Two guests. Two men, one a distinguished looking stranger in a many-caped coat that made him look exceptionally broad and tall.
And the other . . .
Her heart froze. Her hand tightened on the bannister.
The other man removed his hat to knock snow from the brim. His thick gold hair gleamed in the glow of many candles. His eyes were as green as hope, as spring.
Perhaps she made some sound. She did not know.
He looked up and saw her, and her poor, ice-encrusted heart began to beat again.
The other man was Lucien.
To Lucien, she looked like an angel, a miracle spun of air and light.
He wanted to snatch her up and run up with the stairs with her, to carry her to his room and tumble her onto his bed. He wanted to untie every silver ribbon, loosen every lace, uncover every delicious bit of flesh, every hint of pink, every inch of white.
But of course if he did those things, it would defeat the purpose of his journey.
Besides, Aimée might object. It had occurred to him on the long carriage ride back, as his trip met with delay after delay, that he might have explained to her why he was going. But he’d had no guarantee of success then. He’d wanted to come to her without conditions or reservations.
He bounded up the steps and took her hand. She wore no gloves—part of her costume, he assumed. Her fingers were cool and slight and trembled in his grasp.
Holding her gaze, he lifted her hand to his lips.
Her eyes widened as he kissed her knuckles. “You are late,” she observed.
Her admonition made him smile. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
Still holding her hand, he walked with her down the stairs and led her to his companion. “My lord,” Lucien said proudly, “I have the honor of presenting Lady Aimée Blanchard. My love, this is the Earl of Amherst.”
Aimée shivered in confusion and joy and the draft from the door. Lucien had brought the earl here? What did it mean?
Amherst bowed. “I trust Lady Basing will pardon my instrusion.”
Aimee pulled herself together enough to manage a curtsy. “My cousin will be honored, my lord.”
An understatement. Lady Basing would be beside herself at snagging the Earl of Amherst’s attendance at her Christmas ball.
“The honor is mine,” Amherst said politely. His eyes gleamed. “Hartfell is not the only one who struggles with impatience, it seems. I could not wait to meet the lady who has reconciled him to himself. And to me.”
Aimée’s eyes widened. Her head whirled.
Lucien squeezed her hand, his grip almost painful. “Speaking of impatience, my lord . . .”
“Yes, yes.” The earl waved them away. “Go dance with the girl while I make my apologies to our hostess.”
Aimée danced as if her feet, not her dress, had wings. Because it was Christmas, and the ballroom was alight with candles, and her heart was burning with love and happiness. Because Lucien had called her his love. Because tonight, when all the guests were gone or settled in borrowed beds, she would find her way back down the stairs to his room and . . .
“You were right,” Lucien said as the movement of the dance brought them back together.
She dragged her attention from his mouth, struggling to focus on what he was saying.
“About Amherst,” he provided helpfully, a glint in his eyes that suggested he knew exactly what she was thinking. “Once I informed him I was actually funding another sort of rescue operation, all was forgiven.” His smile turned wry. “Of course, first he tore a strip off me for being too damn stiff-necked to tell him the truth to begin with. I told him he had you to thank for bringing me to my senses.”
She didn’t know where to look or what to say. “I am glad you have made your peace with him.”
Family was important.