He flushed at her compliment, liking the way her red lips clung to each syllable of his name. Her smile was full of open, unabashed admiration. He didn’t know whether she was loyal and steady like Creath, because he didn’t know her at all, really. But she was certainly enthusiastic and warmhearted. When he was with her, she always made him feel good about himself.
Except for the crippling guilt, of course.
He couldn’t help noticing how adorable she looked with a pretty cutwork apron tied round her trim waist and a bit of potato peel stuck to her chin. Standing at the big wooden worktable over a bowl of potato pudding, she slowly licked the spoon clean.
He suddenly wanted to kiss her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his entire life.
Guilt, guilt, guilt.
“Mmm,” Chrystabel hummed, laying a hand on arm. “Come, you must try some. Whoever would have thought those ugly brown things could make such a savory pudding? We used onions, cloves, nutmeg—”
“No, thank you,” he snapped, shaking off her hand. “I’m not hungry.” Then he felt instantly ashamed of his rudeness. He was lashing out at Chrystabel, when in truth he was just angry with himself for being a faithless, despicable worm.
Well, he was a little angry with Chrystabel—for taking Creath on a walk and for wearing a nice dress—but that was no excuse to act ungentlemanly. He just couldn’t keep his head on straight whenever Chrystabel was near. He needed to finish his business here so he could leave the kitchen and get back to avoiding her.
“My valet told me I’d been summoned here,” he told her, “but he didn’t know why. Do you know if Mrs. Potter needs more potatoes?”
“Thank you, but we have plenty,” Mrs. Potter said, bustling by.
“I agree.” Chrystabel gestured toward the large bowl of potato pudding. “This dish seems to be quite enough for all of us, don’t you think? I asked you here to—”
“You asked me here?”
“Yes, I was hoping you’d help me make some mulled wine. My family always drinks mulled wine while we sing carols on Christmas Eve.”
“Then wouldn’t you rather make it with your family? Why don’t you ask your sister or brother to help?”
“I’ve set them to other tasks.” Two kitchen servants deposited a massive strawberry tart on the worktable. “Matthew is seeing to the yule log, and Arabel—”
“How about Creath?” he interrupted. “You could ask Creath. She’s just sitting in the library.”
“I went to ask her, but she looked a little sad. She seems happier with a book.”
Chrystabel was perceptive. Which should be a positive trait, but in her it only irritated him. He gritted his teeth—he found himself doing that a lot around her. “I’ve never made mulled wine. What makes you think I can help?”
“Anyone can help. It’s easy.”
Anyone could help, but she’d asked him. Why did that make him want to launch himself at her lips—when not five minutes ago he’d felt only apathy at the thought of kissing his own betrothed? What had he done to deserve this perverse torture?
He could only thank his lucky stars that at least she wasn’t bending down or leaning over. Maybe they could get this done quickly, so he could leave here relatively unscathed.
“Let’s get started, then,” he said. “We’ll need to get some wine from the cellar.”
“So Mrs. Potter told me. But I was just about to hide some tokens in the strawberry tart, since we don’t have plum pudding to put them in.”
“I thought we were making mulled wine.”
“After we hide the tokens.” She dug in her skirts and pulled out a few trinkets, setting them on the table. “We’ll take turns. Do you want to go first? Don’t forget to make a wish.”
Wanting to get this over with, he grabbed the silver penny and closed his eyes momentarily—not because he was wishing for anything, but rather to pray for the strength to control his runaway urges. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, then shoved the penny between two strawberries.
“What did you wish for?” she asked.
“If I tell you, it won’t come true.”
“Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed you were superstitious.”
“Isn’t wishing on a token superstitious in the first place?”
She smiled and picked up a small ring, drawing his attention to her graceful hands. The tiny ring would easily fit her slim fingers. When she closed her eyes, he saw her lips move. He had no talent for lip reading, but from the way her tongue flicked behind her front teeth, he thought she’d mouthed the word “love.”
Was there another gentleman she loved? he wondered, feeling a ridiculous dart of envy, then feeling guilty for having had the feeling.
Why should it matter who she loved? He was marrying Creath.
She pushed the ring into the tart, then licked sticky-sweet strawberry sauce off her fingers.
He was marrying Creath.
He had to remember he was marrying Creath.
After that, he made sure the rest went very quickly. He buried the thimble, she hid a small, boiled wishbone, and then he snatched up the last—and smallest—item.
“What on earth is this?”
“It’s an anchor. To symbolize safe harbor.”
“Isn’t it one of those hooks for fastening clothes? It doesn’t look like an anchor.”
“It resembles one,” she said defensively, as though there were any distinction. “It’s symbolic, as I said. And it was the closest thing to an anchor shape I could find on short notice. Just hide it, will you?”
He did, and this time he did make a wish. He wished to look at Chrystabel and feel nothing from now on.
When he opened his eyes, his wish failed to come true. “Can we make the mulled wine now?”
“That’s the plan. Where’s the cellar?”
“This way,” he said, leading her around many busy servants and down a dimly lit flight of stone stairs.
The cellar was a vaulted stone room lit with torches. The walls were lined with
