Chapter 4

4

Somehow Cyril had forgotten that Plumford Manor—or Sugar Plum Manor, as he and Mariah had dubbed it twelve years ago as they feasted on their favorite candy—was even more charming than the Christmas-card–worthy village of Castleton. Over the years, those overheard words of the earl echoing always in his heart, he’d told himself it was a dreary, drafty place. Dark and brooding. Foreboding. Unwelcoming. Like a haunted house in one of the Gothic novels he’d read too many of as an adolescent.

That story had been a lie, and he realized it the moment he stepped inside. It wasn’t the twinkling electric lights—his own mother’s home didn’t have those yet—or the festive decorations everywhere he looked. It was the brilliant smiles on the faces of the staff, the genuine excitement in their eyes at his arrival, the care with which each piece of furniture in each room was tended.

He’d visited a few other manor houses over the years, as he holidayed with school chums or toured points of interest. He knew it was, in fact, easy for them to be nothing but shells of their former glory, or to feel more dungeon than castle.

Not Plumford, though. Its every crackling hearth and cinnamon-scented room sang out that this house, for all its imposing beauty, was a home. And as the lord and lady led the way into the drawing room, he remembered quite suddenly how on the day they’d first welcomed him, he’d been struck by longing for it to be his home.

It struck him again now, despite himself. Not a coveting of the things—just a desire to belong. Something that he’d never quite found anywhere else.

He turned to the Lyons siblings, knowing he ought to offer his arm to Louise, as the elder lady, but wishing he could pretend he didn’t know that. If one were only to compare their features, she was the more beautiful of the sisters—but her eyes were cool and distant, her rigid posture shouting that she wanted to escape the company as quickly as she could. He would have preferred to walk in with Mariah.

He’d missed her. He hadn’t realized it, not really. It had been too easy to convince himself that the person he’d missed wasn’t there anymore, that she’d grown into ... well, into Louise. But the young woman who’d greeted him hadn’t been cool and composed. She’d been Mariah , the one he’d counted as such a good friend for so long. He didn’t know why the tone of her letters had changed in the last four years, but clearly some of the old Mariah still lurked inside her, if only trotted out for Christmas.

He bit back a sigh and offered his arm to Louise, who rested her hand on his forearm so lightly that it hovered more than it touched. That made him have to bite back a grin along with the sigh. She couldn’t have made her opinion of him any clearer had she actually deigned to speak instead of keeping her face directed toward her mother’s back.

Fred, he noted, didn’t escort his younger sister in. He merely strode ahead, found a chair, and slouched into it. No, he didn’t slouch. His posture remained perfect. Yet he somehow put off the air of his discontent without his shoulders following his attitude’s lead. Remarkable, really. Cyril would have to study him a bit to sort out how he managed it.

Louise reclaimed her hand and moved to the settee closest to the fire, giving him a polite imitation of a smile as she abandoned him. Mariah slipped in behind them and took the same chair she’d favored as a child. He moved to the one beside hers—the one he’d claimed as his own before—with the polished mahogany end table between them.

As he sat and the countess rang for tea, he let their impending guest’s name strike him again. Gyldenkrone . Not Emil—but even so. Was it coincidence that one of the Danish brothers was coming here? That band of pressure around his chest warned him that it wasn’t, though it seemed a bit self-centered to think that the greve would be following him to Castleton. Why should he? His fight had been with Emil, not S?ren.

They were a tight-knit pair. Different as night and day, but family honor and reputation was the byword of them both. Maybe S?ren was looking for satisfaction?

Blast. He hoped not. The last thing he wanted was to bring any unpleasantness here for Christmas. So as casually as he could, he smiled and asked, “So Lord Gyldenkrone—I wasn’t aware that he was a friend of yours?”

Castleton chuckled and glanced at Mariah. “Not exactly. We were introduced in London last summer. I offered to show him about the Peak District anytime he wanted to visit. He just accepted the offer—no doubt wanting to escape London for the holiday. And wanting, too, he said, the chance to get to know our Mariah better.”

That band around his chest went even tighter. Mariah and Gyldenkrone? He knew that sometimes opposites attracted, but Gyldenkrone ? He’d just stood by while his brother insulted the last lady he claimed to be courting. What sort of man did that?

Not one with any nobility in his spirit, that was certain. Not one with a bit of warmth in his heart. Gyldenkrone might be a favorite of the Danish king, but he was little better than a villain to Cyril’s way of thinking. He’d had the perfect opportunity to prove himself a hero and had just stood by, letting Emil defame Lady Pearl.

That sort of chap didn’t deserve a young lady as sweet as Cyril’s old friend.

Realizing that the earl still awaited some reply from him, Cyril smiled. “Well, I certainly can’t blame him for that. I’m rather looking forward to getting to know her again myself.” Turning back to Mariah, he let his smile turn to a grin. “Tell me, my lady—how is our nutcracker doing?”

When he’d come last time, his mother had sent him with small gifts for each member of the family, though the ones for the children hadn’t been assigned per se, as much as given to him as a collection to be dispensed at will. He’d assumed that Fred would be the one who’d appreciate the military uniform of the wooden nutcracker figure, but he’d sneered at it and opted for the box of toffee. Louise had claimed the doll Mother had made with the younger sister in mind, leaving Mariah with the nutcracker.

She’d claimed to love it, called it the most handsome thing she’d ever seen, and had carried it about with her on their adventures. And up until that shift four years ago, she’d even added a postscript to her every letter of “Nutcracker sends his greetings.”

Fred snorted. He, of course, had made endless fun of her for her preference. “It’s still sitting on her mantel year-round—the ugly thing.”

Sentimental of her—and unexpected. He’d have thought she’d rid her room of her childhood things by now, much as she’d rid her correspondence of them.

The tea cart was wheeled in, and conversation turned toward whether he still favored this or that confection, how he now took his tea, and didn’t he just love this pattern of Wedgwood? It was one of the first sets the famed potter had fired and was how Queen Charlotte had been introduced to him, though that story was never told outside their own house....

The talk was pleasant, amiable—aside from a few comments from Fred that Cyril had no difficulty in ignoring. He had to admit that the unwelcome he feared seeing in Lord Castleton’s eyes was but a dim, unwilling flicker, if there at all. Maybe Kellie was right. Maybe their problems could be resolved simply by becoming familiar.

Eventually, the ladies excused themselves—or rather, Lady Castleton did and insisted her daughters join her. Fred declared himself bound for the billiards room again and invited Cyril to join him at some point “when he was ready for normal male entertainments,” and he was left alone with the earl.

Cyril’s every muscle went taut, but after a long moment of unabashed studying of him, Castleton smiled. Not the bright, welcoming smile of a host for a guest. A small, genuine smile that he surely didn’t bandy about so freely. “Cyril,” he said slowly.

Cyril slid his now-empty plate onto the side table. “My lord?”

The earl tapped a finger against the arm of the settee. “May I ask you a question?”

The cake he’d eaten settled like a stone. “Of course you may.”

“Why have you not returned until now?”

He should have expected the question. Had expected it. And yet had let himself hope that they could sweep the last twelve years under the rug and ignore them. Suddenly wishing there was more tea in his cup, he cleared his throat. “May I be frank, my lord?”

If they were going to do this—make themselves family, make this Cyril’s true home—then he couldn’t let that old bitterness fester any longer. He had to come clean.

Castleton nodded, interest sparking in his blue eyes.

Cyril sighed. “My last day here, before I was scheduled to leave, I went to find you. To thank you for your hospitality and assure you I would do all in my power to make you proud. Only, when I approached your study, you were there with your wife, and ... well, I eavesdropped.”

Rather than chide him for the old sin, the earl went still, then sighed. “I don’t recall the conversation. But I can guess at it.”

Cyril nodded, but it turned into a sagging of his chin to his chest. “You said something about how you couldn’t bear your legacy going to a stranger. I took that to mean that you couldn’t bear the thought of me at all—that you resented my very existence.”

“Resented it?” Castleton straightened. “If it weren’t for your existence, my title would go extinct when I die, and if I couldn’t break the entail, everything I have would revert to the Crown. You couldn’t think I’d want that.”

Cyril dared a glance up. “Put like that, of course not. And yet I knew I wasn’t your choice.”

The earl raked a hand through his steel-grey hair. “I must beg your forgiveness, Cyril. You’re right. I searched for my heir because I had to, but I resented needing to turn to a stranger. Even so, I never meant for you to hear such a sentiment. I wanted to bring you into our family then. To get to know you. To ... to make you my son.” His gaze darted to the doorway. “Something Fred certainly never wanted to be. In his eyes, I never compared to his father.”

Cyril’s throat went tight. He forced a smile to his lips, though it felt crooked. “Well, my lord, I can assure you that you outshine mine—even with my misinterpretation of your opinion of me.”

Castleton’s eyes clouded over with a frown. “The investigator’s report included a bit of your father’s ... history. Some of your old neighbors had brought some not-so-small charges against him before he died.”

“Which you quieted.” Or so Mother had told him, eventually.

It must have sounded as much like an accusation to the earl’s ears as it did to his own. “Not for his sake, my boy. For yours. That kind of stain follows a family for generations. Had he been alive still, then perhaps there would have been value in justice. But he was already gone, so why should you be haunted forever by being identified as the son of a criminal?”

Because he hadn’t just been a thief or a forger. He’d hurt people. And as one of them who’d borne his bruises, Cyril had hoped he’d be condemned for it, even if posthumously.

He could see the earl’s point, though. Now. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I don’t know if I was or not. I know your mother accused me of paying off the witnesses, but it wasn’t that—not to my eyes, at least. I compensated the victims as best I could. I paid for their medical expenses and restored the property he’d destroyed. It was the most I could do to try to rectify the damage he’d done.” His cheeks flushed. “I admit I was embarrassed that anyone bearing the name of Lightbourne should have behaved so abominably. That is not what our family stands for.”

Remembering the joviality and health of everyone he’d seen in the village, Cyril nodded. “I owe you an apology, too, it seems, my lord. I didn’t understand any of your actions when I was a child. But I clung to my childish thoughts instead of seeking the truth as I grew up. That was wrong of me. I let my own fears and insecurities keep me from returning to Plumford. I see now...” He had to pause, swallow. “I see now that I’ve missed the chance to forge a relationship with you and your family. And I’m sorry for that.”

“Well.” The earl blinked a few rapid times and gave him another earnest little smile. “Happily, the future lies before us, and we needn’t let those past mistakes shackle us. We can start anew, eh? Today.”

Shackle was the right word—because he felt them fall, felt his spirit rise as free as Paul set loose by the Spirit. “Yes. I would like nothing more.”

“Excellent.” Slapping his hands to his knees, the earl stood. “I won’t take more of your time now. I know after a day’s travel you’ll be eager to tidy up or even stretch your legs and get some exercise. But I want you to know that from this day onward, I want you to view Plumford Manor as your own. Your home. Catalogue any changes you would want to make, poke into any crevice, ask any question you have. And—” A knowing gleam entered the earl’s eyes. “Feel free to invite any guests you desire. I hear there’s a certain young lady who may be interested in a tour of your inheritance? Eh?”

Cyril felt his neck go hot. “I beg your pardon?”

Obviously interpreting his flush as embarrassment over his affections being known rather than over them being squashed by a lady who would most assuredly not be coming for a visit, the earl chuckled. “No need to play the innocent, my boy. The gossip columns have been abuzz with whether or not the newcomer, Mr. L, heir to Lord C, will soon be engaged to Lady P, daughter of Lord K. It’s no secret who any of those letters are, you know.” Walking with him from the drawing room, Castleton gave him a friendly elbow to the ribs. “Quite the coup, I hear. Lady Pearl was the belle of the Season.”

Cyril had deliberately arrived in London after the Season, but he’d heard the tales of the dozens of young aristocrats vying for her hand. “So I learned.”

“I know my wife is dying for the story of how the two of you met. Something about a rescue, wasn’t it?”

Cyril cleared his throat. “She was in a little boat with her friends, and somehow they managed to overturn it. The other young ladies swam to shore, but she can’t swim. I was walking by and saw her struggling and dove in.”

“Her hero.” The sparkle in the earl’s eyes made Cyril wonder if it was really the countess who had wanted the story. “Fit for a fairy tale, that meeting.”

He’d thought so. And he’d certainly been dazzled by her beauty and her gratitude. As he became acquainted with her reputation, he’d hoped that perhaps that vulnerable moment they’d shared had, in fact, given them a bond she’d not forged with any other. That she’d shown him the authentic part of herself she kept hidden from her other scores of admirers. He’d thought this was his story, the one in which he’d get to be someone worthy, the one in which he’d discover why the Lord had made him as He had, that it would be the first step toward a life worth living. Worth, someday, writing about.

More the fool, him.

He ought to correct the earl here and now. Tell him that Pearl had ended things. But that gloomy end hadn’t yet made the public rounds, and he was loath to invite it into his Christmas. So he offered a muted version of the truth. “Lady Pearl and I are nowhere near a betrothal, I promise you. She is, in fact, notoriously fickle with her attention. I would be surprised if she even remembers me come the new year.”

“Oh now, give yourself some credit!”

The sentiment—or rather, that the earl actually seemed to feel it—cheered him. Cyril smiled. “Regardless. For now, I’m quite content to concentrate on this family. You can’t know how much it means to me.”

The sparkle in Castleton’s eyes didn’t dim. He reached over and gripped Cyril’s shoulder. “I think you mean that only I could know how much it means to you. For it means just the same to me. Perhaps more.”

They’d exited the room and stood now in the great hall again.

“I’ll show you to your suite. Gyldenkrone will be in the bachelor wing, but as you are family and not a guest, you’ll have rooms in the main house with us. If that suits you?”

It was where he’d stayed as a child, but he hadn’t dared expect the same welcome now. “Of course, my lord.”

“Oh, enough of that. Call me Castleton—or Cass, as my friends do. Or some more familial diminutive? I realize I’m not actually an uncle, and so distant a cousin that even that sounds odd, but I wouldn’t mind either moniker.”

Cyril smiled. “I’ll think on it. Try a few out, perhaps. We’ll see what suits us both.” And wouldn’t Kellie rib him eternally when he heard how quickly Cyril’s fears had been dispelled? A ribbing he was happily saved from when Castleton hadn’t done more than point to his door on the upper floor before another opened at the opposite end of the hallway and Mariah stepped out, papers clutched in her hand.

He paused, glancing inside his open door but scarcely registering the pleasant blues and greens. Far more interesting was the shy, hesitant excitement in her step. He moved away from his room rather than into it. “Is that the story?”

Mariah held it up with a grin. “The very same. I have no doubt that our handwriting will horrify you, as it did me when I dug this out last month to turn it into a script for the children.”

He chuckled and glanced at her stepfather. “Thank you for showing me to my rooms, but I think, perhaps if the lady wouldn’t be opposed, we could take a promenade outside and remember our old adventures? And you can tell me about this play. I’m sorry to have missed it.”

The earl grinned. “There will be a warm fire awaiting your return. Mariah, sweetling, don’t forget your gloves this time, mm?”

A few minutes later, both clad in their outerwear, they slid out a side door into the dormant gardens. A few flurries were still falling, though not enough to add to the whisper of snowfall clinging to the grass. He found himself hoping more would come over the next few days so that they could bring out the sleigh—he had a lovely memory of a sleigh ride on his first visit.

They walked in silence for a few moments. Each step of it made him a little less certain of what he wanted to say. It had been easy enough inside, with her family, when he’d slipped back into the role he’d taken on twelve years ago—her defender. But now? Out here? Just the two of them?

She came to a sudden stop at the garden’s edge and spun to face him. Given the look on her face, he braced himself, though he wasn’t certain exactly what form her barrage would take.

“I want to get something clear here and now,” she said, standing straight as a peppermint stick. “I only mean to be your friend. I don’t have any foolish notions about—you know.” She fluttered a gloved hand. “Keeping the manor in the family by marrying you just because it’s convenient. But having a brain, as you do, you’ll have considered that we’ve considered it.”

He had. And he’d been conflicted, not knowing which Mariah they’d be trying to convince him to marry—the childhood friend or the stranger she’d become. But then when Pearl had suggested it, hinting that it was the only reason anyone would marry him ... well, that had made the whole suggestion seem wretched.

He granted Mariah’s point with a tilt of his head.

She went on. “I know—I know about Lady Pearl. And what’s more, I have no desire to marry for convenience. So let’s just dismiss that now, all right? I’m not setting my cap for you. I only want to be your friend.”

His lips twitched. Did she have any idea how sweet she looked with that embarrassed determination on her face? Probably not. “There isn’t much to know about Lady Pearl. But even so, your stance is noted.”

She whooshed out a breath. “Good. Friends, then?”

“Well, I don’t know. That rather depends, doesn’t it?”

Her pretty chestnut brows drew together. “On what?”

Hands clasped behind his back, he leaned a little closer. “On why the Mariah I thought I knew so well vanished these last several years.”

For a second, horror flashed in her eyes—chased by amusement. “The letters? Mama decided she had better oversee them once I turned fifteen.”

Never once had the thought crossed his mind before ... but it made sense, now that he realized that his old friend was still very much there within her grown-up form. He clucked his tongue. “And you didn’t sneak any real ones out?”

“I tried.” She laughed at whatever memory that brought up. “I had no idea of your direction. Mama or Papa always put them in the post. And apparently the postman needs more than ‘Cyril, probably at Oxford soon’ to deliver a letter.”

He laughed too, more ancient fears flying away. With exaggerated gallantry, he offered his arm. “Well, my lady, there is no postmaster necessary now. And a fairy world ahead. Tell me, is the Almond Gate still intact?”

Her smile would have rivaled the sun in August and certainly put its wintry face to shame. “Of course.” She held out the page, filled front and back with a tiny, sloppy scrawl in two different hands. “And Christmas Wood waits beyond it.”

He took the page, she took his arm, and they set off toward the copse of trees. “Christmas Wood, Orange Creek, and ... what did we call the lake?”

“Orgeat.” She closed her eyes, as if in delight at the thought of the almond syrup.

He could relate. “Orgeat. I haven’t had any decent orgeat in years.”

“You’ll have some now. And mincemeat pies and marzipan figures and gingerbread men—”

“And peppermint sticks and candied almonds and—”

“Sugar plums!” they pronounced together, exchanging smiles.

Cyril couldn’t decide, as they followed the path toward the wood, if he felt ten again ... or if perhaps, for the first time in his adult life, he simply felt how he should.

Hopeful.