Page 7 of The Christmas Ball
Last year's glorious Christmas tree had been a wild success and the talk of the neighborhood for months afterward. It would be thepièce de résistanceof her upcoming ball, and she planned that each guest would receive a gift from its boughs—sparkling bracelets of cut-glass beads for the ladies, stickpins for the gentlemen, and bags of gilded almonds and sweets for everyone.
“Are you ever planning to make a match, though?” Mena asked, with an intent look. “I think marriage would suit you.”
“You only say that because you and Drew are ridiculously happy together.” Viola shook her head. “It’s not that simple, finding an amenable husband. You two may count yourselves among the lucky ones.”
Mena set her fork down and regarded Viola steadily. “Perhaps you should adjust your criteria a bit. Who knows, the ideal gentleman might be right under your nose.”
“Hmph. I know what you’re trying to do, but I’ll have none of it.” Viola pushed her plate away and rose. “I’ll alert the footmen to make ready for our foray.”
Collecting holly and ivy would provide a welcome distraction from her thoughts, which, try as she might, had the constant and unwelcome tendency to veer toward Grayson Tate and his superb musculature…
Stop it, she admonished herself. Even if they hadn’t met in that most embarrassing fashion, Lord Winslow was clearly a meddlesome and impatient fellow. No matter what her sister-in-law might think, the two of them would not suit in the least.
CHAPTER THREE
It had stopped raining, Grayson was glad to see. Despite attending to paperwork and his ongoing research, he’d felt cooped-up and restless within the walls of Westbrook.
When he’d purchased the estate over the summer, it had seemed a good choice, full of potential. Of course, the large manor house needed some repairs, and the fields and farms were in dreadful shape, but he felt entirely up to the challenge. Rescuing dilapidated estates from ruin had become a bit of a passion of his. To date, he’d rehabilitated three, turning them from unfortunate wrecks to solid country homes with productive farms and pastures.
Finding them was the easy part, once word got round that the Marquess of Winslow would buy up moldering heaps. Plenty of gentlemen needed a bit of ready cash to cover debts, or were happy to shed an inconvenient property and let a new owner bear the cost of upkeep and repairs.
Westbrook would be a lovely place. Indeed, at the height of summer he’d imagined he could spend quite a bit of time in residence, once everything was fixed up. But now, he craved a bit of fresh air.
He sent a servant to invite his sister to accompany him for a ride about the grounds, and shortly the two of them were astride and cantering over the fields. The clouds overhead shone burnished pewter, and there was a decided chill in the air that he found refreshing. Perhaps it might even snow.
“Look,” Charlotte called, pointing to the woods bordering the edge of the estate. “I think someone’s in the forest.”
Grayson narrowed his eyes and spotted movement between the leafless ash and evergreens. Poachers? It wasn’t the time of year for it. Likely it was nothing more than a deer, but as a responsible landholder, he must investigate.
Whoever was in the forest had moved further away by the time he and Charlotte reached the trees, and for a moment he hesitated. Perhaps they were on the Dovington grounds now—but it would still be irresponsible of him to wash his hands of the matter.
With a nod at his sister, he led the way into the woods. The smell of loam and wet bark enfolded them, and the peculiar quiet of a slumbering forest, broken here and there by a solitary chirp or rustle. There was no sign of anyone…
Until he rounded a hawthorn thicket and found himself face-to-face with Lady Viola Harrington.
Her mount sidled in surprise, and she let out a startled breath, her gaze meeting his. Just as he recalled, her hazel eyes held gold flecks and there was a beauty mark on her left cheek. The sudden memory of holding her in his arms rushed through him, leaving a scalding heat in its wake.
“Ahem.” Behind him, his sister cleared her throat, then prodded her horse up next to his.
Abruptly, Grayson realized that he and Lady Viola had been staring at one another for a rather long moment. He blinked, recalling his manners.
“Good afternoon, Lady Viola,” he said.
“Lord Winslow.” She frowned slightly, creating a line between her brows that he inexplicably had the urge to smooth away with his thumb. “How unexpected. Do you plan to make a habit of skulking about Dovington?”
His momentary sympathy of feeling toward her evaporated into annoyance, though beside him, he caught his sister’s amused smile.
“Vi?” a voice called, and a moment later the Duchess of Beckford rode into view.
She pulled her mount up short upon seeing him and Charlotte, then smiled, somewhat like a cat who had been into the cream.
“Your Grace.” He bowed from the saddle. “Your pardon for trespassing, but we thought we’d glimpsed intruders in the forest. Allow me to present my sister, Lady Charlotte Tate.”
“Lady Charlotte,” the duchess said, “a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Indeed,” Lady Viola said, turning a much more charming expression upon his sister than the glower she’d bestowed on him. “I’m delighted you’ll be attending the Christmas Ball.”
“The pleasure is ours, in all respects,” Charlotte said. “Our apologies for surprising you, but as you can see, our intentions were good.”
