Her Mistletoe Kiss: A Regency Christmas Novella

by Deborah Hale

  Her Mistletoe Kiss

  Deborah Hale

  Copyright © 2006 Deborah Hale

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This story was originally published by Harlequin Books S.A. in the collection “Mistletoe Kisses” under the title “A Winter Night’s Tale”.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Reader Letter

  Excerpt from Snowbound with the Baronet

  Also Available

  Dedication

  I dedicate this story with admiration to all the caregivers of this world. The true Spirit of Christmas lives in you every day of the year!

  Chapter One

  Bishopscote, England

  December 11, 1815

  “MAMA!” YOUNG NICHOLAS Wilton shook his mother’s arm. “There’s a man at the door. May he come in? He might have brought me a present!”

  Come to present her with some overdue bill, more likely. Christabel pulled the swath of shawls tighter around her slight shoulders. Though the weather outside was not especially cold for St. Nicholas Day, the very marrow of her bones felt frozen.

  “I gave you your gift this morning, dearest.” She forced her lips into a reassuring smile and willed her teeth not to chatter as she spoke. “And we are not expecting any company.”

  She should just get up and answer the door herself, but a dull ache gnawed at her flesh until she could not bear the thought of stirring from her chair by the fire. If she rested here another hour or two, she might be able to summon the strength to make Colly his supper and put him to bed. Christabel had no intention of squandering that energy to confront some abusive creditor.

  “T-tell the man to come back another day, dearest.” Even as the words left her mouth, she knew she had spoken too late.

  The door hinges creaked and firm, deliberate footsteps approached.

  “Pardon my intrusion, ma’am,” said the intruder, his courteous tone quite at odds with his presumption of crossing her threshold uninvited. “Mrs. Wilton, isn’t it? Formerly Miss Hastings of Lollingham in Somerset?”

  Christabel dragged herself to her feet to bid him be gone. But his questions knocked her back onto her seat with the force of a hard gust of winter wind. Like a strong wind, they snatched her breath away, too.

  Her caller seemed to find the answer he sought in her silence. If he had any doubts, Colly dispelled them by declaring, “I am Nicholas Wilton and this is my mama. Do you know her?”

  “Once upon a time, I did.” The man replied in a tone of grave courtesy that Christabel recalled from her past. “Though perhaps she does not remember me. Mr. Jonathan Frost, at your service.” He bowed to Christabel and her son.

  Perhaps there were women in the world so unfeeling that they could conveniently forget men they had jilted. Christabel was not among their number. Jonathan Frost’s name and likeness were indelibly etched upon her conscience.

  Though perhaps that image no longer quite matched the gentleman who stood before her. She did not recall him being so tall, nor half so handsome. The intervening years had pared away any trace of boyish roundness from his face, making him look more severe... and more attractive.

  “Of course I remember you, Mr. Frost.” Christabel struggled to catch her breath. “It is a great surprise to see you again after such a long time. Whatever are you doing in this part of the country?”

  One of the few charms Derbyshire held for her was the unlikelihood of meeting with any of her old acquaintances. But this was the second to cross her path in a fortnight. Cross her path? Nay, Mr. Frost had clearly sought her out, though she wished he had not.

  What did he mean by coming here today? Had he wanted to see her reduced circumstances first-hand so he could gloat? Or to remind her of the life that might have been hers if only her reckless heart had not gotten the better of her good sense? If either of those was his design, then she’d done well to escape a union with the man, no matter what the privations of her present life.

  But when the gentleman spoke again, no edge of contempt sharpened his tone. “For the past year, I have made my home not ten miles away—a small estate just this side of Gosslyn.” Nothing in his manner suggested that Christabel’s small, drafty cottage was vastly inferior to his usual surroundings. “Our mutual friend, Miss Jessup has recently come to the vicarage there, to keep house for her brother. When she told me of meeting you in the market... I say, are you ill?”

  Before she could summon a convincing denial, he strode toward her and pressed the backs of his fingers to her brow. Their touch felt so gentle and so pleasantly cool, Christabel could not bring herself to protest the liberty he had taken.

  “Good Lord, woman!” He wrenched his hand away almost as soon as it made contact with her forehead and his voice took on the tone of brusque authority she remembered from their brief courtship. “You are burning hotter than the miserable fire in that hearth! How long have you been like this? And why are you not in bed where you belong?”

  She would say one thing for the man—at least he made her forget how miserable she felt. Likewise, his manner eased the worst of her shame over the way she had once treated him. Why would any woman have wed such a high-handed, officious creature except for his fortune?

  “You may have noticed, sir, I have a child to care for.” Christabel channelled some of the chill from her bones into her voice and glare. “I cannot take to my bed at the slightest indisposition. But as you see, I am not well enough to entertain callers.”

  Mr. Frost refused to take her blatant hint. In fact, he hardly seemed to have heeded a word she’d said. “Have you summoned a doctor, at least? When did you eat last?”

  What presumption to barge into her house after all these years and demand answers to such questions!

  Before Christabel could sputter her outrage, Colly spoke up. “Mama never eats very much. She says she has no appetite.”

  “Thank you, young man.” Jonathan Frost turned his attention back to Christabel. “Then you have been ill for some time?”

  Not ill—poor. And with a growing child who needed his nourishment more than she did.

  “I refuse to have a physician.” Not that she could have afforded such a luxury. “Most of them do more harm than good, especially for passing ailments like mine. A little rest and quiet will soon see me well again.”

  Gathering her strength, Christabel heaved herself to her feet. “Now if you will be so kind as to leave us in—”

  The whole tiny parlor of the cottage began to spin around her. The only thing that held steady was the face of Jonathan Frost. His wide mouth was compressed in a stubborn line. The dark curls that tumbled over his brow could not disguise the furrows of worry that creased it. The steely resolve that glinted in his blue eyes was tempered by warm concern.

  She would not swoon! Christabel clung to the slippery rope of consciousness. She would remain on her feet until Mr. Frost had the courtesy to quit her house. She did not want his meddlesome pity.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wilton, but this will not do.” He moved toward her, throwing his face out of focus so th
e room spun more violently than before. “I cannot leave you here in such a state. You and the child had better come with me.”

  Come where? He didn’t mean to cart them off to a workhouse, did he? As Christabel struggled to keep her wits about her, Jonathan Frost swept her into his arms.

  He held her in a firm, steady embrace in which she felt strangely safe. Some part of his face bushed her brow with a whisper of tender reassurance. Hard as she tried to resist it, she could not help herself.

  Chapter Two

  ONLY THE PRESENCE of the child kept Frost from cursing.

  This was not how he’d meant his interview with Christabel Wilton to unfold. He’d never wanted to come in the first place. But that meddlesome Miss Jessup had nattered on and on until he’d agreed to pay a call. He’d hoped to find her account of Mrs. Wilton’s straitened circumstances exaggerated. Instead, they were worse than he’d been led to believe and he’d had no honorable choice but to involve himself in her affairs.

  He hoisted her into his arms,before she fell to the floor and compounded her illness with an injury. When had the woman eaten last? She weighed almost nothing. Her head lolled against his shoulder, her eyes closed. Except for the feverish flush in her cheeks and the dark smudges beneath her eyes, her face was pale.

  Frost felt a vigorous tug on his coattails. He glanced down to find the boy staring up at him. “What is the matter with Mama? What have you done to her?”

  “Nothing!” Why did he feel so responsible, then? “I am only trying to help her. You want her to get well, don’t you?”

  The child considered for a moment, then nodded. “I want her to play with me and not be so tired always.”

  Frost glanced around the tiny parlor, almost bare of furniture, but scrupulously clean. No wonder the poor creature was tired if she could not afford to keep a servant.

  “Then I must take you both to a place where you will be well looked after while she recovers her strength.”

  The child looked doubtful. Perhaps he remembered how his mother had bidden Frost away before she collapsed. Two years ago Frost would have had no idea how to reason with a child, but since then he’d gained some insights into the workings of a young mind.

  “You seem like a big, smart fellow, Master Wilton. I could use your help.”

  The boy point to himself with an amazed look on his small face. “You need my help?”

  Frost nodded. “Indeed I do, if you will oblige me. Could you open the front door? I have a carriage waiting outside where I can settle you mama.”

  Almost before he was finished asking, the boy scurried off and Frost heard the creek of door hinges. It came as no surprise to him that Christabel Wilton had raised a helpful child. No doubt she’d been forced to rely on hers more than most mothers.

  “Well done,” said Frost as he carried the boy’s mother through the open doorway. “Now, could I trouble you to fetch some blankets? We must keep your mama warm on the journey.”

  When the coachman saw his master coming, he made haste to throw open the carriage door.

  “Thank you, Samuel.” Frost nodded toward the cottage. “Will you go help the little fellow round up some blankets?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “And don’t say anything to alarm him about his mother’s condition.”

  “Indeed I won’t, sir.”

  By the time Frost got Christabel propped up in one corner of the carriage, Samuel and the child had returned bearing blankets.

  “Got these off the wee lad’s bed,” the coachman muttered as he handed them to Frost. “The ones on hers were thin as muslin.”

  That information did not surprise Frost. It was clear to him that Christabel Wilton had been going without far too many common necessities in order to provide for her son. Which was well-meant folly if it had led to her present illness. The child needed a healthy mother more than he needed the extra food and warmth she’d furnished him at her own expense.

  As he tucked the blankets around Christabel, Frost motioned for the boy to climb into the carriage. “I shall be sure to tell your mama what a great help you were to me, lad. What’s that you’ve brought with you?”

  “A hobbyhorse, sir.” The boy straddled his plaything and rode it into the carriage. “Mama gave him to me as a St. Nicholas present.”

  Made with her own hands no doubt and cleverly, too. The thing had a gray wool head with twists of coarse yarn for a mane. With two bright brass buttons for eyes, it boasted a real leather bridle and harness contrived from an old belt. The mop-handle shaft had been sanded smooth to prevent the chance of small fingers picking up splinters. Frost wondered how many hours of secret, loving work Mrs. Wilton had lavished on this gift for her son.

  “A fine looking hunter, indeed. Have you named it yet?”

  The boy shook his head. “I was too busy riding.” He passed his hand over his horse’s mane in a fond caress. “Can you help me think of one, Mr. Frost? Say, are you Jack Frost who paints our windows all white?”

  The twinkle in the child’s hazel eyes told Frost he was teasing. Clearly he’d inherited his late father’s winning manner as well as his love of horses. For the boy’s sake, Frost hoped all resemblance between father and son ended there.

  He shook his head in answer to the boy’s question. “No indeed, though some boys at school used to rag me with that name.”

  While they were busy discussing a proper name for the horse, Frost’s carriage pulled away from the Wiltons’ tiny cottage.

  The slight lurch roused Christabel. “Where are we?” She stared around her in alarm, but calmed a little when she spied her son nearby. “Where are you taking us?”

  She tried to pull away from Frost, but he held her in a firm grip. “Do not fret. This is my carriage and I am taking you and your son back to my house for a few days until you recover. Master Nicholas is anxious for a visit, aren’t you lad?”

  The child gave a vigorous nod. “Oh yes, mama! May we go, please? We never go anywhere.”

  Christabel looked too sick and weary to argue. “Very well, but only for a short while. We must not impose upon Mr. Frost.” Her words trailed off in a whisper as her slender body relaxed in Frosts’s arms and her eyes slid shut again.

  “Hurrah!” cried the child.

  Frost wished he could work up as much enthusiasm for their visit. It was imperative Mrs. Wilton receive good care if she was to recover. Though that duty had fallen to him by default, he would not shirk it. But neither did he relish it. The past was better left to the past and Christabel Wilton represented a painful chapter of his history that he would rather forget.

  “Look, Mr. Frost!” the boy pointed out the carriage window. “It’s snowing. Perhaps I should give my horse a Christmas name.” He thought for a moment. “Holly?”

  “Or Yule,” Frost suggested.

  By the time they reached Candlewood, the name Mistletoe had been agreed upon and a gossamer blanket of snow had settled over the grounds and forecourt.

  Frost hoisted Christabel into his arms and carried her into the house while a small parade of servants followed in his wake, along with Master Nicholas riding his hobbyhorse.

  “Lay a good fire in the main guest room,” Frost ordered as he strode toward it. “And heat some bricks to warm the bed.”

  Before long, Christabel was installed in the great bed, swathed in covers a good deal thicker than muslin. Frost put her son in the care of a rosy little housemaid who looked almost young enough to enjoy a romp down the gallery on the hobbyhorse. “Jane, fetch Master Nicholas down to the kitchen for a rattling good tea. Then amuse him as best you can, like a good girl.”

  The child licked his lips at the prospect of ‘a rattling good tea’ but his small brow furrowed. “Perhaps I ought to sit with Mama. She did with me when I was ill.”

  Frost suppressed a smile. “I’m certain your mother will rest easier if she knows you are being well looked after. Besides, she is sleeping, now, and there are plenty of people who can watch over her in
case she needs anything.”

  “But they are strangers. She might be frightened if she wakes, like she did in your carriage.” The child’s small features creased in a worried frown then suddenly brightened. “You are not a stranger, Mr. Frost! Will you sit with Mama until I come back?”

  “I would, but... other matters need my attention.” Matters that would take him to the farthest corner of the house and keep him there until Mrs. Wilton was well enough to leave. Seeing her again had brought back too many regrets—too many memories that were best forgotten. “My servants are all very capable and kind. She will be well tended, I promise you.”

  The child shook his head. “If you cannot stay, then I must.” He marched toward a chair near his mother’s bed.

  Stifling a vexed growl, Frost stepped into the boy’s path. “Go along with Jane and get your tea.” He lowered himself onto the chair. “I suppose I can sit with your mother for awhile.”

  What would it matter? She’d likely be asleep the whole time. And once the boy became acquainted with Frost’s servants, he would not be so stubbornly opposed to leaving his mother in their charge.

  Frost started when a pair of stout little arms flung around his neck and gave a hearty squeeze. “Thank you Mr. Frost! You’re very kind!”

  I am an indulgent fool! Frost kept the words to himself for fear for injuring the child’s feelings. Not that he could have forced them past the massive lump he found unaccountably lodged in his throat.

  He recovered his voice as the boy raced off hand-in-hand with Jane. “Make sure you clean your plate, now. And give that horse of yours a good work out.”

  Once the boy had gone, Frost rose from the chair and busied himself with one thing and another. He sent a footman for the doctor. Then he ordered a pot of piping hot beef tea in case Mrs. Wilton woke up hungry. Privately he vowed to make certain she left his house several pounds heavier than she had entered it.

  At last there was nothing more to do and no more servants left to order. Frost sat down in the chair for a while, but found his gaze continually drawn to Christabel’s face. He told himself he was only watching for any change in her condition. In truth, he found himself picturing her as she’d been six years ago, when her face had a youthful plumpness and her cheeks a healthy glow.