A choir of very small angels sang a carol in sweetly angelic voices. A shepherd’s headdress fell over his eyes and he walked into the kneeling rail. A wise man led in a goat disguised to look like a camel, and the goat tried to eat the embroidered altarpiece.
As laughter rippled through the church, the altarpiece was saved by the deft actions of Lucinda Richards, director of the pageant. With her golden hair pulled back in a simple knot, she was as serene and lovely as an angel herself.
The pageant ended with the baby Jesus being laid in the manger. The moment of sweet solemnity ended when it turned out that the baby was being played by a light-colored puppy. It was sleeping as only puppies sleep when laid in the manger, but it woke up abruptly, looked at the children surrounding it, and leaped to the floor.
As the puppy ran yipping down the aisle, the goat bolted, baaing, and the whole congregation burst into laughter. Gregory saw Lucinda Richards sigh ruefully at the collapse of the pageant, but she knew better than to attempt to create order out of chaos. If all the players performed properly, the pageant wouldn’t be half so much fun.
The vicar raised his voice in a hymn of celebration that the savior was born. The congregation joined in, singing jubilation until the stone walls shivered. People rose and streamed from the chapel, voices still raised in song. Families with small children would go home, while others would stop by the vicarage open house.
Gregory was the last to file out of the Kenmore pew. As he waited for his father to rise with the aid of the cane, he glanced around the candlelit church. Lady Julia Randall was hugging her young angel Gabriel, and a very small sheep was perched and giggling on her proud father’s shoulder.
Gregory’s gaze moved back behind the altar where Lucinda Richards was collecting halos and sorting out her pageant players. She really was the loveliest girl, as refined and delicate as spun glass.
Laughing, she turned her head and said something to her father, and the sight of her pure profile was like a blow to his midriff. He stared at her.
No, it wasn’t possible. It wasn’t possible!
Lacey. Lucy.
A black wig lost.
The same flawless, delicate profile.
Lucinda Richards was the elusive Lacey.
Chapter 7
Lucy had sent all her players back to their families and was reaching for her cloak when she saw Gregory Kenmore cutting through the crowd with a purposeful look on his face. Merciful heavens, he’d recognized her as Lacey!
She wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and bolted out the rear entrance of the church into the graveyard. But where could she go? The vicarage was close, but it was already filling with guests, and as daughter of the house, she’d have to help.
Could she flee to Chloe’s house? No, on Christmas Eve she couldn’t invite herself over even if Chloe was her best friend.
The church bells were ringing with jubilation, a soft, pretty snow was falling, and she was about to be cornered by a man who could turn her brain to porridge. A man she’d deceived.
She saw his broad-shouldered form emerge from the church. With an embarrassing squeak, she took off, thinking she could circle the church and lose herself among the departing worshippers.
But it was too late. By the time she’d darted through the lychgate that led from the graveyard, he’d overtaken her. He caught her shoulder in a firm grip. “So the elusive Lacey is really the very proper Miss Lucinda Richards.”
She wished the ground would open up and swallow her, but the frozen earth didn’t cooperate. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“Why did you do it?” His voice was stern, male, and utterly clueless.
“Because I was angry!” she said with sudden exasperation. “I’d thought we were friends when we were younger. In my evening prayers, I always asked for your safe return. Then you returned and didn’t even call on my father, as would have been proper. I was delighted to finally see you at the Randalls’ ball, until you looked at me like I was a leper! You scarcely managed a polite hello, you didn’t want to touch my gloved hand in a dance, and after the dance you took off like a scared hare!”
He winced. “I suppose I did. You were so lovely, so refined. I didn’t feel worthy of touching you.”
But he’d touch a different sort of girl, she thought resentfully. “I heard you had jolly times at the Willing Wench, so I decided to see if you’d talk to me there. You did.” He’d touched her, too.
“It never occurred to me that a well-bred young lady would work as a barmaid. You looked so different.” Lucy’s high-necked gown and heavy cloak disguised her figure, but his gaze dropped involuntarily to where Lacey’s décolletage would have been.
“An old gown from the Bridges’ attic assured you wouldn’t look at my face and recognize me,” she said tartly.
He wrenched his gaze back to her face. “So which is real—angelic Lucy who directs the Christmas pageant, or playful Lacey who listens so well?”
She bit her lip. “Both are. I was raised well and I enjoy working with the children, but I’m no bloodless angel. I liked being Lacey and having the men at the tavern think I was pretty. And . . . and I liked being kissed. Too much.”
“A girl as lovely as you needn’t lack for kisses.”
With sharp clarity, she recognized that this was a critical moment. If she didn’t show him her heart—and risk having it stamped on—she might never have a chance to be more than a baffling female to him. Voice shaking, she said, “I want only one man’s kisses. Yours.”
He rocked back on his heels, shocked to the bone that she could want him. But her hopeful, terrified expression was utterly convincing. “Lucy,” he said, using the name he’d called her in simpler days. “Are you saying that you . . . you care for me?”
“I’ve been in love with you since you started coming to the vicarage so my father could teach you Latin and Greek,” she whispered. Tears slid silently down her cheeks. “I knew I was too young, that I must wait until I was grown up. So when I prayed that you would come home safely, I also selfishly prayed that you wouldn’t find someone else before I had a chance to persuade you to look at me.”
“My darling, darling girl.” He brushed the tears from her cheeks, then cupped her exquisite heart-shaped face in his hands. “You didn’t really know me. I am not worthy of such devotion.”
“I knew that you were kind and patient with a little girl, intelligent in your studies, respectful to my parents, and that you had a sense of humor,” she retorted. “You were a young man worthy of any woman’s regard.”
He sighed. “Perhaps I was then. I’m not now. You learned that when we talked outside the tavern.”
“I learned that you are a man who has suffered and survived and become stronger in the mended places,” she said quietly. “I know you better now than I did, and care for you even more.”
She was both Lucy and Lacey, he realized. A warm-hearted, well-raised vicar’s daughter and a young woman who had seen enough of the dark side of life to learn wisdom and compassion. The connection he’d felt with her at the tavern was real and strengthened now that he saw her more clearly.
“Lucy.” He bent and kissed her lips tenderly, tasting her sweet honesty. “Lacey.” He kissed her again more deeply, feeling her strength and compassion.
She responded with innocent, intoxicating enthusiasm. He embraced her so that her soft body molded against him. He wanted to merge with her, protect her, worship her. So this is love, he thought dazedly, sliding his hands down her back.
He hadn’t realized how far his hands had slid until she shoved him away and took off into the snow. After an instant of ice water shock, Gregory followed, catching up with her in a few strides. He caught her and drew her close, her back to his chest and his arms around her waist and shoulders. “Please don’t run away!”
Before he could apologize for moving too quickly, she said tearfully, “I had to run. I’m a trollop!”
“Nonsense!” he retorted. “Wh
at gave you such an absurd idea?”
“I dressed like a trollop and went to a tavern and enjoyed it when men flirted with me.” She gulped. “And I enjoyed kissing you far too much! My parents would be so disappointed in me.”
He realized that Lucy, the vicar’s daughter, was talking, and she didn’t approve of Lacey’s innocent but real enthusiasm. “Your parents enjoy kissing, or they wouldn’t have had four children,” he said soothingly. “While they wouldn’t want you to kiss too casually, my kiss wasn’t casual. I don’t think yours was, either.”
After a long silence, she whispered, “It wasn’t. But I’m so ashamed of my behavior that I can’t look you in the face.”
He kissed the edge of her right ear, and she shivered deliciously. “Don’t you know that every man’s dream is to find a woman who is kind and good, but also passionate and beautiful? A woman just like you.”
“I don’t have any idea what men dream of,” she retorted. “I certainly didn’t understand why you were so rude at the Randalls’ ball.”
“I was rude because I cared what you thought.” He cast about for an example to persuade her that she had nothing to be ashamed of. “I’m no expert on women, but my guess is that a girl interested in marriage would like to find a man who is devoted and faithful and will take good care of her and their children.”
He kissed her other ear. “But she’d also want him to think she’s the loveliest, most desirable woman on earth, and to be anxious to prove it. Am I right?” He slid his hand inside her cloak and rested it on her waist, careful not move too high or low.
“That’s what I want,” she admitted shyly. “A man I can trust, but who also excites me. A man . . . rather like you.”
“May I apply for the position?” he asked. “Just tell me what you want. A year’s restrained courtship with no kisses? That would be difficult, but if it’s what you want, I’ll do my best to oblige.”
She turned in his arms and gazed up at him, snowflakes frosting the dark hood of her cloak. “A courtship with no kisses wouldn’t be very amusing, but are you sure, Gregory? I am young and inexperienced compared to you.”
Knowing he must persuade her of her worth, he said gravely, “But you have learned wisdom at sickbeds and in helping with your father’s parishioners. The other night your wisdom started the process of mending my broken places. I’m still not sure I’m worthy of your regard, but I am not fool enough to turn away from the most entrancing girl I’ve ever know.”
Her eyes were wistful. “Does it cancel out if we each think we’re unworthy of the other’s regard?”
“I do believe it does,” he said thoughtfully. “And now that we have that settled, shall we go to your parents’ reception with enough stars in our eyes that everyone will immediately start forecasting wedding bells?”
“If you mean that,” she said with a shining smile, “I’ll be almost the happiest girl in England when we go inside.”
He imagined seeing that smile across the breakfast table, and thought his heart might burst with joy. “Can I do anything that will make you the very happiest girl in England?”
She gestured at the tree above them. “This is an oak tree, you know.”
“And . . . ?” he asked, not understanding.
She grinned and was pure mischievous Lacey. “And it’s absolutely full of mistletoe!”
MISS BROCKHURST’S CHRISTMAS CAMPAIGN
Jo Beverley
Chapter 1
“It’s going to be a sad Christmas with William so far away.”
Penelope Brockhurst heard her mother’s complaint, but couldn’t look up from her quill work at that moment. “We’ll do well enough with our friends here, Mama, and Prague is an excellent opportunity for him.”
“Oh, yes, and at only twenty-six. I am very proud of him, but I understand they have a great deal of snow there in winter. I do worry about the children.”
Pen’s mother worried about all children—her own four, even though they were grown; her two grandchildren; a cluster of godchildren; and any other youngsters she met. She was the epitome of motherly, with an apple-cheeked face, a round figure, and soft graying hair under a large, frilled cap. She often wondered aloud how she’d come to have a daughter like Pen—lacking in curves, lean of face, and recently with her dark hair cropped into short curls.
“They’ll revel in it,” Pen said. “I remember when there was all that snow at Christmas . . .”
“And your father was home that time, and ordered sleds made. Such a shrieking and a yelling, and a wonder no bones were broken. Especially yours, Pen.”
Pen glued the curl of paper in place and could look up. “My bones are no weaker than my brothers’, Mama.”
“I’m sure that can’t be true, dear. Men are stronger in all respects, which is why ladies do not do such things as hurtle down icy slopes on a piece of wood . . .”
“I wasn’t a lady then. I was only thirteen.”
“. . . or gallop horses, or climb trees.”
“I don’t climb trees anymore.” Pen returned to her work, first pinching a thin strip of paper in the middle, then wrapping one end around a fine rod. That done, she wrapped the other half around another stick, striving to make both halves equal in tightness.
She had no idea why this fiddly work entertained her, for she’d never enjoyed stitchery or watercolors, or any other ladylike pastime, but it did, and it passed time on a cold November day. London presented endless amusements, even at this time of year, but one had to venture out to enjoy them. The cozy drawing room and a lively fire were much to be preferred.
“Christmas is so much more pleasant in the country,” her mother said, returning to her theme. “I suppose we could remove to Lowell Manor. . . .”
She sounded hesitant, and no wonder.
“Without William and the family there, what would be the point, Mama? We are so much more comfortable here, and can enjoy the shops, amusements and our friends at the expense of a stroll or short hackney ride.”
“I suppose that’s true, dear,” her mother said, but a few moments later she sighed. “I will miss Christmas in the country.”
Pen thought that was the end of it, but a few days later her mother almost ran into the drawing room. “Pen! A letter from Mary Skerries!”
After a second, Pen put down the very complex curl she was attempting and smiled at her mother. Pray God she looked only bright with curiosity, that there was no sign of how her heart had thumped at the name Skerries.
“Is there exciting news?” she managed.
“What? No, no, not particularly. All is well at Cherryholt.”
No deaths. Why Pen had first thought of a death, she had no idea.
“Marianne is married,” her mother said. “You’ll remember Marianne, dear, for she is only three years younger than you. Married to Lord Montdown. A very good match.”
Her mother resisted a reproachful glance, which was noble of her. Marianne was twenty to Pen’s twenty-three, but Pen languished unwed. She’d tried to do as she ought—three times. Which only meant she’d jilted three men, and was now apparently known in some quarters as Miss Breakheart.
Her mother had fallen silent.
“You seemed excited?” Pen prompted.
“Ah, yes.” Her mother refolded the letter, looking uneasy. No, guilty? “I wondered . . . Pen, do you think it would be very incorrect to ask Mary to invite us to Cherryholt for Christmas?”
Pen’s heart pounded again, and kept up the pace in a way that threatened her senses.
Mary, Viscountess Skerries, had been her mother’s dearest friend since girlhood. Pen’s father had been a diplomat, but her mother hadn’t cared for distant travel, and in those situations she’d often removed herself and her children for a month or more to Cherryholt in Hampshire.
Pen had many fond memories of those times, but the ones that threatened her senses were of a person, not a place. Ross Skerries, heir to the viscountcy, almost the same age as she, and once her very bes
t friend.
Go to Cherryholt?
Where Ross Skerries now was, to the best of her knowledge?
Oh, yes.
“I’m sure you could phrase it well, Mama.”
“Perhaps . . .” But her mother peered at her. “Are you quite well, dear? You sound a little hoarse.”
Pen swallowed and did better. “Quite well, Mama. We never spent a Christmas at Cherryholt, did we? I’m sure it would be delightful.”
“Then I’ll do it. I really can’t bear to be in Town for Christmas.”
Chapter 2
On December twenty-third Pen sat in a coach that approached Cherryholt, fighting to show only appropriate expectation of seasonal amusement and pleasant company. In reality, her heart and dreams sped ahead so brightly she was surprised they didn’t light the way through the evening gloom.
“How lovely Cherryholt looks,” her mother said, full of innocent delight. “It is a most gracious house, and with so many windows lit. . . .”
“Yes.”
Ross might be in one of those lit rooms. Not all had curtains drawn, and Pen couldn’t help looking, seeking.
She’d last visited here five years ago. Shortly after that, her father had retired, his health broken by some foreign fever. She and her mother had lived at Lowell Manor, caring for him, until his death nearly two years ago.
The boys had flown the nest to careers in diplomacy, the army, and the church, but there could be no career for a daughter other than marriage.
Mourning over, Pen’s mother had set out to find her a husband, taking her to London, Brighton, Bath, and various house parties where eligible gentlemen might be found. The campaign had worked, except for Pen getting icy feet after the engagement was made.
Three times.
Miss Breakheart.
There’d be no more of that, she’d resolved, not now that she understood why she had been unable to go through with the engagements. The truth had struck one November day in Oxford Street.
Mischief and Mistletoe Page 5
