Chapter Seven

For the next three weeks, Lillian worked feverishly at the Lisbon Theater. Her hours were consumed by rehearsals, costume fittings, and putting the finishing touches on the set. It was hard, albeit rewarding work. Work that left blisters on her heels and splinters in her palms as the play began to take its final shape. But as soon as the sun began its downward descent, all temporary discomforts were forgotten as she bid her fellow actors farewell and rushed out the front door where Abel’s carriage waited to whisk her away to his manor in Grosvenor Square.

There, she had dinner with him and his daughters. Having never given serious consideration to having children before, she wasn’t sure how well she would get along with Amelia and Anne… but to her pleasant surprise, she genuinely enjoyed their company. The girls were intelligent, witty, and quite creative. By their second dinner together, she had them reciting lines from Shakespeare. By the sixth, she’d taught them how to play hazard (which Abel, stodgy duke that he was, had put a stop to the next day after he found the twins gambling away their doll collection in the nursery).

After eating, they’d go into the drawing room and thread cranberries for the tree, or read A Christmas Carol written by a relatively new, unknown author by the name of Mr. Charles Dickens. The girls always listened with rapt attention when Lillian told them how the play was progressing, and they shrieked with delight when she gave them tickets for opening night.

“Can we go, Papa?” they’d asked in unison, leaping up and down. “Can we, can we?”

“We’ll see,” Abel had replied, watching Lillian as indecipherable emotion had flickered in his gaze. “We’ll see.”

When candles glowed in every window and the girls were fast asleep, their quiet snores echoing down the hall, Abel took Lillian up to his bedchamber… or a sofa in the library… or a blanket in the front of the parlor hearth… and they made love. Quickly. Slowly. In all manner of positions. Afterward, they’d stay up and talk for hours, or fall immediately to sleep. But no matter how late or early she stayed tucked against Abel’s chest with his arm heavy over her hip, Lillian made sure to be gone before sunrise, as the one thing they did not discuss was their future together.

She knew now that Abel had gone to the Yuletide Ball in search of a wife and a mother for his children. Just as he knew that she’d gone looking for a benefactor for the theater. How could two such separate needs possibly reconcile into one? She wasn’t oblivious. She realized that actresses rarely became duchesses. She also realized that if he gave money to the theater now that they were lovers, it would complicate something that she desperately wanted to remain uncomplicated.

The sad truth was that when the play finally opened on Christmas Eve, it would likely be the last and final production ever held in the Lisbon Theater. There was no more money to be had. Ticket sales were absolutely dismal. Unless a miracle occurred, they would shut their doors before the New Year and that would be that. Her dream would be over. But at least she’d still have Abel… maybe.

For the past two days, he’d been oddly distant. In the middle of dinner the night before, he’d abruptly stood up and gone to his study citing business but he had never divulged what the business was. As for her part, Lillian had begun to stay later and later at the theater as opening night loomed. And then, without too much fanfare, it arrived.

* * * *

“Girls! Girls, hurry!” Abel shouted up the stairs. “We’re going to be late.”

“We’re coming,” Anne whined as she skidded down the steps in her stockings.

“We’re right here ,” said Amelia, following right behind.

“Where are your shoes?” Flustered, he raked a hand through hair as he turned in a senseless circle. “And your cloaks? And your–”

“I’ll take care of all that, Your Grace.” With perfect timing–per usual–Nanny popped in from the adjoining parlor, two pairs of boots and two matching red cloaks in hand. “Sit on that bench there, my dears. Your Grace, I believe you’ve forgotten something in your study.”

“Forgotten something?” he said blankly, patting the pockets of greatcoat. “What have I forgotten?”

“It’s small. Round. With a diamond–”

Bloody hell.

The ring.

Abel’s heart threatened to pound through the wall of his chest as he raced into his study, opened the top drawer on his desk, and removed a small, square-shaped box. He opened the lid to reveal a delicate gold band crowned with an emerald cut diamond. When his heart shot up out of his chest and lodged somewhere in his throat, he snapped the lid closed and shoved the box deep in his pocket.

“Girls,” he called hoarsely, his back to the door. “Girls, come in here for a moment. There is a matter I would like to discuss with you.”

“Yes, Papa?” Anne said, skipping into the study.

“What is it?” Amelia asked.

“Sit, please.”

“Did you get a puppy?”

“Oh, please say you got our puppy! We’ve been waiting forever.

“For ever .”

“It’s not your birthday yet,” he said automatically as they crammed together in a leather armchair. “Besides, this will be better than a puppy.”

“Nothing is better than a puppy,” Amelia said solemnly.

“That may be true, but hopefully this will come close.” Taking a bracing breath, he knelt down in front of them and placed a hand on each of their adorably knobby knees. “I understand we just met her a little while ago, but you enjoy Miss Snow’s company, don’t you?”

“She tells amusing stories,” Anne said.

“And she sneaks us chocolate when you’re not looking,” Amelia giggled.

“Does she?” he said with mock sternness. “I’ll have to have a word with Miss Snow about that. What would you think of she came to live with the three of us? If she was here all of the time, not just for dinner.”

Anne frowned. “Would Nanny have to leave?”

“No. No, Nanny will remain here for as long as she likes.”

The sisters exchanged a glance, then gave identical shrugs.

“There would be all right,” said Amelia.

“Yes, that would be all right,” Anne echoed.

“To be clear, Miss Snow wouldn’t be another nanny. She would be…well, she would be like a mother.”

“Oh.” Amelia’s brow pinched. “But our mother died. You said.”

“Yes, yes your mother, Catherine, did die. Miss Snow–Lillian–would be another mother. She would…” Blast it, why was this so damned hard?

“Miss Snow would not be replacing your first mother, my dears.” This from Nanny, who walked across the study and put a hand on Abel’s shoulder. “Catherine will always be your mother. But sometimes in life, if you are very fortunate and you have a father that is as wise as yours, you have the rare opportunity to have a second mother. If Miss Snow agrees, that is. Your father will have to ask her. It is called a marriage proposal.”

Anne scooted to the edge of the chair. “Can we help?” she said excitedly. “With the pro…prop…”

“Proposal,” he said hoarsely. “And yes, you can. Absolutely.”

“ If you put on your shoes,” Nanny said, thrusting the boots at them.

“Race you to the carriage!” Amelia cried.

“Not if I get there first,” Anne shrieked.

In the deafening silence following their departure, Abel scrubbed his hands down his face. “Tell me this is lunacy, Miss Hathaway. I met Lillian less than a month ago.”

“Giving your heart to someone to keep is the very definition of lunacy, Your Grace.” Ester smiled gently. “But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

“She isn’t what I was looking for.”

“One does not look for love, Your Grace. It is not a series of boxes to be checked or a list to be crossed off. If one is very fortunate, they recognize love when they see it. No matter what form it comes in. And once they have it, they do everything in their power to keep hold of it.”

“I do love her.” He closed his eyes as he let the importance of his own words wash over him. “I’ve loved her since the Yuletide Ball and every night since.”

“Then what are you waiting for? Go get her,” said Ester, giving him a small nudge. “At the very least, go get in your carriage before the girls take off without you in it.”

Abel’s eyes widened. “By God, you’re right.”

He sprinted from the room.

* * * *

Opening night turnout was…dismal.

“Perhaps we put the wrong date on the fliers?” Marjorie ventured after she snuck a peek out at the audience. Only a third of the theater was filled, but it was the three chairs in the front row–the chairs marked with little reserved signs she’d crafted herself–that filled Lillian with the most disappointment.

‘We’ll see’ Abel had said when his daughters had asked if they could attend the play. With less than five minutes to go until the curtains opened, she supposed that the three empty chairs meant ‘we’ll see’ had turned into a no.

It’s fine , she told herself as she gave her wig a final adjustment. You’re used to being left. This time is no different.

Except it was.

Of course it was.

Because this time… she’d fallen in love.

“Two minutes!” a stage hand hissed from the wings.

Lillian took a breath and squared her shoulders. If this was going to be the last production ever held at the Lisbon Theater, then there was nothing else left to do but to make it the best yet. No matter who–or who wasn’t–in attendance.

“Ready?” Marjorie asked.

She nodded. “Ready.”

She heard the creak of the chandeliers as they were hoisted up, the swoosh of the curtains as they were pulled back, and then she marched onto the stage not as herself, but her character. A woman scorned by her husband the day before Christmas.

How achingly familiar.

But as she opened her mouth to deliver her opening line– the opening line of the entire play–she was stopped short by the sight of those three chairs. Empty no longer, but filled with a duke whose mere face made her go weak in the knees… and whose two little girls had stolen her heart.

“She’s forgotten her line!” the stage hand said desperately. “Quick, someone call it out!”

“Wait,” said Marjorie, following the direction of Lillian’s gaze. “Give her a minute.”

“But–”

“If you don’t give her a minute, I’ll take this fake dagger and stab you in the eye with it.”

With a squeak, the stage hand disappeared into the shadows. And with a loud, clear voice from the theater’s leading actress, the play began.

* * * *

Two hours later, when the final curtain closed, Lillian sagged, exhausted, against a brick wall. “We did it,” she said, beaming at her actors. “ You did it. You were wonderful. Each and every one of you. I couldn’t be prouder.”

“I think you should go back out there,” said Marjorie, pointing at the stage.

“We already did our final bows.” She gave a weary smile. “I’m afraid there isn’t enough of an audience for a second curtain call.”

“Oh, I believe there is. Go on, then. Go ,” said Marjorie, delivering a hard push that sent Lillian stumbling out through the curtain.

“Ridiculous,” she said, rolling her eyes. “There’s hardly any… Abel . What… what are you doing?”

During intermission, she’d told him to take the girls home right after the play ended. That it would be late, and she’d join him at the house when he could. He’d agreed. Why, then, was he still here? And why was he down on one knee?

“We’re proposing! ” Anne squealed.

“Not yet!” Amelia whispered loudly.

“You’re… you’re what?” Lillian said, stunned. “What are you doing?”

“The girls are right,” said Abel. “I–we–are asking you to marry us.”

“Right–right now ?”

The faintest hint of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth as he opened a small box to reveal a beautiful diamond ring. “Is there a better time?”

“No. No ,” she said emphatically, shaking her head. “This…this is the perfect time.”

“Then what do you say ?” Anne and Amelia cried.

“Yes.” Laughing, crying, Lillian took a running leap of the stage and landed right where she belonged… in Abel’s arms. “I say yes .”