Tick, tock.
Tick, tock.
Tick, tock.
He cleared his throat. “I–”
“We–”
They both stopped.
Lavinia gave a nervous titter of laughter. “If we’re going to be here until Christmas, we should gather some decorations.”
“Decorations,” he said blankly.
“Yes.” She began to tick off her fingers. “Evergreen boughs for the mantles. Wreaths for the doors. A Yule log for the hearth.”
“A Yule log.”
“And wreaths. Holly berries, if we can find them.” When she raised her head, there was a light in her eyes that he hadn’t seen for a long time. Either because it hadn’t been there…or he hadn’t taken the time to notice. “I’ll get dressed. We’ll need something to carry everything on. A flat slab of wood that we can tie a rope to. I’m sure that’s an object suitable in the barn. Like an old door, or some wooden boards we can lash together.”
“Lavinia, wait.”
The light dimmed. “Yes, Nicholas?”
If they were in London, here was where he’d tell her that he had a meeting. And by the time he was back home, she would already be gone to a ball, or a dinner, or a party. But they weren’t in London. And there weren’t any meetings. Or social events. Or anything at all to keep them from each other.
“Before you get dressed,” he said huskily, “I can think of one thing that wasn’t on your list. And it doesn’t require clothes…”
Her cheeks still pinkand rosy from the not one, buttwoorgasms courtesy of her industrious husband and his magical mouth (along with another, even more magical part of his anatomy), Lavinia pointed a gloved fingertip at the tree in front of them.
“That one!” she declared excitedly.
Nicholas didn’t bother to disguise his groan. “Haven’t we enough?” he asked, peering back at the pile of evergreens they’d gathered. Contributing to their collection was a Scots pine, a holly bush, and the spiky branches of a juniper tree. But they were still missing a Yule log, arguably the most important Christmas decoration of all.
“This should be the last,” she said, her arms swinging back and forth as she waded through a patch of waist-deep snow. She’d lost all feeling in her toes some time ago, and her skirts were soaked through to the skin. But she was invigorated, both by the spirit of the impending holiday and the joy that came from being with her husband who, admittedly, didn’t appear to share in her Christmas enthusiasm.
“The last,” he said dubiously, dropping the rope he’d been using to haul around their bounty and stretching his hands to the sky. “That’s what you said about thelasttree. And look at this one, Lavinia. It’s a bloody monster.”
“It’s perfect! You’ll just need to cut it down, strip the branches, make a notch, and haul it back to the cottage.”
His eyes narrowed. “Is that all?”
She bit her bottom lip. “Unless you think we should havetwoYule logs–”
“This one’s fine,” he said hastily, and she hid her grin with an expertly timed cough. “Stand back in case it falls sideways.”
Stepping obediently out of the way, she clasped her cold hands together as she watched the mighty business titan hack away at a stubborn old oak tree with a string of curses and a dull axe she’d found in the woodshed.
Honestly, she preferred him this way. Holding an axe instead of a quill pen, his muscles rippling under his shirt with every swing of his arms. Sweat gleamed on his temple and his hair was raked back, the shaded beard on his angled jawline making it easy to imagine him as a hearty woodsman instead of a cool, analytical earl whose world was defined by numbers and sums.
She also felt different. Out here, in the woods and the snow, she didn’t have to bite her tongue or play silly social games. She could be herself. She couldfindherself. Because somewhere along the way, in-between becoming a wife and then co-chairperson of the Grosvenor Square Society for the Betterment of Orphaned Youth and Widowed Women (Nicholas was right, the name was absolutely absurd), she’d gotten lost.
The tree came down with a loud crash that was swallowed up by the blanket of white, and it took both of them and a horse from the stables besides to haul their bounty back to the cottage. There was more cursing when the felled oak wouldn’t fit through the door, but in the end, Lavinia got her Yule log along with enough branches to make a dozen wreaths and over the next few days, that was exactly what she did.
While Nicholas tended the fire and helped Bartholomew clear off the carriage and a path leading to the main road, she braided branches together, tied ribbons around berry stems, and covered every conceivable surface, including all of the windows and doors, with holiday cheer. Intermittently, she and Nicholas would go for walks in the woods, or read in front of the fire, or play countless games of cribbage on an old board discovered in a cabinet in the parlor. They also made love. In the morning. In the afternoon. At night. There was no schedule. No waiting for the ball to end or the meeting to be over. There was only them, and the cottage, and a general lack of inhibitions that had led to any number of delightful new positions.
Then, before she could blink, it was Christmas Eve. And with it, the uncomfortable knowledge that this was the date she’d given herself–the date she’d giventhem–to either fix what was broken once and for all or abandon whatever tentative truce they’d built over the past few days.
