by Lauren Royal
But beneath all that, she couldn’t help feeling a childish stab of envy, too. Matthew had kissed Creath after but a few hours of acquaintance, and yet she, Chrystabel, still had yet to be kissed. Why had Joseph frustrated her efforts in the conservatory? She couldn’t fathom his reason for resisting. She was of suitable birth. He obviously admired her. So what was the problem?
Whatever his misgivings, she would overcome them. She was ready to be kissed, and she had a plan to make it happen.
“Creath was just startled,” Chrystabel told her brother. “You took her by surprise. Her new feelings took her by surprise.”
Matthew finally turned from the windows, his dark eyes glazed. “She wasn’t the only one taken by surprise.”
“Of course you’re both surprised. Your feelings grew very swiftly. But just think, Matthew—you can save her from that awful Sir Leonard! If you marry her before he returns, she’ll be safe from his fiendish designs. You can be her knight in shining armor like in days past.” She gave a romantic sigh. “You must marry her, and quickly.”
Now it was his turn to look shocked. “Marry her? I just met her! And my whole life has been turned upside down. I’m being forced to move to Wales and start over, and I…I cannot begin to contemplate marriage, not on top of everything else.”
“I know the timing isn’t ideal.” Adding three drops of lilac to Creath’s scent, Chrystabel set down the bottle to fix her brother with an earnest gaze. “It’s true the two of you just met, but some things are meant to be. Not every man is lucky enough to meet his perfect match. Don’t you see that you have to act now, or she’ll be lost to you forever? She’ll be married to Sir Leonard and having his babies instead of yours.”
“Babies? One kiss and you’re talking babies? I cannot listen to this.” Matthew stomped to the door.
“Where are you going?” Arabel called after him.
“Away!” he growled. “To see that our servants cut and haul the yule log for your deranged sister’s illegal secret Christmas.”
The door slammed behind him.
“He wasn’t furious,” Chrystabel pointed out to her sister calmly.
“He is now.”
“He’ll get over it. Can you pass me the vanilla?”
Arabel didn’t. “I think you were right about Matthew and Creath,” she said slowly, tracing one of the stars embroidered on her gown. “He’s in love, even I can see that. And your plan brought them together—at least for a little while.” She met her sister’s gaze with reluctant awe. “Perhaps you are a bit of a matchmaker.”
“It would seem so,” Chrystabel said modestly, not wanting to appear smug. Though she had known she was right all along. “Matthew will sort things out with Creath, I’m sure of it. All that’s left now is to secure Joseph’s heart for myself. I’ve decided what to give him for Christmas.”
“A bottle of scent?”
Searching for the vanilla herself, Chrystabel shook her head. “Not a bottle of scent.”
“Why not? Men wear perfume too, you know.”
“Not Joseph. He likes growing flowers, not wearing them.”
“How do you know?”
“You think I don’t know the man I’m going to marry?”
Arabel laughed. “So what are you going to give him?”
“My roses.” Just saying it aloud filled her with anticipation. She couldn’t wait to see his reaction.
“What roses?” Arabel paused in thought. “You can’t mean your roses—”
“My roses,” Chrystabel confirmed. “He grows flowers, and he doesn’t have any roses here at Tremayne. They’re the perfect gift for him.”
“But you love those roses—you fought tooth and nail to bring them along. Lord, I thought you would rather have left Matthew behind than those bushes! Why on earth would you give them away now?”
“You’re not seeing the situation clearly,” Chrystabel said, adding two drops of vanilla to the bottle. “Joseph will have my roses, but I will have Joseph. He’ll care for them, I’ll have my essential oils, and we’ll live happily ever after.”
“Oh, Chrys…” Concern in her eyes, Arabel cleared her throat. “You know happily ever afters only happen in fairytales. Shouldn’t you lower your expectations, at least a little? Elsewise you’re bound to be disappointed.”
“I disagree. I think Joseph and I are destined to live happily ever after.”
“How can you be sure? Even if you are in love—of a sort—how do you know it’s the sort of love that lasts forever? Have you kissed him?”
“Not yet,” Chrystabel grumbled. “What has that to do with anything?”
“Don’t you remember what Martha said after her wedding?”
Chrystabel swirled the bottle. “That kissing the man you’re meant to be with is pure magic.”
“Exactly.”
“So…?”
“So don’t you think you ought to kiss him? You know, to make sure it’s magic?”
“It will be magic.”
Arabel shrugged. “I’d still kiss the fellow before agreeing to marry him. You wouldn’t want to find out that you were wrong after the wedding.”
“I’m not wrong! Anyhow, for your information, I mean to kiss him tonight. And when it’s pure magic, you will have to admit a second time that I was right. Now, smell this.”
Arabel rolled her eyes—good-naturedly, because she was Arabel—and raised the bottle of perfume to her nose. “It’s lovely. Creath will adore it.”
“Excellent.”
Arabel corked the bottle. “Are we done, then?”
“With perfuming. But there’s still so much to do.” Rising, Chrystabel took out her penknife and went to the wardrobe cabinet. Opening it, she pulled a dress forward and cut off half of a hook-and-eye fastener.
Arabel gasped. “Why on earth did you do that?”
“I need something that looks like an anchor.” Chrystabel handed her the little hook. “Don’t you think this resembles an anchor?”
“A little, I suppose,” Arabel said doubtfully. “What’s it for?”
“For a pudding token.”
“Oh!” Her eyes lit up. “We’re having Christmas pudding tonight?”
“Well, no. Tremayne’s staff was told not to make any beforehand, and it’s too late to begin now. We’re having strawberry tart instead.”
Arabel’s pout looked out of place on her normally cheerful face. “Strawberry tart is a sad substitute for plum pudding.”
“It’s the best substitute we’ve got,” Chrystabel retorted. “Plum pudding takes weeks to mature, and we have but a few hours. Anyhow, aren’t you amazed that we’re going to eat strawberries in wintertime?”
“That’s certainly…exotic. And I’m sure the tart will be lovely. It just won’t be Christmasy.”
“But strawberries are red,” Chrystabel persisted. “That’s festive! And we’ll still have the pudding tokens. It’ll be plenty Christmasy, you’ll see.”
Her sister’s shrug was noncommittal. “I wonder what happened to the plum pudding we made on Stir-Up Sunday.”
“I tried to sneak it into the wagon, but Matthew caught me.” As luggage space was limited, their brother had drawn the line at bringing sticky Christmas pudding with them to Wales.
Arabel sighed. “Such a waste.”
“Not entirely. I left the pudding out on our kitchen worktable for whoever comes to claim Grosmont Grange. But first…” A tiny smile curving her lips, Chrystabel waited for her sister to look up. “First I doused the thing in vinegar and stuffed it with enough pepper to choke an army.”
While Arabel dried her tears of mirth, Chrystabel rummaged in her sparsely filled jewel box to find her daintiest ring. As she slipped one on and off her pinkie, her maid knocked and entered.
“Oh, there you are, Mary.”
“Here’s the thimble you asked for, milady.”
“Just in time.” Chrystabel tucked the ring and thimble into her pocket, together with the little hook. Her tasks her
e were finished. “Mary, do you think you could locate my store of fabric cuttings and bring it here? If you’ll wait for her, Arabel, I’d like you to leave you in charge of the gift wrapping.” On her way out, she paused before the fancy gilt mirror.
“Where are you off to?” Arabel asked.
“A meeting in the kitchen.” She tweaked her wide neckline back into place with fingers that were shaking slightly—from fatigue, no doubt. It had been a long day, and it was nowhere near over. Dipping her little finger into a pot, she smoothed berry-red pomade over her lips.
For this particular meeting, she wanted to look utterly kissable.
FIFTEEN
HAVING NO IDEA why he’d been summoned to the kitchen late that afternoon, Joseph was on his way when he passed the library and decided to take a detour.
As he’d expected, Creath was inside. But for once she wasn’t reading. A book lay open and forgotten on her lap while she stared at the dancing flames in the fireplace.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, startling her from her reverie. “What are you thinking about?”
A vague expression clouded her face. She still seemed preoccupied. “Well, I went out for that walk, and—”
“You what?” All the air seemed to have left his lungs.
“I took a walk. You knew I was going.”
“I most certainly did not.”
A little crease appeared between her brows. “Yes, you did. Chrystabel disguised me as a boy, which ended up not mattering because no one saw us.”
He might’ve known Chrystabel was behind this. More proof of the recklessness that made them incompatible. More reason to avoid her—and disturbing thoughts of her—at all costs.
He pulled a deep breath into his now-functioning lungs. “Thank God you weren’t seen.”
She managed to wave off his concern while still looking concerned herself. “That’s not what I was thinking about. It’s just…well…I guess things felt different out there.” She looked away from him, back toward the fire. “And ever since, I’ve been thinking about how you shouldn’t marry me. About how it really wouldn’t be fair to you.”
“Not that again.” He was tired of having this argument with both her and his mother, but he wouldn’t berate Creath when she was looking so anxious. Instead, he chucked her under the chin. “You can’t change my mind, sweetheart. Not now that I’ve finally got used to the idea. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. Forever.”
“Are you sure?” she asked wanly.
“I’m sure,” he said, and if a vision of Chrystabel seemed to flash across his vision, he knew better than to pay it any mind. “Are you all right?”
“I suppose so. Yes, I’m fine.” Mustering a small, brave smile, Creath picked up her book. “Do feel free to go about whatever it was you were doing.”
“I’ve been summoned to the kitchen. I dug up twenty potatoes earlier, but I suspect they want more.”
“I like potatoes.”
“Me, too. See how compatible we are?” Glad to see her familiar smile widen, he considered reassuring her with a kiss. But he didn’t feel like kissing her just now. “Enjoy your book,” he said instead on his way out.
Everything will be fine, he told himself as he continued on toward the kitchen. It’s going to be fine. Creath was loyal and steady and a good friend, and theirs would be a pleasant, serene marriage. Young people of his class rarely had the luxury of wedding for love—or lust, for that matter—so marrying for other reasons was no great sacrifice. He could easily have faced a much worse choice.
Or had no choice at all.
Reaching the enormous kitchen, he found it crammed with Ashcroft and Trevor servants, all of them hard at work. Given the last-minute decision to celebrate Christmas, he wasn’t surprised. But he was surprised to find Chrystabel there, too.
Surprised and none too pleased. Aside from wishing to avoid her in general, he was vexed that she’d put Creath at risk by taking her out for a walk.
“What are you doing here?” he burst out peevishly.
“Tasting the potato pudding,” she said, perfectly pleasant in the face of his rudeness. He found that vexing, too. “Your potatoes are delicious, Joseph! You truly are a marvel.”
He flushed at her compliment, liking the way her red lips clung to each syllable of his name. Her smile was full of open, unabashed admiration. He didn’t know whether she was loyal and steady like Creath, because he didn’t know her at all, really. But she was certainly enthusiastic and warmhearted. When he was with her, she always made him feel good about himself.
Except for the crippling guilt, of course.
He couldn’t help noticing how adorable she looked with a pretty cutwork apron tied round her trim waist and a bit of potato peel stuck to her chin. Standing at the big wooden worktable over a bowl of potato pudding, she slowly licked the spoon clean.
He suddenly wanted to kiss her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his entire life.
Guilt, guilt, guilt.
“Mmm,” Chrystabel hummed, laying a hand on arm. “Come, you must try some. Whoever would have thought those ugly brown things could make such a savory pudding? We used onions, cloves, nutmeg—”
“No, thank you,” he snapped, shaking off her hand. “I’m not hungry.” Then he felt instantly ashamed of his rudeness. He was lashing out at Chrystabel, when in truth he was just angry with himself for being a faithless, despicable worm.
Well, he was a little angry with Chrystabel—for taking Creath on a walk and for wearing a nice dress—but that was no excuse to act ungentlemanly. He just couldn’t keep his head on straight whenever Chrystabel was near. He needed to finish his business here so he could leave the kitchen and get back to avoiding her.
“My valet told me I’d been summoned here,” he told her, “but he didn’t know why. Do you know if Mrs. Potter needs more potatoes?”
“Thank you, but we have plenty,” Mrs. Potter said, bustling by.
“I agree.” Chrystabel gestured toward the large bowl of potato pudding. “This dish seems to be quite enough for all of us, don’t you think? I asked you here to—”
“You asked me here?”
“Yes, I was hoping you’d help me make some mulled wine. My family always drinks mulled wine while we sing carols on Christmas Eve.”
“Then wouldn’t you rather make it with your family? Why don’t you ask your sister or brother to help?”
“I’ve set them to other tasks.” Two kitchen servants deposited a massive strawberry tart on the worktable. “Matthew is seeing to the yule log, and Arabel—”
“How about Creath?” he interrupted. “You could ask Creath. She’s just sitting in the library.”
“I went to ask her, but she looked a little sad. She seems happier with a book.”
Chrystabel was perceptive. Which should be a positive trait, but in her it only irritated him. He gritted his teeth—he found himself doing that a lot around her. “I’ve never made mulled wine. What makes you think I can help?”
“Anyone can help. It’s easy.”
Anyone could help, but she’d asked him. Why did that make him want to launch himself at her lips—when not five minutes ago he’d felt only apathy at the thought of kissing his own betrothed? What had he done to deserve this perverse torture?
He could only thank his lucky stars that at least she wasn’t bending down or leaning over. Maybe they could get this done quickly, so he could leave here relatively unscathed.
“Let’s get started, then,” he said. “We’ll need to get some wine from the cellar.”
“So Mrs. Potter told me. But I was just about to hide some tokens in the strawberry tart, since we don’t have plum pudding to put them in.”
“I thought we were making mulled wine.”
“After we hide the tokens.” She dug in her skirts and pulled out a few trinkets, setting them on the table. “We’ll take turns. Do you want to go first? Don’t forget to make a wish.”
Wanting to get this over w
ith, he grabbed the silver penny and closed his eyes momentarily—not because he was wishing for anything, but rather to pray for the strength to control his runaway urges. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, then shoved the penny between two strawberries.
“What did you wish for?” she asked.
“If I tell you, it won’t come true.”
“Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed you were superstitious.”
“Isn’t wishing on a token superstitious in the first place?”
She smiled and picked up a small ring, drawing his attention to her graceful hands. The tiny ring would easily fit her slim fingers. When she closed her eyes, he saw her lips move. He had no talent for lip reading, but from the way her tongue flicked behind her front teeth, he thought she’d mouthed the word “love.”
Was there another gentleman she loved? he wondered, feeling a ridiculous dart of envy, then feeling guilty for having had the feeling.
Why should it matter who she loved? He was marrying Creath.
She pushed the ring into the tart, then licked sticky-sweet strawberry sauce off her fingers.
He was marrying Creath.
He had to remember he was marrying Creath.
After that, he made sure the rest went very quickly. He buried the thimble, she hid a small, boiled wishbone, and then he snatched up the last—and smallest—item.
“What on earth is this?”
“It’s an anchor. To symbolize safe harbor.”
“Isn’t it one of those hooks for fastening clothes? It doesn’t look like an anchor.”
“It resembles one,” she said defensively, as though there were any distinction. “It’s symbolic, as I said. And it was the closest thing to an anchor shape I could find on short notice. Just hide it, will you?”
He did, and this time he did make a wish. He wished to look at Chrystabel and feel nothing from now on.
When he opened his eyes, his wish failed to come true. “Can we make the mulled wine now?”
“That’s the plan. Where’s the cellar?”