Mistletoe Masquerade Read online

  “So, thanks to this inventive construction, I need have no fear that you will find yourself taken by an urge to seize upon, and inappropriately use, my body during the night?”

  There was silence for a moment. “Of course.”

  Was there a note of regret there? He hoped so. “Oh well. A man can still hope.”

  “Paul…”

  He turned on his side, facing—well, staring at fur. The sole candle was guttering, so it almost twinkled at it. “Harry, I am so damn exhausted right now, I probably wouldn’t be able to respond even if you did decide to cross the hills.” He yawned. “But that only goes for tonight.”

  “I understand.” Her voice was sleepy. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  “Meow.”

  “What the hell…?”

  “It’s only Belle. She’s cuddled in here on my side. Looks like she dined very well tonight.”

  Paul sighed, and realized that if he paid attention, he could hear a rumbling purr that certainly wasn’t Harry snoring.

  It was actually rather pleasant.

  Sleep came rapidly to all of them, encouraged by the warmth of the bed.

  Followed by morning, which arrived far too soon for Paul’s liking. Especially since at some point during the night, the landscape had changed yet again.

  Gone were the hills, pushed down to the bottom of the bed. They were replaced by a warm and snuffling armful of woman, who had tucked herself into Paul’s body and even now was heating his chest and thighs as he held her comfortably cuddled against him. He had no idea where the cat was, and at this moment he didn’t care.

  Toasty beneath the heavy fur, Paul simply lay there, enjoying the feel of Harry’s hair against his chin and the rise and fall of her body as she breathed. His arms encircled her, her bottom tucked perfectly into his groin, and—inevitably—his manhood awoke at that moment as well, eager to acknowledged this new presence it its vicinity.

  He didn’t want to move. For one of the few times in his life, Paul experienced long minutes of absolute peace and contentment. It dawned on him that this was the way he wanted his life to be—waking with the woman he loved in his arms, facing the day with her at his side, hearing her laugh, making her smile and sharing their burdens with each other.

  It was an epiphany in many ways, and yet perhaps he’d known it on some subconscious level when he’d claimed her publicly as his wife.

  He was puzzled and more than a little confused, but whatever this new attachment was, it was there now, and he knew it wouldn’t go away.

  Neither would his arousal, and sadly he eased himself away from Harry. She deserved a few more minutes of sleep, since he guessed they’d have another hectic day ahead of them.

  Sliding from the bed, Paul turned his back on visions of lazy morning pleasures.

  He’d bring her a cup of tea. It would be a start…

  Chapter Seven

  He brought me tea!

  Harriet opened her eyes to see a small tray beside the bed, laden with tea and toast. A tiny pat of butter and a little dish of marmalade tucked themselves next to a butter knife and a neatly folded napkin.

  She pushed herself up on the pillows and looked around, but the room was empty. And chilly, since steam rose from the teacup quite visibly into the dim light of the single candle he must have lit.

  The tea was just the ticket for a cold winter morning, but it didn’t warm her heart as much as the realization that Paul had gone to quite a bit of trouble to get up, dress, and bring back a little tray for her, all without waking her. She buttered the toast and indulged herself for one of the few times she could remember having breakfast in bed.

  There was also a slight feeling of relief, since she’d fallen asleep worrying about how to react in the morning, waking up to find a strange man lying beside her.

  Well, he wasn’t strange, but even so…she’d never awakened with anything in her bed except a cat she’d had long ago. And her favorite toys, of course. One Christmas, a cold day not unlike this one, her Mama and Papa had given her a large white stuffed bear. He it had gone bald, but she didn’t care.

  She’d named him Bruno. Now, all these years later, she wondered what had happened to him. And sighed.

  There was still a vague sigh lurking in her mind as she prepared for the day ahead, dressing and making the bed. She’d been warm and comfortable, and perhaps even more so knowing she was protected by the man sleeping on the other side of her improvised mountains. He’d taken that well, she thought, judging by the amused turn of his lips when he saw her creation.

  However, if whispers of this entire episode got out, she knew very well that she would be ruined, hills notwithstanding. Which also meant that her aunt and uncle wouldn’t be able to get a penny of dowry for her, and might well lose interest…a good thing, but also a bad thing.

  There was that sigh again. Life was a great deal more complex than she’d imagined it would be as a child, cuddling Bruno in front of the Yule log.

  Going down the back stairs with the tray in her hand, she paused.

  The Yule log. They should see about that right away, since tomorrow was Christmas Eve.

  Hurrying down the rest of the steps, she almost ran into Paul who was standing at the bottom. “Oh goodness, I’m sorry.” She moved the tray, aware that if she’d gone any faster, it might have cracked one of his ribs.

  “No need,” he waved away her apology. “I was thinking of popping up to see if you were awake.”

  “Thank you, Paul,” she smiled. “For this. For the tea and toast. It was a lovely treat and I’m most grateful.”

  “You put in a devil of a day yesterday, Harry. I thought a few more minutes and a spot of tea were well deserved.”

  “You’re too kind.” She moved past him. “Er, did you sleep well?”

  “Surprisingly, yes.” He followed her into the kitchen. “Although it was chilly this morning. I was surprised there was no snow on top of those mountains.”

  A surprised chuckle erupted from her throat, making Cook look up from the bowl she was stirring. “Mornin’, ma’am, sir. There’s oatmeal a’comin’ if you’ve a taste fer it…”

  Over an abbreviated breakfast—Paul wanted to check the fires early—Harriet shared her idea about the Yule log. “I know it’s traditional here in the country, Paul. Not so much in London, since I think pulling up stumps in Regent’s Park is frowned upon…”

  This time it was Paul’s turn to chuckle. “I would assume so, yes.”

  “Gotta have that Yule log,” endorsed Cook.

  “Ma always has one, ya know,” added one of her daughters. “We’ll be off to light it tomorrer, if me brothers have found a good one.”

  “There.” Harriet turned to Paul. “You see?”

  He nodded. “I do indeed. And I’m thinking our guests should be part of the hunt.” He finished his tea and scooped up the last of the oatmeal as he thought about it. “So, Cook, would it be too much to ask you to put together a luncheon that we can carry with us? I pray the weather will hold and we’ll have sunshine, because if so, I’ll get everyone out in the big farm wagon, and we’ll find our Yule log.”

  Harriet drew a breath. “That might be a challenge…”

  “Never fear. I’ll come up with something. A centuries-old country legend is always useful, I’ve found.”

  “Do you know any?” she inquired.

  “No, but I can make something up.”

  “Centuries old, I see.”

  Ever imperturbable, Paul smiled serenely. “All good legends are.”

  Harriet rolled her eyes.

  *~~*~~*

  The two stable boys worked hard preparing the wagon for its elegant occupants, and when it finally arrived at the front door, Paul was pleased to approve their work.

  “Well done, lads. Well done indeed.”

  They blushed and one touched his forelock as he stepped forward. “We found them horse blankets, sir. Brand new looked like, so ’t’weren’t a
‘ardship to cover them bales.”

  “An’ the floor is the old carpet from what used ter be the head groom’s office, I’m thinkin’,” said the other lad earnestly. “It just fit nice, like.”

  “Here. Add these.” Harriet stepped out onto the top step, her breath steaming in the cold air. “Just in case.” She held out an armful of the furs she’d collected on her way to the front door.

  “Perfect,” said Paul. He shook one out, dislodging a mouse.

  Harriet neither jumped or squealed. He was very proud of her.

  “Well, I didn’t say they were perfect,” she grinned. “Better give them all a good shaking.”

  “We’ll do it, ma’am,” said a stable boy. “Mice don’t bother us none.”

  And thus the farm wagon was transformed into a luxurious method of transportation befitting the elegant occupants yet to arrive. The two horses drawing the large vehicle sported gleaming tack and coats that shone in the sunshine.

  Paul’s wish for fine weather had been granted; the sky was blue and only a few clouds remained scudding along on the breeze. There was some melting, but not enough to make the going tough, he judged. The wagon wheels were wide, since its purpose was to transport heavy loads over rough and muddy lanes. If they kept to those lanes, they’d do quite well.

  So all that remained now was to await the arrival of those who had decided to venture out.

  Harriet and Paul had made sure that the maids and servants told their masters and mistresses of the plan, encouraging them to dress appropriately. They had breakfasted in their rooms, so that had saved the household the bother of setting up tables in the parlor.

  Harriet leaned toward Paul as he drummed his fingers on the concrete baluster running along the side of the top step. “I did make a suggestion, Paul.”

  “To whom?”

  “To the ladies’ maids.” She leaned even closer. “I suggested that since it would be cold and damp, they might prefer to wear breeches instead of gowns for this excursion.”

  Paul blinked. “Harriet. You shock me.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “No really,” he protested. “That is a brilliant notion. Especially with this gaggle of annoying geese.”

  Before she could comment, a hubbub at the top of the stairs heralded the arrival of ‘this gaggle’, and it appeared that her suggestion had found great favor.

  There were shrieks of laughter from the Tisdale twins, and much overt admiring of shapely calves from the gentlemen. Lady Aphrodite had taken it a step further by adding what was probably one of her husband’s waistcoats over a loose shirt and cravat, and pulling her hair back into a snug bun. All she needed was a riding crop, mused Paul, and she’d fit right in to some of the more eccentric houses of pleasure he’d had occasion to visit in his colorful past. Either that or throw on a mask and haunt the local lanes as a notorious highwayman.

  The gentlemen were most vocal in their approval and they dashed around for appropriate coats and hats.

  “My Lord, my Lady, gentlemen, ladies…your conveyance awaits.” Paul put on his best, and loudest, butler voice, directing their attention to the open front door.

  “Oh my,” said Sir Geoffrey. “Girls, you’re going to love this…” He hurried outside, followed by the titters and little squeals. Although to do him justice, Lord Farren neither tittered nor squealed. He simply slapped his wife soundly on her bottom.

  Paul looked the other way, noticing Harriet failing to conceal a giggle.

  He addressed her in mournful tones. “And I have to go with them. Remember that, if you will, the next time you have the urge to rebuke me about something.” He rolled his eyes as he accepted his cape from one of the footmen, and tugged a flat cap over his hair.

  “Are you driving?” she asked, glancing at him with a look of concern.

  “No, although I could if the need arises.” He pulled on wool gloves. “One of the stable lads drives his father’s wagon all over the place, so I’m letting him take the reins. We’re taking one of the footmen too.”

  “There’s a basket in there already,” added Harriet. “But you’ll have to come up with one of your old country legends to explain why there is only lemonade.”

  “You make jests about my familiarity with country legends?” He stared scornfully at her.

  “I do indeed.” She gave him back look for look, her lips quivering on a grin.

  “Disrespectful wench.”

  “That’s what you get for marrying the housekeeper.” She threw him a saucy wink over her shoulder as she took herself off.

  For a few seconds Paul wondered what it would be like to place a firm smack on her round bottom. Then he reminded himself he was not Lord Pennington. He’d prefer that bottom be bare before he spanked it.

  Chapter Eight

  Any thoughts of Harriet’s bottom vanished quickly as the party arranged itself on the wagon and proceeded to reveal half a dozen flasks they’d secreted around their persons.

  It had to be brandy, realized Paul as, to his astonishment, Sir Geoffrey broke into song—a Christmas carol—when they were barely five minutes away from the house. Damn, if the man didn’t have a most pleasing baritone.

  The chorus of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen flew around the wagon, startling a rook or two, and increasing in volume as the others joined in. Sir Farren offered a respectable tenor, and Lady Aphrodite added a delightful contralto to the mix.

  Even the Tisdales managed a verse or two, although they were hard to hear over Sir Ambrose’s loud contribution.

  “They allus’ like this, then?” The young lad holding the reins glanced at Paul.

  “I wouldn’t know,” sighed Paul. “But don’t complain. It could be worse.”

  The carol gave way to one of the more popular songs from a theatrical production, and from there to ditties that were definitely not for the ears of the innocent.

  “Oh lord,” muttered Paul. “Pull your hat down over your ears. You shouldn’t be hearing this.”

  The lad flashed him a gap-toothed smile. “That’s one of me da’s favorites. Me ma boxes ‘is ears when ‘e sings it in the house.”

  “I say, old chap…”

  Paul jumped as something poked him in the rear. He turned to see Sir Geoffrey grinning happily up at him. “Sir?”

  “Not that I don’t adore riding along with such a fine arse to look at…” He flashed a speaking glance at Paul’s rear end, “but we’d like to know where we’re going?”

  It was on the tip of Paul’s tongue to inquire why on earth it should matter, since they were all half-shot, oblivious to their surroundings, and not even sure why they were there in the first place.

  However, common sense prevailed. “We’re heading up to the edge of the forest, sir. In search of the perfect Yule log to bring us all luck in the new year.”

  “Ah.” Sir Geoffrey nodded, then grabbed the edge of the wagon as if he was afraid he might fall off the seat if he nodded too much. “Well then. Yule log. Right.”

  “Oh, yes. I love Yule logs.” One of the Tisdales chimed in, clapping her hands in glee. “Don’t you, darling Ambrose?” Since she’d been shamelessly flirting with the poor footman during most of the drive, Paul had to wonder at her exclamation.

  But darling Ambrose wasn’t paying attention. The other Tisdale was next to him and they were both mostly beneath one of the furs. More than that, Paul didn’t want to know.

  Luckily, his driving companion nudged him. “Lookee, sir. ‘ere’s where we get the best o’ the Yule logs. Gonna take a bit of choppin’…” He pointed to a field where summer storms had felled more than a few older trees.

  Paul thought for a moment. “Well, that’s good. But if you think I’m giving any one of this lot an axe, you’re fair and far off.”

  The lad chuckled. “I can ‘ave a go at it, sir. Me an’ the footman back there if ‘e’s up to it. Will that do yer?”

  The wagon slowed as the horses pulled it up the last half mile to the top of a small
rise. The field was next to it and as they neared, Paul could see more than a few upended stumps. “Must have been quite a storm, eh?” He shook his head at the piles of dead wood.

  “Aye. It was that. But good firewood. Used ter be more, but I reckon folks been up here all autumn, choppin’ and takin’ wood ‘ome.”

  “Can’t say that I blame them,” Paul said. “A warm fire is a necessity.” He recalled that first night with Harry in the parlor when they’d buried themselves beneath cloaks, whatever blankets they could find, and a cat.

  Arriving at their destination, Paul blessed the fact that it hadn’t snowed en route. Dry, his passengers were a noisy nuisance. Wet…well he might have been forced to take the axe in hand.

  Of course, refreshments came first. As the wagon stopped and the horses were tied off, Lord Farren found the basket and the next half hour or so was spent in devouring the contents.

  Paul left them to it, accompanying the two young men out into the rough field, stumbling a bit over the uneven ground. There was a stream at one end, and a good bit of hilly terrain, which was probably why these trees had taken the brunt of some storm. Their roots would have been weakened over the summer, one rainstorm after another soaking the ground. All it took was a good winter blow and over they went.

  “‘Ow big a one yer wantin’ then, sir?”

  “Good question.” Paul realized he’d never actually obtained a Yule log himself. “It has to go into the large fireplace in the hall.” He frowned. “And it’s supposed to burn until the new year, I believe.”

  “That’s right, sir,” chimed in the footman. “You’ll be wantin’ summat like that one o’er there…” He pointed at what looked to Paul like a mountain of tangled roots and stump.

  “Good God, really?” He looked at both of them. “We can get that into the wagon along with the passengers?”

  “Well, sir,” grinned the driver. “Them folks may ‘ave to snug up a bit, but by the looks of ‘em, ‘twon’t be no trouble, like.”