see pine cones sprayed silver and what looks like silver-wrapped balls, each no bigger than a nickel. William pulls one from the tree and unwraps it to reveal a spun-sugar candy.
He holds it front of my mouth, and I inhale the sweet smell of peppermint.
“It’s a bit early in the century for candy canes,” he says. “I’d hate to accidentally invent them, so I’m hoping these are an adequate substitute.”
I open my mouth to speak, and he pops the candy inside before I can. I laugh and let it melt on my tongue.
“It will do then?” he says, waving at the room.
Tears prickle at my eyes. “It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“Serviceable? Good. Now I presume you’d like some supper.”
I catch the front of his sweater. “I can think of something I’d like better.”
His brows rise. “Better than sustenance for our unborn child?”
“I ate a scone. The baby’s fine.”
“Well, then . . .” He lowers himself to me. “I suppose that cold supper can’t get any colder.”
“And I don’t care if it does.”
Dinner is not a cold supper. It’s only slightly cool by the time we get to it. Mrs. Shaw knows her employer well enough to leave it in the oven, keeping warm until he finally gets around to eating.
Mrs. Shaw lives in the village, spending semi-retirement with her daughter and grandchildren. Yes, having Lord Thorne alone in his manor house, with only a live-out housekeeper and occasional stable boy is dreadfully shocking, but as I said, the people of High Thornesbury are accustomed to eccentric lords. I’m sure there are plenty of whispers about the fact that his new bride spends so much time in London—while she’s pregnant, no less—but an excuse about an invalid relative needing care has been deemed acceptable enough.
So we have the house to ourselves, which is good, considering that William is currently walking out of the kitchen naked, ferrying plates of food in to me, as I lie in front of the fire in an equal state of undress.
It’s a veritable feast. Holiday food, to go with the ambiance. There’s mincemeat pie, which still contains actual meat in this time period. Plum pudding is served with the meal, being considered more of a solid chutney than a dessert. To drink, there is a peach punch. Victorians love their punch, and being able to make it with out-of-season fruit is the mark of a cook—or housekeeper—who has mastered the art of canning.
The last dish is a tiny plate of sugarplums. William holds one to my lips as he stretches out beside me.
“Dessert before I’m finished dinner?” I say.
“Oh, I apologize. You aren’t done yet? You do look very full.” His gaze drops to my belly.
I groan. “You’re going to keep doing that, aren’t you?”
“I must. Freya bought me a book on twenty-first century fatherhood, and it included something called ‘Dad jokes,’ which it defined as repeating a vaguely funny witticism ad nauseam. I’m practicing.”
I roll my eyes and stretch onto my back, taking the sugarplum with me. As a child, I always thought sugarplums were, well, sugar-coated plums. There are no plums involved, just lots and lots of sugar, this particular one having an anise seed at the middle, rather like a jawbreaker.
As I enjoy the comfit, William runs a hand over my belly. I look down to see his face glowing in the candle light.
“Bigger than when you saw me in October?” I say.
“Wonderfully bigger.” He leans down to kiss my stomach. “You look well and truly pregnant now.”
He’s moving up beside me when he stops short, his hand on my belly.
“Was that a kick?” he asks.
“Probably food digesting. I was a bit hungry.”
I feel a tell-tale twitch inside me and glance down to see something briefly protrude from my stomach.
“Nope,” I say. “That’s definitely a kick.”
William grins and spends the next few minutes watching my stomach as our baby wriggles and kicks.
“A dancer,” he says. “Like her mother.”
I snort. “About as graceful as her mother, too.”
I finish a second sugarplum and then stretch a hand over my head, fingers brushing a brown-paper parcel wrapped with scarlet ribbon.
William lifts it out of my reach. “None of that.”
As he moves it, the tag—cut from a Christmas card—dangles low enough for me to read. I blink and then sit up, catching the tag to double check the writing.
“To William, with love from Bronwyn?” I say. “Uh, this isn’t from me.”
He frowns. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. Freya is under strict orders not to release your