The Mischief of the Mistletoe: A Pink Carnation Christmas

by Lauren Willig

  “That would explain how you managed to fly up four stories without using the stairs.” Arabella realized that she was still holding the notebook and set it carefully down on the corner of her desk not occupied by Turnip. She would figure out whom it actually belonged to later. “Not to seem nosy—purely out of curiosity, you understand—how did you get up here?”

  Mr. Fitzhugh indicated the window behind him, which was currently open and blowing cold air straight through her room. “I climbed the trellis.”

  Naturally. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Perhaps because she hadn’t even known there was a trellis. And wouldn’t have expected strange men to go climbing up it if she had. Her bedroom was not generally high on the list of Sights to Be Clandestinely Visited by the Male Population of England.

  “You climbed the trellis. Of course you did.” It made as much sense as anything else that had happened this evening. “Do you climb trellises frequently?”

  Mr. Fitzhugh gave the matter due consideration. “Wouldn’t quite say that. Never climbed one before. Trees, yes, the odd wall, but never a trellis.”

  Four flights up, no less. That was impressive. Potentially suicidal, but impressive. “And you made it all the way up on a first go? I’m very impressed.”

  “It did get a bit dodgy at times, but it’s not all that different from climbing a wall once one gets the knack of it.” And then, since he seemed to feel some further explanation was required, “Seemed safer up here with the Climpson prowling around below. Didn’t want her to catch me and dose me with barley and whatnot.”

  “She has been known to climb the occasional flight of stairs.” As Mr. Fitzhugh started to scoot off the desk, taking the top two pages of Clarissa’s composition with him, Arabella held up a reassuring hand. “Don’t worry. You’re probably safe for the moment. She’s too busy with Signor Marconi to bother about the odd trellis climber.”

  “I’m not that odd,” protested Mr. Fitzhugh. He looked down at his sweater, and a leaf flopped down onto his nose. He blew it away. “At least not compared to Signor Whatsis.”

  “Signor Marconi?”

  “That’s the chap. Shouldn’t wonder if he and your Miss Climpson were a while. They’re probably still looking for his missing mustachio.”

  A sound somewhere between a choke and a snort escaped Arabella’s lips. She could just see Miss Climpson and Signor Marconi on their hands and knees, crawling around the drawing-room floor, searching for the music master’s missing facial hair.

  “He should have used stronger glue,” Arabella agreed, doing her best to keep a straight face.

  “If a man can’t grow it, he shouldn’t wear it,” pronounced Mr. Fitzhugh with great decision.

  “That would be very aw-aw-awkward applied to breeches.” Arabella barely managed to get the words out. The images in her head were too ridiculous. All the absurdity and tension of the evening came bubbling out, despite the hands she clasped over her mouth to try to keep the laughter in. She could see the whole scene in front of her, everyone bumping into one another and toppling over each other and Signor Marconi—Signor Marconi—

  “Miss Dempsey?” Mr. Fitzhugh peered earnestly at her. “But don’t you wonder what he was doing there?”

  “Other than being sat upon by Lizzy? Oh, heavens, the look on that man’s face! And then Miss Clim—Miss Climps—” Arabella was laughing too hard to speak.

  Mr. Fitzhugh leaned forward, holding on to the edge of the desk, tilting first this way then that to try to get a look at her face. “You all right there? Everything tip-top?”

  “Oh, qu-qu-quite!” gasped Arabella. “I wasn’t the one who was s-s-s-sat on. Miss Reid! People are not for sitting!”

  At the memory of Lizzy Reid perched on the music master’s back, like a cat standing guard over a particularly juicy mouse, Arabella gave up and howled.

  Having ascertained that she was in no immediate danger of dying, Mr. Fitzhugh leaned back, planting his elbows on the desk. “It could have been worse. It could have been Sally sitting on him.”

  Couldn’t. Cope. Arabella clutched her stomach, wheezing. Could a person burst from laughing too much? “S-Sally. Not so heavy.”

  “No, but she’s a good head taller than the Reid girl.” Mr. Fitzhugh considered. “Less bounce in her, though. Once Sally sits on someone, she stays sat. Like a rock. Or a very large paperweight.”

  Arabella pointed a shaking finger at Mr. Fitzhugh, laughing so hard that no sound came out of her mouth. She rocked back and forth, trying to get the words out.

  Mr. Fitzhugh looked at her quizzically.

  “It’s you,” she managed to gasp out. “Sitting on my papers.”

  Mr. Fitzhugh jumped up as though Clarissa’s composition had burned his backside.

  “No, no.” Arabella waved a hand. His face swam in and out of focus through the tears of mirth. “Sit, please. No harm done. You make an excellent paperweight. I might even keep you on permanently.”

  “Don’t think Miss Climpson would like that.” He settled very cautiously back down on the desk, taking care to push the papers out of the way. The inkwell rocked on its stand and he made a successful grab for it before it could go over.

  “Oooh, that hurts,” groaned Arabella, pressing her hands to her abdomen.

  “Where you fell?” asked Mr. Fitzhugh, all concern.

  “No, where I laughed.” Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Arabella confessed, “I was terrified that someone would see you out there, c-crouching in the bushes. You kept popping in and out.” She waved a hand to illustrate. “Like a j-jack in the box. Every time I’d look, there you were again. Up and down and up and down. You took three years off my life, you know.”

  “Only three?” Mr. Fitzhugh grinned at her. “Didn’t want to miss anything. It was better than Astley’s Amphitheatre. Never knew who was going to pull which stunt next. All that was lacking were a few ponies in feathers. Although”—Mr. Fitzhugh’s face grew sober—“I did feel bad about not being able to rescue you.”

  “Rescue—what?” Arabella applied a knuckle beneath her eye to try to clear the moisture away. Heavens, she felt tired all of a sudden. Tired in a good way, as a small child who had been playing outside all day in the sun and the wind, ready to go gratefully to sleep.

  “When the intruder came in,” Mr. Fitzhugh said. “I was all set to charge in and do the knight-in-shining-armor bit. But I got tangled in the curtains.”

  Arabella gave a surprised giggle that turned into a hiccup. “No, really?”

  Not the curtains. She wasn’t sure her aching diaphragm could take it. She was all laughed out, hollowed, as though someone had taken a spoon and scooped out her insides. She took a long, deep breath, feeling it tickle at the back of her throat.

  The breath turned into a yawn and she hastily covered her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Mr. Fitzhugh scuffed his heels against the desk legs. “What if he hadn’t been the music master? What if he had been armed?”

  Touched by his concern, Arabella reached out a hand to touch his sleeve. The knit weave of his sweater was rough against her bare fingers. “But he wasn’t armed.”

  “That we know of,” countered Mr. Fitzhugh.

  “What was he going to do? Threaten to affix his facial hair to my upper lip?” Arabella lowered her voice. “It would have been a disaster if you’d come barging in. I might have lost my position over it. At least Signor Marconi had a plausible reason for being in the school. You had none.”

  “We could have said I was visiting Sally,” Mr. Fitzhugh suggested.

  “Dressed like that? In the middle of the night? Besides, Sally and her troops carried the day splendidly.” Maybe a little too splendidly. Arabella made a rueful face. “I don’t envy the maids who have to tidy the drawing room tomorrow morning. I don’t think there’s a single piece of furniture left standing.”

  Mr. Fitzhugh tucked his chin into his chest. “All the same,” he muttered.

  “All the same
,” said Arabella, tilting her head to look him in the eye. “I appreciate the intention. Really, I do. And it all turned out for the best. Especially that cupid. I never liked that cupid.”

  Mr. Fitzhugh squared his shoulders. “The whole thing was dodgy, deuced dodgy.”

  “I would have called it more ugly,” hedged Arabella. “A fat, naked baby cast in porcelain is seldom a good idea.”

  Mr. Fitzhugh looked up at her in surprise. “I was talking about Signor Whatsis. He was lying about the window, you know. I would have seen him if he’d come in that way.”

  Arabella covered her mouth as another yawn threatened to force its way out. “You or your pickle?”

  “Gerkin,” corrected Mr. Fitzhugh.

  “Gerkin, pickle. Six of one, half dozen of the other.” Arabella was lightheaded from laughter and vaguely sleepy. “I wonder if he gets teased by the other grooms.”

  Mr. Fitzhugh contemplated the question. “I shouldn’t think so. One of them is named Snufflepuss.”

  Arabella’s eyes met his. “Snufflepuss. As in . . . Snufflepuss?”

  Mr. Fitzhugh’s lips twitched. Just a little twitch. Then another. And suddenly they were both laughing, helpless with mirth, teeth flashing, eyes crinkling, shoulders heaving, setting each other off every time they caught the other’s eye.

  “I c-can’t look at you,” gasped Arabella, waving a hand in Mr. Fitzhugh’s direction. “Stop. Please.”

  Mr. Fitzhugh swallowed hard, his shoulders still shaking. He made a wobbly gesture with one hand. “Your wish is my—blast!”

  One minute she saw him, the next minute she didn’t. The room plunged into darkness.

  “Well,” said Arabella unsteadily, “that was one way to stop me looking at you.”

  “Sorry. Accidentally snuffed the candle.”

  “I hate it when that happens,” murmured Arabella.

  It was a very strange sensation, being entirely in the dark. She knew, on a theoretical level, that she was in her own room at Miss Climpson’s, standing just a little bit to the left of her desk, while Mr. Fitzhugh was sitting roughly a foot away from her. Given that neither of them had gone anywhere, he probably still was. She could picture him as he had been a moment ago, with his teeth very white against his grimed face and his hair sticking up at odd angles.

  No one had moved and nothing had changed, but the room suddenly seemed much smaller and closer. She could smell the loamy scent of leaves and the alcoholic tang of brandy against the more familiar scents of ink and paper and her own lilac-scented soap. It was warmer in the room than she remembered. Arabella inched her hands cautiously up to her cheeks, pressing her fingertips to her cheekbones. It was December, in England. She wasn’t supposed to feel this flushed.

  “Mr. Fitzhugh?” she ventured.

  “Still here.” There was a rustling and crunching of papers as Mr. Fitzhugh shifted on the desk. His leg brushed Arabella’s skirt. Goodness. It really was close in here. “Here. I’ll—oh. Oops.”

  Something rolled over the edge of the desk, clipping Arabella on the shin before hitting the floor. She could hear the dull bumping noise of a lopsided object rolling across the uneven floorboards.

  “That was the candle, wasn’t it?” said Arabella.

  “Er, yes.” She could feel sheepishness coming off him in waves. She might not be able to see him, but she could picture just how he would look. “Somehow knocked it off its stand. Sorry about that.”

  “I’m just glad it wasn’t the inkwell,” said Arabella honestly.

  The inkwell clinked as Mr. Fitzhugh scooted forward. “I’ll get it. The candle, I mean.”

  “No, no, I’ve got it. You stay there.” Arabella dove for the ground before he could object. Or knock over the inkwell.

  Something cracked into her forehead, so hard that she saw stars.

  “Owww,” she groaned, staggering back onto her heels. “Was that you?”

  “No,” said Mr. Fitzhugh apologetically. She couldn’t make out quite where he was, but his voice was coming from somewhere above her. “I think that was your desk chair.”

  No. She wouldn’t have—Arabella groped in the darkness, her palm hitting something wooden and spindly. It was, in fact, her chair. It was still rocking slightly back and forth.

  There was nothing like maiming oneself on a piece of furniture to make one feel like a complete idiot.

  Arabella grabbed the seat to steady herself. Maybe she should just stay down here.

  “I’d kick it,” Arabella said in a small voice, “but I think that would hurt me more than it.”

  “I’d challenge it to a duel,” Mr. Fitzhugh offered, “but it might win, and that would be deuced embarrassing. Never be able to show my face at my club again.”

  Mr. Fitzhugh’s hands found her elbows, hauling her back up to her feet. He did it very neatly. Then again, reflected Arabella, he’d had practice. This wasn’t the first time she’d taken a fall in front of him.

  “Where does it hurt?” he asked.

  “Does pride have a specific anatomical location?”

  Mr. Fitzhugh’s hands moved up and down her arms in a comforting gesture. It made Arabella want to lean against him, close her eyes, and stay that way.

  “That sounded like a nasty crack. I should know. I’ve had a few in my time. Many of them self-inflicted.”

  “Oh, it’s just my head,” Arabella said, wincing, wiggling just a bit. “Nothing important. Not like I was using it anyway.”

  Mr. Fitzhugh made a light grunting noise and released his steadying grip on her arms. The grunt obviously meant something in the male lexicon, but, having never had any brothers, Arabella was at a loss for an exact translation.

  He reached out and touched her cheek, making his way by feel along the side of her face. He had removed his gloves when he had come inside, and his bare fingers were gentle against her skin as he brushed the hair back from her brow. “Is this where you hit yourself?”

  Arabella nodded, before remembering that he couldn’t actually see her.

  “Yes,” she said, and was surprised to find that her voice came out hoarse.

  She put up a hand to touch his wrist, although whether to move his hand away or make it stay, she wasn’t sure. Her fingers met bare skin below the sleeve of his sweater. She could feel the broadness of the bone and a smattering of coarse hairs beneath her fingers.

  He went very still as she touched him.

  They were, she realized, standing ridiculously close. He had drawn her forward so that she stood between his legs as he sat on the desk. His hand was in her hair, his knees brushing her hips, his chest so close that that she could practically feel the rise and fall of it as he breathed. In the suddenly alert silence, she could hear the heightened tempo of his breathing, no longer ragged with laughter, but uneven all the same. Strange what different things silences could be. A moment ago, they had been comfortably silent together. And now they were . . . Uncomfortably silent.

  Arabella tilted her head up to the light-colored smudge that was Mr. Fitzhugh’s face. She tried to think of something clever to say, but for once in her life she couldn’t think of anything at all. She was having the hardest time remembering who she was or where she was or anything beyond the gentle darkness and the scent of brandy and earth and the rough weave of Mr. Fitzhugh’s sweater as it rasped beneath her palm.

  “Arabella?” he said, and his voice sounded as unsteady as hers.

  “That is my name.”

  “Promised you I wouldn’t forget,” he said.

  She couldn’t see the smile on his face, but she could feel it on his lips, lips which were, somehow, brushing hers.

  It was entirely unclear how they had got there, or who was technically kissing whom, but it seemed the most natural thing in the world to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him back.

  Chapter 13

  Turnip hadn’t climbed the trellis with the intention of kissing Arabella Dempsey.

  In fact, he had made the perilous c
limb with only the most serious and responsible of motives. Well, all that and avoiding Miss Climpson.

  But then there had been all that laughing and the candle had gone out and she had been standing right there, with the smell of lilac in her hair, and kissing her had seemed a jolly good idea, if he had stopped to think about it, which he really hadn’t. It had just happened, the way the best things in life generally did, and once it happened, he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before, why he had wasted so many minutes of the evening crouching outside windows and chasing after puddings when he could have been kissing Arabella Dempsey.

  Who, it turned out, when it came to kissability, was entirely kissable.

  She was just the right size for him, all comfortable curves beneath that very unattractive gray dress. Like her hair, the rest of her was surprisingly lush once one started exploring. It was a bit like being Columbus, landing on what seemed from the water to be nothing more than your average dull beige beach, only to find a verdant forest bursting with glorious and unexpected foliage.

  As he mapped out the cartographical angles of the curve of Arabella’s hip, Turnip was a very happy amateur explorer. Then she yanked down on his head and he forgot all about metaphors and just went back to kissing her. She scooted in closer, and he gathered her up in both arms, pulling her in as closely as nature and the desk would allow.

  Nature was with them, but the desk was proving to be something of a problem. Turnip scooted a bit to the side, trying to make a more comfortable berth for them on the desk. After all, Arabella was three-quarters of the way onto his lap anyway. If he could just clear a little room to the left . . .

  Turnip bumped something with his bum. It skidded off the edge of the desk, landing on the floor with a thump. No matter, he thought hazily, helping Arabella with that extra hitch she needed to join him on the desk. Her feet flailed, catching on something, which was unsporting enough to go toppling over with a decidedly jarring crash.

  Turnip was inclined to ignore whatever it was and just go on kissing Arabella. After all, it was already down, ergo it couldn’t fall down again, so why worry about it? And she was all soft and warm and—