Chapter 12

12

Cyril trudged through the door of Plumford Manor with the winter’s early night following him in, step by heavy step. He could only nod his thanks to the doorman and hand off his hat and cape, his lips unable to form words.

If only they’d had good enough sense to be silent three hours earlier. He handed off the box of pastries that Gyldenkrone had left forgotten on the bridge, trusting that the man would know to whom they should be delivered in order to be added to the evening’s dessert trays.

The doorman inclined his head. “The dressing gong sounded about ten minutes ago, sir.”

“Thank you,” he managed to eke out between his cold lips. That gave him fifty minutes before he would be expected to join the family and make polite conversation.

It felt like a quest of Arthurian proportions. He had too many apologies vying for their chance to be spoken to leave any room for idle chitchat. And he’d had all afternoon to reject one wording after another.

To Gyldenkrone, yes. He shouldn’t have acted as he had on the bridge. It had been jealousy that had spurred him on, pure and simple. Because he’d recognized as surely as Mariah had that apologizing as he’d done—in front of Cyril, no less—had cost the man a great deal of pride. He’d done the right thing. He’d made a peace offering.

Even if he did have not-so-stellar motives behind it, of which Cyril had no proof, he had still done the right thing—and it was wretched of Cyril to have tried to make it about himself instead of Mariah.

Because even if Gyldenkrone had followed him here seeking some type of revenge, he was too honorable a man to punish Mariah on his behalf. Even if it had started that way, he was no doubt half in love with her by now. How could he not be? She was everything sweet and lovely.

But Cyril’s petty lashing out had instead made her feel insignificant, used, unwanted. He ought to be drawn and quartered for such a crime. Or at least left in some old-fashioned stocks or something. It would serve him right if she refused to speak to him again altogether.

Not feeling up to the number of stairs required to reach his room—he had Kellie to thank for the physical exhaustion that rivaled his emotional one, after the afternoon’s “training” of village men and boys—Cyril turned toward the library instead. He knew well there would be a fire crackling in the hearth, since this was Castleton’s favorite room in the evenings, and indeed there was. He sank into one of the leather chairs nearest to it and sighed, staring into the flames.

He would have to apologize to Gyldenkrone. And to Mariah. If only he knew how to make the words enough. If only he had a way to wind back time and undo that ridiculous exchange on the bridge. He should have tucked his own pride away and accepted the peace offering. He should have tried, somehow, to offer friendship to the Dane instead of contempt.

That was the kind of man Mariah deserved—the kind whose heart was as big and as golden as hers. The kind who made friends of enemies, not enemies of friends. The kind who was big enough to forgive and Christlike enough to walk an extra mile for someone who had never shown him even a scrap of kindness. It was the kind of man he wanted to be, had been trying to shape himself into.

He had a long way to go.

Raking a hand through his hair, he closed his eyes and offered up a prayer that was more silent groaning than words, that the Lord would show him how. How to be worthy of Him. Worthy of her. How to convince her to give him a chance when he kept ruining things with his own insecurities and childish jealousies.

“Well now. Don’t tell me you decided to go wading in the Esk today too. You look as forlorn as Mariah did when she went upstairs.”

Cyril looked up at Castleton’s increasingly familiar voice, but he couldn’t manage a smile. “Is she all right?”

Her stepfather certainly wouldn’t be chuckling as he claimed the chair across from Cyril’s if she weren’t. “Nothing a hot bath and change of clothes couldn’t fix, though her mother insists she stay in the upstairs sitting room with her blankets and a good book this evening rather than joining us for the meal.”

Was that relief or disappointment swelling in his chest?

Disappointment. Definitely. Hard as it would be to apologize, seeing her would always be better than not. “Would Lady Castleton object if I dropped in to apologize to her? I feel terrible for my part in the afternoon’s misadventure.”

“You may—though I don’t see what blame you could possibly take on yourself. Mariah said she slipped and tried to steady herself on an icy railing, and that was that.”

Of course she wouldn’t tell him why she’d tried to run on an icy bridge—she was too good to cast blame on anyone else. But his guilty conscience writhed. “It was my fault. I upset her, and she meant to storm off to be rid of me.”

Castleton’s good humor didn’t entirely fade, though he frowned. “You’ve piqued my curiosity, I confess. From what I’ve seen, the two of you have picked up right where you left off with your friendship from childhood. Don’t tell me you’re still bickering as you did then too?”

Bickering? Cyril’s brows crashed together. And with their joining, forgotten memories sprang up behind his eyes. Yes, they had bickered, as children always did when their enthusiasm took different bents. They’d argued over which path to take in the wood, whether today they would act out the fairy world part of their story or the battle again. Whether they wanted hot chocolate or tea to drink when they came inside.

The quick, inconsequential arguments of childhood that had felt insurmountable for the half hour in which they roared ... and then were forgotten before the clock could chime again, as they chased the next adventure together. That sort of bickering hadn’t carried over into letters, but minor conflict was part of being with someone. Of sharing space. Of mixing ideas.

Cyril sighed. “Not exactly the same sort of bickering. I insulted her.”

“How so?” Castleton sounded baffled, as if he couldn’t conceive of anything over which his favorite could be insulted.

He was right about that. Cyril waved a hand before resting his head on it. “I meant to insult Gyldenkrone—which I also shouldn’t have done. But I made it sound like she was unworthy of his court on her own merits.”

Castleton’s wince looked empathetic. He sighed too. “It’s a tricky thing, I grant you, these society matches. Mariah is charming and beautiful, and that is ultimately what will win the heart of her future husband. But one can’t discount that decisions are made for more logical reasons and that softer emotions often have to run to catch up. Poor Mariah—that reality doesn’t rest easily on her shoulders.”

“No.”

Silence pulsed, stretched out by the crackling fire for a long minute. Then the earl turned inquisitive eyes on him again. “Why would you have meant to insult the greve? A bit of leftover antagonism from when you were both courting Lady Pearl?”

“I...” He shifted, the supple chair suddenly uncomfortable. “In a way, I suppose.”

Castleton shook his head. “Time to let that go, I should think. You’ve won your lady. Let him choose another without butting heads.”

Cyril squeezed his eyes shut for a beat. Apparently Mariah hadn’t shared the truth he’d told her yesterday, which oughtn’t to have surprised him. Though he rather wished she had, just now.

“I haven’t, though. Won Lady Pearl, I mean—and don’t want to. The truth is, my lord, neither of us was ever really fond of anything but the story of our meeting. She dismissed me last week ... and I’m glad of it.”

Bemusement and understanding mixed in Castleton’s eyes. “So why, then, this antagonism between you and the greve?”

Cyril dragged in a long breath. “To be honest, I’m none too keen on him pursuing Mariah when I ... when I would like to do so myself.” No need to bring up his suspicions about Gyldenkrone’s motivations, nor the honor he’d been so convinced was lacking. Regardless, Cyril had no room to judge.

“When you...?” The bemusement gave way to a sparkle in his eyes. “Well. Why didn’t you say so, old boy? I may not have been so quick to encourage Gyldenkrone’s suit if I’d known you inclined that direction.”

The old adage about honesty and best policies knew what it was on about. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “She was very clear from the start that friendship was what she desired between us. I’d hoped to convince her otherwise, but I fear I’ve shot myself in the foot with my behavior today.”

“Oh, bah.” Castleton leaned forward, a smile dancing over his lips though he tried to tamp it down. “Mariah isn’t one to hold a grudge. Tell her you’re sorry, state your intentions, and win her over. Nothing would make me happier.”

He made it sound so easy. “And ... you would give your blessing? You approve of Gyldenkrone and already granted him your blessing—”

“Because he is a fine man, if a bit cool for Mariah. As are you—the fine bit, not the cool bit.” Castleton spread his hands. “I only want her to be happy and well loved. Whoever she chooses, that is all that matters to me.”

That’s what Cyril wanted too. But up until this afternoon, he’d have been willing to bet that Gyldenkrone did not have those same interests at heart. Now, though?

The man had done something thoughtful. And had been just as shaken by her fall from the bridge as Cyril had. And whether he still harbored any animosity toward Cyril or not, he’d shown himself the bigger man today.

His throat felt tight and dry. “Do you know where I might find Gyldenkrone? I would like to apologize to him too.”

“I believe he and Fred were finishing up a game of billiards before dressing for dinner.”

“Thanks.” He pushed himself to his feet, urging a bit of speed into his step in the hopes of finding Gyldenkrone in the main part of the house and not having to venture out to the bachelor wing in search of him. Now that he’d decided to apologize, he didn’t want to wait.

Luck was with him. He passed Fred in the corridor outside the billiards room and found the greve just inside it, about to follow Fred out.

Cyril stepped inside and cleared his throat. “Could I detain you for a moment, my lord?”

The greve paused, and curiosity filled his eyes. “I suppose.”

Another long inhale was required before he could begin. “I ... owe you an apology. Several of them, actually. First for my rudeness this afternoon. It was uncalled for. I have no reason to question your motivations in pursuing Lady Mariah. She is certainly worthy of any and all attention.”

The muscle in the Dane’s jaw ticked, but he made no reply.

Just as well. Cyril rushed on. “More, I must apologize for my arrogant thoughts, as you so aptly called them. You were right. I thought far too highly of myself, attributing your arrival here to me and my brawl with your brother. I hope you’ll forgive me for those selfish assumptions.”

Now Gyldenkrone’s fair brows tugged down.

Cyril pressed on. “But most of all ... I must beg the forgiveness of you and your brother. I let my temper and affront lead me to an insult as grave as the one your brother gave to Lady Pearl. I maintain that his behavior, both in luring her into an embrace and then in bragging about it, was wrong. But I shouldn’t have slurred your family and nation as I did. I will write him a letter of apology this very evening, and I will do what I can to rectify any damage I did to his reputation.”

The silence stretched so long that it crackled and wheezed in his ears. Cyril was about to give up and turn when Gyldenkrone finally let out a short puff of breath. “You needn’t bother—with mending Emil’s reputation, I mean. I had a wire from him this morning. He has already returned to Copenhagen. I don’t imagine he’ll be returning to London anytime soon, and by the time he does, one evening’s drunken brawl will not be remembered.”

Cyril shook his head. “That is not the point. I was wrong. You demonstrated today that you are a people of honor. I would be remiss in my own if I didn’t share that observation with any who will listen.”

Gyldenkrone took one step toward the door but then paused. “You ... are not who I thought you were either. I accept your apology, sir, and will offer my own. Because you weren’t entirely wrong. You were not my sole reason in pursuing Lady Mariah—but I would be lying if I said it hadn’t played a part in my decision.” He strode out into the corridor then, leaving Cyril to gape after him.

He hadn’t been wrong? But . . . what did that mean now? Were his intentions still so muddled when it came to Mariah? Or did he mean to step aside?

He didn’t know. And honestly, it didn’t matter. His own pursuit of that most worthy lady ought to be independent of any concerns of Gyldenkrone. He would try to win her heart on his own merits, not by casting aspersions on his rival. Just as she deserved to be loved for her own.

And he knew the perfect place to start.

He flew along the passageways, into the service corridors, already mumbling apologies to every single person he passed, knowing he was in their way during one of the busiest times of day. Though when he reached the kitchen, everyone bustling about seemed to be in surprisingly good spirits. They even had a gramophone set up, with Christmas carols spilling out.

Mrs. Trutchen turned and spotted him the moment he stepped inside, her face lighting up. She hurried over to him, motioning toward the white baker’s box that rested on a workbench. “Thank you for the pastries, sir. They smell delightful. Are they for the pudding this evening?”

“I imagine so. They are actually courtesy of Lord Gyldenkrone. Only, he forgot them in his haste to get Lady Mariah home this afternoon. They are a traditional Danish Christmas treat, I believe.”

Her expression shifted yet lost none of its brightness. “Lovely! Perhaps I’ll see if the baker will lend me the recipe so I can try my hand at them.”

“His lordship has the recipe himself. He’s the one who shared it with the baker.” Cyril smiled, wishing it were easier to give the man the credit he was due, but trusting that, with practice, the ease would come. “Though I did wonder if I could abscond with one of them now? Lady Mariah won’t be coming down for dinner, and I’d like to replace the one I made her drop earlier.”

The cook chuckled and plucked out a perfect diamond of pastry, setting it on a dainty plate. “Any other time of year, I may feel the need to caution about ruining one’s supper. But it’s Christmas, after all. I hope she enjoys it.”

“As do I.” He said his farewells and then backtracked to the main part of the house, finding plenty of energy now to climb the stairs and move to the hallway that contained the family’s bedrooms. There, between the rooms she and her sister occupied, he spotted the small, feminine sitting room with its cozy sofa and crackling fire. Lady Mariah nestled into the cushions, her hair in a simple braid that hung over her shoulder, and a thick blanket tucked over her legs. A book rested in her lap, her fingers poised to turn a page.

He’d never seen a more beautiful sight.

Though the door stood open, he rapped a knuckle upon its frame anyway. “Pardon me, my lady. Have you time for a bit of groveling from an oaf of a man not deserving of your forgiveness but who dares to ask for it anyway?”

She paused, looked up, and smiled. Not quite as brightly as usual, but she smiled. “Cyril. Come in.”

He did, choosing the chair at right angles to her sofa. He set the plate on the small table between them. “A peace offering.”

She tilted her head. “I believe that was Lord Gyldenkrone’s peace offering.”

“Exactly. I oughtn’t to have questioned it as I did. I’ve already apologized to him.”

“You have?” That clearly surprised her.

Frankly, it surprised him too. He wouldn’t have thought, as the Cyril who’d made his stand in London, that he had it in him.

But he was a different Cyril here, with her. A better version of himself. Or he wanted to be, anyway. Thought he could be, with her warm heart to show him the way and help him better understand what the Lord wanted of him.

He nodded. “For many things. For today, for my assumptions, and for what I said about his brother and family at the Marlborough. So now I must apologize to you.”

She swallowed, her gaze never leaving his face. “Not necessary. I know you meant no insult, and it wasn’t your fault that I slipped.”

He reached out to rest his fingers over hers. “Don’t be so easy on me. I may not have meant the things I said to hurt you, but I still said exactly what I meant. And that was wrong of me. I should have given him more credit, and certainly should have given you more credit.”

The fact that Gyldenkrone said he hadn’t been wrong was irrelevant. Wrong or right, he shouldn’t have let his suspicions reflect on her.

Mariah drew in a long breath and let it slowly out. “No, I think you were right. There was nothing about me that brought Lord Gyldenkrone here. He meant no harm to me—he was genuinely upset by what happened on the bridge, I could tell. But I can’t fathom why he thought the way to antagonize you was through me.”

Couldn’t she? His lips wanted to twitch into a grin, but if he set it free, he would just blurt out here and now that obviously the greve could see in a moment how Cyril loved every single thing about Mariah.

That wasn’t how he wanted his confession of his feelings and intentions to be given—on a random evening in her sitting room, while she still chased off the chill of his stupidity. She deserved more than that.

She deserved magic.

In response to her question, he simply said, “Well, I think it’s irrelevant. If I’m not mistaken, Lord Gyldenkrone has already been softened a bit. After our little adventure tomorrow, he’s certain to be a bowl of bread pudding.”

And as long as that oh-so-soft greve didn’t direct that hidden sweetness to her and somehow win her yet with his change of heart, they’d be fine. Cyril had a bit of his own plan brewing ... and he’d spend the night plotting and praying and hoping.