Mistletoe Wishes: A Regency Christmas Collection

“I suspect it will die down of its own accord when you don’t wallpaper the house with maps marked with an X.”

“Very droll. And not helpful.”

“Oh, you wound me. With your cutlass. Just don’t make me walk the plank.”

“I can’t take much more hilarity, laddie. Shall we make our presence known?”

Ned managed an ironic bow. “After you, my lord.”

Rory cast his oldest friend a wry glance and stepped up to the balustrade. “Good morning, everyone.”

He was used to addressing his crew through the bluster of wind, wave and sail, so his voice easily cut across the chatter. Silence fell, and as one, thirty faces turned upward.

The expressions were as he expected. Given the outlandish gossip about his exploits before coming to Penton Wyck, wariness was inevitable. But outright hostility was thankfully absent. Instead he read curiosity and interest.

Automatically he sought out Bess. Her expression was harder to interpret. Had she found sleep elusive, too? Perhaps she’d spent the hours since they parted reliving his kiss. He bloody well hoped so.

She dipped into a curtsy and as if her movement released the crowd from a spell, the other women bobbed into curtsies and the men bowed. Rory supposed he’d have to become accustomed to these homages to his rank.

“Thank you for coming through the snow to prepare Penton Abbey for my first Christmas here. It’s a grand old house and needs bringing to life.” Call him a Frenchman if that wasn’t approval in Bess’s steady blue gaze. “You don’t know me yet, and I don’t know you. But working together for a common cause is the best way to discover a man’s mettle. I hope by the time we’re drinking a toast to the season and the Yule log is blazing in the hearth, you’ll consider me one of you and a worthy successor to my late, respected brother.” He gestured toward Bess. “Miss Farrar knows where to stow everything, so defer to her. This salty old sea dog has no idea how to rig a landlubber’s berth.”

As he’d hoped, the self-deprecating end to his speech lightened the solemnity that resulted from mentioning his brother. It even elicited a few chuckles.

Ned stood beside him. “Do you mean to leave them to it?”

“Don’t be a fool, lad.” Rory sent him a devil-may-care grin. “I’ve got a vicar’s daughter to catch. I’m not letting the comely Miss Farrar out of my sight.”

Ned smiled back. “She hasn’t got a chance.”

Rory remained preternaturally aware of Bess’s location. Right now she stood under one of the windows, speaking to an elderly gentleman in black who seemed to hold some authority. “I hope to God you’re right.”

Ned regarded him in shock. “Well, that takes the biscuit.”

“What does?” Rory asked, without shifting his attention from Bess.

“You must be in love with her.”

Unfamiliar heat pricked his cheeks. Damn it, Rory hadn’t blushed since his first voyage. A boy grew up fast belowdecks.

“I only met the lassie yesterday.” Gossip was right about one thing at least—he had more experience with the fair sex than was good for him. But love? That was uncharted territory.

Ned looked smug. “I never thought to see the day.”

“She’s a lovely creature.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And clever and capable.”

“Inarguably.”

“A man of property needs a wife. He can’t stay the same reckless, self-centered bastard he was in his youth.”

“Especially when he falls in love. In all our years together, I’ve never seen you less than confident of your chances with a woman. It’s been deuced irritating. If you’re unsure about this lady, it’s because she’s not just a woman, she’s the woman.”

“White, you try my patience,” he snapped. “Come and put that vivid imagination to work moving furniture.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Ned had the temerity to salute before he ran lightly downstairs to join a party heading out of the hall.