“Let’s not,” Joseph said, fearing nothing good would come of being alone with her.
But she’d already left the cellar, and he found himself following. In no time at all, he was trailing her back down the steps, carrying the small cauldron full of ingredients and implements they’d collected with Mrs. Potter’s help. Chrystabel carried a pitcher of boiled water.
He set the cauldron on the cellar’s table and emptied it of its contents: cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, a loaf of sugar, a grater, a long wooden spoon, a ladle, a knife, and a small roll of muslin. He’d also thrown a couple of his winter oranges and a lemon into the cauldron, thinking they might improve the flavor.
If he were being forced to make mulled wine, he might as well make it taste good.
“Do you have a decanter?” Chrystabel asked from the back of the cellar, where she’d found the casks of red wine.
He fetched one from a cupboard and began filling it from the tap. “This goes in the cauldron, yes?”
“It does.” She followed him back and watched him pour. “There will be seven of us singing carols. Do you expect two decanters of wine will be enough?”
The cauldron still looked empty to him. “I think we should make it three,” he said dryly. “I have a feeling some of us may drink a fair amount of wine tonight.”
And he himself would be topping that list.
“And we’ll also drink some during the making, for samples,” she said cheerfully. “Let’s use four.”
“What else do we need?” he asked while going back and forth, filling and emptying the decanter. “Have we everything here?”
“Everything but brandy.”
“Over there.” He waved her toward the casks on the opposite wall. “You’ll find another decanter in the cupboard.”
She collected the brandy, poured some into the wine, grated some sugar into the cauldron, and stirred everything together. “Now we taste,” she announced, lowering the ladle into the mix. “This is why I wanted help—it’s always good to have a second opinion.” She took a sip, then handed him the ladle. “Do you think it’s a little strong?”
He sipped. “Maybe. A bit too much brandy?” He added some water. “See what you think now.”
She stirred and dipped again. “Too watered down, I fear. I think we need more wine. And then we’ll need more sugar.”
While she grated the sugar, he fetched more wine and poured it in.
“Now it needs more brandy,” she declared after tasting it again.
So it went, back and forth with tasting and adding, until the cauldron held yet another full decanter of wine, more brandy, more sugar, more water, and Joseph was beginning to feel lightheaded.
“Just a little more brandy,” he said after tasting for the tenth time.
“Maybe we should add the spices before we add more brandy.” She unrolled the muslin and tore off a large piece. “I’ll start with four sticks of cinnamon.”
“I’ll slice the oranges and lemon.”
“I’ve never heard of putting fruit in mulled wine,” she said diplomatically while grating nutmeg onto the fabric.
“That’s only because most people cannot get fresh fruit around Christmastime,” he told her, even though he’d never heard of anyone putting fruit in mulled wine, either. “I think it will taste good.” He dipped the ladle again and took a healthy swallow to evaluate. “Yes, I think it could use some fruit.”
Now his head seemed to be spinning just a little. The oranges smelled delicious as he sliced them, and he moved closer to Chrysanthem—um, Chrystabel—because she smelled delicious, too. He wondered which flowers she used to make her own perfume. Did he grow all of them?
No, roses were her favorites. And he didn’t have any roses.
She added a small handful of cloves to the muslin, tied up the corners, and dropped it into the cauldron.
He moved to toss in some orange slices.
She caught his free hand. “Are you sure you want to add those?”
In the cool cellar, her hand felt warm on his. Then she maneuvered her fingers to mesh with his, and he began to feel warm, too. He had drunk too much wine and brandy. She was close, so close he met with another heady view down the front of her bodice, which made his entire body come to attention.
Especially the lower parts.
She smelled incredible. Flowery. He loved flowers. She was vibrant like his flowers, too. Even her name reminded him of his favorite flower.
Without thinking any further—without thinking at all—he leaned in and kissed her.
He caught her little gasp in his mouth, and then she was wrapping her arms around him and moving closer. The orange slices dropped to the cellar floor as he reached to crush her to him.
The press of her strawberry-sweet lips on his set him aflame. She threaded her fingers into the long hair at the base of his neck, which made his scalp tingle. He felt her everywhere they touched, through her gown and his clothes, and he wanted to feel more.
When he parted her lips, she hesitated, as though she didn’t know what to do. But then he touched his tongue gently to hers and she responded with reckless abandon, sending his blood searing through his veins. They explored each other’s mouths until they were both breathless. He might have kissed her forever, but it ended when her knees began to give and he was forced to seize the table to support them both.
For a moment they just gazed at each other, speechless.
He wasn’t sure why she was speechless, but he was speechless because he didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say.
Kissing her had not felt like kissing Creath. Kissing Creath had only felt nice. Nor had kissing her felt like kissing the more experienced village girls, which had felt fun, dangerous, and daring.
Kissing Chrystabel had felt like none of those things—or maybe kissing her had felt like all of those things—but kissing her had also felt special, exciting, and entirely new.
Kissing her had felt right.
But he had to marry Creath.
“Chrysanthemum,” he began—then stopped. “I mean, Chrystabel—”
“I
