Page 11 of Christmas with the Earl (To All The Earls I’ve Loved Before #1)
Nell felt the familiar tightness in her chest at the mention of her sister, but it was gentler now, less sharp than it had been.
She retrieved the small volume she had been carrying with her since arriving at Greystowe—Isabella's own copy of Christmas poems, its pages soft with handling and marked with her sister's careful annotations.
"She particularly loved this one," Nell said, finding the familiar page.
The poem was one of gentle celebration, speaking of winter's beauty and the warmth found in gathering with those we love.
As she read, her voice growing stronger with each verse, she became aware of the perfect stillness in the room.
Even the fire seemed to burn more quietly, as though nature itself wished to listen.
When she finished, the silence that followed was not empty but full, pregnant with shared emotion and the sense of Isabella's presence blessing their small celebration.
"Beautiful," Thomas said quietly, and when Nell looked up, she found his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that made her heart skip. "She chose well."
"In all things," Lady Greystowe added softly, and Nell had the distinct impression that she was speaking of more than literary taste.
As the evening drew toward its close, Lady Greystowe rose with the grace of someone making a carefully planned exit. "I believe I shall retire now and leave you young people to enjoy the fire. Thomas, perhaps you would see that Eleanor has everything she needs for her comfort?"
The suggestion was delivered with such perfect innocence that it took a moment for its implications to register. They were being deliberately left alone, and from the satisfied glint in Lady Greystowe's eyes, this had been her intention all along.
"Certainly," Thomas replied, though Nell noticed a slight tension in his voice that suggested he, too, had grasped his aunt's purpose.
After Lady Greystowe departed with wishes for sweet dreams and Christmas blessings, Nell found herself alone with Thomas in the candlelit drawing room.
The fire had burned down to glowing embers, and the only sounds were the soft tick of the mantle clock and the gentle whisper of snow against the windows.
"More coffee?" Thomas asked, his voice carrying a formality that seemed at odds with the intimate atmosphere Lady Greystowe had so carefully created.
"Thank you," Nell replied, though she made no move to drink from the cup he handed her. Instead, she found herself studying his profile as he resumed his seat, noting the way the firelight played across his features and softened the hard lines that military life had carved there.
"It's been a lovely evening," she said finally, when the silence threatened to become awkward.
"Yes," Thomas agreed, but his tone was distracted, as though his thoughts were elsewhere. He was looking at the pendant at her throat, she realized, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
"She would have liked seeing you wear that," he said suddenly, his voice soft but clear. "Isabella, I mean. She had very definite opinions about people, about who belonged where and with whom."
There was something in his tone that made Nell set down her coffee cup and give him her full attention. "What sort of opinions?"
Thomas was quiet for a long moment, seeming to gather his thoughts with the same systematic approach he brought to military planning. When he finally spoke, his words came slowly, as though he were testing each one before giving it voice.
"She wrote to me, you know. During the last months, when she was... when she knew the birth would be difficult." His voice caught slightly, but he continued. "She spoke of you often. Said you had a gift for bringing comfort to dark places, for making people feel less alone in their sorrows."
Nell felt tears prick her eyes at this unexpected revelation. "She never told me she was corresponding with you."
"I think she was trying to prepare me," Thomas said quietly. "For the possibility that things might not end well. She wanted to be sure that those she loved would not be left entirely alone with their grief."
The admission hung between them, heavy with implication. Here was Thomas acknowledging not just his cousin's death, but his own loss—and perhaps, Nell dared to hope, suggesting that she had somehow helped heal that wound.
"She also said," Thomas continued, his voice growing even quieter, "that when I finally returned to Greystowe, I should pay attention to who made the house feel like home again."
Nell's breath caught at the words, at their possible meaning. The pendant at her throat seemed to grow warmer, as though Isabella's spirit was somehow present in the room, blessing whatever understanding was growing between them.
"Thomas," she began, but he held up a hand, his expression serious.
"I came here to assess whether Greystowe Hall was worth preserving," he said, his gray eyes meeting hers directly. "I thought it was a question of finances, of practical considerations versus sentimental attachment."
"And now?" Nell asked, though her heart was beating so loudly she was amazed he couldn't hear it.
"Now I understand that the real question was never about the house at all," Thomas replied. "It was about whether I was brave enough to stop running from the possibility of belonging somewhere. Of belonging to someone."
The words hung in the candlelit air between them, heavy with meaning and possibility. Nell felt as though she stood at the edge of a precipice—one step forward would change everything, but she wasn't certain she had the courage to take it.
"The house feels different when you're here," Thomas continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Warmer. More alive. More like the home I remember from childhood rather than the burden I inherited."
"Thomas," Nell said again, and this time her voice carried a note of warning. "You must be careful what you say. I am still in mourning, still finding my way through grief. I cannot?—"
"I'm not asking you to do anything but listen," Thomas interrupted gently. "I know this is neither the time nor the place for... for what I might wish to say under different circumstances. But I needed you to know that your presence here has meant more than comfort. It has meant hope."
The fire crackled softly in the silence that followed, and Nell found herself studying Thomas's face in the golden light.
There was vulnerability there, carefully controlled but unmistakable.
Here was a man who had spent years building walls around his heart, and those walls were crumbling in the face of possibilities he had never allowed himself to consider.
"When your mourning period ends," Thomas said finally, "when you are ready to consider your future... I hope you might remember this evening. Remember that there is a place here for you, should you choose to claim it."
It was not quite a proposal, not quite a declaration, but something more tentative and infinitely more precious—an offer of possibility, a promise of patience, a recognition that some things were worth waiting for.
"I will remember," Nell whispered, her hand moving instinctively to the pendant at her throat. "All of it."
They sat in comfortable silence then, watching the fire burn down to embers while snow continued to fall outside the windows. Neither spoke of love directly, but it was there in the room with them—gentle, patient, and full of promise for whatever the future might bring.
When Thomas finally escorted her to the foot of the stairs, his hand lingered on hers for just a moment longer than propriety demanded.
"Merry Christmas, Eleanor," he said softly.
"Merry Christmas, Thomas," she replied, and then, with a courage that surprised them both, she rose on her toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek before disappearing up the stairs.
Thomas stood in the darkened hall long after her footsteps had faded, one hand touching the spot where her lips had briefly warmed his skin, and smiled into the darkness.
Outside, the snow continued to fall—not the fierce storm of confinement, but the gentle blessing of a world being made new.