Something landed in the center of his chest quite suddenly. He looked down to discover the remnants of a snowball upon his greatcoat.
What the devil?
“Oh dear,” said a feminine voice he would recognize anywhere. “Do forgive me, Your Grace. I fear my aim was misplaced.”
Christabella.
He should have known.
He glanced up to find her blue-green eyes dancing with mischief. How had he expected anything less? Was she laughing at him? With him? Did she always react to a proposal of marriage by pelting the gentleman with snowballs?
“Forgive my sister, Your Grace,” Miss Prudence Winter called. “She did not intend to hit you with the snowball. Are you injured?”
He was not certain if it was the cold rendering him speechless at the moment, his affliction, or shock. Either way, he could not seem to speak.
“Actually, I did mean to hit you,” Christabella said then, grinning her minx’s grin and revealing that damned dimple. “But I was aiming for your hat.”
He found his tongue at last. “That was a childish prank, madam.”
Her grin did not diminish. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold. There was no doubt she was enjoying this, the maddening woman.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said without a hint of contrition in her voice. “As you know, I am beset by an inability to behave.”
He choked out a laugh. Truer words had never been spoken. And yet, as had become common, her impish nature lightened the weight which had settled upon his chest. He may have bungled his attempt at asking her to be his duchess the day before. However, as he stood there in the sunlit garden, surrounded by frigid December air, their siblings looking on, the remnants of her snowball stuck to his coat, he made a decision.
He was going to marry this minx.
But first, he was going to retaliate in kind.
He sank to his haunches, formed a snowball, and then took careful aim. The snowball hit her bonnet and broke, sending snow raining down into her face.
“Oh, you bounder!” Christabella exclaimed. “That was one of my best hats!”
He found himself grinning back at her. “I was merely showing you an example of excellent aim, Miss Winter.”
“That is the outside of enough. I declare this a war. Pru, start making snowballs,” she ordered her sister.
Miss Prudence began to protest when Ash threw a snowball, entering the melee. The missile hit her bonnet, interrupting her chastisement.
“Did you dare to throw a snowball at me, Lord Ashley?” she demanded.
“Yes, I did,” Ash called back. “Your sister announced this is war, after all. We must defend ourselves.”
A full snow battle ensued. Before long, the four of them were laughing, flinging snowballs at each other, and generally acting more like a quartet of children than the adults they were. As snow was flung at them from every direction, Gill met his brother’s gaze.
“I say we go in separate directions and try to lose them,” he said as another snowball landed on his chest.
“Excellent idea,” Ash agreed, dodging another burst of snow.
They turned and raced through the slippery snow, heading deeper into the maze. When they reached a wall of holly, Gill and Ash parted, with Gill heading to the left and Ash to the right. He could only hope the sisters followed and that, even better, the right sister chose his path.
He stopped when he reached a statue of Venus, the air cold in his lungs.
In the next instant, Christabella came careening toward him, her bonnet askew, cheeks even more flushed, her infectious giggle hitting him in the chest with the same force as her snowball. She slid in the snow just before she reached him, and he caught her in his arms, holding her there.
My God, she was lovely.
She took his breath.
