“Your parents were very influential.”

“They were. I found myself missing them yesterday.”

“That’s understandable,” she said softly. “It was your first Yuletide without your father. What did your family usually do on Christmas Eve?”

“When I was young, we went on a Yule log hunt. I tried to get Cliff to do it again this year, but he declined. Apparently, Lady Witney doesn’t like to be cold.”

Evie found that ironic since the woman was incredibly frigid with regard to her personality. “You should have gone without her.”

“That was my suggestion,” he said wryly.

She patted his hand. “I would have gone with you.”

He was suddenly annoyed with himself for not thinking of that. “Forgive me for not asking.”

“I’m not sure it would have been wise. We already risk a great deal coming here, even though the cottage is rather removed. And we’ve taken several outings together.”

Yes, they’d taken drives and gone to the village a few times. Were people talking about them? “Has someone said something to you?” He recalled the day he’d encountered Clifford on his way to meet Evie at the cottage. Had Clifford or Susan noticed anything more? He hoped not.

“Heloise noted our time together, which makes sense because I am staying with her. She asked if I’d changed my mind about courtship and marriage.”

“And have you?”

She shook her head and glanced away. “I told her that I have not.”

He wasn’t surprised. “My perennial optimism demanded I ask. In keeping with that, allow me to ponder a Yule log hunt for next year. For us—not here.” He half expected her to remind him that they wouldn’t be together next year.

Instead, she leaned toward him, her eyes dancing. “Where would we go?”

The hope he tried to curb unfurled inside him and spread. If he wasn’t careful, he might think this could actually happen. “North, where there is a greater chance of snow. Perhaps Yorkshire. I’d lease a cozy cottage like this, and we’d spend a fortnight, no, a month, there—just you, me, and Ash.”

“Who would cook?”

“I’m sure we could find a local woman to take care of the kitchen duties as well as tidying the cottage.”

“I can tidy the cottage,” she said in mock defense. “And I can take care of rudimentary cooking. Just don’t expect a syllabub.”

He grinned. “What about pudding?”

“I’ve attempted them in the past, but they are not my forte.” The last word rolled off her tongue as if she were a native French speaker.

“Your French accent, even on just that one word, is flawless.”

“Is it?” She shrugged. “My mother’s maid was French, so I learned to speak the language. I don’t use it very often, however.”

He loved learning new things about her. In French, he asked if she spoke any other languages.