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Chapter One
23 December 1791
Ashton Park, country estate of the Duke of Kennet
Near the River Kennet
Two in the afternoon
Emalyn Alameda Benjumedapressed her back against the open door of the Ashton Park ballroom, doing her best to avoid the frenzy of servants clamoring about, putting the final touches on the decorations for the Kennet Christmas ball, which would commence in a mere six hours. This was Emalyn’s fourth year to be at Ashton Park for Christmas, although she had never attended the ball itself, being only recently six and ten. But she had always managed to sneak in to see the preparations, sighing over the creativity of the Duchess of Kennet’s themes and the efficiency of her staff.
This year was no different. Footmen draped ribbon-festooned boughs of holly, ivy, mistletoe, yew, and fir over golden sconces and candelabra, the pungent scents of the evergreens filling the expansive room. Maids placed clusters of bay and laurel on the orchestra’s music stands. The ornate chandeliers that would light the room in a blaze of four hundred candles were still low to the ground as hallboys danced around them, cleaning, pushing candles into place, and tying ribbons among the curling arms and scrolls. In the gigantic fireplace on the west wall, the yule log waited to be lit sometime after midnight but before the festive supper to be served at one.
Emalyn’s eyes widened as a cart full of rosemary “trees” lumbered into the room. She watched as two were placed near a table already laden with a large silver wassail bowl and dozens of cups. Two others were positioned near a table that would hold a Christmas cake and mince pies. Then the two groundskeepers turned the cart toward the door into the ballroom foyer.
Right where Emalyn stood.
“Oh!” The word came out as a small yelp as they drew close, and she stepped into the doorframe, then backward into the foyer, thudding up against a solid, immovable body. Emalyn froze for a moment as a deep rumbling chuckle sent a rush of heat into her face.
“Are you not supposed to be in the schoolroom, Miss Benjumeda?”
Emalyn did a quickstep to the side, turning to face Philip Ashton, Marquess of Newbury and heir to the Duke of Kennet, whose blue eyes gazed down at her with affection and mirth. She gave a quick curtsey. “It’s Christmas, kind sir. My governess merely needs to keep me out of trouble.”
He grinned. “She is not doing a fair job of it, is she?”
Emalyn’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I thought you were out riding.”
Philip, who, at seven and ten stood well over six feet tall, gestured to his riding outfit. “I am waiting for my horse. My mother has almost every groom in the stable preparing the sleighs for wassailing after supper.”
Emalyn’s heart raced, and she fought to keep her words even. “You are taller than last year, your voice deeper.”
“I had not realized. What do you think?”
Her eyes narrowed as she tried to give him a serious examination, from the blond locks that flopped over his forehead, down over his broad but trim form, to the polished riding boots. All the Kennet men looked as if they had descended from Viking raiders, with their height and light hair and eyes. But Emalyn knew Philip too well—his sense of honor, integrity, his sense of humor—to be intimidated.
“I think every mother should be hiding their daughters.”
He laughed, then reached out and brushed a lock of dark hair away from her face. Realizing what he had done, he jerked his hand down, a fine spray of red coloring both cheeks. He cleared his throat and glanced around. But no one else stood in the foyer.
Emalyn looked over her shoulder into the ballroom. Likewise, no one there paid them any attention. She straightened her shoulders, trying to look taller.
Philip’s shy smile returned. “You, on the other hand, have not changed much. You are still short. And lovely.”
She gestured toward the ballroom, trying to remain calm. “I thought the English considered it bad luck to bring in the evergreens before Christmas Eve.”
“My grandmother is German. She raised Mother to believe we make our own luck. But we keep a lot of the other traditions because Mother is not fond of the trend to make Christmas more ‘refined.’ It’s why we will wassail after supper as well as on Twelfth Night, and we open the kitchens to the village tomorrow night. Charity is part of our celebration. And we still burn the evergreens on Twelfth Night.” He leaned a little closer. “I wish your family could stay for that. The whole event is so much fun.”
His closeness made Emalyn shiver. He smelled like sandalwood and soap. “My father has business he must attend to in the city.” Gabriel Benjumeda, owner of one of the largest vineyards and wineries in Andalusia, headed an international company that had been in business with the Kennet duchy for two generations, beginning with Emalyn and Philip’s grandfathers. It was why the Benjumeda family had been long-time Christmas guests at Ashton Park.
“You and your mother could stay.”
“He prefers his family with him.”
Philip straightened, a teasing light in his eyes. “A wise man. Who knows what trouble you might get into here?”
“You really are too forward, sir.”
Philip chuckled, then glanced over her shoulder. She followed his gaze and watched the groundskeepers rock the big pots into their spots. Emalyn chewed her lower lip. “They are placing the rosemary trees.”
