Chapter 1

1

December 23, 1816

L ady Emily Prescott couldn’t say for sure what aspect of the cacophony caused her last thread of composure to snap. Was it her stepsister Anna and cousin Alexander loudly arguing about which yuletide treat reigned supreme? ( Mince pies, Anna insisted, while Alexander remained adamant that the honor belonged to Christmas pudding.) Was it her two younger cousins pounding out a duet on the pianoforte, faintly resembling God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen , while the girls’ three-year-old brother sang another tune altogether? Perhaps it was the noise of her grandmother’s bell, the relentless ting-a-ling alerting the servants that, yet again, the dowager marchioness required something.

Whatever the case, Emily threw down the wreath she’d been fashioning, letting out a sound that could in no way be considered ladylike. A sound that, really, should have held no ability to compete with the uproar in the Beaumont Manor drawing room. Nonetheless , the argument stopped. The bell ceased ringing. The pianoforte music faded away. Only little James continued his song, stomping his feet against the floor to help him keep tempo. All other eyes, though, were on Emily .

“ Is something the matter, Em ?” Her father, who’d ensconced himself on the settee in the far corner with her stepmother at his side, was the first to speak, breaking away from their quiet conversation to cast her a curious look.

“ It’s …” She frowned, the greenery she’d tossed onto the end table and the pile of adornments surrounding it beginning to swim before her eyes. “ This wreath is all wrong. The ribbons aren’t cheerful enough. And the berries are too … too red .”

Red , just like the color her cheeks started turning. The weight of so many gazes bore into her, and she knew she sounded ridiculous. She was becoming incensed by a bunch of holly branches, for heaven’s sake, a festive decoration that should have brought her joy but instead had gone awry.

“ What’s wrong, Papa , is that she’s heartsick,” Anna supplied— not helpfully. “ She’ll cheer up once her beau arrives.”

“ It’s not that!” Emily glowered at her sister, knowing she sounded waspish but unable to help herself.

From across the room, her eldest cousin, Benedict —of an age with herself and similarly quiet-natured—looked up from his book to shoot her a sympathetic look. In turn, Alexander winked at her before distracting Anna with another rejoinder about Christmas pudding. Which perhaps should have made Emily feel better, but her face only burned hotter instead. Her mood had nothing to do with Lord Coleville , who was set to arrive at Beaumont before nightfall and would stay with them until the new year.

But nor could she truly attribute her short temper to some displeasing berries, could she?

“ Emily ?” Her stepmother, Phoebe , rose from the settee, giving her husband a squeeze upon the shoulder before approaching Emily’s armchair. “ I have something to see to in the kitchen and could use your assistance. Join me?”

Emily could hardly stand fast enough. With a final loathing glance at her discarded wreath, she accepted Phoebe’s proffered arm, following the rhythm of her stepmother’s footfalls as they exited the drawing room without another word.

Not that she held any illusions about appearing dignified.

Fortunately , the corridor was indeed much calmer, pulling her away from the recommencement of piano music and a mince pie argument. The empty space proved less stifling, too, giving her face a chance to cool before they encountered a renewed blast of heat in the kitchen.

At once, she was hit with the welcoming fragrance of cinnamon and cloves, and while she couldn’t claim the area was peaceful, the kitchen maids’ flurry of activity and low chatter as they worked proved far more of a soothing hum than what she’d left behind in the drawing room.

Emily inhaled deeply, taking stock of the large worktable where trays of confectionary drops had been laid out, along with a steaming gingerbread cake. Later , she would take great delight in sampling the confections—her family liked to poke gentle fun at her sweet tooth. For now, though, she turned to Phoebe , concentrating on the task at hand. “ Is there some problem with the menus?”

“ None whatsoever.” Phoebe steered her toward the worktable and released her arm, flashing her a small grin. “ There is, however, freshly baked gingerbread in urgent need of sampling.”

Emily’s brows lifted, and she didn’t know whether to smile or frown. Her stepmother didn’t require assistance in the kitchen; Phoebe was humoring her.

Yet that was because, after displaying an outburst far too juvenile for a woman of three-and-twenty, Emily warranted humoring.

With a sigh, she let her elbows droop onto the wooden surface, her stomach a strange tangle of knots. However , when the cook, Mrs . Hodges , rushed over with a serving knife, cutting off a thick slice of the cake and holding it out to her, Emily didn’t turn it down.

“ Thank you.” She nodded her appreciation to the cook, taking her first small bite and savoring the mixture of sweetness and spices that burst over her tongue. The flavor was comforting, reminiscent of Christmas seasons past when all that existed was joy and she hadn’t found herself so irritable.

Beside her, Phoebe nibbled at her own piece of gingerbread, refraining from conversation just as she had in the corridor. Instead , they ate in companionable silence with only the whir of kitchen noise in the background, until the warm, spongy cake filled her, the thought of wreaths no longer stoked her ire, and a quiet thank you crossed her lips again, this time directed at her stepmother. The woman who, without a word, had determined exactly what Emily needed.

Phoebe brushed a few crumbs from her fingers before giving Emily’s arm a reassuring pat. “ It does get a little overwhelming with everyone about, doesn’t it?”

“ Mm .” Emily glanced toward the ceiling where, as if on cue, something crashed against the floor above.

There was no denying that the house had become chaotic over the past few days. But at the same time, she didn’t wish any part of it away. She adored her family and so seldom got to see her cousins all under the same roof. They’d been drawn together unexpectedly this month by the family matriarch, the Dowager Marchioness of Rockliffe , whose development of a lung inflammation and fever the week before St . Thomas’s Day had left everyone fearing the worst. However , no sooner did the dowager’s extended family arrive at Beaumont than the resilient old lady—whom Emily’s father, the marquess, often likened to a fire-breathing dragon when he thought his daughters weren’t listening—came out of her ague, and her cough began to dissipate. The fact that the visitors planned to remain with them until after Christmas Day , just to ensure the dowager didn’t suffer a relapse—which was looking increasingly unlikely, given her ability to relocate to the drawing room and utter demands with such vigor—was a gift. Albeit a very noisy one. Add to that Lord Coleville’s imminent arrival and it should truly be the perfect Christmas .

Why , then, was the warmth in Emily’s belly dissipating already, leaving behind another wave of that strange churning sensation? The one that had been growing all month, putting her on edge and making her feel like she could scream at the top of her lungs.

She pushed herself up from the worktable, peering toward the row of windows that let in the afternoon’s muted gray light. “ Perhaps I’d benefit from a walk.”

Phoebe nodded. “ Yes , I’m sure that would do you good. Shall I join you? I need to check with Mrs . Connelly about how the St . Stephen’s Day boxes are coming along, but after that?—”

“ Thank you, but there’s no need.” Once again, Emily experienced a swell of gratitude for her stepmother’s thoughtfulness. Even when Phoebe’s tasks as marchioness and hostess pulled her in a dozen different directions, she didn’t hesitate to offer companionship. However , Emily would prove poor company, and she may as well be honest. “ I think I require some time alone.”

Fortunately , Phoebe understood and made no efforts to dissuade her. She simply waited alongside her as a maid fetched Emily’s winter apparel, and once Emily was clad in her cloak and half-boots, Phoebe accompanied her to the kitchen door.

“ Take as much time as you need, as long as you’re certain to return home by dark.” She gave another of her gentle, encouraging smiles before pulling the latch and opening the door to the winter landscape beyond. “ Oh , and Emily ? If you feel inclined to try your hand again at wreath-making, I noticed the holly was in abundance at the east side of the estate, bordering the stream.”

The stream . An icy prickle shot down Emily’s spine, and not from the sudden blast of cold air. The stream delineated the border between Beaumont and Rosemead , the neighboring estate. A place she’d visited often as a child; in fact, Viscount Pembrook of Rosemead had made it a tradition to invite Lord Rockliffe and his family for dinner every year on Christmas Eve . Of course, for the past seven years, Emily had invented excuses not to attend. A megrim. Fatigue . A stomachache. Her inevitable string of illnesses—always on Christmas Eve and gone the next morning—no doubt caused a few eyebrows to rise, although no one had ever prodded her about it too thoroughly.

But what difference did any of that make now? The longstanding tradition was to be broken this year, for Lord Pembrook had been on the Continent since the summer, and his son— Nate —had apparently traveled there to join him for the yuletide season.

As a result, Rosemead House was closed up indefinitely. Its occupants far away. There was absolutely no reason she shouldn’t venture near Beaumont’s easternmost boundary.

She stiffened her shoulders, then uttered farewell to Phoebe and stepped out onto the frosty grass. Light snow had begun drifting down from the sky, and although the day was chilly and dull, it also held a sort of stark beauty. The perfect backdrop against which to clear one’s head.

Only when she’d crossed the expansive back lawn, gone over the footbridge, and started venturing into the woods did it occur to her that she should have remained at the house so she wouldn’t risk missing Lord Coleville’s arrival.

And furthermore, Phoebe hadn’t said a word about him.