Under the Mistletoe

by Stefanie Sloane

  And Lord Needles.

  Jane had all but melted into Lucas’s arms after their kiss last night. Oh, she’d recovered eventually—going so far as to suggest her reaction to him was nothing more than a touch of light-headedness from the ratafia.

  But he’d watched her all night, and she’d not taken one sip of ratafia, nor anything else that would lead to such a display.

  No, it was his kiss that had ignited the blush that had so deliciously flooded her milky skin. He knew it.

  Lucas licked the seam of his lips, and could swear the taste of Jane lingered there—teasing him, torturing him. It wasn’t their first kiss. No, that momentous occasion had unfolded in the branches of Old Tom, when Lucas was ten. He’d asked Jane whether she’d prefer to kiss a frog or him. When she’d screwed up her face with disgust and answered “Neither!” he had planted an unpracticed peck on her cheek with all the force his bruised ego could manage. She’d screamed, then punched him in the gut. He’d fallen out of the tree and hit the ground hard, his very breath knocked free from his lungs.

  Last night’s kiss had produced a somewhat similar effect. He’d forced himself to be patient with her, and the effort had left him dizzy with desire, and the need for much, much more. She’d gasped when her hand had reached out for support only to find his chest. The combined feel of her fingers on him and the breathy sound of her surprise had made Lucas wonder what she would feel like, sound like, look like, when she climaxed. The heady thought had only stirred his impatience and threatened to harden his cock right there, in the middle of his mother’s Christmas Eve party.

  And when he’d finally put his lips to hers? Ah, he reflected with satisfaction, it was confirmation that Jane was everything he’d searched the world for. She was his missing piece, tucked away in Gloucestershire, right beneath his nose, all this time.

  He’d closed his eyes when they kissed, needing to experience Jane and nothing else. The world had shrunk to just him and her. No family or visiting friends—and most definitely no Lord Needles. The sounds of the holiday celebration had all but vanished. There was just Lucas and Jane, together, as it should be.

  They’d not shared another moment together. Lord Needles and Lady Merriweather had occupied Jane’s attention for the rest of the night until the vicar, on his seventh cup of Christmas punch, had mistaken the harp for one of his parishioners and it had been decided the party should end.

  Lucas had done his duty and bid good night to all of the guests … save for one. Somehow Jane had slipped by him and left for home without a word. Just as well, he’d thought, certain he could not have hidden his feelings for her.

  The vicar paused in his sermon and carefully rubbed his temples.

  Poor bastard, Lucas thought to himself, suspecting the vicar was feeling the effects of last evening’s over-imbibing and knowing the same could be said of him.

  He turned to smile down at his niece Charlotte and couldn’t resist glancing in Jane’s direction. She didn’t return his gaze—didn’t see him, or was deliberately ignoring him, offering not even the smallest of smiles or nod of recognition.

  She’d done the same when he’d found her waiting just inside the church entryway, but he’d assumed that she simply felt a sudden sense of shyness after last night.

  But Jane had made it abundantly clear that he was mistaken in his assumption. She was not rude, neither was she friendly. No, she’d been something altogether more irritating: indifferent. As if he was no one of consequence to her.

  And when Lord Needles had appeared and she’d greeted him with a sunny smile and an invitation to join her family in their pew?

  Lucas had felt physically ill. And angry. And confused. He took one last look at Jane now, willing her to meet his gaze.

  But she only stared straight ahead, at the vicar, her eyes showing no glimpse of emotion.

  Charlotte tugged on his coat sleeve and Lucas turned his attention back to the child. She pointed to the floor, where her doll lay, then looked at him with pleading eyes.

  Lucas bent down to retrieve it, fighting the ridiculous urge to throttle the doll until her head separated from the rest of her silk-and-lace-clad torso.

  He carefully sat up and handed the toy to Charlotte, forcing a smile when the girl hugged the doll close.

  Lucas suddenly felt an intense desire to be away from … from his family. From bloody Lord Needles. From the woman whose treatment of him made Lucas so angry he’d considered unleashing his temper on a child’s precious toy.

  He leaned toward his mother and whispered in her ear, “I’ve need of fresh air. I will see you back at the house.”

  She looked ready to argue but relented when Lucas glowered.

  He took his beaver hat in hand and stood, stepping around his nieces, then striding down the side aisle of the church, without looking at a single person as he did so.

  He pushed open the heavy wooden door, pausing for a moment as the bright, clear light reflected off the snow to greet him. Donning his hat and turning the collar of his greatcoat up against the icy wind, he stepped out into the winter morning and let the door blow shut behind him, the loud thwack as it met the church’s ancient frame barely registering in his ears.

  Lucas breathed in deeply, letting the crisp air fill his lungs until they ached from the effort. He repeated the act a second time, the cold crystalizing in his organs, then smashing into a million sharp shards as he released it and attempted to push the pain from his mind, body, and soul.

  He clenched his jaw when the anger failed to dissipate.

  Lucas strode swiftly away from the church, cutting across the cemetery and heading for the vicarage stables just beyond.

  He picked up his pace as he passed the vicar’s house, the wind in his face only urging him to move faster.

  His hat flew off and he turned his gaze to it, watching as it sailed on the frosty air back toward the church.

  I’m not going back. Not for a bloody hat. Not for anything.

  He reached the stable and slowed just as Colin, the stable boy, stepped out from behind the large door, a bucket of mash in his hand. “Lord Cavanaugh, is everything all right?”

  “Yes, fine. But I’ve need of my horse.”

  The lad immediately set the bucket down and turned to go back inside. “Of course, my lord. I’ll just tack him up for you. Won’t be but a minute.”

  “No,” Lucas called out, desperate to be on the move again. “Just his bridle and reins, Colin.”

  “No saddle, my lord?”

  “That’s right,” Lucas assured the boy, then gestured for him to hurry. Colin shrugged his shoulders and disappeared into the stables.

  Lucas paced, hoping the action would alleviate the storm brewing inside of him. But he needed more than just movement. He needed speed. Anger roiled in his belly, demanding release.

  The stable door reopened and Colin appeared with Lucas’s gelding, Horatio, in tow. “He was none too pleased to be separated from his oats, Lord Cavanaugh,” the stable boy said warningly, handing the reins to Lucas. “I don’t think the storm that’s coming will do much to improve his mood.”

  Lucas looped the leather reins over Horatio’s neck and leapt astride. He sat straight and gathered the reins, eyeing the snow as it began to fall. “I’m afraid that makes two of us, Colin.”

  Lucas kneed Horatio into a trot, the horse tossing his head in irritation.

  “Lord Cavanaugh, happy Christmas!” Colin shouted, his voice fading in the growing force of the wind.

  Lucas tightened his thighs around the gelding and urged Horatio into a canter, Colin’s cheery “happy” and “Christmas” quickly fading away into the chilled air.

  Chapter 6

  Jane was absolutely chilled to the bone, but it had nothing to do with the weather outside. She sat stone-still in the pew, Lord Needles on her left, her mother on her right. Several minutes had passed since Lucas’s departure from the church, and still her eyes remained focused ahead, concentrated on the vicar.
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  She didn’t hear a word the man imparted, though, and was only vaguely aware of his presence as he bowed his head over the scripture.

  Her entire being was consumed by the look in Lucas’s eyes as he’d stormed from the church, the somber sound of each step on the stone floor driving a nail into her heart.

  He’d been offended by her impersonal and distant behavior, which had been her intent, of course. After last night’s kiss, Jane could no longer pretend that continuing on as Lucas’s friend would ever be enough for her.

  She loved him.

  And because she did, she needed to keep as far away from him as possible.

  The congregation stood and Jane automatically rose with them, covertly studying Lord Needles while the vicar made his closing remarks.

  He could take her far away from Gloucestershire and Lucas. Encouraging his courtship might make all of her problems dissolve into thin air. Her parents would be saved from ruin. Jane could build a life with Lord Needles, start a family, and forget all about Lucas Cavanaugh.

  Her mother moved toward the end of the aisle and Jane followed, with Lord Needles closely behind.

  “Lady Cybil, might you and your nephew wish to join us for Christmas luncheon?” Lady Merriweather inquired of Lord Needles’s aunt as they met at the back of the church.

  Lady Pearson smiled graciously as she adjusted the velvet cloak about her shoulders. “That would be lovely, Alice. Thank you for the invitation.”

  They said their good-byes to the vicar and stepped outside, a bracing wind hitting each in the face as they took their first steps into the storm.

  “Best move quickly, before the snow overtakes us all,” Jane’s father suggested, offering one arm to his wife and the other to Lady Pearson. “Ladies, hold tight. I would not want you to blow away in this treacherous wind.”

  All three laughed heartily, then set off toward Juniper Hall, Jane and Lord Needles bringing up the rear.

  “Well, it would seem they were right,” Lord Needles said, setting a brisk but comfortable pace. “We’ll have more snow for Christmas than we’ll know what to do with.”

  Jane smiled at him, attempting in earnest to forget everything that had occurred before. “I must admit, I’m quite fond of the snow,” she replied, pulling the collar of her fur-trimmed mantle higher about her neck. “It has the ability to magically transform one’s surroundings—as if you’d suddenly found yourself in the middle of a fairy tale.”

  Lord Needles nodded in agreement and turned to take in the quiet beauty that surrounded them. “Such a romantic notion, fairy tales, don’t you think?”

  “Oh yes,” Jane replied without thinking as she watched her parents and Lady Pearson disappear around a bend in the path. “Fairy tales are nothing without romance. I’d go so far as to suggest their very foundation is built upon such things—after all, one could not reach their happily ever after without romance.”

  “And your happily ever after, Miss Merriweather?”

  She looked directly at Lord Needles, her mind working to knit together a reasonable response. “I’m sorry, my lord—and I don’t mean to be impertinent—but how, precisely, did we arrive at such a topic?”

  “Well,” he said simply, holding a hand out to capture snowflakes as they fell. “I commented on the snow. And then you made the observation that the snow possessed transformative powers—”

  “You’re being coy, Lord Needles,” Jane interrupted, unsure of his endgame. “My attempt at charm, I’m afraid,” he explained, an endearing smile forming on his lips. “It could be argued that we botanists are much more skilled at the scientific method as pertains to romance. First a hypothesis, which I had the opportunity to work out during last night’s party when Mr. Cavanaugh kissed you under the mistletoe.”

  Jane’s stomach dropped at the words “kissed” and “mistletoe.”

  “Did you know mistletoe is considered a parasitic plant?” she queried, the deepening snow becoming harder to slog through with each step.

  “I am a botanist, Jane.”

  “Of course,” she answered, hitching up her skirts slightly in an effort to make the going easier. “How silly of me.”

  Lord Needles offered her his arm, but Jane refused, though why she did so she could not exactly fathom.

  “As for observation,” he continued, clasping his hands behind his back in a scholarly manner. “This morning’s service was quite enlightening.”

  Jane cringed at the mention of the Christmas message. “Yes, well, Vicar Jones does have a way with words.”

  “What was your favorite point from the sermon, Jane?”

  She could have sworn the path between the vicarage and Juniper Hall contained nothing that could be compared to a hill. And yet her body strained with effort, her mind with panic. “Well, it is very hard to pick just one,” she began, looking at her companion.

  Lord Needles appeared to be hanging on her every word.

  Blast. “If pressed, I would choose the donkey, near the manger. And his …” It appeared lying was every bit as exhausting as tromping through fresh snow. “And his humble, yet pure spirit.”

  “You weren’t listening, were you?”

  Jane stopped and released her skirts, resting her hands on her hips. “But there’s always a donkey in the Christmas story.”

  “The vicar spoke on chapter two of the book of Luke,” Lord Needles explained, offering his arm a second time. “And the importance of the shepherds as messengers.”

  Jane should have known the vicar would reuse last year’s Christmas sermon. She accepted Lord Needles’s kindness this time, looping her arm through his and allowing herself to rest against his bulk.

  “You weren’t listening because you were far too busy pretending to not be in love with Mr. Cavanaugh,” Lord Needles continued, patting her hand with his.

  All was not lost. It couldn’t be. Not yet. “A passing fancy, my lord.” Jane strove to adopt a light, dismissive air. “Nothing more than an infatuation from our youth that rears its ugly head from time to time.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he replied, his hand warming hers. “I’ve seen a woman look at a man like that. You love him. And if I’m not mistaken, he loves you.”

  Jane stared at him, aghast, her mouth moving, though no words came forth. “Wh … I … Bu …” She tugged Lord Needles to a stop and squared her shoulders. “You are mistaken, my lord. As mistaken as one ever could be.”

  “Jane,” he said in a kind tone. “I would like to court you—perhaps even marry you one day. I am almost certain we would have a good life together—a splendid life, even. But doing so would rob you of the greatest gift this life has to offer—love. Are you willing to give up what you so greatly deserve? Forget everything else and think only of your heart. And then give me your answer.”

  Jane’s panic, so recently rising in her throat and threatening to make away with her senses, suddenly cooled. Mild, relief-riddled acceptance took its place.

  She looked at Lord Needles intently, imagining a life with him. There would be laughter and companionship. Comfort and the blessing of children. A strong and true affection born of genuine appreciation. But not love.

  “Miss Jane!”

  The cry carried from around the bend, followed closely by the appearance of Robby astride Fickle, the draft gelding.

  Jane and Lord Needles watched the elderly man draw near. He balanced precariously upon the massive horse, his wiry frame bouncing up and down in time to Fickle’s hoofbeats.

  “Miss Jane, there you are!” Robby exclaimed, bringing Fickle to a sliding halt in front of her and Lord Needles. “Beggin’ your pardon, but it’s Reg. He’s gone missing again. And I fear for him in the coming storm.”

  Jane gasped at this closer view of Robby. Her old friend was wrapped in a hand-me-down coat she’d thought ripped to bits for rags years ago. He was shaking from the cold and his teeth were literally chattering.

  Jane removed her hand from Lord Needles’s and reached for
Fickle’s reins. “Come, Robby, off you go.”

  The footman obliged and carefully slid his small, wiry frame down the side of Fickle until both his feet touched the ground.

  “How long do you believe he’s been gone?” Jane asked, stepping around to Fickle’s left side.

  “Close to three hours.”

  She gestured for Robby to give her a leg up.

  “Miss Merriweather, though it is not my place,” Lord Needles said, rounding the big horse to reach her, “I do not think it wise of you to be out in this storm any longer than is absolutely required.”

  Jane glared at Robby until he knelt down and took her foot in his hands. “Lord Needles, though you’ve no reason to do so, I would ask that you grant me one last kindness.”

  He stood motionless, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with her request. “Take Robby to the vicarage and ask Vicar Jones to see that he’s given a blanket and a bit of warming broth,” Jane continued, throwing her leg over the draft’s broad back and mounting as gracefully as she could, considering her attire.

  Though she would appreciate Lord Needles’s kindness until the day she died, Jane needed to be away from the man and the secure future that he would take with him.

  “And my answer is no, my lord. I am not willing to give up. Thank you for reminding me of who I am,” she added, backing Fickle away before turning him ’round on the path and setting off in search of Reginald.

  Chapter 7

  “Why do you hate me so?”

  Lucas stared down at Reginald, Jane’s blasted ass, as he munched on a tangle of thistles he had apparently uncovered in the snow.

  He’d ridden the borders of Cavanaugh lands and cut through the south property intent on heading for home. His emotions were no more in check than when he’d set out, but the weather had worsened, the storm finally making an appearance and fulfilling the dire predictions. He could not stay out-of-doors much longer without risking injury.

  Nor could Reginald.

  Lucas blew out a breath of resignation and jumped down from Horatio’s broad back, his booted feet landing in snow that reached well above his shins. “Come along, Reginald.”