, my dear,” Tilly put in, giving Angel a little nudge from below.

  Angel resisted the nudge, fighting against her aunt. “But what if…what if…”

  “What if what, darling?” Aunt Agnes a
sked.

  “What if…” Angel closed her eyes, trying to fight back the tears of fear that threatened to overtake her. “What if they don’t like me?”

  Aunt Tilly blinked up at her, smiling softly. “My dear Angel, you’ve never much worried what other people thought of you. Why start now?”

  “Because those other people weren’t my long-estranged family.”

  “Nonetheless, they’re only people,” Aunt Agnes reminded her.

  Angel nodded. “I wish you could come with me.”

  “Oh, but then they really wouldn’t like you,” Aunt Tilly laughed.

  Angel laughed too. It was true. Her aunts were eccentric and wonderful, but that would be completely lost on her aristocratic family, she was certain. Of course, Angel was a bit odd herself, so it was yet to be seen how her family would react to her. “We will celebrate Christmas upon my return?”

  “The very second you arrive at the door, we’ll eat spice cake and sing carols about the fire.”

  Now the tears were coming in earnest. She’d not spent a Christmas away from her aunts since she’d come to live with them so many years ago. It pained her to leave at such a time, but she had little control over when her cousins chose to marry.

  “Now, go on!” Aunt Agnes urged, tears in her eyes. “Before Tilly starts to cry.”

  As Angel settled herself on the seat, her aunts continued to deliver reminders to her.

  “Remember to seek out Sacha and the others!”

  “Keep your reticule tucked hidden inside your coat!”

  “Do not dally alone in the woods!”