Chapter 6

6

Mariah’s carefree morning came crashing down around her the moment she rounded the house on Cyril’s arm and saw the greve standing there. The last thirty-six hours had been simple and carefree, her parents’ expectations happily shoved aside in the light of her truce with Cyril. With that understanding between them, they’d been free to reminisce and laugh and get caught up on the years since they’d fallen out of touch. Last night, she, Cyril, and Papa had stayed up long into the night, roasting chestnuts and talking about absolutely everything, and she’d awakened this morning grateful for how easy it was to simply be Cyril’s friend again.

But there was nothing easy or simple or carefree about Lord Gyldenkrone. He was exactly as she remembered him—tall, chiseled, golden, and so very handsome. He looked like some modernized representation of a Nordic god—both in good looks and in that stoic demeanor carved from ice. It wasn’t that he ever came across as cruel or hard in that sense. Just ... controlled. Calculating. That was the impression she’d always gotten from him. That his every move, his every word, his every thought was a careful calculation—and that he was just as carefully scrutinizing every motion of every person around him.

As romantic a picture as he struck, and as compelling a story as he told, and as much as the unmarried women in London had been abuzz about him, he was quite intimidating. The two times he’d come to call in Town, Mariah’s hands had shaken the entire time. Her mind, on the other hand, had whirred. He looked as though he ought to be wearing some Viking outfit. A cloak made of wolf pelt. Carrying a broadsword.

Instead, he wore an expensive, perfectly tailored suit of clothes, and today it was topped with a heavy woolen overcoat and stylish fedora.

She half expected it to sprout Viking horns at any moment.

His all-seeing gaze homed in on them in half an instant, and she felt the weight of it like a block of ice, sending a shiver down her spine. The smile he offered looked at once like it always did—chilly perfection—and yet somehow not. It was undoubtedly only her overactive imagination that made images of white arctic wolves spring to mind.

Probably.

She ought to say something, but the only thing she could think of was an apology, and she wasn’t even sure what it was for. Being out here when he arrived and hence ruining the careful welcome they’d have ready indoors? For being found lacking with the first sweep of his gaze? For suddenly wishing he’d opted to spend Christmas with some other family of some other eligible young lady?

Not that she wasn’t flattered—and not that she was opposed to getting to know him—but that singular gaze of his reminded her in a heartbeat that if Gyldenkrone was here, there would be nothing simple and easy about the holiday. It wouldn’t be all carefree joy and reminiscence of childhood.

It would be one prolonged interview in which she was certain to come up lacking a dozen times over.

Before she could form her lips around any words, he spoke, even as the massive front doors—both again!—swung open. “Ah, Lady Mariah. I cannot express how glad I am to be welcomed among your esteemed family this holiday season. You are, as ever, looking lovely.”

Her cheeks were no doubt already pink from the cold, but now they flushed with heat. “Welcome, my lord,” she finally managed to squeak out, though she sounded like little more than a mouse. As she always did in a crowded ballroom, keenly aware that none of the masses swarming her cared a whit what she thought. That they’d laugh—or frown, like Lord Gyldenkrone had done—if she dared to answer any questions honestly.

“What did you think of the regatta this morning?”

“Oh, I pretended they were invading Vikings and we were the first Britons to spot them, not sure if they were friend or foe.”

Frown.

“You attended the musicale last evening, did you not? Wasn’t the baritone divine?”

“Indeed! As he sang, I couldn’t dislodge the images from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream from my mind and was trying to cast the attendees in the roles. Who do you think should be Titania?”

Frown.

That last one she’d thought for sure would be acceptable. Shakespeare! Who could take issue with Shakespeare?

Gyldenkrone, apparently.

Papa rushed down the steps, his eyes shouting all sorts of warnings at her that only made her heart sink lower, barely covered up by the smile he beamed at their new guest. “Ah, my lord! How do you do? So glad to have you with us.”

In one fluid motion, Gyldenkrone looked to Papa and held out a hand, transferring his silver-headed walking stick to his left hand for the exchange. “Very well, thank you. And I trust you are too? Your lovely stepdaughter certainly looks to be the picture of perfect health.” He glanced her way again, those ice-blue eyes as compelling and, she was sure, as dangerous as a fjord.

Fjords were dangerous, right? When covered in ice?

She should have brushed up on her Scandinavian knowledge before their guest arrived.

“Yes, quite,” Papa was saying, clearly not afraid of plunging through the ice into some treacherous fjord. “Have you been introduced to Mr. Lightbourne?”

“Yes.” One word. One syllable. A world of meaning so intricately layered that Mariah hadn’t a hope of sorting them all.

She frowned. Because what came through loud and clear was that Gyldenkrone didn’t much like Cyril. And from the way Cyril had gone stiff as a stone, the feeling was mutual.

“Indeed,” Cyril replied. “At the Kingelands.’”

Mariah felt her own muscles turn to stone too. It had been easy to let herself forget about Lady Pearl. What part could she play, after all, in the world of recollection Mariah had been living in for the past thirty-six hours? Pearl hadn’t been there as Mariah and Cyril laughed their way through their old adventure story, nor had she huddled around the roaring hearth with them and Papa later. She hadn’t been a part of the wandering, wonderful conversation last night, nor at the breakfast table with them this morning. She certainly hadn’t been present as Cyril again offered Mariah his arm and led her back into what they’d long ago dubbed Christmas Wood, in search of the ancient, gnarled tree they’d forgotten to look for yesterday.

But it seemed that with Gyldenkrone’s arrival, Lady Pearl had invaded too.

Papa sent her a look she couldn’t quite decipher. Concerned? Chiding? Silently telling her to pull herself together and put a little effort into freeing one or another of these men from Pearl’s talons?

She sighed. One couldn’t call her and Pearl rivals . That implied there was competition. There had never been any. Pearl had beaten her out at absolutely everything at school without as much as a glance her way; Pearl had gathered the other young ladies as friends, leaving but a few sprinkled outcasts to wander about alone, like Mariah had done. And Pearl had then debuted to such great success that it had left no one to even notice the likes of her.

Now, somehow, she had even invaded Mariah’s Christmas, thanks to these two men vying for Pearl’s favor. Never mind that they were both here . That wasn’t because of Mariah, not really. It was because of Papa. If it weren’t for him, neither of these gents would have ever spared her a word or a glance.

Papa turned his smile back to the Dane. “Then we can skip the introductions—excellent. You must be worn from your travel, my lord. Please, won’t you come inside? We have tea ready, and our best suite prepared for you in the bachelor wing.”

“The trip was quite comfortable, actually. Though I will be delighted to partake of your hospitality. As long as Lady Mariah will be joining us?”

He turned his lips up into a perfect, handsome smile. Perfect, handsome, but still it felt as warm as an arctic wind. Was it because of whatever rivalry he had with Cyril? His lack of feeling toward her? Or was she being unfair? Perhaps it was simply his way, and it was her imagination that had her ascribing such chill-wracked words to it.

Regardless, she couldn’t let either of these guests deter her from the real task today. “I’ll be in directly, my lord. I must check on Professor Skylark first.” Upon this, she gave Papa her sweetest smile. “He sent me a note this morning, asking me to come by his workshop before luncheon.”

Papa narrowed his eyes a bit, but he had too much respect for his old tutor to ever contradict his requests. “Of course. But don’t dally, sweetling. You don’t want to keep Lord Gyldenkrone waiting overlong for your company.”

Gyldenkrone sent another handsome, frosty smile her way. “No need to rush, my lady. It is my goal that we shall enjoy ... endless opportunity to become better acquainted. And frankly, Lord Castleton, I would request a private meeting with you first.”

His implications were clear, as sharp and pointed as his gaze. Mariah found herself fighting to work breath into her lungs.

He couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t mean to ask Papa here and now for permission to court her—or more. He couldn’t mean that he intended to spend the rest of his life with her. It made no sense. He didn’t even like her! He’d wanted Lady Pearl, not Mariah, like everyone else. And yet his gaze lingered now on her , those clear-as-ice words hanging there in the air between them.

Then crisp air filled her lungs and clarity her mind. He’d come to England to find a bride whose family was close to King Edward. And she boasted two such families. She had both the dowry left to her by her late father and a too-generous promised addition from Papa. She had both a brother already a viscount and a stepfather who was an earl. She knew well those connections were all he cared about. She didn’t know why he’d struck Pearl from his list, but he was obviously making his decisions based on things other than affection.

She had no reason to feel such a pang over it. No reason to feel the Christmas joy seep out of her heart as she realized that the motivation of these two bachelors were both naught but convenience and political decisions.

That’s what she would be. A sound choice. A reasonable decision. Perhaps even someone to be settled for when the more alluring option fell through.

Mariah’s shoulders sagged.

At the Dane’s words, Papa beamed like the summer sun and held out an arm in invitation. “I’ll let the rest of the family welcome you first—and I don’t believe you’ve met Mariah’s elder sister yet—but then you and I shall adjourn to my study.”

Mariah mustered up a smile for them and put cheer—false, but necessary—back into place.

Cyril led her around the carriage now pulling round to the back where the greve’s trunks and bags would be unloaded, and then off into the southern garden, since that was where they’d been aiming before. He’d yet to actually see the outbuilding assigned to Professor Skylark as his workshop to know where to lead her specifically, but she took over once they were on the garden path.

Cyril frowned the moment their feet touched the paving stones. “Please tell me you don’t mean to entertain his suit.”

“I’d never honestly considered he meant to bring one. But why do you say that?” She sent a glance over her shoulder, a bit of her usual spirit creeping back in. “He isn’t really going to shift into an arctic wolf and devour us all, nor break out his Viking weapons, I daresay.”

Cyril laughed, but it didn’t last long. “He’s far too measured to allow his inner wolf to show itself in society. You only need to fear if he lures you out in the wilds.”

She breathed a laugh too. “But the serious question?”

He sighed. “He isn’t good enough for you, that’s all. Not noble enough of spirit. He certainly doesn’t deserve to figure as the hero in your story.”

Her brows felt as though they were trying to leap straight off her forehead. “Are you quite serious? He’s...” She waved a hand back toward the house, searching for the right words. “Well, cold, obviously. But in that way that puts nobility and uprightness above all. You can fault his lack of affection, but I don’t know how you would dare to fault his nobility.”

Rather than answer, Cyril clenched his teeth.

Ah. This wasn’t really about Gyldenkrone’s nature, and it certainly wasn’t about Mariah. It was about Pearl. She attempted to twist it into a tease, even if the words felt flat on her tongue. “I do believe you’re just sore because he’s a rival for Lady Pearl’s affections.”

“Affections?” Something strange traveled over his face, then vanished again. “I don’t think affection is what she felt for Gyldenkrone. Ambition ... yes. He sorely tempted her ambitions. Honestly, I thought she was his choice and he hers—no offense intended toward you.”

She just barely held back another sigh. Drew out another practiced smile, like Mama had taught her do. “The Kingelands are a prominent family, and she’s far more beautiful than I am. If those qualities are what he desires, then I admit I’m confused as to why he’s even here.” Unless . . . She darted a look at Cyril.

Unless Pearl had told him that she’d made her choice for Cyril. Unless “practically engaged” was soon to become “actually engaged.” Unless Gyldenkrone had been convinced enough that he called a retreat and resorted to the runner-up on his list of bridal candidates.

Cyril was glancing over his shoulder, his look contemplative, rather than at her face, which no doubt revealed more than she’d want it to. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Ri. Though even so, I admit to sharing your confusion. When I left London, I was all but certain they’d be engaged before I could return.”

He was clearly better than she was at masking his disappointment. He said it evenly, cooly—no doubt a result of too much practice making certain his heart wasn’t pinned to his sleeve when in the company of Pearl’s plethora of suitors.

She lifted her chin, trying to remember Mama’s lessons in how to achieve that very thing herself. One would think she’d be an old hand at it by now, having always come in second or third—or tenth. “Well, you ought to be thanking us both then, I suppose. If he decides on me, that removes one of your prime rivals for Lady Pearl’s hand.”

Cyril sent her a look she couldn’t quite decipher, and she hadn’t much time to try to do so anyway. In the next moment, a loud crash sounded from up ahead, in the professor’s workshop. Eyes wide, she abandoned Cyril’s arm altogether so she could lift her skirts and dash toward the building.

“Professor?” she called as she neared the door. She wrenched it open, her eyes flying over the crammed space. “Are you all right?”

“Quite, quite.” His voice, however, came from under a mound of cardpaper boxes that were spilling little wooden toys onto the floor. “Just a small avalanche. No damage done but to the order.”

Order was a bit of an exaggeration on a good day, and an utter misnomer in the days leading up to Christmas. She waded through some of the detritus so she could move enough of the boxes to reveal his face.

He was grinning, which meant he couldn’t be injured. But his wig was askew, his spectacles dangling from one ear, and he was on his rear end on the floor. She frowned even as she held out her hand. “You fell.”

“Nonsense. I merely sat ... in an unplanned fashion. And wheeled my arms, which is what caused the avalanche.” Back on his feet, though knee-high in boxes, he looked about him, patting his pockets. “Now where have my spectacles got to?”

She reached over, gently unhooking them from his ear and handing them back to him so he could position them correctly on his prominent nose.

He beamed, and it only grew when he looked beyond her. “Ah! This must be Mr. Lightbourne! How do you do, good sir, how do you do?”

They exchanged pleasantries, brief due to the obvious awe on Cyril’s face as he took in the workshop. “Forgive me,” he said after the niceties were through, “but this looks quite intriguing.”

Professor Skylark smiled wide and waded out of the fallen boxes. “Doesn’t it just? Toys, nearly all of it. There is nothing in the world like bringing a child joy, you know.”

Mariah bent down, pulled one of the wooden figures from where it had fallen from its box, and handed it to Cyril with a small smile that felt self-conscious on her lips.

His eyes lit. “It’s a nutcracker!”

“Modeled on Lady Mariah’s most prized possession,” the professor said, obviously not realizing who had given it to her. She knew, though, and so did Cyril, which meant that heat stung her cheeks again. “A miniature but fully functional model, appropriate only for the smallest of nuts. But the village children adore them. We create a new variation each year—proud hussars for the little lads and noble ladies for the lasses.”

He stooped and pulled out a female version of the toy. This one had a long dress instead of legs, but the same short cape that acted as the lever controlling her jaw. This year, both hussars and ladies were dressed in royal purple, gold paint bringing light and life to each tiny decoration on their clothes—buttons and trim and intricate designs.

Cyril took the female one too, his face awash with awe as he moved their fully articulated limbs and bent them at the waist and back up. “And you’ve made these? By hand?”

“Well of course! What else would an old, tired tutor do with his time?” Professor Skylark smiled happily and motioned to his workbench, which took up a large portion of the room. “I spend all year on them, and on the grand display for the Christmas Eve Ball. Which is what I requested your help with, my dear Lady Mariah.”

She followed his motioning hand into the back corner of the workshop—the only part even a little bit tidy. Her eager glance was soon disappointed, though. Though bits and pieces of mechanisms sat out, she had no idea what they would be put together into. “Still being mysterious, I see. Not even a hint for your favorite pupil, Professor?”

Professor Skylark chuckled and darted here and there, pulling bits and baubles from his vast array of shelves. “And miss the delight on your face when we unveil it in the house this evening? Never! But I do require your opinion.” He held out two small figures, both made of a combination of wood, metal, and cloth. Both made with the same detail and attention he always gave his creations. Both depictions of men.

They both boasted brown hair in varying shades, with the true difference marked by the colors of their clothing. One wore pale crystal blue, the other a deep purple.

He danced them both back and forth, one in either hand. “One must be the hero of my little visual story, the other the villain. Which should be which, do you think?”

She smiled, looking from one to the other. Both were handsome miniatures, and both had faces painted without much expression, so that the children could imagine whatever they wanted upon it. But the purple matched the other nutcracker dolls, so she tapped it. “Hero.”

The professor made a show of studying her for a moment, in the way that she imagined he’d done when giving Papa an oral quiz. “Quite certain? Once I attach them to their tracks, it will be difficult to change.”

“No question in my mind.”

“So be it.” His favorite enigmatic smile making happy wrinkles in his cheeks, Professor Skylark turned to put the figures back in their cubbies. “Now then. I don’t suppose you could spare a few more moments to, ah...?” He motioned toward the mess by the door.

Mariah laughed and turned that way again. “I would be delighted to assist, Professor.”

“I could get lost in here all day, I think.” Cyril dragged his gaze back from the cuckoo clock he’d been studying, its innards in pieces on the bench, and moved to the tumble of boxes too.

It would take an hour, at least, to put the toys back inside their containers. And maybe, if she smiled just so, the professor would let her help tie the boxes with ribbon, rather than insisting she get back to whatever duties awaited her inside. An hour, maybe two or three, before she would go back into the house and learn what the greve had said to her father.

Call her a coward, but she would take the reprieve.