betrayed him, Mother, in the most horrible way, and now I fear it’s too late.”
“That you feel that way means that you still care deeply for him,” her mother counseled sagely. “And dare I say, that you love him? Otherwise, hurting him wouldn’t hurt you so much. Now wipe your eyes, dear, and join us downstairs.”
Margaretta left her there. Moments later, after composing herself, Sophia peered into the drawing room. Sir Keyes and Lady Dundalk sat on a green velvet settee beside the fire conversing with her grandfather. At a nearby table, Daphne and Clarissa arranged apples, oranges, candy, and cookies that would later be placed on the tree. She continued to the dining room, where the table had been set for their Christmas Eve feast. Her grandmother’s crystal, silver plate, and porcelain gleamed atop the snowy-white tablecloths. Marvelous smells wafted down the hall from the direction of the kitchen.
The perfect Christmas! And yet the scene provided her with no comfort. Nothing would ever be perfect without Claxton at her side.
“Everyone,” exclaimed Daphne, rushing out from the drawing room. “There are waits at the door.”
Clarissa pushed their grandfather’s bath chair in the same direction. Wolverton, finding Sophia, winked. Lady Margaretta accompanied them, reaching to wrap a wool scarf around Wolverton’s shoulders.
Glancing back, she called, “Sophia, could you bring the oranges?”
Oranges, yes, which her mother always insisted on giving to carolers, being that they were so rare and she so loved the tradition. From the table in the corridor, she listlessly lifted the basket by its handle and followed everyone else to the front doors.
Arriving at the door, she hovered behind Daphne, but Clarissa elbowed her forward. There were four carolers, but she could see none of their faces. Only the back sides of their sheet music. Really, who didn’t know the words to Christmas carols? What was the world coming to?
“Ready?” she heard one of them murmur. “One, two, three.”
What followed was the worst cacophony of male voices she’d ever heard, no clear tune among them.
“…Snow!”
“On a sleigh!”
“Bells ringing.”
“Angels singing.”
The centermost caroler lifted his music suddenly. “Christmas Eve surprises! It is I!”
At realizing his identity, the air left her lungs. Lord Haden. Yes, she’d invited him, but no, she’d not expected him to come, given present circumstances. Certainly he had every bit a right to despise her as Claxton.
Clarissa laughed delightedly. “Lord Haden.”
Daphne giggled as well. Sophia couldn’t blame them. Next to Claxton, he was probably the most handsome man in London.
“And also
Lord Havering? Sophia blinked in shock. She wasn’t even aware that the two men knew each other, aside from being introduced the morning of her wedding to Claxton.
“So sorry for the deception.” Haden laughed. “We can’t sing, and we don’t really have sheets of music, and none of us could remember the words to any carols. We just wanted to be certain you’d open the door because some of us don’t have proper invitations.”
He swiped the sheet of paper from the third male caroler, who turned out to be Mr. Grisham, Claxton’s cousin. “This fellow in particular.”
“You’re all very welcome here,” her grandfather announced magnanimously.
The blood drained from Sophia’s face as she realized with a sudden dread certainty the identity of the very tall, broad-shouldered fourth caroler. Though he still held the sheet over his face, she would recognize those fingers anywhere and the square, masculine shapes of his fingernails. She’d studied the man with such intense fascination for four days, she’d probably be able to recognize his earlobe if necessary.
She made the sudden decision to flee. To back away into the house, but suddenly Clarissa was there, and Daphne, pushing gently, taking the basket of oranges from her hands—
Everyone jostled past her. Perplexingly, Haden pressed a brotherly kiss to her cheek as he did the same. “Merry Christmas, your Grace.”
She turned to follow him, but the flat side of the door closed in her face.
Slowly she turned back around.
Vane stared at her in silence, tall, beautiful, and elegant. She flushed all over, no longer aware of the chill.
“Hello,” she whispered morosely. “Happy Christmas Eve.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Sophia.” He spoke all in a rush, his breath puffing, visible on the night air. “The day before, don’t you remember, after the Branigans’ baby was born? That whole damn bottle of brandy tipped over and spilled across the carpet and the floor? I’m a lazy, slovenly man, and I didn’t think to clean it up. There was just so much happening. It was enough to help the fire along.”
“No.” She shook her head, imagining for the thousandth time the ravenous path the flames had taken. If only she could go back and do things differently. “It was not the brandy’s fault. Not your fault, but mine. I’ll never forgive myself.”
He shrugged. “The house was old. Neglected. In need of repairs. Mr. Branigan, it seems, is a skilled carpenter, and being that he’s in need of employment appears the perfect candidate to undertake them. In the spring, he’ll enlist help from some men in the village.”
The stone in her chest did not grow any lighter.
“Mr. Branigan can’t replace your dear mother’s letters, yours and Haden’s.” Just speaking of those treasures lost renewed her regret. Her voice became so thick she could hardly speak. “Your precious box of memories. All destroyed because of me.”
“Oh, that. I had already placed Haden’s letter in my coat pocket and gave it to him the next day. As for the rest, we managed to save the most important thing here.” From his pocket he pulled a small rectangular box tied with gold ribbon. He shook it gently. Inside, something slid back and forth, bumping the sides. “It is my most precious treasure, really. But you can look.”
An overwhelming curiosity overcame her, a desperate need to see the item in the box, to know that something had been salvaged. Anything to lessen the smothering guilt she’d carried since that day.
“You’re certain?” She stepped closer.
“Yes, look.” He rested the box on his palm.
She fell back. “No. I don’t deserve to see.”
He shook the box again. “I insist.”
With the box rested upon his open hand, she slid the ribbon free and lifted the lid.
A small mirror lay faceup in the box. Her own face peered back at her.
“A mirror,” she whispered, not feeling much better after all. All those letters, the miniatures. Lost. “Not the slightest bit of charring. Now, to whom did this mirror belong? Your mother?”
“No, silly,” Claxton murmured, his gaze steady and somehow questioning. “The mirror I bought from a trinket vendor for twopence on the ride over.”
Her thoughts buckled, making no sense of his words. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s not the mirror that is my most precious treasure, goose.
She must have misheard him. But no, because the words he’d spoken still echoed in her ears.
She backed away. “Don’t say that.”
He followed, the house lamp illuminating his face and hair and the snowflakes falling to dust his shoulders. “Not that you’re a possession, mind you, but you are my most special thing. The box that burned held my past, Sophia. So be it. It is gone. You are my future.”
She could only listen, stunned and uncertain of what to feel or say.
“By the way, it is Christmas Eve. There is a gift in this box for you under the mirror.” Again, he lifted the box, holding it between them.
She shook her head. “I don’t deserve a gift.”
“Well, too late,” he asserted crisply. “If you don’t at least look at it, you’ll hurt my feelings.”
