Miss Amelia's Mistletoe Marquess

Chapter Two

Cassius Whitlock, the thirteenth Marquess of Falconmore, stretched his legs out in front of the fire and refused to open his eyes. It was the only way to pretend that the knocking he could hear on his front door was a figment of his imagination and not what—or more precisely who—he suspected it was.

The blasted woman had followed him.

After half a minute or so the knocking stopped and he slid deeper into the comfort of his armchair, breathing a sigh of relief and ruthlessly suppressing any feeling of guilt. There was no need to feel guilty, after all. The chances of Sylvia walking any distance on foot were about equal to those of her flying. She could simply take the carriage she’d doubtless commandeered back to the hall. And who was to say that he hadn’t dreamed the knocking sound anyway? He’d been dozing beforehand so perhaps it really had been a figment of his imagination, although what that implied about his current mental state he didn’t want to consider, not tonight anyway. He’d already drunk far too much port to come up with anything coherent, let alone helpful. No, overall it was far better to leave thinking until tomorrow and then find another reason not to.

Delaying, deferring, dragging his heels—those were the things he’d become good at over the past year. Avoiding subjects he didn’t want to think about had become his speciality. Why else would he be hiding away like some frightened schoolboy in an empty property on the edge of his estate rather than confronting his problems face to face?

At least the gatehouse was warm and dry, two of the most important considerations on a foul night like this one. The temperature seemed to have dropped several degrees just in the half-hour it had taken him to walk up the drive. Now that he was firmly ensconced in his armchair with the aforementioned bottle of port, however, he felt quite cosy. Frankly it was worth the effort just for the peace and privacy, both of which qualities were becoming signally elusive at Falconmore Hall. Given a choice, he might actually have opted to live here instead, but then he hadn’t been given a choice. Not about any of it.

He scowled as the knocking started again, even louder and more insistently than before. This time he definitely wasn’t imagining things and he could hardly pretend not to hear it either. A herd of cattle outside his front door would have made less commotion.

He surged to his feet, muttering a stream of the most obscene words he could think of. What in blazes was wrong with the woman? Didn’t she have any pride? It was bad enough hounding him out of his own house, but to pursue him here in his refuge was too much! This time she’d gone too far. This time he’d tell her exactly what he thought of her and her all-too-obvious intentions. Maybe he’d tell her what his cousin would have thought of her behaviour, too. That ought to be enough to send her and her daughters running away from Falconmore Hall once and for all. To the other end of England preferably!

He grabbed a candle, took one last fortifying swig of port and then strode out into the hallway, an inadvertent glimpse of his reflection in the hall mirror revealing a wild visage and untidy apparel. Which was hardly surprising really. He’d changed into some old clothes in order to clean out and rebuild the fireplace and hadn’t bothered to change back, even after he’d smeared coal across the front of his shirt. All the better, he thought sardonically, running a hand through the dust and then deliberately ruffling his hair to coat the thick, blond strands in black. He was through with behaving like a gentleman. Since Sylvia failed to appreciate subtlety, maybe she’d understand rugged and dishevelled instead!

‘What?’

He flung open the front door, bellowing the word before his port-addled senses had a chance to take in the woman before him. It was…not Sylvia, though as to who else it was… He blinked a few times, searching his memory and failing to find any answer… No, he had no idea who she was. Only she looked somewhat like a snowman. A pretty, red-cheeked and slightly desperate-looking snowman.

‘I apologise for d-disturbing y-you.’ Her teeth chattered as she spoke. ‘But I’m l-lost.’

He looked past her into the night, too surprised to answer. There was no horse, no trap, nobody else in sight, only a raging blizzard and what appeared to be a foot of snow. When had that happened? It had been cold earlier, but he hadn’t noticed any flakes, at least not before he’d drawn the curtains…

‘Would you m-mind letting me inside for a f-few minutes? Just to warm up? P-please?’

‘Yes… Of course.’ He remembered his manners at last, stepping aside to let her into the hallway.

‘Oh, dear.’ A flurry of snow fell from her skirts as she passed him. ‘I should have shaken myself off outside.’ She looked down at the rapidly swelling puddle in dismay. ‘If you have a mop, I’ll clean it up for you.’

‘There’s no need.’ He closed the front door against the freezing air. ‘I’ll deal with it later.’

‘Thank you. I’m s-sorry to barge in on you like th-this. I was on my way to the village, but I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.’

‘You mean Rayleigh?’

‘Yes.’ She rubbed her hands vigorously over her arms as if she were attempting to restore circulation. ‘Is it f-far?’

‘About a mile down the road. You turn left out of the gate.’

‘Oh.’ A look of chagrin crossed her face. ‘Well, at least I was going in the right direction. Only I didn’t think it was so far and the snow was lovely at first, but then it got so heavy I couldn’t see the carriage tracks any more.’

‘I see.’ He looked her up and down incredulously. ‘Do you mean to say that you were out walking in the dark on your own?’

‘Yes. Not intentionally, but there was a misunderstanding with the carriages and…well…’ she scrunched up her pink-tipped nose and lifted her shoulders, sending a fresh flurry of snow tumbling to the floor ‘…here I am.’

‘Indeed. Here you are.’

He set down his candle on the hall table, mentally reviewing the amount of port he’d consumed over the course of the evening. Surely not enough to make him hallucinate, although the whole situation seemed unlikely. Incredible. Downright unbelievable, in fact, but here she was, his very own damsel in distress, standing shivering in his hallway, asking for help. Which, as a gentleman, he ought to give her. Only, as a gentleman he really ought to have a chaperon, too.

‘Perhaps I might speak to your wife?’ The thought seemed to occur to her at the same moment. ‘So that I can explain to her?’

‘Unfortunately not.’ He folded his arms behind his back. ‘I don’t have a wife, or a maid for that matter. You find me all alone here.’

‘Completely alone?’ Her eyes flickered back to the door, though her expression was conflicted. ‘Then perhaps I should…’

‘Perhaps you should, but considering the weather it might be somewhat foolhardy.’

He tapped his foot on the tiled floor, considering what to do next. However extraordinary the situation, it was hard to be irritated with someone who looked quite so thoroughly bedraggled and he could hardly send her back out into the night. On the other hand, letting her stay didn’t seem like a particularly judicious idea either. She was a young and presumably unmarried lady, though he couldn’t see her ring finger, and he was a bachelor, and they were alone together in a house that contained a bed, at night. Not that society generally required the presence of an actual bed to think the worst, but still the situation could hardly have looked any more compromising. A suspicious man might have thought her arrival some kind of scheme to entrap him, but the way that she’d been shaking definitely hadn’t been play-acting and surely no one, not even Sylvia, would have put themselves into such a perilous situation deliberately. Besides, whoever she was, she had an honest as well as a pretty face and he had enough on his conscience without adding anything else, especially another dead body. Which meant that he had no choice but to let her stay.

Damn it. No choice. Again. The realisation made his voice gruffer than he’d intended.

‘You’d better give me your wet things and come into the parlour.’

‘Thank you.’ She looked somewhat taken aback by his tone, pulling off her gloves and cape to reveal a conspicuous absence of wedding band and a lithe, willowy figure dressed, somewhat incongruously, in an evening gown. Both of which details paled into insignificance as she removed her bonnet to reveal a cascade of long, lustrous and, more surprisingly, loose hair.

‘Oh, dear.’ She put one hand to her head self-consciously and then started to rifle in her reticule. ‘I must have dropped my pins somewhere.’

‘Under the circumstances, I believe unbound hair may be the least of our worries.’ He cleared his throat and then gestured for her to precede him into the parlour, trying not to stare at the way the auburn tresses seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. She looked as if she’d just stepped out of a painting by Titian. ‘Take the armchair.’

‘Oh, no, that’s yours.’ She sank down on to her haunches in front of the fire and held her hands out to warm them instead. ‘This is wonderful.’

‘I can’t just allow you to sit on the floor, Miss…?’

‘Millie. Just Millie and I’m more than happy here, honestly. I feel as if my insides have been frozen, Mr…?’

‘Whitlock.’ He paused in the act of draping her damp cloak across a straight-backed wooden chair in the corner, taken aback by the question. No one had asked who he was since he’d come back to England. Young ladies especially seemed to know his identity without introduction. It made a refreshing change to meet one who did not. Liberating even, as if her words had just freed him from the constraints of the past year. It made him feel oddly grateful.

‘Cassius Whitlock at your service, although I’m afraid I ought to apologise for my reception. It’s not much of an excuse, but I thought you were someone else.’

‘I guessed.’ She peered up at him through her lashes, her gaze faintly ironic. ‘You looked quite ferocious.’

‘It was ill mannered of me.’

‘Perhaps, but it would be churlish of me not to forgive the man who just saved my life.’

‘I merely opened a door.’

‘Which probably saved my life. Please accept my gratitude. It was silly of me to even think of walking back to the village in this weather. You’ve no idea how relieved I was to see the smoke from your chimney. I don’t think I could have managed another step.’

He harrumphed and sat down on the edge of his armchair. ‘You’re not from this area, I take it?’

‘No, I live in London. My mother and I are staying here for Christmas with a relative.’

‘Won’t they be worried about you?’

‘Ye—es.’ Her expression turned anxious. ‘If they’ve realised I’m gone, that is. Only there’s a good chance they won’t notice until morning.’

‘Really?’

‘Not that I make a custom of wandering around in the dark on my own, but…it’s complicated.’

‘I see.’ He looked from her to the fireplace and back again. ‘Can I fetch you anything? Some soup, perhaps?’

‘Thank you, but I’ve already inconvenienced you enough.’ She pressed her lips together for a moment. ‘Are you a gamekeeper?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘A gamekeeper?’ She pointed towards the painting of a stag above the fireplace. ‘Or a gardener, perhaps? Only I notice you like pastoral scenes.’

‘Ah…yes.’

He threw a swift glance around the room. In all honesty, he hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to the decor before. The fact that the house was habitable had been enough for him, but on closer inspection he noticed a veritable profusion of stags and pheasants, somewhat at variance with the spartan furnishings. It was no wonder she assumed he was a gamekeeper, especially considering the somewhat weathered state of his attire. He certainly didn’t look much like a marquess.

‘Estate manager.’ He decided to stretch the truth rather than lie directly. After all, he was an estate manager of sorts, even if he employed someone else with the same title.

‘How fascinating.’ She looked duly impressed. ‘Is the estate very large?’

‘About fifteen hundred acres. Falconmore Hall is at the other end of this drive.’

‘Really?’ She sat up hopefully. ‘Then perhaps I ought to seek shelter there?’

‘I’m afraid it would be quicker to walk back to the village.’

‘Oh, dear.’ She sighed and sat back again. ‘Well, perhaps it’s for the best. I think I’d like to avoid halls for a while. I offended the hostess at the one we visited this evening.’

‘Indeed? Who was that?’

She glanced sideways, as if she were questioning the wisdom of telling him. ‘Lady Fentree.’

‘Fentree?’ He gave a bark of laughter. ‘It doesn’t take much to upset that old battle-axe, believe me. She was probably just annoyed at you for overshadowing the Honourable Miss Vanessa.’

‘Me?’ His companion looked genuinely shocked. ‘I don’t think I overshadowed anyone.’

‘Then you don’t give yourself enough credit, Just Millie.’

He surprised himself with the comment, aware of an unfamiliar tingling sensation in his chest as their eyes met and held. Hers were a bright summer-grass green, he noticed, uncommonly clear and direct with pale lashes that made a striking contrast with her hair. The more he looked, the more he thought that she overshadowed almost every other young lady he’d ever met, or could think of for that matter. Even when she’d looked like a snowman there had been something appealing about her. Something intriguing… Unless it was just the port making him think so. Or the fact that she didn’t know who he was. Or that any woman was preferable to Sylvia. Whatever the reason, he was finding it difficult to look away.

Fortunately, she did it instead, her cheeks reddening slightly as her gaze drifted towards the bottle on the table beside him. ‘My father used to say port was the best way to warm up on a cold night.’

‘I’m inclined to agree. Certainly better than soup. Would you care for a glass?’

‘Me?’ She looked even more startled, her mouth forming an O shape as if she were about to refuse, then changed her mind. ‘Maybe just a small one…if you’re sure that’s all right?’

‘I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t.’

He poured a small measure into a tumbler and handed it to her, refraining from taking a glass for himself. Given how much he’d already drunk, the effects of which he hoped weren’t too obvious, it was probably wise to abstain. He was having trouble believing the evidence of his own senses as it was.

‘Well, then, Just Millie…’ he watched, the tingling sensation in his chest intensifying, as she lifted the glass to her lips ‘…after you’ve finished that I suggest you get a good night’s sleep. Given the depth of the snow, I’d say we’re stranded here until morning.’

‘I suppose so…’ She sounded anxious. ‘But what if my mother sends out a search party? I’d hate for people to be out in the dark searching for me.’

‘How long were you out walking?’

‘An hour, perhaps.’

‘Then I’d venture to suggest that if your relatives were going to come looking, they would have done so by now.’

‘Yes.’ Her brow creased. ‘You’re probably right.’

‘Of course we could fashion some kind of sign, hanging your bonnet from the gatepost, for example, but it might be prudent for us to be a little more discreet.’

She drew her knees up to her chest and took another mouthful of port. ‘I suppose if anyone knew I was here it would look a little compromising.’

‘More than a little.’ He shifted in his seat, distracted by the way she ran her tongue over her bottom lip, soaking up the last of the liquid. ‘Fortunately, it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a little harmless deception.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s a disused cottage in one of the fields between here and the village. If, theoretically speaking, you were to have taken shelter inside it, it would be entirely plausible if I, again theoretically speaking, were to find you there in the morning. Then I could take you back to the village without anyone being any the wiser.’

‘I see.’ She nodded slowly. ‘That does sound like a good idea, but there’s no need for you to escort me anywhere. I’m sure I can find the way on my own.’

‘More than likely, but I can hardly just wave you goodbye and hope for the best. You’ve already admitted you were lost this evening.’

‘Only because it was dark.’

‘None the less, I’ll escort you. My conscience won’t be easy otherwise. In the meantime, you can sleep in my bed.’

‘Then where will you sleep?’ She shook her head adamantly. ‘No, I couldn’t possibly do that.’

‘But I’m afraid this time I have to insist, especially since you’ve already refused my armchair. Which is surprisingly comfortable, I might add. I won’t suffer at all.’

She looked hesitant for a moment and then gave an appreciative smile. ‘That’s very kind of you and I confess I am tired. I never realised that walking in the snow was so exhausting.’

‘Yes,’ he murmured in agreement, only half-aware of what he was saying as the warm sensation in his chest seemed to escalate by a few degrees and then spread outwards through his body. As smiles went it was extraordinary, lighting up every part of her face and making her look quite exceptionally pretty. Captivating, in fact. In all his thirty-two years, he could honestly say that he’d never seen another smile like it. Not once. Not ever. Not even in his dreams. Back when his dreams had been pleasant ones, that was.

‘Then I hope you sleep well, Just Millie. I’m afraid that I don’t have any women’s clothing to lend you, but feel free to make use of whatever you can find.’ He inclined his head and then coughed as his voice turned unexpectedly husky, stirred by the thought of her in one of his nightshirts.

‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’ She swallowed the last of her port and stood up. ‘Goodnight, Mr Whitlock. Thank you again for opening your door. I do believe that you’ve saved me from myself.’

Chapter Three

Millie jolted upright with a gasp, her heart hammering against her ribcage at the sound of a shout, followed by glass shattering downstairs. In another instant, she was out of bed and on to the landing, so disorientated that she was halfway down the stairs before she remembered that she was only wearing her shift and petticoat and her situation was shocking enough without her running around in her underwear. But she still had to hurry. If Mr Whitlock was in some kind of trouble, under attack by the sound of it, then she had to help him as he’d helped her!

Quickly, she returned to her room and fumbled around on the back of the bedroom door for the dressing gown she’d noticed there earlier and then ran down the stairs as fast as the moonlight streaming in through a pane of glass above the front door would safely allow. The parlour door was closed, but there were still noises coming from within. Not shouts any more, but angry, expletive-laden grunts and muttering. She looked around for a weapon, her gaze settling on an umbrella in one corner. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing, enough to give someone a painful jab in the ribs if necessary.

She hoped it wouldn’t have to be necessary.

Gritting her teeth, she steeled her nerve, put on what she hoped was a suitably frightening expression, grabbed the door handle and burst in.

‘What the—?’ Mr Whitlock spun around at once. He was crouching down by the fireplace, picking up pieces of glass as she lunged forward, brandishing the umbrella like a sword in front of her.

‘Oh!’ She looked around the room in surprise. Everything was just the same as it had been when she’d gone to bed. There were no signs of a struggle, no broken windows and, apparently, no one else there.

‘Millie?’ He stood up, his expression almost comically confused.

‘I thought you were in trouble. There was a shout.’

‘Ah.’ He deposited several shards of glass into the coal scuttle and then brushed his hands together. ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you. It appears I flung an arm out in my sleep and knocked the bottle over.’

‘Oh.’ She lowered her arm, belatedly realising that she was still brandishing the umbrella. Now she thought about it, there was a distinct aroma of plums and alcohol in the air. ‘The port?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Can I help?’

‘It’s not important. I’ll deal with the rest in the morning.’ He dropped down into his armchair and pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘You can go back to bed.’

Millie stood where she was. In all honesty, she was feeling slightly ridiculous, but he seemed…different. When he’d first opened his front door he’d looked positively thunderous, his nostrils flaring so wildly that she’d almost turned on her heel and run away into the snow, but now he seemed to have gone to the other extreme. With the candles all extinguished the only light came from the fire, but his features looked unnaturally pale and drawn, as if all the energy had been drained out of him, too. No matter what the impropriety, her conscience wouldn’t let her leave him like that.

‘Are you feeling unwell?’ She put the umbrella aside and advanced a few steps into the room.

‘No.’ He gave an indistinguishable sigh.

‘Was it a nightmare?’

This time he moved his hand away from his face to look at her. ‘I suppose so. Although that suggests something imagined, doesn’t it? This was a memory.’