Mistletoe Wishes: A Regency Christmas Collection

She was horribly aware how rude she’d been when Mr. Hale was here with her employer’s approval. She put on her best housekeeper voice. “Do you mind eating down here, sir? It’s the warmest room.”

He cast her a doubtful frown as he set his saddlebags near the door. He tugged off hat and coat, sending snow scattering across the stone floor. “You sound unusually polite.”

“I hope you’ll pardon me.” She dipped into a curtsy. “I didn’t treat you as a guest to this house deserves to be treated.”

The sardonic arch of his black brows made her want to clout him. Again. But she doubted if her hardest punch would make a dent. She’d expected him to appear less formidable, once he’d removed the bulky greatcoat and high-crowned beaver hat. But if anything, he loomed even larger.

She paused to study him. Everything about him was big. His chest. His shoulders. His head with its unruly mop of coal-black curls. Large hands. Large feet. Long powerful legs displayed to advantage in buckskin breeches.

She blushed and glanced away. Those tight breeches did little to hide that his remarkable size was thanks to acres of hard muscle.

In comparison, she felt like a mere dot.

Mr. Hale wasn’t a handsome man. At least in terms of the fashionable beaux sketched in the papers. And she couldn’t imagine him featuring as the hero of a novel.

The villain, perhaps.

Maggie’s experience of gentlemen her own age was limited, and Mr. Hale couldn’t be more than thirty. She reluctantly admitted that, while he mightn’t be conventionally good looking, he was attractive. Standing like a mountain in the middle of the floor, he vibrated with energy and intelligence. However appalling his manners, it was difficult to dislike him. It seemed she’d already forgiven him for hauling her around like a sack of potatoes.

“I must apologize for my earlier manner,” she continued.

She had no idea why the glance he bestowed upon her plain—dowdy—gray dress held a hint of disappointment. “Must you?”

“Yes,” she said stiffly.

Oh, dear, was that a note of challenge? When she caught that mocking glint in his eyes, something in her reacted like dry wood to a flame. She reminded herself of her humble status. And the fact that if Dr. Black threw her out on her ear for upsetting the first guest he’d invited to Thorncroft since her mother’s funeral, she had nowhere else to go.

“I hate to play Devil’s advocate, but I turned up in the middle of the night with no warning. I did write, but I suspect the bad weather further south has delayed my letter. I’m well aware that not even my best friend would call me anything but rough and ready.”

She’d already worked out that Joss Hale was nobody’s advocate. Although she was yet to be convinced that he wasn’t the devil. A seducer of souls would have a voice like his. Deep to the point of subterranean, but rich with a velvety edge, when he wasn’t marching about, throwing orders around.

Maggie struggled for the civil, uninvolved tone she’d decided to adopt with Mr. Hale. If he and she were to live under one roof, even for a short time, they had to preserve the gulf between master and servant. Given the interest she’d seen in his eyes earlier, she wanted him to think of her as a housekeeper, not a woman.

Then she remembered with horror what he’d said about spending Christmas at the house. With difficulty, she squashed it down into a knot of seething disquiet in her stomach.

She had tonight to get through. Let tomorrow’s troubles wait.

“Nevertheless, I greeted you in a totally inappropriate fashion. I’d like to start again.” She curtsied once more and narrowed her eyes at him when his lips twitched.

“My name is Margaret Carr. I’m the housekeeper here at Thorncroft Hall. I’ll do my best to make your stay comfortable.”

He tilted his chin in the direction of the saucepan on the hob. “In that case, my soup is about to boil over.”

“Oh, no.” She whirled around and rescued the soup. She poured it into an earthenware bowl, hoping he didn’t expect the best china at this hour. “Please sit down.”

He took a seat, and she let out a relieved breath. It was nice to have him on the same level at last. “Will you join me?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ve eaten. Anyway—”

“You’re about to say something housekeeperish, aren’t you?”

She ignored the jibe and slid the steaming bowl in front of him, then a plate of bread and butter. Perhaps once he’d eaten, he’d be easier to handle. “Would you like wine or ale? Or there’s brandy.”

“Wine, please,” he said, trying the steaming vegetable soup. The expression of pleasure on his face made him look younger and considerably more approachable. “By God, this is good. Did you make it?”

Stupid girl she was, she blushed with gratification. But it was nice to hear a compliment for her cooking from someone other than Jane.

“Thank you. Yes.” Feeling more settled, now he was sitting down and focusing on his meal instead of her, she opened the bottle of Dr. Black’s claret that she’d brought up from the cellar.