Winter Wishes: A Regency Christmas Anthology

by Cheryl Bolen

  “It’s enormous,” Jane Denton giggled. “Imagine being kissed under it! It deserves a very special kiss.”

  “Tsk,” her mother said, but Jane was right—one couldn’t help but imagine a kiss worthy of that bough. A perfect kiss from a perfect lover.

  What nonsense.

  She turned from the shop window and found herself face to face with Gawain Burke. A blush rose to her cheeks. She’d hadn’t seen him this close for years—except last night, of course, which was different, for he’d been in disguise. How well she remembered that intelligent grey gaze and that mouth that always hinted at a smile! She had missed him, she realized suddenly. Such a beloved childhood friend—who had grown into a handsome, virile man.

  Where had that thought come from? She had no interest in virility. None whatsoever!

  Gawain said nothing, merely eyeing her warily as if he anticipated being ignored, too.

  She pulled herself together and put out a gloved hand. “Mr. Burke! How delightful to have the opportunity to wish you a Happy New Year.”

  He took the hand and brushed it with his lips. “And you, Lady Isolde.” A twinkle softened the wariness in his eyes.

  She introduced her companions. Mr. and Mrs. Denton were uneasily polite, their daughter blushed and giggled, Mr. Nebley scowled, and Sir Andrew looked daggers at Gawain. Did he think he was confronting a rival for her hand?

  She muffled a snort. Sir Andrew still didn’t understand that he wasn’t in the running. No one was.

  “I’ll wager you could use a pint of our local brew,” Gawain said to the three men. “Why not leave the ladies to their shopping and go across to the inn?” He steered the menfolk away.

  Jane Denton gazed wide-eyed at Isolde. “What about the feud? Your family never speaks to the Burkes.”

  “Tsk,” her mother said. “It’s none of our business.”

  “But everyone knows,” Miss Denton said.

  “Nevertheless,” her mother said, “it is ill-mannered to discuss it.”

  “But everyone does,” Miss Denton said.

  “Not in the presence of either family,” her exasperated mother said. “I do apologize, Lady Isolde.”

  “No need,” Isolde said. “My brother James and Mr. Burke are still friends. They refuse to let our parents’ dispute affect them. Not only that, it’s Christmastide. What about ‘on earth peace, goodwill toward men’?”

  “Quite right, my dear, quite right,” Mrs. Denton said. “But I fear your mother will be distressed when she learns of this.”

  “Then I must hope she won’t,” Isolde said.

  “I certainly shan’t tell,” Mrs. Denton said, “and nor will Jane.” She bent a stern gaze on her daughter. “I shall suggest to my husband that it would be unwise, but you know what men are like. And I cannot speak for Sir Andrew or Mr. Nebley, although they are more likely to bring it up with your father than your poor mama.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Isolde said. “I refuse to let a feud ruin the season.”

  “Good for you,” Mrs. Denton said, and Jane blushed a violent red—because handsome, virile Gawain Burke was beside them again.

  “I left them nursing their ale.” He offered his arm to Isolde. “Let us take a stroll and demonstrate the Christmas spirit to the villagers.”

  “An excellent notion.” Isolde took his arm.

  “Tsk.” Mrs. Denton shook her head. “Come, Jane, let us look more closely at those hats.”

  And just like that, Isolde and Gawain were alone—or as close to alone as they could be on a busy village street. They ambled along as if they hadn’t a care in the world. As if they weren’t likely to incur wrath and reproachful tears from parents on both sides.

  Isolde took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. “Thank you for rescuing me last night. More than once, I think.”

  “It was my pleasure,” he said, adding after a pause, “You wished to speak with me?”

  “Yes,” she murmured, “but not where everyone can hear. It’s about the pendant.”

  “I thought so,” he said. “I’m sorry, but—”

  She shook her head. “I’m sick of this feud, and although I hate to be disloyal, I wonder if perhaps your mother is in the right.”

  Another pause, and then: “You do?”

  “It was hers to begin with, or at least your family’s. And my mother is…” Oh, dear. How to avoid being disloyal? “She has a tendency to hysteria, particularly when things don’t go her way.”

  He said nothing, either because he was guiding them through a knot of villagers, or because it would be impolite to agree.

  They passed the last of the shops. A few cottages lined the street now, but they could speak more easily.

  She stopped and turned to him. “I would like to hear your mother’s version of what happened.” She put up a hand. “Not from your mother, but from you. And not now, but somewhere private. If we are seen speaking at length, it will cause talk.”

  “We are already causing talk,” he said ruefully.

  “That can’t be helped.” She frowned up at him, trying to gauge his feelings, worried she was asking too much. “Would you please sneak into the Court again tonight?”

  Gawain gazed down at her lovely face and wondered if Isolde realized what she was asking. He was perfectly willing to play along—which was reprehensible of him, perhaps, since he already had the pendant. He couldn’t decide. No, he couldn’t resist.

  It wasn’t unacceptable for a widow to take a lover, as long as they were discreet. Unfortunately, she expected, or rather, trusted him to behave in a gentlemanly way. She probably had no idea how much he desired her. She thought of him only as her brother’s friend.

  A pity, but he would keep his hands to himself, because despite all the scurrilous gossip, she seemed uninterested in physical passion to the point of avoiding harmless kisses under the mistletoe. Why? he wondered. She’d been full of fun as a girl. She was undeniably beautiful, but her liveliness had dimmed, which suited her as little as the dove-grey mourning gown she wore. A sop to the conventions, for she couldn’t possibly mourn an old man she’d been wed to for only a few hours. As for her previous husband, he’d been dead well over a year.

  Judging by her face, her figure, her sensual air, her forthright, energetic nature, Isolde seemed made for bed sport.…

  Well, at least from a man’s point of view. He might blame her lack of interest on the age of the Doncaster cousins, which might have made them inadequate lovers for a young woman, but it might not be that simple. Had Simon mistreated her? Why had she chosen to marry his cousin? Alan had been even older than Simon, and not a pleasant sort of man.

  Money, he assumed. Lord Statham had insisted that all his children marry wealth.

  “I’ll leave the library window unlocked,” Isolde said. “Please?”

  “Yes, I’ll come,” he said, but before she could suggest they meet in her bedchamber, which would not help quench his desire, he added, “I’ll be in the lumber room at midnight.”

  “Thank you!” She smiled, and his heart turned over. He gazed down at her, rapt.

  A whistle from up the street shattered the moment. One of the village lads, his cohorts at his heels, pointed gleefully above their heads at an oak tree bedecked by nature with mistletoe.

  Damn. If he didn’t kiss her, they would be pelted with snowballs—which was good fun—and cause some gossip, which wasn’t, and it would hurt her far more than it would him. If she disliked passion, she must have a good reason, but no one was likely to understand or respect that.

  “It’s up to you, Isolde—if you don’t mind the snowballs and the gossip, nor do I. I know you’re averse to the custom of kissing under the mistletoe.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not quite as averse if it’s you.”

  He burst into laughter. “What a compliment that was!” He swooped in and kissed her.

  Oh, how sweet. Astonished at the thought and embarrassed as well, she dropped her eyes. The boy
s were cheering and throwing snowballs anyway. Gawain tossed a few back, then tucked her arm in his again for the walk back up the street.

  “I didn’t mean it that way!” she said softly. “It’s just that—”

  He was still laughing. “You didn’t hurt my feelings. I expect you’ll receive a scold at home, but the unpleasant gossip will be less than if you hadn’t allowed me to kiss you.”

  “That’s true, but now some of the other gentlemen will claim the same privilege.” She grimaced. “I’ll tell them I only kiss young, handsome men.” She smiled up at him. “That was a better compliment, I think.”

  He grinned—that charming smile she’d almost recognized last night—and restored her to the Denton ladies with a bow. He walked away whistling.

  “He kissed you!” Jane Denton whispered. “Was it lovely?”

  “Very,” Isolde said, surprised to find that she meant it.

  “Tsk,” Mrs. Denton said. “Not that I blame you—you didn’t have much choice—but this will surely get back to your parents.”

  “I’m not a young girl anymore,” Isolde said. “I’m twice a widow, and a friendly kiss under the mistletoe means nothing.”

  Except that it did, although she wasn’t sure what.

  “You’re young for a widow,” Mrs. Denton said. “And you don’t wish to upset your dear parents, I’m sure.”

  “Nor do I wish to appear shrewish before the entire village,” Isolde said, “and so I shall tell them.”

  She spent the rest of the day in a state of pleasant expectation. How childish, she thought, but nevertheless the notion of meeting a forbidden friend in the middle of the night got her blood running.

  This enjoyable state of distraction made it easier to put up with her suitors. On the way home, she tried I only kiss young, handsome men on the lecherous Sir Andrew, who narrowed his eyes and said, “I only kiss young, beautiful women.”

  She should have known better. She should have known better about last night’s costume, too. She seemed to be utterly unable to discourage annoying men. She turned away with a shudder—not that it did the least bit of good. It only seemed to deepen the heat in his gaze.

  Mr. Nebley, on the other hand, warned her about the chastisement she could expect at home, as he, for one, intended to inform Lord Statham of the entire business.

  She rolled her eyes. “What business? It was a kiss under the mistletoe.”

  “You gave Mr. Burke the opportunity to kiss you by stopping under the oak tree whilst on his arm.”

  She hadn’t thought of it like that. She couldn’t suppress the beginning of a smile.

  “That amuses you? I am appalled,” Mr. Nebley pronounced. “You should have given him the cut direct. Your poor mother will be distraught.”

  Too bad, thought Isolde, but a twinge of guilt assailed her all the same.

  “I believed you to be above such disloyalty, Lady Isolde.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I refused your offer, for you wouldn’t want to marry a disloyal sort of woman.” Which she was proving to be. Her conscience pricked, but in a desultory way, as if it was as confused as the rest of her.

  “You wouldn’t be disloyal to me,” Mr. Nebley said with absolute but misplaced conviction.

  As for Lord Cape, he had caught a chill, but would he keep to his bed like any reasonable man? When evening drew in, he ordered hot rum, covered himself in a rug by the drawing room fire, and regaled anyone who would listen with his tale of meeting the ghost. He explained his unwillingness to remain in his bedchamber by swearing that the ghost had accosted him there.

  “I didn’t accost him, but perhaps I shall,” the Cavalier whispered in Isolde’s ear.

  She shook her head. Lord Cape wasn’t likely to bother her now that he was ill.

  “Don’t shake your head at me, Isolde,” her father said. “Come to the library. I wish to speak with you.”

  She hadn’t been paying attention; it was more fun looking forward to a midnight rendezvous. Mr. Nebley had come into the room behind her father. His smug expression as he seated himself, and the prospect of a thundering scold from Papa, couldn’t dispel her pleasurable anticipation.

  “Of course, Papa.” She followed him down the passageway.

  “Your lover dispatched Lord Cape most handily,” the Cavalier whispered. “He is a worthy gentleman. I shall compose a sonnet about your midnight assignation.”

  She sighed. There wouldn’t be any romantic dalliance tonight, but she couldn’t prevent the ghost from imagining it.

  “Don’t sigh at me, Isolde.” Her father closed the library door and pointed to a hard chair. She sat on the soft, comfortable sofa instead. In her childhood, that would have earned her a birching.

  Now, Papa just scowled. “You promised to encourage your suitors, and look what you did instead—you let that blackguard Burke kiss you!”

  “He’s not a blackguard, but a well-mannered gentleman and a friend of James.” As her father drew breath to launch into a harangue, she added, “I promised to consider my suitors.” Which she was doing, but she refrained from telling him precisely what she considered them. Asses or swine, take your choice.

  “I shall break the news about Burke to your mother. I should prefer not to tell her, but some busybody is sure to do so. She will need time to compose herself.” He narrowed his eyes. “In the meantime, if one of the guests seeks to kiss you under the mistletoe, you are now obliged to comply.” He paused. “Except Lord Cape. I would not wish you to catch his cold.”

  She considered retorting I only kiss young, handsome men, but wisely refrained. She would just have to keep to herself.

  Or get rid of the mistletoe. No one had noticed that one bough was already missing, and the Christmas season was almost over. She slipped down the backstairs to the kitchen in search of a footman.

  And bumped into one. In the doorway. With mistletoe above them.

  The footman wasn’t young and handsome, but he was a dear soul. Perhaps she should change her mistletoe excuse to I only kiss kind-hearted men. Papa wouldn’t approve of that either, but she reached up and kissed the footman anyway. “Marcus, I need a favor.”

  He smiled down at her. “I shan’t tell anyone you kissed me, my lady.” He glowered at Cook, who was brandishing her rolling pin. “And nor will anyone else.”

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling at the cook, and whispered in the footman’s ear. “Please get rid of whatever mistletoe you can without being caught.” She glanced up. “Not this one, though.”

  Marcus promised to do his best. By evening, several doorways sported holly or nothing at all, and she had successfully avoided kisses from both Mr. Nebley and Sir Andrew Dirks. Mr. Nebley’s affronted gaze didn’t disturb her; the frustration and anger in Sir Andrew’s did. She had only escaped him this time because Mrs. Denton was nearby.

  She made sure to take Millicent with her when she went to her bedchamber, but this time no one waited in ambush. Once she was ready for bed, she sent the grateful maid to her own room. She pushed the clothes press against the door again, snuggled in a bergère chair by the fire, and picked up a novel.

  “Wake up!”

  She started, opening her eyes. The novel lay in her lap. The candle was guttering, the fire had died down, and the Cavalier hovered over her. “Your lover awaits, fearing you have jilted him!”

  Dear God, she’d fallen asleep. What time was it? The clock on the mantel said twenty minutes past twelve—not so very bad. Since Gawain wasn’t her lover, he wouldn’t worry about being jilted, but nevertheless he might think she had changed her mind or set a trap for him, as one might do to an enemy….

  She hoped he didn’t think of her as any kind of enemy. She valued him, his friendship, his esteem.

  She put that unsettling thought aside and lit another candle, donned a pair of slippers, and moved the clothes press just far enough that she could squeeze through the door. Mercifully, the corridor was empty of lascivious suitors.

  It was a
lso bone-chilling cold. She tiptoed down the passageway, her heart beating uncomfortably fast, which was absurd. She wasn’t afraid of Gawain. The door to the lumber room was ajar. She slipped inside.

  At first, she didn’t see him. “Gawain?” she whispered.

  “Over here.” He rose from a tattered old chair in the far corner, yawning. So much for the ghost’s fretting.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said anyway. “I fell asleep by the fire.” Gawain was dressed as the Cavalier in an ancient coat and plumed hat, with a sword belted at his hip. “Is that what you wore to scare Lord Cape last night? He caught a chill.”

  “Serves him right,” Gawain said with a grin.

  She beckoned. “Let’s go.”

  “Go where?”

  “To my bedchamber, of course. It’s freezing in here. I don’t know why I didn’t suggest it this morning.”

  Chapter 4

  She was already out in the corridor, leading the way, so Gawain had no choice but to follow. He would certainly welcome a few minutes by the fire, but…

  “Push the clothes press against the door, please. It keeps unwanted visitors out.” She bustled over to the fireplace. “If anyone tries to sneak in, I shall hear.”

  He obeyed, annoyed that she had to resort to such shifts to protect herself. It was obvious why she hadn’t kept her maid in the room with her tonight, but what about after he left? And future nights? “You don’t have a key to your door?”

  “Mama is terrified of house fires, so to calm her, Papa took our keys away years ago. There may be one on the housekeeper’s ring, but I didn’t need it until now.”

  Lady Statham was proving to be a damned nuisance. Except that…if she hadn’t stolen the heart-shaped pendant, he wouldn’t be here now, alone with Isolde. In her bedchamber. In the middle of the night.

  He had always liked her as a girl…but as a woman, she was unbelievably alluring.

  She motioned him to the sofa. “I had my maid bring some milk earlier, as well as my usual tisane.” She set two small pots on the hob to warm up. “There’s plenty for us both, or brandy if you would prefer. I never drink it, for I do not tolerate alcohol well, but I sneaked some from the decanter in Papa’s library in case you wanted some.”