A Secret Christmas

by Lauren Royal

  “Joseph and I made the mulled wine, and I fear we put in far too much brandy,” Chrystabel assured him. “Just wait till you taste it.” Moving closer to Joseph, she gave his arm a friendly squeeze. “He added two secret ingredients to make our mulled wine extra special.”

  Meeting her gaze, Joseph wondered if his face gave away his feelings. Did she know that she made his blood race with just a touch? That he couldn’t stop thinking about their kisses in the cellar? Could she tell how much he wanted her?

  She was beautiful and alluring, but he wanted her because of so much more than that. He wanted her because she was charming, surprising, and, yes, irresistible.

  But the day after tomorrow, he was marrying Creath.

  Wasn’t he?

  For a moment, he allowed himself to consider other possibilities. What if he didn’t have to marry his friend to save her? What if his mother was right? What if they could send Creath to Wales while they helped her make a good match with another suitable gentleman?

  It wasn’t as though he and Creath were in love. If he got her safely married and out of Sir Leonard’s reach, was that just as good as marrying her himself? Or maybe even better? Another gentleman might make her happier.

  “Shall we sit?” Chrystabel prompted.

  The musicians struck up a familiar tune, and everyone settled onto the couches and chairs, joining in the first verse of “Here We Come a-Wassailing.” Joseph seated himself between his parents—directly across the circle from Chrystabel—and a footman offered him a steaming mug of the mulled wine. The cup warmed his hands, and the sight of Chrystabel enjoying herself warmed his heart. All the voices raised in joyous song seemed to raise his spirits, too. His chest swelled with hope and faith that everything would turn out right.

  It was Christmas, after all.

  And somehow, despite his earlier protests, tonight he felt lucky and grateful to be celebrating. It would have been a shame to miss this. Being here among family and friends on this magical evening was a gift, and a tradition worth fighting for.

  As he sang “Love and joy come to you, and to you your wassail too,” he wondered if he might have misjudged Chrystabel. Perhaps she wasn’t as irrational and irresponsible as he’d thought.

  “This mulled wine is uncommonly good,” Lady Arabel said when the song ended. “You must tell us, Lord Tremayne—what are your secret ingredients?”

  He couldn’t help flashing Chrystabel a triumphant smile. “Lemon and orange.”

  “Are they imported from Spain?” Lady Arabel asked?

  “I grow them in my conservatory.”

  “When Joseph suggested the additions, I must own I had my doubts.” A gracious loser, Chrystabel inclined her head and smiled at him. “But he was right. The fruit complements the liquor and spices perfectly. Ours must be the only mulled wine with this flavor in all of history,” she declared grandly.

  “And it’s delicious!” When Lady Arabel gulped more, she sloshed a bit down the front of her dress and giggled.

  “And you weren’t jesting about the brandy,” Grosmont said pointedly, passing his youngest sister a handkerchief. He raised his cup to Chrystabel and Joseph. “My compliments.”

  “Mine, too,” Mother put in. “The fruit is a brilliant innovation. How lucky I am to have such a talented son.”

  “And I, to have such a talented…friend,” Creath finished weakly, making Joseph realize she’d been about to call him something else. Had she nearly said ‘betrothed’ in front of their guests? When her wide, worried eyes sought his, he sent her a reassuring smile, and she looked instantly at ease. As if, whatever happened, she trusted him to make it all right.

  She always had. Three years younger than he, she’d looked up to him as an older brother and protector since they were children. When her family took ill last year, she’d run to him first and relied on him utterly. When her parents and little brother had slipped away, one by one, he’d held her as she cried and promised her he would always take care of her.

  Looking at her innocent, vulnerable face now, guilt hit him like an arrow to the heart.

  Puncturing all his fledging hopes and dreams and what-ifs.

  Here was another what-if: What if he took an unnecessary risk with Creath’s future, and she paid the price? What if he broke their betrothal for selfish reasons, and she fell into Sir Leonard’s hands?

  How could he have thought there might be other possibilities? There was just one possible way to ensure her safety, keep his promise, and do right by her. Of course anything less than that wouldn’t be good enough.

  Anything less was impossible.

  He drained his cup of mulled wine and held it out for a refill.

  “What shall we sing next?” Chrystabel asked the circle. Without waiting for an answer, she turned to the musicians. “Do you know ‘Joseph Dearest, Joseph Mine?’ It’s my favorite.”

  Lady Arabel hiccuped. “Since when is it your fav—”

  The music resumed, and they all began singing.

  Joseph couldn’t help his gaze straying to Chrystabel. Couldn’t help noticing she was watching him, too. Couldn’t help wondering if she’d chosen the carol for him.

  “Joseph dearest, Joseph mine,

  Help me cradle my child divine…”

  Oh, how he suddenly wished he could.

  He’d always liked children and knew he would have his own someday, but he’d never felt a particular need for them. He’d never felt fatherhood was something missing from his life. But all at once, watching Chrystabel sing sweetly, he found himself wanting to cradle her child—their child—more than anything.

  “Gladly, dear one, lady mine,

  Help I cradle this child of thine…”

  He couldn’t. He loved her, but he couldn’t.

  He had to tell her he couldn’t.

  But how could he?

  EIGHTEEN

  “LADY CHRYSTABEL, you have outdone yourself!” The next morning, Lady Trentingham licked nutmeg and cinnamon off her lips. “A flawless Christmas Day breakfast. This panperdy could change a person's life.” She speared her last bite of the panperdy, fine manchet bread fried in eggs and spices. “I wouldn’t mind having you plan next year’s secret Christmas.”

  Chrystabel wouldn’t mind, either. In fact, if her dream came true today, she’d begin planning next year’s secret Christmas immediately. She’d be happy to spend the rest of her life planning secret Christmases at Tremayne.

  “Thank you for the kind words,” she told Lady Trentingham. “I’ve had so much fun that none of the planning seemed like work. Shall we repair to the great room now? I have one more surprise, and then Arabel and I have a few small gifts we’d like to bestow. To be followed by Christmas Day games, of course.”

  “Oh, my heavens.” Lady Trentingham looked alarmed. “I didn’t know you were planning gifts. We normally exchange gifts on New Year’s Day.”

  “As many families do, I know. But our family tradition is Christmas Day. I dearly hope you will accept our gifts in the spirit in which they’re intended. They’re very small, simply tokens of our appreciation. We’re exceedingly grateful to you and your family for hosting us the past few days.”

  “I cannot even imagine what our Christmas would have been like on the road,” Arabel put in. “Spending the holiday here has been such a pleasure.”

  “It’s been our pleasure,” Lady Trentingham said, rising to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, I shall join you in the great room forthwith.”

  When the rest of them entered the great room, the yule log was still burning, casting a merry glow to counteract the dull gray day outside the windows.

  “Excellent job choosing the log,” Chrystabel told Matthew.

  “I reckon it may still be burning when we leave tomorrow,” he said, sounding proud of a job well done but also somewhat dejected. When his gaze trailed to Creath, Chrystabel suspected he was already dreading saying goodbye.

  That boded well. She still had most
of a day to talk him into proposing to Creath. With any luck, there might be two betrothals before the day was out.

  When Lady Trentingham joined them, taking the last remaining seat in the semicircle Chrystabel had arranged to face the great fireplace, the footmen were handing out goblets. The countess took one and sipped, then all but squealed with delight. “Warm chocolate! Such a treat!”

  “My final surprise,” Chrystabel said. “Mrs. Potter kindly offered her little hoard of cocoa. We used every last bean, I’m afraid.”

  “I cannot imagine a more fitting use for them.” The countess paused for another appreciative sip. “Thank you, my dear girl. We’ve been leading a very quiet life since the war ended, and you’ve brought such joy to us. To all of us.”

  Was it Chrystabel’s imagination, or had Lady Trentingham looked to her son when she’d said to all of us? Joseph’s mother did seem to like her. Would she approve of their betrothal? Or maybe even…encourage it?

  She could only hope. She thought she could come to love the countess nearly as much as she loved the countess’s son. When she imagined Joseph’s devoted mother becoming the mother she no longer had—barely ever had, really—she felt her heart swell with joy.

  “This is for you, Lady Trentingham.” Chrystabel handed her a gaily wrapped package. “From Arabel and me. We made it especially for you.”

  Joseph’s mother pulled the end of the bow that secured the fabric, which fell open to reveal the bottle of perfume. “Oh, my heavens, thank you.” She uncorked it and sniffed. “It’s exquisite. Is that lavender?”

  “Rosemary, actually.”

  “How refreshingly unexpected!” Lady Trentingham’s eyes sparkled. “Somehow you figured out just what I like.”

  Chrystabel shrugged. “I just seem to know what fits a lady.”

  “For you.” Arabel handed a similar package to Creath. “We hope you’ll like it.”

  Creath held the package gingerly. “I haven’t offered you hospitality.”

  “You’ve offered us friendship,” Arabel said. “Go on, open it.”

  Still looking uncertain, Creath slowly untied the bow. As she uncorked the bottle and waved it beneath her nose, her expression of concern changed to one of delight. “Lilac?”

  Chrystabel nodded. “And vanilla and a few other sweet things. Do you like it?”

  “I love it. Thank you so much.” Creath dabbed a little on her wrist. “I shall make it last as long as I can.”

  Chrystabel had to bite her tongue to keep from saying she’d make her more when she ran out. Creath wasn’t matched with her brother yet.

  “Lord Trentingham, this is for you.” Arabel rose to hand him a square package.

  “This is unnecessary—and heavy.” He untied the bow, and as the fabric fell away, a smile spread on his face. “A set of books. Dell’istoria civile del Regno di Napoli.”

  It was four volumes, bound in vellum over boards. “What does that mean?” Lady Trentingham asked.

  “It’s a history of the Kingdom of Naples. Written in Italian.”

  Arabel nodded. “Your son told me you’re something of a linguist. I can read only a little bit of it myself, so we hope you’ll enjoy the books more than we can.”

  He laughed and assured them he would. “And I’ll teach you some Welsh before you leave, if you’d like.”

  “Oh, that would be the best Christmas gift!” Arabel all but bounced back to her seat.

  She was soon off her chair again, because when she opened her gift from Chrystabel she danced around gleefully, holding the marigold gown to her front as though she were wearing it to a grand ball. Even though grand balls were forbidden now.

  Arabel gave Chrystabel two beautifully decorated hair combs that had belonged to their grandmother. Their fancy scrollwork tops were inlaid with seed pearls and many tiny diamonds. “I hid them when Father took the jewels to sell,” she explained.

  “Since you mentioned jewels…” Lady Trentingham reached into a drawstring purse she’d brought downstairs with her. “I hope you girls will wear these in the very best of health,” she said, pulling out three long, lustrous strands of pearls.

  Chrystabel gasped. “We cannot accept these!”

  “Of course you can,” Lady Trentingham said, rising to hand a strand to her and the others to Arabel and Creath. “I still have a dozen or more strands of my own. Every young lady should own a nice strand of pearls. I wish I could see them on you next Christmas,” she said almost wistfully.

  If Chrystabel got her way, she would. “Thank you,” she breathed as she slid the pearls over her head and settled them around her neck.

  As Arabel and Creath echoed her thanks, Chrystabel smiled down at her strand. “I will treasure this always and remember how kind you were to allow me to make a secret Christmas.”

  It had turned out to be her best Christmas ever. Here, among strangers who had become friends, she’d proven to herself that she didn’t need her mother to plan and celebrate a magical Christmas.

  Suddenly knowing what to give her brother, she all but leapt off her chair.

  As she walked toward him, he held up his hands defensively. “I need nothing,” he said. “I have nothing for you. I had plans, but then the Dragoons arrived, and—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she interrupted, slipping her hand into her pocket and drawing something out. “I want to give you this.”

  The silver glinted in the firelight.

  “Father’s pendant?” Matthew’s eyes widened. “He gave it to you, Chrys. It’s yours.”

  Coming closer, she draped the long chain around his neck. “It’s yours now. As it should be. Passed down the generations from father to son.” She touched the lion one last time. “I was just keeping it for you.”

  Silently, she bade her father goodbye. Silently, she forgave him for leaving her. She had a new man to love now, and Arabel had been right: At nineteen, she didn’t need her parents anymore. Though she’d miss her father always, she was at peace with his passing. She’d remember him every day, and she’d especially remember him every Christmas, when she honored his memory by keeping the traditions he’d loved.

  The pendant looked right on Matthew, and when he tucked it beneath his shirt as their father had worn it—next to his heart—that seemed right, too. Evidently this tradition had more value than she’d thought.

  “I have one gift left,” she said, swiveling to face Joseph. “Will you come with me?”

  NINETEEN

  “ME?” JOSEPH LOOKED at Chrystabel’s empty hands and back up to her shining eyes. “Where are we going?”

  “To your conservatory.” She glanced around at everyone else. “May we be excused for a few minutes? We’ll be right back.”

  “Just the two of you?” Father frowned. “That strikes me as rather improp—”

  “Oh, let them go,” Mother interrupted. “She said they’ll be right back. In the meantime, what game shall we start playing?”

  Apparently taking that as permission, Chrystabel left the room.

  Joseph followed, feeling thickheaded as he trailed her through the corridors. How did she always manage to get her way? What could she possibly have for him in his conservatory? And how on earth would he keep himself from kissing her when she gave him whatever it was?

  He feared he knew the answer to the last question: He wouldn’t. Though he’d awakened this morning with renewed determination, every moment in her presence seemed to chip away at his resolve. Following her, he couldn’t help but notice her shapely back and the graceful sway of her hips. His fingers ached to span her slim waist.

  He clenched his fists.

  Today she was wearing some sort of shimmery Christmas-green fabric that set off her milk and roses complexion. The gown had another low-cut bodice that drew his attention to all the wrong places. They hadn’t even reached his conservatory yet, and he wanted to rip that gown off her already.

  “Here we are,” she said unnecessarily when they got to the door. Uncharacteri
stic for her, she looked anxious. “Do you want to go inside?”

  He wasn’t sure he did. Which mattered not, because she didn’t wait for an answer before reaching across him to undo the latch and push past him into the cavernous chamber.

  He would have to remember she wasn’t patient, he thought—

  —then chided himself.

  There was no need to remember anything about Chrystabel. Her family was leaving tomorrow, probably around the same time he’d be marrying Creath, and it was unlikely he’d ever see her again.

  He still hadn’t found the right way to tell her he couldn’t marry her, but he had to do it anyway. Here. Now. There was no sense in putting it off any longer.

  Determined to get the confession over with, he steeled himself and followed her inside. Then stopped short when he saw what awaited him in the center of the massive chamber.

  Chrystabel stood beside a dozen big pots she’d evidently borrowed from his stash along the wall. Each had a dormant plant stuck inside, not planted but rather just leaning this way and that, their roots wrapped in canvas. Bright red ribbon bows were tied to a few of the thorny canes.

  “Roses?” he asked on a gasp.

  “Yes,” she said in a nervous rush. “I brought them from Grosmont Grange. I was planning to replant them at Grosmont Castle, but I want you to have them instead. You said you don’t have any roses.”

  For a moment he just stood there, stunned. And touched. There wasn’t a more perfect gift for him in all the world. He was astonished to find she knew him so well after just three days’ acquaintance.

  But he couldn’t take her roses.

  Not when he was about to crush her heart.

  “Chrystabel.” He was vexed to hear his voice break. “I thank you with everything I have in me. But I cannot take your roses. They’re your favorite flower. Your favorite scent.” Seeing a stubborn look come into her eyes, he had a thought. “Maybe one bush, if that makes you happy, but not all of them.”