The castle turned out to be more than a mile off, and Chrystabel held her tongue the entire way. But her heart sank when they got close enough to see the structure was only half-built.
With its tall, decorative brickwork chimneys and other Tudor architectural touches, she’d thought the castle belonged to the previous century—but now she feared it was new and just built in that style. What if only construction workmen were there? Picturing her family’s carriages turning around to head back to the main road, she felt colder than ever.
But to her very great relief, a footman greeted their arrival. Chrystabel showed remarkable restraint as the man asked their names, scurried off to “consult with milord,” and reappeared to graciously welcome them all into the castle. Only then did she turn to her brother and crow, “I told you so!”
Matthew may or may not have looked daggers at her as she led the way inside. She didn’t see, because she was too busy noticing the gentleman who waited in the wood-paneled entry hall.
Or rather, not just noticing. To her astonishment, she found herself gaping. Tall and trim, the man was young, nearly as young as she. He had deep green eyes and long, wavy jet-black hair—Cavalier hair, which meant he was Royalist, like her family.
Just occupying the same space with this stranger was having peculiar effects on her body. She didn’t feel nervous, as she sometimes had around other good-looking men. Instead, she felt soft and warm both inside and out. She felt thawed in a way that had nothing to do with coming in out of the cold.
She couldn’t not look at him. She willed him to glance her way. His gaze met hers—
—and her heart came to a stop.
It just paused, as if suspended in time for as long his eyes held hers.
A sudden truth occurred to her: I’m going to marry this man.
Which was ridiculous, when she thought about it. Maybe she was overtired.
Yes, she had to be overtired. The frozen, uncomfortable journey had been exhausting.
When he looked away to address her brother, the perplexing moment passed. “Welcome to Tremayne, Lord Grosmont.” His voice was deep and as beautiful as the planes of his face, making Chrystabel melt a little more. “I would ask what brings you to my home, except I fear I know the answer. I hope the weather will not delay your travels long.”
“My profound thanks, uh…” Matthew trailed off, apparently realizing too late that their host hadn’t named himself.
Chrystabel suddenly had to know his name. “Who are you?” she blurted.
Thoughtful eyes fixed on her again, and again her heart paused. “My name is Joseph Ashcroft, my lady. The Viscount Tremayne,” he added with a little formal bow she found amusing.
Or maybe it was bemusing. She was certainly feeling bemused.
Matthew poked her in the ribs. “This is my rude sister, Lady Chrystabel Trevor. My courteous sister is Lady Arabel Trevor. And we are most grateful for your hospitality, Lord Tremayne.”
The viscount flashed straight white teeth in a smile that nearly reduced her to a puddle. “The hospitality is my father’s. He’s regrettably detained, but he hopes you and your lovely sisters will join our family supper tonight.”
Lovely! Could he have meant Chrystabel? Or was he just being polite?
“We’d be delighted,” Matthew answered for all three of them.
Lord Tremayne nodded. “The dining room is rather hidden, so shall we meet here again at seven? In the meantime, our housekeeper will settle your staff and belongings, and Watkins here will show you to our guest chambers. Please make yourselves at home.”
With another droll little bow, the viscount took his leave. Chrystabel stayed rooted in place until he was entirely out of sight. When she blinked herself awake, her siblings were gone.
She caught up to them on a wide flight of stone stairs, which had twisted wrought-iron balusters and a dark oak handrail. The staircase led to a long corridor that appeared to run the length of the building, torches lighting it at intervals.
Though she’d assumed a half-built castle would be unfinished inside, too, this portion was a beautiful and sumptuous home. Trailing Watkins, Chrystabel passed a costly gilt mirror and several impressive tapestries, skimming her hand along stone block walls polished to a subtle sheen.
Watkins hurried ahead to open a door on the left. “Would one of the ladies like this chamber?”
Chrystabel peeked into a spacious, splendid room. “I would love it,” she said, rushing inside before her sister could claim it.
The first detail that caught her eye was a set of magnificent oriel windows. Amazingly, the glass window panes were curved. Marveling, she drifted closer and counted four banks of curved windows projecting out from the back wall, each shaped like a rounded flower petal. She’d never seen anything like them. They afforded a stunning view of the walled Tudor landscape below.
The geometric garden was lightly dusted with snow. “The grounds were designed by the young viscount,” Watkins explained, “in the style of Tradescant the Elder.”
Chrystabel loved flowers and knew John Tradescant had brought seeds and bulbs to England from all over the world. She found herself as entranced by Lord Tremayne’s gardens as she was by the man himself. “Oh, these grounds must be enchanting in summer!” She longed to see them in full bloom.
Too bad she’d be in godforsaken Wales.
Excusing himself with a bow far more proper than his master’s, Watkins ushered Arabel and Matthew back out. “My lady, I hope you’ll find the next room over to your liking,” Chrystabel heard as he led them down the corridor. “Lord Grosmont, you’ll be installed across the way.”
When she finally tore herself from the view, Chrystabel closed the room’s door and then surveyed the rest of her surroundings with almost equal glee. Her bedchamber at Grosmont Grange had been nice, but not as nice as this one. It boasted a four-poster bed with red curtains and a red canopy, much
