“Father’s pendant?” Matthew’s eyes widened. “He gave it to you, Chrys. It’s yours.”
“I was only supposed to keep it until he came back. But then”—she swallowed the lump forming in her throat—“he didn’t.” Moving to her brother, she draped the long chain around his neck. “It’s yours now. As it should be. Passed down the generations from father to son.” She touched the lion one last time.
Silently, she bade her father goodbye. Silently, she forgave him for leaving her. Though she would always keep him in her heart, she had a new man to love now. Arabel had been right: she was a woman grown, and she didn’t need her parents anymore. She could rely on Joseph, on her brother and sister, and, most of all, on herself.
And she’d always have Christmas. Each year, for the rest of her life, she would celebrate her father’s memory by honoring the traditions he had loved. And she’d never let anyone—certainly not a big bully like Cromwell—tell her she couldn’t.
The pendant looked right on Matthew, and when he tucked it beneath his shirt as Father had worn it—next to his heart—that seemed right, too. Evidently this tradition had more value than she’d thought.
“I have one gift left,” she said, swiveling to face Joseph. When her nervous gaze met his, his eyes softened. Her heart gave that familiar stutter.
And all at once, she realized looking at Joseph and having Joseph look back at her didn’t seem right.
Because it was more than right.
It was magic.
Her nerves melting away, she smiled up at him with nothing but love. “Will you come with me?”
NINETEEN
“ME?” JOSEPH LOOKED at Chrystabel’s empty hands and back up to her shining eyes. “Where are we going?”
“To your conservatory.” She glanced around at everyone else. “May we be excused for a few minutes? We’ll be right back.”
“Just the two of you?” Father frowned. “Isn’t that rather improp—”
“Oh, let them go,” Mother interrupted. “She said they’ll be right back. In the meantime, what game shall we start playing?”
Apparently taking that as permission, Chrystabel left the room.
Joseph followed, feeling thickheaded as he trailed her through the corridors. How did she always manage to get her way? What could she possibly have for him in his conservatory? And how would he manage to survive the awful conversation that would come next?
Even facing imminent devastation, he couldn’t help noticing the graceful sway of her hips as she led the way toward the unfinished wing. Today she was wearing some sort of shimmery Christmas-green fabric that set off her milk and roses complexion. The gown had another wide neckline that drew his attention to her exposed shoulders. He had to stuff his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for her.
“Here we are,” she said unnecessarily when they got to the door. “Do you want to go inside?”
He wasn’t sure he did. Which mattered not, because she didn’t wait for an answer before undoing the latch and slipping past him into the cavernous chamber.
He would have to remember she wasn’t patient, he thought—
—then chided himself.
There was no need to remember anything about Chrystabel. Her family was leaving tomorrow, probably around the same time he’d be marrying Creath, and it was unlikely he’d ever see her again.
Determined to get the awfulness over with, he steeled himself and followed her inside. Then stopped short when he saw what awaited him in the center of the massive chamber.
Chrystabel stood beside a dozen big pots she’d evidently borrowed from his stash along the wall. Each had a dormant plant stuck inside, not planted but rather just leaning this way and that, their roots wrapped in canvas. Bright red ribbon bows were tied to a few of the thorny canes.
“Roses?” he asked on a gasp.
“Yes,” she said in an excited rush. “I brought them from Grosmont Grange. I was planning to replant them at Grosmont Castle, but I want you to have them instead. You said you don’t have any roses.”
For a moment he just stood there, stunned. And touched. There wasn’t a more perfect gift for him in all the world. He was awed to find she knew him so well after less than three days’ acquaintance.
But he couldn’t take her roses.
Not when he was about to crush her heart.
“Chrystabel.” He was vexed to hear his voice break. “I thank you with everything I have in me. But I cannot take your roses. They’re your favorite flower. Your favorite scent.” Seeing a stubborn look come into her eyes, he had a thought. “Maybe one bush, if that makes you happy, but not all of them.”
“I want you to have all of them.” If anything, the stubborn look only got stubborner. “I’d probably kill them anyhow—I know nothing about caring for roses, and our groundskeeper chose to stay in Wiltshire.”
“I’m certain your brother will hire groundskeepers in Wales. And I don’t need a Christmas gift from you, Chrysanth—Chrystabel.” Holy Hades, he had to stop calling her that. It was only making things worse. “I don’t have anything to give you in exchange, anyway.”
“Yes, you do,” she said in a tiny little unChrystabel-like voice.
“I do?” For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine what.
An odd look came into her eyes before he saw her set her jaw. “You do,” she repeated more firmly, moving closer as she spoke. “You can give me you. And then you’ll be able to give me roses for my perfumery. Years and years of roses.”
When she took his hands and placed them on the very hips he’d been admiring in the corridor, his mouth went dry. Moving slowly—but not timidly—she laid her palms against him, sliding them up and over his shoulders in a frank, innocent exploration he found disarming in the extreme. His breathing was shallow. His every muscle coiled tighter than a lion ready to pounce. Though the warmth of her hands didn’t penetrate his clothes, an unnatural heat seemed to spread from everywhere she
