His Mistletoe Bride

by Vanessa Kelly

  “Weston,” Lucas said after a short but fraught silence, “did you stop to think that Harper would follow your trail to the manor?”

  As Mr. Weston opened his mouth to reply, a loud banging sounded from the hall. Someone was pounding on the manor’s front door.

  Lucas rubbed his forehead. “Christ. Of course they’d end up here.”

  The entire kitchen froze with apprehension, but Phoebe forced herself to break the silence. “Lucas, what are you going to do?”

  He cast her a frustrated glare. “My home is about to be invaded by a group of gun-toting excise officers who are loathed by every person within twenty miles. What do you think I’m going to do?”

  Mr. Weston stepped forward. “My lord, I deserve no mercy, and if it was just me I’d go freely enough.” He looked down at Sam, standing by his side and quietly sobbing. “I ask for mercy for my boy’s sake. He’s got naught to look after him but me.”

  Lucas raked an impatient hand through his hair. “You should have thought of that before, Weston.” He glanced at Phoebe. “I’ve got to get up there to deal with Harper. Please make sure this mess gets cleaned up, and then take Weston and Sam up to the hall.”

  He pivoted on his heel and strode to the door. When he looked back at them, everyone was still frozen in place. “Get moving,” he snapped, then disappeared through the swinging door.

  The kitchen erupted into a flurry of action. Within two minutes, the maids had swept the table clean and Mr. Weston was clothed in garb provided by the footmen. As Phoebe took a deep breath, preparing to follow her husband, she felt Sam’s hand slip into hers.

  “Please, my lady,” seemed all he was able to choke out.

  She bent down to look him straight in the eye. “Do not worry, Sam. His lordship and I will not abandon you. But you must be brave and come with me to the hall.”

  The little boy squared his shoulders. “I ain’t frightened, my lady.”

  “Good.” A swift glance reassured her that everything was as it should be. “Mr. Weston, Sam, please follow me.”

  She hurried through to the corridor, then slowed her pace. It would do no good to arrive breathless. She must appear serene and confident, a truly laughable idea given that her nerves were stretched on a rack of anxiety. Despite her brave words to Sam, she had no idea what Lucas would do. She only knew that if he turned Mr. Weston over to the law she might never be able to forgive him.

  And if more blood ended up being shed in the manor tonight, she might never forgive herself. Not for the first time, she flayed herself for making such a hash of things.

  She slipped into the hall, glancing behind to see Mr. Weston and Sam melt into the crowd. An unnatural silence had fallen over the packed room, broken only by tense whispers and a low thrum of hostile murmuring.

  Swiftly, Phoebe made her way to the front of the room, where Lucas confronted Mr. Harper and his men. She counted at least ten in his small force, all armed and all casting nervous, suspicious glances at the guests. The threat of violence hung in the air like a malevolent fog.

  She dodged her way through the crowd, coming to stand beside Lucas. At the same time, Silverton stepped forward, moving to flank Lucas on the other side. Meredith and Bathsheba followed, both staring haughtily down their noses at the excise men. As a strategy of intimidation, one could hardly ask for better than four imperious and clearly annoyed aristocrats.

  Lucas glanced at Phoebe and smiled. “Ah, there you are, my love. I trust you have solved whatever little domestic crisis was occurring below stairs?”

  She blinked, surprised by his light tone and easy confidence. One of his dark brows lifted, amused and faintly questioning.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “One of the kitchen maids dropped an entire platter of mince pies. The girl fell into hysterics and Cook was quite put out, but I do believe disaster has been averted.”

  She sounded amazingly calm to her own ears. Perhaps she was a better liar than she gave herself credit for. Not a very consoling thought, but certainly useful in certain circumstances.

  “Thank God for small mercies,” Lucas said. “As you can see, we have some unexpected guests. Mr. Harper and his men are on the hunt for smugglers. Naturally, he thought a party at Mistletoe Manor the perfect place to find them.”

  Mr. Harper starched up. “My lord, I have no desire to disturb you, but the blood trail we found in the woods pointed to the manor. I must insist you let us conduct a search.”

  “You insist?” Lucas replied in a bored but haughty voice. “How extraordinary. One would think the last place a smuggler would run to is a house full of merry people, especially when that house is owned by one who has made it clear he does not countenance illegal activity.”

  Mr. Harper’s suspicious gaze fell on Phoebe. “Mayhap you don’t countenance it, my lord, but rumor has it other members of your household do.”

  Phoebe bit back a gasp as an angry murmur rose from the crowd.

  “I would suggest,” Lucas said in a voice cold enough to freeze hellfire, “that a sensible man would do well to ignore baseless rumors, Harper. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly, my lord. But as an officer of the law, I must insist you allow me to carry out my duties and conduct my search.”

  “You do realize, Mr. Harper,” interjected Cousin Stephen, “that as Marquess of Silverton I am a local magistrate. If I feel there is no need to conduct a search, should that not satisfy you?”

  “No disrespect intended, my lord,” Harper snapped, “but no. It doesn’t.”

  The crowd’s muttering grew louder, and the excise men shifted nervously, keeping their pistols at the ready. Phoebe had an awful feeling that disaster might be only seconds away.

  Lucas let out a long-suffering sigh. “Very well. Conduct your search if you must, Harper. I’m sure you will find your smugglers hiding in the larder, behind the cheese or the pickles.”

  Mr. Harper’s face turned positively red. “I do not appreciate the jest, Lord Merritt. And be sure I will conduct a thorough search”

  “Go right ahead. Christmas,” Lucas said to the butler, “please accompany Mr. Harper’s men to the kitchen and cellars. And see they don’t disturb Cook.”

  Mr. Harper and his men fanned out, some going below stairs and others pushing their way through the hall. When Phoebe saw an officer head toward Mr. Weston, she drew in a sharp breath. Fortunately, Mr. Knaggs bumbled into the man’s path, apologizing profusely as he adroitly steered the officer in another direction.

  Lucas settled a hand on her back. “Courage, my love,” he murmured. “Harper knows he won’t find anything. He’s just trying to make a point.”

  He was right. In a few minutes, Mr. Harper’s men returned to the front of the hall, assembling behind their disgruntled chief.

  “Find anything?” Lucas asked politely.

  “No, my lord, which I suspect does not surprise you. But I swear this won’t be the end of it. I intend to track down that gang and bring every last man to account.”

  “I commend your dedication. Now, sir, I suggest you either put away your pistols and join our celebrations, or be on your way. The ladies cannot be easy as long as your weapons are drawn.”

  “Thank you, but no,” said Harper with offended dignity. “We’ll not trouble you any longer.”

  Mr. Christmas ushered the men out and shut the doors behind them. For a full ten seconds, silence prevailed, then the room erupted into loud cheers. Silverton clapped Lucas on the back, and the men of the village surrounded him, vigorously pumping his hand and thanking him. The women hugged each other, and little Sam threw his arms around his father’s waist and burst into tears.

  “Well,” said Meredith, hugging Phoebe, “you and Lucas certainly know how to throw an interesting party. This is so much more entertaining than fisticuffs over Easter dinner.”

  “And how lucky you are to have a doctor on hand to treat the wounded,” Bathsheba chimed in. “Although I do hope you don’t fall into the habit of invit
ing armed militias to your parties. They tend to make such a mess of the carpets.”

  Phoebe’s head swam and her limbs felt weak with relief. Bathsheba pushed her into a chair. “Sit down before you fall down.”

  Meredith knelt beside her. “You needn’t have worried, Phoebe. Lucas is a good man. He will always do the right thing, even if it’s not entirely lawful.”

  Phoebe stared at her husband, who was now the object of toasts from Mr. Knaggs and some of the other men. He calmly accepted their cheers and then looked at Phoebe. Slowly, his gazed heated.

  “I certainly recognize that look,” Bathsheba said.

  “Yes.” Meredith sighed happily. “It’s so romantic.”

  “I have no idea what you two are talking about,” Phoebe lied, blushing.

  “If you don’t, you’re about to find out,” Bathsheba replied. “Here comes your husband.”

  Lucas strode up to them. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to speak with my wife.”

  “Go right ahead,” said Bathsheba as Lucas lifted Phoebe out of her chair. “I suggest you take her to your study, and make sure to lock the door behind you.”

  Phoebe glared over her shoulder at Bathsheba and Meredith. Both were snickering as Lucas towed her into his study. Holly, safely ensconced in his basket by the fire, lifted his head and gave them a sleepy yawn by way of greeting. When they ignored him, he grumbled, dug his nose under his paws, and went back to sleep.

  Lucas firmly shut the door and locked it.

  “You cannot be serious,” Phoebe said in disbelief. “We have a houseful of guests!”

  “I’ll show you serious, Madam Wife.”

  The grim note had returned to his voice, and her heart sank.

  “Lucas, I realize you must be unhappy with me—”

  “That’s not the word I would use,” he growled, pulling her over to one of the ancient leather armchairs by the fire.

  Oh, dear. “Ah, what word would thee like to use?” She winced when her slip of the tongue betrayed her jangling nerves.

  He sat, then tugged her into his lap. As she tumbled across him, the chair creaked ominously under their combined weights. Her husband sighed. “I suppose we need new furniture in here, too.”

  “That might be wise.”

  Despite his gentle touch, she could not yet bring herself to look at him. Perhaps he was not that angry about the smuggling situation—and the interesting ridge nudging her bottom suggested that—but she could not forget how he had reacted earlier this evening to the news she was breeding.

  “Phoebe, look at me.”

  She forced herself to look into his eyes, only to lose her breath at the shadowed intensity of his gaze.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked as he stroked her chin.

  A chin that quivered at his touch. “I am not entirely certain. It has been a most unusual evening.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  She winced at his sarcastic tone. “Lucas, I am so very sorry about what happened tonight. I regret I had to place you in a difficult position, and I want to thank you for what you did.”

  “You didn’t think I would protect him, did you?”

  She hesitated, wanting to spare his feelings, but she was done with lying to him. “Truthfully, I was not sure what you would do.”

  His mouth twisted. “All right. I deserve that. It’s not like I’ve done a very good job of winning anyone’s trust—either yours or the people of the manor or village.”

  She placed a quick hand on his chest. “No, I have always trusted you, but we do not always agree on the best way to resolve a problem.”

  “In other words, I should always listen to you,” he said dryly.

  “I would never be so arrogant as to suggest such a thing.”

  When he laughed, she felt a little kick of relief in her chest.

  “Well, in this case you were right. No good, and likely a great deal of damage, would have resulted from turning Weston over to the law. Doing the righteous thing is not always the right thing. That’s not an easy lesson for an old soldier to learn.” He paused to nuzzle her neck, and a hot little shiver rippled down her spine. “But with your help,” he murmured between kisses, “I’m sure I’ll evolve into a satisfactory lord of the manor and husband.”

  She arched her neck to give him better access. “I am sure you will.”

  Unfortunately, just when things were turning interesting, he pulled back.

  “But let’s be clear about one thing, Phoebe,” he said. “No more lies and no more secrets between us. Understood? I will not tolerate either from my wife.”

  She stared back, knowing he was absolutely right, which meant she had to ask him the one question she dreaded more than any other. “And you, Lucas. Will you tell me the truth?”

  His expression grew guarded. “About what?”

  “About our baby.”

  He frowned. “What truth about the baby? I don’t understand.”

  She gazed down at her hands, her courage failing. How could she bear it if he did not love her enough to love their child?

  He tipped up her chin. “What troubles thee, my love?” he asked.

  The affectionate mockery brought a mist of tears to her eyes. “I do not know if you want this child. You already have so many burdens to carry. To add another . . .”

  She trailed off, disconcerted by the stunned look on his face. He blinked a few times, then shook his head. “Clearly, I am a dreadful husband if I left you in any doubt about that.” He captured her face between his hands. “How could I not want any child of ours, Phoebe? What a goose you are to think I would not.”

  She peered into his eyes, seeking answers. “But you did not seem happy when I told you.”

  “I was just a bit stunned, that’s all. You caught me completely unawares.”

  “Truly?” she asked, still doubtful.

  He gave her a steady look, one that challenged her to believe. “It would be impossible not to want the child when I love the mother as much as I do. Phoebe, I never thought I could love anyone as I do you.” He gave a ghost of a laugh. “But I do love you, my darling. In opening your generous and honorable heart to me, you taught me how to trust again. You taught me how to forgive, both myself and others. Without you, I would still be a thick-skulled idiot, convinced he could never love another woman again.” He kissed her gently on the forehead. “Imagine my surprise to discover how very easy it was, after all.”

  She clutched at his hands, unable to say a word as her throat went tight.

  He unleashed a devilish smile. “Will miracles never cease? Phoebe Stanton silenced at last.”

  That barb loosened her tongue. “Really, Lucas! You are—”

  She never got a chance to tell him exactly what he was, because his mouth swooped down to take hers in a devouring kiss. She wrapped her arms around him, joy sweeping away the last remnants of doubt and anxiety. Phoebe would never be alone again—not as long as Lucas held her in his arms and in his heart.

  Their embrace grew more and more heated, until her husband’s fingers moved to the front of her bodice, dipping below the lace trim to find the top of her chemise. Phoebe broke away with a gasp. “Lucas, we cannot do this. Our guests are waiting for us.”

  “Let them wait,” he said as he began to unlace her. “This is our home, and if I want to make love to my wife, I will do so.” He raised mocking eyebrows at her. “I hope thee does not have a problem with that.”

  She laughed, reaching for his cravat. “Not really.”

  Lucas was right, of course. In each other’s hearts and souls, they had both finally come home.

  Author’s Note

  Readers will note that my heroine occasionally uses what Quakers refer to as plain speech, which sounds archaic to our ears. Quakers in the Georgian and Regency periods would have eschewed elaborate or fancy forms of address as much as they avoided fancy or richly ornamented clothing. Persons of rank would have been addressed using the familiar
thee or thou, in order to illustrate equality between persons and to encourage direct speech.

  By 1817, the year in which my novel takes place, Quakers had replaced thou with thee as the nominative case form of the second person singular pronoun. That is why Phoebe only uses the word thee, and never thou. Naturally, any mistakes in her diction are mine!

  Readers will also note the number of characters in my book bearing the surname of Christmas. Although an unusual name, there are generations of Englishmen and women bearing this name especially, apparently, in Sussex and Essex counties. And on more than one parish or local registry I did indeed find the name, Honor Christmas.

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  Copyright © 2012 by Vanessa Kelly

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  ISBN: 978-1-4201-2846-8