A Holiday Proposal (Wedding Trouble, #6)

by Blythe, Bianca

  She smelled like Christmas. Like vanilla and oranges and cloves.

  “Tristan,” she breathed. She said his name on her lips, and he wondered if she’d been saying it in her mind for longer.

  Somehow the thought brought him pleasure. He moved his lips to hers, moving instinctively, and when their lips touched, he didn’t want to let go. Not when her lips were so succulent, not when they were so soft, not when they moved so perfectly in rhythm with his own.

  He drew himself back finally.

  “Irene,” he murmured, conscious his voice had roughened, even though his voice never did that. His heart seemed to have leaped to his throat, as if to be closer to her.

  “That was—” Irene’s voice squeaked.

  “Ah! Irene! There you are.” A female voice soared through the air, and Irene stepped away quickly from him.

  “Mama?” Irene asked.

  “Where have you been?” Irene’s mother stepped onto the balcony. “I’ve been looking for you.” Irene’s mother halted abruptly. Evidently, she’d noticed Tristan. “You’re not alone.”

  “This is Lord Burley, Mama,” Irene said. “You remember him?”

  Irene’s mother fixed her gaze on Tristan, then beamed. “You visited once!”

  Tristan nodded. “It was years ago.”

  “And now you’re all grown up.” Irene’s mother’s eyes sparkled. “I must tell Arthur and Percival. They’ll be delighted to see you.”

  “And I,” Tristan said.

  “Thank you for chatting with Irene,” Irene’s mother said. “It is most kind of you.”

  Irene stiffened.

  “I enjoyed speaking with her,” Tristan said hastily.

  “Truly?” Puzzlement emanated from her voice, then she smiled. “You are a polite young man. I can see why my sons befriended you.”

  “Irene. I won’t have you spending the ball in the dark. I’m certain that Lord Burley wants to amuse herself. I am most disappointed in you.”

  “I’m quite content here,” Tristan said.

  “That’s because you fought in the war,” Irene’s mother said merrily. “Your standards are skewed. I assure you, the ballroom is even nicer. Why, it’s warm!”

  “Goodbye, Lord Burley,” Irene said, before he could defend her again.

  “Oh, yes, goodbye!” Irene’s mother chirped.

  Tristan watched as Irene strode away with her mother, before he remembered he needed to be in the ballroom to monitor the prince and princess.

  When Tristan returned to the ballroom, he felt no urge to evaluate which young lady might be amiable to dancing with him, and which young lady might fancy doing rather more than that.

  He’d felt bored at balls before, but he’d never felt lonely.

  Not truly.

  Not like this.

  He glanced in Irene’s direction, but she was occupied with her siblings. He resisted the urge to join her, lest the prince and princess join.

  He’d never thought it odd to be alone at these events before. Obviously, he had his two houseguests, but no woman was on his arm. He’d always thought men who desired to marry were mad, but he missed Irene, even though he’d just spoken with her. He wished he might spend the evening with her. They would remark about the tastiness of the appetizers and the hostess’s decorations. Speaking to the person who happened to be beside him seemed undesirable, even though it had always sufficed before.

  Still.

  Even if the prince and princess weren’t here, he shouldn’t muse about Irene. Of all the women at the ball, she knew the extent of his depravity.

  Other women’s eyes might sparkle more in his presence, perhaps imagining becoming a countess.

  But Irene knew he was the sort of man who wanted to run a gaming hel and that when he couldn’t find the money on hand, he’d lied to attract an investor. Irene knew he hadn’t immediately dismissed the idea of going to a strange woman’s home to ask for a tremendous favor.

  No. Irene deserved someone better. She deserved someone who didn’t do any of those things. Someone who had a manor house and who didn’t desire to run a gaming hell.

  He’d had Irene all wrong. He’d first dismissed her as a bluestocking who had nothing better to do than to spend time with him.

  But she had a family. She had two sisters and two brothers and a mother and a stepfather.

  He looked around the room, recognizing some women. Some looked away, and he remembered extensive flirtations with them, followed by never calling on them.

  He’d been proud when he’d been named in Matchmaking for Wallflowers for being one of the top rogues to avoid. He’d thought he’d been masculine and rakish, and he’d thought manliness was always to be prized. It had served him well in the army after all, and it had served him well at school, both at Eton and at Cambridge.

  Perhaps he’d been wrong all along.

  Perhaps dancing with someone and sneaking with them onto balconies wasn’t dashing and charming. There was another way of living. Irene was kind and sweet and helpful, even when she shouldn’t be.

  If only he weren’t utterly unworthy of her.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE OCCASIONAL CLINKING of cutlery and china wafted into the drawing room as the footmen prepared the dining room.

  “I do hope Lady Burley is not too exhausted to attend dinner,” the princess said.

  “I am afraid I did not even hear her return,” the prince said.

  “She was quiet,” Tristan said.

  “I normally hear everything,” the prince said. “I sleep exceptionally poorly.”

  “Then perhaps Yorkshire suits you,” Tristan said.

  “Perhaps,” the prince said reluctantly.

  Tristan glanced toward the doorway, even though the act would hardly conjure up Irene, no matter how much he wanted her to arrive. He wasn’t certain if Irene would be able to sneak from the castle to meet him. He couldn’t blame her absence on the need to prepare for a Christmas ball that had already occurred.

  Finally, noises sounded from the hallway, and Irene entered the drawing room. Tristan rose and resisted the urge to sweep her in his arms and kiss her again.

  “I hope you had a nice walk,” he said.

  “Naturally,” she said, but her face had a strange worried look.

  “Is everything fine?”

  “Yes. It’s just—the weather was quite windy, and the sky was gray today.”

  “Sounds like England.” Prince Radoslav joined them.

  “Er—yes,” Irene said. “At least in December. I’m afraid it will snow again soon.”

  The prince smiled. “You don’t know that. The weather is an always mysterious force.”

  “My wife is an expert on the weather,” Tristan remarked.

  “No one is an expert in that subject,” the prince said. “It’s impossible.”

  “You’re wrong,” Tristan said.

  “Wrong?” The prince widened his eyes, and Irene shook her head slightly.

  Tristan ignored her. She might not want him to belittle the prince’s knowledge, and that was wonderful of her, but Tristan wasn’t going to allow anyone to think Irene wasn’t incredible.

  “My wife is very knowledgeable on the subject,” Tristan said, conscious his voice brimmed with pride.

  It shouldn’t.

  Not truly.

  Irene wasn’t his, even if she wore his family’s ring.

  He frowned. He was beginning to feel foolish around her, as if the only odd thing about them being together was that they were not married, not betrothed, not in any sense courting.

  IRENE EXCUSED HERSELF from the dinner.

  There would be snow soon, and Irene needed to return to the castle before.

  In truth, she shouldn’t have come here at all, but tomorrow it might be impossible to make the journey.

  Irene knew the weather, though she hoped she was wrong.

  Still, she strode from the windowless dining room toward the drawing room. She would simply chec
k on whether it had begun to snow, and—

  The snow tumbled down.

  Irene had experienced blizzards before, but on those occasions, she’d been comfortably at home. She’d enjoyed watching how the sky had whitened and how gales had roared. She’d examined snowflakes with interest. As a child, she’d hastily sketched each one, curious to determine whether the patterns ever were replicated.

  Normally, Irene might light a candle, settle on an armchair, and tuck her feet underneath a woolen blanket while she read.

  That would be impossible tonight.

  Tonight she needed to leave.

  She couldn’t remain here. Because perhaps her mother had not discovered her sneaking from her room, but she would most certainly discover her absence when the servants came to light the fire in her room in the morning.

  The entire castle would be raised.

  Blood drained from Irene’s face.

  This had been a mistake. She shouldn’t have risked her reputation. She should never have come back after the first night. She’d found she’d enjoyed spending time with Lord Burley, but it had all been a lie.

  She wasn’t truly his wife.

  She was just a woman he’d convinced to help, even though the consequences of doing so were vast.

  Her heart thudded, and her knees, which had never caused difficulties before, unlike with some of her aunts who moaned about pain, and now seemed to have forgotten how to stand.

  Her legs buckled, and she grasped hold of the armchair.

  Perhaps the snow would lessen.

  Yet Irene knew weather patterns. Blizzards didn’t halt abruptly, no matter how convenient that would be.

  Blizzards raged and roared.

  Blizzards destroyed everything.

  Including me.

  “Irene?” Tristan called from the dining room. “Is there a problem?”

  “Of course not.” Irene attempted to laugh, but the sound resembled a croak more than any emblem of joy.

  She reentered the dining hall. “I need to return to—er—my chambers. I’m afraid I don’t feel well.”

  TRISTAN BLINKED. IRENE had never left early before. Her face, though pale, had never been that shade of pale. He turned to the others, who tilted their heads politely, as she left the room.

  The initial skepticism that the prince and princess had felt for her early on had evidently vanished, and that was all because of what she’d put into the role.

  Tristan was so grateful to her. She’d saved him.

  The footmen moved the dining away in their efficient, silent manner, gliding about the floorboards, their arms piled with silverware and plates.

  They wheeled out the dessert course, and the prince and princess exclaimed over Cook’s creation.

  Tristan’s mind returned to Irene. She’d seemed different.

  Tristan glanced at the footmen. They also seemed worried for some reason.

  Well.

  Tristan didn’t blame them.

  He would be worried too if his arms were piled high with cutlery and china, though he almost wanted to reassure them that they would still keep their positions, even if they dropped what they were holding.

  Was it possible something had happened?

  Tristan frowned. “I’ll be right back.”

  The prince and princess looked startled, and Tristan realized Prince Radoslav had been in the middle of telling them a story. Tristan murmured his apologies and rushed from the room.

  The problem was quickly apparent.

  The windows were filled with condensation, but when he wiped it away, snowflakes blanketed it.

  How fast precisely was the snow falling? And in this thickness? Had Irene left in this snow?

  Worry seized his heart, and he dashed toward the door.

  Dawson wasn’t there. Dawson was handling the drinks in the dining room as always.

  But Irene was gone.

  He opened the heavy main door, and the wind whipped against him, and he could barely see anything.

  Oh, no.

  She was trying to get home in this.

  He should never have asked her to be here. She could...die.

  He wasn’t concerned what people would say if they found her body.

  No.

  He didn’t want her to die. The world would be less wonderful without her in it.

  His heart ached.

  He had to find her.

  He opened the door to the wardrobe and hastily flung his greatcoat over him. He rather wished he’d worn his Hessians, but that wouldn’t work now.

  Time was of the essence.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Tristan padded through the snow. Why on earth had Irene left?

  BUT HE KNEW THE ANSWER.

  She wanted to preserve her reputation.

  All he’d done was harm her.

  This was dangerous, and she knew the weather. She knew how it worked. She knew snow was dangerous. Why, everyone did. They didn’t have to know about weather patterns.

  He sighed, and his heart ached as if the cold were already tearing him apart limb by limb. The wind smacked against his face, and his hair was wet with snowflakes.

  On another night he might even have thought the snow beautiful and marveled at its fast-moving speed.

  But this was different. This was practically a blizzard, perhaps an actual blizzard. Irene would be able to explain the precise terminology to him.

  The wind tore at his clothes, which seemed suddenly seemed devoid of any warming ability. He quickened his pace toward Salisbury Castle.

  “Blast,” he muttered again. “Double blast.”

  Irene had only visited Highedge Hall because he’d asked her to be his pretend wife. She’d risked her reputation, for him, and now, inadvertently, she was risking her life. And why had she done that? Because she must not believe he would do the right thing.

  If she spent the night at Highedge Hall, he’d marry her.

  Easily.

  The thought should have upset him. He’d long vowed never to marry, not to follow his parents. But Irene wasn’t anything like his mother, just as Tristan was not his father. He hardly thought Irene would go after him with a chamber pot. She was, quite frankly, incredible.

  The thought that there could be a world in which she might not exist was dreadful. But it was also dreadful to imagine that she might not exist in his world, that these past few days would remain a memory. Wasn’t that what they’d planned? That they would part ways soon? Irene was visiting Salisbury Castle, and Tristan was rarely at Highedge Hall anyway. Tristan couldn’t part ways from her.

  I love her.

  He brushed the thought away. He wasn’t the type to fall in love. He’d fought in battles. He didn’t wander about reciting poetry.

  But he loved Irene. If only she were here.

  Perhaps he would never see her again.

  His heart ached, as if he were back in the battlefields and some soldier were stabbing a spear into it.

  The snow tumbled down at an increasing pace. Perhaps Irene would have known to not attempt to reach the castle. He frowned, then headed toward the stables, hoping he wasn’t wasting precious time, hoping against hope she was there.

  “Irene. Irene.” He shouted, cursing that the sound of the wind and the gales made his always powerful voice meek and frail and feeble.

  He reached the stables, threw open the wooden doors, then rushed inside. “Irene. Irene? Are you here?”

  Silence echoed.

  At least the grooms had clearly done the sensible thing and slept upstairs in the servant’s quarters and not in the stables as they normally did in the event he might suddenly require a carriage.

  The wind howled and rattled against the wooden structure.

  “Irene! Irene!”

  “Tristan?” A voice drifted toward him.

  The voice was soft and frail, but he recognized it at once. It was her voice, his wonderful, lovely Irene.

  He rushed toward the sound. “Where are you?”<
br />
  “Here,” she said, but her voice was weak, and his heart twisted.

  The stables were dark, and he wished he’d had the sense to grab a lantern before he investigated the entire building. No matter. It might have taken him longer to find one, and finding her was more important.

  He reached toward the sound of her voice, then he touched what must be her skin. It was wet and cold, and his heart hurt. “You shouldn’t have left the manor house.”

  “I know,” she murmured.

  “I was so worried,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice still faint.

  Blast it.

  She was apologizing to him. The fact was abominable.

  “Don’t be.” His voice roughened. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

  “I need to return to the castle.”

  “You’re staying with me tonight.” He scooped her into his arms and marched away.

  “But if my relatives find out I’m missing...”

  “Let them find out.”

  She was silent.

  Tristan hurried, but even though it was dark, and even though straw was on the floor at odd intervals, he didn’t stumble.

  He opened the door. The wind blew with more force than before. Would it be better to stay in the stables? No. He just needed to go a hundred yards, then they would be in the manor house with warm fires, warm blankets and warm bricks to tuck at her feet.

  He quickened his steps and hurried through the falling snow. He stumbled once, but managed to keep her in his arms. At another moment, he might have thought about how her figure felt so nicely against him. She was tall, but so slender, as if she might blow away from the force of the wind.

  That was an impossibility. He clutched her tighter to him.

  Irene’s teeth chattered, and he quickened his steps even more, despite the fact the feat seemed impossible. He needed to get her inside. He needed—

  The door opened.

  “Lord Burley!” Dawson rushed outside and assisted in carrying Irene indoors.

  The door slammed behind them, even though Dawson never slammed the room. Tristan blinked into the warm light, reacquainting himself with the customary objects in the foyer, placed in the customary fashion, as if nothing, truly had occurred.