A Countess for Christmas (Regency Short Story) by Lawson Anthea

Author:Lawson, Anthea [Lawson, Anthea]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: christmas, historical romance, regency romance, sweet regency, short story, love story, epistolary romance
Publisher: Fiddlehead Press
Published: 2013-12-03T00:00:00+00:00

***

Liam laid an armful of holly into the back of the wagon, ignoring the sharp pricks of the leaves. Despite his hat, his ears were tingling with cold. The sun remained hidden behind swirls of cloud, only occasionally peeping out to send a shaft of light through the bare winter woods.

“Well done,” Marcus said, unloading his own burden of boughs. “That’s more than enough to decorate all of Wiltshire in greenery. And look what I found.”

He pointed to a balled mass of foliage growing on one of the branches.

“Your eyesight must be improving, to discover such a treasure,” Liam said. “Er, what is it?”

Marcus clapped him on the back. “It’s mistletoe, my good man! Full of berries to steal a kiss with.”

“Ah.” Liam knew of the tradition, of course, but to his recollection had never seen the plant, let alone put it to use.

“Is that your only response?” Marcus grinned. “My vision is clear enough to see how you and my sister nearly smile at one another, before you both recall yourselves.”

Liam coughed—not an entirely feigned response. “I do beg your pardon.”

“I won’t forgive you.”

“You won’t?” Liam looked closely at Marcus. “Please understand, I have no designs upon your sister.”

It was a small lie, but really, he couldn’t confess to the man the growing warmth of feeling he had for Cecilia. No, it was not the done thing for a houseguest to suddenly fall in love with his host’s sister.

His fingers closed hard around a sprig of holly, the thorned bite of it recalling him to his senses. In love? What an impossible notion.

Marcus had stopped smiling. “I see. That’s a pity. Come, then—one more pile of boughs and we can return to the house.”

They completed their task in silence, Liam turning over their conversation in his head like a handful of polished stones. Had Marcus been encouraging him, or simply trying to determine the lay of Liam’s affections? Or had Marcus been warning him off in some oblique manner that he was too thick-skulled to fathom? How did the gentry go about these things?

Lord, he was thrice a fool. If he had any sense at all, he’d order his coach made ready and ride back to Tarrick Hall that very evening.

But somehow he could not bear the notion of jostling away in his empty, cold vehicle; away from the warmth of Wilton House, away from the holiday he had, curiously, come to anticipate. Away from a particular set of stormy blue eyes that hid a vulnerability he understood all too well.

Their return to the house was greeted with merry cries and the bustle of the servants bearing the greenery away. They would deck the hall later with swags of sweet-smelling boughs, and no doubt hang the kissing-ball of mistletoe someplace amusingly prominent. Perhaps at the center of the wide opening leading to the parlor.

“Come in,” Cecilia said, her smile seeming to warm further as she turned it on him. “There’s mulled cider. You must be chilled.”

He was, but it was nothing a simple cup of cider could cure.

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