Mischief & Mistletoe (A Christmas Novella)

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  Another Christmas, long ago, far away…

  He was in his mother’s arms. She kissed him sweetly upon the nose as she ruffled his hair. “You are my light,” she had said to him then. But she’d been blind in her love for him, because he’d been born with his father’s darkness. Even then his armor had been tarnished an ugly black. Even then. And then instead of remaining to help her through her melancholy, he had fled… like a coward… until his brother’s death had called him home.

  “Do you remember the time you and Lettie rescued the robin from Penelope’s perilous jaws,” Emma was saying, bringing Lucien back to the present.

  “Crotchety old feline!” Peters proclaimed.

  Lucien had entirely forgotten Andrew and his wife were in the room. His attention had been so focused upon Emma.

  Emma glanced up at her brother and added with an impish smile, “And do you remember that your Papa fostered it within the nursery....”

  “Lord-a-mercy!” Cecile said aghast, once again casting aside her sewing. “Not in the nursery! Really, Andrew!” She gave him a chastening look and peered up at Lucien. “Sometimes I wonder who are the real children in this house.”

  Despite himself, Lucien chuckled at their banter. He envied their easy alliance. And Emma... she reminded him too much of his mother... and Jonathon of himself.

  Poor child.

  More acutely than before, he felt like a trespasser here in their home.

  “Well, that would be a perfect example of a very good deed,” she informed them all. “But I’ve no doubt you will all come up with dozens more this year.”

  “Aunt Em… does keeping your socks clean count?” Jonathon asked soberly. The child peered up at his aunt with all the hope and adoration Lucien had once felt for his own mother, and he couldn’t help but think that Emma would have been a very good mother, indeed. She might have been the perfect mother... for his own children… but he refused to reconsider now. She looked so dashed innocent sitting there amongst the kids.

  He saw her shudder. Against the chill of the room, he thought—a chill he didn’t feel because it was too much a part of him. He’d be damned if he was capable of feeling anything as redeeming as love, and he didn’t intend to do to Emma Peters what his father had done to his gentle mother. No, crying off was the right thing to do.

  “Yes, of course. Everything counts,” Emma advised the children charitably, raising a finger in counsel, “so long as ’tis done for good.”

  “Yes, but Aunt Em, is it really, really true?” the youngest daughter asked again.

  Emma hugged the book against her breast, and Lucien suddenly wished it were his cheek lying there so close to her heartbeat. He blinked away the image. “I would very much like to think so,” she replied.

  The oldest daughter turned pleading eyes toward her father. “Can we build a crèche again this year, Papa? Can we please?”

  “I promise not to put anymore mice in it,” the boy swore. “They were cold,” he explained. “I only brought them in to keep them warm.”

  “Dear me, we thought we would never be rid of those horrid beasts,” Cecile said as an aside to Lucien.

  Compelled by his eldest child’s plea and his son’s fervent promise, Peters withdrew the billowing pipe from his mouth and said, “Well, now... I cannot conceive why not.”

  “Yeahhhh!” the children screeched in unison.

  “Thank you, Papa!” the youngest daughter proclaimed, leaping up and flinging herself into her father’s lap. “Thank you very much!”

  The boy, too, bounded upward, wrapping his little arms about Emma’s neck. “We love you, Aunt Em!”

  Emma laughed, and the earthy sound gave Lucien an immediate physical response.

  Twice now in one day.

  “I—” She glanced up suddenly, meeting Lucien’s gaze, and her face turned a lovely shade of pink. She quickly averted her gaze. “I-I love you, too,” she assured the child, but her voice was quivery, and Lucien couldn’t help but wonder whether she was recalling saying just the same words to him.

  He couldn’t seem to forget.

  Dressed brightly in a pale yellow morning dress, she’d tilted her lovely face to his and said with all the sincerity of an adoring child, “I think I love you!”

  No words had ever touched him more. None had ever sobered him more. None had ever terrified him more.

  “Aunt Em?” the youngest daughter asked, turning slightly in her father’s lap where she had settled herself. She looked at her aunt and then turned to glance shyly at Lucien, but with something slightly calculating in her somber blue eyes. “What if you try to help people instead of baby robins?” she asked, hugging her father’s neck. Once again, she turned to peer at Lucien and this time did not turn away. Lucien fidgeted uncomfortably under her guileless scrutiny. “Does that count as a good deed?” she wanted to know.

  Lucien noted that Emma, too, had noticed the direction of Lettie’s gaze, as did her father.

  Pinned by their combined scrutiny, and targeted by the child’s question, Lucien had never felt more discomfited in all his life. He straightened abruptly as Emma replied soberly, her voice a little trembly, “Yes, of course, Lettie, though we can merely try.” She cast Lucien an awkward glance. “Some people will not be helped,” she disclosed. And then she lifted her chin. “Those you must simply set free.”

  Lucien had the immediate impression that she was speaking of him. Could that be what she was attempting to do with her frosty demeanor? Set him free? The thought touched him in a way he could not quite perceive.

  Lettie whispered something into her father’s ear, and then Peters stared down at his daughter in what appeared to be surprise, and then sudden enlightenment. He turned to regard Lucien as though he’d had some sort of coup de foudre and then he stood abruptly, chuckling as he lifted his daughter up with him and then set her down before him.

  “You are brilliant!” he said, removing the pipe from his mouth and bending to plant a quick peck upon her forehead. “Very well!” he declared to one and all with a sudden burst of excitement. He straightened to his full height, grinning waggishly. “I believe I shall have the crèche constructed at once!” And he stared at Lucien an uncomfortable instant, shaking his head, chortling, and then cast a wide grin at Emma. And then, still chuckling, he abruptly seized his wife by the hand and dragged her out from her chair, declaring, “Come now, my dear, we have work to do.”

  “Oh, but, Andrew!” his wife exclaimed, abandoning her sewing to the floor as he tugged her unexpectedly to her feet. “What are you doing?” she laughed. “Where are we going? We have a guest!”

  “To build a crèche,” he announced.

  “Willyngham,” Peters said with a nod, as he and his wife slipped past him.

  Lettie exclaimed to her siblings as their parents fled the room, “Yes! And I know a very special good deed we can do!” And then as her father had done with her mother, she urged her elder sister to rise, seizing her by the hand and tugging excitedly. “Come, come!” she urged. “Let me tell you about it.” She glanced at Lucien. “Privately,” she said to her sister and pulled her up and out of the room.

  “I can come, too!” Jonathon announced rather than asked. He bounded to his feet and hurried after them. “Can I? Please!”

  In a rush of flailing limbs, all three children stampeded past Lucien as though he’d not been standing there at all, and within the space of seconds the drawing room had been abandoned... save for himself… and Emma.

  He watched over his shoulder as the children bounded down the hall after their parents, noting that Lettie glanced back at him and then quickly turned away and giggled impishly as she spoke to her brother and sister in hushed tones. He listened to the echoes of their whispers only an instant longer, and then he couldn’t help himself.

  He stepped into the room.

  Chapter Three

  Emma didn’t dare look at the duke—couldn’t bear being in the same room with him—alone, at that. She coul
dn’t imagine what could have possessed everyone to simply abandon her so rudely. She hoped the duke would leave too, but instead he ventured within the drawing room, his footfalls echoing woodenly upon the floor as he made his way across to the hearth. On the Aubusson carpet, he halted beside her, and she swallowed convulsively, not daring to look higher than his boots.

  She daren’t respond to his presence. Instead, she examined her book thoroughly despite that she knew every inch of every page already.

  “That was quite a touching tale,” he remarked after an uncomfortable moment of silence.

  Slowly, Emma peered up to find him skimming his long, lean fingers along the ribbons and tinsel that stretched the length of the mantel, examining it, the male strength in his hand a direct contrast to the delicate strips of satin cloth and brittle foil. The candles burning upon the mantel cast alternating light and shadow upon his profile. He lifted up a cherub and then replaced it at once.

  “Yes, well”—she swallowed convulsively—“I would have thought you would have long since gone, Your Grace.”

  He sighed, turning to face her, his hands locked behind his back. “No doubt you will be pleased to hear I will be leaving first thing in the morning.” His lips curled in that sardonic manner he had, except that this time she wasn’t tempted to brush her fingers across to coax a smile in its place.

  And yet, she tried, but couldn’t tear her gaze away. His eyes were so hypnotic... like before, somehow pleading with her, making her believe he needed her somehow.

  Well, she refused to acknowledge it.

  She lifted her chin slightly. “I should have been significantly more pleased to have learned you’d already gone,” she said honestly, and stood to face him., dropping the book into Andrew’s chair.

  She wanted to say more, wanted to ask what she had done to cause him to set her aside so resolutely, but she couldn’t bring herself to utter a word in that vein. “Now if you will pardon me,” she said, flustered. “We’re in the midst of a holiday celebration, and I have matters to attend.” Turning, she hurried for the door.

  He had the audacity to chuckle at her back.

  Emma halted and turned to face him, insulted by his mirth, only when she did, she had the sense that his laughter had been at his own expense, not hers, and she found herself once again confused.

  He shook his head, as though in self-disgust. “Do I frighten you so much you must rush to leave every time you find yourself in my presence?”

  Emma lifted her chin. “Frightened, Your Grace? I think not.” She shook her head. “I simply have nothing left to say to you.”

  He advanced upon her suddenly, and she took a step backward. “No?”

  “N-no,” she affirmed, though she wasn’t precisely certain whether it was in answer to his question or a desperate plea that he keep his distance.

  “You’ve changed,” he acknowledged, taking another step toward her.

  “And you haven’t,” she returned, withdrawing another foot.

  He shook his head as though in puzzlement and said as though bemused, “I don’t remember you being so impertinent.”

  “What did you expect? That I should lie down and weep for the rest of my days simply because you chose not to honor our betrothal? Well, sirrah, I am heartily sorry to disappoint, but I will not!”

  He shook his head again. “To the contrary... although you may find this difficult to believe, I’m quite pleased. I never intended to wound you, Emma.”

  Emma flinched at his intimate use of her name. His voice was soft—too soft—reminding her of the danger of venturing too close to the man; he radiated warmth, but like the sun, if you happened too near, he consumed. “Well, then, Your Grace,” she said, far more comfortable with formality, “you may rest assured that you did not. As you can see, I am quite well, thank you very much. So now you may leave Newgale in good conscience. You are free to go,” she said again.

  His face screwed suddenly, his blue eyes shadowing. “Am I?”

  Emma didn’t fool herself into believing he actually regretted what had come to pass between them. If his life was in disorder it was certainly no concern of hers. Nor was it any less then he deserved. “Of course,” she assured.

  He took another step closer, his smoky eyes boring into hers. “I take it that you are ultimately pleased with the outcome?”

  Pleased?

  Emma nearly choked on the word. “Delighted,” she replied. And unable to bear the sight of him a second longer, she swallowed and once again turned to leave him. “Now if you will excuse me, Your Grace.”

  To her shock, Lucien caught her by the sleeve, and Emma flinched at his touch, yet turned once more to face him, though the instant she peered into his tortured eyes she wished she hadn’t. They were so filled with concern for her that she thought she might truly weep.

  She couldn’t bear his pity.

  “Please tell me why you seem so aggrieved,” he entreated. “Tell me why you cannot bear even to look at me.”

  Her hands began to tremble and her eyes misted. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. But I am not aggrieved,” she denied fervently. “If anything, I am quite angry, you see.”

  “Because of the broken betrothal?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I have already said quite enough.”

  His blue eyes challenged her. “Tell me once more, Emma,” he demanded softly.

  The sound of her name upon his lips again sent a quiver racing down her spine. Freeing herself from his grasp, Emma said a little hysterically, “Because you don’t belong here, and you shouldn’t have come!”

  His brows lifted a little at her declaration. “Not to put too fine a point on it,” he remarked, nodding. “Very well, Emma.” He sighed and some unnamed emotion flickered in the depth of his eyes. For the briefest instant, Emma thought she saw again that same wounded look that had once made her so willing to love him. But she didn’t fool herself into believing it this time. The duke was no more wounded than he was compassionate. If anything, he was feeling guilty for what he was about to do to her life—and not without cause. She swallowed convulsively, loathing that she was trying so desperately to release him from his guilt, when he well deserved to feel remorse—and more. The ton would have a time with the news of her broken betrothal. She couldn’t imagine the speculation—the cruel jokes at her expense. Still, she proposed, “You owe me nothing, Your Grace. Now if you will only pardon me at long last, I wish you Godspeed and a good life.”

  Lucien nodded, releasing her finally.

  “Godspeed,” she offered once again, more firmly this time, nearly choking on the word, and then she turned from him and left.

  “Farewell, Emma,” he said.

  Emma didn’t turn again, nor did she stop until she reached her room. The finality of that single word pursued her all the way through the house.

  Once within her bedroom, she slammed the door shut and leaned against it, straining to catch her breath. God help her, she had done it. She had well and truly done it. She’d said good-bye and had meant it with all her heart and soul. She’d freed him, and had still managed to retain her dignity. Later, perhaps, dignity alone might seem a cold bedfellow, but this minute it seemed like all the world. It was something to build upon, she knew... and perchance all was not lost.

  It was not unheard of to find a husband at twenty two, she told herself. And she had her dowry still. Quite a neat little sum it was, and if the scandal to come did not ruin her entirely, then perhaps one day she would still find that dream she so craved—a husband who loved her and children she adored.

  Someday, but for now she was content to simply hold her dignity intact.

  Without it, she might as well lie down and weep. And weeping was something she refused to do.

  Nevertheless, she was feeling quite bereft at the instant, and her heart felt tattered besides. Her eyes stinging with tears she would not shed, Emma undressed for bed and then lay down to count her blessings. She fell asleep with visions of Lucien danci
ng in her head.

  Chapter Four

  “What the devil do you mean nothing to be done!”

  Hearing the angry bellow coming from the library, Emma froze where she stood. Her first impulse was to turn and flee, but curiosity got the better of her.

  She’d come downstairs this morning, intending to ask Andrew precisely what had possessed him to allow Lucien Morgen to remain at Newgale, especially after she’d made her own wishes perfectly clear. Nor had she thought the duke any less eager to leave, and yet here he remained, and she heartily suspected Andrew to be at the root of it all. It seemed as though the duke may have suspected the same, for at the moment, they sounded at daggers drawn.

  The duke’s voice boomed even through closed doors. Emma flinched at the fury of it. “You can find those bloody carriage wheels is what you can do!”

  In contrast, Andrew’s reply was quite calm, muffled a bit, but Emma could make it out well enough to discern that it was an apology of some sort. Something about the strangest theft he had ever encountered... didn’t know how they’d managed to steal them all.

  There were no thieves here in Newgale. Barely anyone but modest locals in town, this was not a place where brigands lay in wait.

  Fairly dying with curiosity, Emma placed her ear to the door and overheard, “Blast it, Peters. This reeks of a hum! Who the devil would snatch four carriage wheels and leave pure blood Arabians in their stead?”

  “Demme, if I know,” she heard Andrew mumble. And then, “Don’t look at me, Willyngham. Confounded heathens took mine, as well.”

  “I want those bloody wheels!” she heard the duke roar, and then someone slammed something—the desk, she imagined—with such rage that the doorframe vibrated.

  “How do you propose I do that? I’ve no notion where to be—”

  “I don’t give a damn how!” There was a moment of taut silence, and then the duke demanded, “Just do it!”

  His shouting was so near the door suddenly that Emma panicked at the sound of it. Suppressing a mortified shriek at the thought of being discovered eavesdropping, she flung herself away from the door and dashed down the corridor, hurrying toward the drawing room. To her immense relief, she slipped inside and out of view within an ace of being discovered, only to startle three eavesdropping children.