Christmas Cinderellas

by Sophia James

  ‘A small mishap. But I am here now.’

  ‘Thank goodness.’

  He wanted simply to stand exactly where he was and stare at her, revelling in this odd moment they were sharing and the odder feelings coursing through him, and would have done so had he not spied Lady Broadstairs barrelling towards them as if her life depended upon it.

  ‘May I have this dance?’ It wasn’t a waltz but, under the circumstances, it would have to do.

  As if she read his mind, she turned slightly, took one look at the determination on her brazen aunt’s face, and nodded. ‘Yes, please. As far away from her as is humanly possible.’

  With the cotillion in full swing, he led her across the floor but as they took their places the music abruptly stopped. A quick glance at the musicians’ gallery confirmed why.

  Gibson.

  His wily retainer beamed down at him from his position next to the conductor as the first strains of a waltz began. While all the other couples dispersed hastily, to find their correct partners for the dance, he and Eliza were blissfully left all alone.

  All alone, that was, apart from at least one hundred pairs of eyes, watching their every move from the sidelines. Yet, oddly, none of that mattered.

  He took her hand, she placed hers on his shoulder, and as he pulled her close and began to move his gaze never once left her face.

  ‘You look beautiful tonight.’

  ‘Thanks entirely to your mother.’

  ‘My mother?’

  ‘When my gown was ruined by my spiteful aunt Penelope your mother came to my rescue and lent me one of hers. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here at all.’

  ‘Then I shall thank her later.’ For once all his mother’s meddling was entirely welcome. ‘She has saved the day.’ Or seized it, as she was prone to. Either way, he was supremely grateful.

  ‘She has.’ Her face briefly clouded. ‘Although I feel bad to be wearing this particular gown when she had so many others I could have borrowed—but she insisted. She said it absolutely had to be blue. No other colour would do. I wonder why?’

  ‘I have learned, in all dealings with my mother, it’s usually best not to ask.’

  ‘Still—I’m so glad she insisted. This gown is lovely. She wore it to her first masquerade, apparently, and thought it would be a fitting choice for mine.’

  Of course she did.

  He found himself smiling at his dear mama’s unsubtle machinations. It had been at her very first masquerade—here at Manningtree, during a Christmas house party, no less—where she had first met his father. The irony was not lost on him. His mother’s gown. His father’s mask. The hope of history repeating itself and romantic Christmas miracles...

  He was beginning to believe—no, to hope—that there might actually be something to it. Because this, dancing with Eliza under these chandeliers, felt suspiciously like fate. It was astounding how perfect and right she felt in his arms.

  As they danced, she gazed into his eyes as if searching for something elusive, and he found himself extremely content to stare back, enjoying the way the hundreds of candles which lit the room brought out twinkling flecks in her dark irises, and the way just being with her made him feel.

  ‘I cannot tell you how relieved I am that you are here, because there is something I’ve been meaning to ask you since last night,’ he said.

  ‘Then ask away.’

  ‘You see, the thing is...’

  Out of nowhere, the formerly deserted dance floor had apparently filled while he had been oblivious. All around them now were eyes and ears. Most making no secret of the fact they were eavesdropping.

  ‘I see we have company again,’ she said.

  ‘Not for long.’

  Deftly, he twirled her to the furthest edges of the dance floor before he attempted to speak about anything personal and private. But before he could tell her all the things he still had no earthly idea how to say the music came to an end. It was only when he became aware of the other couples on the floor curtseying and bowing to one another that he remembered to release his hold.

  He gave her the briefest and stiffest bow and held out his arm, his nerves returning with a vengeance. ‘Will you take a turn with me?’

  ‘If that is what you wish.’

  She seemed nervous too, and perhaps she also felt the peculiar atmosphere which had engulfed him, heavy with the weight of words that desperately needed to be said and feelings neither of them fully understood.

  He led her towards an alcove, in the vain hope he could find a quiet spot as well as a convenient ball of mistletoe, but then in his peripheral vision he noticed that his choice of direction had galvanised several of the duke-snaring husband-hunters to follow.

  So far they were edging ever closer subtly, but that wouldn’t last long. If he was ever going to say what he absolutely had to, then he now had only two choices—drag her outside through the French doors into the chilly snow-covered gardens, or scandalously sneak her through the hidden door in the panelling.

  Unsure which was better, he clumsily deferred the decision to her.

  ‘I really wish to speak with you, Eliza...but I fear I cannot do it here.’

  If she turned him down flat, he would rather not be humiliated in front of an audience. He saw her eyes flick to the unsubtle clump of young ladies who had suddenly decided to loiter behind a pillar and to his utter relief she nodded.

  ‘We do seem to be being followed. Or rather you do. As I am not a duke, they are certainly not following me.’

  ‘We could take a walk around the terrace, or we could...’

  ‘Escape through the panelling? I am assuming there is a door hidden near here too, seeing as there seem to be everywhere else.’

  ‘There is indeed.’

  She gestured towards the dance floor with a curt nod of her head, alerting him to the wholly unwelcome sight of Lady Broadstairs, who was forging through the crowd, dragging her poor daughter behind her, with a look of sheer but furious determination on her face.

  ‘Then shall we make a dash for it? Only Aunt Penelope has already destroyed my gown and I’d hate to give her the opportunity to ruin your mother’s too.’

  In a rush, Marcus helped her gather up her skirts and then, with her hand wrapped wonderfully in his, spirited them towards the corner of the ballroom and salvation.

  There really was no time to lose. As they came closer he abandoned all decorum and broke into a very un-duke-like run, and to his delight Eliza kicked off his mother’s quaintly heeled shoes from another era to keep up.

  As soon as they disappeared behind the last marble column he pulled open the secret door and only managed to close it softly behind them with scant seconds to spare.

  ‘I am sure they came this way.’

  Aunt Penelope’s voice was unmistakable.

  ‘I thought I saw them head towards the garden, Mama.’

  ‘Without her shoes, Honoria? Don’t be daft, girl! There is six inches of snow...’

  Marcus pressed a finger to his lips, silently turning the key in the lock as they listened to her family wander off in search of them. Then he took Eliza’s hand once more.

  Stealthily, they made their way down the narrow passageways. As he seemed to have a very clear idea of their destination she was content to follow, acknowledging it made no earthly difference because she would probably follow him anywhere.

  When he finally opened a door she recognised the library, lit this time only by the dim moonlight as it streamed through enormous windows.

  ‘That was close.’ He breathed a huge sigh of relief. ‘For a moment, there, I thought we were done for.’

  They were both a little breathless from the exertion. Both giggling at the madness of it all.

  ‘But we are alone at last...’

  All at once he appeared very serious.

&n
bsp; ‘You see, the thing is, Eliza...’

  He seemed to be choosing his words very carefully.

  ‘Yesterday—in the carriage...’

  Exactly as he had in the carriage, he looked suddenly awkward in his skin. He raked a hand through his hair, leaving it delightfully dishevelled as he huffed out a sigh.

  ‘I am really not very good at all this, so please bear with me. Since I met you I have felt the overwhelming weight of the hand of fate...’

  He had started to pace, apparently wincing at his own ineptitude while he struggled to get out what he wanted to say.

  ‘And, as much as it pains me to agree with my fanciful mother’s fairy tale nonsense, I find myself curious to see if just one kiss really is all it takes to know for sure...’ He suddenly stopped dead to stare at her, patted his waistcoat pocket for some reason, then sighed. ‘But now apparently I’ve lost my mistletoe.’

  ‘I don’t need mistletoe.’

  And to prove it, before she lost her nerve, she quickly closed the distance between them and pressed her lips to his.

  His mouth was soft and gentle and, as kisses went, this one began as quite a chaste affair. Yet it still held the power to rock her to her core.

  She sighed and melted against him, utterly powerless to do anything else. When he deepened the kiss she wound her arms around his neck, whispered his name like a benediction and pulled him closer, needing every inch of the contact as she kissed him wantonly back.

  And what a kiss it was—passionate, honest and blissfully sublime—and it told her so much more than mere words ever could.

  Breathless, he broke the kiss for long enough to look at her, and huffed out a giddy sigh of relief when he saw she was as overwhelmed and undone by it as he.

  ‘That was...enlightening.’ She was still shamelessly plastered against him and she didn’t have the wherewithal to care.

  He smoothed his palms along her curves possessively, sending a wave of scandalous tingles to parts of her body which had never tingled like that before.

  ‘Yes, it was, wasn’t it?’

  She sat on the desk, her heavy skirts rucked around her knees, so consumed by passion she had no recollection of getting there. Their masks had somehow been discarded on the floor at his feet, alongside his cravat, which she had a vague recollection of removing while his mouth had been doing sinful things to her neck, although for the life of her she couldn’t remember the exact details.

  He had also thoroughly destroyed her hairstyle. A riotous cascade of unmanageable curls now tumbled about her face and down her back, and he wound his index finger in one of them before he kissed her again, smiling against her mouth as she felt the strength of his desire all the way through the heavy skirts, petticoats and panniers. An unnecessary barrier she was now impatient to feel there at all when she wanted to feel his skin against hers.

  She decided to blame the gown for her complete lack of propriety. It made her feel very bold. ‘Did the kiss tell you all you needed to know?’

  ‘It did. Completely.’ He tugged her hips closer and nibbled on her ear. ‘For me, apparently, it is exactly as I feared. You, Eliza, are the only one. You?’

  ‘My heart is hopelessly lost too.’

  ‘In that case, I was wondering if...’

  The wretch paused, because he had found the most sensitive piece of flesh at the nape of her neck. And as her needy body demanded more, so too did her heart.

  ‘If...what, Marcus?’

  ‘If you would consider seizing the day with me.’

  ‘Just the day?’

  ‘Well, I’m a cautious man by nature, so I thought we’d start with the day and build up to discussing for ever after breakfast.’

  ‘For ever sounds absolutely perfect.’

  ‘Then, seeing as we are undoubtedly the source of much fevered speculation already, and before we create a full-blown scandal which makes it into The Times, we should probably go and announce our engagement to the ballroom. Let’s enjoy the outrage on your snooty aunt’s face that her scandalously impoverished niece is about to outrank her, and suffer my mother’s inevitable gloating that one of her tedious traditional Christmas husband-hunting parties has finally borne fruit.’

  Those talented lips nuzzled her jawbone.

  ‘Unless I can tempt you into seizing tonight first...’

  Eliza pondered the dilemma for less than a second as somewhere in the distance she heard the clock strike twelve.

  ‘I’ve secretly always wanted to be in The Times...’

  A Midnight Mistletoe Kiss

  Catherine Tinley

  For my inner circle of Wise Women—

  Emma, Leslie, Margaret, Niamh and Gilly.

  Prologue

  London, 1818

  The Honourable Thomas Beresford, known to his brother and a select number of intimate friends simply as Tom, set down his pen. Ensuring it was aligned neatly with the papers on his inlaid mahogany desk, he addressed his man of business.

  ‘Thank you, Merton. You may proceed with the purchase of the tavern in Winchester, but I have decided not to acquire any of the ships you have highlighted. Keep looking.’

  Merton bowed. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now to the country houses. How many have you found?’

  ‘Two, sir, with a possible third.’

  Handing over three packages, each tied tidily with a leather thong, Merton stood impassively while Tom perused the contents. This took some time, but the man did not speak or move. He had been working with the Beresford brothers for long enough to know how things should be done.

  ‘You have not included an estimated price for this one in Kent—’ Tom tapped the middle sheaf ‘—Wyatt House, near Chiddingstone.’

  The man nodded. ‘Wyatt House is not yet officially available for sale. But I am assured by my various contacts that it will be very soon.’

  ‘Tell me more.’ Tom leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

  ‘It is owned by a widow—Mrs Godwin. Her husband died almost two years ago and since then she has amassed substantial debts.’

  Tom raised an eyebrow. This sounded promising. ‘This purchase is to be different from my usual acquisitions, Merton. This house will be for my own use.’

  Merton’s eyes widened. ‘Forgive me for asking, sir, but are you seeking a house that you will make your home?’

  ‘Home? No!’ Tom heard the vehemence in his own voice. With some effort, he continued in a milder tone. ‘I have no need of a home, Merton. This house is a business acquisition that I will use when it suits me to entertain—nothing more. Dealing with business matters during a private house party is much more effective than endless London dinners and balls. My brother the Earl has use of the family properties for his own purposes, and I now believe it is time for me to acquire my own building.’

  There. That had struck exactly the right tone. Tom had no need of a home. Boarding school had been the only home he had known for most of his life. In truth, any notion of home had left him once Mama had died...

  Merton nodded, disapproval clearly apparent in his rigid posture. He spoke again, a little stiffly. ‘You asked me to find options within reasonable reach of London, large enough for entertaining, yet not too large?’

  ‘Correct. I do not want the encumbrance of a large estate.’ Thankfully, all was businesslike again.

  Merton pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘In that case, Wyatt House is the best of the three possibilities I have presented. The first, I understand, is modest in size and capacity, while the third has substantial lands which would have to be managed or disposed of separately. Wyatt House, I am told, is sizeable, yet comes only with gardens, not farms.’

  ‘Very well. I shall consider how to approach this Mrs Godwin. Does she go out in Society?’

  His aide gave a wry grimace. ‘She
does. Indeed, she is well-known for her lavish parties, both here in London and at her country home.’

  ‘Ah—hence the debts.’ Tom flashed a knowing smile at his man.

  ‘Indeed, sir.’ Merton paused. ‘Last year, once she had come out of mourning, Mrs Godwin held a house party at Wyatt House for Christmas which lasted all the way until Twelfth Night. That is how I was able to ascertain that the house is large enough to host a sizeable party.’

  ‘Excellent. You never fail me, Merton.’

  His secretary remained impassive.

  ‘Now, to cultivate an acquaintance with Mrs Godwin! Tell me about her.’

  ‘She is young for a widow—not yet five and thirty. She was only married to the unfortunate Mr Godwin for a matter of months.’

  Tom nodded. ‘Perfect!’

  Merton coughed discreetly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I believe Mrs Godwin is in Town at present, sir. I also understand she is acquainted with Lady Jersey, who might help you secure an introduction.’

  ‘Whatever it is I am paying you, it is not enough!’ Tom declared with a grin, abandoning the frustrations of a moment ago. He stood and rang the bell for his valet. ‘Now to don my best evening coat.’ He flashed Merton a wicked smile. ‘I have a widow to charm!’

  Chapter One

  Kent, December 23rd

  ‘Dash it all!’

  Feeling slightly guilty about her shocking expletive, Nell glanced around furtively, but there was no-one nearby to hear her. The copse and the lane were entirely empty, save for her and a brace of pert ravens. The day was grey and miserable. In truth, her entire existence was grey and miserable. Melancholy was part of her now.

  Sighing, she picked up the basket she had so carelessly dropped and began replacing all the holly and mistletoe she had been collecting. Her hands were already cold, and her old wool dress, dyed a dark winter green, was marked with mud along the hem. She brushed at it ineffectually, finding it hard to care.