Kissed at Christmas Read online

  Very accurate, Mallory mused.

  “Was your father right to be worried?” Hettie prodded as their carriage shifted, turning on to the long drive that would lead to Felicity’s home at Tetbery Estate.

  “It is not my fault I see an obligation to speak when my gift presents itself.” She would not apologize for who she was. “I do not understand how you keep such things to yourself.”

  Hettie smiled, revealing her slightly crooked but pearly white teeth. “Speaking of that which I see does no one any good, my child. What shall be, shall be.”

  It had been the debate between them since Mallory came to understand and accept her gift—or curse, as her older brother, Adam, called it. As if she and her aunt were common witches who brewed steaming concoctions in caldrons to hex those who angered them.

  It did not work that way. Although, Mallory would be hard-pressed to deny she’d dreamed many times of placing a curse on her brother. Not because of his normalcy—she had never longed to be normal—but due to his views on those who did not fit into society’s mold for acceptable behavior.

  Thank the heavens they were arriving at Tetbery Estate, and the long journey to London was not necessary.

  Tetbery was the one place Mallory could be herself without fear of judgment or admonishment. She need make no excuses for her visions, nor fear them overtaking her as was common. “As your father has commanded, you will speak of your visions to me and only me during our stay at Tetbery.” Her aunt gathered her book and shawl from the bench seat as she spoke, quickly shoving them into her satchel. “That is unless it is your wish to end your betrothal.”

  Mallory turned back toward the window, spotting Felicity sitting upon a fallen timber, her gaze on their carriage as it drew near. “I have given my word that I will in no way jeopardize the agreement my father made with Lord Lichfield—unless I find the man unacceptable.”

  “Very good, my child,” Hettie mumbled. “Though, if you decide that remaining unwed better suits, I will support that decision, as will my brother.”

  Yes, Mallory had long believed her aunt—more a mother figure to her—would back any decision she made for her future as long as it did not include joining a Gypsy tribe and using her gift to raise coin.

  The life of a spinster was not for Mallory. A fact she’d known her entire life. She wanted a family, a husband and children, and did not believe her visions excluded her from that, despite the rare glimpse of her future she’d gotten, showing Mallory’s fate following the path of spinsterhood. Adam would not prove as kind and accommodating to his spinster sister as Mallory’s father had been to Hettie.

  “We have arrived—“ Hettie’s words cut short as the carriage halted. “But there is a man present. He looks to be a stuffy lord, if I’ve ever seen one. When is Lord Lichfield expected to call on us?”

  Mallory pressed close to the glass to gain a proper look at the man. “Father said he would send word to Tetbery when he arrived. He is in Cornwall for his cousins’ weddings and will take an afternoon to meet with us.”

  The carriage door opened to reveal Felicity below.

  As was proper, Aunt Hettie was handed down first, though Mallory dearly desired a hug from her friend.

  “Dear girl,” Aunt Hettie greeted, placing a quick kiss to Felicity’s cheek before stepping back to appraise the woman. “You become more beautiful with each passing year.”

  Another fact Mallory could not deny. Womanhood suited her friend well. Her untamable red hair now hung in perfect curls, and the blossom in Felicity’s cheeks was something altogether new. Her friend was happy, something Mallory hadn’t seen since the woman’s guardian had passed away some months before.

  The footman reached up to hand Mallory down, and a joyful smile broadened Felicity’s already happy demeanor. Surely, Mallory mirrored the woman’s delight.

  Mallory pointedly kept her focus on Felicity, not risking a glance to the man who stood several paces away. If Lord Lichfield were going to disregard their agreed upon stipulations for their first meeting, she would not give him the satisfaction of her notice.

  However, Mallory’s intended cut did not meet its mark as the man strode forward. “I am Nicholas Harding, Duke of Wycliffe. Please allow me to welcome you to Tetbery Estate.”

  Her attention instantly snapped to the man. Not Silas Anson, the Earl of Lichfield, but the man who rightfully possessed Tetbery Estate. She’d often wondered after the man who took such great pleasure in gaining Felicity’s wrath.

  Hettie let loose an unladylike snort. “We have been here many times before, and never have we seen you, Your Grace, nor did Margaret, Lady Tetbery, ever mention you.”

  It was a lie—a rather bold and inflammatory one, in fact.

  The countess, Aunt Hettie’s dearest friend and confidante, spoke of her nephew with great praise and always the utmost affection. Her aunt was no doubt making her loyalties known to both the duke and Felicity.

  Perhaps her father should have been worried over Hettie’s behavior not Mallory’s.

  The duke visibly paled at the rebuff. “Ah, you see—”

  Felicity glanced at Mallory, imploring her to help steer the conversation in another direction. “Nicholas inherited the estate, but he does not deign to visit us often.”

  “I have many obligations that often keep me away from Tetbery.” It was the same excuse her father used to justify his absence. This bill or that bill demanded his attention in London. “But soon, Miss Fields will be joining me in London for the Season, so I am certain you shall see much of both of us.”

  Actually, that would mean Mallory and her aunt would see less of Felicity, as neither journeyed to town, Season or not.

  “Really?” Aunt Hettie questioned.

  Felicity’s aversion to Town mirrored their own, though her reasoning was skewed from Mallory’s in a rather significant way.

  “Yes—”

  “No—”

  “Interesting,” Hettie countered.

  “I’m delighted you are here,” the duke said, though his rigid stance spoke to the contrary. “And I do hope you find the estate to your liking.”

  “Thank you,” Hettie huffed. It was the same tone her aunt used when she deemed her brother was acting the pompous lord, and she need remind him things in the Hughes family would be a great deal different if she had been born male.

  Mallory wanted to laugh at the man’s obviously awkward posture, and her aunt’s thinly veiled contempt for the duke. Instead, she made certain her serene smile beamed, and her manners were above reproach—as her father had demanded.

  “It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace.” Especially since you are not my intended arrived unexpectedly after nearly two days of travel, she added to herself. “I’m Lady Mallory Hughes. Miss Fields has told me much about you.”

  Namely, setting the man’s leg after he fell from a tree—oh, and the frogs in his bed. It is said he cried like a babe each time.

  Mallory did not allow her smile to slip as she nodded in the duke’s direction.

  “All good things, I hope.” His tight grin was forced.

  Hardly.

  “Absolutely,” Mallory shared aloud. She kept her gaze trained on the duke for fear she’d burst into laughter if she caught Felicity’s eye.

  She gave up when Felicity let out a very improper snort.

  With the duke appearing satisfied by their introductions, Mallory stepped forward, her welcoming smile returning.

  Assessing Felicity, Mallory noted the woman had lost weight, her always tall, thin frame becoming lankier without any added pounds about her hips and bust. It was an issue Mallory’s brother was constantly teasing her about—her wide hips, heavy bosom, and legs as sturdy as an aged mare.

  Felicity stepped close, and Mallory wrapped her arms about the woman. The embrace was more for Mallory’s benefit as she knew Felicity did not see the purpose or gain from human contact. Yes, Felicity had researched the effects of interaction via touching and how it correlated
with one’s health and mental stability. Her friend had actually written her a fifteen-page exposition on the subject matter the previous year.

  The instant they touched, Mallory’s vision blurred, and she knew the normally light grey color of her eyes had turned to a deepening, rolling smoke, as if a storm passed through her.

  A jolt of scorching heat coursed through her as Mallory blinked several times to clear the vision from her mind.

  Peculiar…and intriguing.

  She leaned close to Felicity. “So, you shall kiss the handsome duke—”

  Felicity stiffened, holding Mallory close for a moment longer to whisper, “I shall die first.”

  “Suit yourself,” Mallory replied with a nod, closing her eyes for a brief moment as Felicity fled her embrace.

  Opening her eyes, Mallory saw the duke inspecting her closely. Had he seen the storm rage in her stare when the vision had been upon her? Perhaps, but Wycliffe and his opinion of her were of little concern to Mallory.

  What was very concerning was her friend’s reaction to the man.

  The heat that had coursed through her spoke of Felicity’s inner turmoil. She was angry—no, furious at something. Likely the duke’s announcement his ward would be traveling to London for the Season.

  “Shall we go inside, then?” Wycliffe broke the uncomfortable silence, holding his arm out to her.

  Mallory silently chastised the man. While she did not seek to be part of society, she adhered very strictly to societal protocols…and society deemed the duke should offer his arm to Aunt Hettie, not Mallory, and most certainly not Felicity—though that would be a sight to see.

  Blessedly, Felicity slipped her arm through Mallory’s and started for the manor.

  “You are greatly vexed, Felicity,” Mallory hissed when they were several paces from the carriage, affording them a spot of privacy. “A scorching heat nearly had my knees buckling beneath me.”

  “We shall not discuss it now,” Felicity retorted.

  “It is none of your business, my child,” Aunt Hettie shushed, making both women jump at her close proximity.

  It very much was something Mallory need speak to her friend about, yet it could wait a while until the women were left to their own devices and free from Aunt Hettie’s hovering.

  “Thank you for offering Aunt Hettie and me lodging.” Mallory hurried to match Felicity’s long strides as they reached the house. “It will only be a day or two—three, at most. Mother wants us returned to Blenheim Park in time for the new year.”

  “My home—err, the duke’s home—is always open to you and your family.” Felicity turned a pointed glance on her. “Although, I find it rather startling you are betrothed to a lord you know naught of.”

  “He will hopefully be far better than the men I do know,” Mallory laughed, dispelling the heavy air that had settled about the group. “Now, more importantly, tell me of your project. Last you wrote me, your experiments were progressing with a startling speed and efficiency. Do tell me the duke’s arrival will not halt your tests.”

  “Oh, Mallory.” Felicity stepped closer to her but refrained from entwining their arms. “There is so much I must tell you. I am exceedingly close to my goal, but I fear my time is running out.”

  They stepped over the threshold and into Tetbery Estate, its warm, inviting interior always a calming balm for Mallory. Felicity prattled on and on about her recent discoveries in correlation with her experiments surrounding the Philosopher’s Stone, and an elixir to promote immortality. While the matter was of grave importance, and Mallory was anxious to hear all about it, it also afforded her a moment’s distraction from what the coming days held for her.

  Chapter 2

  The ancient, thick wooden door slammed solidly in Silas’s face, cutting off the miniscule amount of heat that escaped the castle to warm him from the plummeting coastal December air. The envelope in his hand was nearly as dense as the door several inches in front of him.

  And it meant nothing.

  Addressed to the Earl of Lichfield…the previous Lord Lichfield.

  The invitation to attend the wedding of Lady Tamsyn Hambly to Mr. Gryffyn Cardew, and Lady Morgan Hambly to Harold Mort, Viscount Blackwater, on the twenty-fourth day of December, 1811, at Castle Keyvnor had appeared a suitable time as any to make the acquaintance of his mother’s family. His funds had dwindled to such a low point—and the Marquess of Blandford had refused to set a wedding date before the new year—that he’d been reduced to doing exactly as Peabody suggested months prior.

  He was in Cornwall to throw himself at the mercy of his estranged relations on his mother’s side.

  The horrid irony that he was still betrothed to Lady Mallory Hughes was not lost on Silas.

  Not even a little bit.

  Tucking the embossed invitation into his inner coat pocket, Silas pulled his collar higher to keep the wind from his neck and ears.

  His father had not responded to the missive—naturally, because he was dead.

  And so, Silas’s name had not been added to the guest list, nor a room reserved for his arrival.

  The castle was brimming with guests, and his “fair” aunt, who “loved her relations” was not available to sort out the issue.

  Where did that leave Silas?

  Admitting defeat. With no other recourse but to return to the tiny, dingy lodgings at the Crown & Anchor in Bocka Morrow, the final room available in town. The finer establishment, The Mermaid’s Kiss, had turned him away just as readily as the butler at his aunt’s castle.

  His aunt, the Countess of Banfield, was in possession of a bloody damned castle!

  Silas turned and stepped down from the stoop as the thought sank in.

  Sybil would never have agreed to remain in London had she known her relations lived in an ancient castle. There was no doubt the vast rock structure was home to all sorts of ghosts and goblins. Slade would be joining him in Cornwall in a day’s time—likely at his besmirched room at the local tavern—due to his recent troubles in London and his need to remove himself from certain circles before…

  Silas sighed. Now was not the time to ponder the predicament his twin had embroiled himself in.

  Silas was in the wilds of Cornwall, preparing to meet his betrothed and resigned to overlook his better judgment to make the acquaintance of his aunt—devoid of proper lodging.

  How was he to adhere to Peabody’s suggestion and keep his estranged, pauper status unknown if he were to greet Lady Mallory under such conditions?

  At least he could gain a proper bath and pressed shirt at the Crown & Anchor.

  The butler had promised to pass word to the countess of his arrival in Bocka Morrow. It would have been wise to bring his bloody calling card to leave with the servant; however, Silas had expected—foolishly—to be greeted by the open arms of family.

  Fair and loving be damned.

  Worse yet, Slade would arrive shortly.

  Silas bloody well hoped the tavern did not sport a gambling room for his twin, or Silas would likely be returning to London on foot, his horse sold to satisfy debts incurred during Slade’s stay.

  Even more feverishly, Silas prayed his aunt sent word sooner rather than later and summoned him to the castle.

  Silas scanned the desolate coastal landscape surrounding Castle Keyvnor. The only break in the monotony of the view was a carriage rolling toward the castle and servants bustling in and out, hurrying to some point beyond the rear of the magnificent structure.

  Yet, no sound could be heard beyond the rise and fall of the turbulent ocean waters.

  It was this that drew Silas’s notice upon arriving in Cornwall: the quiet.

  In Paris, the butcher began his work long before sunrise, and the streets were ever brimming with merchants, travelers, and vagabonds. The noise was incessant and comforting in an odd way.

  There was nothing comforting about this eerily soundless castle on the cliffs.

  Glancing back at the drive, Silas noted that the fast-
approaching carriage was only several hundred yards from him now. This was not the way he’d sought to make his appearance at Bocka Morrow. He must be presented to all in a manner above reproach—shrouded in respectability—if he and his siblings had any chance of acceptance among society.

  A reputation as the poor, estranged relation was not easily overcome in London.

  He swung onto his waiting horse and set off across a barren strip of land toward town—and a tumbler of Scotch.

  Chapter 3

  Mallory sat across from Aunt Hettie in the formal dining hall as the woman finished her late-morning meal of toast and poached eggs. With Mallory’s stomach still churning from her earlier vision, she’d yet to manage even a bite of toast. Aunt Hettie hadn’t seemed to notice her aversion to their meal.

  Her usual comfort when visiting Tetbery Estate had not presented itself as yet. Since the countess’s death, and Felicity’s mourning, nothing about the lush, coastal manor gave her the same sense of calm. The servants were not as welcoming—though that could not be their fault—and Felicity was keeping a secret from Mallory. Despite her insistence that they’d speak on the matter at a later time. Mallory was sensible enough to realize it was a ploy to halt her questions about the vision. Certainly, Mallory and her aunt would remain at Tetbery for a couple of days, but when would the time present itself to discuss Felicity’s experiments in greater detail?

  Ink remained on Mallory’s fingertips from when she’d drawn an image from her latest vision on the foolscap provided by Felicity while they huddled in her friend’s lab. She hadn’t any idea what the symbol meant beyond its connection to the Philosopher’s Stone—or so her friend had confirmed. She wished she’d been able to see more, sense more while in Felicity’s hidden laboratory that morning; however, it had not come to her. And forcing her visions had never worked except to incite a headache that lasted for days.

  Two visions, less than a day apart, and both surrounding her dear friend.