Masculine voices wafted from the hallway.
“Good, they’re here,” Cassandra said. “I invited the militia.”
“All of them?” Hazel’s eyes widened.
“They should enjoy Christmas with us.”
“But they’re men.”
“Men enjoy food, Hazel.”
The militia filed into the room. “Happy Christmas, Miss Howard!” they said jovially as they entered.
They marched past the bowls filled with oranges dotted around the room and they eyed the ribbons tied around every candle and ornament.
Their eyes rounded when they came to the table, and Hazel beamed. The food looked splendid. Well, as splendid as food could look when not made by professional cooks. Still, they had Christmas pudding and mince pie and all manner of other delights, even though the new maid, Holly, had a habit of burning things, poor thing.
They were enjoying their Christmas feast when banging sounded on the door.
“I wonder who that is?” Patterson stared toward the door.
“Maybe it’s the duke!” one of the other men sprang up.
“It could be Miranda,” Beatrice said.
Excitement coursed through Hazel. “I do hope it’s Miranda.”
Voices sounded in the hallway. The baritone voice was unlikely to be Miranda’s. In fact, it didn’t even sound like the duke’s.
Hazel frowned.
In the next moment, the door swung open, and a man appeared.
Lord Aston.
Lord Aston was a viscount, and there was always a crush of people around him: other military men, matchmaking mamas, attractive debutantes and high-spirited widows. This time, Hazel was able to observe him openly.
The man was handsome, with blond hair and cool grey eyes. He cast his gaze over the room, and for the first time, Hazel pondered how improper this meal was. She wasn’t supposed to entertain the militia with her friends. It was Christmas, though, and it had seemed foolish to let the militia make do with whatever dreadful food they were accustomed to eating.
Behind the blond man was another man with dark brown hair, who pointed his finger at the men. “Ah-ha! That’s where everyone is.”
“Where on earth is Concord?” Lord Aston asked.
Beatrice rose. “Excuse me. Why are you interrupting our Christmas meal?”
The men widened their eyes, evidently unaccustomed to being questioned.
“I want to see Concord,” Lord Aston said.
“You said that already,” Cassandra said. “He’s not here.”
“Damnation. He dragged me all the way here, and he’s not even here to greet me?”
“It would appear that way,” said one of the militiamen, casting his gaze to the floor.
“Outrageous. I demand someone go and find him. Now.”
“Now?” A forlorn expression appeared on the man’s face.
“Now.”
Beatrice put her arms on her hips and glared. “You’re ruining our Christmas!”
The man raised his eyebrows. “Is that what this is?”
“Of course that’s what this is.”
A ruddy color appeared on Lord Aston’s cheeks. At least he had the decency to seem perturbed by his obvious lack of manners.
Their Christmas dinner was getting cold, and the man wanted to discuss the Duke of Concord.
“How do you do?” Hazel ventured timidly.
The viscount’s icy grey eyes turned on her, like a sky threatening to emit a deluge of rain and sleet. Though he was slighter in build than the Duke of Concord, he moved rapidly, revealing his strength. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re spending Christmas here,” Hazel said.
The viscount raised his eyebrow in a dubious manner. “You’re choosing to spend Christmas with members of the militia? Who are you?”
“I am Miss Beatrice Dalton,” Beatrice said. “These are my friends, Miss Cassandra Carmichael and Miss Hazel Howard.”
The viscount gave an absent-minded bow.
He didn’t know who she was. He didn’t know that she was his letter correspondent.
Hazel’s heart shook.
WHERE ON EARTH WAS the Duke of Concord? At least he’d had an agreement with them.
Miss Beatrice Dalton was glaring at him.
Titus was not accustomed to anyone glaring at him, but this woman seemed accomplished at it, as if the snow and ice had given her strength.
“You are despicable,” Miss Dalton said. “How dare you burst in here, on Christmas Day, disrupting our revelries?” Her large brown eyes flashed, she tossed her fiery red hair, and pointed her chin upward. She moved her hands to her hips, a vision of disapproval.
Titus’s stomach twisted. She found him despicable. She’d said so.
He glanced at the other women. Miss Carmichael had a soft smile on her face, as if he were here for her personal amusement. The willowy brunette woman beside her, though, Miss Howard, was studiously avoiding not looking at him. Her hands trembled, and his heart sank.
He wasn’t the type of man who wanted a woman to be frightened. He stepped back, widening the distance between them.
“Forgive me,” he said, his voice hoarse, stumbling over the words. “I’m sorry I disturbed your Christmas meal.”
“Thank you,” Miss Hazel Howard said in a sweet soprano voice that made him feel even more guilty.
“Ladies, I am Lord Titus Hailsham, Viscount Aston, and this is my cousin, Mr.—er—”
“Hailsham?” Miss Dalton asked.
Titus nodded, and the prince shot him an appalled look.
The prince turned to the women. “I am delighted to meet you.” Prince Rafael lingered on each syllable. Damnation. Next thing, the women would be swooning. The prince was supposed to be utterly immemorable. That was the point of hiding.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hailsham,” Miss Carmichael said finally. “I wasn’t aware Lord Aston had a cousin.”
“He’s quite unimportant,” Titus said.
There was an awkward silence in the room. Blast. They probably all despised him now, even more than they already had. “I shall let you carry on. I’ll check on the horses.”
Then Titus trudged from the castle. Even the prince did not follow him.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lord Aston hadn’t recognized her yesterday.
Fiddlesticks.
Harp music had not begun to play, and no Cupids wielding bows and arrows had descended from the heavens or the immaculately coffered ceilings of the castle. Lord Aston had certainly seemed more irritated to find a group of spinsters at the castle.
She could have told him yesterday that Miss Keen Decoder would not be at the tea shop. But canceling would have meant speaking with him, and speaking with him would have made him realize she was his correspondent. Hazel hadn’t been prepared for that particular conversation.
“You’re glum,” Cassandra said after breakfast.
“It’s those men in the house,” Beatrice said. “I know it.”
“No,” Hazel said.
“Well, I despise those men, particularly the viscount. So rude.”
“He was surprised to see us. The duke was supposed to greet them.” Hazel rose. “I’m going into the village.”