But she said nothing in her letters. She trusted that all would work out well in the end. She did, after all, trust his love for her. She never did doubt that, perhaps because she had stopped doubting herself. She was no raving beauty, and she had no lineage or fortune beyond the generous dowry Mama and Papa had set aside for her. But she was worthy of love and happiness, just like anyone else—even the love of an extraordinarily handsome and charming cavalry colonel and son and brother of an earl. He was fortunate indeed to have her. She always enjoyed a private smile at the thought and even a chuckle if she was alone. But she believed it. She was Winifred Cunningham, and she was proud of who she was.
Sothere, world. Take that!
Oh, the days and weeks and months rushed by and crawled by, and Christmas would surelynevercome.
In the meantime, there was always something at home to keep her both busy and interested, and replies to the invitations she had sent out began to arrive. Everyone seemed to be coming except Nicholas’s grandparents, the elder Greenfields, who regretted they could not face the journey to Bath, especially in the dead of winter. They had been invited to spend Christmas with their neighbors, the Reginald Taylors, and their family. Estelle, Bertrand’s sister,wascoming, however, with her husband, Justin, Earl of Brandon, and their young son.
They must not worry about accommodation, the Earl of Stratton assured them in his reply. He would arrange for the Ware family to stay together at a hotel in Bath. Aunt Anna, writing on behalf of Uncle Avery, the Duke of Netherby, gave similar assurances about the Westcott family. They had stayed at the same hotel in Bath on a number of occasions and liked it. They would reserve rooms there for everyone.
Winifred’s grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins, including Estelle and Bertrand, would stay at the house. Great-Uncle Michael Kingsley and Aunt Mary would stay at the house on the Crescent, though they had made an interesting suggestion. If there was room at Camille and Joel’s house to squeeze them in, they had written, they would vacate the house on the Crescent for the night of the wedding and a few days over Christmas for the convenience of the bride and groom.
Winifred blushed as she read it. She had wondered…
They would have a whole house to themselves.
If Christmas ever came, that was.
Sometimes she doubted it would.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Christmas did indeed come.
Heavy clouds, blustery winds, and more than usually chill temperatures settled over Bath, and indeed much of southern England, during the second half of December, threatening heavy rains or even snow to disrupt holiday travel. Many a would-be traveler, eager to join his family for Christmas, kept an anxious eye upon the skies, wondering if the roads would become a quagmire before he could reach his destination or, worse, be buried under a few feet of snow.
The rare occurrence of a white Christmas was all very well if one could watch the magic of white fields and lawns and frost-laden tree branches from the warmth and safety of a dwelling hung with holly and ivy and a kissing bough and fragrant with the smells of mince pies and plum pudding and roasting goose and spiced wassail and other culinary delights. It wasnotall very well if one faced a lengthy journey or a Christmas spent unexpectedly at home without company or supplies or, horror of horrors, marooned at acountry inn with other such unfortunates, all of them in a morose mood.
The clouds obligingly held their loads until December 22, when the last of the wedding guests arrived chilled but safe in Bath and settled at their various abodes or hotels. The early arrivals soon bundled up in warm cloaks and greatcoats, scarves and mufflers and muffs and boots, and sallied forth to explore the famous sites—the Roman baths with the Pump Room above them, the nearby Bath Abbey, the Pulteney Bridge, and for those who did not mind a bit of a walk, Sydney Gardens. Some climbed to the famed circular street, the Circus, with its stately Georgian architecture, and the horseshoe-shaped Royal Crescent, from which they had a panoramic view down over Bath, not to mention the full force of the December wind in their faces. Some of them, most notably the ladies, went shopping on Milsom Street and purchased Christmas gifts to add to those they had brought with them. Most of them drove up to the Cunningham home in the hills for a short courtesy visit. Camille and Joel, accompanied by the Marquess and Marchioness of Dorchester, drove down into Bath and called on the wedding guests, both Wares and Westcotts, at their hotels. Everything was set for the grand celebration of a wedding two days before Christmas.
“Provided it does not snow six feet and prevent Nick from getting here,” Owen remarked cheerfully. “A wedding without the groom would be a bit of a flat affair.”
His mother was too fearful of just such a disaster to appreciate his humor.
“Owen!” she chided, a hand over her heart, while Matthew set one arm about her shoulders and grinned at his stepson. “Do not eventhinksuch a thing.”
“But I’ll wager you will think of nothing else for the next day and a half, Mama—and the night between the two,” Owen said, waggling his eyebrows.
“Enough, Owen,” Stephanie said crossly. “If you must tease someone, let it be me. I have broad shoulders.”
It didnotsnow six feet or even six inches, and Nicholas rode into the hotel stable yard exactly when he was expected, in the middle of the afternoon of his wedding eve. He had applied for and been granted a leave of two weeks despite the time off he had taken during the summer. He had not wanted to waste one moment of his time off by leaving his work before he had to.
He ought to have been exhausted by the long journey. But after hugging all his family members and answering all their questions and asking a few of his own, he hired a fresh mount and rode up into the hills, a setting he had imagined a thousand times. It lived up to all his expectations, though it must be even more impressive under a blue sky and warm sunshine. No matter. He had not come to admire a view or even a large house, perfectly situated for maximum access to the view.
Someone must have seen him coming. The front doors of the house crashed open as he approached, and a missile hurtled out of it and down the steps and across the gravel in what seemed like a suicidal attempt to have herself ground to pulp beneath the hooves of his horse.
“Nicholas!” Winifred cried, the very antithesis of dignified, disciplined, genteel ladyhood. “At last!”
He dismounted quickly and threw the reins to a groom who had trotted into sight from somewhere behind him.
“Win!”
He gathered her into his arms and felt again—at last—thefamiliar slender lines of her body, taut with eagerness. He gazed into the bright, eager face she lifted to his and he thought,Yes, just so she looked.Sometimes it was annoyingly difficult to bring an absent face to one’s mind, complete with animation and blinding inner beauty.
“Win,” he said more softly, closing his arms more tightly about her as she twined her own about his neck, heedless of the exposed place where they stood. He wondered idly how many people were lined up at the windows inside, enjoying the show.
But to the devil with them if they chose to be shocked.
He kissed her.
