Arabel gasped. “Why on earth did you do that?”
“I need something that looks like an anchor.” Chrystabel handed her the little hook. “Don’t you think this resembles an anchor?”
“A little, I suppose,” Arabel said doubtfully. “What’s it for?”
“For a pudding token.”
“Oh!” Her eyes lit up. “We’re having Christmas pudding tonight?”
“Well, no. Tremayne’s staff was told not to make any beforehand, and it’s too late to begin now. We’re having strawberry tart instead.”
Arabel’s pout looked out of place on her normally cheerful face. “Strawberry tart is a sad substitute for plum pudding.”
“It’s the best substitute we’ve got,” Chrystabel retorted. “Plum pudding takes weeks to mature, and we have but a few hours. Anyhow, aren’t you amazed that we’re going to eat strawberries in wintertime?”
“That’s certainly…exotic. And I’m sure the tart will be lovely. It just won’t be Christmasy.”
“But strawberries are red,” Chrystabel persisted. “That’s festive! And we’ll still have the pudding tokens. It’ll be plenty Christmasy, you’ll see.”
Her sister’s shrug was noncommittal. “I wonder what happened to the plum pudding we made on Stir-Up Sunday.”
“I tried to sneak it into the wagon, but Matthew caught me.” As luggage space was limited, their brother had drawn the line at bringing sticky Christmas pudding with them to Wales.
Arabel sighed. “Such a waste.”
“Not entirely. I left the pudding out on our kitchen worktable for whoever comes to claim Grosmont Grange. But first…” A tiny smile curving her lips, Chrystabel waited for her sister to look up. “First I doused the thing in vinegar and stuffed it with enough pepper to choke an army.”
While Arabel dried her tears of mirth, Chrystabel rummaged in her sparsely filled jewel box to find her daintiest ring. As she slipped one on and off her pinkie, her maid knocked and entered.
“Oh, there you are, Mary.”
“Here’s the thimble you asked for, milady.”
“Just in time.” Chrystabel tucked the ring and thimble into her pocket, together with the little hook. Her tasks here were finished. “Mary, do you think you could locate my store of fabric cuttings and bring it here? If you’ll wait for her, Arabel, I’d like you to leave you in charge of the gift wrapping.” On her way out, she paused before the fancy gilt mirror.
“Where are you off to?” Arabel asked.
“A meeting in the kitchen.” She tweaked her wide neckline back into place with fingers that were shaking slightly—from fatigue, no doubt. It had been a long day, and it was nowhere near over. Dipping her little finger into a pot, she smoothed berry-red pomade over her lips.
For this particular meeting, she wanted to look utterly kissable.
FIFTEEN
HAVING NO IDEA why he’d been summoned to the kitchen late that afternoon, Joseph was on his way when he passed the library and decided to take a detour.
As he’d expected, Creath was inside. But for once she wasn’t reading. A book lay open and forgotten on her lap while she stared at the dancing flames in the fireplace.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, startling her from her reverie. “What are you thinking about?”
A vague expression clouded her face. She still seemed preoccupied. “Well, I went out for that walk, and—”
“You what?” All the air seemed to have left his lungs.
“I took a walk. You knew I was going.”
“I most certainly did not.”
A little crease appeared between her brows. “Yes, you did. Chrystabel disguised me as a boy, which ended up not mattering because no one saw us.”
He might’ve known Chrystabel was behind this. More proof of the recklessness that made them incompatible. More reason to avoid her—and disturbing thoughts of her—at all costs.
He pulled a deep breath into his now-functioning lungs. “Thank God you weren’t seen.”
She managed to wave off his concern while still looking concerned herself. “That’s not what I was thinking about. It’s just…well…I guess things felt different out there.” She looked away from him, back toward the fire. “And ever since, I’ve been thinking about how you shouldn’t marry me. About how it really wouldn’t be fair to you.”
“Not that again.” He was tired of having this argument with both her and his mother, but he wouldn’t berate Creath when she was looking so anxious. Instead, he chucked her under the chin. “You can’t change my mind, sweetheart. Not now that I’ve finally got used to the idea. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. Forever.”
“Are you sure?” she asked wanly.
“I’m sure,” he said, and if a vision of Chrystabel seemed to flash across his vision, he knew better than to pay it any mind. “Are you all right?”
“I suppose so. Yes, I’m fine.” Mustering a small, brave smile, Creath picked up her book. “Do feel free to go about whatever it was you were doing.”
“I’ve been summoned to the kitchen. I dug up twenty potatoes earlier, but I suspect they want more.”
“I like potatoes.”
“Me, too. See how compatible we are?” Glad to see her familiar smile widen, he considered reassuring her with a kiss. But he didn’t feel like kissing her just now. “Enjoy your book,” he said instead on his way out.
Everything will be fine, he told himself as he continued on toward the kitchen. It’s going to be fine. Creath was loyal and steady and a good friend, and theirs would be a pleasant, serene marriage. Young people of his class rarely had the luxury of wedding for love—or lust, for that matter—so marrying for other reasons was no great sacrifice. He could easily have faced a much worse choice.
Or had no choice at all.
Reaching the enormous kitchen, he found it crammed with Ashcroft and Trevor servants, all of them hard at work. Given the last-minute decision to celebrate Christmas, he wasn’t surprised. But he was surprised to find Chrystabel there, too.
Surprised and none too pleased. Aside from wishing to avoid her in general, he was vexed that she’d put Creath at risk by taking her out for a walk.
“What are you doing here?” he burst out peevishly.
“Tasting the
