Her Mistletoe Kiss: A Regency Christmas Novella

by Deborah Hale

  “I should have come to see you sooner!” He muttered the words like a curse upon himself. “I might have prevented you from falling ill in the first place, but I feared it would be awkward between us. As if awkwardness mattered at such a time.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Christabel. “But I can understand your desire to avoid it. I should have felt the same if our positions had been reversed.”

  She wished she could have avoided the awkwardness of this moment, but it was no more than she deserved after her ungrateful behavior. “I cannot begin to thank you for your extraordinary kindness to me and my son.”

  “About the boy—” Frost rose abruptly and strode to the window. “If you recall the harsh things I said last night, I hope you can understand—”

  “That you were trying to make me fight for my life?” Though she had only been awake a short time, Christabel already felt tired again. “It was clever of you. Most men in that situation would have promised anything to pacify the patient, even if they never meant to keep their word.”

  Her late husband had been a genius at placating her with such false promises.

  “I was sorry to distress you.” Frost’s glance strayed toward her as if he doubted her forbearance. “I wish I could have thought of a better way.”

  Christabel directed a rueful, weary smile at him. “For what you were trying to do, there was no better way. Do not reproach yourself.”

  She was the one who should reproach herself for all the horrible things she had thought about him. And her illness was no excuse for it. Perhaps part of her had needed to think badly of him, to justify her past conduct. “You have been more than generous to do so much for us, especially after the infamous manner in which I once treated you. I deserve your censure and resentment, not such kindness.”

  Indeed, she could hardly believe Jonathan Frost was the same proud, severe young man her father had once pressured her to wed, then disowned her when she had not. If she had made an effort to become better acquainted with him back then, might she have discovered his finer qualities?

  Frost turned to face her, his hands clasped behind his back, his attractive features tightened in a harsh expression. “That is all in the past, madam. Besides, in such matters it is always a lady’s prerogative to change her mind once she has undergone a change of heart.”

  Christabel marvelled that he could say those words with a straight face. He must know as well as she that she had undergone no change of heart. Perhaps she was begging his pardon for the wrong action. Her worse offence had been to accept the proposal of a man she had not loved.

  “I would take comfort from your words, sir, but I fear you pardon me too easily.” How prim and stilted her long overdue apology sounded! “I cannot excuse my thoughtless conduct, no matter how long past. Whatever my feelings, I might have spared you injury and embarrassment if I had behaved with greater propriety.”

  He stood silent for a moment. Then just when he appeared about to speak, an odd little voice called from out in the corridor, “Papa! Papa, where are you?”

  Frost gave a visible start, then made a hasty bow to Christabel. “I pray you will excuse me, Mrs. Wilton. You need plenty of rest to regain your strength and I have kept you from it too long already.”

  He dashed from the room leaving Christabel bewildered and strangely dismayed.

  Papa? Did Mr. Frost have a wife and family, then? He had never said so, but he had never said not, either. Events had moved with such speed, he’d had little opportunity to tell her anything about his present life. Such as why he had come to live in Derbyshire. Did this estate belong to his wife, perhaps?

  It should not surprise her to discover such an attractive, agreeable man of property was married. Quite the contrary. Just because she had once spurned him did not mean some wiser woman could not have recognized and appreciated his many fine qualities. And surely she was not so selfish as to begrudge the man whatever domestic happiness he had found?

  Could his marriage be the reason Mr. Frost was able to speak of their past connection with such cool detachment? Perhaps Christabel had done him a service all those years ago, by freeing him to find a loving wife whose influence had mellowed his character. His kindness to her and Colly might have been an unspoken acknowledgement of that debt.

  Suddenly the symptoms of her illness—chills and aches—returned to plague Christabel. Only this time, they were concentrated in her heart.

  She did her best to ignore them, just as she strove to disregard her dizzy head and the weakness of her limbs. With stiff, feeble movements driven by a resolute will, she crawled from her sickbed in search of her clothes. Now that her fever had broken and she was out of danger, she and Colly must leave Candlewood at once.

  Difficult as it had been to accept help from Mr. Frost, Christabel could not bear to trespass another moment on the charity of Mrs. Frost.

  For a moment she clung to the bedpost and looked around the room. A large decorative screen hid the far corner of the room beside the hearth. Christabel guessed she would find her gown, shawls and undergarments behind it. She staggered toward the dressing screen, her legs growing weaker with each step.

  She had not got more than halfway there when the guest room door swung open and Mr. Frost strode in. “Pardon the intrusion, ma’am. I just remembered —”

  Something about his sudden appearance gave Christabel’s memory a powerful nudge. Dear heaven, she had kissed Jonathan Frost last night! And not a chaste, fond peck, either—but the lush, wanton kiss of a woman eager to be bedded.

  She’d been confused, believing Monty had come back to her, charmingly repentant, as always, and eager to seduce his way back into her favor. But it was not Monty who had returned her kiss. His mouth had not tasted of spirits, for one thing. And there had been a gentle restraint in his manner that she’d found curiously stirring.

  Now Christabel knew what must have happened. Something in the gaze Frost fixed upon her confirmed it.

  “Good Lord, woman,” he cried, striding toward her, “what are you doing out of bed?”

  Overwhelmed by embarrassment over her vivid recollection, Christabel swayed on her feet. Before she had a chance to recover her balance, Frost scooped her into his arms and carried her back to the bed.

  “Only last night your life was in danger.” He spoke in a stern tone that Christabel might have resented had she not sensed an air of sincere concern beneath the rebuke. “Just because you feel a little better, now, does not mean you are recovered enough to be up and about.”

  The protective strength of his hold gave Christabel a feeling of warmth and security she had not felt for a very long time. When he eased her back onto the bed, she found herself wishing she could linger in his arms another moment or two. Immediately she caught herself—she had no business entertaining such improper thoughts about another woman’s husband!

  “I beg your pardon, sir.” Christabel struggled to sit up, but Mr. Frost hovered over her. If she raised herself much higher, her face would come in contact with his. “But now that I am out of danger, I must insist upon returning home with my son.”

  His brooding nearness frightened her. Not on his account, but for the threat it posed to her fragile self-control.

  Before he could protest, she continued, “I can never repay the generosity you have shown us already. I will not be so ungrateful as to trespass longer on the hospitality of you and your good wife. Especially during this festive season.”

  Mr. Frost stared at her, his brow furrowed in a look of intense perplexity as if she were addressing him in a foreign language. Really, had it never occurred to the man that his wife might resent the presence of his former fiancée in her house?

  “You may be expecting guests for the holidays.” She lifted her hand to his chest and tried to push him back, but she did not have the strength to budge him. “Or perhaps you are invited to join friends and family in another part of the country. Either way, the last thing you need is an invalid houseguest and her child s
poiling your plans.

  The puzzled look on Mr. Frost’s face did not ease. He remained poised on the edge of the bed, leaning over her. Slowly he raised his hand to her face.

  Christabel’s breath quickened. He was not about to caress her cheek, was he? And how might she respond if he did?

  But Frost’s hand bypassed her cheek, pressing instead to her forehead. “Has your fever come back and made you delirious again? I have no wife!”

  Chapter Five

  WIFE?

  Christabel Wilton’s brow felt cool to Frost’s touch, but she was babbling nonsense. Or was she so eager to escape his company that she had to think up any kind of daft excuse to leave Candlewood?

  Suddenly he became aware of the provocative posture in which he hovered over her as she lay upon the bed. Did she suspect he had dishonorable motives for bringing her here?

  “I assure you, madam, I am not married.” He struggled to subdue his ragged breath as he rose from the bed and backed away to a less intimate distance. “Nor have I ever been.”

  He’d never come closer to it than with her. Frost could not suppress an arousing image of him and Christabel in this bed together the way they might have been if she had honored her promise to wed him.

  “I don’t understand.” She glanced toward the door. “Just a moment ago, I heard a child call for her father, and you answered.”

  “Oh, that.” Frost felt as if a bucket of cold water had been emptied over his head. “Do you recollect my aunt, Lady Havergill?”

  “The one who raised you and bequeathed you her fortune?” Christabel gave a feeble nod. The strength that had carried her out of her sick bed seemed to have deserted her. “I met her once, before... you asked me to marry you. You needed her approval that I would make a suitable wife.”

  Even after so many years and all that had happened, Christabel’s voice still rasped with an undercurrent of bitterness.

  “Did you think I was wrong to seek my aunt’s approval of my choice?” It had long since ceased to matter, yet Frost felt compelled to know. “Without it, I would have had nothing to offer you—no means of gaining your father’s permission.”

  Christabel shook her head as she tried to smother a deep yawn. “It was altogether sensible of you. I can see that now.”

  “But then?” Frost persisted. “Would you rather I had asked you to run away with me and the devil take both our families?”

  “What did you expect?” The wistful irony of her smile could have broken Frost’s heart all over again. “I was a foolish chit of eighteen with a head full of silly romantic fancies. Of course I wanted sentimental speeches and grand, impractical gestures. I thought that was... love.”

  Did it follow, then, that his prudent, proper courtship had signified a lack of feeling? Frost longed to assure her otherwise, but the time for that was past and gone.

  Mrs. Wilton seemed no more eager than he to dwell on that sore subject. With some effort, she raised her hand and gave a listless wave as if to dismiss such talk. “Tell me, pray, what all this has to do with the child?”

  “That was no child you heard calling.” Part of Frost shrank from telling her, fearing she would find the whole situation distasteful. Another part yearned for a sympathetic friend in whom to confide. Was he mistaken to hope Christabel Wilton might prove such a friend? “My aunt’s mind has been failing for some time. It is as if it grows younger as her body ages. She believes she is a child again, and grows quite agitated if we try to convince her otherwise. Because I bear a strong resemblance to my great-grandfather, she thinks of me and addresses me as her father.”

  “How sad!” murmured Christabel her words followed by a deep sigh.

  Frost would have scorned a look of such obvious pity from anyone else. But her soft features gave it an air of touching beauty he could not help but treasure.

  “I suppose it is.” He turned away, unable to sustain the lingering gaze that shimmered between them. “But I console myself that it could be far worse for my aunt. At least she is well cared for and happy enough in her way. I brought her to Candlewood because it was her childhood home. Once we came here, she grew more settled and content.”

  “I wondered what had brought you here.” Christabel spoke the words more to herself than to him.

  “Often I question whether I have done the right thing by indulging this fancy of hers,” continued Frost. Perhaps some assurance from Christabel might put his misgivings at rest. “When Aunt Fanny first began to act strangely and become confused about the past, a doctor told me I should commit her to a mad house. Can you imagine? I would not consign a dog to one of those places!”

  “I can imagine,” Christabel replied in a rueful whisper. “Too many people think only of their own interests and comfort and care nothing for responsibilities that might inconvenience them. Duty is sadly out of fashion at present.”

  No doubt that was how she had regarded him when they were younger—dutiful but dull. Seen through her eyes, was his present life a pointless waste?

  “I do not wish to excite either your admiration or your pity, Mrs. Wilton.” Frost headed for the door. “I only wanted to make you aware of my peculiar domestic arrangements so you would not be alarmed by things you might see or hear during your stay at Candlewood.”

  “Alarmed?” Christabel struggled to sit up. “Should I be alarmed? Does your aunt pose any threat to my son?”

  “Not in the least.” The notion was so absurd it made Frost chuckle. He motioned for Christabel to lie still. “Aunt Fanny is very good natured—far better than when she had all her wits about her, poor thing. And I make certain she is supervised as carefully as any young child who might come to harm or get into mischief. Your son has nothing to fear from her.”

  His reassurances sparked an idea in Frost’s mind. “Would you permit them to play together—if he is willing? Fanny is always after me to find her a playmate.”

  Seeing the strange look Christabel gave him, he hesitated, flustered. “Listen to me. I talk as if she truly was a child. In fact, I often find myself thinking of her as if she were. Perhaps I am the one who belongs in a mad house.”

  He pulled the door open with a savage tug. But before he could rush away, Christabel called out, “Mr. Frost, wait! You have not heard my answer.”

  With some reluctance, he glanced back, his brows raised in a mute question.

  “If Colly is willing and your aunt might enjoy his company, I see no reason why should not play together. It is the least we can do to repay your hospitality.”

  Her response elated Frost far more than he wished it would. Since he’d first set eyes on her again, Christabel had provoked his normally temperate emotions to unwanted extremes.

  “Good, then let us have no more talk about repayment. Your presence at Candlewood is no inconvenience to anyone. And no more insistence on leaving before you are thoroughly recovered. I assure you Aunt Fanny and I have no special plans for Christmas that you would spoil.”

  That thought haunted Frost as he hurried away. Was it possible they might make some special plans for Christmas at Candlewood? Plans involving Christabel Wilton and her son?

  A furtive rattling of her bedchamber latch brought Christabel awake with a start. She opened her eyes to see a small person open the door and scurry inside. Christable recognized Mr. Frost’s aunt from the bygone days of their engagement.

  Lady Havergill had large blue eyes and delicate features, including a tiny mouth that might have been compared to a rosebud in her youth. Her hair was covered with a cap such as little girls often wore. She had on a simple gown of sprigged muslin with a high neck and elbow sleeves. From a distance, or at a quick glance, she might easily have been mistaken for a child.

  When her ladyship spied Christabel sitting up in bed, she gave a squeal of surprise, then clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Pardon me! I didn’t know there was anyone in here. Who are you?”

  Christabel could scarcely reconcile her memories of a haughty do
wager with this elfin little creature. “I am Mrs. Wilton, an old friend of Mr. Frost’s. He found me ill and brought me to Candlewood to recover.”

  Lady Havergill nodded over the information as she sidled closer to the bed. “He does that sort of thing all the time. He’s a very charitable man, you know.”

  “I am most grateful to him.” It galled Christabel to think of herself as an object of charity, but it was no use trying to hide from that humiliating truth.

  Fortunately, her visitor did not dwell on the matter. Instead she bobbed a quick curtsy. “I’m Miss Frances Frost, but most everybody calls me Fanny.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Fanny.” Christabel smiled. She could see now what Frost meant about thinking of his aunt as a child.

  The wrinkles on Miss Fanny’s brow deepened, then her eyes suddenly widened. “You’re the little boy’s mother, aren’t you? Now what was his name?”

  “Nicholas,” said Christabel. “Though most everyone calls him Colly. He’s been keeping you company, has he?”

  Miss Fanny nodded. “He’s a very obliging little fellow.” Then, with the air of a child aping her elders, she added. “He does you great credit.”

  “Why, thank you. I’m pleased to hear he has been behaving himself.”

  “He let me ride his hobbyhorse.” Miss Fanny’s small face lit up. “It was great fun! I wish Papa would get me a hobbyhorse—a white one, like in the rhyme. ‘To see a white lady upon a white horse.’”

  Christabel chuckled. “Will you wear rings on your fingers and bells on your toes?”

  A soft tap on the door interrupted their conversation. “Come in,” Christabel called.

  A tall, middle-aged woman bustled in. “There ye are, Miss Fanny. Ye shouldn’t have disturbed the lady, and ye shouldn’t have run off! Ye know how upset the master gets when ye go hiding on me like that.”