To Wed His Christmas Lady (The Heart of a Duke #7)(3)

With a murmur of thanks, he turned it over to her and rolled his shoulders. “I am in need of rooms. Do you have any available?”

The man he took to be her husband snorted. “We have all three rooms available for the Christmastide season.” William could practically see the wheels of the old innkeeper’s mind turning as he calculated the coin to be had with any guest, in light of their previous zero patrons. “Will you be staying the night?”

A noisy wind slammed into the establishment. Ice and snow rattled the ancient windowpanes. “I will be staying until the storm passes.” Though in actuality, when faced with the prospect of returning home, staying forever in the modest, cold, and blessedly empty inn seemed far preferable.





Chapter 2


The carriage was not coming.

Somewhere between the departure of the first carriage and the seventh, Lady Clarisse Falcot, daughter to the Duke of Ravenscourt, had resolved herself to that eventuality.

Except, standing in the corner of her chambers at Mrs. Belden’s Finishing School staring down as the eighth carriage pulled away she readily admitted, only to herself, that one could not truly be resolved to being forgotten—at the Christmastide season, no less—by one’s father.

In the crystal pane, partially frosted from the winter’s cold, a bitter smile twisted the corner of her lips. She tightened her grip upon the cherished heart pendant in her hands so that the crimson ruby bit painfully into her palm.

Then, what purpose did she truly serve to the man, more stranger than sire, beyond increasing his power and wealth? This latest, glaring indignity was only one more reminder of her absolute and total lack of worth to the duke.

There is little use to me of a girl…the only purpose you’ll serve is as a match with Billingsley’s son…if he ever brings himself ’round to returning from his gallivanting…

Her temporary chambers here at Mrs. Belden’s echoed under the force of that remembered laughter.

The soft shuffle of footsteps at the entrance of the room pulled her attention away from the lead windowpane as her lady’s maid, Alison hurried into the room. She caught Cara’s gaze and a blush stained the young woman’s cheeks. “My lady,” she murmured. Did the girl suspect that her mistress had been forgotten? Pity filled the girl’s eyes. “I am sure the carriage will arrive shortly.”

Cara wanted to spew all kinds of cold responses about the insolence of the woman’s supposition. Except, shame slapped at her cheeks as Alison set to packing the final trunk. She rushed about the room, pointedly averting her gaze. Jagged humiliation lanced her and the muscles of her throat tightened. Only this maelstrom of emotions cutting off her ability to breathe was about more than embarrassment.

Pain.

Cara yanked her attention back to the window as her mind wrapped around that one word. She balled and unballed her hands at her sides. The cold pendant in her grasp dug sharply into her palm and she welcomed that diversionary sting of discomfort. For years, she’d built fortresses about herself, protecting her from that pain; hating the emotion as much as she hated the man her father was. Pain was a sentiment that had weakened her in ways she’d tired of; she was truly tired of being weak. It earned you pity amongst the servants and snide comments from the girls you attended finishing school with. Yes, cold and indifferent was far preferable to the gut-wrenching agony that went with laying yourself open before another person.

Yet, standing there with the wind howling forlornly outside, was it possible to be anything other than gutted by the truth that your father had forgotten to send ’round the carriage to retrieve you for the Christmastide season? Yes, she’d been invisible as a girl. A powerful peer had little use in a daughter—except for the match she might someday make. And now, as a woman of eighteen, she served a material purpose—making an advantageous match with another ducal family. Still, even with that pawn-like figure she’d been transformed into by their power-driven Society, Cara was still worthless to her father, in even the most material way. Long ago, she’d accepted that. But deep inside, in the place where hope dwelled, she dreamed of a man who could love her. A man who was kind and bold and strong; who could see past the ice upon the surface and, instead, see a soul worth loving. And that man would be worth throwing over any future duke for; her sire’s disapproval or any long ago signed contracts be damned.

Today’s blunder on her father’s part only roused the absolute foolishness in such silent yearnings. Nonetheless, a spasm wracked her heart and she rubbed her hand over her chest to dull the ache. The cold ruby of her mother’s necklace pierced the fabric of her gown.

“When I am sad, my lady—”

“I am not sad,” she bit out. Except, why did it feel as though she lied to the both of them? Cara shoved away such foolishness. There was little use in lamenting her father’s disinterest. Regret and pain did not affection make. “Here,” she thrust out her hand with the necklace—her last link to her mother, toward her waiting maid. What was the point of holding on to that cold artifact from long ago? That too-brief interlude of love had proven how fleeting and impossible that sentiment, in fact, was. “Place this in the bottom of my trunk.” She didn’t need the reminder of what once was. Not on this day.

A small moue of surprise formed on the maid’s lips. “You are never without your necklace, my lady.”