Goodness, but he looked darling when he was concentrating.
In the summertime, the rose garden he’d planted for her bloomed. The colors were spectacular, the fragrances breathtaking. And she was here to enjoy it all. She lived here, at splendid Tremayne. And she lived here because—
A knock startled her awake.
Chrystabel scrambled out of bed to open her door. “Is it seven o’clock already?” she asked Arabel, patting her hair back into its austere knot.
“It will be in five minutes. Matthew went on ahead, and he said we’re to meet him on time.”
Matthew was very punctual and well-mannered and nauseatingly polite out in company. Quite different from the real Matthew that Chrystabel saw at home.
She looked her sister up and down. “Shouldn’t we change for supper?”
Arabel shrugged. “What would we change into?”
“Something more elegant,” Chrystabel said, though something more alluring was what she meant. Her thoughts had returned to the handsome viscount.
Thanks to her nap, she was no longer overtired—and she still wanted to marry him.
Unfortunately, she feared her current attire might hamper her chances. Cromwell had forbidden bright or immodest clothing, so the gowns she wore in public were of plain fabrics in tedious browns and grays. Each one had a vast, stark white collar that tied at the throat and flopped shapelessly about her shoulders, making her appear sallow and bulky. The Puritans couldn’t have chosen a style less flattering to Chrystabel’s ivory complexion and tall stature.
“This will never do,” she muttered, looking down at herself in dismay.
“It will have to, at least for tonight.” Arabel took her arm. “They haven’t brought our trunks up yet.”
With a sigh of resignation, Chrystabel let her sister march her down to supper. Oh, how she longed for the fine pre-Cromwell gowns hidden in the bottom of her trunk. “Don’t you miss silk, Arabel? I miss silk. And damask. And embroidery and lace. And rosettes and pearls and oh, I could go on all day.”
“Please don’t,” Arabel said good-naturedly. “You’d make us late for supper. Then Matthew would be angry, our hosts would be insulted, and we’d still be stuck wearing these hideous sacks.”
Chrystabel giggled. “What about velvet? Mmm, wouldn’t fur-lined velvet be ever so snug on an evening like this?”
Arabel put a finger to her lips. “You forget we’re in a stranger’s home. Tremayne folk might frown on such talk.”
“They’d better not frown at me,” Chrystabel grumbled. “It’s Yuletide, and just as soon as my trunk arrives I’ll wear red and green whether they like it or not.”
“Suit yourself.” Arabel shook her head. “But we haven’t seen how the lady of the house dresses yet, and I, for one, would rather look dreadful inside a warm castle than ravishing tossed out into the snow.”
As usual, Arabel was right. Sometimes Chrystabel thought Arabel should be the older sister. They’d simply been born in the wrong order.
Chrystabel cast about for a safe subject. “How is your chamber?”
“Marvelous. It's done up all in yellow with a very pretty four-poster bed. And best of all, it’s warm.” Arabel was easy to please. “I hope the storm doesn’t break tomorrow.”
“You’d like to stay longer?”
“I’d like to stay forever.”
“Me, too. I think I shall marry the viscount.”
That startled a laugh out of Arabel. “Don’t be a goose.”
“Who’s being a goose?” When they passed the fancy mirror she’d noticed earlier, Chrystabel was careful to avoid her reflection. It would only upset her. “I’m perfectly serious.”
“No, you’re not. You don’t know anything about him.” Arabel gave her a sidelong glance. “Except that he’s handsome and doesn’t live in Wales.”
Chrystabel lifted her chin along with her skirts as they started down the staircase. For once, her younger sister was wrong. “I’m not wedding him to avoid Wales. I’m wedding him because I love him.”
“You cannot be in love with him. You haven’t even had a proper conversation with him yet.”
“‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’” Chrystabel quoted triumphantly. “It seems Shakespeare would beg to differ.”
Since Arabel was the academic of the family—she’d read nearly every book in the Grange’s library—Chrystabel could rarely best her with scholarship. She relished every opportunity.
“As You Like It is fiction, not philosophy,” her sister pointed out. “And incidentally, Shakespeare didn’t write that line. He was referencing a poem by Christopher Marlowe.”
Hmmph. So much for besting Arabel.
“There’s no such thing as love at first sight, Chrys. That only happens in plays and poems.”
Yesterday, Chrystabel would have agreed with the sentiment. But today she knew differently.
“What a sad, unromantic soul you are, dear sister.” She patted Arabel on the shoulder. “Since it’s happened to me, I suppose I’ll have to prove you wrong.”
FOUR
WHEN LORD TREMAYNE walked the Trevors into the dining room, his parents were already at the table. While Chrystabel and her siblings took their seats, the young viscount introduced them—which happily provided enough of a distraction to allow Chrystabel to maneuver herself into a seat beside him.
Lord Trentingham looked like an older version of his son, and Chrystabel was pleased to see that her future husband would remain attractive into his later years. Lady Trentingham was petite, with gleaming brown hair and her son’s thoughtful green eyes. To Chrystabel’s delight, she wore a lovely hyacinth-blue gown in a flattering silhouette that Cromwell would deplore. Right then and there, Chrystabel decided she’d be donning one of her own pretty gowns tomorrow. The red brocade, perhaps.
She couldn’t wait for Lord Tremayne to see her in it.
While inquiries were being made—and condolences offered—on the direction and purpose of the Trevors’ journey, another guest entered and headed toward Chrystabel. Then she paused in apparent confusion before making her way to the last remaining empty chair, on the other side of the table.
She was a fair young woman in a modest tawny frock. “I’d be pleased for you to meet our dear friend, Mistress Creath Moore,” Lady Trentingham said by way of introduction.
Seated directly across from Chrystabel, Matthew blinked. “Pray pardon, could
