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With her imagination struggling to picture the serious-natured earl laughing for more than a few minutes aboutanything, Isleen edged the conversation in a different direction.
“I have never understood the appeal of mistletoe. It isn’t native to our Irish trees.”
“No mistletoe in Ireland?” Lady Josephine blinked. “But why not?”
“Perhaps it is the wrong climate for it,” Lady Atella said without concern. “What do you mean, Miss Frost, by the appeal of mistletoe? It is a long-standing tradition to hang it in halls. Likely because it is one of the few green-leafed plants we have access to in winter.”
Clarification on that point was simple enough to offer. “As a decoration, it doesn’t bother me in the least.” Though why people wanted a sprig of something that acted as a parasite inside their home, she didn’t quite know. “The kissing beneath it is what puzzles me.”
“You object to kissing?” Lady Josephine sounded oddly disappointed by that notion, and Isleen couldn’t help a small laugh at that.
“I do not. Rest assured on that count.” Though it had been ages since anyone had stolen a kiss from her lips. She brushed the unwanted thought aside.
Isleen glanced at her little sister, then leaned closer to her two new friends and lowered her voice. “I object to the idea that if I am caught beneath it, any strange man might make free with my person, taking a kiss I might have no wish to give.” She shuddered. “It sounds like the very trap it is.”
The two married women exchanged a wide-eyed look. Lady Atella spoke with some hesitancy. “I haven’t ever thought of it that way. We have always been in company with gentlemen. People the duke trusts.”
“Or the people around you have known that His Grace wouldn’t allow ill treatment of you. Perhaps, as you were both under his protection, you were spared the unpleasantness of unwanted kisses.” Isleen shouldn’t need to point such a thing out, but the other women appeared rather surprised by the idea.
“Yet another privilege of having a duke for a father,” Lady Josephine said aloud and sighed. “Andrew is forever pointing out to me here or there how much I was protected from. There is so much I never gave thought to, and it stings my pride when I realize how blind I could be.”
Isleen understood the sentiment well enough. “We are all sheltered in ways we do not understand because we are loved. When we learn something new about the world around us, we adjust and move forward with our new knowledge.” She had not meant to lead them to such a melancholy place. “Tell me, now that you are married women, do you still stand beneath kissing balls at Christmas?”
They exchanged glances and Lady Josephine laughed. “Oh, Andrew would be quite put out if he wasn’t the one standing next to me if I did.”
“Luca would certainly prefer it that way.” Lady Atella played with the edge of her shawl, running the fringe between her fingers as she gave the matter some thought. “Can you imagine the look on his face if anyone else attempted to kiss me?”
They giggled like schoolgirls, and Isleen let the conversation pass into other avenues. Still, her mind lingered on the last time a man had kissed her, years and years ago. That hadn’t been a cheery press of lips at a party. No, it had been a kiss goodbye. A kiss that neither of them had known would be the last they shared.
Six years felt like an eternity at times. Especially in moments like these, when the people around her were so happy and bright. Yes, Isleen had ceased mourning her lost love. And she was ready to move forward. Had been ready for some time. Yet she hadn’t met another man that made her feel half the adoration Liam Hurst had inspired.
Sometimes, she feared she never would.
CHAPTER5
Simon expected to have a less combative evening with men near his own age present at Clairvoir. The arrangements on the third evening of the house party meant they had a completely balanced table.
Lambsthorpe’s newly installed vicar, Jonathan Wood, attended this time. That meant the duchess had a perfect number of ladies to men at the meal. All the men but the duke were less than five and thirty, while half the women were well over forty. But age and eligibility mattered less this evening than the appropriate amount of hes and shes.
The young earl sat to the right hand of his father, across from his grandmother, with Emma and Lord Dunmore between him and the somewhat troublesome Miss Frost. Not that he viewed her as a troublemaker, of course. However, conversation with her seemed to lead him into dangerous territory.
When the entirety of the meal passed without any debates on his end of the table or the other, Simon breathed a sigh of relief.
His father, the vicar, Simon, Luca, and Andrew remained behind at the table while the women went into the next room to begin the evening’s conversation. The separation of men and women at this point after the meal had confused Simon when he was younger. Now, however, he realized it was an opportunity for men to engage in something their ladies wouldn’t approve of: making terrible jokes at each other’s expense. At least, that’s how Andrew used the time.
“I have had the most entertaining conversation with Miss Frost this evening,” he said, leaning back in his chair in a way that would have made Simon’s grandmother rather cross. “She told me about an Irish Christmas tradition. On Christmas Eve, when families in Ireland go to bed, they leave the table laden with bread, seeds, raisins, and milk. And they unlatch the door. To feed poor wanderers. Can you imagine? Leaving a great big place like this castle in such a way?”
The duke had crossed his arms, a pipe in hand. He looked to Lord Dunmore. “I imagine the noble houses in Ireland wouldn’t be likely to leave their homes unlocked, either.”
“Some do, to keep with tradition.” Lord Dunmore poured himself coffee and added a splash of dark amber liquid. “But there are alternatives to leaving the household proper open. Sometimes a table is laid outside, or in an outbuilding.”
“Ah, yes.” The duke gave his pipe a puff. “I recall one Christmas the duchess and I were there that we did something similar. We filled a table at the nearest church with bread and crocks of milk and cream. The priest watched over it that night.”
“It is a fine idea,” Mr. Wood said, a thoughtful gleam in his eye. “We gather all sorts of things to give to the poor and needful on Boxing Day. Putting a feast out to give people more for their table come Christmas morning isn’t something I had considered before.”
“They also light a candle and put it in their most prominent window on Christmas Eve,” Andrew added. “Miss Frost said it was a way to welcome Mary and Joseph when they cannot find a place at the inn. I can’t think we do a thing to honor those two specifically.”
“The candle is for more than that,” the vicar said, eyebrows furrowed. “We studied the Irish resistance to Anglican conversion at University, of course. The lit candle used to be a way to signal to Catholic priests that the house was a safe one for them to perform mass.”
