Lords, Snow and Mistletoe

by Bianca Blythe

  “I apologize,” Frederick said. “But had you not jerked away, you would have seen that my material is waterproof.”

  A thought occurred to Celia, and she smiled up at Frederick. “I used the extra material from when I made the frockcoat under my clothes to keep dry while washing dishes.”

  “Give it to me.” He put her down on the carpet, and her feet sank into the thick pile.

  She lifted her apron and removed the material.

  “Celia,” Lady Fitzroy called out. “What on earth are you doing? You’re not fit to be seen here. These are important men.”

  Frederick turned around and grinned. “I do like to think of myself as important.”

  “You—” Lady Fitzroy sputtered, and her face whitened.

  “Hold this,” he directed Admiral Fitzroy. “And make sure it’s tight.”

  Admiral Fitzroy’s eyes widened, but he did as he was told.

  Frederick smiled. “I just need a drink.” He spotted the champagne bottle and grinned. “I suppose that’s very expensive champagne.”

  “Why naturally,” Lady Fitzroy said.

  “Good.” Frederick grabbed the bottle and uncorked it.

  Being a footman had taught him some useful things.

  Champagne sputtered over Lady Fitzroy’s table. He’d spent time setting the table, and a tinge of guilt tinged through him.

  But he remembered how Lady Fitzroy had treated Celia. The half-sister to her own daughters. A child in her house.

  Frederick poured the champagne over the waterproof material. This time Admiral Fitzroy did not run away. He focused on the flow.

  “It didn’t spill through,” Admiral Fitzroy said in wonder.

  “It’s waterproof,” Frederick beamed.

  “This is most splendid,” the admiral said.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “You’ll have to visit me in Whitehall,” the admiral said. “The sooner the better.”

  “George!” Lady Fitzroy huffed.

  “I apologize for the fish course,” Frederick said. “Though perhaps it will be good you’ll have fewer dishes to clean. I’m taking your scullery maid with me.”

  Lady Fitzroy contorted her face: her lips swerved into downward swoops, and her eyebrows pressed together. Her eyes hardened, but it didn’t matter.

  Celia giggled.

  “Don’t change your mind,” Frederick said sternly. “I made a dreadful footman, though I promise I’ll be a good husband.”

  “I won’t change my mind,” Celia said solemnly.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” Frederick said in his booming voice that would have suited him for the theater, “Let me introduce my betrothed to you.”

  “Celia!” Lady Fitzroy stuttered. “I told you not to speak with him! You’ll never work again. I’ll see to that.”

  “She won’t need to when she’s a duchess,” Frederick said. “Which makes her higher ranked than you?”

  Lady Fitzroy’s face reddened.

  “No matter.” Frederick turned to the guests. “I believe I am out a position. Farewell.”

  Frederick continued to clasp her and strode through the townhome. She’d lived here for so many years.

  “My things,” she said.

  “I’ll buy you new things, my love,” he said.

  She smiled.

  “Unless there’s something of sentimental value?”

  She shook her head. She’d never known her mother, and didn’t have anything from her.

  “In that case,” Frederick said, “Let’s go.”

  They stepped into the outdoors. Snow crunched under Frederick’s boots, and partygoers headed for Twelfth Night celebrations.

  Celia inhaled the crisp air. The stars sparkled before her, and she was in Frederick’s arms.

  Life was good.

  Epilogue

  Christmas, 1827

  “We could send a footman to cut down a pine tree.” The butler handed Frederick an axe.

  “It’s not the first time you’ve suggested it,” Frederick said.

  The butler sighed. “I suppose it won’t be the last time.”

  “Traditions are lovely,” Frederick said.

  The butler nodded solemnly, even though Frederick had never expressed much interest in tradition before wedding Celia.

  He handed Celia the axe and hoisted their three-year-old son Edmund on his shoulders. Their oldest son Freddie, already at the advanced age of six, ran ahead. They departed the breakfast room. The servants were preparing the house for the guests. The vicomte and vicomtesse would be joining them this year.

  Celia and he strode over the black and white floor, past the burning yule log that filled the manor home with its earthy scent. The wood crackled pleasantly, and the occasional gold spark flew, landing against the elegant cast iron screen.

  Garlands and crimson ribbons adorned the once somber room, though elegant landscape paintings further brightened it. After living her whole life in London, Celia had embraced the countryside, with all its dramatic peaks, rich colors, and pleasant valleys.

  Edmund brushed his fingers against the garlands. Frederick’s mother was playing one of the German Christmas carols becoming popular, and when Freddie and Edmund sang the words, Frederick and Celia joined in.

  It didn’t matter if some of the newer servants stopped to stare.

  They could be eccentric.

  They just needed to be happy.

  The butler opened the door for them, and they stepped outside. The wind hummed as it swept through the rows of trees, and the frozen water in the fountain glistened under the sunbeams.

  They moved over the snow, wearing the waterproof boots Celia had created for them, and which he imagined Admiral Fitzroy would find a welcome addition to his already popular collection of waterproof frockcoats. They rounded the manor house, passing the elegant columns until they came to the pine trees. The gardener had taken to planting more of them, and some years neighbors came to haul them off. Perhaps the London set might raise their exquisitely plucked eyebrows at his un-English habit of bringing trees into the home and decorating them, but they looked dashed festive.

  “Important question,” he said. “Who remembered measuring tape?”

  “I did.” Edmund squealed and dangled it over Frederick’s eyes.

  He laughed and removed Edmund from his shoulders. “Now, let’s choose the best one.”

  “I have paper,” Celia said.

  “And a quill?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “We’re not going to stain this beautiful snow. I have a pencil.”

  Frederick swept Celia into his arms and kissed her.

  “Ew,” Freddie groaned. “You do that all that time.”

  “Because your mother happens to be the very loveliest woman in the world,” he said.

  “Hmph,” Freddie said.

  Edmund seemed far more interested in assessing the pine trees’ trunks and seemed to be happily crawling underneath the branches.

  “Now you should be measuring.” Frederick handed Freddie the measuring tape.

  “Right,” Freddie said, more pleased.

  He might be young, but he delighted in everything science or math related.

  They lingered a while, measuring and comparing pine trees, until Freddie and Edmund were satisfied that they’d chosen the very best one.

  He smiled.

  He’d already chosen the very best wife.

  “I love you, sweetheart,” he murmured to her.

  Her cheeks still pinkened delightfully. “I love you too.”

  Thank you for reading The Wrong Heiress for Christmas. I hope you loved spending time with Celia and Frederick. Don’t Tie the Knot begins the Wedding Trouble series and is set in the same regency world as the Matchmaking for Wallflowers series.

  Tap here to order now.

  Don’t Tie the Knot

  What’s the worst that can happen at a wedding?

  A troublesome wedding invitation...

  When Hamish Montgo
mery learns his brother is getting married, he vows to stop the wedding. After all, his brother is a duke and is intended for someone else.

  A determined bridesmaid...

  Georgiana Butterworth is startled when a handsome Scotsman breaks into her bedroom and brandishes money. Evidently, he’s mistaken her for her newly engaged sister and is trying to bribe her into not marrying his brother. Georgiana knows one thing: she won’t permit this man to ruin her sister’s chance for everlasting happiness.

  A wedding that mustn’t be stopped...

  Hamish may be determined to stop the wedding, but Georgiana is intent to make certain the wedding happens, no matter what she has to do to distract him.

  Tap here to order now.

  THE EARL’S CHRISTMAS CONSULTANT

  Flora has been masquerading as a French maid for years. Though she despises having to hide her skill at the piano and has no innate fondness for mending, she is happy to no longer be on the run. When a handsome earl who sent butterflies fluttering through her chest as a child discovers her French is atrocious, Flora is in immediate need of a new position, lest her true identity be discovered.

  Christmas has never been Lord Wolfe McIntyre’s favorite season. His parents never celebrated it, and he never imagined he would succumb to sentimentality as an adult. After all, he runs a gaming hell. But when his sister’s engagement is broken, Wolfe vows to host a magnificent holiday ball so his sister can find a husband before the next season. The only problem? His lack of knowledge about the holiday.

  Wolfe is shocked when his friend’s maid appears at his manor house in Scotland. When he hired a Christmas consultant, he expected a stern Bavarian woman with a knowledge of Yule logs, not an alluring young woman whom he last saw claiming a blatantly false identity and who seems distressed at seeing him. Wolfe is even more shocked when he discovers he... desires her. Earls are certainly not supposed to find their servants appealing, no matter how much they fill their homes with Yuletide joy and music. But perhaps there’s a reason Flora looks familiar...

  Other books in the Wedding Trouble series:

  Don’t Tie the Knot

  Dukes Prefer Bluestockings

  The Earl’s Christmas Consultant

  How to Train a Viscount

  A Kiss for the Marquess

  Chapter One

  The drawing room was empty, the townhouse quiet, but Flora tiptoed over dark wooden floorboards and sumptuous Persian rugs. She did not linger at the Duke of Vernon’s collection of glistening china or at the immaculate portraits of people who would be horrified to discover her in the duke’s parlor. The ebony and ivory keys of the piano gleamed enticingly from one corner of the room, but Flora settled instead in an armchair, conscious the velvet upholstery and gilded fluting were intended for aristocrats and not servants.

  Flora removed a book she’d hidden with her sewing. Her heart thrummed a nervous rhythm, and she fought her inclination to flee. Flora favored working in the quiet of her bedroom, but that would leave her subject to discovery. Servant quarters offered little privacy. The other servants would gossip if they read the title of her book, and that was an impossibility.

  The book’s scarlet binding glared at her. La Grammaire Française. Flora opened it and forced herself to study the rows of nouns and verbs.

  If only she’d devoted time to French when she was younger.

  If only she hadn’t convinced her father to let her pursue Italian.

  If only she hadn’t needed to acquire a new identity, and if only she hadn’t chosen to pretend to be a French maid.

  The only thing anyone knew about her was that she was French. How could she admit her lie?

  Feigning being French had seemed clever. What better way to explain a lack of references than to declare herself a refugee? And what better way to ensure her identity remain secret than to give herself a new name and a new past?

  Now Flora was no longer a maid in a vicarage in Norfolk, but a lady’s maid to a duchess in the very capital in which her father had died. Even worse, the Duchess of Vernon intended to move to Guernsey with her husband, and she’d hinted frequently at the large number of French speakers on the island.

  No, only one solution existed: Flora had to learn French. She firmed her gaze. Je suis, tu es, il est...

  The words blurred together. Most students didn’t commence studying after a full day of service, and Flora swallowed back a yawn. Unfortunately no subject approached music in magnificence, and no subject surpassed French in dullness. Some people lauded the language, expressing a strange enthusiasm for its nasal sounds, but some people also had supported Bonaparte. She concentrated on the words. Nous sommes, vous êtes, ils sont...

  Music flowed through her, as if inspired by the rhythm of the words. Flora’s fingers itched, and she resisted the urge to jot down notes to the melody. That life was over.

  She had a new life, one that involved cleaning and sewing and French grammar books. Her life might be unideal, but at least she was alive. There were worse things than French verbs.

  A creak sounded, and she stiffened. The softness of the armchair, expertly created by some artisan, did not lessen her sudden discomfort.

  Please let no one find me.

  Footsteps approached, and before Flora could decide whether she should pretend to be cleaning, even though a lady’s maid shouldn’t be in this room, a shadow fell over her. Fear prickled her spine, and she braced herself for a chiding from the butler or housekeeper.

  Slowly she lifted her gaze.

  No scowling upper servant stood before her.

  Instead a man attired in gentlemen’s clothes arched an eyebrow.

  He was tall and imposing and exuded aristocratic charm. Flora’s stomach tumbled downward.

  The quality of his clothes was impeccable. Flora knew. She’d become an expert in attire. She knew all about mending and sewing and cutting patterns. She knew which fabric lasted, and which didn’t.

  Flora slammed her book shut. She rose hastily, and the book clattered to the floor with a thud worthy of the most horrendous compilation of subjunctive verbs, lengthy lists of nouns, and headache-inducing grammatical explanations.

  “La Grammaire Française,” the man read, and his lips curled into a smirk and amusement danced in his dark eyes. “I could have sworn the Duchess of Vernon mentioned you were French.”

  Fiddle-faddle.

  Out of all the people to see her reading, it had to be the Earl of McIntyre, the Duke of Vernon’s best friend.

  If only he does not find my features familiar.

  Flora forced her eyelashes down, resisting the urge to peer at him. He was taller than she remembered, and his figure seemed composed of muscular planes. His voice had deepened, though his particular shade of caramel colored hair and the exact shade of brown in his eyes remained the same.

  He’d always been handsome, and familiar butterflies settled into her chest, even though the last time butterflies had been there, they’d been in Scotland and she’d been seven.

  She stiffened, but when she dared glance at him again, he continued to survey her with mild amusement.

  “You’re the first French maid I know who reads French grammar books, lassie,” the man said.

  “It eez my half day,” Flora said hastily, forcing herself to use the French accent she’d adopted when she’d first arrived at the Butterworth vicarage. “I can read anything I like. I wanted to see how they teach French to ze English.”

  “Ze English?” The earl’s eyes twinkled. The man’s presence was unnerving.

  Confessing was impossible. She rather wished maids were given fans, and not only for their cooling purposes, even though heat seemed to surge within her, and their cooling purposes would be welcome. Having an object with which to hide one’s face at sudden notice would be magnificent. Instead, she grabbed her feather duster and angled it to obscure her face. “You are most charming, my lord.”

  He lifted his eyebrows, and the earl opened the grammar book. “Je
suis, tu es, il est, elle est, on est, Nous...” He paused. “Tell me, what comes after?”

  “Sommes,” she said hastily. “Naturellment.”

  He put the book down. Thankfully he stopped smirking. “That’s correct.”

  “Of course it is,” she said, and her heart sang.

  “In my experience the French refrain from pronouncing the ‘s’ at the end. And the word does not contain two syllables.”

  “Oh.” The joy that cascaded through her promptly halted, as if she were a musician who’d played the wrong note and was now subjected to a conductor’s glare.

  Lord McIntyre’s glare seemed sufficiently intimidating.

  Flora swallowed hard. She had to fix this. If he mentioned this to the duke... “That’s just the—er—accent of my people, monsieur. We were not part of ze high society,” she said. “That’s why you must be unfamiliar with it.” She forced herself to laugh. “I am flattered I have adjusted so well to this country zat you think me English. I am very proud. You should have seen me when I first arrived.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he said flatly. “You’re not French.”

  The words jolted her from her carefully constructed world. She’d heard the words before, but only uttered in nightmares. Her throat dried and she felt faint, as if she were once again witnessing a knife plunging into flesh.

  Flora had never considered going on stage, but she’d been pretending to be French for years. No one had ever doubted her before.

  “You’re not who you say you are,” Lord McIntyre said.

  “N-nonsense,” Flora stammered. She shifted her legs. The Persian carpet might be more luxurious than anything in the servant’s quarters, and it might even be more luxurious than anything in the former house in which she’d worked, but now it brought her no comfort.

  “You’re pretending.” The earl fixed his eyes on her, and Flora felt at risk of being mesmerized. Fiddle-faddle. She forced her gaze away quickly, conscious her cheeks seemed to be on fire. The man must have been cavorting with Hephaestus, the Greek god of fire, himself.

  Or Hades.