It Happened Under the Mistletoe: A Holiday Novella (2 page)

“It sounds as though we’re safe,” the lady offered. “I think we may be able to leave now.”

An unexpected surge of disappointment rose in Oliver’s chest. “You think?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m certain of it.”

Oliver rocked back and forth on his heels, rolling the bough of mistletoe between his fingers. What exactly did one say to a gorgeous young woman to whom one had not been formally introduced yet with whom one had spent several minutes conversing while mutually hiding in a silver closet? Good day? Nice to have (sort of) met you? See you next time we’re hiding from people?

Miss Blake didn’t give him long to contemplate the matter. She whisked open the door, blowing out the candle as a result, and stuck her head into the corridor. She looked both ways. “All clear,” she announced before turning back to him momentarily. The cat made its way toward the open door as well.

“Excellent,” he said, not understanding the tug of disappointment in his middle at the prospect of the young lady leaving.

“Let’s agree to pretend we’ve not met before, Mr. Townsende.” She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “And then when Kate introduces us later, we shall play completely ignorant. That way, we won’t have to explain our penchant for milling about in the silver closet.”

Oliver pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. He liked Miss Blake’s style. He liked it a great deal. This young lady was game enough to hide in a closet and flaunt propriety. Quite game, was Miss Cerian Blake. Quite game, indeed.

“Agreed,” he replied with a bow. “In the meantime, I wish you the best of luck avoiding eligible gentlemen.”

“Oh, if only it were that simple.” She gave him one last look over her shoulder. “Kate has already informed me that she intends to introduce me to yet another potential suitor this evening.”

An unexpected bit of envy rankled in Oliver’s middle. “Who’s the unworthy chap?” he asked, wondering just how long the list of Miss Blake’s suitors would be.

She rolled her eyes. “The Duke of Markingham. Can you imagine? A duke? Sounds like a dreadful bore to me.”

And with that, she and the cat were gone.

CHAPTER TWO

Cerian had to remind herself for the thousandth time to stop tapping her foot. It wasn’t her fault her mama had forced her to stand here all done up in her pink ball gown, with diamonds twined through her hair, feeling like a deuced prize horse on parade, while Mama exchanged witty banter with their host. Lord Medford’s country house was an imposing structure to begin with, but with its scores of rooms decorated for the holiday season, it was even more grand. Every room was draped with evergreen boughs, holly, ivy, hawthorn, and Christmas rose. The smell of cider floated through the air and the burning of logs in the many fireplaces gave the house a warm, cozy feel.

They were waiting in the drawing room before dinner. Many of the guests were mingling and laughing. Lord Medford was entertaining her and Mama with stories of his friends in London.

“I’m sorry you won’t be able to meet Lord and Lady Colton and Lord and Lady Ashbourne,” he said. “Both of those ladies are well into their confinements with a new marquis and new earl on the way. They are expected to deliver at any moment.”

Cerian smiled at that. Kate had written to Cerian and told her about her friends Lady Lily and Lady Annie. The two women were sisters. They sounded quite nice and had been good friends to Kate.

Kate? Where was Kate? Cerian glanced around the drawing room. She wished her cousin would appear and get the introductions over with so Cerian could smile politely at the Duke of Markingham and then settle down to the business of eating dinner. She was much more interested in the menu for tonight’s meal than meeting her first duke.

And hadn’t Mama been all aflutter when Kate had announced that she would introduce Cerian to the man? Mama’s dream. To make the most advantageous match for her daughter. It didn’t matter that Cerian’s dream was oh, I don’t know, to actually fall in love with the man who she married. And one never fell in love with a duke. She doubted it was possible. She had even imagined more than once winging back through history and trying to find a duchess who actually loved her duke. Oh, she supposed it may have happened, but it had to be extremely rare. But she couldn’t convince Mama that love was important. “You’ve been reading too many romantic novels,” Mama would say. “And poetry.”

The fact was that Cerian didn’t belong here. She came from a small village in Wales. Papa had worked hard and made a fortune in the copper trade but even with their riches, nothing could make up for their poor connections. Well, they’d been poor until cousin Kate had written to them. Seemed after a bad marriage—to a duke, no less—that she didn’t speak much about, Kate had wedded a viscount, and Mama, seizing the opportunity to receive entrée into London Society at last, had written back posthaste fishing for an invitation.

Cerian remembered Kate as a beautiful, friendly spirit from her childhood. Their fathers were brothers, and now, Mama would do anything she could to use her cousin’s connections to make an advantageous match for Cerian, even if she had to sweeten the pot with a large dowry.

So they had traveled to Oxfordshire for Kate’s Christmastide house party. Mama had tested Cerian on etiquette and proper decorum for hours in the coach. It was clear that her mama intended her to come home with a betrothal well secured, and the duke, of course, was the biggest prize of them all. The devil may care about the man’s disposition, humor, or looks. Why, the Duke of Markingham probably resembled a toad. Or perhaps he was angry and hateful like Kate’s husband had reputedly been. Cerian wanted someone handsome, dashing, funny. Someone a bit like … Mr. Townsende from the silver closet this afternoon.

Now
that
man had been swoon-worthy. All tall, dark, and handsome. From what she’d been able to see of him at least. His broad shoulders filled out his jacket, his smile forced her to steady herself against the wall, and his cerulean blue eyes caused her to shake herself. Combine that with short, dark hair, a bold brow and chin, and a compelling sense of humor, and she was downright taken.

Of course, Mr. Townsende was probably someone’s pauper cousin. He was a mere mister, after all. Not someone whom Mama would want her looking at twice. Oh, what did it matter? Mr. Townsende was already in high demand, it seemed, if Lady Selina Kinsey was after him. She’d only just met Lady Selina that morning but she could tell the young woman was entirely intent upon marriage. Or at least intent upon chasing handsome young men down the corridor, possibly with a cat in tow.

Cerian had her own troubles. Since Mama had apparently let it leak that she was the cousin of a viscountess with a large dowry, the gentlemen suitors had begun nipping at her heels like dogs on a hunt. It was ludicrous, actually, when one stopped to contemplate it. She’d only just been in London for the Christmastide Season and already Mama had a steady group of admirers at her door. Money, it seemed, attracted a certain group of men. Kate had promised that the house party would be full of eligibles, and so far that proved to be true. But Cerian had managed to live her twenty-two years in Wales, rejecting all advances that seemed monetarily motivated. She’d hoped to come to England to meet a man who cared about … her. The longer she was here, however, the more hopeless that particular goal seemed. The
ton
, as they called themselves, valued money and titles above all. Love wasn’t high on the list if it was there at all.

Kate came floating into the room just then wearing a gorgeous ruby-red gown. She gave her husband a peck on the cheek and greeted Cerian’s mama warmly. Then the viscountess turned to Cerian, her beautiful red-gold hair shining.

“Cerian, there you are.” She hugged her cousin. “You’re an absolute vision. I cannot wait to introduce you to the duke tonight.” She leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “But just between the two of us, I fear Lady Selina has already set her cap for him. I doubt he’s interested though. But she’s already informed me that she’s conceived a handful of house party games in order to facilitate the mingling of the eligibles. One can only imagine what she has planned.”

Cerian widened her eyes. Good heavens, Lady Selina certainly was a bit man-crazy wasn’t she? She’d been chasing poor Mr. Townsende through the house earlier, and now she’d set her cap for the unwitting Duke of Markingham. No matter. Lady Selina could have the stuffy old duke, and Cerian would take the dashing Mr. Townsende.

Cerian shook her head at that saucy notion and concentrated on listening to what her cousin was saying.

“… unfortunately, we had to invite her because she’s distantly related to James,” Kate said. “And I’ve heard she’s making a complete fool of herself in London over the duke. She did everything short of demand an invitation to the house party.”

Cerian wrinkled her brow. “Are we still speaking of Lady Selina?”

Kate rolled her eyes. “Yes. A bit of stuff if you ask me. And her mother?” Kate shuddered. “A dreadful woman. I pray the duke has the sense to stay away from her. At any rate, once he sees you…”

Cerian winced. She hoped Kate didn’t expect her to make a match with the duke. Her cousin clearly liked him a great deal, despite her own previous association with a duke, but as far as Cerian was concerned, a duke was hardly someone in whom she was interested.

“I met your cat this morning,” Cerian offered in a bid to change the subject.

Kate blinked at her. “My what?”

“Your cat.”

“I don’t own a cat.”

“Whose cat is she then?”

Kate shook her head. “To my knowledge there is no cat in this house. Perhaps one of the guests brought him.”

“Not a him. She’s a female and she’s fluffy and gray and has pretty green eyes. She’s exceedingly friendly and seems to like people a great deal. Acts something like a dog, this cat. I found her in the silver closet.”

Kate’s eyes widened. “I won’t even ask what you were doing in the silver closet,” her cousin said with a laugh.

The door to the drawing room swung open just then, and Mr. Townsende stepped inside. Cerian sucked in her breath. If the man had been handsome in the dim light of the silver closet earlier, he was an absolute Adonis when illuminated by the drawing room’s candle-filled chandelier. Wasn’t there some way to convince Kate to introduce her to him instead of the Duke of Whoever?

“Ah, Oliver, there you are!” Kate’s melodic voice drifted across the room.

Mr. Townsende looked over at them, a wide smile on his indecently handsome face. He made his way toward them, and Cerian’s foot tapping increased exponentially. A nervous habit Mama detested. Oh, good grief. She couldn’t stop it. She sounded like a woodpecker. Whatever would the dashing Mr. Townsende think of her? She gulped.
Ninny. Ninny. Ha’ a penny
.

Mr. Townsende came to a stop in front of them and bowed decorously to Kate while taking her hand. He smelled like a combination of spice and soap. And he was even taller and more broad-shouldered than Cerian remembered.

“Oliver, may I present, my cousin, Miss Cerian Blake.”

Cerian curtsied. Oh, good. She got to meet Mr. Townsende after all.

“And Miss Blake, may I present my friend, Oliver Townsende, the Duke of Markingham.”

CHAPTER THREE

If the dinner, which consisted of ten courses of some of the most beautiful food anyone had ever laid out in front of her, was delicious, Cerian would never know it. There was boar’s head and turkey, marchpane, plum pudding, and gingerbread. Rows and rows of sweet meats, roast and goose, and potatoes and squash. There were Brussels sprouts and carrots, eggs and pies, and raisins and lemons and apples and brandy. And it had all tasted like nothing to her mostly because she couldn’t manage to swallow more than a bite or two.

Instead she sat far down the long dining table from Oliver Townsende, Duke of Markingham, and remembered every idiotic moment of their formal introduction, specifically just what sort of a fool she’d made of herself.

First of all, she must have looked as if she’d been about to swoon, because Kate had taken one look at her, eyes widened, and grabbed her arm to steady her. “Are you all right, Cerian?”

Cerian had nodded, vigorously. What else was she to do? Something inane like, “How do you do, your grace?” had somehow made it past the embarrassingly large lump in her throat, and then Mama had turned around. She and Lord Medford had joined the conversation. And if her own introduction to the duke had been mortifying, Mama’s had been excruciating. Her mother made such a show of hanging on the man’s every word, laughing too loudly, standing too close, and generally making a giant cake of herself. Oh, what the man must think of her and her mother.

Not that it mattered. A ridiculously handsome duke wasn’t about to look twice at her at any rate. She was sought after for her dowry, something a duke certainly didn’t need, and she was a mere Miss when all manner of ladies, including Lady Selina, were throwing themselves at him.

No. There was absolutely no chance of Cerian catching this particular nobleman’s interest. Why, oh why, did she have to find him so … attractive? And why did he have to be a duke? Unfair that. Most unfair.

And there was another question. Why hadn’t he told her who he was when they’d met in the silver closet?
Oh, Cerian, you ninny, no doubt it’s because he knew you’d have jumped into his arms and kissed him
. She smiled at the thought. The man had been carrying mistletoe hadn’t he? Dangerous for a gentleman that handsome to have a bough of such a potent plant in his hands. No wonder he had ladies chasing him down the corridor. The cat had probably been chasing him too. Wise cat. Cerian pressed two fingers against her lips to keep from laughing.

Her dinner companion, Sir Gilliam, turned to her. “I say, Miss Blake. How’re you finding the weather in Oxfordshire compared to that in Wales this time of year?”

“It’s quite agreeable,” she replied, half-heartedly pushing a cold bit of potato around her plate.

“I don’t like it,” the knight replied. “My gout is acting up quite a bit, not to mention the dryness of my skin. I hate to think how poor Aunt Margaret is doing in the North. She’s up near Manchester, you know.”