Mistletoe Mistress
Nicola Davidson
Contents
About
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Also by Nicola Davidson
About the Author
MISTLETOE MISTRESS is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
MISTLETOE MISTRESS © Nicola Davidson
First Edition: November 2018
Second Edition: April 2019
Edited by: AuthorsDesigns
Cover: Dar Albert at Wicked Smart Designs
About
Banished to the country for wayward behavior, house maid Miss Rachel Lindsay is near-penniless and desperate. A cruel trick left her abandoned at an isolated country inn on a snowy Christmas Eve, and her only hope is a wealthy, stern, and sinfully handsome stranger—masquerading as her husband.
The new and reluctant Marquess of Kyle, Arran Elliott’s journey to London has been halted by a broken carriage. His bid for lodgings is failing—until a mysterious beauty boldly announces they are wed to secure the last remaining room. But when their friendly bargain turns into nights of scorching hot passion and sensual discipline, Arran knows he can’t let the spirited and deliciously curvy Rachel go. His—and her—secrets be damned…
For all the curvy gals – you are sexy af.
Strut!
Chapter 1
The outskirts of London, December 24, 1813.
* * *
Yes, she had made mistakes. Yes, she was no doubt a sinner. But surely no one deserved the excruciating punishment of being trapped in an ancient stagecoach with two elderly spinsters, a harassed-looking mother with an irritable toddler, a retired sailor who both snorted and passed wind in his sleep, and the son of a baron who wore an eye-watering combination of puce and jonquil, reeked of lavender, and hadn’t ceased his chatter for the entire journey thus far.
Miss Rachel Lindsay’s gaze darted about within the cramped, cold, and uncomfortable confines of the coach as it shuddered and lurched from side to side on the muddy road north, but unfortunately, her situation remained the same.
Dire.
Not for a moment had she thought this would be how she would be spending her Christmas Eve. She should be warm and safe in the only sanctuary she’d ever known—the Farringdon Orphanage and School—hanging greenery around the windows, dusting the ledges, and mopping the floors. Or attempting to wheedle an orange, marzipan square, or slice of gingerbread from Cook. Instead, she’d been banished from London to take a position as an upper maid at a Cambridge estate. Respectable, yes, but away from anything familiar. Away from the other maids she considered friends. Away from her mother’s gravesite, which she visited every second week to lay a fresh flower upon.
The worst part was, she only had herself to blame for the banishment. Lady Farringdon had been entirely correct when she’d said that Rachel had all the wicked, immodest traits that only the illegitimate daughter of an actress and an unknown peer could possess. She laughed too loudly and disliked somber hymns. She did not walk, she skipped and twirled. Her speech was disgracefully pert and forthright, her lips pouty, and her breasts and hips entirely too ripe. But most sinful of all…the consequences for her wayward behavior, the wooden spoon to her covered bottom, had never dissuaded her. Only left her shockingly damp and throbbing in that forbidden place between her legs, confused and ashamed and yearning for something she couldn’t even name.
That had been her downfall. The first time she’d dared to try and ease the ache by touching herself in bed, she’d been caught by another maid who had run straight to Lady Farringdon to tattle. Passage on this coach had been arranged shortly afterward, lest she infect the other servants with her wantonness.
“Miss! Are you listening?”
Gritting her teeth, Rachel faced Mr. Jonquil, who seemed to take it as a grave affront that she wasn’t transfixed by him or his lengthy lecture on the only kind of saddle one should purchase for a thoroughbred. “I wonder, sir, if you have such fine horseflesh and saddles why it is that you are riding in this stagecoach?”
He glared at her. “You weren’t listening. I knew it. I already explained that I was fleeced of my horse at a gaming table by an unscrupulous cheat. My skill with cards is unparalleled.”
“Naturally.”
“My luck turned worse after that. Can you imagine, my wretched family wouldn’t send me more funds or a carriage! Said a coach ride would be a good lesson. And now I have to spend Christmas with them at the country estate when all my chums are in London.”
“Gracious me,” said Rachel, curling her hands around the worn satchel that carried her meager belongings so she didn’t box his spoilt aristocratic ears.
One of the spinsters gave her a disapproving look, and tapped the well-thumbed Bible she’d been reading to her sister. “Virtuous women do not speak in such a tone…oh my word. The sailor has passed wind again. Handkerchiefs, ladies!”
Rachel tried not to gag as she quickly pressed a square of cheap linen to her nose. One would think that a coach transporting the sisters of a clergyman, complete with scripture, might have gained some stench protection from the Almighty. Not so. Actually, she didn’t know how much more of this she could take. With each mile that took them further away from the capital, the coach seemed to get smaller and smellier; right now it felt the size of a cupboard and as fragrant as a Cheapside alley.
Wait one moment. Were they slowing down?
She peered out the grimy window to see a large inn about a half mile ahead. “Are we stopping here?”
Mr. Jonquil shot her a supercilious look. “My dear. Don’t you know anything about travel? This is our luncheon stop, and they’ll change the horses.”
Rachel sat back in her seat, her heart lifting. Stopping meant fresh air. The chance to stretch her legs and get away from her fellow travelers, even for a little while.
Minutes later, the coach came to a halt in a graveled yard in front of a well-kept inn called the Queen’s Standard. It was even larger than she’d thought, two stories in height and Tudor in design with red brick walls, brown wooden panels, and small, diamond-paned windows. Certainly, it appeared the center of the surrounding village. Despite the cold bleakness of the day, young lads were salting paths to reduce slipperiness, others led horses in halters, and in the distance she could see a stable and workshop with several blacksmiths and farriers. Women in thick shawls and sturdy half-boots were gossiping as they carried baskets of produce, others were inspecting the wares of a traveling tinker or buying hot pasties from the pie cart. Rosy-cheeked children were running about, blithely ignoring calls to come inside out of the chill wind. Much like London, a range of accents filled the air, and that particular familiarity was rather reassuring.
Just for a moment, Rachel imagined she was one of those women, wearing clothes and boots that fitted and had been purchased new, not scooped out of the charity box. That she and her husband—definitely not a peer for they were vile wretches who treated women terribly—but a kind, well-to-do clerk or banker, had stopped on their journey home. They would stroll together, and their bright-eyed, mischievous children, at least five for she had alw
ays wanted a large family, would tug her hands and say, ‘Come on, Mama! Hurry—
“Hurry up, miss! Good heavens. We are all waiting. Surely you can manage to open a coach door?”
Cheeks hot, Rachel mumbled an apology, shoved open the door, and climbed awkwardly out. The air was frigid but blessedly fresh, and she sucked in a lungful. Soon after, the spinsters, harried mother and child, and sailor pushed past her, eager for the warmth of the inn, but she managed to ask Mr. Jonquil one more question.
“How long do we have for the luncheon stop, sir?”
His wide grin made her a little uneasy, but he patted her arm in a soothing manner. “A full hour, so plenty of time for a bracing walk. I believe those shops are open, one could even be a dressmaker. Look for a new hair ribbon. Even better, a new shawl. Shabby-genteel is not at all the thing anymore, pet.”
To avoid trouble for herself, Rachel bobbed a shallow curtsy rather than crushing his instep. “Perhaps I might. Thank you.”
“Off you go,” the buck said quickly, before dashing away into the inn.
An hour! A short walk to stretch her legs followed by hot tea and a pasty or some buttered bread in the dining room would revive her spirits nicely.
Decision made, Rachel pulled her old woolen shawl tighter and walked toward the shops. After a blissful half hour of behaving as though she actually had coin to spend on luxuries like hair ribbons, leather gloves, or a deliciously warm cloak, she returned to the inn’s empty yard.
Empty!
Rachel froze in horror.
Seeing a neatly-dressed, dark-skinned man with a notebook, and a clinking leather bag, she stumbled up to him. “Beg pardon, sir. You are the ticket collector?”
“That I am,” he replied with a friendly nod.
“Where is the stagecoach?” she asked breathlessly, as panic roiled her stomach.
“Gone, miss. They have a schedule to keep. Twenty minutes for food and changing the horses, then off they trot.”
Oh God.
“I was told…” Rachel swallowed hard, the fop’s betrayal cutting deep. But then only a bloody fool trusted the word of a smiling aristocrat. “I was told an hour for the stop.”
He chuckled. “Heavens, no. Not in all my years.”
“And when…when is the next one?”
“Well, it’s Christmas. Might be one tomorrow, might not be. Come back then and see.”
Numb with shock, Rachel huddled in the entrance of the inn. Thankfully she had her satchel, but the coins Lady Farringdon had given her for an emergency probably wouldn’t cover the cost of a room at an inn this fancy. If they would even let her stay. Young women on their own were considered nothing but trouble.
Oh GOD.
What on earth was she to do?
“I just talked to the smithy, my lord. The carriage axle needs a whole new bolt. I am sorry—”
Arran Elliott, the new Marquess of Kyle, sighed and clapped his coachman Simms on the shoulder. “Not your fault some English roads are a disgrace. At least we made it to an inn, and a decent-looking one at that.”
Indeed, perhaps the one bright spot of the year. Losing his parents in a carriage accident had been a terrible blow. Losing his older brother to a fever even worse. While some would be toasting the unexpected inheritance of a marquessate with champagne, all it had brought him was crushing sorrow. For a man who relished rational thought and control, the avalanche of emotion, the frustration and helplessness at both his loss, and not knowing what the hell he was doing, had proved almost impossible to bear.
But an Elliott always did his duty, and for Arran that duty comprised first leaving his beloved Lincolnshire farmland and fresh air for the hustle and bustle of London, being invested with his title, and taking his seat in the House of Lords. Second, abandoning the notion of marrying a woman he both liked and desired, and instead, obeying his parents’ final wishes and honoring a betrothal contract they had secretly arranged many years ago. He’d not actually met Lady Sarah in person yet; all he had was a small bundle of polite and proper letters. But a gentleman didn’t renege on a contract. So his future wife, much like his future life, had been decided for him.
“Aye, I’m sure you’re most displeased at the delay in getting to the capital,” said Simms with a sly wink.
Damn his perceptiveness. That was the trouble with servants who had been around since you were in leading strings. The ones who had ruffled your hair, bandaged your knees, and indulged your love of tinkering with tools and moving parts, now took it upon themselves to offer all sorts of unwanted commentary and advice. Even when you were thirty years old.
“I’m going to secure a room,” Arran said in a repressive tone, slinging a satchel with enough belongings for a one-night stay over his arm.
Simms chortled, utterly unperturbed. “Good thinking. It’s going to snow soon, I can smell it in the air. But my lord, one word of warning…”
“Yes?”
“I got talking to some of the locals, they were grumbling about their lord lieutenant being a right bastard and that peers were bloodsucking leeches. They demanded to know who I drove for. So I said my employer Mr. Elliott was a gent and generous with coin for good service. Just as well you chose the faster, more modern carriage without the crest, eh, otherwise we might have been left on the roadside to be robbed and murdered.”
Arran rubbed his jaw, unsure whether to laugh or groan. In truth, his father’s mantle of Marquess of Kyle remained an uneasy fit, and he’d chosen the secondary carriage to enter London discreetly and get his bearings first. Presenting himself here as no more than a well-to-do gentleman held great appeal, and it would only be for one night while they waited for the new axle bolt. “Duly noted. But send one of the lads ahead with letters for Lady Sarah and the townhouse, to let them know we’ve been delayed. I don’t want them to worry.”
“Aye, sir.”
Rolling his eyes, Arran pulled his heavy greatcoat tighter and made his way from the stables to the inn. After stomping his boots to get rid of the icy mud, he pushed open the wide wooden door and strode into the welcoming coziness. There was a thick rug on the floor, wreaths of mistletoe and holly at the windows, and a fire burned merrily in the stone fireplace, so he paused to remove his leather gloves and warm his hands.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” said a husky, sultry voice to his right, one that etched itself into his mind in an instant.
He turned his head, his heart nearly pounding out of his chest, for a few feet away stood the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Although beautiful was far too bland a word to describe wide hazel eyes with long black lashes, rosy cheeks, carnally full lips made to be kissed, and a riotous mop of chocolate-brown curls pinned haphazardly atop her head. As for her body…Arran barely suppressed a raw sound of pure lust. While she wore a modest ensemble of thin wool shawl and a plain, serviceable blue cambric gown, the garments strained against luscious plump curves. Christ, his hands positively itched to undress her so he could learn the shape and weight of her full breasts and the softness of her ample hips. Then the flavor of her sweet little cunt as she came on his tongue, and the erotic contrast of creamy rounded backside marked with dark pink patches because she’d begged him to spank her for being so very, very naughty…
Stunned at his instantaneous and unruly response to a stranger, Arran cleared his throat. Bloody hell. If the poor woman glanced down, she would see stark evidence of the effect she had on him. He needed to move before he disgraced himself completely. “Lovely indeed. Do excuse me, I’m just on my way to secure lodgings.”
Bowing, he quickly turned on his boot heel and marched over to where an older woman wearing a well-tailored gray gown and spotless white apron stood behind a wooden counter. Thankfully she was no temptation whatsoever. “Good afternoon, madam. Are you the person to speak to about securing a room for the evening?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, with a polite if slightly impatient smile. “I am Mrs. Vine, the innkeeper’s wife. But there is j
ust one room left, and we only accept married couples. This is a respectable establishment. No bachelors or spinsters, we don’t want any bad behavior, and coin doesn’t bend the rules.”
His heart sank to his toes. The woman had obviously had this exact conversation with more than a few people today and looked battle-hardened. “I see. The weather—”
“There’s another inn five miles away. You could try there. Don’t know why so many bodies want to travel near Christmas.”
“Quite,” he murmured, frustrated beyond belief. Of course, he’d found the one place in England where his title and bachelorhood made him undesirable. But just when he was resigned to spending the night in a stable, a feminine hand curled around his arm and sent a jolt of heat through him.
Her. Somehow he knew, but he glanced down to confirm, and indeed a newly familiar pair of hazel eyes regarded him boldly.
“Have you secured us a room, husband?” she said, in that same husky voice that wrapped around his cock and squeezed it. “I am ever so weary of travel.”
Arran inhaled in astonishment at the petite stranger’s brazen announcement to all and sundry that she was his wife. Yet even as she lied like a courtesan, her hand trembled a little around his arm. Hmmm. Not nearly as confident as she appeared. This beauty had a tale to tell, and he found himself intensely curious to know how she’d come to be alone and unprotected at this inn. Not to mention an odd compulsion to comfort and assure her that all would be well.
Christ. Had he gone mad? How could he run the full gauntlet of emotions—all within the space of a few minutes—about a wicked little liar? Yet right now, on Christmas Eve and standing in the only half-decent accommodation for miles, with diabolical weather on the way and a strict rule of married couples only…he needed the wicked little liar’s help.
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