When night came, there had been no question of why he had married her-for his passion had only increased, as had hers. It had been easy to see what he wanted, and to know that she pleased him, and he had taken great pains to see that she was satisfied as well. To lie in his arms each night had been like a taste of paradise, after days that were amiable but strangely empty. Even now she could not help but remember how it had felt to lie with him: cherished. Adored.

Loved.

It was all she could do to keep from throwing open the door between them right now and begging him to hold her again, to ease the ache of loneliness that she had felt since the moment she had left him.

But what good would that do in the long run? She would be happy at night, when he thought only of her. But at all other times she would not be sure what he thought of her, or if he thought of her at all.

He would be pleasant to her, of course. He would be the picture of good manners and casual affection-as he was with everyone, from shopkeepers to strangers. But he did not seem to share many interests with his wife. While he had always accompanied her to social gatherings, she did not think he’d taken much pleasure in them, and he’d seemed faintly relieved to stay at home, even if it had meant that she was accompanied by other gentlemen. He had showed no indication of jealousy, although she was certain that her continued friendship with Nicholas must have given him cause. Her husband had treated Tremaine with a suspicious level of good humour, although they should be bitter rivals after what had gone before.

In time, Nicholas had forgiven her for her hasty parting with him, and his level of flirtation had increased over the years, overlaying a deep and abiding friendship. She’d enjoyed his attention, but it had worried her terribly that she might be a better friend to another man than she was to her husband.

But if Harry had been bothered by it she hadn’t been able to tell. He’d either seen no harm in it, or simply had not cared enough about her to stop it.

Most important, if their lack of children had weighed on his mind, as it had hers, she had found no indication of it. In fact, he’d flatly refused to speak of it. The extent to which he’d appeared not to blame her for the problem had left her sure that he secretly thought she was at fault. Her own father had always said that girl children were a burden compared to sons. She dreaded to think what he would have said had his wife provided no children at all.

It had been hard to avoid the truth. She had failed at the one thing she was born to do. She had proved herself to be as useless as her family thought her. Harry must regret marrying her at all.

And on the day that she had been angry enough to leave she had shouted that she would return to her old love, for he at least was able to give her an honest answer if she asked him a direct question about his feelings on things that truly mattered.

Harry had blinked at her. There had been no trace of his usual absent smile, but no anger, either. And he had said, ‘As you wish, my dear. If, after all this time, you do not mean to stay, I cannot hold you here against your will.’

Elise had wanted to argue that of course he could. That a real man would have barred the door and forbidden her from talking nonsense. Or called out Nicholas long ago for his excessively close friendship to another man’s wife. Then he would have thrown her over his shoulder and marched to the bedroom, to show her in no uncertain terms the advantages of remaining just where she was.

But when one was in a paroxysm of rage it made no sense to pause and give the object of that rage a second chance to answer the question more appropriately. Nor should she have had to explain the correct response he must give to her anger. For if she must tell him how to behave, it hardly mattered that he was willing to act just as she wished.

So she had stormed out of the house and taken the carriage to London, and had informed a slightly alarmed Nicholas that there was nothing to stand between them and a much closer relationship than they had previously enjoyed.

And if she had secretly hoped that her husband would be along at any time to bring her back, even if it meant an argument that would raise the roof on their London townhouse? Then it was positive proof of her foolishness.

Chapter Six

After a fitful night’s rest, Nick Tremaine sought out his host to say a hasty farewell. He found Anneslea at the bottom of the stairs, staring out of the window at the yard. Nick turned the cheery tone the blighter had used on him at the club back upon him with full force. ‘Harry!’

‘Nicholas.’ Harry turned towards him with an even broader smile than usual, and a voice oozing suspicion. ‘Did you sleep well?’

The bed had been narrow, hard where it needed to be soft, and soft where it ought to be firm. And no amount of wood in the fireplace had been able to take the chill from the room. But he’d be damned before he complained of it. ‘It was nothing less than what I expected when I accepted your kind invitation.’

Harry’s grin turned malicious. ‘And you brought a surprise with you, I see?’

Nick responded with a similar smile, hoping that the last-minute addition to the guest list had got well up the nose of his conniving host. ‘Well, you know Elise. There is no denying her when she gets an idea into her head.’

‘Yes. I know Elise.’

Anneslea was still smiling, but his tone indicated that there would be hell to pay if Tremaine knew her too well. Just one more reason to bolt for London and leave the two lovebirds to work out their problems in private.

He gave Harry a sympathetic pat on the back. ‘And, since you do, you will understand how displeased she shall be with me when she hears that I’ve had to return to London.’

‘Return? But, my dear sir, you’ve only just arrived.’ The other man laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘I would not think of seeing you depart so soon.’

Nick tried to shake off his host’s friendly gesture, which had attached to him like a barnacle. When it would not budge, he did his best to ignore it. ‘All the same, I must away. I’ve just had word of an urgent matter that needs my attention. But before I go, I wanted to thank you and wish you a M-’

Anneslea cut him off in mid-word. ‘Received word from London? I fail to see how. It is too early for the morning post, and, given the condition of the road, I doubt we will see it at all today.’

Damn the country and its lack of civilisation. ‘Not received word, precisely. Remembered. I have remembered something I must attend to. Immediately. And so I will start for London and leave Elise in your capable hands. And I wish you both a Mer-’

‘But surely there is nothing that cannot wait until after the holiday? Even if you left today you would not arrive in London before Christmas Day. Although you might wish to be a miserable old sinner for this season, you should not make your servants work through Boxing Day to get you home.’

Nick sighed, trying to manage a show of regret. ‘It cannot be helped. I have come to tell you I cannot stay. Pressing business calls me back to London. But although I must toil, there is no reason that you cannot have a Merr-’

Before he could complete the phrase sliding from his lips, Harry interrupted again. ‘Ridiculous. I will not hear of it. In this weather it is not safe to travel.’

Damn the man. It was almost as if he did not want to win his bet. Which was obviously a lie, for he had seen the look on Anneslea’s face at the sight of his wife. The man was as miserable without her as she was without him. Nick stared out of the nearest window at the snow lying thick upon the drive. ‘It was safe enough for me to arrive here. And the weather is much improved over yesterday, I am certain. If I depart now I will have no problems. But not before wishing you a M-’

‘Not possible.’ Harry gestured at the sky. ‘Look at the clouds, man. Slate-grey. There is more snow on the way, and God knows what else.’ As if on cue a few hesitant flakes began falling, increasing in number as he watched. Anneslea nodded in satisfaction. ‘The roads will be ice or mud all the way to London. Better to remain inside, with a cup of punch and good company.’

Nick looked at the mad glint in his host’s eye and said, ‘I am willing to take my chances with the weather.’

There was a polite clearing of the throat behind them as a footman tried to gain the attention of the Earl. ‘My Lord?’ The servant bowed, embarrassed at creating an interruption. ‘There has been another problem. A wagon from the village has got stuck at the bend of the drive.’

Anneslea smiled at him in triumph. ‘See? It is every bit as bad as I predicted. There is nothing to be done about it until the snow stops.’ He turned back to the footman. ‘Have servants unload the contents of the wagon and carry them to the house. Get the horses into our stable, and give the driver a warm drink.’ He turned back to Nick. ‘There is no chance of departure until we can clear the drive. And that could take days.’

‘I could go around.’

‘Trees block the way on both sides.’ Harry was making no effort to hide his glee at Nick’s predicament. ‘You must face the fact, Tremaine. You are quite trapped here until such time as the weather lifts. You might as well relax and enjoy the festivities, just as I mean you to do.’

‘Is that what you mean for me?’

‘Of course, dear man. Why else would I bring you here?’

The man was all innocence again, damn him, smiling the smile of the concerned host.

‘Now, was there anything else you wished to say to me?’

Just the two words that would free him of any further involvement in the lives of Lord and Lady Anneslea. Nick thought of a week or more, trapped in the same house with Elise, trying to explain that he had thrown over the bet and her chance at divorce because he had her own best interests at heart. ‘Anything to say to you? No. Definitely not.’

Rosalind stared at the bare pine in the drawing room, wondering just what she was expected to do with it. Harry had requested a tree, and here it was. But he had requested decorations as well, and then walked away as though she should know what he meant by so vague a statement. The servants had brought her a box of small candles and metal holders for the same, sheets of coloured paper, some ribbon, a handful of straw, and a large tray of gingerbread biscuits. When she had asked for further instruction, the footman had shrugged and said that it had always been left to the lady of the house. Then, he had given her the look that she had seen so often on the face of the servants. If she meant to replace their beloved Elise, then she should know how best to proceed-with no help from them.

Rosalind picked up a star-shaped biscuit and examined it. It was a bit early for sweets-hardly past breakfast. And they could have at least brought her a cup of tea. She bit off a point and chewed. Not the best gingerbread she had eaten, but certainly not the worst. This tasted strongly of honey.

She heard a melodious laugh from behind her, and turned to see her brother’s wife standing in the doorway. ‘Have you come to visit me in my misery, Elise?’

‘Why would you be miserable, dear one?’ Elise stepped into the room and took the biscuit from her hand. ‘Christmas is no time to look so sad. But it will be considerably less merry for the others if you persist in eating the lebkuchen. They are ornaments for the tree. You may eat them on Twelfth Night, if you wish.’

Rosalind looked down at the lopsided star. ‘So that is what I am to do with them. Everyone assumes that I must know.’

‘Here. Let me show you.’ Elise cut a length of ribbon from the spool in the basket, threaded it through a hole in the top of a heart-shaped biscuit, then tied it to a branch of the tree. She stood back to admire her work, and rearranged the bow in the ribbon until it was as pretty as the ornament. Then she smiled and reached for another biscuit, as though she was the hostess, demonstrating for a guest.

Rosalind turned upon her, hands on her hips. ‘Elise, you have much to explain.’

‘If it is about the logs for the fireplace, or the stuffing for the goose, I am sure that whatever you plan is satisfactory. The house is yours now.’ She glanced around her old home, giving a critical eye to Rosalind’s attempts to recreate the holiday. ‘Not how I would have done things, perhaps. But you have done the best you can with little help from Harry.’

‘You know that is not what I mean.’ Rosalind frowned at her. ‘Why are you here?’

She seemed to avoid the question, taking a sheet of coloured paper and shears. With a few folds and snips, and a final twist, she created a paper flower. ‘The weather has changed and I was not prepared for it. There are some things left in my rooms that I have need of.’