Ghosts of Winters Past

by Parker, Christy Graham

  “Are you offering me spring, Henry?”

  “You know me well enough to know I’m not always sun and warmth, but I would like to try for you. Please let me try.”

  “And what of your father’s reasons for wanting you away from me? What of my parents keeping you from me all these years?”

  “My father is gone, thus his reasons matter not.”

  “But my father isn’t.”

  “I’ve purposed myself to fight for you this time. The way I should have last time. They are your parents, but I vow they will no longer keep us apart.”

  When he spoke, she believed him. She forced herself to recall she believed him once before and got nothing but heartache and pain from it. This time is different.

  It would have to be. They were different. They had lived through the longing and want of the last five years, and they knew what they had been missing.

  She could no longer bear not to touch him. She captured his face in her hands, recalling the feel of his angular cheekbones and jawline under her fingers. So familiar he was, and yet, so strange. Time had not only changed her, but him as well. There was a strength in him that had not been there five years ago.

  “Don’t fight for me, Henry,” she whispered. “Fight for us. Be strong for us.”

  He slipped his arms around her and drew her close. “With all I have.”

  She had but a second to drink in his words before he dropped his head, and his lips brushed hers in a soft kiss. He was gentler than she remembered. The wild hellion of a teenager had been replaced by a man who knew his strength, but knew it took a far greater skill to keep that strength in check.

  She looped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer when he tried to step away. He smiled against her lips, kissing her yet again.

  “We should go find the boys and Bess,” he finally said.

  “I suppose we must.”

  His tone grew serious. “I’m not dallying with you. I didn’t bring you here to steal a few kisses. I will have you for my wife.”

  She almost nodded. To be the Duchess of Salle had once been her fondest wish, but she was no longer a girl. She was a woman and she knew more about what that meant. To be a duchess, yes, but more than that, to be a wife. So instead of agreeing instantly, she took her time, hoping that in doing so, he knew the truth of her reply.

  “Yes.”

  ****

  Never before in his entire life had one word held so much meaning. He closed his eyes and reveled in its sweetness. She was his. He had wanted her, been denied her, waited for her, and she would finally be his.

  He felt as though he could do anything.

  He opened his eyes and grinned. “Say it again, for I am old and hard of hearing.”

  She slapped his arm. “You are no such thing.”

  “Fine then. I’m young and sentimental and wish to hear you say it again.”

  When she didn’t speak, but crossed her arms in what he knew to be playful indignation, he tried again. “Say, ‘Yes, Henry, I will marry you.’”

  “You are quite mad.”

  “Funny. I think I recall us having that conversation not too long ago.”

  “It doesn’t change the fact that it’s true.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “All right. Fine. Yes, I will marry you. Your grace.”

  Before she had a chance to feel satisfaction at calling him your grace, he threw his arms around her, dipped her low, and kissed her senseless.

  Kissed them both senseless.

  By the time he pulled them upright and they’d calmed their breathing, he no longer remembered what they’d been discussing. Only that she’d agreed to marry him.

  “Now we really must find Bess and the boys,” she said.

  Always the practical one, his Emma. He would find joy in knowing exactly how to get underneath that pragmatic exterior.

  He looked at her; flushed cheeks, just-been-kissed lips, flaming blue eyes, and wayward red hair that refused to be contained by her hat. “You’re beautiful.”

  She flushed and looked down to her red coat, brushing snow off the front. But she didn’t say anything. No sign of her normal just-under-the-cover wit.

  “Sorry. Did I embarrass you?”

  Finished with dusting her coat, she turned her attention to her hair, trying without success to tame it. “It’s just I’m a bit unaccustomed to such compliments.”

  “Then I shall do my part to accustom you to them.”

  “Henry.”

  He loved the sound of his name falling from her lips. Truly, there was no sweeter sound. “Emma,” he said, because he loved the sound of her name on his.

  But as their eyes met, he knew if they stayed where they were much longer, he would kiss her again. “We need to catch up with Bess and the boys,” he said.

  If they didn’t catch up soon, the group might turn around and try to find them. To be caught kissing Emma wouldn’t bother him overmuch, but he didn’t want any further harm done to her reputation. He took her hand and tucked it under his arm.

  “I believe we’ll find the boys arguing about what tree is best,” she said. “Arguing is what boys do best.”

  “It most certainly is not.”

  “Thank you for proving my point.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she started first.

  “We should keep our agreement secret for now.”

  He stopped. “Come again?”

  He didn’t understand. He wanted to shout from the rooftops that she was his. Print it in the papers. Mark it in the betting book at White’s.

  “Only for a short while,” she said. “Until I learn why my parents kept you and your letters from me.”

  She had a good argument. Thinking further, he decided the time would allow for him to explore why his own father did the things he did.

  “Very well. But just until the Kringles’ Christmas Eve Ball. That night I announce to everyone you’re mine.”

  “Don’t you think you have it backward?”

  “In what manner?”

  “On Christmas Eve, everyone will know you’re mine.”

  “I’ve always been yours, Emma.”

  She blushed again.

  He picked the axe up from where he had dropped it, though he couldn’t quite remember when he dropped it, and they followed the sounds of young boys playing in the snow. It wasn’t long before they came upon Bess and the children. Emma had been right… there was an ongoing argument between two trees.

  For a while, he stood back and watched her reason with them about the pros and cons of each tree. It amazed him, the different facets of her personality: the standoffish spinster she showed society, the nurturer who played with orphans, and the woman filled with passion who was his and his alone. He loved how different each was, yet how they came together beautifully in her.

  As one who had been around the boys for some time, within minutes she had the tree argument resolved.

  She pointed at the winning tree. “That one, your grace.”

  “Excellent choice.”

  He took his jacket off and started chopping the tree down. Though at first the boys watched with unwavering attention, it wasn’t long before a snowball fight broke out.

  “You’re smiling,” Emma said, coming to stand beside him.

  “Am I?”

  “Indeed, and I do believe it is most irregular to be smiling while chopping down a tree.”

  It wasn’t an overly large tree, but she was right, it probably wasn’t normal. He answered her with a grunt as he swung the axe again. When he pulled his arm back to take another swing, he realized what it was — he was content.

  In that moment, surrounded by laughing children, the woman who would be his wife, and working to bring joy to the orphans’ Christmas, he had found contentment unlike anything he’d ever experienced.

  He met Emma’s eyes. “It’s because I’m finally home.”

  Chapter Five

  The next day he was still smili
ng. Though it had been Emma’s idea to keep their alignment a secret until Christmas Eve, he found he rather liked sharing a secret with her. The day before, while taking the tree back to the carriages, every time their eyes met, it was as if only the two of them existed. She would smile, then blush, and eventually go back to talking with Bess.

  He was in his father’s office — his office, he reminded himself — going through his father’s correspondence. His passing had been sudden, but he had been an organized man, and neither Henry nor his steward had run into any difficulty picking up the business of managing the numerous estates.

  He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for; there was just the unrelenting feeling there was something he needed to find. Standing up and running fingers through his hair, he looked around the room. The files had all been looked over and all the drawers gone through. That left the bookcases. He could have moaned at the prospect.

  The bookcases were two massively made affairs. It would take him days, if not weeks, to give them proper attention. And what sort of sense would it make to spend so much time looking for something that might not exist?

  He ran his eyes over the books, looking for anything out of place. Nothing. Then something on the bottom shelf caught his attention. Shakespeare? From what he remembered of his father, he didn’t seem to be the Shakespearean type. Henry took a copy of Romeo and Juliet from the shelf and let out a self-satisfied shout when a bundle of papers fell out of it.

  He took the bundle to the desk. The late afternoon light gave just enough light to read by, but it wouldn’t last long. He unwrapped the papers and discovered they were a stack of letters dated years before his birth. From the handwriting, he assumed them to be penned by a woman. When he looked to the bottom, he had a shock.

  They weren’t from his mother.

  He tilted the first letter toward the light in order to read better. It was a love letter. Signed by a Rachel. One by one, he went through the letters. He felt vaguely as if he were spying on something he ought not to be, but he found he couldn’t stop.

  It wasn’t until he saw Lord Gallent mentioned that he realized how he knew the woman writing the letters. Lady Gallent. Emma’s mother.

  He lost track of time, but he didn’t look up until he’d read every letter. By the time he finished, he had a reasonably good idea of what had happened, even though by reading the letters, he only had half the story.

  The shadows lengthened and the room grew dark. This, he decided, threw everything into an entirely new light. He wondered if Emma had spoken to her father yet because he knew, with absolute certainty, who had intercepted his letters. Knew why his father had sent him away.

  Without stopping to think of the consequences, he walked out of the office and headed toward the stables to saddle his horse.

  ****

  “Your grace.”

  It was possibly the last thing he expected. Unlike the other times he’d called at Emma’s house, the butler didn’t open the door. Lord Gallent himself did. Henry narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like what that meant.

  “Lord Gallent.”

  The older man didn’t invite him inside, but stood in the doorway and crossed his arms. “Rather late for a call, is it not?”

  “I was hoping to see Lady Emmaline.”

  “She is indisposed at the moment.”

  “Then I shall wait.”

  “Might be a rather long wait.”

  Henry shrugged his shoulders. “It matters not.”

  Lord Gallent remained immovable, his cold gaze appraising him, and appearing as if he found Henry lacking. “You remind me of your father.”

  Henry told himself the man couldn’t have known what he’d read earlier in the day. Likewise, while he assumed the statement not to be a compliment, it might be a good idea to play the fool and take it as one.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  It was taking all his strength to be civil, but it behooved him to try. The earl would be his father-in-law, after all.

  “It is far too late to be calling upon my daughter. Come back tomorrow morning.” Lord Gallent stepped back to close the door.

  Henry had only seconds to make up his mind. Either he fought the man who was the father to his intended or he stepped aside. He didn’t like either option. He stuck his foot in the door to keep it from closing in his face.

  “Do tell Lady Emmaline I came by.”

  “Of course, your grace,” Lord Gallent said in a tone that implied he would do no such thing.

  Reluctantly, Henry nodded and moved his foot. The door closed almost immediately.

  ****

  “Father,” Emma said from the stairway. “Did you just answer the door?”

  She’d been walking to the library when she heard someone who sounded a great deal like Henry at the door. Her father never allowed whoever it was in, so she wasn’t sure the assumption was correct. And what would cause her father to answer the door?

  “Yes. I was expecting someone.”

  Something in his demeanor told her this wasn’t the time to ask about missing letters.

  “Incidentally,” he continued. “His grace, the Duke of Salle, will be calling on you in the morning.”

  She knew her delight must have shown on her face. “Is he? Was he at the door just now?”

  “Yes, I told him it was too late for him to be calling on you. There was plenty of gossip in the past concerning the two of you. I won’t have it again.”

  “Of course.”

  “An invitation to the Whitcombs’ was delivered earlier. You have been invited to their ball tomorrow night.”

  Henry’s doing, she knew. Her heart raced knowing she would see him in the morning and later in the day. Perhaps they would go outside again. Perhaps he would even try to get her to waltz. To be in his arms again. Her body threatened to turn into jelly at the thought.

  She looked up at her father. He was frowning.

  Not the best thoughts to be having in front of her father.

  She schooled her features as much as possible. Tried to remember how she would have answered before Henry came back.

  “A ball,” she said. “How positively dreadful.”

  She had the strangest feeling she hadn’t convinced her father.

  “I won’t force you to go.”

  She waved her hand absentmindedly. “It’s no bother. I found I rather enjoyed myself the other night.”

  Her father made a low noise in his throat, turned, and walked away.

  ****

  Just as her father said, Henry arrived to call on her the next morning. He stood waiting for her in the drawing room, with his hat in his hands. As always, the sight of him made her hold her breath for just a second.

  Since her mother was watching, she curtsied. “Your grace.”

  He bowed. “Lady Emmaline.”

  “Come. Have a seat.” She led him to a nearby couch. How different she felt from when she did almost the very same thing not so long ago. Gone were the anger and fear. In their stead were excitement and hope.

  “Father said you came by last night,” she said once they were seated.

  “Yes. I believe I lost my mental capabilities for a bit. I hope it didn’t cause you trouble.”

  “No, of course not. I only wish it had been the butler who answered the door. Then maybe I would have been able to talk with you.”

  He reached for her hand, then pulled back. His eyes flickered over to where her mother sat sewing. “Emma,” he whispered. “Have you asked anyone about the letters?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Have you found something?”

  His gaze moved over to her mother once again. “Yes, but now is not the best time to discuss it.”

  She nodded and spoke louder, “I received an invitation to the Whitcombs’ tonight.”

  “Then you will be happy to hear I shall be there as well. I understand the Whitcombs to be maddeningly dull.”

  A throat
cleared to her right. She looked up to find a servant holding a tray.

  “Would you care for tea, your grace?” Emma asked.

  At his nod, tea was soon served, along with assorted sandwiches, pastries, and fruit.

  “With anyone else, I would find tea maddeningly dull,” Henry said.

  “As would I, your grace.”

  His voice lowered, “I’ve decided I’m going to kiss you each time you call me your grace.”

  She popped a grape in her mouth. “Promise?”

  Before he could reply, a servant rushed in. “Lady Gallent, please come. And quickly.”

  Her mother dropped her sewing and stood up. “Is there a problem?”

  “The kitchen, please, my lady.”

  As her mother stood, obviously caught between whatever had happened in the kitchen and chaperoning her daughter, Emma caught the eye of the servant who had interrupted. Her teacup nearly slipped from her hands when the servant winked at her.

  Emma dropped her eyes to the floor to keep her mother from seeing her flush.

  “Oh,” her mother said, before gathering her skirts up and hurrying out of the room.

  “How very uncouth of her to leave you at my mercy,” Henry said.

  “I do believe it’s a plan of the servants,” she said and explained the wink she saw.

  He chuckled and took a sip of tea. The fragile cup looked almost ridiculous in his large hands, but he handled it deftly. She swallowed, remembering his hands cupping her face the day before.

  “Emma.”

  She looked up and met his gaze. “Yes.”

  “You have a crumb, just here.” He reached out and brushed the corner of her mouth. But his fingers didn’t leave, instead they traced her lips.

  “My mother,” she said, both scandalized and pleased with his actions.

  “Is occupied elsewhere. Besides,” he took a finger sandwich and held it to her mouth, “we’re doing naught but having tea.”

  He was feeding her! Her mind screamed in outrage, but her traitorous body remained where it was. She parted her lips and allowed him to place the sandwich on her tongue. Wicked. She was positively wicked. Yet she couldn’t find it in herself to feel any remorse.