Chapter 1

1

19 D ECEMBER 1902 P LUMF ORD M ANOR , C ASTLETON , E NGLAND

Feeling ever so sneaky, Lady Mariah Lyons eased into the bustle of the kitchen, a smile barely contained by her lips. The gramophone she carried was more awkward than heavy, but she was relieved when she could slide it onto one of the few unused surfaces just inside the doorway. Only because of the flurry of impending guests and celebrations could she remain unseen even this long. Usually the moment she stepped foot in the kitchen, someone was trying to shoo her back out again.

Well, not today. She sniffed appreciatively as she adjusted the horn of the record player, ignoring the scents of dinner and bread in favor of the fragrance she waited all summer and autumn to smell: gently baking sugar plums.

The cook’s granddaughter caught sight of Mariah, and her blue eyes went as wide as her grin. She dashed over to her side, her head just reaching Mariah’s elbow. “My lady!” she whisper-shouted. “Mumma said I was the best snow fairy ever in the play.”

Grinning, Mariah crouched down, smoothing back the girl’s stray curl of hair as she remembered how the little one had spun with more enthusiasm than skill in the little play the village children had put on last Saturday, the script for which Mariah had spent several happy hours on, and the costuming and set design even more. “You were magnificent. And I have a special job for you today, too, Joy.”

The little one nodded solemnly, her eyes tracing every plane and curve of the gramophone. Mariah tapped the crank. “Whenever the record begins to slow down, I need you to crank this a few times. All right? Like this.” She demonstrated a few quick turns and then let the six-year-old do the same, amidst many giggles. The turntable gained speed and reached its maximum.

“Perfect.” Mariah put a finger on the needle arm and grinned. “Ready?”

“Yeah!” Joy bounced up and down on her toes, clapping when the needle touched the record and the first notes of Christmas cheer sang through the room in the form of the opening bars of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”

Mariah showed her where she’d stashed more Christmas music under the table late last night, to be put to use when they grew tired of that first record. She then shifted her gaze to the rest of the kitchen, the cheer in her own heart increasing threefold as she saw each of the busy staff pause, just for a moment. Their tireless hands took a moment’s respite. Their faces moved from harried determination to a remembrance of why they were in such a flurry. Peace, there on Abbie’s face. Joy on Mary’s. Contentment on Mrs. Trutchen’s, as she arranged the dried plums awaiting their first coating of sugar.

Mrs. Trutchen greeted her with a smile. “I wondered where you were, my lady. The first batch is nearly done their first bake.”

Mariah sighed. “Mama insisted my hair be properly coiffured, though I don’t know why she bothered when she knew very well I’d just come straight down here and let the heat ruin it.”

The cook chuckled and passed Mariah a bowl brimming with sugar crystals. “Her ladyship is excited—and rightfully so.”

No, her mother was anxious, which was altogether different. Mr. Cyril Lightbourne, presumed heir to her stepfather, the Earl of Castleton, would be joining them at Plumford Manor for the first time in twelve years, and Mama was turning into a regular Mrs. Bennet of Miss Austen fame, muttering that one of her daughters had better win his eye so that the estate could remain in the family.

Mariah picked up a sticky dried plum with her right hand, dropped it into the sugar, and rolled it about with her left, transferring it then to a waiting baking sheet. A process she would repeat hundreds of times before the morning was out, if she had her way. To the cook, she only smiled. “Excitement doesn’t explain wasting time on my hair this early in the day.”

Mrs. Trutchen chuckled again, her own hand motions the match to Mariah’s. It was she who first taught Mariah how to keep both one’s hands from becoming a sticky, sugary mess. “And how goes the decorating in the rest of the house?”

Mariah couldn’t have held back her smile had she tried. “The transformation from Plumford Manor to Sugar Plum Manor is nearly complete.” She punctuated this happy fact with another roll of plums in sugar. Mrs. Trutchen would spend days moving racks from table to oven and back again, rolling and baking each plum at least five times, until what had been a juicy but tart purple treat in the summer became a chewy, sugary delight now. Once they’d finally cooled after their final bake, they’d be portioned into bags of six and tied with a bow.

Then on Christmas Eve would come Mariah’s happiest moment of the year. She would stand at Papa’s side at the grand entryway to the ballroom and hand a bag filled with sugar plums, marzipan, and a small toy that Professor Skylark had made to each and every child in the region. She’d get to smile and greet each family by name, meet the new children whose parents brought them to the Christmas Eve Ball for the first time, and compliment each parent on the Sunday best they would have donned for the occasion.

Generally speaking, Mariah preferred one-on-one meetings with people rather than crowded ballrooms. But this was the single exception to the rule, because this was a one-on-one greeting of each and every family in her father’s earldom—or at least those who were close enough to join them. The only expectation on her was that she be pleasant and welcoming. And even when she went into the ball, she could only dance with her own brother, Papa, the professor, and a few of the neighbors. No one she had to impress. At their holiday ball, unlike every other ball she’d attended, she could just be herself, with no thought of winning the attention of any gentlemen.

Well. Except for this year, of course. But it was only Cyril.

She sighed. Once upon a time, she’d dreamed of him whirling back into her life like the hero of one of her favorite stories. Once upon a time, she’d dreamed of spotting him across a crowded ballroom in London and, with one look from his friendly eyes, finally feeling like she belonged there. Once upon a time, she’d even convinced herself that the fact that his letters had first gone perfunctory and then trickled off altogether would only set the stage for his grand reappearance this Season past, when she was presented at court.

But Cyril hadn’t come to London for the Season, only afterward. And according to the gossip mill, he’d taken one look at the most spoiled, cruelhearted, selfish young lady in Town and proven himself no hero in Mariah’s eyes. Anyone who gave a second look to Lady Pearl clearly had no sense. No, worse than that—no judgment, and no heart worthy of her admiration.

Which ruled out Cyril and most every other gentleman in England.

But at least she knew it. Knew that Cyril, like everyone else, was the type to be sucked in by shallow beauty and a large dowry. She probably shouldn’t even be surprised. Cyril of age ten might have been willing to dream up fantastical worlds with her during his one and only visit to Plumford, but that had been twelve years ago. What young man would even remember those days with anything but embarrassment?

He probably wouldn’t even remember the world they’d created together. She might have still loved the old stories so much that she adapted it for the children’s play this Christmas, but what were the chances that Cyril would give a whit about Almond Gate or Christmas Wood, Orange Brook or Orgeat Lake?

He would likely blink at her in that way that Fred had perfected, if she dared to mention any of it, and tell her to stop daydreaming.

Her right fingers dropped another dried plum into the sugar, but another sigh sneaked out, slipping into the fragrant air beneath Mrs. Trutchen’s hum. She was accustomed to any word of whimsy being met with a frown when she was in the company of society. And yet when she was visiting the sick in the village or helping overburdened mothers with their children, she saw the smiles and joy her stories brought to their faces and hearts. She heard the way the little ones were still running about pretending they were in her fairy world. She saw the way everyone in the village went out of their way to greet her and ask her to visit again soon.

Why could her own family never be so glad of her company?

But did the why even matter? It was fact. She’d have to learn how to say the right things. To play the role she had no interest in. Accept that whatever man she ended up marrying would likely choose her only because of her dowry and family connections to both the Lyons and Lightbourne estates.

What a dismal future.

Which she wouldn’t think about just now. Not at Christmastime. This was the season for joy and miracles, not for the dark clouds of reality. For now, she would simply enjoy the fun and focus on the cheer she’d help to spread to the neighborhood at the ball.

“There you are!” came a relieved voice an hour later.

Mariah startled at her lady’s maid’s words. She looked toward the doorway to find Blakeley no longer there but rather dodging Joy and the other kitchen workers and, it seemed, every note of the current Christmas carol singing through the room. Her face certainly didn’t lighten or brighten as she sidestepped a pan of gingerbread and the maid who carried it.

Mariah had little choice but to frown at her. “What’s the matter?”

Blakely’s gaze swept over her, and Mariah had the uncomfortable certainty that she noted every strand of hair out of place, every crystal of sugar clinging to her, every wrinkle the apron’s tie had given her dress. “Your mother is looking for you, my lady.”

As if Mama hadn’t known exactly where she would be. It was sugar plum day! This had been her favorite day of the year for as long as she could remember. According to family lore, it had, in fact, been the first day she’d laughed after her mother had married Lord Castleton and moved her three children into his unfamiliar manor house. They said she’d been quiet and shy as a mouse until then, but that Mrs. Trutchen had whisked her away to the kitchens to help with the confections, reasoning that even a four-year-old could roll prunes in sugar, and that she’d transformed after that. Gone from quiet and uncertain to eager to make the place her home and the earl her papa.

Mariah didn’t remember that. Just the joy of the tradition and the deep, abiding love for the only father she recalled. But she believed the story. Because something about this day brought back a hint of that first realization of welcome and happiness.

One that Blakely’s expression doused with cold water. Mariah reached for the damp washcloth sitting nearby. “What does Mama need me for?”

“The dressmaker is here for your final fitting.”

“Already?” Mariah checked her pendant watch—it was only ten o’clock. Mrs. Roy hadn’t been scheduled to arrive until after luncheon.

“Your mother sent for her to come earlier. She didn’t want to risk you being in your underthings when Mr. Lightbourne arrives.”

One of the few points that would have lured Mariah away from her favorite task. Skipping the welcome wasn’t optional—much as she almost wished it were—so if she must do it, better not to feel harried. She sent a smile toward Mrs. Trutchen. “I’ll return afterward if there’s time.”

The cook smiled. “We have it in hand if not. Special circumstances, I know.”

They were ... but even so. She’d thought she’d have hours yet to work on the confections. “No help for it, I suppose.”

She paused on her way out to praise young Joy’s attention to the gramophone. Assured that the kitchen staff would be cheerily serenaded for the rest of the day, she followed Blakely out of the utilitarian, plain-walled portion of the house and back into the elegant and ornate corridors.

Her maid led her directly up the staircase and into Mama’s suite of rooms. The sitting room was a flurry of fabric and lace and sequins and beads—enough that Mariah had to pause just inside the door to gape. This was supposed to be a final fitting. Why did it rather look like a dress shop had exploded? “Mama?”

It was her elder sister, rather than their mother, who emerged from Mama’s dressing room in a gown of deep red satin and velvet that made Mariah’s eyes bulge in appreciation. “Louise! You look stunning.”

It was, and had always been, true. Louise was without question the beauty of the family, and it had only deepened after she married Lord Swann and could begin wearing any color gown she pleased. Jewel tones especially complemented her alabaster skin and sable hair.

If only she’d smile once in a while, she’d be without compare. But then, she’d taken her husband’s death hard three years ago. Even though her mourning had officially ended well before this last Season, she hadn’t felt up to rejoining society. Mariah wondered if she ever would. It had taken Mama ages to convince her to attend the Christmas Eve Ball again this year.

She’d been living at Plumford Manor since a month after her widowhood—the Swann dowager house was still occupied by her former mother-in-law, but her husband’s brother had promptly moved into the manor house and made it quite clear she was to vacate the premises. She received her widow’s allotment, but having failed to give the family an heir, she had therefore no further claim to the estate.

Poor Louise. She had given her husband both a son and a daughter in their four years of marriage. But neither had lived, and Mariah knew that grief, too, was part of what kept her sister’s face in a perpetual mask of ice.

If she didn’t let herself feel it, it couldn’t destroy her.

Now, Louise glanced down at her gown with a wince. “It’s far too ostentatious for a woman of my situation.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mama’s voice came from her dressing room, though it was several seconds later that her form followed, voluminous fabric in her arms. “You’re only six-and-twenty, darling. Still in your prime, and an honorable widow. There’s no reason to assume your life is over.”

Louise motioned Mariah forward with the same authority she’d claimed over her all her life, onto the small pedestal Mama kept on hand for fittings. “I assume no such thing. But it is Mariah’s turn for attention now.”

It was Mariah’s turn to wince. “You can have my turn. Really. All those balls...”

“I do wish you wouldn’t say that, sweetling.” Mama draped the gown—that was what the fabric was—over her chaise as the dressmaker emerged from the dressing room, yet more fabric in hand. “And you’ve never minded this ball, regardless. So chin up, and off with that frock, if you please. You have quite a bit of trying on to do.”

Mariah frowned as three more gowns-in-the-making were added to the one she’d already selected—under the careful approval of her mother and sister. “Why?”

“Because the one ball gown won’t be enough! You need new dinner gowns as well.”

“Mama, you outfitted me before the Season. I hardly think—”

“And now it’s winter, not summer. Those won’t do. You must look your best.”

Mariah’s frown didn’t lessen. “This is an awful lot of fuss over Cyril, isn’t it?” Granted, he’d proven himself the sort to be swayed by lovely appearances, if he was paying court to the horrible Lady Pearl Kingeland. But that only proved he didn’t deserve the effort—not that he ought to receive more of it.

An opinion her family had never shared.

Mama and Louise both blinked at her for a long moment before Louise blustered out a breath. “Gracious. You weren’t with us this morning. I’d forgot.”

Funny. She often forgot when Mariah was there.

“You don’t know!” Mama spun Mariah around to face the full-length mirror and made quick work of the buttons down her back. “It isn’t Mr. Lightbourne we need to impress, Mariah—especially if he’s truly all but engaged to Lady Pearl Kingeland, as the latest gossip suggests. It’s the greve. He’s given up on Lady Pearl and is coming here for Christmas.”

“The ... greve?” She asked it as a question—but it wasn’t one. They’d only met one Danish nobleman in the last year, so far as she knew, and the thought of the chiseled-from-ice, too-handsome Lord S?ren Gyldenkrone was enough to snatch the breath from her lungs.

When she’d first heard his name, she’d thought it terribly romantic—Gyldenkrone meant “golden crown,” after all. And his family was but a step away from the Danish monarchy. Gossip said he’d come to England for the sole purpose of finding an English bride to help solidify Denmark’s ties to England, and that he and his cousin, the Crown Prince, already had an agreement that there would be a match between two of their children—which meant whatever woman won his attention would be able to boast a child who was a prince or princess.

Romantic, without question. And he was so handsome. She couldn’t help but dream a few dreams when she’d only viewed him from across the ballrooms. But she wasn’t like those men who fawned over Lady Pearl—she knew that substance mattered more than form, and the few conversations she’d had with him hadn’t resulted in any sort of connection at all. He’d come to pay a perfunctory call twice, yes, but never did she get the impression that he found her charming.

And then he had seemingly chosen Lady Pearl as the best option for his bride too—though given how close Lord Kingeland was with King Edward, that made sense. But even so. Couldn’t Pearl have left a few suitors for the rest of them?

Which begged the question. “What do you mean? He’s coming here?” At her mother’s reflected nod, Mariah’s hands trembled so that she had to clasp them together. “But why?”

Mama’s smile looked more than happy—it looked victorious. “He sent your father a telegram late yesterday, taking him up on the open invitation he’d offered to show him Plumford and the Peak District. And said he was most eager to spend more time with you.” Mama leaned in and gave her a swift hug. “You must have made quite an impression on him, sweetling.”

Had she? It certainly hadn’t seemed like it. He’d cared only about who her brother was, and her stepfather. He hadn’t seemed to care who she was at all. But then, maybe it was only that he hadn’t shown it behind that ice-chiseled face.

Maybe there was a speck of hope for an interesting holiday at the manor house after all.