The Mistletoe Marquess: A Risqué Regency Romance Read online

  The Mistletoe Marquess

  Sahara Kelly

  Copyright © Sahara Kelly 2016

  Cover art © Sahara Kelly 2016 for

  P&N Graphics, LLC

  A Special THANK YOU to my Readers

  It is impossible for me to thank every one of you reading this story, much as I would love to. So in honor of the spirit of giving, here is a way to express my profound gratitude to you all. There is a link at the end of this novel that will take you to a FREE REGENCY NOVELLA. Absolutely free. It is my way of saying thank you for your support, encouragement and enthusiasm for books set in this time period. And if you’ve read Buckler’s Hard and wondered about that gentleman named “Rogue”, here’s your chance to find out at no charge!!

  [The link to Rogue’s Diamond – a free book –is available at the end of this story.]

  Acknowledgements

  This story is dedicated to all the parents who have handed down holiday traditions to their children, thus building a heritage of moments that make seasonal celebrations so special. This particular tale revolves around an English Christmas two hundred years ago, but I like to think that the excitement and delight still feels the same today as it did back then. The ‘Mistletoe Marquess’ is my own creation, but there are other kinds of holiday activities that involve families and communities and are every bit as appealing. I hope that no matter what your beliefs, you will find something to enjoy in this tale of a love that was born in the Christmas season two centuries ago.

  Author’s Note

  I have drawn on my childhood memories for the snippets of the Nativity play, something I recall from Sunday school and the annual school Christmas church service. It was part of the Christmas holidays and as exciting for me and my friends as it was for the kids of Little Chillendale. The carols I have mentioned were all sung in the Regency – with one caveat. The Holly and the Ivy first appeared in a document around 1814, thus it would have been introduced as a brand new carol at the time of my story. It’s likely that the versions sung two centuries ago have gone through many variations since, and we might not recognize the melodies or the verses. But the holiday spirit remains the same, and I’ve always felt a joy in those pieces of music that transcends any other associations.

  [Additional note: Alert readers will notice that Chillendale ale has already made an appearance in the latest of my Risqué Regencies! It was enjoyed in abundance by guests at a certain wedding…]

  Prologue

  Chillendale Hall glowed with lights as the snow began to fall. It had come early this year, smiled the residents of Little Chillendale, happy because snow was the harbinger of the Festive season. And if anyone knew how to celebrate that time of year it was the hardy folks who called that delightful village home.

  There would be parties of children sent out into the forest to gather greenery; sharp bundles of fir, some crisp evergreen leaves and whatever else would work for decorating their homes. Plum puddings and fruit cakes had already been stirred on one special November day and were tucked away in brandy-soaked cloths, aging to perfection. A successful stirring guaranteed good luck in the new year.

  All these things were also done at Chillendale Hall, of course, but in that elegant country home, less than a mile from the village that bore its name, there was a great deal more on the list of things to attend to.

  Sir Rodney and Lady Jocelyn Chillendale, along with their household, were already preparing for the upcoming events. They were overseeing a variety of activities on the part of their staff; everything from log gathering—with special attention to the selection of the Yule log—a workable baking schedule which would keep the kitchens lively for several weeks, and the final selection of the ale to be served this year.

  That was Sir Rodney’s favorite part of the entire process, since it meant he got to spend more than a few days tasting his own ale and wandering happily through the Chillendale cellars, singing carols now and again. The ones he could remember the words to.

  He refused to accept he might be a little inebriated, but did wonder now and then how he had lucked into such a delightful chore.

  The Young Master—Reid Chillendale—was everywhere, helping where he could, making sure his father didn’t overdo the ale tasting, and also stirring a pudding for luck, when Cook would allow it.

  He liked the season and enjoyed the fun, but in the back of his mind lurked a somewhat more troubling spectre.

  This year it would be his turn to become The Marquess of Mistletoe—and it would be his turn to take a bride.

  Tradition had it that when a young Chillendale man turned twenty-eight and was still unwed, a suitable bride would be chosen and announced at the Mistletoe Ball. The thinking behind the idea was that if a lad couldn’t do it himself after at least a decade of looking, then someone else should damn well do it for him. One such fellow was selected from the pool of eligible lads every Christmas.

  Reid had prayed there would be plenty of others in the village of that significant age. But, to his horror, none of the local lads had reached that milestone. He was the only candidate.

  Of course, the heir to Chillendale being this year’s Lord Mistletoe was cause for enormous excitement. While none of the village girls really expected to be chosen for Mr. Reid, there were, nonetheless, plenty of fluttering heartbeats beneath the dimity bodices and homespun spencers.

  Reid was viewed as the local “catch”; a title he ignored, much as he ignored his height, regular countenance, rich brown hair and dark eyes. He did not think of himself as handsome, or an eligible bachelor. In fact, he seldom thought of himself at all.

  His commitment was to Chillendale and the Chillendale ales, which he fully intended to see attain the reputation he knew they deserved.

  All this fuss and bother about picking him a wife…well, that was something best left to his mother, if necessary. In his opinion it wasn’t, not right now anyway, but persuading everyone else of that was turning out to be all but impossible.

  He’d been to many county affairs, balls, afternoon teas, summer picnics and whatnot, and enjoyed them all. He had friends, a thriving estate he helped run, some wonderful horses, and his life was—not to put too fine a point on it—bloody near perfect; serene and comfortable.

  He had absolutely no interest whatsoever in acquiring a wife. And that was that.

  But then the days drew in, the snow arrived, and with it the inevitability that he would have to assume the title of Lord Mistletoe for the duration.

  And he’d have to accept the wife selected for him.

  Lady Jocelyn informed him that there was only one name in the running as far as she and his father were concerned.

  Miss Emmeline Southwick, daughter of Sir Francis and Lady Mary Southwick.

  Upon being told about Emmeline, Reid had nodded. She was the most suitable, of course. Her background was unimpeachable, her beauty had made her the reigning belle of most every local event in the past two years, and she would be nineteen within a few months. She was due to make her debut in town in the New Year when the Season began.

  If Reid didn’t snap her up, declared his mother, then she would be off to London in and he would have lost his chance.

  Biting back his immediate response, which was that he really wouldn’t mind very much, he just sighed.

  Emmeline was a good sort. A bit girlish, but what young woman wasn’t? She would certainly grace his table, and it wouldn’t be a hardship to have her as his wife.

  But something—something he couldn’t describe—was missing.

  When she wasn’t there, it took a bit of effort to recall her appearance. There was no…no spark in E
mmeline, nothing that lit an answering spark in his heart. Or his body for that matter. In fact, when he actually considered the matter, there wasn’t much spark in his life overall.

  And that bothersome notion was what sent Reid out into the first winter snowfall to gather more evergreens for Chillendale Hall.

  And changed his life in a most unexpected way.

  He couldn’t know that at that very moment, a woman was feeling an unusually strong compulsion to bundle herself into her cloak and go out for a brief walk in the snow…

  Chapter One

  “Damn.” Reid shook snow off his shoulders and frowned at the pile that had dropped from the fir tree to smother him in icy wetness.

  His assignment was to gather holiday greenery. Instead, he walked despondently along snow-covered paths, wondering why he wasn’t happier about the upcoming festivities.

  He remembered years gone by, when the Yule log had seemed such a massive blaze to his young eyes.

  He remembered the scent of the Christmas dinner, rich goose gravy, plum puddings, and pine boughs. Tables laden with hot mince pies and delicious tempting sweetmeats to please the children.

  There would always be sweetmeats—he knew that. But as he’d grown to manhood, the pleasure of a sugared almond or a portion of fragrant gingerbread had paled, to be replaced by other things.

  Foremost amongst those things was Chillendale ale.

  It had been brewed at Chillendale since the dawn of time, said Reid’s father when Reid was very young. Back then he’d believed it, but now he knew that the first mention of the ale occurred in a document describing the celebrations marking the coronation of the great Queen Elizabeth.

  Of course it had changed since then.

  From the simple recipe used in the 1500’s—malt, water, yeast and a dash of rye flour—it had evolved to the process that thrived in the outbuildings of Chillendale Hall. Reid exalted in how simple copper kettles and vats of various things could be combined to result in such a fine ale. Their barley was definitely top-notch, sprouting and drying most happily, as if ready for its role in the creation of magic. And although the hop conflict raged on, Reid admitted that it didn’t do any damage to add some of the damn things. He refused to refer to the result as beer. No, he was still making Chillendale ale, and he was improving it to the best of his ability.

  There would be a brand new batch on tap for the Christmas celebrations this year, and he was a little nervous about it, since he’d finally decided that adding a small amount of blackberry juice would enhance the rich flavor of the ale. Whether that would go over well, he had no idea. But it was up to each generation to make their own particular variations and he knew it was time to perfect his.

  All this marriage nonsense was interfering with the only important thing in his life—his ale.

  He walked on, his mission forgotten, his thoughts busy with notions of raspberries, or currants, or any other variety of fruits that might be tried in the next batch of Chillendale ale.

  He’d reached peaches when he realized he’d come to the meadow that bordered the woods beyond the Hall. It was full night now, a half-moon starting its slow ascent and illuminating the fluffy mounds of snow that covered the field. No cows grazed tonight; they were snug in their barn. The irregular landscape had been transformed into a glittering rumpled sheet of sparkling white.

  There always seemed to be something magical about snowfall, mused Reid, staring out over the growing brilliance. Something special. Perhaps it was the pristine perfection of the untouched snow, or the silence that fell on the land along with the flakes.

  No birds called over the wintry meadows, and no horse made his clopping way down the nearby lane. There wasn’t even the sound of snow falling from the trees now…it was an almost eerily beautiful hush. As if the whole land held its breath.

  It could not last, of course.

  There was a sharp crack, Reid jumped, and a sizeable branch parted company with a tree right above him. He dodged the worst of it but took a solid whack just above his ear, knocking him flat into the snow and blurring his vision for a few moments.

  As he came to, he had the oddest sensation that a warm hand stroked his cheek. He opened his eyes, blinking to clear the fuzziness from them, and saw a face above him.

  “That was a fine smack you took, sir.” A low voice hummed in his ear.

  Deep chestnut fire tumbled around him. It was soft and he vaguely realized it was hair. A lot of it.

  “Uhh.” He groaned and attempted to move.

  “Wait, please.” A hand pressed on his shoulders. “You must be sure nothing is broken.”

  “I’m all right…” Reid formed the words awkwardly since he had acquired a mouthful of snow along with a bump on the head.

  “Sshh.” She stroked his face again and then leaned closer, running both hands around his head. “I want to make sure you have not sustained a serious injury to anything vital.”

  Something about her fragrance—soft and floral—and the way she touched him, not to mention the silken brush of all that hair…well, his vital parts were responding quite nicely. Which was comforting, since it reassured him nothing vital was damaged.

  He could quite easily have lain there for an hour or so, enjoying the ministrations of this mystery woman. But the fact he was lying in fresh snow began to make itself felt up and down his back, soaking his breeches and sending a chill through him.

  He shivered. “I must rise, Miss.”

  Her lips curled into a smile as her gaze traversed his body lingering in all his male places. Her fingers danced dangerously close. “I believe you already have, sir.”

  With that, she leaned even closer, her breath warming his lips. And then she kissed him.

  Caught off-guard, Reid gasped, taking her breath into his lungs just as her mouth found his. She was sweet and succulent, her tongue wet and hot and ready for his as their lips parted and the kiss deepened.

  She made a sound, not quite a groan, but a deep and deliciously sensual growl of pleasure.

  His hand came up and found her head. His fingers twined through strands of chestnut silk and he pulled her closer even as her tongue found his and dueled with it in a delightful way. His other hand reached for her only to find her pulling away from him with a sigh.

  “Lovely.” She slipped her hand from his chest downward to his waist again, her eyes following. “And yes, you have indeed risen, sir. Very well indeed.”

  He fought a blush and moved away from that delicious hand before it ventured further. “Miss, you must not…excuse me, please.” He had to move, to get up and restore some kind of order to this entire bizarre conversation.

  It took a bit of doing, rolling to one side and then onto his knees, but with a slow and awkward struggle he managed to make it to his feet, where he was pleased to discover that the world no longer spun around him.

  “Now, if you’d tell me who you…” He turned to address his Good Samaritan, only to stop short.

  She wasn’t there.

  *~~*~~*

  It simply could not be possible.

  Reid puzzled and frowned as he retraced his steps back toward Chillendale Hall. He’d called out, his voice echoing through the desolate silence, then listened, hoping to catch the sound of a footfall crunching fresh snow.

  He’d looked for footprints, and sure enough there were plenty around where he’d fallen. Some were smaller, and they had to be hers. So she wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

  But where the devil had she gone? There were no signs of her tracks anywhere.

  Finally, after several minutes of useless investigation, he’d given up, surrendering to the discomfort of damp breeches on a freezing cold night.

  Taking himself off back along the path, he turned everything over in his mind, trying to recall each minute detail, anything that might give him a clue as to who she was.

  That hair. Like chestnuts fresh from their green spiky shell, shining and richly hued, even in the moonlight.
/>   He’d remember that if he ever saw it again, without a doubt. Just as he would remember her fragrance. It was…he paused and considered it as he would an ale in progress. Was it fruity? Fresh? Or heavy, dark and mysterious?

  Fresh. Definitely fresh. She smelled like spring in the snow. Lilies-of-the-valley perhaps. Or lilacs. Maybe a blend of both?

  He was driving himself slowly mad trying to recall every second of this strange encounter, and he stopped short when he realized it.

  What the hell am I doing?

  He was more than halfway back home, he’d ignored his primary purpose for being out in the first place, and he was tangled in a web of confusion about a woman he’d thought he’d seen for all of five minutes at most.

  This was most unlike him.

  He frowned, looked around and half-heartedly grabbed a few branches that had surrendered to the weight of the snow. It was a token effort, but at least he wouldn’t return empty handed.

  On a sigh that produced a cloud of breath in cold night air, he strode on, more rapidly now, since the chill of his breeches had reached his arse and encouraged him to make good time back to the Hall and a roaring fire.

  Whoever she was, he would find her again. Why he wanted to do so, he wasn’t quite sure. But there it was. Somehow, in those brief moments, with a few touches and a headful of silken hair, she’d gotten under his skin.

  And he was going to itch like the devil until this little mystery was solved.

  Chapter Two

  “Reid, I believe you have a slight bruise on your forehead,” observed his mother with a tiny frown.

  “And your arse is steaming, lad.” His father added his mite. “Been doing a bit of sleddin’, have we? I recall you used to like that. Whooshing around in the snow for hours, don’t you know.”