The room, being a room, didn't respond. But somewhere in the distance, he could hear carolers starting up, their voices carrying across the snow-muffled village.
Alaric closed the ledger. Tomorrow, he would review the accounts. Tomorrow, he would be the efficient, emotionless steward he was pretending to be. Tomorrow, he would stop noticing things about Marianne Whitby that he had no business noticing.
But tonight, just tonight, he sat by the window and listened to the carolers, watching snow fall on a village that was trying very hard to show him something about Christmas that he'd spent many years trying not to see.
The truly disturbing part was that it might be working.
Outside, the star atop the tree continued to gleam, a beacon in the winter darkness, suggesting possibilities that Alaric wasn't quite ready to acknowledge but couldn't quite ignore.
Somewhere, a clock chimed midnight. December sixteenth. Nine days until Christmas.
Nine days to fix the estate problems and return to London.
Nine days to remain unaffected.
Nine days to resist whatever magic Hollingford and its inhabitants, one inhabitant in particular, were trying to weave around him.
He had a sinking feeling nine days wasn't going to be nearly enough.
Or possibly, it was going to be far too many.
Either way, the Duke of Wexmere was in trouble, and for once in his extremely well-ordered life, he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.
Except, perhaps, to let it happen and see where it led.
Which was either the best or worst idea he'd ever had.
Time, as it always did, would tell.
But for now, he sat and watched the snow fall on a village preparing for Christmas, and for the first time in years, he felt something that might have been…, if he'd been willing to admit it, hope.
Or possibly indigestion from Mrs. Morrison's brandy butter.
He preferred to think it was the latter.
But he knew deep inside that it was almost certainly the former.
Chapter 5
"Your Grace appears to be staring at the ceiling with unusual intensity. May I inquire if there's something particularly fascinating about it?"
Alaric didn't move from his position on the bed, fully dressed except for his coat, having given up on sleep approximately two hours ago. Which meant he'd been lying here since two in the morning, staring at absolutely nothing while his mind churned through conversations he shouldn't be replaying.
"Did you know, Grimsby, that some people fill empty spaces with activity to avoid thinking about loss?"
"I believe that's a common psychological response to grief, Your Grace."
"And did you also know that some people are so busy being strong that they forget it's acceptable to be tired?"
"That sounds like a very specific observation about a very specific person, Your Grace."
"It was a general philosophical observation."
"Of course, Your Grace. About no one in particular."
"Exactly."
"Certainly not about a certain baker's widow who Your Grace spent the evening observing."
