Mistletoe Magic

by Virginia Brown

  In just a few days, he’d begun to think of Charlotte—Chary, her aunt had called her—as an interesting addition to his life. Probably a good thing, since they were to be married, but it was unique in that he didn’t usually form swift attachments. Time and experience had taught him to be wary. But he liked being around Charlotte St. John. He liked the sound of her voice, pitched low and soft, words formed precisely, and he liked that she did not defer to him despite their difference in birth. God knew, he’d had enough simpering eager-to-please women thrown at him over the years. It became very boring to have people cater to him because he was a duke’s son. He wasn’t the heir, after all; a second son was always the spare. A third son often a nuisance. Anthony was the Chosen One, who would inherit all. And thank God for that. Anthony was much more suited to it.

  He had no regrets. Charlotte’s father may hope she would be the duchess one day, but she didn’t seem to have aspirations in that direction. That suited him. Charlotte suited him. God help her.

  Nick missed her at breakfast. He was too early, or she was late, but to linger too long would be noticeable. So, after taking hot rolls and tea up to Drummond, he put on his greatcoat, scarf, gloves, and hat and started to the stables. The stable boy to whom he’d given a six-pence to tend his horses had two huge draught horses out, dragging a log sideways to tamp down the powdery snow in the carriageway. Five large sleighs and one smaller one were being harnessed to horses blowing frost clouds; harness tack clinked, hooves crunched snow drifts. Log chains rattled as the draught horses packed snow along the long, gently curved drive to the road that sloped down to the village. Nick caught up with the stable lad and told him what he wanted, pressing two coins into the boy’s hand; one for him and one for a willing footman.

  Then he walked around to the front of the house, arriving just as the doors opened and family and guests emerged laughing and talking, wrapped up in coats, gloves, scarves, and hats. Charlotte and her aunt were toward the rear, which fit in perfectly with his plan. As the family stepped up into the sleighs fitted with furs and carriage blankets, Lady Howard’s young cousins piled in laughing and giggling on the rear seats. Charlotte and Lady Shepworth were guided by a footman to the smaller sleigh, which would hold only four people in the long seat piled high with furs and wool blankets.

  Stepping up as they were helped into the sleigh by the footman, Nick tucked his hand under Charlotte’s arm as she turned to sit on the cushioned seat. She glanced up, startled, peering from under the wide brim of a bonnet with festive sprigs of holly on the crown.

  “Oh, Lord Nicholas—I thought you were staying here.”

  “And miss church on Christmas Day? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “I hope the church walls are sturdy,” Charlotte said pertly, and her aunt pressed her lips together to hold back a smile.

  “They won’t fall,” he said. “Perhaps just crack a little when I walk in, but I would say we are safe enough.”

  The ladies pulled lap robes over their skirts, and he seated himself in the small seat behind the driver, facing them. Charlotte’s cheeks flushed pink, her sun-dazzled eyes narrowed against the bright light, and she looked resolutely at the snow-frosted front of the house, as if finding the tall, Palladian windows and pilasters suddenly fascinating.

  “Is that a sprig of mistletoe in your bonnet?” Nick asked in an innocent tone, and she shot him a warning glance from beneath her luxuriant brows.

  “It is holly, as I am most confident you already know, my lord,” she said as the sleigh pulled forward in a jangle of harness and small brass bells. Snow crunched beneath the bright-red runners, and ahead of them on the carriageway, someone in the sleigh began singing a Christmas song.

  “We are being serenaded, it seems,” said Lady Shepworth. “Joy to the World, I think. Is that it, Chary?”

  “I don’t hear anything but sleigh bells, I’m afraid.”

  Nick drawled, “A pity. She has a lovely voice.”

  Lady Shepworth said, “Then it is most likely Lady Leighton singing. She has an exquisite talent.”

  Nick smiled at Charlotte. “She does. And do you sing, Miss St. John?”

  Before she could reply, her aunt said, “Oh, she sings like a bird, my lord.”

  “Then she must sing for us one evening.”

  After slanting her aunt a reproving glance, Charlotte said, “What my dear Aunt Catherine is too kind to say is that the bird I sing most like is a crow, sir. Hardly a melodious or desired entertainment.”

  Nick regarded her with amusement. “A crow, Miss St. John?”

  “Pray, do not think I protest with false modesty. Whatever talents I may have, singing is not among them. The singing master my father hired was driven quite to distraction by my lack of ability. He retired from the profession rather abruptly. I heard he sold his pianoforte and took a cottage by the sea. Oh, do look—is that a siskin in the alder tree?” She indicated a small greenish-yellow bird perched on a slender branch, oblivious to the snow.

  “A goldfinch, I think,” he said, adding, “although what it is doing here this time of year is a mystery.”

  “Lady Howard keeps finches in her conservatory in the winter. Perhaps it escaped,” Lady Shepworth said. “I must tell her so she can save the poor thing.”

  “Siskins are in the goldfinch family,” said Charlotte. “They are rather lively little birds. I should like to visit the conservatory. I had no idea Lady Howard was interested in birds.”

  “Lady Howard has many interests, from what I recall,” Nick said. “She drove her friends and family to distraction as a child. Always flitting from one project to the next.”

  “So, you have known her some time, then?” inquired Lady Shepworth.

  “Our families are distantly related and as we were all of a similar age, we found it greatly amusing to outwit our governesses and tutors. It caused mayhem at times.”

  Charlotte smiled. “I can well imagine the chaos.”

  Nick imagined escorting Miss St. John to the conservatory later in the day. It would be a treat for her to see the birds and exotic plants. He’d just have to find a way to leave the aunt behind and have her to himself for a while. The layers of her personality intrigued him as no woman had ever done before, and though he had briefly tried to convince himself his interest was purely one of necessity as they were to be married, he knew that he had a burning curiosity to know her. Not just in the Biblical sense, although that was definitely a factor, but he wanted to explore all her quirks and foibles.

  The brisk sleigh ride to the village church was brief but bracing. Nick stepped down from the sleigh to help Charlotte and her aunt down before the driver could do so, and he held out an arm to both of them to escort them into the small, ancient Norman church. The tall stone tower gleamed in the sunlight; ice frosted the pale stones, snowdrifts scalloped the foundation walls.

  Light streamed in through stained-glass windows, and a Christmas candle flickered in the nave; hushed conversations and the smell of incense and candles, as well as cold air, filled the high-roofed interior. Greenery lay upon the altar, adding fragrance. Lord and Lady Howard sat in the family bench while most crowded behind the few benches to stand in the rear. Beside him, Charlotte had her head bent to the small Anglican hymnal; soft brown curls dangled beneath the sash and trim of her bonnet, brushing against skin so pale, he could trace the blue veins. Her cheeks were still flushed from the icy air, and her ridiculously long lashes cast shadows. A strange emotion stole over him, a feeling of protectiveness, and of affinity.

  She had her prickly defenses, but he’d glimpsed the vulnerability, tasted her sweetness, and knew there was so much more to her than he’d first thought. In fact, the entire situation may turn out better than he expected. At times, he’d wondered why he’d agreed to marry a woman he didn’t know or want to know. After all, his pockets weren’t completely t
o let, despite the duke’s assessment. He had his flat at Albany House, a small estate in Somerset, and a tidy sum in the bank. Robert had damaged his credit to some extent, but not ruined him. Trust Avonhurst to put the worst out as fact in order to further his cause. The duke had obviously intended to wed him to Charles St. John’s daughter and twisted the situation to his benefit. Perhaps one day he’d find out the truth behind it, but it didn’t really matter at this point.

  It surprised him that he rather looked forward to marrying Charlotte St. John. After that first meeting, he wouldn’t have guessed it. He suspected she had gone out of her way to appear as unappealing as possible, and he could not blame her. While his finances may not be as bad as presented, his reputation was probably worse. He’d had his share of rakish affairs, gambled if he chose but rarely lost large amounts—certainly not ruinous amounts. There had been a few ladies in his past, well-born as well as actresses or Covent Garden beauties. None who had captured his attention for long. But it was difficult to be at sea for extended periods and maintain any kind of lengthy courtship, so he had not attempted it.

  Curse it, he was adrift in a sea of unfamiliar emotions, and for the first time since he was a boy, he did not know how to deal with the situation. It was daunting to know the rest of his life depended on how he handled the beginning of this relationship.

  Charlotte turned then to peer up at him from beneath her bonnet, and indicated the hymnal she held. He shook his head, bent close to her ear, and murmured, “You may sing like a crow, but I sing like a frog. Our children will no doubt be born with feathers and webbed feet.”

  She looked first startled, then flushed, then pressed her lips tightly together to hide a smile. Her shoulders shook slightly as she suppressed a laugh, and she held the hymnal close to her face to hide behind it. Lady Shepworth glanced over at them and gave a slight shake of her head in disapproval, as if they were two children needing instruction.

  Biting her lip, Charlotte exchanged a swift, guilty glance with him before returning her gaze to the hymnal to mouth the words to While Shepherds Watch. Lady Shepworth sang the old Christmas hymn with the congregation in a throaty alto voice that blended nicely.

  The vicar spoke of peace and love for one’s fellow man at this season, and charity for all, no doubt a tactful plea for coins in the poor box. And after singing Hark, the Herald Angels, the service ended and they made their way to the rear of the church to leave through the side door. On his way out, Nick paused to slip several coins into the poor box conveniently situated near the exit. Ten pounds should provide for a few families.

  It had been warm in the church, but stepping outside, the cold air briskly reminded them it was winter. He ushered Charlotte and Lady Shepworth to the waiting sleigh, and this time, he managed to maneuver a place between them on the seat. It was a very intimate proximity; even with all the bundle of wool coats and layers of clothes, it was a position ripe with possibilities. He pulled the lap robes over them, tucking the ends around the ladies, being quite particular with keeping a draft from chilling Charlotte. It was obvious from her thoughtful expression that Lady Shepworth knew exactly what he was doing, but she remained silent.

  A delicate fragrance wafted up from Charlotte, reminding him of soft summer breezes. It wasn’t too sweet, but held a hint of woodsy, mossy scents. A tantalizing bouquet. As the caravan of sleighs whisked over hard-packed snow back to Seabury, he drank in the smell and feel of her close to him while making the kind of polite conversation that usually bored him. It was, in its way, an illuminating moment for him. Such innocent pleasures had once seemed far too tame to him, but now he found them enticing. Preferable, even, to his usual pursuits. Life had taught him that the casual relationships he’d once formed were not lasting, and did nothing to fill a void that he hadn’t known he possessed until recently. It wasn’t just the disappointment of being accused of theft, though God knew, that was a frustrating situation in itself. There was a feeling as if he had lost his way. And now, perhaps he had just discovered his purpose in life.

  How odd . . .

  The now familiar feelings of bitter anger that had ruled his actions in the past year eased somewhat when he thought of his future. Charlotte accepted him as he was, with rumors of theft, gambling debts, and rampant womanizing tainting his reputation. Yet she made no accusations. For the first time in his life, he felt as if he was seen for who he was, not someone else’s expectations for him. It was liberating.

  And it made him even more determined to clear his name so she would never have reason to be ashamed for marrying him.

  Their arrival back at Seabury was accompanied by the excitement of the cousins spilling from sleighs like puppies unleashed, footmen opening doors and helping ladies up to steps that had been cleared of ice and snow, laughter and the buzz of conversation as they entered the manor house. The faint smells of Christmas dinner teased the air. Some guests streamed up the wide staircases to their rooms to rest before changing into appropriate clothes for dinner, while others sought more active pursuits.

  Nick caught Charlotte by the elbow before she joined her aunt ascending the stairs. “If you will be adventurous enough to meet me in the first floor library after dinner, we can visit Lady Howard’s conservatory.”

  “Alone? While I am not shocked you would suggest it, I cannot agree, of course.”

  “No? A woman fearless enough to sail halfway around the world to watch penguins waddle is afraid to visit a conservatory with her betrothed?”

  “You make it sound more simple than it is, my lord.”

  “We shall see if you are as adventurous as you claim to be then, shan’t we? After dinner, I will be waiting for you in the library.”

  She hesitated, then turned and followed her aunt up the wide staircase. At the first landing, she cast a glance back over her shoulder at him, her lush brows drawn into a knot over her eyes.

  He smiled. She would come. He knew it. She wouldn’t be able to resist seeing the birds.

  He turned, and saw Wakefield watching him. Will approached, his face unreadable as he paused next to him.

  “Before you join Lord Howard, I would like to talk to you,” he said.

  CHARY ALLOWED Baxter to undress her and slide a silk dressing gown up her arms to drape from her shoulders. It was quilted and warmer than it looked, an Oriental design of trees and pagodas woven into the fabric. She belted it over her chemise, keeping her stockings on for warmth. A tea tray had been brought up and set upon a table, and Aunt Catherine poured them both a cup.

  “Toast?” she asked, looking up at Chary, and then buttered a slice without waiting for her response. “There’s cake, too, and cheese and fruit, although if we eat all this, we won’t be able to eat our Christmas dinner.”

  “Just toast is fine, thank you.” Chary stepped to the window to look outside. The room looked over the back of the property; low rolling hills stretching pristine white to the horizon, studded with skeletal trees draped in wintry finery, hedgerows alive with birds taking shelter, stacked stone walls delineating fields from gardens and orchards and outbuildings. Clouds had begun to mar the sky, filtering sunlight. Frost rimmed the edges of each window pane, and she rubbed the edge of her palm against the glass. “I hope it doesn’t snow again,” she said aloud.

  “Oh my, does it look as if it will?” Aunt Catherine put a slice of buttered toast and a cup of tea on a table by a chair. “Come and have your tea, my dear.”

  “Clouds are stacking up in the distance, so I imagine it’s very possible.”

  “How distressing. Oh good, the tea is still hot.”

  A fire burned cheerily, and Chary sat near the hearth, holding the fine china plate and balancing the tea cup on the arm of her chair. It was awkward, and she set the plate in her lap to free her hand to sip tea. Aunt Catherine perched on the edge of her chair to reach the tea tray.

  “So, did Lord
Nicholas express a desire to spend more time with you?” she asked, and Chary looked at her over the rim of her tea cup.

  How could she tell her aunt about their embrace? It would be too embarrassing. “He did,” she said, and took a sip of tea. It was hot and sweet. She liked three lumps of sugar and a bit of milk in her tea.

  “Well, that is good. I’ve been observing him when you are together, and I think he has tender feelings for you, Chary. Perhaps all that was needed was for the two of you to keep company to realize this may be what both of you want.”

  “Perhaps. That would make it much simpler for everyone, wouldn’t it?”

  Frowning slightly, Aunt Catherine regarded her silently for a moment. “I am uncertain as to quite how you mean that, my dear.”

  Sighing, Chary managed a smile. “I suppose I mean that if life were a fairytale, then we would fall madly in love and live happily ever after.”

  “Even Monsieur Perrault included tragedies in his fairy tales, my dear.”

  “I remember Mama reading La Belle au Bois Dormant to me when I was very young. Briar Rose found her prince, and true love’s kiss resolved all conflicts.”

  “I do hope I am not cast as Maleficent in your imagination,” Aunt Catherine said dryly, and Chary had to laugh.

  “No, and I am certainly not Sleeping Beauty. Ah, I am just being ridiculous.”

  “Perhaps you read too many romantic novels. Life is much more mundane, but it can have even happier endings, you know.”

  Smiling, Chary sipped her tea and nibbled on her toast, gazing into the fire and trying not to read too much into Lord Nicholas’s words and actions. He was an experienced rake, after all, and his teasing and kisses could mean little to him. It was frustrating to think that she’d allowed herself to be vulnerable again, after seven years of caution and resistance. Now she went back and forth between hope and fear like a pendulum. It was maddening.