O Night Divine A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,164

saw the hope in her sister’s eyes now. The poor girl wasn’t yet fourteen and needed some joy. “We must have baked goods. The neighbors and villagers would be extremely disappointed.”

Tia grinned. “I’ll tell Cook. And shortbread for MacIntyre?” Their butler’s greatest woe was the English fare. He missed his Highland dishes.

Her mind wandered back to the holiday. Each Christmastide since Etta had turned seventeen, her father had sworn to find a way to send her to London for a Season. By spring, the promise had been forgotten. At twenty, their neighbor Mrs. Miller whispered about shelves and spinsters.

Etta didn’t mind. Leaving her sister would have left a hole in her heart. Besides, the squire’s wife had also warned her that the ton could be malicious to anyone with an imperfection.

Her mood deflated as she looked down at the letter scrunched in her lap. The flowing script appeared hurried, scratched in haste. Chaotic splotches of ink marred the thick paper. The note had managed to be brief yet rambling at the same time. Did it reflect the gentleman who had written it?

“And if a male heir is discovered?” she had asked, wondering if her aunt had any children.

“This is where it becomes ambiguous.” The solicitor removed his glasses carefully and placed them on the desk. “The heir will control all the holdings, investments, and assume guardianship of Miss Horatia. He is required to support both of you until he finds suitable matches. The gentleman will also provide a reasonable dowry.”

“And if one of us does not marry?”

“He will be obligated to support you until that day.”

Two weeks after meeting with the solicitor, they received a letter from a long-lost aunt, announcing the existence of her great-nephew and expressing her sorrow for the loss of their father, her brother. In truth, the siblings had not spoken since Lord Comden’s marriage to a harlot of the stage. The girls’ mother had been a talented opera singer, giving up a promising career to marry the handsome baron. He had been smitten at first sight, or first note, he had often joked.

Tia had inherited their mother’s pale beauty. Etta had her voice. But the shared traits of loving parents did little to assuage their grief.

The clip clop of horse hooves echoed against the paved stones. Etta hurried to the parlor window to see the coach as it slowed to a stop in the courtyard. An unfamiliar gold crest shone against the black enamel as a footman hastened to open the door. A tall, slender man, his expensive greatcoat swirling around gleaming black boots, stepped out and surveyed the tidy surroundings. Riotous blond curls peeked out from beneath his beaver hat, and a wide smile lit his handsome face. He spoke to the driver, his breath forming white puffs in the cold afternoon air.

Etta peered out the window, chewing her bottom lip as they studied the viscount.

“He’s very fine.” Tia pushed up next to her and pulled back the drape.

“Stop! Mind your manners,” Etta scolded with a wagging finger.

“What manners?” laughed Tia. “He’s family. He has to love us.”

With a snort, Etta grabbed Tia by the shoulders and turned her toward the door. Apprehension knotted her stomach. Did their cousin know of Tia’s hearing loss? She had a vision of a kindly gentleman treating her sister as an invalid, and the fiery scene that would follow.

MacIntyre appeared, his ebony tailcoat and breeches immaculate. Their butler had been more a father figure the past few years than a servant. He had a quick smile, kind dark eyes, and a Scottish wit that could send the girls into a fit of giggles. His bushy, silver brows rose in question, his hand on the door handle, and Etta nodded.

With a deep breath, she smoothed her black bombazine dress and fiddled with the lace trim at the sleeves. Tia’s arm looped through hers as she dragged them both to the entry hall, her enthusiasm almost contagious. Her sister’s golden waves bounced across her shoulders, radiant against the coffee-colored dress. She refused to wear black, except for the ribbon at her waist and threaded through her locks, declaring there was no one to see them.

MacIntyre turned and put a finger to his lips. He tugged on his waistcoat, smoothed back his sparse gray hair, and opened the door. “Greetings, my lord,” he said in his most imperious tone.

Lord Turnsley stepped inside and handed the Scot his hat without making eye contact. He ran a hand through his wild mane while