“It doesn’t matter,” she interrupted, slipping her hand into her pocket and drawing something out. “I want to give you this.”
The silver glinted in the firelight.
“Father’s pendant?” Matthew’s eyes widened. “He gave it to you, Chrys. It’s yours.”
Coming closer, 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. “I was just keeping it for you.”
Silently, she bade her father goodbye. Silently, she forgave him for leaving her. She had a new man to love now, and Arabel had been right: At nineteen, she didn’t need her parents anymore. Though she’d miss her father always, she was at peace with his passing. She’d remember him every day, and she’d especially remember him every Christmas, when she honored his memory by keeping the traditions he’d loved.
The pendant looked right on Matthew, and when he tucked it beneath his shirt as their 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. “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. “That strikes me as 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 on earth would he keep himself from kissing her when she gave him whatever it was?
He feared he knew the answer to the last question: He wouldn’t. Though he’d awakened this morning with renewed determination, every moment in her presence seemed to chip away at his resolve. Following her, he couldn’t help but notice her shapely back and the graceful sway of her hips. His fingers ached to span her slim waist.
He clenched his fists.
Today she was wearing some sort of shimmery Christmas-green fabric that set off her milk and roses complexion. The gown had another low-cut bodice that drew his attention to all the wrong places. They hadn’t even reached his conservatory yet, and he wanted to rip that gown off her already.
“Here we are,” she said unnecessarily when they got to the door. Uncharacteristic for her, she looked anxious. “Do you want to go inside?”
He wasn’t sure he did. Which mattered not, because she didn’t wait for an answer before reaching across him to undo the latch and push 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.
He still hadn’t found the right way to tell her he couldn’t marry her, but he had to do it anyway. Here. Now. There was no sense in putting it off any longer.
Determined to get the confession 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 a nervous 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 astonished to find she knew him so well after just 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 square her delicate jaw. “You do,” she repeated more firmly. “You can give me you. And then you’ll be able to give me roses for my perfumery. Years and years of roses.”
And with that, she threw herself into his arms.
Unbidden, his own arms went around her—he was but a man, after all. A man who wanted her, and she felt heavenly and smelled better than his garden in full bloom. He was terribly moved by her generous gesture, and now he was horrified to find himself holding her—until she crushed her mouth to his. Then he wasn’t moved or
