“What are you saying?” she asked, her words measured, her eyes filled with suspicion.
“Nothing besides the fact that you have many fine qualities I admire. That in itself ought to be a good basis for a fast friendship. Would you not agree?”
“I, um–”
“Unless you do not share my sentiment.” Loathe as he was to do so, he had to allow for this possibility. “I’ll admit, I can appear stern, perhaps even cold, but it can be difficult not to when so much responsibility rests on my shoulders. I cannot be as carefree as George. Not with the livelihoods of my servants and tenants depending on me. But I can try. Indeed, I should like to. If you will but give me a chance.”
How could she deny such a heartfelt plea? It was impossible. No matter how much it stung to be abandoned by his brother, and despite the part he’d played in that, Claire could not reject his desire for friendship. Especially since, having calmed herself a little in the wake of his confession, she had to acknowledge he was correct about one important fact. If George truly cared for her, he wouldn’t have abandoned her without a single word. At the very least, he’d have kept their appointment, explained the situation, and broken things off directly instead of leaving his brother to do so on his behalf.
She glanced at the earl. This meeting with him had been full of surprises and revelations. Until today, she’d not thought him able to smile or laugh, and seeing him do both had not only warmed her heart, but instilled in her the strangest desire to stay in his presence.
“Of course,” she told him. “Everyone deserves a chance.”
This earned her another smile. “Shall we begin with hot chocolate and biscuits in the kitchen?”
She actually laughed. “You, in the kitchen? This I’d like to see.”
“Then let us make haste.” They circled back to collect his horse. To Claire’s dismay, Ravencroft caught her by the waist and lifted her onto its back without comment. He then led the horse and her back to the manor.
Once indoors, they warmed themselves and soothed their insides while engaging in conversation. Claire learned that Ravencroft hated politics and loathed attending Parliament. She also learned he used to love watching clouds drift by when he was a child and longed to do so again. He never seemed to have the time, however, to while away the hours with fruitless pursuits.
“It may not be as fruitless as you think,” Claire said, dusting biscuit crumbs from her fingers. “The soul requires nourishment too. I find this is often derived from the simplest of things like making daisy chains, skipping stones, building card houses, or simply watching the clouds. Personally, I think I’d like to make snow angels. Perhaps you’d care to join me? After all, it would give you the chance to watch clouds at the same time.”
She’d no idea where this idea had sprung from or what had prompted her to invite an earl of all people to lie on the ground with her. It had just happened.
His eyebrows drew together beneath a frown. “I’d look ridiculous.”
“Probably, but does that actually matter?”
He blinked and his expression eased into smoother lines. “Not really.” He gave a startled laugh. “You’re a marvel, Miss Rivers. Do you know that?”
“If that were true, your brother would not have run off as he did.” She regretted the comment as soon as she made it, for it served as a depressing reminder of how this strange new friendship between her and Ravencroft had begun. She did not want to tarnish the hours she had enjoyed in his company by sounding bitter or worse, ungrateful. “Forgive me. That was–”
“Forget him,” Ravencroft told her, his voice as fierce as she’d ever heard it.
He reached for her hand, heedless of the fact that they weren’t alone, that several servants were present and might see the gesture. Curiously, Claire didn’t care. However unexpected, she welcomed Ravencroft’s touch and hoped he might linger.
Strange, considering she’d been prepared to accept an offer of marriage from George just a few hours prior. She wasn’t sure what that said about her, her feelings for George, or the earl, but a keen desire to explore it all was steadily building inside her.
“Join me for a ride tomorrow if the weather is clear,” Ravencroft murmured, so low only she would hear. His gloveless hand squeezed hers. “We’ll make as many snow angels as you desire while watching the clouds drift by overhead.”
“I’d like that.” She could tell from the brightness of his eyes that he knew she meant it. And there was something about that – a curious connection she’d never before experienced with another person.
Later, when they’d finished the rest of their hot chocolate, he escorted her back to her cottage. Pausing before the front door, he told her gravely, “I’m sorry George failed you, Miss Rivers. No one deserves such ill treatment. Least of all you.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
He held her gaze for a moment, then took her hand gently and raised it to his lips. “You may call me Michael if you wish.” The most reverent of kisses followed, his lips grazing carefully over her knuckles. The effect was dizzying, even a little magical one might say if one believed in such things.
Claire’s pulse leapt. “Then you must call me, Claire.”
The edge of his mouth lifted, producing a roguish sort of smile that instantly weakened her knees. He pressed his lips to her knuckles once more. “Merry Christmas, Claire.”
“Merry Christmas, Michael.”
His smile was wide and joyful when he stepped back. An elegant bow followed. He stepped back farther, paused briefly, then bowed once more before turning and walking away.
Perhaps George’s inconsiderate actions would have a positive outcome after all, Claire thought. For as she watched Michael go, she was left with the most incredible feeling. It was as though the stars had aligned, placing her right on the cusp of something utterly wonderful.
December 18
Stealing a Yuletide Kiss
It had been two weeks since Eva Hughes arrived in Denmark with her parents, Viscount and Viscountess Saxbury. The purpose of their visit was to see an old friend of Papa’s. Mr. Alistair Richmond, the late Earl of Clayden’s youngest son, had travelled to Copenhagen on business some thirty–five years ago and had fallen madly in love. He’d lived abroad ever since though he had visited Papa on occasion when he came to England.
For years Papa had promised he’d one day visit the Danish shores. It was, after all, closer than New York, and he’d travelled there on two occasions during Eva’s time on this earth. So it did make sense for Mr. Richmond to press the issue of a visit, and now here they were, cozied away in a lovely manor north of the capital city.
Eva left the small whitewashed church where Christmas service had been held. She’d not understood the words the reverend had spoken for the past hour, besides the biblical names. Nevertheless, she’d quite enjoyed the pretty hymns sung throughout the sermon. It interested her, how different a language and culture could be from the one she was used to.
Even the food she’d eaten since her arrival was foreign.
She could not claim to like it all. The pickled herring and aquavit were surely acquired tastes, but she’d still taken pleasure in trying it. And because she’d maintained an open mind and a willingness to sample everything her hosts’ cook prepared, she’d discovered some truly delicious dishes, like cured pork belly fried with apples, thyme, and sugar, as well as frikadeller, a moist sort of meatball she simply could not get enough of, though she still struggled with the pronunciation.