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“Yes,” Mrs. Booth agreed. “I was thinking the Rose Room?”
“If it’s ready.” He glanced at Cara. “Have you had lunch or tea?”
The American shook her head. “No. I landed at the Midlands airport a couple hours ago, took a train to Bakewell, a taxi to the cottage…” She smiled. “And then the ride from the cottage here.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“I’ll sleep well tonight,” she said lightly, apparently untroubled.
Mrs. Booth glanced at him. “Don’t you worry, I can manage here. I’ll go get her settled, and then have Cook send something up to her for dinner—”
“She can join me. Less work for Cook.” He focused on Cara. “You don’t mind dining with the dogs?”
The pretty American woman with her messy ponytail arched an eyebrow, expression amused. “I thought we already covered this. Frankie and Rascal?”
“Do they eat in your dining room?”
“Not when we have guests.”
“My dogs will be with us, guests or no. But they don’t actually sit at the table. Should you be wondering.”
Her lips curved and her eyes—blue? green?—shimmered with light. “Do they dress for dinner?”
“No. But you might want to… change.”
She gave him a rather severe look. “I’d planned on it.”
“Good. We’ll eat at seven, but I’m sure Johnson will send a light snack to your room. She likes feeding people, and that should give you time to settle in.” He nodded and walked away.
And as he walked away, he wondered why on earth he’d invited a stranger to stay, never mind share his dinner? The last time someone had stayed overnight had been Christmas last year, and that had been his assorted relatives who always turned up for their traditional pre-Christmas dinner at the Park. But a stranger? No, he couldn’t even remember the last time a stranger had been a guest.
He didn’t know what had prompted him to extend the dinner invitation, either, or discuss his dogs, but he had. Maybe it was her face, and that wide smile which had almost…almost… made him smile, most unusual for him at this time of year.
Guests from the rental cottages were never seen at the house, and if a tour had been arranged, it happened when Alec was not home. The only tours of Langley itself took place between November and January and were the weekend Christmas tours, a longstanding agreement going back to his grandfather. Admittedly, his grandfather had only permitted tours on one weekend in December, and then his father expanded it to the three weekends leading up to Christmas, and somehow Alec had been convinced to match Chatsworth’s ambitious holiday events several years ago and now he didn’t know how to scale back, not wanting to disappoint the local ladies who worked so hard at raising money for their respective charity. It was all volunteer-driven, with proceeds from the tours and teas generating revenue for Bakewell’s community organizations and nonprofits. Even the decorating was handled by volunteers, although Mrs. Booth, Mr. Dune, and Mr. Trimble oversaw thedecorating to make sure everything was done properly and safely.
All Alec had to do was give a welcome speech before the special candlelight evening tour on Thursday, and then return at the end while staff passed around glasses of champagne and he’d raise his glass of bubbly and thank everyone for coming. The Thursday evening was an exclusive ticketed event, a premium event that allowed the guests to see more of the house than the day tours, and rub elbows with him, so to speak. The ticket price reflected the privilege, at one hundred pounds each, and to his amazement it sold out every year within hours.
It was an interesting house, though, full of history and drama. He much preferred the history before he was born—less uncomfortable by far.
But the Sherbournes had been here for three hundred years, Langley Park being the principal seat for his family, and now he was the last of the Sherbournes. There were no brothers or sisters, no second or even third cousins on his father’s side. If he didn’t marry, if he didn’t have children, that would be the end of his line. The world didn’t necessarily need another viscount or earl. The title was rather meaningless—at least to Alec—but the land, the estate, that mattered. Even though Christmas was his least favorite time to be here.
It wasn’t that he disliked Christmas, either.
He simply disliked Christmas in this house.
But he’d returned, as he did every year, and he’d give the Thursday welcome, and host the dinner for his elderly relatives Friday night, and then there would be the very quiet Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and then it’d be over, for another year.
Chapter Two
Cara’s shoulders saggedas Lord Sherbourne exited the room. “I’d really rather call for a taxi,” she whispered to Mrs. Booth. “I’m causing so much trouble.”
“We’re the ones that have inconvenienced you,” Mrs. Booth replied with a sunny smile. “I can see you are dead on your feet. Now, follow me, dear, and I will get you situated. Mr. Trimble will bring up your large case later—”
“Oh no, I can manage my own bags. Mr. Trimble does not need to worry.” She turned toward the elderly Mr. Trimble, but discovered he’d gone, too.
Mrs. Booth walked down a corridor, which opened into a very imposing entry hall, as different from the medieval hall as could be with an elegant staircase that rose three floors, with a half dozen marble columns, the entry topped by a stunning glass dome. Unlike the dark medieval hall with its trio of Christmas trees against one paneled wall, lit only by simple white lights, this entry way was festively decorated, featuring an enormous Christmas tree easily fourteen feet tall, garlands wrapped around the banister, and more greenery tucked along the windowsills.
“Is this part of the home tour?” Cara asked as Mrs. Booth started up the stairs.
