Mistletoe Magic

by Virginia Brown

  “Yes, he was taken to the kitchens for the physician to tend.”

  “I am quite certain Lady Howard has seen to his welfare,” Lady Shepworth said, but Miss St. John interrupted.

  “Naturally, but I think it is most appropriate for Lord Nicholas to be reassured as to his welfare. I shall accompany him, if he will permit.”

  Surprised, and not sure if he wanted company, Nick thought about refusing but then decided against it. He inclined his head. “I would be pleased for your company, Miss St. John.”

  “Then I shall join you, as well,” said Lady Leighton with a smile. “As a widow, I am the perfect chaperone, I think.”

  That left Lady Shepworth with no reasonable protest, and the three of them slipped out the drawing room door into the hall. “Do you have any idea where you are going?” Miss St. John asked as he crossed the marble tile floors. He glanced down at her in amusement.

  “Some notion, yes. If we get lost, we have only to ask a footman for directions.”

  A door tucked into polished oak wainscoting opened easily when he pushed on it, and he indicated the narrow staircase that led downward. “Aladdin’s cave awaits.”

  Lady Leighton laughed at his humor, and said, “Still the intrepid explorer, I see. Here is where we part ways for now. I am not as daring as the two of you. Besides, there is nothing more tedious than an unwanted chaperone.”

  When Miss St. John protested, Julia shook her head, smiling. “Nonsense. If you were not already betrothed, I would not abandon you. But I know tomorrow will be very busy with all the usual Christmas festivities Lady Howard has planned. And I must rest after a rather arduous journey.”

  Left alone as Lady Leighton crossed the hall to the staircase, Nick looked down at Miss St. John. “Are you afraid to be alone with me, or shall we descend to the First Circle?”

  “I take it you are Charon, come to guide me across the Acheron?”

  “You are familiar with Dante’s work, I see.”

  “I was foolish enough to think the title Divine Comedy meant it would be humorous. But I was young. It left quite an impression on me.”

  He laughed softly. “I don’t doubt that. And I prefer to be compared to Virgil, your guide instead of the boatman to Hades, if you don’t mind.”

  “You rather freely mingle your literature, you know. Aladdin’s Cave is from Arabian Nights, so you must decide if there is magic or an inferno awaiting us.”

  Another unexpected facet of Miss St. John’s character; she was well-read. As she preceded him to the top step, he said, “Maybe Drummond will have found the magic lamp then.”

  “Poor man. Is it true he has a cot in the larder instead of a proper bed upstairs?”

  “For tonight, yes. When he’s feeling more up to it, the housekeeper, Mrs. Bunting, will have footmen help him up the stairs to a bed in the servants’ quarters.”

  It was shadowy in the winding staircase despite the glow of a wall lamp, and he put a hand on her shoulder to steady her as she felt her way down the narrow passageway. His bare hand brushed against soft skin, and a burnished brown curl tickled his fingers when she turned her head to look back at him.

  “Mind the stairs,” he said gruffly, rather startled by the flash that shot through him at the contact. Satiny soft skin, warm and pliable, and from his vantage point of height and the stairs, he had an excellent view of the swell of her breasts. Pale globes encased in blue velvet and gilt. He had the sudden urge to free them from their cloth prison. That would never do, of course. Miss St. John would be scandalized if he touched her inappropriately, he was sure.

  But at the moment, being appropriate didn’t seem very tempting. He indulged in a few moments’ fantasy about properly scandalizing Miss St. John before they reached the bottom of the stairs and the door to the kitchen area. Rather regretfully, he decided not to embarrass himself by lingering on those fantasies, and reached past her to push the door open.

  “After you, Miss St. John. Mrs. Bunting should be nearby, I imagine, and can direct us to the larder and Drummond.”

  The kitchens were a beehive of activity, with footmen, cooks, ladies’ maids, as well as upstairs and downstairs maids scurrying about. He stopped a footman to ask directions to the larder, and learned that Mrs. Bunting had installed Drummond in a room off the kitchen instead.

  “It has a fireplace to keep him warm, my lord,” the young man said as he led him to the door. “The larder has too many people in and out tonight.”

  A cot had been set up in the small room that held a desk and floor to ceiling storage cupboards. A coal fire burned in a small fireplace, and a lamp provided more light. Drummond looked up, his weathered face creasing into a smile that didn’t quite hide the pain from his injury.

  “Captain, you didn’t have to come,” he argued, but Nick shook his head and held out a hand to push the man back down when he made as if to rise.

  “Of course, I did. When I came down earlier, you were asleep in the larder. I see you have been given a bit more privacy now.”

  “The housekeeper says if I feel like it tomorrow, they’ll put me in a proper bed in the servants’ quarters, but I’d be more comfortable in the stable with the horses, I think.”

  “I’d be more comfortable knowing that you’re warm in the house,” Nick said, and Drummond nodded.

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “I’ll send Georges with your trunk when you’re settled.” Drummond looked at him sideways, and Nick grinned. “Yes, he’ll hate bringing it.”

  That brought a soft laugh from Drummond, and his eyes shifted to glance at Miss St. John before he said, “Then I’ll enjoy it.”

  “I thought you would. This is Miss St. John, Drummond, and we are to marry in March.”

  “March, is it? Ah, I should stand in the presence of your lady, Captain.”

  “Stay where you are. That’s a direct order. There will be time later to show your respect. Now rest. I’ll be back tomorrow to help settle you in your room.”

  Miss St. John had said nothing, but as they got to the door, she turned and said, “Do get well quickly, Drummond. Good night.”

  As he closed the door and held out his arm for her, she looked up at him. “He called you Captain. Did he sail with you?”

  “Very perceptive. Yes, he did.”

  “And now he is your coachman?”

  “That was his trade before a press gang picked him up and he ended up on my ship. He was one of the worst sailors I’d ever seen. Once I was captain, I managed to release him from the Royal Navy and sent him to my stables. He’s been with me ever since.”

  “A press gang? Do you mean impressment into the Navy? Unwilling service?”

  She sounded horrified, and he lifted a brow. “Did you think it was a myth? I’ve never condoned it, but there are those who do. Here, let’s take these stairs back up.”

  He steered her to a well-lit staircase, not quite trusting himself to be alone in the dark with her. He’d begun to have the most tantalizing fantasies about prim, proper, and cheeky Miss St. John. It was vaguely unsettling. Arranged marriages were done for expedience of some kind, whether for position or financial gain, and if the two rubbed along well enough over the years, it was due to pure luck. He’d certainly not expected to be attracted to Charlotte St. John, especially after their first meeting.

  Yet here he was, imagining what lovely mysteries lay beneath her blue velvet gown, and thinking March was a long way off for a wedding.

  CHARY FELT AS IF she were in the midst of a trance, floating along with her hand on Lord Nicholas’s arm, lost in the maze of the unfamiliar house and the unfamiliar emotions that roiled inside her. How could he be such a contradiction? He seemed nothing like she’d first thought him, and that was confusing enough. But when she was near him, her entire body tingled with reaction. At first, she ha
d thought it must be a nervous response to a man rumored to be a thief and seducer of innocent women, but now she suspected it was even worse than that.

  For some unexpected reason, she was attracted to him. It was the strangest thing. Yes, he was very handsome, but she’d met many handsome men and had never been the least bit attracted to them. Lord Nicholas pulled her like a moth to the flame. Despite his dreadful reputation—and she had not yet decided it was justified—he had a most deleterious effect on her. Her mouth went dry, her stomach knotted, her blood raced, and she couldn’t draw a decent breath. She had hoped it might be some kind of medical condition, but apparently, it was not. That first day in her Berkeley Square parlor, she had gone quite lightheaded and lost the ability to think rationally; she had assumed it was an attack of nerves and plowed on with her intention to refuse him.

  And not fifteen minutes later, she had found herself agreeing to honor the marriage contract.

  Later, in her room, still a bit dazed from the events, she had recovered quite quickly from the symptoms and knew it was no physical illness. It must be a mental aberration, she’d decided, that made her react to him so oddly. He unnerved her. That was all. It was very simple, and if she limited her exposure to him, she could muddle along quite nicely.

  In the intervening weeks since seeing him, she had regarded her reaction to him as a temporary moment of insanity, not to be repeated. She was forewarned, she’d told herself. It was the swiftness of the proceedings that had caught her off guard and rendered her susceptible. Next time they met, probably at their wedding she had assumed, she would have her reactions under control. Yes, she could handle it without yielding to silly female megrims, a fact she had always prided herself on. She was no longer a dewy-eyed girl but a woman grown, and she felt she could easily keep any physical or mental irregularities at bay.

  Until earlier in the day when he had stepped into the front hall of Seabury and she had succumbed to complete panic. It was so unlike her. All her rationalization of perceived facts was useless. She was, despite common sense, hopelessly attracted to Lord Nicholas Hawkely, rake, deceiver of women, possible thief, as well as the whimsical, kind, devastatingly handsome second son of a terrifying duke.

  She was doomed.

  And yet—was it so terrible? Lord Nicholas was a man who exhibited concern for even his servants, and despite a certain innate arrogance, he had been nothing but courteous and even charming to her. After the shock of their meeting in the library eased, he’d seemed interested in her as more than just a bride foisted upon him. And he’d not laughed—too much—at her interest in penguins and desire to travel. There was certainly much more to him than she had been led to believe, she mused as they ascended a staircase. Even now, as they moved through the house, he remarked on paintings and statues, objets d’art of value as they passed, keeping conversation light and impersonal. Of course, he was well-versed in urbanity and charm, while she was still just Charlotte St. John, a spinster with a large dowry and hopeful father. “An antidote” she had once overheard someone call her, an object of pity. But Lord Nicholas made her feel witty and wanted.

  It did not occur to her that she was completely lost for several minutes as she dutifully kept pace with him through the maze of corridors. “Haven’t we passed that statue already?” she asked after recognizing a near life-size marble Zeus holding a lightning bolt in his upraised fist.

  “Oh, have we?”

  “You do not sound at all convincing, my lord.” She came to a stop, necessitating his halt as well, and he turned to look down at her, his expression fraudulently innocent. “Are we lost?” she asked.

  “Not at all. We are at Seabury in Sussex.”

  Battling a smile that threatened to dilute righteous indignation at risking her reputation, she said sharply, “If we are not lost, you are deliberately leading me astray.”

  “Oh, Miss St. John, that is a delightful proposition. I should very much like to lead you astray, I think. Are you willing?”

  Behind his teasing words, she detected a definite note of sincerity. It was both exhilarating and frightening.

  Before she could form a proper response, he said softly, his tone that of a cozening peddler trying to sell her a wooden cheese, “It will be a most enjoyable adventure, if you dare to try.”

  “So says the fox to the hen. No, I think it best if we return to the drawing room before my aunt sends out a search party.”

  “That would be awkward,” he said, a smile lifting one corner of his mouth as he stared down at her, his dark eyes reflecting light from a lamp on a nearby table. The hall lay in deep shadows, she realized, her heartbeat increasing as he turned his head to look behind them. Then, before she could move, he grabbed her and pushed her into a small alcove outside a door.

  A scream lodged in her throat at his sudden, frightening move, and she shoved at him with her fists. He looked down at her and shook his head, his words a low hiss.

  “Shh. Someone is coming.”

  With the scream still locked inside her, she glanced over his shoulder and saw the flutter of a skirt and heard a light laugh that was vaguely familiar. Two people stood beneath the glow of a wall lamp in the hall, right at the intersection of another corridor. As she watched, barely able to see past Lord Nicholas’s broad shoulder, she recognized the woman: Lady Leighton. Who was that with her? He had his back to her, but she suddenly remembered the pale blond man she had met earlier—Lord Wakefield. Eyes widening, she looked up at Lord Nicholas and knew he’d seen them too. He made a faint grimace, but seemed more resigned than shocked.

  After a couple minutes, the pair parted company and went separate ways, neither of them coming in their direction. Chary let out a sigh of relief. It had looked like a most intimate scene, their impassioned embrace before parting lending her the impression it was not their first.

  Then she became far too aware of the heat of the masculine body pressed so close to her, his muscular thighs against hers, his arms on each side of her blocking her escape, his coat buttons brushing over her breasts, creating tremors. Her breath caught. He radiated heat that warmed her even in the chill of the hallway, and the faint scent of sandalwood teased her senses as he stared down at her with dark intensity. Her pulse throbbed in her throat, tension stretched the muscles in her stomach, and everywhere he touched felt sensitive to the point of eroticism. It was startling and yet tempting, and she shivered.

  Unbidden, the reminder of Miss Treadway’s unfortunate fate jabbed her. Would she fall victim to the same gossips if discovered in an embrace with Lord Nicholas? Oh, she wished she had more details, wished she knew the truth. He did not seem dishonorable.

  No, indeed, he seemed a man of honor, not a man to compromise a woman and leave her to face disaster alone. Instead of the arrogance she expected, he cared for his servants, and even now shielded her from discovery in an uncomfortable situation. Could the gossip be all lies?

  “Well,” said Lord Nicholas, stepping back to allow her to emerge from the alcove, “that meeting could have been awkward.”

  “Yes,” she agreed thoughtfully. “It seems they are very taken with one another.” Then, looking up at him, she said, “I apologize for thinking you were assaulting me.”

  He grinned. “As tempting as it was, I am not usually so gauche. Do not mistake my polite restraint for disinterest, however. I may try again.”

  “And I may jab you with a hatpin,” she replied in a sweet tone that drew instant laughter.

  “You are a novelty, Miss St. John.”

  As he held out his arm for her to take, she said, “Is that an attempt to inform me that you are unaccustomed to female resistance to your charms?”

  Smiling down at her, he put his hand over the fingers she laid on his sleeve. “Alas, I am all too familiar with female resistance, but not usually conducted with threats of bodily harm. It is a rather frightening
experience.”

  “I cannot imagine you ever being frightened, sir.”

  “Any man with a grain of sense and ounce of self-preservation knows to fear females.”

  “Well, we are a fearsome lot,” she said with a nod, and he agreed.

  “I most heartily concur. This staircase will take us where we should be,” he added, and led her down an unfamiliar staircase that brought them to the main hall.

  “You were never lost,” she remarked, and he laughed.

  “No. Just enjoying a stroll.”

  “You’re a complete wretch and bounder,” she observed, smiling up at him.

  Lord Nicholas came to a halt outside the drawing room door and turned to look down at her. A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth, and his dark eyes held a hint of humor as he said, “I have safely returned you to the dragon’s lair. Lady Mountebank and Lady Jersey will be disappointed to see you are unmolested, I am certain.”

  “Yes, your reputation will suffer a grievous blow, I’m afraid. Will you be able to recover from the shame?”

  “It is doubtful. I will languish for a while before expiring from humiliation, I fear. Unless a willing damsel shall take pity and save me from such a dread fate, there is no hope.”

  Her heart thudded like a drum roll, long and steady with increasing fervor. “There seems to be a shortage of willing damsels about,” she said more steadily than she felt. “You will have to bear up, sir.”

  “A pity.”

  “Yes, it is always sad to lose a man in his prime.”

  He had taken a step closer, and her gloved hand still lay on his coat sleeve, so that there was barely a whisper of air between them as he glanced up at the door frame, then back down at her. “The servants have begun to decorate for Christmas, I see,” he said softly, and for a moment she stared at him in confusion. Then she looked up.

  A mistletoe bough hung from a ribbon, and now she noticed that ropes of greenery lay in neat stacks nearby, ready to be placed on mantels, tables, and lintels. There was no sign of the servants who had abandoned the fragrant boughs of holly, laurel, loops of ivy, and no doubt bay, rosemary, Hellebores, and more mistletoe boughs.