Mistletoe Kisses and Yuletide Joy

by Jo Beverley

  That evening, Kitty decided that she hadn't been in such a fluster since her first dance as a girl of sixteen. And it wasn't even as if she had anything to be flustered about. Not only was she a mere chaperone tonight, but her wardrobe offered only four black dresses, all of virtually the same plain design. None of them was suited to an evening with a lord.

  An evening with a lord.

  She acknowledged that she wasn't merely a chaperone. Lord Chatterton seemed inclined to flirt with her, and she intended to enjoy the experience.

  She was still in mourning, however, so she squashed the temptation to add some jewelry, and arranged her hair in its normal smooth knot high on her head. Then she grimaced at her plain reflection.

  He might have been inclined to flirt with her in the garden, when she was roughly dressed and her hair was flying loose. Now, however, she was Kitty Mayhew again, a woman men showed no amorous interest in at all.

  How tempting to dress wildly and leave her hair flowing loose. She laughed at the absurd idea.

  She did wish her hair would hold a curl, however. For fashion, she needed tight curls around her face, but she'd learned young that nothing would compel her hair to hold curls for an evening. She'd had nearly a decade to become used to that fact, so why was she even thinking of digging out her mother's old curling iron?

  Irritated by her own folly, she set her black straw bonnet firmly on top of her hair and went to find Pol.

  She had to admit to curiosity as to what her maid would wear to go courting. Over the years, Kitty had given her a number of gowns to alter and refurbish for herself. Pol was shorter, and so the gowns did fit with a little letting out.

  Kitty was pleased to see that the girl had not given in to any extravagant impulses. She wore a cream muslin gown that Kitty remembered, but which was now pleasantly trimmed with embroidered red flowers around hem and neckline and on the inset panel at the front of the bodice. The low neck was filled with a soft, white fichu. On her head she wore a red cloth toque that enclosed all her hair but a few curls at the front, and they were disguised by a pretty pleated frill.

  It was just the sort of headdress a nimble-fingered lady could make for herself, and very fetching. Kitty couldn't help thinking that such a frill would soften her own looks without curls.

  "Pol, you look delightful," she said honestly. "I think perhaps I should promote you to lady's maid."

  Pol's color was already excited, and now it deepened. "I do like to make pretty clothes, miss. But..."

  Kitty grinned. "But you're hoping not to be in my employ much longer. Very well. Let's go on our adventure."

  Merely adding large warm shawls to their outfits, they slipped out the back door and crept across the dark garden. Kitty felt like a housebreaker and the crunch of frosted grass beneath her half-boots sounded like a fusillade of arms loud enough to wake their neighbors. She half expected one to fling up a window, crying, "What's amiss? Who goes there?"

  When the gate hinges squealed, she cringed, caught between the urge to stand stock still hoping to be invisible, and to run through before they were caught. This whole area of London, however, remained undisturbed.

  Still, as they stepped carefully down the narrow footpath, Kitty wondered if she was demented to have agreed to this plan. What would her parents have thought?

  She was sure they would have supported Pol's chances of a good and loving marriage, but she doubted they'd have liked the means. Perhaps she should have insisted that all the wooing take place in her house. It was too late now, for they were into the Wells Street garden and approaching the back door.

  At the merest tap it flew open and Ned ushered them into a back pantry, quickly taking their shawls. Nothing ardent was said or done, and yet something -- something bright as a hearthfire -- danced between the two blushing servants.

  Kitty experienced a sudden, startling stab of emptiness. She had never felt anything like that. She had never -- not even for a fleeting moment -- been so important to a man.

  Ned led them through to the kitchen.

  "Where is Lord Chatterton?" Kitty asked.

  "In the drawing room, miss." Ned pulled an uneasy face. "I thought down here. He said up there."

  Perhaps he'd felt the same qualms that Kitty did and wanted to keep things formal. "And why not?" she said with a smile.

  As she followed Ned up plain servants' stairs, however, she suddenly worried that Lord Chatterton might have dressed for an evening entertainment. She would feel even more out of place.

  He was, however, in day dress, and seemingly prepared to be the perfect host. Two sofas had been arranged on either side of the fire, and he smoothly arranged it so that Ned and Pol ended up on one, with he and Kitty on the other.

  Soon after, the nervous valet went off to make tea. Pol made a move to help him but Lord Chatterton prevented it by engaging her in conversation. Kitty played her part, but she marveled at how easily he chatted to Pol, with whom he could have little in common.

  Kitty was not of a tongue-tied nature, but she generally spent her time with friends, or with people gathered for a shared interest -- political reform perhaps, or gas lighting. Now she observed in action an expert at getting along with strangers.

  Casually, lightly, he talked of a range of subjects that, required only the occasional, "Yes, my lord," or "I don't think so, my lord," from the uncomfortable maid. As soon as he found one that sparked a touch of interest, however, he settled to develop it.

  With surprised admiration, Kitty saw him draw Pol out to talk about the state of some nearby roads and the unreliability of the supply of fresh fish in the city. Soon the maid was easy enough to let loose a few pithy comments about some business in Parliament.

  Kitty's parents had always encouraged their servants to read the newspapers and journals that came into the house, and Kitty had continued that tradition. She hadn't been aware, however, of how much use Pol was making of them.

  By the time Ned came back -- and he had clearly hurried -- the object of his affections was leaning forward and giving his employer her firm opinions on the electoral system, and the exclusion of women from it.

  "I agree," Lord Chatterton said, unruffled. "There does seem little logic in excluding women from the vote. However, it wouldn't help you, Pol. There's a property qualification."

  "But if I were to become a property owner, I would have as much interest in good government as any similar man, wouldn't I, my lord?"

  "Do you have ambitions to become a property owner?"

  Pol leaned back slightly. "I have ambitions," she said. "What person does not?"

  "Oh, many. Perhaps most, if ambition includes the real intent to work toward a goal. But here is the tea."

  Once they were settled to tea and cake, he managed the talk again, finding childhood accounts for everyone to share. After a while, whether by his management or natural forces, Ned and Pol were talking together, and he turned to Kitty.

  "Would you care to take a stroll around the room, Miss Mayhew?"

  In her own small house, the suggestion would be ridiculous, but this room was large enough to provide a circuit of sorts. His main purpose, clearly, was to give Ned and Pol more privacy while maintaining the chaperonage.

  Kitty was thawing. Really, he was acting with wonderful kindness. She had clearly misjudged him, and she agreed willingly to his suggestion.

  They rose and began to stroll down one side of the room. "You were raised entirely in London, Miss Mayhew?"

  "Yes, my lord. We visited the sea every year, however."

  "Brighton?"

  "Good heavens, no! Far too racy. Eastbourne. It is still little more than a village, but very pretty. I suppose you grew up in the country."

  "At Oakhurst. Park, woods, lake, trout stream. I admit it was splendid."

  As they turned to cross in front of the long windows, Kitty took a rash step. "Then why are you not there now?"

  Distinctly, he cooled. "It's hardly fishing season."

  "I
t is, however, the season for gathering bay and holly, and hosting the tenants in Christmas festivities." It struck her for the first time that there was not a trace of Christmas decoration in this house.

  There was none in hers, either, but that was because of mourning. Perhaps he was in mourning. Men often gave up outward signs quite quickly.

  "My parents have such things in hand," he said.

  "Then should you not be there?" How impertinent. "I mean, is it not a time to be with family, my lord?"

  "Then why are you alone, Miss Mayhew?" It was clearly intended as a silencing attack.

  "Alas, my lord, I have no family."

  It struck home and he stopped to face her. They were now in the corner behind the courting couple, whose heads were close as they talked softly. "Everyone has family of some sort."

  "I suppose it does depend how far out into the family tree one wants to cast, my lord. But I have no siblings, no aunts and uncles, no cousins, and no grandparents alive."

  "Miss Mayhew, you'll have me in tears."

  It was a joking comment, but she could see he was genuinely struck by her situation. If he valued family, however, why was he here alone while his family celebrated at their country seat?

  "Tell me about your family, my lord."

  They continued their stroll. "I have two brothers and one sister. Mary is married. Harold is in the army, Charles in the Church."

  "Down at your home?"

  "No," he said with a wry smile. "Charles decided to take religion very seriously and has a living in a northern mill town. My parents are fit to tear their hair out over it."

  "And your sister? Will she and her family be visiting Oakhurst?"

  "She's celebrating Christmas at her own home."

  "So your parents will be alone for Christmas, my lord. That seems rather sad."

  "Did I give you permission to judge my family's contentment, Miss Mayhew?"

  A distinct tremor of nervousness shot through Kitty, but she kept her chin up. "Do I need it? You did say you would tell me why you are here alone."

  "Ah, so I did."

  They were close to the door to an adjacent room, and he turned the knob, then gestured her through.

  Kitty hesitated.

  "We'll leave the door open," he said. "If either of our charges screams, we can rush back in. Don't you think, though, that they might be permitted to steal a kiss?"

  Kitty knew nothing about this kind of chaperonage, but she supposed that as long as she and Lord Chatterton were in the same room, Ned and Pol wouldn't feel free to kiss. She went with him, therefore, into a simple ante room that lacked any sense of being a true living space. It also lacked a fire, and was distinctly chilly.

  "It hardly seems worth the time to find your shawl, does it?" The next thing she knew, she was in his arms.

  "My lord!" But Kitty hissed it, not wanting to disturb the courting couple.

  "I'm just blending our body heat, Miss Mayhew. Relax."

  It was true that he was doing nothing other than holding her close, and that his warmth was welcome. Even so, the feel of his body against hers was... distracting.

  "Perhaps it's time to go back," she whispered into his shoulder.

  "Have pity. A good kiss takes time. But," he added, "perhaps you don't know that."

  Kitty was not at all surprised when he shifted their bodies slightly and tilted her head toward his.

  "No protests, Miss Mayhew?" He was intent again, a little amused, and devastatingly handsome.

  Kitty's heart was thundering, but it pleased her to surprise him. "No. I, too, am chaperoned. If necessary I will scream."

  "But a kiss won't cause you to scream?" His lips were only inches from hers now and she could feel his breath.

  "I don't think so. My experience of kissing is somewhat limited."

  "Ah." She couldn't see his lips any more, but his eyes smiled. "And being of a scholarly disposition, you would like to learn more."

  "You have it exactly, my lord."

  "In the interests of science, then...."

  The kiss in the garden, she realized, had not been a real kiss. It had been perhaps a challenge, a test, a tease, but not a kiss. This, she thought, was a real kiss.

  Perhaps it was the way he held her, encompassing, but without any need to control or restrain.

  Perhaps it was the way he sampled her, like a person stepping into the sea for the first time, exploring each sensation before going deeper.

  Perhaps it was the way she responded, exploring gently in her turn, fascinated by the soft warmth of his lips, the hint of his teeth, the first touch of his tongue.

  She knew she was relaxed against his arms, soothed and softened into a state ripe for further adventures. Improper adventures. She recognized, therefore, that it was time to end it.

  Gently, for she was not offended, she straightened and moved back, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "I think, my lord, that if Ned and Pol are doing that, we should go and interrupt."

  "How true." He looked gratifyingly unsteady himself as he led her back into the other room, saying, "Do you play cards, Miss Mayhew?"

  He spoke rather loudly, and after a moment Kitty realized he was alerting the other couple. When they entered the warm drawing room, Ned and Pol were sitting side by side, hand in hand and rather flushed.

  Kitty wondered if she were flushed, then realized her skin would hide it. "You're rather good at this," she murmured to the man by her side.

  "At what, dear lady? Kissing or playing gooseberry." A teasing wink disarmed her outrage. "As for the latter, I have a sister, remember. I've seen it in operation. Had to play my part now and then."

  Soon they were at a card table, enjoying a simple gambling game for outrageous stakes. Lord Chatterton cheated, and soon Pol learned from him, with both Ned and Kitty protesting at their tricks. Kitty laughed more than she had in a year, and enjoyed herself perhaps more than she could ever remember.

  At one crystal moment, she realized that she could love to live like this. But this was a momentary sparkle in the dark, like the stars from fireworks, enduring only for a moment.

  Soon Pol would be the maid again, and she the mistress. Lord Chatterton would have his servants back and live as a noble should. He would attend splendid balls, dine with important people, and if he played cards, it would be for more moderate stakes, but real ones.

  Kitty would be alone again, perhaps without even Pol for company.

  She shrugged that away. She had this moment with perhaps more of them before Twelfth Night. She would enjoy them while she could.

  At ten o'clock, they prepared to return home, finding a sleek black tomcat waiting by the back door.

  "Is your cat safe?" he asked Kitty as he arranged her shawl around her shoulders.

  "I believe so."

  "Then I'll let him out. He's not used to being confined at night."

  "What if he sets up his serenade outside our house again?"

  He smiled down at her. "Then you can imagine him my minstrel, sent to serenade you, my moonbeam queen."

  Kitty sucked in an unsteady breath. "You are a wicked man, my lord."

  "Aren't all toms?"

  The two men escorted them back, the tomcat slipping ahead into Kitty's garden. His owner opened the gate and Kitty went through with him before realizing Ned and Pol had hesitated on the other side.

  "Another kiss?" she asked in humorous comment.

  "Why not?" he said with a smile.

  Kitty didn't pretend to struggle as he kissed her warmly in a way that created an excellent illusion of tender care.

  "Good night, dear lady," he murmured afterward, adjusting her shawl around her. "I wish I could believe that you will dream of me."

  She shivered slightly at his tone. "Will you dream of me?"

  "Oh, undoubtedly." He kissed her hand, looking into her eyes. "Pale, slender, and bathed in starshine."

  Kitty did step back at that, freeing herself and pulling her dark shawl even close
r around her black dress. He hadn't said "naked", but she'd heard it.

  Perhaps she was playing a much more dangerous game than she'd thought.

  <<-->>

  If there was danger, it was elusive, for the courtship progressed as it had begun. While London celebrated the Twelve Days of Christmas, Kitty, Lord Chatterton, Ned, and Pol met each evening to talk and play games.

  And to kiss.

  Or at least, Lord Chatterton kissed Kitty. She could only assume that Ned was kissing Pol. It would be intrusive to ask.

  Surely they must be kissing, for they showed no sign of tiring of each other. In fact, Pol began to act as if she'd given her wits into Ned's keeping the way she wandered around during the day letting things burn and boil over.

  Kitty found herself a little absentminded herself now and then. She felt different, different all over. Sometimes she caught herself stroking her own body, imagining a man's arms around her. Thank heavens there was no one to see!

  Perhaps the sanest creature in the house was Sherry, now restored to disinterest in the male of the species. This didn't prevent some of the toms from lurking and squabbling in the garden, but most of them had clearly left for more promising spots.

  Rochester stayed around, however, occasionally caterwauling his claim to his territory, sounding remarkably like a lover serenading beneath the window of his beloved.

  One restless night, hearing the black cat yowling and seeing Sherry's disdain, Kitty made this a lesson for herself. If she ever felt tempted to croon at beguiling Lord Chatterton she should remember that he was just suffering a temporary interest.

  It would pass when his normal life resumed, and that would be tomorrow. She was sleepless tonight because tomorrow was Twelfth Night. The next day their servants would begin to return and normal order would be restored. The adventure would be over.

  She'd planned to enjoy it and she had.

  She had not planned to fall in love with the man.

  That, however, was what she'd done.

  He was a wonderful companion, able to talk of almost anything and able to listen just as well. He could occasionally show a biting wit, but he seemed kind and not the slightest bit haughty. And his kisses were a work of art.