At long last, his lips found hers, pressing softly, only awkwardly at first, but then warm and velvety, sliding gently over her tremulous lips… wet, hot and sweet…
Alexandra lifted a trembling hand, perhaps thinking to push Ben away, but it landed squarely upon his chest and her fingers splayed against his shirt. The feel of his heart beating beneath her palm sent her pulses skittering and blood singing through her veins. Looking perfectly drunk, he lifted his gaze, fingers pressing her close, as he whispered, “Lexie… I—”
“What for the love of God are the two of you doing?” Came her mother’s shrill voice.
Alexandra and Ben parted at once—like oil and water—but not before her mother leapt at Ben, seizing him by the ear. Alexandra gasped aloud as Lady Eveline pinched Benjamin’s ear, jerking him away. Without a care that she might be hurting him, she bent to pick up the mistletoe he’d dropped on her carpet, and said, “The devil’s own instrument in my own house—never again, young man!”
Once again Ben howled over the pain she inflicted upon his ear, but nevertheless, he didn’t fight her. Red-faced, he allowed Alexandra’s mother to lead him away, all the while railing. “We’ll be sending you and your sister home at once—this very day!” she said. “And when your mother asks why, you must say it is because I said she raised a goatish little boy!”
Stunned over having been discovered in such a ruinous predicament, Alexandra could only watch as Ben was dragged away. He gave her a sad backward glance before disappearing through the doorway, and long after Benjamin was gone, Alexandra remained standing precisely where they’d parted, lifting a hand to her breast…
Only then, once there was no one about to see it, and even despite that she knew the holiday was over, her lips curved into a secret grin. Someday, indeed, there would be another opportunity. And when that opportunity arose, she wouldn’t say no again. In fact, when that day arrived, Alexandra was certain to teach Benjamin Wentworth the subtle art of kissing beneath the mistletoe, and then he mightn’t ever think of Amanda Butterfield again.
CHAPTER 1
19 DECEMBER, 1831
Rule No. 1:
On the Proper Hanging & Execution of mistletoe.
Your mistletoe must be fresh. It must also include drupes. Only so long as there are drupes remaining to be plucked, kisses may be commanded. Pluck one for every kiss request, and once all the drupes have been plundered, there will be no more kisses to be commanded.
The London house was running amok. Proof was plain to see—right there—a ravaged sprig of Viscum album hanging near the kitchen.
Mistletoe.
Hands upon her hips, Alexandra Grace Huntington eyed the well-plundered sprig with keen disapproval. With her father gone (yes, indeed, gone; this was a euphemism), the servants were well out of hand. With little more than a week remaining till Christmas, the drupes were all plucked. All. Of. Them. And nevertheless, despite that there were no more kisses left to be commanded, she knew that wouldn’t stop the servants from canoodling in closets. So, it seemed, everybody had somebody to kiss… everybody except Alexandra.
Really, though, it wasn’t so much that she was resentful. That wasn’t the thing at all. It was more the fact that she felt as though she could be losing control—not only over the household she’d been left alone to manage, but over her entire life. Like that confounded little sprig of mistletoe, she, too, was hanging by a thread.
Unbidden, a bittersweet memory accosted her, bringing a telltale sting to her eyes and a burn to her cheeks—why, she hadn’t any clue, because, in truth, she had so little left to be scandalized over. After all, how did one forget one’s own father was a villain?
After everything that transpired this past year, her mother was in high dudgeon, her best friend had forsaken her, and her father was in gaol.
There was nothing left to celebrate.
Nothing left at all.
Moreover, her best friend’s wedding plans were proceeding entirely without her. All of London was atwitter over the news, and everything Lexie had learned about the exalted occasion, she’d gleaned from the paper, not from Claire.
Supposedly, confronted by his long-lost son, the King of Meridian was now abdicating his throne, leaving his entire kingdom to a penurious lord from Scotland. From rags to riches, that was the story. Brought together by extraordinary circumstance, a London bluestocking was now a society darling, and a penniless Earl would soon be a celebrated king. And to make matters worse—or better, depending upon the perspective—the two had overcome ill-fortune at the hands of Lexie’s own father, only to rise above it all and shine.
Astounding.
Incredible.
Unthinkable.
And nevertheless, Alexandra had half a mind to tear down that bloody sprig, although she couldn’t quite allow herself to indulge in such a fit of temper.
Really, if she was angry over the turn of her own fate, it wasn’t Claire’s fault, nor was it the servants’ faults.
Claire was brave, smart and beautiful, never afraid to speak her mind. Nor was she one to sit idly by, leaving the men in her life to save her. When hardship presented itself, Claire took her brother’s trials to heart, putting on her walking boots and scouring the streets—quite literally—for an answer to save him. In doing so, she’d stumbled upon her own providence. During the course of saving Ben, she’d met her fiancé—or rather, he ran her down, again very literally, as she was crossing High Street. The thought turned Alexandra’s lips ever so slightly, and really, if it weren’t due to the troubles her own father heaped upon that poor family, she might have laughed over the sweet turn of fate.
Let the servants have turns in the closet, she decided, and feeling lonelier than she had in her entire life—and that was saying quite a lot—she turned her back on the offending sprig and walked away, any desire for peaches and cream for breakfast entirely quashed.
Tears pricked at her eyes.
Sadness enveloped her.
Somewhere out there, folks were ringing in the holidays. House parties were being planned, Christmas geese were prepared for roasting, pianofortes being tuned and shined, and all about good cheer was being had. But not here at Huntington Manor, and not for a long time.
If Alexandra must speak true, this misery had been a long, long time coming. Her mother had retreated to the country years ago, and her father had never bothered to see himself home for the holidays. Most often, he’d spent his Christmases abroad. Her parents were adversaries in every respect, and so it had seemed to Alexandra that her mother was too quick to find fault and too easy to rile, not merely with her father, but with Lexie as well—and particularly after that “incident” in Shropshire. Don’t think for a moment she didn’t recall all the arguments ringing through their halls, only now that she understood so much about her father, she felt chagrined over ever having taken his side. Sadly, her mother now refused to forgive her “betrayal,” considering it a disloyalty of royal proportions that her only daughter had chosen to remain in London with her “tosspot” father.
Siblings had never been in question for Alexandra, and she had so oft wondered how she was ever conceived at all. And now, here she was, with her father incarcerated, her mother disaffected, no siblings to consider, no friends… and so it was that, here again, she was pathetically alone for the holidays.