Mistletoe Wishes: A Regency Christmas Collection

“Not at all. I’m famished. Shall I see you in the drawing room in an hour?”

“That will be lovely.”

She needed to go downstairs and make arrangements for the evening with Biddy and Joe. A different man and a different woman might rush from greeting to bed. Passion long denied would find quick and furious release.

But she and Canforth had never been wild for one another. More was the pity. Her bed had been a cold and lonely place since he left. Apparently after doing his duty with no particular urgency on their honeymoon, he’d returned from the wars no hungrier for her body. Her husband was back, and she felt lonelier than ever.

Felicity watched Canforth limp toward the stairs—standing so long under the mistletoe hadn’t been good for his leg—and told herself she had so much to be grateful for. The husband she loved was home and safe. He seemed pleased to see her. He remained the kind, considerate man she remembered.

A little too considerate, she thought, before she told herself to behave.

Anything more was a romantic dream that she must relinquish if she hoped to find a scrap of happiness in this marriage.

But as he turned out of sight around the bend of the staircase, she glanced up at that absurd kissing bough with its promise of easy, light-hearted pleasure. Disappointment settled heavy and sour in her stomach.

Chapter 3

Canforth felt as nervous as a cadet on his first parade, instead of like a seasoned soldier of thirty-two, when he fronted at the drawing room on Christmas Eve.

His exquisite wife always made him feel like a bull at a tea party. She was so slight and graceful and perfect. The first time he saw her, he’d known Flick was the one for him. But he’d never quite conquered his shyness in her company. It was ridiculous, when he was capable of playing the rake with any other woman.

But then no other woman had ever mattered.

When they met, Flick had been sweetly innocent and unsure of herself. He’d wooed her gently, and that gentleness had continued into their honeymoon. They’d never quite fallen into being at ease with one other. Perhaps with more time, they’d have found their way. But he’d received his orders a fortnight after the wedding, and he’d had to leave her, still closer to a stranger than a wife.

That constraint remained as a gulf between them. She’d been shaking like a leaf when he kissed her under the mistletoe. While he’d been away, her image had fueled a thousand fantasies. But faced with the real Flick, any hope of a passionate reunion evaporated.

Ah, well, he was home now, and this time he’d do his damnedest to build a real marriage.

He’d feared that she’d find him repulsive, scarred and injured as he was. But there had been no mistaking the care in her touch when she’d traced his scar.

His Flick had a gallant heart. He’d never doubted that. The doubt was whether she’d grant that heart to him, the way that he’d granted her his, the first time he saw her.

When he came through the door, Digby at his heels, his wife sat sewing by the fire. Gratitude soothed the strife in his soul. Over the years, he’d dreamed about more than bed sport. He’d also longed for sweet domesticity. The comforts of home. A woman’s gentle voice to greet him. The promise of quiet happiness, stretching ahead like a golden road.

He sucked in a breath of air that didn’t stink of unwashed humanity, gunpowder, and blood. And felt his heart settle into a steady rhythm of hope.

He loved Flick. In time, she might come to love him. Once she’d recovered from her surprise, she’d been glad to see him. He’d wager eight years of a major’s salary on that. And she’d accepted his kiss, after conquering her bashfulness.

It wasn’t enough. But it was a start.

He smiled as he watched her over her embroidery. She attacked the stitching with the fierce concentration she devoted to everything that caught her attention. He recalled her searching stare the night they met, as if she already knew their first dance would change their lives forever.

This evening, she wore an elegant pink gown. What a contrast to the charming ragamuffin he’d discovered when he arrived. Now her shining mahogany hair was arranged in a loose knot that set off the pure oval of her face. He had a sudden fantasy of seeing her hair cascading around her shoulders when he came to her bed. Sexual hunger thundered through him and shattered the peaceful mood. When they’d married, he’d wanted her like the very devil. Controlling his lustful urges had been a constant battle. All these years without her only fed his endless craving.

Something of his agitation disturbed the air, and she looked up, her sewing falling disregarded into her lap. Her coffee-colored eyes widened, and for one sizzling moment, he wondered if she longed, too.

Then she put aside her embroidery hoop and stood up and smiled as she would at a casual acquaintance, and he knew wishful thinking had caught him out again.

“Canforth, let me get you some wine.”

He walked into the room, trying not to limp. He loathed returning to her in such a mess. “Thank you.”

She stepped across to the decanters, arrayed on a Sheraton table. He observed her confident air with interest. The self-assurance was new. His shy bride had been so unsure of everything. But of course, she’d been chatelaine here the whole time he’d been away, and done an excellent job running the estate and his other business interests.

“Or would you rather have brandy?”

“Claret is fine.” He subsided into the seat opposite hers. An involuntary groan of pleasure escaped him as his weary body sank into the cushions. He’d spent a deuce of a long time on horseback this last week. Digby pressed heavily against Canforth’s thigh, fortunately the good one. His hand dropped to fondle the dog’s ears. “Come in to sit by the fire, you pudding-headed mutt?”