mystery
of her eyes, soft the look of her mouth. She brushed a straying lock out of her lashes,
the slender grace of her wrist entrancing. “Do you suffer a broken heart, my lord?”
The question shocked him, stopped him. How could she know? He looked for awareness
in her cool, gray eyes, for pity. What he found was understanding.
He asked warily—guessing. “As do you?”
She nodded. The braided weave of her hair caught the light, the sheen like satin.
“Is there no mending it?” she asked quietly, the golden fan of lowered lashes drawing
him in, though he did not know for the moment whose heart she referred to.
“Care to try?” Mistletoe tangling with yew, he leaned closer. No more than a breath
separated them, the bite of evergreens, the elusive musk of frankincense. His heart
thundered. Expectation took his breath away.
Her cheek brushed his. Her lips were within a hair’s breadth of his ear, as she said
quiet but firm, “I would warn you, my lord. I will not be seduced. It disagrees with
me as much as marriage did.”
Head high, completely in control of herself and the situation, she left him standing
there, stunned, heart thundering, pulse at the gallop.
Marriage? She had been married?
What could he do but follow? What could he do but wonder what she meant. Had she been
jilted? Widowed? How many ways could a heart be broken? Was he in error calling her
Miss
Walcott?
Curiosity and empathy consumed him. He found himself suddenly filled with a desire
to mend her broken heart. His Christmas gift to her, he decided, his last chivalrous
act, a mended heart from a man with a broken heart who intended to break the heart
of the woman he would marry—poetic irony. His spirits sank as soon as his decision
was made, for how could a dying man restore faith in the living when he had none himself?
Chapter Six
“We must make hearts.”
He caught up to her in the entryway, trailing greenery, unsure how his suggestion
would be met.
“Hearts?” She turned to stare at him, the look calm and enigmatic. “Man has the power
to break hearts, I know,” she said smoothly. “But make them?”
“Paper hearts.”
Belinda Walcott tipped her head, her heart-shaped chin distracting his attention all
over again.
The staff paused, looked up from their work.
“Hearts, my lord?”
“Red and white hearts.” His enthusiasm grew. “My mother’s mother used to make them
when I was a lad. A Danish Yuletide tradition, she told me. A bit of bright color
in the darkest hours of winter.”
Bolton nodded. “I remember, my lord. She spoke of sunless melancholy days in winter.
We shall require paper, Mr. Scott. From the master’s study. And scissors, Megan, if
you please, from my worktable.”
They ran to do his bidding, and arranged the paper before Copeland. It took a moment’s
thinking, back to a time when James had been alive, when three young brothers had
sat together with scissors and paper and pots of glue; before the memory of his hands
took over, and with a curving snip of the scissors there were suddenly two perfectly
matching hearts in his hands, one white, one red.
“How did you do that, then?” Maddie peered at them through her lenses. “A bit of magic?”
“Fold two sheets of paper like this,” he said. “One white and one red. Then cut your
hearts at the same time, so that they are exactly the same size and shape.”
With a rustling of paper and a noisy passing of the scissors, they followed his lead.
“Look at that!”
“If only it were that easy to match the hearts of men and women,” Belinda Walcott
murmured.
“Quite so.” He shot her a mischievous look. “Now I mean to weave them together, just
as two perfectly matched hearts ought to be.”
The footmen chuckled.
“Easier said than done, that,” Browne grumbled.
Copeland showed them how to snip one side of each heart into strips, the red vertically,
the white horizontally,
of her eyes, soft the look of her mouth. She brushed a straying lock out of her lashes,
the slender grace of her wrist entrancing. “Do you suffer a broken heart, my lord?”
The question shocked him, stopped him. How could she know? He looked for awareness
in her cool, gray eyes, for pity. What he found was understanding.
He asked warily—guessing. “As do you?”
She nodded. The braided weave of her hair caught the light, the sheen like satin.
“Is there no mending it?” she asked quietly, the golden fan of lowered lashes drawing
him in, though he did not know for the moment whose heart she referred to.
“Care to try?” Mistletoe tangling with yew, he leaned closer. No more than a breath
separated them, the bite of evergreens, the elusive musk of frankincense. His heart
thundered. Expectation took his breath away.
Her cheek brushed his. Her lips were within a hair’s breadth of his ear, as she said
quiet but firm, “I would warn you, my lord. I will not be seduced. It disagrees with
me as much as marriage did.”
Head high, completely in control of herself and the situation, she left him standing
there, stunned, heart thundering, pulse at the gallop.
Marriage? She had been married?
What could he do but follow? What could he do but wonder what she meant. Had she been
jilted? Widowed? How many ways could a heart be broken? Was he in error calling her
Miss
Walcott?
Curiosity and empathy consumed him. He found himself suddenly filled with a desire
to mend her broken heart. His Christmas gift to her, he decided, his last chivalrous
act, a mended heart from a man with a broken heart who intended to break the heart
of the woman he would marry—poetic irony. His spirits sank as soon as his decision
was made, for how could a dying man restore faith in the living when he had none himself?
Chapter Six
“We must make hearts.”
He caught up to her in the entryway, trailing greenery, unsure how his suggestion
would be met.
“Hearts?” She turned to stare at him, the look calm and enigmatic. “Man has the power
to break hearts, I know,” she said smoothly. “But make them?”
“Paper hearts.”
Belinda Walcott tipped her head, her heart-shaped chin distracting his attention all
over again.
The staff paused, looked up from their work.
“Hearts, my lord?”
“Red and white hearts.” His enthusiasm grew. “My mother’s mother used to make them
when I was a lad. A Danish Yuletide tradition, she told me. A bit of bright color
in the darkest hours of winter.”
Bolton nodded. “I remember, my lord. She spoke of sunless melancholy days in winter.
We shall require paper, Mr. Scott. From the master’s study. And scissors, Megan, if
you please, from my worktable.”
They ran to do his bidding, and arranged the paper before Copeland. It took a moment’s
thinking, back to a time when James had been alive, when three young brothers had
sat together with scissors and paper and pots of glue; before the memory of his hands
took over, and with a curving snip of the scissors there were suddenly two perfectly
matching hearts in his hands, one white, one red.
“How did you do that, then?” Maddie peered at them through her lenses. “A bit of magic?”
“Fold two sheets of paper like this,” he said. “One white and one red. Then cut your
hearts at the same time, so that they are exactly the same size and shape.”
With a rustling of paper and a noisy passing of the scissors, they followed his lead.
“Look at that!”
“If only it were that easy to match the hearts of men and women,” Belinda Walcott
murmured.
“Quite so.” He shot her a mischievous look. “Now I mean to weave them together, just
as two perfectly matched hearts ought to be.”
The footmen chuckled.
“Easier said than done, that,” Browne grumbled.
Copeland showed them how to snip one side of each heart into strips, the red vertically,
the white horizontally,
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