A kiss under the mistletoe was no great thing. It was a Christmas tradition, that was all. Why then did he have the decided impression that he’d done something wrong? That he’d broken some part of the friendship he was forging with Miss Hartwright?

Broken it. Ruined it.

He didn’t understand the why of it. All he knew was that, somehow, he had to make it right.

Chapter 11

Clara stood from her chair and walked to her bedroom window, stretching her arms as she went. She’d been up since dawn attending to Mrs. Bainbridge’s basket of mending. Her back and neck ached, and her fingers were cramped from needlework.

Outside, the sky was gray but it wasn’t raining. It was too cold for rain. The sort of heavy, ice-infused weather that promised a flurry of snow.

Did it snow in Devon?

Clara hadn’t any notion. She hardly cared. Since sending a telegram to Mama yesterday, she’d merely been going through the motions. Trying to keep herself busy. So busy she wouldn’t have time to dwell on that unsettling duplicate lesson—or on the kiss she’d interrupted between Mr. Cross and his pretty housemaid.

She felt like a fool on both counts. It was a familiar sensation, if not a pleasant one. She’d been a fool before. Not only with her studies, but with a man. She’d vowed never to repeat the experience.

And she hadn’t. Not publicly, at least. Outwardly, she was resolved to comport herself with as much dignity as she could muster.

When Mr. Cross had returned from the telegraph office, she’d thanked him as civilly as if she’d never seen him kissing someone under the mistletoe. She’d been equally civil in the drawing room, when they’d all gathered to gild acorns and walnuts, and all through dinner, though her elegant meal tasted like sawdust in her mouth.

After dinner Mrs. Finchley had played carols on the piano, and they’d eaten fresh baked gingerbread and drunk mulled wine. Everyone had been merry. Even Clara, who had pasted a smile on her face so determinedly that by the time she retired to bed, her cheeks were aching.

Mama hadn’t wired her back as yet. Perhaps she wouldn’t respond at all. Perhaps, as had happened in the last crisis, Clara was entirely on her own.

The prospect weighed heavily on her heart.

She rested her forehead against a frozen pane of glass. The household still slept, but the servants were up and about. Outside, a groom was leading a horse up the drive, and one of the housemaids was smiling and laughing with a roguish young footman. The two mastiffs, Paul and Jonesy, trotted by them, heading toward the stables.

Mr. Cross followed. His blond head was bent, his hands shoved into the pockets of a heavy woolen coat. As he passed her window, he glanced up.