Lords, Snow and Mistletoe: A Regency Christmas Collection

by Bianca Blythe

  He nodded to her solemnly.

  “Perhaps it’s some sort of misunderstanding,” Lord Pierce said, who Wolfe noticed had been staying very close to Isla all evening.

  “No.” Wolfe shook his head. “It’s something else.”

  “Perhaps they desire to be alone,” Lord Pierce said gently, not quite meeting Wolfe’s eyes.

  “No,” Wolfe said flatly. “They have a past, and there’s a reason why he would want to harm her.”

  “In that case, let’s go.”

  FLORA’S HEART SEEMED to be permanently lodged in her throat.

  She was opposite Mr. Warne, the man who’d changed her life so completely.

  Was he going to decide now that they were far enough from the manor house that he could kill her? Did he want to do it in a quiet location away from his driver? Or was his driver someone who would be happy to assist? Perhaps he was one of those former smugglers from Sussex.

  Would keeping him talking be a good idea? Did he enjoy having a listener to whom he could tell his deeds without fear of reprisal, confident that he would soon murder her? Or would it hasten his desire?

  The driver slowed, and irritation spread on Mr. Warne’s face. He hammered on the roof. “What’s going on? I said hurry!”

  Voices sounded from outside.

  Flora doubted that the driver had developed a sudden proclivity to speak to himself.

  “Hurry up!” Mr. Warne shouted again. “Go! Go!”

  The door opened, and Wolfe stood before her. “Now, Mr. Warne, so eager to leave? I thought you said you enjoyed Scotland.”

  “Good evening, my lord,” Mr. Warne said hastily. “I—er—”

  “Don’t have a response?” Wolfe finished for him. “Perhaps you can think of one when you are driven to the magistrate.”

  “I don’t need to go to the magistrate,” Mr. Warne said. “What nonsense. What utter nonsense.”

  “I think you do,” Wolfe said sternly. “For killing this lady’s father and for attempting to kill her.”

  “You can’t prove it,” Mr. Warne said. “I just wanted to have a romantic evening with this servant.”

  “I would suggest,” Flora said, “that you also inform the magistrate that Mr. Warne was involved in a large smuggling operation. I think they might find that very interesting.”

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Warne sputtered, but his voice seemed to grow more nervous.

  “Did you hear that?” Wolfe turned and spoke to some people behind him. “This man also smuggled.”

  He extended his hand to Flora. “Come sweetheart.”

  WOLFE PULLED FLORA from the carriage and into his arms.

  He’d found her, with the help of the guests at his ball. They’d taken shortcuts to put up barricades on all these roads, and luckily they’d caught Mr. Warne.

  “I love you, Flora,” he said. He said the words again. “I love you,” testing them out.

  She stared at him, uncertain, as if she couldn’t quite believe what he’d said. He said it again, just in case something had happened to her hearing. “I love you,” he said a third time.

  Her eyes became dewy, and he realized tears had formed over her eyes.

  “I should have told you before,” he said. “This isn’t the first time I’ve thought it.”

  “You don’t mean it.”

  “I do. I think I’ve loved you ever since that first day when you came here.”

  “Not when you discovered me learning French grammar.”

  Wolfe blushed. “It may have been more romantic if I’d said that.”

  Flora laughed. “It was French grammar. It hardly gives one the feeling of romance.” She tilted her head. “How did you know where I was?”

  “I didn’t. I was searching for you. We all were.”

  “But this is your ball. I know how much it costs to put on, and I know how badly you want it to be a success. To have all the guests tramping around in the snow...”

  “They had a memorable ball,” he said. “But for me, it’s the most wonderful ball of my life.”

  “Is that so?”

  He nodded. “The first part wasn’t the best part,” he said. “But I have high hopes for the next part.”

  “Indeed?” her voice trembled.

  In the next moment he knelt down into the snow. It was cold, and it was wet, but he couldn’t care less. All that mattered was Flora. “Flora, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? You’re already in my heart and I want you to be by my side forever and ever and ever.”

  “Wolfe,” she murmured.

  “Will you marry me, Flora?”

  “Yes,” she breathed, and he beamed.

  “Well then, I think we should return to the manor house.” He swept her into his arms and carried her to his carriage.

  “My dress is dirty.”

  “I’ll buy you a new dress.”

  “I’m getting your clothes dirty.”

  “Don’t worry.” He took her into his carriage, and they arrived back at the manor house. He carried her in his arms and headed for the ballroom.

  “You’re not taking me upstairs?”

  “You want to? I think that sounds quite good.” His voice sounded husky.

  “I hadn’t meant that,” she said, and butterflies danced in her chest now. “What did you mean?”

  “We still need to have a dance at the ball,” he said.

  “But...”

  “The musicians are still there, I believe. The guests will come.”

  They walked into the ballroom. The room was filled with people, and they cheered when they saw her.

  “You found her!”

  “I certainly did,” Wolfe said. “May I present the future Countess of McIntyre to you.”

  The room cheered, though he noted the confusion on Hamish and Callum’s faces. They always had been a bit blind, even if they were good at math.

  He put her on the floor.

  “We’re dancing for everyone now.”

  The musicians played a joyful dance because they were united and everyone danced together, hopping and turning. It was a country dance, requiring frequent changes of partners. Everyone was happy at her presence. No one dismissed her, and she realized she’d gained so much more than just a husband. She’d gained a community and she’d gained a home.

  Then the musicians played a Christmas song, and for a moment the dancers were unsure how to approach it. Then the earl, her betrothed, began to twirl her in his arms, just as if they were dancing a waltz, and other couples followed them. It was Christmas, and magic had happened.

  The ballroom was rather more untidy than it had been before. Some people were in muddy boots, and some had not changed from slippers to boots when they went outside. Their clothes were disheveled, and others had simply tossed their cloaks on the floor. It was messy and unlike anything a ball should be, and yet it was entirely perfect all the same.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Flora was safe and at his side. Wolfe squeezed her hand.

  Last night had been a smattering of conventions. Nothing had mattered except ensuring her safety and proclaiming his love to her.

  His heart swelled. It had seemed to have expanded these past weeks, as if he’d realized not only how wonderful Flora was, but also how wonderful everything else was.

  Right now it was wonderful to be in his room. It was wonderful to hear the chirps of the countryside, and not the bustle of curricles bounding down his street on the way to Hyde Park and the angry cries of other drivers.

  The Duke and Duchess of Vernon and Lord and Lady Hamish Montgomery had all elected to spend the night at McIntyre Manor after the ball, and they were occupying the various guest rooms. And yet, Wolfe vowed never to spend another night without Flora. The nights before the ball, after Isla had arrived, had been dreadful.

  Flora had slept soundly beside him throughout the night, clinging to him, but now she stirred.

  “Sweetheart.” He kissed her head, and then watched as her eyes ope
ned. Her lips swerved into a slow smile that tugged his heart, and he made a decision to devote the next few minutes to kissing her.

  Footsteps sounded on the corridor, and Flora pulled herself from his arms. “I suppose we should dress.”

  “Right.”

  Wolfe followed Flora’s gaze to the elaborate gown, now stained with mud and damp from snow.

  A knock sounded on the door, and Wolfe stiffened. He then grabbed his robe and went to answer the door, opening it only a crack.

  His sister stood before him

  “Isla...” He broke off. Was she going to berate him? The ball had been intended to highlight the strengths of the McIntyre family, but it was possible that she might take a less romantic view of last night’s search party. Having one’s older brother publicly declare his affections for a servant and usher everyone outside for an impromptu search party when they were wearing their finest attire was perhaps not the best way to impress the ton.

  He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

  She raised her impeccably plucked eyebrows, and he braced himself for a tirade. Instead she said, “Whatever for?”

  “I don’t think you selected a husband.”

  “Well, that was perhaps your fault for inviting a brutal murderer to court me.”

  His face must have fallen, for her eyes softened.

  “It was a lovely ball, Wolfe, and it was sweet of you to hold it.”

  “That’s what you came to tell me?”

  “Well, I’m not nearly that polite,” she said. “I’d intended to mention it to you over breakfast. I came to give you this.” She handed him a dark, folded piece of fabric, and he stared at it.”

  “It’s a dress, Wolfe. I assume Flora doesn’t want to wear last night’s dirtied gown.”

  He blinked. “So you don’t mind?”

  “Of course, I don’t,” she said. “I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy.”

  “You know, I think I had it more correct when I was younger,” Wolfe mused. “My instinct then was that you should never marry, because no one will be good enough for you.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then why have you been pressing me to marry?”

  “I didn’t want your reputation to be ruined because of what happened with Callum. You don’t need to marry,” he said. “We’re not exactly poor.”

  “Hmm... I thought I could be more involved in Hades’ Lair.”

  “That’s a gaming hell,” he said. “You can’t be involved in that.”

  “But it is most interesting. The decorating, the accounting...”

  “Oh, you would say the decorating is interesting. Perhaps you could be some sort of liaison, but you’re not allowed to be at the tables. And you know, that does not help your reputation.”

  “I do not want to marry a man who wants me to remain at home. There must be some advantages to having money.”

  “Yes.” He smiled. “But I did think you desired to marry after the spectacle with dear Callum ended so poorly.”

  “It’s in the past now.”

  “IS THERE A CELEBRATION in here?” The duke’s voice sailed through the open door, and Flora scrambled up.

  She wasn’t supposed to be here. She was in bed, with an earl.

  But then she remembered that Wolfe had proposed, and that most everything in the world was good again.

  Her father was no longer alive, but at least his murder would be avenged. His discovery on Mr. Warne’s unsavory method of building his wealth would ensure that Mr. Warne would no longer trouble her.

  “I feel I must apologize to you,” Lady Isla said. “We were good friends once, and I want us to be friends again.”

  Flora nodded, too astonished to say anything else.

  “I would like to welcome you to our family,” Isla continued.

  “That means so much,” Flora murmured.

  “Oh, you needn’t look so shocked,” Isla said. “I am your sister after all.”

  Flora beamed.

  “I want everyone out of the room,” Wolfe declared. “We’ll join you in the breakfast room.”

  Isla and the duke left the room, and Wolfe swept her into a long, deep and utterly delightful, kiss.

  “I’m looking forward to the first of many, many mornings with you,” he said.

  “What do you say to having a honeymoon in Paris?” Wolfe asked. “You can use your French skills.”

  Flora did her best to scowl at him.

  “Italy,” Wolfe said quickly. “I meant Italy. We can visit the Duke and Duchess of Alfriston. I think you’ll like the duchess. She has distinct bluestocking tendencies that you’ll approve of.”

  “We can go to France,” she said. “Just don’t tell the inhabitants that—”

  “—you were pretending to be French for four years?”

  Flora flushed. “Yes. That would be something not to tell them.”

  Wolfe laughed. “Very well, sweetheart. I’m so glad that you were my Christmas consultant.”

  They had met twice before, but if it hadn’t been for Christmas, they wouldn’t be engaged now. Happiness soared through Flora.

  Epilogue

  A trumpet was playing the most wonderful music in the world. Well, it was almost the most wonderful music in the world.

  No music equaled Wolfe’s bride’s music, but the musician was playing the Trumpet Voluntary as Flora marched down the aisle of St. George’s Church, and Wolfe would allow him many extra points.

  Wolfe’s heart thrummed merrily, as his wife-to-be approached him. Curled locks lined the sides of her face. They swayed as she marched toward him.

  Wolfe had elected to marry Flora in London. He wanted everyone to see just how lovely she was. He wasn’t going to allow her to be some item of gossip, the lady’s maid who’d become a countess. He’d wanted to give her a wedding befitting that of a countess.

  “I love you,” he said, as she stepped toward him, and he offered her his hand.

  The priest cleared his throat, as if reminding him that that particular line wasn’t scripted, but Wolfe could hardly care whether it was in the ceremony or not.

  “I love you,” he repeated again, as Flora clasped his hand. “I love you.”

  “Well,” the priest said, and then entered into his speech.

  The ceremony was short, and yet every word seemed precious. There was no one in the world he would rather tie himself with than Flora.

  “You may kiss the bride,” the priest said.

  Wolfe smiled. At one time the words would have horrified people. His bride might be somewhat unconventional. When he gazed into the rows of Wolfe’s family and friends, he saw only happiness in their gazes.

  He pulled Flora toward him. His life wasn’t supposed to be in some elaborately decorated gaming hell with men who paid to be there. Soon his place would be in Scotland, playing piano with his wife in the evening.

  THANK YOU FOR READING The Earl’s Christmas Consultant. I hope you enjoyed spending time with Flora and Wolfe.

  NEXT BOOK: How to Train a Viscount, about Lady Isla and the man she trains to pretend to be a viscount in a reverse My Fair Lady story, continues the Wedding Trouble series. Tap here to order it now.

  HOW TO CAPTURE A DUKE

  One reclusive bluestocking...

  Fiona Amberly is more intrigued by the Roman ruins near her manor house than she is by balls. When her dying Grandmother worries about Fiona’s future, Fiona stammers that she’s secretly engaged. Soon she finds herself promising that she will introduce her husband-to-be by Christmas.

  One dutiful duke...

  Percival Carmichael, new Duke of Alfriston, is in a hurry. He’s off to propose to London’s most eligible debutante. After nearly dying at Waterloo, he’s vowed to spend the rest of his life living up to the ton’s expectations.

  One fallen tree...

  When Fiona tries to warn a passing coach about a tree in the road, the driver mistakes her for a highway
woman. Evidently he’s not used to seeing women attired in clothes only suitable for archaeology waving knives. After the driver flees, Fiona decides she may as well borrow the handsome passenger...

  HOW TO CAPTURE A DUKE is the first book in Bianca Blythe’s Matchmaking for Wallflowers series. Other books in the Matchmaking for Wallflowers series:

  A Rogue to Avoid

  Runaway Wallflower

  Mad About the Baron

  A Marquess for Convenience

  The Wrong Heiress for Christmas

  Prologue

  Excerpt from Matchmaking for Wallflowers, Autumn 1815

  For the woman lacking in advantages in appearance and wit: Get him alone. Men are simple-minded creatures and are prone to succumb to a woman’s charms, however meager they might be, when removed from all other distractions.

  Chapter One

  Crisp jingles chimed through the cold air, merging with the rhythmic trot of horses, and Fiona Amberly had never been more convinced of her utter abhorrence of Christmas. She poked her head from the archaeological site, brushed a hand smudged with clay through her hair and peered in the direction of the sound.

  A coach barreled down the slope, pulled by two pairs of prancing white horses, and her throat dried. Red and green plumes perched from the horses’ headgear, an unnecessary nod to the approaching holiday. The sun glowed over the glossy black surface of the coach, flickering over its vibrantly painted wheels and golden crest.

  She tightened her fists around the slabs of timber she used to fortify the pit.

  Only one person had threatened to visit her.

  Madeline.

  Fiona hauled herself up and rushed to the road, dragging her dress through more mud. The coach thundered toward her, and she waved both arms above her head. Now was not the time to muse on the ridiculousness of her appearance.

  “Halt. Halt.”

  The coach slowed, and she hastily brushed some dirt from her dress, managing to remove a few specks.