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 fetching 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 you repeat that name?”
“Creath. It rhymes with breath,” the young woman said with a broad smile in his direction. She was fair and looked to be about Arabel’s age. “It’s a family name,” she added, looking pleased about that.
When the viscount leaned closer, Chrystabel caught a whiff of his scent. Rich soil, fresh greenery, and spicy wood smoke—with a hint of something mouthwatering and male underneath.
“Creath is recently orphaned,” he whispered, “so bearing a family name brings her comfort, even if it is unusual.”
His warm words tickled her ear. She could barely suppress a shiver. What was that delicious fragrance? She’d never smelled anything like it, in her perfumery or out.
Whatever it was, she wanted to bottle it.
And her heart was pounding madly. Why on earth did Arabel think a ‘proper conversation’ was a prerequisite to falling in love? The way Chrystabel felt had nothing to do with talking.
Oh, yes, she was going to marry this man. But she would have to be patient and give him time to catch up. Silly as it seemed—given the inevitability of the outcome—she’d have to work on making the viscount love her in return. Men could be blasted dim creatures when it came to this sort of thing.
No matter, she could wait. They had years and years of romantic bliss ahead of them, after all. She was a reasonable woman. She could accept that he might not fall in love with her tonight.
Tomorrow would suit her just as well.
It seemed she was becoming her own matchmaker. Now that it occurred to her, she rather thought she’d be a natural. Already, instinctively, she knew where to begin: getting Lord Tremayne to touch her.
She liked this plan. She liked it so much, her skin tingled all over. Her body felt acutely aware of the heat emanating from his. Something in her craved that heat, although she was thoroughly thawed-out now and the dining room was at a perfectly agreeable temperature.
Like everything else in this castle, the dining room was impressive. The gate-leg table they were seated at had all its leaves folded away and looked dwarfed in the big chamber. The room had dark-paneled walls, an embellished stone fireplace, pleasing paintings and tapestries, and an elaborately carved wooden minstrel’s gallery at one end.
But she couldn’t help noticing that something was missing.
“You’ve no Christmas decorations,” she said to no one in particular, while two footmen set out an array of steaming dishes. “Are you not celebrating?”
“Of course we’re not celebrating.” Judging by the young viscount’s expression, he was wondering if she were daft. “It’s illegal. Meaning that would be a crime.”
Chrystabel unleashed her silvery laugh. “Indeed, Lord Tremayne.” Oh, he was too darling. “But who would catch you celebrating all the way out here?”
He raised a brow. “Out here?”
Her expansive gesture was meant to encompass the many miles between here and civilization. “Out here in the wilderness.”
Tremayne wasn’t quite as much in the wilderness as Wales, but it was close. The castle sat beside the River Severn, and Wales was just across it.
A corner of his mouth twitched. “We have Justices of the Peace here, as elsewhere. And surely you know that Cromwell’s Roundhead spies abound.” His eyes held hers for what felt like a long time, though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. “And please, call me Joseph. We don’t stand on ceremony out here in the wilderness.”
Arabel and Creath let out little gasps at that impertinent request, while Joseph’s parents wore matching incredulous expressions. Even the viscount seemed surprised by his own audacity.
But even though she suspected he’d said “out here in the wilderness” to poke fun at her, Chrystabel only smiled. She was liking her future husband better and better. “Then you must call me Chrystabel.”
“And you can call me Creath,” Creath announced, apparently loath to be excluded. Unless…had her remark been directed at Matthew? Her gaze appeared to be fastened on his. “It rhymes with breath,” she reminded him.
Now Matthew looked incredulous.
“Wine, Lord Grosmont? My ladies?” Lord Trentingham motioned to an etched glass decanter. “It’s Tremayne’s own vintage,” he added with a touch of pride.
“Yes, please,” Matthew answered for all three of them, tearing his gaze from Creath’s to nod to the earl. “And our thanks.”
Chrystabel watched a footman pour the pale amber liquid. “You make wine here?” she asked, anticipating her first taste. Since the Roundheads had banned liquor, wine had become a luxury.
“You passed the vines on your way in,” Lady Trentingham said. “Of course, they’re dormant now, but we had a nice harvest this year. Enough for our needs and more.”
“A vineyard where everyone can see it?” Chrystabel darted Joseph a look of triumph. “How fortunate that you’ve managed to continue the enterprise without incurring the wrath of Cromwell’s spies.”
Beside her, Joseph couldn’t quite suppress a chuckle. “Growing grapes is not illegal.”
It was her turn to raise a brow. “And what you do with the grapes…?”
“Is well hidden within the castle walls.” Saluting her with his goblet, he drank.
“Wreaths and garlands would stay hidden within the castle walls as well.” Chrystabel sipped the Tremayne wine. It was light, refreshing, and a little sweet, similar to Rhenish. She liked it. And it seemed to make her bold. “My sisters and I have made Christmas trimmings together every year since I can remember.
