Prudence filled his mind and memories of their time together filled the rest of him with a craving that he found almost overwhelming. He walked slowly past barrels of fermenting ale, and found himself at the end facing the stacked wood that would be used for the Christmas fires throughout the village.
It was a Little Chillendale tradition. Any wood that could not be used for barrel making was stored in the rear of the brewery. Dry and ready to catch a flame, it would be distributed on the Sunday before Christmas to everyone who wanted a piece. He stared at the pile, thinking of all the families who would be happy knowing that they were warming themselves with a piece of Chillendale.
It would reinforce their sense of belonging. Things like that mattered to a country community.
Reid wondered if Prudence had ever had that experience. She’d been shuttled from place to place, seldom having the chance to express her own wants or needs. And, from the little she had told him, never really belonging.
She had crept into his heart, he realized. One brief meeting and he was entranced. One afternoon of abandoned passion—and he was lost.
What he was going to do about it all, he hadn’t the faintest idea. So he wandered back over the flagstones of the Chillendale brewery and decided it was time for him to go back to the house and prepare for the Fête.
A solution would present itself in good time. It usually did.
For some reason though, that thought wasn’t as comforting as it should be.
He hadn’t been in the house for five minutes, before there was a loud knock on the door. Curious, he made his way to the front hall, only to hear a familiar voice berating his butler.
“Lord Rowdean. Welcome, sir.”
“Good God, Bunbury. You’re still alive. And I’ll wager if I were to pop down to the kitchens I’d find Mrs. Clark making lemon tarts, eh? And you wouldn’t give me one, youmeanbutler.”
“You were six at the time, my Lord.” Bunbury was unmoved. “And you had neither the permission of your parents nor of Mrs. Clark.”
Brent shook his head. “Trust you to remember that.”
“I’ll be damned. Brent, you cawker.” Reid rushed to greet his old friend. “What on earth is a Viscount doing in this humble abode?”
They exchanged a manly sort of hug and a handshake, then punched each other on the shoulders and the welcome was over.
“I had to come down this way to find out how to get some of that magnificent ale of yours, old lad.”
“Ahh. Yes, it draws admirers like honey draws flies.” Reid chuckled.
“Consider me a fly, not a Viscount. Since I’ve no idea how to properly be one of those. And give me tea, will you? I’m ravenous. Lemon tarts would be definitely in order. I’m saving the ale for later.”
“Come on then.” He ushered Brent into the small parlor, trusting Bunbury to take care of the rest. “You’re here just in time for the Christmas Fête, you know.”
“Of course. That’s today, isn’t it? What luck.” Brent grinned. “Do you remember when we brought in a real sheep for the shepherds?”
The next half hour was spent reminiscing, and after tea—and lemon tarts—had been served and devoured, Brent leaned back and looked at his friend. “So, Reid.You’rethe Mistletoe Marquess this year, then? Rumors abound, my friend.”
“You’re staying in the village, I take it?” sighed Reid.
“You know this place so well.”
“I do, and yes. I have the misfortune to be the unlucky sod with the mistletoe wreath this year.”
“Got a Marchioness?”
That comment earned Brent a glare. “There was a possible candidate. But no. She is no longer under consideration.”
“Ouch. What happened?”
Prudence.
“Nothing happened. It just turned out to not be a good match. And I refuse to leg-shackle myself to the wrong woman just for the sake of a tradition.”
“A centuries-old tradition, Reid.”
