A Season of Hope (Danby #2)(14)

Olivia managed a smile. “Thank you.”

Her gaze went to the now empty plate; a stark reminder that the treat was finished, and so was their time here.

As if anticipating her thoughts, Marcus rose as if they were in attendance at a fine dinner party and not hiding like two naughty children in Cook’s kitchens.

Olivia rose and dipped a curtsy. “Good night, Marcus.”

She hurried out of the room, and abovestairs, knowing all the while that any attempt at sleep would be futile.





Chapter 7


Olivia craned her head back until her neck ached. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and studied the towering tree. Each year, she looked forward to Christmas with a breathless anticipation. This year was so vastly different. She’d been at her grandfather’s for a full week and instead of the budding excitement for the carols, yew boughs, and holiday trappings that would come on the eve of Christmas, all this season represented was an end.

An end to her time here.

A new start.

A new life.

One that did not include Marcus Wheatley.

Her time here was nearing an end.

Feeling his gaze upon her, Olivia looked to Marcus.

He held her stare and then slowly winked.

Her heart froze. Why must he do that? If he were the same, snarling boor who’d mocked her and taunted her upon her arrival, then it would be at least bearable to leave Danby Castle and forget him.

Liar. She’d never be able to ever forget Marcus Wheatley.

Marcus seemed to remember his need for seriousness and glanced away.

“This is what you two came up with?”

Olivia jumped at her grandfather’s booming question.

“It’s lovely,” she said, defending the fourteen-foot yew tree.

“You’ve seen the size of this parlor, girl?”

Her gaze did a quick sweep of the gold and red parlor with its towering ceilings adorned in fresco murals. The duke could fit the whole of Almack’s inside the grandiose setting.

“It is just a touch small,” Olivia said, a touch of defensiveness in her words.

Danby snorted. “Just a touch? I’d say it’s the ugliest tree yew tree I’ve ever seen.”

She studied the tree yet again and angled her head. “That is wholly unfair, Your Grace.”

Marcus interrupted the duke’s response. “Let me say, Your Grace, if you were to see the first tree selected by Lady Olivia, you’d be more than pleased with the final selection.”

Olivia’s brow furrowed. She wasn’t entirely certain that was much of a compliment. “Mr. Wheatley also aided in the selection.” If she were going to earn Danby’s displeasure at the first Christmastide task set before them, well then, Marcus would take ownership for their decision as well.

“Bahh.” Danby slashed the air with his hand. “I don’t care if it were one of you or both of you. It’s a miserable tree.”

“It will look much improved when we decorate it on the eve of Christmas,” Olivia ventured.

Her grandfather continued to eye the tree, with no small amount of skepticism. “No, I rather think it will not.” He banged his cane twice upon the floor. “And I’m old, girl. I don’t want to wait. Dress up this tree and parlor.”

“Your Grace?”

“You heard me,” he barked, and then Danby turned on his heel and stomped off.

“Are you certain, Grandfather?” Olivia called out, her voice echoed throughout the empty space of the parlor. “It isn’t tradition…”

The aging, old duke didn’t break stride. “I don’t give a plum fig for tradition. See to the trimmings.”

When he’d gone, Olivia tapped her finger along her jawline. “It really is a lovely tree.”

“Absolutely,” Marcus said.

She turned in a small circle and surveyed the room. “You know, I do believe it isn’t the tree that is the problem but rather this place?”

“Oh?”

Olivia pursed her lips at his bored tone. “You might not take this particular responsibility seriously, Marcus, but I do.” She walked the perimeter of the parlor, all the while aware of him standing off to the side of the room, his gaze trained upon her.

How to convert the duke’s home into a festive, Christmastide setting?

“Perhaps we might be better served visiting Cook and seeing what pastries she’s prepared for the day,” Marcus said.

Olivia shook her head. “Marcus, I’m going to need more that fruit p…” Her eyes widened.

She all but flew across the room and clasped his hands in her own. “You brilliant man!” She leaned up and placed a kiss upon his cheek. “We need servants! A good deal of them.”

Marcus hesitated a moment, and then called over the footman who stood at the entrance of the parlor.

The young man in his precisely tailored uniform came over. “Mr. Wheatley?”

Marcus gestured to Olivia. “Lady Olivia has a request.”

The servant turned to her.

“Servants,” she began. “At least twenty of them. And fruits. Apples. Oranges. Plums. We’ll need no fewer than a hundred yew boughs cut and brought to the parlor. Oh, and almonds and paper, and beading!”

“Will that be all, my lady?”