by Martha Keyes
Emma shot a significant look at her husband and then suppressed a smile at Lucy who was trying not to laugh.
“What?” Emma said.
Lucy gripped her lips together and shrugged innocently. “She is very much like you. That is all.”
Emma scoffed. “I insist that you take that back.”
Lucy looked at her, incredulous. “Only a few years ago, you were treating Hugh very much the same way as Francine is treating Johnathan.”
Emma’s mouth twisted to the side, acknowledging the hit.
“Johnny is rude, Papa,” Francine said to Hugh, as if on cue. “I don’t like playing with him!”
“Oh, come, Francie,” he said, shooting a quick, impish glance at his wife. “Have a little goodwill for the gentleman.”
Francine scowled.
Emma and Hugh walked over to their daughter, Emma stooping down so that she was at eye-level with Francine. “Perhaps, my dear, you might consider a truce with Johnny?” She leaned in closer, whispering loudly, “If you only pretend to like him, you may just find that he is not quite so terrible as you think him.”
Hugh and Emma met eyes, hers twinkling at him.
“Stirring praise, my dear,” he said softly through his half-smile, leaning in to kiss her.
Preview of The Earl’s Mistletoe Match
By Ashtyn Newbold
CHAPTER ONE
Andrew Dawson, the Earl of Whitfield, stood on the outskirts of the ballroom, surveying the crowd of unrecognizable people. The masquerade theme was intriguing, with credit to his host, Lord Trenton, but quite unfortunate when one was in search of a particular lady.
Andrew adjusted his mask at the corners, ensuring it was symmetrical. He traced his gaze over every young lady in the room. Esther Lockwood was a beauty, so she should not have been so difficult to find, but the difficulty was in the many masks—and his very short acquaintance with the girl. They had only been introduced two weeks before, and she had been quite soft-spoken and timid. He had not had enough time to glimpse the intricacies of her character, nor get any idea of what her favorite animal might have been.
That information would have been extremely useful at the moment.
A fox, a peacock, and a doe walked past as Andrew stared into the crowd, but none of the masquerading women had the same hair as Esther, at least not visible from behind their dominos. Long and honey-blonde.
Blast the masks.
As soon as he found her, he could ask her to dance. His father was growing quite impatient to hear of his progress on the courtship he was supposed to have established weeks ago. He would not have been bothered to attend the masquerade that evening if he had not suspected Esther would be in attendance. Miss Lockwood was beautiful, well-mannered, neat, and came with a sizeable dowry. There was little else Andrew could hope for in a marriage. Things such as love and affection…he had long since abandoned hope of.
But he was beginning to abandon hope of courting Miss Lockwood at all. She had been nothing but elusive and distant. She seemed to care little for furthering their acquaintance, something Andrew was not accustomed to in the slightest.
As he considered his next tactic for catching Esther’s attention, a large hand clapped over his shoulder. He jerked around in surprise.
“Whitfield, I thought you despised Christmas festivities.” Martin Fusgrove, a flirt almost as notorious as himself, stood behind Andrew in a broad lion mask. Andrew would not have recognized him if not for his jovial voice and familiarity. There were few people Andrew would call his friends, but Fusgrove was one of them. Fur lined the outskirts of Fusgrove’s head and mask, intricate golden details forming the features of a lion. “Where is your costume?” His friend’s eyes widened behind his mask, as if appalled by Andrew’s lack of conformity.
Did Fusgrove know him at all?
Andrew crossed his arms, fully aware of the boring nature of his plain black venetian mask in comparison to the extravagant appearances of the many gentlemen in attendance. Andrew did not have to dress so horrendously to catch attention. It was one of the many advantages of being an earl. “I do despise Christmas festivities,” he said with a sigh. “I am only here because my father is eager to hear of the progress of my nonexistent courtship with Miss Lockwood when I travel home next week.”
Fusgrove chuckled. “Have you even spoken to her?”
Andrew could think of two sentences he had exchanged with Miss Lockwood, but neither were memorable enough for him to remember the content. “Yes,” he stammered. “We have spoken. But if I am to provide my parents with the desired answers to their inquiries about Miss Lockwood without lying, I ought to find her this evening.” Andrew drew a heavy breath, only now realizing just how anxious he sounded. He rubbed his hands against his trousers, avoiding his friend’s intent gaze. “I have chosen to wear a simple mask so Miss Lockwood will recognize me, should I approach her. The problem I am now facing, however, is that Miss Lockwood did not give me the same courtesy.”
Andrew’s gaze swept over the crowd once again, finding a great variety of costumes and masked ladies, but none that he could confidently determine to be Esther. Perhaps if she hadn’t avoided him at the last party, then he could have been more familiar with her voice and smile. Had he ever seen her smile? He couldn’t quite recall the image. What color were her eyes? Blue? Brown? He hadn’t the slightest idea. It had not struck him until now that he should have payed greater attention to her at the Townshend’s soiree.
Fusgrove laughed under his breath, sending a surge of annoyance through Andrew’s chest. There was nothing humorous about his situation. He despised courting. If he could have it his way, he would remain single for all of his days. The only woman he had ever loved, Abigail, had broken his heart, and he had no intention of letting it be broken again. No—he would not even take the risk. One did not trust a fine dish in the hands of a careless child. It was to be locked up in the cupboard, out of reach and out of sight. Andrew had done the same with his heart for the last year, and he had finally achieved some sense of repair, of peace. Now he simply had to secure a wife that would appease his father’s demands and be done with it.
There were a great number of women he could have chosen from, but Miss Lockwood had always been his mother’s favorite. Thus, his father’s. She was wealthy and came from a highly esteemed family. If his efforts tonight resulted in another failure…his stomach twisted at the thought of disappointing his parents again. They had chosen Abigail for him, and he had failed. What would they think if he failed all over again?
When Andrew remembered that Fusgrove still watched him, he squared his shoulders, hiding any trace of insecurity and worry.
Fusgrove scratched at his chin, the only part of his face that was not covered. The mask lifted on his cheeks as he smiled. “There is one thing you might do to… shall we say… bolster your progress.”
Andrew eyed his friend’s smile, which was fully ripe with mischief. It took only three seconds for Andrew to catch his meaning. “No. We agreed last December that the tradition was to be abandoned.”
Fusgrove swatted his hand through the air. “Nonsense. I recall no such conversation.”
“Well, I do.”
“I do not trust your memory at the moment, as you cannot even recall enough about Miss Lockwood to locate her in this ballroom.”
Andrew heaved a sigh, rubbing his left temple. A headache was coming on.
“I carried out the tradition last year,” Fusgrove said. “I believe it is now your turn. I can think of no better time nor place for you to do it.” He leaned closer. “I believe I caught sight of a lovely bundle of mistletoe hanging above the archway near the servant’s quarters.”
Andrew couldn’t stop his smile of disbelief. “Are you suggesting that I locate Miss Lockwood, by some miracle, and guide her away from all spectators to the mistletoe in order to steal a kiss that is likely to frighten her out of her wits? I do not think that will help my situation.”
Fusgrove chuc
kled. “I would certainly consider a kiss from you to be quite frightening, but a young girl such as she may find it pleasant. You are one of the most sought after bachelors in this ballroom, after all.”
As if to affirm his claim, a group of young ladies walked past, all eyes fixed on Andrew behind their masks. Giggles and whispers floated up, mingling with the lively music.
“Your insecurity baffles me,” Fusgrove said. “With a bit of luck, the young lady will be smitten out of her wits and you may marry her before twelfth night. Your parents will be pleased with your achievement and you may return to enjoying parties instead of being anxious the entire time.”
In truth, Andrew hadn’t enjoyed parties for the last year. If not for the prodding of his parents, he would have simply stayed locked up in his London home and avoided social events altogether. He refrained from offering a grumbled contradiction, and instead regarded his friend with skepticism. “If I intend to carry on the tradition, how do you plan to locate Miss Lockwood? I am not even certain she is here.”
Fusgrove joined Andrew in scanning the room, facing the crowd from their place near the wall. “I see the majority of the women are brunettes, but I also see several have their hair hidden behind their dominos.”
“Precisely. Do you now understand my difficulty?”
“Indeed.” Fusgrove drummed his fingers against his opposite arm before letting out a soft gasp. “There. Do you see the two women standing side by side in the corner?”
Andrew followed his gaze to the far corner of the ballroom, where two women stood, of equal height and size. Both women had long, curled hair, pulled up to the crown of their heads. Neither wore a domino to cover it, but both wore masks. One woman appeared to be dressed in a rabbit costume, two tall ears extending up from her bejeweled mask, and a fur wrapped about her shoulders. The other woman wore a simple white mask and silver gown, standing even further into the shadows than her companion.
One of them must have been Esther, and if Andrew were to venture a guess, he would say she was the woman in the simple white mask. Only one as timid as Esther would choose not to stand out at an event like this. But even as plain as the mask was, it hid most of her face, leaving just her eyes and lips visible, but none of her bone structure and eyebrows, which he was beginning to realize gave away much of a person’s identity. From what he could see of the two ladies, they could very well have been the same person.
“Do you think we have found her?” Fusgrove asked in a quiet voice. “I have not been introduced to Miss Lockwood. Does she have a sister?”
As Andrew stared at the two women, he began to wonder the same thing. His mother had given him a detailed description of Miss Lockwood’s family, and she had only mentioned a brother.
“I don’t believe so.”
“Then who is the other lady? Which lady is Miss Lockwood?”
“I don’t know.” Andrew chewed the inside of his cheek in frustration. “I have told you before, I am not well-acquainted with her. We have only spoken at close proximity once during our introduction two weeks ago. She avoided my gaze and hardly spoke a word.”
“I see.” Fusgrove’s fingers drummed faster. “I suppose you must choose which lady is more likely to be Miss Lockwood and approach her. At an event such as this, you must be willing to risk being wrong. The worst outcome would be her kindly correcting you and redirecting your attention to the true Miss Lockwood.”
Andrew’s heart rose to his throat with anxiety. He would be the first to admit he put on airs. Airs of security, confidence, and, at times, arrogance. How else could he hide the things he truly felt? Vulnerability was equal to weakness in his opinion, and if there was anything he refused to be it was weak. He put on a smile, one he employed often in public—broad and charming—some had even called it devilish.
“Very well.” Andrew grabbed Fusgrove by the arm. “You are coming with me.”
“What do you plan to do?”
“I am going to ask her to dance, and, if an opportunity arises, we will slip away to find that mistletoe you spoke of.” Andrew willed his confidence to grow, but he only felt more nervous.
Fusgrove laughed. “That is the Whitfield I know. Welcome back.” He dropped a bow. “I have missed you.”
Andrew straightened his mask again, catching the eye of the lady in the white mask. Was it really Miss Esther Lockwood? He turned to his friend. “If I am to carry out the tradition, then you’ll have to distract the other lady.”
Fusgrove shook his arm free of Andrew’s grasp and followed willingly, putting on a smile of his own. “Fortunately for you, I am quite skilled at distracting ladies.”
* * *
Continue reading The Earl’s Mistletoe Match on Amazon or Kindle Unlimited
Also in this Series
Unmasking Lady Caroline (Belles of Christmas Book One)
The Earl’s Mistletoe Match (Belles of Christmas Book Three)
Nine Ladies Dancing (Belles of Christmas Book Four)
A Duke for Lady Eve (Belles of Christmas Book Five)
Other Titles by Martha Keyes
If you enjoyed this book, make sure to check out my other books:
Families of Dorset Series:
Wyndcross: A Regency Romance (Book One)
Isabel: A Regency Romance (Book Two)
Cecilia: A Regency Romance (Book Three)
Hazelhurst: A Regency Romance (Book Four)
Phoebe: A Regency Romance (Series Novelette)
Other Titles:
Eleanor: A Regency Romance
Acknowledgments
Thank you first and foremost to my wonderful fellow authors in the Belles of Christmas series. Mindy, Ashtyn, Deborah, and Kasey have all become good friends and authors for whom I hold a great deal of respect.
My mom, Karen Maxwell, as always, has been a cheerleader and editor from the beginning.
My husband has again given up precious works hours of his own in order for me to write, edit, write, edit, ad nauseum. My little boys are almost always good sports about their scatterbrained mom and my constant sneaking away to the computer to get down an idea while it’s fresh.
Thank you to my editor, Jenny Proctor, for her wonderful feedback—I’m so glad I have you!
Thank you to my Review Team for your help and support in an often nerve-wracking business.
And thank you to all my fellow Regency authors and to the wonderful communities of The Writing Gals and LDS Beta Readers. I would be lost without all of your help and trailblazing!
About the Author
Martha Keyes was born, raised, and educated in Utah—a home she loves dearly but also dearly loves to escape, whenever she can travel the world. She received a BA in French Studies and a Master of Public Health, both from Brigham Young University.
Word crafting has always fascinated and motivated her, but it wasn’t until a few years ago that she considered writing her own stories. When she isn’t writing, she is honing her photography skills, looking for travel deals, and spending time with her husband and children. She lives with her husband and twin boys in Vineyard, Utah.
