Chapter 10
How could she sit there so calmly, as though nothing had just happened?
Hunter had thought that his heart would leap out of his chest when he wandered into Oak Hall looking for his valet, and instead discovered his wife teetering dangerously on the top of a ladder.
What if he hadn’t arrived in time? She could now be stretched out on the floor below him.
She could have broken her neck, for goodness sake, and now she sat here, admonishing him for not enjoying the fact that she was littering his house with the scattering of trees and plants from outside.
“You’re right about one thing,” he muttered. “We are stuck here.”
“That’s a lovely sentiment regarding spending Christmas with your wife,” she said primly, and he looked down at her, at her hands which had finally stopped their fussing and were now folded in the lap of her cream morning dress.
He reached down and straightened the material where it had slipped down her shoulder.
His fingers stilled when they touched her bare skin, and her eyes dipped toward where they brushed against her. Did she feel the same fire that he did?
His breath caught as she turned her head, her eyes meeting his once more. Why did they captivate him so? He swallowed hard.
“It’s only … it’s only that I will be missing an important meeting,” he managed. “Of course I am pleased to be here with you.”
Her eyes narrowed, and he wasn't sure what he had said that vexed her so, but she didn't seem particularly happy with his response.
“Tell me, Hunter,” she said, standing and walking over to the ladder, and he followed her to help her straighten it, her scent of spruce and frankincense strengthened by the boughs around them.
The entire house now smelled of her, and it was already driving him mad.
“What is it that bothers you so about Christmas? Why did you never celebrate?”
He sighed. He hadn’t wanted to speak to her of this, to give her any more of himself until the time she decided to open herself up to him, but it seemed his wife was relentless when she wanted something — just look at the current state of Wintervale.
“My mother hated Christmas,” he said, wandering out of the hall into the Green Room beyond, and she followed.
He took a seat in front of the fire, to ward off the cold that was filtering in, and she settled herself across from him in a matching Chippendale leather armchair.
He shrugged. “There’s not much else to say, really.
One year Nia decided that she would celebrate Christmas with or without the rest of us.
We were here that Christmas. Nia cut boughs off the trees in front of the house — the ones that line the drive, you know which I mean.
My father was furious. Said she had ruined the entire aesthetic.
She spent the rest of the day crying in her room. ”
“That’s terrible,” Scarlett murmured, bowing her head. “What of the other traditions? Do you go to mass? Do you give the servants their Boxing Day gifts?”
“We go to the church service,” he said with a shrug. “But only for appearances. There is no special meal after, no Boxing Day, no visit to the tenants as you have already forced upon me. Christmas is just another day.”
She cocked her head to the side as she studied him, and despite the frostiness that so often emanated from her, something seemed to melt as she contemplated his words.
“Well, Hunter,” she said with conviction. “This year you have no choice but to experience and celebrate Christmas. So you best prepare yourself.”
Was that a threat, or a promise?
They both jumped when they heard a slight cough from the doorway of the room, breaking the tension that had filled the air.
“My lady?” It was Spicer, his arms filled with greenery, with Scarlett’s lady’s maid just visible behind him.
Ah, so this was the girl Scarlett had spoken of, who was so interested in his valet.
It seemed Spicer wasn’t too averse to her attentions, from the way he kept glancing back at her, his cheeks a bright red.
“We have the rest of the greenery for this room. Marion — ah, that is, Miss Parker, she has everything well organized for the rest of the house.”
Scarlett wore a satisfied grin, and Hunter tried not to chuckle. Somehow, he had a feeling his wife was behind this particular meeting between the pair of them.
“Wonderful!” she said, rising to her feet and clapping her hands together. “Perhaps you can climb the ladder, Spicer, as it seems I’m but an inch too short.”
“I’ll do it,” Hunter heard himself say, and all eyes turned toward him as he stood.
For some reason, the thought of another man coming to the aid of his wife stirred a bit of jealousy within him.
Which was ridiculous. It was not as though Spicer posed any threat of garnering his wife’s affections.
But a man needed some pride, now, didn't he?
“You’re not … busy?” Scarlett asked, an eyebrow raised.
“Not anymore,” he said with a shrug. “There is no chance of me making my meeting with Lord Falconer tonight, and when I am able to travel, I am already prepared to discuss my proposal.”
“You’re — you’re decorating for Christmas, my lord?” asked Spicer, his eyes wide, and Hunter fixed what he hoped was his best glower on the boy. “Yes, Spicer,” he said, trying for patience. “Now, what’s next?”
“Here,” said Scarlett, picking up the ball of greenery that had fallen from her hand to the floor when Hunter had caught her. “Why don't you hang the mistletoe?”
He raised his eyebrows as he looked at the sprig. “Is that what you nearly killed yourself fixing to the top of the door?”
“I find, Hunter,” she said with a saucy grin, “that one can never have too much mistletoe. It provides for a rather fun game of avoiding it — or looking for it — depending on your preference.”
She cocked her head at the pair of young servants making eyes at one another near the door, and then winked at Hunter, and he nearly choked. Who was this woman?
Scarlett had to laugh at her husband. As much as he grumbled about the trees she had brought into the house, she could tell he was enjoying himself.
Before long, he was getting into the spirit, telling the footmen just where the evergreen boughs should be hung, and arranging the sprigs of ivy, holly, and rosemary over the dining room table with as much precision as a housemaid.
She leaned against the door of the room watching him until he finally must have sensed her presence.
“Are you ready?” she asked him.
“Ready for what?”
“To find the Yule log, of course.”
“Can you not just take one of the logs already cut?” he asked, a pained expression on his face, and she couldn’t resist teasing him further.
“Of course not,” she said. “We must venture into the woods and find the very best.”
“Why didn’t we simply find one the other day when we were gathering the boughs?”
“Because,” she said with an exasperated sigh, “This is a tradition. Every Christmas Eve we choose the Yule Log then light it for the remainder of the season.”
“It’s Christmas Eve?” he asked with bemusement, and she rolled her eyes at him.
“Of course it is.”
“Hmm,” he said in wonderment. “I was going to return home today. I didn’t realize Lord Falconer would want to meet on Christmas Eve.”
“Apparently he has the same regard for the holiday as you do,” she said with an arched eyebrow. “Well, I will be going. You are welcome to join or I will meet you here once I have found what I’m looking for. I am rather an expert, you know.”
“And what, pray tell, qualifies someone to become an expert at choosing a tree branch?”
“A Yule log,” she corrected him with a pointed stare. “It comes from years of experience, Hunter.”
“Very well then,” he said, feigning disinterest. “I suppose I had better come learn from a master.”
She couldn’t help the grin that stretched over her face. “I’ll meet you outside after I change my gown.”
Hunter had thought they would simply find a tree, cut a log, and be done with it.
But no. Scarlett inspected tree after tree, always finding a reason why it didn’t suit.
Too thin, too thick, too much greenery. Fortunately, they hadn’t wandered far from the house, just to the first line of trees in the distance.
Wintervale, in fact, was still in sight.
“You know,” he remarked, “there are perfectly good logs in the shed beside the manor.”
She quelled him into silence with a look, and he threw up his hands.
At the very least, the snow had finally stopped falling, though it was piled so high he knew it could be days before he would be able to leave for London.
His wife was stuck with him. Although, the frozen walls around her seemed to be melting somewhat, so perhaps now was the time to see if he could bring them down entirely.
When she allowed it, she showed him glimpses of the person she was when she wasn’t trying desperately to keep as far from him as possible.
The woman who gave to his tenants, who was beloved by children and servants alike.
Could she find room in her heart for him — and did he want her to?
He could admit that the thought scared him a bit, but also brought about a longing that he hadn’t known was within him.
“I’ve found it!” she finally exclaimed, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He hefted the axe from his shoulder. “Do you have any instructions as to where I should cut?” he asked.
“Here.” She drew a line with her finger, and he went to work. It was slow going at first — Hunter hadn’t exactly spent his youth outdoors doing hard labor — but soon enough he found a rhythm, and before long his wife’s Yule Log lay at her feet.