A Holiday Proposal (Wedding Trouble, #6)

by Blythe, Bianca

“Naturally.”

  “We’ll have to find you better frames,” Celia mused.

  “I need them to read,” Irene amended.

  “Read? That’s why you put them at the edge of your nose?”

  “Yes.”

  “But then you don’t need them just to walk around?”

  “Oh, no. In fact, they make things blurry.”

  “And that’s why you’re always stumbling,” Celia moaned. She threw her arms up in a fashion prevalent in the more melodramatic portions of Italian operas.

  Irene nodded.

  “Well, you shouldn’t wear them. Only wear them when you’re reading.” Celia ducked her head inside the wardrobe, as if to further marvel at the plainness of Irene’s attire.

  “But I might always be reading,” Irene said. “Reading is one of the rare joys in life.”

  “Mm...hmm.” Celia’s voice sounded vaguely muffled, then she reappeared, holding a dress in triumph. “Change into this.”

  Irene stared at the dress skeptically. It was white and summery and utterly impractical. Irene rarely wore it. Her mother had insisted on her having the dress, even though it hardly resembled Irene’s other dresses.

  Such dresses were for other people, people like Celia.

  Irene had long realized she was a more practical sort of person. Lace was an unnecessary fabric to add to dresses. The material could tear easily, especially when one desired to wander outside. Similarly, silk was also devoid of advantages. It was odd so many women insisted on the material, adding it to their hems or flounces.

  Irene was more practical.

  Dark dresses were better.

  Dark dresses were useful if ever someone passed away.

  Dark dresses didn’t get smudged, or if they did, no one would know.

  Perhaps people told her she looked tired when she wore dark colors, but striving to be pretty didn’t matter. After all, nothing else about her was pretty. What did it matter if her skin appeared overly pale?

  She was Miss Irene Carmichael, and even though her brothers might be important, that did not mean she was.

  Her nose did not resemble the noses of women who draped floral scarves around their necks with glee. Her nose was not tiny and proper and adorable. Her nose was large and curved down, like a hawk who’d been turned into a human by some evil witch.

  No, she would not care for frivolous items. They distracted her from her main occupation: science.

  Science was wonderful. The subject might be mysterious, but one could discover truths about life one had never imagined if one worked hard enough.

  Perhaps she knew some people who had married for love despite all odds, but that didn’t mean there was any point for her to hope for that.

  The law of probability excluded that potential.

  Besides, the only man Irene loved was Lord Tristan Burley, and he hadn’t even recognized her.

  No, it was better to be practical, better to shield oneself from potential hurt.

  It was fine.

  There were books to be read, experiments to set up, and much joy to be had.

  She was not going to subject herself to the marriage mart, where her mind would become meaningless, and the only thing that mattered would be the width of her bosom and its corresponding proportionality to her hips.

  No.

  And yet Irene’s gaze still darted to that dress.

  It had been foolish of her mother to insist she haul it around, as if, after twenty years of living with Irene, she was unaware of basic facts about her.

  Irene didn’t dress nicely. That was something pretty women did, and no one would describe Irene in that manner.

  “I’ll help you change,” Celia said. “I might work on some clothes while you’re gone.”

  “Truly?”

  “I have been longing for an excuse to do this for a long time.” Celia’s eyes sparkled.

  Irene nodded. She removed her pince-nez. “But I might need to read.”

  Celia raised an eyebrow. “I’ll fetch you a satchel.” The duchess continued to assess her. “Perhaps we could do something different with your hair.”

  “My hair?” Irene raised her hand to her bun, lest it had fallen down, but everything remained as it should. “But what’s wrong with my hair?”

  “It could have more oomph,” Celia said. “Stringent buns are very well for teachers, but I’ve always favored ringlets framing one’s face.”

  “Oh.” Irene looked at her uncertainly.

  “Now come, let me find a brush and I will do it for you. And then you can visit the manor house. Though you are not to be alone with the earl. I have no intention of having him compromise you.”

  “He wouldn’t,” Irene said. “Naturally not. I mean the earl is...wonderful, and I’m—”

  “—also wonderful,” Celia finished.

  “That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

  “But it’s what you should have been going to say. I should be forbidding you to have anything to do with Lord Burley.”

  Irene nodded. “You’re right. And thank you. You’re being kind.”

  “I am always kind,” Celia announced. “But if Lord Burley has a reason to desire a bride, it must be a good reason. He had a terrible childhood.”

  Irene’s heart twisted. “What happened?”

  Celia chewed on her bottom lip. “His parents behaved poorly. My husband was appalled, but I’m afraid I don’t have the details. Not everyone has good parents.”

  Irene remembered that Celia’s parents had died when she was young and that Celia’s stepmother—not that she would ever have answered to that term, had been decidedly un-nice.

  “He desires to open a gaming hell,” Irene blurted.

  Celia halted her brushing. “Does he? That’s most interesting.”

  “Yes,” Irene agreed.

  “But you’re certain he hasn’t been in anyway overly forward with you?” Celia said sternly.

  “Of course not,” Irene protested.

  “Let’s hope the prince and princess are suitable chaperones.” Celia continued to work on Irene’s hair until it gleamed.

  Irene patted her hair in wonder. “It’s marvelous.”

  “Yes.” Celia stretched her hands. “I miss working on other people’s hair. It was one of the few tasks of being a servant I enjoyed. Now go, before I change my mind.”

  Irene rose. “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  IRENE ABANDONED THE comforts of her bedroom and stepped self-consciously through the castle. People’s eyes weren’t supposed to widen when they saw her, but some footmen’s eyes had done just that. After all, normally she was not attired in an impractical white dress, normally she did not wear a red cape that seemed designed to attract attention, and normally ringlets did not frame her face. She quickened her gait and swept past the ballroom. Servants prepared the room. They laughed and chatted with glee, standing on ladders and hanging up Christmas ornaments and garlands.

  She exited Salisbury Castle, grateful the butler was not prone to small talk, and hurried in the direction of Highedge Hall. A crisp blue sky, devoid of even a single cloud, shone above, though the temperature had fallen from yesterday. Soon it would snow, but now everything was perfect. Birds flitted ahead, chirping merrily.

  The towers of Highedge Hall loomed in the distance, but Irene hesitated. She could change her mind. She could return to the safety of Salisbury Castle. Celia would be surprised, but relieved. As for Tristan... Well, he would make an excuse.

  Even though propriety and logic demanded she return to Salisbury Castle, and even though Irene had revered propriety and logic before, she quelled her nervousness and continued toward the manor house.

  Irene wasn’t visiting out of a desire to mingle with royalty. Princess Natalia might be polite, but the princess’s instinct toward politeness hardly indicated an actual interest in Irene. Most people thought ill of Irene, judging by their lack of interest and unwillingness to spend time with her.


  Irene’s feet crunched against the snow. The noise seemed louder than the last time she visited. She tramped toward the manor house, conscious servants might be observing her approach, even though they were probably occupied cleaning. Her heart thrummed, but she wasn’t certain whether its sudden speed could be attributed to trepidation at mingling with the prince and princess again or because she would see Tristan.

  Finally, she reached the portico. She brushed her hands against her cloak and hair, but everything seemed in order. She tore off her gloves and slipped on her ring.

  The door swung open, and the butler appeared. “Ah, Lady Burley. I trust you had a pleasant walk?”

  “Quite.” Her voice squeaked.

  “I imagine. After all, it has taken you all day.”

  She stiffened.

  He knows.

  But of course he would know she was not truly Tristan’s wife. At times even the prince and princess seemed to suspect.

  “I must give you my compliments on managing to keep your hair and gown so pristine during your extensive ramblings,” the butler said.

  “Thank you.” Irene forced herself to ignore his slight sarcasm, but her voice wobbled. She remembered to remove her coat and handed it to the butler, along with her hat and gloves.

  The butler’s expression changed, and for a moment, Irene thought he would say that keeping her attire immaculate must be a recently developed talent.

  Instead, he sighed. He glanced behind him, as if to ascertain no one was within earshot, then returned his attention to her. “There’s something you should know.”

  She stiffened.

  The butler’s expression remained sober, and Irene suddenly wished he were being derisive.

  “I don’t know what you’re doing, but you seem like a nice woman. Lord Burley won’t be trapped into a marriage—the man despises the institution.”

  “We’re already married,” she lied.

  The butler didn’t remove his accessing gaze, but he nodded. “In that case, Lady Burley, I apologize. Would you like me to inform your husband of your arrival? He is in the library with Prince Radoslav.”

  Irene hesitated.

  She wanted to see Tristan.

  When Tristan was present, her heart might pound with frequency, but it was always accompanied by a strange enjoyment.

  Instead, she raised her chin. “This is my house. I will simply—”

  “—retire to your room?” the butler suggested.

  Irene mouth dried, but she shook her head firmly. “Nonsense. I shall visit the drawing room.”

  “Very well.”

  Irene swept past the butler and marched toward a door. She glanced at the butler, whose face was serene. She opened the door, though unfortunately the room contained a variety of frock coats, morning coats and hunt coats.

  “Are you lost, my lady?” the butler asked.

  “Just checking that all the coats are in order,” Irene called out. “They seem to be.”

  “How fortunate,” the butler said dryly. “Are you certain you don’t require assistance?”

  “Nonsense,” Irene said brightly, then opened the next door.

  This door did lead to the drawing room, and Irene shot the butler a triumphant look and entered the room.

  She wished the room were empty. Unfortunately, Princess Natalia was very much present.

  The princess raised her head from a book. “Lady Burley.”

  “Princess Natalia.” Irene curtsied.

  “I missed your company today.”

  “I was taking a stroll,” Irene prevaricated.

  “Your husband said you were sleeping.”

  “Well, that happened first.” Irene gave a bright smile to emanate a joy and innocence she did not feel.

  VOICES SOUNDED BRIEFLY outside Tristan’s library, but soon halted, as if he’d imagined them out of an eagerness to distract himself from the meeting.

  Though candles lit Tristan’s library, casting a golden glow over the elaborate crimson and coral carpet and marquetry furniture his mother had not managed to discard before her death, the prince’s face remained inscrutable, despite his penchant for investing in similar enterprises in England.

  Still. Even if the prince might not be flashing encouraging smiles at Tristan, the lack of lower face movement didn’t mean Prince Radoslav was not quietly exclaiming over the financial benefits of the investment. English investments typically had a stability other countries might envy, and nothing was more durable than an Englishman’s lifelong delight in visiting clubs.

  “So you see,” Tristan said finally, “my plan for Hades’ Lair is detailed. Any investment would be secure with a high potential for equally colossal profits.”

  Though Tristan favored more discernable expressions, especially when giving business presentations, it occurred to Tristan that the prince might be adept at cards. If the prince could keep his visage expressionless even in the midst of highly positive financial projections, he could retain a similarly neutrality at any game of cards. If so, he might find particular fulfillment at investing in a gaming hell.

  “I am impressed with your preparation,” the prince admitted.

  Tristan’s heart soared, and he struggled not to leap up. “In that case, perhaps you can sign the papers I took the liberty of preparing?”

  Prince Radoslav raised his eyebrows.

  “Here’s a quill,” Tristan added, gliding it toward the prince. “And—er—my inkwell and blotting paper.”

  “I shall not sign anything.”

  “It will only take a moment.” Tristan dipped the quill in the inkwell and used the blotting paper. “See, I’ve done that part for you! And then we can spend the rest of your visit enjoying ourselves.”

  “I shall enjoy myself more if I am certain I have not made a mistake.”

  “If you have any further questions about the financial projections—”

  The prince shook his head. “It seems the last two owners left Hades’ Lair after marrying.”

  “Yes. That’s why it’s a brilliant opportunity,” Tristan said smoothly. “Hades’ Lair is not, after all, struggling.”

  “And yet, they left.”

  “Yes.” Tristan forced his voice to not sound irritated.

  “I would despise to invest money and see the owner leave,” the prince said. “Your vision is inspiring, but I am not confident your replacement would be equally capable.”

  Tristan held his breath. There’d been a compliment there, but the prince was not smiling.

  “I won’t leave the gaming hell,” Tristan promised.

  “I shall need to get to know your wife better,” the prince said.

  Tristan scrunched his fingers beneath his desk, striving to mask his frustration.

  “You thought it essential I had a wife,” Tristan reminded the prince, despite his best intentions.

  “Ah, yes. The right wife is essential.”

  “Lady Burley is the correct wife.” Tristan rose. “I think we are done here.”

  “Yes,” the prince said, in an agreeable manner Tristan did not trust. “But she must be quite attached to the countryside, given her proclivity for wandering in it for hours.”

  “She also adores London.”

  “Is she a ball enthusiast?” The prince smirked.

  “She is a book enthusiast,” Tristan said. “London has vast resources.”

  “And when you are gone?”

  “She will be reading those books.”

  The prince looked appeased, and Tristan forced himself to not seem too triumphant, conscious he wasn’t even confident that Irene would return. He led the prince to the drawing room, and clasped onto the door handle, bracing himself with more conversation with the prince and princess about the solitary habits of his wife.

  Tristan opened the door.

  Irene was inside the drawing room. She sat in a pomona chaise beside Princess Natalia, and the two women were laughing.

  Tristan’s heart soared. “You came bac
k!”

  Irene’s cheeks pinkened delightfully.

  No pince-nez perched on her nose today, and he realized he shouldn’t have dismissed her eyes yesterday. Pond green was a beautiful color. She wore a crisp ivory gown that fit her appealingly manner. Her skin glowed, and thick glossy curls framed her face. He’d never realized before how beautiful her hair was. She gave him a small smile, and all he desired to her was to rush toward her, clasp her in his arms, and swing her about the room.

  “In Yorkshire one must always worry about being lost,” the prince explained to his wife in a pedantic manner.

  Tristan remembered that his host duties required more than grinning foolishly at his pretend wife.

  Irene smiled. “Dawson informed me that dinner is ready.”

  “Indeed?” Tristan widened his eyes.

  “Indeed. You’ve been quite busy.”

  “Well. Shall we proceed to the dining room?” Tristan shot a glance at the others, and they filed out.

  Tristan offered Irene his arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, she took it. Warmth coursed through him, even though her hand was tiny and slim and should hardly have heating powers.

  He led the others toward the dining room.

  Dawson and the footmen stood behind the table, which was lavished with all sorts of delicious food and silver platters. The guests were assisted into their seats, then Dawson poured wine.

  CHAPTER TEN

  IRENE WAS NOT SURPRISED that dinner proved to be spectacular. She sipped wine, a change from the ratafia she was normally served at such occasions.

  Finally, the footmen brought out the dessert: Charlotte Russe de Raspberry. The guests exclaimed over the elegant compilation of lady fingers, Bavarian cream and fruit.

  Irene tasted the dessert and savored it.

  The prince leaned back in his chair, for a moment abandoning his customary rigidity. “This is very continental.”

  Irene glanced at Tristan. No doubt the man had planned it all.

  But she would take credit.

  “I thought you would enjoy it,” Irene said, and Tristan’s lips twitched before he sent her an approving nod.

  “You are a wise woman, Countess,” Prince Radoslav said. “Tell me, Lady Burley. You have a wonderful life in this manor house.”