Page 277 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

The village now boasted a first-class jeweler, stud farm, bakery, smithy, brewery, dairy, glasshouse... plus an amphitheatre capable of performing to an even greater audience than could fit in the grand ballroom.

For the new residents, their individual agreements were simultaneously exploitative and the chance of a lifetime. Not one of them had turned down Mr. Marlowe’s generous, ruthless terms.

Aaron wasn’t certain anyone hadeversaid no to Mr. Marlowe.

That was why Aaron was here, wasn’t it?

Mr. Marlowe’s usually cold blue eyes were soft and unfocused as he stared out through the closest window.

“It’s snowing,” he said, his voice tinged with a hint of wonder.

“It’s December,” Aaron said. “And it’s cold in Cressmouth eight months of the year. You purchased a castle high atop a northern mountain.”

Mr. Marlowe wasn’t listening. He stepped closer to the window and touched the fingertips of one hand to the cold glass.

“Mary-Anne adored winter,” he said softly.

Ah. Now Aaron understood.

Mary-Anne was Mr. Marlowe’s late wife, who had passed decades before.

“The beauty of the snow always reminds me of the love I once had.”

Wonderful. Now it would do the same for Aaron.

He would not be reminded of Mrs. Marlowe—Aaron had never known her.

But he had also once had a love that he later had lost.

Estelle.

She was still out there somewhere, alive. In that, Aaron was more fortunate than his employer.

The list of advantages ended there.

Though Aaron could picture her perfectly in his mind, he hadn’t seen Estelle in years. He still dreamt of her every night. The softness of her curves, the warmth of her lips beneath his, the halcyon days past when he’d believed he would be able to offer for her within a year or two at the most.

He was still striving for it, pointless as the effort might be.

At any moment, a wedding announcement would appear in the newspapers, and Aaron’s chance would be lost forever.

It was not the falling snow that reminded him of Estelle, but the fire crackling in the grate. The way it drew him near, despite the danger of being touched by such beautiful flames.

How he longed to feel her heat once more.

“Mary-Anne loved the festive season,” Mr. Marlowe continued. “I should have given her a castle like this while I had her. But I was always too busy with important things, and never had time for her or Christmas.”

Or for the rest of his family.

From what Aaron understood, Mr. Marlowe had no one left, save for an estranged grandson he hadn’t spoken to in years.

This was the first indication he’d ever witnessed that Mr. Marlowe had regretted any of his choices, if only for an unguarded moment.

“Perhaps that’s the answer,” Aaron said.

Mr. Marlowe dropped his gnarled hand from the window and turned to look at him. A sharp, crafty expression replaced all traces of sentimentality.

“Tell me your idea,” he commanded.

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