Chapter 14
Snow glazed the countryside like sugar over cake, and the Duke’s estate glowed at the heart of it.
The Duke and Duchess had thrown their home’s doors open for Christmas, and the entire county seemed determined to cram itself inside.
Carriages lined the drive; torches flared in the dark; and the great house itself gleamed with candles, holly, and a faint whiff of mulled wine.
Vicky had never seen such splendor. Pine garlands looped along the marble stair, oranges studded with cloves perfumed the air, and the musicians on the gallery were already playing carols with cheerful abandon.
She told herself she would not gape like a rustic. She was a shopkeeper, not a goose. But when she glimpsed the thirty-foot yew sparkling with candles in the central hall, her mouth fell open in spite of herself.
“You’ll catch flies,” Hubert murmured at her elbow, offering his arm as though he had always been there.
“I am admiring architecture,” she retorted, snapping her jaw shut.
“The sort that smells of cinnamon?”
She ignored him loftily and adjusted her gloves.
“Vicky!” Beatrice descended on her like a benevolent hawk, sweeping her into an embrace that smelled of roses and starch. Bea had once been governess, now she was sister-by-marriage, and still she carried the authority of both roles.
“You look well,” Bea declared, holding her at arm’s length for inspection. “And respectable. I approve.”
“Do you?” Vicky muttered. “I fear I prefer to be scandalous.”
“Of course you do.” Bea’s gaze slid to Hubert, who bowed with grave courtesy. “And this must be Mr. Stouts. I have heard quite a bit about you.”
Hubert’s ears pinked. “Your Grace—”
“Not ‘Your Grace,’” Bea corrected with a smile sharp enough to cut. “Merely Mrs. Abbott now. But I still retain the right to scold when required.”
Vicky groaned. “Do not encourage her.”
Nathan arrived a moment later, tall and imperturbable, shepherding four rosy-cheeked children who made straight for the sweetmeats table. He greeted Hubert with a firm handshake and Vicky with brotherly gravity, before excusing himself to rescue a footman from his offspring’s depredations.
Before Vicky could so much as draw breath, a shriek split the air.
“Hubie!”
Five young women descended like brightly plumed birds, their laughter ringing across the hall. Hubert’s sisters—Anna, Margaret, Lydia, Esther, and Clare—swarmed their brother with cries of delight, questions, and sharp elbows.
“You ghastly creature, you left us at Mother’s mercy—”
“Do not exaggerate, Lydia, you were perfectly happy to eat all the biscuits—”
“Margaret, do not pretend you didn’t weep when he left—”
“Girls,” Anna said firmly, restoring order with a single arched brow. Then she turned to Vicky with poise. “Miss Abbott, I presume? We are very pleased to meet you.”
Vicky bobbed a curtsey, only for Esther to seize her hand, turning it this way and that. “Is that the ring? Oh, it is!”
Hubert cleared his throat like distant thunder. “That is quite enough.”
His sisters ignored him entirely, cooing and complimenting until Vicky felt rather like a goose dressed for Twelfth Night. She caught Hubert’s eye over their heads—and nearly laughed at the look of long-suffering despair on his face.
The Duke himself appeared soon after, tall and lean, with the expression of a man both entertained and faintly horrified by the mob in his hall.
He greeted the Abbotts with courteous warmth and clasped Hubert’s shoulder with a murmur that made the man stand straighter.
His gaze landed on Vicky, and for a breath she felt thoroughly inspected.
Then the Duke smiled faintly. “So you are the woman who keeps our Mr. Stouts on his toes. I am most obliged to you, Miss Abbott.”
Vicky, who prided herself on quick wit, could only curtsey and murmur, “Your Grace,” while Hubert glowered at the carpet.
The festivities surged. Children darted beneath mistletoe; servants carried trays of steaming punch and mince pies; the air was full of music and laughter.
Hubert introduced Vicky to neighbors and cousins, while Bea introduced herself to Hubert’s sisters with the solemn air of a general inspecting new recruits.
At one point, Vicky caught Bea steering Hubert into a quiet alcove. She hovered at a distance, mortified, as Bea leveled a look at him that had quelled a hundred childhood misdeeds.
“You have caused Vicky no small amount of heartache,” Bea said in a tone that carried despite the music. “She fretted dreadfully while you were gone. Tears, pacing, dreadful imaginings.”
Hubert stiffened. “I never meant—”
“Meanings are cheap,” Bea cut in. “Actions matter. Do not make her weep again, Mr. Stouts, or you will answer to me.”
Hubert inclined his head gravely. “You have my word.”
Bea patted his arm, satisfied. “Good. Now fetch her a glass of punch before she dies of nerves.”
Vicky, cheeks blazing, pretended she had been entirely absorbed by the carol singers.
By the time the company gathered for the final toasts, Vicky was dizzy with it all—garlands, gossip, laughter, music. But through the swirl of faces and chatter, Hubert never strayed far. He fetched her wine, claimed her for dances, and introduced her with pride that made her pulse stumble.
As they prepared to depart, snow crunching underfoot, he bent close at the carriage step.
“Next time,” he murmured, low enough that only she heard, “I will not part from you until you are mine before God and man.”
The promise shivered through her, warm as fire in winter.