Cecelia blinked, realizing she had been lost in her thoughts. “Oh, dear me. Yes, Cooper. Thank you.”
As they moved away from the front entrance, a fresh, piney scent hit Cecelia, followed by an earthier scent she recognized as rosemary. The rosemary stirred memories of happier times when Mother had insisted on decorating their house for Christmastide as her mother and her mother’s mother always had. It was not fashionable to do so nowadays, but in that one instance, Mother had tilted her nose up to the de rigueur. No longer did her mother do this, of course. They did not have the money, nor did Mother have the spirit of cheer. Oh, how Cecelia wished this Christmastide she could give Mother a bit of her happiness back, and selfishly, Cecelia wished for a smidgeon of her own.
She cast her gaze around the entrance hall, searching for the source of the smells. To her delight rosemary and a plant that she did not recognize decorated the staircase banister. As Elizabeth had moved into this townhome after Christmastide last year, Cecelia did not know if decorating for the holiday season was a tradition for her or not. But today was the sixth day of December, and since Cecelia had been to Elizabeth’s home yesterday—and the home had not had any greenery adorning it then—Cecelia suspected that the marchioness must also have the odd habit of decorating for Christmastide and had done it after Cecelia had departed the day before. However, these decorations were early and Mother would say they were bound to bring ill luck.
Cecelia followed Cooper’s slow progress to the drawing room and gasped in delight at the transformation. Holly, laurel, and mistletoe hung above the doorway and along the mantle of the fireplace, and in the corner, the same greenery Cecelia did not recognize on the banister adorned the table. Elizabeth sat perched rather properly with a book in one hand, but her silver head of soft curls tilted scandalously back to sip on her Scotch—a practice Cecelia knew Elizabeth’s husband had encouraged when he was alive—hinting at how little regard the marchioness held for propriety.
Cecelia strolled into the room, her heart feeling immensely lighter, as it always did when she was here, in the company of someone who believed in her innocence.
She picked up a book of poems and sat in the chair Elizabeth always had waiting for her. Elizabeth lowered her glass and, with a conspiratorial look, slowly pushed a second crystal tumbler across the dark wood table toward Cecelia.
“I poured you a teensy, tiny sip,” she said. Elizabeth grinned, her pale, wrinkly cheeks creasing even more, and her blue eyes sparking to life.
If Mother even knew Cecelia was at Elizabeth’s home there would be the devil to pay, so if Mother knew Cecelia had indulged in a drink,in the middle of the day, she might very well ship her daughter off to the nearest convent. Ladies did not do such things, she thought as she curled her fingers around the cool glass. She was not the hoyden everyone painted her to be, but she understood deep within that she was not the prim-and-proper miss she knew she should be, either. This was her one secret, wicked indulgence in a life that had lost all color but boring, drab gray.
Cecelia brushed a finger across the dark, prickly green decorations. “What is this? I’ve never seen it.”
“No?” Elizabeth asked in surprise, her French accent more pronounced than usual. Cecelia had learned that Elizabeth had left her family in Paris many years before when she married the Marquess of Burton. The union had been quite scandalous since Elizabeth had been an opera singer and had not been considered fit by thetonto be the wife of the marquess. She had been barely tolerated by Society, and when her husband had died, she had been no longer tolerated at all. Her distaste for societal rules was even greater than Cecelia’s.
“This is evergreen,” Elizabeth told her. “I put it here, especially for you.”
“Me? Whatever for?”
Elizabeth smiled wickedly, as only a French woman of advanced years could. “In medieval times, it was thought to bring fertility. I once heard a story about a great medieval healer named Marion who had put evergreen throughout her home—Dunvegan Castle in Skye, I believe it was—so that she would conceive another son for her husband.”
Cecelia’s cheeks flamed instantly at the image of Liam that flashed in her mind. At Elizabeth’s merry chuckle, Cecelia fanned herself and took a sip of her Scotch, which heated her further instead of cooling her.
“I don’t need to be fertile,” she whispered, certain that even though her mother was many townhomes away, she might somehow see Cecelia upon her return and know she had talked of improper things.
“Not now, you don’t, dear,” Elizabeth replied, “but you will when you marry!”
“But who would marry me?” she asked, voicing the concern she normally held deep within. “I’m disgraced in theton’seyes, and even if I were not, I don’t have anything to bring to a marriage.”
Elizabeth took Cecelia’s hand in her bony one. “Shh, my dear. You have yourself to bring to a marriage, and any man of any true value will recognize that your good heart and joyful, loyal spirit are worth more than a hundred bags of gold. Perhaps the Scot you told me of meeting yesterday?” she teased, raising her eyebrows.
Cecelia dashed a hand across her eyes, which had pooled with unshed tears. Purposely ignoring Elizabeth’s comment about Liam, Cecelia asked, “Is that what happened with your husband?”
Elizabeth squeezed Cecelia’s hand. “Yes, exactly. When George told his father he wanted to marry me, his father threatened to take away all money and property that was not entailed. George wisely told him to go to the devil and married me anyway.” She winked at Cecelia.
Excited because she had heard the story before and it gave her hope, Cecelia could not help but finish it. “And because neither George nor his father had any siblings, he decided he could not afford to lose the affection of his one living relative, his son.”
“Precisely,” Elizabeth crowed.
Cecelia set down her glass and glanced out the window, surprised but delighted to see snowflakes falling against the graying sky. Unbidden, Aila MacLeod and her declaration that she was going to secure an invitation for Cecelia to the Rochburns’ ball popped into Cecelia’s head. “Perhaps this Christmastide season I will be allowed back into theton’sgood graces, and I will meet a man who wishes to marry me, despite my circumstances.”
The thought did not make her happy as it should.
Elizabeth patted Cecelia’s hand. “Perhaps you will meet a mannotof theton, who cares naught for their rules and who does not believe the vicious gossip about you.”
Cecelia knew Elizabeth was referring to Liam again. Sighing, she said, “You know I must try to secure a good match.”
Elizabeth offered a scowl before she leaned to side of her chair—away from Cecelia—and seemed to be gathering something in her arms. When she straightened, she was holdingwire, evergreen, apples, candles, and mistletoe.
“Whatever is all of that for?” Cecelia inquired.
“You could very well have a kiss stolen while standing under this ball we are going to make,” Elizabeth said in a conspiratorial voice.
“What?” Cecelia gasped. “From whom?”
