Chapter Three

Mary was just heading back to the entry hall—after addressing Mr. Cowl’s question as to whether to put the candied gingerbread house out on the refreshment table and asking him to add more cinnamon sticks to the cider—when Lady Eva drifted to her side. She had greatly admired the older girl in school. Lady Eva was regal, composed. Her full name—Evangeline—was wonderfully romantic. Mary had always wished her name was more colorful—Meredith, perhaps, or Melisandre. In school, Lady Eva could do no wrong. That she’d pursued an acquaintance with Mary had seemed an honor. Mary was a little taken aback by her friend’s calculating comments today.

“Well?” Lady Eva asked now. “Are you making progress?”

“No,” Mary admitted. “I was bolder than I’ve ever been, and all he did was wish me well.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Disappointing. You may have to resort to more drastic measures. He is honorable, I take it?”

Mary frowned at her. “Certainly. Why would you ask?”

“Because only honorable men propose when they think they’ve ruined a lady.”

Mary gasped. Several guests glanced their way. Cheeks heating, she drew Lady Eva closer to the window overlooking the pond, where couples skimmed along arm in arm.

“Ruined?” she murmured. “Julian Mayes would never compromise my reputation.”

“Not without encouragement,” Lady Eva agreed.

“I couldn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . .” Mary sputtered.

Lady Eva put her hand on her arm. “There, now. I’ve shocked you. Forgive me. But you said you wanted to marry him. Some gentlemen take considerable persuasion beyond our beauty, wit, and talents.”

“Not that kind of persuasion,” Mary insisted.

“It depends on the gentleman.” Lady Eva dropped her hold. “And how badly you wish to wed.”

Mary glanced at her mother, who seemed to have slumped lower. “It is imperative.”

“Then only you can decide how far you’re willing to go,” Lady Eva said. “I will give you one more piece of advice. If you love him, if you want to marry him, don’t wait to tell him. Circumstances may force you to make another, less satisfying choice.”

The conviction in her voice could only have come from experience. Mary’s heart softened. “If you truly don’t want to marry Lord Thalston, cry off.”

Her gaze went off into the middle distance. “One does not cry off from marrying the heir to a duke. I know my duty.”

Several of the older women approached then, to offer Lady Eva their congratulations, and she smiled graciously and thanked them. Her composure never cracked once. If Mary had been forced to wed a man she didn’t love to meet her mother’s and Society’s expectations, she would be raging at the sky.

Or thinking of a way out of it.

Surely that’s where she needed to put her energies now. She had lost her initial opportunity with Julian under the kissing bough and been thwarted on the ice. Her responsibilities to her guests would make additional contact challenging, but she refused to follow Lady Eva’s advice about compromise. That was no way to show her feelings for a fellow.

And she did have strong feelings. She’d admired Julian since she was a girl. Whenever he and Lord Thalston were home from Eton, they would ride past Rose Hill nearly every afternoon, and she’d run to the gate at the end of the drive to watch for them. At times, she was certain that anyone looking would wonder which was the duke’s son and which the son of local gentry. She’d imagined riding with them, talking of important things, being recognized as their friend.

Then one day Julian had arrived at the door, accompanied by his parents. While his mother and father visited with her mother, she had been given the task of showing him about the estate, a groom following dutifully behind them. Her words had tripped over each other as she’d tried to talk to him, and he’d nodded and listened as if taking her as seriously as he would the prince. From then on, he visited whenever he was home, taking her riding, driving. They skated arm in arm in winter and picked berries for her mother’s famous pie in the summer.

When she’d turned fifteen, he’d even accompanied her to the local assembly, where she was allowed to dance even though she wouldn’t be considered out until she went to London for her Season. Some of the local ladies whispered that he was besotted. Mary didn’t believe it. Their activities were too companionable, their discussions more philosophical than romantic.

“Why do you come so often?” she’d asked him one day after he’d eaten no less than two slices of the brambleberry pie her mother loved to bake while Cook was busy with other matters. “Surely you have better things to do.”

“Better than spend time with you?” he’d challenged.

When she’d stared at him, he’d grinned. “Besides, your mother makes the best brambleberry pie in Surrey.”

Mary had puffed out a sigh. “I’m sure she’d be happy to give your mother the recipe.”

He’d leaned forward. “Ah, but then I wouldn’t have an excuse to visit.”

Slippery then and slippery now. She could not be sure of him, only that she needed his strength to protect her mother. He’d be home through Boxing Day, just two days away. And she wouldn’t go up to London for her Season until after Easter. Her mother needed help now.

She squared her shoulders and turned for the entry hall. Though only a short distance away, she had to stop and commiserate with Mr. Fallman over his gout and compare stillroom recipes for chafed hands with Mrs. Pomfrey. She joked and laughed and listened and praised her way forward, inching ever closer to where Julian and Chester Godwin were standing in the entry hall, deep in conversation.

Funny. She’d never thought Chester particularly deep. What were the two of them talking about so earnestly?

* * *

Through the door to the great hall, Julian watched as Mary moved from group to group, leaving smiles in her wake. She’d always known how to talk to people—when to cheer, offer advice, or show compassion. She would have made an excellent solicitor.

And a miserable wife to Chester Godwin.

He nearly winced at the realization. If Godwin was right and Mary would be in dire straits should anything happen to her mother, marriage might be her best security. But surely she could do better than Godwin!

“A dowry isn’t as important as the woman you marry,” he told the fellow now. “But I doubt Mary Rose would make you happy.”

Godwin stopped in mid-scratch and stared at him. “Truly? Why?”

“Highly opinionated,” Julian confided. “And not afraid to share those opinions. Why, I remember not so long about she called my horse a cob.”

Godwin reared back. “She criticized your horse?”

With good reason. When he had last visited, she’d pointed out that, since leaving home, he had come back each time with an animal of poorer quality. She was quite right. The nags were all he could afford at the moment. He’d beg a better mount from his parents before returning to London.

“And she once told me the fold in my cravat was disgraceful,” Julian added for good measure.

Godwin goggled.

“Because it was,” Mary said, joining them. “It was his first attempt, you see, Mr. Godwin. He wouldn’t even allow his father’s valet to help him. I fear it was a crumpled waterfall by the time he reached the assembly hall.”

His consequence had been equally crumpled, until she’d laughed and found a footman to help him. He couldn’t see Godwin appreciating such intervention.

“Still, Miss Rose,” the fellow protested now, “to insult a man’s attire. It just isn’t done.”

“Which would you prefer, sir?” she asked. “That I speak up and prevent a friend from looking like a fool or that I remain silent and ensure he will look foolish?”

“Well, I . . .” He adjusted his cravat, then hastily dropped his hand. “I believe it wiser to be silent.”

“Then I shall cease speaking to you,” Mary said. “Since you value silence so highly.”

He opened his mouth, shut it, then cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon. I’m sure I never . . .”

Mary had pity on him. With her sweetest look, she lay a hand on his arm. “There, now, Mr. Godwin. I never meant to put you to the blush. Like Mr. Mayes, you are one of my oldest acquaintances. Are you enjoying this year’s party?”

His smile eased into sight. “Yes, thank you.” He seemed to recall he was supposed to be above such country pastimes, for he straightened, causing the shirt points to drop below his earlobes for once. “That is, I find it quite tolerable for Surrey hospitality.”

“Such praise. I’m sure Mr. Mayes’s presence has helped. What an interesting conversation you two were having. Whatever prompted you to discuss every silly thing I did as a girl?”

“He did it,” Godwin said with a nod at Julian. “I would never discuss a lady’s foibles.”

“Of course not.” Her gaze veered to Julian. “And you, sir?”

As if he saw a fight coming, Godwin excused himself and fled.

Julian chuckled. “Well, that’s one way to be rid of him.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Mary pointed out.

“Perhaps I’ve learned the value of silence as well.”

She laughed. “Oh, come now, Julian. Tell all. What possessed you to drag out our past?”

“I find it a commendable past,” he said. “Neither of us has ever shied away from direct conversation. We both enjoy riding, skating. We share a concern for our neighbors.”

Her smile softened. “We have much in common.” Her gaze drifted upward again, but he saw no reason to look to the heavens.

He took Mary’s hand. “And my concern now is for you. Admit it—you are working too hard at your own party. You refused Godwin’s offer of a sleigh ride. What if I should offer myself in his place? You indicated you wanted a private conversation.” And, at the moment, so did he.

Her gaze came down, and she nodded, then motioned to the footman to bring them their wraps once more.

Julian tucked her hand in his arm as they moved toward the door. It was a gesture of courtesy, one he’d employed countless times. Why was he suddenly so aware of it and her? Her skirts swished against his boots; her gloved fingers brushed his sleeve; her sigh whispered past his ear.

“It appears we missed our opportunity,” she said as they stopped outside.

He forced his gaze from admiring her creamy skin to the empty drive, where two other couples awaited the return of the sleigh. “Perhaps a stroll through your kingdom then, your majesty,” he teased.

She put her nose in the air. “I am used to more sycophantic attendants, but I suppose we can contrive, sir.”

With a laugh, Julian led her across the drive and into the garden. Their gardener must have cleared the path, for the snow was mounded on either side of the meandering flagstone walkway. A shriek of laughter from the pond told of frolics. Shouts from the lawn beyond promised the beginning of the snowball fight. Snow was falling again, drifting down to sparkle like stars on her lashes.

“What would you tell me, Mary?” he asked.

In answer, she stopped by a tree, put her back against the bark, and gazed up at him with lavender eyes so filled with hope he wondered if there was a dragon he could slay for her.

“Oh, Julian,” she murmured.

He leaned closer to hear what else she might say, but that only meant he was closer to those rosy lips. One kiss, to celebrate the day? One kiss, to show her he would always care?

One kiss might not be enough.

Something white flashed past his face, and Julian jerked upright even as Mary gasped.