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“Then let’s not be sad.” He took her hand. “Let’s take the staff stairs, and sneak into my study. No one should find us there.”
They went down the narrow stairs, through a rather austere hallway and out through a door that ended up in Alec’s study. Cara turned and looked at the door in amazement. From this side it looked like part of a bookshelf. “You have a hidden entrance to your room.”
“Many of the rooms do. They were for the servants to come and go discretely, but as a boy, I liked to slip through the house without being noticed.”
He went to the fireplace and stoked the fire, sending sparks shooting up the chimney. “Are you sensitive about your dyslexia?” he asked.
She sat down on the Victorian couch with the red leather. “It was hard, especially in my family of academics.”
He glanced at her from over his shoulder. “People made fun of you?”
“Kids did, yes. My parents were baffled until they understood and then they were always in my corner.” She rubbed her finger along the back of the couch’s carved wooden frame. “I can read. I’m just self-conscious when I have to read aloud.” She rubbed the curved frame in the other direction. “Does it bother you?”
“Not at all. I just hated to think that my family might have made you uncomfortable. Between Uncle Frederick’s questions about Chet and my aunt’s comments about reading traditions in your family.” His gaze met hers and held. “They mean well—”
“I know they do, and I like them. Don’t worry.”
“I love your patience with them. You’re interested in everything they say,” he said. “You are always asking them questions, wanting to hear their stories. I don’t do that. I’m not sure I’ve ever done that.”
She looked up at him, studying him. “I think you return from London tired. You make the drive dreading the fact that you’re going to Bakewell and it won’t be relaxing. That’s pressure, and you’re always under pressure. Maybe in the future, having your family for a holiday meal doesn’t have to be such a big deal. Maybe you could change your traditions, make your holiday together a little less formal? Maybe let the others help? Just a thought.”
“That’s not the way I was raised, though. It’s not tradition—”
“Traditions can change. I have a feeling your family would rather have you relaxed and comfortable than feeling burdened.”
When he said nothing, she combed her hair back behind her ears. “I’ve probably overstepped again—”
“No. And don’t apologize. You’re the only one who actually says these things to me. I can’t remember the last time someone was just straight with me. I appreciate it. It’s refreshing.”
“Let’s pretend you’re not Viscount Sherbourne, but just a regular Joe—”
“The average Joe,” he interrupted. “Like Joe Bloggs.”
“Joe Bloggs?”
“That’s what we say. That’s our slang.”
She laughed. “So yes, if you were Joe Bloggs, what would you do tonight for Christmas Eve?”
He answered immediately. “I’d go to the local pub and meet up with friends for a drink.”
“The pub on Christmas Eve?” she repeated. “A pub on Christmas?”
“You make it sound sacrilegious.”
“I just—” She broke off. “On Christmas Eve I’ve been a sheep, a villager, a shepherd, an angel, a narrator, and then, when I was in sixth grade, I played Mary.”
“I trust that was all in your childhood, and not lately?”
Her lips quivered as she fought a smile. “Not lately, no. But even then, the pub?”
“Have you not even been to one of Bakewell’s pubs yet?”
“I had dinner one night at a pub, but that was it.”
“It’s different during the dinner hour. Having dinner at a pub, and going to meet friends later are two very different things.” He glanced at his watch and then smiled at her. “Feel like a walk into town?”
She straightened. “Now?”
