It Happened Under the Mistletoe: A Holiday Novella Read online

  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.”

  Cerian nodded sympathetically, but try as she might to focus on Sir Gilliam’s lament about his aunt’s aversion to inclement weather and his grandmama’s latest attempt at a poultice for her skin ailments, Cerian’s thoughts kept wandering back to Mr. Townsende.

  Just how was it that Mr. Townsende was a duke and as handsome as he was? Weren’t dukes supposed to be old and decrepit and gouty? Or completely arrogant louts? Yes. Gouty or louty. That was the way of it. It was completely unfair of him to be so good-looking. The man needed to wear a warning sign.

  She glanced over to where Lady Selina Kinsey sat, batting her eyelashes at the duke. Oh, wasn’t Lady Selina subtle?

  For a moment, the duke’s bright blue gaze caught Cerian’s. She blushed and looked away. Why was she behaving like such a ninny? He hadn’t been looking at her. It was random chance. No need for it to make her insides flip like a Christmas flapjack.

  She turned back to the lovely plum pudding a footman had just placed in front of her. Oh, what a delight. She grabbed up her dessert spoon—she hoped it was the right spoon, there were far too many of them—and plunged it into the concoction. Yes. Sweets. Now this was a course she could readily enjoy. Much better to concentrate on her meal than her unsettling thoughts about the Duke of Markingham.

  * * *

  Oliver scoured the ballroom. After dinner, the dancing had commenced at the ball that was held to commemorate the beginning of the house party. Where was Miss Blake? He didn’t have long to find her. A handful of marriage-minded misses were already skirting around the sidelines clearly intent upon hunting him down. At the front of the room, Medford’s butler intoned the names of guests arriving to the ballroom.

  Oliver turned. There she was, standing in a group of admirers, her pretty pink gown hugging her curves in ways he shouldn’t think about at the moment. Her bright green eyes shining and her dark hair piled atop her head.

  Cerian. Miss Blake.

  She’d given him a funny look when Kate had introduced them in the drawing room earlier and seemed as if she might actually swoon for a moment. Had he shocked her so thoroughly then? How would he explain exactly why he hadn’t told her his title when he’d first met her? He didn’t know, but he had to try.

  Oliver stalked up to the group where she was standing. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I was hoping I might steal Miss Blake for a dance.”

  It was obvious that none of the men liked that idea one bit, but Oliver didn’t wait for permission. He merely offered his arm to Cerian and said, “Miss Blake?”

  To his everlasting relief, she put her gloved hand on his arm and allowed him to escort her to the middle of the floor. He whirled her into his arms as a waltz began to play.

  She tipped her head back and looked up at him, an inscrutable expression on her breathtaking face.

  “Thank you for agreeing to the dance.” He smiled at her.

  “Thank you for saving me from them.” She motioned with her chin toward the group of gentlemen from which he’d just extracted her. The gentlemen in question shifted on their feet and gave Oliver narrowed-eyed glares. Sir Gilliam looked positively foiled. No, Oliver hadn’t made any friends in that group stealing Miss Blake away, but he didn’t give a bloody damn.

  He cleared his throat. “I owe you an apology. I should have introduced myself properly in the silver closet.”

  That earned a laugh from her. Oliver beamed with pride. He’d made her laugh.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “You should have. But I suppose you can be forgiven. It was a bit of an unconventional situation. I mean it’s not every day that I find myself hiding in a silver closet with a handsome duke carrying a bough of mistletoe and accompanied by a cat.”

  He grinned at her. “Did you just call me handsome?”

  “Wh…? What? No!” Her face turned the most adorable shade of pink, nearly matching her gown. She glanced away.

  “Yes you did.” His grin widened.

  She bit her lip, still averting her eyes.

  He pulled her closer. “It’s not every day I find myself hiding in a silver closet with a lovely young lady.”

  “That I don’t believe,” she replied, giving him a saucy grin.

  “Why not?” Was she trembling a bit? He was glad it was a waltz.

  “I can imagine you’re chased around quite a bit. That can’t have been the first time you sought refuge in the silver closet.”

  He laughed out loud at that. “Oh, the silver closet is a favorite refuge of mine, Miss Blake. However, I am not usually accompanied by a lovely young woman and a bough of mistletoe.”

  “What about the cat?”

  “Also a first for me.”

  Miss Blake wrinkled her nose. “That reminds me, Kate tells me that cat doesn’t belong to her. She says there is no cat in this house.”

  He inclined his head. “There’s a cat in here, all right. Whether it belongs to Lord and Lady Medford is a different issue.”

  “I’ve yet to see that cat again,” Miss Blake replied. “I’d hoped to learn her name.”

  Oliver shrugged. “You’ll have to ask around, I suppose.”

  “Oh, I do hope the cat doesn’t belong to Lady Selina,” Miss Blake said. “She’s such a pretty cat. So well-mannered and friendly.”

  “And you don’t believe such a cat would belong to Lady Selina?” he asked, a hint of a laugh in his voice.

  Miss Blake gave him a look that could only be described as skeptical. “What do you think?”

  He spun her around in the dance. “I have my doubts that the cat belongs to Lady Selina too.”

  “Speaking of Lady Selina, I don’t see her here tonight. You may just have a bit of room to breathe. Though if those ladies giggling on the sidelines have anything to say about it, it looks as if you’ll be quite busy this evening.”

  Oliver glanced over at the ladies eyeing him like a side of beef. “And what about your suitors?” he replied, arching a brow. “I could barely find you in that sea of evening coats.”

  Miss Blake’s cheeks tinged pink again. “You were looking for me?”

  Oliver spun her around again. “Merely making the point that this morning’s episode couldn’t have been your first time hiding in a silver closet either. You seem to be quite popular, Miss Blake.”

  The side of her mouth quirked up in a way that Oliver was coming to realize was uniquely her own; he still couldn’t quite place her accent.

  “Tell me, why are you so bent on avoiding young women, your grace? Do you not intend to marry one day and beget an heir?”

  She was straightforward, this young woman. He liked that about her.

  “Ah, but I might ask you the same question, Miss Blake. Why are you so intent on avoiding your many suitors?”

  She laughed at that and gave him a smile that he’d looked forward to. She lowered her voice to a whisper and glanced about. “I’ll tell you why I avoid my suitors if you tell me why you avoid yours.”

  He nodded. “Agreed. You go first.”

  The butler continued to intone the names of the arriving guests and Oliver spun Miss Blake around and around in the dance. It seemed the young lady was an accomplished dancer indeed.

  “Very well. But you must promise not to laugh,” she said.

  “I would never be so ungentlemanly.”

  She quirked a brow at him.

  He smiled and blinked innocently. “What? You don’t believe me?”

  “I shall have your word,” she insisted.

  He shook his head lightly. “Very well. On my honor, I will not laugh. No matter how outlandish your answer.”


  She appeared satisfied with that and nodded. “It’s because I refuse to settle.”

  Oliver raised both brows. “Hope Princess Caroline takes a nasty spill from a carriage and the Prince Regent becomes available, do you?”

  She wrinkled her nose again and for the first time in his adult life, Oliver had to concentrate on the steps to a dance.

  “No, no. I mean the opposite actually.”

  “The opposite?”

  “Yes, you see, I am a romantic and I believe in falling in love. My mother is more concerned with a title but I”—she cleared her throat—“I’m more concerned with ensuring that I make a love match.”

  He narrowed his eyes on her. A woman unconcerned with titles? Such a woman existed? “And you don’t think you’ll find a love match with a gentleman of the ton?”

  She smiled. “I suppose you could say I find it highly unlikely. The ton is filled with political ambition and the desire for wealth and power. I’m not interested in all of that. Besides, I’m from Wales. My father is a copper tradesman. There’s nothing remarkable about me. I fear Mama is quite out of her element attempting to marry me off to the Quality.”

  Oliver begged to differ that there wasn’t anything remarkable about her. She was remarkably pretty and remarkably funny to name two things. But her story interested him. And it explained her accent. “Wales? What brings you here then?”

  She blew out a deep breath. “Mama. Well, Mama’s letter to Kate. You see, Kate’s my cousin, and she graciously invited us here for Christmastide. Mama saw her opportunity to trot me out in front of Society and here we are. I made my debut during the little Season just a few weeks ago in London. Kate was kind enough to sponsor me.”

  Ah, so that explained it. He’d been away on business at the coast the last few weeks. Miss Blake had only just arrived in England. “So, that’s it? You refuse to consider a gentleman with a title?”

  She smiled. “Refuse is a bit harsh. Let’s just say I hold no expectations of such a thing happening. Now. I’ve told you my secret. It’s your turn. And I promise not to laugh.”