Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels 1)

Kathleen buried her face in her hands with a groan. A grand party. Music. Presents, sweets, holiday cheer. She knew exactly what Lady Berwick would have said: It was indecent to host such revelry in a house of mourning. It was wrong to steal a day or two of joy out of a year that had been set aside for sorrow. Worst of all, she secretly wanted to do it.

She spoke through her fingers. “It’s not proper,” she said weakly. “We haven’t done anything the way we should: The black was taken from the windows far too early, and no one’s wearing veils anymore, and —”

“No one gives a damn,” West said. “Do you think any of the tenants would blame you for setting aside your mourning just for one night? To the contrary, they would appreciate it as a gesture of kindness and goodwill. I know next to nothing about Christmas, of course, but even so… it strikes me as being in keeping with the spirit of the holiday.” At her long hesitation, he went in for the kill. “I’ll pay for it out of my own income. After all…” A touch of self-pity shaded his voice. “… how else am I to learn about Christmas?”

Lowering her hands, Kathleen gave him a dark glance. “You’re a shameless manipulator, Weston Ravenel.”

He grinned. “I knew you’d say yes.”

“It’s a very tall tree,” Helen commented a week later, as they stood in the entrance hall.

“We’ve never had one this large before,” Mrs. Church admitted with a perturbed frown.

Together they watched as West, a pair of footmen, and the butler struggled to heft the trunk of an enormous fir into a metal tub filled with stones. The air was filled with masculine grunts and profanity. Shiny green needles sprinkled across the floor, pencil-thin cones scattering as the tree was hoisted upward. Their underbutler stood halfway up the curving grand staircases, holding the end of a cord that had been tied to an upper section of the trunk. On the other side of the hall, Pandora and Cassandra stood at the second-floor balcony, gripping another attached cord. Once the trunk was positioned perfectly, the cords would be tied to the balustrade spindles to keep the tree from tilting to one side or the other.

The underbutler pulled the cord steadily, while West and the footmen pushed from below. Gradually the fir eased upright, its boughs spreading majestically to fan a pungent evergreen scent through the air.

“It smells heavenly,” Helen exclaimed, inhaling deeply. “Did Lord and Lady Berwick have a Christmas tree, Kathleen?”

“Every year.” Kathleen smiled. “But only a small one, because Lady Berwick said it was a pagan custom.”

“Cassandra, we’ll need many more ornaments,” she heard Pandora exclaim from the second-floor balcony. “We’ve never had a tree this tall before.”

“We’ll make another batch of candles,” her twin replied.

“No more candles,” Kathleen called up to them. “This tree is already a fire hazard.”

“But Kathleen,” Pandora said, looking down at her, “the tree will look dreadful if we don’t have enough decorations. It will look positively undressed.”

“Perhaps we could tie some sweets in scraps of netting and ribbon,” Helen suggested. “It would be pretty to hang them from the branches.”

West brushed leaves from his hands and used his thumb to rub off a spot of sap on his palm. “You all might want to look in the crate that was delivered from Winterborne’s this morning,” he said. “I’m sure it contains some Christmas finery.”

All movement and sound in the hall was instantly extinguished as everyone looked at him.

“What crate?” Kathleen demanded. “Why did you keep it a secret until now?”

West gave her a speaking glance and pointed to the corner, where a massive wooden crate had been set. “It’s hardly been a secret – it’s been there for hours. I’ve been too busy with this blasted tree to make conversation.”

“Did you order it?”

“No. Devon mentioned in his last letter that Winterborne was sending some holiday trimmings from his store, as a gesture of appreciation for inviting him to stay.”

“I did not invite Mr. Winterborne,” Kathleen retorted, “and we certainly can’t accept gifts from a stranger.”

“They’re not for you, they’re for the household. Hang it all, it’s just a few baubles and wisps of tinsel.”

She stared at him uncertainly. “I don’t think we should. I’m not certain of the etiquette, but it doesn’t seem proper. He’s an unmarried gentleman, and this is a household of young women who have only me as a chaperone. If I were ten years older and had an established reputation, it might be different, but as things are…”

“I’m a member of the household,” West protested. “Doesn’t that make the situation more respectable?”

Kathleen looked at him. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

West rolled his eyes. “My point is, if anyone were to try and attach some improper meaning to Winterborne’s gift, the fact that I’m here would —”

He stopped as he heard a choking sound from Helen, who had turned very red.

“Helen?” Kathleen asked in concern, but the girl had turned away, her shoulders shaking. Kathleen sent West an alarmed glance.

“Helen,” he said quietly, striding forward and taking her upper arms in an urgent grasp. “Sweetheart, are you ill? What —” He paused as she shook her head violently and gasped out something, one of her hands flailing in the direction behind them. West looked up alertly. His face changed, and he began to laugh.

“What is the matter with you two?” Kathleen demanded. Glancing around the entrance hall, she realized the crate was no longer in the corner. The twins must have raced downstairs the moment it had been mentioned. Clutching it on either side, they lugged it furtively toward the receiving room.

“Girls,” Kathleen said sharply, “bring that back here at once!”

But it was too late. The receiving room’s double doors closed, accompanied by the click of a key turning in the lock. Kathleen stopped short, her jaw slackening.

West and Helen staggered together, overcome with hilarity.

“I’ll have you know,” Mrs. Church said in amazement, “it took our two stoutest footmen to bring that crate into the house. How did two young ladies manage to carry it away so quickly?”