by Cindy Anstey
“You’ve lived here all your life! He has red hair,” Johnny barked.
Matt straightened his shoulders, taking umbrage on Kate’s behalf. There was no call for Johnny to take a run at Kate. The girl had done nothing to warrant such rudeness. “Doing it up too brown, Johnny. You’d best swallow your spleen before—”
“There are at least four or five families in Tishdale alone with red hair,” Kate interrupted, not appearing to be in the least daunted by the unfair accusation. “Perhaps it is a trait seen rarely around Chotsdown, but that is not the case here. Red hair alone is not enough to identify your thief.” Her tone was reasonable, almost bored. It rendered the attack toothless.
“Argh!” Johnny shouted in wordless frustration. He tossed his hands in the air, cast a venomous look at Kate, and again stormed away, but in the direction of the great hall rather than the men’s quarters.
About to express his appreciation, Matt shifted his gaze to Kate’s profile and found that he no longer had control of his tongue; he was speechless. He certainly hoped it was a temporary condition brought on by … by … He couldn’t even conceive what might have brought on this unlikely condition. Never before had he been so afflicted.
* * *
KATE SHOOK HER head in disgust: disgust at Johnny’s foul temper, the thieving red-haired man, and even the initiator of this entire charade, Camille. It seemed beyond comprehension that a young woman could be swayed by gifts—such a person was hardly worthy of Johnny’s attention. It seemed an unlikely match: the smitten footman and the indifferent lady’s maid.
And then Kate turned to find Matt staring at her. It was a rather intense sort of a gaze that sent her pulse racing. Kate decided that the heart was rarely governed by wisdom or logic and that unlikely matches abounded. And so, despite Mrs. Lundy’s kind suggestion, Kate was not going to be sensible in regard to Matt Harlow … certainly not at this point in time. For, indeed, how often did an excellent opportunity such as this present itself?
The hallway was empty; the staff was either busy with their duties or out of doors admiring the peddler’s goods. And Matt had just come to a halt before the entrance to the servants’ hall … where a kissing bough had been hung earlier that day.
Kate swallowed in exquisite anticipation, barely breathing. If she lifted her hand, applied a slight amount of pressure, and guided him back just a step or two, they would be directly under the mistletoe. Matt could, would … should kiss her or suffer the consequences of bad luck.
Even as Kate considered this reckless course of action, her hand rose of its own volition. Her fingers splayed, and she gently nudged Matt backward. After glancing up to the kissing bough, he allowed Kate to guide him, his gaze volleying between her eyes and her lips as they stepped across the threshold. Once under the mistletoe, Kate gestured above their heads with theatric surprise.
“Oh dear, look at that. We are directly under the mistletoe,” she said. “Whatever shall we do?”
“A kiss is required.” Matt paused as if waiting for a protest. “To appease the Rulers of the Evergreens.”
Kate snorted in a most unladylike manner. “Rulers of the Evergreens?”
“Indeed. Terrifying creatures, especially when they perceive a missed kiss.”
“A missed kiss?” she repeated.
“If we do not kiss, bad luck will follow.” Matt leaned closer until their bodies were all but touching. Kate held her breath as he tilted his head, and they bumped noses as he gave her a chaste kiss on her left cheek.
“I don’t think that counts,” Kate said, shifting, offering him her lips. She clasped her hands together behind her back, then brought them forward, somewhat awkwardly, to his shoulders. Desperate to feel his lips on hers, Kate was hesitant about her role. Having never engaged in such shenanigans before, she wasn’t sure how much she should encourage before it became brazen—she would never want to be considered brazen.
She watched a grin spread across Matt’s face; his eyes gleamed with mischief as he brought his face to hers once again. Kate closed her eyes in expectation, but when she felt his lips touch her skin, they were on her right cheek. Frustration shot through her veins; accusations of acute stupidity sat on her tongue, and Kate was about to grab him by his coat and yank him to her when, at last, their lips met.
Suddenly, Kate was lost. Lost in paradise. Every sense was heightened. She could smell his musky soap, feel the warmth of his body pressed against hers, and hear his hum of pleasure. She longed to wrap her arms around his neck and become entwined … She wanted the kiss to last forever. But it was not possible, not standing in the middle of the corridor. Kate dropped her heels back to the floor, lifted her eyes to Matt’s, and held his gaze for some minutes.
Her smile faded. She swallowed in discomfort.
Matt’s countenance was confusing. His expression was not that of an embarrassed young man. Nor was it concerned … or nonchalant. Worse yet, his ardor had disappeared entirely. There was something alarming in his eyes as if he were shocked … and not pleasantly so. This was not the face or stance of a young man who had enjoyed their close encounter.
Kate was mortified.
With a shake of her head, Kate stepped back. Shrugged her shoulders.
Matt nodded, turned on his heels, and followed Johnny down the corridor.
Kate watched him go, fighting the urge to call after him … to ask him what was so terribly amiss. She needed to understand why a kiss, which they had both seemed to enjoy, had caused such a look of dismay.
chapter 7
In which mistletoe becomes a euphemism
Matt was confused, baffled, befogged, and, yes, dismayed. He had just surrendered to the moment—indeed, behaved in a most reckless manner. It wasn’t like him. Impetuous behavior was not part of his character. He was lighthearted and flirtatious, only serious about his duties. His passion was for neckcloths and twill fabrics, not dark-haired elves with soft, welcoming lips that made him forget his name—made him forget whether he was standing or sitting—made him forget everything but her flowery fragrance and the press of her attributes against his chest.
No, this could not be. This was not the proper conduct of a young valet with years of bachelorhood ahead of him. Flirting and charming the housemaids was one thing; a dalliance with a lady’s maid was another. It would not be tolerated, nor should it be. Most unbecoming behavior of a gentleman’s gentleman. And yet … his heart still raced, and there was nothing Matt wanted more than to rush back to the servants’ hall and pull Kate back underneath the mistletoe.
No, no, no. This was terrible.
He had to think of other things … get Kate out of his mind. Yes, he needed to concentrate on polish and whether or not he could repair the left cuff of Mr. Ben’s second-best shirt. What could be more important than the open seam of the cream pantaloons … the stain on the burgundy waistcoat and the look of ardor on Kate’s face? Her eyes closed, mouth raised and inviting …
No, no, no!
This was inconceivable; never had he been so distracted. With a deep sigh, Matt straightened his shoulders, stretched his chin forward to release the tightness in his throat, and climbed the stairs to the family floor. He was glad to see a pink tinge to the light streaming through the windows. The sun was going down, making it less likely that Johnny would let the bee in his breeches goad him into rash behavior. He couldn’t rush into Tishdale looking for the red-haired thief in the dark. By dawn, his friend’s pique would have abated and the day could continue as expected with the hustle and bustle of the Steeples’ arrival—all great distractions from the lithe and appealing personage of Miss Kate Darby.
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 17, 1817
SIR ANDREW, LADY Margaret, and Mr. Ernest were late. It was no great surprise, as Sir Andrew hated to travel beyond Chotsdown; the old gentleman would have resisted boarding the Steeple coach until Lady Margaret became insistent. Then Lady Margaret would have required the carriage to stop every half hour to stretch her legs—the rheu
matism would make them ache terribly otherwise—delaying the group even more. Mr. Ernest would have patiently waited, helped when needed, and read the remainder of the time.
It was not a difficult scenario to imagine, and one that proved to be quite accurate when the big, lumbering carriage pulled up in front of Shackleford Park. The vehicle disgorged three travel-weary passengers who had set out on a two-hour journey that had taken twice as long as expected. Twilight was hard on their heels.
Standing with the Beeswanger staff at the end of the men’s line, Matt glanced past Johnny toward the waiting maids on the other side of the door. Kate, looking subdued, returned his gaze with a steady, questioning stare. The bitter wind tugged a lock of hair free from her simple upsweep while snowflakes collected on the crown of her head. She looked lovely, though concerned.
Matt winked, but without his usual accompanying grin. He was trying, and had been doing so all day, to maintain a calm, blasé sort of demeanor when around the entrancing Kate Darby. He wanted to ignore that moment under the mistletoe, treat it as an aberration … but Kate was not playing the game properly.
She had tried to talk to him privately after the morning meal; then she had tried to draw him out by knocking at his panel door midmorning, to which he had feigned deafness, or that he was not in his room. In truth, he simply had not answered, despite imagining what might occur if he had. In his mind’s eye, he threw the door open and pulled Kate into his arms, where they continued to explore the wonders of her lips … He would trail kisses down her neck, press their persons tightly together, and … Then he heard footsteps passing down the corridor and a few muttered words of greeting, and he was glad that he had resisted temptation.
Fortunately, the midday meal in the servants’ hall was not conducive to conversation; what with the entire staff all atwitter about the expected arrivals, Kate’s and his stilted conversation was lost in the melee. And now, with the arrival of the Steeples, their duties greatly increased. There would be more gown changes for the young ladies, and Matt would be required to outfit both young gentlemen again. They would be very busy … yes, too busy to remember that moment, that ill-advised moment. After a few days of avoidance, Matt was certain that he would be able to look Kate in the eye without longing for what might have been.
“There she is,” Johnny said out of the side of his mouth—confusing Matt terribly until he turned and watched Camille LaPierre descend the carriage steps. The young lady’s maid shivered and pulled her cloak tightly around her. “An’ I have nothin’ for her sisters. A cheerful, happy Christmas that will be. What a disappointment.”
“Camille was not expecting anything, Johnny. She can hardly be disappointed.”
Huffing in derision at Matt’s perfectly reasonable comment, Johnny continued to watch the Beeswangers greet the Steeples. Once the introductions and inquiries into the comfort of the traveler’s journey had been dealt with, the driver urged his horses forward—guiding the coach to the service entrance, where the baggage could be unloaded. Staff remained in position even as the Steeples ambled toward the double wooden doors. The Beeswangers did not follow but grinned and called for their guests to turn around.
The carriage rolled away to reveal a group of six villagers who had been hidden behind the great lumbering vehicle; they were standing in a semicircle. Four men in greatcoats and caps and two women swathed in cloaks and woolen mittens stood staring at the newcomers. They smiled and waited. As the noise of the rattling equipage faded, it became apparent that they were humming as well … until at last they burst into a stirring rendition of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”
The observers cheered in great surprise and pleasure as the carolers then continued with “Deck the Halls.” Sir Andrew called out for “O Come All Ye Faithful” and joined in when they began, singing in an amazingly tuneful bass. The songsters happily obliged the youngest Beeswanger daughters, Miss Pauline and Miss Harriet, when they asked to hear “I Saw Three Ships (Come Sailing In)” and “The First Noel.” By the time the last note of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” had faded away, the festive atmosphere was established, smiles abounded, and the weariness had all but disappeared from the faces of the travelers.
When the Steeples made their way through the doors, the Beeswangers and Miss Imogene followed. One conversation tumbled on top of another, as all seemed to have so much more to say than minutes earlier. Mrs. Lundy paid the carolers, wished them well, and signaled for the staff to return to their duties.
Before going inside, Livy asked if there were to be any mummers this year, disguised locals going door to door to perform, but the girl was shushed and waved across the threshold. Though Mrs. Lundy winked at the scullery maid as she obeyed, offering the likelihood that mummers would indeed find their way to Shackleford Park.
Filing in with the rest of the servants, Matt, by his very position at the end of his line, met Kate, who was at the end of hers. They paused, allowing the others to cross the threshold without them. Naturally, Kate was the first to speak and, as would be expected, went straight to the heart of the matter.
“It was just a bit of fun, Mr. Harlow. We need make nothing of it.”
Matt smiled at her slightly chiding tone. “Ah, but the problem is, Miss Darby, it was much more than a bit of fun.”
Kate, who had been staring into the manor through the open door, turned her head toward him. Her brows were knit together. “Was it?” she said with a swallow of discomfort.
“Well, yes, it was an all-consuming fire.” He maintained a serious demeanor … until he ruined the attempt by bobbing his brows up and down.
“Very poetic, Mr. Harlow,” Kate said, trying, to no avail, to control her twitching lips—ah, those wondrous lips—from forming into a grin. She made a ceremony out of tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “It sounds rather enticing.”
“No, sounds like trouble.”
There was no hiding her grin now. “Of the best kind.”
“Indeed, the very best kind of trouble…” Matt fought to appear staid and in control. “But one can be burnt by fire.”
“One can or might it be two?”
“In this case … I suspect two.”
Swaying from side to side, looking rather pleased with herself, Kate laughed lightly. “What are we to do?”
“I might suggest that we be very careful, Kate … and perhaps not play with fire.” It was not Matt’s preferred course of action, just one that circumstances were foisting upon him … them.
“That’s rather disappointing, Matt,” she said as she made a show of batting her eyelashes and playfully knocking his shoulder with hers.
“It most certainly is … but we would be taking the prudent path, the higher road.” His staid expression started to erode.
“Prudent and practical, rational and restrained—all excellent sentiments. Though discreet and careful could be another approach.”
“Do you really believe that to be an option? A harmless option? Of no consequence?”
Kate stopped swaying; her eyes met his, and Matt forgot how to breathe. There was no doubting the intensity between them; it was ever present, heat smoldering under the surface. Had it not been for a voice from within the manor berating them for leaving the door open, reckless and rash might very well have been their option—their only option.
Instead, Matt gulped a breath and Kate huffed a sigh.
“Lawks. I believe you have the right of it,” she said as they stepped into Shackleford. “Our conduct should be rational and restrained—beyond reproach.”
With a nod, Matt closed the door, feeling anything but relieved.
“I believe you sighed, Mr. Harlow,” she said, looking not at him but at the family making their way through the east gallery to the drawing room. “Are you well?”
“Nothing that a little mistletoe wouldn’t cure,” Matt said.
Kate’s lovely laughter echoed throughout the hall, causing a few heads to turn in their direction, but Matt made
a show of heading toward the little hall while Kate set off for the back stairs. They certainly didn’t want to attract attention.
* * *
HUMMING TO HERSELF, Kate was aware that the door to Miss Emily’s room had opened, but she was so deeply involved in not thinking about Matt that some time must have passed before she turned around; Marie stood in the middle of the room waiting—impatiently, if Kate used her scowling countenance as a barometer.
“Marie?” Kate had draped the gown Miss Emily wished to wear that evening over her arm. “Is all well?”
“I came to warn you.” Marie’s expression was profoundly serious, her tone unnaturally deep. “They know,” she said with as much melodrama as the entirety of one of Shakespeare’s tragedies.
Kate gasped. “They do? Lawks, that’s terrible. Whatever shall we do?”
“You must desist immediately.”
Leaning again the bedpost, as if her knees had suddenly given way, Kate moaned. “I will. I will.” Then she lifted her head, met Marie’s sardonic look and stood. “Who knows what?”
“Kate, how can you be so obtuse? Mrs. Beeswanger heard you laughing with Mr. Harlow.”
“I do have a tendency to laugh, Marie. It’s a part of my nature.”
“Yes, true enough … but Mrs. Beeswanger heard something different in that laugh. She turned right around, despite the fact that Lady Margaret was speaking to her, and stared after you and Mr. Harlow.”
“How do you know? You did not come to hear the carolers.”
“She said as much just now, while I was mending her sleeve—it was only a tiny tear and could have been repaired later, but she wanted it taken care of immediately. And then, casual like, Mrs. Beeswanger asked if there was anything between you and Mr. Harlow that she should know about. I assured her that you merely enjoy each other’s company, that there is nothing of a romantic nature between you—that it was just a little merriment during the Yuletide—and that you would never do anything to jeopardize your position. Never.”
