Her Mistletoe Kiss: A Regency Christmas Novella

by Deborah Hale

  Miss Fanny snatched a muffin off the tea table and nibbled on it, her small features clenched in concentration. “Well... I like nice things to eat—roast goose and Christmas pudding and such. And I do like presents.”

  Colly endorsed both suggestions with eager nods.

  Frost ladled the hot cider into cups for all of them. Christabel wrapped her chilled fingers around the warm cup and inhaled the spicy aroma.

  Miss Fanny took a sip of her cider, then exclaimed. “It’s always great fun to deck the halls on Christmas Eve... and play games... and roast nuts over the fire... and play Christmas hymns on the pianoforte!”

  “Good heavens.” Frost chuckled. “At this rate we’ll be celebrating Christmas until Ash Wednesday!”

  He did not seem greatly bothered by the prospect.

  And neither, in her heart of hearts, was Christabel. For too long she had endured an Ash Wednesday existence of penitence and regret. Now it was time to light a candle, deck the halls and celebrate life’s gifts.

  Chapter Seven

  “MY GOODNESS, WHATEVER can this be?” exclaimed Christabel the next day when Frost set a large parcel on the chaise lounge beside her. “It is not Christmas yet.”

  “It was Miss Fanny’s idea.” Frost glanced toward his aunt who sat watching the Wiltons with an expectant little grin.

  A feeling of anxious anticipation quivered within him, too. He hoped the gifts would please Christabel, but she appeared more dismayed than elated at the moment.

  “See what it is, Mama!” Colly looked eager enough for both of them.

  “Very well.” Christabel’s fingers fumbled as she untied the string and pealed back the thick brown paper. “Oh, my!” The soft gasp of her words assured Frost she liked what she found.

  “Is this for me?” Colly swooped down and grabbed a dark blue coat with brass buttons.

  “I doubt it would fit your mama,” said Frost, “so it must be for you.” He pulled a matching cap from the parcel and set it on the boy’s head with a flourish.

  “Put on the coat, too!” cried Miss Fanny. “See how handsome it looks on you?”

  “May I, Mama?”

  After an instant’s thoughtful hesitation, his mother nodded.

  While Colly and Miss Fanny were occupied with getting his new coat properly buttoned, Christabel looked through the rest of the clothes in the parcel with an air of bemusement.

  “However did you get all these things made up so quickly?” She caressed the thick, warm fabric of one of the gowns between her thumb and fingers.

  By paying a generous premium to every seamstress within miles. But Frost sensed that was not what Christabel wanted to hear. “Let us say it was a little Christmas magic at work.”

  Gazing up at him with wistful eyes, she shook her head. “I cannot accept all this. Not after everything else you have done for us.”

  Frost dropped to one knee beside her. Guessing she did not want Colly to overhear her refusing the gifts, Frost lowered his voice, too. “They are made and paid for. What would you have me do—give them away to someone who may need them less? I know we are always told it is more blessed to give than to receive. But sometimes it can be a blessing to receive a well-meant gift with grace and gratitude.”

  “Practicality before pride?” Her lips twisted in a self-deprecating grin. “You are an altogether sensible man, Mr. Frost. I must endeavor to learn from your example.”

  A spark of merriment twinkled in her eyes—a twinkle Frost had never forgotten. Now it smote him a powerful blow.

  “Is that a tactful way of saying I am a tiresome bore?”

  Christabel let out an exasperated sigh as she unfolded a thick woolen cloak and draped it around her shoulders “You are a fine one to talk of receiving gifts with good grace, when you will not even accept a few sincere words of praise without turning them into an insult.”

  She had him. Frost acknowledged it with a rueful chuckle.

  Before he could ask if they were both beyond redemption, Christabel continued. “Good sense is far less tiresome than foolishness. Seasoned with generosity and spiced with a dash of humor, it is a most agreeable virtue indeed.”

  Frost resisted the urge to disparage her compliment. “If these garments warm you as your words have warmed my heart, I shall be most gratified.”

  His hand fairly trembled with the suppressed urge to reach up and caress her cheek. Frost knew his heart was slipping into danger, but that did not trouble him as it once had. Christabel was no longer in a position to pick and choose among a bevy of suitors. And she had learned the harsh consequences of letting romantic impulses overrule her good sense. Might she be prepared to secure her son’s future with a prudent match to a man she did not love, but could respect and trust?

  Colly had been swaggering about in his new coat and cap for Aunt Fanny’s amusement. Now the two of them descended upon Frost and Christabel. “Can we go for a sleigh ride? Please!”

  Half-grateful for the distraction, Frost stood up. “A capital idea. We can drive over to the bit of woodland on the edge of the estate and look for greenery to deck the halls on Christmas Eve.”

  A few hours later they returned, nostrils tingling with the festive tang of fresh-cut evergreen boughs, cheeks aglow with cold and sides cramped with the mild, pleasant ache of laughter.

  “I think we gathered enough greenery to deck the whole of Derbyshire!” Christabel declared as she untied the ribbons of her new bonnet and let Mr. Frost help her out of her matching cloak.

  She could not recall the last time she had felt the sense of joyous anticipation bubbling inside her. For too long she had faced each new day with a faint secret dread of what it would bring—bad news from some distant battle field, another creditor looking for money, the nagging sense of failure.

  Plenty of worries lurked in the shadows of the New Year ready to pounce upon her once this sweet holiday idyll was over. But she refused to let them taint her present happiness. Instead she would draw strength from it, preparing herself to better meet whatever challenges might lay ahead.

  Their appetites sharpened once again by the crisp December air, they gobbled up all the special dainties Cook had prepared for tea, washing them down with more hot, spicy cider.

  “I want to play a game,” announced Miss Fanny when they had eaten the last crumb of seed cake. She turned to Colly. “Have you ever played Hoodman Blind?”

  The little boy shook his head. “Is it fun?”

  “Oh, yes.” Miss Fanny grabbed Frost by the hand. “Let’s show him how to play. “You can be the first to go.”

  Frost glanced at Christabel, one brow raised. “What do you say? Are we too sober and responsible for such frivolity?”

  Was he trying to ask her about something more than a children’s game? Christabel wondered. “A little frivolity now and then is not a bad thing, is it?”

  The flirtatious note she heard in her voice shocked her. She had no business flirting with Jonathan Frost, even if she wanted to. Did she want to? The answer to that question surprised her.

  “Not a bad thing at all.” Frost rose from his seat and extended his hand to help Christabel up from hers. “During this festive season, especially.”

  One of the housemaids produced a suitable length of dark cloth, which Mr. Frost volunteered to have tied over his eyes. A merry chase ensued as the others called teases to him, scurrying out of the way when he tried to grab them. At last, he caught his aunt, whose uncontrollable giggles had given her away. Mr. Frost had no difficulty guessing her identity, the other part of the game.

  Miss Fanny took her turn and chased the others about with great glee for several minutes. When Christabel sensed the old lady becoming confused and agitated, she quickly allowed herself to be caught, then whispered her name for Miss Fanny to guess.

  Next the blindfold went around her eyes and she had to blunder about the drawing room following elusive voices and scampering footsteps. She was laughing and gasping for breath by the time her hand clo
sed around a bit of fabric.

  At first she thought it might belong to Colly’s jacket. Then she caught a faint whiff of Mr. Frost’s shaving soap. His name sprang to her tongue, but instead she found herself running her fingertips over his strong, regular features. The game provided a polite excuse for taking such liberties, though more often it was the gentlemen who took advantage of the opportunity.

  “Is that you, Colly?” she asked with mock gravity. The touch of his smooth-shaven chin and the unexpected softness of his lips beneath her roving fingertips, provoked a warm, ticklish flutter deep in her belly.

  “Guess again,” Frost replied in a crackling falsetto, which was followed by a sputter of laughter.

  Was it only her fancy, Christabel wondered, or was the moist warmth of his breath coming faster. Hers raced to match it.

  “M-Miss Fanny?” Somehow she could not bear for the silly ruse to an end a moment sooner than it must.

  Colly and the real Miss Fanny chortled and cried, “No, no!”

  Then Frost’s arm slipped around Christabel’s waist. With his other hand he raised the blindfold, hesitating an instant so his fingers rested on her hair. When the darkness lifted from her vision, she found herself staring deep into his steadfast blue gaze... and thinking she had never beheld a more excellent man.

  Had her heart played its own game of Hoodman Blind? Grasping after the elusive mocking lure of love, when all the time it had been near enough to touch... if only she had slowed down long enough to recognize it?

  “Can it be my turn now, please, Mr. Frost?” asked Colly. “You’ve had one already, remember? But I haven’t.”

  Her son’s words fairly pushed Christabel and Frost apart.

  “Of course you must have the next turn.” Frost knelt to tie the blindfold around Colly’s eyes.

  Christabel used the moment to gather her shaken composure. Her cheeks stung as if she had just come in from a long, brisk stroll around the grounds of Candlewood. She knew if she tried to speak she would sound tongue-tied and breathless.

  When Colly took his turn at the game, Christabel could scarcely keep her wits enough about her to stay out of his way. Her gaze kept straying toward Mr. Frost, anticipating his next turn to don the blindfold. Did she dare let herself wander into his reach and risk the pleasure of his touch?

  Christabel never got the chance to find out. No sooner had Colly caught and identified Miss Fanny than she declared herself tired of the game.

  “My knees feel stiff and I’m all out of breath. Let’s play something without so much running.” She pondered for a moment. “I know! The Twelve Days of Christmas game.”

  Frost and Christabel exchanged an uncertain look. The contest Miss Fanny had suggested was apt to tax the memory.

  “What if we play as teams?” Christabel suggested. “The ladies against the gentleman.”

  “I don’t know that game.” Colly looked quite prepared to play Hoodman Blind all evening. “How do you play it?”

  Frost settled himself in an armchair opposite the chaise lounge and beckoned the boy to sit in the one beside him. “It isn’t hard to pick up. Just listen and see.”

  “I’ll start.” Miss Fanny sank onto the chaise lounge. “On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me... a white horse with a golden bridle.”

  “A rich fellow, your true love,” quipped Frost as Christabel seated herself beside his aunt. “On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a brace of hunting hounds and a white horse with a golden bridle.”

  Miss Fanny rattled off the first two and added three velvet gowns to her bounty.

  “I see how it goes now.” Colly turned to his partner. “May I take a turn?”

  Frost nodded. “I told you it was easy.”

  “Wait till we get to the eleventh and twelfth days,” Christabel warned him. “See if you think it’s so easy then.”

  “On the fourth day of Christmas,” said Colly, “my true love gave to me four wooden soldiers...”

  Christabel was quite proud of her son’s cleverness when he recited the rest of the list without a mistake.

  Miss Fanny got a bit mixed up on her turn, but Christabel came to her rescue. A few minutes later, when it was their turn to add the seventh day’s gift, she said, “You do it this time.”

  “On the seventh day of Christmas...” Christabel found her gaze drawn to Frost “... my true love gave to me...” She wanted to say, “a parcel of lovely new clothes.”

  This time Miss Fanny came to her rescue, whispering a suggestion in her ear.

  “Seven ivory fans,” said Christabel, then she recited back the rest.

  As the game progressed and the list of gifts grew longer, Colly and Miss Fanny relied increasingly on their partners. Christabel’s mouth went dry every time she had to say the words “my true love gave to me.” And every time Frost said them, her heart gave a curious flutter.

  She tried to ignore both sensations by concentrating on the game, but to no avail. At last, while reciting the list of gifts for the twelfth day of Christmas, she got mixed up and made a hopeless muddle of them.

  “We win!” Colly cheered and clapped his hands.

  Though Miss Fanny looked a bit disappointed, she endeavored to console Christabel. “It is very hard to remember so many things.”

  Christabel’s throat tightened. She gathered her partner in a comforting embrace. “Don’t worry. We shall best them next time.”

  Frost rose from his chair. “I believe as the winners, we are entitled to a forfeit.”

  “Indeed?” Christabel smiled up at him. This might be a good distraction for his aunt. “What sort of forfeit did you have in mind?”

  Frost nodded toward the pianoforte. “I was hoping you ladies might favor us with some music. As I recall, you play and sing very well.”

  “Never very well.” Christabel cast a longing glance at the fine instrument. “Except to the most partial audience. And I have not put my fingers to a keyboard since... well... in a very long time.”

  “I assure you, we are a most partial audience.” Something in Frost’s expression suggested he would be disappointed if she did not oblige him with an attempt, at least. “And readily forgiving of any mistakes.”

  “I’ll go first.” Miss Fanny scrambled up from the chaise lounge and tottered to the pianoforte. “Then you shall see that you cannot do worse. For I do not practice half so often as I should.”

  She stumbled through a simple but pretty melody Christabel did not recognize, then hopped up and bobbed a little curtsey to acknowledge the applause of the others.

  “I shall be ashamed to follow you,” said Christabel as she slid onto the bench. “But since you have borne your part in paying our forfeit, I must not shirk mine. I was the one who lost us the game, after all.”

  She plundered her memory for a little sonata or minuet that might do. But another kind of music rippled through her thoughts instead—snatches of popular love songs she had played so often during her younger years. After dithering in embarrassment for a moment or two, she placed her fingers on the keys and let them wander where they wished. What came out was a simple version of “Silent Worship”, played with surprisingly few mistakes.

  Mr. Frost led the applause when the piece concluded. “You were too modest about your skill, Mrs. Wilton. As I recall, you have a fine voice, too. Perhaps another evening we can persuade you to sing that piece for us.”

  His request flustered Christabel. “I should make an awful muddle of it, I fear. Even when I practiced faithfully, I was never good enough to accompany myself.”

  It was quite true, but not the whole reason. The thought of singing a love song to him filled her with dismay.

  But later that night, while she prepared for bed, Christabel could not resist singing the wistful lyrics under her breath. “Though I am nothing to her, though she may rarely look at me, though I could never woo her, I love her till I die.”

  Blowing out her candle, she burrowed under the bedclot
hes as if she were a child again trying to hide from imagined creatures that lurked in the dark. But she could not hide from the worry that dogged her.

  “Fool!” she chided herself in a harsh whisper. “Are you finally falling in love with Jonathan Frost... six years too late?”

  Chapter Eight

  FROST FAIRLY BOUNDED out of bed on the morning of Christmas Eve, looking forward to the day with an eagerness he had not felt in years. The pretty tune Christabel had played the night before hummed in the back of his mind. How he wished he could have persuaded her to sing it for him in her sweet, clear voice.

  But for that one tiny regret, the day had been everything he’d hoped for when he invited the Wiltons to spend Christmas—music, merriment and lively company. He could not recall when he had enjoyed himself more. Back when he’d first courted Christabel, perhaps? Even then, the certainty that she did not return his feelings had cast a shadow over the merriest times.

  Did he truly have reason to hope, now? The good sense for which Christabel had praised him told Frost not to. If he had not been able to make her care for him when they were both young and eligible, surely there could be no chance of it now. Besides, the woman had only lost her husband eighteen months ago—no doubt she still grieved and yearned for him. The passionate kiss she had given Frost in her husband’s stead should be proof of that, and yet... In the midst of overwhelming doubt there flickered a tantalizing spark of hope, like a Christmas candle lighting the darkest days of the year.

  Frost closed his eyes and conjured up the memory of Christabel’s fingertips caressing his face. For all her feigned confusion, she had known it was he. But she had touched him in a manner almost as intimate as a kiss. In that touch he had sensed curiosity, fondness... and desire? Or had he only fancied what he wanted to be true?

  Christabel had praised his good sense. Frost pondered the fact as his valet shaved him for the day. Afterward he grimaced at his reflection in the looking glass. Christmas was not a season for good sense, was it? he asked the fellow in the mirror. It was a time to celebrate wondrous reversals like the birth of a King in a rustic stable. It was a time for believing spring would return, in the very teeth of winter’s dark, cold despair.