Marcus took Meg’s hand and pressed the wilted sprig of mistletoe against her palm. “Please say yes, Margaret. A home decorated for Christmas is lovely, but I want Christmas in my heart, every day, with you.”
What else was there to say to such a declaration? Meg took the mistletoe, held it high over Marcus’s head, and kissed his cheek. “Yes. I say yes, and Happy Christmas, and yes!”
General mayhem ensued, with much cheering and laughter and Christmas pudding eaten from shared plates. Meg put the sprig of mistletoe on a windowsill where it would be safe from pirates, princesses, and Aunt Penny, and Marcus suggested that the company repair to his house, where abundant food and drink were still being served.
In four separate coaches—Lucien offered to take the children—the party processed back to Mayfair, everybody, even the coachmen and grooms, joining for a few verses of Hark! The Herald Angels Sing. Daisy’s choir was launching into its final number as Meg and her Christmas elves—her other Christmas elves—joined the open house, and the Marquess of Innisborough, interrupted twice by Aunt Penny, announced the happy couple’s engagement.
Marcus and Margaret—who soon came to be known as Lord and Lady Mistletoe—welcomed their firstborn son to the family eight and a half months later and christened him Stephen Wenceslas Bannerfield.
To My Dear Readers
To my dear readers,
Is there any happily ever after quite like a holiday happily ever after? I had such fun with this little novella, and I hope you enjoyed it too. Finishing a story always raises a question, though: What to read next? If you’re in the mood for a light bite, I recently published another novella duet, Love and Other Perils, with author Emily Larkin (excerpt below). I’m also soon to publish my next Rogues to Riches story, Forever and a Duke (Nov. 26, 2019). I’ve included an excerpt for that story below as well.
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If you’d like to stay up to date with new releases, pre-orders, or discounts, the easiest way to do that is to follow me on Bookbub. Bookbub will never bother you unless they have useful information to share. You can also keep an eye on the Deals page of my website, where I discount a different book each month or so. My newsletter is another way to keep in touch, though you might be subjected to the occasional kitten pic. I will never, not ever, share your personal information for any reason, and you can easily unsubscribe from the newsletter at any time.
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As the holiday season approaches, know that I wish each of my readers peace on earth, a joyous heart, dear companions, and plenty of good books to read—and a little warm gingerbread too!
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Happy reading,
Grace Burrowes
Excerpt — Catnip and Kisses
From Catnip and Kisses by Grace Burrowes, in Love and Other Perils…
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Lady Antonia Mainwaring is volunteering at a London subscription library, which puts her ladyship in company with a very different sort of person than she’s used to. When a patron comports himself in a less than gentlemanly fashion, she’s not entirely sure how to respond. Fortunately for her, Max Haddonfield just happens along…
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Mr. Paxton slapped the book down on Antonia’s desk loudly enough to wake the cat, who was curled in a basket beside the fireplace.
“I specifically told Mr. Kessler to locate a first edition of Richardson’s treatise,” Mr. Paxton snapped. “This is not a first edition.”
Across the reading room, the Barclay sisters peered at Antonia over their sermons. They’d intervene if she indicated a need for assistance, so she ignored them and met Mr. Paxton’s glare with a calm eye.
“This is a fourth edition, sir, though your request was made only the day before yesterday. We’ll be happy to notify you if and when a first edition arrives. You are welcome to borrow this copy until then.”
Antonia remained seated, while Mr. Paxton drew himself up, a hot air balloon of male self-importance preparing to lift into a flight of indignation. The bell on the front door tinkled and Lucifer left his basket. He greeted each patron as conscientiously as a butler would, then went back to his basket, almost as if he were expecting one caller in particular.
“What sort of librarian,” Mr. Paxton began, “cannot tell a first edition from subsequent printings? What sort of institution employs staff who cannot fulfill a simple loan request? Was I not clear that I wanted a first edition?”
He braced his hands on the desk and leaned closer. “Did I not complete your form to Mr. Kessler’s satisfaction? Did he perhaps allow Mr. Lincoln Candleford to have the first edition before I was permitted to see it? I know the library on Constable Lane has one, but it’s lent out, and they won’t tell me who has it.”
Mr. Paxton needed a closer acquaintance with several sheaves of fresh parsley. His breath reeked of the tobacco habit, which did not blend well with the excessive rose pomade in his hair.
“Libraries value the privacy of their patrons,” Antonia replied. “If Constable Lane had a first edition available to lend, I’m sure they’d have sent it around. Did you seek to research a particular topic covered by Mr. Richardson’s treatise?”
Mr. Paxton’s gaze crawled over Antonia’s feminine endowments. He might have been any one of a hundred half-drunk, blond, blue-eyed fortune hunters forgetting himself in a Mayfair ballroom, and in that setting, Antonia would have known what to do about him.
The cut direct, a raised eyebrow, a knowing glance to the chaperones waiting to pounce on a man’s reputation from among the potted ferns. He’d find himself in want of invitations for the remainder of the Season, which was a fortune hunter’s version of doom.
“Young woman, are you listening to me? Is your female brain overtaxed by a patron’s request when that request is plainly and succinctly put before you? Must I complain to Kessler about his paltry collection and his dimwitted staff?”
Antonia rose, standing eye to eye with Mr. Paxton, the desk between them. “Your request has been submitted to our sister institutions. Is your male brain too limited to grasp that Mr. Richardson’s treatise was published in 1788, and first editions have had nigh three decades to become lost, damaged, or destroyed? Locating one might take more than two days, though I suggest you retrieve your manners in the next thirty seconds.”
His gaze roamed over her in a manner so far beyond insulting that had Antonia been at one of polite society’s social functions, she would have slapped him.
He obviously knew she couldn’t. Not here, where she was a volunteer on probation until a paying post became available. Not now, with only a pair of old women to gainsay Paxton’s version of events. At the library, Antonia was simply “young woman,” not an earl’s daughter with a private fortune. For the first time since embarking on this literary adventure, Antonia understood why her cousins had tried to dissuade her from it.
She wasn’t afraid, exactly, but she was uneasy.
“You were a governess, weren’t you?” Paxton said. “A long meg like you was passed over by the bachelors. You probably lost your position because you got above yourself. You think a little French and a smattering of Italian make you an intellectual. What you need is—”
The smell of freshly baked bread gave Antonia an instant’s warning that her conversation had acquired another witness.
“What you need,” Mr. Haddonfield said, positioning himself at her elbow, “is to leave. Now.”
Paxton put a hand on his hip. “Who might you be and what gives you the right to intrude here?”
“Max Haddonfield, at your service. Your rudeness invites any gentleman in the vicinity to intercede. Apologize to the lady for behaving like a petulant brat and find another library to patronize.”
“Please do leave, Mr. Paxton,” Antonia said. “You’ve disturbed the other patrons, and contrary to your imaginings, librarians are not magicians. Finding a thirty-year-old first edition will take some time.”
“Go,” Mr. Haddonfield said, making a shooing motion.
> “And are you a librarian, sir, to be so dismissive toward a man of my academic credentials?” Paxton sniffed, picking up the book.
Mr. Haddonfield plucked the book from Paxton’s grasp. “I’m a chemist.” He smiled at Paxton as if being a chemist was better than having put Wellington on his first pony. “Haven’t blown anything up in more than two weeks. I grow short-tempered when I can’t blow something up.”
Paxton took two steps back. “Kessler will hear about this.”
Mr. Haddonfield crossed his arms, which made his coat stretch over broad shoulders and muscular biceps. “He certainly will. Your rudeness toward both the staff and the other patrons will doubtless result in revocation of your lending privileges.”
“Other patrons? I assume you refer to yourself?”
Mr. Haddonfield twirled his finger. Paxton glanced over his shoulder, to where the Barclay sisters were no longer even pretending to read. Miss Dottie waggled her fingers. Miss Betty smiled over a bound volume of the Reverend Fordyce’s wisdom.
“Other patrons,” Mr. Haddonfield said. “Away with you. Be gone.” He clapped his hands rapidly at Mr. Paxton, like a housekeeper impatient with a sluggardly maid.
Paxton leapt back, jerked his coat down, and marched for the door. The silence in his wake was broken by bells on a passing gig, a merry sound.
“Do you really blow things up?” Antonia asked.
“Yes, but usually only on purpose.”
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Order your copy of Love and Other Perils and read on for an excerpt from Forever and a Duke (Nov 2019).
Excerpt—Forever and a Duke
From Forever and a Duke, book three in the Rogues to Riches series…
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Wrexham, Duke of Elsmore, has a problem—somebody very clever is stealing from his ducal coffers. He takes the extraordinary step of appealing to Eleanora Hatfield, a ferociously talented bank auditor, to help him quietly resolve his difficulties. Much to Rex’s consternation, the woman he’s hired to catch a thief is making off with his heart…
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Mrs. Hatfield unbuttoned her cloak, and without thinking, Rex drew it from her shoulders, gave it a shake, and hung it on the drying pegs above her hearth. A small silver teapot sat in the middle of the mantel, a sketch on either side in plain wooden frames. He wanted to study those drawings—wanted to snoop about her entire abode—but not when Eleanora could see him doing it.
He braced himself for a scold as he passed her a shawl that had been draped over the back of a reading chair. “Shall I light the fire?” he asked, for want of anything else to say.
By the limited illumination of a few candles, the relentlessly businesslike Mrs. Hatfield looked weary. “I’ll be going out again, just across the street, and I don’t light the hearth until I’m in for the night. Thank you for your escort, Your Grace.”
Eleanora Hatfield, like much of London, had no cooking facilities in her domicile. Of course, she’d go out to fetch a hot meal, and of course she’d shoo him away before she did.
Rex wasn’t feeling shoo-able, for once. “I’m still dressed for the weather,” he said. “I’ll get us some food, while you consider a strategy for organizing our efforts over the next two weeks.”
He bowed and left before she could argue. By the time he returned, she’d curled up in a chair, her shawl about her shoulders, her hearth crackling. She’d also fallen asleep.
Rex dealt with the cat first, unwrapping a morsel of fish and leaving it on its paper in a corner. For himself and his hostess, salty fried potatoes came next and slices of hot roasted beef followed. The scents were humble and tantalizing, and apparently enough to tempt Mrs. Hatfield from her slumbers.
“You bought beef and potatoes.”
She looked at him as if he’d served her one of those fancy dinners Mama made such a fuss over. Six removes, three feuding chefs, footmen run ragged, the sommelier pinching the maids, and all the guests more interested in flirtation than food.
“Voltaire has started on the fish course,” Rex said. The cat was, in fact, growling as she ate, and sounding quite ferocious about her meal.
“Her manners were formed in a hard school,” Mrs. Hatfield said, sitting up. “Where are my—?”
Rex passed her the spectacles, though he preferred her without them.
“Have you cutlery,” he asked, “or do we shun etiquette for the sake of survival?”
“In the sideboard.” She took a plate from him. “I can put the kettle on if that—you brought wine.”
“A humble claret, but humility is a virtue, I’m told.”
The shared meal reminded Rex of something that ought to also be part of a peer’s curriculum: Some people had the luxury of chatting and laughing as abundant food was put before them. Other people had such infrequent acquaintance with adequate nutrition, that the notion of focusing on anything other than appreciation for food was a sort of blasphemy.
Eleanora Hatfield ate with that degree of concentration. She did not hurry, she did not compromise her manners, but she focused on her meal with the same single-mindedness she turned on Rex’s ledgers.
“You have known poverty,” he said, buttering the last slice of bread and passing it to her. “Not merely hard times or lean years. You have known the bleakest of realities.”
She took the bread, tore it in two, and passed half back to him. “There’s no shame in poverty.”
“I doubt there’s much joy in it, either.”
“We managed, and I am impoverished no longer.” She launched into a lecture about concentric rings of responsibility, redundant documentation, and heaven knew what else. Rex poured her more wine, put an attentive expression on his face—he excelled at appearing attentive—and let his curiosity roam over the mystery of Eleanora Hatfield.
She’d known hardship, and she’d probably known embezzlers. She’d decided to wrap herself in the fiction of widowhood or wifehood, but not the reality, and she was truly passionate about setting Rex’s books to rights.
The longer she talked about the many ways his estates could have been pillaged—while he’d waltzed, played piquet, and debated the Corn Laws—the more he appreciated her fierceness and the more he wondered how she’d come by it.
“When should I call upon you tomorrow?” he asked, rising and gathering up the orts and leavings of their meal.
“At the end of the day,” she said, standing to take the greasy paper from him. “I’ll use this for kindling, and I leave any empty bottles in the alley for the street children to sell. In cold weather, their lives grow more perilous than usual.”
She drew her shawl up and looked away, as if those last words should have been kept behind her teeth.
Rex shrugged into his great coat, wrapped a cashmere scarf about his neck, and pulled on gloves lined with rabbit fur. Autumn had not only turned up nasty, winter was in the offing.
“I want you to consider something,” he said. “Something in addition to the various ways my trusty staff is bilking me of a fortune.”
“Not all of your staff, we haven’t established that.”
Not yet, though anybody seeking to steal from the Elsmore fortune was doomed to eventual discovery, now that Eleanora Hatfield was on the scent.
“Please consider a theoretical question: If instead of allowing my coffers to be pillaged by the enterprising thieves in my employ, I had donated that money to charity, where would you have had me put those funds?”
He had her attention now, and having Eleanora Hatfield’s attention was not a casual state of affairs.
“You are asking about thousands of pounds, Your Grace.”
“No, actually, I am asking for your trust. You will soon know all of my secrets, Eleanora. You will know where I have been lax, where I have been less than conscientious about my duties. You will know who has betrayed me. Not even my priest knows me that well, not even my siblings. I am asking much of you, and in return, all I can offer is an assurance that your secrets would be safe with
me.”
Her gaze was momentarily dumbstruck, then puzzled, then troubled. “Thank you, Your Grace, but in my line of work, I can afford to trust no one.”
Interesting choice of verb—afford. “You like it that way.”
“I need it that way.”
How honest, and how lonely. Elsmore brushed her hair back over her ear, and when she did not protest that presumption he bent nearer. She stood still, eyes downcast, though he well knew she was capable of pinning his ears back.
“Eleanora?”
She closed her eyes, and he realized that was as much permission as he would get from her. He kissed her cheek and let himself out into the chilly corridor, pausing only long enough to make sure she locked the door after him.
As if her mind had imparted its restlessness to his own, Rex walked the distance to his home, turning over questions and ignoring the persistent freezing drizzle. Two streets from his doorway, he took off his gloves and scarf and left them in an alley.
Why had he kissed Eleanora Hatfield? Even a chaste gesture such as he’d bestowed on the lady was an intimacy, and with the least intimacy-prone female he knew. Why cross that line? Why blur those boundaries? His musings yielded no satisfactory answers, but then, a man who failed to notice his trusted staff dipping into his coffers, a man who overlooked drinking from the wrong tea cup, was probably overdue for an audit of his own sentiments and motivations.
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Order your copy of Forever and a Duke!
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Next up: The Viscount’s Winter Wish by Christi Caldwell!
Yuletide Wishes: A Regency Novella Duet Page 13
