It Happened Under the Mistletoe: A Holiday Novella (11 page)

Oliver turned back to Cerian and fell to one knee. Cerian clutched the mistletoe like a lifeline.

“You didn’t answer, Miss Blake. Will you be my wife?”

Cerian pulled Oliver to his feet and motioned for him to lean down so she could whisper in his ear. “Is this part of our pretend relationship?”

“No. Why? Would you prefer that?” He grinned.

“No.”

“I’m glad you said that because I was hoping you’d agree to be the Duchess of Markingham.”

“I don’t know how to be a duchess,” she said, feeling the eyes of everyone in the drawing room upon them.

“You’re in perfect company then because I don’t know how to be a duke. We’ll learn together.”

“What if I trip in front of the queen or use the incorrect form of address when speaking to a baron or something?”

Oliver watched her face, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “God, Cerian. You make me laugh even when I’m proposing marriage to you.”

From the corner of her eyes, Cerian saw Mama turning a mottled shade of purple. No doubt the woman was about to have a fit while her daughter took her time saying yes to a proposal from a duke.

Cerian bit her lip. Her foot was tapping in its predictably embarrassing woodpecker-like manner. She couldn’t capitulate so easily, however. There were many things to consider. Big, important things. “What about your reputation?” she countered.

“What about it?”

Cerian couldn’t seem to get enough air in her lungs. “What about Lady Kinsey’s threats?”

Oliver squeezed her hands. “What about the fact that I’m in love with you, Cerian? And I cannot imagine my life without you?” He stood, cupped her cheeks with his hands, and stared deeply into her eyes.

Very well. That did it.

Tears dropped down her cheeks. “Yes. Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you, Oliver. Yes!”

A relieved smile spread across his handsome face. He swept her up into his arms and the entire drawing room erupted into a cacophony of cheers.

*   *   *

Moments later, when Oliver let Cerian slide from his arms, she stared up dreamily into his eyes. The entire drawing room was issuing their congratulations to Oliver and best wishes to her. Something brushed against Cerian’s ankles and she looked down.

The cat.

This time the cat wore a bit of mistletoe on its head. The sprig was angled jauntily over one pointy ear.

“Medford,” Oliver said to his friend who had re-entered the room. “This is the cat I asked you about.”

“Yes,” Cerian said, looking toward Kate. “What is this cat’s name?”

Medford and Kate glanced at each other.

“I have no idea whose cat that it. It certainly doesn’t belong to us,” Medford replied.

“Whose cat is this?” Kate called out to the assembled guests, turning in a circle to see who would claim the animal.

No reply.

Cerian bit her lip. “She doesn’t belong to Lady Kinsey and Lady Selina, does she?”

Medford laughed at that. “Hardly. I can tell you those two ladies have no interest in pets.”

Medford called to the butler, “Locke, where did this cat come from?”

The butler shook his head. “Mrs. Hartsmeade has been asking me about this cat all week,” he said, referring to Medford’s housekeeper. “We assumed it belonged to one of the guests. Mrs. Hartsmeade has been decorating that cat for Christmastide every day. I dare say the animal seems to enjoy it.”

They all laughed and Cerian bent down to rub the cat on the head.

“Strange, but the cat doesn’t appear to have an owner.” Medford shrugged.

Cerian scratched the cat under its little chin while the feline purred contentedly. “Well, she does now. She’s our cat.”

Oliver glanced down at his affianced bride and smiled. “What do you intend to name her?”

Cerian scooped the cat into her arms. “Why, Merry, of course. With an e and two r’s. She was responsible for bringing us together, wasn’t she? She’ll be a fine cat in a duke’s household.”

Oliver patted the cat on the head and pulled Cerian into his arms for another kiss. “I think Merry is the perfect name,” he said. “And I think you and I are going to be very happy together.”

Cerian nodded, tears in her eyes. “I agree, Oliver. Truly, I do.” She smiled at him over the cat’s fluffy gray head. “You know, I once thought it was impossible for a duchess to love her duke.”

He tugged her hand to his lips and kissed it softly. “Tell me you’ve changed your mind, my love.”

“I have. I absolutely have.” She glanced up at the ceiling where a festive bough of mistletoe hung. “And to think it all happened under the mistletoe.”

Read on for an excerpt from Valerie Bowman’s next book

THE UNEXPECTED DUCHESS

Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

London, Late June 1815

Derek Hunt stared across the crowded ballroom brimming with sparkling belles wearing the latest fashions and their gallant escorts wearing high-starched cravats. Laughter, champagne, dancing, and revelry filled the large room. Derek straightened his own cravat and slid a hand into his pocket. Had it really only been a fortnight since he’d been holding his dying friend’s hand on a blood-soaked battlefield in Belgium? And since then, he’d returned to London, been granted a dukedom by the Crown, and was even now in the market for a proper wife. The future mother of his future son.

A fortnight ago, Derek hadn’t known whether he’d be alive tonight. Now, he was lifting a champagne flute from the gleaming silver tray of a passing footman as if he’d never stepped foot on the battlefield, never watched as his countrymen were sliced down in front of him, never heard the agonizing screams of his dying friends. In London, the parades and parties given in honor of the victory over Napoleon were all the rage. And here he was tonight, the celebrated hero, enjoying the victory along with everyone else. As if he’d never seen the truth. The real horror of war.

Derek lifted the flute to his lips and took a long swallow. Good stuff, that. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the room. He was no longer in battle, but he still had a goal.

There she was. Lady Cassandra Monroe. Tall, blonde, beautiful. And quiet and demure if Julian had been correct about her temperament. The perfect wife for a man who’d just spent his last years in the upheaval of battlefields. Lady Cassandra Monroe was exactly the type of woman who would ensure that Derek lived his remaining days in peace and quiet. Precisely what he wanted.

But most importantly, he’d promised Julian. As he’d watched him grit his teeth and writhe in pain on the packed earth outside Waterloo, Derek had promised his friend that he would find Lady Cassandra, and he would marry her.

And Derek Hunt, whether general or duke,
never
went back on a promise to a friend.

*   *   *

Lady Lucy Upton stood on the sidelines of the ballroom, tapping her slipper in time to the music. It was true that she hadn’t been asked to dance in an age, but that didn’t keep her from enjoying the tune. Whether one was firmly on the shelf or not, a ball was a ball and a dance was a dance. And she adored dancing. It wasn’t her fault no suitors had been interested in an age. Oh, very well, strictly speaking it
was
her fault. For her unpopularity with beaux just happened to stem from the fact that she’d earned a solid reputation as a lady who did not mince words.

She had a rapier for a tongue, they said. She jabbed with nouns. She riposted with verbs. And she delivered adjectives with a particular flourish. By all accounts, she was a master. One who could rip an overzealous beau to shreds in mere seconds. It hadn’t taken long for the eligible bachelors of the
ton
, those who were not otherwise occupied with war, to disentangle themselves from any association with Lucy. But was it her fault the Earl of Milhaven wore a ridiculous bit of fake hair upon his lip to which she’d immediately responded, “Good God, my lord, I should think it very difficult to eat with that thing flapping about”? Or that Viscount Ballard had been wearing a bright orange overcoat when he’d asked her to dance that caused her to blurt, “I should very much like to dance, your lordship, but I fear my eyes might be done irreparable harm if forced to look at such a vivid bit of clothing for the duration of a waltz.”

Perhaps it
was
her fault that she’d never been able to curb her tongue. Her mama certainly seemed to think so. But Lucy had long ago made peace with her reputation and her penchant for forthrightness and these days she used it entirely to her advantage. Only tonight she was ready to use it in the employ of her very closest friend, Lady Cassandra Monroe.

“Why do you think he’s staring at me that way?” Cass glanced skittishly in the direction of the newly minted Duke of Claringdon.

Lucy reached over to squeeze her friend’s hand. “I’m not sure, exactly. But he does seem to be pinning you with his eyes. Not exactly a gentleman, the duke.”

Cass dared another glance. “I must admit he is handsome. But he doesn’t have Julian’s blond hair.” She sighed.

Lucy glanced over at the man. He was standing by the Grecian column in the middle of the crowded ballroom. She narrowed her eyes. Very well. Cass was right. The Duke of Claringdon was handsome. More than handsome, actually. Spectacularly handsome. He was well over six feet tall, had midnight-black hair and emerald green eyes, shoulders so wide he looked as if he might not fit through the average doorway and muscles from top to toe. A war hero to boot. A general known for his decisiveness in battle. He’d won a variety of battles over the last few years and had been sent to meet Wellington in Belgium just before Waterloo. The Duke of Decisive, they called him.

He was also arrogant, commandeering, and entirely too used to getting his way. Which, Lucy was sure, was quite an asset on the field of battle, but his way, at the moment, involved making her friend a bit uneasy.

And for that, Lucy would not stand. Lucy, bold, blunt, completely without the demure gentility of a lady, had only two friends in this world—well, three if you counted Garrett—and Cass was one of them. Elegant, modest Cass who was too friendly and kind to rebuff anyone. Yes, Cass had always been quietly loyal to Lucy and Lucy was nothing if not loyal herself. If Cass wanted to avoid the attentions of the Duke of Claringdon, well, Lucy would assist her in any way she was able.

“How do you suppose he managed to have such a golden glow to his skin?” Cass asked.

Lucy wrinkled her nose and shrugged. “I heard he was on holiday in Italy just before he was called back to battle. Apparently his mistress is Italian.”

Yes, the duke was powerful, commanding, and more handsome than he had a right to be. And the whole war hero bit didn’t diminish his appeal, but Lucy wasn’t about to allow him to frighten Cass. And something told her, some gut feeling, that the duke had set his sights on her friend. Who wouldn’t love Cass? Why, she’d had more offers than you could shake a stick at. And she’d managed to refuse them all. Yes. Cass had managed to remain unattached for the last five seasons, waiting for her precious Julian to return from the war. The only problem with Lord Julian Swift was that he was all but betrothed to Cass’s cousin Penelope.

“Mother says I should be flattered,” Cass said, biting her lip.

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Of course she did. He’s a duke. An incomparable catch as far as your mother is concerned. His just glancing in your direction has probably got her planning your wedding with glee.”

“He frightens me,” Cass whispered.

Lucy patted Cass’s shoulder. “I know, dear.”

Cass glanced down at her hands. “When he looks at me, I want to shrink back against the wall.”

Lucy had just opened her mouth to offer some additional comforting words when their friend Jane came hurrying up. Jane had chestnut brown-hair, wide brown eyes that were framed by a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles, and a lovely face that she usually kept buried in a book. Despite her desire to remain unattached, Jane’s mother dutifully dressed her up and trotted her out at every ball every Season hoping her bookish bluestocking of a daughter would eventually catch some gentleman’s eye. For her part, Jane reluctantly spent her time at these affairs pretending to enjoy herself, famously scribbling notes for her future books, and biding the time until she grew old enough that her parents gave up. Cass and Lucy and their third friend, Jane, were all solidly on the shelf, all at the ripe old age of twenty-five.

“What’s happening?” Jane asked, slipping into line beside the two of them.

“I’m trying to avoid the Duke of Claringdon,” Cass replied in a hushed whisper. “He’s watching me.”

Jane surreptitiously glanced at the duke. “Ooh, he
is
watching you. Who knew he’d be so handsome? I expected him to have scars, perhaps be missing an ear or something.”

Cass slapped at Jane’s light blue sleeve. “Good heavens, that’s positively morbid. You and your writerly imagination.”

Lucy eyed the duke, arms crossed over her chest. “He doesn’t look as if he’s missing anything to me,” she said, giving him a once-over. She shook herself. “But we cannot allow him to frighten our Cass.”

“Do not worry,” Jane replied. “Simply tell him you’re not interested. He’s sure to immediately retreat.”

Lucy glanced over at the duke who was eyeing Cass like a prize boar. “Something tells me it won’t be quite that simple,” Lucy replied. “The man seems to be quite used to getting his way.”

Cass was busily smoothing her skirts, her eyes downcast. “Lucy’s right. But even if I wanted to, I couldn’t tell him I’m not interested. I’m not like you, Lucy. When I’m frightened, words completely leave my head. I wish I had a bit of your gift for witty repartee.”

Lucy laughed. “And I wish I had your ability to keep my mouth closed when I should.”

“It’s easy, truly. You simply have to— Oh good heavens, he’s coming over.” Cass’s voice reached a high note Lucy had never heard before.

“He’s surely going to ask you to dance,” Lucy said, watching the duke’s inexorable advance.

“Just thank him and tell him you’re not in the mood for dancing at present. That should be that,” Jane added with a resolute nod.