Mistletoe Wishes: A Regency Christmas Collection

She wasn’t sure whether to be grateful for her neighbors’ machinations, or resent them. She certainly didn’t mind being alone with Channing. If he kissed her again, she’d mind even less.

She and the earl were alone now. They were in the stables and she was grooming a fidgety Daisy for tomorrow’s play. His lordship watched them both from the corridor, arms folded on top of the stall gate. The grooms were notably absent, although in the middle of the day, they should be hard at work.

“Adeste, fidelis,” she sang when Daisy backed away from the bunch of bright ribbons she held.

Lord Channing snickered. “She objects to the historical inaccuracy of your titivating. I doubt the real donkey was done out like a wee harlequin.”

Bess cast him an unimpressed look. “You’re no help.”

“What if I sing, too?” His teasing smile had her silly heart dancing a gavotte, skipping about like it was spring instead of deepest winter.

“You could try.”

“I’d rather watch the battle royal between you and this troublesome beast. It’s great entertainment. Daisy’s the only creature in Penton Wyck who doesn’t jump to your bidding.”

Bess draped the ribbons over the edge of the manger and grabbed Daisy’s halter to hold her still. “She’s not the only troublesome beast I see.”

He laughed softly. “Have I not leaped to your merest command, Miss Farrar? I’ve employed half the village, and now I can’t open a door in my own house without tripping over some gormless yokel dusting the china. I’ve emptied every victualler within a hundred miles to feed your friends and neighbors on Christmas Day. I’ve stayed up past midnight learning lines for your blasted play—you’d think I was a damned schoolboy sitting his Latin translation exam.”

“Language,” she said, trying to make her fingers work with their usual deftness as she twined a red ribbon around the harness. She just couldn’t control her shivery reaction to Lord Channing. Never had she been so physically aware of anyone. Nor could she forget how wonderful she’d felt when he’d put his arms around her.

Damn him—and his deleterious influence on her language—since then he’d acted the perfect gentleman. Even if a gentleman quick to take her arm or touch her shoulder or hold her hand to step onto a ladder. Or catch her waist to lift her onto Daisy’s back when she played Mary.

But no more kisses. And while she waited in breathless suspense for him to kiss her again, those teasing little touches were driving her mad.

“It’s my house, and I’m a sailor. You’d be disappointed if I didn’t let the occasional oath fly.”

He might be right. A wicked part of her thrilled to think of the exciting life he’d led. She loved Penton Wyck. But she wouldn’t be human if she didn’t occasionally hanker after new horizons. Lord Channing brought those new horizons to her doorstep. “You haven’t got much to complain about. Joseph only has three speeches.”

Another smile curled that fascinating mouth. A mouth that she couldn’t stop thinking about. Had one taste convinced him she wasn’t worth kissing? Had she been too eager? Too clumsy? Did he find her overbearing? This wasn’t the first time he’d referred to her ordering him about.

Except she was sure that from the start, he’d followed his own inclinations. He played a deep game—on the surface he might be all cooperation, but in the end, Bess Farrar danced to his tune, not the other way round.

What precisely was his tune? Clearly not kisses, plague take him.

The horrible, shaming truth was that his kiss was the most thrilling thing that had ever happened to her. Revisiting those heated seconds kept her awake at night and jumpy all day. The fever found no relief. That kiss should have shocked her—after all, they’d only just met, and she’d heard about his reputation—but when it was over, all she wanted was more.

And no good vicar’s daughter should devote so much time to thinking about kisses.

Clearly she wasn’t good.

Not that Lord Channing did much to take advantage of her sinfulness.

He was talking to her as if he had nothing more important on his mind than the nativity play. “Yes, but Joseph is in charge of Daisy. It’s the toughest role in the whole show. You merely need to sit there, looking beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said uncertainly.

What the devil was she to make of it when he said such things? If he really thought she was beautiful, why on earth didn’t he do something about it?

Like kiss her again.

“Do you want those for anything special?”

“Pardon?”

Channing gestured to where the donkey munched away at the ribbons meant for her adornment. “Oh, Daisy, you rotten thing.”

Channing laughed again. “I told you that controlling Daisy was a major effort.”