once kept slicked back in place.
Her heart fluttered in an all-too-familiar quickened tempo.
He paused in his task and glanced over at her.
Merry hurriedly dropped her focus to—
Her lips twitched.
“I see you laughing,” he mumbled.
“I’m not laughing.” She winked. “I was smiling. It’s not exactly the same.”
“It’s not entirely different either,” he said, all of his attention trained on that oddly shaped arrangement.
No, it wasn’t. Nor did that adorably imperfect garland he’d worked tirelessly at since they’d arrived that morn account for the perpetual smile she’d worn that morning. With Luke distracted as he was, Merry freely studied him while he worked. It was simply him. He made her smile. And laugh, he did that, too. And how very wonderful it felt.
Her garland forgotten, she dropped her chin atop her hand.
How singularly odd that the man who would one day be her employer, the same man who’d been relentlessly devoted to his rank, should have opened her eyes to the truth that she was far more than a servant. She’d not been placed upon the earth with the sole purpose of serving.
Oh, that was how she and her family and the majority of the world survived.
But work was not all they were. She’d as much right to her happiness as any lady of the peerage. She’d as much right to her dreams. Dreams she’d not even realized she’d carried in her heart until Luke had forced her to look inside herself.
Not for the first time, Luke broke into a quiet, cheer-filled song.
“I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas Day in the morning.
And what was in those ships all three…”
Her smile widened.
He abruptly cut off that joy-filled tune. “Do you know, Merry? Laughing again, you are,” he said with a faint thread of teasing in his voice.
“It’s simply that I’m happy,” she said softly. And she was. So deliriously, unapologetically happy. On the heels of that, her cheeks bloomed with a blush. Alas, he remained engrossed in his task. All the while, he continued working on… on… Merry squinted and, this time, couldn’t even attempt to hide her smile. “What are you creating?”
He stole a sideways peek her way and hurriedly placed the greenery in his hands behind him.
“Close your eyes,” he said. “I’m nearly done.”
Yes, perhaps he was. But it also begged the question: “With what?” she asked as gently as she could.
He held the jumbled, misshapen ball aloft. Beads and red velvet ribbons hung down, a garish display that all but covered every inch of green.
Merry bit the inside of her cheek, but a snorting laugh escaped her anyway.
“Hmph.” Luke gave it a slight shake, and the beading jingled merrily. “I’ll have you know this is perfectly splendid.”
She laughed all the harder. “It is perfectly lovely,” she conceded, reaching for his masterpiece, but he held it out of her reach. “But what is it?”
“Ah, I shan’t tell you. It’s a secret.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Until you’re able to properly appreciate my work.”
He merely teased, and yet…
“Does it matter so very much?”
He paused.
Catching the sides of her stool, she dragged it closer to him and then angled the seat so their legs met. “Why do you worry what I, or the world, or anyone else in between should think or feel? Isn’t it enough that you should simply be happy and damn everyone else’s opinion?” In that moment, it all became very blurred as to whether she spoke of him… or herself.
His finger smoothed the velvet ribbon distractedly, and he sat in silent contemplation. “I was raised early on to believe Society’s perception of me mattered more than anything,” he began slowly, his tones introspective. “I’ve measured my responses to… everything. Every decision has been made first and foremost with my family’s name in mind.” His jaw flexed. “Even…” His words trailed off.
“Even?” she pressed, needing to know everything there was about him. Because he was the most real man she’d ever known, and in this short time together, he had become a friend.
“Even the woman I would wed.”
Her heart missed several beats, and when it resumed a steady cadence, the rhythm was quickened. “You are betrothed?” Odd how three little words—four measly syllables—should sit like a pit in her belly.
“No.”
Some of the tension eased, leaving in its place a giddy relief.
“I was betrothed, however.” His lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Past tense. At my parents’ urging, I broke it off.”
There was a woman who’d very nearly