Chapter 4

4

N ate’s satisfaction at seeing the yule log in his great hall proved disappointingly short-lived.

At first sight, the object—retrieved and brought in with expediency by one of his two remaining footmen—had seemed to brighten the entire vast, echoing space. Not because there was anything particularly awe-inspiring about a muddy piece of ash wood that remained unlit, but because it represented something more. Namely , progress. A symbol that his endeavor went beyond a total failure.

For a few fleeting moments, sparks of contentment had stirred in his chest. Sparks that had flared into something else—for contentment seemed too weak a word—as Emily lowered herself to the yule log in the pursuit of luck, and all he could think of was that he wished for his oil paints and a healed right hand so he could capture the scene.

Yet the sparks had abruptly disintegrated the instant he let his careless words slip out, thus solidifying the truth of her situation: the snow had left her stranded. Just as he was once more confronted with a dismal truth of his own: the yule log was but a minor accomplishment on a long list of tasks he had neither the resources nor the ability to perform.

He squared his shoulders, returning her ominously cool nod with one of his own. He had no illusions that she’d accepted her fate with gladness. Regretfully , he didn’t hold the power to change the weather or turn back time. All he could do was see to her well-being before confronting the myriad tasks that required his attention.

“ Allow me to show you to the drawing room,” he said. “ The fire is lit, and you can repose in comfort after our … unfortunate experience.”

Emily didn’t move. “ And what will you do while I’m reposing?”

His eyes darted around the great hall, the greatness of the room somewhat diminished by the disarray of furniture and miscellaneous items that had been dragged in for the party but not yet set up. Between that, the food, the gifts, the decorating … how did he decide what to pursue first?

“ Assemble the gift baskets, I suppose. One for each servant and tenant family.” He made the decision at random, wholly unsure whether it was the right one. At the very least, he should be able to pack baskets without his hand proving him incompetent.

She nodded, a clipped, purposeful gesture. “ I’m going to help you.”

“ You needn’t.” The words shot out at once, sharper than he’d intended. “ You’re an unwilling guest in my home, and I refuse to add to your strife by running you ragged besi?—”

“ I’m going to help you, Mr . Pembrook , because if I don’t have something to keep myself occupied, I may well go mad.” Her eyes flashed in warning, daring him to contradict her.

Not for the first time that afternoon, he choked back a beleaguered sigh. He hadn’t wanted to overwork her, to drag her into more of his predicaments. Hadn’t wanted her to keep seeing him struggle. Nevertheless , who was he to turn down help? Especially when so blatantly offered.

“ As you wish, my lady.” There was no time for an argument, and no other answer for him to give. His hand throbbed as he made the concession, reminding him of the necessity of what he’d agreed to.

He clutched it to his side, taking another minute to survey the clutter alongside the walls. His housekeeper, Mrs . Ruck , had already gathered an array of baskets for his use, although he’d been too shamefaced to ask for advice about what he should place within them. His father had seemed to just know these things and execute them perfectly, while Nate plundered along in oblivion. He’d gone to the village earlier in the day to purchase a copious number of sweetmeats, and Mrs . Ruck was upstairs seeking some ribbons and bolts of cloth that had been tucked away in a closet. As for what else to include?—

“ Preserves ,” he muttered to himself, a burst of inspiration taking hold. Rosemead’s larder was always packed with them at this time of year, and he had a vague recollection of seeing jars in the St . Stephen’s Day baskets from years past. “ I’m going to the kitchen to get some preserves for the baskets,” he clarified, heading back toward the door that led to the servant’s stairs.

“ I’ll fetch them.” At once, Emily was in motion, her footsteps falling into a near-run that quickly surpassed his.

No . He stopped the protest from tumbling out just in time. He could tell her she shouldn’t, she needn’t. Yet which one of them had a useless hand that was apt to send the jars crashing upon the floor?

As the answer to that question was not Lady Emily Prescott , he let her go without another word, watching as she slipped through the door and left him alone to reassess the clutter surrounding him.

The bags of sweetmeats, along with a purse brimming with coins, rested atop one of the unadorned tables. Surely , he could distribute them amongst the baskets without causing another disaster.

And so, they remained thusly occupied for a long stretch in which the sky turned from dusky gray to pure black, brightened only by the whirling mass of snowflakes. Mrs . Ruck had done an admirable job of locating ribbons, laces, caps, and handkerchiefs, and once Emily had brought in all the preserves—and had been provided with a pair of slippers, also thanks to the housekeeper—she worked in silence to divide everything up.

Behind them, the footmen toiled away, dragging the tables to the center of the room and carrying in chairs from all parts of the house. Nate’s eyes, however, seemed incapable of focusing on anything but Emily . She moved gracefully, efficiently, always pivoting in the opposite direction as he made his way along the rows of baskets, completing his trivial task of dropping in sweetmeats and coins.

He didn’t interfere with her efforts by attempting conversation she wouldn’t want. As the clutter on the floor became neatly arranged piles in baskets, though, he at least needed to make a small overture.

He waited until she deposited a final ribbon before approaching her, holding out the bag that he’d emptied of its contents, aside from two lemon drops.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, she pursed her lips, her dark brows rising in question. Likely in annoyance, too. It was just a silly, insignificant gesture on his part. Nonetheless , he didn’t back away from it, even as unsettling heat crept up his neck.

“ For you.” He nudged the bag closer, tilting it so she could see its contents. After so many years of separation, he’d suddenly been hit with the memory that Lady Emily —at least, the younger version of her—had a penchant for sweets. “ It’s … it’s nothing, really. Merely the paltriest token of my thanks. Because I am. Thankful , that is. For your assistance where my own efforts proved lacking.”

She eyed the bag in that unreadable way of hers. A precursor to the moment she would laugh at the inanity of his gesture and storm away?

She didn’t do that, though. Instead , her fingers reached into the bag, and she popped one of the lemon drops into her mouth, motioning for him to take the other.

“ There’s no shame in needing help,” she said at last, her tongue—that enticing flash of pink—running over her bottom lip as she savored the tartness. “ And you can hardly fault yourself for being injured.”

“ Can’t I ?” A surge of bitterness coated his throat—one that didn’t derive from lemon.

She fell silent again, the subtle motion of her jaw as she sucked on the sweetmeat doing odd things to his insides. Until finally, more words, spoken in a tone that was gentler than before. “ May I ask what happened?”

He looked away, his gaze traveling downward to the evidence—the bruised, distorted evidence—of his misfortune. “ My hand had an encounter with—or should I say, beneath—a large piece of marble.”

Her eyes grew wide, the amber depths brewing another multitude of queries. He hadn’t given her much of an answer, had he? He’d never wanted to speak on the subject with anyone. Yet he and Emily were trapped together with no one else for company. What did he stand to lose by answering the question?

“ I’d been painting for the entirety of my grand tour in the Mediterranean ,” he said, his mind flickering back to turquoise water, whitewashed buildings, sunshine . “ But when at last I was able to travel to Italy , after the war, I decided to try sculpting as well. As you can see, I didn’t succeed.”

“ Oh … I’m sorry.” She swallowed; the last of her lemon drop must have melted away. “ I can only imagine how upsetting that was. You were fortunate, at least, to have so many years abroad to pursue your artwork at a time when most found themselves unable to leave England’s shores.”

Fortunate . Reckless , more like. He’d taken the inheritance he’d received from his mother upon his twenty-first birthday and run with it. Not seeking permission. Not caring—not realizing—how his father needed him. He’d spent his years in Greece , and then his brief time in Italy , thinking of nothing but himself. Of his own desires. Of what he wished to escape.

All until fate had demanded he change course.

“ Yes .” He flicked his uninjured wrist as if it made little difference either way, although he couldn’t keep the trace of acrimony from his tone. “ Regrettably , my years of pursuing art abroad did nothing to prepare me for assembling St . Stephen’s Day gift baskets. My father, who rarely stepped out of England until this summer, is much better at these things than I could ever hope to be.”

Her lashes fluttered, her mouth forming a thoughtful little pout. “ Why did you return home when he did not? I thought you’d quite abandoned Rosemead and that the two of you were to spend Christmas in France .”

“ I did, and we were.” He shifted so his body leaned against the wall, for an invisible weight had fallen upon his shoulders, the burden of it heavy and exhausting. “ But damn me for a fool, all I could think of was the party. The pride my mother took in hosting it. The way my father so seamlessly assumed the management of it after her death. The way the tenants would flock to the great hall to carouse and laugh, and name it as a bright point of their year.”

It was funny how those things, which had once only skirted his awareness, had suddenly jumped to the forefront after he’d met with his father in Paris . A reunion that had forced him to confront his ignorance and selfishness. Because his father, for once, had put himself first, leaving Nate with some serious priorities to reassess.

“ I could have stayed away as planned.” He glanced toward the window, where the world beyond had become nothing but a melee of darkness and snowflakes. “ Yet I’d shirked my responsibility as heir to Rosemead for long enough. Somehow , I couldn’t allow that to continue. Not for St . Stephen’s Day .”

Good God , had he really said all that aloud? The following silence alerted him that he’d been speaking for far too long. And too intimately. He’d vowed not to burden her any longer. Didn’t want her privy to his innermost failings when he already had plenty in plain sight.

However , the set of Emily’s features was soft, and her eyes shone with something much mellower than disdain. “ That’s … noble of you.”

Her praise created a flicker of warmth within his chest. A single hopeful spark that was promptly doused by the cold weight of the truth. He didn’t warrant such a descriptor. He was simply trying to atone.

“ I should collect some oranges.” He pushed away from the wall. Away from memories and regrets and eyes that heated him like brandy. “ For the baskets,” he added mindlessly, grabbing a candelabrum and making a rapid retreat toward the corridor without looking back.

Even so, it took only an instant for her footfalls to catch up with his. “ Lead the way, and I’ll assist you.”

He didn’t try to refuse her this time, although the temptation did remain. However , she’d insisted, in no uncertain terms, that she needed a distraction, and orange picking was hardly among the most strenuous activities she could undertake.

His main concern was that his poor luck would extend to the orangery, and he’d open the door to find all the greenery brown and wilted. When they entered, though, he was hit by a blast of warm, fragrant air, reminiscent of a summer garden. Rosemead’s gardener may have departed the house to spend Christmas elsewhere, but it seemed he’d left things well-tended.

Nate wandered farther inside, shining the light from his candles over the long, narrow space he hadn’t entered since … he didn’t remember when. His father had made improvements in the years of Nate’s absence, apparently, for more large windows had been added to the south wall, and the roof now contained a glass dome, decorated by creeping vines.

A dome that was ruefully topped by a thick coating of snow. Nonetheless , the plants remained oblivious to the weather beyond the confines of the orangery, for the trees were laden with oranges, and hundreds of fragrant blooms adorned the various flowers and shrubs.

“ This is beautiful.” Emily tiptoed across the slate tiles, her gaze traveling from floor to ceiling, inspecting all the greenery in between. Orangery was perhaps an inapt name for the space, as his parents had taken to cultivating far more than citrus fruit—even pineapples, at one point in time, although Nate didn’t spot any presently. Whatever exotic fruits and flowers remained on display, Emily’s attention had come to rest upon the roses. “ After all the years I visited Rosemead , I cannot believe this was always here, and I never knew it.”

She stopped beside a particularly showy rosebush, leaning down to sniff a crimson bloom the size of a dessert plate. Her eyelids drifted closed as she inhaled, her lips forming a delicate upward curve.

Why did he suddenly feel like he, too, was discovering a great many things for the first time?

His jaw twitched, and something stirred deep within his gut. But , unlike her, his eyes remained wide open, not even chancing to blink. The sight of her bent over the rosebush—not hostile, not guarded, but immersed in a moment of pure pleasure—was too rare, too exquisite, to miss for even a second.

He had baskets to finish packing, decorations to hang, tables to arrange. Yet even the looming time constraints, which had propelled him forward the whole day, couldn’t entice him to move.

Not until Emily straightened abruptly, her features becoming shuttered, did his own body follow suit, his eyes darting to the window as if he’d been caught reaching for something he wasn’t allowed to have. She abandoned the rosebushes, starting toward the potted citrus trees along the wall. “ Let’s gather the oranges.”

“ Yes . Indeed .” His feet waited a beat too long before jerking into motion, his first step unnervingly clumsy as he followed behind her. If he wouldn’t risk drawing her attention, he may well be inclined to bang his head against one of the tree trunks and see if he couldn’t impart some sense into himself.

Meanwhile , Emily already had two oranges cradled in the folds of her skirt like a makeshift basket, because the woman was nothing if not efficient. If only he could say the same of himself.

He swept his light over the floor until it fell upon an actual basket propped next to one of the wrought iron benches, and he hastily retrieved it, setting it down beside Emily’s feet.

Once again, they worked methodically and silently, making their way along the row of orange trees until the basket grew full.

“ That should be nearly enough.” He peered toward the top of the final tree in the row, where a cluster of oranges remained in the highest branches. “ I’ll just fetch the ladder so I can get these last few and ensure we don’t run short.”

“ Allow me.” She followed his gaze to where a small ladder rested against the wall between two of the floor-to-ceiling windows, her feet flying across the tiles yet again.

“ No .” He’d been trying very hard not to gainsay her and instead to show his appreciation for her help. However , he could hardly sit back and watch her climb the creaky old ladder in slippers that may not even fit properly. “ There’s no need for you to exert yourself. I’ll get the oranges.”

“ Because , even with only half your hands in good working order, you think yourself so much more capable of climbing a ladder than I ?” Anger turned her eyes into blazing amber orbs. “ Stop telling me I cannot ! I’m not an invalid or a delicate flower. I’m not a child .”

Her vehemence hit him in the face like a blast of ice. Or perhaps fire. Whatever it was, it filled his veins with a potent mixture of hot and cold, so much so that it was a wonder he didn’t stagger again. No , one could hardly accuse her of being delicate when she stood before him with her shoulders squared, her spine rigid, and her chin pointed in defiance.

His mind was a whirl, careening back and forth between the pale-faced girl who used to sit at the dining table on Christmas Eve and the woman who dragged yule logs through the woods and bent down to smell flowers as if she’d never experienced anything so blissful in her life. It seemed there was a fact with which he needed to reconcile himself: the girl was gone. All that remained was the woman.

“ No .” Lord , his voice sounded gravelly. Muffled . But looking into her eyes—and experiencing the frost, the burn—he could manage nothing better. “ Of course you’re not.”

She tugged the ladder, testing him. When it moved in her direction without resistance, she gave a slight nod, dragging it over to rest against the tree trunk.

He’d conceded, given her what she wanted. However , he’d be damned if he didn’t at least hold the ladder in place while she climbed. They exchanged a look while he settled himself against the side of the ladder, taking hold of the rail. Ultimately , she must have deemed this small interference acceptable, for she stepped onto the first rung without another word, her body nimble as she began her ascent.

If her borrowed shoes were too loose or too tight, she gave no indication of it, for she stood on tiptoe partway up the ladder, plucking the final few oranges and dropping them gently into the basket below.

He didn’t mean to stare. Only , this angle showed her curves—the contour of her hips, the gentle swell of her backside—to particular advantage. She may be small of stature, but she possessed an almost feline-like grace, her limbs elongating and receding in a seamless cycle.

Limbs that deftly climbed down the ladder until she was on the ground once again, turning to him with a pert dip of her chin. “ There . Do you think that will suffice?”

She meant the oranges, of course. Did he think they had enough oranges ? Except suddenly, he didn’t know or care. Her body was close to his, a single footstep away from colliding with his chest. And that didn’t suffice at all, because he wanted it closer. Wanted to know how those curves felt without the barrier of her cloak, wanted to transcend the orangery’s perfume of flowers to discover her own unique scent. Wanted to know if her lips were soft, if her tongue tasted like lemon drops.

If she realized the direction of his thoughts, this sweet, stubborn, infuriating, tempting woman would be apt to slap her palm across his cheek and storm away.

She didn’t do that, though. Didn’t develop her familiar frown of impatience even when he failed to answer. In fact, her body drew nearer, her chest subtly rising and falling as she peered up at him, her eyes like molten amber, warm honey, the most decadent brandy.

Her lips parted, releasing a scarcely audible trickle of breath. An exhale that acted as a magnet, causing him to lean forward, for his mouth to lower?—

“ We should bring these to the great hall and get them distributed.” With a single brisk motion, she bent to heft the basket into her arms. “ With any luck, the snow will have stopped by the time we’re through, and you can ready the sleigh.”

She burst out of the orangery and into the chillier air of the corridor, her movements rapid but no longer graceful. However , any protests he’d thought to make about the basket being too heavy were promptly vanquished by her next words.

“ I need to get home and greet my betrothed.”