Just as it had each December for the past ten years, Blackwell Abbey smelled like Christmas. The scent of holly and fir mingled with citrus. Before Quint, the drawing room was decorated with trees, ribbons, candles, kissing boughs, garlands, and all manner of shining trinkets. The fire crackled merrily in the grate. Snow fell beyond the windows, blanketing the earth in a shimmering mantle. Presents were laid out on the table, awaiting the annual tradition of gift-giving that had begun the night he had asked Joceline to marry him. That year, they had given each other their hearts.
But it wasn’t the decorations or the traditions this Christmas Eve that filled him with a deep and abiding sense of love and contentedness. It was his family—from nine-year-old Nell, who was a replica of her mother with raven hair and green eyes, to the youngest, two-year-old Robin, who was old enough this year to toddle about and nearly pull down the Christmas trees with his innocent enthusiasm. In between were Clara and Edward, seven and four respectively, and presiding over them all, her belly round with the child that would swell their ranks to one more in early spring, was his beloved wife.
They were joined by her mother, brother, and sisters—one large, exceedingly happy family.
“The eldest gets to give her gift to Papa, and then the second eldest, and so on,” Joceline was telling a protesting Edward.
“But I want to be the eldest,” Edward said with a pout.
“You can’t be the eldest, you silly goose,” Nell told her brother. “I’m the eldest, and that means I get to give Papa his present from me first.”
She raced for the table in a flurry of skirts, her dark curls bouncing in her exuberance.
“I’m second,” Clara announced importantly.
“I don’t want to be third,” Edward complained.
Robin grasped a handful of Christmas tree and tugged.
Quint scooped his youngest son into his arms. “No pulling down the trees, lad. Mama will be quite cross with you if you do.”
“I could never be cross with any of my darlings,” Joceline said with the sunny smile that never failed to send desire coursing through him.
Ten years they had been married. Ten glorious, fulfilling, wonderful years. He loved her more with each passing day. They’d caused something of a scandal with their wedding, for it wasn’t every day that a duke married his housekeeper. Neither of them had cared, and over time, the gossip had faded. Even his mother had apologized, and although the damage had been done and the two of them remained distant, Quint had forgiven her because Joceline had. His wife’s kindhearted, generous nature was one of the qualities he adored about her the most.
But then, there truly wasn’t anything about Joceline he didn’t adore. She had healed him, shown him how to live again. Shown him how to love again. And she had filled his icy heart with warmth just as she had filled his barren home with laughter and children. It was a second chance he didn’t deserve, but one he was damned well glad he’d been given.
Robin patted Quint’s cheek, his little fingers sticky. “Papa!”
From the Christmas tree, Quint realized.
Joceline chuckled. “Oh dear, you’ve covered Papa’s face with tree sap.”
Nell appeared before him, shyly offering a piece of embroidery. “Here is your gift from me, Papa.”
He accepted it, admiring her handiwork. “Such fine work, Nellie. Thank you.”
Nell smiled, showing off dimples in both cheeks that were like his own. “It’s a Christmas tree.”
“So I see.” Robin reached for the embroidery with his sticky hand, but Quint held it out of reach. “No sap on my gift, if you please.”
“Robin, come to Grandmama,” Joceline’s mother invited from across the drawing room. “Let your papa receive his presents.”
Quint settled a squirming Robin on his feet, grinning as his son raced across the Axminster and clambered onto his grandmother’s lap. Clara appeared before him next, another miniature Joceline, but with golden hair.
She offered him a pressed flower picture in a frame. “I made this for you, Papa, and I made another just like it for Grandmama.”
“It’s lovely,” he praised, admiring the way she had painstakingly arranged the dried lily of the valley and iris.
Clara smiled. “Thank you, Papa.”
“My turn!” Edward said excitedly, racing forward, something clenched in his small fist.
“And what have we here?” Quint asked, extending his hand—ungloved, for he had long since stopped covering his scars.
Edward deposited half a gingerbread square in his palm.
“For you, Papa,” he declared.
