Mistletoe Masquerade: A Ridlington Christmas Novella

by Sahara Kelly

  Chapter Eleven

  Harriet found herself at loose ends.

  Paul had not returned from the parlor, so she had to assume he was going to stay there until the gentlemen were done for the night.

  The ladies were being tended to by their maids, the menu for Christmas Eve had been settled, and the servants were taking the time to enjoy a respite from their duties.

  Which was all well and good, but it left Harriet with time on her hands, and she realized that she much preferred to be busy. Not only that, but there was an itchy sort of feeling shivering its way over her skin at the thought of marrying Paul tomorrow night.

  It was a big step—for both of them—and one not easily undone if the case arose. In her heart, she knew this was what she wanted; that it was the right step for her. But Paul? He’d lived.

  Shunned by society and exiled from England, he’d spent quite a few years roaming Europe. Those were turbulent years, too, so she doubted it was a simple matter of an extended Grand Tour. No, he’d lived, and worked, and probably loved many times over. He was so attractive, with a gentle charm that occasionally peeped out from beneath his handsome masculine exterior. How could he have avoided the fairer sex?

  He couldn’t. One look at him, and Harriet could almost hear the stampede of shoes across the marble floors of Russian palaces, or the rustle of silks in the gardens and the ballrooms of Austria or Germany, or Italy.

  Had he been in danger? Anywhere across the English Channel was dangerous at this time, and most likely Paul had come into contact with any of the various wars that seemed to be forever claiming lives. Napoleon still threatened, and the conflict had become a constant topic of concern for so many.

  She sighed. At least he was back on English soil.

  But would he be satisfied with a simple English girl as his wife?

  Walking past the kitchen, she saw two buckets next to the fire, ones that had been used earlier to take water up to the Tisdales.

  Well, why not? The idea formed, germinated and blossomed within moments. She was going to indulge herself with a leisurely bath and wash her hair. Tomorrow was going to be her wedding day, as well as Christmas Eve. She was going to look her best. She deserved that much at least.

  Happy to have something to do, she set a pot of water over the fire to heat, and hurried upstairs. There was an old, small bathtub in a closet near her room, and this was the one she planned on using. Tonight, she’d even light a fire in the little fireplace, and hope nothing was stuck up in the chimney.

  Fate blessed her with a clear chimney, and by the time she’d got a cheerful blaze going and the tub in front of it, she knew the first bucket of hot water would be ready.

  It was work, physical labor, carrying the water up and down the stairs. But when she was done, she intended to empty the tub via the window. There were a few shrubs that might appreciate a drink, and she didn’t fancy carrying it all back downstairs. The tub was easy to manage without any water in it, so after bringing up four buckets, she was more than ready to remove her clothing and step into the warm pool awaiting her.

  Oh, what luxury.

  She soaped and washed and scrubbed her hair, humming to herself as the room warmed and the fire toasted the cloths she’d set beside the tub.

  When done, they wrapped her in a heated cocoon, and the next half hour was spent relaxing with a comb and cooking her wrinkled toes on the hearth.

  She let her mind drain of worries, or thoughts of the future, simply resting for once, something she hadn’t been able to do for a long time. Meeting Letitia and becoming part of the Ridlington family had started the process, but somehow, here, on this night, she could finally set her troubles aside. Tomorrow she would have a husband, and that fact alone would remove the burden of fear from her shoulders.

  A tiny thrill danced low in her belly.

  Tomorrow she would have a husband and share a bed. And at last she would experience things she had only read about in Letitia’s scandalous book.

  She couldn’t wait.

  Finally tucked beneath the covers, with the barriers in place for one last night, Harriet smiled. Warm, clean, her hair a soft cloud around her on the pillows, she was ready for whatever Christmas Eve might bring.

  She was ready for Paul.

  It was past midnight when Paul himself finally arrived upstairs, and by then Harriet was sound asleep.

  He sighed. He would have liked at least a cuddle and maybe a kiss or two—if he were honest with himself, that was about all he had the energy for at this point.

  But it was not to be. So he quietly prepared himself for bed, breathing in the scent of Harriet and soap, mixed with a dash of wood smoke.

  The fire was welcome, since there was a clear bitter cold sky over the countryside, freezing everything beneath it. He hoped that everyone in the house was warm, then stopped on that thought, wondering when such a paternal consideration had become part of his thinking.

  He was assuming responsibility for the house and its denizens, just as tomorrow—or today now—he’d be assuming responsibility for Harriet.

  Oh God. He was growing up. He pulled the covers up to his chin and considered the matter. He didn’t like the idea of growing up, but apparently it had happened without him knowing about it. Gone were the days when he could throw everything he owned into a saddlebag and take off down a road that looked interesting. He would probably not be able to sleep in the corner of a tavern or the bed of a Countess any more.

  Especially not the latter.

  A snuffling murmur came from the other side of the miniature alpine range separating him from Harriet. Applying great stealth, Paul managed to the mountains, leaving only a few small dales dotting the southern regions. Thus freed, he moved toward his future wife, slipping one arm beneath her and tucking her in to his body.

  She snuffled some more, sighed, and willingly fit herself against him. Even in her sleep she was his.

  He realized that in less than twenty-four hours, she would be his wife. Mrs. Paul DeVoreaux.

  Would she be happy? He prayed that that would be the case. But he had little to offer. His life was beginning to restore itself, but the DeVoreaux finances were tenuous at best, and much depended on the current climate in London. Were the von Rillenbachs still out to destroy him? Did they still seek revenge for a death that happened so long ago? Had Society vindicated him for the sin of dueling after so many years?

  Only time and his firm of solicitors would tell. He didn’t even know if there was any kind of estate left, or whether it had value. He might, in fact, be all but penniless. Was it right to marry Harriet under these circumstances, knowing that as soon as he did he’d have access to her funds?

  He didn’t know. But as he closed his eyes and breathed in her unique fragrance, he was dead certain that he was going to marry her, right or not.

  On that determined thought, he finally let sleep claim him.

  *~~*~~*

  Christmas Eve dawned early for everyone at the Inchworthy hunting box.

  Harriet would have liked to linger a little and share those first few waking moments with Paul, but both knew that there was much to do. In addition, there was an awareness between them of the significance of this day; their morning greetings were tender, gentle—and fast. It was their wedding day, but before that joyous moment arrived, they still had duties to perform as butler and housekeeper.

  Paul was dressed and gone by the time Harriet had shaken out her gown and made the bed. She’d wear her housekeeper’s gray ensemble, since she had brought little else with her. The room was warmer than usual, thanks to the fire, and she took a little longer to make sure her hair was tidy and shining. The tiny mirror told her that she would do, and that was the best she could hope for.

  Hurrying down to the kitchen, she could already smell the fresh bread baking, and the lingering aroma of mince pies.

  “What a wonderful start to the day.” She came up behind Cook and impulsively gave her a quick hug. “Happy Christm
as Eve.”

  Cook jumped. “And to yerself, Mrs. Harry. But yer could have had yer tea without the hug,” she grinned.

  “I know.” Harriet helped herself from the massive teapot. “But it’s Christmas. A time for hugs.” She raised her cup in salute. “And also thanks.”

  “Oh, go on,” blushed Cook. “The bread’ll be ready soon and I’ve a mind to put some ham out fer breakfast?”

  Harriet nodded. “I think that’s a lovely idea.” She put her cup back on the saucer and pulled out a chair, sitting on the edge. “Lady Aphrodite has told me, in confidence of course, that she is expecting. I have no idea what she should be eating for breakfast, but probably not ham or kidneys.”

  Cook nodded. “Oh the poor lady. You’re right, she needs something very light. I remember my daughters when they were in that situation. Couldn’t look at a piece of bacon without running fer the chamber pot.”

  Harriet grimaced. “Yes, well I’d rather avoid that if possible.”

  “Don’t you worry none. I’ll set up a special tray fer her.”

  “Bless you. I knew I could rely on you.” Harriet smiled with relief. “Now, I’ve an idea for dinner this evening that I think would be lovely for our guests, and also give everyone below stairs a chance to enjoy their Christmas Eve.”

  Cook looked interested, and Paul walked in at that moment.

  “Everyone should indeed enjoy Christmas Eve,” he agreed. “What did you have in mind?”

  Harriet explained her plan, and although it was different and made Cook frown, Paul nodded. “It has quite caught on in the Continent, I understand. I heard several mentions of it when I worked in London.” He glanced at Harriet. “I do believe our guests would find such a setting most entertaining. And something to speak of when they return home.” He poured tea on a sigh. “Silly thing, but one that matters to a certain set.”

  The rest of the servants straggled in, and by the time the plan was set in place, they were smiling at the thought of time off.

  “You will of course have Boxing Day to yourselves,” said Harriet firmly. “Weather permitting, the guests will be outside most of the day, and we’ll offer a cold collation in the evening. If shooting tires them out as much as gathering a log does, they won’t want much else.”

  “Except brandy,” added Paul. “I swear we must have broached fifty bottles.”

  “You exaggerate.” Harriet frowned at him.

  “Well, at least ten.”

  Harriet rolled her eyes.

  “Here you go, Ma’am.” Cook gestured to a tray and added a cup and saucer. “Will Lady Aphrodite’s maid take this up to her?”

  Harriet rose. “No, that’s all right. I’ll do it myself. I want to see how she’s doing this morning.”

  “Very good, Ma’am.”

  Carefully carrying the tray from the kitchen, Harriet heard Paul behind her. “Don’t work too hard, love. It will be a late night for us…” His voice trailed off and she felt his finger brush the back of her neck.

  She shivered with pleasurable anticipation. “I do hope so.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Paul made it through the routines of the morning even though his mind was on other things. He checked the fires, made sure the drinks trays were fully restocked with liquor and glassware, straightened a pillow here and there, and wound two of the clocks.

  It was busy work, requiring little focus. Which was a good thing, since most of his focus was on his future wife, and their marriage.

  It would be fair to add that, being a man, his thoughts also occasionally wandered down paths leading to naked skin and creamy flesh. He couldn’t help that. In fact, he felt rather pleased by the response of his cock which showed a tendency to swell at such thoughts.

  Yes, he was definitely ready to claim the new Mrs. DeVoreaux.

  However, winding the clocks failed to make time move any faster, and as the morning progressed, the guests began to appear.

  “How is your hand this morning, Sir Geoffrey?”

  Paul made the polite enquiry from a distance he regarded as safe. If the man’s hand had recovered, he didn’t want it drifting to places it didn’t belong. Like the front of Paul’s breeches.

  “’Tis better,” answered Sir Geoffrey, regarding the large bandage with a mournful expression. “But there will be a scar. I know it.”

  “I understand scars can hold their own appeal, sir. Perhaps an interesting story to explain it might help. One that would attract interest rather than repulsion.”

  “Oh.” Sir Geoffrey leaned back in the overstuffed chair he’d appropriated, next to the fire. “Demmed fine idea, man.” He pondered the notion.

  Paul assumed it was pondering. If not, then Sir Geoffrey might have developed some sort of stomach ailment.

  “I say. Christmas Eve and everything…” Sir Ambrose sailed in. “What fun have you for us today, Paul?”

  I’d chain you all in the dungeon if we had one, but you’d probably enjoy it too much. The ignoble thought flashed through Paul’s mind as he bowed politely. “Well, my Lord, since it is Christmas Eve as you so rightly observed, may I suggest a short walk to gather greenery? We will be lighting the Yule log later, of course, and traditionally the afternoon is spent decorating the hall in preparation for the event.”

  “Oh, but my hand,” whined Sir Geoffrey. “Dare I risk hurting it again?”

  “We shall see that you are well protected, sir.” Paul attempted a soothing voice. Then instantly regretted it.

  “Oh, you darling man. How kind you are to a poor wounded soldier like myself.” That was said with a blush and a subtly fluttered eyelash.

  Instead of pointing out that Sir Geoffrey’s resemblance to a soldier was that of a kitten to a rampaging tiger, he merely bowed.

  And left the room.

  The ladies were descending the stairs as he walked through the hall, and Harriet was behind them. “Has the plan been approved, Paul?” She moved to his side. “I have asked the maids to ready coats and boots and so on.”

  He shrugged. “I think the ladies will be the finishing piece of encouragement.” He smiled at Lady Aphrodite. “You are looking well this morning, if you’ll forgive the impertinence, my Lady.”

  “I think a bit of fresh air will do me the world of good,” she nodded. “And thanks to Mrs. Harry here, I have passed a much better morning than usual. So I hope to continue that way.”

  Sir Farren was coming down behind her. “Good to hear that, my darling. Jolly good.” He came to her side and gave her his arm for the last few steps.

  The gentlemen appeared from the parlor, causing squeaks of delight to emerge from the Tisdale twins. One day Paul might be able to tell them apart without help, but until one addressed the other, he was at a loss.

  “Shall we be gathering greens, dear Ambrose?”

  “Indeed we shall, Hestia.”

  Ah. There it is. Hestia in blue today. He could have sworn that Harriet was making the same note in her mind.

  “Oh wonderful,” said Phoebe, clapping her hands together with delight.

  She did that a lot. Probably practiced it in front of her mirror. Paul admonished himself for uncharitable thoughts. They were all going out and wouldn’t require more than a footman or two and a couple of maids.

  “I believe the cloaks are ready, and we do have some warm wraps if you feel a little extra coverage might be needed.” Paul looked out the window. “However, the sun is beginning to shine, so maybe your cloaks will suffice. But perhaps with the addition of stout gloves. You’ll want to carry some of the lovely greenery, I’m sure.”

  There was a general bustle as the party prepared itself for an adventure out of doors. Paul swore he’d readied himself for a trek over the Alps in less time than it took them to dress for a winter walk. Then he realized that every moment they were gone was a moment closer to his wedding, so he should probably stop thinking sharply sarcastic thoughts about them and just get them the hell out of the house.

  *~~*~~*


  Harriet was as pleased as Paul to see the hall empty and hear the cheerful calls outside as they began their excursion to hunt the elusive evergreens. It gave her chance to prepare for the evening’s festivities.

  Not her wedding, since there was little she could do for that, other than pray—with fingers crossed for extra emphasis—that the Vicar of Pineneedle Drift would be enjoying the Christmas spirit to the point where he’d not mind adding a marriage to the Christmas Eve order of events. Her hand drifted to her pocket where she felt the comforting shape of the special license. Everything was in order; it only remained to pass the intervening hours without letting loose the scream she felt building in her lungs every now and again.

  She squared her shoulders, took a breath, and did her best to push her nerves away as she walked downstairs to the kitchen and speak with Cook.

  The woman was busy cutting up squares of cake.

  “Oh, these smell wonderful.” Harriet inhaled the scent of cinnamon and cloves.

  “Well, if we’re goin’ ter try this here new kind of meal, Ma’am, it seems small things are goin’ ter be best.”

  “Indeed they are,” agreed Harriet, smiling as she saw Paul walk in. “I was just telling Cook that her desserts are going to be perfect for our evening buffet.”

  “You are absolutely correct.” He grinned and shamelessly swiped a square, popping it into his mouth and closing his eyes on a murmur of pleasure. “And I think they’ll be wasted on our party, Mrs. Chester. These would be a sensation at any evening party in London, I’m sure.”

  “I still ‘as to put the icin’ on ‘em,” said Cook proudly. “Right fancy they’ll look, mark my words, wi’ a bit of green and red, not to mention a swirl of spun sugar…my Millie does that real nice.” She beamed with pride. “O’course I ain’t too sure ‘bout this whole eatin’ off yon sideboard…”

  “Apparently the idea of a buffet is a bit new-fangled here in the country,” explained Harriet, shooting a pleading glance at Paul.