Snowbound Wedding Wishes: An Earl Beneath the MistletoeTwelfth Night ProposalChristmas at Oakhurst Manor (Harlequin Historical)

by Allen, Louise

  ‘Should I fall in love again I would be happy to know that my parents approved,’ she said, lowering her lashes, unable to cope with the realisation that dreams might, after all, come true.

  ‘If?’

  ‘They appear very taken with you—’

  ‘Emilia.’ He was on his feet, then kneeling by her side, her hands in his. ‘I know I deserve it, but don’t torment me. I will court you, take all the time you need, if you think that you might come to feel for me just a fraction of what I feel for you.’

  ‘I don’t mean to torment you.’ She gripped his fingers as they interlaced with hers and found the courage to look deep into the blue eyes that had haunted her dreams. ‘I just cannot believe this is true. I love you, how can I not? Why do you think I was so angry with you when I thought you were only proposing out of some misguided sense of gallantry?’

  Hugo exhaled as though he had been holding his breath underwater. ‘You love me and you will marry me? Emilia, I swear you will never regret this, nor will the boys.’

  ‘I know. They adore you, but do you really want to turn your life on its head with a ready-made family?’

  ‘Long Burnham Hall is a very big house. It echoes with emptiness and I cannot think of anyone better able to make it feel like a home than you and Nathan and Joseph.’ He released his right hand and brought it up to caress the nape of her neck. ‘So soft. Do you know I have been wanting to do that ever since you walked away from me that first evening, all hot and damp and glowing with the hair clinging to your neck?’

  With a little sigh she bent to meet his lips and he knelt up, pulling her against him and she knew it had not been simply desire and loneliness—she really did belong in his arms. Hugo cupped her head in his palms and took her mouth with slow possessive sensuality, his tongue sweeping in to caress the sensitive sides, to tangle with her tongue.

  When he finally released her she said, ‘Hugo, I want you.’

  ‘I hope so, after that,’ he said, smiling, although his voice was husky.

  ‘No, I mean now, upstairs.’ She felt brazen and confident all of a sudden. Demanding and needing.

  ‘Are you certain?’ He wanted it, too, she could tell, only his essential decency and sense of responsibility was holding him back.

  ‘I want to be where I was on Christmas Eve, in your arms with you about to carry me up to my bed.’

  Hugo stood, scooped her up. ‘Like this?’ he asked as he began to climb the stairs.

  ‘Exactly like that,’ she murmured against his shoulder, inhaling the familiar smell of his skin, intrigued by the trace of a cologne that she did not recognise.

  He set her on her feet and looked across at the bed. ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Oh.’ Emilia had forgotten that he would see it. She could feel the blush rising, but there was nothing for it but to confess. He knew exactly what it was. ‘Mistletoe, from the branch that you kissed me under at the Feast. I asked the boys to bring some home. I told them it was for luck, but really I would lie in bed and look up at it and remember the feel of your arms and the taste of you on my lips. And I would ache.’

  ‘Aching can be good, but only if it can be soothed,’ Hugo said. His fingers were busy in the knot of her apron. Clothes slipped off her as though by magic under his agile, urgent fingers until all that was left was her chemise. Emilia clutched it to her.

  ‘Sweetheart, let me see you.’

  ‘I...I am not a girl any more.’ She was twenty-five, she had borne two sons and there was broad, unrelenting daylight coming in through the small, high window.

  ‘No,’ he agreed, stripping off coat and waistcoat and neckcloth. ‘You are a woman. My woman.’ He stripped with haste and without shame and the body she had admired clothed, had fantasised about, was even more desirable naked. Muscled, lean, marked with the scars of war and magnificently aroused.

  His mouth quirked as he saw her eyes widen and then they were on the bed and her chemise was gone and with it her fears. ‘I love you,’ Emilia said as he kissed his way over the swell of her breast and began to tease her right nipple. One hand speared into her hair, holding her head still while he plundered her mouth, the other slid purposefully down her body until he found the hot, wantonly wet core of her.

  She gasped and arched up against him and he groaned and rolled on to her, fitting against her, cradled in her thighs. ‘Emilia, sweetheart...’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her fingers tight on his shoulders. ‘Don’t wait. I cannot wait. Oh, yes...Hugo.’

  He felt so perfectly right, deep inside her, that she did not want to move, to breathe, to do anything to shatter the perfect moment. Hugo dropped his head until his forehead rested against hers and the tension grew and tightened until with a sigh he began to thrust slowly, powerfully, while her body tightened around him and her consciousness narrowed and narrowed until all there was in the universe was their joined bodies and the strength of him and the building pleasure and the sound of flesh against flesh and his breathing and her heartbeat.

  And then when she thought her heart would burst, that she could not bear it any longer, the universe fell apart and she clung to him, calling his name, and he surged within her. ‘Emilia.’

  When she climbed up from fathoms deep, where the storm of loving had tossed her, Emilia found Hugo had rolled on to his side and was holding her. ‘Mmm.’ She nuzzled into his chest, relishing the hot skin, the musk of their loving, the tickle of the crisp hair against her cheek.

  ‘You’ve got to marry me now,’ he said. The masculine smugness made her laugh and tickle his ribs.

  ‘Ough!’ He shifted and sat up. ‘What the devil am I lying on?’ He rummaged and pulled out a crumpled pillow case.

  ‘Um...’ She had just made love with this man in broad daylight—was there really anything that could make her blush now? It appeared there was.

  Hugo spread it out. ‘I recognise this. I came to know that darn very well.’

  ‘I took it out of the washing basket and I have been sleeping with it because it smells of you,’ she confessed.

  ‘Darling Emilia, that is the sweetest thing.’ He took her hand and kissed the palm. ‘I do love you.’

  ‘I love you, too,’ she murmured, giving in to the temptation to stroke the nape of his neck, exposed as he bent over her hand. ‘Shall I make some tea? I suppose we had better get up and—’

  ‘Why?’ Hugo rolled her back on to the pillows. ‘We have until six o’clock.’

  ‘Hugo! We cannot make love all day! And I have to make dinner...’

  ‘Five o’clock, then,’ he conceded with a grin. ‘And I have every intention of making love to you all day today. And then I will become a respectable fiancé and master my impatience until we are married.’

  ‘But that could take weeks,’ Emilia protested. ‘Mama is going to want me to have a wedding with a lot of fuss.’

  ‘I know. You will just have to make it up to me afterwards, my love. I have never made love to a countess before.’

  ‘And today is the last time you will ever make love to an alewife under the mistletoe,’ she said, surrendering to the delicious inevitable as his body came over hers again and his kisses made promises enough for a lifetime.

  * * * * *

  Twelfth Night Proposal

  Lucy Ashford

  Dear Reader,

  I just love Christmas. I always tell myself I’ll be sensible and cut down on the cards and the decorations, but by mid-December I’m eating mince pies, humming carols and hanging tinsel on the tree as happily as anyone.

  In the Peak District of Derbyshire, where I live and where this story is set, there are often heavy snowfalls in winter and everything grinds to a halt, just as it did back in Regency days. But the wintry weather has its advantages and there’s something quite magical about a Christmas walk across snow-covered hills, as my story’s hero, Lord Dalbury, discovers. Something magical, too, about the old traditions the beguiling local girl Jenna describes to him, though Theo realize
s that if he’s not careful Jenna is just as likely to vanish from his grasp as the melting snow.

  Don’t forget to visit me and learn about my other books for Harlequin Books at www.lucyashford.com.

  With seasonal best wishes,

  Lucy

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter One

  December 1817

  This was desolate countryside indeed. Pulling up his horse, Theo gazed all around for something—anything—other than mist-shrouded moorland. Maybe December wasn’t the best of months to leave the comforts of London.

  Or maybe—and Theo’s grey eyes narrowed—it was.

  Last night, after two days of travelling through endless rain, he and his loyal groom Henry had finally reached the hilly spa town of Buxton in Theo’s curricle and four. This morning Theo had decided he would head on alone, while Henry returned with the curricle to London, for the last stretch of the journey had proved beyond doubt that Theo’s high-sprung conveyance wasn’t built for Derbyshire roads. Henry had examined it tenderly this morning, then glanced at the sombre hills that surrounded the highest town in England.

  ‘If I was you, milord,’ Henry pronounced dismally, ‘I’d be thinkin’ of doing exactly the same.’

  ‘What? Head back to London?’

  ‘That’s right. In fact, milord, I wouldn’t have set out on this fool’s errand at all.’

  Theo, Lord Dalbury—around six foot tall and muscularly lithe—looked at his diminutive groom with some amusement. ‘That’s what I like about you, Henry. Ever the optimist, and completely bereft of respect. But damn it, I’m going to get to Northcote Hall today if it’s the last thing I do!’

  Henry’s pursed lips told Theo that in his humble opinion it quite probably would be. But since Theo was already securing his waterproof saddle pack to the big roan he’d hired, Henry wisely limited his comments to simply bidding his master farewell. ‘And you’ll be back in London, milord...?’

  ‘Soon, Henry. Very soon!’

  And with that Theo set out into the wilds. With very little idea, really, of where he was going, or what, exactly, he’d find there. But perhaps that was the story of Theo’s life.

  On his father’s death many years ago, he’d inherited a minor barony, that came with a small income and few responsibilities—luckily so, since Theo, an officer in Wellington’s army, wasn’t accustomed to spending much time in England anyway. In fact, after Waterloo, as soon as the final peace was signed, he’d set off with his old army friend Gilly to Cairo and Constantinople and beyond, because nothing in particular awaited him back home.

  Or so he’d thought.

  Just three months ago Theo, now twenty-seven years old, lean and bronzed from his travels, had got back to London to find a letter from a lawyer telling him that in fact his prospects had changed quite considerably. Which was why he found himself here, heading out into the hills in the gathering December dusk, with nothing but the rain, the interminable rain for company. As for the Derbyshire roads...

  ‘Did you call them “roads”, milord?’ Henry had queried politely yesterday when their curricle had got stuck in a pothole yet again. There was mud. There were sheep. And miles of grey-stone walls, criss-crossing bleak hillsides.

  Sighing, Theo urged his nag on, wondering if he really was heading in the right direction for Northcote Hall. Mist was closing in now, as well as darkness; he was hard put to see the road ahead, let alone any sign of habitation...

  But wait. Suddenly he saw some tiny specks of light, bobbing about in the dark. What on earth were they? In the war he’d seen similar lights by night in the marshlands of Spain—will o’ the wisps, the soldiers called them—and though a studious young lieutenant had explained they were caused by marsh gas the locals and the soldiers still muttered they were the spirits of the dead.

  Steadying his horse—which was as spooked by those lights as the soldiers used to be—Theo carefully got out his pistol. Then he heard voices. Children’s voices.

  Theo lowered his gun, incredulous.

  Carefully he guided his horse towards them. The mist parted, briefly; the ghostly lights glimmered more strongly, and he saw that indeed there were a dozen or so children, the smallest carrying old glass jars with string tied round the necks and tallow candles burning inside.

  So much for the spirits of the dead. Some older, bigger ones dragged a rough two-wheeled cart. What on earth were they doing out here when it was practically dark? Up to no good, of course. Yet clearly they knew where they were going, which was more than he did. ‘Hey!’ he called out, urging his horse closer. ‘Hey!’

  They swung round. The smaller ones looked absolutely terrified, and a couple of them started to run. But the tallest of them—a youth in a long coat and cap, who’d been leading the way—called out to them in a clear voice, ‘Stop. He’s not one of them! Stay by me, while we find out his business!’

  Not one of them. Theo carefully put his pistol away. What in Hades was going on?

  The youth was coming towards Theo’s big horse warily, hands thrust deep in pockets. And Theo’s preconceptions were kicked in the teeth. Not a lad, but a girl of eighteen or so, with tousled blonde hair that escaped from her scruffy boy’s cap, and an uptilted nose, and big brown eyes framed by thick lashes. Yes, she was wearing a baggy old coat far too big for her, and a man’s breeches and boots. But she was quite definitely female and—unlike all the women he was used to—going to great lengths to hide it.

  ‘What do you mean,’ he said to her sharply as he leaned down from his saddle, ‘that I’m not one of them?’

  She met his gaze defiantly. She was rather striking, by God, and... Just another country lass, Theo. Control yourself. ‘They thought you’d come to stop them taking the holly from Hob Hurst’s Gate,’ she answered. She gestured to the cart and he saw it was laden with prickly sprays of holly. ‘It’s got the best berries for miles. Hewitt and his greedy friends always want it all for themselves, to sell it at Buxton market. But it belongs to everyone. It’s every villager’s right to collect it, for Christmas!’

  Christmas. Sentimental nonsense, Theo muttered to himself. ‘And where are you taking this precious holly?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘Tell him, Miss Jenna!’ urged one of the children. Their initial fear had been replaced by wide-eyed curiosity. ‘Tell him!’

  ‘Very well.’ She spoke reluctantly, Theo thought. ‘We always collect holly for every cottage before the Christmas season. And some of it’s for the plague well.’

  Theo caught his breath. ‘Plague well?’

  She nodded, her gaze steady. ‘When the plague raged around here, it was the only well whose water stayed pure, so the villagers decorate it every December in thanksgiving...’ She must have seen his eyes narrow at the word plague, because she added, almost pityingly, ‘Don’t worry. All that was hundreds of years ago. Where are you heading? You’re a long way from the road to Buxton.’

  ‘I’ve actually come from Buxton. I appear to have lost my way.’

  ‘And where did you want to be?’

  Back in London, in the comforts of my own home... No. Not that. Hell, that was why he had made this journey—to get away!

  Theo eased himself in his saddle, feeling the cold mist penetrate his caped riding coat. He said, ‘I’m trying to find Northcote Hall.’

  He saw the ripple of surprise that ran through the girl and all her little band. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘The old lady is dead. And besides, she never visited the Hall, ever...’

  ‘I know she’s dead,’ said Theo softly. ‘That’s why I’ve come.’

  The girl stepped back, the candlelight flickering on her high cheekbones and wide, startled e
yes. ‘You’re the new lord?’

  ‘Yes.’ And what a way to arrive. Theo sighed and reached into his coat pocket to pull out some coins. ‘Here. Two shillings for you to share between you, if you’ll guide me to the Hall.’

  The children chattered excitedly at the sight of his money, but the one called Jenna tilted her chin stubbornly, Theo tried not to notice how her coat had fallen back and her boy’s shirt strained across her small but full breasts. ‘We don’t want your money!’ she declared. ‘But if you really are the new lord, I can tell you what we would like. We’d like a promise that the holly can always be collected by everyone, every winter, from Hob Hurst’s Gate!’

  Theo was getting irritated. ‘Have you tried asking Hob Hurst?’ They all fell back, aghast. God, what had he said now?

  ‘You’re the one whose promise we need,’ she said with emphatic patience. ‘Is it so very much to ask?’

  Yes. Yes, it certainly was! Plague wells, holly, a troop of lantern-bearing little pagans; this was getting ridiculous!

  And then, suddenly, something else happened. Something rather mundane, but disastrous. A black-and-white sheepdog, barking furiously, appeared from nowhere and rushed towards Theo.

  The girl lunged after it. ‘Bess!’ she cried. ‘It’s all right, Bess—down, girl, down!’

  Too late; Theo’s horse had panicked and was rearing up. Theo, realising its floundering hooves were about to come down lethally on several small children, did all he could to pull it away and succeeded. But the horse gave one last, almighty kick which threw Theo from the saddle—and galloped off into the darkness.

  * * *

  Jenna ran to the fallen figure and gazed, stricken. ‘Bess,’ she scolded the dog that was whining and sniffing around him. ‘Oh, Bess, what have you done?’