A Season of Hope (Danby #2)(18)

Olivia turned the gift over in her hands.

“Go on, open it. The both of you,” Danby said, with a wave of his hand.

Olivia first opened the sealed envelope and read the scrawl in her grandfather’s hand.



Remember Livvie, Christmas is a time of second chances. Don’t disappoint me by going and doing what your fool father wants you to do.

Post Script

Here is something to remember this Christmastide. I still say it was an ugly tree.

~ Danby



She worked loose a bow and then slipped a nail underneath the green velvet, floral fabric. She opened the small box and looked inside.

A gasp escaped her. The Italian wood jewelry box had painted upon it a festively decorated yew tree. She lifted the lid and stared unblinking down at a branch of the yew tree she and Marcus had selected.

Olivia fought back a swell of emotion and gently closed the lid with a slight click. “It is perfect, Grandfather.”

“Humph,” he said and stamped his cane into the floor. “You next, Wheatley.”

Marcus hesitated. He waved off the servant, who rushed over with a tray that contained a blade to open the envelope.

Olivia studied his long, bronzed fingers as he broke the Duke of Danby’s seal. He withdrew several parchments.

His gaze scanned them with rapid precision.

She had to tamp down the urge to lean over his shoulder and peer at the documents that held Marcus so enrapt.

As if he felt her gaze on him, Marcus quickly folded up the sheets and stuffed them back inside the envelope. “Thank you, Your Grace.” He tucked the gift in the front pocket of his jacket.

The duke stood. “It’s late for an old man. I’m going to find my bed.”

Olivia set aside her gift, and she and Marcus both scrambled to their feet. She dipped a curtsy. “Merry Christmas, Grandfather.”

“Merry Christmas, Your Grace,” Marcus said, with a bow.

The normally stern set to the duke’s lips turned up in the hint of a smile. “Yes. Yes it was, wasn’t it?”

He left and the orchestra picked up their instruments. They began to play This Endris Night.

Marcus held out his hand. “Will you dance with me, again?”

Olivia placed her hand in his and followed him the sweeping movements of the waltz. “This time there is music,” she pointed out.

His solitary green eye nearly pierced her with the intensity of emotion she saw there. “We never needed music. Did we, Olivia?”

Olivia remembered back five years when he’d danced her about her mother’s expansive garden. Their laughter had drowned out the shocked gasps of Olivia’s maid, who’d pleaded with them to remember propriety. “No, we didn’t.”

She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue as she thought of Grandfather’s note and gift. Olivia would never be able to live with herself if she didn’t tell Marcus all that was in her heart. If you couldn’t’ tell a person how you felt at Christmastide, when could you? “Marcus, I need to say something.” She rushed on before he could speak. “I do not care about the…the scars. It would have never mattered. I loved you.” I love you. “I waited for you.”

Marcus dropped his gaze to the top of her head. “It matters.”

“Only if you let it.”

“You are betrothed…”

Olivia stopped dancing, and forced him to follow-suit. She reached up and framed his face in her hands. “I don’t want to marry the earl. I want to marry you.”

Marcus sucked in a breath. He tried to disentangle her fingers from his person. She shrugged off his efforts. “I don’t want to leave, Marcus. I want to stay here. With you. I want to be your wife.”

His eye slid closed. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said, the words ripped harshly from deep within him.

“I do,” she said so gentle as to not frighten him into setting her aside. “Don’t let me go. Not again. I’ve only just found you.”

He stood there unmoving, his body whipcord straight as he appeared to wage an inner battle.

When he opened his eye, she knew; she’d lost him. Again.

“I’ll never be the same man, Olivia. I won’t wed you…”

“Why?” She flinched, knowing she was humbling herself before him.

“I don’t want to.”

Pain knifed through her heart and she dropped her hands from his cheeks. Olivia stumbled away from him, a hand to her breast. She glanced down expecting to see the stain of blood upon her fingers from the agony of his rejection.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “M…Merry Christmas, Marcus.”

Then with all the dignity she could muster, Olivia retrieved the duke's present, and bade Marcus a good night. As she exited the Gold Parlor, for the first time in five years, tears fell freely down her cheeks.





Chapter 10


Olivia stared mutely at her neatly arranged trunks in the duke’s foyer.

She pulled her red, velvet cloak close and sought warmth from the expensive Italian fabric. The chill within her had nothing to do with the frigid winter’s air and everything to do with the loss of Marcus.

“You know I didn’t give you leave to go a day early, girl.”