Chapter 10

Ten

“ O h, drat,” Mathew said, frustration creasing his brow as the delicate ivory sticks tumbled onto the table.

Emily could not help but chuckle at her son’s frustration. “Patience, dearest. Spillikins is all about a steady hand and a calm heart.”

She leaned forward, her gaze warm with affection as she demonstrated the proper technique. “Watch closely. See how gently it is done.”

Mathew watched, his face a mirror of concentration. A triumphant grin spread across Emily’s features as she extracted a stick without disturbing the others. “Your turn,” she said.

As Mathew’s hands moved toward the pile, Emily’s thoughts wandered, unbidden, to another set of hands—larger, stronger, yet equally gentle. She shook her head, forcing the image of Nicolas from her mind.

A sennight had passed since that fateful morning when she awoke to find him gone, his presence fading like the last traces of moonlight giving way to the morning sun. The ache in her chest threatened to overwhelm her, but Emily steeled herself against it.

“Well done, Mathew.” Emily forced a bright smile, pushing aside her sorrow. “You are improving rapidly.”

“Do you think I will best Freddie Harrington when we return to Eton?” he asked.

Emily smiled, though it did not quite reach her eyes. “With practice, I believe you will.”

As Mathew set up for another round, her gaze drifted to the frost-etched windowpane. The winter landscape beyond seemed to mock her with its serene beauty, so at odds with the tumult in her heart.

The memory of Nicolas’s warmth beside her, his whispered endearments, the feeling of completeness she had experienced in his arms—it all came rushing back with painful clarity. How could he have left without a word? Without an explanation?

Her hand trembled as she reached for an ivory stick. She had to be strong, for Mathew, for herself. She could not allow herself to be consumed by thoughts of a man who had so callously abandoned her.

“Steady, Mother,” Mathew reminded her.

Taking a deep breath, Emily squared her shoulders. “Indeed.” She smiled at her son. And as she slipped the stick free, she silently vowed to move forward. She would find happiness again—with or without Nicolas Winters. Yet, even as she made this promise to herself, she could not quite quell the traitorous hope that still flickered in her heart.

Nonsense. Nicolas had made his choice when he left without a word. Now she had to accept that there was no future for them. She could not allow hope to prolong her pain.

A sharp knock at the door startled Emily from her thoughts. Mathew jumped up, eager to answer it in the butler’s absence. Emily placed a gentle, steadying hand on his shoulder, her thoughts briefly slipping away.

“Allow me, darling,” she said, smoothing her skirts as she rose.

As she approached the door, the sound of familiar laughter drifted through, bringing an involuntary smile to her face. Emily opened the door to the sight of her dearest friends, Lady Charlotte Ashbourne and Miss Beatrice Sinclair, their arms full of parcels, cheeks aglow with the crisp winter air.

“Merry Christmas,” Charlotte said, enveloping Emily in a warm embrace that smelled of cinnamon and evergreen.

Beatrice, ever the pragmatist, raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to leave us freezing on your doorstep all day, Em?”

Emily chuckled, stepping aside to usher them in. “Heaven forbid. Come in, come in.”

As her friends bustled into the parlor, shedding cloaks and gloves, Emily felt a weight lift from her shoulders. Their presence brought a lightness she sorely needed.

“We have brought treats,” Charlotte announced, presenting a basket of freshly baked scones.

“I will take those,” Mathew said, reaching out for the basket. “I am famished.”

Charlotte laughed, handing him the goodies. “Do take care not to eat them all at once.”

Beatrice snorted, her attention turning to Emily as Mathew strode away with his treasure. “And something a touch stronger for after Mathew is abed.” She produced a bottle of fine brandy with a wink.

Emily’s eyes widened. “Beatrice. You should not have.”

“Oh, but I should,” Beatrice replied, her gaze twinkling with mischief. “After all, what are friends for if not to provide a good time?”

As they settled by the fire, Emily found herself caught between laughter and tears. The easy banter, the warmth of their friendship—it was a balm to her wounded heart.

“Now,” Charlotte said, her voice soft yet earnest as she reached for Emily’s hand, “tell us, truly, how have you been?”

Emily hesitated, her throat tightening. She glanced at Mathew, now engrossed in a book at the far end of the parlor, then back to her friends’ concerned faces.

“I am... managing,” she said, willing her voice not to waver.

“This is your third Christmas since becoming a widow. I can only imagine how it weighs on you.” Beatrice leaned forward, her sharp features softening. “We are here for you, Em. Whatever you need.”

“It has gotten easier with time.” Emily offered a small grin.

Emily’s gaze drifted to the window, where snowflakes danced in the fading light. She sighed, a wistful sound that did not escape her friends’ notice.

“You seem... distant,” Charlotte ventured, her gaze filled with concern. “What is occupying your mind?”

Beatrice, ever observant, narrowed her eyes. “Or perhaps... who?”

Emily’s cheeks flushed, and she fumbled with her teacup. “I-I do not know what you mean,” she stammered, painfully aware of how unconvincing she sounded.

“Come now,” Beatrice pressed, her tone softening despite her direct approach. “We have known you far too long to be fooled. There is a particular sorrow in your eye, one I have not seen since...”

“Since your husband was laid to rest,” Charlotte finished, reaching out to squeeze Emily’s hand.

Her heart clenched at the mention, though it was not her late husband that was causing her grief. She had tried so hard to push Nicolas from her thoughts, but now, faced with her friends’ loving scrutiny, she felt her carefully constructed walls beginning to crumble.

“I met someone,” Emily said, her fingers nervously tracing the delicate china. “He became injured during the blizzard, and I cared for him. Now...” Her voice faltered. “I can not stop thinking about him.”

Charlotte sat her teacup down. “Does this someone have a name?”

Emily swallowed hard before saying, “Mr. Nicolas Winters.”

“The notorious rogue with the playful smirks and dangerous smoldering gazes. No wonder you are in such a state,” Beatrice said, fanning herself playfully.

Emily blew out a breath and sank back against the velvet upholstery. “It is foolish, I know. He left without a word, and yet...”

“And yet your heart still yearns,” Charlotte supplied, her empathy evident in every word.

Beatrice leaned forward. “You deserve happiness, Emily,” she said, her voice soft yet still resolute. “Perhaps it is time to consider opening your heart again.”

“But what if—” Emily began, fear coloring her words.

“What if it leads to joy?” Charlotte interjected. “What if this is your second chance?”

Emily’s gaze darted between her friends, their faces etched with care and encouragement. The tiny spark of hope she had tried to put out flickered anew, fragile but undeniably present.

“You are both too good to me,” she said, a tremulous smile touching her lips.

Beatrice raised an eyebrow, a hint of her usual mischief returning. “Nonsense. We are simply reminding you of your own worth. Now, shall we plot your grand romantic gesture, or would you prefer another scone first?”

Emily laughed at Beatrice’s quip, her spirits lifting ever so slightly. She reached for a scone, her fingers trembling as she broke off a piece. “I suppose... Well, maybe… I could write to him,” she said.

Charlotte’s gaze lit up. “That is a wonderful idea. A letter would allow you to express your feelings without the pressure of an immediate response.”

“But what would I even say?” Emily’s voice cracked with uncertainty, her brow furrowing. “How do I put into words... all that is in my heart?”

Beatrice leaned forward, her gaze intense. “Speak from your heart, darling. Tell him how he makes you feel, how your world is brighter when he is in it.”

Emily nodded, her resolve strengthening. She rose from her seat and moved to her writing desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. Her friends watched in supportive silence as she dipped her quill in ink and wrote.

“Dear Mr. Winters,” she murmured as she penned the words, her heart racing. “I find myself compelled to write to you, for my thoughts have been consumed by our time together... I must speak with you once you have seen to your sister.”

As Emily wrote, she felt a weight lifting from her shoulders. She thought of stolen glances and shared laughter, of the warmth that bloomed within her whenever he was near. With each word, her determination grew.

I know not why you left as you did, she wrote, her quill scratching softly against the paper, but I cannot let fear or misunderstanding keep us apart. If there is even the slightest chance that you feel as I do, I implore you to respond. For I have found in you a renewed chance for happiness, and I am not ready to let that go.

Emily paused, her quill hovering over the paper. She glanced back at Charlotte and Beatrice, who offered encouraging smiles. Taking a deep breath, she turned back to her letter.

With hope and affection, she concluded, signing her name with a flourish.

As she folded the letter, Emily felt a curious mixture of trepidation and excitement. She had taken the first step toward her future, whatever it might hold.

With trembling fingers, she pressed her seal into the warm wax, watching as it hardened into a perfect crimson circle. She held the letter for a moment, its weight in her hands far greater than mere paper and ink.

“It is done,” she breathed, turning to face Charlotte and Beatrice.

Charlotte clasped her hands together, eyes sparkling. “Oh, Emily, I am so proud of you. This is a monumental step.”

Beatrice leaned forward, her lips curved with mischief. “Now, shall we summon your footman to deliver it, or shall I volunteer to play messenger? I daresay I could add a few choice words of my own to Mr. Winters.”

Emily laughed, the sound surprising her with its lightness. “I am afraid I do not know where to send it. I know Mr. Winters was intent on reaching London, but do not know where in London he went. Though I appreciate the offer, Beatrice, I think it will take more than a standard messenger to ensure the letter reaches him.”

Charlotte moved to her side, placing a comforting hand on her arm. “Perhaps send it on to the earl’s residence? Mr. Winters is sure to at least stop in to see his parents for Christmas.”

Emily paused, considering. “True,” she admitted. “But... For the first time in so long, I feel as though I am moving forward rather than simply existing. I want this letter to reach him without delay.”

Beatrice joined them, her usual sharp wit softened by genuine affection. “That is because you are, my dear. You are reclaiming your life, one daring letter at a time.” She turned, her brow furrowed. “Now then, how are we to get this delivered without delay?”

“I shall write another letter. This time to the Wicked Widows Club. If anyone in London can locate Mr. Winters’ post hate, it is the widows.” Emily moved back to her desk, taking the quill in hand. “They are most helpful in times like this.”

Once finished, she folded the new letter around the old one, sealed it, then rang for her footman to deliver the missives.

Once Emily dispatched Thomas with the missives, the three women gathered by the window, watching as he disappeared down the snow-dusted lane.

“Well,” Emily said, turning back to her friends with a tremulous smile. “I suppose there is nothing left to do now... except wait.”

“And celebrate,” Beatrice declared, moving to the sideboard where a decanter of sherry waited. “This calls for a toast, I think.”

As Beatrice poured three glasses, Charlotte squeezed Emily’s hand. “Whatever comes of this, Emily, know that we are here for you. Always.”

Emily felt a rush of gratitude. “I do not know what I would do without you both,” she said softly.

Beatrice returned, glasses in hand. “Fortunately, you will never have to find out. Now, to new beginnings and brave hearts.”

Optimism surged through Emily as they clinked their glasses together. The future was uncertain, but with friends like these by her side, she felt ready to face whatever it might bring.

As the golden light of the setting sun streamed through the frost-etched windows, Emily found herself lost in thought, her gaze fixed on the gentle flurries of snow outside. The warmth of the sherry lingered on her lips, a pleasant contrast to the chill that seemed to permeate the air despite the roaring fire in the hearth.

“I wonder,” she mused aloud, her voice barely above a whisper, “how long it might take for the Wicked Widows to find him.”

Charlotte, ever observant, placed a comforting hand on Emily’s arm. “Patience, my dear. The wheels of fate turn at their own pace.”

Beatrice, not one to let a moment of melancholy linger, clapped her hands together. “Speaking of wheels turning, shall we hang the last of the garlands? This room could use a touch more festivity, I think.”

As they adorned the room with fragrant pine boughs and shimmering ribbons, Emily found her spirits lifting. The scent of cinnamon and cloves wafted from the kitchen, where cook was preparing their evening meal. While the warm glow of candlelight danced off the polished silver ornaments, casting playful shadows across the walls.

“There,” Emily said, stepping back to admire their handiwork. “It is beginning to feel like a proper Christmas now.”

Charlotte nodded. “Indeed. One can almost hear the sleigh bells in the distance.”

As if on cue, the distant jingle of bells floated through the air, causing all three women to exchange startled glances.

“Surely not...” Emily breathed, her heart quickening as she moved toward the window.

Her breath fogged the cold windowpane as she peered out into the gathering dusk. The snow-dusted lane stretched empty before her. No sign of an approaching sleigh or carriage.

“False alarm, I am afraid,” she said, turning back to her friends with a rueful smile. “Just my imagination getting the better of me.”

Beatrice arched a playful eyebrow. “Or perhaps it is your heart playing tricks on you. I have been told it has a tendency to do that when one is lovesick.”

Emily’s cheeks burned. “Bea. I am not?—”

“Oh, come now,” Charlotte interjected, her soft voice filled with understanding. “There is no shame in it. We are your friends, Emily. We only want to see you happy.”

Emily sank into a nearby armchair, the velvet upholstery cool against her flushed skin. “Is it that obvious?” she asked, her voice low. “Do you think Mathew noticed?”

Beatrice snorted, settling herself on the ottoman at Emily’s feet. “My dear, you are about as subtle as a thunderstorm. Though I daresay Mathew has been too busy with his own pursuits to notice anything amiss.”

“Bea,” Charlotte chided, though her eyes danced with amusement. She perched on the arm of Emily’s chair, wrapping a comforting arm around her friend’s shoulders. “What she means to say is that there is nothing at all wrong with you. Love is a marvelous thing, and all of this will surely work out. Mr. Winters must love you as well, given what you have told us. It was probably fear that prevented him from saying farewell.”

Emily’s mind flashed back to that fateful evening before Nicolas left—the warmth of his embrace, the tenderness in his passionate gaze, the feeling that perhaps, just perhaps, she had found a second chance at love. Then came the crushing blow of waking to find him gone, nothing save for a brief note to prove he had been there at all.

“It does not signify,” Emily said, forcing a lightness into her tone that she did not feel. “I have done all I can. There is nothing for it now, other than to wait.”

Beatrice leaned forward, a glass of sherry in her hand. “Love is not always straightforward, Emily. Sometimes it requires time to work it’s self out.”

“Time.” Emily sighed. “I do indeed have an abundance of that.” Though she could not help but wonder how much of it she would spend waiting to hear from Nicolas. Waiting to see him. Waiting to discover if he cared at all.

She took a slow sip of sherry, her mind reliving the night she had spent in Nicolas’s arms for the hundredth time. If she did not cease this, she would ruin Christmas with her woolgathering and melancholy.

But she could scarcely help how she felt.

All she wanted for Christmas was her rogue.

Charlotte took the empty glass from Emily’s hand, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Christmas is known for miracles,” she said, as she turned toward the sideboard.