Marquess Under the Mistletoe

by Jillian Eaton

  Their courtship was supposed to be feigned…

  But there’s nothing fake about their passion.

  “Honora?” Jasper used her name as a question. A plea for permission. Honora was grateful he was asking for it. Terrified to give it. For once she stepped of this crumbling precipice, what could she use to pull herself back?

  But if you don’t let yourself fall, a tiny voice whispered, how do you know if you can fly?

  “All right.” She wet her lips. “You can kiss me if you’d like. But just this once,” she warned, holding up her finger for emphasis. “Our interest in each other is supposed to be for the benefit of my meddlesome family.”

  Capturing her hand, he turned it over and pressed his mouth to the inside of her wrist where her pulse beat madly. “Even the most skilled actors need to rehearse. Consider this our practice before the grand performance.”

  “I wasn’t aware our performance required k-kissing. Oh my.” Honora gasped as his lips began to trace a burning path up her arm. He paused to nuzzle the tiny concave of space between her shoulder and collarbone before lifting his head.

  “It’s always good to be prepared.” The arm around her middle tightened, his fingers sinking into the curve of her hip in an intimate embrace that was just shy of wicked. Then he gently claimed her mouth in a kiss...

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  © 2019 by Jillian Eaton

  Cover Design by Amanda Mariel

  Edited by Quillfire Author Services

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  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

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  Table of Contents

  Description

  Other Books by Jillian Eaton

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  About the Author

  Winning the Earl of Winchester

  Exclusive Excerpt

  Description

  It’s a family tradition. Every single Appleton sister has met her husband at their parent’s annual Christmas ball. Every single sister except for Honora, that is. Determined to maintain her independence, the last thing the youngest Appleton sister wants is to be caught kissing a marquess under the mistletoe. She’s quite happy sipping warm cider and watching everyone else fall in love, thank you very much.

  Then a handsome stranger arrives and suddenly the cider is no longer the hottest thing in the room. As sparks begin to fly, will Honora be the first in her family to break tradition…or follow in her sister’s footsteps and run towards the nearest mistletoe?

  Other Books by Jillian Eaton

  Christmas Novellas

  A Rake in Winter

  The Winter Wish

  The Risqué Resolution

  Natalie’s Christmas Rogue

  The Christmas Widow

  Secret Wallflower Society

  Winning the Earl of Winchester

  Courting the Countess of Cambridge

  Bow Street Brides

  A Dangerous Seduction

  A Dangerous Proposal

  A Dangerous Affair

  A Dangerous Passion

  A Dangerous Temptation

  Duke for All Seasons

  The Winter Duke

  The Spring Duke

  The Summer Duke

  The Autumn Duke

  Duchess for All Seasons

  The Winter Duchess

  The Spring Duchess

  The Summer Duchess

  The Autumn Duchess

  London Ladies

  Runaway Duchess

  Spinster and the Duke

  Forgotten Fiancée

  Lady Harper

  Wedded Women Quartet

  A Brooding Beauty

  A Ravishing Redhead

  A Lascivious Lady

  A Gentle Grace

  Swan Sisters

  For the Love of Lynette

  Taming Temperance

  Annabel’s Christmas Rake

  Chapter One

  “What about the Earl of Souderton?” asked Emily.

  “Or Lord Readington,” Anne said with a mischievous grin. “He’s quite handsome.”

  “I’m partial to Mr. Briggs,” Rebecca put in as she strolled into the parlor and leaned against the back of Emily’s chair. “I realize he isn’t titled, but he’s filthy rich. And his side-whiskers.” She pressed a hand to her heart and fluttered her lashes. “It’s enough to make me swoon just thinking about them.”

  “He does have very good side-whiskers,” Anne agreed.

  “Excellent,” Emily nodded. “Not patchy at all.”

  Honora Appleton eyed her sisters from across the room. She knew they meant well. They always meant well. But that didn’t mean she liked their meddling. In fact, she despised it. Unfortunately, it came with the territory. She was, after all, the youngest. Worse than that, she was the one sibling without a husband.

  A tragedy worse than the pox, as far as her sisters were concerned.

  “No,” Honora said emphatically. Her dark ringlets bounced as she shook her head from side to side. “The earl is nearly twice my age, Lord Readington couldn’t spell his way out of a box, and Mr. Briggs is already married to his fancy hotel.”

  Emily and Anne pursed their lips in identical expressions of annoyance. Born two minutes apart, they were often mistaken for one another, except by those who knew them best. The twins may have looked alike with their blonde hair, hazel eyes, and heart-shaped countenances, but their demeanors couldn’t have been more different. Emily was far more outspoken, while Anne preferred little quips and sly innuendos. Rebecca, as the eldest of all the Appleton sisters, was a combination of the two, and Honora…well, Honora wasn’t sure who she was.

  She certainly didn’t have Rebecca’s confidence. But neither was she as shy as Anne. She liked to voice her opinion as much as Emily, but as an unmarried wallflower teetering on the brink of spinsterhood, her opinion never seemed to carry much weight. Suffice it to say, she always felt caught somewhere in the middle. Like a boat adrift in a wide open sea that didn’t know which direction to sail or which port to head towards. It didn’t help that her sisters, while well-intentioned, were always pushing her in three different directions at once when all she wanted to do was follow her own North Star.

  Even if that North Star didn’t lead to a husband.

  “You’re too selective, Honora,” Rebecca chided.

  “Far too selective,” the twins agreed in unison.

  “Shouldn’t I be?” Honora countered as she walked to the window and peered out at the snow-covered lawn. They’d left London for their country manor two days ago. It always felt strange to exchange the bustling life of town for the quiet solitude of rolling hills and homes spaced so far apart one required a carriage to reach their neighbor, but Honora liked the peace it brought. Or the peace it would have brought, if she wasn’t being hounded by her sisters. On a loud sigh she turned to face them, her arms fo
lded tightly across her chest.

  “I am not going to choose someone because I like their side-whiskers.” Her nose wrinkled at the very idea. “This is a man I will be with for the rest of my life. I will live with him, raise children with him, make important decisions with him. It is not as if I am picking a dress to wear to a ball.”

  Emily sipped her tea. “I think you’re putting too much thought into it.”

  “And I don’t think you put in enough.” The moment the words were past Honora’s lips she wished she could snatch them back. But that wasn’t the way things worked, and her stomach turned unpleasantly when she saw the color drain from Emily’s face.

  “I am perfectly happy with Richard,” her sister said stiffly. “He is a good man.”

  A good man, perhaps, but not a good husband or a good father to their one-year-old son. But Honora knew better than to say that aloud, especially when Anne wound a protective arm around her twin’s shoulders and scowled at Honora.

  “At least Emily won’t spend the rest of her life alone in a house filled with cats,” she snapped.

  Rebecca gasped. “Anne, that’s quite enough.”

  “Honora started it.”

  “And I am finishing it.” Rebecca stood up and smoothed out a wrinkle from her blue skirt. “It is almost Christmas, and we are not going to carry feelings of ill-will into the New Year, let alone to the house party. Mother would have our heads if she saw us squabbling.”

  Honora bit back a groan. With the past few months being so busy – one event had started to run into the next until they were a blur of pretty dresses and pesky suitors – she’d almost forgotten about their mother’s beloved Christmas party.

  As a conservative woman with simple tastes, Lady Appleton did not get excited about many things. But her house party, which she’d been hosting for as long as any of her daughters could remember, was one of them. It was an event she began preparing for in August. No expense was spared, and the guest list was always long and very impressive. Two years ago, a duke had attended. A duke! Suffice it to say, it was the event of the holiday season and Lady Appleton wanted – expected, really – her daughters to be on their very best behavior.

  Honora did not know how she’d forgotten. Most likely because there was a small part of her that had wanted to forget. Or at least pretend they were skipping it all this year. Because there was one part of the party that had become a family tradition of sorts.

  A tradition she wanted absolutely nothing to do with.

  It had begun with Emily. One innocent peck on her cheek under the mistletoe, and two weeks later she’d found herself engaged to the Earl of Carlisle. A catch by anyone’s standards; never mind that he spent more time hunting than he did with his wife and child. But no one had really thought anything of it. A lovely bit of happenstance, nothing more. Then the following year, Rebecca was kissed under the very same mistletoe by Lord Featherstone, and two weeks later, she was engaged. Twelve months passed and Anne met her husband in the exact same fashion. Now it was Honora’s turn, but if it were left to her, she’d happily burn every last piece of mistletoe in the entire house.

  It was the height of ridiculousness to believe just because all three of her sisters had discovered their future husbands during the house party, she would be destined to do the same. And yet that was exactly what everyone believed. Why, yesterday her lady’s maid had asked her if she’d given any thought to what gown she wanted to wear when she met her husband! As if a bit of evergreen possessed the power of matrimony. As if it were a foregone conclusion. As if she had absolutely no say in the matter.

  Honora sighed. She knew, of course, her parents would never force her to marry against her will. But it was the expectation of it all that left a sour taste in the back of her mouth. And the knowledge that if she didn’t receive a kiss under the mistletoe, she was letting everyone down.

  “Are we all in agreement, then?” Rebecca looked at each of her siblings in turn, her serious gray eyes daring someone to contradict her. “No more fighting until after Boxing Day. By then, all the guests will have gone home, Mother will be visiting Aunt Abigail in Hampshire, and no one will care if we are at each other’s throats.”

  “Fine,” the twins muttered.

  “I’ll agree,” Honora said, “if all of you agree to stop trying to play matchmaker. I know I’m the youngest. I know I am the only one who isn’t married.” She spread her arms in a desperate plea. “But that’s because I don’t want to be married. At least not yet. Truly, I don’t see that changing in a week’s time.”

  Rebecca tucked a glossy brown curl behind her ear. She, like Honora, had inherited their father’s dark hair, while Emily and Anne had their mother’s fair coloring. “You’ll change your mind,” she said confidently. “I thought the same exact thing – until I met Jeffrey. One kiss and it was love at first sight.”

  “I don’t believe in love at first sight,” Honora frowned.

  Emily lifted a brow. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t believe in you.”

  Jasper St. Clair, the sixth Marquess of Slatington, rolled his eyes at his little sister and barely managed not to snort. “You’ve got to be jesting.”

  “I never jest about the latest fashion trends from Paris.” Bridget straightened in her chair. “And I certainly do not jest about house parties. This invitation is a great honor, Jasper. Lord and Lady Appleton don’t invite just anyone, you know.”

  “Then go,” Jasper said with a careless shrug. “But I’ve no intention of attending with you. There are a thousand things I’d rather do with my time than be trapped at some stuffy function where everyone talks about the weather and the brandy is watered down.” He rubbed his chin. “Having bricks tied to my feet and tossed in the Thames is the first thing that comes to mind. Drowning would be vastly preferable to enduring a week locked in a house with my peers.”

  “You have to go.” Bridget’s guileless blue eyes widened in distress as she sprang to her feet, the invitation in question crumpled against her chest. “I can hardly show up by myself. The envelope was addressed to Lady Bridget and the Marquess of Slatington. That’s you.”

  Jasper visibly winced. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”

  “Why not?” she asked. “It’s who you are now.”

  “It’s who Father is.” His mouth thinned. “Was.”

  The fifth Marquess of Slatington’s untimely death had come as a shock to everyone, but no one was more surprised than his son and heir. From a young age, Jasper had idolized his father. Bridget had loved him as well, of course, but her bond had always been closer with her mother. She and Jasper were half-siblings, the late marquess having remarried after his first wife died in childbirth.

  It had never occurred to Jasper that his father would one day die too. Larger than life, the marquess had seemed immortal. Until one night when his heart unexpectedly failed him, and Jasper learned how mortal the most important man in his life really was.

  They’d laid him to rest nearly eight months ago, but Jasper still wasn’t accustomed to being addressed by his father’s title. Truth to be told, he didn’t know if he’d ever get used to it. Or if he’d ever want to.

  The Marquess of Slatington was someone who honored his obligations. He didn’t stay out gambling all hours of the night or consorting with women of questionable moral standing. He didn’t drink to excess. And he never would have ignored an invitation to a house party, no matter how trivial or uninspiring he found it to be. In short, the Marquess of Slatington was considered a pillar of High Society. Whereas Jasper…wasn’t.

  It’s not that he was a terrible person. Yes, he enjoyed playing the tables, but he never risked more than he could afford to lose. And yes, he’d spent a small fortune on mistresses, but wasn’t that a testament to his generosity? And yes, he probably did drink more than he should, but it was a habit he’d been trying to quell these past few weeks. Which was why, all things considered, Jasper didn’t think of himself as a complete degenerate. He just
wasn’t the man his father had been, and as a result his new title fit poorly. Rather like a pair of trousers that had been hemmed at the wrong length.

  “I miss him too,” Bridget said quietly. A replica of her mother, she looked like a porcelain doll, sitting in the chair with her ebony hair swept away from her softly rounded face, with her ivory complexion, and wide, innocent eyes framed with thick black lashes.

  Jasper, on the other hand, was all rawboned muscle and hard lines. He towered over his half-sister by nearly six inches, and his chest was easily the width of her body twice over. The one trait they shared was the color of their hair. And they had a mutual love for one another that went deeper than the blood ties that bound them together.

  “But,” Jasper said, lifting a brow as he waited for Bridget to complete her sentence.

  “But,” she acknowledged with a tiny sigh, “Father is gone, Jasp. You’re not.”

  “Neither are you,” he was quick to point out.

  “No, but I’m just his daughter. You’re his legacy. You carry his title, whether you want it or not. The fact that it came to you far sooner than you ever expected – or wanted – doesn’t change that. You cannot keep shirking your responsibilities forever.”

  Jasper scowled. “I can bloody well try.”

  “Come to the house party,” she pleaded. “We’ll stay through the ball, then join my mother for Christmas at Hatfield House. I know she’d love to see us, and surely the holiday will be a bit easier if we’re all together to celebrate.”

  Hatfield House was the dowager estate Lady Slatington had moved to after her husband’s passing. Jasper had requested she take up a wing at Slatington Manor, but she’d politely refused.

  This is your home now, she’d told him, her smile tender as she’d placed her hand upon his cheek. Hatfield will be a quiet place to grieve, and I’ve always loved the gardens. Come visit whenever the mood strikes you. My door shall always be open.