His Mistletoe Bride
Vanessa Kelly
HIS MISTLETOE BRIDE
He studied her with a silent, predatory watchfulness that penetrated her to the bone. And even though his body remained as still as a marble statue, his eyes burned like flame, with a scorching sensuality that leapt across the space between them.
She drew in a tattered breath. She might be innocent in the ways of men—especially men like Lucas Stanton—but she thought she knew what that particular look meant. It frightened and excited her all at once. For an instant, she could think of nothing else, see nothing else but the hot gleam in his eye.
Her eyes grew wide as Lucas swooped down to kiss her. But when his lips met hers she squeezed her eyelids closed, overcome by the shock of his touch and the temptation that trembled through her. Her heart pounded with something akin to fright, yet she could not resist his lure—hot and sweet, hinting of champagne and something forbidden. . . .
Books by Vanessa Kelly
MASTERING THE MARQUESS
SEX AND THE SINGLE EARL
MY FAVORITE COUNTESS
HIS MISTLETOE BRIDE
AN INVITATION TO SIN
(with Jo Beverley, Sally MacKenzie, and Kaitlin O’Riley)
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
His
Mistletoe
Bride
VANESSA
KELLY
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
HIS MISTLETOE BRIDE
Books by Vanessa Kelly
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Author’s Note
Copyright Page
I dedicate this book to my stepmother,
Anne.
From the beginning,
you have been my biggest fan and supporter.
Thanks for being so wonderful to me and to my dad.
Love you!
Prologue
Port of Philadelphia
October 1817
Phoebe Linville would never see home again.
She braced herself against the roll of the sailing packet, clutching the damp wood of the ship’s railing in a hard grip. The church spires and red brick buildings of Philadelphia receded into the early morning mist drifting across the whitecaps of the Delaware River. A cool October morning with a salty bite to the air, hinting at the impending change of seasons.
A perfect day to start a new life.
Excitement quickened her breath. For months her energies had been focused on this moment, despite George’s strongly worded attempts to change her mind. She wouldn’t miss his strident lectures, but she would miss her sister-in-law, and her nieces and nephews. And now that she was leaving, Phoebe would even miss George. Although their relationship had been fraught with tension for so many years, her half brother loved her and always sought to keep her footsteps on the righteous path. To George, her decision to reject a life in America was a profound betrayal of their father’s family and their Quaker roots.
But God had shown her another path to take.
England.
Phoebe could hardly believe she would soon be in that distant land, and with the grandfather whose letters had assured her of his welcome. England, the land of Chaucer and Spenser, a place of legend steeped in tales of fairy queens and ancient kings, whose knights swept through the land in their quests for glory.
Not that Phoebe had ever read those tales for herself. Such frivolity had no place in a Quaker household, even given her father’s rather lax adherence to tradition. But her mother, still loyal in her heart to the old country, had whispered bedtime stories of fairies and sprites that roamed the copses of that green and gentle land. Father, bless him, had never once objected to the stories knowing that Mamma, even though long estranged from her English relations, had needed the comfort of telling them as much as Phoebe had needed the excitement of hearing them.
And now that same family was calling Phoebe home. After years of silence, her grandfather, whom she had never met, had finally acknowledged his only grandchild.
A decisive footstep sounded behind her, breaking her thoughts.
“Child, thee should come below now. It is much too cold and damp to be standing out here for so long.”
Phoebe turned to her friend with a smile. Mrs. Tanner stood a few feet away, arms crossed, shaking her head with motherly concern, her plain gray cloak flapping in the freshening breeze off the water.
“Thee must not ruin thy dress with the wet, Phoebe, and I do not think the sun will burn through this fog. Come below. There is nothing more to see.”
Phoebe glanced over at the shoreline, barely visible in the mist. The views of the city were long gone and only woods and the occasional farmer’s field remained. The river grew wider with each passing mile, spilling into the expansive bay leading to the Atlantic.
Still, she couldn’t bring herself to turn away. “I know. But soon there will be nothing to see but water, and . . .” Her throat suddenly tightened as she thought of all she had left behind, travails as well as joys. Her past seemed to be flowing away, much as the water rippled and flowed under the ship, its churning wake eventually disappearing in the formless expanse of the river.
“And thee will never see family or home again,” her friend said, finishing the sentence.
Phoebe nodded. As eager as she was for this adventure, leaving her nieces and nephews had been wrenching. She had helped care for them since the day they entered the world, and saying good-bye as they clutched their little arms about her waist had scoured her with grief. Since her father’s death five years ago, those children had been the most important part of her life, and she would miss them terribly.
Mrs. Tanner gave her arm a compassionate squeeze. “This need not be a permanent leave-taking, Phoebe. I will only stay in London for a few months, then I will be returning to New Jersey. Thee is always welcome to return home with me.”
Phoebe studied the other woman’s solemn expression. After Mamma’s death, Mrs. Tanner, an old family friend, had stepped into the role of mother as best she could. It had been Mrs. Tanner who had cared for her in the aftermath of her father’s death, and it had been Mrs. Tanner who supported Phoebe when the letter arrived from her grandfather several months ago, begging her to come to England. When George initially thundered out his refusal in a very un-Quakerlike manner, the redoubtable woman had stood up to him, offering to escort Phoebe to England herself. After that, George had been forced to agree.
“But you wanted me to do this,” Phoebe protested. “You were the only one who did. Why do you question it now?”
“I do not question
it. I question thee. Does thee begin to doubt the purpose of thy journey?”
Phoebe closed her eyes, trying to tamp down her impatience. As George had so often pointed out, lack of patience was her greatest failing, often prompting her to make rash decisions or, worse, lose her temper. For a Quaker, that was a distressing failing, indeed.
Taking a breath, she worked to recapture the sense of rightness that washed over her whenever she read her grandfather’s letters. She mentally envisioned the first one, scrawled on the crackling sheets of parchment. Desperation had fairly leached from the pages in a broken man’s plea for his sole grandchild to come to him.
Unbidden, one of her father’s favorite sayings from William Penn’s writings flashed through her mind.
Right is right, even if everyone is against it; and wrong is wrong, even if everyone is for it.
The blinding certainty that had seized her on reading her grandfather’s words snapped once more into place, along with a surge of relief that eased her sadness.
She opened her eyes and met Mrs. Tanner’s gaze. “I want to be with my grandfather and my mother’s family. I need to find out if they want me to be a part of them, as my mother always wished me to be.”
The older woman nodded. “I am glad. But thee must always be aware of the challenges that face thee. Although thy dear mother tried to prepare thee for life among the English, they will find thee . . . different.”
Different.
A loathsome word, so often applied to Phoebe and her mother, Elspeth Linville. Neither had ever fit in, and their Quaker community had not let them forget it. Although they were never cast out, they had endured a subtle shunning because of her mother’s refusal to conform to some tenets of the faith. Phoebe’s sense of separation had only increased after the death of her mother and then, years later, of her father. Under her half brother’s tutelage, she had struggled to meet the rigid expectations of her community. Failure, unfortunately, remained as likely a result as success.
Phoebe squared her shoulders and met Mrs. Tanner’s gaze. Her life lay ahead in England, not behind in America. Her Quaker relatives did not approve of her decision, but Father had always taught her to think for herself. After all, he had married her mother—Anglican faith and all—so it behooved Phoebe to give her English relations a chance, too.
“When have I not been different?” she asked. “Heaven knows I did not fit in with our village. I am hopeful my new family will accept me as I am, faults and all.”
Mrs. Tanner grimaced. “I understand, but thee must also remember that London is a very worldly place. While I do not know the Stantons, they are aristocrats and move in circles not remotely familiar to thee.”
“But I grew up in Philadelphia,” Phoebe argued. “We did not move to Haddonfield until after Mother’s death. I am not entirely a rustic.”
“Thee will be to such as the English, but it should be of no consequence if thee continues to walk in righteous paths. That is my concern. Not what they think of thee, but what thee thinks of them.”
Mrs. Tanner’s lips pursed, as if she had tasted vinegar. Phoebe repressed the temptation to fidget, waiting her friend out.
“Phoebe,” the older woman finally said, “much temptation will be cast before thee. Fine dresses and jewels. Parties and balls, with vainglorious men who will court thee with compliments and frivolous language. There will be an endless round of entertainments, and gossip from morn till night with nary a moment in the day for solitude and silent reflection. Thy English family is rich, and will lead a life of gaiety and excess, no matter what thee might think of it.”
Phoebe tried to look properly horrified. Her mother had told her many times about her debut into the ton, and her years in London as one of society’s most popular debutants. Although her mother had sworn she did not miss that life, Phoebe had never failed to notice the wistful gleam in her eyes and the soft smile on her lips when Mamma recounted those stories. To Phoebe, that world had sounded magical.
But she also recognized what duty and faith demanded of her. “I will do my best to resist temptation,” she said, trying very hard to mean it.
Mrs. Tanner peered at her anxiously. “Given the difficulties with thy brother, I have always wanted thee to know thy English family and to have the chance to make a life with them. But I also hope thee will remain true to the heart of our beliefs. The temptation to conform will be strong, but understand that thee must be a child of God first, and a child of the world second. It is to be hoped thy grandfather understands this truth.”
Phoebe nodded, trying not to feel too gloomy. She had hoped to spend at least a little time in London with the entire Stanton family. She did want to fit in and belong somewhere, to someone, but if it meant compromising her beliefs, she did not know what she would do.
She shook her head, annoyed with herself. It mattered not where Grandfather lived—country or city. Nor that he was an aristocrat and a member of the fabled ton. If he wanted to retreat to his country estate for the rest of his days, so be it. Lord Merritt—Grandfather—already loved her, as his affectionate correspondence had confirmed beyond all doubt. That kind of warmth had for many years been missing from Phoebe’s life, and she yearned for it with a hunger that grew with each passing day.
“All that matters is being with my grandfather,” she said. “As for the rest of the Stantons, Lord Merritt wishes me to meet them, but he wrote that we will leave for his estate in Kent shortly after my arrival.” She wrinkled her nose. “I suspect I will have very little opportunity to face temptation, much less throw myself into a life of sin.”
As well, the fact that she was already twenty-three years of age and still unmarried made it a great deal more likely that her future lay in a life of quiet spinsterhood, rather than in one of gay dissipation in London.
Mrs. Tanner hesitated, but finally nodded. “Thank Providence for that. I will remain in England with my relations for at least two months. Thee must not hesitate to ask for advice and support, even refuge, if thee should ever need it.”
Touched, Phoebe went up on her toes and pressed a kiss to her friend’s cheek. “I promise I will.”
But she knew in her heart she would never again stand in need of the older woman’s support. She had a grandfather now and a new family, one who would claim her as their kin. Those long years ago, Grandfather had rejected his only daughter for marrying a Quaker merchant from America. That marriage had caused a bitter estrangement that had lasted a lifetime.
At last, those terrible wounds would be healed. Within the month, God willing and the Atlantic winds prevailing, Phoebe would be in the arms of her grandfather, ready to embark on a new life.
Chapter 1
London
November 1817
A quiet knock sounded on Phoebe’s bedroom door. Straining to open her eyes, she tried to clear the fog of exhaustion and lingering illness from her brain. When the maid entered the room, holding a tea tray in her sturdy hands, Phoebe pulled herself upright and stifled a yawn.
“Good morning, ah . . .”
“It’s Agatha, miss. Mrs. Poole asks, please, that you step downstairs to the drawing room. She sent me to help you dress.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s gone on nine o’clock, miss,” Agatha said as she deposited the tray on a dressing table.
Phoebe gaped at her, and then her brain lurched into function. She struggled out from under the covers, thumping onto the floor to search for her slippers.
“Why did she not send to wake me earlier? The morning is half over!”
As soon as they arrived in London last night, Phoebe had wanted to dash off a note to her grandfather’s town house. But their hostess, Mrs. Poole, had deemed it too late. Almost dead on her feet from the grueling journey up from the coast, Phoebe had capitulated. With the maid’s help, she had crawled into the blessedly clean and comfortable bed in the small guest room before falling into a heavy sleep, only awakening just now to Agatha’s knock.
She stumbled to the washbasin and splashed water on her face.
Agatha opened Phoebe’s trunk and started sifting through it, her pleasant face registering dismay. “Lord, miss. Who packed your clothes? Everything’s a right mess.”
Phoebe grimaced. She’d been too ill to properly repack her trunk before leaving the ship. Fortunately, she did have one clean dress for her visit to Grandfather. She had hung it in the wardrobe, the only unpacking she had managed before dropping into bed.
“Take the one from the wardrobe,” she said as she stepped behind the screen to pull off her night rail.
A few moments later, Agatha joined her behind the screen, gown in hand. She didn’t look any more impressed than she had when she looked through Phoebe’s trunk.
“Miss, this dress is clean but it could use a good press. It’ll only take me a few minutes, if you don’t mind waiting.”
“It does not matter. I am sure my grandfather will not care, and I must be on my way as soon as possible.”
“I’m afraid not, miss, seeing as one of your relatives is waiting for you downstairs. That’s why Mrs. Poole sent me to wake you.”
Phoebe gaped at the maid. “My grandfather is here?” She felt breathless, even though her stays were barely laced up. “Mrs. Tanner must have sent a note around.”
“It ain’t your grandfather, miss, I can tell you that,” Agatha said, turning her around to finish lacing the stays. “The man downstairs is no more than forty, and a fine-looking fellow he is, too. And he’s dressed like a proper lord.”
