she stared down at the roast beef on her wooden plate.
“Come,” her mother chided, rescuing Merry. “Leave your sister alone. She’s no doubt exhausted from the work she did and in such a short time.”
“Overworkers, they are,” her brother muttered as he sliced into the roast on his plate. He wielded it on the edge of his fork, brandishing it about like a cudgel.
“Shh,” their parents commanded.
“What?” Diccan asked around a large mouthful of his roast. He swallowed forcibly. “They’re all away, playing their merry festive games.” He waved his fork around once more. “No need to worry about them hanging about and overhearing.”
His father thumped the table. “We’ve all enjoyed a comfortable existence and steady work, which is more than most can rely upon, because of Lord Maldavers.” He pointed across the table to his son. “You’d do well to remember that.”
“Do well to remember that the very minute Merry returned from studying abroad to benefit their fine households, they ordered her onward to London?”
As Diccan launched into a long diatribe, Merry’s gaze drifted over to the windowpanes and the flakes of snow faintly visible through the frosted glass.
Any other time, Merry would have felt only warmth inside for her loving brother’s defense, and yet… her heart wasn’t here. It remained in London, in the household of the family her brother now disparaged with words she would have agreed with… eleven days ago. But everything had changed. She’d seen that Luke was not the man she’d taken him to be. He was so much more. Seeing her, encouraging her to have her dreams, and… She bit the inside of her cheek and welcomed the sting of pain. God, how she would miss him.
“And for what?” her brother was saying. “To throw together a hasty celebration when the entire world knows what the real purpose was…” Diccan let those words dangle as the invitation they were.
A captive audience to her brother’s tirade, Matilda sat forward. “And that was?”
Diccan stared at Matilda as if she had two heads. “Why, to distract the ton from the scandal of their eldest son, the precious heir. Why, it was enough that the youngest was a traitor, but now the pompous Lord Grimslee?” He brought his shoulders back and pointed his nose at the air.
“He is not like that,” Merry exclaimed, and four pairs of gazes whipped toward her.
“Not pompous? Not priggish?” Diccan snorted. “Those words are synonymous with Lord Grimslee’s name.”
“Just what do you know about the viscount?” Matilda asked Merry with far too much suspicion for one of her years.
She knew he wasn’t the man they believed him to be. “He’s…” Merry felt every last pair of eyes home in on her face. “He’s not that man. He’s kind.”
Diccan gave another snort.
Merry glowered. “He is. He’s nothing like Lady Maldavers.” That miserable woman had sent her packing.
Their mother banged the table with her fist. “Enough talk of the Holmans.” She shouted order into the room. “Can we please begin with our Yuletide wishes?”
A sharp rap sounded at the door.
The entire Read family went silent.
Mama’s mouth hung open as she stared with horror-filled eyes at the front door of their cottage.
Their father glared at his son, who had the grace to at least sink lower in his seat.
“What?” he whispered. “Surely you don’t expect a Holman to come here at Christmas, no less?”
“Unless they need something,” Matilda said in like hushed, but still inordinately loud, tones. “Which is entirely possible as—”
Knock-knock-knock.
This rapping came more insistent.
Jumping to her feet, Mama rushed to the door. She shot a silencing look over her shoulder and then drew the oak panel open. Snowflakes gusted into the room, little flecks that fluttered and danced.
Luke?
Her sister threw her a sharp look.
Had Merry spoken aloud? She couldn’t sort it out. She couldn’t sort anything out.
Her heart ceased to beat.
It froze. Immobile in her chest.
And then it resumed an erratic rhythm.
The wind howled, and Luke doffed the elegant black Oxonian atop his head. “Hullo,” he greeted when no one made a move to speak.
“M-my lord,” her mother stammered, sinking into a curtsy.
As one, the Reads belatedly shoved to their feet. The legs of their chairs scraped in noisy discord.
Except Merry’s.
Merry remained fixed to her seat, unable to move. Unable to so much as take her eyes off the towering figure who filled the doorway. Because she was certain she’d conjured him. How else to explain Luke being here, on Christmas night?
Her sister kicked her under the table.
Grunting, Merry jumped up.
In the end,