by Grace Austen
Then Modesty would just have to ensure that her parents gave their blessing to the union. “I’ll speak to my father and mother. I’ll make them see that we belong together. Because I love you, too. And I shall not be happy with any other man as my husband—a title does not bring contentment.”
Though Felton appeared doubtful that the outcome would be as she hoped, he nodded in agreement.
Modesty raised herself on tiptoe to press a kiss to his lips, a smile breaking free.
A moment later, she came back to earth with a thud.
“The coachman!” She gasped in sudden horror, remembering that the poor man had been shot, and she and Felton hadn’t given a thought for him once the danger had passed.
“I’ll be all right, Miss Gibbs,” the man answered from the coach. “Those blokes had terrible bad aim.” A small somewhat strangled laugh accompanied his words.
Modesty glanced toward the coachman to see that he was now climbing down from the box and bracing himself against the carriage, as he clearly required it for support.
She rushed to his side, fearful that his wound might be more grievous than he was letting on.
“Don’t fret now, miss,” he scolded. Though his face was pale, he wore a hint of a smile.
Felton stepped forward and wrapped his arm around the coachman’s waist. “Let’s get you into the carriage, and I’ll drive us to the doctor in Upper Nettlefold to get you patched up.”
Chapter 7
As Felton and Modesty approached Stonebridge Manor a short time later, Felton didn’t hold out much hope that Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs—most especially the latter—would willingly accept him as a son-in-law, despite Modesty’s confident manner. Not when he lacked an all-important title.
At the sound of the carriage pulling up at the front steps, the door of the house flew open, and Modesty’s mother came rushing outside. “Modesty, thank heavens you’ve returned! We feared you would miss the Duke of Kilmerstan’s Christmas Eve Ball.”
Modesty’s father followed behind his wife at a slower pace. “Felton, thank you for seeing our daughter home safe to us.”
Felton jumped down from the driver’s box in order to hand Modesty down from the carriage.
Just then the older woman caught sight of the muddied state of Modesty’s clothing. “Whatever happened to your gown?” she cried with distress.
Modesty answered before Felton had a chance. “We were set upon by highwaymen, and the coachman was shot. But Felton—I mean, Mr. Banfield saved the day.”
“But are you quite all right?” her mother asked, her face going pale.
“Only because of Mr. Felton’s intervention,” Modesty said, pride filling her words.
“You have our deepest gratitude, Felton.” Reginald reached out to shake Felton’s hand, his grip strong, and his expression heartfelt. “How can we ever repay you?”
Again, Modesty responded before Felton could form words to reply. “Actually, Papa, we’d like to speak with you about something.”
Felton placed a hand on her arm, stopping her from continuing. “I’d prefer to speak with your father alone first,” he requested.
Modesty’s eyebrows knit together in concern, but after a brief moment of hesitation, she nodded. “I’ll go above stairs and change into a clean gown.”
Once the women had disappeared inside the house, Reginald waved a hand to Felton, indicating he should precede the older man. “Let’s adjourn to my study.”
Felton had barely settled in the wingback chair facing Reginald Gibbs’ desk when there was a loud shriek from down the hall. An instant later, the study door burst open to reveal Modesty’s mother.
“I won’t have it, Reginald!” She placed her fists on her hips, her features turning red.
Apparently, Modesty had spoken to her mother.
The older man seemed not at all bothered by his wife’s irate manner, however. “Won’t have what, dear?” he asked calmly.
“Modesty has just informed me of her intention to marry Mr. Banfield.” She speared Felton with a withering look. “The foolish girl has clearly lost her wits. I won’t have it, I tell you. Reginald, you must do something about this, at once!”
His gaze turned to Felton, one bushy eyebrow arched imperiously. But he addressed his next remarks to his wife. “Please, leave us. I’d like to speak to Felton in private.”
Once the door had slammed shut behind her, the older man steepled his hands before him. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
A lump had formed in Felton’s throat, but he swallowed it down. “I love your daughter, sir. And she loves me. I know my past does not inspire confidence, but the thing I want above all else is your daughter’s happiness. I cannot offer her a title, much to my regret. But if you give me the chance, I’ll prove myself worthy of her regard. I’ll prove that you could not find a kinder and more loving husband for your daughter.”
Reginald got up and paced the room, his face contorted into a huge frown. Felton held his breath.
“I see,” the older man finally grumbled. He stopped pacing and stared at Felton. “I see,” he said again. He stared at Felton for a long moment before walking circles again on the finely woven rug.
Felton didn’t move; he merely waited for what was sure to be a resounding refusal. But the scowl on Reginald’s face had relaxed a bit, looking markedly less ferocious. He settled himself back behind his desk, his scrutiny not leaving Felton.
“Years ago, Mrs. Gibbs’ parents wanted her to have a title, too,” he said slowly. “But my wife wanted me—at least, at first.”
Felton nodded, unsure where the conversation was going.
“Modesty has never cared about acquiring a title.” Reginald tapped his fingers against the surface of his desk. “That is her mother’s ambition. And I have allowed Mrs. Gibbs to push her own aspirations onto Modesty.” He gave a rueful laugh. “As it turns out, Georgina grew to lament the fact that she fell in love with me instead of a titled man. I expect she doesn’t want Modesty to end up in the same circumstance.”
He sighed as though a great weight was pressing on his shoulders. “But Modesty is nothing like Georgina. If Modesty is truly content with this match, then despite the grief I will face, I shall give my blessing.”
Felton jumped from his chair, hardly believing his ears. A grin split his face. “Thank you, sir. You do me a great honor. Thank you.”
Reginald waved his hand. “However, if Modesty ever wants for anything, anything at all—”
“She won’t, sir, she won’t. I give you my solemn oath on that.”
Felton still couldn’t believe the turn of events. He wished to seek out Modesty without delay, but the older man’s next words stopped him.
“I’ve always had admiration for you, Felton, no matter that you’ve made your fair share of mistakes. After all, what man does not have events in his past that are regrettable?”
Felton turned to face the other man as Reginald continued. “I would be proud to call you son.”
Felton was embarrassed to feel hot tears burn his eyes. “That means a great deal to me, sir.”
More than the older man would ever comprehend.
“Well, go on.” Reginald gestured toward the door. “I’m sure Modesty is waiting for you.”
Felton found Modesty in the front parlor—her mother, thankfully, was nowhere in sight.
“Your father had given us his consent,” Felton relayed, still reeling in shock.
Modesty’s radiant smile chased away the fog of numbness inside him, and happiness rushed in to fill all the frozen crevices of his heart. If her expression looked a touch smug, it was only to be expected.
“I knew everything would turn out all right,” she murmured.
“So you did.” He got down on one knee before her. “Modesty Gibbs, would you do me the very great honor of agreeing to be my wife?”
“Yes,” she answered without a moment’s hesitation.
Felton rose and seated himself beside her on
the settee. Pulling her close to him, he pressed his lips against hers.
The next evening, Modesty and her parents arrived at the Duke of Kilmerstan’s grand manor house to attend His Grace’s Christmas Eve Ball. Once the Gibbs Family was announced, they crossed the threshold to join the throng gathered inside.
The ballroom was decorated with winter foliage. Pine boughs draped above the French windows, sprigs of holly with bright red berries in vases were arranged around the room, and strings of cranberries hung on the walls. The high ceilings were lit with the blaze of hundreds of candles in the golden chandeliers overhead. An orchestra was positioned in an alcove at one end of the vast room.
“By your leave, my dear,” Modesty’s father murmured, before quickly detaching himself from Modesty and her mother in order to search out Morgan Mead. He was in a hurry to exchange a quiet word with the gentleman who had thought to gain Modesty’s hand in marriage.
A few minutes later, the Duke’s majordomo announced Felton’s arrival.
Modesty turned to watch her betrothed enter the ballroom. It caused a bit of a stir amongst the assembled guests, but Felton only had eyes for Modesty. He headed straight toward her.
“Mrs. Gibbs, Miss Gibbs,” he greeted, bowing over each woman’s hand, in turn.
“Good evening,” Modesty responded, a smile stretching her lips wide.
He turned to her mother. “Mrs. Gibbs, might I claim your daughter for the next dance?”
Though the older woman had kicked up a huge fuss about this alliance, she was not about to provide fodder for gossip in front of the aristocracy. She gave Felton a forced smile and nodded with the regal bearing of someone who truly did have a title.
“You are in luck, Mr. Banfield,” she replied with dignity. “We have only just arrived ourselves, and Modesty’s dance card is not yet full.”
“Wonderful.” He held his arm out to Modesty.
Modesty placed her fingers atop the sleeve of Felton’s black velvet coat, as proper decorum demanded, though she longed for a more substantial connection between them. She’d never missed Paris more than she did in this moment when she craved a greater closeness with Felton than the mere causal touches that English society deemed acceptable between unmarried couples.
The orchestra struck up the first notes of a waltz, and Felton led her out onto the waxed parquet dance floor.
“I hope you’ll grant me the next waltz, as well,” he requested.
“I would save them all for you, if I could.” She sighed in vexation. “Oh, I wish we were announcing our betrothal tonight, so that I could partner you for more than the usual prescribed number of dances allowed in a single evening.”
“We only need wait a few more weeks,” he soothed, though joy lit his blue eyes at her impatience.
Modesty’s father and Felton had decided that it would be best to wait until the beginning of the new year to announce their plans to wed.
She sighed again. “It will seem like an eternity.”
“It will pass before you know it, and then we’ll have the rest of our lives together.” His gaze turned tender, even as it smoldered with banked heat.
“No matter the lack of an engagement announcement, this will be the happiest Christmas season in my memory.”
“In mine, as well.”
He squeezed her hand, and her heart felt filled to overflowing. As he twirled her through the steps of the waltz, the hundreds of sparkling jewels sewn onto her gown flashed like green fire in the light cast by the candles suspended above their heads.
Modesty could barely contain her excitement when she thought about their future together. Her heart was full as she imagined the day when they would become man and wife.
As Felton twirled her yet again, she caught sight of a sprig of mistletoe. Perhaps she could maneuver Felton that direction until she stood directly beneath it, and then he would be forced to kiss her right there in public.
The thought made her giggle out loud.
The End
Continue Reading…
Thank you for reading Miss Modesty’s Mistletoe! Are you wondering what to read next? Why not read The New Governess of Chiswick? Here’s a sneak peek for you:
Letitia Coney and the sea-faring man had been keeping company for several months before she realized she was falling in love with him.
He seemed to be falling for her, too, which was a continual surprise to Letitia. Not many men were willing to look beyond her deformity. Not many men were willing to pretend that she didn’t walk with a decided limp.
However, when the Henley set sail for the East Indies on the ninth of August, Richard Lopez wasn’t on board. He had come down with a mysterious illness that might have been consumption or might have been a cold—the chief symptoms of which were watery eyes, a runny nose, and a desire to hang around the Coney home at all hours.
None of the Coneys were fooled, but none of them seemed to mind, either. By now, Richard had been loitering around long enough that even Mrs. Coney didn’t complain when he showed up midway through the morning meal wearing a blue cloak flung about his shoulders, or when he appeared beneath Letitia’s bedroom window to serenade her with his flamenco guitar.
Yet Richard Lopez had never broached the subject of romance or marriage. Letitia waited patiently, for it would be inappropriate for her to bring it up. Even her father had been loath to discuss it with either her or Richard.
One late summer afternoon when Richard should have been in his chambers “recovering,” he invited Letitia out in his carriage to Kensington Gardens. She felt she could bear his silence on the matter no longer.
“Richard,” she ventured, “does your family know about us? I mean to say; do they know about—about me?”
“Do you mean have I told them about how much time we spend together?” asked Richard. “Why, of course.”
Letitia breathed a sigh of relief. She had never met Richard’s parents—they lived in Valencia, Spain, in an old home that had sheltered French soldiers during the war—but Richard had spoken of them often and Letitia felt a fierce urge to win their approval.
She paused a moment to admire a colorful assembly of tulips and forget-me-nots. Kensington Garden bore an intoxicating scent she had long associated with spring and first love.
“I hope you only told them good things,” she said, praying he had not disclosed anything regarding her deformed leg.
Richard laughed his infectious laugh and placed a warm hand on her shoulder. “What bad things would I possibly tell them about you?”
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About the Author
Grace Austen loves everything Regency. Sometimes, she feels she was born in the wrong century! When she fell in love with Greg Austen and took his last name in marriage, she was delighted and honored to be
sharing the name of the most famous Regency author of all. Immersing herself in the world of Regency Romance is Grace's favorite thing to do. In her "real" life, she loves to spend time with her husband and three children. They have a little Malti-poo puppy who enjoys a good cuddle on anyone's lap - she's not fussy!
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