“What plan?” she asked, sounding monumentally stupid to her own ears. Another reason to be annoyed with this aggravating man.
“The one that involves me proposing.” While they still huddled beneath the blanket on the floor of the carriage with a hot brick between them, his fingers brushed slowly against her cheek. The caress was achingly tender, his words so honest her eyes welled with tears. “Marriage is a lifelong commitment, Evie. I’m sorry if what I did hurt you, but I didn’t want you to ever wonder if you could have made a better match for yourself than me.”
“You’re the only man I’ve ever wanted,” she croaked. “No one else compares.”
His palm cupped her jaw, angling it slightly toward him. “I love you, Evie. I always have. And it would be the greatest honor to have you as my wife.” His forehead bumped against hers, bringing him so close she felt his breath on her skin when he finally asked, “Will you marry me?”
Happy beyond compare, she answered without hesitation. “Yes. I love you too and–”
Her words were lost to his kiss. It was forceful and rough, wrought with emotion and endless passion. His arms held her close while his lips moved over hers, devouring her with a hunger that matched her own.
Captivated by each new sensation he stirred to life within her, Evangeline gave herself up to the joy she’d found this Christmas Eve. She was not only grateful for the gift of love she’d received, but for the wonderful future that now awaited.
December 14
By the Stroke of Midnight
The Christmas Eve dance at Bevelstoke House was always a grand affair. Beatrice Harper could testify to this. So far, she had experienced five while she’d been employed as maid to one of England’s wealthiest families. Twenty guests were already installed in the manor’s spare bedrooms while another seventy were expected to arrive in addition to this. Over one hundred bottles of champagne had been put on ice, the ballroom dressed in ribbons, pine, and nearly a thousand beeswax candles, while silver platters filled with cakes and hors d'oeuvres lined the counters in both the kitchen and pantry.
Sewing kit in hand, Beatrice hurried up the stairs and made her way toward Lady Isabelle’s bedchamber. She drew to a halt at the door and took a moment to catch her breath, then knocked. The door was yanked open by Lady Isabelle’s maid, Roberta. Gratitude mixed with hope and relief filled Roberta’s eyes as she stepped aside, granting Beatrice entrance to the spacious apartment of the duke’s youngest daughter.
“Please tell me you have the right color,” Lady Isabelle said as she rushed from the chair that stood before an ornately carved vanity table. She rung her hands, anxiety visible in the grooves creasing her brow.
Circling her, Beatrice gave the tear at the back of her coral pink gown a swift glance before setting the sewing kit on a side table. “Let’s check, shall we?”
She undid the latch of her sewing kit and swung the lid open, revealing a wide array of colored threads. Ignoring the somber tones, she sought out the brighter ones. What she needed was rose with a hint of orange mixed in.
“Any luck?” Roberta asked.
Beatrice bit her lip and considered the options. There was a deep magenta. Far too dark. A near–white powder blush. Much too light. And two other hues in between, but nothing that looked quite right. Snatching up the one she believed would match the best, she crossed to where Lady Isabelle stood.
“What do you think?” she asked Roberta while holding a piece of the thread against the fabric.
“It’s not perfect, but I do believe it’s our best option.” Roberta tilted her head. “ You could wear one of your other gowns, my lady.”
“They’ve all been worn before. This one is new and hasn’t been seen by anyone yet. Please, do what you can to fix it.”
Beatrice gave a swift nod and began preparing a needle. She wasn’t sure how Lady Isabelle had managed to ruin her gown in the first place and certainly wasn’t about to ask. But she was confident in her own skill as a seamstress and therefore thought it prudent to lend some assurance. “I’ll use a blind stitch where I can and make the rest so neat they’ll appear as though they’re part of the original design.”
It took no more than twenty minutes for the tear to be tucked and skillfully stitched so it looked like a deliberate seam.
“Thank you, Beatrice.” Lady Isabelle finally smiled for the first time since Beatrice’s arrival. “You’ve saved my gown and my evening.”
“I’m glad I could be of service.” Beatrice gathered her supplies and prepared to leave when Lady Isabelle stopped her.
“Before you go, I’ve something to give you.” Lady Isabelle glanced at Roberta and for a second it looked as though an unspoken secret passed between them. But then Lady Isabelle schooled her features, and the sparkle of mischief Beatrice could have sworn she’d seen in her eyes was gone.
Her expression now serious, she held a folded piece of paper, sealed with a crimson ribbon, toward Beatrice. “Scofield bade me deliver this to you.”
Baffled yet curious, Beatrice took the letter from her mistress. Her name had been written upon it in large bold letters. But why on earth would the butler pass a message to her through Lady Isabelle? It was most peculiar.
“Well?” Roberta asked. “Aren’t you going to read it?”
Beatrice knit her brow. She wasn’t sure she wanted to read it right now or that she wanted to share its contents with others. After all, it might be bad news. Then again, it was Christmas Eve, so perhaps it was good news instead. Or maybe the aging butler had simply chosen to hand out greetings this year to his fellow employees?
Deciding to put an end to her musings, she unfolded the paper and read.
Meet me at the pavilion at midnight.
Beatrice felt her frown deepen. She turned the paper over, hoping to find additional information. But that was it. Just her name on one side and a simple demand on the other.
With a shake of her head, she glanced at Roberta and Lady Isabelle. “I wonder what’s gotten into him?”
“Into whom?” Lady Isabelle asked, her voice so innocent Beatrice was fairly sure she knew precisely what the note said.
“Scofield, of course.” Beatrice huffed a breath and pocketed the note. “He wants me to meet him at the pavilion at midnight though I can’t imagine why.”
“Maybe he’s looking to marry and wants to know if you might desire the same,” Roberta said with a grin.
“Surely not,” Beatrice said. She groaned. “The man is in his seventies and I’m…not. Besides, we’ve never spoken a single word to each other that didn’t relate to work.”
“Perhaps there’s another reason behind the note then,” Lady Isabelle suggested. “Or maybe it wasn’t written by him at all. Is it signed?”
“Er… No.”
“Well, there you have it then.”
Beatrice wasn’t sure she agreed. The lack of a signature didn’t clarify anything, but she supposed if she were to figure out what was afoot and why she’d been asked to be at the pavilion at midnight, she’d simply have to show up.