Holly and Hopeful Hearts

by Caroline Warfield

  “Miss Woodville, something has been bothering me for some time now,” began Lord Stanton as he put down his glass beside the nearby punch bowl and leaned forward in his chair. “Something about you.”

  Disappointment weighed Kate’s heart. Just when she’d thought she’d turned a corner with Lord Stanton, he had to spoil everything with a remark like that. At least he wasn’t trying to flirt with her again. “Oh?” she said stiffly. “I must say that doesn’t surprise me.”

  Lord Stanton winced. “You mistake my meaning.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  “Please forgive my bluntness, but I’ve been wondering why you chose a career in teaching rather than residing here at Fenwick House. Your uncle appears to regard you with considerable affection, so that does not appear to be a barrier to you living an easier, more genteel existence. You are a puzzle I cannot, for the life of me, work out.”

  How to answer him in a way he would understand? And without making him think less of her and her family? “Uncle Harold offered both Freddie and me a home, of course, after our mother passed away when I was seventeen. But… you have to understand my parents’ marriage was a far from happy one, and my uncle…” She glanced at him to make sure he was still asleep. “He and my father had been on very bad terms for such a long time. As you already know, my father had a problem with gambling, and for most of my childhood, we…” How should I say this? She lifted her chin. “Our family was poor. We lived in London and moved from one set of shabby rented rooms to another, depending on how much money we did or didn’t have. Uncle Harold had tried to curb my father’s gambling, but nothing worked, and so rather than waste the family fortune paying his endless debts, he turned him away. I do not blame him for our situation. It was all my father’s doing.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure you haven’t told me the worst of it.”

  The light of compassion glowing in Lord Stanton’s gray eyes was unmistakable, and a hard lump formed in Kate’s throat. She had to swallow to clear it before going on. “Yes, well… My mother saved money when she could—indeed, I believe Uncle Harold sent her small sums now and again to make sure we didn’t end up on the streets and had enough food on the table. Nothing too large, mind you, because if my father suspected she had extra funds, he would have demanded it to spend at the gaming tables. After Father passed away, when I was twelve, she, at last, managed to save enough to buy an old pianoforte, and she taught me how to play.” She smiled. “That piano is now at White Church House. I love playing it for the children there.”

  Lord Stanton nodded. “I can now see why your charity is so important to you.” He refilled his glass and hers with punch then asked, “After your father died, you didn’t come to live here?”

  “My mother, she was a proud woman. Uncle Harold offered us a home, but she refused. And she encouraged Freddie and me to make our own way in the world. To gain an education and to establish careers. You see, she was from the ranks of the lower gentry. At one time, her father had been the local vicar here in Fenwick.”

  “And that was how she met your father?”

  “Yes. I don’t know a lot about their courtship or the early years of their marriage. My mother—for reasons which were quite understandable to my way of thinking—was reluctant to talk about such things.”

  “Your uncle never married?”

  “No. I’m not sure why exactly but…” Kate checked to see her uncle was still softly snoring before she lowered her voice and added, “sometimes I’ve wondered if he also cared for my mother. I know Freddie is the closest heir he has to the Rookhope title, but he didn’t have to send my mother money, or purchase a commission for Freddie, or fund my education at a ladies’ academy. He could have washed his hands of us altogether.”

  Lord Stanton nodded. “Yes, that might explain why he took great pains to ensure you and your brother were provided for.”

  He leaned back in his chair and stroked his temple with one long finger. Kate had never really noticed how attractive his hands were until that moment; he’d worn gloves during most of their journey. They were masculine and strong yet elegant hands. Capable hands. He’d punched the vagabond in the jaw for her with one. Grasped her when she’d nearly fallen out of her carriage seat. Held her all night. How strange of her to notice such details about his person and think of such peculiar things now. Things that stirred an odd warmth deep inside her like the glow of a banked fire yet also made her feel restless. It must have been her comment about washing hands that had made her focus on them…

  The heavy silence extended between them until Kate scraped up the courage to murmur, “Forgive me, my lord. Perhaps I have been too frank. It seems the wassail has loosened my tongue.” And made me fanciful.

  “There is nothing to forgive,” said Lord Stanton. He gifted her with a warm smile that made her pulse dance oddly. “Thank you. For confiding in me. It cannot be easy to share such private matters.”

  “No…” The moment stretched, and Kate found that her gaze was trapped with Lord Stanton’s. The mood had shifted again, had become even more intimate. Tender yet also taut. Filled with expectation. It was too much to take in. If she stayed too much longer, she might begin to believe Lord Stanton cared for her, which was utterly ridiculous.

  She needed to go.

  Kate stood and was taken aback to find she was a little light-headed from all the wassail and wine she’d drunk; she put a hand against the brocade-covered back of the settee to steady herself. “I think I should retire.” She glanced at the mahogany longcase clock beside the door leading to the Great Hall and the stairs. It was almost midnight. “It is quite late.”

  “Yes.” Lord Stanton rose also, a frown of concern creasing his brow as he regarded her. Perhaps he’d noticed she was slightly unsteady as he said, “Let me escort you.”

  However, Kate shook her head. “No, that won’t be necessary. Good night, my lord.”

  She crossed the room to the open doorway, but as she took a step over the threshold, her slipper caught on the edge of the hall runner, and she tripped. Gasping, she clutched at the doorframe, but then strong male arms caught her, and she found herself pulled up against Lord Stanton’s tall muscular frame, her back to his front.

  “Careful now,” he murmured against her hair. His breath teased the hair at her temple, the curve of her ear, raising pleasurable goose-bumps along the exposed flesh of her neck.

  “I… I’m not usually so clumsy.” She turned in his arms and attempted to take a step back so she could thank him eye to eye, but Lord Stanton’s hold about her waist firmed.

  “Well, well,” he said, his voice as rich and potent as the wassail punch they’d just been drinking. “Look where we are, Miss Woodville.” He glanced above their heads before his eyes met hers again. “Or may I call you Kate?”

  “Whatever do you…” Kate tilted her head up and then swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. Oh, no. A large garland of mistletoe—a kissing bough—hung from the carved wooden lintel right above them. “We don’t have to hold to tradition,” she whispered, her gaze returning to Lord Stanton’s.

  “Oh, I think we most definitely do.” He pushed one of her curls behind her ear. “It’s Christmas Eve. It would be most remiss of us not to.” His gaze, as soft as moonlight on water, caressed her face. Her lips. “May I kiss you?”

  Oh, my goodness. I must be dreaming. Kate’s pulse thrummed with anticipation, and her heart swelled with unexpected pleasure. Lord Stanton wants to kiss me. Before she’d even thought through the consequences, her wassail-addled brain formulated a response, and she whispered, “Yes.”

  Lord Stanton’s mouth tipped into a devastating smile just as the longcase clock began to chime the hour of midnight. “Merry Christmas, sweet Kate.”

  He raised a large hand and cupped her cheek as if he were touching something as delicate as a Christmas rose. Holding her breath, her gaze dropped to his mouth as he tilted his head then oh, so slowly lowered it. And then she stopped thinking
as overwhelming sensation swept her away. The slick brush of warm yet firm lips over hers, the sliding caress of Lord Stanton’s other hand up her back to her nape, the push of his fingers into her hair as he angled her head slightly and claimed her whole mouth, the intoxicating scent of his cologne wrapping around her, the rush of tingling heat through her whole body—all of these things sent her spiraling high, so high, until she felt like she was flying.

  When the tip of Lord Stanton’s tongue swiped boldly across her lower lip, she gasped at the decadent sensation, the unexpected, wicked, earthy pleasure of it. Her lips now parted, he took the opportunity to explore her even more, his tongue slipping inside her mouth, stroking and tasting her until she was moaning, gripping his wide shoulders, pushing herself shamelessly against his hot, hard chest, seeking more, wanting something else from him. She hardly knew what that was until Lord Stanton’s skated his hand from her neck down to her shoulder then his fingers slid beneath her spencer and gently covered her breast. Desire flared hotter, brighter. All these years she’d been a spinster, and she’d never known that this was what she’d been missing. Never dreamed a kiss could be like this. Her first kiss…

  “What the bloody hell are you doing with my sister, Stanton? Unhand her this instant.”

  Chapter 10

  What the bloody devil?

  Anthony broke away from Kate at the sound of Freddie Woodville’s voice. Jesus Christ and all his saints. What is he doing here?

  Searing anger shot through him, replacing the sweet pleasure he’d felt only seconds before. He turned, his hands sliding from Kate’s stiffening body to fist at his sides. “I might ask you the same thing, Woodville,” he snarled savagely. His knuckles cracked. “Where’s Violet?”

  “My wife, thank God, is still waiting in the carriage.” Freddie Woodville advanced across the chamber with sure strides. His gaze shifted to his sister, who still stood in the doorway to the drawing room. “Katie, I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you all right? If Stanton has hurt you—”

  “You vile bastard. I’ll have your guts for garters.” Anthony’s ire exploded in his chest, and he launched himself at the blackguard.

  They went down onto the Turkish runner and then rolled onto the freezing cold, unforgiving flagstones, both of them trying to gain the upper hand. Anthony’s elbow connected with Woodville’s jaw, but then the dog kneed him in the guts, winding him. He was vaguely aware of Kate screaming and shouting at them to stop as he rolled on top of Woodville and landed a glancing blow to the side of his head and then to the cur’s mouth. Another male voice joined the cacophony of sound.

  Then both he and Woodville were drowning in a deluge of wine. Or more precisely, wassail punch.

  Coughing and spluttering, they fell apart. When Anthony looked up, it was to find Kate standing over him like an avenging angel, her rose-gold hair a fiery halo, her green eyes blazing. In one hand, she held the empty silver wassail bowl.

  “Stop it. Both of you. How dare you tear each other apart like this,” she snapped, her voice an angry lash. “It’s Christmas, for heaven’s sake!”

  A furious Uncle Harold stepped forward. “Now see here,” he fumed. “I’ll have none of this disgraceful brawling in my house. If you want to take this outside and settle it like gentlemen, by all means—”

  “No.” Kate stamped her foot. “There will no more fighting. No brawling, no dueling, no nothing, do you hear me? I’m sick to death of both of you. Your feud is puerile. Grow up.” With that, Kate threw the wassail bowl onto the floor where it landed with a crash before she stormed across the hall toward the vestibule and the front door. “I’m going to greet my new sister, offer her congratulations on her nuptials, and wish her a merry Christmas,” she called over her shoulder. “The rest of you can join me or go rot.”

  Anthony pushed himself to his feet and wiped the wine out of his eyes. Christ. What a mess.

  Thunderous anger still roiled through him at the knowledge of what Freddie Woodville had done. But beneath all that lurked another feeling—a grudging respect for Kate for standing up to them. For putting them in their place.

  She was a virago, but she was right. It was Christmas, and he was in a guest in another nobleman’s house. Not only that, he’d now publicly compromised the baron’s niece. Shame washed through him. He was no better than bloody Freddie Woodville after all.

  “My apologies to you, Lord Rookhope. My… emotions got the better of me. I will leave if you wish me to.”

  Woodville also staggered to his feet. He wiped his split lip. “For God’s sake, Stanton. Don’t be bloody stupid. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s snowing. Don’t upset Violet by being an ass.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do or say where my sister is concerned, Woodville—”

  Uncle Horace cleared his throat. “Ahem, gentlemen, I do believe the ladies are coming inside.”

  A moment later, Violet swept into the Hall in a flurry of snow, her lavender-gray eyes growing wide with horror when she took in Woodville’s wine-soaked state and bruised and bloodied countenance. “Freddie! Just look at you! Anthony, I cannot believe you would do this.” She turned to him and glared. “You’ve hurt my husband.”

  He scowled, and his fingers twitched. “Not nearly enough, Violet.”

  “Didn’t I tell you to stop with this nonsense?” warned Kate as she approached. She put her hand on Violet’s arm. “I’m going to show my new sister to one of the guest bedchambers. And I suggest the rest of us,” she met everyone’s gaze in turn, “retire as well.”

  “Very sensible,” agreed Lord Rookhope. “A good sleep, and we’ll all see things differently in the morning. The Christmas Day service at St. Stephen’s begins at ten o’clock. I trust I shall see you all there?”

  Anthony grudgingly agreed along with everyone else because it was the expected thing to do. He turned away as Woodville followed Violet and Kate up the stairs. His disappointment and anger sat like a bitter lump of coal in his mouth. He was too late. His sister had married a man of dubious character and of bad stock, considering his sire’s sorry history. No matter that Frederick Woodville was heir to a barony and wealthy estate. He doubted he’d ever forgive him for his duplicity.

  Just as he doubted he’d ever forget Kate Woodville’s kiss…

  He groaned and dragged himself up the stairs. The taste of her. Her soft moans. The kiss they’d shared had been incomparable. Just like her. He’d been hoping to get a good sleep but not now; he’d be tossing and turning all night and probably for many nights to come. Because one thing he was certain of, Kate would never let him kiss her again.

  St. Stephen’s Church, Fenwick, Cumbria

  Christmas Day

  “Katie, if you could spare a moment…”

  Kate paused beneath an ancient yew tree in the churchyard of St. Stephen’s and glanced up at her brother from beneath the felt brim of her dark blue bonnet. Snowflakes danced in the air between them. “Of course.”

  Violet, who was on Freddie’s arm, smiled at her shyly. “We’ve been thinking about you and all that you’ve been through over the past few days. Anthony,” she threw a baleful look over her shoulder to where her brother stood beneath the church’s portico, talking with Uncle Harold and the vicar after the service, “he’s been an absolute toad to have dragged you away from the house party at Hollystone Hall. We know how much your charity means to you, and if you think you can endure another journey, we would be happy to take you there in our carriage.”

  Freddie nodded then winced; courtesy of Lord Stanton, he was sporting a swollen split lip, and there was a sizeable bruise on one cheek. Kate also suspected his injured shoulder gave him grief given the way he held his arm so gingerly against his side. “If we leave tomorrow, we should be there in time for the charity subscription ball on New Year’s Eve,” he said, and grimaced again as he adjusted the position of his left arm. “I shall pay for the tickets for us all, so you needn’t worry about that. I’m sure you’ll be able to shore up
some support for The Benevolent Society for the Women of Whitechapel during the night. Even if it’s just to engage the Duchess of Haverford’s public nod of approval for your cause.”

  Warmth flooded Kate’s heart. The duchess’s support would, indeed, go a long way to repairing any damage Lady Stanton might have done. “Thank you. Both of you. I must confess, I’d all but given up on the idea of attending. But if you would do that for me, I would be most grateful. And you know, I think it would be beneficial if you were to be presented to the duchess as Mr. and Mrs. Woodville. It might help to quell any gossip. Not that there’s likely to be any, but you never know…”

  Violet’s brow lowered into a deep frown. “I’m quite worried how Mama will take the news. If we could just secure Anthony’s support…”

  Kate touched her arm. “I think your brother will warm to the idea of your marriage in time. It was quite a shock to find out you’d eloped.”

  Freddie’s mouth flattened. “I’m still fuming about Stanton’s cavalier treatment of you, Katie. How hypocritical of him to be worried about Violet being ruined when that’s exactly what he did to you!”

  “Shhh.” Kate looked back toward the small group on the portico. Most of the villagers attending the Christmas Day church service had moved on, but still, one couldn’t be too careful. “I have not been ruined. How many times do I need to say that? No one knows about my unconventional trip here with Lord Stanton and the events of last night except Uncle Harold and you two. And if we just keep it that way, it will all blow over.”

  Freddie snorted. “If I didn’t despise the man so much, I’d insist he make an offer for you, Katie.”

  Violet’s eyes lit up, and she clapped her hands together. “Oh, that would be wonderful. Anthony would make a most excellent husband for you, Kate. He really is very sweet beneath all his scowls.”