The wind howled fiercely as Nicolas pushed through the heavy oak door of the Thorne and Petal Inn, a swirl of snowflakes chasing after him. He stomped his boots, dislodging clumps of snow onto the worn floorboards, and shook his greatcoat with a vigor that sent droplets flying. His tousled dark hair, dampened by the softly falling snow, clung to his forehead in wayward curls.
“By Jove,” he said, a spark of mischief flickering in his gaze despite the chill biting through his bones. He cast his gaze about the cozy common room, taking in the flickering candlelight and the inviting aroma of mulled wine. He had stopped here on his way to Blackwood’s estate last month and found it quite welcoming.
The innkeeper, a portly man with ruddy cheeks, bustled over immediately. “Lord Winters. What a pleasant surprise to see you again. And so soon. Come, come, let us get you warmed up.”
Nicolas grinned, unable to resist a bit of playful banter. “My good man, are you implying I have taken leave of my senses? Venturing out on a day like this does indeed suggest madness. Though I assure you, my reputation for mischief has not quite reached such heights.”
The innkeeper chuckled, clearly accustomed to Nicolas’ behavior. “Never would I suggest such a thing, my lord. Though I must say, your timing is impeccable. I have a prime spot by the fire, just perfect for thawing out a wayward gentleman.”
As Nicolas followed the innkeeper to a comfortable armchair near the crackling hearth, His thoughts inevitably drifted to Emily. Was she thinking of him, too? Each mile brought him closer, yet still, the distance between them lingered in his heart. The warmth of the fire seeped into his chilled limbs, but it could not compare to the warmth he felt when he pictured her smile.
“Now then, my lord,” the innkeeper said, interrupting his musings, “what can I get you to chase away the cold? Perhaps a hot meal to go with that seat by the fire? And will you be needing a room?”
Nicolas settled into the chair, stretching his long legs toward the flames. “Food sounds marvelous. I daresay I have worked up quite an appetite on my journey.” His stomach growled in agreement, and he could not help but chuckle at his body’s impeccable timing. “But a room will not be necessary.”
As the innkeeper hurried off to fetch a menu, Nicolas gazed into the dancing flames, his mind once again turning to Emily. He had traversed snow-dusted roads and braved the biting wind, all for the chance to see her again. Would she welcome him with open arms, or would he be met with scorn? He could scarcely blame her if she was vexed at him. Still, he hoped for a welcome embrace. The uncertainty gnawed at him, but he pushed it aside. After all, he was no stranger to risk.
“Soon, my darling,” he whispered, a determined smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Soon, we shall meet again, and perhaps this time, I will get it right.”
He inhaled deeply, savoring the tantalizing aroma of roasted meat and freshly baked bread that wafted through the inn. His stomach rumbled again, more insistently this time.
“I will have your heartiest stew, good sir,” he called out to the innkeeper, his voice carrying a hint of his customary charm. “And a generous helping of that heavenly-smelling bread, if you please.”
The innkeeper nodded with approval. “Excellent choice, my lord. Our lamb stew is renowned in these parts. It will warm you right up.”
As he waited for his meal, Nicolas found his gaze drawn to a nearby table. A young woman sat there, her attention fixed upon him with unmistakable interest. She leaned over, offering him a view of her barely contained breasts as she gave a coy smile.
“Good evening, sir,” she purred, her voice laden with invitation. “Are you traveling alone on this cold winter’s day?”
Nicolas could not help but be amused by her forwardness. In another time, an invitation from such a woman would have stirred his interest, perhaps even been welcomed. But now... now there was Emily. And with that thought, the ache of longing bloomed anew. What was once tempting now paled compared to the woman who had captured his heart.
“I am afraid I am, madam,” he replied, his tone friendly but reserved. “Though I hope not to be alone for much longer. I am on my way to visit... someone quite special.”
A wistful smile played at the corners of his mouth as he thought of Emily. “You see,” he continued, his voice gentle but firm, “my heart belongs to another.”
The woman’s flirtatious smile faltered for a moment before she regained her composure. “How fortunate she must be.” A hint of disappointment threaded through her voice.
Nicolas nodded, his thoughts already miles away. “It is I who am fortunate, madam. Now, if you will excuse me, I must finish my meal and continue my journey. I have a long way yet to go if I am to reach my lady in time for Christmas.”
As he turned back to his food, he could not help but feel a surge of anticipation. Every bite, every moment, brought him closer to Emily. And with any luck at all, closer to a future he scarcely deserved, but most desperately craved.
Back at the Fairfield estate, the parlor was alive with activity. Emily stood on tiptoe, reaching to hang a delicate glass ornament on a high branch of the towering Christmas tree.
“Mother, look,” Mathew said, holding up a shimmering star. “Can I put this one at the very top?”
Emily’s heart swelled with affection as she gazed at Mathew. “Of course, just as soon as a footman brings the ladder.”
Charlotte approached, her arms laden with garlands. “Where shall we drape these?”
“Perhaps along the mantelpiece?” Emily glanced around the room. “Beatrice, what do you think?”
Beatrice, halfway through arranging the candles, grinned, mischief lighting her eyes. “I think it a travesty that we have not drank the mulled wine yet. Decorating is thirsty work, after all.”
Emily laughed, the sound tinged with both joy and a hint of melancholy. “You are incorrigible, Bea. But I suppose a little wine would not go amiss.”
As Charlotte busied herself with the garlands and Beatrice went in search of refreshments, Emily gazed out the frost-covered window. The snow-laden landscape stretched out before her, and she could not help but wonder where Nicolas might be at that very moment.
Had her letter reached the Wicked Widows? If anyone could locate Nicolas, it was the widows, for they moved in scandalous circles. That letter might now be in his hands. Was it foolish to hope he might care enough to return? Could he even now be on his way to her? Or had he laughed as he tossed her words into the closest hearth and watched them incinerate?
