“I do care for it,” Petunia said, “especially with a dash of cinnamon to mark the holidays. I have never met a proper Englishwoman who takes as little interest in the Yuletide season as you do, milady.”
The tea was tepid and weak, which did not stop Petunia from dunking her shortbread into it.
“Do you imply I’m not a proper Englishwoman, Petunia?”
“Of course not, milady. I suspect the holidays make you sad.”
The holidays made Marielle angry. She’d taken years to figure that out. “I have both fond and difficult memories of this time of year. I’m going out.”
The shortbread didn’t make it to Petunia’s mouth. “But the weather!”
“Is simply weather. I won’t be gone long.”
Petunia didn’t offer to accompany Marielle, which was fortunate. Marielle wanted to be alone when she revisited the place where she’d last kissed Leopold Drake, the same place she’d waited for him until the bitter weather had given her a lung fever from which she’d nearly died.
“Go inside and secure us rooms under your name,” Leo said, taking Wellington’s reins from Rafe. “And order us a double round of toddies while you’re about it. Mind you don’t mention the title, or we’ll be charged a king’s ransom for a night’s lodging.”
“At once, your highness,” Rafe said, saluting. “On the double, despite the fact that my old bones are nigh frozen to death. I live to serve, and—”
The entire point of the exercise was to get Rafe’s old bones indoors before lung fever stalked him. “I can no longer court martial you, Raphael, but I can sack you.”
“And put coal in my stocking too, sir. A dire fate for such a loyal—”
Leo took Rafe by the shoulders and gave him a small shove in the direction of the inn, for Rafe would hover over both Leo and the horses like an anxious guardian angel.
“Two plates of cheese toast,” Leo said. “And some victuals for our next leg of the journey.”
Rafe was as solid as a barn door, but couldn’t be moved half so easily. Leo had rank, two inches of height, and some muscle on the older man, all of which he applied as gently as he could.
“There will be no next leg of the journey for me,” Rafe said. “Not today. Here I shall bide, for it’s Christmas—”
“March, Raphael.”
Rafe trudged off, pausing long enough to pitch a snowball at one of the dodging, shrieking boys. The children were happy—today was Christmas—and once, long ago, Leo had been such a boy, grateful for a holiday and a playmate.
“Come along,” Leo said to the horses. “There’s a warm stall, hay, and a rest for you both. I’ll ask the grooms to take the chill off your water, and they’ll think I’m daft, but a soldier learns things. Can’t charge into battle on a colicky mount.”
Can’t make babies cuddling up to wealth and a title. Rafe’s warning followed Leo into the relative warmth of the stable. A stable lad swaddled in mittens, scarf, and gloves greeted them at the door, though Leo would see to his own horses. A marquess probably wouldn’t be allowed that courtesy in Merry Olde England, but a soldier would.
A former soldier.
Leo waved the groom away, and sent Welly into the first empty loose box. Beowulf got the one beside it because comrades should be billeted together when possible.
“Another guest of the inn is in the saddle room,” the groom said. “I’m up the steps with the coachmen, if you need anything, sir.” He tugged his cap and went scampering up wooden steps that lead to the hayloft, and apparently, to winter quarters for the stable help.
Within minutes, Wulf and Welly were dispatching their hay with the steady munching of hungry equines. Leo stacked his saddle over Rafe’s and carried both down the barn aisle to the saddle room. He couldn’t unlatch the door to the saddle room with arms full of gear, so he set the saddles on a rack and pushed the door open.
The guest in the saddle room was female. She sat on a trunk, her back to the door. Beneath a lovely red velvet cloak, her shoulders were hunched with what could only be dejection. Leo considered turning tail and retreating, but a thought stopped him: The lady was quietly weeping, and she was alone.
A gentleman, be he a soldier or a marquess, would not leave a damsel in distress without offering his aid—especially not on Christmas.
The memories assailed Marielle like so many blows to her dignity. Waiting and waiting in this same small, tidy space, the scents of horse and leather twining with her hopes as the minutes, then the hours crawled by.
Leo had left her here alone in a deepening winter chill to face his abandonment and to face her future.
Before that, on many occasions Leo had kissed her here and promised her the world. They’d done more than kiss—a lot more—and only Leo’s honor had prevented them from anticipating vows that had never been uttered.
As a girl of seventeen, Marielle had spoken those vows in her heart. Whether Leo had left her a maid out of good sense, honor, or an unstated plan to leave her for an officer’s life, she didn’t know. She’d bitterly regretted never having made love with him—he might have at least shared that much with her— but now, for the first time, she could thank him.
She’d gone to her husband a chaste, if unenthusiastic bride, and Drew had been a good husband.
Marielle had convinced herself that the friendship she and Drew had developed was a far more trustworthy basis for a relationship than the passion Leo had inspired, but a decade later, her tears were hot and heartfelt.
She and Leo had been so young and so in love, and the whole world had thought them daft—the whole world being their parents—but such a love had deserved a chance. Leo had bought his colors instead, and Marielle still kept him in her prayers. He’d never been named among the dead or the missing in battle, and she took comfort from that.
“Madam,” said a masculine voice. “You will please cease this lachrymosity.”
A widow in tears exercised a right no other woman in the realm had—to order men about. “Go away,” she said, keeping her back to the intruder. Her nose was likely red, and her eyes were puffy, and she was entitled to privacy with her regrets. “I mourn for a soldier lost to me years ago. You will leave me in peace if you’ve any charity—”
Bootsteps sounded on the plank floor, and the scent of damp wool blended with the other scents of the saddle room. A hint of vetiver joined the barnyard bouquet. Leo had worn vetiver…
“It’s Christmas,” the man said, coming around to stand before Marielle’s perch on the trunk. “Surely your tears can wait for some other day?”
He was tall, and his great coat swirled about him with the drape of fine tailoring. Other impressions—broad shoulders, dark hair, riding boots damp from the snow—registered beneath the timbre of his voice.
That voice.
“Leo?” Marielle said. “Leopold Drake?” His features had matured from adolescent beauty into a man’s rugged countenance. The years of soldiering were marked in the lines beside his eyes and mouth, and in blue eyes that had once been merry. Those eyes were chilly now, and guarded.