Winter Wishes: A Regency Christmas Anthology

by Cheryl Bolen

  Oliver ran toward her with outstretched arms and wrapped them around her knees, giggling. "You said the magic was in the kitchens."

  "Magic is everywhere. The kitchens are just part of it." She deposited a brief kiss on the top of his head. "Oliver, I want to introduce you to someone I knew when I was your age."

  Oliver stepped back, clearly curious at the notion of his mother being any age than what she was now. Grace saw Rhys watching them with a mixture of emotions on his face: surprise, awe, a bit of envy even.

  "Rhys, this is my son, Oliver. Oliver, this is Mr. Wilton."

  "Oliver, it is my pleasure."

  Rhys knelt on one knee so he was at eye level with Oliver. Her son tilted his head, slightly confused, since he was not used to adults putting him on equal footing. Yet she could see it impressed him.

  "My mama said someone put a frog in her hair once. Was that you?"

  Rhys' lips twitched, and he fought to keep his expression a remorseful one, but he lost the battle. "Yes, it was me," he confessed. "But as I was just trying to explain, I was merely introducing her to the frog, and it decided to jump."

  Oliver giggled. "You are lucky it was not a spider. She hates spiders."

  "I remember that, as well. Do you like them?"

  Oliver's head bobbed vigorously. "I like dogs better. Do you have a dog?"

  "I do. I can bring him around some time, if you'd like." Rhys glanced at Grace, silently asking permission.

  She hesitated, but for the briefest of moments. How could she deny Oliver his heart's desire? She gave Rhys a quick nod.

  "I'll have to warn you, Oliver," Rhys continued. "The beast loves treats, and he is not above searching all your pockets for them."

  Oliver's nose scrunched up as he began to plot. Grace knew his pockets were bound to be bulging with everything he could scrounge in the kitchens.

  "He will insist I add additional pockets to his clothing now," Grace said with a laugh. Oliver's expression grew hopeful. "No, you cannot have more pockets. We shall find another solution. Now go. It is time for your tea. Susanna will have it ready for you."

  Oliver turned, ready to dash to the kitchens. He halted and returned to Rhys, who had just started to rise from his kneeling position. He stayed in place.

  "Mr. Wilton. What is your dog's name?"

  "Bodhi."

  Oliver grinned, as if Rhys had given the correct response to one of his riddles. He skipped towards the kitchen, repeating the dog's name in a singsong fashion, clearly content with his life in that moment.

  Rhys stood and they both watched Oliver dart through the kitchen door, calling out to Susanna about the dog Bodhi that was going to visit him soon.

  "What an absolutely delightful child," Rhys said. "He is so like you—"

  Grace chuckled. "At that age, perhaps. I have lost that sort of exuberance as I've grown older."

  "That is a shame."

  He gazed at her with a blend of compassion and regret that made Grace wish she had continued believing daily life was something to relish. She knew why she had come to such a conclusion, and was not even sure it was possible to return to her previous way of thinking. But Rhys' expression made her feel a distinct sense of loss. Even worse, it seemed he felt that same loss.

  She shook her head, banishing such glum thoughts. "I should return. There is much I must do to prepare for the upcoming festivities."

  "Martin is expecting a great deal of those fig tarts." He grinned. "He could not stop talking about them during our brief walk yesterday. He is nearly as bad as Bodhi when it comes to treats."

  "I shall make sure his pockets are lined with them." A spark of her old self prompted her to add, "Shall I set some aside for you?"

  "I can think of nothing I would enjoy more."

  Grace had to fight off a shiver. His words were about her baking prowess, but there was no mistaking the underlying emotion—he wanted to see her once more, possibly to explore whatever emotions had resurfaced now that they were together again.

  It would be wise to refuse such an invitation, unspoken as it was, or to pretend she was unaware of the undercurrents between them. What was the point of indulging such feelings when she knew beforehand there was no happy outcome?

  Apparently wisdom was in exceedingly short supply just then, for Grace replied, "I would enjoy it as well."

  That night Grace snuggled with Oliver, an indulgence she permitted herself each evening before putting him in his own bed. His sleep was seemingly filled with adventures, his legs kicking and his arms flailing, as if he were racing about, enjoying every one of life's treasures even while sleeping.

  "Mama," he said, his voice not even a little bit sleepy. "When can I have my own dog?"

  They had had this conversation almost since the moment he could put sentences together. She did not want to disappoint him, but there was not a possibility of adding a dog to their current living arrangements. Perhaps one day, when they had their own home, a cottage that could accommodate her adventure-seeking son and a menagerie of animals.

  He tilted his head back to scan her face for the answer he was seeking. "When I am six years old?"

  "That could be a possibility." He would be five soon, so that gave her at least a year's reprieve. "It is a lot of responsibility, taking care of a dog."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means you have to ensure the dog has food, and water, and lots of exercise to keep him healthy." She tickled him, treasuring his giggles. "It is a lot like taking care of a little boy."

  "I would give my dog a lot of love. Like you do for me."

  "Yes, that is one of the most important parts. Of course, it is easy to give you lots of love. Because you are the most loveable little boy in the world."

  "When I am six years old, I can do all of that."

  Grace tried to keep her words non-committal. She did not want him to latch onto a promise she had no ability to keep, despite her wish to do so.

  "It gives you plenty of time to decide what sort of dog would be best, as well as the proper name."

  "I can help Mr. Wilton with Bodhi until then. He would probably want someone to help."

  She squeezed her adorable boy. "We'll have to find out, won't we?"

  To her surprise, he yawned and then gave her cheek a quick kiss. "I love you, Mama." He climbed down and got into his own bed, without any prompting from her.

  "I love you, too, Oliver."

  It was not long before he was asleep, his soft snores the only sound in the darkened room. Oliver would always be her favorite Christmas gift. This year she was grateful she was able to provide him with a home, especially when it had seemed it might not be possible. One day she would allow herself to hope for more, as she did when she was younger, but for now she was content to enjoy some stability.

  She turned and pulled the blanket over her shoulders. Her thoughts drifted towards Rhys, and how enjoyable it had been to see him again, resuming their friendship as if they had never parted. It almost made her believe her fears about returning had been unfounded.

  Yet just a few moments with Rhys had also stirred up the longing she had tried to suppress years ago. It was pure folly to wonder what life might hold in store now that she and Rhys could see each other every day.

  Still, as foolhardy as it was, Grace could not halt herself from thinking about it as she drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning

  * * *

  "Are you certain you do not mind Lord Hartstone giving me the position of cook?"

  Susanna laughed heartily. "Oh dear me, no. I enjoy my position here, but I have no desire to be in charge of everything. It was like a prayer being answered when you appeared that day."

  Grace blew out a breath of relief. "I was so grateful for his offer, I did not even consider you might have had your heart set on it."

  "I have my heart set on something else entirely." Susanna winked and went back to stirring the bowl in front of her.
/>   "I should probably not ask," Grace said with a laugh. She had always enjoyed Susanna's high-spirited nature. They had been conspirators at one time, with Susanna helping Grace sneak out of the kitchens on occasion to meet up with the man she had ultimately wed.

  "No, it is probably best if you do not know," Susanna agreed, joining in the laughter. "Is your heart set on Mr. Wilton?"

  "Of course not." The protest was instantaneous, but not precisely truthful. "I have fond memories of our youth, and he was so gracious to Oliver. How could I not be glad to see him?"

  "Will you want to see him again?" Susanna asked. It was done in a nonchalant tone, but Grace could see the young woman biting back a smile.

  Grace was not sure how to answer. She had fallen asleep filled with anticipation at seeing Rhys again, but wakened with the memory of why it was foolish to indulge such thoughts. She had tried once before to pretend that friendship with Rhys could be enough since no other future was permitted, but it had been well nigh unbearable.

  This time, though, she did not have the luxury of running away.

  She deflected Susanna's question with a teasing one of her own. "Are you attempting to play matchmaker? You may want to select someone else, if you want success."

  Alice, one of the newer kitchen maids, a young girl with red curls and freckles, piped up. "They call Lord Hartstone the matchmaking earl. He's matched two couples already. One was at this very house, at a Valentine party."

  "Is that so?" Grace raised her eyebrows. "You have some competition, Susanna."

  "Or another conspirator." Susanna grinned. "Time will tell."

  They all laughed and then Grace set them to their tasks. They had plenty to prepare for this evening's feast, a dinner for Lord Hartstone's friends and neighbors. And then tomorrow it would be Stir Up Sunday, where they would prepare the Christmas pudding. There was so much to do she would not have a spare moment to let her thoughts drift to Rhys, and how handsome he looked after all these years, and how intoxicating it was when his eyes could not seem to drink enough of her in…

  Susanna chuckled, bringing Grace back to the tasks at hand.

  "So much to plan," Grace attempted.

  "Indeed," Susanna replied. "Perhaps I can help with all that planning."

  Grace knew the minx was talking about something other than the logistics for the holiday events. She could only hope no one else was able to deduce Grace's thoughts as easily.

  "Susanna, I will always be grateful for your help. And I want to thank you for your assistance with Oliver. It's wonderful being able to count on that."

  Susanna blushed, a rare occurrence. "I adore the little mite. And I know it cannot be easy taking care of him all by yourself. I am in awe of what you do."

  "Thankfully I do not have to do it all myself now." She gave Susanna a grin. "Now you can explain to him how many days it is until he is old enough to have his own dog."

  Susanna's groan was a theatrical one. "He is relentless on that topic! How can one little boy love every critter and beast he sees?"

  "It is why I hope to one day have a little cottage of our own, so he can play in the woods and meadows even more than I did. He is sure to appreciate the woodland animals a great deal more, too."

  "Maybe Father Christmas will deliver you such a gift," Susanna said.

  "I would not count on it. Though I cannot help but wonder what he might bring for you."

  Susanna's eyes danced with merriment. "I have created a list to assist him. It is topped with a handsome man who works in the village, with the darkest hair and bluest eyes." She fluttered her own eyes. "I am certain I could love him."

  "Have you even spoken to him?"

  "I let my eyes speak for me," she answered with a laugh.

  Grace snorted. "I hope he does not misinterpret the message your eyes are delivering."

  "That is not possible. The last time I saw him, I also blew a kiss in his direction."

  "Susanna! You are incorrigible. I may have to lock you in the kitchens to ensure all of the men in town are safe from your seductive wiles."

  "That might be wise." She grinned. "But I am not sure it will be successful."

  That evening

  Rhys pretended to listen to his dinner companion while she prattled on about…something. He had no interest in anything but seeing Grace again. She was truly the only one he enjoyed conversing with, probably because she was interested in more than the polite society blatherings that passed for conversation.

  She had always wanted to discuss everything she saw, and what she hoped to see, doing her best to make her world larger and more adventurous. Even when she was constricted by her station in life, she had found a way to explore.

  Now it seemed that aspect of her had been diminished. Did she still grieve for her husband? She was the sole support for her son, which was bound to bring its own set of worries. Or perhaps she was filled with regret at returning home after trying to leave it behind forever.

  Yet Rhys could not deny she appeared genuinely happy to see him again. Their conversation was as lively and enjoyable as anything they had experienced years ago, making it seem there had been little passage of time—at least until Grace had introduced him to her son. Oliver possessed the same blond hair and mischievous blue eyes as his mother, as well as the buoyant high spirits Rhys always associated with Grace.

  His heart had found it remarkably easy to crave more with Grace, ignoring the ache such desires had caused previously…

  A discreet cough brought him back to his duties as a guest. "My apologies," he said. "I did not hear your question."

  "I merely wondered," the dowager said in a loud voice, "why you have yet to marry."

  He nearly sputtered at the impertinence, but the elderly woman was known for such brash statements. It would be churlish to put her in her place. He saw Hartstone at the end of the table, lifting his glass in salute, giving him a sympathetic shrug.

  "There is no need to rush into matrimony," Rhys answered, forcing a smile. "After all, I am merely a third son, and the line of succession is secure without my efforts."

  "It is a wonder you have not bought a commission, or joined the clergy." She gave him a thorough looking-over, filled with approval. "You do not appear to be a layabout. So surely you are doing something useful with yourself."

  He laughed. "I am not suited for battle, and I would be even worse at trying to save wayward souls. I spend my time assisting with the running of the estate, since I discovered I have an affinity for it."

  "Even though it will never be yours?"

  "Perhaps I shall take the knowledge and experience and use it elsewhere one day."

  The dowager sniffed, as if unable to comprehend such a decision on his part, and then turned her attention to the person sitting to the other side of her. Rhys sighed with relief.

  He much preferred to devote his thoughts to Grace. It was torturous knowing she was nearby, but at such a distance that he could not see her, or speak with her. It was yet another reminder of the difficulties that separated them: he was a guest at Hartstone Hall, while she toiled in the kitchens.

  Still, despite that, he was eager to speak with her soon. He had a gift for Oliver, and he hoped she would permit him to give it to her son. Surely she would not find it amiss if Rhys presented it on St. Nicholas Day.

  Until then, he would enjoy the food adorning the table, knowing it had been prepared by Grace. That brought a secretive smile to his face. The remaining portion of the evening was a great deal more bearable with thoughts of Grace to keep him company.

  Chapter 4

  St. Nicholas Day, December 6

  * * *

  Rhys approached the kitchen door, his heart thudding with a bit of apprehension. Would Grace consider him impertinent, giving her child the small gift? He hoped not. In truth, he was eager to see Oliver's expression, so it was as much a gift for Rhys as anything else.

  Before he reached the entrance, Grace came out, her wool cloak draped around he
r. Her face brightened as soon as she saw him, but the joy was quickly banished.

  He felt a moment's dismay that she felt the need to hide her happiness. In the next instant, he was nearly bowled over by the implication: he was not the only one with strong emotions.

  "Rhys," she began, and then gave him a rueful smile. "I suppose I really should address you as Mr. Wilton."

  He pretended to frown. "I might fly into a rage if you do."

  Her delightful laugh filled the air. "You have never flown into a rage. I do not ever recall seeing you angry. Perhaps exasperated at times. And often with me."

  "Exasperated only because you would not heed my warnings about the dangers of certain situations."

  "Fortunately that was when I was young, and impatient, and in a rush to discover those things you warned me to avoid."

  Her grin let him know she was teasing, and it warmed his heart. "Then hopefully you will have a moment to attend me when I explain myself now."

  Her eyebrows shot up. Was she worried he meant to warn her away from him? Or perhaps she was even more concerned he might declare himself.

  The warmth his heart had just experienced drained away. He had hoped, foolishly it seemed, that there was a reciprocal feeling on her part. Perhaps he had mistaken the depth of their bond, just as he had years ago, when she had chosen a reckless young man to be her husband and fellow adventurer.

  "I have brought a small gift for Oliver." He knew his voice sounded stiff, but it seemed the better course of action just then. "I do not mean to presume, but it was something I hoped he might find enjoyable."

  Grace nibbled at her bottom lip, but kept her eyes on his. He could see the wariness fighting with the joy of him treating her son with such compassion. After a few moments, she said, "Could you tell me what it is?"

  Rhys dug in the pocket of his coat and extracted the gift, which he had loosely wrapped in a colorful cloth. He peeled back the corners to display a small dog he had carved. He held it in his outstretched hand. "Since he loves dogs so much…"