by Lauren Royal
“Let’s not,” Joseph said, fearing nothing good would come of being alone with her.
But she’d already left the cellar, and he found himself following. In no time at all, he was trailing her back down the steps, carrying the small cauldron full of ingredients and implements they’d collected with Mrs. Potter’s help. Chrystabel carried a pitcher of boiled water.
He set the cauldron on the cellar’s table and emptied it of its contents: cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, a loaf of sugar, a grater, a long wooden spoon, a ladle, a knife, and a small roll of muslin. He’d also thrown a couple of his winter oranges and a lemon into the cauldron, thinking they might improve the flavor.
If he were being forced to make mulled wine, he might as well make it taste good.
“Do you have a decanter?” Chrystabel asked from the back of the cellar, where she’d found the casks of red wine.
He fetched one from a cupboard and began filling it from the tap. “This goes in the cauldron, yes?”
“It does.” She followed him back and watched him pour. “There will be seven of us singing carols. Do you expect two decanters of wine will be enough?”
The cauldron still looked empty to him. “I think we should make it three,” he said dryly. “I have a feeling some of us may drink a fair amount of wine tonight.”
And he himself would be topping that list.
“And we’ll also drink some during the making, for samples,” she said cheerfully. “Let’s use four.”
“What else do we need?” he asked while going back and forth, filling and emptying the decanter. “Have we everything here?”
“Everything but brandy.”
“Over there.” He waved her toward the casks on the opposite wall. “You’ll find another decanter in the cupboard.”
She collected the brandy, poured some into the wine, grated some sugar into the cauldron, and stirred everything together. “Now we taste,” she announced, lowering the ladle into the mix. “This is why I wanted help—it’s always good to have a second opinion.” She took a sip, then handed him the ladle. “Do you think it’s a little strong?”
He sipped. “Maybe. A bit too much brandy?” He added some water. “See what you think now.”
She stirred and dipped again. “Too watered down, I fear. I think we need more wine. And then we’ll need more sugar.”
While she grated the sugar, he fetched more wine and poured it in.
“Now it needs more brandy,” she declared after tasting it again.
So it went, back and forth with tasting and adding, until the cauldron held yet another full decanter of wine, more brandy, more sugar, more water, and Joseph was beginning to feel lightheaded.
“Just a little more brandy,” he said after tasting for the tenth time.
“Maybe we should add the spices before we add more brandy.” She unrolled the muslin and tore off a large piece. “I’ll start with four sticks of cinnamon.”
“I’ll slice the oranges and lemon.”
“I’ve never heard of putting fruit in mulled wine,” she said diplomatically while grating nutmeg onto the fabric.
“That’s only because most people cannot get fresh fruit around Christmastime,” he told her, even though he’d never heard of anyone putting fruit in mulled wine, either. “I think it will taste good.” He dipped the ladle again and took a healthy swallow to evaluate. “Yes, I think it could use some fruit.”
Now his head seemed to be spinning just a little. The oranges smelled delicious as he sliced them, and he moved closer to Chrysanthem—um, Chrystabel—because she smelled delicious, too. He wondered which flowers she used to make her own perfume. Did he grow all of them?
No, roses were her favorites. And he didn’t have any roses.
She added a small handful of cloves to the muslin, tied up the corners, and dropped it into the cauldron.
He moved to toss in some orange slices.
She caught his free hand. “Are you sure you want to add those?”
In the cool cellar, her hand felt warm on his. Then she maneuvered her fingers to mesh with his, and he began to feel warm, too. He had drunk too much wine and brandy. She was close, so close he met with another heady view down the front of her bodice, which made his entire body come to attention.
Especially the lower parts.
She smelled incredible. Flowery. He loved flowers. She was vibrant like his flowers, too. Even her name reminded him of his favorite flower.
Without thinking any further—without thinking at all—he leaned in and kissed her.
He caught her little gasp in his mouth, and then she was wrapping her arms around him and moving closer. The orange slices dropped to the cellar floor as he reached to crush her to him.
The press of her strawberry-sweet lips on his set him aflame. She threaded her fingers into the long hair at the base of his neck, which made his scalp tingle. He felt her everywhere they touched, through her gown and his clothes, and he wanted to feel more.
When he parted her lips, she hesitated, as though she didn’t know what to do. But then he touched his tongue gently to hers and she responded with reckless abandon, sending his blood searing through his veins. They explored each other’s mouths until they were both breathless. He might have kissed her forever, but it ended when her knees began to give and he was forced to seize the table to support them both.
For a moment they just gazed at each other, speechless.
He wasn’t sure why she was speechless, but he was speechless because he didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say.
Kissing her had not felt like kissing Creath. Kissing Creath had only felt nice. Nor had kissing her felt like kissing the more experienced village girls, which had felt fun, dangerous, and daring.
Kissing Chrystabel had felt like none of those things—or maybe kissing her had felt like all of those things—but kissing her had also felt special, exciting, and entirely new.
Kissing her had felt right.
But he had to marry Creath.
“Chrysanthemum,” he began—then stopped. “I mean, Chrystabel—”
“I like Chrysanthemum,” she said with a tender, tentative smile. “Your favorite flower, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but—”
“You can call me Chrysanthemum. I’d love for you to call me Chrysanthemum. I love you, Joseph—I’ve loved you since the moment I set eyes on you.”
She couldn’t. “But…but we just met. You cannot possibly love me. Not that I’m not lovable,” he added quickly, then wanted to smack himself on the forehead. “What I meant was, you cannot love me already.”
“I can, and I do,” she said, and moved closer, and then they were kissing all over again.
She tasted divine. For a long time he just kissed her, long kisses that made his heart ache. Then he kissed a path down her throat, over her shoulders, and across the wide expanse of skin exposed in the neckline of her tantalizing, Parliament-banned gown.
His lips trailed down, just brushing the swell of each perfect breast, before he cupped her face in his hands and returned to her mouth. And when he caught her lips again with his, she felt and tasted and smelled so sweet he thought his heart might melt.
And then he thought it might break in two.
He shouldn’t be doing this. But he couldn’t tell her why. His head might feel woozy, but his brain still functioned well enough to know he shouldn’t be kissing her, and that he couldn’t tell her the truth.
He’d made a promise, and he had to keep it. He couldn’t tell Chrystabel he was betrothed. He couldn’t risk ruining Creath’s life by revealing their plans to her or anyone else.
Wracked with guilt, he pulled himself together and broke the kiss. “I shouldn’t be kissing you,” he said on a gasp.
She looked disappointed and adorable, her strawberry red lips even redder from their kisses. “Why shouldn’t you kiss me? You’ve kissed girls before. It wasn’t your first kiss—I could tell.”
Because it had be
en far from his first kiss, he felt his face heating. “It was your first kiss, though—I could tell, too.”
“You could?” She bit her adorable lower lip. “Did I do it wrong?”
“You did it very, very right. But I shouldn’t be kissing you.”
“Why?” she repeated.
What on earth could he tell her? “I should respect you more than that. You’re a proper high-born lady, and—”
“I’m not that proper,” she interrupted. “I very much enjoyed kissing you, and I’m not-proper enough to want more kissing. I promise I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what has you worried.”
“You won’t tell anyone because I’m not going to kiss you again.”
“Why?” she persisted.
“Because I like to think I’m a gentleman.” It was the only reasonable explanation he could come up with. “And gentlemen don’t kiss ladies.”
“What, gentlemen only kiss harlots? You already kissed me. Why should kissing me again matter now?”
Because if he kissed her again, he might find himself unwilling to marry Creath. But he couldn’t say that. So instead he said, “It matters because it’s better to do the right thing late than not at all. And now I consider this subject closed.”
She huffed. Adorably. “Now what?”
“Now we finish making the damned mulled wine.” Grabbing more orange slices off the table to replace the ones that had fallen on the floor, he tossed them into the cauldron and used the wooden spoon to stir the mixture viciously. “Taste it,” he said through gritted teeth.
SIXTEEN
“I’M SO GLAD you talked us into having a secret Christmas,” Lady Trentingham told Chrystabel toward the end of their Christmas Eve supper.
So far the evening had gone even better than Chrystabel had hoped. To start, Lady Trentingham had insisted on leading a tour from room to room, exclaiming over the decorations to the point where Chrystabel had almost felt embarrassed. Halfway through the tour, Lord Trentingham had handed out goblets of wine, which had put them all in a merry mood as they’d traipsed from chamber to chamber.
Christmas spirit abounded. Everyone was dressed in their pre-Cromwell best. To complement her festive red gown, Chrystabel had added her favorites of the few jewels she owned: a small heart-shaped ruby ring, an enameled drop pendant with a single pearl, and matching single-pearl earbobs.
Joseph’s deep green brocade suit made his brilliant eyes look even greener. It was trimmed with gold braid, and with his glorious long hair loose and gleaming, he looked so delicious that the sight of him made Chrystabel’s mouth water. If only they could get their portrait painted, she imagined the two of them would make a perfect Christmas picture.
Arabel had found a necklace with tiny emeralds and seed pearls to wear with her green and silver gown, and Lady Trentingham was in gold again, having donned a second gold gown that was even fancier than the one she’d worn in the daytime. She wore two long strands of pearls, a beautiful cameo stomacher brooch, and amazing gem-encrusted earbobs that looked like swans. “I haven’t found an excuse to wear my jewels in ages,” she’d told Chrystabel. “Thank you, my dear girl!”
Creath had borrowed a lovely gown from Arabel. In white velvet with a split silver overskirt, she looked like a snow princess. Matthew couldn’t seem to keep his gaze off her, which Chrystabel took as a hopeful sign. She loved helping people, and nothing would make her happier than saving Creath from Sir Leonard by helping her wed Matthew instead. Creath seemed supportive, patient, and kind—she would make a wonderful mother for Matthew’s children, and Chrystabel looked forward to welcoming her as another sister.
A girl could never have enough sisters.
Excited chatter filled the dining room all the way up to the minstrel’s gallery, where Chrystabel had stationed the Cartwright brothers to play Christmas tunes. Supper was nearly over, and everyone had loved the Christmas pie with its turkey, chicken, bacon, and vegetables swimming in savory gravy. The fish cooked in wine and butter, the buttered cauliflower, and the cinnamon ginger artichoke hearts had been enjoyed to the last morsel. And they had all adored Joseph’s potato pudding, especially Matthew and Arabel, who, like Chrystabel, had never seen or even heard of potatoes before.
But through it all, Chrystabel had barely tasted a bite. Though she should have been exhausted after a long day of dashing about, instead she was exhilarated.
She’d finally been kissed!
And Joseph’s kisses had been divine. Sublime. Everything she had dreamed of and more.
It was unfortunate that he’d decided he was too much a gentleman to continue kissing her, but she had no doubt they’d be kissing again soon. The pull between them was too great. They so clearly belonged together, it was a wonder to her that everyone around the table couldn’t see it.
She couldn’t wait to give him her roses tomorrow. Surely those would prompt at least a few more kisses. And after that, if he felt half as in love as she did this evening, he wouldn’t countenance her leaving for Wales. Which meant the roses might also prompt a proposal.
Her heart soared at the thought.
“Chrys?” Arabel kicked her under the table. “Chrystabel, did you hear me?”
“Oh, my heavens. I’m sorry. I was daydreaming.” She dragged her thoughts from the man of her dreams and looked to her sister. “What did you say?”
“Is there something you want to tell us about the strawberry tart?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” While Chrystabel had been daydreaming, Mrs. Potter’s giant strawberry tart had been brought in. A footman was busy cutting it. “Since we haven’t any Christmas pudding, Joseph and I hid tokens in the tart. Please be careful not to swallow one, and do share what you find.”
“What a wonderful idea!” Her spoon poised over the slice that had been set before her, Lady Trentingham glanced at her son and then Chrystabel. “Thank you both.”
“It was Chrystabel’s idea,” Joseph said. “And one of the tokens is very small, so do take care.”
“Oh!” Arabel exclaimed. “I found”—she dug something out—“a wishbone!”
Chrystabel clapped her hands. “That means you’ll have luck in the coming year.”
“Strawberry tart in December feels lucky enough.” Arabel set the small wishbone aside. “But I suppose some luck in our new lives wouldn’t be amiss. I’m hoping Wales won’t feel too very different.”
“People are people,” Matthew said soothingly. “I’m sure we’ll get on with the Welsh just fine.”
If only he looked as confident as he sounded, Chrystabel might have believed him.
Lady Trentingham was the next to find a token. “A thimble!”
“A life of blessedness,” Arabel told her with a smile.
The countess nodded. “Quite fitting, I suppose, since I’m blessed indeed to still have a husband and four healthy children after the war.”
“And five grandchildren,” Creath reminded her, making Chrystabel realize how well the girl knew Joseph’s family.
“Yes, five grandchildren, too. And another on the way.” Lady Trentingham seemed perfectly content this evening. “I am truly blessed.”
“What is this?” Creath asked, plucking something from her tart. “A ring?”
“A sign of marriage, is it not?” Lord Trentingham looked pleased to have remembered the meaning.
Sympathy in her eyes, Arabel turned to Creath. “Not to Sir Leonard, let’s hope.”
“Not to Sir Leonard,” Joseph said firmly.
He appeared to be gritting his teeth.
“A silver penny!” Matthew said, holding it up.
Lady Trentingham smiled. “A fortune in the offing.”
“And heaven knows I could use a fortune these days.” Though her brother sounded light-hearted, Chrystabel feared she knew better. “Have any pirates sailed up the Severn lately?” he added. “Perhaps we should mount a treasure hunt.”
Everyone laughed except Chrystabel.
And in the end, she
was the one who found the tiny anchor.
“What is that?” Lord Trentingham asked, squinting across the table to where she held it up.
“Half of a hook-and-eye fastener,” Joseph said, sounding amused.
“It’s meant to be an anchor,” she protested. “Symbolizing safe harbor.”
“I do wish you safe harbor, my dear,” Lady Trentingham said kindly.
Safe harbor, Chrystabel thought. Ever since spotting the Dragoons, she’d seemed to be floundering.
Would Joseph be her anchor?
SEVENTEEN
THE YULE LOG burned merrily in the great room, its dancing flames adding joyful ambiance to the evening. The two musical brothers were readying their instruments. Chrystabel had asked for couches and chairs to be arranged in a half circle before the immense fireplace so everyone could see one another while they sang carols after supper. Joseph was impressed. She’d thought of everything.
Impressive. Yet another i word.
“Mulled wine,” Grosmont said before they’d even taken their seats. “We always have mulled wine on Christmas Eve. I cannot sing without mulled wine.” The fellow looked to his sister. “Please tell me we’re having mulled wine.”
Chrystabel gave a pert little shrug. “Isn’t it illegal?”
Grosmont’s expression fell. “But—”
“You goose,” she cut him off with a laugh, “of course we’re having mulled wine! How could we celebrate illegal secret Christmas without illegal mulled wine to accompany our illegal Christmas carols? They all go together so well!”
Everyone laughed along with her.
Except Joseph. He was too busy noticing how delightful Chrystabel was. How playful. As his mother kept saying, how refreshing.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Grosmont told her. “In this one instance only, I must commend you in your disobedient ways.”
“We call that questioning convention,” Mother informed him pleasantly. “Interroga Conformationem. Our family motto.”
“Well, that’s…unique.” Eyebrows raised, Grosmont nodded politely. “I believe I’m in favor of questioning convention, so long as it involves drinking lots of brandy.”