He glanced to where the ladies were gathered in a knot by one of the settees. Beatrice stood by the others, smiling at something Lady Munroe had said. She wore a pale rose frock tonight, and her hair glowed golden in the candlelight. The Blanchard sapphires sparkled at her neck, but even they were dull next to the bright beauty of her face. Had they been alone, he would’ve strode over and picked her up, carrying her to his bed so that he might demonstrate again how deep his devotion was. He had a feeling that the urgency of the need to convince her of his love would never pass. He inhaled deeply. But they had guests now, and he wouldn’t have Beatrice to himself for several hours yet.
Reynaud glanced to Emeline, sitting in the middle of the settee, as round as an orange. He’d noticed that Hartley cast frequent glances her way, and he had to approve of such uxorious concern for his sister. Lady Munroe—Helen—stood just a little apart, though all the ladies included her in the conversation, and Tante Cristelle sat enthroned in a gilt chair. Lady Vale sat beside Emeline on the settee, ramrod straight, a faint smile about her thin lips.
Feminine laughter drew his eyes to another settee, where Miss Rebecca Hartley sat. Standing stiffly next to her was a young man in simple black clothes, his dark hair clubbed back.
“I think I’ll have a new brother-in-law in the coming year,” Hartley murmured next to Reynaud.
Reynaud grunted. “Emeline says he was a footman in her household.”
“Indeed.” Hartley glanced again at his wife. “But O’Hare has spent the last year learning my business in the Colonies. His head for figures is amazing. I’ve been thinking that should Emeline and I wish to spend a protracted length of time in England, I’d put him in charge of the Boston warehouses.”
Reynaud raised his eyebrows. “He looks young for the job.”
“He is,” Hartley replied. “But in another few years . . .” He shrugged. “Of course, it would help to keep the business in the family.”
Reynaud glanced again at the couple by the settee. Miss Hartley’s cheeks were a bright pink, and O’Hare hadn’t taken his eyes from her face since entering the room. “Then you approve of the match.”
“Yes, I do.” Hartley’s mouth quirked. “Not that my opinion matters. I trust Rebecca to make the right decision in choosing a husband.”
A sudden rise in the ladies’ chatter made Reynaud turn his head. Beatrice was leaning forward, placing a package on Emeline’s lap.
“What are they up to now?” Hartley wondered next to him.
Reynaud shook his head, feeling that smile returning at Beatrice’s excited look. “I haven’t the faintest.”
“THE GENTLEMEN, THEY are talking about that so ’orrible traitor again,” Tante Cristelle commented to no one in particular.
Beatrice glanced over. The gentlemen were all huddled in a corner, and Lord Hasselthorpe was a frequent topic of discussion, but Reynaud looked almost lighthearted tonight. He caught her watching him and gave her a slow wink that made the heat rush into her cheeks. Goodness! Now was not the time to be remembering what he’d done just this morning to her.
Hurriedly she turned to Emeline. “Open it, please.”
“There’s no need for gifts,” Emeline said, but she looked quite pleased nonetheless.
Beatrice had learned in the last month that her sister-in-law was rather nice underneath her formidable exterior. “Actually, it’s for Lady Vale and Lady Munroe and me as well. But you’ll see. Oh, do open it.”
Emeline lifted the box lid. Inside were four bound books, each a different color. One was blue, one yellow, one lavender, and one scarlet.
Emeline glanced up at Beatrice. “What are they?”
Beatrice shook her head. “Look inside one.”
Emeline chose the blue and opened it. And then she gasped. “Oh. Oh, my goodness. I’d almost forgotten.”
She looked from Melisande to Helen to Beatrice. “How…?”
Tante Cristelle leaned forward. “What is this?”
“It’s the fairy-tale book that my nanny used to read to Reynaud and me when we were children. Forgive me.” Emeline dabbed at her eyes with her fingertips. “I gave the original book to Melisande to translate.”
“And I did,” Melisande said in her steady voice. “And when I was done, I gave the translation to Helen to transcribe. She has such an elegant hand.”
Helen blushed. “Thank you.”
“She gave me back the sheets of papers—she’d made four copies—but for a long while I did not know what to do with them,” Melisande said. “When Beatrice married Reynaud, I gave them to her to bind into a book. But I had no idea she’d made four books.”
Beatrice smiled. “Each of us worked on it, so I thought each of us should have a book of the fairy tales as a memento.”
“Thank you,” Emeline said softly. “Thank you, Melisande and Helen, and you as well, Beatrice. This is a wonderful gift.” She cradled the blue book against her breast and glanced at the gentlemen. “For so long, all I had were memories of Reynaud, and this book was one of the best. Now I have him back again. I’m so grateful.”
Beatrice had to dab at her own eyes. Reynaud was back, and she was grateful as well.
The door to the sitting room opened at that moment, revealing the magnificent form of the butler. “Dinner is served, my lord.”
“Ah. Good,” Reynaud said. He strode to where Tante Cristelle sat and bowed to her. “I know ’tisn’t the done thing for a gentleman to escort his wife to dinner, but we are still newly wed. Might I have dispensation this once?”
That old lady glared at him with steely pale blue eyes, but then they softened. “Tch. Silly boy. But it is Christmas Day, after all, so I forgive you.” She waved her hand at him. “Take your wife. All of you, take your wives. And you”—she crooked a finger at an alarmed Uncle Reggie—“you may escort me!”
Reynaud offered his arm to Beatrice as their guests assembled to be led in to dinner. She placed her fingers on his sleeve, and he tilted his head toward hers. “Have I wished you a Merry Christmas yet, madam?”
“You have,” she said. “Several times. But I don’t grow weary of hearing it.”
“And I’m afraid I’ll never grow weary of saying it.” His obsidian eyes danced. “Now or in the future. So let me say it once again, the first of many more: Merry Christmas, my love. Merry Christmas, my darling Beatrice.”
And he kissed her.
Epilogue
At the Goblin King’s awful words, Longsword fell to his knees before him. He drew his magical sword and laid it on the ground at the Goblin King’s feet and said, “I will give you my sword, though it means my own death, if you will only let my wife go.”
The Goblin King stared, so shocked his orange eyes nearly popped from his head. “You would forfeit your life for this woman?”
“Gladly,” was Longsword’s simple answer.
The Goblin King turned to Princess Serenity. “And you, you have decided to sacrifice yourself for all eternity for this man?”
“I have already said so,” the princess replied.
“ARGH!” the Goblin King cried in frustration, tearing at his green hair. “Then this is True Love—a terrible thing!—for I can have no truck with so powerful a force as True Love.” He bent to pick up the sword but hissed as the mere touch of the metal burned his evil flesh. “Bah! Even the sword is tainted by love! This is a most dissatisfactory turn of events!”
And the Goblin King, provoked beyond endurance, vanished back into the crack in the earth from whence he came.
Princess Serenity came and sank to her knees before her husband, who still knelt in the dust.
She took his hands and said, “I do not understand. You hated the Goblin Kingdom; you told me so. Why, then, did you seek to prevent my sacrifice?”
Longsword raised his wife’s hands to his lips and kissed them one at a time. “Life without you would be worse than an eternity in the Goblin Kingdom.”
“Then you do love me?” she whispered.
“With all my heart,” he replied.
Princess Serenity shivered and glanced at the spot where the Goblin King had stood. “Do you think he’ll return for us?”
Longsword smiled. “Did you not hear, my sweet? We have a magic so powerful it can defeat the Goblin King himself. It is our love for each other.”
And he kissed her.
