Mistletoe Wishes: A Regency Christmas Collection

Bess’s subdued air hadn’t lifted by the time the participants gathered at the Abbey the next day for the Christmas Eve procession. Rory, coming downstairs ready to play St. Joseph, felt a very unsaintly urge to smash something when he saw her drawn, tired features. The woman dressed in Mary’s sky blue robe looked like she’d travelled a long, hard road to reach Bethlehem.

She’d been working with his servants this morning, supervising placement of the lush greenery to mark the Yuletide, and checking arrangements for tomorrow’s party. But she’d kept at least a room away from him. He could only assume by choice.

Wisdom indicated that with scandal hovering, discretion was the best course, even if he itched to corner her and make her tell him what was wrong. After holding her in his arms, it was torture pretending they were mere acquaintances.

Was she shy after last night? She’d been an innocent after all, and he’d done more than enough to shock a virginal vicar’s daughter.

“Miss Farrar, are you all right?” Rory asked under his breath as everyone else crowded around the blacksmith’s wife, and her baby who was the play’s Jesus.

“Perfectly,” Bess said in a flat voice, without looking at him. He was devilish tired of that opaque blue gaze skating across him as if he was another piece of furniture.

Worse. Bess always paid attention to the furniture.

“Are you sure?”

“Perfectly.”

“Well, that’s…good,” he said, not believing her for a moment.

Rory eyed the mistletoe suspended above her head and wondered how she’d react if he caught her around the waist and kissed her. She’d probably say “perfectly” in that polite little voice that didn’t sound at all like the woman he knew.

Dr. Simpson, dressed as the innkeeper, approached to ask a question, and she turned to him with barely hidden relief. Rory slouched discontentedly against the wall and observed proceedings with a jaundiced air. He wasn’t yet in costume, but seeing he only had to pull a striped robe over his shirtsleeves, he wasn’t bothered.

His gaze tracked Bess as she moved around the cast, straightening a crown on a Wise Man, reminding the chief shepherd of his lines, checking with the choirmaster. Children and villagers milled about outside the house. They’d sing Christmas carols accompanied by recorders and drums, as the procession wound its way through the village.

Everything except Bess Farrar was in cracking shape. The house smelled like a forest, fresh and green and sharp with aromatic pine sap. Thank heavens yesterday’s foul weather had cleared, and Christmas Eve dawned clear and cold. Through the open doors, Rory saw how the sun struck the snow to blinding white.

Bess spent several minutes calming the Angel of the Lord who had the longest part. Sally Potts was counted the village beauty, and this was her first year in a speaking role. Perhaps Rory was biased, but he couldn’t help comparing her to Bess. Even today, when his darling looked like she hadn’t had a wink of sleep, she was still the prettiest lass he’d ever seen.

The only player who escaped a few words of encouragement was the lord of the manor. Did Bess mean to convey the impression that nothing untoward had happened in the hut? This morning he’d noticed a few speculative glances, but so far their story was generally accepted.

He puzzled over her attitude. Bess might be angry with him, or disappointed. Although surely now that the heat of passion faded, she must realize that he’d done the only thing a man of honor could.

Except that what he saw when he watched her—and he watched her as closely as a cat watched a bird fluttering in a bush—wasn’t pique, but a valiantly hidden unhappiness that made his gut clench with remorse.

He desperately needed to talk to her, to find out what went on inside her lovely head. Two years with his stepsisters had taught him that when females got a notion, their minds could whisk them away to the edge of doom before a man recognized he’d made a minor mistake.

The hell of it was that even if he could get Bess to accept his apologies, he wouldn’t have a second alone with her all day to make them. So he lingered, worried and frustrated, on the edge of a crowd which excluded him, even as it embraced Bess.

“It’s time to go outside,” she said with a cheerfulness that struck false in Rory’s ears. “You’ve all been marvelous in rehearsal, so I’m sure this will be a special year.”

Dr. Simpson smiled at her, then sent Rory a meaningful glance. “It is indeed a special year. We welcome a new earl, and I couldn’t be more pleased that his lordship is already an indispensable part of our small community.”

To Rory’s surprise, everyone in the room burst into applause before a ragged but enthusiastic rendition of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” with three resounding cheers to follow.

Touched, he stepped forward. He’d been wrong to feel excluded. His head was all over the place today with the chill between him and Bess. At least she’d joined in the song, he hoped not just for appearance’s sake.

“Thank you, Dr. Simpson. I couldn’t ask for a warmer reception. I’m happy that I’ve dropped anchor in Penton Wyck. For my money, there isn’t a finer lot of people in England.” He paused. “Or in Scotland either, which I never thought a true son of the Highlands would say.” Everyone laughed. Even Bess managed a smile. He gestured toward where she stood half a room away. “I’d like to thank Miss Farrar. Without her, I’d never have discovered the joy of preparing for a traditional Christmas, or had a livable house—or met the charming Daisy.”

Another laugh and three more cheers for Bess who looked damnably on edge. If she didn’t settle down, she’d be the nerviest Mary in history.

Rory signaled to the two footmen standing by the door. Within seconds they were circulating with trays of mulled wine. The players had a long afternoon ahead, mostly in the open. A wee bit of extra cheer wouldn’t go astray. The scents of cinnamon, cloves and oranges from the fragrant brew rose to combine pleasantly with the tang of pine.

“Thank you,” Bess said. “Now it’s time we set off, or Daisy will go without us. The idea of leaving her to her own devices is too terrifying to contemplate.”

Another laugh. Apart from that stormy pool of unhappiness around Bess, a river of goodwill flowed through the room.

Rory noticed that she hardly touched her wine. Which was a pity