Isaac laughed quietly. “At the risk of provoking your wrath, you are not as different from your brother as you’d like to think.”

Nory conceded the point with grace since he was walking her back in the snow. “The Noel stubbornness runs deep,” she admitted.

They reached the back door. The snow had stopped falling and begun to freeze in place. Alongside their own footprints in the gravel were those of Lord Abercrombie and his beagle, probably from their last walk of the night.

They were on the step now. A delicious tension hung between them. If Isaac moved to kiss her, she would definitely let him. They stood looking at each other. She could feel herself being pulled as though by gravity—or something more superlunary—toward him. She was so close to him that she could see the tick of the pulse in his neck. All her childish feelings of desire for him came flooding back, along with something darker and hotter. She heard his breath coming harder. This is it! He’s going to kiss me!

Then Isaac stepped back. “Lord Abercrombie doesn’t like the staff fraternizing with guests.”

Nory stopped herself mid-pucker. Desire was replaced instantly with mortification and embarrassment, like a bucket of snow had been thrown over her.

“Really? Fraternizing?” she asked incredulously. “What century are we living in?”

Isaac looked pained. “I mean, he has asked that we avoid getting romantically entangled with guests. It’s unprofessional. Takes the focus away from the job at hand. You know what hen dos can be like! And stag dos for that matter. All those horny drunken women and men . . .”

What the hell is going on here? thought Nory.

“Isaac, if I’ve been reading this all wrong, then please put me out of my misery. I like you and I thought you liked me.”

“I do.”

“Then what is the problem here? I’m clearly not a drunken horny hen!”

Nory’s ardor was shriveling rapidly.

Isaac rubbed the back of his neck, looking at the iron mud scraper by the door as though it might give him the right answer.

“What I said is true, we are encouraged not to get involved with guests. Lord Abercrombie doesn’t want the staff behaving like Ibiza holiday reps—his words, not mine. But I don’t think that would apply to you and I.”

“Then what?” Nory pressed.

“Thom,” said Isaac.

“Thom,” she repeated dully. “My brother is stopping you from pursuing whatever this is? How exactly?”

“He’s asked me, as a friend, not to get involved with you.”

“Wow!” She was going to kill Thomas. At the very least, maim him. And she was going to fill his desk drawers with slugs. And she was going to tell Shelley! “Can I ask why?”