Chapter 3

3

T here was a time, many years ago, when Emily would have considered a tryst in Nathaniel Pembrook’s arms as her most fanciful daydream come true. His chest was every bit as solid as she’d once imagined it would be. His arms every bit as muscular and supportive. His skin gave off a faint scent she hadn’t known would be there, crisp and masculine and thoroughly enticing.

All of which she now considered a nightmare.

She held herself tautly in his embrace, willing her freezing body not to tremble as he burst through the kitchen door of Rosemead House . She would give him no further cause to feel superior.

As it turned out, the kitchen erupted into such a flurry of movement and exclamations that there was no time for him to utter an I told you so . Voices intermingled. Chair legs scraped across the floor. And then, she was being dumped upon a wooden seat before the hearth, where, for a moment, the only thing to flood her head was warmth.

The hearty flames were a balm to her ice-cold limbs, and she didn’t have the strength to refuse them. The heat seeped into her, making her feel heavy and sluggish, and when Nate knelt on the floor and wrenched off her boots, she didn’t even fight him.

Not until it occurred to her, some seconds later, that her foot remained in his palm and he was examining it, peering at the sodden stocking, sending the subtle warmth of his fingertips to the chilled flesh beneath. It felt … soothing. It felt?—

She jerked her foot out of his grasp, silently cursing the way her thoughts had strayed. She was in Nate’s kitchen, for heaven’s sake. Could sense the weight of numerous gazes upon the back of her neck.

She wrenched her head around, taking in the scene behind her. Nate had told her that only the barest staff remained at Rosemead for the yuletide season. Nonetheless , her plight was being observed by a cook and a kitchen maid. A footman in Rosemead’s forest green livery. And another wearing familiar royal blue?—

“ Joseph !” For the first time that day, her mouth curved into a genuine smile, and her tight shoulders sank with relief. She didn’t know what a Beaumont footman was doing in the Rosemead kitchen, but nor did she require a reason when his presence meant her salvation. Her escape. “ I’m afraid I had a mishap with my boot, but n-no matter. Now , you can take me h-h-home with you.”

“ No .” That dratted Nate loomed beside her, daring to cast a severe look at Joseph before turning it upon her. “ For God’s sake, Lady Emily , you’re still shivering. You can hardly go back into the cold in this state.”

Her smile faded as soundly as if it were a lit candle he’d tossed into a snowdrift.

Joseph took a tentative step forward, his brow furrowing uncertainly as he glanced from the vexatious master of the house to the unhelpfully snow-streaked window and then back to her. “ I came on horseback, my lady. I’m not sure the weather’s fit for you to ride. I suppose I could return to Beaumont and tell the grooms you need the sleigh.”

“ Yes .” She couldn’t agree quickly enough. She may very well have jumped up to throw her arms around him if her foot wasn’t still numb, and if it wouldn’t cause a scene. “ Oh , yes, please do.”

“ There’s no need.” Again , Nate interjected where he was least wanted, giving the hope she kept trying to drum up another thorough dousing. “ I will bring Lady Emily home in my sleigh once I’ve found her some new footwear and she’s had a chance to warm up.”

Her body betrayed her by shuddering, her teeth clattering together at the very moment she meant to protest.

That was all the convincing Joseph required. “ Very good, sir. And not to worry, Lady Emily . I’ll tell Lord Rockliffe that you’ve come to no harm and will be along shortly.” He dipped his chin, spinning toward the door before she could utter another word. And Nate , blast him, didn’t speak either but followed Joseph without a single backward glance. Leaving her alone to stew.

She shifted beneath her cloak, clamping her arms tightly across her chest as she stared into the flames. Another stretch of minutes in Nate’s presence, alone? Unthinkable . Yet how could she argue that she was perfectly fit to travel on horseback when her body continued to shake with sporadic tremors? How would she make herself sound anything but immature and petulant?

“ Here you are, my lady.”

A copper mug appeared before her nose, and she looked up to find the pleasant-faced cook standing over her, holding out the offering. Steam rose from the liquid within, along with an agreeable spiced aroma, effectively vanquishing any thoughts Emily had about refusing it.

Heat spread through her fingertips the moment she clasped the mug, and a pleasing burn followed when she tipped the drink into her throat. She took several long sips, feeling her muscles grow steadier and a little more of the frostiness melt away. And because Nate was still by the door, engaged in quiet conversation with Joseph , she granted the cook a small smile. “ This is lovely. Thank you.”

“ Certainly , Lady Emily .” The older woman beamed in return, two spots of deep pink brightening her cheeks. “ It’s the least we can do to repay the kindness shown us by everyone at Beaumont Manor today.”

Just like that, the comforting warmth turned cold in Emily’s belly. “ What kindness?” Her fingers tightened around the mug, her nerves pricking with a strange sense of disquiet.

“ Why , all this, of course.” The cook gestured toward the worktable, which was laden with trays of biscuits, along with several large pies and a plum cake. “ When Mr . Pembrook came home and said he’d be holding the St . Stephen’s Day party as usual, I told him it couldn’t be done. Not with only me and Sally here in the kitchen. But all it took was a note to Beaumont , and next thing, your Mrs . Hodges was sending us over more food than we could have dreamed, all at Lord and Lady Rockliffe’s behest. We’re that grateful, we are. They’re all a true example of what it means to be generous at Christmastide .”

Emily remained stock-still, unable even to pretend she returned the cook’s cheer. If her parents had instructed that food be sent over to Rosemead , then they knew. Phoebe knew Nathaniel Pembrook was in residence when she’d suggested the location for Emily’s walk, and she hadn’t seen a reason to divulge such pertinent information.

The cook uttered something about needing to check the oven and shuffled away, leaving Emily to slump against the back of her chair and return her gaze to the fire.

If only the truth about Nate returning home had reached her ears sooner, she never would have gone anywhere near the border between their estates. Then , she wouldn’t be trapped in his kitchen in only her stockings. Wouldn’t be the girl who bristled at the thought of him believing her incapable. Who bristled even more at how she’d then gone and proved him right.

Her face flamed, the heat no longer welcome but uncomfortable. And yet, this wasn’t the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to her at Rosemead House .

As much as she wished it wouldn’t, her mind flashed backward to another blazing hearth, just a few stairs and corridors away, upon a long-ago Christmas Eve . It was the year she’d turned thirteen. The year she and her father had returned to England after a lengthy absence, and he’d married Phoebe , and their dear neighbor, Viscount Pembrook , had welcomed the new marchioness by inviting them all for Christmas Eve dinner. The viscount had a beautiful home, warm and bright and elegantly decorated for the season, and the dinner table had been filled with all the delicious food and camaraderie one would want of such an affair.

Except suddenly, none of that had mattered to her. She’d had eyes only for the person sitting directly across the table: Lord Pembrook’s son.

She’d always known Nate , of course. However , she’d never truly seen him. Never appreciated how his hair curled a little and shone like gold, how his eyes were a stormy shade of gray, how his body had grown long and sculpted and unquestionably male. He had become a man, after all, who would soon turn eighteen and transition from Eton to Cambridge . Consequently , her heart had raced and fluttered in a way it had never done before.

She hadn’t acted upon her newfound feelings, beyond going home and drawing copious hearts in the pages of her diary. Yet the feelings had stayed with her even as Nate returned to school and winter became spring. They’d stayed throughout each change of season until winter arrived again, and Lord Pembrook repeated the Christmas Eve dinner invitation.

Then , at last, she’d received her reward, for after a full year without their paths crossing, Nathaniel Pembrook had sat across from her once again. Even more dazzlingly handsome than the Christmas before.

She hadn’t known how to be charming and flirtatious. His gaze had caused her to blush furiously and stare at her napkin, while she silently willed him just to know the depths of her adoration (which hadn’t worked).

The following year, though, she’d arrived better prepared. She’d been practicing her smile in the mirror, and when no one was around to hear, she’d accompanied it with a coquettish little laugh.

Unfortunately , her newfound attempts hadn’t resulted in a declaration of love on Nate’s part; in fact, he’d appeared somewhat grimmer than on Christmases past.

Still , she hadn’t been dissuaded. The year after that, she’d donned a new silk frock. Pinched color into her frustratingly pale cheeks. Asked Phoebe’s lady’s maid to style her hair. Properly adorned, she’d then gone to Rosemead House with a plan. A clever plan, as it had seemed at the time, in which she’d stumble at Nate’s feet and he’d immediately come to her rescue. Perhaps he’d even sweep her into his arms, and she’d smile, and her feelings for him would be revealed at last.

As it turned out, Nate had brought a friend home from Cambridge with him that year, and he also looked sullener than ever. Yet she hadn’t taken that as reason to change course. She would execute her scheme in the drawing room, she’d decided as they all began strolling there for after-dinner games. When she realized she’d forgotten her shawl upon her chair and would need to pop back to the dining room, she’d viewed it as simply a brief delay.

However , her silent reappearance in the dining room doorway revealed that Nate and his friend hadn’t joined the procession to the drawing room after all but remained at the table, wine goblets in hand.

Cheer up, Pembrook , it’s Christmastide . The dark-haired young man had given him a lazy smile, clinking the rim of their glasses together. The drinks are flowing. You have good company and enough food to feed an army. Lord , you even have a pretty little chit to stare at you with stars in her eyes .

Lady Emily ? At once, Nate’s head had perked up, although the way he’d uttered her name had been sharp, cheerless. And then, he’d done the worst thing of all. He’d laughed . A hollow, dismissive sound that matched the coldness in his eyes. She’s naught but a sickly child.

Fortunately , she’d had the presence of mind to abandon her shawl and noiselessly race back down the corridor. Even while her heart shattered like a crystal vase flung from the edge of an ocean cliff and onto the jagged rocks below.

She hadn’t been lying when she told her father she was unwell and needed to go home early that night.

The lie hadn’t come until the following Christmas Eve , when a fictional headache forced her into bed before dinner. Phoebe had made a point of saying that Nathaniel Pembrook was traveling in the Mediterranean and wouldn’t be home for the yuletide season. But it hadn’t mattered. As much as she esteemed the cordial Lord Pembrook and appreciated his hospitality, Emily couldn’t make merry in the same room where Nate had taken her girlish desires and crushed them beneath the sole of his boot.

She couldn’t do it that year, nor on any of the Christmas Eves that followed, even though Nate had never returned to England since. Not until today—and only because Lord Pembrook was also abroad, and there was no chance of receiving a dinner invitation—had she dared to venture anywhere near Rosemead . And look where that got me .

Perhaps she was foolish to hold onto petty grievances for so long. After all, time had passed, she’d gone through multiple London Seasons , and she’d reached an age that brought her closer to spinsterhood than girlhood. But even so, she would never forget Nate’s words. She’s naught but a sickly child.

The cold ring of them echoed in her memory, mixing with the cheery pop of flames. Until suddenly, Nate was at her side again, as if her thoughts had conjured him.

She didn’t want to conjure him. Wanted no more reminders of her silliness and chagrin. Nonetheless , his looming presence remained, and he extended a hand to her. “ Will you come with me?”

She jumped up at once— without accepting his hand—because he must have deemed her sufficiently warmed. The sleigh would be ready, and she could at last escape to Beaumont and put the misadventure behind her.

Except Nate didn’t walk to the door but toward the corridor.

Her stockinged feet froze against the floor. “ Where are we going?”

He turned to give her a look that nearly appeared … merry . As if they were old friends, and her visit to his home had been planned and not an unhappy accident. “ I want you to see the fruits of your labor.”

What on earth was he talking about? She folded her arms across her chest, doing her best imitation of her grandmother’s irritated glower.

“ It will only take a moment.” He went to the doorway and paused, tilting his chin toward the corridor. And then, without waiting to ensure she followed, he departed, leaving behind only the echo of his footfalls.

Drat , drat , drat him .

She scurried out of the kitchen, her newly warmed feet flying until they caught up with him near the servant’s stairs. He’d promised her a ride home in his sleigh, and she wouldn’t let him out of her sight until he made good on that promise. After which she hoped never to see him again.

They climbed the stairs in silence, his footsteps aggravatingly confident and eager. Hers quiet and clipped. She made sure to keep pace with him, lest she be forced to stare at his back.

Why had she let herself feel sympathy for his plight? If she’d returned home on any of the countless occasions he’d tried pushing her away, she would already be back at Beaumont by now, safe from the elements.

Safe from the lingering ache in her heart.

“ Here .” Nate shoved open a door, and as they stepped over the threshold, they were no longer in a narrow corridor but in Rosemead’s great hall. The space, with its soaring ceiling, massive alabaster pillars, and intricate marble work, had always captured her interest when Lord Pembrook guided them through it to reach the dining room.

However , Nate wasn’t directing her toward ridged pillars or immaculate carvings, nor toward the haphazard array of tables and chairs that had appeared along the walls. He was peering at the fireplace. Rather , in front of the fireplace, where the muddy piece of tree trunk they’d dragged through the woods had been freed of its ropes and rested upon the floor like a centerpiece.

A peculiar sensation tugged at her chest. Not joy, exactly. Would she go so far as to call it satisfaction? Helping him had cost her both her boots and her dignity. Yet here was proof she’d also accomplished something in the process, that her efforts hadn’t all been for naught.

Nate sauntered over to the fireplace, his lips quirking in the suggestion of a grin. She wished she hadn’t noticed. Wished she didn’t care about his smile, or his injured hand, or his party, or anything to do with the subject of Nathaniel Pembrook . However , it seemed no number of years, no amount of mortification and despair, could render her indifferent.

“ Sit on it.”

Her body stiffened, the ridiculous words pulling her out of her thoughts. Surely , she’d misheard. But no, he was waiting for her, beckoning to the tree trunk like he presented a gift.

She took a few rigid steps forward, her eyes narrowing. “ I beg your pardon?”

“ Haven’t you heard that the first one to sit upon the yule log before it goes into the fireplace will be favored with good luck?”

She pinched her mouth closed, folding her arms back across her chest. “ I thought you didn’t have time to believe in luck.”

“ No .” He continued to eye the log, the gray of his irises bright beneath the light of the wall sconces. “ But it cannot hurt, can it?”

Was he mocking her? Pacifying her? Did he assume she was too feeble to keep standing?

She’s naught but a sickly child.

She pushed the unwanted memory away, surveying him from beneath her lashes. While there were a great many things she could say about Nathaniel Pembrook , nothing in his demeanor hinted at condescension.

She blew out a long breath, crossing the rest of the way to the fireplace. Truth be told, she hadn’t placed much credence in luck, either. Not until mere hours ago, when she, too, had brought her greenery indoors early, after which her day had spiraled into a series of calamities wherein each one eclipsed the last.

If there was any chance she could counteract the cloud of misfortune that seemed to be following her, why not take it? She had very little left to lose and everything to gain. And so, she plopped herself down, pulling her spine tall and pressing her palms against the rough bark.

Nothing about sitting on the damp, muddy surface felt particularly lucky. Or dignified.

Yet Nate was peering down at her, his irritating, wonderful half-grin growing a notch wider. “ Tomorrow , once it has dried out a little, we’ll light it.”

We … we’ll light it . The words sank in, and just like that, all thoughts of smiles and luck vanished from her head. “ What do you mean, we will light it? I will not be here because you said you would take me home. You told Joseph , and he’ll tell my family. If I don’t arrive soon, they’ll start to worry.”

He hesitated, and either the candlelight was playing tricks or a flush spread up his neck. “ Prior to Joseph’s departure, I told him I would bring you home in the sleigh after you warmed up and if it stopped snowing. Your family will know not to expect you until after the weather has cleared.”

“ You did what ?” Suddenly , her body felt as frigid as the darkening sky beyond the windows. The sky that importuned her by continuing to release a thick curtain of snowflakes, swirled about by the icy wind.

“ There have already been enough misfortunes today.” His shoulders became a little stiffer, his tone more assured. “ I refuse to risk adding to them by allowing you to leave in the midst of a snowstorm. Surely , you see the folly of such an undertaking.”

“ The only greater folly,” she snapped, “would be for me to remain at your house indefinitely!”

“ As I said”—his voice became low, although it invited no protest—“ I’ll bring you home when the snow stops.”

She jumped from the yule log as if it had already been set on fire. And it was supposed to bring her luck? Ha !

She flounced away, unable to look at the thing any longer. Unable to look at him . Instead , she established herself by the window, pressing her heated cheek to the frosty glass.

Blast the snow. Blast the yule log. Blast Nate and his good intentions, and blast the bruises on her heart, and blast, blast, blast . Something in her chest vibrated, ready to break out as a scream that would reverberate to the rooftop.

Except what would that accomplish? Would shouting her frustration cause the snowstorm to stop raging? Turn back time so she’d never gone for a walk in the woods? Undo all the years she’d fancied herself in love with Nathaniel Pembrook , only to discover he viewed her as a laughingstock?

She tightened her fingers into fists, well aware of the answer.

And then, because there was nothing else left to do, she pivoted, inclining her head to him in a gesture of perfect gentility. “ Thank you, Mr . Pembrook . I’ll eagerly await the moment that happens.”

One of his golden brows twitched, and while his lips parted, no words came out.

Had she not given him the outraged response he expected? Well , she refused to play into his beliefs by offering any other. She held his gaze, the muscles in her face straining with the effort of maintaining an expressionless veneer.

Let it never be said that her reaction was childish .