Mistletoe Kisses and Yuletide Joy Read online

  Kitty swung at him, trying to hit or scratch, but he dodged and snared her in his arms.

  She writhed, but he was taller and stronger and she was alarmingly helpless. She opened her mouth to scream, but then thought better of it. Did she really want her neighbors to discover her out in the garden in her nightwear, in the arms of a rakish lord?

  "Please, my lord...." she whispered, hearing the tremor in her voice. She braced her hands against his chest and pushed.

  To no effect.

  "Please, what?" he whispered back, his features now in shadow. "I only want to show you that I don't think you unearthly." He blew a tendril of hair off her face. "Or unearthy, my moon-maiden."

  Dear Lord, but her hair was in its night-time plait and must be slipping loose, as it always did. Why this should seem the epitome of wantonness, she didn't know.

  "My lord...."

  "Yes, my queen? My crystal moon-queen."

  He was staring at her as if fascinated, but his use of the word "queen" had her struggling even more desperately. "If you are even suggesting...!"

  He controlled her without effort. "That you raced out here desperately seeking a randy tom? The thought never crossed my mind, Miss Mayhew." But he was laughing at her.

  She kicked him, and her boots made slight contact. He didn't relax his grip, but just trapped her head and kissed her.

  Kitty had never been kissed. She tried to squirm away, but he held her still, yet her only rested his warm lips against hers. Breath playing against her mouth, he murmured, "Earth to earth, dear lady. Doesn't it feel pleasant to share earthy warmth?"

  She was abruptly aware of the warmth of his body all along hers, of the warmth of his arms around her and the heat of his lips and his breath. Having no idea what to do or say, she stayed silent, trying to deal with the fact that she could be said to be enjoying this.

  She was safe. She knew she was. He could not rape her here. He was behaving outrageously, but it was exciting to be a little outrageous for once in her life. A racy sizzle sparkled in her staid blood.

  And he didn't think her unearthly. Nor had he ever addressed her as "ma'am."

  He trailed his hot lips across her cheek to blow into her ear. She resisted the urge to squirm. One hand stroked her, stroked down her side from ribs to hip. The other played softly in the hair at the nape of her neck, and she remembered the way his finger had stroked the fur of his black cat. She rather thought the same finger was playing in her hair, in the same kind of movement.

  She could, if she allowed it, turn soft like the cat, like the horse in the stables....

  "You have very dense skin," he said. "I noticed that. You don't easily show color. But everyone can be brought to the blush eventually. Are you blushing now? In moonlight, I would never know."

  His lips returned to hers and kissed her again, hand firmly at the back of her neck, making it even harder not to slacken, not to let him hold her limp in his arms.

  Perhaps she did.

  One thumb rubbed up her jaw and his tongue tickled at her lips before he freed her mouth, still stroking.

  "Shall I do more?" he murmured.

  Kitty wrenched herself out of his arms, taking three steps back and fussing with her clothes. "Certainly not! You are a ruthless libertine, sir."

  The moon picked out an expression of cynical humor. "Are you outraged? I do hope so. Now you know what to expect if you ever again try to harm my cat."

  Kitty seized her umbrella, glad of the distance between them. That was all it had been -- an assault designed to teach her a lesson? She could have wept, or scratched him, or belabored him with her weapon. She'd never been more embarrassed and outraged in her life.

  "I would not normally even dream of attacking an innocent creature, my lord."

  "Oh, so he's innocent now, is he? Lucky fellow. I fear I am not so fortunate."

  "You most certainly are not. You, my lord, are a wicked rake, and if you ever touch me again I will harm you in any way I can."

  He grinned and gave her an elaborate bow. "I thank you for the warning, Miss Mayhew. I leave you now to comfort your poor unpleasured queen."

  Stunned by the feeling that he was referring to herself, Kitty watched him stroll off down the garden and nimbly use one of the trees to climb the wall at the end.

  Barbarians within the walls!

  She fled back into the safety of her house.

  Pol was there, holding Sherry so the cat couldn't try to escape again when the door was opened. "Are you all right, miss?"

  Goodness knows what she looked like. "Yes, of course. I believe we'll have to lock Sherry in one of the spare bedrooms at night."

  "She'll likely shred it, miss."

  "So be it." Kitty took possession of the "unpleasured queen" and carried her up to a spare bedroom, lecturing her all the way on the consequences of giving in to carnal urges.

  The lecture, however, was to herself. Eventually, she settled into her still-warm bed knowing that she should have hated being captured and handled in such a way. To begin with she had, or at least she'd been frightened.

  But she'd grown accustomed.

  Rather quickly.

  Yes, one could definitely become accustomed to being in a strong embrace.

  With the right person, of course.

  Which Lord Chatterton certainly was not, horrid man.

  Resolutely, Kitty turned her mind to more general implications. Her adventure had made the option of marriage rather more attractive. She'd never quite thought of it, but the marriage act must involve more than just insertion and planting of seed.

  It must surely involve embracing.

  And kissing, she thought sleepily.

  And perhaps even blowing in ears...?

  ((---))

  Kitty rose from her bed the next morning, disturbed and distressed by her own behavior -- by her reactions, her thoughts, and her dreams. It was all outrageous, and she would have no more of it.

  She repeated that sternly to Sherry when she let her out of the bedroom. Returning downstairs, however, Kitty paused by a window that looked out over the back garden, restlessly rubbing her arms and thinking of a dream-like encounter.

  The optimistic cats returned that night and Kitty fancied she could pick out Rochester's dominant caterwaul. Of course, she should never have expected responsible behavior from Lord Chatterton.

  Then the racket was cut short. Had one of the men taken action? She turned over in her bed and pulled the covers up over her ears, rejecting the temptation to go to a window to try to see which man it was.

  It would be the servant anyway.

  In a very short while, the noise started up again, but different now, lacking the ringleader. It kept her awake and she lay there thinking -- and it wasn't about the servant.

  How strange that the heir to an earldom seemed to be lurking in his servants' quarters with the knocker off. It was especially strange so close to Christmas when most people were with family and friends. Perhaps he'd wasted his money on whores and gambling and was now forced to hide from his creditors.

  It was perfectly reasonable, she told herself, to be curious about such a thing. It wasn't that she was particularly interested in the man himself.

  She found a chance to find out a little more about Lord Chatterton and his family after church on Christmas Day. For once, Christmas was sunny so despite the nip in the air everyone was happy to linger for a while.

  Doctor and Mrs. Whitworth, who lived three doors down from Kitty's house, paused to wish her a happy Christmas. They were a plump, solidly respectable couple who had spent evenings at her house when her parents were alive.

  "I gather it was your mother's little white cat who attracted all that commotion, Miss Mayhew." The twinkle in the doctor's eye made Kitty feel quite hot.

  "Yes, I'm afraid so."

  "Poor little cat," said the doctor, still twinkling.

  Perhaps, in private, she would ask him if there was something she could give Sherry to stop these
fits. For now, she said, "The worst tom apparently belongs to the Earl of Felstowe's house on Wells Street."

  "Indeed! Then you'll know where to complain if kittens arrive."

  "There's no question of that, thank goodness." Kitty saw Mrs. Whitworth poke her elbow in her husband's ribs and give him a look.

  The doctor cleared his throat. "Oh, ay. Well, the earl's not a bad sort, Miss Mayhew, though high in the instep. I've been called in to his servants now and then."

  "I don't think he's in residence at the moment."

  "No, likely not. He doesn't come to London often, as I understand it. His heir uses it the most. Viscount Chatterton. He's attended service today, did you know? There he is. Over there, creating quite a flutter."

  Kitty hardly heard the last words because she was staring. How had she missed him in church?

  He certainly couldn't be missed now, for he stood out in this plebeian crowd. It was partly height, though there were other tall men. It was largely presence. And, she realized, the fact that a number of people, including the vicar, were fawning all over him.

  "I don't know that he's ever attended service at St. Caspian's before," said Mrs. Whitworth. "Or his father. Right and proper that he should, mind you, him living in the parish."

  As if he felt eyes upon him, Lord Chatterton looked over. Then he smiled and bowed. Kitty felt obliged to incline her head, though she'd dearly like to cut the man.

  "Goodness, Miss Mayhew, do you know him?" asked Mrs. Whitworth.

  Kitty forced a mild smile. "We spoke. About his cat, that is all. I fear he is arrogant."

  "Such men generally are, my dear." With that and more good wishes, the couple moved on.

  Kitty called Pol away from some friends and headed home. She had to keep pausing to exchange greetings, but lingered as little as possible. With luck, people would think she was leaving quickly because the jollity of the season didn't mix well with her mourning. In fact, she wanted to escape before having to speak to a certain lord.

  She felt that even thinking about him might summon him -- like the devil, perhaps. Therefore, she forced herself to think of other things. About the fact that she would miss St. Caspian's if she moved. Most of these people had known her from birth. The same was true of the area, the shops and tradesmen.

  Dividing the house was the only practical solution....

  "Miss Mayhew."

  She froze, then turned, wishing again that it were possible to cut him -- to cut him like the reprobate he was.

  "My lord?" She directed her eyes toward his right ear. He must have hurried to catch her. What would people think?

  "How is your pretty little cat?"

  "As before, my lord. We are keeping her close confined."

  "Poor little thing."

  She glared at him, which meant she looked at him. Which was a mistake. Shaven, his dark hair neatly-arranged, he was exceedingly handsome.

  "Of course," he added with a teasing smile, "a tomcat is not dissuaded by an invisible queen, as you have seen. Despite our efforts, Rochester might bother you again. I can only promise to do my best to control him."

  "Thank you, my lord." Kitty forced her eyes back into the safer position.

  "You must feel free to call on me if there is any further need. At any time -- day or night."

  Need, indeed! Kitty wished she had her umbrella and the courage to bend it over his rascally head.

  "I gather you worship here regularly," he said.

  She met his eyes. "Have you been asking people about me?"

  "Just in general conversation. I have decided to get to know all my neighbors."

  "I'm sure they'll be delighted."

  His lips twitched. "Armed even without umbrella," he murmured. "I gather you are well known to all."

  "I have attended this church since I was christened here, my lord, and have many friends in the congregation." She gave it as a warning.

  "How fortunate you are. It converts me to the notion of attending the local church, at least in the less fashionable times of year. Perhaps soon I, too, will have friends hereabouts."

  Kitty couldn't imagine what he was up to, for the parishioners of St. Caspian's were hardly of his class. She only knew that she had to get away from him before doing something foolish.

  She shot a final dart. "I'm sure most people here will be deeply gratified, my lord, at the honor of your attendance."

  On the way home, Pol for once started a conversation. "That was the man who was out in the garden the other night, miss."

  "Yes. He's the Earl of Felstowe's heir, Viscount Chatterton."

  "Lawks," said Pol, not obviously impressed. "You stayed out talking to him long enough."

  "I was making my point about his cat."

  "Oh." A few steps later, Pol said, "Beggin' your pardon, Miss Kitty, but you'd be best not to bandy words with the like of him."

  Kitty glanced at the maid. "Bandy words?"

  "Like you were back there. Men take that as encouragement, they do."

  Kitty was tempted to give the maid a sharp rebuke for impudence, but she feared she was right. "I hope never to even speak to him again."

  "Right, miss," said Pol.

  Why did she sound disbelieving?

  ((---))

  Because of her mother's death, Kitty passed Christmas Day just like any other. There had been invitations, but she'd felt she'd be a shadow on the feast on this first Christmas without her family. Next year would be different, but it would never be the same as it had been when her parents were alive.

  Christmas had been quiet last year, because it had come soon after her father's death. She and her mother hadn't decorated the house, or entertained at all. But the servants had deserved their Christmas dinner, and so they'd all eaten the usual fare, and in the evenings Kitty and her mother had heard the servants singing traditional songs.

  Christmas had been in the house.

  And on Christmas Eve, her mother had lit a Yule candle.

  Kitty's parents had started this tradition before she was born, a substitute for the Yule log which would never fit in their small hearth. They had a special mold, and made the thick candles themselves each year. Then, at midnight on Christmas Eve, they lit it in a special ceremony of light. They gave reverence to Christ, the light of the world, but also to more ancient gifts -- those of sun and fire.

  It was somewhat pagan, but Kitty's mother's special interest was ancient British traditions. She had felt that Yule -- the celebration of light in the darkest time of year -- was an important ritual.

  The bit Kitty had always loved most was the extra prayer at the end, one of thanks for the warmth and brightness brought by family and friends. Last year, her mother had lit the candle, and they'd remembered Kitty's father. They'd cried, but it had been a healing moment. This year, however, being all alone, Kitty had lacked the heart to try to celebrate all on her own. Perhaps that had been a mistake, for the season felt dark.

  At the end of Christmas Day, she climbed into her bed rather glad to have it over with. There were still the Twelve Days to get through, each with special memories, but surely the worst of the season was over.

  Then she found herself lying in the dark, waiting for the sound of Rochester serenading the object of his desires. The other cats were there, but not him. She went to the window to check. Another cat was in the center of the lawn, a paler one.

  For some reason, that seemed a depressing end to a dismal day.

  Lord Chatterton had doubtless left town to spend Christmas with his family and taken his cat with him. She should be glad. After all, she never wanted to speak to him again.

  Chapter Three

  The very next day, however, Kitty found that she was going to have to speak to Lord Chatterton again. Just as she was getting into bed, a noise alerted her. Not cats, this time. An intruder!

  Heart thumping, she crept downstairs, a poker in her hand.

  In the kitchen, however, she found Pol taking off a shawl.

 
; "Pol? Where on earth have you been?"

  For once the girl looked flustered. "Out in the garden, miss."

  "But it's gone ten o'clock!"

  "It's a nice night, miss."

  "It's December." Something about the girl made Kitty ask, "Have you been meeting someone?"

  Pol's ready color flared and she studied her shoes. "Perhaps."

  "Who?"

  Pol looked up and bit her lip, but a smile fought to get out. "Ned. Ned Kingsman. His valet. Lord Chatterton's valet."

  Kitty sat in a chair with a thump. "Pol! How could you be so wicked?"

  "'Tain't wicked, miss. We're courting." Pol's cheeks were red as rosy apples.

  Suddenly Kitty felt as sorry for the maid as she had for her cat. "Oh, Pol. His intentions can't be honorable. He'll ruin you, that's all."

  "I won't be ruined," Pol declared with some indignation. "And anyway, Ned's not like that."

  "All men are like that. Off to bed with you, and we'll have no more of this."

  But as she checked to see that the door was locked, Kitty knew she had no way to enforce her command. It was also clear that Pol was as incapable of being rational on this matter as Sherry had been.

  The only thing to do was what they'd done with the cats -- keep both would-be lovers closely confined until the madness passed. That, however, would need the assistance of Ned's employer.

  So, the next morning, Kitty sent a neighbor's lad with a note requesting an appointment with Lord Chatterton at two in the afternoon. It seemed wise to insist on formality this time, but the prospect still made her shake with nervousness.

  The boy returned with a terse acceptance on heavy, crested paper. That paper rather daunted Kitty for it reminded her that he was far above her in social rank.

  She could not fail Pol however, so, at a quarter to two Kitty left for her appointment. This time, she would definitely have preferred to take a companion as chaperone, but it was clearly impossible to take Pol. In fact, she hadn't told Pol where she was going.

  It would be too embarrassing to discuss such matters in front of someone like Mrs. Whitworth, and it shouldn't matter. This was not a social call and surely even a rakish lord couldn't behave improperly at two in the afternoon.