“It must be after midnight,” she said irrelevantly.
“Probably so,” he murmured, reaching up and plucking a creamy white berry. “No one wants to risk bad luck by flouting the rules, do they?”
“Which rules?” she managed to whisper, trembling as if seized with a sudden chill, her every nerve tingling with anticipation and dread. “There are so many . . .”
“Mistletoe rules. A stolen kiss for each berry.” He put two fingers gently under her chin to tilt her face up. Dark lights gleamed in his eyes with an intensity that took away her breath as he bent his head.
His mouth was warm on hers, a firm pressure that sent starbursts of fire radiating rapidly through her veins. He smelled of brandy and sandalwood, a heady scent that filled her entire being and left her lightheaded and clinging to him, as if drowning. It was not a gentle kiss, but a possessive one, as if he meant to claim her. It stirred something deep inside her, an elemental response, and she returned his kiss with fervent inexperience. After all, it was her first kiss, but that did not mean she hadn’t imagined it a thousand times, just never like this. And never with this man.
When he lifted his head at last, she drew in a shaky breath and tried to think of something clever to say. Words failed her. She looked up at him mutely, and he smiled.
“Yes, Miss St. John. Oh, yes.” He drew his thumb across her lower lip in a leisurely caress. “The season is full of surprises. Now I shall leave you before you are compromised past redemption.”
For a moment, she fumbled for sense in his remarks, then heard the chattering voices of servants approaching as he reached to open the drawing room door for her. With a last smile, he walked swiftly around the corner. Steadying her trembling hands, she stepped into the drawing room and found her aunt just inside the door.
“Ah, there you are, my dear,” said Aunt Catherine, and took her arm. “Is Lady Leighton with you?”
“No, she went upstairs to rest.”
“Journeys are so tiring in this dreadful weather. If you like, we can retire or join the others in the music room.”
Some of the guests had already departed the drawing room, and Chary sensed that her aunt had been waiting on her return. Bless her, she was no fool.
“I think I have had quite enough excitement for the evening,” she said, and saw from her aunt’s lifted brow that she understood far more than was said. It wasn’t surprising.
Chapter 6
BY THE TIME SHE got up the next morning, greenery adorned mantels, tables, lintels, and any space large enough to hold a sprig or bough. Mistletoe boughs hung conspicuously in doorways and from chandeliers. The younger cousins, out of school for the holidays, shrieked with laughter each time an unwary girl was caught, and white berries disappeared rapidly.
At breakfast, Chary enjoyed their high spirits, and admired their fortitude in deciding to go skating on the frozen pond in the gardens. Standing with her aunt, watching as a group of young people set out clad in wool and fur, carrying ice skates, she observed, “I shouldn’t expect them to stay too long in this frigid weather. They’ll be back clamoring for hot cider and a roaring fire.”
“I wouldn’t mind that now,” said Aunt Catherine, and shivered as the door allowed in another gust of icy air. “Let’s go to the sitting room where there’s a nice fire.”
The first floor sitting room overlooked the gardens, and Chary found comfortable chairs near the fire. Heavy draperies of deep-red velvet had been pulled back to frame the leaded window panes and present a view of the garden and frozen pond. Snow fell erratically, and the sky held dull gray clouds that seemed indistinguishable from the snow-covered marshes beyond. A footman brought them hot spiced cider in silver cups, and Chary pulled her embroidered shawl more closely around her shoulders as she watched the distant skaters.
Fragrant steam rose from her cup, teasing her with the scent of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. Cedar logs burned in the fireplace, and the sharp scent of evergreens thrown in with the laurel and holly blended most pleasantly. Curling her toes inside her slippers, she was grateful to be inside and warm. She had donned two pairs of stockings, worn a spencer over her dress for added warmth, and nestled into the voluminous wool shawl embroidered with flowers and birds.
Just as she was congratulating herself for wisely choosing a warm place by the fire, a voice right behind her said, “I brought you some ice skates, Miss St. John.”
Startled, she saw an odd expression cross her aunt’s face before it was swiftly replaced with a smile. “Lord Nicholas,” Aunt Catherine said, “it is much too cold to go outside.”
“For some, perhaps, but any lady who wishes to visit penguins must be acquainted with ice skates. Am I incorrect, Miss St. John?”
It was a challenge. Looking up at him, she saw a glint of devilry in his eyes, but he had merely lifted his brows in an inquiring manner.
“Penguins do not use ice skates, if I am not mistaken, my lord,” she replied.
“No, but they skim the ice on their fronts and that’s much less graceful. Unless you care to try that style, I suggest skates.”
“I am not at all certain the Falklands have ice.”
“They are also not the only place to have penguins. Your skates, Miss St. John.”
Trapped. She resorted to blunt honesty. “I cannot skate.”
“Then it is time to learn.” He held out an arm. “Since the Coburgs have retired to their chambers, Lady Howard is to accompany us. I’m sure she will be most happy to tutor you in style. Her young cousins are on the ice making nuisances of themselves, so it is time for the elders to show them up.”
Despite grave misgivings and visions of landing on the ice in a most ungainly fashion, Chary yielded to subtle blackmail. Aunt Catherine looked concerned, but made no protests.
In far too short a time, Chary found herself bundled up in wool coat and scarves and thick gloves, with skates attached to her demi-boots. Lady Howard coaxed her onto the ice, taking her hands and guiding her as Chary wobbled off the safety of a snow-covered bank and onto ice that looked far too flimsy to support so many people. The shushing sounds of skates over the ice, the brisk wind that nearly took her breath away, snow flurries, and excited laughter from the children who skimmed the ice like wintry dragonflies all blurred together. She fought the stark fear that she’d end up making a spectacle of herself, a worry that only increased as she took the first tentative steps onto the ice. Lord Nicholas, the wretch, stood watching with a smile.
She glanced at him in disapproval from under the brim of her woolen hat, tied tightly under her chin with bright-red ribbons, and let Lady Howard pull her along, giving instructions in a soft but firm voice. “Keep your feet steady now. Like that, yes, and push forward a bit until you find your stride. Keep your knees bent, and just walk along. Oh, nicely done. I’m holding you, so try another . . . steady on, you’re doing quite well.”
With her gentle urging and stable presence, Chary pressed forward, unable to prevent a sudden squeal when one foot went sideways and she lurched clumsily. Laughing, Lady Howard held her up, steadied her, and they moved out further onto the ice while young people gave them a wide berth. Very wise, she thought, as she was liable to disgrace herself.
“I’m going to move to your side now, but still hold on to you,” said Lady Howard, who shifted so she held Chary by the left arm. “Hold your other arm out for balance. Don’t look at your feet, just look toward the direction you wish to skate . . . that’s it. Left foot and then right, as if walking, but glide smoothly.”
They stayed near the edge of the ice, for which Chary was grateful. Perhaps she could land in a soft snowbank when she fell. She gained a little confidence the farther she went, so that Lady Howard released her arm but stayed by her side. Her breath made steam clouds in front of her face, but the fierce cold did not seem as bitter as she progressed. While she might
look fairly ridiculous holding her arms out like a swooping owl’s wings, she kept her balance as she skated along the pond’s edge. It was exciting.
Flushed with pleasure, she looked up when Lord Nicholas skated in front of her, a broad smile on his face. “Nicely done, Miss St. John. I daresay you should be able to keep up with a penguin or two.” As she was about to graciously accept his compliment, he added, “If they’re elderly penguins.”
“Are you trying to annoy me, Lord Nicholas?”
“No, this is a challenge. Mind that branch on the ice. Take my hands, and I’ll show you the joy of flying.”
Skeptical, she shook her head. “I am doing quite well enough for the moment, thank you.”
“Yes, you are doing very well, indeed. But I shall show you how to do better.”
Straightening, she ignored his outstretched hand and glided forward, determined to do it on her own. Touching him came with its own set of complications, and she intended to avoid it as long as possible. He skated beside her, his hands clasped behind his back, allowing Lady Howard to stop and converse with one of her young cousins. The brisk wind blew feathery snow from tree branches and tugged at her bonnet sash, and she slowed to retie the red ribbons.
Something went wrong. Perhaps she stood too straight, perhaps she simply lost her balance, but her feet skidded out from under her and she flung her arms out to try and regain her balance, whirling them like a desperate windmill. To no avail. She pitched backward, her feet shot up in the air, her bonnet went sailing, and she braced for impact.
Lord Nicholas caught her just before she hit the ice. His hands tucked under her arms and held her steady, lifting her back to her feet. Heart pounding at the near fall, she dragged in a breath of freezing air and said, “My bonnet. I lost my bonnet.”
“Good riddance,” he muttered, but added, “Stand still while I fetch it.”
He skated a few feet away, retrieved the bonnet from a snowbank, and brought it to her. He inspected it briefly. “It’s rather ruined, I think. Wet as a carp.”
She took it anyway, dismayed that it was indeed sodden. “Perhaps it can be dried out. Baxter is amazing at tending my garments.” Glancing up, she had to smile at the expression on his face. “I see you do not approve of my bonnet. Do you not think it lovely?”
“I like the red sash, but the color and style is all wrong for you.”
“I did not realize you are an expert in millinery, my lord.”
“I am not. But I have made an extensive study of females over the years, and am still amazed at the atrocious things you put on your heads. Give me your arm. We are going to skate. No, wear that thing on your arm, not your head. It’s too wet and will freeze to your hair.”
He was probably right. She looped it from her arm, giving him her left hand to hold while he began to skate. Despite being certain she would end up face down in a snowbank, she found his guidance smooth and assured, and she was soon flying across the ice as if on wings. Snow-covered trees, a stone fountain at the end of the pond, statues of Greek goddesses, and garden ornaments were a beautiful blur. She was Mercury, with wings on her feet and gravity a distant memory. It was breathtaking, dangerous and exhilarating at the same time.
When they finally paused as he executed a graceful circle and brought her around, his gloved hands holding both of hers, she was laughing with delight as her wind-whipped hair tumbled into her eyes. She was probably bruising, if not breaking, a half-dozen proper etiquette rules, but at the moment she did not care.
For that one crystal moment in time, the world was perfect.
Reality came crashing along in the form of an over-enthusiastic skater who obviously did not realize they had stopped. He skidded into them, sending Chary straight into Lord Nicholas, who did not seem to mind the incursion at all. He caught her neatly, his arms going around her to hold her against his chest, and time stopped. There was only Lord Nicholas, tall, strong, more handsome than any man had a right to be, gazing down at her with a faint smile and eyes burning with unfamiliar fires.
Something ignited between them, a flare so hot and instant, it should have melted the ice that supported them, should have lit trees and hedges into infernos, should have incinerated them where they stood, leaving nothing but smudges to mark their passing. Bewildered, shocked, yet intrigued, Chary might have stood there for the rest of eternity if Lord Nicholas hadn’t had the presence of mind to take a step back, putting space between them, while his hands still held her arms to support her.
He said something, but she couldn’t quite make out the words, only the soothing intent. Feeling dazed, she realized Lady Howard had reached them.
“Are you harmed?” she asked, concern etching her face, and Lord Nicholas answered for Chary.
“I believe she has had the wind knocked from her.”
Lady Howard said indignantly, “I warned Richard about not watching where he skated. Let me escort her into the house before I give him the verbal thrashing he deserves.”
Lord Nicholas relinquished her to Lady Howard, and Chary made no protest. Yes, she had the wind knocked from her, but it was the embrace that took away her breath. Cold outside, boiling inside, emotions in turmoil, she could barely assure Lady Howard that she was unhurt and would be fine.
By the time Lady Howard had delivered her to Aunt Catherine, and Chary had been taken upstairs for warm dry clothes and hot drinks, she had recovered sufficiently to realize a horrible truth: She had foolishly fallen in love with Lord Nicholas in just twenty-four hours.
NICK COLLARED THE young scamp who had run into them, and gave him a dressing down in the manner he would have used with an unruly cabin boy. It wasn’t his words that made the boy’s eyes widen, but his tone, and the lad promised fervently not to be so rowdy again.
After leaving the ice, Nick paused to remove his skates, then trudged up to the house as snow began to fall again. He went directly to Miss St. John’s room to ask her aunt how she fared, and was told she was resting. “She will be fine, my lord, so please do not worry,” Lady Shepworth added softly.
It occurred to him as he found his way to the next wing and his room that Miss St. John—Charlotte—had fire under her outer composure. He had tasted it the night before, and felt it just now on the ice. He suspected that she would lead him a merry chase once they married.
And he may well enjoy that.
It didn’t take him long to change into dry garments; Georges tsk-tsked over the state of his boots, complained about Drummond and his pretensions of owning a trunk, and mourned the damage to good leather gloves. In that order. Nick ignored him, thinking instead of Miss St. John.
Her laughter on the ice had enchanted him; cheeks flushed, blue eyes bright and sparkling up at him, she had presented an endearing memory that still warmed him. When she laughed, her low, alluring voice was as enticing as the contented purring of a cat. Their brief embrace, albeit an accidental one, had ignited a fire in him that he hadn’t expected. It was like opening a gift box and finding diamond studs instead of a dull pen and pencil set. There were layers of tissue paper inside the gift box that was Charlotte St. John, and he would unwrap them one by one, until he reached the gift that awaited. It would be worth it to take his time and not rush her.
He had a feeling there would be a great treasure as his reward if he managed it.
“As it is Christmastide, my lord, and there will be games after supper, I have laid out proper attire,” said Georges in a tone that sounded disapproving. There was little the man did approve of, in Nick’s opinion, but parlor games seemed to be one of his greatest irritants.
“You have extraordinarily perceptive powers, Georges. I am impressed.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“Although if the game should be Bullet Pudding, there will be no hope for whatever I wear,” he observed, and smiled when the valet winced.
“Let us hope the games are more tidy, my lord.”
“Fear not, Georges. I shall leave any games involving digging in flour to the younger set. I think I have progressed beyond that point.”
“I am relieved to hear it, my lord. Your cravat is rather off-center. Allow me.”
Georges took great pride in his work, and fussed with the cravat until he had it just as he thought it should be. Nick was less concerned with intricate folds of white linen at his throat, but he indulged his servant patiently. His silver comb and brush set rested on the carved oak table, and it took only a few strokes of the brush through his hair to straighten it to his satisfaction. He was not a dandy, but he did appreciate neatness. One learned the value of such simple things after spending years aboard a ship where days of dull routine could be upended in an instant.
Since he did not anticipate cannon fire or erupting volcanos, he descended the wide staircase to the second floor with expectations of nothing more alarming than Lady Howard’s rowdy cousins. It was disconcerting, but not shocking, to encounter Lord Wakefield.
They exchanged a polite nod to acknowledge one another’s presence and the unspoken agreement not to quarrel as they passed. Willem paused a few steps past him, then shook his head and continued on his way. Nick did not stop until he reached the billiards room where he found Lord Howard and Sir John engaged in a friendly game. Billiard balls clacked softly against the velvet and mahogany table. Across the room, Lord Culhane and the Earl of Glenlevit were deep in discussion. Heavy blue drapes had been pulled back from the windows, and snow fell in steady silence on trees and lawn beyond the leaded panes.
A gaming table with a chess set atop had lured two players, engrossed in the ivory and silver pieces atop the board. Four other gentlemen played cards at another table. One of them looked up and saw him.
Mistletoe Magic Page 10
