“I woke up, and you were gone,” she said, leading him across the foyer. “I knew you had business to tend to, but what was I to make of your absence, Leo? I was left to think the worst, again.”
Self-recrimination washed through him, for the thousandth time in five days. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I owed Lady Drew Semple my personal apology, and was certain I could return to the inn and to you free of any encumbrances. I owed her that much. Then the weather interfered, among other things, and your solicitors would not give me your direction.”
Marielle paused with him in the middle of the foyer. “So I nearly lost you because you owed her ladyship a personal rejection?”
“No, Marielle, you did not nearly lose me. I would have found you, come what may. This time, nothing—not distance, familial obligation, worldly means, or misunderstandings—would have kept me from finding you again.” He dropped to one knee, and took her hand in his, as he had once before years ago.
“Marielle, Lady Drew, Ellie—will you marry me? Will you share with me every Christmas and all the seasons of the year for the rest of our lives?”
She peered down at him. “Leo, are you being impetuous? I rather like it on you.”
He sprang to his feet. “I am being romantic. Ten years is long enough to wait for the woman I love to look with favor on my suit.”
She patted his lapel. “Yes, I will marry you. The sooner the better.”
Thank God. Thank God, Marielle, fate, and the kindly angels. The relief of being claimed by her, clearly and truly, inspired Leo to kiss his intended, right there in full view of the front door.
Marielle kissed him back, passionately, and even when somebody cleared his throat, Leo was reluctant to let her go.
“Beggin’ your lordship’s pardon,” Rafe said, Miss Petunia standing beside him. “And your ladyship’s.”
Marielle recovered first, though Leo kept her hand in his.
“Petunia, some sustenance for our guests is in order. The marquess and I will join you in the blue parlor in a moment.”
“Yes, milady.” Petunia led a happily-dazed looking Rafe across the foyer.
“I think they’ll suit,” Leo said. “I think they’ll suit wonderfully.”
“Not as wonderfully as we will,” Marielle replied. “When did you acquire this impetuous streak, Leopold? Kissing me without warning where any might see?”
Leo was happy to improve on his capacity for impetuosity, but he pointed upward to a sheaf of greenery bound with a red ribbon. “Not impetuosity, Ellie my love. Seasonal good cheer.”
“Very well,” she said. “I will simply tell our children I married the Marquess of Mistletoe.”
“And you shall be my marchioness,” Leo replied, kissing her all over again.
Rafe and Petunia had enjoyed a full pot of tea before Leo and Marielle joined them, and Marielle’s endearment became a family legend—Leopold came to expect seasonal revivals of his title as Marquess of Mistletoe, and with the aid of his devoted marchioness, lived up to her expectations every single time they found themselves beneath a bundle of holiday greenery.
AFTERWORD
To my dear readers,
I do love a holiday happily ever after, complete with snow storms, wassail, and guardian angels—and mistletoe too, of course!
If you’re in the mood for another serving of yuletide romance, I’ve written a longer holiday novella, A Rogue in Winter, to go with my Rogues to Riches series. This is the tale of Vicar Pietr Sorenson, who has been a very good fellow for a very long time, and Miss Joy Danforth, a lady preparing to make an advantageous match to salvage the family finances.
Joy is determined to do her duty. Pietr has accepted a new post at some dreary cathedral, and it’s going to take some very special mistletoe to get these two sorted out. Wheeee! Excerpt below.
And in January, I’ll be releasing my third Mischief in Mayfair title, Miss Dignified. Captain Dylan Powell meets his match, and her weapons of choice are a feather duster and some lovely kisses. The captain surrenders, but not without a fight. (And Lydia Lovelace surrenders too!) Order your copy here.
In addition to wishing you lots of love, good health, and prosperity, I hope the holidays and the new year bring you tons of wonderful reading!
Grace Burrowes
Read on for an excerpt from A Rogue in Winter!
PREVIEW: A ROGUE IN WINTER
A ROGUES TO RICHES NOVELLA
Vicar Pietr Sorenson has just seen his housekeeper off to visit family for the holidays, when Ned Wentworth comes to call. Pietr expects to spend his Yuletide season—as usual—enjoying much needed solitude at the darkest time of year. The best laid plans….
* * *
“Come in for a cup of tea, Mr. Wentworth. Give the shops an hour to get their parlor stoves roaring. Mrs. Baker has left me to make shift, but she always fills the larder with holiday treats before she departs.”
Wentworth looked skeptical. “I truly do have errands to run, Vicar. I suspect the ladies wanted me out from underfoot while the decorating got under way at Lynley Vale. Lord Nathaniel is trying to help, and Stephen is making suggestions, while the footmen have all developed bad hearing. I was one dunderheaded male too many.”
That was a falsehood, and right now, watching the Wentworth ducal coach trot out of the village, Pietr was inclined to name it as such.
“You are not a Wentworth by blood, so you banished yourself from what you regarded as a family undertaking. Forget the tea, let’s have a tot to ward off the chill. Frequent doses of wassail are how we get through our winters here.”
“Wassail?”
“Wassail, toddies, a nip from the flask. Everybody thinks Yorkshiremen are tough. We’re more determined than tough, and we’ve learned to make our peace with the elements. Inside with you, Mr. Wentworth, and we will see what Mrs. Baker has left in the way of sweets.”
“Jane said I shouldn’t underestimate you.”
Jane being Her Grace of Walden, a formidable woman who made duchessing look much easier than it was. But then, Jane was married to Quinton, Duke of Walden, and compared to being that fellow’s wife, wearing a tiara was doubtless a Sunday stroll.
“You need not estimate me at all,” Pietr said, leading the way up the vicarage’s steps. “I’m a humble country parson living a placid existence in the bucolic splendor of rural nowhere.” He’d meant that observation as a jest, but it had come out sounding a bit… forlorn?
Whiny?
“Pour me a bracer,” Mr. Wentworth said, “and you can be my new best friend. I really am not accustomed to this cold.”
“Has anybody given you the sermon for southerners yet?” Pietr asked, taking his guest’s hat, coat, and gloves. “If leaving home, always dress as if you’ll be outside all day, for you might be. Layers of wool are best, and that means two pairs of stockings if possible. Three if you can manage it. Forget vanity. Winter here will kill you if you give it a chance. If you are caught out in bad weather, try to keep moving at a slow, steady pace, provided you can see where you are going. If you sit for a moment to rest, next thing you will close your eyes, and Saint Peter will be offering you a pair of wings.”