The Earl's Snow-Kissed Proposal

For a millisecond a cloud hovered: the realisation that it would in all likelihood be his last, that he wouldn’t ever hang up a stocking for his own children.

As if she’d read his thoughts she reached out and quickly touched his arm, before reseating herself opposite him. ‘I know you will have thought about this, but not being able to have birth children doesn’t mean you have to give up on having a family. You can adopt.’

‘No, I can’t. Adopted children are prohibited from inheriting a title or the land. I won’t bring up a son on Derwent Manor and then tell him he can’t inherit because he’s adopted. It wouldn’t be fair. As for adopting a daughter... It wouldn’t feel right to deliberately adopt a girl just because she couldn’t inherit anyway.’

‘I truly believe if you tell the truth from the start it wouldn’t be a problem. If my parents had done that I think it would have made a monumental difference to our relationship. For them and me.’

‘I won’t take that risk. I know what it feels like to face the prospect of watching another man take over the land I have learnt to love.’ It was exactly the scenario Gabe now faced. ‘The Derwents have to have children to further the Derwent line.’

‘I don’t believe that. Surely you want children for yourself? Because you want to be a dad?’ Etta frowned. ‘Is it that you don’t want to adopt because you don’t want any children who don’t carry your blood?’

‘No. It is truly the children I am thinking about.’ His lips straightened into a grim line. ‘If I inherit the title I can’t adopt. If I stand aside I won’t marry at all. My “shallow playboy life” can continue apace. But let’s not talk about this—it’s Christmas, after all.’

For a moment he thought she’d pursue the topic, but then she nodded. ‘OK.’

‘Good. I’ve got a gift for you as well.’

Etta’s face creased into puzzled lines as she accepted the small wrapped piece of card and opened it. ‘“Max Woodstock, Martial Arts Master”,’ she read out.

‘I want you and Cathy to go and get some lessons. I want to know you can defend yourself. Max is the best. I’ve spoken to him and he’ll teach you himself. Lifetime of free lessons.’

‘Thank you.’

Etta rose and came round the table, wrapped her arms round him. The unfamiliarity of being hugged caused him to tense for a moment, and then he followed suit, inhaled her vanilla scent as her hair tickled his nose.

‘That’s incredibly thoughtful.’

‘Knowing martial arts makes you walk taller, with more confidence, and you’d be surprised how far that alone goes in getting people to back off.’ People such as Tommy. ‘Now, let’s go and enjoy a Viennese Christmas.’

‘Maybe we could go to the service at the cathedral?’ Etta suggested. ‘I know it’s not the same as a country church, but it would at least be one of your traditions.’

So they strolled the illuminated Viennese streets, called out greetings to strangers, all smiling and full of festive cheer. Horse-drawn carriages clip-clopped down the road, the horses’ breath showing in clouds in the crisp December air. They stopped to join a cheery crowd that surrounded an outdoor piano-player whose fingers flew over the keys with breathtaking skill.

Then there was the cathedral, dominating the skyline with its four towers and famed roof tiles in a colourful zig-zag pattern that depicted the coat of arms of the Austrian Empire. Gargoyles spouted water in figurative defence of demons, and the Gothic portals displayed a wealth of detail that had absorbed Etta’s attention for nigh on an hour on their previous visit as she’d examined the biblical scenes, beautifully portrayed with glorious symbolism, alongside the more macabre winged sirens, entwined dragons and two dogs with a single shared head.

In truth, Gabe had been more captivated by her absorption than by the undoubted craftsmanship. He’d studied the focus in her brown eyes, the curl of her chestnut hair against the delicate nape of her neck, her grace as she’d hunkered down to examine a detail more closely.

The interior of the cathedral was filled with people, a mixture of those there for the Christmas service, and tourists enthralled by the statues, frescoes, and paintings. The ambience was weighted with history, and above them the immensity of the arched ceiling inspired awe.

It was an awe that resounded throughout the beauty of the service—in the language that rolled out from the ornamental pulpit and the sound of the choir soaring and swooping in choral harmony, touching the air with a feeling of universal peace and goodwill.

Once it was over they mingled with the crowds and headed to the entrance, though Etta lingered to study the thoughtful figure of St Augustine with a book, mitre and an inkwell, leant down to peek at the self-portrait of an unknown sculptor under the steps.

‘I want a last look. That’s the trouble—there is so much in the world to see, but I fall for places and I want to come back.’

‘Like the café?’

The one Etta had fallen for on day one and insisted on returning to.

‘Exactly like the café. I’m a creature of habit.’ Her smile was rueful. ‘So can we go back there today? I checked and it’s open on Christmas Day.’

They entered the café, a historic haven, chock-a-block with tradition and frequented by philosophers and royalty over the years. High vaulted ceilings, painted archways and splendidly covered seats sprinkled with damask cushions gave the coffee house a regal glory. Notes tinkled from the piano as jacketed waiters glided over the floors with silver trays held aloft with stately expertise.

‘I can’t believe I can be hungry after that breakfast, but I am. I’ll have the Viennese potato soup with mushrooms followed by a piece of sachertorte.’

This brought a smile to his face—Etta had also completely fallen for the torte that Vienna was famed for—especially the café’s speciality: a dense chocolate cake with thin layers of jam.

The rest of the day passed by in a magical Viennese swirl.