Mistletoe Wishes: A Regency Christmas Collection

Not as much effort as controlling one pestilential earl. “Sing to her.”

“O, my love is like a red, red rose

That’s newly sprung in June;

O, my love is like the melody

That’s sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in love am I:

And I will love thee still, my dear,

Till a’ the seas gang dry.”

Lord Channing’s melodious baritone skimmed across Bess’s nerves like silk over glass. The breath jammed in her throat and she felt giddy and hot. Until she reminded herself that it was just a song, and his lordship didn’t mean anything by choosing it except that he knew the words.

He had an annoying propensity to croon love songs to Daisy. They had the same effect on the donkey as on Bess. A strong urge to snuggle up to the singer. Daisy edged closer to the gate and stood transfixed, giving Bess a chance to rescue the mangled ribbons.

Dismayed, she inspected each length of colored satin as that soft Scots voice sang about true love and always returning to her, though it were ten thousand miles. Right now, she wished Lord Channing ten thousand miles away. At least then she might find some peace.

Except she already knew she’d miss him if he left. He drove her insane, he made her restless, he made her want. But seeing him set her world right. She had a sinking feeling that with every day she became more hopelessly infatuated with the roguish new lord of the manor.

She stood motionless and entranced—as entranced as Daisy—while Channing reached the end. And regretted that he stopped.

“I’m not sure I should let you ride Daisy tomorrow.”

“Oh?” Excitement spiked, and Bess glanced up from the ruined ribbons she had trouble seeing. That cursed sentimental song turned her vision misty.

Did he mean to steal another kiss before letting Daisy join the play? Bess didn’t even care that he went back on his word, as long as he ended this intolerable waiting.

But Lord Channing wasn’t looking at her. He studied Daisy, his impressive russet eyebrows lowered in displeasure. “She’s a law unto herself. What if she bolts?”

Disappointment, as wicked as it was unjustified, overwhelmed

Bess, and she replied on a subdued note. “She never has before.”

“There’s always a first time.”

“With everyone looking at her, she’s quite the prima donna.” Bess struggled to sound her usual sedate self, an exemplary woman who would never think to barter kisses. “You mightn’t believe it, but she always behaves perfectly when she’s in the nativity play. Well, apart from two years ago when she ate Mrs. Pickering’s new bonnet. And a couple of years before that when she butted the Bishop of Durham. But nobody likes him so that was almost a public service.”

Channing laughed while Daisy’s long ears flickered as if she followed each word of the discussion. Perhaps she did. After riding her in ten processions, Bess had developed a healthy respect for the donkey’s intelligence, as well as will to mischief. Although as she’d told Channing, Daisy usually cooperated for the Christmas celebrations. She liked the music.

“I could put you on Sparta, my horse.”

Despite her confused and disturbing feelings, Bess gave a short laugh. “That black monster in the next stall? He’s three times Daisy’s size.”

“And ten times better behaved.”

“Mary didn’t ride into Bethlehem on a thoroughbred horse. If she had, I’m sure the innkeeper would have made room for her—even if he had to boot out a guest with less aristocratic transport.”

Channing eyed her with curiosity. “I’m convinced you’re a revolutionary, Miss Farrar.”

Sighing, she gave up any attempt to save the ribbons. “Me?”

“Aye. You have devilish little respect for rank. I’ve even seen you push an earl around.”