Mistletoe and Mayhem: A Regency Holiday Romance Anthology, page 46
Papa was endlessly devious, but he was also patient and fair. He’d waited until he found the right sort of man for her—but then let her decide for herself.
Cecil turned at last. She placed her palms on his chest. She wanted her naked breasts squashed up against him, her naked legs entwined with his…
Cecil drew away, and she felt bereft.
“You know how I feel about the peerage and its unfair privileges,” he said stiffly. “I don’t want the title, but it will be mine until I die. I’ll be responsible for a sizeable estate and all the tenants and other dependents. I can’t escape it—at least, not honorably.” His voice was distant and strained.
“No, you can’t,” she assured him. “You mustn’t shirk your responsibilities.”
“Perhaps I can do some good as a peer,” he said, as if he didn’t believe it.
She watched him, trying to understand what was wrong. “You can—and must. It’s your obligation.”
“Precisely.” He swallowed. “This evening you swore, loudly and publicly, to marry a mere mister. You have your own code of honor. If you feel obliged to change your mind about me…” He choked on the words. “I’ll understand.”
“You are a mere mister.”
“For now.” He gazed at his hands, which trembled slightly. “I understood your statement to be in the nature of an oath—something about dying in a ditch rather than marry a peer. In other words, a promise to adhere to a principle, come what may.”
“What nonsense! I spoke in anger. I didn’t mean it literally.” She caressed the frown from his forehead. “My code of honor is not stupidly rigid like a gentleman’s.”
He let out a long, slow breath. “Darling Dorothea. Will you marry me for better or for worse, even if worse includes a title?”
She put her arms around him. “Yes, Cecil, I will. I love you, and I would never let something as nonsensical as a title get in the way of love.” She smiled ruefully. “And it will make my mother happy. Christmas will be festive after all.”
“Starting now.” He scooped her up and deposited her on the bed, then flung the coverlet after her. He made short work of his shirt and cravat, stockings and breeches, and peeled his smallclothes down. She gazed at him, enchanted. He was definitely ready for her.
He grinned and climbed next to her, pulling her into his arms. “My sweet, my darling.” He slid his hands under the nightgown to fondle her breasts.
She moaned with pleasure and soon was as naked as he, reveling in the heat and slide of skin against naked skin. They shared hot kisses and intimate caresses, until at last he entered her with a few tender pushes and a fierce thrust. “I love you so much,” he whispered.
She throbbed and ached with pleasure. “We’re joined. We’re one.” She laughed. “And we’re being unwise.”
“But not dishonorable,” he said. Together, with murmured promises of love, they celebrated the arrival of Christmastide.
The End
About Barbara Monajem
Winner of the Holt Medallion, Maggie, Daphne du Maurier, Reviewer’s Choice and Epic awards, Barbara Monajem wrote her first story at eight years old about apple tree gnomes. She published a middle-grade fantasy when her children were young, then moved on to paranormal mysteries and Regency romances with intrepid heroines and long-suffering heroes (or vice versa). Regency mysteries are next on the agenda.
Barbara loves to cook, especially soups. She used to have two items on her bucket list: to make asparagus pudding (because it was too weird to resist) and to succeed at knitting socks. She managed the first (it was dreadful) but doubts she’ll ever accomplish the second. This is not a bid for immortality but merely the dismal truth. She lives near Atlanta, Georgia with an ever-shifting population of relatives, friends, and feline strays.
You can find details of her work at
www.BarbaraMonajem.com
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MEET ME AT THE MISTLETOE
~ Book 4 of The Matchmaking Earl Series ~
by
DONNA CUMMINGS
After years of pleasurable but temporary pursuits, Desmond Mayfield enlists his friend, the Matchmaking Earl, to find his perfect match, never dreaming he’d find a love to rival his parents' legendary romance. Then he meets a temptress so enchanting, the very idea of letting her slip away is too dreadful to consider. But while Desmond may have fallen fast and hard, his Siren is determined to allow only a brief holiday affair, unwilling to risk a repeat of her previous loveless union.
It will take all the mistletoe Desmond can find—and all the kisses they afford him—to convince her that theirs is a passion to last through every season.
Chapter One
Desmond Mayfield set his brandy on the table next to him. It had been quite some time since he had enjoyed the quiet of his London club, but a chance meeting with his friend Martin, Lord Hartstone, had convinced him to while away a few hours there.
It was a bit serendipitous, actually, since Martin's assistance was precisely what was needed in the upcoming holiday season.
"Are you still acting as a matchmaker?"
Desmond tried to make it sound as though he were teasing, masking his genuine reason for the question.
"I suppose I am," Martin answered with a chuckle. "Though too often it has been more inadvertent than intentional. My last attempt came perilously close to being a disaster. Fortunately, it all worked out in the end."
Desmond glanced around, as if perusing the wood-paneled room, but actually intent on determining if anyone were near enough to hear him. Fortunately, every member in attendance was seated at a distance, engaged in conversation with other gentlemen, or consumed with the newspapers they were reading.
Still, Desmond leaned closer before saying, "Perhaps I could enlist your services."
Martin's eyebrows flew upwards. "What need do you have of a matchmaker? By all accounts, your days and nights are filled with attentive females."
"I always suspected you were a fan of the scandal sheets—"
"They are certainly a fan of you," Martin snorted.
Desmond shrugged, his lips twitching. "It is time to give them someone else to speculate about for a change." He added casually, "It would also demonstrate you are not an accidental matchmaker. Assuming you are successful, of course."
"I am tempted to consider your proposition, just for the challenge it would provide."
"You would become the newest darling of the scandal sheets overnight. The Prince Regent himself will wish to seek out your services."
Martin cackled as he settled into the leather chair. "I have no interest in acclaim or the notoriety you are accustomed to. And Prinny's marital woes are well beyond my ability to resolve." His expression turned serious. "Is this newfound interest due to your father? That was a nasty spill he took recently."
"Of course it has nothing to do with him," Desmond fibbed. "He would run us both through if he thought we considered him frail, all because a horse got the best of him." He winked. "It would speed his recovery, though, if he believed I was finally heeding his advice about matters of the heart."
"My mother and aunts still talk about your parents' love story. It was quite the romance in their day. The stuff of legends, to hear them discuss it."
"One that is impossible to live up to, I am afraid."
In truth, Desmond had begun to wonder if his heart would ever be amenable to something as long-lasting as his parents' love for each other. He had relished his numerous lighthearted liaisons, none of them intended to last more than a few months, which suited him and his paramours perfectly. There were no tears or recriminations on anyone's part when it was time to move on to something else.
Still, his parents' undeniable devotion, especially after his father's recent accident, had Desmond wishing for something similar for himself.
Martin's eyes twinkled momentarily. His next words made Desmond think his friend had read his thoughts. "Perhaps my matchmaking prowess will lead you to a woman who steals your heart."
"That is yet to be determined. But even if my heart remains unattached, as is likely, a man knows when it is time to take up his responsibilities to the family lineage, leaving his frolicsome youth behind."
"Frolicsome? Now you are sounding like the white-haired gent in the corner who has not moved from that spot in twenty years." Martin gave Desmond a good looking-over, as if he was examining a pair of prime race horses at Tattersall's. "I wonder who I could possibly convince to attempt a match with a scoundrel such as you."
"I am breathless with anticipation." Desmond could not hold back a smile. "Though, from your previous difficulties, I understand it may require more than one attempt before success is declared."
Martin's eyes gleamed at the unspoken challenge. "Your situation merely requires something a bit different. I think you will enjoy what I have in mind…"
Desmond stood in the lavish ballroom at Hartstone Hall, wondering if he had completely lost his wits. It had been diverting while sitting in his London club, devising a plan to find a woman he could fall in love with at some point.
But now, several days later, standing beneath a cluster of mistletoe, clutching one half of a calling card, waiting for the woman who had the other half to appear…
Yes, he had clearly misplaced his wits. Not to mention his confidence in Martin's matchmaking abilities.
Ah, well, he could at least enjoy the festivities. Martin's country estate was the center of numerous holiday events, making it the best setting for matchmaking this time of year. Every possible surface was covered with pine boughs, and holly, and of course, mistletoe hung in multiple strategic locations. To increase the mystery, Martin had decreed the ball would be a masquerade, so all of the attendees wore masks.
It was a great deal easier to steal a kiss under the mistletoe if anonymity were preserved.
Desmond adjusted his mask and glanced once more at the card. Had the mystery woman changed her mind? Martin had insisted they would be a perfect match. Perhaps she had learned his identity and decided she did not want her name linked to his in the scandal sheets.
It was difficult to convince anyone he was indeed serious about renouncing his scoundrel ways. Even Martin had been stunned by the news.
He would stay for another quarter hour and then take his leave. Fortunately his hunting lodge was nearby, and he could while away the rest of the evening with some brandy, in front of a roaring fire, plotting how to proceed next.
He had not anticipated being Martin's first matchmaking failure. Still, as much as he regretted losing his wits by participating in this scheme, he was even more rueful that he had placed any hope in its success.
Lorelei Collins made her way through the crowded ballroom, doing her best to memorize every detail, from the decorations and the music, to the guests merrily dancing with each other. Her sister Beatrice had planned to attend, a rare outing since her sister had two small children to care for, as well as a husband off fighting the wars. Unfortunately, the poor thing had come down with a terrible cold. Lorelei had insisted she could not possibly attend without her, but Beatrice had been twice as insistent that hearing about the revelries would surely speed her recovery.
It had been a long while since Lorelei had attended a Christmas masquerade, so it was not difficult to acquiesce to her sister's demands.
Lorelei halted for a moment, grinning as she watched Martin making his way down the line of dancers. He was a handsome man, and cut quite a fine figure, as evidenced by all the wistful female glances thrown his direction.
She would have to find him later and thank him for the invitation. She turned to continue her stroll around the room, but just then a young woman stopped her, pressing a card into her hand.
"I will not be needing this now. You should go in my place."
"What do you mean?" Lorelei glanced at the card, which was torn in half and outlined in red, engraved with the phrase, "Meet me at the mistletoe".
"I was supposed to meet a gentleman, but I've found the most wonderful one on my own!"
Before Lorelei could respond, the young woman darted off with her new suitor, both of them clearly bursting with happiness.
Lorelei felt a pang of envy. She missed that feeling of falling in love, when everything was still filled with promise and possibility…
Why not steal a few kisses under the mistletoe? She could do it anonymously, with the gentleman not aware of who she was. Indeed, she could pretend she was the one he was supposed to meet. Afterwards, she would return to her normal existence, with no one the wiser. She had experienced numerous adventures the past two years as a widow, and was never reluctant to have another.
This would be a perfect way to spend the evening.
She tightened the ribbons of her mask and began to search for this mystery man in earnest. There was a multitude of mistletoe throughout the overheated ballroom. How was she supposed to find the one man waiting for the woman she was pretending to be?
A good many of the mistletoe bunches were occupied by couples, surreptitiously kissing, taking a berry from the mistletoe each time. It was easy to rule them out as potential mystery men. Presumably he would have a card, the other half to hers, so she kept her attention on that aspect.
After another turn around the room, she began to wonder if she had been sent on a fool's errand.
All of a sudden, she saw a tall gentleman underneath a large cluster of mistletoe. How had she missed him before? He had chestnut hair, rakishly long, and an elegant mien. He was perusing the crowd but seemed disenchanted, and Lorelei wondered why. He began to tap a card against one hand—a card torn in half and edged in red.
Her heart thumped with excitement.
She stepped forward, eager to meet her mystery man. She could only imagine what kissing him might be like. The thought made her lose her footing for just a moment. She laughed at her clumsiness but her mirth instantly turned to dismay.
Another woman had swooped in to flirt with him!
Chapter Two
"Good evening," a woman's voice said. "Are you awaiting someone?"
Desmond had just been about to leave, but he turned, hopeful once more. He gave the young woman his full attention—a lovely figure, a smile that seemed genuine, yet her gaze behind the mask seemed a bit avaricious. He dropped his gaze to her gloved hands.
There was no card.
He clasped his hands behind his back, keeping his own card hidden.
They exchanged pleasantries, and while Desmond managed to maintain a polite demeanor, it was not long before he was wishing he had left earlier. The young woman chattered endlessly on numerous topics, even without his participation, and it seemed she meant to continue until the sun rose.
Now there was little hope of easily extricating himself, unless he found another acquaintance strolling by, or by feigning an ailment of some sort…
"There you are! When you said 'meet me at the mistletoe', I had no idea there would be so many possible venues to search."
Desmond's head lifted sharply, the playful tone of voice catching his attention. In the next instant he was swamped with relief at seeing the red-edged card in the new arrival's hand. The evening had not been a waste after all.
"My apologies." Desmond held his card aloft, adding a grin. "I hoped this proved helpful in narrowing down the possibilities."
"It did, indeed." She sidled closer to him, captivating him with her genuine smile. She placed her half of the card against his so the torn edges fit together. "Perfectly matched."
The other woman quickly comprehended that she had become an unnecessary party. She sighed dramatically and then flounced off, muttering about her misfortune.
"I am indebted to you," Desmond said. "I was in the midst of preparing a dramatic exit and then you appeared just in time to rescue me."
She laughed. It was such a distinctive sound, a genuine expression of mirth, not a practiced trill meant to highlight her feminine wiles. He would have to send a magnificent gift to Martin, extolling his matchmaking skills, the ones he had so recently doubted.
Her green eyes twinkled with mischief. "Perhaps you should keep that dramatic exit in reserve. Our cards were perfectly matched, but we might not be."
"I cannot imagine such a possibility." He lifted her gloved hand to his lips. "It is a genuine pleasure to meet you. What name shall I call you?"
She tilted her head, as if deciding what name she would give him. It gave Desmond time to appreciate the auburn tendrils that had escaped her topknot, as well as the sprinkling of freckles across her pert nose. Her lips lifted in another intriguing smile. "You could call me Lorelei."
This time it was his lips that curved upwards. "How perfect. Lorelei. The temptress."
"A man who knows his mythology. And what name will you use this evening?"
He hesitated. Did he give her a playful answer, as she had so obviously done? He had no doubt he could ask Martin who she was, since he was the one who had ensured they met. He also had no doubt that he wanted to see her again, so he told her his real name.
"You must call me Desmond."
"Desmond. I am overjoyed to make your acquaintance."
She gazed directly at him as she spoke the words. Her boldness was intoxicating. A heady blend of passion and expectation sped through every particle of his being.
He was tempted to ask if she would remove her mask, so he could see her face completely. But he decided to wait. He was enjoying her enjoyment of the moment. There was no need to rush anything.
"Perhaps we should commemorate our meeting with a kiss." Desmond pointed to the mistletoe above them. "It is a tradition, after all."
