A Mistletoe Vow to Lord Lovell

by Joanna Johnson

  Will their vows last a lifetime...

  Not just for Christmas?

  Abandoned by her husband, and society because her father was a slave, Honora Blake will never rely on anyone again. Until dashing Lord Lovell breaks the news that she is a widow—and penniless—and insists she spend Christmas with him and his pregnant ward. Beneath the mistletoe, passion flares between Honora and Isaac. Then childbirth places his ward’s life in jeopardy, and these strangers suddenly face marriage to protect the baby!

  “You know what traditionally happens under one of these.”

  He gestured upward to the cluster of mistletoe and Honora felt her mouth dry at once. Surely he wasn’t suggesting what she thought he might be...

  “I do.”

  “But not in this case, of course. I know last time, at the inn, you didn’t appreciate the idea...and there’s still the small issue of my being—what was it?—one of the most unpleasant men you’ve had the misfortune to meet. Probably in my case you’d rather dispense with tradition.”

  “I think you must know my opinion of you has changed given recent events. How I felt when I first met you is not how I feel now.”

  “I see.” Isaac nodded. All of a sudden it was difficult to breathe, the atmosphere in the library now heavy with something unspoken that surely Isaac must have felt, too. “So we needn’t abandon the usual Christmas customs entirely? You wouldn’t find this one entirely revolting?”

  “No. I think perhaps I could bear it. It would be a shame to have made such a flawless decoration and not allow it to fulfill its destiny, after all.”

  Honora’s face felt as though it had burst into flame as Isaac’s mouth quirked again.

  “I agree. In the spirit of Christmas, then...”

  Honora could hardly bear the achingly unhurried closing of the gap between them, Isaac aiming for her cheek and brushing it softly—until at the last possible moment all good sense abandoned her and she turned her head, her lips finding his and rejoicing at feeling their touch once more.

  Author Note

  The very first gleam of a plot for A Mistletoe Vow to Lord Lovell actually came when I was checking marriage laws for a previous book. Falling down a research rabbit hole, I stumbled across a snippet of history I hadn’t known about before: the state of Pennsylvania repealed its restrictions on interracial marriage in 1780, meaning people of different ethnicities could now legally marry. Almost as soon as I started reading, a picture of Honora Blake began to form, and I knew she had to be my next heroine.

  Although Honora’s background is a key part of her character, her conflicts and troubles run far deeper than that—as Lord Isaac Lovell, a man with problems of his own, soon discovers. I wanted Isaac and Honora to find a safe haven with each other, somewhere away from the prying eyes of a world that might disapprove of them both, albeit for different reasons. The unwritten codes of etiquette and what was acceptable in the Regency period must have felt incredibly claustrophobic and limiting if an individual didn’t conform—but Honora has a backbone of steel, and I had no intention of her bending.

  I loved writing A Mistletoe Vow to Lord Lovell, both for the chance to explore paths I hadn’t strayed down before and to get to know Honora and Isaac. I think they might just be my favourite pairing yet—but don’t tell the others...

  JOANNA JOHNSON

  A Mistletoe Vow

  to Lord Lovell

  Joanna Johnson lives in a pretty Wiltshire village in the UK with her husband and as many books as she can sneak into the house. Being part of the Harlequin Historical family is a dream come true. She has always loved writing, having started at five years old with a series about a cat imaginatively named Cat, and she keeps a notebook in every handbag—just in case. In her spare time she likes finding new places to have a cream tea, stroking scruffy dogs and trying to remember where she left her glasses.

  Books by Joanna Johnson

  Harlequin Historical

  The Marriage Rescue

  Scandalously Wed to the Captain

  His Runaway Lady

  A Mistletoe Vow to Lord Lovell

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com.

  A Mistletoe Vow to Lord Lovell is dedicated to everyone who helped, supported, listened to and walked with me through the difficult times this year. To my husband, parents, family, friends: thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Excerpt from Protected by the Knight’s Proposal by Meriel Fuller

  Chapter One

  1817

  There was someone in the house.

  Even in the frozen darkness of a December night Honora Blake could sense it. A thrill of instinctive caution had roused her from her sleep, but she was not afraid.

  She possessed courage to match any man’s—as well as a flintlock pistol on her bedside table, and she was an excellent shot. A childhood spent in the shadow of Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains under her father’s tutelage had seen to that. Felling a bear at twenty paces did wonders for a girl’s confidence.

  Honora lay perfectly still, ears straining to catch another tell-tale creak of uneven floorboards. Usually the tired old house of which she despaired gave her nothing but trouble, with its leaking roof and draughty doors, but tonight its groans were allies, helping her track the steps of whoever was moving about downstairs.

  They weren’t even bothering to try to keep quiet, she thought with a flicker of irritation. Would they have been so brazen if she still had a husband? Did they imagine a woman on her own was too weak to challenge them?

  If that’s what they’re thinking, they’re due a surprise. Whoever it is creeping around my parlour will soon wish they hadn’t.

  The mournful keening of the wind outside her window covered the sound of Honora’s light step as she slipped from her bed and threw a shawl over her nightgown. Her hand was steady as she retrieved the flintlock and checked the muzzle, holding it up in the dim moonlight filtering through ill-fitting shutters.

  Since her husband had vanished into thin air she’d had to fend for herself, the wretch having disappeared without a backward glance when the money he’d been counting on showed no signs of appearing.

  She cursed herself daily now for allowing him to turn her head, travelling with him to England and actually thinking herself lucky to be his bride. Frank Blake was so handsome, so dazzling with his charm and wit and way of making a person feel they were the only one in the room and he’d come along just as Honora was beginning to believe nobody would ever place a ring on her finger. Ma and Pa had tried to reason with her, sensing he was not all he seemed, but Honora had loved Frank so hopelessly that their pleas only made her more determined to prove them wrong and nothing would satisfy her but crossing the churning Atlantic to become Mrs Blake.

  The wedge that Honora’s stubbornness had driven between her and her parents only increased over time, that final bitter argument on the day she’d boarded the boat and sailed away from them more painful than ever now that Honora had to admit they’d been right. How could she ever face them again, knowing how
poorly she had repaid their concern—with angry words and defiance, wounding the two people who loved her more than anything else in the world? How could she return to them, knowing how little she deserved the heartfelt welcome they would give her?

  I can’t, that’s how—which is why I still find myself here. Thousands of miles from home, the mistress of a house crumbling all around me and a good-for-nothing husband I haven’t seen in three years. If only I’d listened, hadn’t thought I knew best, I could have saved myself this misery—a naive bride at twenty-something, now a worn-out cynic of thirty-five. And now there’s an intruder in my parlour. That’s all I need.

  Steeling herself against the cruel chill of the night, she crossed the room and pressed an ear against the bedroom door. From the other side of it came the vague sounds of someone blundering in the darkness. With her full lips pressed into a tight line, Honora eased open the door, wincing at the squeak of its hinges. Whoever was below evidently didn’t hear, however, and she slid from the room without a further sound, one hand holding her shawl close to her chest and the other firmly grasping the flintlock’s wooden grip.

  Careful now. Go slowly.

  She crept down the landing towards the stairs and peered through the banisters. The hall below was shrouded in darkness and for the first time Honora felt a shiver of apprehension prickle up her spine. Brave or not, she was still entirely alone at Wycliff Lodge, half a mile of Somerset countryside lying between her and her nearest neighbour. Her maid, Mary, had gone back to her cottage for the night and wouldn’t return until the next day, the only help Honora could still afford and, after years of service, now more a friend than a servant—which was just as well, for nobody else seemed particularly interested in getting to know her.

  Perhaps it was the colour of Honora’s skin that troubled those living nearby, a soft tawny bronze courtesy of her father’s African heritage, or the fact she’d survived alone in the crumbling old house ever since Frank abandoned her. Only her presence stopped it from falling down completely, the sole reason Frank allowed her to stay on in a property he had no intention of revisiting. Hadn’t the doctor’s wife even caught her chopping firewood once, a strange display from the equally strange young woman Mr Blake had brought home from the Americas? Whatever stopped her neighbours from coming to take tea was nothing she could change and as the years went by Honora found herself growing accustomed to solitude, her independence blooming with her fierce vow never to depend on a man again...

  Another bump, louder this time, came from downstairs and Honora swallowed a jolt of unease. Beneath the thin linen of her nightgown her heart began to jump, the pistol’s grip sliding a little as her palm grew damp with sweat. Searching through the gloom, she clamped her fingers tighter around her shawl and descended the stairs, hardly daring to breathe in the now silent night.

  Have courage. Think what Ma would do.

  As always, even after five years, the thought of her mother gave Honora a pang of homesickness and longing for the woman she missed more than any other. Pa might have taught her to shoot, but surely much of her natural spirit came from Cicily Jackson. It had been the stuff of scandal, a white plantation owner’s daughter wedding a freedman, and Honora’s grandfather had cut the couple off without a cent. He’d mellowed a little when his granddaughter was born and tried to make amends, but by then the damage had been done. Ma wanted no part in a family that wouldn’t welcome her husband, so blinded by their prejudice they would cast out their own flesh and blood.

  She and Pa had made their way alone, opposite in so many ways and yet coming together to create Honora, who bridged the gap between them. Her mass of curling black hair and tapered chin came from her father while Ma had contributed wide-set hazel eyes, the best parts of both parents combining to make a striking face not soon forgotten. Mr and Mrs Jackson had hoped their cherished daughter would find a man deserving of her when she came to wed, their pride and joy sure to attract the very best of husbands...but instead it had been Frank Blake who came to call, damn him, his lies and false promises blinding Honora to all good sense and tearing the family apart.

  She reached the hall and stood for a moment to collect herself. The parlour lay to her left, the door slightly ajar and footsteps muffled by tattered carpet just audible above the rapid beat of her heart. If it pounded any harder she feared the trespasser might hear it, the hand that clutched her shawl to her chest feeling how it railed against her ribs. On the other side of that door lurked who knew what, perhaps a thief or perhaps something altogether more frightening, and the only way to know for sure was to push it open and look inside—

  The first glimmer of light took her by surprise, flaring round the edge of the door frame and faintly illuminating the chilly hall. Surely nobody could be so brazen as to break into the Lodge and then light a fire, making themselves quite at home—could they? Hardly able to believe her eyes, Honora stiffened as the light grew stronger, the only explanation one she could hardly credit.

  They’ve lit the candles? They’ve come into my house in the middle of the night, made a fire and lit my good candles? The ones I have to ration to last out the winter? How dare they!

  A spark of temper erupted in her chest, warming her despite the cold draught that crept beneath the front door. Whoever this person was had gone too far in their arrogance and, with anger masking the fear of moments before, Honora gathered her courage and burst into the room.

  ‘You can stay exactly where you are!’

  Honora held the pistol so firmly her knuckles stood out beneath the skin, aiming the muzzle squarely at the strange man kneeling before her fireplace. He started at her sudden appearance and made as if to stand, evidently reconsidering when she waved the flintlock threateningly.

  ‘One more step and it might be your last. You’ll tell me who you are and what you mean by skulking around here at this hour.’

  The intruder settled slowly back down again on his haunches, never taking his eyes from Honora’s rigid face. His own features were difficult to read, although in the light of the dancing flames he didn’t look the least bit afraid, instead a decided jaw and straight chestnut brows set in an expression of complete composure. Honora might as well have been holding a bouquet of flowers for all his lack of concern and she felt a gleam of irritation that he was so unmoved. Did he think she was to be trifled with? That because he was handsome she would hesitate to run him off? She had to admit that particular fact, sour though it tasted.

  The stranger’s dark eyes shone like deep pools in the firelight and his hair, scattered with sparse grey at the temples, was interestingly disordered. It was impossible to tell how tall he was as he crouched on the ground, but he looked around her age, perhaps a few years off forty, with a lean physique beneath expensive clothes that a much younger man would have been proud of. If Honora had seen him five years previously, she couldn’t deny he was the kind of man she might have slid a smile, but that was before Frank had taught her the error of her ways, and now she glared at the trespasser so coldly it was a wonder he didn’t turn to ice.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am.’ The man inclined his head in a gesture that Honora might have found apologetic if she’d been in a more forgiving mood. ‘I didn’t know you were here. When I saw the state of the place I thought for certain any inhabitants must have shut it up and moved on. I’ve travelled a long way and thought I’d pass the night here before continuing my search for the mistress in the morning.’

  His gaze flickered towards the dingy curtains and a spreading patch of damp that left an ugly stain on the ceiling, and Honora felt herself prickle with sudden shame. It wasn’t out of any sort of kindness that Frank had allowed her to carry on living at Wycliff. In fact, quite the opposite. He just didn’t care. His complete indifference to her was present in every faded tapestry and broken pane as if he had forgotten she even existed, his apathy the only reason Honora hadn’t been thr
own out like a pan of ash. Frank had better things to do, other places to live, and Honora doubted he ever spent as much as a moment considering the comfort of the unwanted wife he had left behind.

  ‘Of course I still live here. But who sent you? And you’ve yet to tell me your name.’

  She redoubled her grip on the pistol, bringing her other hand up to cover the first. Even with the muzzle still pointed firmly in his direction the handsome man seemed quite at ease in a way that some part of her could have admired—a dangerous thought she dismissed without hesitation.

  Don’t be ridiculous. As if arrogance and a half-decent face make the slightest bit of difference to this absurd situation.

  ‘My name is Lord Lovell, Mrs Blake. You are Mrs Honora Blake, I presume?’

  At Honora’s curt nod he began to rise carefully to his feet, holding a steadying hand out towards her when she stiffened. ‘It’s on account of your husband that I visit you. We met at a card party about eighteen months ago, although it was only very recently I learned he was married.’

  A swift punch of shock knocked some of the wind from Honora’s sails and she leaned back against the door frame, still holding the flintlock, but with suddenly less focus. The mention caught her entirely off guard, so unexpected she only half noticed her mysterious guest take a cautious step forward.

  Frank had sent him?

  He hadn’t bothered to contact her in three years, she thought now with one eye making sure the intruder—Lord Lovell? How fine Frank’s taste in friends has become!—didn’t come any closer. Ever since she’d answered Ma’s strained letter those three years previously Frank had been a ghost, disappearing as soon as he learned she had rejected the inheritance her grandfather had left her at his passing. She wanted nothing to do with that money, made on his tobacco plantations by the toil and suffering of slaves. Honora would rather be poor as a church mouse than accept wealth tainted by such cruelty, but Frank had disagreed. He’d been waiting for it to come to her and then to him by law—and when it didn’t there was nothing to keep him by his wife’s side, only the prospect of a hefty inheritance making it worth his while to stay in a marriage to a woman he had fooled into loving him with no hope of return.