Secluded with the Rogue

17. Seventeen

Seventeen

T HE YULE LOG burned merrily in the great room, its dancing flames adding joyful ambiance to the evening. The two musical brothers were readying their instruments. Chrystabel had asked for couches and chairs to be arranged in a half circle before the immense fireplace so everyone could see one another while they sang carols after supper. Joseph was impressed. She’d thought of everything.

Impressive. Yet another i word.

“Mulled wine,” Grosmont said before they’d even taken their seats. “We always have mulled wine on Christmas Eve. I cannot sing without mulled wine.” The fellow looked to his sister. “Please tell me we’re having mulled wine.”

Chrystabel gave a pert little shrug. “Isn’t it illegal?”

Grosmont’s expression fell. “But?—”

“You goose,” she cut him off with a laugh, “of course we’re having mulled wine! How could we celebrate illegal secret Christmas without illegal mulled wine to accompany our illegal Christmas carols? They all go together so well!”

Everyone laughed along with her.

Except Joseph. He was too busy noticing how delightful Chrystabel was. How playful. As his mother kept saying, how refreshing .

“I’m glad to hear it,” Grosmont told her. “In this one instance only, I must commend you in your disobedient ways.”

“We call that questioning convention,” Mother informed him pleasantly. “ Interroga Conformationem. Our family motto.”

“Well, that’s…unique.” Eyebrows raised, Grosmont nodded politely. “I believe I’m in favor of questioning convention, so long as it involves drinking lots of brandy.”

“Joseph and I made the mulled wine, and I fear we put in far too much brandy,” Chrystabel assured him. “Just wait till you taste it.” Moving closer to Joseph, she gave his arm a friendly squeeze. “He added two secret ingredients to make our mulled wine extra special.”

Meeting her gaze, Joseph wondered if his face gave away his feelings. Did she know that she made his blood race with just a touch? That he couldn’t stop thinking about their kisses in the cellar? Could she tell how much he wanted her?

She was beautiful and alluring, but he wanted her because of so much more than that. He wanted her because she was charming, surprising, and, yes, irresistible.

But the day after tomorrow, he was marrying Creath.

Wasn’t he?

For a moment, he allowed himself to consider other possibilities. What if he didn’t have to marry his friend to save her? What if his mother was right? What if they could send Creath to Wales while they helped her make a good match with another suitable gentleman?

It wasn’t as though he and Creath were in love. If he got her safely married and out of Sir Leonard’s reach, was that just as good as marrying her himself? Or maybe even better? Another gentleman might make her happier.

“Shall we sit?” Chrystabel prompted.

The musicians struck up a familiar tune, and everyone settled onto the couches and chairs, joining in the first verse of “Here We Come a-Wassailing.” Joseph seated himself between his parents—directly across the circle from Chrystabel—and a footman offered him a steaming mug of the mulled wine. The cup warmed his hands, and the sight of Chrystabel enjoying herself warmed his heart. All the voices raised in joyous song seemed to raise his spirits, too. His chest swelled with hope and faith that everything would turn out right.

It was Christmas, after all.

And somehow, despite his earlier protests, tonight he felt lucky and grateful to be celebrating. It would have been a shame to miss this. Being here among family and friends on this magical evening was a gift, and a tradition worth fighting for.

As he sang “Love and joy come to you, and to you your wassail too,” he wondered if he might have misjudged Chrystabel. Perhaps she wasn’t as irrational and irresponsible as he’d thought.

“This mulled wine is uncommonly good,” Lady Arabel said when the song ended. “You must tell us, Lord Tremayne—what are your secret ingredients?”

He couldn’t help flashing Chrystabel a triumphant smile. “Lemon and orange.”

“Are they imported from Spain?” Lady Arabel asked.

“I grow them in my conservatory.”

“When Joseph suggested the additions, I must own I had my doubts.” A gracious loser, Chrystabel inclined her head and smiled at him. “But he was right. The fruit complements the liquor and spices perfectly. Ours must be the only mulled wine with this flavor in all of history,” she declared grandly.

“And it’s delicious!” When Lady Arabel gulped more, she sloshed a bit down the front of her dress and giggled.

“And you weren’t jesting about the brandy,” Grosmont said pointedly, passing his youngest sister a handkerchief. He raised his cup to Chrystabel and Joseph. “My compliments.”

“Mine, too,” Mother put in. “The fruit is a brilliant innovation. How lucky I am to have such a talented son.”

“And I, to have such a talented…friend,” Creath finished weakly, making Joseph realize she’d been about to call him something else. Had she nearly said ‘betrothed’ in front of their guests? When her wide, worried eyes sought his, he sent her a reassuring smile, and she looked instantly at ease. As if, whatever happened, she trusted him to make it all right.

She always had. Three years younger than he, she’d looked up to him as an older brother and protector since they were children. When her family took ill last year, she’d run to him first and relied on him utterly. When her parents and little brother had slipped away, one by one, he’d held her as she cried and promised her he would always take care of her.

Looking at her innocent, vulnerable face now, guilt hit him like an arrow to the heart.

Puncturing all his fledging hopes and dreams and what-ifs.

Here was another what-if: What if he took an unnecessary risk with Creath’s future, and she paid the price? What if he broke their betrothal for selfish reasons, and she fell into Sir Leonard’s hands?

How could he have thought there might be other possibilities? There was just one possible way to ensure her safety, keep his promise, and do right by her. Of course anything less than that wouldn’t be good enough.

Anything less was impossible.

He drained his cup of mulled wine and held it out for a refill.

“What shall we sing next?” Chrystabel asked the circle.

“How about ‘Sir Christèmas’?” Lady Arabel suggested. “We always sing that while the flaming pudding is brought in.”

“That would just remind us we had to leave our Christmas pudding behind.” Chrystabel turned to the musicians. “Do you know ‘Joseph Dearest, Joseph Mine?’ It’s my favorite.”

Lady Arabel hiccuped. “Since when is it your fav?—”

The music resumed, and they all began singing.

Joseph couldn’t help his gaze straying to Chrystabel. Couldn’t help noticing she was watching him, too. Couldn’t help wondering if she’d chosen the carol for him.

“Joseph dearest, Joseph mine,

Help me cradle my child divine…”

Oh, how he suddenly wished he could.

He’d always liked children and knew he would have his own someday, but he’d never felt a particular need for them. He’d never felt fatherhood was something missing from his life. But all at once, watching Chrystabel sing sweetly, he found himself wanting to cradle her child— their child—more than anything.

“Gladly, dear one, lady mine,

Help I cradle this child of thine…”

He couldn’t. He loved her, but he couldn’t.

He had to tell her he couldn’t.

But how could he?