Lords, Snow and Mistletoe

by Bianca Blythe

  Was this because of him? Had he made her leave?

  Obviously.

  He’d behaved abominably toward her. Forcing her to play the piano like some animal at the zoo.

  That hadn’t been his intention. He’d been angry at her, but where would she go? Maids weren’t known to possess an abundance of funds.

  And Scotland was no place for someone without money.

  Her figure was small, and he gazed at the road and the billows of snow. Evidently she’d convinced one of the grooms to give her a ride on a carriage, and his nostrils flared.

  She shouldn’t be leaving.

  “Wait!” he hollered, but his voice was swallowed by the wind. Devil it.

  “George, George,” he called out quickly.

  His valet came rushing through the adjoining room. “My lord?”

  “I need to get dressed. At once.”

  His valet blinked. “Very well, my lord.”

  “Make the clothes warm. And simple. Not too many buttons.” He gazed out at Flora’s retreating form.

  The valet’s lips quirked up, and Wolfe suppressed a groan.

  If he were smart, he would just stay inside and read his paper and make some general comments to his valet if he got too bored about the state of the world and how it had not improved as much as it could have, but evidently he was not sensible.

  Once his valet helped him dress, Wolfe rushed out to his butler and demanded to know where Flora had gone.

  “I must confess I am not entirely certain,” the butler said. “I could ask the housekeeper though.”

  “Never mind.”

  Wolfe rushed outside. The cold air whipped about him. No one seemed to think it was terribly urgent that Flora was leaving. No matter. He was going to bring her back.

  He’d been too harsh yesterday. Scotland had its charms, but like any part of the British Isles, he would hardly advocate Flora explore it on her own. The idea would be preposterous. Was she even sufficiently rested after her long journey? She obviously was not thinking correctly if she was leaving.

  He sprinted toward the stables, not caring that he was covering himself in snow.

  He ordered a surprised groom to prepare a sleigh. If she was leaving, she most likely needed to catch the coach in the next town.

  Even though the sleigh was prepared hastily, by the time the horses were attached to it, the carriage with Flora was gone.

  “Where to?” the driver asked. “Do you want to visit the lake? The ice is frozen.”

  “No, no,” Wolfe said. “The nearest town. Take me there.”

  “Very well, my lord,” the driver said solemnly. If he was surprised, he did not show it. Wolfe could not remember the last time he’d gone to the neighboring town.

  Soon the sleigh seemed to fly over the snow. Cold wind whipped into Wolfe’s face, but he didn’t care. He just needed to get to Flora. He needed to apologize. He’d treated her dreadfully last night.

  Flora’s father shouldn’t have died without any plans. Flora’s father had been one of the foremost piano tutors in all of Britain. Wolfe knew. His father had boasted on it often. He would hardly have been destitute.

  Wolfe would have expected Flora to become a governess or a teacher. She was intelligent. She played piano brilliantly, and he didn’t want to imagine how well she might play if she had more access to a piano. She shouldn’t be a mere maid.

  Perhaps her position had risen with the duke’s new wife’s, but Wolfe knew the Butterworth family. They were kind people, but of decidedly modest means. Any service job with them would have lacked glamor.

  What exactly had happened to her?

  Finally, the sleigh entered the town.

  “Where would you like to go?” the driver asked. “The public house has an excellent mulled wine.”

  “Nonsense. I’m looking for a girl.”

  The driver’s eyebrows rose.

  “She has brown hair and is pretty with a heart-shaped face and a turned up nose.”

  “You must really like her,” the driver said kindly.

  “What? Nonsense,” Wolfe blustered. “She just happens to be pretty. That’s all.”

  The driver nodded, but Wolfe had the horrible impression he hadn’t entirely convinced him.

  Never mind.

  It was a fact.

  Flora was pretty. Any idiot could tell that.

  “Is that her?” the driver said, pointing to a woman.

  Wolfe could only see her profile from his position in the sleigh, but he recognized her immediately.

  “Yes, that’s her.”

  The driver stopped and Wolfe hopped from the sleigh.

  “Should I wait for you?” the driver asked.

  “Yes, yes. Get yourself a drink,” Wolfe shouted.

  The driver beamed. “I do love Christmas.”

  Wolfe bounded over the road.

  “Wait,” Wolfe hollered to Flora. “Don’t go.”

  Flora turned around.

  He’d found her.

  Wolfe allowed himself to grin.

  Snow fluttered downward, landing on her hat, her cape and even the wisps of dark hair that peeked from her brim and curled enticingly.

  “What are you doing here, my lord?” Flora asked. Her eyes were wide, and she stepped back, a fact he despised.

  “I’m stopping you from leaving,” he declared.

  “My lord?”

  He swallowed hard. “I was unfair yesterday.” He frowned. “Perhaps not precisely unfair, but I should not have made you feel you had to leave.”

  “You worry about the expense?”

  “It is sizeable,” Wolfe said.

  “Indeed.” The woman nodded gravely. “But I am not going to London.”

  “No?”

  A soft smile played upon her lips. “I am going shopping.”

  He blinked.

  “I am very grateful for everything your servants have procured, but there is more to do. Your housekeeper assured me I could order on your credit.”

  “Oh.” Wolfe felt his cheeks warm. He cleared his throat. “What do you desire to purchase?”

  “First I intend to go the haberdashery.”

  “You desire to buy ribbons for your dress.”

  She smiled. “There are many other uses for ribbons. I would like ribbons tied on each candelabra. Emerald green and ruby red, the colors of Christmas.”

  “I see,” he said.

  “And then I would like to procure some spices. Cloves and however many oranges are available. I also have a list of drinks I would like to serve.”

  “Oh.” Wolfe felt foolish he’d rushed out of his home so quickly. He should have just talked to one of his servants.

  “And lastly,” she said, “we’ll need more candles. I was also hoping to find some musicians that will be able to play for us.”

  “My father used to employ some locals. I can give you their information.”

  “Wonderful. They will need to play Christmas music. I have brought sheet music they can use to practice.”

  “Oh. That is very good.”

  “I thought so,” she said. “I assure you, my lord, you will have an excellent, most magnificent Christmas. It’s the very loveliest holiday of them all.”

  “Hmph.” Wolfe glanced toward The Lamb’s Inn, where his driver was undoubtedly regaling himself. Wolfe was reluctant to leave so soon. “I suppose I could accompany you...”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  He shrugged. “I must admit to some curiosity on the wonders of Christmas.”

  “I don’t remember your family celebrating it,” she said quietly.

  He shook his head, and she gave him a soft smile that made him blush. She’d likely seen just how little regard his parents had had for him. It was something he tended to keep quiet from women, particularly pretty ones.

  Not that he would put her in that category. After all, she was simply a servant, not a potential wife or even a potential bed companion for a single night.


  “The streets are more filled than I remember them,” Wolfe said.

  “Mm—hmm. It’s quite hard work to be a commoner.”

  His cheeks heated again, and he glanced in the direction of the haberdashery. Women entered and exited it, carrying packages.

  “Let us not linger,” he said.

  “Very well, my lord.”

  They entered the store, and he was the only man inside the shop. About twenty different women crowded around the small room, and a few people’s eyes widened when they saw him.

  Jeweled and pastel colored fabric lay in interesting spools. Rich velvet, glossy satin and silk, more practical linen and cotton, and lace and floral patterns lay beside one another.

  “You must think this is quite dull,” Flora said.

  “I’ve never been in this sort of store before.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes sparkled. “Welcomed to a haberdashery. I suppose ribbons are never an important part of your costume.”

  He smiled.

  They moved from shop to shop, their arms filled with bags. Finally, they finished. Snowflakes tumbled down, and the wind quickened. The wind’s strength was formidable.

  “My knowledge of shopping is limited,” Wolfe said, “but I do know that public house. According to my driver, they serve an excellent mulled wine there.”

  “I’ve never had a mulled wine before,” Flora said.

  “Then follow me,” Wolfe said, leading them to the gray stone building.

  Chapter Ten

  The earl opened the door to the public house, and Flora stepped inside. The scent of ale and meat pies wafted through the room, and men and women chatted over narrow wooden tables piled high with food. Some of them had parcels tucked underneath. The people’s faces were ruddy, as if warmed by their drinks. The large fire that danced in the hearth undoubtedly had warming powers as well, and when she glanced at her cloak, the snowflakes that had fallen on it were already disappearing.

  Flora’s sole experience of public houses was from traveling. She associated them with an enclosed space filled with grumpy men, all equally irritated by the hassles of the journey, attempting to quell their boredom with drink, but only succeeding in creating boorish behavior. This place seemed imbued with a greater charm. Someone even played a violin. A piano sat unused in the corner of the room, its top adorned with greenery. The grey granite walls might appear sober in another tavern, but the plentitude of candles and their accompanying flickering candlelight rendered everything cheerful.

  The earl turned to her and gave her a reassuring smile, as if they were children again in the nearby forest and he was ascertaining she’d made it over an imposing fallen trunk. He then spoke to the barmaid, who led them to a narrow table.

  Flora’s cloak and the earl’s greatcoat were whisked away, and the earl helped her into a seat, as if it were completely normal for them to dine together.

  Perhaps it was not entirely appropriate for her to be alone with the earl.

  No. This was different. It would not be appropriate for an unmarried woman who was a member of the ton to be alone with him, but she was a servant, and the rules were different. They were there for convenience’s sake, and that was it.

  “We don’t have to be here,” she said.

  “Of course we do,” he said. “I want to apologize for my behavior last night. I was surprised. You played beautifully.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are very talented,” he said, and warmth flew to Flora’s cheeks.

  “I enjoyed it,” she admitted. “In the end.”

  “I suppose you don’t often play before audiences,” the earl mused.

  “Indeed not.”

  He leaned back, and his attire tightened around his chest. Flora averted her eyes. He’d evidently dressed hastily, for he’d seemed to have selected a too small waistcoat. The broad width of his chest was assuredly evident. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and dark strands of hair prickled his face, imbuing him with an added masculinity that was entirely unnecessary. The man was already an Adonis.

  Butterflies invaded Flora’s chest. Ever since she’d met the earl again, they’d developed a decidedly annoying habit of flapping their invisible wings at the most inopportune times and robbing her of knowing what to say.

  Her fingers trembled, and she shoved them on her lap and attempted to smile.

  “This is nice,” she squeaked.

  The earl was a kind man, even if he did run a gaming hell, a venue not traditionally known for its adherence to virtue.

  After a short while, the barmaid came and placed drinks before them.

  Flora leaned forward and inhaled the ruby colored drink.

  “It’s mulled wine,” the earl said. “Perfect for Christmas.”

  “Oh.”

  The earl shrugged, but his lips were already spreading into a smile. “I know some things about the holiday.” He picked up his tankard, and they clinked.

  The barmaid brought food to the table.

  “It’s delicious,” Flora remarked, biting into a meat pie.

  “I’m glad.” The earl leaned forward conspiratorially. “It’s the first time I’m here.”

  “I suppose this is not near London.”

  “Indeed not.”

  “They’ve decorated it nicely for the holiday,” Flora remarked, observing the evergreen boughs and other greenery.

  It was better to scrutinize her surroundings than the man before her. One thing had been when they’d been shopping, and she could concentrate on her shopping tasks, but quite another was to sit across from him, as if they were a proper couple.

  “The wonderful thing about Christmas is that all of the garlands have meanings,” she said quickly, seizing on something to say, though not quite comfortable with her pedantic topic.

  “Is that so?” the earl’s eyes shone.

  “Yes,” Flora squeaked.

  He gazed around the room. He seemed to hesitate and then he pointed to some greenery hanging from a low beam. “I see this often. What is it?”

  Warmth surged over her cheeks. “That’s mistletoe.”

  Mistletoe was common at this time of year, but somehow in his presence, her voice wobbled. She almost looked away. “Servants have a tradition of kissing beneath it. It is supposed to be bad luck to refuse a kiss.”

  “Ah. How very romantic.”

  “Mm...hmm,” she said, and her heart squeezed. Discussing this with him differed from discussing it with anyone else. It was the sort of conversation that made her wonder what it would be like to kiss...him.

  The room seemed to grow more still, and it took a moment for her to realize that the violinist had simply stopped playing, and that not all the world had stopped.

  A man approached the table. Flora had seen him behind the bar and she imagined this was the publican. The man bowed. “It is a pleasure to have you here, my lord.”

  “My lord?” The man from the table beside them looked up. “Is that the earl?”

  “It is indeed,” the publican said. “Isn’t it?” his voice wobbled as if he weren’t entirely certain.

  “I’m Lord McIntyre,” the earl said.

  “Taking the missus to our pub,” the other man beamed. “There’s not anything like The Lamb’s Inn.”

  Flora’s cheeks heated again. The man thought them married. She didn’t want to look at Wolfe.

  “I hardly think he would take a countess ‘ere,” another man said.

  “Of course he would,” the first man declared. “Ain’t nothing nicer.”

  The earl cleared his throat. “Though this woman is beautiful and refined, she is not my wife.”

  “Yet,” another man called out, and the room laughed.

  “She’s working on creating a Christmas ball,” the earl said.

  “Ah, my very favorite holiday,” the publican said.

  Wolfe’s eyes glimmered, and he leaned toward Flora. “Why don’t you play some Christmas music on the piano?”

  “I couldn�
�t,” she said.

  “Why not? It will be fun. And I’ve heard you play.”

  Playing before an audience. That would be a novel experience. That was something she’d avoided.

  But this was not London. This would not get back to anyone. And it would be pleasant, just once, to perform.

  She rose, and the earl smiled.

  She didn’t want to contemplate how easy it was to go along with his suggestions, how nice it was to make him smile.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the earl said, “may I present the wonderful Miss—”

  She gave him a strained look.

  “Miss Schmidt, bringing you a Christmas collection.”

  The people in the public house clapped politely.

  Flora’s heart soared, and she smiled at his excessive display. She sat down at the piano, removed her gloves and stared down at the keys, conscious of two dozen eyes staring at her. And then, with a flourish, she began to play.

  She chose a light song. The men started to sing the notes. Their deep voices lacked polish, and they knew the choruses far better than the rest of the verses, but it didn’t matter. It was amusing, and she tried to remember the last time she’d experienced such amusement.

  Her fingers pranced over the black and white keys, and her heart sang.

  After she finished the song, a shadow fell over the piano keys. She gazed up. The earl stood before her. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Naturally not,” she said.

  He sat beside her, and even though his leg did not touch hers, she was aware of it.

  She frowned. One wasn’t supposed to retain childhood fancies decades later.

  “Do you know The Twelve Days of Christmas?” The earl’s voice rumbled in her ear.

  She nodded.

  “I’ll play the accompanying part,” he said.

  They played together, and for the first time in a long time, she felt not nearly as alone.

  Finally, the driver appeared, and Flora knew it was time to leave. The earl must have spoken to him before he joined her. At some point the packages had been swept up, and she wondered how long they’d been playing. The earl did not seem to mind.

  Flora and the earl stood, and the crowd in the public house applauded.

  Flora curtsied, and the earl swept into a deep bow.

  “I was happy to have that moment,” she said.