Mistletoe Masquerade Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Excerpt - WORD OF A LADY

  About the Author

  Mistletoe Masquerade

  A Ridlington Christmas Novella

  Copyright © Sahara Kelly 2017

  Cover art by Sahara Kelly for

  P&N Graphics, LLC

  Dedication

  To all the wonderful readers who have taken a risk and bought a book of mine at any time over the last eighteen years—I am so grateful, and I never ever take any of you for granted. You have made me a better writer with your reviews, comments and emails, and I hope I can continue to write stories you will enjoy.

  To all the friends I’ve made during these years, thank you for being there. To the few who were there at the beginning and are still beside me, yeah, we certainly have some wild times to look back on and laugh about!

  To my family, which has changed, shrunk and grown with the passage of time, your patience, encouragement and enthusiasm has enabled me to fulfil what was once an impossible dream—becoming a writer.

  And to all my peers, writers who have been through so many emotional wringers, who have screamed, cried, sweat blood, torn their hair out and swore this would be their last novel ever, I hear you. But you know…it’s all worth it if just one reader smiles at the end!!

  Author’s Note

  Once again, the benefit of being a writer has allowed me to walk back in time and examine the holiday celebrations as they would have been over two centuries ago. And once again I have discovered that some things never change.

  Of course there are many traditional foods, and some reappear here. Decorating with greenery began in early Medieval times, so the scent of pine has accompanied Christmas for nearly a thousand years, off and on.

  The Yule log tradition is still in place in various parts of England, although my family did not follow that one. The advent of more efficient heating and smaller rooms marked the passing of the old-style Yule log, to be replaced with the edible version the French call the “Bûche de Noël”—a rather delicious dessert featuring a chocolate-covered Swiss roll cake, decorated with tiny meringue mushrooms, and imitation greenery. Plus whatever else strikes your fancy. It’s dessert. Let your imagination free.

  Calories aside, the original Yule log served a vital purpose in addition to the superstitions it engendered. Massive fireplaces could accommodate massive logs, and thus burn for more than a few days. If the weather was bad, nobody had to risk life and limb to keep the great halls warm; they could hold out until it was safe to go outside. Hence the “good luck” aspect of the Yule log. Surviving winter was considered “good luck”. Justifiably so in hard times.

  As far as the Christmas games that our house guests enjoyed—well, any alert reader of Regency romances will be familiar with Spillikins, which is an early version of the Jenga™ block balancing game. Stack the blocks, or sticks in this case, take a turn in removing one, and whoever makes the pile collapse, loses.

  Charades in the Regency, however, is quite different to the game we think of today. There are many descriptions of how it was played, but the foundation of the game was a riddle that needed to be solved, often by acting out the various lines. Today, they seem complex and muddled, and I confess to having to spend quite some time on them, just to solve them. There are a couple of examples at the end of the book if you’re interested in giving them a try. The answers can be found online if you look thoroughly, or you can drop me an email and I’ll tell you if you’re right.

  Writing a Christmas-themed romance has become a pleasure; yes, I succumb to the lure of snow, snuggly blankets, candles and the joy I remember as the lights on the tree sprang to life. No trees in this story, of course. Although some had begun to adopt the odd notion of bringing a whole tree indoors, it wasn’t until Prince Albert introduced the German tradition of Christmas trees to his wife that the idea became a reality. The Royal Family was featured in front of their tree at Windsor Castle on the cover of the Illustrated London News Christmas Supplement in 1848. Everyone now knows that a cover article does the job—thus trees were in.

  Any egregious holiday errors are completely my own, and probably reflect on personal traditions. Which, when you come to think about it, is what much of Christmas is all about!

  Prologue

  December 1814, somewhere in Southern England

  “I shall be sorry to miss the wedding.”

  “As will I. But you know the number of guests coming down from London might well prove to be a risk we dare not take.”

  The woman on the chestnut horse glanced at her traveling companion and nodded. “Yes. But it is still sad.” She looked forward again, over the head of her mount. Her cloak of dull brown wool covered most of her, but the lace of her cap peeped out from beneath her hood. She wore thick woolen gloves and every now and again the movement of the animal revealed a serviceable boot in the stirrup. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  “Of course it’s a good idea. It’s mine.” The man grinned across the distance between them, holding the reins of his black mount firmly. “We only have a couple more miles to travel, and then we can truly breathe.”

  “Nobody will know where we are?”

  “Not unless we tell them.”

  “I see.” She looked to one side at the darkening sky. “Snow soon, I think.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “But with luck there will be plenty of firewood. I’ll have the place warmed up before you know it.”

  “I hope so.” She sounded dubious. “You’re good at building a fire, are you?”

  “The best.” He tried to appear modest. “I have awards.”

  “Paul DeVoreaux, you are the biggest liar I have ever met.”

  He smiled as he heard her laugh ring out into the silence around them. “Of course I am. Didn’t you know?”

  Harriet Selkirk shook her head. “Incorrigible. A pirate. Have I not told you that before? You would make Blackbeard’s beard turn white.”

  “Why thank you. A rare compliment indeed.”

  About to utter another rejoinder, Harriet paused as Paul held up his hand. “Look.” He leaned over to grasp the reins above her hand and brought both horses to a standstill. He pointed to an opening in the forest not too far ahead.

  The sun was setting, glorious in an assortment of pale golds through rich deep reds, reflecting off a gathering of threatening clouds and the snow that had fallen just the night before. Just to its right was a modest country house, no more than three stories high, tucked into the edge of the forest, its sloping roof and tall chimneys reminding Harriet of fairytale images she’d seen in her childhood books. It sat as if guarding a much larger assemblage of stones that might have been an ancient church, or some kind of ruined castle, lying off to one side. The whole scene was surrounded by snow laden fir trees.

  “Oh,” she gasped. “It’s…magical.” She had never been to a hunting box, but if this was an example, she’d make a point to rectify that omission.

  “It’s where we’re going. And it’s probably full of mice.”

  “I still think it’s lovely. It looks like it’s protecting the past.”

  “Good Go
d, woman. You have a brilliant gift for expressing unreal ideas in terms that make sense.”

  Harriet turned and looked at him. “Do not tell me there’s no room for magic in your piratical soul, sir?”

  He looked back, warmth lurking behind his dark eyes. The kind of warmth that could give a woman ideas if she wasn’t very careful. Harriet knew she had to be careful.

  “Anyway,” she hurried on, “perhaps we should not linger here. I’d much rather be off this horse before darkness falls and hides the road beneath her hooves, especially if those snow clouds reach us before we arrive.”

  “Agreed.” Paul released her mount and moved his own forward, risking a trot as she followed.

  She was ready to get there now, no matter what it was like. Their destination had resulted from a conversation with an acquaintance of Miss Letitia Ridlington’s future husband, Sir James FitzArden, who had a friend with a convenient empty property he seldom used…and a few letters later the arrangement had been signed and sealed.

  Paul and Harriet thus presented the appearance of two servants heading to a small hunting box. If asked, they would state that their intent was to prepare it, and the associated surroundings, for the arrival of a small party of guests from London for a few days, and then their master after the Christmas season. There might be chance for a shoot if the weather stayed cold and crisp.

  That was the story they had developed between them. She was the maid, and he was the servant.

  Only that was so far from the truth as to be absurd.

  Harriet felt as if she were in some ridiculous romance novel. When that thought crossed her mind, she suppressed a laugh, since the novel she’d much rather be in was the quite scandalous one her friend Letitia had written. It was to be released early in the new year and Harriet was relatively sure there would be a great deal of shock attached to its debut.

  With luck, she’d be away from it all. As would Letitia, who would be Mrs. James FitzArden by then and immune to all things shocking. Besides, nobody but family knew she’d written a book at all, and even fewer knew what it was about.

  Yes, she’d rather be a heroine created by Letitia…provided she could have a hero to match.

  She glanced ahead at Paul, riding his horse as if he was born to the saddle, tall and so masculine in every tiny detail. He was the perfect hero for her imagined romance novel.

  She sighed.

  A shared kiss or two didn’t indicate a desire for a deeper or more intense involvement. She’d told herself that several times after the eventful night during which such embraces had occurred.

  It was a pity she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it.

  Chapter One

  The problem of Harriet Selkirk had been bothering Paul DeVoreaux like a mildly irritating toothache. It wasn’t the woman herself, but her situation that had him frowning at times. Her history with her truly awful Aunt and Uncle was appalling; and her desire to vanish understandable.

  Bumping into Letitia Ridlington, and becoming her “maid” had solved the problem temporarily, and also cemented a friendship between the two women. But now, with Letitia about to be married and move to FitzArden Hall with her new husband…well, Harriet knew it was time for her to make changes.

  Paul agreed.

  There was something about her he found appealing beyond the ordinary set of virtues. She was pretty, of course. Some might say beautiful. She was intelligent, well-read and not afraid to voice her opinions in conversation.

  She could also blend into a crowd so well you wouldn’t notice her even if you were looking for her.

  Which was all well and good, but no help in determining what she was to do with herself now that Letitia no longer needed a maid. Paul decided it was time to lend a hand…and perhaps solve a small problem of his own. They both needed to lay low, to hide away from the light of public scrutiny and let London Society roll on without them.

  Hence their ride through the bitter cold of a late afternoon in December. They’d hoped to make an earlier start, but as Paul well knew, women took forever to say goodbye, even if it was just for a short walk.

  But finally they had arrived…and there it was. As she had said, a fairy-tale concoction of a hunting box, designed with whimsy and charm. He seriously doubted that the Right Honorable Jonathan Inchworthy had ever allowed a hound near the place. He didn’t personally know the man, but his name was familiar. The only hunting he was known for was that of the newest wealthy debutante, or the latest in notorious mistresses.

  But Paul wasn’t about to mention that to Harriet. There were a few other things he chose to keep to himself as well. For now, anyway. Things concerning a future which was uncertain, to say the lease.

  They arrived at the front door, and she looked at him. “Will your key allow us to enter here? Or is there a servant’s door at the back?”

  Paul blinked. “Damn. I forgot we’re supposed to be below stairs.” He grinned. “However, since it’s dark as the night, I doubt anyone will fuss unduly if we use the front door. And I’m pretty sure this is the right key.

  Suiting words to action, they dismounted, unfastened their bags and let themselves into the darkened house, since Paul’s assumption had been correct. He did have the front door key.

  Harriet peered into the gloom. “Might there be lamps, do you think?”

  There was a bump and an oath. “I think I found a big one.” Paul lit a lucifer and the glow revealed a large statue, shaped like a rather slender doe on her hind legs. A lamp dangled from her mouth, but it was devoid of candles.

  “Good grief.” Harriet blinked. “That’s rather…er…”

  “Outlandish? Garish? Other words ending in -ish?”

  “Well, it’s not my taste, but I’m sure someone loved it. They must have.” She touched it with the tips of her fingers. “A good dusting and that bronze will glow.”

  “Add it to the list,” muttered Paul, looking around at the front hall.

  From the little he could see, there was enough dust and dirt to keep Harriet busy for a month, but looming shapes told him that at least some of the furniture had been covered when the last tenants departed.

  “Let’s see if we can locate a usable room,” he suggested. “I don’t think we should even try going upstairs right now. It’s too dark and if there’s a problem with the stairs…”

  Harriet’s gulp was audible in the silence. “You have a good point.” She sighed. “We should see if we can start below stairs. Where would there be a parlor?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but I can say that I see a candle here. On this little side table.” Triumphantly, Paul lit another lucifer and the bright flare of illumination as the wick caught brought a smile to his lips. “Now. About that parlor…”

  *~~*~~*

  Harriet caught a glimpse of his face in the candlelight, all honed cheekbones and smiling lips. He exemplified the Byronic hero so many of his contemporaries emulated, but few achieved.

  She wondered how he’d remained unwed, then recalled the terrible scandal that had driven him from his family and his country for so many years. Her heart ached for him; she was only too aware of what loneliness could be, and he must have experienced it in great measure.

  “This looks promising…” He moved to a door and pushed it open. “Aha. Once again the amazing DeVoreaux instinct triumphs.”

  It had indeed. A large staircase led downward and within moments they were in the servants’ area below stairs. A good sized kitchen confronted them and a corridor leading off to one side promised more rooms. He opened the first door, and grinned, walking inside. “Am I brilliant?”

  Whisking off covers, Paul traversed the room, wielding the sheets like a magician revealing a well-upholstered rabbit.

  “Oh, this is perfect.” Harriet smiled as two large sofas appeared. “Do you think we dare risk a fire?”

  He walked to the hearth, bent low, then nodded. “There’s ash here, and it isn’t ancient.” He peered as far up the chimney as he co
uld, and moved the damper, backing away as he did so, just in case. “No debris stuck up there either. I think we can risk it.” He looked around. “We have to risk it. It’s getting damn cold.”

  “Well, if we can build a fire, that will go a long way to warming things up.” She surveyed the room. “The curtains are old, but sturdy, and I’m happy to say I see no signs of other residents.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Mice.”

  “Ah.”

  A sound behind them made them both jump, and a pair of shining eyes sparked a gasp in Harriet’s throat.

  “Meow.”

  She heaved a breath of relief. “Well that explains that. Hullo, little one. Thank you for keeping the house clean.”

  The cat disappeared, as cats are wont to do, and Paul chuckled. “Very smart to leave a cat on guard. Now. Let’s see if the kitchen works.”

  They continued their investigations, pleased to discover that the basics for a comfortable evening were at hand.

  There was a pump in the kitchen, and only a few steps to an attached outhouse.

  Fresh water was welcome, and when a cache of candles was discovered, they happily illuminated both kitchen and parlor.

  Paul made good on his promise to light fires, starting up the stove with ease, thanks to dry kindling and several large logs tucked in one corner. Then he announced he’d see to their horses, and bring in their meager baggage.

  Harriet found a kettle and a little tea, so although there was no milk, they could have something warm to drink when he returned.

  All things considered, it had been better than she’d expected, and as she settled onto “her” sofa and tucked her cloak snugly around her, she said as much to Paul.

  “This is a lot better than it could have been, isn’t it?” She stared into the glowing fire.

  “Yes, indeed. The stables are sturdy and intact, as one would expect for a hunting box, and there’s hay there. I think there may be a paddock…I’ll check in the morning to see if we can turn them out to graze for a bit. We are quite lucky,” Paul yawned. “Let’s hope it holds.”