Homespun Regency Christmas (9781101078716)

by Kelly, Carla; Jensen, Emma

  ‘‘What . . . ? Who . . . ?’’ Her eyes were wide, brilliant as she surveyed the dramatically if not particularly neatly trimmed hedge. ‘‘Did you do this?’’

  ‘‘I had help.’’ And he had. Every member of the staff had pitched in, working by his side. ‘‘When were you last inside?’’

  She shook her glossy head. ‘‘I don’t quite recall. Years.’’

  ‘‘Do you remember the way?’’ He guided her through the entrance.

  ‘‘I . . . I’m not certain.’’

  ‘‘Trust me.’’ Tucking her arm firmly through his, not feeling a single one of the deep holly scratches that the little maid had carefully bandaged, he walked until they met the first turn. ‘‘Now, first, you must allow me to introduce myself before we go any farther.’’

  She stared at him, brow furrowed. Damn, but she was beautiful. It was all Rhys could do to keep from hauling her into his arms there and then. ‘‘But I know who you are,’’ she insisted.

  He smiled and stepped away. Bowing low before her, he said, ‘‘Captain Lord Rhys Edward-Jones at your service, Miss Fitzhollis.’’

  ‘‘Lord . . .’’ She blinked. ‘‘Oh, dear. Truly?’’

  ‘‘Truly. Your solicitor’s eyesight is apparently rather poor.’’

  ‘‘Oh, dear. Yes, it is. But why did you—’’

  ‘‘Never mind that.’’ Rhys took her arm again and guided her to the next turn. ‘‘My brother is the Duke of Llans.’’

  She pondered this for a moment. Rhys half expected her to rail at him. Instead, she sighed. ‘‘So Andrew . . .’’

  ‘‘Andrew is Viscount Tallasey. He will someday be the Duke of Llans.’’ Before she could speak again, he changed the subject and demanded, ‘‘Why on earth would you even think of marrying Percy Fitzhollis?’’

  This earned him a small, heartbreaking smile. ‘‘Have him, have my house,’’ she answered quietly.

  Rhys muttered something rude. Elizabeth shrugged.

  ‘‘If I said yes, he would not sign the final papers selling Hollymore to your brother.’’

  ‘‘He lied. All the papers were signed, sealed, and delivered.’’

  Once more, to his surprise, Elizabeth did not rail. Instead, she sighed again. ‘‘Yes, I rather thought so.’’

  ‘‘So?’’

  ‘‘So, I was never going to marry Percy. Not even for Hollymore. I am selfish, perhaps, Captain . . . er, I beg your pardon. Lord Rhys.’’

  ‘‘Rhys,’’ he said gruffly. ‘‘And you are not selfish. You are a splendid, brave, clever woman.’’ They walked to the next turn.

  ‘‘Now what?’’

  ‘‘Now this.’’ He reached into his pocket and withdrew the sprig of mistletoe that Andrew had pushed into his hand early that morning. All four members of Elizabeth’s staff had had spares on hand in the last hour.

  He gently tucked the mistletoe into Elizabeth’s braided coronet. And finally, at last, not a moment too soon for his liking, he hauled her into his arms, up onto her toes, and kissed her. She gave a small, surprised squeak. Then she was kissing him back, sweetly, sensually, and every inch of his taut body went to flame. ‘‘God,’’ he murmured against her lips. ‘‘Dear God, Elizabeth.’’

  It seemed an aeon later, yet far too soon, when he gently held her away from his chest—where, he noted, his heart was pounding strongly enough to burst free. ‘‘I have a gift for you.’’

  Her eyes were slightly unfocused as she replied, ‘‘That wasn’t it?’’

  He gave a pained chuckle. ‘‘No. No, this is something far better.’’

  ‘‘I don’t think it could be,’’ she said hazily, and Rhys almost grabbed her again.

  ‘‘Trust me.’’ He satisfied himself by holding her hand this time. ‘‘Now, this isn’t really from me. I would say it is a gift from Hollymore. I am hoping, of course, that you’ll allow me to take care of the matter of the house, but if you’d rather, this ought to more than pay for all you wish.’’

  ‘‘What are you talking about?’’

  ‘‘Wait,’’ he commanded, and used his free hand to cover her eyes as they approached the final turn.

  He’d had Kelly build makeshift easels for the paintings. It had occurred to him that a half hour in the winter air wouldn’t precisely be good for a Rembrandt, but he’d needed to have things just this way. There were blankets to cover the paintings as soon as Elizabeth had seen them, and no doubt all of her staff was lurking nearby. They could haul off the art. He intended to have his hands full of Elizabeth.

  ‘‘My lord . . . Rhys,’’ she protested as he kept his hand over her eyes.

  ‘‘Hush.’’ He guided her into the center of the maze and directly in front of the paintings. ‘‘Miss Fitzhollis, allow me to present Hollymore’s salvation: Misters Gainsborough, El Greco, Rembrandt, and Holbein. Happy, happy Christmas, Elizabeth.’’

  He removed his hand.

  Elizabeth stared. ‘‘Oh. Oh, my.’’ He heard her breath catch. ‘‘Where on earth did you find these?’’

  ‘‘Andrew discovered them, actually, behind a secret panel in one of the bedchambers. I assume one of your ancestors tucked them away for some reason, and they’ve been waiting for you to find them.’’

  He stood back, heart swelling for her.

  She glanced up. ‘‘You’re whistling.’’

  She was right. ‘‘So I am.’’

  ‘‘ ‘The Wexford Carol.’ ’’ Elizabeth reached up and stroked her hand quickly down his cheek. Then she stepped forward to the Holbein queen and gently touched a fingertip to the face that was so much like hers. ‘‘Oh. Oh, Rhys.’’

  He thought she was crying. He was wrong.

  To his utter amazement, she began to laugh. It started as the light, lovely, silvery sound he knew. A minute later she was gasping and holding her sides. In the end, as he watched slack-jawed, she was forced to grope for the broken stone bench in the center and perch precariously on the edge.

  ‘‘Oh, Rhys,’’ she gasped. ‘‘I love you!’’

  ‘‘I am very glad to hear that,’’ he muttered, ‘‘as I am rather alarmingly in love with you, too. But perhaps you will tell me just what is so funny.’’

  She drew an audible breath and wiped at her eyes with the hem of her cloak. ‘‘Those.’’ She pointed to the paintings.

  ‘‘I fail to see the amusement in four masterworks of art.’’

  ‘‘No. No, I don’t suppose you would. They’re very good, aren’t they?’’

  ‘‘Very.’’

  ‘‘And not worth a penny.’’ Elizabeth rose and waved at the Gainsborough. ‘‘Don’t you recognize her?’’

  Rhys scowled at the unattractive young lady. ‘‘Should I?’’

  ‘‘The pinched lips? The little eyes?’’

  Now that she mentioned it, there was something familiar in the face. ‘‘It is . . .’’

  ‘‘Aunt Gregoria! Of course, I didn’t know her then, but I daresay it’s a spitting image.’’

  Rhys made the calculations in his head. He supposed a young Gregoria could have sat for the famous painter. He didn’t know precisely when the family’s fortunes had turned.

  ‘‘And this one.’’ Again, Elizabeth gently touched the lovely blonde.

  ‘‘An ancestress?’’

  ‘‘My mother.’’ Her eyes were soft when they met his. ‘‘My great-uncle Clarence painted these. All of them.’’

  Rhys felt his jaw dropping. ‘‘Uncle Clarence of the cupid and the god-awful hunt scenes?’’

  ‘‘The very same. He was a very skilled copyist, you see, but it never gave him half the satisfaction of letting his creative impulses run wild. And you thought . . . Oh, dear.’’ Shoulders shaking again, she returned to the bench. Rhys lowered himself to sit beside her. ‘‘Are you very angry?’’

  ‘‘To be honest . . .’’ He lifted her chin and stared sternly down into her heartbreakingly beautiful face. ‘‘I am bloody delighted.’’

&nbs
p; ‘‘Good heavens, why?’’

  ‘‘Because,’’ he replied, ‘‘this means you are still poor as a church mouse.’’

  ‘‘And that makes you happy?’’

  ‘‘Deliriously so.’’ He kissed her again, a quick, light touch, and grinned when she hummed with pleasure. ‘‘You see, I cannot imagine you having me otherwise.

  Now I can offer my fortune along with my humble person.’’

  ‘‘Oh, Rhys.’’

  ‘‘You will have me, won’t you, Elizabeth? I am rather disgustingly rich.’’

  ‘‘I would have you,’’ she said softly against his lips, ‘‘if you hadn’t a shilling to your altogether too-grand name.’’

  This time, it was she who pulled his face to hers.

  ‘‘What did she say?’’ came sharply from the hedge behind them. Kelly.

  There was a rustling and shushing. ‘‘Get yourself off my shoulder, you daft eejit,’’ O’Reilly muttered. ‘‘Are you after flattening me?’’

  ‘‘Hush!’’ Nuala hissed. ‘‘I want to hear how she answered.’’

  ‘‘Sure and she answered yes!’’ came Meggie’s pronouncement.

  There was a loud scuffling and a yelp from the other side. ‘‘Ouch. Can’t go this way.’’ Percy. ‘‘Lizzie? Won’t wait forever for your answer, y’know.’’

  ‘‘Oh, shut up, boy!’’ Gregoria snapped. ‘‘Just push through. And stop whining. It’s only a little scratch. Lizzie? You come out right now! Do you hear me? Oh, give me your flask, Percy. I feel faint . . .’’

  Just then, Andrew’s grinning face appeared around the corner. ‘‘Well?’’ he demanded. ‘‘Did you kiss her?’’

  ‘‘Go away, puppy,’’ Rhys muttered.

  His nephew didn’t budge. ‘‘Christmas, Uncle. So, what did she say?’’

  The rustling grew louder on all sides. Rhys sighed. Then grinned. ‘‘She said yes,’’ he shouted.

  ‘‘That’s the spirit!’’ Andrew crowed, coming to give Elizabeth a resounding kiss on her cheek. Then he poked Rhys solidly in the chest. ‘‘There’s the spirit. And merry well about time, too. Now come and have some champagne. Mr. Lambe’s finest.’’

  ‘‘Champagne?’’ Gregoria’s voice carried stridently through the hedge. ‘‘Washed up on the beach, no doubt. For God’s sake, Lizzie, when are you going to have some decent spirits in this hovel? Oh, do stop sniveling, Percy. It is merely a scratch . . .’’

  Epilogue

  Letter from the Earl of Clane to the Duke of Llans, 4 November 1813:

  My Dear Llans,

  Call me the worst of meddlers, but I have a scheme brewing in my head and, as it will not go away and I cannot figure how to manage it myself, I am appealing to your sense of friendship and your brotherly devotion.

  The enclosed is an advert from yesterday’s paper. As you will see, it is for a Wexford estate. It belongs to a family I knew in my youth. The daughter, Elizabeth Fitzhollis, lives there now. She is a lovely girl; I fancied her madly for a bit in my much younger days. I have only recently learned that her father died several years ago and, due to the typical nasty legalities, left her virtually nothing at all. Everything—lock, stock, and her beloved, crumbling pile of a house—went to a perfectly awful cousin who is advertising it for sale.

  I would offer my assistance in a heartbeat, but it would look rather dodgy and Elizabeth wouldn’t accept it anyway. She is proud and lionhearted and, I have learned, so determined to keep her moldering Hollymore standing that she shores and mends and digs herself. A mule shouldn’t have to work so hard.

  Now, generous a soul as I know you are, still let 141 me assure you that there is something for your family in this as well. I know how fond you are of your brother, as are we all of Rhys, despite his damnable starchy deportment. I also know that you, Susan, and the rest of the realm have despaired of his ever finding a woman to suit him. I think Elizabeth Fitzhollis just might be that woman.

  Buy the pile; send Rhys to look at it. If all goes as I expect it will, not only will you have a lovely sister-in-law and a happy brother, but he’ll insist on taking said pile off your hands quicker than you can say ‘‘felicitations.’’

  If all does not go as I expect, and that is a very rare occurrence indeed—oh, cease with the guffaws, sir—I will buy Hollymore from you at a profit. If Rhys does not come back with Elizabeth, perhaps he will come back with some Christmas spirit. Heaven knows he could do with a bit.

  Ailis sends her love to you and Susan, and thanks you again for the marvelous Welsh hospitality during our honeymoon. She cannot abide England and is vastly relieved whenever I reveal a close acquaintance in a Celtic clime. She also bids me inform you that if you do not bring your sorry selves to Dublin in the new year, she will feature you prominently in her next set of caricatures. Trust me, my friend, you do not want that.

  A Happy Christmas to all.

  Clane

  The Wexford Carol

  Good people all, this Christmastime, consider well and bear in mind

  What our good God for us has done, in sending his beloved Son.

  With Mary holy we should pray to God with love this Christmas day;

  In Bethlehem upon that morn, there was a blessed Messiah born.

  The night before that happy tide, the noble Virgin and her guide

  Were long time seeking up and down, to find a lodging in the town.

  But mark how all things came to pass; from every door repelled, alas!

  As long foretold, their refuge all was but a humble ox’s stall.

  There were three wise men from afar, directed by a glorious star,

  And on they wandered night and day until they came where Jesus lay,

  And when they came unto that place where our beloved Messiah was,

  They humbly cast them at his feet, with gifts of gold and incense sweet.

  Near Bethlehem did shepherds keep their flocks of lambs and feeding sheep;

  To whom God’s angels did appear, which put the shepherds in great fear.

  Prepare and go, the angels said. To Bethlehem, be not afraid,

  For there you’ll find, this happy morn, a princely babe, sweet Jesus born.

  With thankful heart and joyful mind, the shepherds went the babe to find,

  And as God’s angel had foretold, they did our savior Christ behold.

  Within a manger he was laid, and by his side the virgin maid,

  Attending on the Lord of Life, who came on earth to end all strife.

  Mistletoe and Folly

  Sandra Heath

  Sir Richard Curzon left Lady Finch’s Christmas ball unexpectedly early. The diamond pin in his starched muslin neckcloth flashed in the light of a street lamp as he strolled slowly along the snowy Mayfair pavement of Pargeter Street. His fashionable Polish greatcoat was unbuttoned as he walked through the starry December night toward nearby Park Lane, and his town residence overlooking Hyde Park.

  It had been Christmas Eve since the stroke of midnight, and the sounds of revelry followed him as London’s haut ton danced the night away. They’d do the same the next night at the lavish masquerade to be held at Holland House, and Richard’s name figured prominently on that guest list as well, but given the mood he was in at present he didn’t know if it would be advisable to attend.

  He breathed deeply of the keen winter air. The December of 1819 had been bitterly cold so far, almost as cold as the winter of 1814 when the Thames had frozen over, and somehow he didn’t think it would improve before the new year. Lifting his cane he dashed some snow from an overhanging branch. Pargeter Street was a place of elegant mansions and high-walled gardens, and tonight it was filled with that air of excitement that always accompanied Christmas. A line of fine carriages was drawn up near Finch House, red-ribboned wreaths adorned all doorways, and more greenery could be seen through brightly lit windows, for it was as traditional to decorate one’s house in Mayfair as it was any country cottage. Richard strolled on, feeling no excitement at all,
just an unsettling restlessness, as if something of tremendous importance was about to happen to him.

  His tall-crowned hat was tipped back on his blonde hair, and the astrakhan collar of his greatcoat was turned up. Beneath the coat he wore the tight-fitting black velvet evening coat and white silk pantaloons that were de rigueur for a man of fashion, and altogether he presented the perfect picture of Bond Street elegance. He was handsome, charming, and much sought after in society, but tonight there was a pensive look in his blue eyes, and an unsmiling set to his fine lips.

  The ball would continue until daylight, but he hadn’t been enjoying the diversion, not even when he’d held Isabel in his arms for the waltz. Miss Isabel Hamilton was the woman he was to marry, and he loved her very much, but that hadn’t prevented him from behaving aloofly all evening, so much so that in the end he’d felt obliged to remove himself. Isabel hadn’t understood, indeed she’d been so displeased that she’d tossed her head in that willful but fascinating way of hers, and, much to the annoyance of that lord’s shrew of a duchess, had promptly requested the good-looking young Duke of Laroche to partner her in a cotillion. She’d given Laroche her full and flattering attention, and hadn’t glanced again at the fiancé who’d displeased her so.

  With a sigh Richard jabbed his silver-tipped cane into the deep snow at the side of the pavement. Things weren’t going well in his private life, for of late there’d been far too much friction and misunderstanding. Isabel was the belle of London, having taken society by storm when she’d arrived from her home in Scotland the year before. She had no title or fortune, but was very beautiful and from a good family, and she’d been besieged by admirers from the moment she arrived. With her shining short dark curls and melting brown eyes she was quite the most heart-stoppingly lovely creature in the realm, and he was the envy of his many rivals for having won her hand. But as the months of the betrothal had passed he’d begun to see a side of her of which his rivals knew nothing. She could be flirtatious, capricious, selfish and untruthful, and these traits had rubbed a little of his happiness away. He still loved her, but deep in his heart he was beginning to have grave doubts about the wisdom of making her his wife.