Mischief & Mistletoe (A Christmas Novella)

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  Andrew blinked again. “So you don’t wish to leave Emma with ill feelings?”

  “Precisely,” Lucien allowed, nodding, and seemed relieved that Andrew understood.

  Andrew scratched the back of his head, discomfited by the request. “Yes, well... but I should think you would simply wish to go now that she’s given you leave to.”

  Willyngham seemed to have no response to that bit of logic. He simply stood there, waiting, looking as confounded as Andrew felt.

  His father had once respected the man, despite his reputation—enough to offer Emma’s hand in wedlock—enough to sit for that damnable portrait in the bloody hot sun once he had barely been able to rouse himself from his bed—and in spite of his proclaimed fury over Willyngham’s broken betrothal.

  He studied the duke a moment, and then after a long interval consented, though he was hardly at ease over the prospect. “Confound it,” he exclaimed. “Very well. Stay. But I am no damned fool.” He shot Willyngham a warning glare. “I may not be as adept with a pistol as my father, but dishonor my sister now, and you will as sure as death be eating grass before breakfast. Do you take my meaning?”

  Willyngham nodded soberly. “I understand. You have my word. Thank you,” he said, and shook Andrew’s hand vigorously then left.

  Andrew watched him go, his brows drawing together in stupefaction.

  He hadn’t a bloody clue what had transpired between Willyngham and Emma in the library but whatever it was seemed to have changed the course of this once ill-fated betrothal. Like a fish on a hook, the duke was well and duly baited. The question remained: Did Emma wish to reel him in?

  He decided not to tell his sister of the duke’s change of plans… not yet… just in case. But his lip curved into a bit of a grin, because he sensed exactly what was at hand here… and it had little to do with Willyngham’s desire to preserve his sister’s tender feelings.

  Suddenly feeling rather mischievous, he chuckled to himself and walked away.

  Perhaps their father knew something better of the man after all?

  At the very least, this promised to be a very unconventional holiday celebration… which was precisely the way he enjoyed it.

  “… The murderer was discovered and as a penance was ordered to give a tenor bell to the Dewsbury parish church, and to this day on Christmas that bell tolls once for each year that has passed since the birth of Christ. Heard ’em myself,” Andrew Peters swore.

  “Oh, Papa!” the children rang out in chorus.

  “Andrew!” Cecile admonished.

  Andrew leaned forward, removing the pipe from between his teeth long enough to defend himself. “It’s a true story.”

  “But Papa, who would kill a poor little boy?” Lettie asked, her eyes slanted sadly.

  “Now, now,” her father soothed. “It happened hundreds of years ago. Never fear, my dear.” He replaced the pipe between his teeth.

  Cecile sighed. “You shouldn’t terrorize the children with such horrific tales. In fact, why can you not simply let Emma read her stories and be done, if you please?”

  “You won’t find that one in any book,” he objected, sounding for all the world like a crotchety old man, despite his youthful age.

  Cecile shuddered, her pale blonde curls quivering with the gesture.

  “That one is worse, even, than the one you told last year. Ashen fagots burned on Christmas Eve in commemoration of battles is quite horrific,” she said with conviction. “But the butchery of children is another matter entirely!”

  “Poppycock. It is a venerable tradition to honor our heroes who died in battle, and what better time than on Christmas, when families will be missing them most?”

  “Perhaps, but there is something most definitely wrong with the need to burn the ears of innocent children,” his wife scolded.

  “We don’t mind mother!” the children cried in unison.

  “Well, but it is a Christmas tale,” Andrew argued. “What could be unsuitable about that?”

  “Daddy,” his son interjected. “What does poppycock mean?”

  “That is not a word for you to know,” Cecile admonished her son.

  Andrew gave his wife a wink and a nod, conveniently ignoring his son’s question. “See, my dear… the children love my stories. Where else would they hear them if not from me? And you, my dear… as much as you protest, you always sit with an attentive ear. I believe you enjoy them as well.”

  Cecile gave him a quelling glance and rolled her eyes. “Will you shush, at last,” she requested, with a tiny hint of a smile.

  Hearing them carry on so, Emma couldn’t suppress her own mirth. “Even so… perhaps it is time for a somewhat less gruesome tale?”

  Her brother might be a father and a husband, but he was still the same mischievous little boy she had grown up with. She understood him better than any, and though he loved their father dearly, being born an admiral’s son was much the same as being born a pastor’s daughter. There was something a little defiant in his spirit—something a little mutinous that neither the passing years nor the burden of responsibility could quite constrain. And their father, God rest his soul, despite his military nature, had never once discouraged it. In fact, Emma thought perhaps he may have taken private pleasure in the insubordination of others. It would be the only explanation for his interest in the likes of the Duke of Willyngham—a rebellious second son who was drawn toward insurrection. A challenge perhaps?

  She held up the little green volume she’d seized from the library earlier. Truth to tell, she had no notion why she’d done so, only at that moment standing before that infuriating man, she had felt more than a little flustered. The last thing she’d wished was for Lucien to believe she’d come to the library solely to see him—although she had, of course. The fact that she carried the ring was proof enough of that.

  “This is one of my favorites,” she said, thrusting aside the image of Lucien Morgen, looking far more handsome than a man had any right to.

  She peered at each of her brother’s children in turn: Jonathon, the youngest at seven, his hair as golden as his mother’s, his sweet little face just beginning to lose its baby roundness. And sober Lettie, who was nine now, her hair only slightly darker than Jon’s. Missing tooth and freckled nose aside, Emma was certain Lettie would grow to be as lovely as her spirit. And then Samantha, the prankish eldest at thirteen. Her hair the same color as Emma’s strawberry blond, she’d inherited her mother’s stunning blue eyes along with her father’s uncanny sense of mischief. The three of them sat primly, their eyes twinkling in anticipation of the story to come.

  “Care to hear it?” Emma teased, knowing the answer already. This particular tale was a yearly favorite, and she and Andrew both seemed to vie for the chance to tell it. Thus she had spied it upon Andrew’s shelf—nearly hidden behind a dog-eared copy of Gulliver’s Travels by Johnathon Swift. Of course, the book was not the true reason she’d ventured toward the library, though it made for a wonderful excuse nevertheless, and now she had the volume in hand, and Andrew did not.

  Emma loved retelling this particular story because from the minute of its reading, all three kids were suddenly on their best behavior, each vying to do the best of deeds.

  All three together shouted an emphatic, “Oh, yes, please!”

  Thinking her brother’s children were, indeed, a great boon to her, Emma tried not to consider her own loss. The possibility that she might never have children of her own rent at her heart.

  There was certain to be a scandal when their broken betrothal was announced publicly, and what would be said?

  It didn’t matter, she told herself as she waited patiently while the children gathered nearer—away from their father, who winked at her conspiratorially, conceding the book, and the story with his usual good nature.

  Emma sighed, taking comfort in their familiarity.

  At Newgale, their traditions had always been rather simple but festive. Their mother had been a bit of a student of know
ledge, and they had made it a point to incorporate traditions from her father’s travels. So in a sense, their holidays were a glorious amalgamation of both her parents’ lives.

  She waved opened the book, smiling, and asked the children, “Have I told you about the Christmas crèche?”

  “Only last year!” Jonathon replied, and Emma suppressed a giggle at his response.

  “Well, pretend that you haven’t heard it,” she told him. “In France,” she began.

  “Papa doesn’t like the French.” Lettie announced. She turned to ask him over her shoulder, “Do you, Papa?”

  Andrew took the pipe out of his mouth. “Well, now...”

  “Shush, Andrew,” Cecile demanded, though not unkindly. She placed her sewing into her lap to listen along with the children.

  Emma flashed a look toward her brother’s wife and Cecile winked in return.

  “In France,” Emma continued. “Every year, the children build themselves a crèche to place before a warm hearth…”

  “What’s a crèche?” Jonathon broke in, despite that Emma knew very well he knew the answer. He cast a mischievous glance toward his eldest sister.

  Samantha’s brows drew together. “You already know what it is,” she said. “It’s a crib!” She turned to Emma. “Right, Aunt Em?”

  “Of course,” Emma confirmed, pursing her lips.

  Jonathon pouted. “Well, our crèche is always empty,” he said. “So why bother?”

  Emma patted his head. “But that’s really up to you, isn’t it?”

  He shrugged.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “you recall le petit Jésus was born in a stable, right?” All three children nodded, and she glanced up to find her brother and his wife nodding as well. Her smile deepened at the amusing sight they all presented. Trying not to ponder what it might have been like in her own home—if she’d had one—with children of her own—she bent forward, lending with her voice all the reverence she felt for the tale. “Well, in France they believe, and quite vehemently, that on the eve before Christmas...”

  She glanced up suddenly, only to lose her good humor and her place in the story. At the sight the duke standing in the doorway, her heart vaulted into her throat and she momentarily forgot whatever it was that she was saying.

  He was leaning much too idly against the door frame, watching her intently, and the way that he watched... well, it unnerved her completely.

  How long had he been standing there?

  He smiled arrogantly, and her heart tumbled.

  She cast a frowning glance at her brother. He’d not even bothered to tell her that the duke would be remaining at Newgale. At this late hour she would have presumed the fiend long departed—eager to go, in fact.

  God plague his rotten soul!

  Well, it didn’t matter, she assured herself. He would be gone soon enough.

  And good riddance!

  “What happens then, Aunt Em?” Samantha asked, impatient to hear the rest of the story.

  Then?Then her life would return to order!

  Forcing her attention to the children, she gathered her composure and continued, though completely unnerved. “Then... the children build a special crèche...”

  Jonathon frowned.

  “You already said that, Aunt Em,” Lettie reminded.

  “Yes, well...” Emma forced herself to ignore Lucien’s presence, although it was an utterly impossible task, for he filled the room as surely as he stood there scrutinizing her so rudely. “Very well… in that crèche... every night—” She peered up and seeing that he remained precisely where he stood, she quickly averted her gaze.

  Botheration.

  “Aunt Em!” Samantha complained.

  “Why is your face all red?” Jonathon inquired. “Are you angry?”

  Emma blinked the image of Lucien out of her head and continued, ignoring Jonathon’s question, “No. I’m not angry,” she said, but her tone belied her. “Every night… the children all place a single wisp of straw as a token for each good deed and prayer they accomplished during the day....”

  “You sound angry, and daddy’s face always gets red when he’s angry, too,” Jonathon persisted.

  Despite himself, Lucien found himself smiling.

  She was, indeed, blushing—a lovely shade of pink that gave a wash of color to her otherwise gray appearance—she was still wearing that god-awful dress, he noticed.

  For the first time in his life, he found himself the recipient of the cut direct.

  And still he stood there, listening to her read, for despite her obvious dislike of him, she had a way of speaking that enthralled even the most jaded.

  His mother had been that way, he recalled. She’d had a musical voice that made everything she’d ever said sound like a song.

  At least in the beginning.

  Watching Emma now, he could well understand her anger over his untimely intrusion. The scene before him was unsullied... except for his presence.

  A lively fire crackled in the hearth, and the scent of beeswax filled his nostrils, drifting like invisible ribbons from candles that flickered gaily throughout the room. Deep burgundy bows, threaded with golden tinsel hung alongside bells that tinkled softly as though by an imperceptible breeze. It was wholly unlike any of his Christmases past.

  He watched the holiday scene unfold before him, feeling like an intruder in their midst... unwelcome, and wholly out of place.

  Emma spoke softly, drawing the children into her story. “… if everyone has been very, very good,” he heard her say, “then on Christmas Eve, Heaven’s gate opens wide—yes, it does,” she assured a skeptical looking young lad.

  Lucien glanced at her face in time to catch a dimpled smile that made his heart trip a bit. She tapped the boy upon the bridge of his nose and continued, “The skies burst wide with a beauteous light and le petit Jésus comes down from heaven to sleep in a warm bed full with tender straw… straw you put there, I might add.”

  He couldn’t help but wonder if her father had indulged them exactly so. The admiral had been such a somber man—at least outside his home. Until this moment, Andrew Peters had seemed so very much like him. Tonight, he saw a glimpse of someone else.

  “But does he truly, Aunt Em?” the eldest girl asked skeptically, her big brown eyes full of question.

  “I never saw it happen,” the boy muttered in complaint. He picked at his shoe.

  Lucien grinned as Emma ignored the child’s surly protest. “Just imagine how sweet it would be not to sleep on the hardness of the manger’s boards,” she entreated. “Only imagine how grateful le petit Jésus would be—”

  “Maybe he would bring lots of gifts for the boys and girls!” the youngest daughter said excitedly and clapped her hands with glee.

  Emma laughed, apparently having successfully dismissed him, and the sound reverberated through Lucien like a promise. But he felt something quite foreign in that instant—a sense of having been set aside—and he didn’t like it one bit—never mind the fact that he had been the one to actually set her aside. Whatever this was that was warring in his head, he didn’t like it a whit and he frowned.

  “But only if you have been very, very, good,” she cautioned the children at once.

  Lucien cleared his throat and found himself interjecting before he could prevent himself, “And what precisely constitutes very, very good, Miss Peters?”

  For some peculiar reason, he seemed to need her to acknowledge him as part of their cozy gathering.

  The fact that she would not, grated upon his nerves—almost as much as the way she addressed him—Your Grace—as though it were an epithet. Never mind that he did not appreciate the title anymore than she did. It was not granted to him by birth, and neither did he appreciate the constraints it placed upon him. Unfortunately, it seemed de rigueur to flout convention, and somehow, it only managed to get him more unwanted attention—from everyone, except Emma, it seemed.

  The entire room fell silent while he waited for Emma to
acknowledge his presence. Yet everyone but Emma did. Where she had not done so before, she quickly buried her nose into her little green book in a defiant gesture.

  He’d be damned if he’d simply let her ignore him. He cleared his throat again, reminding her that he waited.

  Aversely, he could tell, she lifted her gaze to his. She was loath to speak to him at all, and her declaration confirmed his suspicions. “I suppose someone like you might need some clarification, Your Grace,” she offered a little too sweetly, for her words were meant to cut, he knew. And despite all of his carefully laid armor, she succeeded, for the subtle accusation was too close to his own self-opinion to be disregarded. She lifted a brow. “Thus I shall endeavor to do so. By good deed, I shall presume they are referring to acts of devotion or virtue. Do understand the meaning of these concepts, Your Grace?” Her eyes impugned him. “Or shall I further enlighten you, Your Grace?”

  “Aunt Em... I don’t know what those words mean either,” Jonathon said, responding to the accusation in her voice. His brows slanted unhappily. “Is that why I never get as many straws as Lettie or Sam?”

  Emma’s expression transformed to one of dismay as she turned to address her disheartened nephew. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “You,” she assured him, casting a withering glance toward Lucien’s before returning a concerned gaze to the little boy, “are all that is virtuous!” She smiled sweetly at the child, and in that smile, Lucien glimpsed the expression she’d once lavished upon him, the one with such sweet purity and innocence that it had made him feel unworthy. But it was no longer directed at him, he conceded, and that realization left him feeling strangely bereft.

  Nor, in fact, was she any longer the innocent young miss he recalled. Clearly. She was a woman grown, and could hold her own. Even against him, it would seem.

  With a gentleness he envied, she tousled the boy’s shining blonde mane, and for a moment he was certain he could feel her hands in his own hair; warm fingers at his nape, the sensation so real that he inhaled sharply and closed his eyes to savor it privately. But it was a mistake, for it opened a window he’d long ago slammed shut, revived a memory he’d long tucked away.