The Mistletoe Marquess: A Risqué Regency Romance

by Sahara Kelly

  Prudence filled his mind and memories of their time together filled the rest of him with a craving that he found almost overwhelming. He walked slowly past barrels of fermenting ale, and found himself at the end facing the stacked wood that would be used for the Christmas fires throughout the village.

  It was a Little Chillendale tradition. Any wood that could not be used for barrel making was stored in the rear of the brewery. Dry and ready to catch a flame, it would be distributed on the Sunday before Christmas to everyone who wanted a piece. He stared at the pile, thinking of all the families who would be happy knowing that they were warming themselves with a piece of Chillendale.

  It would reinforce their sense of belonging. Things like that mattered to a country community.

  Reid wondered if Prudence had ever had that experience. She’d been shuttled from place to place, seldom having the chance to express her own wants or needs. And, from the little she had told him, never really belonging.

  She had crept into his heart, he realized. One brief meeting and he was entranced. One afternoon of abandoned passion—and he was lost.

  What he was going to do about it all, he hadn’t the faintest idea. So he wandered back over the flagstones of the Chillendale brewery and decided it was time for him to go back to the house and prepare for the Fête.

  A solution would present itself in good time. It usually did.

  For some reason though, that thought wasn’t as comforting as it should be.

  He hadn’t been in the house for five minutes, before there was a loud knock on the door. Curious, he made his way to the front hall, only to hear a familiar voice berating his butler.

  “Lord Rowdean. Welcome, sir.”

  “Good God, Bunbury. You’re still alive. And I’ll wager if I were to pop down to the kitchens I’d find Mrs. Clark making lemon tarts, eh? And you wouldn’t give me one, you mean butler.”

  “You were six at the time, my Lord.” Bunbury was unmoved. “And you had neither the permission of your parents nor of Mrs. Clark.”

  Brent shook his head. “Trust you to remember that.”

  “I’ll be damned. Brent, you cawker.” Reid rushed to greet his old friend. “What on earth is a Viscount doing in this humble abode?”

  They exchanged a manly sort of hug and a handshake, then punched each other on the shoulders and the welcome was over.

  “I had to come down this way to find out how to get some of that magnificent ale of yours, old lad.”

  “Ahh. Yes, it draws admirers like honey draws flies.” Reid chuckled.

  “Consider me a fly, not a Viscount. Since I’ve no idea how to properly be one of those. And give me tea, will you? I’m ravenous. Lemon tarts would be definitely in order. I’m saving the ale for later.”

  “Come on then.” He ushered Brent into the small parlor, trusting Bunbury to take care of the rest. “You’re here just in time for the Christmas Fête, you know.”

  “Of course. That’s today, isn’t it? What luck.” Brent grinned. “Do you remember when we brought in a real sheep for the shepherds?”

  The next half hour was spent reminiscing, and after tea—and lemon tarts—had been served and devoured, Brent leaned back and looked at his friend. “So, Reid. You’re the Mistletoe Marquess this year, then? Rumors abound, my friend.”

  “You’re staying in the village, I take it?” sighed Reid.

  “You know this place so well.”

  “I do, and yes. I have the misfortune to be the unlucky sod with the mistletoe wreath this year.”

  “Got a Marchioness?”

  That comment earned Brent a glare. “There was a possible candidate. But no. She is no longer under consideration.”

  “Ouch. What happened?”

  Prudence.

  “Nothing happened. It just turned out to not be a good match. And I refuse to leg-shackle myself to the wrong woman just for the sake of a tradition.”

  “A centuries-old tradition, Reid.”

  “I know. Don’t remind me.” He looked up. “How old are you now?”

  “Too old. But nice try.”

  “Damn.” Brent finished the last lemon tart. “Who was the unlucky miss?”

  “Emmeline Southwick. And she’s quite lovely. But not my style, I’m afraid.”

  “I remember her as small.”

  “She’s grown up.” He shrugged. “As I said, some would consider her the ideal wife. I don’t.”

  “Ah. Getting picky in our old age, are we?”

  “Are you married, Brent?”

  “Me? No.”

  “Then shut up.” Reid stood. “And I’m about to throw you out because I have to go and transform myself into something markedly green in preparation for my appearance as the Mistletoe Marquess at the Fête.”

  Brent stood as well. “Oh right. The presents. You get to hand them out.”

  “Actually I don’t mind that part. The children are always a handful, but they’re genuinely thrilled to receive something from the Marquess. It’s fun.”

  They reached the door and Brent accepted his cloak from a servant. “Well I’ll certainly be there. Wouldn’t miss it. Oh…” he turned back to Reid. “D’you think it would be all right if I brought my cousin along? First time and all that. We’re traveling together for convenience and since I needed to stop here, we both took rooms at the inn.”

  “Of course. The more the merrier. It is almost Christmas, after all.” Reid smiled and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’d love to meet your cousin. All are welcome.”

  Brent’s smile was a thing of beauty. “We’ll see you there.”

  Chapter Six

  The Little Chillendale church hall was a fine edifice, having been built around the ruins of a fifteenth century priory. It was next door to the church, boasted a covered path between the two buildings, and the windows featured odd little designs in colored glass—remnants of the original stained glass creations in the church itself.

  There was a large fireplace in which a massive log burned on this special evening, sending warmth throughout the space and over all the villagers who had come to enjoy the Fête. Chairs were arranged around the room, interspersed with long tables almost sagging under the weight of food.

  The sound of young voices rose above the murmur of adult conversations, as every little one caught the excitement of being out with their families well past their bedtimes, and their eyes widened at the sight of so many different treats.

  Lady Jocelyn and Sir Rodney were occupying the seats of honor, nearest the fire and farthest away from the noisiest of the children’s games. Although Lady Jocelyn had a small girl on her lap, and Sir Rodney a young boy at his feet playing with a very colorful windmill. His parents looked quite at home.

  Reid smiled. They knew how to blend, how to be everything that they were born to be. They were honored, revered, and above all, liked. He hoped he would turn out the same way. There was one large chair off to the side of the fireplace, shrouded in a horse blanket. Reid would be sitting there in his incarnation as the Mistletoe Marquess. Since he was wearing a jacket and trousers made of deep green wool, all he had to do was place a wreath of mistletoe on his head and the thing was done. But he still enjoyed the excited looks he received from some of the older children who had attended the Fête several years in a row.

  A stir heralded the arrival of the Southwicks, and Lady Mary led Emmeline inside with her head held high and an air of consequence. Many could be forgiven for assuming the tall lean man in brown behind them to be a servant or a coachman. In fact, he was neither of those things. He was Lord Southwick.

  He must have been attractive when younger, mused Reid, watching them wend their way through the room. But now he seemed tired and gaunt. Of course, given who he was married to, Reid wasn’t surprised.

  Being leg-shackled to a woman like Lady Mary would be enough to wear the strongest man down to the bone.

  Putting on a socially acceptable expression of welcome, Reid strolled over and g
reeted the newcomers.

  “Reid, dear. How lovely. And here’s Emmeline, looking just adorable this evening, wouldn’t you say?”

  “My Lady.” Reid bowed over her hand. “And Miss Emmeline. Lovely as always.”

  “So kind.” There was the blush and the giggle.

  “My Lord. Good of you to join us.” Reid saluted Lord Southwick.

  “Not much of a chance of doing otherwise,” sighed the older man. “You serving your ale, Reid?”

  “Indeed yes.” He turned and pointed to the far side of the Hall. “If you’ll notice a basket full of holly over there? We’ve set up for a small tasting on that table.”

  “You’re a good man. I’ll stop by and say hallo to your parents soon.”

  “Very good, sir.” Reid bowed as Lord Southwick made a hasty departure toward the ale.

  “Now Reid. We must talk about arrangements for the Ball, you know.” Lady Southwick had her hands clamped around his arm. “It’s getting quite close, and Emmeline…”A loud laugh distracted her and she turned toward the door. “Good heavens. Isn’t that Brent Rowdean?”

  “Indeed it is. Although he’s properly known as Viscount Rowdean of Minter now, I believe, since his father passed.”

  “A Viscount?” Her grip on Reid’s arm lessened. “I had no idea.”

  Reid was about to make some comment when another figure entered the hall behind Brent. It was one he recognized all too well.

  “And who is that with the him, I wonder?” Lady Southwick dropped Reid’s arm completely.

  “I shall make it my duty to find out, Ma’am. Excuse me.”

  He managed not to run. He also managed not to shout out her name, but it was a close thing. Finally, he arrived at her side, hoping he hadn’t trodden on too many children to get there.

  “Good evening.” It seemed such a mundane thing to say, but every other word seemed to have vanished from his brain.

  She smiled at him, doing serious damage to his few remaining working brain parts. “Hullo.”

  Brent grinned. “Reid, I’d like you to meet my cousin. Lady Prudence Eldridge. Pru, this is my oldest friend, Reid Chillendale. For several centuries, his family has been responsible for the best ale you’ll ever taste. Nobody knows how they do it, but there it is. Personally I think they’ve all got a touch of magic.”

  Prudence laughed. “If it’s as good as you say, then I think you’re right. Magic it is.” She held out her hand. “Mr. Chillendale. Good evening.”

  To his surprise, he took it and raised it to his lips. “You are most welcome to our little Fête, Lady Eldridge. Let me find you a seat.”

  She flashed him a wicked grin from beneath her eyelashes, and Reid knew in that very moment—surrounded by noise, laughter and the smells of Christmas—that she was the only woman for him.

  *~~*~~*

  His welcome might have been quite acceptable, but his eyes were saying something else entirely. She knew instantly that instead of finding her a seat, what he really meant was more along the lines of “let me take you somewhere private, strip those clothes from your body and have my way with you. For hours on end.”

  The smile she gave him told him she knew and the answer would have been yes. There was something about him. Something real, genuine and honest.

  When she’d mentioned to Brent that she doubted she’d ever meet a man with no alternative motives, or desire for power, or greed, or any of the things that she found so unappealing, he’d paused for the longest moment. Then he’d grinned.

  “I know one. Other than me, that is.”

  She’d scoffed at his assertion, but he’d been quite serious about it, and told her of Reid Chillendale, his childhood friend. Given that it was Brent telling her stories of their exploits, she took half of what he said and added a hefty pinch of salt. But the other half…that was where the intriguing possibilities lay. The notion that this Reid person might indeed be the paragon Brent made him out to be.

  She’d known and loved her cousin ever since he picked her up and tended to her skinned knee after she’d fallen. She was four and he was seven. They’d formed a bond that had lasted—through her ill-fated marriage, through his ascendancy to the position of Viscount upon the death of his father—to now, this moment when he proudly presented her to the one man he avowed would meet all her requirements.

  It was one of those unique relationships where they simply loved and trusted each other, she mused. There had never been any kind of romantic attachment there. They were as close as brother and sister, and had been that way from the start. Which was an excellent thing, since each had needed that kind of support throughout their lives up to this point.

  As Reid led her through the Little Chillendale church hall, she wondered if perhaps this was the man who would change her mind about many things. Or if he would just be the man who made her pulses race just by smiling at her. Perhaps it would just be a mutually satisfactory affair. Only time would tell.

  “Lady Eldridge, I’d like to present my parents, Sir Rodney and Lady Jocelyn Chillendale.” Reid had stopped in front of an elderly couple. “Papa, Mama…this is Brent’s cousin, Lady Eldridge.”

  His mother smiled. “How nice to meet you, Lady Eldridge. And how lovely of you to attend such a simple gathering.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Ma’am.” Prudence curtseyed gracefully. “This is a treat for me. Brent told me of the Fête and I am thrilled to attend.” She turned to Reid’s father. “And Sir Rodney…Brent tells me your ale is the finest in the country. I must beg a taste if at all possible…”

  Used to dealing with elderly gentlemen, she was pleased to see she hadn’t lost her touch as Sir Rodney blushed, huffed and blustered, then took her arm and led her away, talking animatedly.

  “Here we are, my dear. I think you’ll find it to your liking, although whether it’s the finest in the land, well…that might be a bit of Brent’s exaggeration.” He filled a small mug from the cask resting atop a festive table. “There. Try that.”

  She accepted the mug and raised it, sniffing appreciatively. Although not overly enamored with ales in general, this one had a richness to it that she found pleasant. So she sipped. And then smiled.

  “Oh, yes. I do believe Brent was correct, Sir. This is undoubtedly the finest ale in the country.” She sipped again, enjoying Sir Rodney’s delight and pride.

  “Well?” Reid’s voice sounded behind her. “Have you been converted into a Chillendale supporter?”

  She laughed. “How could I not? This is an excellent ale, Mr. Chillendale. And I’m very sure I’m far from the first person this evening to tell you that.”

  “I’m pleased you like it. M’father and I strive to make sure it’s the best possible combination of ingredients.”

  Sir Rodney nodded. “Family effort, you know. Always has been, and with luck always will be.” Then his eyebrows drew together. “That’s if we can solve this damnable mess with the Mistletoe Marquess.”

  “Oh?” She glanced at Reid, eyebrows raised in question. “A problem?”

  Reid sighed. “Never mind. That’s not something we’re going to worry about this evening.”

  As if in answer to some silent prayer of his, there was a short blast from a trumpet and everyone’s head turned toward the area left clear of chairs.

  “If I may have your attention, please, ladies and gentlemen?” A small, white haired lady stood erect in the center of the makeshift stage. She leaned on a cane but her voice was sharp and clear.

  “Ah.” Sir Rodney moved away from the table. “That’s Miss Wellworthy, the schoolteacher. Best do as she says. She remembers everyone here. And some of us not too fondly.”

  Prudence noticed Reid grinning as his father slunk off to his seat beside Lady Jocelyn. “She taught your father?”

  Reid nodded. “And it wasn’t an easy relationship, I understand.”

  Prudence smiled. “Perhaps you should find me a seat and then join them?”

  “Not at all. We shall sit togethe
r and enjoy the performance.” He led her to a couple of seats off to one side.

  “Performance?” She sat and arranged her shawl behind her.

  “Yes. It’s the annual Nativity play.” He shot her a mischievous grin. “Prepare to be hugely entertained.”

  She settled back as the candles were dimmed, leaving only the ones circling the stage. Two tall lads emerged and fastened an appropriate cloth to the wall. On it, small hands had painted a kind of stable, some very interesting green plants and what probably was meant to be a donkey. It was strangely appealing.

  “Were you involved in anything like this?” Reid leaned close and whispered in her ear.

  She shook her head. “No,” she whispered back. “We sang carols and lit a Yule log, but never did any Nativity plays.”

  “Enjoy this, then. It’s unique.”

  And indeed it was.

  Prudence was charmed as a little girl in blue came out and sat on a small box. Then another girl with big feathery wings and a gold wreath danced out as Miss Wellworthy began the tale of Christmas, introducing Mary and setting the scene.

  The Angel Gabriel announced the coming of a special child, Mary and Joseph—a young lad whose beard kept falling off—were denied a room at the Inn and eventually arrived at the stable.

  There was a tiny but enthusiastic gathering of musicians, and Prudence sang along with Hark the Herald, humming the verses she couldn’t remember.

  The story was familiar, but seeing it through the eyes of these children, so excited and happy and proud to be performing…with the exception of poor Joseph and the beard…it brought something new into Prudence’s life. A realization of innocence. And something she had never thought of—or missed—the joy of sharing something special with one’s family.

  She had no mother. Not even a name. Nor a father that she knew of. She’d never felt the lack of them though, thanks to Aunt Dorothea. And how she would have enjoyed this little play.

  She laughed along with the audience as the shepherds brought in their sheep, wooden shapes with wheels and tufts of wool lovingly stuck to their heads.