Chapter 7

7

N ate’s first thought, upon cracking an eye open, was that his back hurt.

His back hurt, and an agreeable leafy smell wafted around him.

That , and a sea of green was coming into focus, for the room was bathed in dreary gray light.

Daylight .

He scrambled up to a sitting position, blinking rapidly as he absorbed his surroundings. It was supposed to be the middle of the night, when sleeplessness had led him to the great hall so he could start work on decorating. Yes , there’d been a moment—several hours after the orangery incident, which was quickly returning to him with startling clarity—when he went to the row of padded chairs the footmen had lined up along one wall, thinking he would just sit there for a spell.

He certainly hadn’t intended to stretch out on the chairs and fall asleep. Especially until … until … He fumbled in his pocket for his watch, pulling the face before his bleary eyes.

Until noon ? He jumped upright, giving his waistcoat a few tugs and shoving the disheveled clumps of too-long hair off his forehead.

Which was the precise moment he noticed the indecipherable amber gaze upon him. Emily sat at the same table where he’d stationed himself during the night, except instead of his jumble of poorly twisted branches, she held a fully formed kissing bough made of holly and ivy, adorned by red berries and a single apple.

“ I took the liberty of finishing this for you,” she said without preamble, laying it out on the table for his inspection. “ Perhaps you’d like to select a location to hang it.”

Yes , and perhaps she’d assist him in doing so. Perhaps they’d stand together beneath the kissing bough, and her lips would draw close to his, just as they had in the orangery.

The orangery, where he’d peered at her in the darkness, and a sensation he couldn’t name had set a vise upon his heart. Where he’d thought again of painting and known that even if he no longer had the ability to put it on canvas, he desired the image of that crimson rose against her raven hair to be burned into his memory.

Which it was, most assuredly, although the moment had vanished far too soon, and he’d been left alone amongst the potted shrubs to consider yet another way in which his former self had erred.

He blinked again, fighting through the haze left behind by unrestful sleep, half-wondering why she hadn’t jostled him awake come first light. Yet a single glance toward the windows provided the answer. The snow continued to fall with as much intensity, if not more, as the day before, tossed about by the raging wind.

A fact she seemed to accept with remarkable equanimity. That , or she had a particular talent for concealing her true emotions—which was the likelier scenario, now that he thought about it.

“ Thank you,” he managed, trying to push all thoughts of candlelit orangeries from his head so he could focus. “ I will. Later . For now, I should”—he hurriedly contemplated the numerous tasks requiring his attention—“go to the kitchen to ensure Mrs . White has everything she needs.”

“ I’ll join you and see if there’s anything I can carry up.” She pushed back her chair, casting him a glance that dared him to contradict her as she rushed toward the servant’s stairs.

Truth be told, he hadn’t regained his senses enough to react quite that swiftly. Nor was he in a position to turn her down. Not after he’d been idiotic enough to sleep the morning away.

He lurched into motion as if he’d received an invisible kick to the arse, a flood of greenery rushing past him as he strode to catch up with her. Not the disordered mass of greenery he’d left behind last night, either, but neatly laid boughs adorning the tables and mantelpiece. She’d been busy, apparently. As had the footmen, for chairs for the guests now lined every wall, and certain tables had place settings.

The satisfaction that arose from the sight of progress proved almost enough to supersede his hot-faced shame at having stayed asleep while everyone worked around him.

Unfortunately , the scene that greeted them in the kitchen did nothing to improve his satisfaction and everything to make his stomach sink toward his boots. The cook, Mrs . White , was adamantly whispering something to the kitchen maid, Sally , who listlessly sliced parsnips at the worktable, her face blotchy and nose bright red.

“ Mrs . White ? Sally ?” He stepped forward, the sound of his boots against the floor making them jump to alertness.

“ Oh !” Mrs . White bobbed a quick curtsey, although she couldn’t mask the flush that spread over her cheeks, and her brow remained heavily creased. “ I mean, good day, sir. Lady Emily . How may we assist you?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t have the opportunity, for Emily crept forward, cocking her chin as she eyed the kitchen maid. “ Are you unwell, Sally ?”

“ No , m’lady.” The maid shook her head, the croakiness of her words betraying them as a lie. For that matter, her whole countenance betrayed her, from her stooped shoulders to her unsteady feet.

Emily frowned, turning first to Mrs . White and then to him. “ She needs to rest, not be in the kitchen.”

Sally sniffled pitiably. “ I can’t. I have too much work to?—”

“ Quite right,” Nate cut in, even as his head spun with the implications of this fresh setback. Yet he could hardly work the poor ill girl to the point of collapse. “ My order is that you spend the rest of the day in bed and remain there for however long it takes until your health is restored. Mrs . White , perhaps you could get her a tisane.”

“ If … if that’s what you wish, sir.” Mrs . White curtseyed again, her furtive glance about the kitchen saying everything her words did not: and how do you think the food for the party will ever be prepared now ?

Her opinions aside, she shuffled Sally out of the kitchen without another word, leaving him behind to watch their departure and then bite back a curse.

He marched across the room, unbolting the exterior door and giving it a halfhearted push. Except his efforts yielded no results beyond a slight creak of the hinges. He tried again, and when met with the same outcome, he put his whole body into the endeavor, slamming his shoulder against the wood.

The effect being that the door shuddered open about half a foot, into a snowdrift, while a blast of icy wind pelted him in the face.

Damn . He stood in the doorway frozen—both figuratively and literally—as he surveyed the utter desolation, the whiteness , of the landscape beyond. Then again, what did he expect? That a gaggle of kitchen maids would be outside in the snow, waiting for him to usher them in and grant them the privilege of working in his kitchen on Christmas Eve ?

At this rate, he’d be shoveling for hours before he could even reach the stables, let alone ride off to the village to search for a last-minute replacement. In a snowstorm. At yuletide. And that didn’t begin to address the problem that the roast geese promised him by Mrs . Hodges at Beaumont would certainly no longer be coming today. The problem that, likewise, he had no means of fulfilling his promise to bring Emily home.

He slammed the door shut again, his face frigid and his nerves significantly more frayed than when he’d opened it ten seconds prior.

But if Emily had noticed the bleakness of the scene outside, she didn’t show it, for she moved to the worktable with perfect composure. “ I’ll assume Sally’s place slicing the parsnips.” She took up the paring knife, shooting him a measured look. “ I’m aware that I needn’t . That I shouldn’t . However , there’s no one else here to accomplish the task, and I presume I’m not so incapable that I would fail at cutting a few root vegetables.”

“ You …” His mouth opened and then closed again. When his mind had flashed to the urgency for a new kitchen maid, he’d never considered a marquess’s daughter as a candidate. Yet everything she’d said was true. In fact, she’d begun the task already, her slices not nearly as quick and even as Sally’s but still remarkably impressive.

Which left him with just one answer to give. “ Thank you.” His debt to her—not to mention his awe of her—seemed to be growing by the hour. He’d do better to admit it than fight it. “ I only hope my own abilities prove half as proficient.”

He came up beside her at the worktable, taking over the space where Mrs . White had left behind a pile of partially chopped onions. He’d peeled and cut apples before. How different could this be?

She glanced up from her task, watching with those warm brandy eyes as he retrieved Mrs . White’s knife and pressed it into the pungent white vegetable. It felt odd within his left hand, cumbersome and not altogether steady. Nevertheless , he kept going, establishing an awkward sort of rhythm until the onion—one of them anyway—lay on the worktable in small pieces.

On to the next one, then. He cut off the bottom and began removing the peel, as meanwhile, Emily remained hard at work beside him, her attention wholly engrossed in the parsnips. There was something calming about the steady tap of her cuts. Something that, after the brief setback, once again felt like progress.

He set his knife back into the onion while trying to follow her tempo, his mind trifling with the idea that perhaps his lack of kitchen maids was a surmountable obstacle after all. Thanks to Emily .

His eyes darted sideways, unable to keep from looking at her. Concentration made her worry her lip between her teeth, creating an alluring flash of plush pink against white. As for her hair, she’d knotted it into a loose braid that fell down her back and secured it with a ribbon not so different in color from the rose she’d allowed him to slide behind her ear.

She may be small and fine-boned, but she was also powerful. Proficient . So achingly beautiful.

How had he failed to appreciate her in his youth? To at least consider what a future with her could look like, when they each grew older, instead of dismissing the idea outright. How had he erred so badly that he now had the ring of her bitter laugh in his ears and words that pressed an uncomfortable weight upon his chest? I once fancied myself in love with you ?—

A stab of pain rushed through his finger, causing his knife to clatter to the worktable.

She stopped her rhythmic chopping motions at once and peered up at him, her lips pursing. “ Mr . Pembrook ?”

Damn it, he’d cut himself. A slash of red rose on his smallest finger, the accompanying throb serving to emphasize his folly. “ It’s nothing,” he bit out between gritted teeth, a long string of obscenities—all directed at himself—overtaking his thoughts.

“ Your hand! You’re bleeding,” she exclaimed, her eyes following his down to the cut as the trickle of red reached the surface and spilled over.

He at least thought to jerk his hand away from the worktable before his blood dripped onto the onions. Unfortunately , it was too late to undo the rest of his incompetency.

“ It’s nothing,” he repeated gruffly, clutching his damaged finger, a stream of sticky warmth spreading over the palm of his previously injured hand.

Whether or not it was nothing , Emily darted away and was back just as quickly with a kitchen towel, shoving it toward him before he could begin bleeding upon the floor.

“ I’ll be right there with some linen,” Mrs . White called from across the kitchen, because naturally, she’d chosen that precise moment to return.

He pressed the towel against his fingers, uncertain if he’d find greater benefit from drumming his head against the bricks of the hearth or going outdoors and burying it beneath a snowdrift. However , he didn’t have the opportunity to find out either way, for Emily’s arm fell upon his, guiding him forward until they were suddenly at the same chair before the fire where he’d set her down yesterday. She gave him an unsubtle push, the abruptness of it enticing him to sit before he could even think to protest that doing so was unnecessary.

Mrs . White appeared, laden with a basin of water, scissors, ointment, and enough linen to cover his full arm three times over. After a few murmured words from Emily , she set down her bundle and hurried away, leaving Emily to kneel before him. To cradle his hand tightly within hers.

A sensation he couldn’t even enjoy, for the heat of the fire in the hearth mixed with the burn of his frustration—his shame—to create an inferno that was altogether stifling.

He cleared the dryness from his throat, producing a sound that had regrettable similarities to a growl. “ There’s no need for this fuss. I’m? —”

“ It will only take a moment.” She peeked beneath the towel and, seemingly satisfied, started the meticulous task of peeling it away.

He sat rigidly, watching her work with an odd sort of fascination—because he didn’t want attention if this was the cause, but he also couldn’t move or look elsewhere. His finger, while covered in blood, no longer appeared to be actively bleeding, which he supposed he should count as a victory. Yet it was hard to think of it as such when the gash to his pride remained open and festering.

“ You look as somber as if you’ve just done battle with Napoleon .” She dipped the clean edge of the towel into the basin, pausing just long enough to meet his eyes before patting it against his bloodied skin. “ Not to worry. I’m certain this will heal quickly.”

“ My finger isn’t the problem,” he muttered. Her strokes were so gentle, so delicate. A striking contrast to the tension in his chest and throbbing in his head, which refused to let him give in to the pleasure of her touch. “ I shouldn’t have been so inattentive. Shouldn’t have stayed awake half the night trying to fashion a kissing bough. Shouldn’t have slept the morning away and gotten off course.”

Which was it: did he feel angry at himself for sleeping not long enough or too long? He didn’t know. Perhaps it was a combination of both, along with the countless other regrets that wouldn’t stop grating at him. Shouldn’t have broken my hand, shouldn’t have run off to the Mediterranean , shouldn’t have been so damn ignorant of everything but my selfish whims.

“ You needn’t be so severe with yourself. An accidental slip of the hand could have happened regardless of when, where, or how much you slept.” She abandoned the towel in favor of the linen, making a precise cut and dabbing on a little of the ointment. “ The party preparations will still get done one way or another.”

No thanks to him. No thanks to the weather, either, which would impede the tenants from coming if the storm didn’t soon relent. Which , somehow, was also beginning to feel like his fault.

He clenched his jaw, following the adept movements of her fingers as she wound the linen over his cut, then tied it securely in place. Once again, she’d come to his rescue. Undone another of his mishaps.

Her brandy-colored eyes darted back up to his face, and for a moment, she was neither working nor releasing his hand but simply looking at him with her palm beneath his fingertips.

I once fancied myself in love with you . The echo of her words wouldn’t stop careening through his head. Specifically , the derisive lilt to them, as if she couldn’t believe she’d ever harbored sentiments so absurd.

Why hadn’t he been a different person back then?

Why wasn’t he a different person now: competent instead of lacking?

He stood briskly, pressing his newly bandaged hand to his side and squaring his shoulders. “ Thank you. I should return to the great hall and see to the last of the decorating.” Surely , he could hang a small bit of greenery without causing another disaster.

He didn’t miss the way her hand stiffened, even though the movement was slight. “ Very well. I’ll get back to the parsnips.” She pushed to her feet, swooping down to retrieve the leftover supplies and marching toward the worktable without another word.

Leaving him to watch the swish of her skirts before giving himself another figurative kick into action and rushing toward the great hall to decorate. To get back to progressing and put the mishap behind him.

The finger mishap, at any rate.

He climbed the stairs by taking one rigid, methodical step after another, his finger dully throbbing from the cut. His entire hand prickling from the lingering heat of her touch.

An ache for something that could have been but wasn’t.

If he put it in perspective, his accident with the knife was only a small one, apt to make little difference in the end. But as for all the other ways he’d blundered …

Perhaps there was no coming back from those.