Mistletoe Wishes: A Regency Christmas Collection

Rory hoped he went through all this chaos so the house was fit for her to live in. He glanced out the window to see a trail of villagers, many of whom he now knew by name, heading down the drive. “Are they all in the play?”

“Some of them. But you’re not abandoned altogether—you’ve now got two footmen and four maids to look after you. And a cook. Mrs. Hallam has taken over the kitchens—for which you’ll be mightily grateful, I’m sure.”

“That’s a devil of a horde to serve one man.”

“You’ll also need a butler and housekeeper, but those have to come from Newcastle or London.”

“More blasted strangers tramping around my house?” He leaned one hip on the desk and folded his arms. This was the longest conversation they’d managed all day. Even knowing that Simpson weighed every word, Rory was in no hurry to end it.

He really was in a bad way. If anyone had told him yesterday that he’d discuss servants just for the delight of a bonnie lassie’s company, he’d have called them a blockhead.

Rory had a nasty suspicion the biggest blockhead of all was the new Earl of Channing.

The bonnie lassie regarded him with disapproval. “Do you really have no care for your domestic arrangements, my lord?”

As long as they included Bess Farrar, he cared greatly for his domestic arrangements.

“Not much.” He stood to take the broom from her and prop it against the wall. “Good afternoon, Dr. Simpson. I’ve enjoyed making your acquaintance.”

“Goodbye, Dr. Simpson. Thank you for helping,” Bess said.

Simpson didn’t look up from the books, but from where he stood, Rory caught the man’s smile. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, my dear.”

Rory as a rule didn’t appreciate people sticking their oar into his affairs, but the old man had been damned informative. And if local approval of his courtship meant assistance, he’d accept a certain amount of intervention.

When he took Bess’s arm, physical awareness crackled through him. Did she share this volatile reaction? She’d given a tiny start at the contact.

“They like you,” Bess said softly as he escorted her toward the great hall.

A hint of clean sweat warmed her scent. The idea of her working to achieve his comfort aroused a primitive pleasure. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

Her laugh was wry. “I wasn’t sure they would. Or not so quickly.”

His grip tightened as he halted. “What in Hades does that mean?”

“After all the talk.”

He really had to address the rumors of his nefarious past, but right now he had more important things to discover. “As long as you like me, I can live with a bit of unfriendliness from the neighbors.”

The astonishment in her eyes soothed his brief uncertainty. He didn’t lack self-confidence, but events in the last twenty-four hours left him reeling. He’d known he’d marry—an unhappy, nomadic childhood and all those years at sea convinced him of the value of a stable family. But he’d always dismissed the idea of love at first sight as romantic fantasy.

Was Ned right? Did he love Bess Farrar? Devil if he could tell. What he did know was that he’d seen her and known in his bones that she was the one for him.

She frowned. “You can’t imagine I go around kissing men I don’t like.”

“Even if there’s a donkey in the balance?”

Her blush charmed him. “Even for Daisy.”

He ran his hand down her arm and squeezed her fingers. To his surprise, she returned the pressure. Briefly he considered kissing her again, but the house was infested with domestics.

What he’d give for some privacy, but right now it wasn’t to be.

Regretfully he released her when they stepped into the hall. Two young women were polishing the newly replaced furniture, while another poked some holly into a vase on the mantel above a blazing fire.

“Good God,” he breathed, taking in the transformation of the formerly barren space. This last month, he and Ned had camped in the house. Now he surveyed the vast room lit through mullioned—clean—windows. For the first time, he thought of Penton Abbey as a home and not just a house. “You’ve performed miracles.”

When he advanced further into the room, the maids curtsied and left. The first step in Simpson’s matchmaking?