Three

W hen Greystone Castle came into view, Jonathan Stanhope, the Duke of Rathborne, could scarcely parse the tangle of sensations that rose within him.

Apprehension, regret, tenderness, hope, melancholy, shame—all made their appearance. But despite the considerable pain attending each, there was yet another feeling which stood above the rest. One that had plagued him without cease—in fact, with greater increase—during the whole course of his ride.

Namely, hunger.

It was past three o’clock, and he had yet to eat a single bite of food today.

He was ravenous.

Having left Rome in early December, he’d arrived back in England only four days ago. When he finally made it to Twineham yesterday, he’d been dismayed to realize his most recent letter to his steward must have gone astray.

Instead of finding Twineham Park open and ready to receive him, he’d found it entirely deserted excepting a bewildered butler and a handful of under-servants. The rest of the staff were loaned out—a most prudent measure while the duke and his mother had been away from home all the past year, but not nearly so prudent when the duke arrived home to un-aired chambers, un-made beds, and nary a kitchen hand in sight.

No matter, easygoing Jonathan had declared. He would sup at the village inn and break his fast there the next morning, as well. By then it would be time to set off for Greystone.

But one thing or another had kept him busy all morning, until he found himself obliged to skip breakfast and begin his journey if he meant (and he very much did mean) to arrive on time.

hours later, he severely mourned that decision.

But through the pangs of his stomach, he was not entirely oblivious to those of his spirit. It was no small thing, returning to this place.

Ah, here was the old quarry, on a rise beside the castle. He and Claire had walked out that way one morning early in their courtship. He remembered how gamely she’d climbed these terraces, eager to show him the view. How she’d slipped on a mossy stone and he’d caught her round the waist—the first time they’d touched.

And here was the bench encircling one of the great old trees dotting the lawn. That was where he’d proposed, on a warm evening in late summer, as they’d sat watching the sun dip below the horizon.

And here, after crossing the drawbridge and passing beneath the barbican gate, was the courtyard with its circular carriage sweep. This was the last place he’d glimpsed Claire, on a cold, gray day very like the present one. He could still picture her just as she’d looked then, standing in the middle of the sweep, watching him drive away from her.

Jonathan blinked the image from his eyes as his chaise came to a halt. A pack of Greystone servants descended at once, opening his door, retrieving his luggage, directing his team toward the stables. The sober and wiry old butler, Mr. Evans, led him into the saloon, where the family had assembled to greet their guests.

A middling-sized room with with a bank of mullioned windows, the saloon was decked out in laurel garlands and silvered candles. Though a roaring Christmas fire had drawn most everybody to the hearth, Jonathan’s fancy was caught by something else: the sideboard bearing a late luncheon.

His stomach rumbled.

“Rathborne, you made it.” With a hearty clap on the back, Noah Chase called Jonathan’s attention from the luncheon. “Good man! I feared you were lost in some Roman labyrinth.”

Jonathan chuckled. “The Labyrinth was Greek.”

“Whichever.”

As they shook hands, Jonathan was surprised to find just how glad he felt to see his friend. It struck him only now that the past year had been far and away the most solitary of his life. And after spending many months far from home among strangers and servants, then defying rough seas and punishing winter roads to return, he’d arrived only to find his house dark, empty, and devoid of comforts.

But here at Greystone, with a great fire in the hearth and a warm welcome from an old friend, he felt at last that he was home.

Unfortunately, such warm feelings lasted only till the next step in the receiving line. “Your grace,” Elizabeth said frostily, her green eyes throwing icicles. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, Lady Elizabeth.” After a very proper bow, Jonathan judged it best to move along in all haste.

But there the line seemed to end.

Where was Claire?

A quick glance around answered his question, for a familiar figure stood nearest to the fire. He couldn’t see her face, but he would recognize her form anywhere. Willowy and regal, clothed in lavender poplin to match her unusual eyes, every glossy dark curl in its place…and enjoying the company of another man.

Though he and Claire appeared to be on intimate terms, the man was a stranger to Jonathan. He looked several years younger with fair hair, mild manners, and a boyishly handsome face. When he said something that made Claire laugh, Jonathan ground his teeth.

It wasn’t until her second show of amusement that he noticed her laugh was different. It had always been boisterous and unbridled, almost to the point of indecorum, had she not possessed the charm to carry it off.

But now she laughed with restraint, with modesty. With a demure hand hiding her mouth.

Her posture, too, seemed different: upright and conscientious where it used to be elegant and natural. Her manner was all civility, no color. No spark. The change in her was striking—just as Noah had reported in his letter.

Well, not exactly as reported. When Noah wrote that his sister was in a bad way and, on her account, he must urge his friend’s swift return, Jonathan had feared the worst. Bed-bound with melancholy, perhaps, or a dangerous thirst for strong drink. Or the corrupting influence of a seducer.

But here she was, out of bed and apparently untarnished. When she turned, her face was as lovely and blooming as ever, her smile serene. She didn’t look ill, or depraved, or even unhappy.

But nor did she look like herself. She looked…less. Less Claire than before. As though she’d somehow grown smaller, or more indistinct, or farther away.

Was Jonathan to blame for this alteration? He knew the events of last Christmas had changed him profoundly; that she may have been likewise affected was not implausible. But for now he could only guess at her feelings, since his informant had been unable to give assurances.

That Noah suspected Claire still loved him, Jonathan did not doubt. But he saw no evidence of love for him at the moment, engrossed as she was in another man’s attentions. And since brother and sister were not in each other’s confidence, he had to take Noah’s suspicions with a grain of salt.

Unsure as he was of Claire’s feelings, Jonathan knew his own: He still loved her. He wanted to marry her. He’d come to Greystone not just in response to Noah’s summons, but also for himself, to see if he could persuade her to give him just one more chance.

Claire turned her head. Upon her first sight of him, her placid countenance betrayed nothing. She excused herself from the fair-haired gentleman, coming forward with a hostess’s smile. “Welcome to Greystone, your grace.”

She curtsied, and he bowed, striving to match her composure. “I’m pleased to see you, Lady Claire.”

Something flickered in her eyes. “Won’t you take some refreshment?”

“Gladly.” With relief he followed her to the sideboard—for despite the sincere yearnings within his breast, he hadn’t lost sight of that enticing spread since the moment he entered.

After directing a footman to make up Jonathan’s plate, she turned back to him brightly. “We asked Monsieur Laurent whether we might do something memorable for our first meal, so what do you think he suggested? Instead of oranges in our Christmas Eve baskets, we have a whole luncheon of oranges! Goose in an orange-wine sauce, orange mincemeat pie, orange-and-lemon-zested parsnip…”

Jonathan didn’t hear the rest. He was too busy bailing out his sinking heart. By Jove, everything looked delicious. Succulent goose, steaming hot pie, oysters—oh, and lamb as well!

Too bad he couldn’t eat a single bite of it.

How could Claire have forgot about his citrus curse? Eating or touching the fruit had always given Jonathan a terrible rash, as she had certainly learned last Christmas Eve when they all received their baskets.

She’d made a big fuss, ordering everyone to eat their oranges in their own rooms lest the insidious juice should find its way to Jonathan. Then, the next morning, he’d awakened to find a fresh-made basket hung on the door, beautifully woven out of little scrolls of paper and filled with all new gifts: Claire’s handiwork.

He looked without listening as she explained the rest of the menu, scrutinizing her face for any symptom of cunning. Had she grown so indifferent as to forget all she knew of him? Or was this intentional?

Regardless, propriety dictated only one response. “What a delightful spread,” he said, accepting the plate. It would be rude to refuse or request alternate fare.

But he reckoned he could get out of eating it.

“If it’s no imposition,” he added, mustering all the self-consequence of a duke, “might I take luncheon in my chamber? I should like to settle in directly.”

“By all means.” Claire signaled Mr. Evans, who sent his footmen to collect the demanding guest and the lunch things. Jonathan discreetly slipped the butler a shilling.

Noah stopped Jonathan on his way out. “That seemed a pleasant meeting,” he murmured, nodding toward Claire.

Jonathan followed his friend’s gaze to find its object conspicuously looking elsewhere. He would have disagreed with Noah’s interpretation, but he had yet to figure out his own.

And when briefly, seemingly in spite of herself, Claire met his gaze, Jonathan could not glean any more. Which was odd in itself: the Claire he’d known had been an open book, too assured of herself to bother hiding what she felt.

“It could have been worse,” he finally replied.

Apparently satisfied with this, Noah stepped aside. “I’ll not keep you from your luncheon. But would you join me in the billiard room afterward?”

Jonathan glanced at the longcase clock. “Will there be time for a game before dinner?”

“Two or three, I should think. When our French chef arrived, Elizabeth prevailed at last in imposing fashionable hours upon us. We dine at seven.”

Jonathan groaned inwardly. It was only half past three. He eyed his luncheon plate, almost tempted to brave the rash.

But then he brightened to remember—from his first Christmas at Greystone—that his guest bedchamber had harbored an elegant domed platter, stocked daily with festive treats. Salvation would soon be at hand!

Before quitting the room, he cast a final glance back at Claire. She’d returned to the fair-haired gentleman’s side.

Lucky young chub.