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Her mother arched an eyebrow. “Chloe Anne Garland, what have you done?”
“Nothing,” Chloe said innocently.
Nothing but send Lord Cheverell the ugliest, gaudiest, most repellently festive waistcoat in the history of Christmas and convince him to wear it tonight.
Her mother raised her left eyebrow. “Tell me.”
Chloe groaned. “Not the eyebrow. Anything but the eyebrow.”
All the Garland children lived in terror of The Eyebrow.
Her mother had the most articulate left eyebrow in humanity. With the slightest arch or tilt, The Eyebrow could convey annoyance, doubt, interrogation, displeasure, orI-will-deal-with-you-laterreproach.
Tonight, The Eyebrow’s demand was simple:Confess.
“I’m four-and-twenty years old,” Chloe said. “That doesn’t work on me anymore.”
The Eyebrow arched with suspicion.
“Truly, Mama. I’m immune to it now,” she lied.
The Eyebrow snapped flat. A warning.Don’t lie to your mother.
Chloe couldn’t take it any longer. “Very well! I surrender. Just stop.”
Mama relented with a small, superior smile.
“It’s like witchcraft.” Chloe shuddered. “How do youdothat?”
“You’d have the talent too, if you’d borne eleven children. Can you imagine raising up eleven children with actual words? I would have lost my ability to speak a decade ago.” She tapped Chloe’s wrist with her folded fan. “Now. Tell me what you’ve done this time.”
“Nothing so terrible. I may have invented a fictional family tradition.”
“Which is...?”
“I told Lord Cheverell that the Garland men wear holiday waistcoats to our Christmas Eve party.”
“Go on.”
“And I told him that if hedidn’twear a Christmas waistcoat, he’d be the only gentleman in attendance without one. So if he comes tonight, expect him to appear looking...festive.”
“Oh. Is that all? For a moment, I worried you’d done something truly shocking.” Mama peered out the window. “I believe that’s his carriage in the drive.”
Chloe’s heart beat a little faster. There it was again, that delicious frisson of anticipation.
She knew the instant he entered the hall. Quiet swept through the room like a wave. To a one, the guests abandoned their drinks and gossipy conversations and simply stared.
Lord Cheverell was a vision.
The kind of vision that might result from overindulging in plum pudding and sherry, then spinning in a circle a dozen times fast.
He was handsome, of course. He was always handsome, in the most elegant, intimidating way. Tall stature, dark hair, piercing gaze, noble features sculpted by centuries of aristocratic breeding.
But tonight his fine looks weren’t the subject of attention.
It was the waistcoat. The waistcoat had everyone dazzled. Also shocked, perplexed, and perhaps a bit nauseous.
Embroidered reindeer pranced across his chest, surrounded by silver beads arranged in lopsided snowflakes. Gold braid edged the lapels of the vest. Appliqued mistletoe covered any remaining empty space, complete with red chenillepomponsfor berries.
