Page 90

The days had passed in a happy haze of honeybees and flowering hawthorn, leisurely strolls among blooming beds of white Christmas roses, and before Stella knew it, Christmas Eve had arrived.

The duke would select his bride at tonight’s ball, and her time here would come to an end. They would leave for Chester tomorrow morning, and life would go on much as it had before she knew a place as magical as Hawthorne Castle existed.

Her father was still gone. She was still trapped under Phillippa’s thumb. On the surface, nothing had changed. She was still a servant, her fingertips rough from repeated pinpricks.

But the heart that beat underneath her shabby clothing had awoken at last.

She was not the person she’d been two weeks earlier. How could she be? Her heart was irrevocably changed, transformed. She would never be the same lady she’d once been.

It was this place. Somehow, in just a few short weeks, Hawthorne Castle had become a home to her. She couldn’t say when it had happened, or why.

Was it the scent of the evergreens in the entryway, or the cinnamon wafting from the kitchens? Was it the low, comforting buzz of Mr. Ambrose’s honeybees, busy with their morning’s work? Perhaps it was something as simple as the afternoon sun streaming through the stained-glass windows, throwing rainbows of colorful light around the conservatory.

Or was it easy laughter, and twinkling green eyes?

It was none of those things, and all of them, at once.

It was a fairy tale, come true at last.

But like all fairy tales it was ending, and the time had come to bid Mr. Ambrose goodbye.

It had taken her ages to escape Phillippa’s clutches this afternoon. She didn’t make it to the conservatory until after two o’ clock, and there was no sign of Mr. Ambrose. Aside from the honeybees buzzing happily in their skeps, the conservatory was deserted.

Perhaps he was taken up with preparations for the evening’s festivities, as she had been. Phillippa and Cornelia had certainly kept her busy. First it was a dozen rows of additional lace for Cornelia’s ball gown. Then Phillippa had demanded she add more beading to her green velvet ball gown, and then Cornelia’s white ribbons had gone missing …

It was one task after the next, almost as if they were trying to keep her occupied, but at last, she’d managed to slip downstairs while Phillippa and her stepsisters were engaged in a game of charades with the other guests in the drawing room.

She perched on the edge of a settee, but her heart was sinking with every minute that passed. Oh, why hadn’t she made time to come early this morning? She could have come down to the conservatory early in the morning, before Phillippa woke, and bidden good bye to Mr. Ambrose.

How could she leave Hawthorne Castle without seeing him one more time? It was unfair, unbearable—

“Miss Harley! Good afternoon. I was hoping I’d find you here.”

She jumped to her feet, and there, as if she’d conjured him from thin air, was Mr. Ambrose, coming toward her from the other end of the conservatory. “Were you really? I mean, good afternoon, Mr. Ambrose.”

“Good afternoon.” He ducked his head, his cheeks reddening. “I already said that, didn’t I?”

“I don’t mind hearing it twice.” Oh dear, now she was blushing, too. They were like a pair of besotted schoolchildren.

Not that she was besotted with Mr. Ambrose. Of course she wasn’t. She’d never do something so silly as to become besotted with the Duke of Hawthorne’s gardener, for pity’s sake.

“Besotted” was entirely too strong a word, but she was … fond of him.

Fond, yes. That was much better.

Quite fond, in fact. Very fond, even.

Very well, she was inordinately and irrevocably fond of Mr. Ambrose. What of it? It wasn’t as if she had any other friends. It was only natural that she should feel an overwhelming, er … fondness for him.

“It occurred to me last night, Miss Harley, that I haven’t yet taken you to see the ancient Glastonbury thorn on the western side of the property, and I did say I would. It’s a bit blustery outside, but if you still wish to see it, we could—”

“I do wish to see it, Mr. Ambrose.” Goodness, why was she so breathless?

He smiled, his green eyes crinkling at the corners. “Shall we go, then?”

He draped his coat over her shoulders and held out his arm to her in a gesture that had become so familiar over the past weeks that she took it without a second thought. He led her out of the conservatory and through the dormant formal gardens to a pathway that wound toward the back of the castle.

She closed her eyes and inhaled the cold, fresh air. It smelled like the snow that had just begun to fall, the wintry scent of it tickling her nose. They didn’t speak, but his arm was warm and sturdy beneath her fingers, the rhythmic crunch of their footsteps on the gravel pathway like a clock ticking away the last of her time at Hawthorne Castle.