Page 3 of The Christmas Ball (Noble Holidays #9)

It had stopped raining, Grayson was glad to see.

Despite attending to paperwork and his ongoing research, he’d felt cooped-up and restless within the walls of Westbrook.

When he’d purchased the estate over the summer, it had seemed a good choice, full of potential.

Of course, the large manor house needed some repairs, and the fields and farms were in dreadful shape, but he felt entirely up to the challenge.

Rescuing dilapidated estates from ruin had become a bit of a passion of his. To date, he’d rehabilitated three, turning them from unfortunate wrecks to solid country homes with productive farms and pastures.

Finding them was the easy part, once word got round that the Marquess of Winslow would buy up moldering heaps.

Plenty of gentlemen needed a bit of ready cash to cover debts, or were happy to shed an inconvenient property and let a new owner bear the cost of upkeep and repairs.

Westbrook would be a lovely place.

Indeed, at the height of summer he’d imagined he could spend quite a bit of time in residence, once everything was fixed up.

But now, he craved a bit of fresh air.

He sent a servant to invite his sister to accompany him for a ride about the grounds, and shortly the two of them were astride and cantering over the fields.

The clouds overhead shone burnished pewter, and there was a decided chill in the air that he found refreshing.

Perhaps it might even snow.

“Look,”

Charlotte called, pointing to the woods bordering the edge of the estate.

“I think someone’s in the forest.”

Grayson narrowed his eyes and spotted movement between the leafless ash and evergreens.

Poachers? It wasn’t the time of year for it.

Likely it was nothing more than a deer, but as a responsible landholder, he must investigate.

Whoever was in the forest had moved further away by the time he and Charlotte reached the trees, and for a moment he hesitated.

Perhaps they were on the Dovington grounds now—but it would still be irresponsible of him to wash his hands of the matter.

With a nod at his sister, he led the way into the woods.

The smell of loam and wet bark enfolded them, and the peculiar quiet of a slumbering forest, broken here and there by a solitary chirp or rustle.

There was no sign of anyone…

Until he rounded a hawthorn thicket and found himself face-to-face with Lady Viola Harrington.

Her mount sidled in surprise, and she let out a startled breath, her gaze meeting his.

Just as he recalled, her hazel eyes held gold flecks and there was a beauty mark on her left cheek.

The sudden memory of holding her in his arms rushed through him, leaving a scalding heat in its wake.

“Ahem.”

Behind him, his sister cleared her throat, then prodded her horse up next to his.

Abruptly, Grayson realized that he and Lady Viola had been staring at one another for a rather long moment. He blinked, recalling his manners.

“Good afternoon, Lady Viola,” he said.

“Lord Winslow.”

She frowned slightly, creating a line between her brows that he inexplicably had the urge to smooth away with his thumb.

“How unexpected. Do you plan to make a habit of skulking about Dovington?”

His momentary sympathy of feeling toward her evaporated into annoyance, though beside him, he caught his sister’s amused smile.

“Vi?”

a voice called, and a moment later the Duchess of Beckford rode into view.

She pulled her mount up short upon seeing him and Charlotte, then smiled, somewhat like a cat who had been into the cream.

“Your Grace.”

He bowed from the saddle.

“Your pardon for trespassing, but we thought we’d glimpsed intruders in the forest. Allow me to present my sister, Lady Charlotte Tate.”

“Lady Charlotte,”

the duchess said.

“a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Indeed,”

Lady Viola said, turning a much more charming expression upon his sister than the glower she’d bestowed on him.

“I’m delighted you’ll be attending the Christmas Ball.”

“The pleasure is ours, in all respects,”

Charlotte said.

“Our apologies for surprising you, but as you can see, our intentions were good.”

One of Lady Viola’s eyebrows went up, as if to say that they were the intruders here, but the duchess nodded.

“How pleasant, to have such conscientious neighbors,”

she said.

“We’re gathering greenery to decorate the house. Would you care to join us? We’re happy to share in the bounty.”

Grayson was about to decline, but Charlotte nodded vigorously.

“Thank you!”

she said.

“That would be lovely. I’ve been thinking Westbrook could use a bit of holiday cheer.”

Swallowing his refusal, he inclined his head in assent. He could hardly disappoint his sister if she found the prospect enjoyable, even though it meant being thrown together with Lady Viola.

“Excellent.”

Lady Beckford gestured behind her.

“We’ve found plenty of holly and pine boughs, and I’ll have the servants add more to the cart, but call out if you glimpse any ivy or mistletoe.”

Charlotte nodded.

“Perhaps we ought to split up?”

“An excellent plan,”

Grayson said, intending to remain with his sister.

“I’ll go with—”

“Lady Viola,”

the duchess said firmly.

“And Lady Charlotte will come with me, as I’m desirous of furthering our acquaintance. We won’t stray too far from one another, of course, and the footmen are just behind, to aid in the gathering of the greens. If that suits?”

She turned an arch look upon her companion, who had her lips pressed together in displeasure.

“Mena,”

Lady Viola said softly.

“I’m going to let Drew eat all your parkin cake for this.”

“Then I’ll bake more.”

With a bright smile, the duchess beckoned to Charlotte, and the two of them rode away under the trees. Though, true to her words, they did not go completely out of sight.

“Well.”

Lady Viola turned to him with a resolute expression.

“I suppose we must go in search of ivy.”

She looked like she was bracing for a spoonful of cod liver oil, and Grayson couldn’t quash his impulse to tease her, even against his better judgement.

“Not mistletoe?”

he asked, with a sly look.

She blew out a breath and didn’t deign to answer, though color bloomed in her cheeks. She clucked to her horse and turned in the direction their companions had gone, and, for some reason, his mood lightened as he followed her through the winter woods.

***

Lord Winslow was a thorn in her side, a stone in her shoe, a prickle in her throat. Viola could scarcely believe his audacity, setting foot uninvited once more upon the Dovington grounds. And then for Mena to thrust them together…it was untenable.

She’d simply have to make the best of it by pretending the marquess didn’t exist. There was no one else there: just her and her horse, going for a peaceful ride in the woods.

Of course, he had to spoil the illusion by speaking.

“There’s bit of greenery over there.”

He leaned forward, into her vision, and gestured to the right.

“Should we investigate?”

The alternative was to simply trail Mena and Lady Charlotte without contributing to the effort, and Viola couldn’t, in good conscience, do that.

They needed a great many more evergreens to bring her festively decorated vision of Dovington Hall to life.

So, with a sigh, she agreed and followed Lord Winslow through the trees.

He’d a good eye, she had to admit, as they came upon a stump twined about with ivy.

The glossy, deep green leaves were just what she needed to complete the decorations.

She pulled her horse to a halt, noting the nearby landmarks so that she could direct the footmen to the spot with their shears and carrying bags.

“Excellent,”

she said, pleased enough with their find to be a bit more cordial toward her unwanted partner.

“Shall we continue on in this direction?” he asked.

Viola spotted their companions moving in parallel, and nodded.

She and the marquess hadn’t gone far, however, when her skirts snagged on a nearby gorse bush.

The fact that it was her own fault, for watching Lord Winslow’s broad back and not minding her way, only contributed to her annoyance.

“Drat it,”

she said, reining in and attempting to tug her hem free.

The thorns were stubborn, however, and she heard the sound of tearing cloth even as the wool remained caught in the prickles. Blast. This was her favorite riding habit, too.

“Allow me.”

Lord Winslow was off his horse and by her side in a matter of moments.

“Thank you,”

she said stiffly, looking down at the brim of his top hat as he set to work.

His leather gloves protected his hands, but the gorse was tenacious. Even as he freed one portion of her skirts, the thorns grabbed onto another. She draped her reins over the pommel and used both hands to hold the fabric away from the prickles as he freed it.

It was most unfortunate that her mount, always a bit headstrong, decided to make for a nearby clump of withered grasses.

“Whoa,”

she cried, dropping her skirts and reaching for the reins, but it was too late. The horse moved forward, and she overbalanced—right into Lord Grayson’s arms.

Time slowed as she stared into his eyes. Stars blurred her vision, strange flecks of spinning white. She blinked, belatedly realizing that it had begun to snow.

“Lady Viola,”

he said softly.

“You really must cease flinging yourself into my arms.”

“Rogue.”

She frowned and pushed at his shoulders, for if she didn’t, she was afraid she’d give in to the sweet, treacherous impulse to close her eyes and lift her face to his. To seek the brush of his lips against her own.

But doing so was far too dangerous. Had she not learned her lesson already?

Besides, she must ensure that her brother made an ideal match, and she could not do so if she was distracted by this overbearing, yet all-too-handsome, marquess.

Lord Winslow held her a moment longer, the gently falling snow enclosing them in a quiet, magical world. Then, slowly, he set her on her feet and, without a word, bent to her skirts once more, intently working them free of the entangling gorse.

It proved to be a simpler task, once she was on the ground. All too soon, she was able to step carefully away from the thorny bush. Away from the broad shoulders and warm scent of Lord Winslow.

“Milady,”

one of the footmen hailed her, seeing she was no longer astride.

“Is all well?”

“A momentary setback,”

she said.

“Would you be so kind as to fetch my mount?”

The man nodded and went to where her wayward horse snuffled through the brown grasses in search of a succulent bite.

Melting snow dappled the saddle with spots of dampness.

Lord Winslow’s mount still stood patiently, and she shot the chestnut gelding a look.

“Your horse is very well trained,”

she said, unavoidably recalling how it had waited while its master had so gallantly, and misguidedly, waded into the pond to fetch her out.

“I take the running of my stables seriously.”

Lord Winslow gave her the faintest of smiles.

“A mount that knows to stand is essential. One never knows when one might be called upon at a moment’s notice to come to a lady’s rescue.”

She narrowed her eyes, but felt a telltale blush warm her cheeks.

“Of course, I am only speaking of freeing your skirts just now,”

he added, a spark of humor in his eyes.

“It’s not as though I make a habit of rescuing you.”

“You, sir, are incorrigible,”

she said from between her clenched teeth, and then was obliged to smooth her expression and accept her horse’s reins from the footman as if Lord Winslow hadn’t just nettled her most terribly.

“There’s a good bit of ivy that way,”

the marquess said, gesturing behind them.

“Twined about a stump. I believe Lady Viola is desirous that you harvest it.”

“After you aid me in mounting,”

she said as the fellow turned to go.

It would not do to let Lord Winslow approach her person yet again. Each time he did so, her heartbeat fluttered and her thoughts became impossibly muddled. From now on, she must keep her distance.

“We’d best rejoin the others,”

she said, once she was safely astride.

“Now that it’s snowing, I believe our outing has come to a close.”

Without waiting for his answer, she turned her mount and rode toward the flash of Mena’s russet skirts, visible through the trees. Just as she reached her companion, one of the footmen came dashing up.

“Your Grace,”

he said, with a hasty bow.

“Lord Thornton is upon the Dovington road and requires assistance.”

“Theo is here?”

Viola asked.

“Whatever is the matter?”

“His cart is stuck in the mud, milady,”

the footman said.

“It must be rather heavily laden,”

Lord Winslow said, guiding his mount up beside his sister’s.

Viola and Mena exchanged a look.

“You told him to bring the biggest tree he could find, didn’t you?”

Mena asked, clearly trying to hold back a grin.

“I might have.”

Though Viola refused to take responsibility for this mishap.

“But we must aid him. Is he far?”

“Just past the woods, milady,”

the footman said.

“Very good.”

Mena had on her duchess voice—the one that brooked no disagreement.

“Gather the others. We’ve a Christmas tree to rescue.”