Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection

by Mariana Gabrielle

  "You have no need to fear me, Margaret," Frederick whispered softly now that they were alone.

  "I do not fear you, Freddy."

  He was pleased to hear his name as it passed her lips. "Then what is troubling you so?"

  The eyes raised to his were filled with worry. "Why are you here?"

  He watched her fidget with the fabric of her gown. "You know why. I was invited," Frederick answered.

  A sound escaped her, but it was hardly ladylike. "You could easily have made your excuses and refused."

  "I wanted to make sure you were safe," he replied.

  "How could I not be safe? Captain Morledge is practically my betrothed."

  Frederick ran his hand across his eyes. "I do not trust him. There are rumors—"

  The laugh she gave was meant to be merry, but sounded forced. "Frederick, please tell me you have not taken to believing in town gossip. I would have thought you, above all people, were above such nonsense."

  He frowned. "Nonsense or not, I needed to see for myself that you are not in danger, even if I must watch over you myself."

  "It is hardly necessary." Margaret's attention once more flew to the entryway.

  He reached over to take her hand.

  She wrenched back with a silent and pleading look, and the briefest shake of her head. Leaning slightly forward, she confided, "Please do not, for it will not be wise. The servants watch my every move, and even now, it is reckless of me to be here alone with you."

  "You see! There is cause for concern. Why will you not let me help you?"

  "Please, Freddy. This is my one chance to find some happiness. Do not ruin it for me."

  "We have discussed this before, Margaret. You know my offer still stands. I would wed you on the morrow if you would have me."

  "Shush, you fool. You know I cannot."

  "Yet you would enter into a marriage with a man you do not love."

  A heavy sigh left her lips. "I can learn to love him."

  "Now who is the fool?" he grumbled irritably.

  "How dare you, sir! You cannot talk to me like that."

  "Oh, yes, I can because you know my words are true. If you but search your heart, Margaret, you will know the only person you should be marrying is me."

  He could sit no longer. Leaping to his feet, he crossed the room, then strode back to stand over her. "Do you know what hearing you say you could love another does to me when I, myself, want to marry you?"

  "Freddy… please," she begged him, "do not do this to me."

  "If not me, then who else will make you see reason?" he fumed. "I promise you, Margaret, before this weekend is over, I will prove to you once and for all that you and I are meant to be man and wife, and society and my parents can go hang!"

  He gave her the briefest of bows and excused himself to find a good stiff drink. It was either that or forget himself entirely and haul that woman into his arms to kiss her until she saw that his reasoning was sound.

  Chapter Seven

  Margaret watched Sophie and Digby race their sleds down the snowy hillside. They were taking advantage of a pause in the relentless snow, and what better way to have some fun than a sledding party? Margaret preferred watching the others enjoy themselves to joining in, and her sister's gleeful laughter brought out Margaret's own smile.

  But her brow furrowed again at the two boys sitting on a bench alone. Captain Morledge, or Sander as she was trying to think of him since he would be her husband, had at last introduced her to his own two children: Joseph, who at twelve was nearly of the same age as Sophie, and Michael, aged eight.

  She had attempted to persuade the boys to join in the fun, but trying to have a bit of conversation with them had been like attempting to pry open a firmly sealed jar. They wanted nothing to do with her, Sophie, the guests, or anything else that involved their father.

  Margaret had assumed father and sons would be close. After all, they were family, and they only had one another. And did not every man want an heir? Sander had two boys to carry on his name but no more wished to be in the boys' presence than the boys desired their sire's. What a shame. To all outward appearances, they were strangers living under the same roof.

  Sander had taken out a small contingent of guests to find his Christmas Yule log, and Margaret surmised that most likely the gentlemen would enjoy a flask or two of brandy to keep themselves warm.

  The sound of Sophie's laughter, while she pulled her sled back up the hill, brought Margaret back to the present. The dark stormy skies above threatened more snow shortly. She should stretch her legs while she was able. She clasped her hands into the fur muff and began walking along the tree line of the forest.

  Why was she not surprised to see Freddy making his way towards her? Every time she turned around, he seemed to be there, hovering near at hand and muddling her emotions.

  Yes… her emotions were in complete turmoil. He needed only to walk into a room, flashing that devilishly handsome smile in her direction, and her heart betrayed her, speeding up as though in truth Freddy had some claim upon it. By day, he wreaked havoc with her mind. At night, she dreamed about being in his arms.

  He walked up to her. Breathe, Margaret. Breathe. His hand reached out, startling her, but he only tucked a stray lock of her hair back inside her hood.

  "Good day to you, Margaret," he said brightly.

  "And to you, Frederick." She watched him intently. He stared up into the tree above them, and burst out laughing. She could not help but smile at the hearty sound, though she attempted to hide it. What was so interesting overhead?

  Freddy rocked back on the heels of his boots before clasping his hands behind him as if he did not trust himself. "You do realize, my dear, we are standing under the mistletoe."

  Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "And you realize, of course, Lord Beacham, that mistletoe is nothing but a parasite."

  "Always so practical, are you not, Margaret?"

  "I try to be."

  "Well, parasite or not, is it not still the custom to kiss when found beneath it?" Frederick grinned.

  "You would not dare," she warned.

  "Are you so sure, my lady?" He took a step closer.

  Margaret retreated, knowing she should not be this close to him, and laughed to make a joke of the situation. "There are so many other fine ladies here who would be more than willing to indulge your whim, Frederick."

  He gently took her arm and brought her closer. "There is no other woman I wish to kiss for the rest of my days but you, Margaret."

  She watched in fascination as Frederick began to lean down. His lips were but an instant away from tasting her own. She closed her eyes. Surely she could be forgiven for this one moment of pleasure?

  "Margaret!" The voice of her chaperone, Aunt Penelope, interrupted them.

  She jumped back as if she were teetering on the brink of a roaring fire from hell. Her father would be so disappointed that she dallied with Freddy when she should be spending more of her time in Sander's company. She must rectify her behavior at once.

  The sound of the crunching snow heralded Aunt Penelope, and with her, Lady Constance.

  "There you are, my dear. We have been looking everywhere for you." Aunt Penelope looked Frederick up and down with a furrowed brow. "Lord Beacham, this is my niece, Lady Constance."

  "A pleasure to meet you. I am at your service, my lady." Frederick bowed.

  "I know your parents well," Aunt Penelope said. "Now, Lord Beacham, you must know that Miss Templeton," she declared, pointing to Margaret, "has many guests to attend to. It is not seemly for you to occupy so much of her…time."

  "Of course, madam. Miss Templeton and I were just becoming reacquainted. It has been many years since we last saw one another."

  "Old friends or not, it is my duty to see to it that Miss Templeton's reputation remains intact. I trust I will not have to chastise you for being alone with her."

  Margaret gasped. "Aunt Penelope! Please, you are embarrassing me."

&nb
sp; Aunt Penelope wagged a finger at both of them. "Pish posh. Better to scold you now than to incur the wrath of our host, or did you forget your true purpose of being here?"

  Margaret's face flushed at the reminder. She turned away so Frederick would not see how embarrassed she truly was. "Please forgive me, Lord Beacham, and excuse me so I may return to the captain's guests." She risked a glance at him from beneath lowered lashes. His face was filled with regret.

  "There is nothing to forgive, Miss Templeton."

  Margaret left with the other two ladies. Aunt Penelope and Constance began chatting, but she did not hear them. Instead, she kept glancing back over her shoulder to the top of the hill. There, the lone man remained standing, keeping vigil over her like a knight of old.

  Chapter Eight

  Sander raised his glass to his guests in a toast. "Welcome to my home and blessings of the Christmas season to us all."

  At the mutter of hear hear's, Sander took a sip of his wine, and his guests did the same. Margaret was seated in a place of honor at the opposite end of the table. He gave her a nod, and she signaled to the servant standing near the hidden door to the kitchen that supper could be served.

  Dish after dish began to arrive, each course served with a different wine. If the fare was edible, Sander did not know. Although he appeared to be concentrating on the multitude of conversations swirling around his table, his whole focus was on Margaret. She, and her relationship with someone else at the table, were his only concerns.

  The obnoxious man was titled, for God's sake, so why, out of all the women seated here, did Frederick have his attention on Margaret? There was no lack of single ladies to be found in London and even at Sander's own table.

  The more he watched them and the glances they continued to exchange, the more he felt he was missing something important. Clearly, they had known each other for some time. Sander was not the jealous type, but he would not be hoodwinked under his own damned roof! By God, he would make sure Margaret's attention remained focused on him throughout the remainder of the night.

  When the meal was over, he held out his hand for Margaret so that they could lead their guests to the ballroom. Her fingers shook. So she was frightened of him, was she? That could be to his advantage, and he would have her anyway. Meanwhile, he would tease the good Lord Beacham with the very woman he would never claim.

  The musicians were already playing in the upper gallery of the ballroom. Sander led Margaret to the middle of the empty floor and bowed, and she gave him a low curtsey. Taking her in his arms, he held her far closer than was appropriate. Her eyes widened.

  "Do not cause another scene, dear, for I do not care for them." He smiled beneath the warning of his threat. "You do know how to waltz, do you not?"

  He did not wait for her reply but led her into the dance. Sander knew he was an accomplished dancer, and he reveled in prancing Margaret before Beacham with a confident smile. Sander was used to getting what he wanted, and he wanted Margaret. He cared not that she was not titled. He needed a wife, if only to maintain the outward appearance that his household was…normal…when it was anything but.

  "You dance splendidly, Miss Templeton," Sander declared. He whirled Margaret in front of Beacham and smothered a snigger of delight when he saw the Viscount's brows draw together in a fierce frown of suppressed anger.

  "Thank you." Her words were clipped, and he brought her another step closer into his arms. "Captain, I hardly think this is the proper distance for this dance or any other."

  "Ah. The little sparrow speaks," he sneered. "No compliments for your intended about his skill upon the dance floor?"

  "I cannot converse while being twirled about. It is quite a dizzying experience," she mumbled.

  He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. "I look forward to the day I can make you dizzy in a more intimate way, Margaret."

  She gasped in shock. She attempted to put a more respectable distance between them, but Sander kept a firm hold upon her waist without making it appear as if the two of them were having a tug of war right there in the middle of his ballroom. Her mouth pursed into a grim line of displeasure.

  Others finally began to fill the dance floor, and Sander leaned closer so that he could not be overheard.

  "I like the way you feel in my arms, my sweet," he whispered in her ear. She shuddered in his arms, and he smiled. She felt it too then. But her next words disabused him of that belief.

  "I am hardly your sweet, Captain, and I would appreciate you would keeping such thoughts to yourself," Margaret replied through clenched teeth. "As I have previously mentioned, we have yet to come to an understanding and such…intimate…endearments should hardly be bandied about when others may hear them. I do not relish being made the talk of London as some loose woman."

  "Then let us make the announcement now, and we can turn this into a celebration for our impending nuptials," Sander urged. "Say that you will marry me and make me a happy man."

  Margaret contemplated him for several more turns about the floor before she lowered her eyes. "No," she said simply. "I require more than just a few days to make a decision of such import. I know of no need for haste, nor the necessity to declare ourselves this very instant when we hardly know one another."

  Sander fumed until the dance ended.

  When he escorted her off the floor, he motioned for a servant to bring her a glass of champagne. She took a sip, and he watched intently, not surprised in the least when her gaze searched out Beacham, who once more hovered near at hand. Sander's fists clenched at his side, and he began to wish he had never invited the man.

  Suddenly, a disturbance overhead made itself heard above the music, drawing Margaret's attention towards the ceiling.

  "Probably a servant dropping something," Sander answered before she could voice aloud her concerns. "There is no need for you to worry yourself, my dear. If you will excuse me, but briefly, I will see to the matter."

  He walked steadily out of the ballroom, but, once out of view, took the stairs two at a time until he reached the third floor. Taking a key from his jacket, he unlocked and opened the bedroom door.

  "How many times have I told you to be quiet when I have guests?" Sander threatened the occupant.

  A cry of distress was barely heard, for the sound became muffled and cut off with the closing of the door.

  ***

  Frederick made his way to Margaret's side once Morledge was gone. Even from a distance, he could see that her face was ashen. He gently took her elbow, and it trembled beneath his fingertips. She did not hesitate when he began to casually stroll with her through the room, but leaned her weight upon his arm as if she needed the support. When he noticed that no one in particular was giving them a second glance, including the ever-vigilant Lady Whittles, he quickly rushed her down the hallway and opened the first door they came to.

  A library… how fitting that of all the rooms he might have found tonight, it would just happen to be a library, Margaret's favorite of all places to be found. But not much of one. Even in the dim light, he could see that the bookshelves of the oak-paneled room were only half-filled. How could she ever be happy within these walls? This room certainly lacked his own impressive collection. He had filled his library in the hopes that this very lady would accept his proposal of marriage and find many hours of pleasure reading to her heart's content.

  Margaret wandered away from him to one of the shelves and absentmindedly picked up a random tome. Flicking through a few pages, she quickly set it down and heaved a heavy sigh.

  "I should not be here alone with you," she whispered softly. "I am trying my best to find some common accord with the captain, for I am afraid I will once again disappoint my father by refusing to wed yet another eligible man he has brought to our doorstep for my approval."

  Frederick crossed the space between them and took her into his arms. She did not protest, but held on as if she never wanted to let go. How many times in the course of the past several years had he wished t
o hold this woman? Here she was, in his arms, and his heart soared because of it.

  "You know you could never disappoint your sire. He loves you and Sophie beyond distraction," Frederick murmured. He chuckled to lighten her mood. It had the desired affect when she rewarded him with a lovely smile, but such emotion was fleeting, her expression darkening again. He felt the briefest brush of her fingertips as she began caressing the fabric of his jacket.

  "He will soon lose what little patience he has left and will take the decision from me. But I have failed to find a man I can have at least some small amount of affection for," she whispered with a catch in her voice.

  Frederick frowned at her words and lifted her chin. "You are not a failure, and you should not insult yourself by saying so. And how can the vicar expect you to learn to love a man in a few brief encounters, let alone marry a complete stranger?"

  She shrugged as if indifferent, but the tears glistening in her eyes were almost his downfall. "At least the captain is not of an age similar to my own father. I suppose I can be grateful for that, at least."

  He brought her closer and brushed a lock of her hair from her face that had fallen from her coiffure. "You cannot marry him, Margaret," he replied in a husky whisper.

  "I gave my father my word I would try to find a common accord with Captain Morledge. We women have our honor, Frederick. I must keep my word."

  "I would never think your word less meaningful because you are a woman, Margaret. You know this if you but search your heart."

  Margaret gave a weary sigh. "Yes, I suppose I do. You, above all people, know me, despite the years that have passed between us."

  "And that is exactly why I know there is only one man you should be marrying. Me."

  "Freddy, I—"

  "Tell me you have missed me." He smiled hearing his nickname pass her lips. It was not the same hearing it from Digby. From Margaret, it was an endearment to his ears.