Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection

by Mariana Gabrielle

  Bella's hand covered her mouth to hold in the gasp, and her eyes went wide as dinner plates. "No," she said with a morbid fascination. "Did he ruin you utterly?"

  "No! The horrid man."

  Bella giggled.

  "I mean… that's not what I meant…" Charlotte looked at the window on the side of the room. "Only he kissed me and it was… it was quite… well… Mother didn't say it would be like…" she whispered, "like that!"

  "Like what?" Bella was now fascinated.

  "I can't describe it, really… just… it was… decadent… like sliding into a cool pond on a hot day. And he touched my…" She gestured to her chest.

  "No! He didn't! Charlotte!"

  "I don't see what is so wrong with it. We are to be married tomorrow, and it isn't as though he did… whatever husbands do."

  "Are you certain?"

  "I expect I am, since he still had his gloves and cravat on!"

  "Is that all?" Bella snickered.

  "No, that is not all." Charlotte threw the bolster back at her cousin. "Fully clothed. All but a hat and cane. And as I say," her nose turned up, "I will be his wife in the morning, so I see nothing wrong in a few kisses."

  Bella took Charlotte's hand and squeezed it. "Nor do I, darling."

  Finally, Charlotte had relented and let herself win.

  "Now, it will be cock's crow in no time, and you will have circles beneath your eyes if you do not sleep."

  Charlotte nodded, tucking her feet back under the bedclothes, and Bella crossed the room to the connecting door.

  "Bella?"

  "Yes?"

  "Thank you."

  Bella blew her a kiss and skittered through the door, before Charlotte could talk herself out of being sensible again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next day…

  "I must speak to him, Mother!"

  "He cannot see you before the wedding, and you may not go roaming around the halls in this expensive gown."

  Charlotte's gown of cloth-of-silver was among the simplest she had ever owned, but for the pearls at the hem and along the bust line, and the train that reached four feet behind her. The silver and pearl tiara that had belonged to her great-grandmother was the inspiration for the dress and the oldest, most valuable piece of jewelry her mother owned—or rather, Charlotte owned, for her father had given it to her as a wedding gift, a tradition her mother had been loath to uphold.

  Regardless of seemliness, Charlotte would soon only have to obey her husband, and she fully planned to never do anything her mother said again. Beginning with a convention she found inconvenient. Seeing the matching, resolute mother-and-daughter chins, Bella stepped up and intervened. "I will bring him here, so you need not risk the gown, and your maid can move the dressing screen across the doorway to my chamber, so he cannot see you."

  Charlotte jumped up and down and kissed Bella on the cheek. "Yes! That is exactly what we must do." While Bella slipped out the door and Lady Effingale's abigail began shifting the screen, the bride turned her back on her mother and began poking at her coiffure and adjusting her dress.

  In only a few minutes, she heard the door to Bella's bedchamber open and demanded her mother leave the vicinity in the most imperious "I-will-be-a-marchioness-in-less-than-two-hours" voice she could muster. Charlotte could hear Bella in the hallway, reassuring Lady Effingale that Lord Firthley was a gentleman and Charlotte too smart to allow him liberties.

  "Charlotte, what is it? Are you quite well?" The strain in his voice evidenced his fear she would jilt him in these final moments.

  "Yes, yes, I am perfectly well. It's only…" She twisted a button on her sleeve.

  "Yes?"

  "Do you…" She slipped it in and out of the loop. "I am afraid you…"

  "What are you afraid of, my sweet?"

  She shoved the words out of her mouth before she could regret saying them. "Iamafraidyouwillneverloveme."

  The silence from the other side of the screen caused tears to well up in her eyes, and she unbuttoned the sleeve and began to remove the tiara. In a moment, however, he pushed the screen aside and entered the room.

  His fingertips under her chin closed her dropped open mouth, and his thumb caressed her bottom lip. "I will not observe a silly custom when my bride is concerned for my faithfulness." His hands moved to her shoulders, and he looked down into her eyes.

  "Do you love me?" he asked, with more serious a countenance than she had yet seen.

  She swallowed hard and tipped her head. "I hadn't… I mean… that is to say…"

  "You do not. Of course you do not, only days after making my acquaintance. Nor can I say I feel as deep an emotion as love."

  The tremble of her lips sent a tear down her cheek. "But… but what if we… what if we never do?"

  He kissed her on the forehead and wrapped his arms about her shoulders, pulling her tiara-laden head to his chest. Stroking her hair, he answered, "My sweet, I am fascinated by you. Your adventurous spirit, your charm, your smiles. I wish nothing more than to see your face at my table each morning and in my bed each night. This may not be love, my darling, but it is as close an approximation as I have ever known.

  "In truth, I am equally afraid you will not learn to love me, but we must have faith our union will be satisfying for us both. For I will not leave you to that reprobate, Smithson, nor the tender mercies of the ton. That, my dear, I cannot do, and if that is not proof of… something… I do not know what is."

  "I find the fact you do not love me oddly reassuring." Pushing at his chest, she pouted up at him. "But what if it is not satisfying? What if you leave me in the country and find a mistress in Town and never speak to me but to get an heir?"

  "Do I speak to you now, and at least mildly entertain you?"

  "Yes."

  "Will you follow me to Town and force your way into my house at gunpoint should I attempt to leave you at one of my country estates?"

  "Yes."

  "Will you box my ears should I engage a mistress?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you truly think me a horrible, despicable man?"

  She blushed and smiled at his cravat. "No."

  "Well, then, we will both have to be satisfied with that. I expect, in time, we will grow much fonder of each other than we can imagine now. And, yes, it may come to love."

  She sighed against his shirtfront and twisted her finger around his waistcoat button. "Will you… will you do that… what you did last night?"

  Placing a gentle kiss on the top of her head, he said, a husky rasp in his voice, "I will. As soon as practical and as often as possible, and I promise that part of our marriage will always be satisfying to both of us."

  She startled herself by giggling, and he asked, "Might I go finish preparing myself to meet you at St. George's in…" He removed his watch his pocket. "Eighty-seven minutes?"

  She nodded, but before he left, he gave her another of the kisses he had shown her twelve hours earlier. By the time he finished, her knees were weak, and she had only eighty-one minutes to wait.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Later that night…

  Charlotte's knee would not stop bouncing under her nightrail and dressing gown. Seated on a loveseat in her unfamiliar new bedchamber, in this unfamiliar new town house far enough away from her parents' home to warrant a carriage ride, she had already spilled half a glass of sherry on herself and had to change, hoping her new husband wouldn't come into the room while she was unclothed. Or perhaps hoping he would.

  Bother! If he would only put away whatever he was doing that was so much more important than bedding his wife the first time, this would already be finished, and she might be sleeping soundly. Then he could do whatever he wanted in his study all night long, and it wouldn't trouble her a bit. If only he would hurry!

  Tiptoeing over to the door connecting their suites, she set her ear against the wood, listening for any noises that would indicate he was there, waiting, maybe as nervous as she. Nothing but silence. She
knelt down on one knee to peer through the keyhole, but all was dark. Perhaps he had gone right to sleep. Perhaps he didn't mean to consummate their marriage at all. Perhaps he would—

  "Ahem," she heard from the hall. There he stood, in shirtsleeves and an untied cravat, looking more sinfully handsome than any man had a right to after a long, nerve-racking day. She scrambled to her feet, unable to say a word in the face of his snickering, sputtering, stifled amusement. When she narrowed her eyes, he finally allowed the laughter to break free.

  "Charlotte, my sweet, if you are so anxious for me to attend you, I give you leave to seek me out in any room of the house."

  "No! I mean…" She gathered her dignity, turning her nose up into the air, wrapping her dressing gown more tightly around her waist. "You are at perfect liberty to do anything you like in your own home."

  The smile didn't leave his face, but the flavor changed from mirth to something gentler, kinder. He stepped across the room and cradled her face in his hands. "It is cruel of me to laugh, my dearest. I simply never imagined I might find my wife peeking through the keyhole into my bedchamber. There is no lock on the door. I can have it repaired if you'd like, but in truth, you are at perfect liberty to come to my rooms any time you like." Placing a kiss on the top of her head, he leaned her cheek onto his shoulder and murmured, "I would very much like it if you did."

  Charlotte's indrawn breath caught, turning to a fit of coughing that had her bent at the waist, trying to clear her throat for breathing. Guiding her gently, her new husband sat her down on the same loveseat, then poured tea from the pot she had abandoned for the sherry while she waited. It was lukewarm, but silenced her choking.

  As she sipped, he knelt down to ensure she recovered.

  "Are you all right, my dear? Can you breathe properly now?" She nodded, sure she was now red-faced, trying to subtly ensure her lower lip wasn't covered in tea and spittle. She thought she might die of the humiliation. Drooling like an infant; it wasn't to be borne.

  He removed the cravat from around his neck, using it to wipe her mouth and chin. "Husbands must be of some use, after all." Tucking the neckcloth away, he continued, "And as to that, I believe I recall your intent in running away was to ensure you had your Season, was it not?"

  She looked down at the floor and silently nodded.

  "And by our precipitate marriage, you will be denied all but the first few weeks of parties."

  She repeated herself without words, adding a scowl.

  "Your mother has informed me she expects me to take you to the country immediately to avoid any scandal, and your parents will remove with Bella to Brittlestep Manor in two days' time, for that selfsame purpose."

  A melancholy nod once more.

  "Are you concerned for scandal?"

  She looked up. One shoulder shrugged; she was unwilling to commit to an unknown course.

  "I thought not," he said, tweaking her nose, "after placing your reputation, and mine, in grave danger, purely for the privilege of bowing before the queen." His sweet smile belied any ill will he might hold. "I've received the Writ of Summons to take my grandfather's seat in Parliament. For the moment, no one knows my politics, so I can expect some deference until the lords decide whether to curry favor, and I've married you to scrub your reputation clean. If the gossip does not concern you, I am not averse to remaining, allowing you your parties. If you can stand to be half of the Filthy Firthleys for a time."

  She threw herself at him, oversetting his balance, leaving him sprawled on his backside, laughing. Her arms wound around his neck like tentacles.

  "Oh, thank you, Lord F—" Taking in his ignoble position, and her own, she sat back abruptly, shoulders against the seat of the sofa, hand on his knee. His eyes twinkling at her in the way she so loved, she amended, "Alexander."

  Suddenly serious, he leaned across her lap to kiss her. "Much better."

  "It is so kind of you to—" Her nervous chitter-chatter was swallowed up as his lips met hers. It became a moan when his tongue slid along her lower lip. Opening her mouth just slightly to grant him access, and allowing his hand in her long hair to gently maneuver her onto her back on the carpet before the fireplace, she couldn't help but whimper. The shivers his fingers induced pulsed in every area of her body, especially the unmentionable parts.

  She tried to pull him closer, but he resisted, saying, "Oh, no, my sweet. We have all night, and I intend to use every minute."

  Through lust-fogged sight, she took in his smug smile. "Every… it lasts all night?"

  "It does when you are with me," he whispered in her ear. "Where you will wish to be forevermore."

  Without another word, she grasped his hair between her fingers and pulled him closer for another kiss, using every ounce of her new-found passion to ensure he never let her go.

  The End

  About Mariana Gabrielle

  Mariana Gabrielle is a pen name for Mari Christie, who is not romantic—at all. Therefore, her starry-eyed alter ego lives vicariously through characters who believe in their own happy-ever-afters. And believe they must, as Mariana loves her heroes and heroines, but truly dotes on her villains, and almost all of her characters' hearts have been bruised, broken, and scarred long before they reach the pages of her books.

  She is a professional writer, editor, and designer with almost twenty-five years' experience, and a member of the Bluestocking Belles, the Writing Wenches, and the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers. She has written two Regency romances, Royal Regard and La Déesse Noire: The Black Goddess, and will soon release three Royal Regard prequel novellas and a mainstream historical, Blind Tribute.

  Author Website & blog: www.MarianaGabrielle.com

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MariChristieAuthor

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/mchristieauthor

  Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/marichristie/

  Other books by Mariana Gabrielle

  La Déesse Noire: The Black Goddess

  (available now)

  Sired by a British peer, born of a paramour to Indian royalty, Kali Matai was destined from birth to enthrall England's most powerful men. She hadn't counted on becoming their pawn.

  Royal Regard

  (available now)

  When Bella Holsworthy returns to London after fifteen years roaming the globe, she faces unwelcome attentions from two wicked noblemen, the ton's spiteful censure, and the bitter realities of a woman alone in England.

  Shipmate: A Royal Regard prequel novella

  (coming soon)

  For shy Bella Smithson, landing a husband seems laughable, so when Myron Clewes offers to buy her from her unfeeling family, she is obligated to accept his suit—and a list of demands she might never be able to meet.

  A Rose Renamed: A Royal Regard prequel novella

  (coming soon)

  Major John Smythe returns from Waterloo a broken man, determined to stay one step ahead of his former life, but when he meets Rose Allen, the sins of his past must be confronted, for without her, he has no hope for a future.

  Gingerbread Bride

  Jude Knight

  Travelling with her father's fleet has not prepared Mary Pritchard for London Society. When she strikes out on her own, she finds adventure, trouble, and her girlhood hero, riding once more to her rescue.

  Naval Lieutenant Rick Redepenning has been saving his admiral's intrepid daughter from danger since she was nine and he was fourteen. Today's greatest danger is to his heart. How can he convince her to see him as a suitor, and not just a childhood friend?

  Chapter One

  "I don't run away. I run towards," she had told Rick the first time he retrieved her for her father, the admiral. That was half his lifetime ago, when she was nine, and he was a young midshipman of nearly fourteen.

  He sat on his horse for a moment, watching her trudging down the meadow towards the village in the valley. The Mary of today was slowed by a bandbox in one hand and a carpetbag in the other. The earnest child of his memory—ch
asing after a dream through a sunlit field in Spain, or Italy, or Jamaica—had never bothered with such practicalities as luggage.

  Rick hadn't seen her since she was sent home to relatives after her father's death, but he couldn't mistake her. What was Miss Mary Pritchard running towards today?

  The immediate destination, he could guess well enough. He'd seen the broken-down coach back around several curves of this long, winding road, and not long ago, he'd passed the coachman with a string of passengers grumbling along behind him. And pretty rough sorts some of them looked, too.

  Miss Independent Mary had undoubtedly struck out on her own across country instead of sticking to the road, and would be at the inn in the valley a good half hour before the rest of the coachload.

  But what was the admiral's daughter doing on a coach in the first place? The aunt she lived with was in London. Indeed, he had dropped his card at the house. He had called three times before the aunt had consented to see him, only to explain that the niece of the Dowager Viscountess Bosville could expect better than a half-pay navy lieutenant with a bad limp and few expectations. He wanted to renew his friendship, not court her, but no doubt, the aunt knew Mary's mind better than he did.

  Perhaps not, though. The aunt was, indeed, in London, but Miss Mary was definitely there below him, striding across the field.

  He nudged the post horse into a walk. There must be a gate along the road somewhere. Yes. There. By the time he'd dismounted, led the horse through, shut the gate, and awkwardly mounted again, Mary had reached the lowest corner of the field and was opening a gate there.

  What was that movement? Three men were creeping along her side of the field, careful to stay in the shadow of the hedge. Sneak up on Mary Pritchard, would they? He'd see about that.

  He kneed the horse into a gallop. The men stopped at the noise, then spun round and hurried away uphill. Mary turned to face the horse.

  She stood rigid, one hand creeping into her coat. So Miss Mary was armed? That didn't surprise him. He'd taught her to shoot himself, after the incident in the date grove just outside Tunis. He still got the collywobbles thinking about the danger she'd put herself in, running off to buy a present for her father's birthday.