To Wed His Christmas Lady (The Heart of a Duke #7)(9)

And in this moment, being honest with at least herself, Cara indulged the wish she had in her heart this Christmas—to be loved for nothing but herself.





Chapter 3


Alison was not smiling. Or prattling. Her flushed cheeks and feverish eyes killed all evidence of her habitual mirth. The absolute silence of Cara’s maid was only further heightened by the wind howling outside the Earl of Derby’s carriage. This was very dire, indeed.

Cara drew the curtain back and peered out into the thick swirl of snowflakes. Then the conveyance stopped. “Why has the carriage stopped?” Did those words belong to her or Alison? A niggling of unease pitted in her belly.

“I am sure we are merely stopping for a moment because…” Her maid eyed her skeptically. “Because…” Well, blast what was there to stop for in this desolate landscape painted white? “Highwaymen?” Alison breathed, fear dripping from that one word. “A-choo!”

The girl’s tendency for the dramatics eased some of Cara’s attention and she gave a roll of her eyes. “Highwaymen do not traverse this road.” It was too well-traveled. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. At least, she didn’t think they did. Schooling her features into an expressionless mask, she peeked through the crack in the velvet curtains and squinted out into the rapidly falling snow. The muscles of her stomach clenched. What if her overly imaginative maid proved correct and there was a blasted highwayman? Wouldn’t that just prove her rotted luck this day? She tensed her jaw. They could make off with every last one of her possessions, but there was one that would have to be pried from her fingers.

“Do you see them?” Did the clattering of the girl’s teeth have to do with her fever or the cold?

They both jumped as someone banged on the carriage door. Cara’s heart climbed into her throat and she studiously avoided Alison’s I-told-you-there-would-be-highwaymen looks. With trembling fingers, she peeled open the curtain and brushed her gloved hand over the iced pane. Some of the tension went out of her. The earl’s groom tugged his cap lower and made to knock once more.

Cara pushed it open. A blast of snow slapped at her face and the cold of it momentarily sucked her breath away. “What—?” The winter wind stole all sound from her words.

The groom cupped his hands about his mouth. “The carriage is stuck, my lady.”

She tipped her head. “Stuck?”

He nodded once. “We passed an inn a short while back, but we will have to walk the remainder of the way. The drifts are too high on the roads.”

Her heart sank into her stomach. “Walk?” She knew she must sound something of a lackwit repeating back every other one of the servant’s words, and yet—“Are you mad?” she shouted into the wind. By God, they would perish in this Godforsaken storm.

“It is not far,” he called back and then held out a hand.

A spark of fear lit Alison’s glassy eyes, but she accepted the groom’s hand and allowed him to assist her down. The maid’s serviceable boots disappeared into the thick snow and her lips parted on a gasp as she tugged her cloak closer.

Cara’s thoughts raced as she took in the couple shivering outside the carriage. “But surely—?”

“The carriage cannot be moved,” he said impatiently.

On its own volition, her gaze swung to the roof of the black barouche to where her trunk sat atop—and her mother’s necklace. Now she would pay the price for her own foolish pride. “But my belongings?” Panic raised the tone of her words to a high pitch. She could not leave her trunk. Not when the last piece belonging to her mother rested within its confines.

“I will have to return for it.” She would have to be stone deaf to fail to hear the impatience in the older servant’s tone.

Cara reached for her bonnet and set it atop her head, deftly tying the long, velvet ribbons underneath. Words of protest hovered on her lips.

…you will not so shame yourself by showing that you care about anything or anyone, Clarisse Victoria Falcot…

Her gut churned at the long-forgotten words drawled by her father from across his office desk. “Very well,” she said with a regality even her father would have a difficult time faulting and accepted the servant’s hand. Her boots sank deep into the snow, wringing a shocked gasp from her as her ankles disappeared into the drift. “Bloody hell.” And if she weren’t so blasted cold she’d have felt some heat of embarrassment at her scandalous utterance.

The groom’s lips twitched as he turned his efforts to unhitching the horses. A short while later, he motioned Cara and Alison to follow. Her Falcot pride had gotten her into this bumble broth. She forcibly lifted her legs and snow-dampened hem, struggling to maintain her balance as they walked slowly back to an inn she’d not even seen in their travels.

At her side, Alison gave a piteous moan. “We are going to die out here.” Now the girl would choose to abandon her sunny disposition?

“I am not going to die out here,” she mumbled to herself. She was too bloody enraged about the whole blasted day. She focused on that rage to keep from thinking about how the wind slapped painfully at her cheeks, stinging her eyes with snow. With each step she took, she fed that fury. Forgotten by her father. One step. Forgotten also by her brother, if one wanted to be truly precise in their upset. Another step. Forgotten at Christmas. Yet another step. She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Where is this blasted inn?” she shouted.