She was already regaining the feeling in her fingers and toes, and with any luck, she’d get to stay warm and snug in this gorgeous room through Christmas. The impending misery of Wales felt like a distant bad dream. Tremayne seemed no place for such unpleasant thoughts.
Remembering she was overtired, she crawled into the big bed and burrowed beneath the plush counterpane. While waiting to doze off, she pictured Lord Tremayne designing an exquisite new garden. A rose garden. For her.
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 Arabel up and down. “Shouldn’t we change for supper?”
Arabel shrugged. “What would we change into?”
“Something more elegant,” Chrystabel said, though something more tempting 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 white collar that tied at the throat, concealing everything that made a female look feminine. She looked down at herself in dismay. “This will never do.”
“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. “Do you miss silk, Arabel? I miss silk. And damask. And embroidery and lace. 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 hideous brown 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. Perhaps they’d been accidentally 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?”
Arabel grinned. “I’d like to stay forever.”
“Me, too.” When they passed the fancy mirror Chrystabel had noticed earlier, she was careful to avoid her reflection. It would only upset her. “I think I shall marry the viscount.”
That startled a laugh out of her sister. “Don’t be a goose.”
“Who’s being a goose?” Chrystabel lifted her skirts to descend the staircase. “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.”
For once, her younger sister was wrong. “I’m not wedding him to avoid Wales. I’m wedding him because I love him.”
Now Arabel rolled her eyes. “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 even write that line. He was referencing a poem by Christopher Marlowe.”
Hmmph. So much for besting Arabel.
“And there’s no such thing as love at first sight, Chrys. That only happens in plays and poems.”
Yesterday, Chrystabel would have agreed with that 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 older 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 that revealed a fair expanse
