What Happens Under the Mistletoe

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “Not always.” A faint smile touched Gregory’s lips. “I thought you were determined not to marry.”

  “I was. But . . .” He shrugged. “Things happen.”

  “Yes, they do, don’t they?”

  “When she said she was going home today . . . well, I didn’t want her to. She’s—” Andrew screwed up his face, as if thinking were a painful process. “She is very different from me. But, thing is—I don’t want to marry someone like me. And I thought I’d like to see her sitting across from me at the breakfast table each morning. Everything’s . . . flat without her.” He looked at Gregory. “Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes.” Gregory smiled. “I believe I do.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Rylla leaned her forehead against the windowpane, gazing down at the street below. She sat curled up on the window seat of Eleanor’s room, and behind her, Eleanor was packing the last of her clothes into a trunk. Eleanor was talking, but Rylla found it difficult to keep her mind on her friend’s words. She hadn’t been able to keep her mind on much of anything all morning.

  Except, of course, Gregory. And the night before. What would happen now? She thought of the gossip she had heard over the years—how this girl or that was “ruined.” How men were no longer interested in a woman once they’d obtained the prize they sought.

  What would she do when she saw Gregory again? Or perhaps she would not even see him. Perhaps he no longer desired her. He might now consider her lewd and licentious. It was said men were like that.

  But not Gregory. He understood her desire to do things, see things. Indeed, he seemed to enjoy her nature. He never looked grim or disapproving over something she said. At times he objected, saying something was too dangerous, but he never told her she was too unladylike or acting like a romp. No, Gregory was different. He would not turn from her. Her heart clenched inside her chest. She didn’t know how she could bear it if he did.

  “I am sorry to go home before Daniel returns,” Eleanor told her. “I know you are worried about him.”

  “Yes.” Rylla pulled her thoughts away from their unproductive course. “But it’s Christmas Eve. You will want to spend it with your family.” She straightened and leaned closer to the window. “There’s Gre—Mr. Rose. And Sir Andrew. I wasn’t sure—I mean, I wasn’t expecting them.” She jumped up, shaking out her skirts and checking her image in the mirror.

  Eleanor joined her at the window. “Sir Andrew is escorting me home today.”

  “He is?” Rylla stared.

  “Yes.” A secretive smile played at the corners of Eleanor’s mouth.

  Rylla’s jaw dropped. “Eleanor! What are you saying? Is he—are you—”

  Eleanor laughed. “I will let you know after our journey.”

  Stunned into silence, Rylla followed Eleanor down the stairs. When she stepped into the drawing room, her eyes went immediately to Gregory. He was sitting on the sofa, talking stiltedly with Rylla’s parents and Sir Andrew. Both the young men popped to their feet, looking vastly relieved, when Eleanor and Rylla entered.

  Rylla blushed. She could not see Gregory without thinking how he had looked last night, deep in the throes of passion. She wondered what he thought when he gazed at her.

  After a few minutes, Eleanor and Sir Andrew took their leave. Gregory and the Campbells stood on their front stoop, waving good-bye until the post chaise turned the corner. Rylla’s father retired to his study, and Mrs. Campbell walked back to the drawing room. Rylla started to follow her mother, but Gregory reached out a hand to stop her.

  “Rylla. I want to talk to you.”

  Rylla turned to him, her heart beating painfully hard. Gregory’s face was unaccustomedly serious. Her spirits plummeted. She had been wrong. His feelings had changed. He was about to tell her he was returning home to the Highlands. Or he would say he didn’t think they would suit.

  “Rylla, dear?” Her mother paused in the doorway of the drawing room.

  “Yes, Mama.” Rylla ducked her head, avoiding Gregory’s gaze, and hurried after her. She could not bear to talk to him today. She could not manage a calm, collected front with him.

  Rylla avoided Gregory’s eyes as she chattered gaily about Christmas and Twelfth Night parties. They were interrupted by the sound of the front door closing, followed by footsteps in the hall. As Rylla looked toward the doorway, a young man walked into the room. He was travel-stained and weary, but he smiled at the two women.

  “Daniel!” Rylla popped up and ran to her brother. “I’m so glad to see you!”

  “Here now, Ryl, careful, I’ll get you dirty.”

  The next few minutes were filled with excited babble. Finally Mrs. Campbell, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief, hurried off down the hall to inform her husband of the news. Rylla waited until she was gone, then swung on her brother.

  “Daniel! Where have you been? I was certain something terrible had happened to you. Gregory and I have—”

  “What? Who is Gregory?”

  “I’m sorry. You don’t know Mr. Rose.” Gregory had become so much a part of her life that it seemed absurd that her brother had not even met him. Quickly Rylla ran through the introductions of the two men, then returned to her topic. “What happened to you, Daniel? Why didn’t you tell us where you were going?”

  “I didn’t expect to be gone so long,” Daniel protested. “After Papa and I, well—” He glanced uncertainly at Gregory.

  “Do not stand on ceremony with Gregory,” Rylla told him. “He knows all about it. He has been helping me search for you.”

  “Search for me! But, Rylla, how . . . where . . .”

  “Never mind that. Tell me where you went.”

  Daniel sighed. “I was furious at Papa, but I knew he was right. I had to set everything straight. I went to arrange to pay my gambling debt. And Kerns showed me your brooch!” An aggrieved light shone in his eyes. “Rylla, why did you give that blackguard your pin?”

  “I was trying to save you,” Rylla retorted. “He said you were in dire straits.”

  “I would have come about. But when I saw he had your brooch, I knew I must get it back immediately. I couldn’t pay it over time. So I went to Ramsey.”

  “Ramsey! Who is that?”

  “A chap I know at school. Only it turned out he had gone home for Christmas. I had to go all the way to Aberdeen. I didn’t think to leave you a note. Once I was on the road, there wasn’t any use writing you. I’d be home by the time you got a letter. But when I got there, it turned out Ramsey was sick. I had to cool my heels for days, waiting to see him.”

  “But why did you have to see him? I don’t understand.”

  “To sell him my brace of dueling pistols.”

  “The ones with the silver chasing?” Rylla stared.

  “Yes. He’s wanted to buy them for months.”

  “But you love those pistols!”

  “I know.” He shrugged. “But I couldn’t let Kerns keep your brooch, now could I? And then, when I get back here, Kerns tells me you’ve already gotten the thing! Rylla, you shouldn’t have gone to see him.”

  “I was fine. I was with Gregory. It’s Gregory you owe. He bought my brooch back for me last night.” Rylla could not control the softening of her voice as she turned toward Gregory.

  “Mr. Rose, I am deeply in your debt,” Daniel began manfully. “It was very good of you to help my sister, and—”

  “Daniel.” Mrs. Campbell appeared in the doorway, smiling. “Dear boy, do come and speak to your father. He is so relieved and happy to have you home again.”

  “Yes, of course.” Daniel turned toward Gregory apologetically, but Gregory waved him on.

  “Go and see your father. Plenty of time to discuss this later.”

  Gregory watched Daniel and his mother leave the room, then swung around. “Rylla . . .”

  “Daniel will be able to pay you back. That will make everything all right.”

  “The devil with the money,” Gregory said impatiently. �
�Rylla, I must talk to you.”

  “No, really, there is no need. I knew what I was doing last night. I will not hold you to account for—”

  “Bloody hell, what are you talking about? Rylla—” He grabbed her hands between his. “Look at me.”

  She lifted her chin pugnaciously, though she suspected the look was spoiled by the tears in her eyes.

  “Rylla! Are you crying?” Gregory stared at her, aghast. “Please . . . I realize that I acted like an utter cad. But I could not bear it if you hate me.”

  “Of course I don’t hate you.” She feared that in a moment she would be in sobs. Rylla tried to tug her hand free, to no avail.

  “Then tell me that I still have a chance. That you are not tossing me out on my ear.”

  “Have a chance? A chance for what?”

  “To win your heart. I was too rash, too forceful, I know. But I love you with all my heart, and if you will only let me, I shall prove that I am worthy of you.”

  “You love me?” Rylla seized on the only words that were important to her. “Do you mean it?”

  “Of course I do.” Gregory looked surprised. “I will do everything I can to make you feel the same way about me. I will woo you as you should be wooed. No doubt you are angry at me, but I—”

  “I’m not angry.” Rylla smiled tremulously. “I could not be angry at you.”

  “Oh, I am sure you could be,” he replied candidly, adding, “Probably will be, too.”

  Rylla laughed and blinked away her tears. “Well, I am not angry with you now.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it.” Gregory grinned. “I thought—you would not look at me, and then you wanted to talk about that blasted brooch. You were crying!”

  “Not because I was angry. I thought you were here to tell me good-bye.”

  “Good-bye! Good Gad, no. Why would I say a thing like that? I came to ask you to marry me. I intended to go to your father, but I wanted to ask you first. I thought he might say it was far too soon, but I don’t want to wait.”

  “Nor do I. He may say it’s too soon, but I don’t care. He will come around.” She grinned. “It’s better to start wearing him down as soon as possible.”

  “I am good at wearing people down,” Gregory assured her.

  She laughed. “Do you mean it? Do you truly love me? You are not just asking me because you feel obligated?”

  “I truly love you,” he told her solemnly. “I would marry you today, this moment, if I could.”

  “Oh, Gregory.” She let out a sigh of happiness. “I love you, too.”

  He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, then glanced around. “Ah, there it is.”

  “There what is? Gregory, where are you going?” Rylla laughed as Gregory pulled her over to the doorway.

  “Looking for a sprig of mistletoe.” He pointed up to the pale white berries hanging in the doorway. “So that it is acceptable for me to do this.”

  He bent to kiss her. With a long sigh of happiness, Rylla curled her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

  It was going to be a wonderful Christmas.

  Love is in the cards for a young Scottish heiress in this first book in Candace Camp's new series!

  Treasured

  * * *

  ORDER YOUR COPIES TODAY!

  SWEETEST REGRET

  Meredith Duran

  Moonless darkness stands between.

  Past, the Past, no more be seen!

  But the Bethlehem-star may lead me

  To the sight of Him Who freed me

  From the self that I have been.

  —Gerard Manley Hopkins

  Chapter One

  December 22, 1885

  The crowd was rowdy; only eight of them, but they managed to make a ruckus better suited to undergraduates on holiday. The noise spilled from the drawing room all the way down the hall to the grand staircase, where Georgie paused to take it in: laughter, clapping, a slurred yell, the ring of champagne glasses knocked carelessly together. Some untalented pianist was mangling “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”

  Foreign diplomats: scallywags by profession. And one among them was evidently a thief to boot. This was the crowd her father had left her to host for Christmas.

  It will be very easy, he had assured her while hastily packing his things. An international crisis had called him away to Constantinople—some fracas that could only be resolved by the great Sir Philip, hero of British diplomacy.

  Georgie was accustomed to her father’s abrupt departures. But the house was full of his friends! Worse, one of them had broken into his study and stolen a letter of exceeding political sensitivity. You can’t mean to leave me with them, she’d protested. How am I to search their rooms for the letter if I’m the one hosting them?

  Her father had seemed unconcerned. Cheerful, even. You’ll think of something, he’d told her. And they’ll only stay till Boxing Day. Show them our holiday customs. I promised them a proper English Christmas. Feed them mince pies, keep them drunk. Very easy, Georgiana.

  Easy, was it? Today, from off the coast of Marseilles, he’d cabled a new set of instructions. Never fret, he’d written. I have ordered Lucas Godwin to join the party. He will find the letter.

  Lucas Godwin! Georgie had goggled at the page for long minutes. On no account—not even for peace everlasting—would she endure the presence of that silver-tongued snake in her house!

  But an hour ago, his coach had rolled up her drive.

  The sight had driven Georgie out of the drawing room. Panic urged her toward the kitchens. There was nowhere she felt safer, nobody’s counsel she trusted more than Cook’s.

  But halfway down the hall, she’d changed course. The staff could not save her from her father’s plots. Instead, she had flown up the stairs, bursting into the von Bittners’ suite to make a hasty search of two valises, praying to find the letter so she could send Godwin packing.

  She’d not found it, though.

  Another round of laughter floated to her ears. She took a strangling hold on the ivy-wrapped banister. Did the voices include Godwin’s?

  Of course they did.

  She should march into the drawing room and slap his face!

  The thought made her sigh. Some other woman might have done it. Alas, she was Georgiana Trent, daughter of England’s finest diplomat, schooled from childhood in the art of restraint. She was scholarly, politic, retiring. The worst anyone could call her was a spinster. She would not let an old wound drive her to fresh disgrace.

  Moreover, if she did slap Godwin, he would probably think her mad. He had no idea that he had broken her heart, two years ago. That month in Munich had only been a flirtation for him, one among dozens. Everybody fawned over him—even the great beauties. He had that kind of charm.

  Yet for a month, in Munich, Godwin had ignored the beauties. He had looked only at Georgie—laughing at her jokes, praising her insights, gazing at her across crowded rooms as though she were some kind of miracle. One glance in the mirror might have proved otherwise; she was plain and brown-eyed, with ashen hair too frizzy ever to shine. Her perfectly round face had never caused anybody to gape, much less to think of miracles.

  But even spinsters could lose their good sense. Godwin’s respect for her learning, his interest in her opinions, had touched her deepest, most secret hopes. She had wondered if they might be falling in love.

  They weren’t. That had become clear the morning she’d read of his departure in the diplomatic circular. He’d left! Without a word of farewell, without even a note, he had packed his bags and departed for a new post in Paris!

  He’d forgotten her as easily as he’d noticed her. That was the way of the flirt.

  Well, hers was the way of the civilized. She would abide by her father’s instructions. She would allow Godwin into her home, even have a Christmas stocking knit for him. Not by a single look or word would she reveal how he’d wounded her. But she did not mean to go lightly on him, oh no. If he took it upon himself to “cha
rm” her again, she would show him what she thought of cads who built their careers on shallow charisma. She had more weapons at her disposal than a mere slap. She had erudition. She had substance and dignity and pride.

  Resolved, she marched down the stairs, then cut through the entry hall toward the drawing room. The clamor had assumed a wild edge; ragged shouts of laughter drew her to a halt at the door. Her heart skipped a beat.

  Godwin stood blindfolded amidst a ring of laughing guests. She’d fantasized, once or twice, that Parisian cooking had turned him into a round-bellied, gout-ridden glutton. Alas, his tall frame remained lean—displayed to very good advantage by his formalwear, black tails and a starched white necktie. He could not have been in company above half an hour, for he had made time to change his suit. But already he’d become the center of attention. Typical.

  He thrust out one gloved hand, and Countess Obolenskaya, a willowy blonde well accustomed to men’s attentions, sidestepped with expert ease. “What is this called?” she giggled to the man at her side—Lord von Bittner, a gruff, silver-bearded German.

  “The blindman’s bluff,” von Bittner informed her. He gave a grand sloshing wave of his wineglass. The Axminster carpet might not survive this party. “English traditions!”

  Georgie crossed her arms. Here stood the crème de la crème of European diplomacy, upon whose shoulders rested the future of nations, the fate of politics and continent-defiling wars. And how did they entertain themselves? With a children’s game!

  Somebody noticed her—Mr. Lipscomb, from the Home Office. “Oh, look,” he cried, and then stepped forward to seize Godwin’s shoulders, giving him a shove in Georgie’s direction. “Better luck that way!”

  Godwin grinned, teeth startlingly white against his tanned face. He had the coloring of a farmhand. Did he never wear a hat? Too late, Georgie stepped back. His grip closed on her arms, startlingly firm. “At last,” he said. “My first victory of the evening.”

  His voice was low and rich, like sunlight through honey. It sent a startling stab through her chest. You are a wonder, Miss Trent. So he had told her once.