Under the Mistletoe

by Stefanie Sloane

  “Jane …” Lucas interrupted.

  But she’d thought of something even more important to tell him.

  “And the things I said!” Jane clasped her hands together, pressed them tightly against the worn wool over her bosom, desperate to convince him just how earnest she was. “I don’t remember everything, mind you. But I am sure every last word was as absurd as the few I can recall. Unspeakable. Deplorable. I’ll never drink again, I can promise you that.”

  “Are you finished?” Lucas asked patiently.

  Jane chewed on her bottom lip as she revisited her words. “Yes, I think so.

  Have I missed anything?”

  “You never do when it comes to words, Jane,” he answered, playfully chucking her under the chin.

  His warm fingers lingered against her bare skin, the pad of his thumb gently stroking the curve of her cheek.

  “Then you’re not angry with me?” she murmured, her voice throaty with emotion.

  “I was never angry, Jane,” he answered, releasing her chin and stepping

  back to lean against Reginald’s stall door. “I could never be angry with you.”

  Relief flooded Jane’s senses. “You’ve no idea how thankful I am to hear that.”

  She dropped Reginald’s lead and threw herself at Lucas, wrapping her arms about his neck and enveloping him in a heartfelt hug. He smelled of sandalwood and the tangy sea he traveled far too often.

  Despite the thickness of the greatcoats that separated them, she was vividly aware of the controlled strength and power in his much bigger body. “So many things are changing, Lucas. I don’t think I could bear to lose you, too.”

  “What things?” Lucas replied, gently grasping Jane about the waist and easing her a few inches away until her body no longer rested against his.

  Jane’s one regret was telling Lucas the truth. She’d foolishly whispered a feverish confession that she cared deeply for him, whilst attempting to land an unpracticed kiss on his neck.

  The question, asked in Lucas’s deep, drawling tone, raised goose bumps on her skin at the same time heat flushed her body, and Jane shivered involuntarily. She stepped back, putting more space between them before turning and taking up Reginald’s lead in an attempt to hide her response. “My luck.”

  “Is that so?” Lucas asked sardonically, pushing off from the wall to move closer.

  Jane clucked for Reginald to step forward; her tongue felt suddenly thick and twisted. “It is. Mother has found me a husband.”

  Lucas fell into line behind her. “You’ve received a proposal?” The disbelief coating his query made Jane wince.

  The small donkey obeyed and docilely walked into his stall. She checked to make sure Reginald’s hindquarters had cleared the stall door, then stepped back into the aisle, pushed the door shut, and slid the lock home. “Not yet. But Lady Pearson’s nephew has come for the holidays and my mother is intent on capturing him for our very own—as am I, to be completely honest.”

  Jane paused and looked down at her father’s shabby coat, which concealed an equally worn morning gown.

  Lucas searched her face. “Is this what you want? Is he what you want?”

  Jane leaned wearily against the rough wood door and allowed his voice, his very nearness, to soothe her. “It is what I need, Lucas.”

  She looked up and peered into his eyes, expecting to find relief there. But his features were curiously devoid of expression. She thought she saw indifference but couldn’t be sure.

  “Then you shall have him.”

  Chapter 2

  Christmas Eve

  Cavanaugh House

  * * *

  “You, my son, have been avoiding me.”

  Lucas shrugged into the coat of black wool his valet held out and smiled affectionately at his mother as she crossed the threshold of his bedchamber. “Mother, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you look quite so beautiful as you do this evening.”

  The Dowager Duchess of Bascomb smoothed the skirt of her deep blue lace-over-silk gown, clearly pleased by his comment. She made an elegant figure, sapphires and diamonds glittering at her throat and ears. “Lucas, you are so like your father—God rest his soul.”

  Lucas acknowledged his dearly departed father with a respectful dip of his chin. “God rest his soul.”

  The valet straightened the line of the coat across Lucas’s shoulders and awaited further instructions.

  “That will be all, Meeks. Thank you.”

  The aged servant bowed and exited the room noiselessly.

  “Shall we?” Lucas asked his mother, offering his arm.

  “As I said, so like your father,” the dowager duchess continued as though she’d never left off. “But you should know, a compliment will not stand between a determined woman and what she desires. Now, what news of Jane?”

  Lucas escorted his mother out into the hall, where he found his sister-in- law, Matilda, and his two adorable nieces loitering.

  He wasn’t fooled by their innocent expressions.

  “Yes, Uncle Lucas, what news of Jane?” the seven-year-old twins parroted, mischief twinkling in their enormous green eyes.

  Lucas narrowed his gaze at the dowager duchess. “Is this what it’s come to, then? I’m being waylaid outside my bedchamber by curious females?”

  “Girls, do behave,” Matilda chided as she adjusted her deep aubergine sash. “If you seek news of Jane, perhaps you should ask Lord Needles.”

  “Are any of you on my side?” Lucas asked with mock irritation, though the mention of Lady Pearson’s nephew had pricked his ire ever so slightly.

  “Come now, son,” his mother said, gesturing for Matilda and the girls to lead the way down the marble stairs of Cavanaugh House. She held tight to Lucas’s arm as she took the first tread. “We are all on your side. But Lord Needles does present a threat, my dear. Juniper Hall is falling down about the Merriweathers’ ears and neither Alice nor her endearing, impractical husband can do a thing to stop it. A favorable marriage for Jane is all that stands between them and utter ruination.”

  Lucas’s chest tightened at the very idea, flames of anger licking at his heart. “Merriweather should have acted some time ago—”

  “The entire county would agree,” his mother interrupted, giving him a knowing look. “But there is no use laying blame now. Jane must marry. And if you do not swoop in and sweep her off her feet, it will be Lord Needles who does.”

  Lucas hardly needed his mother to remind him. Ever since Jane had told him of Lord Needles he’d been thinking of nothing else.

  “You needn’t remind me, Mother,” Lucas replied as the sound of merry voices in the salon reached his ears. “I’ve agreed to aid Jane in her pursuit of a husband. If Lord Needles does not sabotage himself with an ugly personality and face to match, then I will step in to ruin his chances.”

  The dowager duchess stepped onto the marble foyer floor and paused to kiss Lucas on the cheek. “Devious, to be sure. But I approve. I only hope you aren’t too late. You must be brave, my boy.”

  She released his arm and smoothed out her skirts once again. “Come along, there is no time to waste,” she commanded, then marched toward the salon as a colonel would approach an enemy lookout or mountain stronghold.

  Lucas envied his mother’s confidence as he moved after her and considered her order. Be brave. He’d never before had to think upon such a directive. Courage came naturally to him—or at least it had before Jane’s inebriated declaration of love.

  He reached the salon and paused to survey the room. The connecting doors between the formal drawing room, the blue salon, and the expansive music room had been pushed wide to create one long room. Beneath the glow from chandelier candles, the space gleamed with holiday decorations. His mother and sister-in-law had sent the servants out to cut pine boughs and then supervised the weaving of garlands. Scarlet ribbon wound through the greenery and fragrant swags draped the fireplace mantels, outlined windows, and nestled atop tables.

&n
bsp; The dowager duchess and Matilda had also made good use of the greenhouses, and flowers in deep reds and glowing whites added their beauty and sweet scent to the mix.

  The guests were clearly enjoying the gathering. The sound of their chatter was interspersed with laughter, and the crowd shifted in swirls of color as the ladies in their festive gowns moved amongst the more sober blue, black, and greens of the gentlemen’s attire.

  Across the room, he saw his mother greeting the St. Cyr family. The Duke, his mother, great aunts and several younger members of the large family were present and they exchanged happy smiles. The St. Cyr’s farflung acres ran adjacent to the Cavanaugh’s own property and the neighbors were longtime friends, never missing mutual Christmas gatherings at their respective manors.

  Lucas accepted a glass of ratafia from a footman and stepped into the throng, eyeing the cheerful gathering for Jane.

  Pirates in the straits. A tiger attack in the West Indies. Marauding bulls in India. The more dangerous, the better it had always been for Lucas.

  But this wasn’t thrill-seeking. This was love. This was Jane.

  He saw her near the fireplace, speaking with her mother. She wore a moss green muslin gown, the neckline accentuating her long, slim neck. Her blonde hair was gathered on top of her head, wisps of soft curls framing her face. The mellow light from the fire cast a subtle glow upon her fair skin and deepened the alluring rosy hue of her full lips.

  Lucas wove his way through those gathered, smiling automatically at Jane’s endearing habit of using often wildly dramatic waves of her hands to underscore a point or illustrate a particularly thorny topic. From the looks of it, she and her mother appeared to be discussing something involving a tree. Or perhaps a church steeple.

  Jane glanced up and her gaze met his, light dancing in her beautiful blue eyes. She ceased gesturing and captured Lucas with an utterly charming grin.

  Why he’d never noticed its crooked tilt when they were young he could not say. But now it made his head buzz with anticipation in a way the ratafia never could.

  He stopped directly in front of the two, noting the way the fire shone about Jane. Ethereal, if he wasn’t mistaken.

  God, but he better get on with it. Sentimentality was sure to drown him otherwise.

  “Lady Merriweather, I am thankful you braved the elements this evening,” Lucas said, taking the woman’s outstretched hand and kissing her fingers lightly. “It would not be Christmas without the Merriweathers.”

  “You are your father’s son, Lucas,” Lady Merriweather replied distractedly. Jane rolled her eyes, her expression both exasperated and affectionate.

  “What Mother means to say is, happy Christmas, Lucas.”

  “That, too,” Lady Merriweather added, looking at Lucas and offering him a distracted smile. “Please forgive me. I am afraid my attention is rather divided this evening. And—”

  Jane elbowed her mother in the ribs.

  “Oh,” Lady Merriweather exclaimed, dragging her gaze from across the room to stare at Lucas as if seeing him for the first time. “Excuse me, won’t you? I must speak with Lady Pearson.”

  The woman trundled off in the direction of the pianoforte before either Lucas or Jane could respond.

  “Is she on pins and Needles, then?” Lucas joked, watching Lady Merriweather disappear into the cluster of ladies gathered near the harp in the music room.

  “It’s awful, isn’t it? The name,” Jane asked, cringing as she did so. “Do you think it’s an omen of some kind?”

  The temptation to fill Jane’s sometimes superstitious head with all sorts of truly disturbing ideas was overwhelming. He resisted, though. Jane needed to choose Lucas because she loved him—not because she had no other choice.

  “Not at all,” Lucas assured her, nudging her shoulder with his. “It’s only a name.”

  Jane turned to him, her eyes wide with uncertainty. “Only a name? Surely you remember Miss Dreary, my governess. And of course Mr. Root, who broke his neck—”

  “When he fell into his root cellar,” Lucas finished for her. “Come now, Jane. You’re letting your imagination run wild.”

  She shook her head to disagree, but stopped suddenly. “I am, aren’t I?”

  Lucas grinned and chucked her under the chin. “Well, yes. It’s always been rather an adorable trait of yours. But hardly of use in this situation.”

  Jane smiled shyly at him and leaned in. “Adorable?”

  “Yes, Jane,” Lucas confirmed, fighting the desire to close the small gap between them. “Absolutely adorable. One can only assume Lord Needles will be able to see and appreciate the same.”

  Jane frowned and took a small step back, concern clouding her face. “Quite the opposite, I’m afraid. Mother told me he is a botanist and terribly serious. I doubt anything is adorable to a botanist.”

  “Botanist?” Lucas repeated, certain he’d misheard her. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite. Mother told me not five minutes before you arrived,” Jane replied, looking toward the music room where her mother seemed to have disappeared. “I’d mistaken a botanist for an arborist—trees and such. A silly mistake, flowers for trees. He’s also a widower, did I mention that?”

  So she had been discussing trees with her mother earlier. Lucas knew her so well.

  “A widower and a botanist?” Lucas answered, an unattractive sense of satisfaction blooming in his chest. No serious scientist with a dearly departed wife could keep up with Jane. “Interesting, Jane. He sounds as different from Lord McKee as a man could be.”

  Jane returned her gaze to him, a wounded quality mingled with the brilliant blue. “Yes, let us hope so.”

  For the first time in his life, Lucas felt clumsy. And nervous. And desperately impatient. He needed to tell Jane how he felt, as much for himself as for her.

  “Jane, I wonder, might I speak to you in private?”

  Insecurity and fear could take a bloody dip in the River Styx for all Lucas cared. He couldn’t wait any longer.

  “Oh, oh!” Jane whispered urgently, batting at Lucas’s arm as she’d done since they were children. “There is Mother. And your mother as well, Lucas. And Lady Pearson. And that can only be—”

  “Lord Needles.”

  Bloody hell, but the man had to be the only handsome widower botanist in all of the empire. Lucas looked him up and down, noting, with some reluctance, the apparent lack of infirmities. Nary a hunch nor ghastly mole to be found.

  “Oh,” Jane gasped, batting at Lucas once more. “He looks very much like you, only …”

  “Different,” Lucas suggested, nearly gasping himself when the man smiled at Lady Pearson and revealed perfectly white, gleaming, straight teeth.

  Jane could not abide bad teeth, this he knew.

  “Yes, different,” Jane observed, mesmerized by Lord Needles’s toothy display. “Dark hair, dark eyes. Similar build. But there is something I cannot quite put my finger on.”

  Lucas narrowed his eyes over the widower botanist and attempted to refrain from seething with irritation. “Let us keep it that way for now, Jane. No need for anyone’s fingers to go wandering. Not just yet.”

  Chapter 3

  It was remarkable, really. Jane watched Lord Needles approach, taking in his appearance more closely. His hair was actually a shade lighter than Lucas’s, with gray at the temples. He was perhaps a touch taller than Lucas, that extra bit contributing to his leaner frame. And his gait was more controlled—purposeful. Yes, more purposeful than Lucas’s often easy stride.

  There was nothing wrong with purpose, Jane reminded herself, forcing a smile for the oncoming quartet. If she could not have Lucas, perhaps Lord Needles would make for a suitable alternative.

  She cast a quick, sideways glance at Lucas. If she could not have Lucas. There was no question. No “if” about it. She’d asked for his help in securing Lord Needles and he’d agreed. If ever he were going to realize he could love her—should love her—it was then.

  Blast that
word, “if.” Two letters, without which there was no hope. Jane stifled a sigh and forced her gaze away from Lucas to fasten on her mother and the duo as they drew near.

  Lady Merriweather led the pack, subtly gesturing for Jane to stand up straight and smile as she drew near and halted, her expression reflecting triumph at having collected her quarry.

  “My dear Jane, there is someone I would like you to meet,” her mother began.

  Jane attempted to look surprised and hoped her eyes held friendly interest. “How lovely, Mother. Good evening, your Grace. Lady Pearson.” She dipped a curtsy for Lucas’s mother and received an affectionate smile in return.

  As the highest-ranking individual amongst them, the dowager duchess bore the honor of making the introductions. However, she turned to Lady Pearson with a quick apology. “Let me request you do the honors, my dear, as I am being hailed by my butler and duty calls. I fear I must leave you but we shall surely have time for a lovely chat later this evening.” And before anyone could protest or comment, she was gone, hurrying gracefully toward the doorway where a liveried servant awaited her.

  For a moment, the remaining four individuals were silent, speechless at their hostess’s abrupt departure. Then both Jane and her mother turned to the portly Lady Pearson. Jane thought they must have positively radiated expectancy since the woman appeared distinctly startled by the attention.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed, her thin lips pursing with confusion. She looked bemused before comprehension dawned. “Yes, well, Lord Cavanaugh, may I introduce my nephew, Lord Needles.”

  Jane watched as the two men bowed in unison, Lord Needles’s striking resemblance to Lucas continuing to astonish her.

  “And Miss Jane Merriweather, nephew,” the cheery dowager finished, smiling kindly at Jane. “Lady Merriweather’s daughter, though I suppose you’d already deduced such.”