What Happens Under the Mistletoe

by Sabrina Jeffries

  It was true. The soft gray of her gown enhanced the flush of her creamy skin, while her dark ringlets, artfully arranged around her heart-shaped face, made her brown eyes seem even larger. Had she smiled, Marcus knew they’d have been treated to a pair of dimples that could melt a man’s heart.

  But no more. “She is Lady Montrose, widow of the late earl.”

  “Such dark eyes,” Nik murmured. “They speak to you.”

  “That woman is nothing to look at,” Nik’s grandmother announced. “Bidnyahshka! She is short and plump, her eyes too large for her face, and that hair—pah! Ringlets are out of fashion. She looks like a ruffled kitten.”

  Marcus noted that Kenna’s mouth tightened as the duchess spoke. Can she hear us? Surely not. She is too far away. Realizing he was staring and in danger of being caught, he shifted so that she was no longer in his line of vision.

  “Tata Natasha, please.” Nik sighed. “If you cannot say anything nice, then do not speak.”

  Her grace snorted, but didn’t offer another word.

  “Forgive my grandmother. She is in a foul mood because her friend Lord Lyons did not join us here at Stormont’s estate, even though she specifically invited the gentleman.”

  The grand duchess muttered something under her breath about men and empty promises.

  “Soured milk,” Nik announced. “So, Marcus, this woman with the beautiful eyes and the mouth like a kissed rose. You said she was the widow of the late Earl of Montrose?”

  “Nikolai likes widows,” the grand duchess announced loudly. “But only the pretty ones.”

  “Pretty ones are the best.” Nik’s gaze lingered on Kenna in a way that burned Marcus’s soul. “Tell me more. I would know everything about her.”

  Marcus realized his hands were curled into fists, and he forced them to open. Damn it, I should feel nothing for her. I do feel nothing for her.

  But perhaps it was normal for a man to feel possessive of what was once his. Male pride was blind and foolish. Everyone knew that. Marcus removed a piece of lint from his coat sleeve. “When I knew her she was Lady Kenna Stuart, daughter of the Earl of Galloway. Six months after I left England, she married the Earl of Montrose, a man nineteen years her senior.”

  “And now he is gone, which is to my benefit. How did you come to know her, my friend?”

  “At one time, she was my fiancée.”

  Nik couldn’t have looked more astounded. “I’ve known you for over ten years and never once have you mentioned an engagement, broken or otherwise.”

  “It happened shortly before you and I met. As my pride was sorely wounded at the time, I had nae wish to mention it. Later, it dinna seem to matter.”

  Nik’s gaze returned to Lady Kenna. “How did this engagement end?”

  “We discovered we dinna suit. And just in time, for the wedding was but a month away.”

  “That didn’t cause a scandal?”

  “Some, but I dinna stay to enjoy it. I accepted a post as attaché under Lord Wellmont and traveled to the Oxenburg court, where I met you.”

  “And glad I was, to have you there. It’s cursed boring at court; you were a godsend.” Nik crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels, his lively gaze on Marcus’s face. “I must say, you don’t seem overly despondent about this woman.”

  “ ’Tis auld news.” Now. At the time, though . . . Those had been dark days indeed. Days best left in the past.

  “So you do not care for Lady Montrose any longer, then. Which means you would not mind if I dance with her at the ball this evening.”

  Marcus shrugged. “Do as you wish, although you should know this: for all that she looks like a ruffled kitten, Lady Montrose has claws. And she doesna hesitate to use them.”

  To Marcus’s chagrin, Nik brightened, his interest piqued yet more. “I like spirited women, and I have a predilection for . . . how do you say, women with dark hair?”

  “Brunettes,” Marcus answered shortly. Kenna would laugh to hear one of my friends admire her so. He remembered that laugh, low and husky, almost promising in its tone. He stirred restlessly and wished he had a drink.

  “Pah!” her grace said. “Nikolai also likes women with blond hair, and women with red hair, and women with brown hair. You should just say you like women with hair.”

  Nik sighed. “Tata Natasha, you are too harsh.”

  Her grace thumped her cane on the floor. “Marcus, tell him he is getting too old for flirting. He is to be king, so he must marry a noble young woman able to give him many strong sons. Neither a worn-out widow nor a vishnha v tsvetu will do for his wife.”

  Marcus sent Nik a questioning look.

  “It means ‘cherry blossom.’ ” Nik lowered his voice. “In my country, it signifies a woman of low moral character, much like your term ‘soiled dove.’ I’m sure that, no matter her faults, Lady Montrose is not a soiled dove.”

  “Bloody hell, nae.” Honesty made him add, “I’ve never heard a breath of scandal aboot her.”

  Her grace sent him a hard look. “Even after her husband died?”

  “Nae even then.”

  “Hmm. She is no vishnha v tsvetu, then. But she is still not good enough for my Nikolai. She is a widow. He needs a youthful woman, one who has not already been dragged through another man’s marriage.”

  Nik gave his grandmother a droll look. “Fortunately for us all, I will not be king for a very, very long time. Father is healthy and strong, and I am in no hurry to see him otherwise.”

  She sniffed. “One never knows, Nikolai. It is best to be prepared for the worst.”

  Nik grimaced. “The Romany way. Always so negative.”

  “Always so practical.”

  “Always so depressing.” His gaze returned to Kenna. “Marcus, pray introduce me to Lady Montrose. She’s not the usual piece of fluff one finds at Stormont’s fetes, and I would enjoy a conversation about something other than the weather. I’ve had to talk about last week’s rain four times already this evening.”

  The grand duchess puffed out a sigh. “How do you know Lady Montrose is not ‘a piece of fluff?’ ”

  “Two reasons. One, she is carrying books, which leads me to believe she has put more into her head than fashion and weather. And two, she was once engaged to the most intelligent man of my acquaintance. Marcus would never offer for a woman who couldn’t carry her half of the conversation. So I must meet this Lady Montrose. Will you do the honors, my friend?”

  Marcus found his feet welded to the spot. There were plenty of women in the room; why in hell did Nik find Kenna the most interesting? The man could have his choice—he was a prince, for God’s sake, six foot three, wealthy, athletic, and handsome, and women flocked to him. But that was Nik for you—always wanting the one woman who wasn’t interested in him, scarce as they were. Perhaps it was the challenge.

  Well, if any woman was a challenge, it was Kenna Stuart Graham. The problem was, Marcus didn’t relish Kenna becoming Nik’s particular challenge. Though they were close friends and Nik was an honorable man, the grand duchess was right: he was a profligate when it came to women. It was all about the chase, not the catch.

  Normally Marcus found that to be one of Nik’s more humanizing traits, but for some reason, now it irked him like the sound of fingernails upon a blackboard. For no reason at all, he found himself turning so that Kenna was once again in his line of sight. She was now standing on the near side of the doors, looking at a bust of Socrates someone had draped with festive ivy. She flicked at the ivy with one finger in a desultory manner, as if the sight of it irritated her, but not enough to do something about it. She used to make that exact face when they’d been forced by politeness to listen to someone play wretched piano pieces during social visits. She never had patience with silliness.

  He realized he was smiling, and shook the smile away. If I am to sink into old memories, I should remember the day she sent me away, refusing to listen to a word I had to say, and— No. The past was best left in the past. His
jaw ached a bit from unconsciously tightening it.

  Still . . . she looked so young. Even dressed in widow’s weeds, she didn’t appear to be a day over eighteen, the age she’d been when he’d last seen her ten years ago. She was still young, a mere twenty-eight, although to society that was well over the hill.

  Over the hill—he almost laughed. But his humor dissipated as his gaze traced over her heart-shaped face, then lingered on the delicate arch of her dark brows. Her large, velvet-brown eyes were framed with a thick sweep of lashes that made them seem mysterious and sensual, while her mouth was rosebud pink and deliciously plump. And at one time, she was mine.

  He gritted his teeth at the thought. Aye, but less than six months after I left, she’d entered into an engagement with Montrose, and less than a year later, she married him.

  With a mental shrug, he turned back to Nik. “If you must have an introduction, then I will—”

  “Rothesay! I’ve been looking for you.” The Countess of Perth, Marcus’s current mistress, approached. Lila Drummund was a seductive blonde who knew the power of her figure and face. Dressed in an icy blue silk gown, she looked exactly what she was—beautiful, witty, and (most importantly) discreet. Marcus had enjoyed her company for several years now, although lately Lila had been hinting that once Perth escaped his earthly bonds, she expected Marcus to make their relationship more formal. Thus far, Marcus had found it convenient to pretend he didn’t understand Lila’s many, many hints.

  “Lady Perth.” He took her proffered hand and bowed over it. “You look lovely, as ever.”

  “Thank you.” She slipped him a glance under her lashes that promised much, then turned to curtsy to Nik. “Your highness! How good to see you again.”

  Nik bowed in return. “Lady Perth. It has been awhile.”

  “Since Lord MacDonald’s rout, I believe. Two—nay, three months ago.”

  “Indeed. And how is your husband?”

  She waved a hand. “The same as ever. He swears he is on his last leg and far too fragile to travel. Yet no matter how ill he claims to be, he still manages to totter down to the sitting room every night and play whist with his particular friends. He never misses a game.”

  “Ah yes. His lordship is rather, er . . . stayryj?”

  She blinked. “Sta—?”

  “Old,” the grand duchess replied from her gold settee.

  Lila instantly curtsied. “Your grace. I didn’t see you hiding there.”

  “I’m not hiding; I like this settee,” her grace announced. “I have a bony arse and the deep cushions are a comfort.”

  Lila’s lips twitched. “It looks very comfortable.”

  “So it is.” The older woman fixed her black gimlet gaze on Lila. “Tell me, is he old, this husband of yours who is too fragile to travel?”

  “He just turned eighty-four.”

  “Pah. Some of my people are twenty years past that and do not fear travel.” Her grace sent Lila a hard look. “Of course, you’re a child compared to him. What are you? Thirty-five? Thirty-six?”

  Lila’s smile froze on her face, and Nik coughed to hide a laugh.

  “I am twenty-nine, your grace,” Lila said in a faintly chilly voice.

  Her grace snorted in disbelief and Marcus hurried to intercede. “I’m nae surprised Perth no longer travels. He was a friend of my father’s and was never healthy, even when he was younger.”

  Lila sent him a thankful look. “He has always eschewed any sort of physical activity and keeps himself locked in closed rooms. It’s sad, as fresh air can cure many ailments. For myself, I ride to the hounds whenever the opportunity presents itself.” She caught Marcus’s gaze and smiled. “I wish you’d joined the hunt today. It was quite invigorating.”

  “I dinna enjoy chasing hapless animals that are running in terror for their lives. Besides, I had a meeting with Lord Selfridge aboot the coming treaty with Germany.”

  Nik’s brows rose. “You must work even when enjoying a holiday house party? Lord Wellmont is a cruel taskmaster, and so I shall tell him when next I see him.”

  “We’ve worked for two years on that blasted treaty, and I willna have it falter merely because I am on holiday.” He turned toward Lila. “I noticed that some of the hunting party dinna return until quite late.”

  She smiled. “You needn’t have feared; I wasn’t about to miss supper or this evening’s masquerade. I shall be a black and silver swan. I have a black wig and a silver gown—it’s quite dashing!”

  The grand duchess squinted at Lila. “Lady Perth, why are you wearing only one earring?”

  Lila touched her ears, a look of dismay in her blue eyes when she found no earring in her left earlobe. “Oh no! How did that happen?”

  Marcus recognized the earring that was left; he’d given her the gold and ruby pair for her birthday not four months ago. They’d been damned expensive, too. “I hope you find it.”

  “I’m sure I will. It must have fallen off when I was dressing, and that stupid maid almost smothered me while helping me into my gown. I— Oh! Stormont is waving at me. He mentioned earlier he wished my opinion on the music to be played this evening.” She made a droll face as she offered her hand to Marcus.

  “You must go, of course.” Marcus bowed over her hand as she curtsied. “If I dinna sit near you at dinner, I will find you at the ball. A black and silver swan.”

  “Under the mistletoe.” She smiled. “And what will you be?”

  “I shall be dressed as the Crown Prince of Oxenburg.”

  Nik, who’d been watching Kenna, turned back to them at this sally. “Nyet. You do not have the air of a prince.”

  “That’s true,” the grand duchess chimed in from her settee throne. “You’re a handsome man, Rothesay, if one likes the dark and athletic type, but there’s nothing regal about you.”

  “Oh, I think Rothesay quite regal.” With a playful smile, Lady Perth dipped a curtsy. “Your highness. Your grace. I hope to see you both at the masquerade.” With a final smile, she left, her silk gown swishing with each step.

  Marcus watched as Viscount Stormont approached Lila, a cat-with-the-cream smile on his smooth visage. “Stormont seems to have taken a particular interest in Lila.”

  Nik shrugged. “The viscount is a sad flirt, and I’ve never seen Lady Perth turn up her nose at a compliment. But enough about her. You said Lady Montrose’s books might be about horses, so I take it she’s an aficionado. Do you think she’d like to ride the new bay I just purchased?”

  “You’d allow a woman you will have just met to ride your bay? You wouldna let me ride it, and I’ve asked numerous times.”

  “There’s no benefit in letting you ride my bay.” The prince grinned. “Only Lady Montrose will be allowed. It will be a privilege and she will be honored to know that.”

  “You’re out if you think that will impress her. She’s the only daughter of a prudish, better-than-thou earl, and she’s already spoiled beyond belief.”

  “Perhaps she is worth spoiling. Or at least”—Nik added, a wolfish sparkle in his eyes—“bespoiling.”

  Her grace sputtered. “Do you forget I am here?”

  He sighed. “I had indeed. And a glorious, lovely moment it was, too.”

  “Pah!” She rose to her feet, her black shawl fluttering. “I am leaving. Do not try to stop me, because I wish for pleasanter company, or at least someone with some good gossip.” With a sniff the grand duchess hobbled off, her cane thumping with each step.

  Nik said, “Good. Now we are free to speak to the intriguing Lady Montrose and— Chyort, she is gone!”

  Marcus looked around. Kenna was nowhere to be seen. A pang of regret pressed against his chest, one so deep that it surprised him and made his heart sink yet more. Damn it, it’s too late for regrets. Ten years too late.

  “Where did she go?” Nik said. “I must find her.”

  The supper gong sounded, and the assemblage began to move toward the door.

  Nik sighed. “I suppose we will
find her at the masquerade later this evening, nyet?”

  Marcus smiled politely, though he had no intention of looking for Kenna Stuart. She belonged in his past, and he was determined that was where she’d stay.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “That is nae a costume,” Marcus announced.

  Nik looked down at the gold sash and dozens of colorful medals that hung across his red military-style coat, which complemented his black breeches and shiny boots. “This is a very fine costume.”

  “You wear that coat and that sash and those medals to every formal event in Oxenburg. ’Tisna a costume if you wear it all the time.”

  “Perhaps, but beside you, who wear no costume at all, I’m as dressed as a peacock.” Nik captured two flutes of champagne from a servant walking past with a tray and handed a glass to Marcus before peering around the room at the bejeweled and bedecked guests. “Have you seen the lovely Lady Montrose? I cannot locate her in this madness. There’s scarcely any light—bloody hell, can the man not afford more candles?”

  “Stormont thinks the dimness adds to the intrigue.” Marcus grimaced. “What it does is make the room as dark as a bloody cavern.”

  “We’ll never find Lady Montrose,” Nik said mournfully.

  “Nay,” Marcus said baldly. “We dinna know what costume she’s wearing, so ’tis unlikely we’d recognize her even if we could see through this gloom.”

  Which was far better for them all. Despite his best intentions, Marcus had found himself looking for Kenna throughout supper. It should have been an easy task, for there were fewer than fifty people in the dining room, but Stormont had packed the guests so closely that they could barely bend their arms to eat, much less lean out to see down the long table. It hadn’t been until the fifth course that, by chance, the line of people had moved as if one, and Marcus had finally caught sight of the gentle curve of Kenna’s cheek as she turned to say something to her companion.

  It had been but a glance, and the only one he’d been allowed during the entire two-hour-long supper, but for some reason that lone sighting had left him pestered with yet more unsettling memories.

  After supper the women had all moved to the sitting room, where after-dinner refreshments were to be served, while the men had joined Stormont in his study for cigars and whiskey. The two companies wouldn’t reassemble until the masquerade at ten, so Marcus was left on his own to fight off the old, irksome memories as best as he could.