Mistletoe Wishes: A Regency Christmas Collection

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Keeping her voice steady required every ounce of willpower.

“I decided I’d beat any letter home.” The deep rumble of his voice was the same, too. She remembered how it had always vibrated pleasantly in her bones. In the cold air, their breath formed clouds in front of their faces when they spoke. “On Wednesday, I got back to London from The Hague and found the orders that released me at last.”

Felicity bent to retrieve the bucket, so that he wouldn’t see the tears rushing to her eyes. She and Canforth had always been friends, but friends who made no undue demands on one another. Definitely not the kind of friends who howled and cheered and created a fuss when the wanderer returned from dangerous foreign exploits. She’d gathered from the first that he shied away from any hint of sentiment.

For a second, she fumbled blindly, until she found the handle. She rose with what she prayed was a fair appearance of composure. “The last letter I had from you was written in Vienna.”

Through all these endless, lonely years, the only real reminder that she was a wife and not a maiden lady had been his letters. Written regularly. Delivered erratically, according to the rigors of war and travel. She’d written to him, too. He read her letters, she knew—he responded to her questions about managing the estate—but she had no idea what, if anything, they’d meant to him. For her, his every word had been air to a woman dying of suffocation. Although true to the unspoken contract between them, in her replies, she’d never ventured beyond news of everyday events.

“Good God, I must have written that two months ago. There’s more to come.”

“I look forward to them,” she said easily, as if those letters hadn’t kept her heart alive since he’d gone away. She set the bucket down near the pump.

“I always looked forward to yours.” It sounded like mere politeness. But then he’d always been polite. Even during their few encounters in the countess’s big oak bed, he’d treated her like a fine lady. Never like a lover.

“Let me hold your horse while you get down,” she said, pushing away that unwelcome recollection.

Her husband was home and safe. For now, that was more than enough. Their difficulties could wait. After all, they’d waited nearly eight years already. Another few days wouldn’t make much difference.

“You shouldn’t be performing these menial tasks.” He frowned. “Where in Hades are the grooms I pay a fortune to maintain?”

“I’ve given them a few days off for Christmas.” When she caught the bridle, the horse eyed her balefully. “Most of the staff are on holiday.”

“Do you mean you’re here alone? At Christmas?” The frown intensified. “Why the deuce didn’t you go to your parents? Otway’s a hellish isolated place to spend the festive season. Especially if you’ve been mutton-headed enough to send the servants off.”

“You know, a man who’s been away so long should wait to see the lie of the land before he starts throwing his weight around,” she said coolly.

When she’d married Canforth at eighteen, his slightest displeasure had terrified her. To her surprise, despite her piercing gratitude that he was back, she found it easy to stand up to him n

ow. Seven years running the estate had lent her a measure of confidence sadly lacking in her younger self.

Her defiance elicited a grunt of sardonic laughter. “Perhaps he should. Forgive me. It’s a damned long ride from London. I apologize for being a grumpy bear.”

This willingness to admit he was in the wrong was familiar—and endearing. Her years in charge of Otway had taught her what a rare and precious quality that was in the male animal. Her tone became more conciliatory. “Actually I’m not altogether alone. Biddy’s here. So is Joe.”

“Are they?” Unalloyed pleasure filled his expression. An unalloyed pleasure absent when he greeted his wife. Ridiculous to be jealous of a couple in their sixties, but she was.

He slung one leg over the saddle and dismounted. To her horror, when he met the ground he staggered and almost lost his balance. The horse snorted and shifted under the clumsy movement.

“Canforth!” she cried, releasing the bridle and rushing forward to slide her shoulder under his arm. “Are you hurt?”

One gloved hand gripped the stirrup as he fought to stay upright. “Hell,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, Flick. All day in the saddle.”

“Can you walk?” she asked, as his weight pressed down on her. She hadn’t been this close to a man since he’d gone away. Yet the scents of healthy male sweat, horses and leather were heady and familiar. And his nearness reminded her how fragile and female she always felt when big, brawny Edmund Sherritt held her close.

“Yes, of course,” he said, already transferring the burden from her.

“You never told me you were wounded.” Although the hiatus in his letters about six months ago should have alerted her. Only the pallor under his tan betrayed what it cost him to stand on his own feet.

“A souvenir of Waterloo. Nothing serious.”

Felicity believed that like she believed in fairies. She slipped her arm around his waist.

“Is the scar on your cheek from Waterloo, too?”

She needed all her courage to ask the question. That single betraying gesture when she’d first seen his face told her that he was self-conscious about his changed appearance.

Gently he disengaged himself. “My unearthly luck finally ran out under a French hussar’s saber.”