Mistletoe Everywhere

by Linda Banche

  His sitting beside her couldn’t possibly be accidental. Jane and Edward must have begun a campaign to reunite her with Charles.

  Her heart thumped. “Good evening, Mr. Gordon.”

  His mouth set in a grim line. “Good evening, Miss Lawrence.” He then greeted Miss Ward, who sat on his other side.

  “No, no, I will sit here.” Aunt Lydia lumbered down the other side of the table. She snatched up the place card for the chair directly across from Penelope and handed the pasteboard to a scowling Jane. “I am sure Lord Baring will be much happier over there.” She waved at an empty seat far down the other side of the table. Glaring, Aunt Lydia plopped herself into the chair.

  The chair creaked.

  Fortunately for Penelope, an ornate silver epergne blocked from view all but the waving ostrich plume in her aunt’s turban.

  Rescued from her aunt, but thrust into Charles’s company. Pray this meal ended soon.

  Charles’s citrus and sandalwood cologne wafted to her nose.

  Penelope could barely prevent herself from inhaling deeply. He had worn that same scent when they courted. How she loved the fragrance. But the memories the cologne evoked hurt.

  “Mr. Gordon, I must tell you about—” Miss Ward broke into a spate of prattling that ran on and on about the weather, the gardens, Christmas and the coming year. All through the soup course, she stopped only to take a spoonful or two of the chicken broth. Propriety dictated that guests divide their attention between their neighbors, but she never paused long enough to allow anyone else to converse with Charles. Or did he let her?

  In any case, Penelope’s heart pounding eased. Let the lady continue talking to him. She herself would enjoy the scent of his cologne while despising the man.

  The servants cleared away the soup, and brought in the next course.

  “Roast beef! I love roast beef!” Miss Ward tucked into the meat as if she had never before eaten, leaving Charles free, at last.

  Drat.

  Charles smiled at Penelope, the smile almost genuine.

  Happy to see her, or happy to be free of Miss Ward for a few minutes?

  “Have you recovered from the cold this morning?”

  So, they would discuss the weather again. Very well. “Indeed, I was in no danger from anything this morning.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Are you sure you are quite well? Did that terrible mugwort cause you harm?”

  His almost-smile flattened. “I apologize for that. Mugwort is dangerous. Cannot let the scurvy plant loose on an unsuspecting lady.”

  “What is mugwort?” Miss Ward leaned over her plate so far her bodice almost brushed her food.

  “An herb that is poisonous if touched.”

  Poisonous, my foot. Penelope had looked up mugwort this afternoon. The plant was a harmless ground-growing herb used in medicines and as a flavoring for food, and not likely to grow atop a rose arbor.

  “Do not say so!” Miss Ward pressed a hand over her conspicuous expanse of uncovered bosom, and then drew in a breath that pushed her breasts out farther. “We must have the gardeners remove every speck at once. How clever of you to find the dangerous weed first and warn us.”

  Penelope rolled her eyes. The chit was doing it up too brown by half.

  “Ah, yes.” Charles’s gaze dropped for the briefest second to the bared female flesh thrust at him. Then he once more directed his attention to Penelope.

  Miss Ward’s lips screwed up.

  Fortunately, Charles shifted and his body hid her from view. “I enjoyed our chat this morning, Miss Lawrence. I trust your stay has been enjoyable so far?”

  “Thank you, it has.”

  “And what have you been up to, Mr. Gordon?” Aunt Lydia leaned around the epergne. Her arm brushed the wineglass of the gentleman beside her. A few red drops spattered onto the pristine tablecloth before the man could scramble to the rescue of his tottering glass.

  Penelope’s cheeks heated. Her aunt could display incredibly bad manners.

  “I spend my time overseeing my business.” Charles’s voice was frigid. “And you, Lady Bayle?”

  “I attend to my niece and my lands, in true genteel fashion.” Her eyes, knife-sharp, would flay Charles alive if they could. “What is our world coming to, when the gentry engages in trade and no one cares?”

  Charles’s eyes froze into grey shards. “And would you prefer that a gentleman live in poverty when he might better his lot by his own efforts?”

  “Standards must be upheld.”

  “Only if they benefit the parties involved. I applaud a man—or woman—who would labor rather than starve.”

  Lord Fane cleared his throat. “Indeed, you have done well for yourself, young man. What was it, a load of silks that made your fortune?”

  “Yes, I was employed—” He raised his eyebrows at Aunt Lydia.

  Her face stiffened.

  “—at a shipping firm. I bought a few shares in a company vessel sailing to the Orient. I myself traveled on that ship, as assistant to the firm’s buyer. At one stop, I discovered a selection of exceptionally luxurious silks. We bought all of them, the best the company had ever purchased. Even I, with my modest investment, did well.”

  “So well that you became a partner in the establishment a few years later.” Lord Fane slapped the table with his palm. His neighbors’ wineglasses danced. “Didn’t hurt that your father then inherited a baronetcy and a fortune. And that your sire approved of your using some of the money to buy the company. Good for you, lad. I like intelligent, hard-working men. Need more like you. Nowadays, most young twigs are lazy jackanapes, sponging off others.”

  Aunt Lydia’s lips puckered as if she were sucking lemons.

  “I adore silk.” Lady Preston clasped her hands at her breast. “I would so love to see those fabrics. Do you still have them?”

  “The company sold most of the lot. I took several of the bolts as my share, and sold them, too, except for a few I kept for my personal use.”

  “For your use or a lady’s?” Bray, seated beside Aunt Lydia, smirked.

  Charles’s features hardened. “What I do with my possessions is my business.”

  Miss Ward touched Charles’s arm. “What is the fabric like?”

  “Some of the silks are thick and soft. Others are sheerer than gauze.” He turned to Penelope. “But the colors are their most extraordinary feature—red, gold, purple and orange, as well as pink, blue and green. Some hues are deep, rich, and gleam—almost sparkle—in the light. Others are the barest whisper of color.”

  His head bent a fraction toward her. The citrus and sandalwood of his cologne sharpened and intensified. “There are reds and oranges that rival the sky of a sultry summer dawn. Greens and blues a peacock would envy.” The ice in his eyes melted, replaced with a warmth that grew hotter with each beat of her heart. “Whites that literally shine. And my favorite, a dark pink that shimmers when shaken.” His voice deepened and softened. “The pink is thick, almost a velvet, but light, sheer, and soft…soft as a rose petal, a down feather, a baby’s cheek.” His grey eyes darkened and heated like molten lava.

  The gabbling of the guests, the clatter of silverware, and the hiss of the candles faded away. Charles’s voice was the only sound in Penelope’s world, his cologne a decadent mist that beckoned her far, far away to sensuous delights.

  Her breath quickened and her fingers clenched. Visions of soft skin pressed against harder skin flashed through her mind, the remembered feel of Charles’s hand on her face, his lips on hers…

  “Was there any damage?”

  Penelope blinked.

  So did Charles. He cleared his throat before he straightened and addressed Lord Fane. “We were fortunate to sustain minimal damage.”

  “Do not say some of those extraordinary silks were ruined.” Lady Preston fanned herself. Did she feel the heat, too? “What a crime.”

  “Every voyage has some loss of merchandise. We picked apart the damaged silks for embroidery thread.”

&
nbsp; Penelope relaxed her fingers. “I can only imagine such thread. Any embroidery using the thread would be magnificent.” Thank God, her voice sounded steady to her ears.

  “As I recall, you embroidered very well.” His eyes still held a hint of that smoldering heat.

  So, he remembered. Her breath, which had slowed to its normal rate, speeded up again. “Thank you. But I have not embroidered in a while. I miss doing so.”

  “I embroider, too.” Miss Ward’s voice was petulant, her pretty features marred. “I would be happy to show you my work.”

  Charles bowed to the girl, the ice returning to his eyes. “And I would be happy to see anything you have done.”

  “Tell us about your ships.” Miss Ward batted her eyelashes.

  For most of the rest of the meal, Miss Ward once more monopolized Charles.

  Penelope exchanged several words with him the few times the chit stopped to eat.

  Once in a while, whenever Charles’s attention was elsewhere, Miss Ward would turn toward the head of the table. Every time, her eyes, so adoring when she looked at Charles, hardened, as if she both wanted and didn’t want to see someone there. She would raise an eyebrow, as if to show off how attentive Charles was, or she would frown.

  The black-haired young man Penelope had noticed the first night sat opposite them closer to the top of the table. His features softened whenever he gazed at Miss Ward, but they stiffened with every glance at Charles. Several times, forehead puckered, he tipped his head up and examined the ceiling over Miss Ward.

  All in all, though, the meal was more pleasant than expected. Penelope had come to a truce of sorts with Charles. The past would always cast a pall over them, but the rest of the party would be tolerable if they conversed as they had tonight.

  Penelope shivered. But perhaps not if they conversed as they had about the silks. Had he meant something other than silks?

  No, he couldn’t have.

  ***

  Charles rose with the other gentlemen as the ladies filed out of the dining room.

  His gaze followed Penelope even as he refused to look above her. All through dinner, he had itched at his inability to examine the ceiling. But now…

  She paused in the doorway. Tacked to the lintel above her was another clump of mistletoe.

  Hell and the devil.

  Someone jostled him from behind, and Charles turned and nodded at the man’s apology. When he looked back a second later, Penelope was gone…and so was the mistletoe.

  What was going on? Mayhap he was sickening with something. All he thought about was Penelope and mistletoe. He was a sensible man. The weed couldn’t deliberately point her out.

  Could it?

  Then there was his behavior at dinner. He gave an inward groan. When he described the silks, he acted as if he and Penelope were alone. And he had hungered for her, as much as he had five years ago. If Lord Fane hadn’t interrupted, he would have kissed her in front of everyone.

  His mind clouded with visions of Penelope—preferably naked—draped in the silks, her softness against his hardness…

  He plopped into the nearest chair and covered his lap with a fold of the tablecloth. God forbid that the others see his hardness.

  He gulped a mouthful of port. He had to bring himself down, but also bring mistletoe up.

  The mistletoe came up without his help. Obliging of the dratted plant.

  “I say, Preston, why have you not yet filled the place with Christmas greenery?” Lord Baring raised his glass for a footman to refill. “You love all this holiday folderol. With a house named Mistletoe Manor, I thought you would pack mistletoe and such in every corner and crevice year round.” His tumbler now full, he once more guzzled his port.

  Hoots and guffaws filled the air.

  Lord Preston waved his glass for silence. “Come now, you all know ’tis bad luck to decorate the house with greenery before Christmas Eve.”

  Charles leaned over to Edward, who sat beside him. “You must want bad luck, because I have seen quite a bit of mistletoe about the house. The garden, too.”

  Smythe hooted. “You even saw the plant in the dining room this afternoon, over Miss Lawrence. Not that I saw any.”

  “Hah! Seeing mistletoe that isn’t there!”

  “Where are you hiding, little mistletoe? Why, over the ladies, of course!”

  “Mistletoe, mistletoe everywhere!”

  Lord Fane, on Charles’s other side, poked him in the arm. “How often have you dipped into the brandy bottle?”

  Edward smiled as if he guarded a secret. “So you saw mistletoe in the dining room, too, as well as in the foyer. Well, well.”

  Charles gritted his teeth. “If you have strewn mistletoe about for some joke with me as the butt, I tell you to stop now.”

  “You misjudge me. I did no such thing.”

  Gavin, already deep in his cups, hiccupped. “Where did the estate’s name come from?”

  Edward twirled the stem of his glass. “Old family tale. A few hundred years ago, my ancestor had a border dispute with the lady who owned the neighboring manor. One day they encountered each other in the forest under the mistletoe. According to folklore, mistletoe is the plant of peace. Enemies meeting under mistletoe must declare a truce for twenty-four hours. During the respite, my ancestor and the lady not only talked out their problem, but fell in love.”

  “A happy ending.” His grin lopsided, Gavin took another swig of his drink. “I like happy endings.”

  Bray snorted. “You always were a sentimental fool, Gavin. Most likely, that truce was the only time they ever rubbed along well. After their marriage, they probably fought all the time.”

  “I like happy endings, too.” A young, dark-haired man Charles didn’t know slid his almost untouched glass of port from hand to hand across the table before him.

  “The innocence of youth.” Bray drawled the words. “Wait until you have a few more years in your dish and a lady or two has trampled on your finer sensibilities. You will sing a different tune.”

  The boy’s shoulders drooped.

  Charles’s hand tightened on the stem of his wineglass. “Stop, Bray. No reason to disillusion him.”

  “You are a fine one to talk, Gordon. What about you and Miss Lawrence? She spurned you in a letter, without even the courtesy of jilting you in person. We all know the tale.”

  Charles’s blood seethed, but he forced boredom into his voice. Never would he rise to that snake’s bait. “Miss Lawrence and I were never betrothed, so she could not jilt me.” Never formally betrothed.

  Bray sneered. “Oh, come now. I am sure you noticed she is now her aunt’s companion. How you must have rejoiced when you found out her father had gambled away all his money, her dowry included, and then her parents died, leaving her without a feather to fly with.”

  Charles’s blood cooled. He hadn’t known that. As much as her betrayal was still a dagger to his heart, he wouldn’t have wished any of that on her. “I am sorry for her loss.”

  Bray snorted. “A true gentleman. A lesson for you, lad. A gentleman never speaks ill of a lady. Even if she deserves it.”

  Charles shot out of his chair. “Why, you—”

  Edward grabbed his arm and dragged him down. “Come now, we are merely having a friendly discussion.” His eyes grew steel-hard. “Were we not, Bray?”

  “Yes, of course. No insult intended.” His eyes said the opposite.

  Charles didn’t believe the man for a second, but better not to make a scene. “Very well. This time.” The last two words were a warning.

  Face blank, Bray shrugged.

  “Now, to return to the mistletoe.” Edward released Charles, and once more his usual happy smile stretched. “Where did you see the plant?”

  Still keeping an eye on Bray, Charles named the places.

  Edward scratched his head. “Have the gardeners found some and neglected to tell me? Mistletoe grows poorly, if at all, this far north. I have not yet sent anyone to Yorkshire to purchas
e some.”

  “If mistletoe grows so poorly here, how could your ancestors have stood under the plant?” Lord Baring refilled his now empty glass from the bottle the servant had left on the table. He kept the bottle by his side.

  Edward rubbed the back of his neck and gave a sheepish grin. “I was afraid you would ask that. My ancestor saw mistletoe, but the lady did not. We have a family legend that a man will see his true love standing under mistletoe—mistletoe only he can see.”

  “Ha! A good tale, if unbelievable.”

  “The ladies must love that one!”

  “Phantom mistletoe!” Old bachelor Lord Baring shuddered. “May the saints preserve me.” Once more, he refilled his glass.

  Lord Fane snorted. “The saints will have no say in the matter. With the amount you drink, all that alcohol will pickle you and preserve you forever. Besides, broken-down old sot that you are, who would want you now?”

  “He has you there, Baring!”

  “Here’s to alcohol and pickling! I cannot imagine a better fate!”

  “Hear, hear!”

  “I will look around.” Edward’s shout was almost inaudible above the merriment. “Mayhap we will not go into debt buying mistletoe this year. Charles, you might see mistletoe because you want to. Are you under the influence of my family legend?” Edward clapped him on the shoulder. “Is there a lady?”

  ***

  “And to add to the Christmas spirit, let me tell you the family legend of the mistletoe.” Lady Preston launched into the tale to the rapt group of ladies in the drawing room. At the end, more than one feminine sigh filled the air.

  “Magic mistletoe? The pixies and the fairies probably hang the plant in the appropriate places.”

  “I think the idea is splendid. Imagine a man so in love he sees mistletoe over the lady of his heart.”

  “Only a fool would see mistletoe like that.” This from Aunt Lydia.

  Penelope kept her face blank. She hadn’t heard this. Could there be something to Charles seeing mistletoe over her?

  But he couldn’t still be in love with her. He had broken off their engagement.

  Jane clasped her hands to her breast. “I adore that story. I wish a man loved me so much that he saw mistletoe above me all the time.”