Lords, Snow and Mistletoe: A Regency Christmas Collection

by Bianca Blythe

  Wolfe entered the ballroom. The day had been blissful, even if it had involved dragging a bulky tree from the lake to the manor home, and even though Wolfe wasn’t completely convinced having a tree in a ballroom was a good idea.

  Flora had managed to wrangle the tree into a makeshift holder that involved a surprising amount of ingenuity. The tree had water, as if it were a rose or tulip sitting in a vase.

  In five days Wolfe’s sister would arrive, and in seven days it would be Christmas, and the ball would happen. Wolfe didn’t want to think about what would happen on the eighth day. That was when his driver would take Flora to the village, and where she would take the first of many mail coaches that would take her all the way to Cornwall, and away from him forever.

  Soon she would be gone, and the other servants might send him alternatively sympathetic looks or ones of disdain. He didn’t want to break the trust that they had in him. And yet, if being properly involved meant not spending time with Flora, he couldn’t do that. Flora’s mere presence filled him with an energy he hadn’t known he lacked. If Flora didn’t mind his company, he would not retreat from her. He’d done that last night, and it had only caused his chest to ache and to have a sleepless night.

  “I think we are going to have a late night decorating this tree.”

  She smiled, and the world was wonderful. His heart felt light, and he helped her attach thin candles onto the tree.

  AFTER THEY’D EATEN, Flora contemplated the long stretch of ballroom. A single candle flickered golden light through the room, and her heart felt full.

  “You look beautiful,” Wolfe said.

  “I didn’t dress for dinner.”

  “You’re already spectacular.” He seemed to contemplate her and then he rose and strode toward her.

  Most likely he was going to take her into his arms again, a new habit that Flora was already exceedingly fond of. Instead though he lowered himself into a bow.

  “May I have this dance?” Wolfe asked.

  Flora’s eyes widened. “I don’t know how to dance.”

  “Then I’ll teach you,” Wolfe said.

  She nodded.

  He stepped closer to her. “Personally I am quite fond of the waltz.”

  “It’s Austrian,” she said.

  “I’m quite fond of things from that region of the world,” Wolfe said airily, and he arranged her arms. “Now follow my lead.”

  He explained some of the intricacies of the dance, and then they danced together, even though there was no music, no guests and no ball.

  “I think it must be very late,” she said finally.

  “And yet I’m not sleepy,” he said.

  “I’m not either,” she confessed. Sleep was rather an impossible concept when one’s heart seemed to leap and twirl.

  Flora and Wolfe strode together through the corridor to their rooms. At the top of the first flight of stairs Wolfe tilted his head. “Would you like to see my room?”

  The question was perhaps not one of only an option to evaluate interior décor.

  Flora wasn’t ready for the night to be over, and she nodded.

  “Come.” Wolfe took her hand and led her to his room.

  He lit a candle and placed it on a bookcase.

  “So this is what an earl’s room looks like,” Flora said.

  “Does it remind you of a duchess’s room?”

  Flora assessed her surroundings. The room was a deep dark green, a testament to the man’s love for nature. A large four poster bed sat in the room, facing large windows.

  The sun had long set, and she only saw an inky black sky.

  “This must be beautiful in the morning,” she said.

  She blushed. Perhaps it was somewhat inappropriate to mention what it might look like during the day. He was taller than her, and made her feel small. He was all muscular planes.

  Desire pulsed through her body, soaring with a speed not even the most adept pianist could equal.

  He pulled her closer to him, wrapping sturdy arms about her. The man wasn’t supposed to feel so warm. It was winter. And yet touching him seemed to send flames dancing through her very soul.

  And then his lips brushed against hers again. This time they were behind the sturdy wood door, most likely placed there centuries ago, and in no risk of collapsing.

  “It’s wrong,” he said finally.

  “I don’t care.”

  “You should leave,” he said, but his voice sounded faint, and he still stroked her back. “I cannot harm your reputation.”

  “Though that is kind of you, I don’t have much of a reputation to ruin.”

  “Indeed.” He stopped stroking her momentarily, and his eyebrows rose up in obvious surprise.

  “I mean because I’m going to Cornwall in a week,” she said.

  This time he stopped stroking her. “I’d prefer it if that was not the reason,” he said. “I’m going to miss you.”

  “Oh?” She assessed him. Somehow she hadn’t imagined him missing her. She’d known she would miss him...but that was different. His life was full and complete. She didn’t even know if there was a piano in Cornwall, or if there was, whether she would be permitted to play.

  “But you’re still here now,” Wolfe said, even though his voice wobbled somewhat.

  He carried her in his arms and sat her down on the bed. Her heart thumped madly, and she was conscious of the momentousness of this moment.

  His hands stroked her body, as if seeking to memorize each curve, as if finding the shape of each limb fascinating.

  He traced her collarbone, and then he feathered kisses over it. Heat soared through her at his touch.

  He clasped her toward him. “You are magnificent, my dear,” he said firmly. “Utterly magnificent.”

  She wrapped her arms about him, and he drew her even closer.

  “And now you must really go, before I ravish you,” he said.

  “I’ve heard that ravishing can be a nice experience,” she said.

  He groaned. “Flora.”

  Somehow the sound of her name on his lips was wonderful. She was still on the bed, and he kissed her more.

  She’d been aware of his powerful presence long ago, and he’d reminded her of his athleticism when he’d skated so easily. But even though she may have said before that muscles could be intimidating, she only felt safe in his arms.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Flora stirred in a strange new bed that was more comfortable than anything she’d experienced.

  “Good morning, my dear,” Wolfe said, giving a kiss on her forehead.

  She scrambled up. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “I disagree,” he said lightly.

  She glanced at the fire. It was lit, and it most certainly had not been lit late last night when they’d entered the room.

  “I’m afraid the maid already noticed you,” he said.

  “So the secret is out,” she said.

  He nodded. “Do you mind?”

  Her throat felt dry. “I suppose it doesn’t matter,” she said finally. “Since I’ll go to Cornwall next week.”

  The happy expression on Wolfe’s face vanished for a moment, but then he smiled. “I’m glad that you are not upset. Now let’s have a leisurely morning.”

  “I’m not sure I know how to have a leisurely morning,” she confirmed.

  “Then it is good I am an expert in the matter,” Wolfe said, kissing her again.

  One kiss easily turned into multiple kisses.

  It was no longer dark, and she could not pretend to herself that she was truly having a dream. This was Wolfe, and he was beside her, and it was wonderful.

  He pulled her toward him, and she continued to kiss him, feeling a hunger she’d not known she’d possessed.

  “WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE done if your father hadn’t died?” Wolfe asked, stroking her hair absentmindedly.

  “I always wanted to be a pianist,” Flora mused.

  “But I can help you with that,” he said. �
�I know the music scene in London. There are many excellent charitable organizations that can be of use to you, some of which I am on the board for. Once I return to London I can do that. You needn’t go to Cornwall at all.”

  Somehow the thought of her being in London filled him with joy.

  “No, that’s not possible.”

  “You mean, you desire to go to Cornwall?”

  Cornwall was far away. If she went there, he wouldn’t see each other again.

  His heart heavied. He was offering her a chance to do what she loved most in the world, yet she would rather be a companion to a woman she’d never even met before.

  The only logical reason for her action was that she didn’t want to be around him. Perhaps he’d been mistaken about everything. Perhaps she didn’t want to be here in his bed after all.

  “I’m sorry we spent the night together. I thought you desired it. But I understand you might feel, because of your position....”

  “No, no, no,” she said quickly. “You don’t understand.”

  He blinked.

  Not understanding at all was not the most flattering manner in which to describe his powers of perception.

  She touched his hand. “There’s something I haven’t told you. Something important.”

  “You can tell me,” he said gently.

  “I don’t like to speak of it,” she said, “and I haven’t told anyone else about this. As you know, I became a maid ever since my father died.” She looked straight ahead, willing herself not to remember certain things. “He wasn’t sick when he died and he didn’t have an accident. He was murdered.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Stabbed multiple times. There was blood.” She looked away.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Did they ever catch the man?”

  She turned toward him. “I saw it happen and I never told anyone.”

  “Flora.” Evidently he had it all wrong. “But I don’t understand. Why didn’t you say anything? I’m sure the magistrate would have been grateful for any information you had.”

  “Oh, they don’t even know he was killed,” Flora said. “They simply think he vanished. I’m sure the person who killed him had paid some people to put his body in the Thames.” She shrugged. “Perhaps he’s buried in the backyard for all I know. It’s not important. He’s dead.”

  “Oh.”

  It must have happened when Wolfe was fighting overseas, before he started Hades’ Lair, and before he became involved in London’s music community.

  He’d inquired once about him from someone. One of his friends had mentioned he’d been in London for a while and had returned to Europe.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “So you were a witness to a murder.”

  “And the person saw me,” Flora said, staring in front of her again. “That’s why I had to disappear. I couldn’t be found. Because if the person saw me again, they would want to make certain I remained silent.”

  “What a horrible thought,” he said.

  She gave a wobbly smile.

  “You’ve been so brave,” he continued.

  “One does what one has to do.”

  “So the reason you’re going to Cornwall is because of its remoteness.”

  “Yes. I’ll be a companion to an older widow. You know how difficult it is to go from London to Cornwall.”

  “Indeed.” It was a days-long journey. A week if one wanted any comfort. The roads were muddy and difficult to pass through, much like visiting Scotland itself.

  “Do you know why he was murdered?” Wolfe asked.

  Flora shook her head. “No, I don’t know. My father was a good and kind man.”

  “I know,” Wolfe said, and he squeezed her hand.

  She smiled softly at him, and his heart thundered. He couldn’t imagine that such a nice man had been killed.

  “Well, you know who did it, so I will take you back to London, contact the magistrate, and ensure that the person is behind bars and can never hurt you again.”

  Flora’s smile wobbled. “The man in question is very powerful, and I’m certain his word is more important than mine, especially since no body was ever found.”

  She took his hand in hers. “Right now your family members haven’t arrived yet. They won’t arrive until the day before Christmas, and—”

  “We have these days for ourselves,” Wolfe said.

  And he kissed her.

  Again. And again. And again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Flora had been sleeping in his room every single night. It would all end at Christmas, but now it seemed unfathomable for her not to join him.

  The door opened, and Wolfe opened his eyes. Sarah must be coming to light the fireplace. He glanced at Flora. All he wanted to do was to pull her closer to him and to cover her in dozens of kisses. He wanted to claim her lips again and again with his own.

  “Wolfe?”

  Maids generally did not address him by his first name. Maids generally did not address him with anything except “My Lord,” usually accompanied by a blush. This voice was strong, confident and definitely female.

  Isla?

  “You have company?” Isla asked.

  Flora stirred beside him, and Wolfe jumped from his bed.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I live here,” his sister said, assessing him. Her gaze remained fixed on the bed. “You seem to have acquired many blankets.”

  “It was quite cold in the night,” Wolfe said.

  Isla shuddered. “I know. I traveled here in it. I thought you would be grateful I didn’t wake you then.”

  “Er—yes.” Wolfe felt the back of his neck prickle, even though it was distinctly cold in the room.

  Isla had to leave.

  “I didn’t expect to see you,” he said, forcing a smile on his face.

  She raised her eyebrows. “You all but begged me to come. Tell me about this Christmas ball.”

  “Ah, yes.” He smiled, contemplating all the merriment Flora had already brought on the manor and village.

  Isla narrowed her eyes. “You’re acting strangely.”

  “Christmas spirit, my dear,” he said nonchalantly.

  Her eyes remained narrow, and her gaze was on the bed. “You haven’t got anyone?”

  Wolfe tried to not look at Flora, relieved she hadn’t woken up. He adjusted the blanket, ascertaining neither her splendid luscious locks nor her sumptuous form were in view.

  Perhaps he did manage to avoid glancing at her, but something in his expression must have changed, for Isla’s eyes widened.

  “Who’s that?”

  “What?”

  “Th-that lump—” Isla pointed and Wolfe hurried from the bed and led Isla into the adjoining room.

  Flora was already stirring. He suspected she did not want to be met with his sister’s irritation. Heavens, he didn’t want it, and he’d had decades of practice.

  “Then it is a woman,” Isla said triumphantly.

  “N-nonsense,” Wolfe said, conscious he didn’t desire to damage Flora’s reputation.

  “Then why on earth are we standing here?”

  “Er—” Wolfe swallowed hard. His throat felt dry.

  “You lecture me about responsibility, and then you drag some poor woman off to this manor house—”

  “There was no dragging involved,” Wolfe said, outraged.

  “I hope you didn’t help yourself to the servants,” Isla said. “That’s the sort of thing only disreputable men do. Which obviously you are, though somehow I never took you for a man who—”

  Warmth invaded Wolfe’s cheeks. This was the sort of conversation one wasn’t supposed to have with one’s sister, no matter how cultured and well-traveled she was.

  The worst thing was...she was correct. Flora was a servant. It didn’t seem that way. She didn’t wear a uniform and her job differed from that of a maid. They’d even known each other as children. She’d even dined in the nursery with him and the other ch
ildren of the manor house. It seemed strange to think of her as solely a servant.

  He hadn’t met a woman of the ton who could play so well, who was so intelligent. Flora had taken this position for her safety.

  And yet—

  Flora was hardly a woman of the ton. He would never chance upon her at a ball, even with the most unfashionable wallflowers and bluestockings. No matchmaking mama or proud papa would ever thrust her in his direction. Flora’s own parents were dead, but even if they had been alive, their class would not have equaled that of earl, even if they were far more talented and kind than his own father had ever been.

  “You’re an impossible man,” Isla huffed. “Are you going to tell me?”

  “Naturally not,” Wolfe said, and for a very brief moment hurt seemed to descend upon his sister’s face. It was only for a moment though, and then her features steeled and she was once again the impenetrable ice aristocrat.

  “DID YOU NEED TO HAVE somebody in your bed, Wolfe?” A woman’s voice sailed through the air, and Flora stiffened.

  She was not in her normal bed.

  She was in...the earl’s.

  Memories of last night and everything wonderful, everything precious, inundated her mind, and for a moment everything was perfect.

  She turned to the other side of the bed. Wolfe had been there throughout the night, giving a gentle snore entirely at odds with his roguish image, one that had made her smile. He’d emanated warmth, even after the brick in the bed had cooled.

  Now though he was absent.

  The bed might possess ample numbers of blankets, but they couldn’t disguise his muscular form.

  He was gone.

  Flora blinked and rubbed the sand from her eyes.

  She recognized the amaretto timber of his voice, but it was joined by an alto voice that she could not place. She listed the maids whom he might be speaking to, but none of them sounded so refined, and none of them tended to enter into long conversations with him.

  Another woman?

  Flora pushed away the flicker of jealousy. Wolfe was well-regarded with women. Even she knew that, and she’d been a maid in a different house.

  Besides, she could hardly have any claim to him. She’d entered into bed for no other reason than that she adored him, even though that was the same reason that had felled other women who’d adored other men.