The Cavalier's Christmas Bride

by Lauren Royal

  “This way,” he said, leading her around many busy servants and down a dimly lit flight of stone stairs.

  The cellar was a vaulted stone room lit with torches. The walls were lined with racks holding casks of wine and ale, and a narrow wooden worktable ran down the center of the chamber. The arched stone ceiling and thick stone walls hid the sounds of everyone bustling overhead.

  “Oh, it’s so quiet in here,” Chrystabel said. “And so busy in the kitchen right now. Let’s make the mulled wine in here.”

  “Let’s not,” Joseph said, fearing nothing good would come of being alone with her.

  But she’d already left the cellar, and he found himself following. In no time at all, he was trailing her back down the steps, carrying the small cauldron full of ingredients and implements they’d collected with Mrs. Potter’s help. Chrystabel carried a pitcher of boiled water.

  He set the cauldron on the cellar’s table and emptied it of its contents: cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, a loaf of sugar, a grater, a long wooden spoon, a ladle, a knife, and a small roll of muslin. He’d also thrown a couple of his winter oranges and a lemon into the cauldron, thinking they might improve the flavor.

  If he were being forced to make mulled wine, he might as well make it taste good.

  “Do you have a decanter?” Chrystabel asked from the back of the cellar, where she’d found the casks of red wine.

  He fetched a pewter one from a cupboard and began filling it from the tap. “This goes in the cauldron, yes?”

  “It does.” She followed him back and watched him pour. “There will be seven of us singing carols. Do you expect two decanters of wine will be enough?”

  The cauldron still looked empty to him. “I think we should make it three,” he said dryly. “I have a feeling some of us may drink a fair amount of wine tonight.”

  And he himself would be topping that list.

  “And we’ll also drink some during the making, for samples,” she said cheerfully. “Let’s use four.”

  “What else do we need?” he asked while going back and forth, filling and emptying the decanter. “Have we everything here?”

  “Everything but brandy.”

  “Over there.” He waved her toward the casks on the opposite wall. “You’ll find another decanter in the cupboard.”

  She collected the brandy, poured some into the wine, grated some sugar into the cauldron, and stirred everything together. “Now we taste,” she announced, lowering the ladle into the mix. “This is why I wanted help—it’s always good to have a second opinion.” She took a sip, then handed him the ladle. “Do you think it’s a little strong?”

  He sipped. “Maybe. A bit too much brandy?” He added some water. “See what you think now.”

  She stirred and dipped again. “Too watered down, I fear. I think we need more wine. And then we’ll need more sugar.”

  While she grated the sugar, he fetched more wine and poured it in.

  “Now it needs more brandy,” she declared after tasting it again.

  So it went, back and forth with tasting and adding, until the cauldron held yet another full decanter of wine, more brandy, more sugar, more water, and Joseph was beginning to feel lightheaded.

  “Just a little more brandy,” he said after tasting for the tenth time.

  “Maybe we should add the spices before we add more brandy.” She unrolled the muslin and tore off a large piece. “I’ll start with four sticks of cinnamon.”

  “I’ll slice the oranges and lemon.”

  “I’ve never heard of putting fruit in mulled wine,” she said diplomatically while grating nutmeg onto the fabric.

  “That’s only because most people cannot get fresh fruit around Christmastime,” he told her, even though he’d never heard of anyone putting fruit in mulled wine, either. “I think it will taste good.” He dipped the ladle again and took a healthy swallow to evaluate. “Yes, I think it could use some fruit.”

  Now his head seemed to be spinning just a little. The oranges smelled delicious as he sliced them, and he moved closer to Chrystabel because she smelled delicious, too. He wondered which flowers she used to make her own perfume. Did he grow all of them?

  No, roses were her favorites. And he didn’t have any roses.

  She added a small handful of cloves to the muslin, tied up the corners, and dropped it into the cauldron.

  He moved to toss in some orange slices.

  She caught his free hand. “Are you sure you want to add those?”

  In the cool cellar, her hand felt warm on his. Then she maneuvered her fingers to mesh with his, and he began to feel warm, too. She was close, so close that her bare shoulder brushed his arm.

  She smelled incredible. Like his flowers. She was vibrant like his flowers, too. Even her name reminded him of his favorite flower. Chrystabel, Chrysanthemum. He hadn’t realized he was gazing down at her until she turned her face up to him.

  “Are you going to kiss me now, Joseph?” she whispered, her dark eyes bold and promising…and just the teeniest bit nervous.

  He’d never seen her looking nervous. It made his heart melt. It made her real.

  The orange slices fell to the floor.

  There was no sound in the cellar, not even breathing, as he raised his hand to brush the bit of potato peel from her chin. Her skin felt even softer than it looked. When he slowly skimmed his fingers over her bare shoulder, she shivered.

  He swallowed hard. “Chrysanthemum,” he began—then stopped. “I mean, Chrystabel—”

  “I like Chrysanthemum,” she said with a tentative smile. “Your favorite flower, isn’t it?”

  Of its own accord, his hand wound itself in her hair, tugging gently on one of her long, dark curls. “Yes, but—”

  “You can call me Chrysanthemum,” she murmured. “You can call me whatever you want. I love you, you see. I’ve loved you since the moment I set eyes on you.”

  His fingers tightened in her hair. “But…but we just met. You cannot possibly love me. Not that I’m not lovable,” he added quickly, then wanted to smack himself on the forehead. “What I meant was, you cannot love me already.”

  “I can, and I do,” she said, raising herself on tiptoe. She was tall, so she didn’t have to go far. Her lips were less than a foot from his, then less than an inch. He closed his eyes, knowing he shouldn’t be letting this happen, and also knowing he was too weak to stop it. Right now he wanted Chrystabel’s mouth on his more than he wanted to live.

  But the contact never came.

  When he felt cool air on his face, he opened his eyes and realized she was disentangling herself from him. Without a word, without even a look, she stepped away and returned to grating sugar.

  “You dropped your orange slices,” she said calmly, as if nothing had happened.

  “Um…” Had nothing happened? Was he going mad? “I guess I’ll cut some more.”

  When she nodded, he caught a glimpse of her chin—her potato peel-free chin.

  So he wasn’t mad, after all!

  But that must mean…

  The minx! The irredeemable tease! First she’d claimed to love him, then she’d made him look a fool. What was her game? What on earth was she trying to do to him?

  Whatever it was, it was working.

  Every muscle in his body was coiled tight as a spring. Instead of the orange he was slicing, his vision was filled with red lips, dark, vulnerable eyes, and an ivory shoulder trembling under his touch.

  He nearly cut himself twice.

  “Finished.” Tossing his orange slices into the cauldron, he thrust the wooden spoon at her. “Taste it,” he said through gritted teeth.

  SIXTEEN

  “I’M SO GLAD you talked us into having a secret Christmas,” Lady Trentingham told Chrystabel toward the end of their Christmas Eve supper.

  So far the celebration had gone even better than Chrystabel had hoped. To start, Lady Trentingham had insisted on leading a tour from room to room, exclaiming over the decorations to th
e point where Chrystabel had almost felt embarrassed. Halfway through the tour, Lord Trentingham had handed out goblets of wine, which had put them all in a merry mood as they’d traipsed from chamber to chamber.

  Christmas spirit abounded. Everyone was dressed in their pre-Cromwell best. To complement her festive red gown, Chrystabel had added her favorites of the few jewels she owned: a small heart-shaped ruby ring, an enameled drop pendant with a single pearl, and matching single-pearl earbobs.

  Joseph’s deep green brocade suit made his brilliant eyes look even greener. It was trimmed with gold braid, and with his glorious long hair loose and gleaming, he looked so delicious that the sight of him made Chrystabel’s mouth water. If only they could get their portrait painted, she imagined the two of them would make a perfect Christmas picture.

  Arabel had found a necklace with tiny emeralds and seed pearls to wear with her green and silver gown, and Lady Trentingham was in gold again, having donned a second gold gown that was even fancier than the one she’d worn in the daytime. She wore two long strands of pearls, a beautiful cameo stomacher brooch, and amazing gem-encrusted earbobs that looked like swans. “I haven’t found an excuse to wear my jewels in ages,” she’d told Chrystabel. “Thank you, my dear girl!”

  Creath had borrowed a lovely gown from Arabel. In white velvet with a split silver overskirt, she looked like a snow princess. Matthew couldn’t seem to keep his gaze off her, and Creath blushed prettily under his scrutiny—which Chrystabel took as confirmation that the girl had merely been startled, and not driven away as Matthew had feared. Watching the two of them sneak wistful glances at each other, Chrystabel hummed to herself, happy not only because she’d been proved right yet again, but because she loved helping people. Nothing would please her more than to help save Creath from Sir Leonard by bringing her together with Matthew. The girl seemed supportive, patient, and kind—she would make a wonderful mother to Chrystabel’s nieces, and a delightful sister-in-law to boot.

  A girl could never have enough sisters.

  Excited chatter filled the dining room all the way up to the minstrel’s gallery, where Chrystabel had stationed the Cartwright brothers to play Christmas tunes. Supper was nearly over, and everyone had loved the Christmas pie with its turkey, chicken, bacon, and vegetables swimming in savory gravy. The fish cooked in wine and butter, the buttered cauliflower, and the cinnamon ginger artichoke hearts had been enjoyed to the last morsel. And they had all adored Joseph’s potato pudding, especially Matthew and Arabel, who, like Chrystabel, had never seen or even heard of potatoes before.

  But through it all, Chrystabel had barely tasted a bite. Though she should have been exhausted after a long day of dashing about, since leaving the cellar she’d been in something of a dither.

  And it was all Arabel’s fault.

  The mulling had been going along splendidly, just as she’d planned. Joseph had inched nearer to her with every sip of wine. When their gazes had locked, she’d seen his heart in his eyes. When he’d touched her so softly, as if she were something delicate and precious, she’d thought her own heart might burst. And when she’d been a breath away from finally being kissed…she’d suddenly lost her nerve.

  Which was ridiculous. Joseph had obviously wanted to kiss her. Heaven knew she wanted to kiss him. And given that the sensation of his thumb brushing her chin had practically made her swoon, there was no reason to fear that kissing him would feel like anything but pure magic.

  But somehow Arabel’s words had gotten to her. You wouldn’t want to find out you were wrong…

  And so she’d left poor Joseph in the lurch. Clearly miffed, he’d scarcely looked at her all evening. Through four sumptuous courses, he’d ignored Chrystabel while speaking pleasantly to everyone else, especially Creath.

  Not that Chrystabel was jealous.

  In fact, she reminded herself, she really needn’t fret at all. She’d find another opportunity to kiss Joseph soon enough, and then he’d forgive her for wounding his pride. If not tonight, it would surely happen tomorrow morning when she gave him her roses. That ought to prompt at least a sound kiss, if not a proposal. After the way he’d looked at her in the cellar, she couldn’t doubt he was falling in love with her. One little botched kiss couldn’t have changed his mind.

  Could it?

  “Chrys?” Arabel kicked her under the table. “Chrystabel, did you hear me?”

  “Heavens! Forgive me, I was lost in thought.” Chrystabel rubbed her forehead to soothe her faint wine-and-brandy headache. “What did you say?”

  “Is there something you want to tell us about the strawberry tart?”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” While Chrystabel had been brooding, Mrs. Potter’s giant strawberry tart had been brought in. A footman was busy cutting it. “Since we haven’t any Christmas pudding, Joseph and I hid tokens in the tart. Please be careful not to swallow one, and do share what you find.”

  “What a wonderful idea!” Her spoon poised over the slice that had been set before her, Lady Trentingham glanced at her son and then Chrystabel. “Thank you both.”

  “It was Chrystabel’s idea,” Joseph said. “And one of the tokens is very small, so do take care.”

  “Oh!” Arabel exclaimed. “I found”—she dug something out—“a wishbone!”

  Chrystabel clapped her hands. “That means you’ll have luck in the coming year.”

  “Strawberry tart in December feels lucky enough.” Arabel set the small wishbone aside. “But I suppose some luck in our new lives wouldn’t be amiss. I’m hoping Wales won’t feel too very different.”

  “People are people,” Matthew said soothingly. “I’m sure we’ll get on with the Welsh just fine.”

  If only he looked as confident as he sounded, Chrystabel might have believed him.

  Lady Trentingham was the next to find a token. “A thimble!”

  “A life of blessedness,” Arabel told her with a smile.

  The countess nodded. “Quite fitting, I suppose, since I’m blessed indeed to still have a husband and four healthy children after the war.”

  “And five grandchildren,” Creath reminded her, making Chrystabel realize how well the girl knew Joseph’s family.

  “Yes, five grandchildren, too. And another on the way.” Lady Trentingham seemed perfectly content this evening. “I am truly blessed.”

  “What is this?” Creath asked, plucking something from her tart. “A ring?”

  “A sign of marriage, is it not?” Lord Trentingham looked pleased to have remembered the meaning.

  Sympathy in her eyes, Arabel turned to Creath. “Not to Sir Leonard, let’s hope.”

  “Not to Sir Leonard,” Joseph said firmly.

  He appeared to be gritting his teeth.

  “A silver penny!” Matthew said, holding it up.

  Lady Trentingham smiled. “A fortune in the offing.”

  “And heaven knows I could use a fortune these days.” Though her brother sounded light-hearted, Chrystabel feared she knew better. “Have any pirates sailed up the Severn lately?” he added. “Perhaps we should mount a treasure hunt.”

  Everyone laughed except Chrystabel.

  And in the end, she was the one who found the tiny anchor.

  “What is that?” Lord Trentingham asked, squinting across the table to where she held it up.

  “Half of a hook-and-eye fastener,” Joseph said, sounding amused.

  “It’s meant to be an anchor,” she protested. “Symbolizing safe harbor.”

  “I do wish you safe harbor, my dear,” Lady Trentingham said kindly.

  Safe harbor, Chrystabel thought. Ever since spotting the Dragoons, she’d seemed to be floundering.

  Would Joseph be her anchor?

  SEVENTEEN

  THE YULE LOG burned merrily in the great room, its dancing flames adding joyful ambiance to the evening. The two musical brothers were readying their instruments. Chrystabel had asked for couches and chairs to be arranged in a half circle before the immense fireplace so ev
eryone could see one another while they sang carols after supper. Joseph was impressed. She’d thought of everything.

  Impressive. Yet another i word.

  “Mulled wine,” Grosmont said before they’d even taken their seats. “We always have mulled wine on Christmas Eve. I cannot sing without mulled wine.” The fellow looked to his sister. “Please tell me we’re having mulled wine.”

  Chrystabel gave a pert little shrug. “Isn’t it illegal?”

  Grosmont’s expression fell. “But—”

  “You goose,” she cut him off with a laugh, “of course we’re having mulled wine! How could we celebrate illegal secret Christmas without illegal mulled wine to accompany our illegal Christmas carols? They all go together so well!”

  Everyone laughed along with her.

  Except Joseph. He was too busy noticing how delightful Chrystabel was. How playful. As his mother kept saying, how refreshing.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Grosmont told her. “In this one instance only, I must commend you in your disobedient ways.”

  “We call that questioning convention,” Mother informed him pleasantly. “Interroga Conformationem. Our family motto.”

  “Well, that’s…unique.” Eyebrows raised, Grosmont nodded politely. “I believe I’m in favor of questioning convention, so long as it involves drinking lots of brandy.”

  “Joseph and I mulled the wine, and I can assure you we put in far too much brandy. Just wait till you get a taste.” Chrystabel moved closer to Joseph and gave his arm a friendly squeeze. “He added two secret ingredients to make it extra special.”

  Meeting her gaze, Joseph hoped his face didn’t give away his thoughts. Did she know that each time she touched him or spoke to him or smiled at him, she made him want her a little more? That he thought she was beautiful? That their agonizing almost-kiss—the moment when she’d pulled away—had been the most gut-wrenching experience of his life?

  Did she know that all evening he’d been repeating her words over and over in his head?

  I’ve loved you since the moment I set eyes on you.

  There was just one thing he could be certain she didn’t know: that the day after tomorrow, he was marrying Creath.