One Perfect Christmas (Short Story) by Stefanie Sloane

Chapter One
    Dorking, Surrey
    Southeast England
    December 1813
    Lord Lucas Cavanaugh stood on the steps of Castle Bascomb, a letter from his mother
     in one hand, a lead rope attached to a disgruntled donkey in the other. The beast
     of burden emitted a plaintive bray, his grizzled gray coat capturing the quickly falling
     snowflakes in soft, plush hair.
    Behind Lucas, the walls of his family’s estate soared upward to the expansive roofs.
     Snow sifted over the sand-colored stone and piled on the window embrasures, drifting
     in white piles at the corners where weathered towers jutted out from the main building.
    Before him, the stable hand’s figure grew steadily smaller as he crossed the drive
     and turned toward the stables, eaten up by the winter sky.
    Lucas sighed, stepped down onto the compact gravel drive, and repeated the man’s explanation
     out loud. “From Her Grace, my lord.”
    The donkey brayed a second time; his plaintive call seemed faintly foreboding and
     was perfectly timed. “Right you are, donkey. Anything to do with my mother is cause
     for concern.”
    Lucas squinted as he read the scarlet letters embroidered on the halter’s black leather
     nose strap.“Reginald? Rather stuffy name for an ass, wouldn’t you agree?”
    As it seemed unlikely the donkey would reply, Lucas turned to the missive and broke
     the wax seal, unfolding the creamy foolscap to reveal his mother’s grand, scrawling
     handwriting.
    Lucas Nathaniel
,
    Reginald was discovered in the greenhouse, happily nibbling away on Cook’s parsley
     and chives. Needless to say, Cook was not amused. The donkey must go. Please return
     him to Jane at once
.
    And Lucas, might I suggest you take full advantage of this opportunity to tell Jane
     you love her? As your dear father (God rest his soul) was so fond of saying, “There
     is no time quite like the present.” Besides, your moping about the castle is casting
     a rather gloomy pallor upon the holidays, my dear
.
    With the greatest of affection
,
    Mother
    Lucas hastily refolded the letter and shoved it into his vest pocket. Staring hard
     at the long leather strap in his hand, he wrestled with the dark, cold regret that
     had settled in his chest the moment he’d read Jane Merriweather’s name.
    And with good reason. He’d realized Jane was the love of his life some seven months
     past, then promptly escaped to the Hebrides, driven by wild panic and irrational fear.
    Seven months, as it turned out, was not a sufficient number of hours, days, and weeks
     to recover from such cowardice. Nor, unfortunately, was it enough time to forget a
     woman. Especially not
the
woman.
    Reginald brayed loudly and tossed his head, the lead bobbing and dancing about in
     the gathering snow that was swiftly covering the gravel drive beneath a light blanket
     of white.
    There were days Lucas regretted telling his brother Matthew, the Duke of Bascomb,
     the entire painful story. Because Matthew had confided in his wife, Matilda, who’d
     then felt it necessary to inform the dowager duchess.
    This was one of those days.
    Lucas reluctantly recalled last spring. Having just returned from a fishing trip to
     Scotland, Lucas had no more than settled in to the Bascombs’ London townhome when
     word of Jane’s broken engagement reached him. They’d spent the following week together,
     nearly inseparable as Lucas consoled his dear friend with leisurely strolls in Hyde
     Park, ices at Gunther’s—anything and everything that London could offer to keep her
     mind from dwelling on Baron McKee’s elopement to Gretna Greene with Lord Smelten’s
     horse-faced daughter.
    Their week together had been, in a word, revealing. Lucas could not recall a time
     when they’d had only each other to focus on, with no clamoring family or well-meaning
     friends to interfere.
    Jane’s infectious smile had suddenly sent twists of happiness spiraling in his heart.
     Fractured patterns of sunlight capturing the golden hue of