possible.’ Harry gestured at the sky. ‘Look at the clouds, man. Slate-grey. There is more snow on the way, and God knows what else.’ As if on cue a few hesitant flakes began falling, increasing in number as he watched. Anneslea nodded in satisfaction. ‘The roads will be ice or mud all the way to London. Better to remain inside, with a cup of punch and good company.’
Nick looked at the mad glint in his host’s eye and said, ‘I am willing to take my chances with the weather.’
There was a polite clearing of the throat behind them as a footman tried to gain the attention of the Earl. ‘My Lord?’ The servant bowed, embarrassed at creating an interruption. ‘There has been another problem. A wagon from the village has got stuck at the bend of the drive.’
Anneslea smiled at him in triumph. ‘See? It is every bit as bad as I predicted. There is nothing to be done about it until the snow stops.’ He turned back to the footman. ‘Have servants unload the contents of the wagon and carry them to the house. Get the horses into our stable, and give the driver a warm drink.’ He turned back to Nick. ‘There is no chance of departure until we can clear the drive. And that could take days.’
‘I could go around.’
‘Trees block the way on both sides.’ Harry was making no effort to hide his glee at Nick’s predicament. ‘You must face the fact, Tremaine. You are quite trapped here until such time as the weather lifts. You might as well relax and enjoy the festivities, just as I mean you to do.’
‘Is that what you mean for me?’
‘Of course, dear man. Why else would I bring you here?’
The man was all innocence again, damn him, smiling the smile of the concerned host.
‘Now, was there anything else you wished to say to me?’
Just the two words that would free him of any further involvement in the lives of Lord and Lady Anneslea. Nick thought of a week or more, trapped in the same house with Elise, trying to explain that he had thrown over the bet and her chance at divorce because he had her own best interests at heart. ‘Anything to say to you? No. Definitely not.’
Rosalind stared at the bare pine in the drawing room, wondering just what she was expected to do with it. Harry had requested a tree, and here it was. But he had requested decorations as well, and then walked away as though she should know what he meant by so vague a statement. The servants had brought her a box of small candles and metal holders for the same, sheets of coloured paper, some ribbon, a handful of straw, and a large tray of gingerbread biscuits. When she had asked for further instruction, the footman had shrugged and said that it had always been left to the lady of the house. Then, he had given her the look that she had seen so often on the face of the servants. If she meant to replace their beloved Elise, then she should know how best to proceed—with no help from them.
Rosalind picked up a star-shaped biscuit and examined it. It was a bit early for sweets—hardly past breakfast. And they could have at least brought her a cup of tea. She bit off a point and chewed. Not the best gingerbread she had eaten, but certainly not the worst. This tasted strongly of honey.
She heard a melodious laugh from behind her, and turned to see her brother’s wife standing in the doorway. ‘Have you come to visit me in my misery, Elise?’
‘Why would you be miserable, dear one?’ Elise stepped into the room and took the biscuit from her hand. ‘Christmas is no time to look so sad. But it will be considerably less merry for the others if you persist in eating the lebkuchen. They are ornaments for the tree. You may eat them on Twelfth Night, if you wish.’
Rosalind looked down at the lopsided star. ‘So that is what I am to do with them. Everyone assumes that I must know.’
‘Here. Let me show you.’ Elise cut a length of ribbon from the spool in the basket, threaded it through a hole in the top of a heart-shaped biscuit, then tied it to a branch of the tree. She stood back to admire her work, and rearranged the bow in the ribbon until it was as pretty as the ornament. Then she smiled and reached for another biscuit, as though she was the hostess, demonstrating for a guest.
Rosalind turned upon her, hands on her hips. ‘Elise, you have much to explain.’
‘If it is about the logs for the fireplace, or the stuffing for the goose, I am sure that whatever you plan is satisfactory. The house is yours now.’ She glanced around her old home, giving a critical eye to Rosalind’s attempts to recreate the holiday. ‘Not how I would have done things, perhaps. But you have done the best you can with little help from Harry.’
‘You know that is not what I mean.’ Rosalind frowned at her. ‘Why are you here?’
She seemed to avoid the question, taking a sheet of coloured paper and shears. With a few folds and snips, and a final twist, she created a paper flower. ‘The weather has changed and I was not prepared for it. There are some things left in my rooms that I have need of.’
‘Then you could have sent for them and saved yourself the bother of a trip. Why are you really here, Elise? For if it was meant as a cruelty to Harry, you have succeeded.’
Guilt coloured Elise’s face. ‘If I had known there would be so many guests perhaps I would not have come. I thought the invitation was only to Nicholas and a few others. But I arrived to find the house full of people.’ She stared down at the paper in her hands and placed the flower on the tree. ‘The snow is still falling. By the time it stops it will be too late in the day to start for London. We will see tomorrow if there is a way to exit with grace.’ She looked at Rosalind, and her guilty expression reformed into a mask of cold righteousness. ‘And as for Harry feeling my cruelty to him? It must be a miracle of the season. I have lived with the man for years, and I have yet to find a thing I can do that will penetrate his defences.’ The hole in the next gingerbread heart had closed in baking, so she stabbed at the thing with the point of the scissors before reaching for the ribbon again.
Rosalind struggled to contain her anger. ‘So it is just as I thought. You admit that you are attempting to hurt him, just to see if you can. You have struck him to the core with your frivolous behaviour, Elise. And if you cannot see it then you must not know the man at all.’
‘Perhaps I do not.’ Elise lost her composure again, and her voice grew unsteady. ‘It is my greatest fear, you see. After five years I do not understand him any better than the day we met. Do you think that it gives me no pain to say that? But it is—’ she waved her hands, struggling for the words ‘—like being married to a Bluebeard. I feel I do not know the man at all.’
Rosalind laughed. ‘Harry a Bluebeard? Do you think him guilty of some crime? Do you expect that he has evil designs against you in some way? Because I am sorry to say it, Elise, but that is the maddest idea, amongst all your other madness. My brother is utterly harmless.’
‘That is not what I mean at all.’ Elise sighed in apparent frustration at having to make herself understood in a language that was not her own. Then she calmed herself and began again. ‘He means me no harm. But his heart …’ Her face fell. ‘It is shut tight against me. Are all Englishmen like this? Open to others, but reserved and distant with their wives? If I wished to know what is in his pocket or on his calendar he would show me these things freely. But I cannot tell what is on his mind. I do not know when he is sad or angry.’
Rosalind frowned in puzzlement. ‘You cannot tell if your husband is angry?’
‘He has not said a cross word to me—that I can remember. Not in the whole time we have been married. But no man can last for years with such an even temper. He must be hiding something. And if I cannot tell when he is angry, then how am I supposed to know that he is really happy? He is always smiling, Rosalind.’ And now she sounded truly mad as she whispered, ‘It is not natural.’
It was all becoming more confusing, not less. ‘So you abandoned your husband because he was not angry with you?’
Elise picked up some bits of straw and began to work them together into a flat braid. ‘You would think, would you not, that when a