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“I see,” said Mr. Marlowe, his eyes sparkling. “We’d be providingwitnesses. Filling the ballroom and the dining rooms with adoring eyes so that every guest feels like royalty paying a visit to their loyal serfs.”

Aaron closed his mouth rather than reply.

That hadn’t been what he’d meant at all, but he’d learned it was best not to argue with Mr. Marlowe when one was essentially getting one’s way. His employer’s motivation did not matter, so long as the end result was the same.

Free food, free entertainment, no rent for the next one hundred years... Itwouldbe Christmas to the local villagers. Perhaps even more so to them than to the Polite Society tourists that descended upon them.

“What kind of entertainments?” Mr. Marlowe demanded. “The castle can host Yuletide themed balls every evening, but that is not enough. What will the village offer in return?”

“A Winter’s Tale,” rang out a familiar, sultry voice. “Twelfth Night. We can keep the Christmas spirit on stage all year.”

No.

It couldn’t be.

Aaron turned about slowly, half afraid the act of meeting her eyes would make her disappear like smoke.

Dark-brown curls. Plump, juicy lips. A figure hidden away between layers of crimson muslin... not that Aaron needed to see her soft curves to remember every delectable inch of them.

Estelle.

She was here.

CHAPTER2

Miss Estelle Blairalmost tumbled from the last step of the central staircase.

She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but on her way out of the castle, she couldn’t help but hear Mr. Marlowe talking in the middle of the reception hall.

She just hadn’t realized who he was talking to.

Aaron Thompson.

The man she’d thought—nay, she waspositive—she’d left behind in London.

Here.

Standing fourteen yards away instead of four hundredmilesaway.

Her pulse fluttered.

She could not allow him to see how much his presence affected her.

Starting with prying her trembling fingers from the banister and stepping, not falling, to the marble floor.

Aaron was as handsome as she remembered.

His double-breasted dark blue frock coat and supple buckskin breeches highlighted his trim, tightly muscled form. The golden-brown hair she’d once run her fingers through was hidden beneath a tall beaver hat, but the sharp jawline and wide, inviting mouth were exactly the same.

From here, Estelle could not see his eyes. It was better that way. To look into their warm brown depths was to drown in them forevermore.

So of course he was directly in the path to the front door.

She walked slowly, careful to keep her expression vague and her gaze anywhere but on his attractive form.

“Miss Blair,” said Mr. Marlowe. “Have you met my solicitor, Mr. Thompson?”

Met.