Chapter 11

Eleven

T he wind howled fiercely as Nicolas pushed through the heavy oak door of the Thorne and Petal Inn, a swirl of snowflakes chasing after him. He stomped his boots, dislodging clumps of snow onto the worn floorboards, and shook his greatcoat with a vigor that sent droplets flying. His tousled dark hair, dampened by the softly falling snow, clung to his forehead in wayward curls.

“By Jove,” he said, a spark of mischief flickering in his gaze despite the chill biting through his bones. He cast his gaze about the cozy common room, taking in the flickering candlelight and the inviting aroma of mulled wine. He had stopped here on his way to Blackwood’s estate last month and found it quite welcoming.

The innkeeper, a portly man with ruddy cheeks, bustled over immediately. “Lord Winters. What a pleasant surprise to see you again. And so soon. Come, come, let us get you warmed up.”

Nicolas grinned, unable to resist a bit of playful banter. “My good man, are you implying I have taken leave of my senses? Venturing out on a day like this does indeed suggest madness. Though I assure you, my reputation for mischief has not quite reached such heights.”

The innkeeper chuckled, clearly accustomed to Nicolas’ behavior. “Never would I suggest such a thing, my lord. Though I must say, your timing is impeccable. I have a prime spot by the fire, just perfect for thawing out a wayward gentleman.”

As Nicolas followed the innkeeper to a comfortable armchair near the crackling hearth, His thoughts inevitably drifted to Emily. Was she thinking of him, too? Each mile brought him closer, yet still, the distance between them lingered in his heart. The warmth of the fire seeped into his chilled limbs, but it could not compare to the warmth he felt when he pictured her smile.

“Now then, my lord,” the innkeeper said, interrupting his musings, “what can I get you to chase away the cold? Perhaps a hot meal to go with that seat by the fire? And will you be needing a room?”

Nicolas settled into the chair, stretching his long legs toward the flames. “Food sounds marvelous. I daresay I have worked up quite an appetite on my journey.” His stomach growled in agreement, and he could not help but chuckle at his body’s impeccable timing. “But a room will not be necessary.”

As the innkeeper hurried off to fetch a menu, Nicolas gazed into the dancing flames, his mind once again turning to Emily. He had traversed snow-dusted roads and braved the biting wind, all for the chance to see her again. Would she welcome him with open arms, or would he be met with scorn? He could scarcely blame her if she was vexed at him. Still, he hoped for a welcome embrace. The uncertainty gnawed at him, but he pushed it aside. After all, he was no stranger to risk.

“Soon, my darling,” he whispered, a determined smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Soon, we shall meet again, and perhaps this time, I will get it right.”

He inhaled deeply, savoring the tantalizing aroma of roasted meat and freshly baked bread that wafted through the inn. His stomach rumbled again, more insistently this time.

“I will have your heartiest stew, good sir,” he called out to the innkeeper, his voice carrying a hint of his customary charm. “And a generous helping of that heavenly-smelling bread, if you please.”

The innkeeper nodded with approval. “Excellent choice, my lord. Our lamb stew is renowned in these parts. It will warm you right up.”

As he waited for his meal, Nicolas found his gaze drawn to a nearby table. A young woman sat there, her attention fixed upon him with unmistakable interest. She leaned over, offering him a view of her barely contained breasts as she gave a coy smile.

“Good evening, sir,” she purred, her voice laden with invitation. “Are you traveling alone on this cold winter’s day?”

Nicolas could not help but be amused by her forwardness. In another time, an invitation from such a woman would have stirred his interest, perhaps even been welcomed. But now... now there was Emily. And with that thought, the ache of longing bloomed anew. What was once tempting now paled compared to the woman who had captured his heart.

“I am afraid I am, madam,” he replied, his tone friendly but reserved. “Though I hope not to be alone for much longer. I am on my way to visit... someone quite special.”

A wistful smile played at the corners of his mouth as he thought of Emily. “You see,” he continued, his voice gentle but firm, “my heart belongs to another.”

The woman’s flirtatious smile faltered for a moment before she regained her composure. “How fortunate she must be.” A hint of disappointment threaded through her voice.

Nicolas nodded, his thoughts already miles away. “It is I who am fortunate, madam. Now, if you will excuse me, I must finish my meal and continue my journey. I have a long way yet to go if I am to reach my lady in time for Christmas.”

As he turned back to his food, he could not help but feel a surge of anticipation. Every bite, every moment, brought him closer to Emily. And with any luck at all, closer to a future he scarcely deserved, but most desperately craved.

B ack at the Fairfield estate, the parlor was alive with activity. Emily stood on tiptoe, reaching to hang a delicate glass ornament on a high branch of the towering Christmas tree.

“Mother, look,” Mathew said, holding up a shimmering star. “Can I put this one at the very top?”

Emily’s heart swelled with affection as she gazed at Mathew. “Of course, just as soon as a footman brings the ladder.”

Charlotte approached, her arms laden with garlands. “Where shall we drape these?”

“Perhaps along the mantelpiece?” Emily glanced around the room. “Beatrice, what do you think?”

Beatrice, halfway through arranging the candles, grinned, mischief lighting her eyes. “I think it a travesty that we have not drank the mulled wine yet. Decorating is thirsty work, after all.”

Emily laughed, the sound tinged with both joy and a hint of melancholy. “You are incorrigible, Bea. But I suppose a little wine would not go amiss.”

As Charlotte busied herself with the garlands and Beatrice went in search of refreshments, Emily gazed out the frost-covered window. The snow-laden landscape stretched out before her, and she could not help but wonder where Nicolas might be at that very moment.

Had her letter reached the Wicked Widows? If anyone could locate Nicolas, it was the widows, for they moved in scandalous circles. That letter might now be in his hands. Was it foolish to hope he might care enough to return? Could he even now be on his way to her? Or had he laughed as he tossed her words into the closest hearth and watched them incinerate?

“Mama?” Mathew’s voice broke through her reverie. “Are you thinking about Papa again?”

Emily turned to her son, a bit unsettled by his perceptiveness, even if he had the wrong man. Emily went to him, smoothing his unruly hair. “Are you missing your father?”

“Not as much as I once did.” An impish smile played at his mouth. “Does that make me a bad son?”

“Not at all, darling boy.” She hugged him close. “It is hard not to think about those we have lost this time of year, but it has gotten easier for me as well. I think of your father and the time we spent together with fondness rather than sorrow these days.”

“I mostly wonder if he would approve of me. Of who I am becoming.” Mathew looked up at her. “Do I make as good a viscount as father did?”

Emily gave a genuine smile. “Your father would be proud as punch at the young man you are becoming. As for what kind of viscount you make... well, for a lad of twelve, you are doing an excellent job.”

She took the ornament from him and turned toward the tree.

“Mother,” he said.

She turned back to him.

“Will you marry again?”

Emily hesitated, biting her lip as uncertainty tugged at her heart. How could she explain the ache she felt without knowing if Nicolas would ever return her affections? Perhaps she should tell Mathew about Nicolas. But then what if it all came to nothing?

As if on cue, Beatrice burst back into the room, a tray of steaming mulled wine in her hands. “Ladies and young sir, I propose a contest. Whoever hangs the most ornaments in the next quarter-hour wins the honor of hanging the mistletoe above the door.”

Charlotte gave a joyful grin. “What fun. Though I warn you, I have quite the eye for symmetry.”

Laughter filled the room as they all reached for ornaments, their joy infectious. Emily found herself caught up in the merriment, her worries temporarily forgotten as she competed with her friends and son.

“No fair.” Mathew laughed, stretching on his tiptoes to reach a higher branch. “Aunt Charlotte’s arms are longer than mine.”

“That will not be the case for long,” Beatrice teased.

Emily watched the scene unfold, her heart swelling with both happiness and an undercurrent of sorrow. The twinkling candlelight reflected in her son’s eyes, reminding her of the teasing glint that often danced in Nicolas’s.

Her fingers traced the smooth curve of a silver bell, her thoughts drifting, imagining how Nicolas’s laughter might fill the room, how his presence might chase away the lingering chill in her heart. She wondered if he had ever seen a Christmas tree and what he would make of it.

Emily took a deep breath, steeling herself against the melancholy threatening to overwhelm her. She forced a bright smile, determined to push aside her longing for Nicolas and focus on the present moment.

Their decorating competition soon transitioned into singing carols and as the last notes of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” faded away, leaving a momentary hush in the parlor, Emily allowed her mind to wonder elsewhere.

“Your playing is simply divine,” Charlotte said, admiration written across her features. “Shall we try ‘The First Noel’ next?”

Emily nodded, forcing her attention back to the present. “Of course. Mathew, would you be so kind as to turn the pages for me?”

As her son took his place beside her, Emily began the gentle introduction. Her gaze, however, could not help but drift toward the parlor window. She chided herself for such foolishness, yet her traitorous heart refused to obey.

“Mother.” Mathew tapped her on the elbow. “You missed the start.”

“My apologies,” Emily said, finding her place. As she played, she let her thoughts wander. Tomorrow was Christmas Day, she mused. And here she was, acting like a lovesick girl, longing for the rogue who had left her. She had to stop this nonsense at once.

The group’s voices rose in harmony, filling the room with a joyous sound. Beatrice’s clear soprano soared above the rest, while Charlotte’s rich alto provided a sturdy foundation. Even Mathew, his voice not yet changed, sang with infectious enthusiasm.

Emily joined in, her own voice steady despite her inner turmoil. “Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel, Born is the King of Israel...”

As the last verse approached, Emily found herself woolgathering again. Oh, Nicolas. Where are you this Christmas Eve? Do you think of me as I think of you?

She shook her head, trying to dispel such fanciful notions. Yet as the carol ended, she could not help but cast one more hopeful glance at the drive, her heart yearning for a Christmas miracle.

Emily’s fingers lingered on the piano keys, her eyes closed as she savored the moment. The soft crackling of the fire and the gentle ticking of the mantel clock punctuated the silence.

The parlor door swung open and Emily startled at the sound, turning toward it. There, framed by the warm glow of the firelight, a familiar figure stepped into the room—Nicolas, bringing with him the scent of bay rum and pine.

Emily’s heart slammed against her ribs, her breath catching as her fingers froze above the piano keys. Surely she was imagining this. “Nicolas,” she said, her voice a mere whisper.

Mathew wrapped his hand around her arm. “Mother, who is he?”

“He is a friend…” Emily’s voice trailed off as the room erupted into a flurry of surprised exclamations and greetings, but Emily remained frozen in place, her gaze locked with Nicolas’s. He moved toward her, a soft smile playing on his lips.

“My dear Lady Fairchild,” he said, his tone playful yet tinged with an undercurrent of genuine emotion.

Emily’s cheeks flushed, her heart pounding a wild rhythm.

“Mr. Winters,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “What a... surprise.”

There was no way her letter could have reached him before yesterday and he would not have been able to travel from London so fast. It could only mean one thing. He must have come of his own accord. But why?

Nicolas’s smile widened. “I do so love to keep everyone on their toes.”

As their eyes locked, Emily teetered on the edge of hope and uncertainty, torn between the joy of his unexpected return and the fear of what it might mean. Would Nicolas’s presence bring the happiness she longed for, or would it lead to more heartache?