Chapter 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I t was official. The entire world, including the weather, was conspiring against Lily.

After a night of tossing and turning, where Lily cried more than she slept, she’d hoped to leave Wintervale Manor early in the morning. Sometime in the middle of the night, she’d started packing her trunk, but it was most hurriedly done. But her nocturnal efforts proved fruitless in the morning when she pulled back the curtains, only to see the incessant storm outside. It raged on for hours and was proving most disagreeable and contrary to her plans.

The snow that she had enjoyed throughout her stay at Wintervale was now a detriment. She couldn’t stay here. Not under the circumstances. And such humiliation. Neither could she leave in such blinding snow.

She did the only thing she could do. She rang for a tray. A quarter of an hour later, there was a knock at her door.

“You may enter,” Lily said to the servant.

The door opened, but it was not a servant.

Beatrice entered Lily’s room with a tray in her hands, her expression warm with concern as she closed the door softly behind her. “Lily, dear, I’ve brought you something to eat. Are you feeling any better?”

Lily sat on the edge of her bed, her head propped up against the posts. “Thank you, Beatrice. I have a headache,” she replied, offering a faint, unconvincing smile.

Beatrice set the tray on the bedside table, studying her cousin carefully. “I imagine it must be quite the headache,” she said, her gaze drifting toward the trunk half-packed and sitting near the foot of Lily’s bed. She arched an eyebrow. “You don’t normally pack a trunk for a mere headache.”

Lily sighed, glancing at the offending trunk before turning her gaze away. “It hardly signifies when the weather has sided with Lord Brinton,” she muttered, a touch of bitterness in her tone.

Beatrice gave her a knowing smile, pulling a chair closer to the bed and sitting down. “Even Lord Brinton doesn’t have quite that much sway over the elements, dear. Now, tell me what’s truly wrong.”

Lily took a steadying breath, her fingers toying with the lace edge of the bedspread. “I suppose there’s no hiding it from you, is there?” She hesitated, the weight of the past days pressing heavily on her chest. But Beatrice’s calm, attentive gaze encouraged her, and so, in a quiet, steady voice, Lily began to tell her everything.

She recounted the moments she’d shared with Lord Brinton—the conversations, the glances, the vulnerability she had begun to feel in his presence. She told Beatrice of the engagement and then the wager, and how the full truth of it tore her heart open.

“And then Camden told me about the wager, about the mistletoe … everything,” Lily finished, her voice cracking just slightly as she looked down, unable to meet her cousin’s eyes. “He deceived me, Beatrice. All of it was for a game, and I believed him. I thought I could trust him.”

Beatrice reached over, taking Lily’s hand in hers and giving it a gentle squeeze. She was quiet for a moment, as if absorbing each word, and then let out a long, measured breath. “Oh, Lily,” she said softly, pulling her cousin into a warm embrace. “I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through this. I know it must hurt deeply.”

Lily pressed her lips together, her gaze still distant. “I don’t see how things could ever feel right again. It’s like everything has been turned upside down, and I don’t know what to trust anymore.”

Beatrice pulled back slightly, her hands resting on Lily’s shoulders. “You may not see it now, but things will get better. They always do, in time.”

“How?” Lily asked, her voice barely a whisper. “I can’t even look at him, knowing it all started as some wager…”

“It’s like the weather,” Beatrice said gently, a small smile on her face. “Storms never last forever, dear. At some point, the clouds must part. The storm will relent.”

Lily managed a small smile in return, though doubt still flickered in her eyes. “I suppose,” she murmured, though the conviction wasn’t quite there.

Beatrice gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before standing and moving back toward the tray. “For now, I’ll see that you’re brought trays throughout the day so you can rest. No need to trouble yourself further. And I’ll check on you later to see how you’re faring.”

“Thank you, Beatrice,” Lily replied softly, watching her cousin with a flicker of gratitude as Beatrice straightened her shawl and made her way to the door.

Beatrice paused in the doorway, turning back to give Lily a warm smile. “Take heart, my dear.” And with a soft click, she closed the door, leaving Lily alone with her thoughts.

A few hours into her self-imposed solitary confinement, she started pacing the room. There was not much to do in her room. The only book she’d procured for her room was poetry, and that particular book and topic reminded her too much of the person she most wished to forget at the moment. She had paper and quill for writing, but who would she write to? And even if she did, there would be no letters posted today.

Her trunk sat open on her floor, making it difficult to pace in a straight line in her room, but she didn’t have the energy to store the trunk away again.

A soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. A maid entered with a tea tray, her cheerful demeanor a stark contrast to Lily’s quiet mood.

“Thank you,” Lily murmured, her gaze downcast.

“Oh, and miss,” the maid added, setting down the tray with a knowing smile, “there’s a little something extra for you this afternoon.”

With a small nod, she curtsied and left, leaving Lily to stare curiously at the tray. Amid the usual arrangement of tea, sandwiches, and cake, there was a folded scrap of paper. Tentatively, she picked it up and unfolded it.

In Lord Brinton’s unmistakable hand, the note read:

"When someone speaks to you, you listen with such attention that it feels like you’ve granted them the greatest honor. It’s as though each word matters, each person matters. That kindness, quiet though it may be, is no small thing."

Lily’s heart gave an unsteady beat. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to soften, but his words lingered in her mind, melting away a little of her resolve. Still, she shook herself and resolved not to be moved by his words, folding the note and setting it aside as she turned her attention to her tea.

As the day passed, similar notes appeared with every tray. Each scrap of paper held something new—a thoughtful observation, a gentle compliment, a memory shared between them.

"When you sing, there’s a tenderness in your voice that captures everyone who listens. It’s not showy or loud, but it reaches the heart, as if you’re sharing a quiet secret with each person. I find myself leaning in, just to hold on to each note a little longer."

And another:

"Whenever you speak of books, especially the ones dear to you, your eyes gain a certain light. It’s as though the story lives within you, ready to spill out with every word. I could listen to you talk of books for hours and never tire of it."

These messages, seemingly simple and unguarded, were words from a man who had been watching, who had cared deeply, even as he had tried to hide it.

By the evening of the second day, Lily’s heart was no longer frozen but conflicted. His notes painted a picture of a man more genuine and observant than she had ever thought possible. She paced her room, struggling between her old wounds and the undeniable warmth creeping back into her heart. She now had more than a dozen small notes from him, each delineating a virtue she possessed or a quiet moment he had noticed.

This morning she’d received a note that had her remembering the particulars of their time together.

"There’s a moment right before you laugh, a spark in your eyes that hints at a mischief hidden beneath the surface. It’s not just the sound of your laughter that I find charming; it’s the way you seem to relish a witty remark, almost as if you’re sharing a secret joy with yourself."

She’d read some of the notes multiple times. She tucked the most recent into the stack that was now tied with a ribbon. She couldn’t stay here and continue to wait for more notes, but the storm had still continued all of today, as it had yesterday. She still didn’t feel up to participating with the other guests yet, and she didn’t want to confront Lord Brinton. The pain still felt too raw. But she was going stir-crazy.

“Perhaps I’ll go down to the conservatory,” she said aloud to herself. The house felt quiet with most of the guests engaged in games or conversations in the drawing room, and the conservatory seemed a safe, peaceful place to think.

As she stepped into the conservatory, the glass panes were frosted over from the cold outside, but inside, the warmth allowed the rich green of the plants to thrive, a stark contrast to the snow-laden world beyond.

She wandered among the plants, breathing in the scent of soil and evergreen. The peace of the space soothed her mind until she heard the familiar sound of light footsteps behind her.

Turning, she saw a servant bow and hand her yet another slip of paper.

“Another note, miss.”

Lily took it, a mixture of anticipation and resignation filling her as she unfolded it.

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but if I could go back, I’d have started again with honesty. I would have chosen you over any wager without hesitation. I’m so sorry.”

The words softened her heart, each one speaking of regret and hope, but not presuming forgiveness. She felt her resolve slipping further, her mind filled with the warmth of his presence and the sincerity of his apology.

That night, Beatrice knocked softly on her door, a gentle expression on her face as she entered.

“Lily,” she began, her voice filled with compassion, “the snow has stopped. We should be able to travel in a few days if you’re still set on leaving early. But I hope, my dear, that you will consider staying a little longer. I know this hasn’t been easy for you, but Henry…” She paused, glancing down at the stack of notes on Lily’s vanity table. “I think he’s changed, Lily. I think he’s shown you his heart.”

Lily glanced down, her fingers grazing the edges of the notes. She nodded slowly, feeling the remnants of her anger dissolve entirely. She wasn’t certain what she wanted to do, but she did know that her heart ached for a resolution.

The next morning, Lily lay in bed longer than she had. When her eyes adjusted to the room, she saw that a tray already sat on her desk.

With anticipation, she saw Henry’s slip of paper that was nestled between her tea cup and the saucer. She read it and then went back to sleep.

Around midday, as she sat by the fire in her room, a sudden movement caught her attention. Another note had been slid under her door. She reached down to pick it up, her pulse quickening as she recognized the familiar hand.

“Lily, please forgive me. I realize now how foolish I was to ever play with something as precious as your trust. If my presence here brings you any discomfort, I will go. You deserve the rest of the festivities free from the burden of my mistakes. Please don’t let me keep you from enjoying the warmth of Wintervale and your family. — Henry.”

She sat there, the note clutched in her hands, her heart beating wildly. He was planning to leave. And despite everything, she knew she couldn’t let him go.

The group was not gathered for any activities, and Lord Brinton was nowhere to be found.

Lily’s heart pounded as she moved through the halls of Wintervale Manor, her breath hitching with every hurried step. She had searched the drawing room, the library, and even peeked into the conservatory, hoping to find him, to say the words she had left unspoken. But Henry was nowhere to be found. A knot tightened in her stomach, and she quickened her pace, heading toward the billiards room, the last place she thought he might be.

As she entered, she found Lord Camden, leaning casually against the billiard table, studying the green felt with a cue in hand. His expression shifted when he noticed her in the doorway, an eyebrow quirking in surprise.

“Miss Ashworth,” he greeted, taking a measured look at her flushed cheeks. “You seem rather determined.”

“Where is Henry?” she asked breathlessly, her voice edged with urgency. “I need to speak with him.”

Camden tilted his head, his expression unreadable for a moment. “He left this morning.”

Lily felt as if the floor had dropped beneath her. “Left?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “But that’s impossible. I only just received this note. I need to talk to him.”

Camden’s lips quirked with mild amusement, though his eyes held a touch of sympathy. “Strange, isn’t it? The impression one gives. You hardly seemed as though you were eager to speak with him over the last few days.”

“That was before.” She faltered, her face heating, then regained her composure, meeting his gaze with determination. “Now I do.”

Camden studied her for a moment, then shook his head, chuckling softly. “You really are a puzzle, Miss Ashworth. But I can see why Brinton was smitten with you.”

Lily heard the past tense in his statement. Lord Brinton had previously been smitten with her. But what about now? Did he still feel the same way?

He set his cue aside, giving her his full attention. “For what it’s worth, I apologize. I wasn’t trying to come between you, truly. Perhaps I’ve learned my lesson to avoid getting foxed at a house party.”

A small smile tugged at her lips, despite her frustration. “Indeed, that would be wise, Lord Camden. But while we’re setting things straight,” she added, her gaze steady, “you should know that Henry did, in fact, win the wager. He only pretended that he hadn’t.”

Camden’s brows lifted in surprise, his gaze sharpening. “Is that so? Please, explain.”

Lily took a breath, choosing her words carefully. “There was a day I kissed him under the mistletoe—before he ended the wager, I mean. In fact, it was that very kiss which led him to call it off. Henry didn’t want that kiss to count toward your wager. He wanted something real.” Her voice softened, filled with the emotion that had welled up over the past few days. “That was his true reason for forfeiting.”

Camden’s face shifted from shock to a sort of stunned admiration, as though he were seeing Henry in a new light. “He truly is quite something. To claim a forfeit when he’d already won. I can only imagine how sincere he was in his pursuit of you, Miss Ashworth.” He gave her a thoughtful look, then nodded. “You have a good one there. I hope you don’t let him go too easily.”

“Do you know where he is?” Lily asked, a flicker of hope igniting in her chest. “Could you take me to him?”

Camden gave her a rare, genuine smile. “I believe he left for the inn with plans to depart tomorrow morning.”

“Then help me,” she said earnestly. “Help me make things right with him?”

Camden straightened, a glint of mischief softening his usual aloof demeanor as he extended his hand to her. “For you, Miss Ashworth?” He gave an exaggerated bow over her hand, his eyes twinkling. “Anything.”