The Earl's Snow-Kissed Proposal

‘Ladies and gentlemen... I promise not to keep you for long. But before I begin I want you all to think about something that I feel is a staggering fact. Every single one of us here had an ancestor alive in medieval times, in Tudor times, in Victorian times.’

Gabe could almost hear the sizzle as the attention of the audience was caught.

‘Some of us—’ Did her gaze linger on him for a second? ‘—may have had ancestors who stood in this very room and feasted with kings. For others those ancestors might have been common soldiers or ale-keepers, stonemasons or cutpurses or highwaymen. We all have family trees, and all trees need roots. Tonight I want to think about what those roots mean to us. As you know this ball is a fundraiser for teenage kids who have had a pretty tough start in life for one reason or another. Many of those children say they feel rootless, or uprooted...’

As she spoke her voice vibrated with passion. She cared—really cared about her subject, and about these kids. It was something he recognised and respected in Etta Mason, in the Cavershams and in himself. An empathy that drove him to work with children who were victims of bullying and with the bullies themselves, to carry out charity work that he had not and would not make public.

It was not relevant to the here and now. And yet Etta’s genuine concern was an additional point in her favour as her speech came across as heartfelt but delivered with a professional edge.

A sweep of her hand indicated her dress. ‘I chose to wear this because it reminds me of Christmas and the traditional candy canes. Christmas is a time full of traditions—a time when families get together. As such, it is a difficult time of year for a lot of children in care and a lot of children who should be in care. The money raised today will help kids like those enjoy a better Christmas and help them towards a future in which they can hopefully put down some new roots of their own. So when it comes to the auction please dig deep, in the spirit of Christmas. Enjoy the rest of your evening, and thanks for listening.’

As applause bro

ke out Gabe stepped forward. Decision made—he’d come here to assess whether Etta Mason could do what he needed and now he knew for sure. So he’d shut down the feeling of attraction and start on the mission he’d set himself.

A few purposeful strides and he’d cut through the people who clustered around her. As he reached her side, surprise sparked in the exotic brown of her eyes.

‘Impressive speech.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I was wondering if I could have a word in private. We could stroll on the terrace before we eat.’

For a second he thought she’d refuse, in which case he’d fall back on his reserve plan, but after a fractional hesitation she nodded.

Five minutes later they stepped out into the clean, cold air and Etta gave a small gasp that undoubtedly denoted appreciation. ‘It’s beautiful!’

Potted greenery twinkled with fairy lights and lanterns hung over the tables dotted about the mosaic-paved terrace, casting a warm, magical glow whilst outdoor heaters combated the chill of the night air.

‘The Cavershams know how to throw a party. There’s outdoor dancing planned for later. It’s a shame you have to leave early.’

A sudden image of Etta Mason in his arms as they glided round the moonlit mosaic tiles pierced his brain with a strength that sent a tingle through his body. Without thought his feet carried him a step closer to her, and a tantalising overtone of her vanilla scent teased his senses.

‘Yes, it is.’

For a heartbeat he wondered if her mind had followed the same path as her brown gaze held his and flared with an intensity that caught his breath. Then the instant was over.

Her lips thinned and she muttered a ‘tcha’ under her breath before moving away from him towards the wooden railings that surrounded the terrace. Once there, she turned to face him, arms folded. ‘Why did you bring me out here?’

Her voice was tinged with suspicion—and who could blame her? Self-irritation coursed through his veins. He needed this woman in a professional capacity, and this conversation was way too important to risk it for the sake of a flare of thoroughly unprofessional attraction. Time to get back on track.

‘I need a historian and you fit the bill.’

Surprise creased her brow as she assessed his words. ‘Tell me more.’

Gabe kept his pose relaxed, indicating one of the wooden tables overhung with delicate white lit-up stars suspended from the glittering arbour. ‘Shall we sit?’

‘Sure.’ Etta walked over and lowered herself into the chair with a wary grace.

Gabe followed suit, taking the opportunity to marshal his thoughts and line his words up like troops.

‘I’d like you to put together a detailed family tree of the Derwent family, going back centuries. About eighteen months ago a much-publicised flood hit Derwent Manor and a lot of valuable items were destroyed—including a parchment that documented the basic Derwent family tree. A lot of the supporting documentation—ledgers that date back centuries—were also damaged and muddled up. Unfortunately I’ve now discovered that those records were never computerised. I’m sure some of the facts are a matter of public record but I wouldn’t have the first clue how to access them let alone piece them all together.’

She leant forward, those amber-flecked eyes sparking with interest now, and for a perverse moment he felt chagrin that they hadn’t been ignited by him.

‘So you want me to put your family tree back together?’

‘Yes. But in way more detail than the original.’