Her Mistletoe Kiss: A Regency Christmas Novella

by Deborah Hale

  She had not been the most beautiful woman of his acquaintance, but her cheerful disposition had seemed to brighten every room she entered. In her company, every sound took on a musical quality, colors appeared more vibrant, smells and tastes seemed sweeter.

  This would never do! Frost jumped up and began pace the room. Christabel Wilton had not been two hours in his house and already she was making him yearn for a past that was lost and a present that had never come to be! By stubborn dint of will, he succeeded in turning his thoughts to other channels. But when Christabel stirred and murmured in her sleep, he flew to her side.

  “The doctor should be here soon.” He smoothed back a stray lock of hair from her hot, moist brow. “Try to rest. You and your son are welcome to stay here until you are quite well again.” His conscience smote him at the thought of ever sending her back to that small, bare cottage.

  Her eyelids fluttered and her lips moved, but Frost could not make out her words. He leaned closer.

  Christabel opened her eyes fully and stared up at him, her gaze warm with recognition and... affection?

  Frost glanced in horror at his fingers, which still held a lock of her hair, fondling it. He let go with a guilty start.

  “Monty?” Her lips caressed the name of her late husband—the man for whom she had jilted him.

  “I’m afraid not, ma’am. It’s Jonathan Frost. I brought you to my house to recover from your illness.”

  Though her gaze never left his face, she seemed not to hear him. Frost had the unsettling sensation that she did not truly see him either.

  “Dearest Monty.” She raised one thin, work-roughened hand to caress his cheek.

  Frost tried to pull away, but he could not. Once again he tried to deny that he was Montague Wilton. But the words got stuck in his throat.

  Christabel’s flushed face blossomed into a smile of unearthly radiance. “You have come home to me at last, my darling!”

  Her hand slipped around Frost’s neck and drew him toward her as she canted her head and parted her lips to kiss him.

  Chapter Three

  CHRISTABEL’S LIPS WERE soft and warm beneath Frost’s. He remembered kissing her once or twice during their engagement, but those stiff, awkward exchanges had been nothing like this. Now, the subtle movement of her lips beguiled and invited him.

  But he could not accept her invitation! The woman was gravely ill and out of her head with fever. Besides, her kiss was meant for a dead man and Frost had no right in the world to claim it. Still, it took every ounce of resolution he could summon to disengage her arms from around his neck.

  “Lay still, my dear.” Frost humored her feverish delusion. He knew from experience that trying to reason with her would be futile and only agitate her when she needed rest. “I am here and will stay for as long as you need me.”

  He wrapped one hand around both of Christabel’s to keep her from entangling him in another embrace. For he was by no means certain he could behave in a rational, honorable manner if she kissed him again with such tender passion. His other hand caressed her cheek to reassure and calm her—or so he told himself.

  One of the housemaids entered with a tray, which she set down on the nightstand beside the bed. “There’s the beef tea you ordered, sir. The doctor’s been sent for. Is there anything else the lady needs?”

  Frost shook his head. “The little boy? How is he doing? Getting enough to eat?”

  “I should say, sir.” The girl’s rosy face lapsed into a motherly smile. “For such a wee fellow, he has an appetite to satisfy even Cook. From the quantity of her ginger biscuits he ate, you’d think he’d never tasted such a thing in his life.”

  Perhaps he hadn’t. Though the child’s sturdy build suggested he’d seldom gone hungry, Frost doubted his mother had been able to afford many sweets. “I’m glad to hear he’s settling in well. Show Dr. Bradstreet up as soon as he arrives.”

  Once the maid had curtsied and departed, Frost poured a cup of the beef tea and managed to coax a little into Christabel before she drifted back to sleep again. Then he wet his handkerchief in some cool water from the nightstand ewer and mopped her fiery brow.

  He remembered the night he had first laid eyes on her at the modest assembly hall in rural Somerset. Come to think of it, his ears had first drawn him to the merry music of Christabel Hastings’ laughter. He’d been a stranger, visiting in the neighborhood and uncertain of his welcome. But once he had begged an introduction and asked for the honor of a dance, she’d immediately put him at his ease. How much ease or laughter had she enjoyed since then, poor creature?

  Brisk footsteps heralded the arrival of the doctor whose old-fashioned wig was further powdered with snow and his broad face nipped red by the cold. “This is not the patient I expected, Mr. Frost. Another relation of yours is she?”

  “An old friend.” Frost moved from Christabel’s bedside to make way for the doctor. “When I heard she was living nearby, I paid a call and found her ill.”

  “Why in heaven’s name did you bring her here?” Dr. Bradstreet pulled out his pocket watch, then pressed the fingertips of his other hand to Christabel’s delicate wrist. “In my experience, patients recover more quickly in familiar surroundings.”

  “I assure you, she is better off here.”

  “I see.” The doctor continued his examination. “Not much of her, is there? Small wonder she fell ill.”

  “Her late husband was a cavalry officer.” Frost stared out the window at the swirling snow. It had been during the Christmas season six years ago when Christabel had broken their engagement by eloping with Montague Wilton. In some ways it felt like a lifetime ago. In others, it seemed like only yesterday.

  The doctor gave a grunt of vexation. “It’s a perfect scandal how this country rewards the men who gave their lives fighting against tyranny—letting their families languish in poverty. Any children?”

  “A little boy. It is as much for his sake as hers that I brought them back to Candlewood.”

  “Is he ill too?”

  Frost shook his head. “A fine, strong lad as far as I can tell. I’d be obliged if you would have a look at him before you go, just the same.”

  Bradstreet had just finished his examination when the child came galloping into the room. “Is Mama better yet?”

  “A little, I believe.” Frost dropped to his haunches to bring him eye to eye with the boy. “But she will need plenty of rest and nourishment yet. You won’t mind staying here awhile will you?”

  The boy shook his head. “I like this place. The food is splendid and Samuel promised he would let me ride on a real horse tomorrow if you say I might.”

  “We have a bargain.” Frost held out his hand to the child. “Plenty of horse rides and ginger biscuits for you, rest and beef tea for your mama.”

  Nicholas Wilton shook Frost’s hand with a solemn air. “But what do you get out of the bargain, sir?”

  The question caught Frost off guard, but he quickly rallied. “Why, the enjoyment of your company, of course.” And perhaps the relief of a lingering guilt?

  Once the boy went off with Jane to get ready for bed, Frost turned back to the doctor. “So, how long do you reckon it will take Mrs. Wilton to recover her health with warmth, rest and proper food? Two weeks? A month?”

  “I believe she could bounce back very quickly. Her underlying constitution seems strong, considering how she has abused it.” Bradstreet looked strangely grim for a physician delivering such encouraging news. “That is, if she survives this devilish fever. Of that I am by no means certain. I shall bleed her, of course, though I’m not sure how much good it will do. Her resolve to live is more likely to decide matters.”

  “If you doubt it will help, then do not bother,” said Frost gruffly. He did not believe Christabel’s fever was caused by a excess of blood. The poor woman did not look as though she’d enjoyed an excess of anything in a long while.

  When Bradstreet had gone off to examine the boy, Frost shovelled a bit more
coal on the fire then stood at the foot of the bed staring at Christabel. She bore very little resemblance to the young woman who had conquered his heart seven years ago—a woman he had not allowed himself to think about for quite some time. Yet faced with the possibility of her dying, a frigid chill gripped his chest, together with a hollow ache.

  Christabel stirred in her fevered, dream-troubled sleep. The chill still gnawed at her bones, but the great pile of bedclothes over her and the nearby crackle of a good fire offered a reassuring promise of warmth.

  Monty? She pried her eyes open and made a feeble effort to lift her head. Finding herself already propped up on several thick pillows, she managed to sweep a glance around the large, comfortable looking room. She saw no sign of Monty, but of course he would not be here. She had been a fool to yearn for him, even in her dreams. Why then, did the aching sweetness of his kiss still linger on of her lips?

  A soft buzz of snoring lured her gaze to a large armchair drawn up beside the bed. A man slouched in it, his head sunk to his breast, fast asleep. Christabel sensed she should know him and that his identity was somehow linked to this place where she found herself.

  Jonathan Frost—that’s who he was! He’d paid a most unexpected visit to her cottage and... Christabel could not recall him leaving. A fleeting wisp of memory caught in her mind of being held secure and told that Mr. Frost was fetching her and Colly back to his house.

  Colly! Her first thought should have been for her son, not his charming, irresponsible father.

  Christabel rallied the dregs of her strength and fought against the paralysing ache in her flesh to sit up. A soft whimper of pain and frustration escaped her lips, bringing Mr. Frost instantly awake.

  “For pity’s sake, woman, lie still!” He restrained her with gentle strength. “Whatever it is you want, just ask and I will fetch it for you.”

  “Colly?” she demanded in a harsh whisper. “What have you done with my son?”

  Frost pointed toward a shadowy corner of the room. “He refused to be parted from you, so I had a cot brought in for him. A stubborn little fellow for one so otherwise agreeable. I congratulate you upon him. He has my entire household doting upon him after a few hours’ acquaintance.”

  His matter-of-fact tone calmed her. Christabel sank back on the pillows.

  Frost let go of her and rubbed his eyes. “Now that you have roused me, is there anything I can get for you? The beef tea has gone cold, I fear, but Cook sent up a cup of eggnog which she swears has amazing restorative powers.”

  Before Christabel could reply, her stomach answered for her with a hollow rumble.

  A ghost of a smile flickered on Mr. Frost’s solemn countenance... or perhaps it was only a trick of the firelight. “Eggnog it is, then.”

  He balanced the cup with a delicate touch in one hand, while sliding the other beneath her shoulders and lifting her to a more convenient posture for drinking.

  That eggnog—why it might have been heavenly ambrosia! Christabel could not recall the last time she’d tasted anything so smooth, rich and sweet. Frost tipped it to her lips at the proper shallow angle so she might drink as much as she wished without forcing more upon her than she wanted.

  At last she gave a little nod to indicate she’d had enough.

  Frost eased her back down onto the pillows, then returned the cup to a small table that appeared well-laden with anything she might require during the night.

  Glancing at the quantity of liquid remaining in the cup he gave an approving nod. “It is good for you to take nourishment.”

  He reached his hand toward her forehead then hesitated before making contact. “May I?”

  When she nodded, he pressed the backs of his fingers to her brow. They felt so cool, Christabel wished he would glide them over the rest of her face.

  “Still burning up.” He looked very severe, almost... haunted.

  “A doctor?” whispered Christabel. “Was he here or did I dream him?”

  Frost nodded. “Bradstreet examined you. He is a good man.”

  “What did he say? How soon will I be well enough to take my son home? I do not wish to trespass long upon your hospitality.”

  Her questions made Frost scowl.

  “Is it serious?” she asked doubtfully. “Am I in danger?”

  His frown deepened. She sensed he was torn between telling her a comforting falsehood and impressing upon her the true gravity of her situation.

  The chill in her bones intensified tenfold. But her fear was not for her own welfare. A dizzy, foggy sensation began to steal over her again. Christabel refused to surrender to it until she had settled one vital matter.

  “I have no right to ask anything of you, Mr. Frost, and for my own sake I would not. If anything happens to me, will you look after my child? I have no other friends. My father disowned me. You are the one person who has shown me any kindness in a very long time.”

  Perhaps this was all she could do for her son. Colly would be far better off in the care of a man of property than a penniless mother, no matter how much she loved him. “Please, will you promise me?”

  Frost’s silver-blue glare pierced Christabel’s misty vision of her son’s future. He jumped from the bed as if her fever had reached out to scorch him. The noise made Colly stir in his sleep but he did not wake. Jonathan Frost plowed his fingers through his dark hair as he strode to the foot of the bed.

  “No!” he declared in a hoarse, angry whisper. “I will not let you abdicate responsibility for him!” He stabbed his in the direction of Colly’s cot. “I will not make it easy for you to give up. Fight, damn you! Fight for your life and for your child. If you die, I promise you his situation up till now will seem like paradise by comparison.”

  Unfeeling brute! What folly had ever made her believe he had an ounce of compassion in him? She’d been right not marry him, no matter how comfortable a position it might have afforded her. She did not dispute his right to treat her with all the contempt he wished, but her son was an innocent child who’d done him no harm.

  A heavy, cold weariness threatened to envelop her, but Christabel fought against it with grim resolve. Even if Jonathan Frost should grudgingly relent once she was dead, she could not abandon her dearest child to the cold mercies of such a man!

  It made Frost quite bilious to speak such cruel lies, especially to a woman he had once loved and hoped to bear him children. But he refused to flinch before her look of wounded outrage. Let her think him a monster, if it gave her a better reason to live.

  Besides, some of what he’d said was true. All the horses and ginger biscuits in the world would not compensate Nicholas Wilton for the loss of his mother. Frost had bitter reason to know. Would he have grown into a different man if his mother had lived? More affable—able to inspire affection and give it without reserve?

  Now he channelled his deep-buried anger over his mother’s early death to bully Christabel Wilton into living. Even if she only did it to spite him. Even if she ended up despising him more than ever.

  When she drifted into a fitful doze, he added more coal to the fire then returned to his chair by her bed. There he bathed her face with his damp handkerchief and prayed with fierce desperation that her life be spared.

  He did not mean to sleep, himself. In fact he feared to shut his eyes again, in case she should slip away during the deepest, deadest hours of the night. But the warmth of the room, and perhaps the exertions of the previous day, overcame him at last.

  He woke with a jolt when the first feeble rays of dawn gilded the frosted window panes. Christabel lay so still and pale, the sight of her wrang a sob from deep in Frost’s chest. Then she heaved a soft sigh in her sleep. He touched his trembling fingers to her forehead—it no longer burned with fever. But neither was it cold in death.

  Frost lowered his head to rest against the edge of the bed and allowed relief to shudder through him. But that relief was tainted with a fresh fear that when she woke she would loathe him for what he had done.

>   Chapter Four

  CHRISTABEL WOKE TO find Jonathan Frost slumped, fast asleep, in a chair beside her bed. His face was drawn with exhaustion and sported a raffish shadow of dark whisker stubble. The man looked as if he had been through a night of hell.

  But then, so must she!

  The desperate desire for five minutes use of a comb and mirror was Christabel’s first clue that she might be on the mend. Not that she cared what Mr. Frost thought of her looks, now or ever. But she did have a little pride left. She could not stand the thought of him regarding her with pity.

  Her head no longer felt as if it were encased in an iron cap two sizes too small. Her limbs, though weak, felt truly warm for the first time in days. And she was hungry.

  Events of the past day and night were hazy and jumbled in her mind, mixed with such vivid snatches of dream that it was hard to sort out what had been real and what a product of her fevered fancy. She had a strong recollection of angry words traded with Mr. Frost in the middle of the night. What could they been arguing about?

  Before she had managed to remember, Frost stirred from his doze with a guilty start. “Blast it all! I only meant to close my eyes a moment after I sent your son off to get his breakfast. Have you been awake long?”

  Did he expect her to chide him? “Only a moment or two. And do not reproach yourself for resting your eyes. I should beg your pardon for robbing you of a good night’s sleep.”

  Frost dismissed the notion with a shake of his head. “I should not have been able to sleep until I was satisfied that your fever had broken. When I checked a while ago, it seemed to have abated. How do you feel?”

  “Much improved from yesterday.” Christabel managed a weak smile. “Then, I suspect, I was too ill to know how ill I truly was.” She cringed to recall the rude welcome with which she’d greeted his call and her ingratitude for his well-meant interference in her affairs. “I shudder to think what might have befallen us if you had not intervened.”