Chapter 3

3

Mariah found Papa exactly where she’d expected him to be—in the small library attached to his study, sitting in his favorite leather chair, which he’d angled toward the window rather than the fireplace. He was brooding in a way better suited to young Joy’s little brother than to a man of distinguished years, and it made her grin as she padded softly into the room.

She sat on the arm of his chair and draped her own arm around his shoulders. Her gaze followed his to the drive, only visible from here because of the bare limbs of the trees. Empty still, though Cyril was due any moment. “I do hope you’re getting the sulk out of your system now, Papa. If you greet him like this, he’ll tuck tail and run, and then where would we be?”

Rather than chuckle, Papa sighed and patted her hand. “I have no argument with the young man himself. He got good marks in school, is reportedly of excellent character. But that’s the very thing—I only know him from reports. His line is so far removed from the family tree that he’s scarcely related at all. It isn’t right that everything should go to him.”

Mariah leaned over to rest her cheek on the top of his head. She knew how deeply her stepfather loved Plumford Manor and all of Castleton. She knew it because she’d seen it every day of her memory, because she’d been always at his knee as a child, learning to love it too. The house and the land and, most of all, the people. Papa had always been the best sort of landlord, who tried to give his neighbors dreams and the wings to chase them, not to lash them to this one place for his own benefit. He sponsored countless children who wanted to go on to higher learning, looked for innovative ways to improve life for everyone, and he always put their well-being above his own profit.

She wasn’t certain anymore whether his love for this place had inspired her own because of how much she loved him ... or if perhaps she was so close to him because of their shared love for Plumford and the neighborhood. Or if it was some combination thereof.

Regardless, she could sigh along with him because she understood his desire to hold fast to what he’d worked so hard for. And she could pray, as she’d done so many times over the last quiet years, that Cyril Lightbourne would come to love it just as deeply.

“Everything will work out, Papa.” She used her most soothing voice, even though it hadn’t the melody of Louise’s or the richness of Mama’s. “You’ll see. Now that Cyril is coming for good, it will only be a matter of time until he feels like a son to you.”

Papa let out another laborious sigh. “So you say, sweetling. But sometimes I think there must be some flaw in my character that keeps me from forming such bonds. I have tried my best to be a father to all you children, but you’re the only one...”

She gave him a squeeze, kissed the top of his head again. “Through no fault, Papa. No fault at all. It’s only that Louise was already eleven when you and Mama married, and she missed our father so. And Fred has always felt that pull back to that other home he always knew was his. But they both love you. They love how you love Mama. They respect and honor you.”

His hum at once granted and dismissed her point, while his eyes kept their watch on the empty drive. “I wish ... I wish the choice were mine. On who inherits, I mean.”

She chuckled at the very thought, because she knew well what he meant. He knew that she loved this place as he did, and that she was the only one—thus far, at least—who did so. He’d said before that he wished he could leave it in her care. But law after law prohibited that.

“Well,” she began, “we should petition the king. Not only to break the entail on the property, but to allow for a woman to inherit the title. And to specify that the woman needn’t even be a blood relative. That you ought to be able to appoint an heir of your choosing. I can’t imagine the king would mind.”

He snorted a laugh at the joke and squeezed her hand again. He and the king were friends, but even friendship couldn’t work such miracles. “If only, sweetling. If only. As it is...” He turned his head a bit, and she took that glimmer in his eyes as warning.

Enough of one that she sat up straight on the arm of the chair, shaking her head. “Don’t. Don’t even say it.”

“It’s the traditional answer. Expected, even.”

“I’m not going to marry Cyril just because it’s convenient!” Papa, of all people, ought to understand that. Hadn’t he remained a bachelor for so many years because he couldn’t stand the thought of sharing his life with a woman he didn’t love wholeheartedly? But then he’d met Mama, just coming out of mourning for Mariah’s father. How could he begrudge Mariah a marriage built on the same warm foundation?

Her heart burned within her, enough that she knew the flames would show in her eyes. She averted them, taking up the vigil of the window. Mama and Papa had both been hinting for years that she ought to try to win Cyril’s favor. And it always tied her up in knots. Because she had won his favor, when they were children and she hadn’t known she should. In the two weeks they’d spent together over that Christmas holiday when she was seven and he was ten, she’d written him as the prince in her fairy-tale endings.

And for years afterward, their letters had kept them close. But then, when she turned fifteen, Mama had insisted upon overseeing Mariah’s correspondence with him, and she’d made her edit out the “silliness,” saying she must present herself as a proper young lady, one worthy of becoming the next Lady Castleton, mistress of Plumford Manor.

Was that why he’d stopped writing back? Or had it just been that the tides of life had separated them too much? Regardless, they were strangers again now, as proven by the fact that he’d cast his heart at the feet of Lady Pearl.

The flames twisted within her, stinging tears to her eyes that she blinked away. For too many years, she’d hoped Cyril Lightbourne would return—not just to Plumford, but to her. She’d dreamed of him. Placed so many hopes on him. But year after year, season after season, he’d stayed away. And then her first word of him in ages was that . If she’d retained any hope of that oh-so-convenient match, the mention of Lady Pearl had dashed it. And if her parents all but shoved her at him, he’d already proven himself the type to care only for passing things, so how could she even consider him? An old friend who saw her only as a convenience was even worse, somehow, than a stranger who looked right through her.

Papa took her hand in his again. “You know I want only the best for you, Mariah. Whether that means Plumford or some other place. Perhaps even ... some other kingdom?”

She sighed and tried to tug her fingers free. Speaking of strangers who looked right through her ... “If you’re thinking of the Dane, banish the thought. He didn’t even like me.”

“Why then would he have requested this visit? And why would he have made specific mention of you?”

She knew very well his reasons—and they were her brother and stepfather and their family’s association with the Crown. The greve had made no secret of only looking among England’s most noteworthy families for his bride. “Not for affection, I promise you that.”

Papa chuckled. “Only because he hasn’t spent enough time with you to be charmed. But he will be, I have no doubt. You’ll have your pick of two fine gentlemen by the end of the holiday, I daresay.”

Hardly. What she would have was a week or two spent in the company of not one but two gentlemen who just wanted to sing Lady Pearl’s praises. Utter torture. “We’ll see, I suppose.”

“Mm.” Papa’s narrowed eyes said he saw right through her docile words. “Please don’t dismiss him, Mariah. He’s an intimate of the Danish king—not a man to be trifled with, or of whom one should make an enemy. More, he’s showing us a great honor by spending the holiday with us. I may selfishly wish you’d choose Cyril instead, but this could be an unparalleled match.”

She stood from her perch and stalked over to the window, hoping Papa wouldn’t see how her fingers dug into the arms she’d crossed. He said it like she would have an actual choice to make, like either of those men would want her. As if the fact that they both preferred Pearl didn’t speak so very eloquently about them.

Mariah and Pearl had been together at finishing school, and Pearl was ... monstrous was the only word Mariah could think of. A spoiled brat of a girl, so enamored with her own beauty and position that she thought the rest of the world ought to bow to her and do her bidding.

And the idiot men of London had certainly agreed. She’d debuted to huge success last Season, and it wasn’t jealousy that set Mariah’s teeth on edge. It was that she knew Pearl’s true colors, knew very well she’d gone into the Season planning to string along as many men as possible before choosing the best match. Knew that she kept many of those beaux on her string to spite the other young ladies rather than from any genuine interest.

She puffed her breath out through her nose and failed at fighting off a wave of despair.

Papa came up beside her, no doubt more words about the virtues of Lord Gyldenkrone ready on his tongue, but Cyril unwittingly rescued her from the impending lecture as his carriage rolled up the drive. Her heart squeezed at the sight, and she didn’t know if it was dread or some dormant hope struggling to life. “There he is.”

Papa drew in a long, fortifying breath and squared his shoulders. “Quite right. Well, then. Shall we welcome him properly home?”

Mariah tucked her hand into Papa’s elbow and hurried with him down the stairs to the front entrance of the house. Had the weather been milder, they would have gathered the whole family and upper staff outside to welcome him properly, but given the bitter cold, no one—Cyril included—would appreciate that. So instead, the plan was to stage the welcome in the main hall, just inside the doors, with the impressive staircases curving up behind them on either side.

She knew well that a footman had been assigned the task of lookout, and the alert rang through the halls as they walked—bells and shouts ringing. She couldn’t help but think it sounded appropriate to the season in general, which brought a smile back to her lips.

They were still awaiting the last loads of greenery, but even without it, the house looked beautiful, decked out in its Christmas finery. Her heart thrilled a little more with each decoration they passed and each smile she caught on the faces of the maids still at work.

Mama and Louise were hurrying down the opposite staircase as Mariah and Papa descended theirs. Fred had likely been in the billiards room, given that he was emerging from the west corridor, looking annoyed by the interruption. On the one hand, she couldn’t blame him—Cyril wasn’t the heir to his home, after all, and Fred had been so busy learning the Lyons estate in recent years that he’d been rather desperate for this holiday with his family. He’d not been happy to learn that they’d have other guests too. On the other hand, if her brother didn’t choose to smile now and then, those frown lines would take him over altogether. He was well on his way to becoming a veritable Scrooge.

Mariah took her place in the line of family—Papa, Mama, Louise, Fred, and then finally her at the far left—and cast a smile over her shoulder at the row of staff. The housekeeper and butler, Mr. and Mrs. Dunover, Mrs. Trutchen, the three ladies’ maids and two valets, and the row of polished footmen. They each returned her smile, the cook tossing in a dimpled wink and holding out a little bag toward her.

After making certain her parents were paying her no heed, she reached back for the ribbon-tied sack, able to tell from its shape what it contained. Mrs. Trutchen always brought Mariah the first finished sugar plums if Mariah wasn’t in the kitchen when they came out of the oven. The sugar plums were still a bit warm, and her mouth watered at the very thought of them. She held the bag up to inhale deeply of the fragrance wafting from it and smiled anew. The smell was surely reminiscent of heaven itself.

But she didn’t untie it and select one to eat here and now, much as she wanted to. She could only imagine the frown Mama would send her way if she greeted Papa’s heir with a mouthful of sticky confection.

She could hear the creak and jingle of the carriage drawing near and then halting. The doorman watched the progress of their guest from his chair at the side window, and he sprang into action as Cyril neared, throwing both doors wide in a gesture of welcome reserved only for the most important guests.

And better suited to summer. Icy wind blew into the hall, making them all shiver and earning surprised gasps from the ladies too. A few snow flurries danced their way inside, creating a whirl in the center of which came Cyril Lightbourne, who had bounded up the marble steps in order to enter more quickly.

As the doors were closed again behind him, Cyril came to a halt in the center of their little half circle. His attention went exactly where it should—to Papa. Which left Mariah free to catalogue his every changed feature.

He was taller. As tall as Fred, putting him at least a half foot above Mariah. He wore a dark grey suit that fit him well but was clearly not as expensive as either Papa’s or Fred’s. It was covered with an inverness cape coat, which she’d always thought rather dashing, if for no other reason than it made quite a flair when one took it off, as Cyril did now, along with his hat, when the doorman stepped forward to receive them.

But what made that long-cinched knot of dread loosen inside her was his face. He looked like Cyril. The boy she remembered, just a bit more chiseled, the round cheeks of youth slimmed down. Handsome not only because of his features but because of the light in his eyes, the genuineness of his smile.

Not the sort of Adonis that Pearl favored, honestly. Not normally. Did that mean that the attraction was something more genuine? That love had made the shallow beauty see something deeper? Had Cyril somehow drawn depth from Pearl that Mariah had never seen?

Papa stepped forward, and perhaps he saw the same goodness in Cyril’s eyes, because his own smile of greeting didn’t look forced. He shook Cyril’s hand with his right, clapped his left to the younger man’s shoulder. “Welcome ... welcome.”

Welcome home was what he’d planned to say, and the missing word made Mariah’s brow crease for a moment. Apparently Papa still needed a bit of warming-up time. But Cyril must not have heard the lack. He shook her papa’s hand, nodded, and neither his smile nor his eyes dimmed. “Thank you, my lord. I’m ... glad to be here.”

She suspected something was missing or edited in his words too. Before she could guess at what it was, he’d turned to Mama. “Lady Castleton, you’ve grown more lovely since I saw you last.”

Mama chuckled, dismissive even though it was true, and took his hands in hers. She then leaned over and up to kiss his cheek. “Welcome back to Plumford Manor, Cyril. We’re so glad you’ve come.”

Louise greeted him next, with a hand extended for its obligatory kiss, murmuring the expected words with the expected smile and very little feeling. Fred shook his hand with a rather short “How do you do?” that was answered and returned. Those two, it seemed, were no more inclined to be friends now than they’d been as children.

And then he was in front of her, and Mariah couldn’t for the life of her remember what Mama had instructed her to say. She could only think, Yes. This is Cyril . The boy who had helped turn the plum orchards, the little lake, the wood into a fairyland with her. The boy who had laughed and dreamed with her. He was still there, shining in the eyes of this man. A friend, waiting to become reacquainted.

She held out the bag of confections and let her relief spill into her smile. “Welcome to Sugar Plum Manor, Cyril.”

Would he remember the name they’d given the estate in their play? The quick flash of his smile said he did, and he laughed in delight as he opened the bag and drew out one of the freshly baked treats. They’d been his favorite, too, and he inhaled their scent with pure bliss on his face. “You remembered.” He sounded amazed by the fact.

As if forgetting had been possible. “I still have the story we wrote together.” That hadn’t been part of her script either, but so long as she didn’t glance over at Mama, she couldn’t be chided for it. “I actually helped the village children turn it into a Christmas play. You’ve missed the performance by a few days, but they did a marvelous job with it.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake.” Fred turned to them, his scowl deeper than ever. “He doesn’t care about some stupid story you wrote when you were seven, Ri, nor about the ridiculous school play the children put on. Just leave the man alone, will you?”

Once upon a time, Fred had indulged her fancies, played her games with her. But she found those times harder and harder to remember when he behaved like this. Yet the change, the harsh tones, never failed to sting. Much like it had stung when he’d not only failed to come on a train early enough to see that “ridiculous play” she’d worked so hard on, but had arrived during the performance, so that her parents missed it too as they went to fetch him.

Cyril’s eyes flashed with temper, and his chin lifted a notch. “On the contrary, Lord Lyons. I can think of nothing more entertaining than revisiting the story your sister and I composed together.” He flashed a grin. “I daresay it holds up quite well against the literature I’ve been studying, geniuses that we were.”

Ah yes. Still Cyril. The only one even close to her age who had ever defended her to Fred or Louise. At age seven, she would have punctuated Cyril’s defense by sticking out her tongue at Fred. A sore temptation even now, but she refrained—and accepted the sugar plum Cyril handed her before he took another for himself and took a bite.

She did too, her heart pattering happily as the taste exploded on her well-behaved tongue and her brother rolled his eyes and turned away.

Papa and Mama had both turned toward them, Mama’s eyes spitting warnings and reprimands at Fred and Papa looking from Cyril to Mariah with so many thoughts playing across his face that she couldn’t keep up.

He smiled, though, and held out an arm toward the drawing room. “Won’t you join us for some more substantial refreshments while your things are unpacked? We would love to hear the updates that never fit in a letter before Gyldenkrone arrives tomorrow.”

Cyril had been turning to follow Papa’s indicative arm, but at the greve’s name, he froze, something that looked strangely like apprehension in his eyes. “Gyldenkrone, did you say? Which one, if I may ask?”

Papa’s brows rose. “The elder brother—the greve. You are familiar with him?”

“Somewhat, yes. More so with his brother, Emil.” His eye twitched as he said it, and Mariah frowned. Was that a bruise faintly lining the skin beneath his eye? Or perhaps merely shadows of exhaustion from his travels?

“Ah. Well, I have no doubt the two of you will get on famously. But we shall cherish the day with only you before he arrives—and then, after the holidays, we shall settle into a true routine.” He paused, his face going earnest. “We want Plumford to be your home, Cyril. Your true home.”

There. Mariah smiled, proud of him for saying it—and for meaning it.

Cyril measured him for a long moment, as if gauging his sincerity. Then, at last, he nodded. “That is my hope too.”