The Wallflower's Mistletoe Wedding

by Amanda McCabe

  A country Christmas at Barton Park

  Plain, sensible Rose Parker is a self-proclaimed wallflower, but she’s always dreamed of dancing with Captain Harry St George...

  Once, Harry wouldn’t even have noticed Rose. But now, after a hard war, Harry knows he’s a different man. Shy, sweet Rose intrigues him more than any gregarious young lady—but he must marry a rich bride to save his mortgaged estates...and Rose is no heiress. Now, more than ever, Harry needs the magic of a mistletoe kiss...

  You need an heiress, Harry heard his brother say in his mind. And an heiress would indeed be an answer for Hilltop. He himself would admit that companionship, a partner, would be most welcome.

  Harry looked down at Helen, at her brilliant smile, the flash of jewels in her hair, and for an instant he felt the tug of temptation toward a life that had never been his. A life of carefree glitter.

  But then, over the swirl of the dancers, he glimpsed Rose Parker, laughing with the other musicians as her slender fingers lightly skipped over the keys. And he was drawn toward her soft warmth that was like a fire on a cold day, sustaining and sweet.

  Rose deserved far more than what he had to offer, a wounded soldier whose house was falling down around him. That was one thing he did know for sure.

  Author Note

  When I was a child, my grandmother loved Christmas! I loved visiting her house at that time of year, because she had a huge tree covered with sparkling glass ornaments, dishes full of candy, and a pair of beautiful antique Santa and Mrs. Santa dolls, which sat high on a shelf because I was allowed to look at but not play with them. (Now they belong to me, but I still don’t play with them, afraid she might be watching from on high!) I think she inherited this love of Christmas from her own grandmother, who grew up at the end of the heyday of Christmas, the Victorian Age.

  The Regency era wasn’t quite as elaborate about Christmas as the Victorian age, but they did have a fun-filled family holiday. Even though there weren’t large evergreen trees, there was greenery, holly, ivy, rosemary and mistletoe boughs that are very useful for romance authors. On Christmas Day, there might have been small gifts (books, handkerchiefs, maybe toys for the children), a walk to church, and then a large, merry dinner with roasted goose, mincemeat pies and puddings, followed by games like Bob Apple and Snapdragon. On Boxing Day, the servants would be given their gifts and maybe had some time off for their own families.

  I loved getting to spend time in a Regency Christmas, and remembering some of my own childhood traditions, too! If you’d like more of a peek behind the history, please visit my website at ammandamccabe.com.

  AMANDA

  McCABE

  The Wallflower’s

  Mistletoe Wedding

  Amanda McCabe wrote her first romance at the age of sixteen—a vast epic, starring all her friends as the characters, written secretly during algebra class. She’s never since used algebra, but her books have been nominated for many awards, including a RITA® Award, an RT Reviewers’ Choice Best Book Award, a Booksellers’ Best Award, a National Readers’ Choice Award and a Holt Medallion. She lives in Oklahoma with her husband, one dog and one cat.

  Books by Amanda McCabe

  Harlequin Historical

  and Harlequin Historical Undone! ebooks

  Bancrofts of Barton Park

  The Runaway Countess

  Running from Scandal

  Running into Temptation (Undone!)

  Tudor Queens

  The Winter Queen

  Tarnished Rose of the Court

  Stand-Alone Novels

  Betrayed by His Kiss

  The Demure Miss Manning

  The Queen’s Christmas Summons

  The Wallflower’s Mistletoe Wedding

  More Harlequin Historical Undone! ebooks

  by Amanda McCabe

  Girl in the Beaded Mask

  Unlacing the Lady in Waiting

  One Wicked Christmas

  An Improper Duchess

  A Very Tudor Christmas

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com for more titles.

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  To the memory of my grandmother, Roberta McCabe, who loved the magic of Christmas.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Her Christmas Knight by Nicole Locke

  Prologue

  Barton Park—summer 1820

  ‘Oh, Rose! Doesn’t the music just make you want to twirl and twirl and twirl?’

  Rose Parker sat back on her heels and laughed as she watched her sister, Lily, spin in an exuberant circle, her new white lace and tulle skirts like a great cloud. The music from the party floated up to their chamber and it was indeed very twirly. ‘You won’t twirl for long if I don’t finish that hem. It will come unravelled and you will trip and fall flat on your face—right in front of Mr Hewlitt.’

  Lily came to an abrupt stop, stumbling on her satin slippers. ‘Oh, no, Rose!’ she cried, her pretty, heart-shaped face full of stark fear. ‘I could never do such a thing. How he would despise me!’

  Rose laughed again. She couldn’t help it; her sister’s adorable ways were always too funny. ‘Lily, my dearest, Mr Hewlitt would never in a thousand years despise you for anything. In fact, stumbling and falling into his arms would probably only make him worship you more as his delicate angel.’

  A tiny smile broke through Lily’s pout. ‘I—well, perhaps so. He is so terribly sweet.’

  ‘And terribly sweet on you. Mama says he will surely ask you something very important indeed tonight,’ Rose said. She did have to tease Lily just a bit, as she always had, even when her sister was a tiny, golden-curled cherub prone to blushing and shrieking when provoked. But she was serious, too. Mr Hewlitt had been stammering his way up to just such a moment for weeks and this ball at their cousins’ home at Barton Park to celebrate midsummer seemed the perfect opportunity. It was true that he was a curate with only a middling income, yet everyone could see how good he was at his calling, so caring and energetic. Surely a bishopric waited for him one day!

  And he adored Lily, as she did him. Together the two of them were as adorable as a box of new puppies.

  Rose was happy for her sister, yet wistful, too. With just herself and their mother, their cottage would be much too quiet. Too lonely.

  Rose sighed. She would have to procure a kitten, or mayhap a songbird. Wasn’t that what useful spinsters did? Collect pets, especially cats, and knit them little sweaters and such? It sounded rather diverting.

  ‘Come, dearest Lily, let me finish the hem,’ she said. ‘Or the dancing will be over before Mr Hewl
itt can find you.’

  Lily climbed back on to the low stool, watching in the mirror with a little frown as Rose plied her needle through the delicate beaded tulle. ‘Do you really, truly think he will propose?’

  ‘Of course he will.’

  ‘Do—do you think I should accept, then? Right away?’

  Rose was surprised at her sister’s suddenly unsure, quiet tone. She glanced up to see that Lily did indeed look worried, something most uncharacteristic. She quickly thought back on Mr Hewlitt’s courtship: his visits to the cottage, his little gifts of bouquets and books of poetry, his walks with Lily, the way they stared at each other as if there was no one else around at all. Had she missed something? ‘Do you have doubts, dearest? Has he done something—ungentlemanly?’ She couldn’t quite imagine that, but then again one never really knew with men. Look how their own father had concealed his debts, his terrible gambling habits, from his wife and daughters until he died and they were cast out of their home.

  Surely Mr Hewlitt would never do that. If he dared to hurt Lily in any way, Rose would murder him.

  ‘Oh, no, not at all! It’s just—’ Lily broke off, biting her lip. ‘Well, what will you and Mama do?’

  ‘Oh, Lily.’ Rose gave her the most reassuring smile she could manage. Was that not the very same question she had asked herself since Father died? ‘You must not worry about that, dearest. We will be absolutely fine. Indeed, I’m quite looking forward to making your chamber into my very own sitting room. The mind reels at the thought of so much space! I will be just like a duchess with my own suite.’

  Lily laughed, as well she would. Their cottage was approximately the size of a thimble, even with Lily’s extra little chamber they had built at the back. ‘And you will visit me very often, won’t you? I won’t be far away.’

  ‘So often you will be heartily sick of me.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Just try to keep me away.’ Rose finished the last stitch in the hem and stood up to give her sister a hug, careful not to muss her ruffles and curls. Lily smelled of violet powder and sweetness, just as she had when she was a child, and Rose had held her dimpled little hands to help her walk. She laughed to keep from crying.

  ‘You really should marry first, as the eldest daughter. That is the natural way,’ Lily said.

  Rose laughed again. ‘Find me another Mr Hewlitt, then. Until I have just such a paragon, I would never be able to tolerate wifely duties.’

  ‘He is out there, Rose, I just know it! The perfect man for you.’ Lily drew back to stare most earnestly into Rose’s eyes. ‘You will find him when you least expect it, just as I did with Mr Hewlitt.’

  ‘I haven’t time for romance,’ Rose said, tucking away her needle and thread in her workbox. It was quite true. When their father died so suddenly and they had to leave their home for the cottage, they’d had a very small income that would keep them from starving, but there would be no carriage or smart clothes or abundance of servants. Rose herself did much of the work: sweeping, sewing, looking after the chickens, taking care of their frail mother. She didn’t mind very much; she actually quite liked the useful, busy feeling of tea to make and ironing of petticoats to finish. And her chickens were known to be the finest layers in the neighbourhood.

  Their mother, however, did mind. Mrs Felicity Parker had grown up as gentry in a fine manor house, cousin to the ancient family of the Bancrofts of Barton Park, and expected more of the same from her marriage, only to be bitterly disappointed. She talked of it to anyone who would listen. All her hopes had long been pinned on the beautiful Lily marrying well. A poor curate had never been in her plans, no matter how kind and handsome he was, no matter how much he adored Lily. And Rose saw too clearly what happened when a woman had to trust in marriage, trust in a man. She wasn’t sure she could do it.

  Rose sighed. She very much feared her mother’s plans might turn to herself now and this visit to Barton Park was part of them. As much as she enjoyed seeing the old house and meeting her cousins, she couldn’t let her guard down.

  ‘Are you quite well, Rose?’ Lily asked, frowning in concern. ‘You look as if you have the headache.’

  Rose made herself smile and fluffed up the lace trim of her sister’s sleeve. ‘Not at all. It’s just a bit stuffy in here, don’t you think? We should make our way down to the party. Mr Hewlitt will surely arrive soon.’

  With a squeal of excitement, Lily dashed out of the room, her gown floating and sparkling around her like angel’s wings. Rose took a quick glance at herself in the glass before she followed, to make sure she looked presentable and tidy.

  Presentable and tidy were about all she could hope for, she thought wryly. Unlike Lily, she had not inherited their mother’s blond curls and pink cheeks, her petite plumpness. Rose was taller, thin to the point of sharpness, with light brown hair that refused to hold a curl no matter how long it was subjected to the tongs, and skin that had turned ever so slightly golden while working in the garden. Her eyes were not too bad, she thought, with a small spark of hopefulness. A green-hazel that looked emerald in some lights, when she did not have to wear the horrid spectacles. Sadly, those had become more and more necessary of late, especially when sitting up sewing in the lamplight.

  She smoothed the sleeves of her gown and reached for her gloves. Unlike Lily’s new dress, Rose had redone an old gown of their mother’s for herself. The olive-gold satin, plain and lustrous with only a single row of gold embroidery at the hem, suited her much better than the current style for frothy pale muslins and ruffled sleeves, and her needle had managed to take in the fuller skirts and puff out the sleeves a bit, yet she feared it would attract whispers of ‘unfashionableness’ and pity for the poor Parkers.

  ‘Ah, well,’ she told herself. ‘Fashion is something you could never really aspire to, Rose dear.’

  She laughed, straightened the ivory comb in her upswept hair, slid her creamy Indian shawl over her shoulders and followed Lily out the door.

  The party downstairs was just beginning, the first arrivals sweeping through the front doors and gathering in the marble-floored hall, leaving their wraps with the footmen, calling out merry greetings to each other.

  Rose peeked over the gilded banister to the scene below. She had always loved Barton Park, the home of her mother’s distant cousins, the Bancrofts, even though they so seldom got to visit. It was a beautiful house, not too small and not too grand, built on elegant, classic lines and filled with comfortable furnishings and plenty of books and art. A true family home for many generations, soaked through with stories and emotions and hopes. It had fallen into some disrepair for a few years, but under the care of the current owners, Jane, Countess of Ramsay, and her sister, Emma, it had found new life.

  The gardens beyond the tall glass windows were equally lovely, especially on such a soft, warm summer’s evening. Chinese lanterns shimmered in the trees, lighting up the pathways and the colourful tumble of the flowerbeds as carriages bounced along the gravel drive to the waiting doors.

  Rose studied the crowd, a laughing, beautifully dressed throng gathered around Jane and her husband, the magnificently handsome Lord Ramsay. Jane looked as if she had belonged there at Barton Park for ever in her elegant dark blue gown, shimmering with lavender beads. She greeted each new arrival with a happy cry, sparkling with laughter before she passed them to her younger sister, Emma, a blonde angel much like Lily in her grey satin gown. Emma, too, smiled, though it was quieter, more unsure. When they were children, Emma had been quite the daredevil, but now she had returned to Barton as a young widow, trailing something of a scandal in her wake. Rose quite adored her, even as she worried for her.

  The growing throng appeared a bit of a blur to Rose without her spectacles, but she glimpsed Lily near the open doors to the drawing room, where the music was drifting out above the hum of laughter. Their mother stood beside her, the
plumes of her striped turban nodding merrily as she laughed and chattered, but Lily didn’t seem to be paying attention at all. She bounced on the toes of her dancing slippers, searching each face around her eagerly before falling back again.

  Oh, dear, Rose thought. Mr Hewlitt had probably not made his appearance yet. She tiptoed down the stairs and slipped into the crowd, intending to make her way to Lily and their mother. She was stopped when Jane spotted her.

  ‘Rose, my dear, do come and meet someone!’ Jane said, grasping Rose’s hand and drawing her forward. Jane was the kindest of women, but always most assiduous in her hostess duties. She would never just let a wallflower be a wallflower.

  Rose flashed a quick smile at Emma, who smiled back uncomfortably. She looked as if she wanted to run for the safety of the comfortably shabby library as much as Rose did.

  But then Rose turned to face Jane’s newly arrived guests—and froze. All thoughts of fleeing, all thoughts at all, were quite gone.

  A gentleman had just stepped through the front door and what a gentleman he was. He looked rather like something Rose would picture in one of the romantic French novels Lily liked to read aloud in the evenings—a man tall, dark and mysterious. His expression was quite solemn and wary as he studied the crowd, as if he was thinking of possible battle lines rather than dancing.

  He certainly did have the bearing of a soldier, lean and ramrod-straight, his shoulders strong beneath the cut of his dark blue evening coat, his sun-darkened skin set off by a plain white cravat. His hair, so dark it was almost a blue-black, like a winter’s night, waved back from his forehead, and his eyes were a velvet brown. He had a strange stillness, a perfect watchfulness, almost a—a menace about him, but one that was enticing rather than frightening. He was quite unlike anyone else she had ever seen.

  ‘Harry, how delightful you could come tonight after all,’ Jane was saying, once Rose could tear her attention away from the man’s mesmerising handsomeness and hear the roar of the party again. ‘We did hear you were off to battle in Sicily.’