“A room,” Leo said, “and a good meal for Mr. Jones and myself. We’ll be off at first light, though, unless the weather prevents it.”
“The weather will prevent it,” Rafe said. “And so will my frozen jewels.”
To Leo’s great frustration, the weather proved Rafe absolutely correct: No sane man would venture forth into a storm that showed no signs of letting up.
Marielle watched the steady dripping from the icicles hanging beyond her parlor window, each drop landing on her last nerve. Christmas had been five days ago, and she’d not had a word from Leo.
“We should leave for Paris, Petunia, before the spring crowds.”
The seat of Leo’s marquessate was far to the north—Petunia had recalled that much about the Cadeau title—and Leo might well have gone directly there after receiving Marielle’s note at the solicitors.
“His lordship might not have received the note you left him, milady,” Petunia replied, threading her needle with green silk. “The weather did turn up powerful bad.”
Leo might have been caught in the storm while journeying north. “I find Leo after all these years, only to lose him.”
Marielle had been hoping he’d return to the Ox and Ass, for that was the logical place to rest his horses on the way to his family’s Whitbyshire holding.
And it was there he and she had lost each other, and found each other again, and there where he’d know exactly where to find a confidential note from her.
“The roads will soon be passable again, milady. Perhaps we ought to travel out to that inn and see if his lordship left word for you.”
Marielle was tempted to do just that. “I’m the daughter-in-law of a marquess. Leo can find me easily enough by making inquiries among his peers.”
Except that Leo had had the title for less than year, and hadn’t taken his seat in the House of Lords. He wouldn’t know the Semple family, or any other titled aristocrats unless the connection was through the military.
Maybe Leo would never find her. “Drew wasn’t acquainted with many officers.”
Petunia readjusted the portion of fabric in her embroidery hoop. “Beg your pardon, milady?”
“Nothing of any moment. I’ve become fretful. I can’t stand doing nothing, Petunia.”
Patient blue eyes looked up at Marielle. “You have become increasingly impetuous since Lord Drew died, but Paris isn’t going anywhere, and a winter crossing is seldom easy. If you are determined to leave for Paris, then I will arrange to spend time with my sister in Dorset.”
Good heavens, rebellion in the ranks. “I’m being impossible,” Marielle said, taking the place beside Petunia on the settee. “I’m sorry. Seeing Leo upset me and all my fancies have turned to fears.”
Seeing Leo had given her hope, and reconnected her with the young woman who’d loved passionately. To lose Leo now…
“I would love to see Paris,” Petunia said, drawing the needle through the fabric, “but I also like that Mr. Jones. You can afford to wait a bit for the roads to clear, can’t you, milady?”
Petunia was embroidering a figure of green, white, and gold mistletoe onto a white linen handkerchief.
“Is that for Mr. Jones?” Marielle asked. “It’s gorgeous, Petunia.”
“Let’s just say it’s for my trousseau, should ever I need one.”
Petunia was not a young woman, though she wasn’t ancient either. She’d waited decades for a man who could pry her loyalty from her dear, departed Charles, while Marielle was railing against a few days of silence from Leo.
“We’ll wait,” Marielle said. “We’ll wait until after the new year, and then reassess our situation.”
The new year wasn’t even a week off. Surely even Marielle could wait that long?
“Stop fussing at me,” Leo snapped. “I’m calling on an old friend, not making my bow before the sovereign.” That farce had been tended to within a week of Leo’s return to England.
“You’re calling on an old friend,” Rafe said, stepping to the left to avoid the snowmelt dripping onto Marielle’s front porch, “and you’ve a special license in your pocket.”
“Which fact, you will not mention to anyone.” Leo wasn’t certain he’d have an opportunity to use the license, but after being thwarted by bad weather, Welly’s loose shoe, and nearly a foot and a half of snow, he wasn’t about to take chances.
The door opened, and a liveried footman admitted them. Leo handed over his card and asked to see Lady Drew. Rafe, who’d donned rare finery, asked if Miss Petunia was at home. Miss Petunia herself came down the front steps a moment later, and the joy in her eyes as Rafe greeted her with a kiss to the cheek surely qualified as a holiday miracle.
“May I show you the conservatory, gentlemen?” she asked. “We’ve decorated for the holidays, the same as we do every year, and it’s really quite lovely.”
“I’ll wait here for Mari—for Lady Drew,” Leo said.
Miss Petunia linked arms with Rafe, and all but marched him—quite unresisting—down the corridor.
Leaving Leo to inspect Marielle’s home. Her residence was on a fashionable square, and commodious without being cavernous. The main foyer was festooned with ropes of pine, wrapping about the banister, twining around the chandelier chain, and decorating the curtain rods. The resulting scent was lovely, particularly with cloved oranges adding a spicy note.
These accommodations were far better than Leo could have given Marielle for much of the past ten years. He said a silent thank-you to Lord Drew Semple, because Marielle deserved the elegance and comfort Leo saw on every hand. Polished marble floors, a newel post carved in the shape of a cat sitting on its haunches, and red velvet ribbons dangling from the sheaf of mistletoe beneath the chandelier.
A door softly clicked shut, and Marielle stood across the main foyer, a vision in aubergine. Gold trim accented her cuffs and hems, and Leo had a sudden vision of her as an older woman. Her hair might become snowy, her gait might slow, but she would always have a sheer presence that drew him.
“Leopold, welcome.”
“I found your note.” Thank God he’d thought to look in the crook of the old oak, though nearly a foot of snow had obscured the oilskin tucked between the branches. “I found your note, Lady Drew.”
For moment, the only sound was the eaves dripping, a sign of moderating weather, then Marielle’s steps clattered across the foyer. She threw herself into Leo’s arms, holding him tight even as laughter shook her.
“Leo, what were we thinking? Using solicitors to find a spouse? I must have been barmy, but Petunia said some ladies will advertise for a husband, and I started thinking about growing old without children, pitied, lonely, and—”
“—without my best friend,” Leo concluded. “Without the one person who always encouraged my dreams, never laughed at my fears. When I got back to the inn and you weren’t there…. I died inside Marielle, as surely as if some Frenchman had taken me captive.”
She unwound herself from him enough to tuck an arm around his waist, but that was as far as Leo was willing to let her go.