Mistletoe Wishes: A Regency Christmas Collection

“Rory, I must protest,” Ned said stalwartly.

Channing ran his hand through his thick russet hair and regarded his lanky offsider with impatience. “Och, be off with you, laddie. The lady’s safe, and she knows it. And so is her reputation. This is the country. We can talk a wee while without setting every tongue in the vi

llage wagging.” He paused. “Anyway, who’s to know?”

“His lordship can be difficult,” the man said, turning to her apologetically. “Perhaps it would be better if you called another time.”

Bess, who, despite everything, was enjoying this unconventional encounter, smiled. It was much more fun doing battle with his lordship in person than via reams of disregarded letters. “Why would I want to do that, Mr.—”

“White, Miss Farrar. Edward White.” He bowed with a politeness so far lacking in the earl. “I’m his lordship’s secretary.”

“And butler and cook and bailiff. And shipmate of twenty years. It’s a good thing you’re so deuced indispensable, or I mightn’t take kindly to you hovering like an old woman.”

“It’s taken me four weeks to lay eyes on Lord Channing,” she said calmly. “Now I’ve got him at my mercy, wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”

“Bravo, Miss Farrar,” Channing said drily. “Perhaps you’ll join me in the library.” He gestured with one long-fingered hand toward the door he’d burst through. “You clearly have plenty to say. I’d prefer to avoid freezing to death while you harangue me.”

“How impressively cooperative, my lord.” She matched his tone as she preceded him through the corridor and into the library. The room was bereft of books, but at least contained a desk, some seating, and a fire.

She looked at the cobwebbed shelves in dismay. “I had no idea the house was so neglected. Although given that any remaining staff were dismissed six months ago, I should have guessed.”

Channing crossed to pour a brandy from the decanter on the desk. He raised the decanter in her direction. “You?”

She muffled a huff of laughter. If he thought his unorthodox behavior would deter her, he was due for disappointment. “No, thank you.”

“I’ll have to get some good whisky down from Speyside.” He took his drink and wandered across to the fire with a restlessness that stirred the air. There was something breathtakingly compelling about the new earl. A crackle of energy that Bess only now realized had been missing from her life. “Did you know my brother?”

“This is a small community, my lord. Of course I did. He was in poor health in recent years.”

“He let the house go to rack and ruin.”

“Before he left for Italy, he was a good landlord and very conscientious about caring for the villagers.”

“I’m guessing you made sure he was.”

She didn’t answer. Even if it was true. With her father lost in dreams of Byzantium and the earl an invalid, someone had to stand up for the locals. “My condolences on his death.”

Channing shrugged. “I didn’t know him. My mother took me away from Penton Wyck as a wee bairn, and after my father died, married a Scotsman with four daughters. She never set foot in England again. George was fifteen years older than me and a real Sassenach. He had little use for his barbarous northern relations.”

Bess frowned. Growing up, she’d heard about the runaway countess. But Lord Channing’s prosaic explanation brought home the bitterly unhappy family history behind the old scandal.

Perhaps this troubled background explained the earl’s wildness. It certainly explained why he sounded like he should wear a kilt, even if right now he was dressed plainly, if untidily in a dark blue coat and breeches.

“I’m sure even in the Highlands, a man knows enough to hire a few servants when he moves into a house this size.”

“I’ve taken on the important ones.”

“The grooms, you mean?”

He shrugged again and gestured her toward a shabby leather sofa. “Aye. The horses take priority. Ned and I can rough it until we discover the lay of the land.”

Gingerly she sat, then sneezed at the cloud of dust that exploded around her. “Roughing it…” She added ironic weight to the words. “…hardly befits your dignity as Earl of Channing, though, does it? You need to set a standard.”

He propped one hip on the large mahogany desk covered in papers and regarded her unwaveringly. “You see? That’s why you surprised me, Miss Farrar.”

“Because I’m bold enough to point out your duty?” She made herself meet his eyes, while some silly feminine part of her wanted to giggle and blush and flutter her eyelashes.

She was too old for such nonsense. Sternly she told herself that sin always came disguised as beauty. That was how it lured you in. But in the stark gray light through the window at his back, Lord Channing was the most spectacular man she’d ever beheld in all her admittedly sheltered twenty-six years.