Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection

by Mariana Gabrielle

  Mistletoe, Marriage, & Mayhem

  A Bluestocking Belles Collection

  By the Bluestocking Belles:

  Amy Rose Bennett

  Susana Ellis

  Sherry Ewing

  Mariana Gabrielle

  Jude Knight

  Caroline Warfield

  Nicole Zoltack

  Copyright © 2015 by the Bluestocking Belles.

  Copyright to individual novellas resides with the author.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This book is available in e-book and print editions at most online retailers

  Amazon Kindle ASIN: B014OI7M54

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of fiction or are used in a fictitious manner, including portrayal of historical figures and situations. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Vanessa Riley

  Cover image of the female figure provided by Period Images. www.PeriodImages.com

  Some characters in 'Tis Her Season have previously appeared in Royal Regard, copyright 2014 Mariana Gabrielle, published by Whaley Publishing.

  Some characters in A Dangerous Nativity have previously appeared in Dangerous Works, Dangerous Secrets, and Dangerous Weakness, copyright 2014 and 2015 Caroline Warfield, published by Soul Mate Publishing

  The Novellas

  All She Wants for Christmas

  The Ultimate Escape

  Under the Mistletoe

  'Tis Her Season

  Gingerbread Bride

  A Dangerous Nativity

  Joy to the World

  All She Wants for Christmas

  Amy Rose Bennett

  When confirmed bluestocking, Tessa Penrose, is thoroughly compromised at a Yuletide ball by Jasper, the Earl of Arlington, she is none too pleased to have to marry him, but not only her reputation is at stake. Can Tessa trust this disreputable rogue with a secret she will do anything to hide?

  One thing is certain: she dare not trust her husband with her heart.

  Chapter One

  December 3, 1816

  Penrose House

  Berkeley Square

  London

  Not for the first time during this seemingly interminable evening, Jasper Hargreaves, the fifth Earl of Arlington, questioned his soundness of mind. Skulking in the shadows of a velvet-swathed alcove immediately adjacent to the overcrowded, glittering ballroom of Penrose House, he wondered what on earth had possessed him to agree to attend what was ostensibly a trial 'come out' ball for Miss Emma Penrose, the youngest sister of his good friend Christopher, Viscount Trevilian.

  Trevilian—who was presently preoccupied with playing the part of magnanimous host to a gaggling party of young women and their mamas on the other side of the ballroom—needn't have bothered warning him off pursuing the chit. As Miss Penrose flitted by on the arm of a very green-looking swain—her current partner in a decidedly mundane country dance—he conceded she was pretty enough in her snow-white muslin gown. Indeed, with her peaches and cream complexion, glossy black hair, and laughing blue eyes, she was as fresh as the first day of spring. And definitely not the type of girl who would suit his present needs. Not that he could tell Trevilian that. Not without risking a blow or two to his person.

  He grimaced and retreated farther into the darkness. No, lonely widows and brandy—or any other strong liqueur he could lay his hands on—were exactly what he needed at present. Ever since the Battle of Waterloo. He closed his eyes and took an overly large swig of his drink in a vain attempt to dull the ever-present pain of loss and what might have been.

  But the brandy wasn't enough. He really should engage another mistress.

  "Heavens. What are you doing hiding back there, Lord Arlington?"

  Jasper knew that husky voice. If his memory served him correctly, it belonged to a voluptuous and very accommodating widow. Plastering a devil-may-care smile on his face, he opened his eyes. "Ah, Lady Montagu," he said with a bow. Perhaps this evening wouldn't be as dull as he'd thought.

  She laughed, a sensual, throaty sound. "It seems like forever since we last crossed paths, my lord. Indeed, since I espied you chatting to our host earlier this evening, I've been secretly hoping you might ask me to dance."

  Jasper raked her with an appreciative gaze. Lady Montagu had changed little in the eighteen months since they'd last 'crossed paths.' Attired in a well-cut gown of emerald satin that showed off her lush curves and ample bust to perfection, she was still as tempting as sin, and definitely an agreeable salve to help assuage his ennui, if not his deeper wounds. He grasped the baroness's gloved hand, drawing her closer. Her heavy perfume teased his nostrils, and his blood heated to a few degrees warmer than ice-cold. "I'm afraid I'm not up to dancing, m'dear," he drawled, "but I can assure you, your delightful company is most desired. If you have any other pursuits in mind, I believe I can be easily persuaded to join you."

  "Hmm." Lady Montagu slipped her hand from his and tapped her chin with her finger in apparent contemplation. Even in the shadowed alcove, he could detect a gleam of excitement in her green eyes, for all her outward nonchalance. "I believe there may be something upstairs you might help me with, if you are… up for something else, my lord. I've recently heard Lord Trevilian's sister is developing a reputation as an artist of some renown—shocking I know—but I'm actually thinking of commissioning her to paint my portrait." She stepped forward and pushed one of her breasts against his superfine-clad bicep. A tendril of her flaming red hair tickled his cheek as she leaned closer to murmur into his ear. "Some of her artworks are on display along the second floor hallway. I'd value your…" Her fingertips fluttered over the fall front of his black silk evening breeches. "Considered opinion on the matter."

  Jasper's smile grew wider. "Well, I am always happy to share my considered opinion with a lady as lovely as you, my dear Lady Montagu. If you are amenable, what say we meet on the second floor landing in ten minutes?"

  ***

  Tessa Penrose attempted, but failed to stifle a yawn behind her ivory-silk-gloved hand. Sequestered in a relatively quiet corner of the supper room, she trusted the chattering crowd milling about the main buffet table hadn't observed her social faux pas. But of course, her gimlet-eyed aunt, Beatrice, who sat at the table opposite her, certainly had.

  "I know you are bored to tears, my dearest Tessa," she remarked as she carefully put the gilt-edged, rose-patterned, Spode china teacup on its matching saucer. (Aunt Beatrice had insisted that only the best china should be used during her youngest niece's unofficial debut ball.) "But I must insist you at least try to feign a modicum of interest, if not enjoyment. We
—your brother, Emma, and I—are all counting on you to play your part. Now and until the festive season begins, and when the Season proper commences next year."

  My part. The part of the dutiful oldest sister. The pleasant but unassuming spinster. But Heaven forbid anyone should ever suspect that Miss Tessa Penrose is a bluestocking. Tessa sighed. Yes, she was well-practiced at being inconspicuous on occasions such as this. As was her usual habit, she clasped her gloved hands in her lap and dredged up a suitable smile for the sake of appearances. "Aunt Beatrice, you must know that I would never willingly spoil Emma's chances at finding a suitable match." Despite her own discomfiture, she would make more of an effort. For Emma.

  The expression in Aunt Beatrice's pale blue eyes immediately grew softer. "My dear child, I do know how difficult these situations are for you. I wish…"

  Her aunt suddenly reached out one gnarled hand toward her, but then drew it back; whether it was because Tessa's own hands were still hidden in her lap, or her aunt had thought better of making an overt display of affection in such a public place, Tessa couldn't be certain.

  Regardless of the reason, she suddenly yearned for her aunt's comforting touch. "You wish things were different," she murmured, unable to hide the trace of sadness in her voice as she completed her aunt's thought. "But I, do not. I am who I am, Aunt Beatrice. And I made up my mind long ago that the life of a ton wife would not be for me."

  "You mean your father made his mind up about that." Her aunt sat up a little straighter and looked her in the eye. "Well, my brother was wrong, Tessa, God rest his foolish, belligerent soul. It doesn't have to be this way. You are only five and twenty, and equally as attractive as your sister. If you wanted—"

  "But that is the entire crux of the matter," Tessa interrupted. "I don't want to be like Emma." I can never be like Emma. Pretty and perfect and agreeable. The hot sting of unexpected tears made her blink, and she hastily cast her gaze downward to the empty space on the linen-covered table before her. Oh, what she wouldn't do for some peace and quiet, and her own cup of tea right at this moment. Perhaps she could sneak away to her art studio-cum-study when her aunt wasn't looking… But who will chaperone Emma?

  As always, duty called.

  "Oh, Tessa," her aunt said on a clearly sympathetic sigh. "I'm well aware—as is Christopher—that you value your independence most highly. But if you met the right sort of man—"

  At the risk of drawing attention, Tessa raised her hand. "Please stop, Aunt Beatrice. I will not be swayed. My artistic ventures, my position as an art tutor at Mrs. Brooke's Academy for Young Ladies, and my charity work provide me with all the fulfillment I need. Indeed, I do not want for anything in my life. Or anyone, for that matter. I wish you would believe me."

  "Hmph." Aunt Beatrice's mouth flattened into a line of disapproval. "My dear gel, that is precisely the problem. I do believe you." She took another sip of her tea before fixing Tessa with the shrewd look she knew so well. "As soon as I have finished my supper, I would like you to help me locate Lady Salter. Put together, we may be as ancient as the Rosetta Stone, but I am certain that we can adequately chaperone your sister… That is, if you would like to retire for the evening."

  Sweet relief flooded through Tessa, but she managed to maintain a pleasantly neutral expression. It wouldn't do to look too excited about her release from social purgatory. "You are too generous, Aunt Beatrice. And please, pass on my good wishes to Emma. From what I have seen already," she nodded toward the ballroom, "she is having a marvelous evening. She doesn't need her stuffy older sister hovering about."

  Aunt Beatrice smiled. "Well, I also think she would prefer it if her stuffy brother and aunt weren't hovering about either, but needs must when the devil drives." She winked and lowered her voice. "Which reminds me, we cannot risk Emma straying into the path of that devil, the Earl of Arlington. For the life of me I still cannot understand why your brother invited that man at the last minute. I hear he is a rakehell of the worst kind. I'm sure he would rather cut off his left foot than marry any girl he compromised."

  Tessa frowned. Lord Arlington. The name was vaguely familiar, but she could not bring to mind his form or countenance. "Surely Christopher wouldn't have invited such a creature into our home," she said, trying to ignore a sudden frisson of unease tripping its way down her spine.

  Her aunt sighed. "Yes, one hopes your brother would have exercised more sense, but…" Putting down her cup, she eased herself up from the Hepplewhite chair. "Let us find Lady Salter. Now that I think on it, I fear the fearsome Lady Montagu may have captured your brother's watchful eye. I caught a glimpse of her stalking prey just before we came into supper."

  Tessa moved to her aunt's side and took her arm. She'd also heard whispers of the widowed baroness's notorious reputation. Indeed, rumor had it she was reported to be as brazen and fiery as her famous red hair. But surely Christopher wouldn't be attracted to someone like her… Or would he? Her apprehension increased ten-fold. "Perhaps I should stay and help."

  "No, don't be silly." Aunt Beatrice patted her hand. "I insist you go upstairs and continue with that commission you've been working on. Lady Bromley and her spaniels await!"

  Tessa inclined her head in apparent agreement. It really would be impossible to work on Lady Bromley's portrait with only candles and firelight as a source of light. Nevertheless, she was very keen to help her aunt locate Lady Salter, and Emma, for that matter, before she quit the party. If Lord Arlington did live up to his reputation as a disreputable libertine and attempted to seduce Emma, both he and Christopher would have the devil to pay when she encountered them.

  As luck would have it, the Dowager Countess of Salter was easy to find. Attired in purple velvet (that unfortunately, was a similar shade to the curtains adorning the windows of Penrose House's ballroom), her plump form was firmly ensconced on a wide settee by the dance floor. Lorgnette in hand, she observed the couples drift by in the most scandalous of dances, the turning waltz; although, given the bemused expression on the countess's face, Tessa suspected her motivation for peering so closely at the gentlemen's legs and nether regions was not at all related to assuring partners maintained a semblance of propriety.

  Once Lady Salter had assured her and Aunt Beatrice that Emma was being well looked after—she was reported to be circulating about the room with Christopher at this very moment—Tessa finally took her leave. Even though she couldn't continue painting Lady Bromley's portrait, there were other commissions and preliminary sketches she could work on.

  However, a peculiar combination of guilt and melancholy twisted her heart when she spied Emma in the company of their brother, chatting with the very handsome, very respectable, and entirely eligible Lord Sloane and his sister, Amelia. Gathered by the marble-arched doorway that led to the card room, champagne flutes in hand, they made a merry group.

  Enough, Tessa. You've always known you will never belong, that you are not the kind of woman who will make a suitable wife. Swallowing past a tight throat, Tessa picked up her cerise-colored silk skirts and hurried up the stairs leading to the second floor… and her refuge.

  Chapter Two

  When Tessa at last reached her art studio at the very end of the second floor hallway, she sank onto the settee before the fireside with a relieved sigh. She took a deep breath, reveling in the familiar, comforting scents of beeswax, linseed oil, and the sharper note of turpentine. Alone at last. Away from the prying, judgmental eyes of the glittering Beau Monde. Social events—it didn't matter whether they were simple morning calls, soirees, dinner or garden parties, or full-blown balls—were always a trial, and she avoided them as much as possible. Thankfully, Aunt Beatrice understood her need to abscond. And hopefully, Emma and Christopher would understand, too, when she faced them tomorrow.

  Kicking off her too-tight satin slippers, she stretched her pinched, stocking-clad toes toward the hearth. She would love to ring for a pot of tea, but given the staff would be terribly busy, she decided against the idea; she di
dn't want to make a fuss.

  She glanced about the room, looking for her sketchbook and charcoal pencils. Her studio—as she liked to think of it—had once been her mother's morning room, but since she had passed away eight years ago, Tessa had made it her own room by slow degrees. The mahogany panels gleamed softly in the muted light emanating from the low-burning fire and the branches of candles on the mantel. To the right of her mother's old cherry wood escritoire, a serenely smiling Lady Bromley and her gorgeous brown-eyed spaniels stared down at her from the canvas upon the easel. Tessa estimated the work would be completed in less than a week, which was fortunate as the countess's husband had stipulated that he wanted the portrait framed and hanging in their Gloucestershire country home before Christmas.

  She smiled to herself. When she received the sizeable sum of money for the completed commission, she would be able to donate it to the most deserving of charities, The Benevolent Society for the Women of Whitechapel. Tessa would ensure the funds would go toward the purchase of new blankets and warm clothing for the desperately needy, husbandless women and their children who lived in and around the slums of Whitechapel. And if the money were spent as judiciously as she'd planned, there would be enough left over to purchase stockings, gingerbread, apples, and mince pies to hand out to the children on Boxing Day.

  Heavens, can the Yuletide season really only be a few days away? Which reminds me, I must find my sketchbook.

  She rose from her seat and began to search the room: the occasional table by the settee, the old scrubbed oak table by the art supply cupboard, where she mixed her paints. If she was quick about completing her next commission, she might have another sum of money to put toward The Benevolent Society's coffers—this time courtesy of Baroness Wakefield, who'd requested she paint miniatures of her two sons and her daughter. She approached the escritoire, but on discovering her book wasn't there, she realized where she'd left it earlier in the day—on the window seat. The maids had drawn the heavy, rose-colored damask curtains, and it was hidden from view.