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Cold enough to freeze Lucifer’s ears off. Across a dozen countries and a dozen years, Leo had encountered only one woman who used that comparison.
“I might like to settle down,” Rafe mused, “now that you mention my decades of loyal service. I’d forgotten the pleasure of time spent with a good Englishwoman on a chilly afternoon. The dark-eyed lasses on the Continent have their charms, but there’s nothing like a pair of kind blue eyes to warm a man’s heart.”
Cold enough to freeze Lucifer’s ears off. Leo pulled Wulf to a halt, extracted the note from his pocket, and read it again. He hadn’t seen Marielle’s penmanship in more than ten years, but this could well be her writing. A tickle of heat up Leo’s spine more than suggested that fate was playing a vast, seasonal joke on him.
Or maybe Marielle was? Had she intentionally spent the night with a man she was about to reject?
“Have you lost your everlovin’ marbles, colonel? It’s bloody awful cold, the wind is howling, and the snow is getting deeper by the hour. I could be sitting in the snug with Miss Petunia, sharing another round of toddies, while you impersonate a statue on king’s highway.”
“Miss Petunia is Marielle’s companion,” Leo said, stashing the note away. “How did you meet her?”
“Had to share my toddies with somebody when you went off with her ladyship, didn’t I? Not even your daft lordship would let good hot toddies go to waste.”
“Who is her ladyship?”
Rafe gazed up at the snowy heavens, then speared Leo with a patient look. “Miss Petunia Semple is companion to Lady Drew Semple, in whose bedroom—if I am not mistaken—you passed Christmas night. I considered you was having a last lark before sticking your neck in the noose of aristocratic stupidity. Using solicitors to find a wife, God save us. The Quality is daft, and the nobs are barking mad.”
Rafe nudged his horse into a trot, while Leo remained unmoving on Wulf.
Marielle was Lady Drew Semple. The facts all fit, and yet, what had her motivation been? Had she known she was bedding the Marquess of Cadeau?
Wulf shook his reins and stomped his foot, clearly unhappy about being separated from the retreating Welly.
“I owe my lady a fair hearing,” Leo said. “I owe her a chance to explain. I owe her… to hell with that. I want to give her my name, and children, God willing, and every Christmas night for the rest of my life.”
He tapped his heel against Wulf’s sides, cantered past Welly, and didn’t stop until the Ox and Ass had once more come into view.
Rafe lead the horses in to the stable, while Leo tromped up the snowy steps and bellowed for the innkeeper.
“Beggin’ your pardon,” Mrs. Somerset said, bustling out of the kitchen. “Himself is bringing in extra coal on account of the storm. Will you be bidin’ here with us again tonight, sir?”
“I will, and you please inform Lady Drew that I’ve returned.”
Mrs. Somerset wore a ridiculous sprig of mistletoe, the white berries dangling from her cap. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, colonel. Lady Drew was off this morning, shortly after breakfast. Coachy said she was on her way to back Town, hoping to beat the storm.”
What in the hell was Marielle up to? “She’s not here?”
“I hope she’s safe and snug back in Town, sir. Will you be needing a room?”
Rafe stomped through the door, shaking snow from his greatcoat, scarf and mittens.
“A room,” Leo said, “and a good meal for Mr. Jones and myself. We’ll be off at first light, though, unless the weather prevents it.”
“The weather will prevent it,” Rafe said. “And so will my frozen jewels.”
To Leo’s great frustration, the weather proved Rafe absolutely correct: No sane man would venture forth into a storm that showed no signs of letting up.
* * *
Chapter Five
* * *
Marielle watched the steady dripping from the icicles hanging beyond her parlor window, each drop landing on her last nerve. Christmas had been five days ago, and she’d not had a word from Leo.
“We should leave for Paris, Petunia, before the spring crowds.”
The seat of Leo’s marquessate was far to the north—Petunia had recalled that much about the Cadeau title—and Leo might well have gone directly there after receiving Marielle’s note at the solicitors.
“His lordship might not have received the note you left him, milady,” Petunia replied, threading her needle with green silk. “The weather did turn up powerful bad.”
Leo might have been caught in the storm while journeying north. “I find Leo after all these years, only to lose him.”
Marielle had been hoping he’d return to the Ox and Ass, for that was the logical place to rest his horses on the way to his family’s Whitbyshire holding.
And it was there he and she had lost each other, and found each other again, and there where he’d know exactly where to find a confidential note from her.
“The roads will soon be passable again, milady. Perhaps we ought to travel out to that inn and see if his lordship left word for you.”
Marielle was tempted to do just that. “I’m the daughter-in-law of a marquess. Leo can find me easily enough by making inquiries among his peers.”
Except that Leo had had the title for less than year, and hadn’t taken his seat in the House of Lords. He wouldn’t know the Semple family, or any other titled aristocrats unless the connection was through the military.
Maybe Leo would never find her. “Drew wasn’t acquainted with many officers.”
Petunia readjusted the portion of fabric in her embroidery hoop. “Beg your pardon, milady?”
“Nothing of any moment. I’ve become fretful. I can’t stand doing nothing, Petunia.”
Patient blue eyes looked up at Marielle. “You have become increasingly impetuous since Lord Drew died, but Paris isn’t going anywhere, and a winter crossing is seldom easy. If you are determined to leave for Paris, then I will arrange to spend time with my sister in Dorset.”
Good heavens, rebellion in the ranks. “I’m being impossible,” Marielle said, taking the place beside Petunia on the settee. “I’m sorry. Seeing Leo upset me and all my fancies have turned to fears.”
Seeing Leo had given her hope, and reconnected her with the young woman who’d loved passionately. To lose Leo now…
“I would love to see Paris,” Petunia said, drawing the needle through the fabric, “but I also like that Mr. Jones. You can afford to wait a bit for the roads to clear, can’t you, milady?”
Petunia was embroidering a figure of green, white, and gold mistletoe onto a white linen handkerchief.
“Is that for Mr. Jones?” Marielle asked. “It’s gorgeous, Petunia.”
“Let’s just say it’s for my trousseau, should ever I need one.”
Petunia was not a young woman, though she wasn’t ancient either. She’d waited decades for a man who could pry her loyalty from her dear, departed Charles, while Marielle was railing against a few days of silence from Leo.
“We’ll wait,” Marielle said. “We’ll wait until after the new year, and then reassess our situation.”
The new year wasn’t even a week off. Surely even Marielle could wait that long?
* * *
“Stop fussing at me,” Leo snapped. “I’m calling on an old friend, not making my bow before the sovereign.” That farce had been tended to within a week of Leo’s return to England.
“You’re calling on an old friend,” Rafe said, stepping to the left to avoid the snowmelt dripping onto Marielle’s front porch, “and you’ve a special license in your pocket.”
“Which fact, you will not mention to anyone.” Leo wasn’t certain he’d have an opportunity to use the license, but after being thwarted by bad weather, Welly’s loose shoe, and nearly a foot and a half of snow, he wasn’t about to take chances.
The door opened, and a liveried footman admitted them. Leo handed over his card and asked to see Lady Drew. Rafe, who’d do
nned rare finery, asked if Miss Petunia were at home.
Miss Petunia herself came down the front steps a moment later, and the joy in her eyes as Rafe greeted her with a kiss to the cheek surely qualified as a holiday miracle.
“May I show you the conservatory?” she asked. “We’ve decorated for the holidays, the same as we do every year, and it’s really quite lovely.”
“I’ll wait here for Mari—for Lady Drew,” Leo said.
Miss Petunia linked arms with Rafe, and all but dragged him—quite unresisting—down the corridor.
Leaving Leo to inspect Marielle’s home.
Her residence was on a fashionable square, and commodious without being cavernous. The main foyer was festooned with ropes of pine, wrapping about the bannister, twining around the chandelier chain, and decorating the curtain rods. The resulting scent was lovely, particularly with cloved oranges adding a spicy note.
These accommodations were far better than Leo could have given Marielle for much of the past ten years. He said a silent thank-you to Lord Drew Semple, for Marielle deserved the elegance and comfort Leo saw on every hand. Polished marble floors, a newel post carved in the shape of a cat sitting on its haunches, and red velvet ribbons dangling from the sheaf of mistletoe beneath the chandelier.
A door softly clicked shut, and Marielle stood across the main foyer, a vision in aubergine. Gold trim accented her cuffs and hems, and Leo had a sudden vision of her as an older woman. Her hair might become snowy, her gait might slow, but she would always have a sheer presence that drew him.
“Leopold, welcome.”
“I found your note.” Thank God he’d thought to look in the crook of the old oak, though nearly a foot of snow had obscured the oilskin tucked between the branches. “I found your note, Lady Drew.”
For moment, the only sound was the eaves dripping, a sign of moderating weather, then Marielle’s steps clattered across the foyer. She threw herself into Leo’s arms, holding him tight even as laughter shook her.
“Leo, what were we thinking? Using solicitors to find a spouse? I must have been barmy, but Petunia said some ladies will advertise for a husband, and I started thinking about growing old without children, pitied, lonely, and—”
“—without my best friend,” Leo concluded. “Without the one person who always encouraged my dreams, never laughed at my fears. When I got back to the inn and you weren’t there…. I died inside Marielle, as surely as if some Frenchman had taken me captive.”
She unwound herself from him enough to tuck an arm around his waist, but that was as far as Leo was willing to let her go.
“I woke up, and you were gone,” she said, leading him across the foyer. “I knew you had business to tend to, but what was I to make of your absence, Leo? I was left to think the worst, again.”
Self-recrimination washed through him, for the thousandth time in five days. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I owed Lady Drew Semple my personal apology, and was certain I could return to the inn and to you free of any encumbrances. I owed her that much. Then the weather interfered, among other things, and your solicitors would not give me your direction.”
Marielle paused with him in the middle of the foyer. “So I nearly lost you because you owed her ladyship a personal rejection?”
“No, Marielle, you did not nearly lose me. I would have found you, come what may. This time, nothing—not distance, familial obligation, worldly means, or misunderstandings—would have kept me from finding you again.” He dropped to one knee, and took her hand in his, as he had once before years ago.
“Marielle, Lady Drew, Ellie—will you marry me? Will you share with me every Christmas for the rest of our lives, and all the seasons of the year?”
She peered down at him. “Leo, are you being impetuous? I rather like it on you.”
He sprang to his feet. “I am being romantic. Ten years is long enough to wait for the woman I love to look with favor on my suit.”
She patted his lapel. “Yes, I will marry you. The sooner the better.”
Thank God . Thank God, Marielle, fate, and the kindly angels. The relief of being claimed by her, clearly and truly, inspired Leo to kiss his intended, right there in full view of the front door.
Marielle kissed him back, passionately, and even when somebody cleared his throat, Leo was reluctant to let her go.
“Beggin’ your lordship’s pardon,” Rafe said, Miss Petunia standing beside him. “And your ladyship’s.”
Marielle recovered first, though Leo kept her hand in his. “Petunia, some sustenance for our guests is in order. The marquess and I will join you in the blue parlor in a moment.”
“Yes, milady.” Petunia led a happily-dazed looking Rafe across the foyer.
“I think they’ll suit,” Leo said. “I think they’ll suit wonderfully.”
“Not as wonderfully as we will,” Marielle replied. “When did you acquire this impetuous streak, Leopold? Kissing me without warning where any might see?”
Leo was happy to improve on his capacity for impetuosity, but he pointed upward. “Not impetuosity, Ellie my love. Seasonal good cheer.”
“Very well,” she said. “I will simply tell our children I married the Marquess of Mistletoe.”
“And you shall be my marchioness,” Leo replied, kissing her all over again.
Rafe and Petunia had enjoyed a full pot of tea before Leo and Marielle joined them, and Marielle’s endearment became a family legend—Leopold came to expect seasonal revivals of his title as Marquess of Mistletoe, and with the aid of his devoted marchioness, lived up to her expectations every single time they found themselves beneath a bundle of holiday mistletoe.
THE END!
To my dear readers,
I hope you enjoyed Leo and Marielle’s holiday bagatelle! I had great fun penning it over a long weekend, but realized that even for a novella, it’s on the short side. That’s why you might be getting this story as stocking stuffer to celebrate The Trouble With Dukes which will publish on December 20, 2016.
I’ve included an excerpt from The Trouble With Dukes below, because that mistletoe in the last scene with Leo and Marielle is lingering in the air…
Happy reading!
Grace Burrowes
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* * *
The Trouble With Dukes
* * *
Megan Windham and the newly titled Duke of Murdoch are sharing the supper break at a fashionable ball. The rest of society whispers about Murdoch behind his back, but to Megan, the duke’s company is so much more than simply charming…
“The food and the company are very agreeable,” Megan replied. “I can’t say when I’ve enjoyed a supper break more. Tell me about your home, your grace.”
“You must visit someday, Miss Meggie. The landscape is wilder, the light sharper, the air more invigorating. You’d like it.”
Megan would love it, for Murdoch clearly did. The longer he spoke of Scotland, and Perthshire in particular, the more heavily accented his English became, until Megan slipped into Gaelic, and he did too, and the orchestra resumed its graceful, measured dances without Megan even noticing.
Their plates were empty and their glasses as well by the time Murdoch assisted her to her feet.
“You have ruined me for socializing, Meggie Windham. My expectations for a society ball have been raised to include excellent conversation and the company of a lady whose well-reasoned opinions aren’t in the common way. My thanks for taking pity on a homesick Scotsman.”
He’d grasped her hand and enfolded it in both of his, though neither he nor Megan had put their gloves back on, for they yet lingered amid the ferns and palms.
She did not want to let Murdoch go. Didn’t want to let her hand slip from his, did not want to lose him among the throng below, did not want to fill her ears with violin melodies, gossip, and chatter when she could instead be arguing economics and poetry with him.
Alas, she was without spectacl
es, and thus when she went to kiss him, she had to cup his cheek against her palm, the better to perfect her aim. An hour ago, Megan might have contented herself with his cheek—a friendly kiss.
But somewhere between a pat on the arm, and a compliment to her stubbornness, friendly had become inadequate. Murdoch was championing her cause, routing a scoundrel, and putting himself at risk on her behalf simply because he was a gentleman.
Megan put her mouth to his, lingering for a moment, so he’d know she’d hit the target she couldn’t see clearly but could enjoy wonderfully even with her eyes closed. He was warmth and wonder, a hint of lemons, a whiff of heather.
And she was in love.
***
Longing sharper and more desperate than homesickness shot through Hamish as he cradled Megan’s hand against his cheek.
“You must not, Meggie.”
Such was her determination that a man might easily mistake it for a lack of comprehension. Megan Windham’s gestures, her speech, her responses were all characterized by hesitation, a moment in which she appeared to be choosing words, deciding how to reply, or casting about for answers.
Hamish knew better. As a Scotsman among English officers, as the head of his family, as a former soldier outcast among his fellow veterans, he knew what her lowered lashes truly signaled.
She was marshaling her self-restraint, being prudent. Being relentlessly self-controlled and at a cost only another passionate soul behind enemy lines might suspect.
A frisson of the battle lust pierced the warmth Megan’s kiss brought, an irrational conviction that Hamish alone could free her from that moment of caution she brought to even a stolen kiss. She’d cupped Hamish’s cheek first, a tender gesture that cut him to the marrow of his lonely soul.
And then she fixed bayonets and charged his lines.