A Season of Hope (Danby #2)(10)

Danby waved him off. “Go. Go.”

As Marcus went for his cloak and made his way outside Danby’s halls, he told himself he was merely following his employer’s orders. He owed the duke a debt of gratitude for not only having him rescued from that French hell, but for giving him some purpose in work. That was the sole reason he would see to this silly order from the duke.

Marcus accepted his cloak and hat from a servant. He jammed the beaver hat on his head, and then tugged on his brown gloves.

Liar.

He’d quit his work for the day for only one reason.

I want to see her.

It was the height of foolishness for him to spend any time in her presence. That didn’t stop him from stomping his way through the snow and following the path he’d seen her and the two servants take.

A tinkling laugh, clear as bells, echoed through the winter sky.

God help him.

He was lost.

***

“What are you laughing at?”

Olivia shrieked and spun around. Her heart danced a funny little rhythm within her chest at the sight of Marcus. Her eyes achingly caressed this stranger of a man. Always taller than most gentlemen, Marcus appeared to have grown another four inches past six feet. Gone was the lean youth. In his stead was this lion of a man with broad shoulders, oaken thighs, and a hardness she didn’t recognize.

Even glowering, angry, and dire, the sight of his living, breathing form, filled her with joy.

She’d not seen him in two days; since their unpleasant exchange in the Duke of Danby’s office. His hurtful accusations, his low opinion would always hurt, but none of that mattered when faced with the miraculous truth—he was alive.

He would never be hers again. Marcus Wheatley was gone to her as if he’d died at war. Soon she’d be wed to the Earl of Ellsworth. But it was enough knowing that at least Marcus lived.

“I…we were thinking of cutting down that tree.”

Marcus’s black stare followed to where she pointed.

He frowned. “I’m sure that is hardly what Queen Charlotte had in mind when she established this silly custom.”

Olivia’s lips turned down. She’d not give him the satisfaction of debating the wonderful tradition of the yew tree, established years back by the Queen. She returned her attention to the three-foot, slender sapling. Snow weighed down its thin branches. “What is wrong with it?” she charged.

Marcus stomped over and gestured at it. “What isn’t wrong with it? This wouldn’t fill a counter in Cook’s kitchen, let alone fill the duke’s Gold Parlor.”

Her brow furrowed as she studied it with different eyes. Yes, he had her there. “It just doesn’t seem fair not to give the poor thing an opportunity to fulfill its Christmastide destiny.”

“Humph.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

The servants shuffled back and forth on their feet, their gazes averted from the unfolding scene.

“I’d imagine the tree would much rather prefer to continue living out here than to be cut down for your pleasure.”

“It’s not my pleasure.”

Marcus ignored her. “Pick one.”

Her eyes widened. The…the…dastard! He thought to come out here and interrupt her otherwise pleasant interlude, ordering her about?

Olivia bent down and collected a fist of snow.

“What are you…?”

Olivia launched the ball of snow at his right cheek. It landed with a solid thump and exploded upon his person, smattering his black patch and cheek. Oh, dear.

Marcus’s entire body went erect. He swiped the flakes off his cheek, his face an expressionless mask.

Damn his indifference.

Olivia scooped up another snowball and launched it at his chest.

Marcus’ lips tightened. “My lady…”

She threw another. Damn him for calling her my lady.

Damn him for believing she was no better than the empty-headed Society misses. And launched another.

“That will be all,” Marcus said.

It took a moment to realize that he spoke to the servants. Of course, as steward, the entire staff answered to Marcus Wheatley. She imagined a man, possessed of Marcus’s pride, would not take kindly to being made a public display.

The servants hesitated, but then Olivia hurled another snowball at Marcus, and the two young men hurried off.

“Have I wounded your ego, Marcus? Did I—"

She gasped as a ball of snow hit her lips. A residue of wet cold streaked down her cheek. Olivia swiped the back of her gloved hand across her cheek. “Did you—?"

Another snowball followed suit, in response to her unfinished question. This landed at the metal clasp of her velvet cloak.

Olivia sprinted behind the small sapling she’d championed and darted and dodged from the sides of it. Yes, it could use just a bit more height and lushness, she conceded when Marcus’s snowball sailed through the branches and hit her in the shoulder.

She knelt down and hurriedly created a small arsenal of snowballs.

Then, in quick order, she proceeded to throw them one at a time.

Marcus danced out of the way and the snowballs landed ineffectually at his feet.

“Are you happy?” she called. “You’ve ruined my day.”

Her ire heated at his deliberate silence. She rushed out from behind the tree and raced at him with a final snowball.