LADY THEODOSIA’S HEAD seemed to have tilted permanently up once they’d entered the ballroom, and Frederick smiled.

Her eyes rounded with obvious wonder.

“You are not what I expected,” he said.

“No?” Her cheeks pinkened.

Other women would have given him a knowing smile, raised their perfectly plucked eyebrows, and murmured something about their superiority, one well matched to Frederick’s own.

Warmth spread through Frederick. He may have stopped kissing Celia, but he still felt her hands on his skin.

Was this why so many of his acquaintances had desired to marry?

“You do have nice homes in London,” he teased her. “You must have seen a ballroom before.”

Her cheeks darkened to a lovely rose color. “N-naturally.” She swung her head. “There’s simply less...space.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “We are good at having space in Yorkshire.”

“Though I imagine your tenants’ walls do not stretch nearly that high.” She gestured to the ballroom wall, the long height adorned with portraits and sculptures.

“Perhaps.” He tilted his head toward her. There was something he wanted to ask her. Something that seemed to strike him as as very important. “Could you imagine living in Yorkshire?”

It was not a marriage proposal.

That would come later, he was certain.

But nothing could happen if her answer was not yes.

This was his home.

He hadn’t been to London, even to visit, in years.

“I would love to live here,” Lady Theodosia said softly, gazing through the large windows at the snow covered Dales. Then her cheeks pinkened. “I mean... I would not need to live in London. Many places interest me. Derbyshire, Cornwall, Norwich...”

“Norwich?” He scowled. “You are simply listing places.”

“You find Yorkshire superior to England’s other counties?” her eyes sparkled.

How on earth had she begun to tease him?”

“Yes,” he grumbled. “Superior to the regions outside of England as well.”

She sighed. “Perhaps. I have not traveled so much.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Except for France and Scotland.”

“Y-yes,” she said hastily. “Except for those places.” Her gaze tilted to the tree “Do you think it needs decorations?”

“The tree?” Frederick frowned. He would far rather linger on discussing her preferred regions.

“Perhaps it’s supposed to look natural? Like the trees outside.”

“We can ask the duchess when she wakes up.”

“Are you speaking about me in my absence?” The duchess’s American voice rang out. “How positively delightful.”

They were there.

All his guests.

They looked rather more refreshed than they had when he’d last seen him.

“Oh.” She stopped.

“You noticed the Christmas tree?”

“Yes. It’s wonderful!” she squealed, turning to her husband. “I didn’t think it would actually happen.”

“I want you to feel comfortable,” Frederick said.

“And that’s what makes you a lovely host.” She strode toward the tree, eying it in obvious awe.

“And I can reassure you that we made the optimal selection,” Frederick said. “We even measured them.”

“Indeed?” The duchess raised her eyebrows.

“Yes.”

“Lady Theodosia,” Rosamund said. “Why don’t I introduce you to my children?”

“I would love that,” Lady Theodosia said and glided toward them.

Frederick shivered. The room was cold. How had he not noticed that? He gestured toward the butler. “Please see that someone lights the fire in the hearth.”

“Very well, Your Grace,” the butler said.

The other men were eying him curiously.

Oh, no.

Likely they wanted to interrogate him.

Not what he had in mind for Christmas.

Frederick braced himself for the onslaught of questions.

They did not take long to come.

His friends had the efficiency of a firing squad.

And they seemed to take the same illicit pleasure in his unease. 

“Lady Theodosia was all alone in the manor house with you last night.”

“Mother was there. I can’t help it if her companion decided to elope suddenly.”

“So nothing happened?”

“Naturally not.”

The others still assessed him, and he shifted his legs, thinking of the folly.

Frederick frowned. “You didn’t happen upon us outside?”

“Isn’t there a pleasant folly by your pine trees?” Miles asked.

“But we do have expectations for a certain degree of privacy—”

The men laughed.

“I’ll have to make sure to wander there with my wife sometime,” Rupert said. “Just to check you picked the right tree.”

“Of course we did,” Frederick grumbled.

Marcus reflected. “You seem happy.”

“Impossible. I had the worst presentation of my scientific career.” Frederick tried to scowl. The others were expecting him to scowl. This was England. One wasn’t supposed to boast about one’s good fortune. It wouldn’t be proper.

Never mind propriety.

Being grumpy took far too much effort. He couldn’t even muster up any complaints about the weather, and he was certain with the snowstorm last night and the likely promise of future ones, that he should be able to think of some criticisms of the recent meteorological patterns over his portion of Yorkshire.

But dash it, he was happy.

The edges of his lips had a definite urge to soar upward.

It was too easy to consider Lady Theodosia.

The sweetness of her smile.

The pleasantness of her demeanor.

The mirth in her eyes.

“Good heavens,” Rupert said. “I do believe the man is far away.”

“Likely walking up an aisle in his dreams,” Miles said.

“Nonsense,” Frederick said. “Men don’t walk up aisles. They wait. Not that I knew you were speaking about—”

“Weddings?” Marcus said. “I’m afraid it’s obvious. I knew at once too.” He glanced at Rosamund. “It took my wife longer to realize we were meant to be.”

“But he’s taking Lady Theodosia on visits to the folly already,” Miles said.

“I didn’t say that,” Frederick said quickly.

It wouldn’t do for these men to have the wrong impression.

Even if it was the correct impression.

These men might be his best friends, but perhaps one day, Lady Theodosia would be his wife.

Lord knew, that’s what her family desired.

It was emblazoned all over Matchmaking for Wallflowers.

Or at least it had been put on page four, which was entirely too close to the beginning of the pamphlet for Frederick’s comfort.

The women seemed to have disappeared. Likely to create ornaments out of goodness knows what. They were probably folding paper in all sorts of intricate chains and shapes, as if intent to make the tree even more of a fire hazard than it already was.

He glanced at the tree again.

It did look magnificent.

It should look absurd—no one could think that a pine’s tree place was indoors, but the dark green needles seemed to go brilliantly with the warm wooden panels of the ballroom’s walls.

*

THE AFTERNOON WENT by quickly. Rosamund, Louisa, Veronique and Celia made Christmas ornaments. The servants set copious amounts of Christmas drinks before them: eggnog, mulled wine and negus, when they weren’t busy tying ribbons, mistletoe and any form of greenery to doorways, ceilings and chandeliers. It was perfection.

But it was the duke’s lips on her own that she felt most clearly.

It didn’t matter that they’d stopped kissing hours ago. When her eyelids flickered down, his lips seemed to be on hers again. The room spun, and magic existed.

She was relieved the other women were there.

Speaking about other things, even when pretending to be a member of the ton, was preferable to contemplating Frederick’s kiss.

As pleasant as the experience had been—and Celia was certain it was impossible to have a more pleasant experience, any memories were followed by the facts:

In a few days she would be gone, and Frederick would be relegated to the past. Perhaps Polly would be able to share Matchmaking for Wallflowers articles in which he appeared, likely announcing his betrothal to a woman who did not hide her identity from him, a woman who could not conceive of ever having to do so, for she was perfect already.

“This ballroom will look lovely for Friday’s ball.”

“There’s going to be a ball?” Celia’s voice squeaked, and she took a sip of negus quickly. The drink burned her throat, and she tried not to cough.

“Yes,” the duchess said happily. “It will be the first one in years.”

“How splendid,” Celia said.

Theodosia had not mentioned a ball.

Lady Fitzroy had not mentioned a ball.

Theodosia had already been wrong about not knowing any of the guests.

Celia swallowed hard. “I was not aware you were having a ball.”

“One of your neighbors usually hosts a ball at her estate this time of year. She married the Marquess of Bancroft last year and is planning to winter in Italy with the Duchess of Alfriston.”

“I refused to be convinced for some time,” the duke said.

“But he yielded,” the duchess said triumphantly.

“My dance slippers should be used,” the duke said. “It’s only logical.”

The others laughed.

Celia had a feeling balls were great expenses and not particularly logical at all.

“When will it be?”

“The day after tomorrow,” the duke said. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” she squeaked. “Naturally not.”

It had been settled, likely before she’d gotten here.

“Perhaps the duke will propose,” Rosamund whispered. “I’m very good at matches. And you seem ideally suited.”

Celia felt her skin pale. “Surely not.”

Rosamund shrugged, but her lips quirked.