Certainly, if he hadn’t been so sanctimonious, if he hadn’t used the word “allowed,” she probably would have told him she had decided against marrying the prince. And hadn’t she tried to do just that? But then he had brought up her mistakes, and she had countered with his and how hers paled in comparison. . . . Obviously, there remained much to resolve between them. Still . . .

The blasted man loved her. Hadn’t he said his feelings had never changed? And hadn’t she, at last, realized she loved him as well? Pity they couldn’t quite seem to find the right words. Or talk about the past without recrimination and accusation erupting between them.

She heaved a heartfelt sigh. But perhaps anger at last released was necessary to finally lay the past to rest. Grayson was a stubborn, arrogant creature; and while he might not know it at the moment, he was hers. This was no more than an argument, and, with any luck, the first of a lifetime of arguments. And making up as well.

But she did need to do something about Nikolai. Even if she had done nothing to encourage him in recent days, he had come to Millworth Manor with certain expectations. It didn’t seem quite honorable to publicly admit to her feelings for Grayson, while Nikolai still thought she would become his wife. No, she needed to finish this all as planned. Give Nikolai the Christmas he desired, send him back to the Kingdom of Whateveritwas and then write to him and tell him they did not suit. Of all her plans to date, this one seemed really rather sensible.

As for Grayson, tomorrow she would tell him how she felt and what she wanted. What she’d always wanted.

For this Christmas and every Christmas to come.

December 24th

December 24th

Twenty-two

Twenty-two

“I must say,” Win said the moment Grayson stepped into the library, “the actor playing the part of the butler is doing an excellent job of it. I wouldn’t have known he wasn’t a butler if I hadn’t known he wasn’t a butler.”

Gray shrugged. “He has a tendency to hiss.”

“Ah, well.” Win meandered around the edges of the room, examining a book here, a portrait there. “It is so hard to get good help.”

Gray narrowed his eyes. “Why are you here?”

“Why, tomorrow is Christmas, and I have come bearing tidings of, if not great joy, then at least of interest. But first tell me . . .” He grinned. “How goes the play?”

“Hmph.” Gray crossed the room. “I assume you’re parched from the ride over. Whisky or brandy?”

“So early in the day?”

“It’s later than you think,” Gray muttered.

“Well, as tonight is Christmas Eve . . .” He studied his cousin for a moment. “You’re in a foul mood today.”

“And the day is still young.”