Mistletoe Magic

by Virginia Brown

  “Perhaps he’s thinking of our wedding,” Chary said wryly, and gasped when Aunt Catherine pinched her arm.

  “Nonsense! Arranged marriages are much more modern these days, and neither of you is being married off to an uncouth barbarian or foreign devil, so there’s nothing to be upset about. I cannot fathom why you do not see the practicality and advantages ahead.”

  As they entered the rococo-style drawing room where a warm fire lured the older guests, Chary allowed her aunt to steer her toward a pair of upholstered Bergére chairs arranged by a Palladian window hidden by heavy velvet drapes. “Pray, aunt,” she said as they sat down, “what advantages are ahead for me? A loveless marriage to a man with whom I have absolutely nothing in common, or years of playing a part for which I am terribly unsuited?”

  “My, you do know how to put a pretty face on the facts, dear,” Aunt Catherine said dryly. “I realize you hoped for a whirlwind romance, but not even Miss Austen’s novels portray love as always neat and tidy, you know. Think of love as a seed that is planted, and if nurtured properly, grows into a beautiful flower. Deal fairly with your handsome lord, and I think he will come round eventually. After all, you’re a lovely girl with good breeding—the St. Johns were country squires once, you know—and of course, Knyvetts go back to the time of the Conqueror.”

  Very familiar with her family tree, although not very impressed, Chary nodded. She didn’t take her aunt’s statements literally, but there was a grain of truth to them that she had to acknowledge. What Aunt Catherine meant was that she was just as good as Lord Nicholas, but of course, that was not at all what society believed. While he may not be a peer as he was the second son and not the heir, he was still viewed as such. And she was a banker’s daughter, with no real ties to the peerage other than being betrothed to a duke’s son.

  It was a tangled perception, perhaps, but valid.

  “I never hoped for a whirlwind romance,” she said truthfully. “But I did hope that if I were to meet a man with whom I share interests, we might find love.”

  Leaning forward, Aunt Catherine said softly, “Then find common interests with Lord Nicholas, my dear. Love does not have to be elusive.”

  It was so much easier said than accomplished, Chary thought, but she only smiled. Aunt Catherine meant well. Perhaps she should do her best to see the advantages to the marriage instead of fretting over the disadvantages. Since it was to be a fait accompli whether she wished it or not, she should be as pragmatic as Lord Nicholas and surrender to the inevitable.

  Yes, that is what she would do, she decided. Accept her fate and be as gracious about it as possible. Surely, there would be mutual interests she could explore with him. So, what on earth would she say when she saw him next?

  Chapter 5

  NICK LISTENED AS several of his dinner companions discussed Parliamentary decisions and whether the income tax that had been repealed in March would be renewed. The wartime tax had earned petitions from farmers and landowners after the end of the French war, and had been grudgingly repealed but was still being negotiated around the dinner table.

  Restless and tense, he offered no opinion, not wanting to be drawn into the conversation between Will and Sir John as to the merits of the tax. It was extremely annoying that he was to be trapped here until Drummond recovered. Thankfully, it wasn’t a break, but the village doctor had specified that Drummond not put weight on the injured leg. It needed to heal for several days. Nick wasn’t willing to risk doing his coachman harm by leaving too early. Lady Howard insisted he was welcome, and appeared to have no idea of the hostility between him and Wakefield.

  Smoke wreathed the air over the dining table as footmen discreetly removed plates and trays from sideboards. Lord Howard gave a subtle signal to Buttons, the butler overseeing the footmen, and announced, “It is time to join the ladies, gentlemen, before my wife sends for us.”

  Nick stood, intending to slip away to check on Drummond, but Lord Howard stopped beside him. “I am quite sorry to hear about your coachman’s accident. Is there anything I can do to assist?”

  “No, Lady Howard has done an admirable job by sending for the physician. I was just about to go see about him.”

  Smiling, Howard said softly, “I apologize for any inconvenience Wakefield’s unexpected appearance might cause you. This storm has brought us quite a few refugees, it seems.”

  “Of which I am one, so no apology is necessary. It was just a . . . surprise, I suppose.”

  “Lady Howard had no idea, of course, and is chagrinned if it has caused any discomfort for either of you. Since your coachman is healing from his injury, I hope you will remain with us. You and Miss St. John were on our original guest list, after all. It would be deuced awkward to ask Wakefield to leave in this weather, as he is also an invited guest.”

  “I would not want that. While it’s true I’d hoped to leave in the morning, I’ve learned some restraint since we were schoolboys.”

  “Eton taught us much more than just restraint, I’d say,” Lord Howard agreed, and led the way toward the drawing room.

  There was no polite way to refuse without causing his host to wonder if he’d have a duel on his hands, so he accompanied him into the room full of ladies. Lady Jersey was holding court near the fire, talking animatedly with Lord Wakefield, and Sir John and a young man from Kent had engaged Lady Howard in conversation. Without realizing at first that he was looking for her, he found Miss St. John and her aunt across the room, sitting in two high-backed chairs and smiling up at a gentleman from Ireland. Whatever he said made them laugh, and Nick thought that when she was amused, Miss St. John was almost pretty.

  Lamplight and probably too much sherry flushed her pale complexion quite nicely, and the gown she wore brought out the blue in her eyes. The rich-blue velvet, trimmed in gilt leaves and edged in a ruffle that showed her to have a bosom he hadn’t expected, hinted at a nice, lush shape that under different circumstances, he might have considered appealing. Her hair gleamed in the candlelight, ribboned braids wrapped around the crown and soft ringlets framing her face in front of her ears, and a slender gold coronet adorned her forehead. She held a glass of sherry in one hand, looking very much at ease in the assembly. He studied her silently from his position just inside the door, wondering if he’d been wrong about her.

  The trouble with first impressions was that they could often be misleading. Perhaps Miss St. John wasn’t just a plain, dull wallflower, but a scheming woman whose father had managed to convince Avonhurst that a huge dowry would solve all his problems. While his father wasn’t easily fooled, the duke was always open to negotiations, Nick had observed cynically. It had kept the estate solvent in a time when taxes were ruinous and tenants were unable to pay rents due to crop failures and harsh weather that had caused livestock losses.

  And yet, watching her, he found it difficult to reconcile the image she presented with that of a devious social climber. Surely he hadn’t lost the ability to discern between innate honesty and sly deception in the past year. Conversely, it should have sharpened his skill at perceiving dishonesty, as he had been accused of it himself.

  Then, as if she felt him watching her, she turned slightly and looked straight at him. He would have to speak to her, of course. He could not give his future wife the cut direct in front of all these gossips, as it would be immediately remarked upon and endlessly repeated. So, he crossed the drawing room, the intricately woven rug beneath his feet muffling his footsteps, and reached the trio in several long strides.

  “Lord Culhane, Lady Shepworth, and Miss St. John, you seem to be enjoying the evening immensely.” It sounded slightly ridiculous even to his own ears, but the stilted acknowledgement was met with courteous response, more enthusiastically by Lady Shepworth than by his betrothed.

  “We are indeed,” said the lady, “although I confess I am disappointed we were upstairs and did not meet the Pr
incess when she arrived. Was she delightful?”

  “Much more delightful than I had thought,” said Lord Culhane enthusiastically, saving Nick the trouble of forming a proper response. “Royalty can be quite stuffy, you know, but she was charming even after an arduous journey. I had no idea she was to make an appearance. Quite a feather in the earl’s cap, you know, to have a royal attend a Christmas celebration. But Lord Howard is famous for his surprises.”

  “So I understand,” Lady Shepworth said politely. “Princess Charlotte is so young, yet so polished; it is an honor to be attending the same celebration with her.”

  “And you, Miss St. John,” Nick said, “are you as honored to be at the table with royalty?”

  He meant nothing by it other than an attempt to draw her into the conversation, but she bit her lower lip and flushed, her reply somewhat stilted.

  “I am a commoner unlike most of you, so I tremble with anxiety lest I make a dreadful faux pas that sends me fleeing in disgrace.”

  “Offending royalty can be a deadly mistake,” Nick said, then regretted the remark as being too close to his own situation. The conversation lapsed into an uncomfortable silence before being rescued by Lady Shepworth.

  “Lord Nicholas, how is your coachman?” Lady Shepworth asked.

  “He is mending, and sleeping quite soundly on a cot in the larder, I was told, although I have not seen him since earlier this afternoon. Thank you.”

  “It was a dreadful thing to happen,” Miss St. John said simply, and he nodded.

  “Drummond has been with me for a long time, but he is a hardy fellow. I expect he will mend more quickly than most.”

  Lord Culhane commented, “I heard there was an accident of some sort to a coach wheel and coachman. Terribly inconvenient for you.”

  It felt ridiculous to be discussing Drummond as if he was of no importance, so his reply was terse: “Terribly.”

  Miss St. John stood up, and looking at him said, “Lord Nicholas, would you be so kind as to assist me in retrieving my shawl from the dining room? I believe I left it there.”

  Suddenly, fiercely grateful for the excuse to escape the stifling conversation, and faintly surprised at that emotion, he held out his arm for her to take, as she said to her startled aunt, “I will be just outside the drawing room door while he fetches it for me, so no need for you to stir. Excuse us, please, Lord Culhane, but I am feeling rather chilled.”

  She placed her hand lightly on his arm as he escorted her across the floor to the open drawing room door, but it wasn’t until they stepped into the hall that he said, “We are now the object of rampant speculation, you know. Lady Jersey nearly fell off her chair watching us walk across the drawing room.”

  “How delightful. I have always wanted to be the object of rampant speculation. Do you think it will be indelicate speculation?”

  “Quite likely,” he said, amused in spite of himself. “Does that dismay you?”

  “It will depend upon the exact nature of the indelicacy, of course, but I should think not.”

  The hall was empty of servants or guests, but several statues stood in small niches in the walls. They resembled the life-size statues in the entrance hall on a smaller scale, but the artistry was just as exquisite.

  “Where do you think you left your shawl?” he asked, pausing outside the drawing room.

  “Upstairs in my room. It was neatly folded on the bed last time I saw it.”

  “Then why are we out here searching for it, Miss St. John?” he asked, tilting his head to look down at her, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. What a funny creature she was. And she didn’t seem the least perturbed at the thought of gossip.

  “Because you looked positively feral, and I wanted to spare poor Lord Culhane any unnecessary violence, should you lose control.”

  “First, I am not in the habit of losing control, and second, what do you consider to be unnecessary violence? I am almost afraid to ask.”

  “Any kind of violence that involves sharp words and implements is unnecessary.” She paused, then added, “Except perhaps when it comes to unruly horses and ill-mannered brutes. Then sharp words are excusable.”

  “If only you had pointed this out to Napoléon, much strife and inconvenience could have been avoided. So, now that we are not to search for a misplaced shawl, what reason will explain our absence from polite company?”

  She made a small, scoffing sound. “Polite company? Perhaps you should eavesdrop on the next conversation with Lady Mountebank. It would be very enlightening.”

  “No doubt. I am not at all certain my shattered nerves could bear it, however, so I will pass on the suggestion.”

  When she smiled, as she was now, it lent her face a winsome quality he’d not noticed until this evening. “Of course,” she said pertly, “if you brandish a fireplace poker at her, Lady Mountebank might be stunned speechless.”

  “You weren’t,” he retorted. “If it didn’t silence you, I seriously doubt it will shock Lady Mountebank into mute amazement.”

  “I am made of sterner stuff, despite rumors to the contrary. But my poor aunt is not, so perhaps we should return to the drawing room before she lapses into a decline.”

  “Certainly.” He put out his arm again. “So, you are not fazed by gossip then, Miss St. John?”

  “Do you want the truth, or shall I continue to pretend bored sophistication?”

  “Oh, truth will be a novelty in this company.”

  Tilting her head back to look up at him, she said quite seriously, “I am terrified of the gossips. It is very new to me, you see. I have lived my life in a pleasant obscurity that I find much more to my taste than balls and dinner parties.”

  “You have my complete sympathy. Rumors and innuendo have ruined many a life, not all of them deserved fates. Some, however, seem to invite gossip, so we must learn to ignore it. Since you have been thrust unwillingly into the glare of public speculation by our betrothal, it would serve you well to learn who to trust.”

  “I am not as trusting a soul as I may seem, my lord.”

  Her small, gloved hand felt warm on his arm as he escorted her into the drawing room. “I suspected that might be the case when I found you hiding behind the library draperies.”

  “Must you remind me of that? I surrendered to a moment of panic.”

  “It was rather amusing, and I enjoy reminding you of it.”

  “I do not enjoy being reminded of it,” she retorted. “I must have looked a fool.”

  “Not at all. But then, I was expecting a rat, not a wee mousie.”

  “Mouse? That is not very flattering, my lord.”

  “My apologies. I have been told my sense of humor is not always appropriate. I found it shocking to discover the prim and proper Miss St. John lurking behind draperies, that is all. I still marvel at your adventurous nature.”

  “Now you are mocking me.”

  “Not at all. I am merely enjoying teasing you.”

  She pinched his arm quite sharply, eliciting a startled laugh from him as she said, “Well I am going to grow very cross if you continue. Now return me to my aunt. Lady Jersey and Lady Mountebank are salivating like hungry dogs while we stand here arguing.”

  “Are we arguing? I consider this just lively discussion,” he replied, peering down at her in amusement as they crossed the room to join her waiting aunt.

  “Then I should hate to think what you consider a quarrel. Probably rapiers at dawn. Ah, you see, Aunt, we came right back. My shawl is upstairs, so I can go fetch it before we go to the music room.”

  Lord Culhane was now engaged in conversation with the woman who had sat next to him at dinner. Lady Leighton Kingswood, the former Julia Townshend, was Laurentia’s sister-in-law, widowed now. The last time he had seen her, she had been shadowed with grief, but
time had passed and she seemed to have recovered some of her sparkle. Nick was glad for that.

  Looking up at him, Lady Leighton smiled. “It is good to see you again, Lord Nicholas. And I understand congratulations are in order on your upcoming marriage.”

  “Indeed. Have you been introduced to Miss St. John?”

  As he made the introductions, he was aware of Willem staring at them from across the drawing room. He and Sir John stood near Lady Jersey, who held court in her usual lively style, eliciting laughter from listeners as she recounted some improbable tale, but Will didn’t seem to be paying her much attention. Instead his interest seemed riveted on Nick. It did not bode well for his chances of being able to hold polite conversation with him, as Nick wondered if Willem was there by invitation or his own design. As a former diplomat, Wakefield certainly had experience in getting into houses and places where some may hesitate, and due to his rank as an English lord with Dutch ancestry, he was welcomed in wide circles. But what the devil was he doing here? It couldn’t be just coincidence Will arrived soon after his own arrival. Had he been following him? It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. If Wakefield truly believed Nick had stolen the artifacts, he’d want to know where he might have hidden them.

  Nick found that extremely irritating. Bad enough to be suspected, but to be followed, as if a common criminal? He was tempted to maneuver Wakefield into a private corner, but knew better. Willem would never divulge what he didn’t want anyone to know, nor admit to an investigation until he was ready.

  “Lord Nicholas? Are you unwell?” someone said, the query finally snaring his attention. He looked back at the three ladies gazing at him with concern. Miss St. John had obviously been trying to get his attention.

  “Perfectly well, thank you. However, I am worried about my coachman. So, if you will excuse me, I will take my leave of you for a short time to see to his welfare.”

  “Is he downstairs?” Miss St. John asked, and he nodded.