Her Mistletoe Kiss: A Regency Christmas Novella by Deborah Hale

Author:Deborah Hale [Hale, Deborah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-11-14T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

FROST FAIRLY BOUNDED out of bed on the morning of Christmas Eve, looking forward to the day with an eagerness he had not felt in years. The pretty tune Christabel had played the night before hummed in the back of his mind. How he wished he could have persuaded her to sing it for him in her sweet, clear voice.

But for that one tiny regret, the day had been everything he’d hoped for when he invited the Wiltons to spend Christmas—music, merriment and lively company. He could not recall when he had enjoyed himself more. Back when he’d first courted Christabel, perhaps? Even then, the certainty that she did not return his feelings had cast a shadow over the merriest times.

Did he truly have reason to hope, now? The good sense for which Christabel had praised him told Frost not to. If he had not been able to make her care for him when they were both young and eligible, surely there could be no chance of it now. Besides, the woman had only lost her husband eighteen months ago—no doubt she still grieved and yearned for him. The passionate kiss she had given Frost in her husband’s stead should be proof of that, and yet... In the midst of overwhelming doubt there flickered a tantalizing spark of hope, like a Christmas candle lighting the darkest days of the year.

Frost closed his eyes and conjured up the memory of Christabel’s fingertips caressing his face. For all her feigned confusion, she had known it was he. But she had touched him in a manner almost as intimate as a kiss. In that touch he had sensed curiosity, fondness... and desire? Or had he only fancied what he wanted to be true?

Christabel had praised his good sense. Frost pondered the fact as his valet shaved him for the day. Afterward he grimaced at his reflection in the looking glass. Christmas was not a season for good sense, was it? he asked the fellow in the mirror. It was a time to celebrate wondrous reversals like the birth of a King in a rustic stable. It was a time for believing spring would return, in the very teeth of winter’s dark, cold despair.

Frost took far more than usual care choosing his clothes for the day, including a waistcoat the color of well-aged burgundy shot with gold threads. Once dressed, he headed for the breakfast room with a brisk stride, humming a Christmas carol.

Mrs. Wilton and her son were already seated at the table, though they had not yet been served.

“A very good morning to you both!” On an impulse, Frost seized Christabel’s hand and raised it to his lips. “I hope you slept well for we have a busy day ahead.”

His unexpected gesture seemed to ruffle her composure, but in a pleasant way. Her dark eyes sparkled when she glanced up at him through her lashes and a mysterious little smile played on her lips.

“You must have enjoyed sweet dreams, Mr. Frost. I have never seen you in such high spirits.

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