Mistletoe Moment

by Bancroft, Blair

  A beaming smile spread over Joseph Tubs’s face. “Oh, aye, Major. That’d be a treat, it would.” Tubs ducked his head and began to deal another game of cards.

  December 26, 1815

  “Oh, my dear,” Honoria Whitehurst declared, sinking onto the gold brocade sofa in the drawing room, “I do enjoy Boxing Day, but our list of employees grows longer each year, and it seemed the line would never end.”

  “But think of all those happy faces,” Pamela declared. “Your generosity, dear aunt, as well as your kindness, keeps Appledown a happy place.”

  Honoria’s answering smile faded. “Yet you are not happy, child, and I know not what I can do about it. I am truly sorry.”

  “Nothing, aunt, I promise you. If Mr. Forsythe is intent on remaining a hermit, there is little you or I can do about it.”

  “And you, Pamela? Our ball fast approaches. Will you hide yourself away like our reclusive neighbor?”

  Pamela squirmed in her chair. She sighed. “Are we so much alike then?”

  “More, I fear, than can be comfortable for you to admit.”

  Pamela hung her head, tracing one finger along the pattern in the brocaded upholstery. “Perhaps I am not as reticent as you think, aunt. In truth, I fear I have been so forward I frightened him off.” And, at long last, the tale of the kiss came tumbling out.

  “Merciful heavens,” Honoria exclaimed, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “Ma’am?”

  Honoria began to laugh. “Oh, that I might have seen it! Our hermitish major running for his life, routed by a slip of a girl. My dear, take my word for it, if he does not come ’round, he was not worth your mistletoe kiss.”

  Pamela peeped at her aunt from under her lashes, then returned to tracing the brocade’s intricate pattern. If Will did not come ’round, it would be the coup de grâce, the final destruction of her confidence—

  No, no, no! By letting Will into her life, she had begun the transition back to the world of the living instead of the world of those who simply existed. Four years ago, her pride had been broken. And now, her heart. But strong women recovered. They did not suffer the vapors. They did not go into declines. They did not hide in secluded places and never again try their wings. Her newly dawning world had not gone dark simply because Will Forsythe turned tail and ran from a kiss.

  At least that’s what she kept telling herself.

  Pamela continued to ride out when the weather permitted, but she caught not so much as a glimpse of Will. Obviously, he was avoiding her. And it seemed quite impossible that a man with an injured leg would attend the Appledown’s Twelfth Night ball. And yet, for all her philosophizing, that was Pamela’s greatest hope.

  Hope springs eternal, and all that nonsense, her inner self mocked in the privacy of her room. Time for the Ashburton spirit to triumph over the flutterings of a girlish heart.

  But it hurt—oh, how Will’s abandonment hurt!

  January 6, 1816

  “My dears, did you hear?” Eulalia Chillworth leaned forward as she passed through the receiving line, confiding to Honoria and Pamela, “Mr. Forsythe shared a pint at the Hare and Hound on New Year’s Eve. You could have blown me over with a feather when I heard. Not a glimpse of the man in two months, and there he was, large as life, downing a pint, shoulder to shoulder with his valet. Not a gentlemen, didn’t I tell you so?”

  “Mr. Forsythe is Poynings’s second son,” Honoria returned. “I had it in a letter from Pamela’s mother just this week.. A grand catch,” she added blandly, glancing at Cressida, Henrietta, and Matilda, trailing their mother, with the good vicar barely visible over their heads.

  “Mama,” the eldest Miss Chillworth hissed, “we are holding up the line.” As the Chillworth family swept on by, Pamela struggled to keep her countenance. Small it might be to enjoy Mrs. Chillworth’s discomfort, yet she could not help it. Half-pay officer, indeed. Though Will had never mentioned it, word was, Poynings wished to gift his second son with a seat in Parliament. Say what one would about Britain’s corrupt election practices, this once Pamela could not help but rejoice. Will would make a splendid MP . . . and likely give the earl an apoplexy with his Whiggish tendencies.

  Political hostess.

  Pamela blanched. Could a recluse swing so far back into the mainstream?

  Could Will?

  Air dreams, you idiot. Nothing but air dreams. He’s gone back into his shell and clamped the lid tight.

  He had a pint at the Hare and Hound on New Years’ Eve.

  Optimism, thy name is Pamela Ashburton! But at least you now know you want out of life’s backwater. Keep swimming, girl. There has to be something—someone—out there, paddling just as hard as you are to find the mainstream of life.

  But it wasn’t going to be Will Forsythe. Her forwardness had given him a disgust of her. Or else he feared to be caught in parson’s mouse-trap. Particularly by the rather odd, altogether too independent, daughter of Baron and Lady Ashburton.

  As soon as good manners allowed, Pamela escaped the reception line and plunged into all the details that kept a good party running smoothly.

  Escaping again? Too busy for the dance floor? her inner voice taunted.

  Not really, she shot back. For who would ask her after so many years of saying no?

  Pamela sent for more punch, well laced with brandy and champagne. For more fruit punch. And every time she saw a young man looking her way, she became the Pamela of old, scurrying in the opposite direction. More lobster patties, apple tarts, and jam trifle. Calm the maid who spilled a tray of sausage and onion tartlets.

  Pamela paused to catch her breath, sheltering behind a great swath of fir branches fastened to a sturdy column and sporting a large red velvet bow. She breathed in the pungent outdoor scent of the greens, clearing her head of the mix of perfumes, sweat, and candle smoke that filled the ballroom. Carefully, she checked the sprigs of mistletoe displayed over each of the four entrances to the room, and the sprigs dangling from the room’s two chandeliers. Hard won, the single cluster that provided those sprigs. And to her very great cost.

  She would not, however, trade that kiss for anything the world might offer. She would treasure it for all of her days. It might, in fact, be the only kiss she ever received if she did not take the final step back into society.

  Yet all the logic, all the promises she’d made to her aunt could not break through the barrier she’d built around herself. She could not mingle with the groups of young ladies waiting to be asked for the next dance. Yes, she’d taken the time to speak with each and every guest. She’d worked hard at being her aunt’s right arm. But dance she could not.

  And if she did not, she would never be able to throw off her fear.

  Her terror.

  Terror? After what Will had endured, how could she call a mishap on the ballroom floor a terror? Appalled, Pamela steepled her hands in front of her face and closed her eyes. The time had come, she had to face her fears.

  “May I have this dance?”

  At the sound of the well-beloved voice in her ear, Pamela shivered, tingles spreading from head to toe. Will? Will was here?

  “I’m not anxious to make a complete fool of myself,” Will said, his gray eyes shining down at her with compassion enough for both of them. “But perhaps we may waltz at our own pace, here in a dark corner, before we attempt anything more daring?”

  Tears rushed to her eyes, forcing Pamela to keep her head down. Will, with his bad leg, was offering to dance with her. Refusal never even entered her head.

  He reached for her hand, lifting it high. His other hand gripped her waist. Drawing a deep breath, Pamela placed her shaking left hand on his shoulder. And looked up. Straight into the depths of clear gray eyes that guarded all her secrets. At Will who knew she was far more frightened than he. At Will who could fall flat on his face, laugh it off, and try again.

  Maybe not on the day he fell from the tree, Pamela qualified. But tonight he could, she felt it.

&nb
sp; And so could she.

  Surprisingly, Pamela soon discovered, if one’s slippers moved only inches instead of feet with each one-two-three beat . . . if one did not swing wildly ’round in heady circles . . .

  She stopped counting and gave herself up to Will’s somewhat lurching gait. Heaven! She was dancing. Dancing with Will, and, even if they both crashed to the floor this moment, she would never be that frightened, humiliated child again.

  And then they weren’t in a dark corner anymore. They were waltzing their way down the center of the ballroom, Will’s steps lengthening—

  “Ready?” he whispered, leaning close. Pamela gasped as they spun in a lopsided circle, Will staggering, his bark of annoyance ending in a shout of triumphant laughter as he caught the beat again. “We’ll do better next time,” he assured her. And they did.

  As the tempo slowed, and the dance drew to a close, Pamela suddenly realized every eye in the ballroom, from Aunt Honoria and a line of white-haired dowagers to the Chillworth family and every dancer still on the floor, was fixed on Mr. William Forsythe and herself.

  Oddly enough, only the Chillworth females looked annoyed. Everyone else, mouths agape, looked ready to cheer. They liked her. They approved of Will because he was a soldier. And, she conceded, because his father was an earl. They had not laughed, had not wanted to see of them fall. Her neighbors had wanted them to succeed.

  “I fear we are beneath the chandelier, Miss Ashburton,” Will was saying.

  “Sir?” She failed to make the connection.

  Will gestured upward. “The mistletoe,” he said. “How could you forget?”

  Pamela’s face went scarlet. Will kissed her anyway, a short, highly proper mistletoe kiss. Moving his lips to her ear, he whispered, “I know this is just a mistletoe kiss, but if I continue, in front of all these witnesses, I suspect the vicar will be calling the banns by Sunday. So tell me, sprite, shall I continue?”

  “It’s magical mistletoe, remember? From a mighty oak. That little peck won’t do at all.”

  Putting both arms around her, Will hauled Pamela right up to his chest. “Are you well and truly certain?”

  “Never more so.”

  Their lips met, clung, and stayed, exploring texture and taste, offering apologies and forgiveness, exchanging silent vows of love. They scarcely heard the applause, the cheers from the younger set until Will finally broke the kiss, turning to face Mrs. Honoria Whitehurst. “With your permission, ma’am, I believe we have an announcement to make.”

  Tears flowing, Honoria embraced them both before signaling the orchestra for an unnecessary flourish to capture everyone’s attention. As she made her way across the ballroom to stand on the orchestra’s dais, she offered a silent prayer of thanks. For a Christmas miracle. Two lives saved. Two lives about to be joined. Two lives about to go forth and make the world a better place.

  Behind her, still standing firmly under the mistletoe, Will lowered his lips to Pamela’s, completing the vow begun in the snow under a scattering of magical mistletoe.

  ~ * * * ~

  About the Author:

  Believing variety is the spice of life, I also write Regency Gothics, Regency historicals, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, and have recently launched a Futuristic Paranormal series, Blue Moon Rising.

  The Golden Beach (GB) books are not a classic series. Some have connected characters; others, only a connected setting, a very real Florida Gulf Coast resort and retirement community whose name has been changed because the residents would like to keep its uniqueness a deep, dark secret.

  I am always delighted to hear from my readers. I can be contacted at blairbancroft@aol.com.

  My website: http://www.blairbancroft.com/.

  My blog: http://mosaicmoments.blogspot.com/

  Twitter: @blairbancroft

  Blair’s books:

  Regency Gothics

  Tangled Destinies

  The Welshman’s Bride

  The Demons of Fenley Marsh

  The Mists of Moorhead Manor

  Brides of Falconfell

  The Regency Warrior Series (in order)

  The Sometime Bride

  Tarleton’s Wife (returning 2017)

  O’Rourke’s Heiress

  Rogue’s Destiny

  Other Regencies & Historicals

  Steeplechase

  Lady of the Lock

  The Courtesan’s Letters

  The Temporary Earl

  The Harem Bride

  A Season for Love

  A Gamble on Love

  Lady Silence

  Mistletoe Moment

  The Last Surprise (returning 2017)

  The Captive Heiress (Medieval)

  Airborne - The Hanover Restoration (Steampunk)

  Regency Darkside (18+)

  Belle

  Cecilia

  Holly

  Juliana

  Blue Moon Rising series (in order)

  Rebel Princess

  Sorcerer’s Bride (2017)

  The Bastard Prince (2017)

  Royal Rebellion (2018)

  Contemporary Mystery/Suspense

  Shadowed Paradise (GB)

  Paradise Burning (GB)

  The Art of Evil

  Florida Wild (returning 2017)

  Death by Marriage (GB)

  Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (GB)

  Limbo Man

  Contemporary Romance

  Florida Knight (GB)

  Love at Your Own Risk