Winter Wishes: A Regency Christmas Anthology

by Cheryl Bolen

  He peeked into the housekeeper’s quarters on the off chance she’d had a bed moved down. The room was bare.

  In the south wing, he crept past the study where George was working, moving down the corridor to the bedchamber next to his own.

  A rap on the door brought no answer.

  His hand went to the latch, but he pulled it away. She’d likely fallen asleep, and he’d promised her she wouldn’t be molested. Asleep or not, she wouldn’t appreciate him invading her room in either persona, factor or duke.

  Too restless to turn in, he found himself moving up the next flight of stairs to the nursery rooms tucked under the attic. There were ghosts in that nursery, the ghost of his brother, the ghost of Mrs. Ramsey bringing them oatcakes, the ghost of the boy he had been.

  At the landing, he spotted a light glowing through the open nursery door.

  His heart lifted. He knew who was there.

  * * *

  Andrew stood in the doorway, observing. Marlowe’s cheek touched the back of the rocker. Curled up on her lap was the tabby cat, awake and staring languidly at him through eyes the same shade of green as his own.

  At some point Marlowe had lost her white cap, and dark hair spilled out from the loose bun at the back of her head, reflecting the lamplight in shades of deep chestnut. A sleepy pout puckered her lips, and her bosom moved up and down in deep slumber.

  The plump nursery maid he remembered here had never looked so fetching.

  Other memories niggled at him, making him smile. At about the same time, he and Evan would sneak out for a late-night raid on the larder, or better yet, they’d deposit a frog in the nursemaid’s pocket. How many times had they pulled off such nonsense on a girl worn out from chasing two nodcocks all day?

  She stirred in the chair, moving her head to the other side, displaying a length of creamy neck and a pulse that begged to be kissed.

  She’s your housekeeper. You can’t kiss her there. Or at all.

  He cleared his throat, and a deep sigh escaped her, the corners of her mouth twitching with a contented dream.

  Parts of him were twitching as well. He’d seen her response to him. He knew when a woman was feeling desire. He could pursue her. At the very least, he could steal a kiss.

  Or he could throw aside decorum and go after much, much more.

  He thought of the rumors about Ramsey and Old Horace and shoved down his yearning. Mrs. Ramsey had suffered withering gossip by neighbors for those rumors. It wouldn’t be proper, nor fair, not as the duke, nor as the duke’s factor.

  “There you are,” he said loudly.

  Marlowe’s eyes flew open. Her hands slapped the chair arms, gripping them. Shaken, the cat leapt away.

  “I beg your pardon, my dear. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Her gaze searched the gloom, and she shivered, not yet spotting him.

  When he stepped into the room, she sucked in a deep breath.

  “Mr. Andrews.”

  “It is I.”

  “I fell asleep.”

  “I see that.” The last flames of fire had burnt down to red embers, and a spool of dark ribbon lay nearby on the floor. “Many a nursery maid has settled into that rocker for only a minute. We are lucky your ribbons didn’t fall into the flames and burn down this fairy tale castle.”

  The chair creaked on its rockers as she pushed herself up rubbing her eyes like a child woken from slumber. She pushed hair behind her ears, caught herself and clutched her hands at her waist.

  By God, she was lovely.

  “Was dinner satisfactory?” she asked.

  “Quite.”

  “The duke was pleased?”

  He took a deep breath. He must tell her the truth. “About that…”

  “Oh.” Her lips pressed together. “He didn’t like it. I should expect he would not.”

  “Why?”

  She shook her head. “He’s…” She shuddered. “Difficult.”

  He wasn’t difficult. Most of the time. “Once you become acquainted with him—”

  “He’s unpleasant.”

  He moved closer. “Who told you that?”

  She opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again.

  “Was it the agency that hired you?”

  “No.”

  “The duke’s solicitor?”

  “No.”

  “Who then?”

  “It was, er…” She licked her lips. “My late husband.”

  “Your late husband had dealings with the new duke?” He searched his memory for a Marlowe. All the Marlowes of his acquaintance were still very much alive as far as he knew. “Was he a tradesman?”

  “N-no.”

  In truth, he knew little of Marlowe’s background. The appearance of an attractive, intelligent woman ready to serve him had dazzled him so, he hadn’t asked proper questions. “Was he a gentleman, fallen on hard times?”

  She sighed, surrendering, and he knew what she was about to say would be the truth. “He was a clergyman.”

  Mrs. Marlowe was a clergyman’s widow? Oh, that was disappointing. That explained her quick efficiency though. She’d been one of those vicars’ wives running about doing whatever was needed to keep the faithful in line, when they could spare time from their offspring.

  “Do you have children?”

  “No.”

  Which might explain her interest in filling the nursery. Dare he ask why not? Most vicars had a houseful, being obliged to abstain from other diversions. Either she was sterile, or he had been. Or perhaps…perhaps he’d been indifferent. Though what husband would not take Marlowe to his bed?

  She chewed on her lip, hiding something.

  “And how did Mr. Marlowe know the duke?”

  She clucked her tongue. “He didn’t. He’d merely heard in the course of his work about…about the duke’s difficult demeanor.”

  Andrew MacDonal had been the topic of conversation among the clergy. How odd. This was a woman with secrets.

  Her gaze shifted away and then back, and the spark of defiance there stirred an urge to laugh.

  Marlowe was the widow of a man of the cloth, not much used to prevaricating. The vicar’s widow was being wicked. She was lying.

  A sheen of moisture appeared on her cheeks and her lips pressed together, suppressing a tremble.

  She was delicious. He took a step closer and watched her eyes widen.

  “Sir.”

  Chapter 8

  He left her plenty of room to retreat. She held her position.

  A potent mix of curiosity, amusement, and desire brewed in him. “Your husband, the gossiping vicar, what, pray tell, caused his demise?”

  “He suffered an apoplexy.”

  “An apoplexy? He was elderly?”

  She huffed. “He was…he had just turned one and sixty. Really, Mr. Andrews, this is—”

  “None of my business? You don’t think the duke will want to know that his housekeeper’s late husband spread slander about him?”

  She gasped. “That is not—”

  “He values loyalty.”

  “Loyalty?” She scoffed. “Hmm. And he shall have mine. Am I not trying to see to his comforts? Is it disloyalty for a servant to want to know what irritates her master and what pleases him?”

  His head dipped closer and her pulse jumped as strong hands curved around her forearms.

  A choking breath brought a woodsy male scent sparking shivers all the way to the soles of her half boots. Ack. He’d startled her into clumsy lies.

  And she should not have mentioned that notion of pleasing. Their gazes locked.

  His mouth parted. He blinked, his eyes catching the gleam of the lamp.

  “Are you…are you quite all right, Mr. Andrews?”

  When he drew closer, her heart took off in a wild gallop. Might he…would he…

  His lips touched hers, briefly, sweetly, and then he lifted his head away, still watching her.

  Warmth unfurled in her, misting her eyes. The few kisses she
’d shared with her long-ago suitor had never been so gentle or caring. His look of wonder, of frank admiration heated her as much as the kiss had.

  She went up on her toes, freeing her hands to thread through the wild hair at his nape, and when he hooked a hand at her waist and slanted his mouth over hers, she parted her lips for a wholehearted kiss. Desire burst inside her like the pent-up waters of a damn breaking, and the moments stretched on and on.

  When he moved her head to his shoulder, his heart pounded in time with her own.

  That had been a real kiss.

  “I suppose that was quite improper.” The whispered breath tickled her ear. “You must think me a villain.”

  He stepped back, his hands sliding along her arms as he released her.

  Heat flooded her cheeks, and she blinked away tears. The kiss had been astonishing, and far too brief.

  But she must not even contemplate a liaison with the duke’s handsome factor. She was a widow, but not one seeking scandal. She must come to her senses.

  “Mr. Andrews, it’s late and…”

  He’d averted his eyes, his gaze sweeping around the room like he was gathering sweet memories. The tender kiss, the longing look—Mr. Andrews was a gentleman. Perhaps he’d grown up in a nursery like this, with a nursery maid he was fond of. Perhaps he himself was the son of a gentleman fallen on hard times.

  She longed to ask, but prying might only open some wound in him. It might also reopen more awkward questioning about her own past.

  He walked to the mantle and picked up the framed portrait she’d found earlier, holding it up to the lamp.

  For long moments he lingered over it, saying nothing.

  “I found it in storage,” she said. “Might it be the duke and his brother?”

  He sent her a quizzical look.

  “If you think he’ll be troubled, please don’t show him it. I only thought his nieces might find it comforting. I hope he can come to know how lucky he is to have these children in his life. It’s my job to make Castle Kinmarty a comfortable home for him and his family. If you can see a way, as his friend, to help him come to know how blessed he is to have this wondrous, grand, home, and tenants who are eager to work with him and for him, and how much he has to be grateful for in his brother’s children…”

  As she spoke, his lips grew steadily firmer. The sudden chill reminded her she was merely a servant. How the duke saw his circumstances was not her concern.

  She sighed. “You didn’t tell me the duke’s complaint about dinner.”

  He settled the drawing atop the mantle, one corner of his mouth quirking. “The footman in the ill-fitting coat. Was he not the same fellow stacking wood today?”

  “Yes, he was.” They were back to the difficult duke’s snobbery. “We are in the Highland wilds now, not London.” She bit her lip. And if he wanted to be waited on hand and foot, he would have to take servants as he found them. “He’s a willing fellow, and a good butler can bring him up to snuff. I’ve yet to find proper livery. I’ll have Kyla search tomorrow while I go into the village to inquire about more servants.”

  “More servants,” he mused, turning his gaze back to the shadowed corner with the toys.

  The fire had gone out completely, the cold penetrating the wool of her shawl. She fetched her ribbon from the floor and pulled her wrap tighter.

  “I believe I will turn in.”

  That brought him out of his musing. “I’ll escort you down.”

  He offered his arm. Under the fine wool of his coat, the firm muscle was solid, and she shivered again as they descended the stairs.

  “You’re trembling.” He set a hand to her waist guiding her, his hot touch radiating through her. “Don’t be frightened.” Her ears tingled from the whispered words. “I won’t follow you into your bedchamber.”

  They’d reached her door. “I’m not afraid,” she lied. “I’m chilled to the bone.”

  It wasn’t Andrews who frightened her—it was herself, and her smoldering reaction. No man had ever triggered such feelings—certainly not the late Mr. Marlowe.

  “Chilled to the bone?” He raised an eyebrow. “Rightly so. I hope Duff restocked your wood.” His gaze heated. “Mrs. Marlowe, I shouldn’t have kissed you, though I found I couldn’t resist. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  Her heart pounded as she worried over her reply. Indignation would be yet another lie. Telling him it was nothing would mean she thought dallying was fine—and that wasn’t true either.

  The kiss had meant a great deal. The kiss had been a warm spark lighting up her soul. And he politely hadn’t mentioned that she had kissed him back, fiercely.

  The way his gaze softened and his eyes darkened told her the kiss had meant something to him as well.

  “What…what is your Christian name, Marlowe?”

  Her Christian name? A thread of suspicion snaked through her, making her hesitate. Her name was unusual. He might tell the duke, and the duke might recall a Filomena who’d been briefly the subject of a scandal—one he’d caused by his meddling—so many years ago.

  But she supposed, a factor ought to know the housekeeper’s full name.

  “Filomena,” she whispered. She hurried into her bedchamber, closing the door and leaning against it.

  Filomena.

  Andrew stared at the closed door. The name niggled at him. There’d been a girl named Filomena at some time in his past. Something noteworthy had happened to her.

  “We need to talk.” George appeared at his elbow, grumbling the words.

  What now? He followed his friend down the corridor to the study.

  Inside, George rounded on him. “You shouldn’t have kissed her? What the devil was that about?”

  He walked to the sideboard and poured a drink. “Spur of the moment. It was all in innocence. A mere touch of the lips, like you might kiss your great-aunt.”

  “A gentleman does not—”

  “Yes, I know. Seduce his housekeeper.” Although apparently old Horace had done so, and he could now understand why. Perhaps he was a chip off the old Castle Kinmarty block after all.

  “Mrs. Marlowe has done well for you. Dinner was more than palatable, there’s a good supply of firewood in each room and someone to carry up more, and we’re spared rising at dawn to see to the cattle. She’s performed miracles of housekeeping in one day.”

  “She has, hasn’t she?”

  She’d arrived one day and achieved all that the next. His fairy tale castle was taking shape. She’d even got him to review the blasted correspondence he’d put aside.

  He forced a laugh. “She’s a managing sort of female, and her Christian name is Filomena. Tell me, George, does the name Filomena Marlowe sound familiar to you?”

  “It’s not particularly common.”

  “Have you ever heard tell of a clergyman named Marlowe?”

  “Her husband?”

  “So she says. An older fellow who must have married her out of the schoolroom. She can’t be more than thirty. I know her from somewhere. Or I’ve heard of her.”

  George scowled with more emotion than he usually displayed.

  “Listen, your grace, I’m serious. A penniless clergyman’s widow? If that’s what she truly is, I won’t stand by and watch you play with her feelings.”

  “You don’t think she’s telling the truth?”

  “How would we know without an inquiry? Let her alone.”

  “Or what? Will you call me out?”

  His friend’s scowl darkened.

  “I won’t play the rake with her. Though she’s damned pretty.”

  “For now, she’s your housekeeper, and possibly a competent one. You’re in the wilds of Scotland—don’t dally and distract her. You still need someone to find you a butler. She has as good a chance as anyone.”

  He eased onto the wide leather-upholstered chair at the desk and drummed his fingers on the stack of letters there. “I told her about Forbes, the old duke’s butler. If she spoke to him today, he must hav
e said no. Perhaps I can lure him back, or at least get his help for a time.”

  “Capital idea.”

  “I’ll pay him a visit tomorrow.”

  “The nabob is coming tomorrow.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re impossible.” With a shake of his head, George left.

  Andrew let his mount meander through the dense woods at the edge of the castle grounds, skirting the main drive, in part to avoid his visitors, and in part to make a more direct approach to where Forbes’s cottage should be.

  He’d spent a good part of the night ruminating about Marlowe. Eager to see her in the flesh, he’d risen early, only to find she’d already left the Castle.

  The same faux footman had poured his coffee for him, and the young maid he’d met in the nursery had cheerfully delivered a platter of eggs. Marlowe had introduced her as Kyla Forbes. She was surely kin to the old butler.

  On her first full day of residence at Castle Kinmarty, Marlowe had taken the bit of information he’d given her and found her way to the Forbes family. Did she have ties in Kinmarty? Could that be why the name Filomena was so familiar? As lads, he and Evan had attended a few village festivals, ones where the children ran wild, but they’d never made friends here.

  He smiled at the memories of raucous games on the green. In later times, Evan pursued every pretty milkmaid and wench who’d look twice at him—and being the duke’s heir and a hale fellow, there’d been plenty. His own task had been keeping the fool out of real trouble and getting him home before Ramsey set a footman to find them.

  Gad, it had taken a few years of growing before he understood the appeal of the lasses, but until then he’d thought his brother an utter numbskull.

  He turned his mount to a line of trees and heard the rush of the water. So, the burn hadn’t frozen, in spite of the frigid weather.

  Dismounting, he led his horse closer. The stream was shallow here, the water brisk and foaming. Even in summer, it was bone-chilling for anyone with the misfortune to fall in. One August day while hunting for Evan, he’d hauled out a lass who’d been looking for the girl his brother was meeting.