LITMIR.BIZ

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end.’

      ‘You need us to help you get dressed?’ Lily asked as Laurus stopped outside a door set in the panelling of the hallway walls.

      ‘I’m not going to be him this year, Gregor is. And you’re to be his Queen of Folly.’

      Oh dear. ‘But you love being Lord of Misrule, why won’t you do it again?’

      ‘Because the twins are expecting it and I want to surprise them. No one will suspect Lord Marbrook, especially if you’re with him. Everyone knows you don’t like him.’

      Lily’s cheeks burned as she glanced back and forth between her brother and Lord Marbrook who seemed to be taking his friend’s ribbing in his stride. ‘That’s not true. How can you say such a thing?’

      ‘I’m glad to discover I’ve been mistaken in my assumptions.’ He pulled open the door, revealing the large cupboard behind it. It’d been a priest hole in the days of King Henry, but was presently used to store linens, candlesticks and other odds and ends. ‘Now inside, both of you, and get changed before Aunt Alice reaches the end of her repertoire.’

      He hustled Lily and Gregor inside where the clothes he’d pulled out for the masque were strewn over the old trunk where they were usually stored. A single candle burned in a brass holder on one of the shelves, its dancing shadow casting a strange eeriness over the room already believed to be haunted by the children and a few of the older servants.

      ‘As soon as you’re ready, we’ll go back. I can’t wait to see John’s and James’s faces when they realise it isn’t me who’s the Lord of Misrule this year.’ Laurus closed the door on them, leaving them alone.

      ‘I suppose we’d better prepare,’ Gregor suggested, picking up a velvet doublet in a shade of red to make a cardinal jealous.

      ‘Yes. Aunt Alice only knows about five of the old carols and I believe she’s already through two of them.’

      Lily picked up a robin-egg-blue damask gown with a wide neckline and full hips, both cut more in the style of Old Queen Anne than the current Queen Charlotte. She wrinkled her nose at the mustiness of it as she slipped it over her head, catching the wide sides before it fell past her shoulders to puddle on the floor. Whatever great-grandmother had worn this had been much wider than Lily, who’d have to find a way to make do for there were no other dresses in the trunk.

      Across from her, Gregor cast aside his coat and dark grey waistcoat and stood only in his breeches and shirt. A touch of chest was just visible through the openings between his shirt strings. As Lily stared at the contrast between his skin and the linen, the chilly priest hole grew a great deal warmer. The idea that this was wrong, very wrong, whispered through Lily’s mind as did the music from the fiddler down the hall. With Gregor standing so close in a state of simple undress, it was too intimate and, were it not Christmas Eve, too scandalous. Whatever new faith she’d developed in Gregor, she hoped he deserved it. Otherwise he’d return to London and tell who knew what tales of his time alone with her in the priest hole and she’d never be able to set foot in society here or in London again.

      ‘Can you do up the doublet?’ Gregor slid on the velvet, then turned his back to her.

      Beneath the short-waisted garment, his dark breeches sat tight against his buttocks and the sight of the round, solid firmness made her blush. Thankfully he couldn’t see her red cheeks or her curiosity as she stood behind him, fingers trembling as she did up the laces. She tried to breathe evenly, to give no hint of her nervousness but it was difficult with the hue of the skin of his back just visible through the shirt. She wanted to trace the curving arch, feel the sinew and muscle of it, but she didn’t dare let one finger accidentally slide along the line of it. She was as much afraid of how he might react to such an intimate touch as how she would.

      ‘I’m done,’ she said at last, both regretting and relieved by the end of her task.

      He turned, regarding her as he had under the mistletoe, as though there was more to this than simply the merriment of the moment, or his desire for friendship. It was the same sense of belonging and need she’d experienced with him in the alcove four years ago, the one which had been as badly interrupted now as then.

      ‘Hurry up in there,’ Laurus called through the door. ‘Aunt Alice is already halfway through “The Twelve Days of Christmas”.’

      ‘I’ll do up your gown now,’ Gregor instructed, taking her by the shoulders and turning her around, his finger sweeping the open neck of her dress before he let go. ‘We don’t want to keep the little ones waiting.’

      The bodice only grew a touch tighter as he tied the laces, but it could have been strangling her for all the trouble she had breathing with him so close.

      ‘Turn around and let me see,’ he instructed.

      Gripping the skirt of the dress, she turned with stiff steps to face him. If he didn’t look so strange in the doublet, she’d feel silly standing here in a dress which was much too big. Already the heavy damask was sliding from her arms. With no shoulders to help keep the dress in place, she’d barely make it down the hall before it would sink around her feet. ‘It’s still too large.’

      He snatched a red bodice from the pile of clothes. ‘I have an idea.’

      His sandalwood scent teased her as much as the closeness of his cheek to hers when he dipped down to slide the satin under her arms and around her waist. She stared straight ahead at the faded outline of a saint on the far wall, determined not to meet his eyes as he paused beside her, so close she could hear him breathe, feel the heat of his skin against hers. All she need do was turn and their lips would meet. She forced herself to remain still, but she wanted to turn, very badly.

      At last he straightened, slowly as if he regretted moving away.

      She let out a long breath, then looked down at the red satin around her waist, holding the wrinkled thing closed. ‘It’s backwards.’

      ‘It doesn’t matter.’ His fingers worked the laces through the eyelets, brushing hers as he tightened the strings. She tried not to breathe too deeply, afraid of bringing his hands closer to her breasts than they already were. Her nipples grew taut against her stays as his hands moved lower towards her waist, making her head swim as if she’d had too much wassail.

      When at last he tied off the laces, he stepped back to admire her, not with a critical eye, but with the heady interest he’d shown beneath the mistletoe. She was thankful the little branch was still on the chandelier and not in here, for if it was, she’d surely throw herself against him and claim the last berry, and his lips, for her own.

      She laced her hands in front of her, determined to put an end to such ridiculous notions. This morning she’d detested him, now she wanted to forget herself with him? Even during a magical season like this it was beyond comprehension and belief. He’d asked for friendship, not passion. ‘How do I look?’

      ‘It only needs one more thing.’ He plucked a wreath of dusty fake flowers from the top of the pile of clothes. ‘A crown for the queen.’

      He lowered it over her hair, his hands lingering by her temples as though he meant to gently take hold of her before he lowered them to his sides. His eyes remained fixed on hers as she adjusted the crown, frowning when a few silk petals fell off to decorate the skirt of her dress.

      When she was done, she slid a domino off the old clothespress where Laurus had draped it. ‘And you must have a mask and a cape.’

      His fingers brushed hers as he took the cape from her. In a swirl of musty black velvet, he flung it around his broad shoulders, then tied the ribbons at his neck. Lily picked up the matching black mask and held it out to him. Instead of taking it, he bent down, inviting her to slide it on. He held it to his face as she tied the laces at the back of his head, the thickness of his hair like sable brushing against her palms as she worked.

      When she was done and he straightened, there was something more rogue than misrule about him, an air of confidence not diminished by the red doublet, but enhanced by

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