The Art of Kissing Beneath the Mistletoe

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  Unbidden, a bittersweet memory accosted her, bringing a telltale sting to her eyes and a burn to her cheeks—why, she hadn’t any clue, because, in truth, she had so little left to be scandalized over. After all, how did one forget one’s own father was a villain?

  After everything that transpired this past year, her mother was in high dudgeon, her best friend had forsaken her, and her father was in gaol.

  There was nothing left to celebrate.

  Nothing left at all.

  Moreover, her best friend’s wedding plans were proceeding entirely without her. All of London was atwitter over the news, and everything Lexie had learned about the exalted occasion, she’d gleaned from the paper, not from Claire.

  Supposedly, confronted by his long-lost son, the King of Meridian was now abdicating his throne, leaving his entire kingdom to a penurious lord from Scotland. From rags to riches, that was the story. Brought together by extraordinary circumstance, a London bluestocking was now a society darling, and a penniless Earl would soon be a celebrated king. And to make matters worse—or better, depending upon the perspective—the two had overcome ill-fortune at the hands of Lexie’s own father, only to rise above it all and shine.

  Astounding.

  Incredible.

  Unthinkable.

  And nevertheless, Alexandra had half a mind to tear down that bloody sprig, although she couldn’t quite allow herself to indulge in such a fit of temper.

  Really, if she was angry over the turn of her own fate, it wasn’t Claire’s fault, nor was it the servants’ faults.

  Claire was brave, smart and beautiful, never afraid to speak her mind. Nor was she one to sit idly by, leaving the men in her life to save her. When hardship presented itself, Claire took her brother’s trials to heart, putting on her walking boots and scouring the streets—quite literally—for an answer to save him. In doing so, she’d stumbled upon her own providence. During the course of saving Ben, she’d met her fiancé—or rather, he ran her down, again very literally, as she was crossing High Street. The thought turned Alexandra’s lips ever so slightly, and really, if it weren’t due to the troubles her own father heaped upon that poor family, she might have laughed over the sweet turn of fate.

  Let the servants have turns in the closet, she decided, and feeling lonelier than she had in her entire life—and that was saying quite a lot—she turned her back on the offending sprig and walked away, any desire for peaches and cream for breakfast entirely quashed.

  Tears pricked at her eyes.

  Sadness enveloped her.

  Somewhere out there, folks were ringing in the holidays. House parties were being planned, Christmas geese were prepared for roasting, pianofortes being tuned and shined, and all about good cheer was being had. But not here at Huntington Manor, and not for a long time.

  If Alexandra must speak true, this misery had been a long, long time coming. Her mother had retreated to the country years ago, and her father had never bothered to see himself home for the holidays. Most often, he’d spent his Christmases abroad. Her parents were adversaries in every respect, and so it had seemed to Alexandra that her mother was too quick to find fault and too easy to rile, not merely with her father, but with Lexie as well—and particularly after that “incident” in Shropshire. Don’t think for a moment she didn’t recall all the arguments ringing through their halls, only now that she understood so much about her father, she felt chagrined over ever having taken his side. Sadly, her mother now refused to forgive her “betrayal,” considering it a disloyalty of royal proportions that her only daughter had chosen to remain in London with her “tosspot” father.

  Siblings had never been in question for Alexandra, and she had so oft wondered how she was ever conceived at all. And now, here she was, with her father incarcerated, her mother disaffected, no siblings to consider, no friends… and so it was that, here again, she was pathetically alone for the holidays.

  “Fa la la la la,” she groused.

  And really, who cared if the servants were all cavorting! She had spent too many years being overly concerned about propriety. What had it gotten her?

  Nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  Conversely, Claire had flouted nearly every rule, and here she was, soon to be a queen! How very extraordinary! How titillating! Or, at least it might be if Alexandra were allowed to share in her good friend’s fortune. Instead, she was left alone to oversee a household of delinquent servants.

  Missing Claire so very desperately, she made her way toward the stairwell, fully intending to go upstairs and read… or sketch… or perhaps both. After all this time, sketching was still her greatest joy. It helped to pass the time and kept her mind off other matters she ought not to be dwelling upon. She no longer cared what anybody thought about her passions, and Claire would marvel most of all over the changes that had come over her—but this was the saddest part of all: Claire might never know it.

  And Ben…

  Well, she’d rather not think about him at all.

  Ben, with those startling green eyes. Ben, with his silky, sun-kissed hair. Ben, with his ever-so-patrician nose. And, no, don’t dare think about his lips!

  No, no, no, no.

  Determined to forget the Wentworths entirely, Alexandra had one foot on the steps, ready to ascend when there came a very unexpected knock on the front door.

  A bell rang in the servant’s quarters, and a distant door opened and closed. Before Alexandra could turn, she heard the butler’s footsteps rushing down the hall. Hair mussed and red-faced, Mr. Robinson appeared, straightening his collar. “I’ll get it, Miss Huntington,” he said, hurrying past.

  “Certainly,” Alexandra said, curious to see who it might be. No one ever called upon their residence anymore. Huntington Manor was nothing more than a curiosity now, a thing to point the finger at whilst passing in a hansom.

  “It’s for Lady Alexandra,” the courier said—a man with a foreign accent. Alexandra lingered, eavesdropping.

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Robinson, “I will deliver it.”

  Lexie frowned. Turning on the step, curling her toes in her slippers, waiting eagerly for Mr. Robinson to close the door, and when he did, she tilted him a questioning glance.

  “For you,” the butler said, the color still high in his cheeks—no doubt flushed over his exertions in the closet.

  “Thank you,” Alexandra said, and though she would have also liked to give him her blessing for whatever he was about in that closet, she hadn’t very much good will left to squander. Even so, she wouldn’t scold him, either.

  Sighing wearily, she accepted the envelope… a letter addressed to her—perhaps from her father in Newgate. He’d been placed in a convict’s prison—no mere debtor’s gaol, like Fleet or Marshalsea. And now that his fate was sealed, he was doling out their private, financial information and instructions in measures. But the letter wasn’t from her father. It smelled of… lavender. She turned it over… and sucked in a breath.

  Claire.

  Like a child with a present, she thrust a finger eagerly beneath the seal in order to break it and tore open the envelope. Alexandra was still holding her breath when she drew out the folded invitation and began to read…

  His Royal Highness, the Prince of Meridian and his esteemed wife cordially invite you to spend the holiday in celebration with friends and family. Wednesday, 19 December through Sunday, 1 January.

  Surrey. There was an unfamiliar address attached, with instructions for the driver.

  Was it true? Was Claire inviting her to share the holiday?

  A glimmer of joy ignited in Alexandra’s breast. Months and months and months had passed without word from Claire, but no matter. Here was an invitation to share the holiday!

  “Thank you so much!” she exclaimed to Mr. Robinson. “Thank you!” And she pressed the note to her bosom and rushed up the stairs, her stomach flip-flopping with glee—a feeling not so unlike the one she used to get when she thought about seeing Ben. Joy s
oared through her.

  Let the servants have their way with the house.

  Surrey, here I come!

  * * *

  It was high time to set things right.

  Claire and Alexandra had been estranged for far too long now, and, really, it wasn’t so much that Claire was avoiding the confrontation, she simply had too much to do. It didn’t matter how sensible one could be; when one was marrying a prince, all thought of austerity flew out the window. There was a certain standard that must be kept, regardless of one’s personal sensibilities. After all, a prince was a future king, and a future king must have a wedding in accordance with his station. But at least she had a kindred spirit in the daily struggle, because her fiancé had not been raised to take his seat upon a throne. If indeed it could be possible, Ian MacEwen was even less concerned with proprieties than she was. Unfortunately, they hadn’t only themselves to think of anymore. Until now, there had been so much to do that Claire hadn’t had a moment to stop and think how the scandal with Alexandra’s father must have affected her dearest friend.

  No doubt Lexie was still brooding. She was so much like Ben, and now more than ever, she believed those two were meant for each other.

  For months now, Claire had hoped Lexie would come of her own accord. She had been more than prepared to allow her the time she needed to come to terms with the entire sordid affair, but it was becoming very apparent that she would not do so, and time was growing short.

  To begin with, some tiny part of Claire had insisted that Alexandra be the one to come and offer support. But really, beyond apologies for something Alexandra had had no control over, she was bound to be feeling ashamed, guilty and perhaps even unwelcome in Claire’s home. It was only natural. And, having realized as much, she had resolved to put her good friend’s mind and heart at ease. Alas, one week turned into two, and two into six, and six into months—all the while Claire had far too many people tugging at her skirts. Do this, do that, see to this, see to that—and all “right now.”

  Now, after all this time, Alexandra couldn’t possibly understand that Claire didn’t blame her, because she couldn’t read minds, and sadly, Claire hadn’t had the wherewithal to see past her own whirlwind affairs to help make it easier for the poor dear to bear.

  To be sure, some small part of her also dreaded seeing Alexandra. How could she face Lexie knowing full well that Lexie would know exactly what her odious father intended?

  Even now, the memory of the ordeal—the offensive place Lord Huntington had taken her—was enough to put a tremble on her lips. If she never saw that man again so long as she lived, that would be too soon. But as far as Lexie was concerned, it was now or never. In less than two months’ time Claire would be departing London, perhaps forever, and she might never forgive herself if she didn’t find some way to make things right with her oldest and dearest friend.

  What was more, she couldn’t abandon Lexie to spend another holiday alone in that terrible house.

  Long, long before the scandal with her father, something had transpired between mother and daughter to damage their relationship. Lady Eveline might never return to London, but neither would she invite her daughter to Shropshire, and Alexandra was clearly not the sort to press herself upon others. And meanwhile, until his recent incarceration, Lexie’s odious father had spent nearly every holiday abroad, leaving his only daughter to manage his estate—such as it was, because Lexie never had much say over what transpired in that house. Essentially, she had been a tenant herself, achingly alone in the absence of her embittered parents.

  But there it was… someone must rise above these circumstances, and so it, seemed, that person must be Claire. Love was the catalyst for her own happiness, and she felt that if only she could put Ben and Alexandra together, they would find a way to work it out. Those two had always been flirtatious, even when neither would admit it. As different as they were, Claire had even wondered if Alexandra befriended her only to be close to Ben. And Ben, well… for all that he was a fanciable bachelor, he didn’t seem to have eyes for anyone but Lexie. Oh, but he liked to talk a good game—so did Lexie—but the proof of the plum pudding was in the eating. Claire adored Lexie. She loved Ben. Two more deserving people she had never known. If only she had her druthers, she would leave both with a hopeful future. But so, it seemed, this schedule would be the death of her; she was rushing toward yet another appointment when Ryo returned from his errand, giving Claire a nod as he walked in the door.

  “You delivered it?”

  “Hai,” he said.

  “And she accepted?”

  Her fiancé’s newly acquired manservant shrugged. “I cannot presume to say, okusama.”

  He gave her a reverent nod, placing his hands behind his back, the slight gesture a heartfelt bow. Claire liked him. Though ofttimes he was a walking riddle, and sometimes his deference was odd, she enjoyed his wit. And, besides, she recognized a loyal servant when she met one. He might have served Ian’s brother loyally, but his new assignment didn’t appear to be the least bit of a conflict. His duty was to the family he served, and to the royal house of Meridian, to which Claire would soon be attached. He was ever present, and yet invisible besides.

  “Of course,” said Claire, her shoulders drooping, only belatedly realizing that, yes, of course, he would have given her invitation to a butler. Alexandra would never, ever presume to answer her own door, and she would be less inclined now since she could never be entirely sure it wasn’t a correspondent from the Times. Hopefully, that scandal with her father would soon die down, and in the meantime, Claire had an urgent appointment to keep with her dressmaker. She’d kept the woman from Courtauld’s waiting too long already, only to be certain her special “holiday decorations” were off and away. However, if she didn’t hurry back upstairs, the lady would lose patience and depart, and, according to the Duchess of Kent, there was simply no one else available to deliver a wedding gown befitting a royal bride, not to mention the bridesmaids dresses she required.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Please tell my brother I will join him directly.”

  “Yes, okusama,” he said, but she turned once more when she was halfway up the stairs. “Oh!” she said. “And Ryo… please, please don’t tell anyone where I sent you—particularly not my brother.”

  “Yes, okusama,” he said, once again, only this time with the barest hint of a smile… as though he knew what she was up to, and nevertheless, Claire knew he would keep her confidence. The man was a godsend. Already once he’d saved her life, and knowing how much she’d come to count on him, Ian had lent him to her service until after the wedding. She simply didn’t know what she would do without him. “Thank you,” she said, and flew up the stairs.

  Chapter 2

  Rule No. 2:

  On Matchmaking.

  You may, indeed, hang mistletoe for your own romantic designs. And nevertheless, please be prepared to accept kiss commands from anybody who might be caught beneath the mistletoe with you. Remember: It is very bad etiquette to refuse a mistletoe kiss request. (And risky besides! Please see Rule No. 6.)

  Benjamin Alexander Wentworth, the seventh Earl of Highbury, sat fiddling with his pancakes, pushing them about his plate.

  It was perfectly inconceivable how lonely a busy household could feel. It had been years since their breakfast table was so well laden, and now Claire hadn’t two seconds to spare to stop and fill her belly. She woke in a tizzy, ran about like a maelstrom, and so much as Ben loved how happy Claire was, he was beginning to dread the indubitable fact that she would very soon be departing London. If, indeed, he thought the house felt lonely now, he knew it would feel lonelier then, though at least their fortunes were much improved.

  Months ago, mired in the gaming hells, he might not have imagined things going so well. Now, his house was in order, his sister was marrying royalty, and, no thanks to his own poor choices, his debts were fully paid. Not since his youth had he had so much hope for their futures, and, for the first time
since their father’s untimely death, he wasn’t at all concerned over Claire’s future or welfare. Moreover, it would be a cold day in hell before he endangered their prosperity again. And nevertheless, despite the rosy color of their futures, there was a certain melancholy plaguing him of late—nothing he could put a finger to, not precisely, though it was there just the same.

  Something was missing; what it was, he daren’t say.

  On the surface, there could be nothing at all to inform his mood. He was, in truth, the man of his own household now. The future was his alone to shape.

  Pancakes. Juice. Bacon. Biscuits…

  What could he possibly find to complain about?

  For Chrissakes, his future brother by law was a finer man than any man he could have ever hoped for. And to boot, Ben had made himself a new associate besides. Wes Cameron was an interesting bloke, with stories enough to entertain him for a lifetime, so then… why did he feel so… utterly…

  Bored?

  Glum?

  Restless?

  Perhaps it wasn’t possible to endure what he’d endured and come out of the ordeal unscathed. But there it was, he supposed. He wasn’t the same bloke he was this time last year, and no matter that he was pleased enough for Claire, he could not abide the glitter and gold—nor the influx of servants, or the eternal and cloying scent of flowers wafting in and out from every corner of the house.

  Highbury’s halls were brightly lit, with Chocolate Limes, Brandy Balls, Clove Rocks and Wine Gums filling nearly every porcelain dish on every table in every common room, and there was enough sweetness and light to curdle the buttermilk cakes settling in his belly.

  Bloody Norah!

  A servant brought in a bit of rich plum pudding to set it on the buffet—not so much a breakfast choice, but since it was made weeks ago, and they would be gone for Christmas, it must be eaten. He detected the tangy scent of citron, orange and lemon peel, and it triggered a memory he preferred not to remember. Frowning, he pushed back his chair, rising up from the table, his appetite effectively quashed.