Her Mistletoe Kiss: A Regency Christmas Novella

by Deborah Hale

  The boy’s question coaxed the fleeting hint of a smile from Mr. Frost but he shook his head with a convincing pretence of regret. “I fear Colonel MacLean’s ball will carry on long past your bed time and hers. However, I promise to contrive some sort of New Year’s treat for you both instead. What do you say to that?”

  Colly bounced on the seat and cheered.

  Christabel put her arms around her son to quiet him. “Really, Mr. Frost, I fear you will spoil him.”

  “This young gentleman is too well reared to spoil easily.” Frost winked at Colly. “And a little spoiling on holidays is not such a bad thing in my opinion.”

  “You will make some lucky child a wonderful father, one day.” The words were out of Christabel’s mouth before she could stop herself.

  Fortunately Mr. Frost seemed more amused than offended at her presumption. “You flatter me. There was a time when I might have disagreed with you, but one small blessing of my recent situation has been discovering a greater capacity for affection than I ever thought to possess.”

  Lucky the woman to inspire and receive such bounty! Christabel managed to curb her tongue though she feared the longing behind that thought must blaze in her eyes.

  Did Christabel Wilton doubt him capable of sincere affection? Was that why she did not respond to his remark? Though habit disposed Frost to think so, the look in her eyes persuaded him otherwise. They did not betray the slightest glint of disapproval, but rather seemed to glow with a brooding warmth—as, indeed, did her whole radiant face.

  Frost could not draw the slightest offense from that look. Quite the contrary in fact. And knowing how she cherished her little son, her expressed faith in Frost’s potential as a father could not be regarded as anything but the highest praise.

  His aunt was waiting for them when they returned from church, excited to find the house decorated for Christmas but with no memory of having had a hand in it. She was overjoyed with his gift of small blue parakeet in a brass cage and even more with the hobbyhorse Christabel had created for her.

  “When did you get the time to make that?” asked Frost when Colly and Aunt Fanny had gone off riding their fine mounts. “And where on earth did you find the white velvet for the head?”

  “Your servants were most helpful in foraging materials for me. It was not difficult to keep my work on Miss Fanny’s gift a secret in this enormous house with everyone waiting on me hand and foot. Making Colly’s in our little cottage at the end of a busy day was a far greater challenge, I assure you.”

  Later they all bundled up for a drive in the sleigh to pay calls on several poor families in the village with gifts of warm winter garments and game birds from the estate. The winter sun was dipping low in the sky when they returned to Candlewood for an early dinner.

  A course of oysters and eels was followed by a plump and succulent roast goose. After they had all eaten rather more than their fill the Christmas pudding was paraded in upon a silver platter alight with a blue brandy flame and crowned with a festive sprig of holly.

  Frost tucked into the feast with a fine appetite. Some starved part of his heart seemed to feed on Colly’s animated prattle, Aunt Fanny’s bubbly laughter and Christabel’s luminous smiles. By the end of the meal, he felt as well-stuffed with good cheer as their goose with its sage and onions—as aglow with tipsy happiness as the pudding in its sheath of flaming brandy.

  If only he could persuade Christabel to make her home at Candlewood, Frost reckoned he would taste the joy of Christmas every day of the year.

  Chapter Ten

  THE NEXT WEEK passed in a sweet whirl of enjoyment for Christabel. Like the Twelve Days of Christmas game, each new day brought some precious gift to warm and nourish her heart.

  On St. Stephen’s Day, they fended for themselves while the servants dispersed to enjoy a holiday with their families. The next day a party of mummers came and put on a most comical show for the whole household.

  The day after that, Mr. Frost produced four pairs of ice skates and pronounced a small pond on the estate sufficiently frozen that they might take a few turns upon it. Together they engaged the better part of an afternoon on the ice with many tumbles and much laughter. More than the cold reddened Christabel’s cheeks when Mr. Frost slipped his arm around her waist and took her hand to support her while she acquired the proper balance.

  On Sunday, Christabel and Mr. Frost attended the Evensong service at the village church. In her heart, Christabel gave thanks for every small joy of the past week. On the drive home, she savored the quiet intimacy of being alone with Frost in the carriage. It required every hard-earned morsel of self-control she could muster to keep from flinging herself onto the seat beside him and slipping her arms around his neck.

  A cold wind blew on Monday keeping the party at Candlewood indoors by the fire. Even there, Christabel found the hours flew by amusing Colly and Miss Fanny with simple card games and sketching caricatures of them. More than once she glanced up to find Frost’s gaze resting upon them all, grave but unmistakably fond. In those moments she tasted the sweet, mellow wine of domestic happiness that had eluded her in her marriage.

  Early in the afternoon on the last day of the year, Miss Fanny marched into the drawing room bearing a parcel. Her waiting woman followed toting an even large one.

  “These are from me,” she announced, her pale blue eyes twinkled like icicles melting in the bright winter sunshine. “Christmas presents!”

  She handed her parcel to Colly and nodded to Mrs. Penny to give hers to Christabel.

  “More presents?” Christabel caught a glimpse of Mr. Frost lurking just beyond the doorway. “Really you should not. You have given us so much already.”

  “Have I?” A look of confusion clouded Miss Fanny’s eager gaze for a moment, but swiftly cleared. “Oh, that’s all right. You can never have too many Christmas presents. Come on—open them!”

  She hardly needed to urge Colly, who was already tearing the paper off of his. When he saw what was inside, he let out a gasp then a cheer. “Look, Mama! Toy soldiers... and a spinning top... and a spy glass! Thank you, thank you, Miss Fanny!”

  It was evident Miss Fanny had not known what the parcels contained, for she gave a squeal of delight and sank onto the carpet beside Colly to examine his new playthings.

  Christabel settled onto the chaise lounge and unwrapped her parcel with hesitant care. She gave a faint gasp and blinked back tears as she lifted the most exquisite ball gown out of a swath of tissue paper. A warm salmon color with sprigs of gold, it had a diaphanous little train.

  Miss Fanny trained the spyglass upon Christabel’s gown. “Oh, that is a pretty color. It will suit you.”

  Suit her? Christabel wanted to chuckle and sob at the same time. Why this elegant garment would suit a duchess! She lifted the gauzy fabric to her cheek. Once upon a time, she’d owned pretty gowns by the dozen and scarcely noticed them except to find fault—this one was too tight in the bust, the color of that one made her complexion look sallow. Now if she never owned another ball gown, she would treasure this one. Not only on account of its beauty and elegance, but because of who had given it to her.

  She glanced toward the doorway just as Mr. Frost stepped into the drawing room. “You should not —”

  He raised his forefinger to his lips. “None of that, now. What kind of gentleman drags a lady off to a ball when she has nothing suitable to wear. If you dig a little deeper in the parcel, I believe you will find gloves and slippers and such to complete the costume.”

  Christabel investigated and found a fine pair of evening gloves, a dainty pair of kid slippers and a lace bandeau for her hair that matched the color of the gown to perfection. There was even a pair of the sheerest silk stockings Christabel had ever seen, much less owned.

  That evening when she slipped them on and felt the gossamer silk whisper over her legs, she could not help fancying Mr. Frost’s soft side whiskers skimming over the sensitive flesh of her thighs, followed by his lips. The scan
dalous notion sent a hot sweet tingle of desire coursing through her, such as she had not felt in the longest time.

  Monty had been a skilful lover when he’d chosen to. It was one of the few things Christabel truly missed about him, though it made her feel heartless and wicked to admit it, even in the privacy of her own thoughts. Now, as she dressed for Colonel MacLean’s ball, she found herself unbearably curious as to what sort of lover Jonathan Frost might be.

  He had strong, deft hands. That was very much in his favor. Over and over he had proven himself generous and unselfish—both excellent qualities in a lover. Christabel had once doubted the depth of his passion. Now she began to wonder if it ran very deep indeed, always under the strictest control. The thought of that passion provoked to break its bounds roused her as nothing had in a very long while.

  When she had finished dressing, Christabel glanced at herself in the looking glass to discover her wanton fancies had acted on her face like the finest cosmetics. Her cheeks sported a blush no paint could match. Her eyes sparkled. Her lips looked full, ripe and eager to be kissed. She barely recognized herself from the peeked creature who had come to Candlewood.

  Could it be she had something to offer Mr. Frost, after all? Something his lonely situation might have made him crave as hers had?

  When Frost spied Christabel descending the staircase, a potent reminder of lush, midsummer loveliness in the dead of winter, his mouth watered such sudden intensity that he was obliged to swallow several times in rapid succession. That proved difficult, since his cravat had somehow tightened around his throat. He prayed the carriage would be cold enough to quell the fever of desire that had taken possession of him.

  He scowled in an effort to mask his feelings. Yet some renegade part of him wished the lady might guess... if she was the least inclined to condone them.

  Christabel caught her lower lip between her teeth, as Frost longed to do. “You look very severe, sir. Is there some difficulty? Does my costume not meet with your approval?”

  “No... I mean... yes. That is... I approve most heartily. You look...” He plundered his vocabulary for a word half-fine enough to describe her. “... well. Very well, indeed!”

  “Why, thank you.” She sank into a curtsy, lofting Frost a grateful smile as if she thought his awkward stammering the prettiest compliment she had ever received. “I feel well. Better than I have in a very long time. This holiday at Candlewood has done me a power of good.”

  At that moment the butler appeared with their cloaks, giving Frost an opportunity to compose himself. “I hope you will not mind if I exercise my advantage as your host to request at least the first two dances this evening. I fear once we arrive at the Assembly Hall you will receive so many invitations that I may have few opportunities of sharing the floor with you.”

  Christabel lifted the hood of her cloak to cover her hair. “I would promise you all my dances, if you but ask me.”

  Her gentle murmur spurred Frost’s heartbeat to such speed and force that he wondered she could not hear it. What else might she promise him if he dared to ask?

  “I could not be so selfish as to deny all the other gentlemen the pleasure of taking a turn with you. Nor would I presume to restrict your choice.” He had done that once before resulting in great harm to both of them.

  Christabel took his arm. “At least promise you will not abandon me altogether.”

  Frost chuckled at the absurdity of her suggestion. “I can safely assure you of that, my dear.”

  Perhaps their dancing the first two sets together convinced the other gentleman of Mrs. Wilton’s preference, for she was not deluged with eager partners as Frost had feared. Loath to forfeit any opportunity, he was quick to step in with an invitation when no other was forthcoming. As a consequence, he passed more than half the evening most happily in her company, dancing, conversing and drinking Colonel MacLean’s excellent punch.

  Indeed, Frost found everything about the occasion excellent—the music, the decorations, the refreshments, the company. Especially the company. With each passing hour he became more relaxed and convivial.

  At the stroke of midnight, Colonel MacLean called for everyone’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, as is the tradition in my country at this time of year, I propose a toast to auld lang syne, bygone days. Will ye join me in raising yer glasses?”

  For some time, Frost had not allowed himself to think of auld lang syne, for such memories had brought too many bitter regrets. Now, he glimpsed his past in a whole different light. Perhaps it had taught him valuable lessons that allowed him to treasure the present and make the most of the future.

  “To auld lang syne.” He touched glasses with Christabel then drained his.

  “To old times,” she murmured, glancing over the rim of her cup at him with a look that made Frost long to take her in his arms. “And to old friends who grow dearer with longer acquaintance.”

  Not long afterward they bid their host farewell and drove back to Candlewood, chatting like the closest of old friends about everyone and everything at the party. Frost’s butler was waiting to usher them in and take their cloaks.

  “Will you be wanting anything else tonight, sir?” he asked.

  “Heavens no.” Frost waved him away. “Off to bed with you.”

  He turned to Christabel. “Shall we warm our hands at the drawing room hearth before we retire?”

  “A capital idea.” Christabel pealed off her long gloves as she strolled into the drawing room with a graceful dance-like gait. “Anything to prolong this enchanted night. It feels like something from out of a fairy story.”

  “But midnight has come and gone.” Frost strode to the hearth and began to chafe his hands before the fire. “Yet you still look every inch the princess.”

  “Thanks to you.” She slanted a sidelong glance at him as she warmed her hands.

  That look and the residue of Colonel MacLean’s punch gave Frost the provocation and the nerve to do what he did next. Turning toward Christabel, he took her hands in his, lifted them to his lips and exhaled a warm breath upon them. “I beg to disagree, my dear. It is more than the gown makes you look so elegant... and beautiful.”

  Christabel’s eyes widened as she stared into his. Was it only surprise at hearing him say such things? Or dismay?

  She did not try to pull her hands from his. Surely that must be a good sign.

  “You have furnished me with far more than my gown, sir. All this talk of accepting gifts graciously and pretending they came from your aunt does not alter the fact that I owe you more than I can ever repay. All the same, I...”

  “Please!” Frost clutched her hands tighter and leaned forward to rest his brow against hers. “Do not speak of such things now, I beg you.”

  Could Christabel not see that what she and her son had given him was infinitely more precious than any trifling material gifts that were in his power to bestow?

  “What would you have me say?” she whispered. More softly still she added, “What would you have me do?”

  This was his chance to secure her. He would get no better. But was he equal to the challenge he once failed so miserably?

  Perhaps the late hour and Colonel Maclean’s fine punch had lulled his doubts to sleep. Or perhaps the pleasures of the evening and the pitch of his desire made him bold.

  Slowly he drew her away from the hearth until they stood in the drawing room doorway. He pointed up at the sprig of mistletoe that had been hung there on Christmas Eve at his aunt’s insistence.

  “Not as some obligation you feel you owe me,” he explained. “But because... it is Christmas.” He stared down into her eyes and read an invitation even he could not mistake. “And because you want to be kissed.”

  “I do not want to be kissed by just anyone. Not for all the mistletoe in Derbyshire.” Her words smote Frost with a fierce stab of disappointment that healed like magic when she continued, “But I do want to be kissed by you, Mr. Frost. Very, very, mu—”

  Frost did not
wait to hear the rest. Before Christabel came to her senses and changed her mind, he canted his head and leaned toward her, claiming a kiss so deep and sweet it was worth every lonely night he had waited for it.

  Chapter Eleven

  BECAUSE SHE WANTED to be kissed?

  The thought almost made Christabel laugh. Could Jonathan Frost not tell she wanted far more from him than that? Did he not want more from her?

  The hesitant, yearning swipe of his lips over hers seared away her doubts. She sensed a powerful passion under the most tenuous curb. And she wanted nothing more than to set it free.

  Tugging her hand from the clasp of his, she reached up to cradle his face. Her lips melted beneath his, and with them her heart. She would give him everything she had once denied him. If only he would take it.

  In response to her eagerness, his kiss grew bolder, hungrier. He gathered her in his arms, one hand caressing her sensitive nape, gently holding her captive to the tender ravishment of his lips. For a moment, his other arm circled her waist, but as she arched her body against his in a wanton invitation, he slid his hand down to cup her bottom.

  In the dark birthing hours of that new year, time slowed to a lazy, sensuous trickle. After a succession of blissful kisses, Frost’s lips strayed from Christabel’s to range over her chin, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her brow...

  When she gave a deep, throaty chuckle and arched her neck, he was quick to recognize and accept her invitation. With a soft, hoarse growl of desire, he drizzled kisses up and down the responsive flesh from her ear to her shoulder, setting Christabel breathless and atremble.

  Mr. Frost was not so far gone in passion as to neglect her wellbeing.

  “You are cold.” He drew back with an obvious effort to master himself. “I should not —”

  “Indeed you should.” Christabel clung to him, nuzzling the warm spot between his ear and the top of his cravat. “I am no more cold than you are.” She tangled her fingers in his hair. “Though we might exercise a little discretion to continue somewhere more... private. If you wish to continue, that is?”