A Yuletide Regency (A Timeless Romance Anthology Book 21)

by Regina Scott

  “He is a younger son,” Arabelle said, still dazed. “Isaac has worked his whole life on his father’s farm.”

  “Yes. It’s quite perfect.”

  Arabelle stared out the window, her breathing stalled.

  The door opened, and her tower toppled once more.

  “I crash it, Abibelle, not you crash it.”

  “You build the tower, Linny. Then you can crash it.”

  “Happy Christmas, ladies,” Isaac said.

  “Happy Christmas, Major,” Mama said, and rose to curtsy.

  Arabelle had pulled her legs beneath her to rise when Isaac was there, his hand extended to help her up.

  “I seem to be constantly finding you aground, Miss Hyatt.”

  “Yes,” she said, equally flustered and determined to appear serene. She took his hand and stood, smoothing her gown. “Life has been funny that way. The currents change, and you find yourself run into the rocks wondering how in the world you thought you could float in the first place.”

  He gave her a perplexed look and lifted her hand, bowing over it and placing a kiss there. “You were meant to fly, I believe, Miss Hyatt.”

  She remembered herself and curtsied. “And what of you, Major?”

  His brow rose at her address, and he let go of her hand.

  “I hear congratulations are in order. Mama has just told me of the circumstances awarded you by Colonel Upton.” She kept pushing the words out. “A bailiff with your own living. How wonderful for you. Your own set of wings.”

  He looked to Mama and back at Arabelle. “Thank you. It’s new. I’m still uncertain of it all.”

  “Uncertain, or just modest?” Mama asked with a smile.

  He turned to her. “Humbled, ma’am. Forgive my surprise. I’ve not yet accepted.”

  “Your mother wrote to me.”

  “Ah.” He glanced at Arabelle. “That accounts for it.”

  “Why would you not accept the living?” Arabelle asked.

  “I’m sure the major has his reasons, and they are none of our business.”

  Isaac lifted his hand. “It’s a reasonable question.” He turned to Arabelle, whose heart pounded against her chest in a bothersome manner. “The living comes with stipulations I’m not sure I could live up to,” he said, meeting her gaze. “It will take some consideration.”

  “Mister? Play. Play blocks. Build tower high.”

  He looked down at Eleanor and a half-built stack of blocks. “Yes, I see. How very high.”

  “I see,” Arabelle said, and he looked up at her. “Some things take consideration, while others need almost no thought at all.”

  “Abby,” he said as she brushed past him.

  “Mama, forgive me, I am tired after all.”

  “But we have yet to light the Yule log,” Mama said, half bewildered as Arabelle exited the room. “Arabelle, wait.”

  She turned, surprised to find Isaac stopped not far behind her. “What is it, Mama?” she asked.

  Mama pointed upward. “The kissing bough. Mistletoe.” Her brow rose. “It’s for luck.”

  Then, to Arabelle’s horror, Mama looked to Isaac. “You must admit, Major, we could use all the luck we can get.”

  He shifted nervously. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well,” she said. “Get to it.”

  “Det to it,” Eleanor piped up, then toppled her tower with a crash.

  He looked to Arabelle. “With your permission?”

  She must’ve nodded, because he stepped closer, his cane in one hand, his gaze on the ground.

  He reached her, thankfully blocking Mama from her sight.

  “Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

  “Tradition,” he whispered back, setting his cane against the wall.

  “Not this. I mean, yes this. You were very clear upstairs, and I thought I understood, but now I learn that you have some means, some purpose before you and you didn’t tell me, and—”

  “Abby.”

  “What?”

  In the instant he caressed her face, her eyes closed, then his lips were upon hers, a brief touch, and then again, softer and less brief, and when she pressed back he met her, matching her desire, surpassing it.

  Until he released her, stepping back, blinking.

  She regained her breath as he reached for his cane.

  “Why did you do that?” she whispered.

  “Tradition,” he said, sounding strained. “For luck.”

  “A peck on the cheek would have sufficed.”

  “You need more luck than that, I think.”

  “Bravo, Major,” Mama called from her chair.

  “Bavo, mister,” Eleanor parroted.

  “Now both of you get back in here,” Mama said, “and I’ll hear no more talk of retiring early. We need to celebrate while we have something to celebrate. Oh, how dreadful that sounded.”

  “No more blocks.” Eleanor toppled her tower and walked to Arabelle. “Tories.”

  “You’d like a story?” Arabelle asked, welcoming the distraction since she’d been ordered to stay. Eleanor took her hand, and then Isaac’s, and led them both to the window seat. Arabelle took a deep breath, to no avail. Her pulse still raced, and the nearness of him muddled her brain.

  The next hour was spent reading stories and playing games with Eleanor, avoiding eye contact with Isaac while her thoughts kept returning to that kiss. Finally, with Eleanor asleep on Isaac’s arm and Mama snoring softly across the room, Arabelle found an excuse to leave.

  She reached for Eleanor. “I’ll take her upstairs,” she said, hushed.

  “Miss Hyatt—”

  “So which is it?” she asked. “Abby, or Miss Hyatt? You seem to use either depending upon your need.”

  “I beg your pardon?” he whispered, glancing at Eleanor.

  “Abby, touch,” she said. “Abby, save your life. Abby, kiss. But then, Miss Hyatt, do not think it. Miss Hyatt, there is nothing for it. Miss Hyatt, I have nothing to offer you.”

  He blinked at her.

  “Nothing to offer me,” she continued. “Nothing.”

  “Miss Hyatt, please, you don’t—”

  “Understand? I think I do. I think when you said you had nothing to offer me, what you meant was that you are afraid.” She hoisted Eleanor against her shoulder, pressing a tear to the little girl’s pinafore. “But think nothing of it. It was a silly thing to hope for. A young girl’s dream. You are very much like Mr. Forbes, you know?”

  Alarm crossed his expression.

  “You would put your boots before a life, sir.”

  She turned and left the drawing room, and this time, he didn’t follow.

  Chapter Seven

  Dear Isaac,

  We have discovered that Mr. F is steeped in gambling debts, and this is the reason he has sold his lesser properties and likely the reason he would sell Hybrigge. He is desperate. A marriage connection with his family at this time would not be wise, and I am relieved for Miss H.

  However, the family is still in peril. I shall look into it further, see if we can secure them a cottage somewhere and find Miss H a sponsor. Unless you can come up with something better? It is good you are there. Give them our warmest regards and hope for their situation. Happy Christmas. Write your mother.

  Yours,

  Father

  Isaac paced several minutes with his father’s letter clutched in his hand. His leg throbbed, but he’d learned to ignore it. Abby crossed his thoughts so often anyhow, and he could not ignore her.

  Why had he kissed her? She was absolutely right. He had used her with no intention of following through with anything more. He hadn’t meant to, but that didn’t change the fact that he had. And she was so . . . perceptive. Nothing got past her, and she spoke her truth like an arrow shot from a bow. He knew that about her. For thirteen years he’d known that about her. Loved that about her—

  He stopped, standing tall. He studied his carved hand. “You are a coward, Isaac Linfield. And she called you on
it.”

  After a moment of contemplation, he moved to his desk to a small pile of letters, plucking one off the top and smoothing it out.

  Major Linfield,

  I write to let you know that all is ready. The papers have been drawn, and I have written my steward. The duty of Bailiff of Merigrove and all other holdings will be a temporary position, as I have named you my sole heir. There will be much to learn, but you have proven your ability as a soldier and a man. Upon my return, God willing, we shall make a good team of it. You shall fill the rooms of Merigrove, Furton, and Upton Hall with wife and family—for you must take a wife—and I shall rejoice in the sounds of it. There is much life ahead, Major. I intend to live it well. Join me.

  My steward awaits your consent. I don’t really need it, you know.

  Col. Sir D. Upton

  Isaac closed his eyes. He wouldn’t change one action in saving the colonel. He was too good a leader, too good a person to be lost in this infernal war.

  The living Colonel Upton offered had been one thing. The stirrings of purpose, of independence, of what good, honest work meant had invigorated Isaac, and he appreciated the colonel’s offer. What else could he do? Burden his parents and his brothers? Not that they would ever make him feel as such. But his father’s farmlands were smaller than Hybrigge’s. And he had this offer before him. Not only a living, but an inheritance.

  It was too much.

  You shall fill the rooms of Merigrove, Furton, and Upton Hall with wife and family . . .

  The image of Abby closing her blue eyes at his touch, her nose upturned, her pink lips barely parted, and the scent of her perfume pulling him closer . . . kissing her once had been easy. For luck. Kissing her again ended him. Pulling away from her had been like losing . . . well, a limb.

  Yet how could he ask her to accept him, as he was? See him, really see him, as he was? He’d no intention of ever marrying after his stint in hospital. His friends had left, feeling uncomfortable that he was not who he used to be. Any girls he’d hoped to return to before his injuries had long turned their attentions elsewhere. Except for one. Abby had been both a friend, and, he’d come to realize, a hope.

  He looked down at his boots. He was half.

  And a coward.

  You put your boots before a life, sir.

  What kind of life could he give her? Any help, George?

  Isaac sat at the desk, pushing his hand through his hair, looking between the two letters.

  Then he sat bolt upright. Almost too hastily, he dipped the quill in ink and began to write.

  * * *

  Christmas Day passed quietly. After church—and to Mrs. Hyatt’s dismay—Abby had presented Eleanor with a small fisherman’s creel filled with sticks and twigs of all sizes and an assortment of smooth rocks—some round for throwing and some flat for skipping. Eleanor had hopped and sorted and tried to “fro rock” in the drawing room, but she had been thwarted in the attempt and promised a walk if she behaved.

  After the walk and much “frowing,” the family and their guest retired to the drawing room and blazing fire. Eleanor toddled to Isaac and patted his wooden leg. “Leg aw better?” she asked.

  “Somewhat,” he said, running his hand over her curly head.

  She yawned, then leaned down and rested her cheek against the wood. “Ah luh loo,” she said, then kissed his leg.

  “Ah luh loo?” he asked, then looked to Abby for interpretation.

  She lowered her gaze, her fingers working her embroidery. “She said, ‘I love you,’ Major.”

  The words struck him, and he allowed the child to crawl onto his lap, where she curled up and fell asleep in front of the fire. “Sleep, little Linny,” he said. “All will be well.” But he watched the fire fretfully, glancing Abby’s way as often as he’d permit himself.

  * * *

  Isaac had been gone to town three days. “Really, Mama,” Arabelle said, tearing out a row of stitches that she could not get even. “I see no reason why Mr. Linfield couldn’t conduct his business from Hybrigge House.”

  “You know very well why he had to leave, Arabelle.”

  Arabelle frowned at the seam in her hands. “I do not,” she said around the needle gripped in her lips.

  “Because, my darling, it was no longer proper for him to stay here.”

  “And why is that?” she asked, removing the needle to thread it.

  “Because you are in love with him.”

  Arabelle froze, no longer seeing her embroidery. “I don’t know what you mean, Mama.” But her beating heart argued that she knew exactly what Mama meant.

  Clark entered then with a tray. “A letter for you, mum.”

  “Thank you, Clark.”

  Arabelle watched, only half interested, as Mama unfolded the letter. How had Mama deciphered her feelings for Isaac, and what did it mean that he left? Mama had implied that he knew of Arabelle’s feelings. She hadn’t played the shrinking violet, had she? But then he left. Because it was no longer proper. And because he didn’t return her feelings. And she’d equaled him to the horrible Mr. Forbes. Who held their whole future in his clammy grip.

  Arabelle tossed her stitching aside and stood, walking about the room, vaguely aware of her mother reading her letter.

  “Oh heavens,” Mama said, her hand to her chest.

  Arabelle stopped immediately. “What is it?”

  Mama lifted her gaze to Arabelle. “Oh. It is nothing. Major Linfield will be here within the hour, and we must change. Have Edith help you first. I must speak with Cook.” With that, Mama stood and left the room.

  Upstairs, Edith pulled the laces on the back of Arabelle’s coral muslin gown. “I wonder why Mama is acting so strangely about Mr. Linfield coming to dine,” Arabelle mused aloud. “He stayed with us for ten days.”

  “Have you not heard, Miss? Mr. Linfield has bought Hybrigge for himself.”

  Arabelle dropped the matching slippers she held. “He what?”

  “He intends to make Hybrigge his home.”

  “And what of us?”

  Edith paused. “I do not know, Miss.”

  Arabelle frowned, then she spun, searching the floor.

  “What are you looking for, Miss?”

  “My riding boots.”

  “But you’re dressing for dinner.”

  “Right now I’m dressing for my horse. Tell Seth I need her ready. No, don’t bother with my riding gown. Just the coat will do. Ah, my boots.” She sat down to pull them on but felt Edith’s stare. “Edith. Seth. Now.”

  “Oh. Yes, Miss. Sorry, Miss.” And with a quick bob, she was gone.

  Seth had Snowbird ready when Arabelle arrived. He helped her mount and without so much as a nod of thanks, she urged Snowbird into a gallop. They’d just crested the bridge when she spotted a horse and rider stopped in the distance under the old oak trees. She urged Snowbird into a run, a burning in her core and spreading outward. She recognized his horse first, then his posture. He saw her and dismounted, no easy feat, she was certain. He was still steadying himself when she pulled her horse up and dismounted herself.

  She crossed the remaining distance at a brisk pace. “You bought Hybrigge? How could you? When you knew. You knew how much it means to Mama and I!”

  He removed his hat. “Miss Hyatt.”

  “I don’t understand. After everything!” She reached him, the exertion from her march, or her anger, obvious in her erratic breathing. “You bought it from that awful man.”

  “Miss Hyatt—”

  “Don’t you ‘Miss Hyatt’ me. After I confided in you—trusted—”

  “Abby.”

  “What?”

  He wrapped his arms about her and pulled her close, then kissed her quite thoroughly. As her anger eased in his arms, he pulled away enough to gaze into her eyes.

  “How—” she stammered, quite breathless. “Why—”

  He glanced upward, then back down at her. “Mistletoe.”

  Her gaze went to the clumps in the oak
s, and she swallowed. “Oh.”

  “But that’s not why.”

  “Oh?”

  He shook his head. “I bought Hybrigge with a portion of my living from Sir Upton. I bought it for you.”

  She blinked. “Why? I thought—”

  “I love you, Abby.”

  She could only watch him and allow the burning in her core to change into something softer, yet just as fiery.

  He ran his finger along her cheek. “Be my wife. Live here with me. We’ll raise Eleanor as our own. Take slow winter walks. Run Snowbird and River. Say you’ll take me—as I am. Make me the happiest man there ever was.”

  She nodded, tears in her eyes. “Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  She grinned. “Yes, Isaac. To all of it.”

  “‘All of it.’ Interesting choice of words.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll tell you everything, my love.” He kissed her again, whispering against her temple. “My dearest Abby.”

  Click on the covers to visit Krista’s Amazon author page:

  Nearly every one of Krista Lynne Jensen's elementary school teachers noted on her report card that she was a "day-dreamer". It was not a compliment. So, when Krista grew up, she put those daydreams down on paper for others to enjoy.

  Krista has lived in lush Oregon and rugged Wyoming, but Washington is her beloved home state. She likes to choose familiar settings for her stories, and she is grateful to have such inspirational places to choose from. She is a mother of six, gramma of three, a gardener and cook, loves to travel, and lives to make the best of what she's been given.

  Krista writes inspirational romance, and fantasy. She is the author of OF GRACE AND CHOCOLATE (2012 Whitney Award Finalist), THE ORCHARD (2013 Whiney Award Finalist), FALLING FOR YOU (2014), and KISSES IN THE RAIN (2015 Whitney Award Finalist) with Covenant Communications. She has novellas in Love Unexpected: With All My Heart (2014), Christmas Grace (2017), and Timeless Romance Anthologies: Love Letters (2014) and Yuletide Regency (2018) with Mirror Press.