He brushed a finger over her cheek. "I've wanted to do that all day." Sorrow returned, and he closed his eyes. "What am I doing?" He stepped back and cleared his throat.

Everyone in the room stared. Clarissa's face flamed. That kiss had gone way beyond the acceptable mistletoe kind and had bordered on impropriety. But she didn't care. She wanted more. Much more.

Christopher cleared his throat again. "Forgive me. I am not in the habit of a.s.saulting young ladies, not even under mistletoe."

"Isn't mistletoe wonderful? It's resilient and verdant even in the darkest winter. Perhaps we can learn something from it."

He turned tortured eyes on her, and her attempt at levity crashed to the floor. "Miss Fairchild, you must know that you've touched my heart in a way I thought I'd never feel again. But I cannot offer you a future. I refuse to bury another wife."

Clarissa gaped. He'd as good as told her he wanted to marry her, but the curse stood in the way. She considered a life with him. What had seemed restrictive and dull with other men now appeared bright, with endless new discoveries and beautiful possibilities-only with him. In but a few hours, this man had captured her heart as none other. No wonder his late wife had been willing to take a chance.

Now more than ever, she had to find a way to break the curse and convince him to take another chance on love. With her.

She squared her shoulders, raised her chin. "Then we must double our efforts to find a way to end the curse."

"Even if we do, I won't risk your life testing whatever solution we find. The danger is too great." He turned away.

She rested a hand on his back, and he tensed, but didn't step away. She whispered, "Christopher."

His shoulders heaved. "I had my carriage modified to a sledge. Tomorrow, unless it's stormy, I'll take you home so you can celebrate the rest of Christmas with your family." He nodded to Aunt Tilly and strode out of the room.

Clarissa let her hand fall as his rejection fully sank in. He wasn't just denying himself; he was denying her. Her throat thickened. Servants drifted out, bidding her a joyous Christmas. The footman with the mistletoe gave her a cheeky grin.

The housekeeper, whose name she'd learned was Mrs. March, stopped next to her. "Thank you, miss, for bringing a smile to my lord, and for bringing Christmas back the castle." Her mouth curved into an awkward smile before she strode quickly away.

Moments later, Clarissa and Aunt Tilly were left alone in the festive room.

Aunt Tilly stared at her. "Curse?"

Clarissa related everything she knew about the curse. "Do you think it possible Great-grandmother Fairchild knows anything of it?"

Aunt Tilly put her hand on her head. "A curse? Impossible."

"Then explain why every countess has died only months after bearing a son."

"The lords murdered them." But her voice lacked conviction.

"I don't believe that. Not anymore. Do you really think Lord Wyckburg is a murderer?"

"I admit, after meeting him, he seems gentle and kind. Not sinister." She heaved a sigh. "I suppose a curse isn't any more difficult to believe than a legacy of murder."

"Something is going on. And I refuse to leave Chri-er, Lord Wyckburg to face a lifetime of loneliness. I must help him."

Aunt Tilly tilted her head. "What, exactly, do you feel for him?"

"Oh, Aunt Tilly, I've never felt this way before. Of all the suitors I've had in London, none has made me feel this way." She gestured around her. "And look what he did for us. For a man who'd never celebrated Christmas before in his life to have gone to so much trouble... it's beyond kind and generous. It's heroic."

"It is, indeed. Clearly, he's a good man."

Clarissa sat down and took Aunt Tilly's hand. "I love him, Aunt. I know it's mad, and I know we've just met, but I vow I'll have him and no other."

Aunt Tilly drew in a breath. "Your father will have something to say about it, considering what everyone believes about the Wyckburg lords. And it sounds as though Lord Wyckburg may be equally hard to convince."

"Leave that to me."

Aunt Tilly chuckled and kissed her cheek. "I know that look. Come, off to bed."

They crossed the main hall toward the stairway. The metallic sc.r.a.ping of a gun c.o.c.king sent chills down Clarissa's spine. She froze. Aunt Tilly gasped.

Standing in the shadows, Henry pointed the barrel of a pistol at her. "I cannot kill the original witch who cursed this family and my sister, but I will take vengeance on you."

Stunned, Clarissa stared in disbelief. The surreal scene came straight out of a gothic novel. This couldn't be happening. Too shocked to be afraid, she fell into a state of unnatural calm.

She moistened her lips. "Shooting me won't bring back your sister, Henry." She used his Christian name in the attempt to reach him in a personal way.

"It will avenge her death."

Very softly, she said, "Perhaps, but will it help you find peace?"

He hesitated. "My sister will be avenged."

"Are you truly prepared to kill?"

The determination in Henry's face faded, and the gun lowered an inch.

"Henry!" barked Lord Wyckburg. Christopher! Again, her knight had come to save her.

Henry flinched but put a second hand on the gun to hold it steady. "Stay back, Christopher. This is something I have to do."

"No, you don't." Christopher raised his hands and walked slowly toward Henry.

Henry glanced at him. "You do it, then. It could lift the curse."

"It might." Christopher took another step toward him. "But what if we kill her and the curse remains? What then?"

"We will have justice!"

"It won't be justice or even vengeance. It will be murder."

Henry flinched. Christopher leaped. He sailed through the air and landed on Henry, knocking him down. The gun flew from his hands and slid across the floor. Henry struggled against Christopher, who held him tightly. Then Henry went limp. All the fight seemed to leave him. He started weeping. Christopher gathered Henry in his arms and held him. Clarissa stood in shocked silence. Unable to think of anything else to do, she picked up the gun, eyeing it as if she'd never seen one. This weapon had nearly taken her life. It might have harmed Aunt Tilly or Christopher. Lives could have been shattered if the gun had gone off. If someone had been killed, Henry would have been haunted all his life. He would have faced possible deportation or execution.

All the gothic novels she'd read made this type of event seem thrilling. But it wasn't. It was horrible. A sob lodged itself in her throat then forced its way out.

Christopher sat talking softly to Henry. After a moment, they both stood. Henry came to Clarissa, head down and shoulders slumped. She couldn't decide if he was horrified over his actions, or angry he'd failed.

"I'm prepared to face the law for what I tried to do." He spoke in quiet monotone.

Clarissa gulped back her tears and glanced at Christopher, whose impa.s.sive face gave her no clue as to his thoughts. Briefly, his control slipped, revealing grief and inner turmoil. If she turned Henry over to the law, Christopher would have no family. He'd be alone in the world. And Henry was only a grief-stricken boy who hadn't been thinking clearly.

She handed the gun to Christopher without taking her gaze off Henry. "That won't be necessary. I can't pretend to imagine what you've lost, but I can see how you must view me as the one responsible for your sister's death. I won't swear out a warrant for your arrest."

Henry drew in a labored breath. "Thank you," he mumbled. "I'm in your debt. I hope someday you can forgive me."

"I already have. Just please know I'm not your enemy."

Henry nodded without looking at her, then mounted the stairs as if each step pained him.

"Good heavens," Aunt Tilly said. "I didn't think my heart would survive that." She pulled Clarissa into a rough embrace and kissed her cheek. "You were so brave."

Lord Wyckburg let out his breath slowly. "How can I ever apologize for that?"

Clarissa touched his arm. "You needn't apologize. He's young, he's hurting, and he's trying to make sense of it all."

He put a hand over hers. "You are remarkably compa.s.sionate."

"I did it for you as much as for him."

Their gazes locked, and he brushed a finger along her cheek. "Thank you."

"Thank you for saving me. He may not have pulled the trigger, but I'm grateful for your intervention. Once again, you are my knight. All you need is the shining armor." She rose up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. Then, seeing his arrested expression, boldly kissed his lips.

He returned her kiss as if he were starving. Then, as before, he pulled away. "We cannot keep doing this." He glanced at Aunt Tilly, who stared at them with a thoughtful expression.

"Young man, if you insist on kissing my niece, I demand to know what your intentions are toward her."

He heaved a great breath and closed his eyes. "I'm afraid I cannot act on my desires. My intentions must be nothing more than providing shelter until I can return both of you safely home. Good night."

He left Clarissa standing alone, more determined than ever to save him.

Chapter Eight.

Christopher glanced at Clarissa Fairchild sitting next to him in the sledge, then back at Henry and Aunt Tilly in the back seat. Their faces barely peeked out over the mountain of blankets he'd piled on them; their cheeks and noses were pink from the chill wind. Aunt Tilly teased Henry about girls who no doubt set their caps for him, and he was actually smiling. Considering the debacle last night, his mood came as a surprise, but some of the weight seemed to have been lifted from his shoulders.

Storm clouds closed around them, and a few flurries of snow flittered down, but he still had time to bring Clarissa-Miss Fairchild, he reminded himself-home. Then he'd return to his solitary existence, which seemed lonelier than ever now that he'd seen what a bright spot Clarissa would be. If only he could make her a part of his life. But he didn't dare.

Clarissa's eyes sparkled, and she smiled in recognition. "There's the driveway to our manor. Oh, you've done it! We'll be home in a few minutes, and I'll get to spend the rest of Christmas with my family, after all." She kissed his cheek again. "Although last night was so lovely! I cannot thank you enough for making it such a wonderful First Day of Christmas. I'm afraid the other eleven will seem rather dull in comparison."

Looking into her shining face, Christopher's pleasure at making her happy bubbled over. "It was a long overdue event. Although, I'm sure we could have all done without the little incident in the great hall."

"Never mind that. And I want you to know, I understand it was a great sacrifice for you to celebrate Christmas with me."

He wanted to throw down the reins and take her into his arms but settled for smiling softly. "You were right; replacing bad memories with good memories was a wise thing to do."

"Why hasn't your family celebrated Christmas? I realize with all the tragedy, it might have seemed wrong to celebrate, but still..."

He drew a breath. "Because every countess died during Christmas."

She fell silent and sat staring ahead as if dazed. "Oh, Christopher, I can't imagine. No wonder."

He inwardly gloated over her use of his Christian name. It felt so intimate, so right.

Her breath caught, and she visibly swallowed. "I didn't realize last night what a wondrous gift you gave me. I thought I knew, but now... how can I ever thank you?"

He smiled, his heart lighter than it had been in years. She didn't know it, but she'd given him a priceless gift he would always cherish. "Your enjoyment was thanks enough."

She smiled at him, a playful gleam in her eyes. "I must warn you that my family will prevail upon you to stay and spend the rest of Christmas with us. Do you think you can stand eleven more days of holiday cheer?"

"I wouldn't dream of imposing."

"It would be my-our-way of thanking you. They'll probably insist on sending a servant to your house for enough clothing for an eleven-day visit."

He couldn't decide if he should be pleased or pained. Eleven days bathed in her light. Eleven days of the torture of knowing she would never be his.

They reached the manor. As Christopher helped his pa.s.sengers out of the sledge, the front door burst open and a group of people swarmed out of it, falling all over Clarissa and her aunt. One attractive, elegant woman in particular hugged and kissed Clarissa repeatedly. Her mother, perhaps. Christopher stood apart, decidedly out of place among so much affection, and envious of the love surrounding Clarissa.

She drew him into their midst and made the introductions, adding, "Lord Wyckburg went to great effort to make us comfortable."

Clarissa's father, Sir Richard, a distinguished older gentleman with silver hair at his temples, offered his hand. "I am in your debt, my lord."

Christopher shook his hand. "It was a delight, sir. They brought a long-absent cheer to Wyckburg."

The elegant woman who'd been kissing Clarissa sank into a proper curtsy, and, with a wide smile identical to Clarissa's, bounded forward and kissed his cheek. "How can we ever thank you? We were frantic when they didn't come home. We are so very grateful to you."

Clarissa pulled Henry into the circle. "And this is Henry, brother of the late countess."

"Welcome, Henry." Lady Fairchild said warmly.

Henry flushed as if recalling that he'd held a gun on the man and woman's daughter only last night.

Lady Fairchild swept a hand toward the door. "Please come in. You are both most welcome. We have plenty of food and hot drinks."

"I'll have your team seen to." Sir Richard motioned to a servant.

As Christopher entered, Clarissa introduced more relatives than he ever would remember. If he counted correctly, there were seven siblings, a dozen aunts and uncles, a plethora of cousins, and a swarm of children too numerous and mobile to count. The happy cacophony rolled over him. Though a bit overwhelming, love and joy permeated the scene, and he found himself grinning and trying to answer the questions they fired at him.

Clarissa led him to a settee near the fire in a small, comfortably furnished drawing room. He let his gaze drift over the room, noting the decorated fir tree, boughs of greenery, and ribbons, just as she'd described. She took a seat next to him, admiration shining in her eyes as she related to her family his great efforts to bring Christmas to her.

She was so lovely, so full of life and cheer. He wanted her in his life, not just today, not just during Christmas, but forever. But he couldn't marry her. Life without her stretched out in endless, bleak emptiness. How could he ever return to that? He leaned back and crossed his legs as if to provide a protective barrier. No, he couldn't stay. He'd be forever lost if he did.

When the furor died down, a wizened woman in the corner raised her crooked hand and motioned to him. In her crackly voice, she commanded, "Come here, young man, and let me get a look at you."

Sir Richard glanced at Christopher in apology and addressed the woman. "Grandmother, this is Lord Wyckburg. One doesn't ask him to come."