Mistletoe Masquerade

by Sahara Kelly

  “Umm…”

  “Yes, they deliberated at length about the best way to handle the current situation. Apparently, we’re considered family and they are now operating under the mandate that if any family member is in trouble in any way, the others will come to the rescue as best they can.”

  “Well,” said Paul, “that’s very nice of them. And kind too.”

  “Indeed.” She finished her brandy in one long swallow, knowing the burn of the liquor would help the next words that would come out of her mouth. “Their solution was really quite simple.” She rose and faced him. “Paul, would you marry me, please?”

  His brow was wrinkled in thought. “Yes of course, I…er…what?”

  Harriet drew another breath. “I asked you if you would marry me, please.”

  Paul stared at her. He blinked. Twice. Then he cupped a hand around his ear. “I don’t think I’m hearing you aright…”

  “Dammit, Paul.” Temper flaring, she stepped in front of him, nose-to-nose. “I said will you marry me, you annoying oaf.”

  “Ah.”

  “Ah what?” Apparently he understood her question at last.

  There was silence for a few moments, as she gazed at him, waiting for his answer.

  “I probably should take some time to consider your proposal,” he said. “Isn’t that what a well-bred gentleman would say?”

  “Not if he values his continued existence,” she hissed.

  Something changed in his eyes, a lick of heat perhaps…she couldn’t quite tell. But his lips began to curve and she felt an arm slide around her waist. “So the family recommends we wed. Of course—it’s the simple and most obvious course of action. It removes you from any future danger, because as my wife your inheritance becomes mine.”

  Knowing he understood, Harriet breathed more easily. “Exactly. And with no one looking for me, your own whereabouts will be quite secure as well.”

  “Won’t I be accused of marrying you for your money?” His eyebrow quirked.

  “I’m not that rich,” she shot back.

  “Oh? Hmmm.” He stroked his chin with his free hand. “Well, if that’s the case, perhaps this is not such a good idea after all.”

  “Paul,” she groaned and thumped her forehead on his chest.

  “Harry?”

  She looked up at him. “Yes?”

  “I will marry you.”

  His arm tightened as he pulled her to him, his hand tilting her head backward and his head bending toward her. “But it won’t be a marriage of convenience. I want that clear from the start. Do you understand?”

  She found her gaze drifting to his lips and licked her own. “I do.”

  Chapter Ten

  Those two little words sealed Harriet’s fate as far as Paul was concerned.

  She was his. His to protect, to hold whenever he wanted, to love…and wasn’t that an interesting thought?

  After parting to attend to their duties, with only one quick kiss to seal their pledge to each other, Paul had marched away with the oddest urge to sing Rule Britannia as he strode down the passageway to the hall.

  At the bottom of the stairs he paused to examine the strange euphoria that had swept over him at the thought of marrying Harriet.

  Was it just because he desired her? Because he certainly did, and had pretty much since they exchanged their first kiss in the darkness on the lane to Ridlington. But no, he’d desired other women before, and it was nothing like this.

  Was it her looks? Her personality? Her rapier-fast wit?

  Could be all of those things, in combination with a lot of other things he couldn’t identify. They fit, for one. Their bodies seemed to align perfectly—he could hold her in comfort. She smelled…right. That one he couldn’t explain, since she didn’t seem to wear heavy perfumes like so many of the aristocracy. Now and again he detected a hint of lavender, probably from her soap, but there was just a light and pleasing fragrance around her that made him smile.

  Maybe, just maybe, this was what love was actually all about.

  He didn’t know, but if it was, then it was certainly a pleasing emotion. He hadn’t sung Rule Britannia since he got seriously drunk in a seedy tavern during a trip to St. Petersburg. The details of which event, thank God, were somewhat hazy.

  “I say, Paul…” A voice hailed him from the top of the stairs. “Any chance of a sherry or something? I don’t even know what time it is, but I feel in the need of some libation.”

  Paul watched Sir Farren walk down the stairs toward him. “Of course, sir. I believe sherry is available in the parlor, and the fire is warming the room most pleasantly. If you’ll follow me?”

  He led the way and opened the door for Sir Farren with a slight bow. “I’ll pour for you, sir. Please make yourself comfortable.” There was an almost-full decanter of sherry on the sideboard, and he had the appropriate libation into Sir Farren’s hands within moments.

  “Ah, this is more like it.” Sir Farren nodded. “Good man.”

  “If I might take the liberty of enquiring, Sir Farren,” said Paul, “would you know if Lady Aphrodite and the others will be down for dinner? I am aware that this was a long and challenging day for everyone…”

  Sir Farren snorted. “Ain’t that the truth? None of us are up to the challenges of country living, it would seem. My back’s sore, my shoulders hurt and I feel eighty years old.” He held out his hand. “I think I even have a splinter or two. Haven’t had one of those since I was eight.”

  Paul nodded. “It can be a shock to the system, sir. I sympathize.”

  The other man glanced at him over his sherry. “I doubt you and your wife have such problems. You both seem hale and hearty.”

  “We do live in the country, sir. Lots of walking is expected. I’m sure that helps.” Paul’s answer was diplomatic, and did not involve words like “too much rich food” or “not enough exercise”, though they trembled on his lips.

  “Hmph.” Sir Farren shrugged. “Well, as to that I can’t say. But as for dinner? Geoffrey won’t be down. That cut on his hand has plunged the stupid man into an attack of the vapors. Can’t stand the sight of his own blood, I suppose.” He took another healthy sip. “Last I heard he was being administered to by my valet.” He shot a sly glance at Paul. “I’m sure that will help.”

  “Indeed,” answered Paul noncommittally.

  “M’wife won’t be down, either.” He smiled. “I expect word’s got about by now. And it’s true. She is enceinte, I’m proud to say.”

  “Congratulations, Sir Farren. That is great news indeed.” Paul allowed himself a polite smile. “You can rest assured she will have the greatest of care during her stay.”

  “Good to know,” answered the proud Papa-to-be. “She seems to have times when she’s happy as a grig, but then she’ll be so tired she’ll sleep for a whole day.”

  “I’m glad we can leave that whole business to the women, sir.”

  “As am I,” nodded Sir Farren. “All that vomiting and fussing…wouldn’t catch me doing anything like that.”

  Paul reserved judgement on that statement, and merely topped up the sherry glass.

  “I’m told I have another four or five months before I get to see my heir,” sighed Sir Farren. “But I’ll make sure the gel gets the best of whatever she wants.” He looked up. “Almost gave up hope of siring one, y’know. But here we are.”

  “These things happen when the time is right, sir.” God, that was a stupidly awful and useless comment.

  “I say, is that sherry?” Sir Ambrose strolled in. “I might be able to put a glass or two of that to good use.”

  “Of course, sir.” Paul repressed a sigh and performed his butler duties. “Will the Tisdale ladies be joining you for dinner, sir?”

  “Doubt it.” He shook his head. “When I left ‘em, they were both complaining about something or other. Demanding baths. So I left ‘em to it.”

  “Well then, it seems as if it might be just the two of us, Ambrose.”

>   “How about making that three?” The Earl strolled in. “I wouldn’t be averse to some company this evening. And if it’s just us…” His voice tapered off, leaving no doubt as to his implication.

  “I would be happy to arrange a meal in here, gentlemen,” offered Paul.

  “Sounds like a good idea, man.” Ambrose tipped his head to one side. “Been a while since I’ve had a casual dinner. What about you, Farren? Ready to shed the trappings for an evening?”

  “You know, it would be a bit of a relief,” sighed Sir Farren. “I have to agree with Vernwood here. No drama. Or theatrics. Just good food, plenty of brandy and a warm fire.”

  “Perhaps a hand or two of cards after dinner?”

  “Excellent notion.”

  “Leave all to me,” bowed Paul, moving the sherry to a small table between them. “Dinner will be served within the hour.”

  *~~*~~*

  “They’re settled for a bit. Cook’s soup will fill them up.” Paul walked across the kitchen to snap up the last piece of fresh bread, earning himself a frown from Harriet.

  “I had my eye on that.”

  “You had supper already. I’ve had to grab a bite here and there.” He was unrepentant as he buttered the crust.

  “Well, I’ll agree you’ve had a busy day, but it’s equally tiring when you have to deal with a man who thinks he’s going to die from a cut, and a woman who is indulging in a fit of the dismals at the thought of her figure disappearing until childbirth.” Harriet shook her head. “And then there were the Tisdales.”

  “Uh oh,” Paul grinned. “Do tell.”

  She shuddered. “I don’t think so. Suffice it to say that every maid in the house has traipsed up and down those stairs at least twice today with buckets of hot water. I took one myself. It would seem that cold winter air is bad for the complexion. Both women felt their porcelain skin had been tainted by the touch of sunlight and whipping winds.”

  “In other words they looked in cheerful good health?”

  “Precisely.”

  They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “What a day,” Paul grinned. “However, tomorrow is Christmas Eve.” He walked to Harriet and offered her a bit of bread. They were alone in the kitchen, since Cook was doing a last check of the pantry and the maids and footmen were in their small sitting room, enjoying a cup of tea.

  “Keep the license about you, Harry. I’ve had an idea.”

  She looked up at him. “You still want to go through with it?”

  He gazed down into those warm and beautiful eyes. “I can’t show you how much, more’s the pity.”

  She blushed. “I know.”

  “Tomorrow night, Pineneedle Drift has a Christmas Eve service. It’s late. I believe you and I should attend, and afterward see if we can talk the Reverend there into performing the ceremony.”

  Her throat moved on a gulp. “Oh, Paul.”

  “Is that a yes?” He reached up and took her chin in his hand, making sure she looked at him. “Are you sure you still want to go through with this?”

  She met his gaze. “Yes. Yes, I want to marry you. And…” her cheeks flushed even more, “I will show you how much I want to. Tomorrow night.”

  “Brazen wench.” He dropped a quick hard kiss on her lips. “Go. Before I forget myself.”

  The color remained but a smile spread across her face. “All right. But I can’t wait to see what it’s like when you do forget yourself.” The look she shot him over her shoulder was pure wickedness and went straight to his loins.

  Paul realized in that instant that he was an incredibly lucky man. Given that the preceding years had been ones of aimless wandering, loneliness and no small amount of anger at the circumstances causing his situation, he’d come about remarkably well.

  He had reconnected with a sister who had always stood by him, discovered he now had a family by default—the Ridlingtons—and over the last weeks it had been Harry who had walked quietly into his life and turned it upside down.

  He couldn’t remember a time when his thoughts had been so in tune with a woman. Or when their conversations, their interactions, their kisses…everything to do with her…it all felt right.

  There was no second-guessing this decision. Fate may have pushed marriage onto them both, but he knew in his heart he would not have said yes if he hadn’t wanted her as his wife. And he sensed that Harry’s acceptance might well be based on the same sentiments. She was not a woman to be swayed by circumstance into an action she might later regret.

  She had a lot of courage. She’d walked away from a frightening and threatening situation into a future that could have been an even worse disaster. But she’d chosen her own path, and she trod it with determination.

  He wanted to tread that path at her side. And then to forge a new path for both of them.

  The bell rang and he sighed. It was the parlor; he knew the gentlemen would be ready for their after-dinner brandy, perhaps a cigar or two, and cards.

  The tray was ready, so he picked it up, making sure there were glasses, brandy and a few tapers if cigars were on the agenda. Passing the staff sitting room, he popped his head around the door and nodded at a footman who awaited the order to clear away the dishes.

  “Thanks, lad,” said Paul as he shouldered his way into the parlor. “Once this is cleared, you can go off to bed.”

  He got a broad smile in response, and the dishes were cleared with extraordinary efficiency.

  “Would you like your brandy now, sirs?”

  “By all means,” said the Earl.

  “Cards, Vernwood? Ambrose? Fancy a few hands of something?” Sir Farren watched Paul light a taper from the fire and cross the room to hold it to Ambrose’s cigar. “I wouldn’t be averse to a throw or two of Hazard?”

  “I’d be most pleased to enjoy a rubber of whist,” said the Earl, “If we can make up the numbers.” Then he glanced at Paul. “So, Paul. You seem like an educated chap, rather more so than the usual butler, I’m happy to say. Don’t suppose you play whist at all, do you?”

  Paul, who had played most of the crowned heads of Russia in his day, not to mention relieving several members of the German diplomatic corps of some of their fortunes, modestly dropped his eyes. “I have played a time or two, my Lord.”

  “Well then, that’s perfect,” declared Ambrose. “We will be quite disregarding of your position in the household, Paul, since we need a body in that seat. You may make a fourth.”

  Quite by accident, the Earl’s gaze met Paul’s. “I’ll be happy to partner you, since I have no opinion of your position in the household to disregard.”

  Paul’s lips twitched. “The honour will be mine, my Lord. Allow me a few moments to set up the table.”

  By mutual accord, actual money was replaced by the dried beans Paul located in the pantry. Since this was an informal country game, such license was allowed, even though Sir Ambrose muttered a little about spoiling his chances of relieving the Earl of his fortune.

  “Now Ambrose,” scolded Sir Farren. “Look at it this way. You won’t have to face your debtors or write any promissory notes if all you lose is your beans.”

  That statement struck them all as mightily amusing and thus the game began with the competitors in good humor.

  That situation could easily have slipped into animosity, however, as the rubbers progressed.

  Paul rapidly understood that the Earl was also a player of no mean brilliance, and between the two of them they took the first book and the first rubber handily. A complete grasp of the concepts and a pleasure in the strategies of the game maintained their lead during the second rubber, and only the constant topping up of brandy glasses kept Sir Ambrose and Sir Farren from becoming testy about their losses.

  The Earl himself was grinning hugely as they swept the table to take the third rubber and rob their opponents of every single bean.

  “A good hand, Paul. My thanks.”

  “All due to your skill, my Lord.”

/>   Sir Ambrose was frowning at his glass. “I must have drunk an inordinate amount. I never lose quite this badly…”

  Sir Farren shrugged. “See? I knew you’d be happy we were only playing for beans.”

  “Point taken,” sighed Sir Ambrose. He stood. “I’m going to put my awful play down to the fact that my two lucky muses aren’t here to inspire my play.” He scratched beneath his chin. “Time for me to go and make sure they’re settled.” His grin was just shy of unpleasantly lecherous.

  “And I must away to Aphrodite.” Sir Farren sighed. “May we all get some uninterrupted sleep.” He nodded to the Earl and Paul as he followed Ambrose from the room.

  The Earl sat back in his chair, sipping the last of his brandy. One he’d nursed carefully for the last few hours.

  “’Tis late, Paul. You should be abed.”

  Paul knelt by the hearth and added logs, making sure the embers would have fuel for the night. “I might say the same, my Lord.”

  “You might,” answered the Earl. “But you won’t. Far too good-mannered for that.” He grinned. “I wish I knew what story lies behind your masquerade, lad.”

  Paul’s senses sounded a very loud alarm. “I can’t imagine what you mean, my Lord.” He rose and drew the screen in front of the fire.

  “Well, I’ll leave it for tonight. But you’re a puzzle. Your wife is an even greater puzzle.” He rose, stretched and turned for the door. “Did I ever mention that I have a positive obsession with puzzles?” He shot a tired grin at Paul and left him standing in the center of the room.

  “Dammit to hell and back.” Since when had Fate decreed that a sharply observant Earl was just what Paul needed right at this moment?

  He blew out the candles and tidied the last of the cards. He was tired, by God, and all he wanted was his bed and Harry, with or without mountain ranges. She was his peace, his anchor. With her at his side, he could sleep.

  But he had one more errand to complete before finally retiring.

  And with that thought in his mind, he repaired to his small office and reached for pen and paper.