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Which was completely at odds with his feelings for Lenora. How could he so easily go from one woman to the next? It was unfathomable.

Charlotte is your wife, a voice inside urged. It is your duty to consummate this marriage.

He knew that. And yet it felt as if he were being a traitor to the woman he’d planned to marry. Had there truly been deeper feelings between them? He didn’t know.

For now, he needed to make the best of his marriage. And that meant locking away unwanted emotions and focusing on the future.

Alaric studied the dining room table and noticed that the centrepiece was formed of pine, holly leaves with bright berries, and even a few sprigs of mistletoe. It was starting to remind him of the way his mother had decorated the house, years ago, filling it with life. It seemed that his wife took her plants very, very seriously—but he didn’t truly mind.

Come to think of it, he was starting to wonder whether there was any room that didn’t contain greenery of some kind. Idly, he wondered how his wife had learned so much—whether anyone had taught her or whether it had all been knowledge gained from reading.

After the first course of soup was served, he watched as Charlotte savoured the warmth, closing her eyes as she sipped it. A jolt caught him out of nowhere, and he took a hasty spoonful of his own soup, nearly burning his tongue from the heat. He reached for water and gulped it down, only to realise that he’d seized a wineglass instead.

‘Thirsty?’ Charlotte asked.

Was he imagining it, or was there a gleam of mischief in those eyes? Alaric glanced at his wife, but she seemed to be holding back a laugh.

‘The soup was very hot.’

‘Was it?’ Charlotte reached for her own spoon and blew on the soup before taking another sip. Then she looked back at him and offered a wide smile as if to say, This is how you eat hot soup.

Insolence, that’s what it was. He had to repress his own smile lest he encourage her.

‘Well, now that I am here for this required meal, what would you like to talk about?’ she asked.

He didn’t know why, but he had the sudden urge to provoke her. And yet he couldn’t think of what to say or do. Finally, he admitted, ‘Nothing in particular.’

‘Then let us discuss the Christmas holidays. I assume your brother will come to celebrate with us?’

He hadn’t really thought of it. ‘Why would he?’

She set her spoon down. ‘Do you mean to say that you do not celebrate Christmas with your family?’

‘We did as children.’ Truthfully, they hadn’t celebrated much since their mother died. Their father had fallen into such despair, he’d ignored the holidays. And so he and Thornton had quietly exchanged small gifts with one another and had left a few for the duke.

‘What about you?’ Alaric asked. ‘Will you want to spend the holidays with your parents instead?’ He could make the arrangements for her to travel, if needed.

She shook her head. ‘My parents don’t really celebrate. We had presents in the drawing room when we woke up on Christmas morning and had pudding with our meal. But it was the same as always—one hour with my parents. It was simply earlier that particular day.’

He was beginning to dislike her parents more and more. ‘And is this…the way you want to celebrate it here?’

‘Goodness, no.’ She reached for her water glass and took a sip. ‘I would much prefer to celebrate in the way my grandmother did, God rest her. Sometimes Mother let me spend a week at her house before the holidays, and it was wonderful.’ She smiled wistfully and added, ‘We sang Christmas carols at the pianoforte, decorated the house, and spent a day in our nightgowns reading.’ After a slight pause, her eyes brightened. ‘Do you know, I think that’s what I want to do. The week before Christmas, we could enjoy some merriment.’

‘I will not be wearing a nightgown.’ He kept his voice gruff and was rewarded by her laugh.

‘No, of course not. But I would like to plan some smaller activities for us. Just a few seasonal things,’ she pleaded.

‘Such as…’

‘Gingerbread.’ She smiled at him. ‘My grandmother was German, and they used to bake lebkuchen and other treats.’ After a pause, she asked, ‘What about your family? How did you celebrate?’

‘Before our mother died, it was similar for us. She always had our cook prepare a feast with gingerbread and Christmas pudding. Sometimes cups of wassail to drink while we sat by the fire.’

Charlotte’s expression grew thoughtful. ‘That sounds lovely. I’ll speak to Cook about it. Thank you.’ She started to reach for his hand, but then her smile faded and she pulled back.

He realised then that the footman had arrived to take their plates. Beneath her breath, she muttered, ‘Rule 5.’

But strangely enough, he almost wanted to know what she would have done while saying thank you. Would she have only squeezed his hand? Or would she have hugged him again?