Kissed at Christmas

by Christina McKnight

The kiss and the symbol—could they be connected beyond what Mallory pictured when her gift overtook her?

  She dabbed her cloth napkin in her water goblet and swiped at her right hand in another vain attempt to remove the blasted ink. Perhaps Felicity could concoct something to cleanse her skin.

  The only positive was Mallory had been able to keep the greater nature of her vision to herself. Her aunt would be proud of her for keeping the tidbit to herself. For, truly, Mallory did not seek to change the course of her original vision when she embraced Felicity the prior day, especially if the information might alter Felicity’s chance at happiness.

  Happiness. It was an odd thing to ponder, yet, as Tressa always spouted, every woman deserved to be happy.

  Mallory believed happiness was in her future. If her betrothed, Lord Lichfield, was to bring it into her life, all the better.

  “Why are you smiling so, my child?” Her aunt’s peeved words cut through Mallory’s daze, bringing her back to the present as Hettie wiped a glob of jam from her chin, her narrowed stare all the while focused on her niece. “What has you in such overt cheer?”

  Setting her napkin aside, Mallory folded her hands in her lap. “I am always brimming with merriment.”

  “I assure you, this is different.” As Hettie searched Mallory’s eyes for some hint of what she was up to, Mallory did her best to gaze back with less enthusiasm. “You know I can spot a fibber when I see one, correct?”

  “Yes, Aunt Hettie.” When her aunt turned her attention back to her plate, a sense of accomplishment settled within Mallory. Not that she enjoyed misleading her aunt, but some things were none of her business, including Mallory’s knowledge that the duke was, at this very moment, in Felicity’s laboratory, and the pair were destined to kiss. Yes, everything had been as it was in her vision: beakers placed and filled with the exact same shade of liquid, Felicity’s dress the same black, and the dark, depressing shroud in the room.

  With any luck, Mallory would know firsthand the delights of such an embrace.

  Though she must needs first make the acquaintance of the gentleman who would claim her first kiss.

  “Dreadfully awful coincidence, arriving yesterday to find that pompous duke in residence,” Aunt Hettie huffed before spearing another egg. “I cannot think his presence is at all good for Miss Felicity.”

  Just how horrible it was, her aunt could not know. Even Mallory could not project what was to occur with the duke in residence.

  Felicity was up to something—something big if the power of Mallory’s vision was anything to go by—and the Duke of Wycliffe’s unexpected attendance would muddle everything. Her experimentations had increased in urgency…nearly to the point of desperation.

  “You had truly never met the duke before yesterday?” Mallory questioned, keeping her expression as placid as possible.

  “Nope, never seen the man.”

  “Oh, well, Felicity has never spoken kindly of him.”

  “I think it best we keep a watch on him,” Hettie proclaimed, thumping her fist on the table. “He can’t be up to anything good. Nothing, I tell you.”

  “I will do as you wish.” Mallory made to stand, a footman appearing to pull her chair back. She smoothed her gown. “Besides, it will keep me occupied until we hear from Lord Lichfield.”

  Hettie smiled confidently, sensing her nervousness. “The lad will send word as soon as he arrives in Cornwall. The pair of you will meet, you will appear normal, he will be taken in by your classic English beauty, and the union will progress on schedule.” Hettie sighed, pausing for a moment. “At least, if that is still what you desire.”

  It was the unending question her aunt had been asking since her father journeyed to Blenheim Park several months before to discuss the offer of marriage. Though the banns had been read and the announcements posted in all the relevant newspapers, Aunt Hettie continued to prod her over the decision; a choice her aunt hadn’t made for herself, and in the end, relegated herself to a life of spinsterhood.

  Which was exactly the vision Hettie had for Mallory.

  However, Mallory was determined to prove the bloody prophecy wrong.

  She had to, there was no other choice except accepting her fate and living a solitary existence alone at Blenheim Park. That was if her elder brother allowed her to stay at their family home after their parents passed away.

  A throat cleared behind her at the dining hall door, and Mallory’s shoulders tensed.

  The Tetbery butler stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

  His pinched expression did not bode well for what he’d come to announce.

  Could it be that the duke meant to rescind Felicity’s offer of lodging while they remained in Bocka Morrow?

  “What is it?” Aunt Hettie grunted as if the servant, simply doing what he gained his wage for, was irritating her by his mere attendance. “Out with it!”

  The man’s eyes widened, and his bewildered stare jotted to Mallory.

  “Tolsworth,” Mallory attempted to smooth the situation. Peculiar her father was overly worried about Mallory’s decorum in social settings—he’d gone so far as to send Hettie with her to Bocka Morrow, after all—but it was her aunt’s gruff attitude that might very well jeopardize their success. “Do come in. We were finishing our meal. It was lovely, by the way. Is there something that needs our attention?”

  The butler’s apprehension intensified. “You”—he glanced at Hettie before addressing Mallory—“you have a guest. He is waiting in the front receiving room off the foyer.”

  “A guest?”

  “Yes, he gave his name as Lord Lichfield,” the servant confirmed Mallory’s fear.

  She glanced down at her ink-stained hand and simple, grey frock. Not how she’d envisioned meeting her future husband; however, there was no need to put the matter off any longer. Once she was satisfied that he was neither a corrupt nor offensive man, she and Aunt Hettie could return to Blenheim Park and await the coming nuptials.

  “Then I suppose we shan’t keep Lord Lichfield waiting.” Mallory notched her chin, hoping the action would infuse her with assurance. Giving in to her trepidation would solve nothing and only lead to increased probing by her aunt. This was what she wanted: a home, a husband, and children of her own. Things that could not be taken from her no matter how peculiar she was or how desperately she avoided society. “Shall we, Aunt Hettie?”

  “I suppose.” Aunt Hettie hefted herself from her chair, the thing nearly tipping completely backward. If not for the attentive footman, it might have put a hole in the wall. “Though it is rather impolite to appear out of thin air without sending notice.”

  Mallory had the same opinion; however, she was not as eager to cast a negative light on Lord Lichfield. There were obvious reasons he had arrived unannounced, not following the instructions that he, himself, had outlined in his letter to Mallory’s father. Did he deem himself above such things?

  A frightening thought, indeed.

  “Are you certain you do not wish to freshen up before meeting with Lord Lichfield?” Hettie did her utmost to keep up with Mallory as she departed the dining hall. “Mayhap change your gown or have Miss Felicity’s maid re-pin your hair?”

  Mallory paused, her aunt colliding with her shoulder at the sudden stop.

  She’d dressed that day as she did each morn. The gown she wore had been specifically packed because it highlighted her ample curves and hid her not-so-narrow waist. The ribbon woven through her long, brown curls was of a deep plum that complemented her grey gown. Her shoes were half-boots, sturdy enough for a walk about Tetbery Estate. Except for the ink marring her hand, Mallory appeared as she always did.

  Poised. Modest. Genteel.

  Everything the daughter of a marquess was raised to be.

  That she was anything but poised on the inside was of no consequence, so long as she did her utmost to keep those around her blissfully unaware.

  Her talent as an oracle—or a clairvoyant—did not define Mal
lory. In fact, she was determined to prove her family wrong and live a normal life. That she’d need refrain from touching others—and most objects—did not deter her from believing a normal life could be hers.

  “I need not freshen anything. If my simple frock and daily coiffure is not to Lord Lichfield’s liking, then imagine if he learned of my talents.”

  “You are not to speak of it,” Hettie hissed. “Your father would—“

  “My father would die of apoplexy if I embarrassed him in any way,” Mallory finished. “Think you I am opposed to this match? I assure you, I do.”

  Mallory squared her shoulders and marched into the foyer, pausing only to allow the butler to open the parlor door and announce their arrival.

  “Lady Henrietta Hughes and Lady Mallory Hughes,” Tolsworth proclaimed, giving Mallory a reassuring nod as she swept past him and into the room.

  She was vaguely aware of her aunt entering the parlor behind her and the butler pulling the door closed after stating tea would arrive with all due haste; however, Mallory stood rooted to the spot.

  She hadn’t thought about what Lord Lichfield would look like, nor considered his age when she’d been told of the potential match. He could have been plagued with a hunched back or vertically challenged, but she hadn’t questioned that.

  The man who stood to greet them was not what she’d envisioned in an arranged marriage.

  He was not stout or rounded. He was in possession of all his extremities. And he certainly was not of an age past his prime.

  Lord Lichfield did, however, tower over both Mallory and Hettie.

  The earl’s shoulders were broad enough to pull a cart or roll a boulder up a hill.

  And he was handsome. Not in the tradition English sense with a sharp nose, angular jaw, and rigid stance. No, it was far more—yet far less—what her brethren in muslin considered a dashing man.

  He had a sophisticated air about him. As if he had seen things, experienced things, Mallory could only guess at.

  His clenched jaw, and his clear blue eyes cascading over her, made Mallory wish she’d donned a gown that didn’t constrict her breathing in such a manner, as she found it exceedingly difficult to gain a proper breath.

  Her stomach fluttered—actually fluttered as he gazed upon her.

  A single black curl fell over one eye, and he pushed it back before turning his attention to Aunt Hettie.

  “Heaven’s above,” Hettie hissed in her ear.

  Mallory stalled from turning to assess her aunt’s reaction. While she was fairly skilled with her gifts, her aunt hadn’t the need to touch a person or object to gain her visions. The notion of a vision slamming into her at any turn would be overwhelming—and likely a true curse for Mallory. Yet, Hettie had lived with her talents for decades longer than her niece, and her grasp on the power was far superior and less daunting. Or, at least, her aunt proclaimed it to be so.

  Lord Lichfield stepped forward, bowing deeply to Hettie. “I am Silas Anson, the Earl of Lichfield.” His strong voice reverberated in the room. The earl was certainly blessed with better manners than the Duke of Wycliffe. “Lady Mallory Hughes. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, at last.”

  “I—well—” A cold calm settled over Mallory, despite the heat she’d battled at first seeing the man. When her head spun, and her stomach churned, Mallory reached out for something—anything—to stop her from what was certain to come next. There was little need for the science-minded Felicity to be present to observe and assess what was happening…Mallory was about to faint for the first time in her life. “My lord—”

  Where had her aunt gone?

  Mallory waved at the empty space beside her where Hettie had been a moment ago.

  Nothing said normal English debutante like losing consciousness before a handsome lord.

  Finally, she grasped on to something, quickly realizing it wasn’t something, but someone.

  The lightheaded sensation fled instantly, only to be replaced by blurred vision as her grey eyes clouded.

  Heavens, but there would be no chance of convincing Lord Lichfield that she was nothing more than your usual London lady, which was an odd thought as she was certain she appeared a possessed female.

  Lightning coursed under her skin, banishing the chill from a moment before as her focus cleared.

  Mallory no longer stood in the Tetbery parlor, but in a garden—a frozen, winter garden—the moon heavy and full overhead. A man stood not far from her, shrouded in the shadows of night, his back to her. Yet, she knew the man, their connection lay deeply within her heart. His black curls were cut short on top, in no danger of falling to block his gaze—which struck her as peculiar. A loud bang sounded close by, and the man fell to his knees before slumping forward into a heap.

  A ragged exhale pushed the burning air from her lungs as a strong hand clamped on her arm above her elbow. Twisting, she saw no one at her side in the garden.

  She trembled, and her vision began to clear, returning her to the warmth of the present.

  Blinking several times, Mallory glanced at her arm where Lord Lichfield held her securely upright, his palm against her bare skin several inches above her glove.

  “Mallory—dear child—are you unwell?” An edge of panic laced Aunt Hettie’s voice, but she sounded far away. Out of reach. Why?

  With a start, Mallory shook herself free of the vision and stared up into Lord Lichfield’s anxious face, creased with worry. More surprisingly, her sense of sorrow as she gazed up into his most captivating blue eyes. Her chest ached, and a sense of loss overwhelmed her.

  Perhaps her aunt had been correct, and Mallory was destined to live the life of a spinster—for she’d just witnessed the Earl of Lichfield’s death.

  Chapter 4

  Silas stared down at the young woman, his focus only leaving her pale face to glance at Lady Henrietta for guidance. When the stoop-shouldered woman gave nothing, appearing as shaken and incapable of words as her ward, Silas sensed he’d need to step in and right the situation. He was obviously to blame for whatever had afflicted his betrothed, though he knew naught what his mere greeting could have caused.

  Perhaps this was a precursor to their wedded life? Though he desperately hoped Lady Mallory was not a woman prone to the vapors or flights of fancy. Quite specifically, Silas was worried about Lady Mallory resembling the characteristics of his mother.

  Besides, Mr. Peabody would be disappointed to hear he’d ruined all the solicitor’s hard work over the previous six months within two minutes’ time with his abysmal manners. Not that Silas cared a whit what the incompetent man thought.

  “Do have a seat, Lady Mallory.” When she shook her arm free from his, Silas opted to guide her to the settee. “I believe the butler said tea would be sent.”

  Lady Hettie sat next to her ward, and Silas was left with the choice of either a chair by the hearth—across the room and at the women’s backs—or a stool positioned on the opposite side of the low table before their settee.

  Eventually, a knock came at the door, and a young maid pushed a cart into the room, stopping at Lady Mallory’s elbow.

  “That will be all,” Lady Hettie blustered, not bothering to turn toward the maid.

  With a hesitant smile, the girl dropped into a curtsey and fled the room, returning the door to its closed position. When the latch clicked into place, Silas focused once more on his betrothed.

  He noted that even in her frenzied state, she was quite beautiful—in classic Rose style. Long, light brown locks that hung in precise curls. No doubt they would shimmer with golden highlights when exposed to the bright sun, not that England came with many clear, sunny days free of the ever-present cloud cover the country was known for. White, porcelain skin showed a healthy love of the indoors but the hint of freckles across the bridge of her nose exposed a possible secret affection for morning walks. Despite her attractive, poised demeanor it was her eyes that kept him enthralled. He’d seen them cloud over with something akin to a sto
rm rolling in from the sea, enveloping the landscape and casting everything in the darkest shadows. It must have been a trick of the light, perhaps the dimming of a candle that had made her grey eyes darken moments before.

  Lady Mallory continued to struggle with inhaling a satisfying breath. Her chaperone whispered in her ear as she rubbed her back.

  His piqued interest would not remain unnoticed for long. Moving to the short stool, Silas lowered himself, all the while praying the delicate contraption held his weight. Blessedly, the thing did not crumble or even so much as creak. As if a switch were flipped, Lady Mallory focused on him, her eyes going from cloudy to clear within an instant as she reached out to the tea service. A perfectly composed smile settled on her heart-shaped, full lips—though she could not hide the increased weight on her shoulders.

  “Tea, my lord?” Her posture was recumbent, and her voice even with hints of a soft melody.

  Silas wagered the woman had an exceptional singing voice.

  “My lord?” Lady Mallory’s brow furrowed.

  “Yes, please,” Silas sputtered. Anything that did not use up his remaining coin was exceedingly welcome. “Tea would be very welcome.”

  Lady Hettie reclined on the settee and glared at him, not hiding her scrutiny. Though he supposed her age and social standing as the marquess’s sister precluded her from a few social niceties.

  “Lady Henrietta Hughes,” Silas coaxed, making certain his voice remained calm and low, relaxed. “I offer my thanks for accompanying Lady Mallory to Bocka Morrow. As she had an aversion to London, and I was journeying to Cornwall for my cousins’ weddings, this was very beneficial for all.”

  “We reside in Northern Cornwall,” Lady Hettie grunted. “’Twas not as far as London, or this body I’ve been cursed with would not have made the distance, I assure you.”

  Silas glanced at Lady Mallory, but the woman seemed oblivious to the tête-à-tête between her chaperone and him as she prepared three cups of steaming tea. Not once did she pause to question if he preferred cream, sugar, or honey; yet, she combined the perfect amount of cream and sugar for Silas’s liking. It was how his mother took her tea each day, and it had grown on the countess’s three children.