Celebrate the holidays at Holbourne Abbey . . .
A chance meeting beneath the mistletoe, a stolen glance across the
dance floor—amid the sumptuous delicacies, glittering decorations,
the orchestra swells and every duchess and debutante, lord and
lackey has a hopeful heart. There’s the head-strong heiress who
must win back her beloved by midnight—or be wed to
another . . . the spinster whose fateful choice to relinquish love
may hold one more surprise for her . . . a widow yearning to
glimpse her long-lost love for even one sweet, fleeting
interlude . . . a charming rake who finds far more than he
bargained for. And many other dazzling, romantic tales in this star-
studded collection from the Word Wenches . . .
Praise for the Word Wenches and Mischief and Mistletoe
“A coterie of multitalented historical romance authors, who blog
together as the Word Wenches, provide short stories that truly
showcase the styles they are noted for. These romantic, passionate,
humorous, exciting quick reads are delectable tidbits, confections
that charm and delight, like the holidays themselves.”
—RT Book Reviews, 4 stars
“In this stellar anthology, eight authors present a holiday-inspired,
Regency-set novella . . . there isn’t a single literary lump of coal
here.”—The Chicago Tribune
“Touching, gently funny, satisfying, and short enough to be read in
one sitting, each story in this delectable anthology is a holiday
treat.”—Library Journal
“Heartwarming anthology . . . a sweet gift for the reader.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Whether you like a Victorian England romance or a more
modern one, there’s a holiday story for you in these two
anthologies.”—Parkersburg News and Sentinel
“These cheeky stories were fun to read.”—First: for women
“You’ll find stories to enjoy!”—Heroes and Heartbreakers
“Each romance is light-hearted fun, starring likable protagonists
who bring alive the holiday season in the Regency British Isles.”
—Midwest Book Review
Also available by Mary Jo Putney
One Perfect Rose
The Bargain
The Rake
THE LOST LORDS SERIES
Loving a Lost Lord
Never Less Than a Lady
Nowhere Near Respectable
No Longer a Gentleman
Sometimes a Rogue
Not Quite a Wife
Not Always a Saint
Also available by Jo Beverley
An Arranged Marriage
Christmas Angel
Dangerous Joy
The Shattered Rose
An Unwilling Bride
Forbidden
Tempting Fortune
An Invitation to Sin (anthology)
Also available by Patricia Rice
Love’s First Surrender
Moonlight Mistress
Surrender
The Last Chance Christmas Ball
MARY JO PUTNEY JO BEVERLEY
Joanna Bourne
Nicola Cornick
Anne Gracie
Patricia Rice
Cara Elliott
Susan King
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
To our intrepid editor, Alicia Condon, who gave us
the lovely idea of a Christmas ball and then had
to do the intricate editing to fit all the pieces together!
And to the readers of the Word Wenches blog,
who make our online community such a pleasure
to create and share.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Dedication
PROLOGUE
MY TRUE LOVE HATH MY HEART
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
A SCOTTISH CAROL
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHRISTMAS LARKS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
OLD FLAMES DANCE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
A SEASON FOR MARRIAGE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
MISS FINCH AND THE ANGEL
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
MISTLETOE KISSES
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
Copyright Page
PROLOGUE
Jo Beverley
“You write a neat hand, dear.”
Clio Finch looked up at the elderly lady and smiled. “Thank you, Lady Holly.”
The Dowager Countess of Holbourne preferred to be called that and Clio was happy to comply. She’d do almost anything for her generous benefactress, but she knew she was lacking in one respect. She couldn’t match the lady’s bright jollity.
Lady Holly looked her seventy-odd years, but in the best possible way. Her hair was silver rather than gray and bubbled out from under pretty caps. Plumpness softened her wrinkles and her eyes were the brightest blue.
She always dressed in the latest fashions. No eternal black for this widow. Today she was in a high-waisted gown made of a vibrant flowered print. During the three months Clio had been here as her companion, Lady Holly had gently pressed her to wear brighter clothes herself, even offering to buy them for her. Clio hated to disoblige the kind lady, but she couldn’t, she simply couldn’t, so she used her own mourning as excuse, even though her traditional mourning period was over.
Writing out the invitations to the Christmas ball was a rather tedious task, but Clio welcomed it. At last she was truly being useful. She’d make quicker work of it without Lady Holly’s interference, but the lady had taken a seat beside her at the table in the light of the window and as usual, was chattering.
Lady Holly picked up the list she herself had written out, so Clio felt free to dip her pen and continue the set phrases.
. . . at Holbourne Abbey on Thursday, the twenty-eighth of December. . .
“It’s my fiftieth, you know.”
Clio looked up again. “Fiftieth?”
“Ball, dear! Fifty years.”
“My goodness, that’s extraordinary.”
“It
is, isn’t it? I never imagined that when we held the first. I’d always adored Christmas, but my husband’s mother was the sort not to encourage ‘dissipation in a holy season’ as she put it. Once George was earl, however, and his mother removed to the dower house . . . So lovely, don’t you think, that neither John nor Elizabeth has ever suggested that I move there. Once we were free to do as we pleased, what could be more splendid than a glittering event in the dead of winter? Everyone attends, and it has quite a reputation by now. So many matches have begun or been accelerated by my Christmas ball.”
Clio smiled again, but her logical mind said that an annual event was likely to intersect with many a courtship at some point, rather than the event itself having any power.
“That’s why I’m inviting Miss Langsdale and Miss Fenton this year. I will be writing those, dear, so you can note that on the list.” She passed it over and Clio made the mark. “I hope some of the magic will rub off on them,” Lady Holly said, “for I fear this might be their last chance. Allie Fenton means to take employment, can you believe, and Sarah Jane Langsdale speaks of opening an orphanage!”
“They don’t usually attend, ma’am?” Clio asked.
“I have always invited them, of course. They’re goddaughters of mine. But Allie has had to take care of her mother, and then her father, and Sarah Jane ceased attending some years ago. I fear she feels she’s past frivolity. So foolish.”
Clio could sympathize with that. She couldn’t imagine ever indulging in frivolity again. Perhaps the young women also felt a little out of place. They weren’t truly in the Holbourne Abbey circle any more than Clio was, which was why she was a companion rather than a guest. She had no faith in the ball magically making such ladies desirable brides.
“And Clary Douglas is to come this year from Scotland, along with several others,” Lady Holly said. “She’s not on the list because I invited her in a letter some weeks ago, pointing out the significant anniversary. It’s so long since we saw her and our Scottish friends. Perhaps they’ll show us how to celebrate Hogmanay.”
“That will be interesting, ma’am. I understand the Scots have their own special traditions and don’t celebrate Christmas much at all.”
“Except in the religious sense. Christmas has become so dull in England these days. I’ve heard people say that holly and mistletoe, and especially the Yule log, are pagan. Such nonsense! The German members of the royal family bring whole trees into their houses at Christmas and light them with candles. I have thought of doing the same, but even after all these years, the Germans aren’t very popular, are they?”
Clio ignored that tricky question and began a new invitation.
Dear Lord Claymott, Lady Holly requests the pleasure of . . .
“The first ball was in 1765,” the old lady said. “The king was young and the regent a mere lad. Everything seemed set to be splendid. We had no notion of the Americans turning away from us, the revolution in France, and that dreadful Napoleon Bonaparte. But the ball has been held every year since then, come what may. Even weather has never interfered. That must mean it’s blessed, mustn’t it?” She added the last sentence rather anxiously.
“It must.” Clio put as much conviction into it as she could, for she could see where Lady Holly’s mind had turned.
Kim Stretton, the younger son of the house, had chosen a career in the army and fought at Waterloo. By God’s grace he’d survived, but he’d been badly wounded. He’d returned home to heal, but had set up camp in the old tower that was attached to the modern house. His servant came and went, but even his family was excluded. Clio had never seen him.
She wished she could. It wouldn’t matter how hideously he was disfigured, she’d treat him warmly. As she would have treated Will if he’d returned to her, no matter how crippled or scarred. She fought tears. It would never do to blot her work with teardrops, and her sorrows were her own.
“And then there’s Caro,” Lady Holly said, moving on as if they’d completed a silent conversation. “I do hope my granddaughter will attend, with Camden, of course.”
“I’m sure they will.”
“I’m not.” Lady Holly could be trenchant when she pleased. “Everyone tries to keep unpleasantness from me, but I know the gel’s dancing with scandal in Town, and as good as living apart from her husband. Too young to wed. Perhaps I should have said something, but they seemed to be in love.”
“Best not to interfere, ma’am. Lovers never listen.”
“It is a madness, isn’t it?”
Clio agreed, but Lady Holly’s tone seemed nostalgic rather than disapproving.
“I do hope the insanity strikes Edward soon,” Lady Holly said. “It’s time he wed, and we must have an heir.”
Edward was Viscount Brentford, the elder son of the house and an admirably steady man. The Strettons were a solid, pleasant family and Clio felt blessed to have been given refuge here. She prayed events would work out splendidly for all of them.
Lady Holly considered the sheet of names again. “I’m not sure there’s a lady here to suit him and I can’t think of anyone to add. He’s known everyone hereabouts all his life. There is Roxie, of course....”
Roxanne Hayward had inherited an adjoining estate and ran it herself. She’d grown up as part of the Stretton family and was in and out all the time, red hair wild and clothing more practical than fashionable. Would she actually dress up in finery and attend a ball?
“I’m just about to write that invitation,” Clio said.
“Oh, no, leave that to me as well. She’s as good as family. It would be an excellent alliance—two estates running together—but I did think at one time she and Kim had a tendre.”
“Time changes people,” Clio said, then realized it was an unfortunate comment and looked for something else to say. “The next name is Gower. Are they family connections?”
Lady Holly wrinkled her nose. “John Gower’s wife was a distant cousin. I had her daughter Mary here a few times when she was a child. Gower hinted so broadly for an invitation that I felt I must give in. I suppose he wants to dangle that poor girl before eligible men. I hope he doesn’t have his eye on Edward.”
Clio’s eye had moved on. “Who’s Lord Gabriel Quinfroy?”
Lady Holly’s face lit. “A charming scamp and an addition to any social occasion. Son of the Duke of Straith and wealthy in his own right. Of course, it’s spoiled him and women tumble at his feet, but he’s too delicious for anyone to mind.”
I mind, Clio thought, tempted to strike the vile seducer from the list. It wouldn’t do, but when she wrote out his invitation she tried to imbue the ink with a powerful repellant force.
MY TRUE LOVE HATH MY HEART
Joanna Bourne
CHAPTER ONE
December 24, Christmas Eve
He watched her emerge from the servants’ stairs into the hall, a neat, straight, slender figure in a dark dress and white apron. He’d known she would come. He’d been waiting for her—not patiently, but with his blood pumping in anticipation.
Nick Lafford stood at the window at the end of the corridor, backed by the light. A good place to observe and remain unobserved. When he saw the door open, before Claire—his Claire—stepped into the hall, he turned toward the window as if he were interested in the scene outside. He hid his face.
It was midmorning with a gray sky and heavy snow falling. A carriage, emptied of its visitors, was being driven around to the stables. Nothing else moved in the landscape of outbuildings.
She’d notice him as she headed down the hall—the outline of a man looking out at the weather—but she wouldn’t recognize him. She didn’t know he was at Holbourne Abbey. She’d dismiss him as another well-tailored guest here at Holbourne Abbey for the house party. A friend of Edward’s maybe, the right age to be a soldier, newly discharged.
She was dressed as an upstairs maid, neat and proper and trying to be prim. If he wanted to be picky about it, her clothing was a little too fine, the fabric too expensiv
e for a servant to wear at work. Her mobcap trailed a pair of long flirty ribbons at the back. That was vanity on her part and he loved her for it.
A plump older maid, a brown hen of a woman, bustled along the hall ahead of her, all good humor, chattering. Claire followed with the air of a sleek cat that had somehow been adopted into a family of chickens. She carried clean towels and a jug of water. She’d stuck a white dusting cloth into the waistband of her apron. That would be an indictable offense among housemaids, he imagined. The housekeeper would scold her if she got caught.
She was jaunty and intent, thoroughly herself in her borrowed persona. Even the mobcap perched on her head in an impudent, Claire way. If she’d been walking down Bond Street dressed as she should be in one of her flowing, jewel-colored frocks, heads would turn when she passed. Female heads, envious and a little disapproving. Male heads, in admiration.
When she and the other maid had gone inside Gower’s room, Nick stayed where he was, watching the door, being ordinary. Just another guest here to enjoy the festivities of Christmas Eve.