A Kiss At Christmastide: Regency Novella Read online

  Pippa sighed at the sight outside her manor—one that in no way resembled any Christmastide of the past. At this rate, she’d be lucky if her home didn’t float away on a river created by the rain that had assaulted the area for almost a full day now—the temperature staying far above that of freezing.

  Nothing about this year would be like the ones before, though the deplorable weather was not fully to blame. Pippa had sensed that things were not as they should be from the moment she’d received word that the Sheridans were hosting yet another three-day celebration to honor Natalie. This time, it was rumored that they’d announce her betrothal—to the son of a marquis, no less.

  She should be happy for her dear friend—or, at least the girl she’d grown up with and thought of as a sister before Natalie had changed into a woman whom Pippa did not recognize. Her feelings toward the girl were petty, though grounded in truth. But wishing ill will on another was something Pippa found extreme discontent with.

  In a huff, Pippa pulled the drapes shut, blocking out the rain and wind for good.

  “I refuse to feel sorry for myself,” she muttered, not for the first time since receiving the invitation to join Lady Natalie’s holiday house party.

  It was actually a blessing that her parents’ carriage had been held up by the storm. They would likely insist on traveling the short mile to Lady Natalie’s home to join in the revelry—to confirm that no animosity remained between the neighboring dukedoms.

  No matter how much bitterness Pippa had locked within. Lady Natalie was to wed, and Pippa was alone—cast from society after the embarrassment of her first Season.

  Even with all this, her mother staunchly believed that one could not find happiness and fulfillment in life if he or she cast negative thoughts and tidings toward another. A new reason to be thankful they were not here to witness her sulking about as if her prized gloves were missing or stained.

  Picking up her book, Pippa fell back into the fluffy armchair she favored so. She tucked her feet under her and returned her blanket to ward off the growing cold in the room as the fire’s intensity decreased. From her father’s private study down the hall, eleven gongs could be heard, signaling the lateness of the night. For London, most would only be starting their evening by enjoying a meal with friends and acquaintances. But while in the country, Pippa delighted in being abed at sundown and rising when the sun made its next appearance on the horizon.

  Early morning walks around the estate—from the house, out around the pond, and back through the stables to check on the animals—was a pastime she thoroughly found great pleasure in. She’d never thought she’d miss the freedom of her morning strolls after her introduction to society, but walking—other than in one of the many crowded parks in London proper—was frowned upon, especially without a proper chaperone. One could not think or ponder anything while being following by a maid.

  The current storm had robbed Pippa of her morning out. As the day passed, she felt similar to the canaries women kept, a caged animal, longing to escape and roam.

  Again, the storm was not fully to blame for her sense of overwhelming confinement.

  It went far deeper than being trapped within her home during a nasty tempest.

  The windowpane rattled as particularly heavy rain assaulted it once more followed by a thunderous racket. Lightning flared even through the drawn drapes. A door slamming somewhere deep within her home had her jumping with nervousness. The storm’s intensity was only increasing as the night grew later.

  She took a deep, calming breath before opening her book once more. Pippa started where she’d left off when she’d been distracted by the rain traveling into the chimney.

  Had that been five minutes ago or five hours? Pippa had lost track of so many things of late.

  Nothing contributed to her Christmastide cheer more than holiday tales of merriment—and she desperately hoped to repair her sullen mood. While in London, Pippa had discovered a small bookseller off Bond Street that was hidden from view down a narrow alley. Her mother had been more than agreeable to allow Pippa time to scour the shop while the duchess was fitted for new gowns. During one of her many visits, Pippa had found a thick tome full of ancient fables surrounding the winter months—not only tales from various Christian beliefs, but also pagan traditions, and even a few stories full of scary, hand-drawn images of ghosts and ghouls. Pippa had quickly flipped past those stories when she’d sat down to read shortly after her noonday meal, for they would only frighten her more with the storm raging so near.

  Pippa was determined to banish her dour mood before her parents arrived—she may be a bit downcast, but she’d never allow that to ruin her mother’s beloved holiday.

  Turning the page, Pippa read yet another tale of the miracles of Christmastide, and love found during this magical time of year.

  Her family property was rife with holly, and she’d had several groomsmen collect large sprigs for her just the previous day in preparation for decorating the house when her mother arrived home.

  Pippa was vaguely familiar with the story of her parents’ past. They’d found one another at a Christmastide celebration—and had fallen in love under a holly wreath set before a roaring fire.

  Obviously, Lady Natalie had done her part to secure a match…while Pippa had buckled under the pressures of society and cut her first Season short in favor of an extended stay at her childhood home. If only Pippa would have read this book the previous year, maybe she could have secured a kiss before now—as the only men in residence at Helton House were her butler, several footmen, and the stable hands.

  She pondered the notion of journeying to Lady Natalie’s holiday party, hoping to land an eligible man worthy of her first kiss. But she pushed the thought aside when a loud bark of thunder ripped through the room.

  The downpour was only swelling, along with the wind. The roads were flooded and impassable, even on horseback. And the hour was late.

  Pippa was stuck.

  At any other time, she would have been at peace with her fate, but not tonight. If an opening in the storm presented itself, she’d likely take the opportunity to flee—to London…possibly even Lady Natalie’s celebration. Anywhere other than being here alone.

  She should retire to her chambers, get some much-needed rest, and awake in a far more agreeable mood. Most things appeared brighter by morning light, or so her mother told her.

  Shaking her head, Pippa cast a sidelong glance at the covered window before setting her book aside. Staying awake would not make the night pass any quicker, or the storm dissipate any sooner. She needed a good night’s rest if her mother were to arrive in the morn, for holiday preparations would swiftly follow if she did.

  Another loud clap of thunder shook the room—but it did not cease as the others had; instead, it continued steadily.

  Surely the gates of hell were opening and releasing the ghouls and ghosts from their fiery pits. Pippa shouldn’t have opened the book of Christmastide stories. She regretted the brief moment she’d spied the hand-drawn illustrations of creatures not of this realm.

  It was then that a voice yelled above the storm, reaching her in the library.

  It was not thunder at all, but someone pounding on her door.

  She jumped to her feet and rushed toward the foyer to allow them entrance, grabbing her book and tucking it under her arm. Her parents, as radical as they were, must have thrown caution to the wind and traveled through the storm to see her. They were foolish, and their risk great; however, Pippa was overjoyed that they’d arrived.

  Many things pushed to the forefront of her mind as she ran to open the door. She needed to call Cook to prepare them a meal, their bed should be prepped for them with hot coals to warm their linens, and the stable master need be awoken to tend to their horses.

  Pippa was glad for the distraction from her previous melancholy mood.

  Turning the lock, Pippa threw the door wide, a smile lighting her face for the first time that day—only to be faced with
a stranger. On her doorstep was a man completely unknown to her, his hair matted and his clothing drenched and sticking to his thin frame.

  “Is your master home?” he asked, removing his saturated hat from his balding head.

  “I am Lady Pippa.” She stared at the man intensely, waiting for him to state his business on Midcrest land and be gone.

  “My lady,” the man started over with his greeting, bowing. “I am repentant to awaken you, but my lord seeks shelter, and we have not passed an inn for many hours. The storm made it impossible for our carriage to continue on the main road.”

  Pippa remained silent as the man spoke, his body shuddering with cold as his saturated livery garb clung to him. She clutched the door with one hand to avoid it opening further in invitation, while her other arm pushed solidly against her side, keeping her book from falling to the floor.

  “I fear our carriage is knee-deep in mud with the storm continuing to increase, and it has thrown a spoke.” He looked at her expectantly, as if offering shelter was the only option for her. “My lord, the Earl of Maddox, requests refuge for the night if you will be so kind as to accept him.”

  “I…well…” Pippa’s manners abandoned her at the same time she realized she was alone on the first floor of the house. “There is an inn only—”

  A great wind hit Pippa, forcing her back, the door ripped from her hand. It slammed against the wall behind it. The sound echoed through the empty house as it collided with the tall walls of the foyer and rattled the chandelier as her loose tresses blocked her view. A moment of sheer panic seized her when her sight was taken from her.

  Pippa pushed her hair away to continue with instructing the servant to the nearest inn. “Your lord will be far more comfortable…”

  The wind whipped the last of her hair from her face to reveal not the servant from before, but a tall—very tall—broad-shouldered—very broad-shouldered—man. And that was all Pippa saw of him as her glance became locked on his chest. He was drenched, with his shirt plastered to his considerable width. It hadn’t been the wind that had knocked the door from her hands and allowed the storm access to her home, but rather the man before her.

  And he was fuming mad—his nostrils flared as water dripped from his hair and he stared at her pointedly—not bothering to mask his aggressive stance.

  “Were you truly going to turn away a man in need of shelter?” his voice boomed.

  Pippa gasped, taking yet another step back. She glanced quickly over her shoulder, hoping the noise had awoken one of her servants, abed on the third floor of the house. But none came running to aid her.

  “I knew I was venturing into the depths of hell when I agreed to come all this way from London, but are manners not taught in the wilds of Somerset?” The man ran his hands down the front of his shirt, pushing the water from his body to pool on the floor beneath him. “My servants will need space in your stables. I thank you for”—he eyed her up and down before continuing—“your hospitality, my lady.”

  He bowed before Pippa with his last words, and his breath caressed her body, making her acutely aware of two things: he smelled heavily of spirits, and she was attired in a sheer nightshift that did not leave much to the imagination.

  Chapter 2

  Lucas Hartfeld, the Earl of Maddox, glared at the mousey woman before him, attempting to tamp down his irritation at and contempt for his situation—and the woman before him. His bloody carriage had broken down on possibly the worst stretch of their journey—long from any inn or tavern. He knew he should have denied his parents’ request to join them for a Christmastide celebration in the country. It had been years since he’d ventured more than an hour’s ride from London, and with good reason it seemed.

  He’d never witnessed such a storm in London. He had never experienced so many miles between his next bottle of scotch and the last.

  His head pounded from his previous night of drinking as he’d expected to sleep the entire ride to the country. However, the vicious storm raging outside his carriage had derailed his intentions. Now, he stood in an unfamiliar home, water dripping from his body, his hair likely askew, his Hessians overflowing with muck from his trek down this manor’s long drive.

  Lucas needed a bath and a warm bed.

  A warm, empty bed—something he hadn’t anticipated.

  “Well?” Lucas asked as the woman continued to stare at him, her mouth gaping but no words leaving it. He knew she wasn’t deaf for she’d responded to his valet’s earlier request. For the first time, he noticed her hand clutching the neckline of her gown—a white, transparent, frilly nightshift—as if she were frightened of him.

  Which was ludicrous. Women were never frightened of him. They were often infatuated, hung on his every word, and, on a few occasions, had been known to pay him a little more mind than was proper for a woman of the ton. But he’d never been…feared.

  And what he saw in this girl’s wide-eyed look was absolute terror—mixed with a bit of something else.

  She wasn’t even looking him in the eye. No, her stare had landed on his chest. One of his greatest assets, to be sure, from his hours spent at his boxing and fencing clubs—not to mention his nightly entertainments.

  When her mouth finally snapped shut, and he saw her swallow, Lucas recognized the other emotion coursing through her—and he would be lying if he said it did not satisfy him greatly.

  Lust. Pure, simple, uncomplicated lust.

  Her expression, while flattering, was made all the more alluring by her demure, innocent appearance. The woman was certainly unfamiliar with men and was likely only just preparing for her first Season in London. If she sought to make a favorable match, she must learn to guard her baser instincts.

  Lucas glanced over her shoulder, awaiting the appearance of her butler or another servant—or even the lord of the house, but none appeared. It was only the pair of them, alone but for his valet.

  She dressed in a far from proper nightgown.

  And he was sopping wet from the storm outside.

  It had all the makings of one of those novels women in London seemed taken by in recent years. In fact, Lucas spied a book tucked under the woman’s arm.

  Had he walked directly into a sordid, risqué storybook?

  His night was gaining absurdity as the hours passed; however, a bit more time before he arrived at the Duke of Sheridan’s estate—and the woman his parents insisted he wed—was highly agreeable to him.

  There was no hurry on Lucas’s part to tie himself to a petty, self-centered, young debutante who’d demand he change his rakehell ways. It was what every woman did…and that sent him running for the safety of his club, whether it be White’s or Gentleman Jackson’s. He was whom he was, and that was not going to change anytime soon. Even the thought of being with one woman, day in and day out, had him questioning any need to marry at all.

  “Shall I show myself to a room?” he asked.

  Suddenly, the woman blinked, snapping from her daze. “You are drunk.”

  It wasn’t a question but a statement. “Correction. I was drunk, but that was hours ago. Now, I have a raging headache, which you are not helping me alleviate with your uptight manners.”

  “Uptight?” she gasped. “Why, I never—”

  “I am certain no person has ever told you to your face, but I assure you, your manners leave much to be desired.”

  Her hands moved to her hips, and she stared at him pointedly, letting the book beneath her arm fall forgotten to the floor as he prepared for a tongue-lashing he likely deserved.

  The book landed with a thud, and the cover flopped open.

  She broke her stare and dipped to retrieve her book, but Lucas was faster. He scooped it up and held it out to her. Water dripped from his arms with the movement.

  When she didn’t immediately take the tome, he tossed it on the table next to the door.

  “Where were you headed?”

  Lucas wasn’t sure why his destination meant anything to her, but he gave in
and answered. “A holiday party not far from here, but my carriage broke a wheel, and it is immovable in the storm.”

  “You cannot stay at Helton House,” she huffed. “I can direct you and your servants to an inn that’s not far from here. Only a short horseback ride over the next hill.”

  “You expect us to travel in this storm?” Lucas didn’t bother concealing his exasperation at her denial of lodging. “We may very well be struck by lightning or drown in the torrential rains out there.”

  A smug grin lifted her lips, replacing her frown. “Oh, I am certain the lightning will find you as obtuse and bothersome as I do…and stay far away.”

  Lucas couldn’t help but chuckle at her sharp wit. “Aw, I find we are at an impasse. May I at least coax from you the name of the woman who will so kindly give my servants and me shelter for the night?"

  “I am Lady Pippa Godfrey, and you have arrived at the Duke of Midcrest’s estate,” she said. “But you shall not be finding shelter here.”

  “Is the duke available? I am certain he will have something different to say.”

  “It is the middle of the night, my lord.” Her eyes narrowed at his forwardness. “He is most definitely not available. You may wait out front until he is and ask him then.”

  Could it be the woman was entirely alone in this large house?

  No matter the commotion they’d made, no servants, nor her father, had come to investigate.

  “May I offer another solution?” he asked, though her glare told him it would be met with the same reluctance as his last. However, he pushed forward. He was wet, disheveled, and freezing. “I will forget your less than customary greeting and our odd introduction, if you show me to a room—preferably one with a roaring fire and a suitable bed.”

  “May I offer yet another option for you to ponder?”

  “Of course, Lady Pippa.” He would entertain her womanly dramatics for only so long, though. “Please, share your idea.”

  “I sound the alarm, which will bring my servants running—and not only will you be thrown from this house, but the magistrate will be called.”