“Careful!” Alex caught hold of Laura a fraction of a second before she slipped in the mud. “Hang on to me, love.”

Laura clung to her husband’s arm. “Goodness, this footing is terrible.”

“What footing? It’s a swamp up here.”

“You’ve lived too long in the city,” Tom said. “You’ve forgotten what it’s like in Devon during the winter.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Alex replied. “I merely prefer the snow to the wind and the rain. There’s nothing festive about six inches of mud.”

Tom cast a look at the group of caroling maids and footmen. “The servants seem happy enough.”

At that moment, one of the housemaids—a tall, dark-haired young woman named Mary—fixed her laughing eyes on Neville. “Where might we find mistletoe, Mr. Cross? Is it much farther?”

The other housemaids giggled amongst themselves.

Neville suppressed the urge to tug at his cravat. Mary had arrived at the Abbey a year ago with the rest of the new servants and had been subjecting him to her flirtatious remarks ever since. It never failed to make him uncomfortable. Especially now.

Miss Hartwright was nearby, choosing her steps carefully through the mud. Her flaxen hair was covered with a sensible bonnet, as plain as her woolen cloak. She hadn’t talked very much since they departed the house. Not to him.

“It grows on the oak trees,” Neville said. “Beyond the p-pines.”

“You’ll have to show it to me.” Mary giggled again. “I’ll never find it on my own.”

Neville didn’t respond.

Tom shot him a questioning look. His voice lowered. “Is she…?”

“No,” Neville said emphatically.

“Beware of corrupting the servant girls, my lad,” Alex advised under his breath.

“He’s doing nothing of the sort,” Laura said in equally low tones. “And it isn’t polite for us all to be whispering.” She raised her voice. “Are you having difficulty, Miss Hartwright?”

Miss Hartwright had one gloved hand braced against a tree trunk. “No difficulty.” She sounded a little breathless. “Just trying not to fall.”

Neville went to her without hesitation. “Take my arm.”

She looked up at him. “I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

“You aren’t. I should have…before. I didn’t think.”

“It makes no matter. I was faring quite well on my own at the beginning.” After a taut moment, she tucked her hand through his arm. “Thank you.”

He inclined his head. There was no other way to acknowledge her gratitude. She was clinging to him so tightly, her small shape pressed against his side. He felt an overwhelming surge of protectiveness for her. It stole his words away.

“The pine trees are ahead,” Alex said.

Tom squinted up at them through his spectacles. “Taller than I remember.”

They were a healthy bunch of trees, with full, needle-laden branches. Last Christmas, Neville and Justin had broken off as many boughs from them as they could carry, and Lady Helena and Jenny had used them to decorate the house. It had been Neville’s first Christmas in memory with all of the trimmings—the pine boughs, holly, and tinsel, and the packages wrapped in colored paper under the tree.