A Yuletide Invitation: The Mistletoe Wager / The Harlot's Daughter

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Yuletide Invitation

The Mistletoe Wager

Christine Merrill

The Harlot’s Daughter

Blythe Gifford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Mistletoe Wager

About the Author

CHRISTINE MERRILL lives on a farm in Wisconsin, USA, with her husband, two sons, and too many pets – all of whom would like her to get off the computer so they can check their e-mail. She has worked by turns in theatre costuming, where she was paid to play with period ballgowns, and as a librarian, where she spent the day surrounded by books. Writing historical romance combines her love of good stories and fancy dress with her ability to stare out of the window and make stuff up.

Dear Reader,

When I set out to write about Christmas in the Regency, I had to unlearn a lot of our current Christmas traditions. Much of what we do now to celebrate the season did not become popular until Victorian times. No Christmas cards or Santa, of course. And Christmas trees were still quite a novelty in the early nineteenth century.

With no television or radio to entertain them, people passed the time eating and drinking holiday foods, and playing parlour games. As I was doing the research for this story, I came across a game which didn’t make it into this book. A player must answer every question asked of him with the word “Sausage.” When he laughs, he loses his turn.

A week later, my sons returned from summer camp. They had been surviving without electricity for a week and had learned to play “Sausage” to pass the time.

So although the showier aspects of the Christmas season were years away, people had already found ways to amuse themselves that are still able to tame bored teenagers in the twenty-first century. Very impressive!

Merry Christmas and happy reading,

Christine Merrill

To Jim and the boys. Christmas comes but once

a year. But it lasts twelve months.

CHAPTER ONE

HARRY PENNYNGTON, Earl of Anneslea, passed his hat and gloves to the servant at White’s, squared his shoulders, and strode into the main room to face his enemy. Nicholas Tremaine was lounging in a chair by the fire, exuding confidence and unconcerned by his lesser birth. To see him was to believe he was master of his surroundings, whatever they might be. He reminded Harry of a panther dozing on a tree branch, ready to drop without warning into the lives of other creatures and wreak havoc on their nerves.

And he was a handsome panther at that. In comparison, Harry always felt that he was inferior in some way. Shorter, perhaps, although they were much of the same height and build. And rumpled. For, no matter how much time or money Harry spent on his attire, Tremaine would always be more fashionable. And he did it seemingly without effort.

On the long list of things that annoyed him about the man, his appearance was at the bottom. But it was on the list all the same.

The room was nearly empty, but Harry could feel the shift in attention among the few others present as though there had been a change in the wind. Men looked up from their cards and reading, watching his progress towards Tremaine. They were curious to see what would happen when the two notorious rivals met.

Very well, then. He would give them the show they hoped for. ‘Tremaine!’ He said it too loudly and with much good cheer.

His quarry gave a start and almost spilled his brandy. He had recognised the voice at once, and his eyes darted around the room, seeking escape. But none was to be had, for Harry stood between him and the door. Harry could see the faint light of irritation in the other man’s eyes when he realised that he would have no choice but to acknowledge the greeting. ‘Hello, Anneslea.’ Then he returned his gaze to the paper he had been reading, showing no desire for further conversation.

How unfortunate for him. ‘How goes it for you, old man, in this most blessed of holiday seasons?’

The only response was a nod, followed by a vague grunt that could have indicated satisfaction or annoyance.

Harry smiled and took a chair opposite the fire, facing Tremaine. He took a sip from the brandy that a servant had rushed to bring him. He examined the liquid in the glass, holding it out to catch the firelight. ‘A good drink warms the blood on a day like this. There is a chill in the air. I’ve been tramping up and down Bond Street all morning. Shopping for Christmas gifts. Tailors, jewellers, whatnot. And the fixings for the celebration, of course. What’s not to be had in the country must be brought back with me from town.’ He waved his hand at the foolishness of it. ‘I do not normally take it upon myself. But now that I am alone …’ He could almost feel the ears of the others in the room, pricking to catch what he would say next.

Tremaine noticed as well, and gave a small flinch. It was most gratifying.

Harry looked up from his drink into Tremaine’s startled face. ‘And, by the by, how is Elise?’ It was a bold conversational gambit, and he was rewarded with a slight choke from his opponent.

The other man turned to him and sat up straight, his indolence disappearing. His eyes glittered with suppressed rage. ‘She is well, I think. If you care, you should go and ask her yourself. She would be glad of the call.’

She would be no such thing. As he remembered their last conversation, Elise had made it plain that if she never saw Harry again it would be too soon. ‘Perhaps I will,’ he answered, and smiled as though they were having a pleasant discussion about an old friend and nothing more.

It must have disappointed their audience to see the two men behaving as adults on this most delicate of subjects. But their moderate behaviour had not quelled the undercurrent of anticipation. He could see from the corner of his eye that the room had begun to fill with observers. They were reading newspapers, engaging in subdued chat, and gazing out of the bay window while sipping drinks. But every man present was taking care to be uninterested in a most focused fashion, waiting for the cross word that would set the two of them to brawling like schoolboys.

If only it were so easily settled. If Harry could have been sure of a win, he would have met his opponent on the field of honour long before now. The temptation existed to hand his jacket to the nearest servant, roll up his sleeves, raise his fists and lay the bastard out on the hearth rug. But physically, they were evenly matched. A fight would impress no one, should he lose it. And Elise would think even less of him than she did now if he was bested in public by Nicholas Tremaine.

He would have to strike where his rival could least defend himself. In the intellect.

Tremaine eased back in his chair, relaxing in the quiet, perhaps thinking that he had silenced Harry with his indifference. Poor fool. Harry set down his empty glass, made a great show of placing his hands on his knees, gave a contented sigh and continued the conversation as though there were nothing strange about it. ‘Any plans for the holiday?’

‘Has Elise made plans?’ There was a faint reproof in the man’s voice, as though he had a right to take Harry to task on that subject. Harry ignored it.

‘You, I mean. Do you have plans? For Christmas?’ He smiled to show all the world Elise’s plans were no concern of his.

Tremaine glared. ‘I am most pleased to have no plans. I intend to treat the day much as any other.’

‘Really. May I offer you a bit of advice, Tremaine?’

He looked positively pained at the idea. ‘If you must.’

‘Try to drum up some enthusiasm towards Christmas—for her sake, at least.’

In response, Tremaine snorted in disgust. ‘I do not see why I should. People make far too big a fuss over the whole season. What is it good for, other than a chance to experience diminished sunlight and foul weather while in close proximity to one’s fellow man? I find the experience most unpleasant. If others choose to celebrate, I wish them well. But I do not wish to bother others with my bad mood, and I would prefer that they not bother me.’ He stared directly at Harry, so there could be no doubt as to his meaning.

Perfect. Harry’s smile turned sympathetic. ‘Then I wonder if you will be any better suited to Elise than I was. She adores this season. She cannot help it, I suppose. It’s in her blood. She waits all year in anticipation of the special foods, the mulled wine, the singing and games. When we were together she was constantly dragging trees where they were never intended to be, and then lighting candles in them until I was quite sure she meant to burn the house down for Twelfth Night. I doubt she will wish to give that up just to please you. There is no changing her when she has an idea in her head. I know from experience. It is you who must alter—to suit her.’

A variety of emotions were playing across Tremaine’s face, fighting for supremacy. Harry watched in secret enjoyment as thoughts formed and were discarded. Should he tell Anneslea what to do with his advice? It had been offered innocently enough. Accuse him of ill treatment in some way? Not possible. Should they argue, Tremaine would gain nothing, for society would find him totally in the wrong. Harry’s only offence was his irrational good humour. And Tremaine was at a loss as to how to combat it.

At last he chose to reject the advice, and to ignore the mention of Elise. ‘I am adamant on the subject. I have nothing against the holiday itself, but I have no patience for the folderol that accompanies it. Nor am I likely to change my mind on the subject to please another.’

‘That is what I thought once.’ Harry grinned. ‘And now look at me.’ He held out his arms, as if to prove his honest intentions. ‘I’m positively overflowing with good will towards my fellow men. Of course, once you have experienced Christmas as we celebrate it at Anneslea Manor …’ He paused and then snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it, man. Just the thing. You must come out to the house and see how the feast is properly done. That will put you to rights.’

Tremaine stared at him as though he’d gone mad. ‘I will do no such thing.’

The other men in the room were listening with obvious interest now. Harry could hear chuckles and whispers of approval.

‘No, I insist. You will see how the season should be shared, and it will melt your heart on the subject. I doubt there is a better gift that I could offer to Elise than to teach you the meaning of Christmas. Come to Lincolnshire, Tremaine. We are practically family, after all.’

There was definitely a laugh from somewhere in the room, although it was quickly stifled. And then the room fell silent, waiting for the response.

If it had been a matter of fashion, or some caustic witticism he was directing at another, Tremaine would have loved being the centre of attention. But today he hated the idea that he was the butt of a joke, rather than Harry. There was a redness creeping from under Tremaine’s collar as his anger sought an outlet. At last he burst out, ‘Not in a million years.’

‘Oh, come now.’ Harry pulled a face. ‘We can make a bet of it. What shall it be?’ He pretended to consider. ‘Gentlemen, bring the book. I am willing to bet twenty pounds to Tremaine, and any takers, that he shall wish me a Merry Christmas by Twelfth Night.’

Someone ran for the betting book, and there was a rustling of hands in pockets for banknotes, pens scratching IOUs, and offers to hold the stakes. It was all accompanied by a murmur of agreement that hell would freeze before Tremaine wished anyone a Merry Christmas, so well known was his contempt for the season. And the chance that anything might induce him to say those particular words to Harry Pennyngton were equal to the devil going to Bond Street to buy ice skates.

But while the room was raised in chaos, the object of the wager stared steadfastly into the fire, refusing to acknowledge what was occurring.

Harry said, loud enough for all to hear over the din, ‘It does not matter if you do not wish to bet, Tremaine, for the others still wish to see me try. But it will be easier to settle the thing if you will co-operate.’ Then he addressed the room, ‘Come out to my house in the country, all of you.’ He gestured to include everyone. ‘Bring your families, if you wish. There is more than enough space. Then, when Tremaine’s resolve weakens, you will all be there to witness it.’ He stared at the other man. ‘And if it does not, if you are so sure of your position, then a wager on it will be the easiest money you could make.’

The mention of finances brought Tremaine to speech—just as Harry had known it would. ‘I no longer need to make a quick twenty pounds by entering into foolish wagers. Especially not with you, Anneslea. A visit to your house at Christmas would be two weeks of tedious company to prove something I already know. It would be an attempt to change my character in a way I do not wish. It is utter nonsense.’

Harry grinned. ‘You would not find it so if the wager were over something you truly desired. Now that you have received your full inheritance, I suppose twenty quid is nothing to you. I have no real desire to spend a fortnight in your company either, Tremaine. For I swear you are one of the most disagreeable fops in Christendom. But I do care for Elise’s happiness. And if she means to have you, then you must become a better man than you are.’ He touched a finger to his chin, pretending to think. ‘I have but to find the thing you want, and you will take the wager, right enough.’ Then he reached into his pocket and pulled the carefully worded letter from his breast pocket. ‘Perhaps this will change your mind.’

He offered it to Tremaine and watched the colour drain from the man’s face as he read the words. Others in the room leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the paper, but Harry stepped in to block their view.

‘For Tremaine’s eyes only, please. This is a matter between gentlemen.’ For a moment he gave vent to his true feelings and let the words drip with the irony he felt at having to pretend good fellowship for the bastard in the seat in front of him. Then he turned back to the crowd. ‘The side bet will in no way affect our fun. And it will be just the thing to convince our victim of the need to take a holiday trip to Anneslea.’

Or so he hoped. Tremaine was still staring at his offer, face frozen in surprise. When he looked up at Harry their eyes locked in challenge. And it was Tremaine who looked away first. But he said nothing, merely folded the paper and tucked it into his own pocket before exiting the room.

Harry smiled to himself, oblivious of the chaos around him.

And now he had but to wait.

CHAPTER TWO

ELISE PENNYNGTON straightened her skirt, smoothed her hair, and arranged herself on the divan in her London sitting room so that she could appear startled when the door to the room opened. Her guest was in the hall, just outside, and it would be careless of her to let him find her in true disarray. With a little effort she could give the impression that she awaited him eagerly, without appearing to be desperate for his company.

As he paused in the open doorway, awaiting her permission to enter, she looked at Nicholas Tremaine and steeled her nerves. Taking a lover was the first item on her list, if she truly wished to be emancipated from her husband. And if she must have male companionship, Nick was the logical choice. In her mind, he had been filed under ‘unfinished business’ for far too long. He was as elegantly handsome as he had been when he’d first proposed to her.

And she’d turned him away and chosen Harry.

But, since Harry did not want her any more, she was right back to where she had started.

‘Nicholas.’ She pushed the annoying thoughts of Harry from her mind, and held out her hands to the dashing gentleman before her.

He stepped forward and took them, raising her fingers to his mouth and giving them a brief touch of his lips. ‘Elise.’ His eyes were still the same soul-searching blue, and his hair just as dark as the day they’d met, although it had been more than five years.

There was no grey in her hair, either. And she took special care that when they met she looked as fresh and willing as she had at eighteen. Her coiffure was impeccable and her manner welcoming. And her dress was dotted with sprigs of flowers that perfectly matched the blue of her eyes.

Or so Harry had always claimed.

She gave a little shake of her head to clear away that troublesome memory, and gazed soulfully at the man still holding her hands. She was not the naïve young girl he had courted. But surely the passage of time on her face had not been harsh?

If he noticed the change the years had made in her, he gave no reason to think it bothered him. He returned her gaze in the same absently devoted way he always had, and she could see by his smile of approval that he found her attractive.

‘Come, sit with me.’ In turn, she took his hands in hers, and pulled him down to sit on the divan beside her. He took a place exactly the right distance away from her body—close enough to feel intimate, but far enough away not to incite comment should someone walk in on them together.

She hoped that she had not misunderstood his interest. For it would be very embarrassing if he were resistant to the idea, when she had raised sufficient courage to suggest that they take their relationship to a deeper level. But she had begun to suspect that the event would not happen until she had announced herself ready. It would be so much easier if he were to make the first move. But he had made it clear that he would not rush her into intimacy until she was sure, in her heart, that she would not regret her actions.

For a well-known rake, he was annoyingly protective of her honour.

‘Are you not glad to see me?’ She gave a hopeful pout.

‘Of course, darling.’ And after a moment he leaned forward to kiss her on the lips.

There was nothing wrong with the few kisses they had exchanged thus far. Nicholas clearly knew how to give a kiss. There was no awkwardness when their mouths met, no bumping of noses or shuffling of feet. His hands held her body with just the right level of strength, hinting at the ability to command passion without taking unwelcome liberties. His lips were firm on hers, neither too wet nor too dry, his breath was fresh, his cheek was smooth.

When he held her she was soft in his arms, languid but not overly forward, giving no sign that he need proceed faster, but neither did she signal him to desist immediately.

The whole presentation smacked of a game of chess. Each move was well planned. They could both see the action several turns ahead. Checkmate was inevitable.

Of course if it all seemed to lack a certain passion, and felt ever so slightly calculated, who was she to complain of it? She had thought about Nicholas in the darkest hours of her unhappy marriage and wondered how different it might be had she chosen otherwise. Soon she would know.

And if it would ever be possible to gain a true divorce from Harry she must accept the fact that at some point she would need to take a lover, whether she wanted one or not. Her confirmed infidelity was the only thing she was sure the courts might recognise as grounds. But even then, whether she could persuade her husband to make the effort to cast her off was quite another matter.

The matter was simple enough, after all. Harry must have an heir. Since she had been unable to provide one for him, he would be better off free of her while he was still young enough to try with another. But she had grown to see a possible divorce as one more thing in her marriage for which she would need to do the lion’s share of the work, if she wished the task accomplished. The last five years had proved that Harry Pennyngton could not be bothered with serious matters, no matter how she might try to gain his attention.

And now Nicholas had pulled away from her, as though he could not manage to continue the charade.

She frowned, and he shook his head in embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry if I seem distracted. But the most extraordinary thing happened at White’s just now, and we must speak of it. I received an invitation to Christmas.’

She stared at him with a barely raised eyebrow. ‘Hardly extraordinary, darling. Christmas is less than two weeks away. It is a bit late, I suppose. You should have made plans by now.’

‘Certainly not.’ Nicholas, had he had feathers, would have ruffled them. ‘I do not make it a habit of celebrating the holiday. It is much better to use the time productively, in reading or some other quiet pursuit, and to avoid gatherings all together. With so many others running about country drawing rooms like idiots, hiding slippers and bluffing blind men, it makes for an excellent time of peaceful reflection.’

Nicholas Tremaine’s aversion to Christmas was well known and marked upon. She had commented on it herself. And then she had placed it on the list of things that she would change about him, should their relationship grow to permanence. ‘You are most unreasonable on the subject, Nicholas. If someone has chosen to call you on it, it can hardly be a surprise.’

‘But the invitation came from a most unlikely source.’ He paused. ‘Harry. He’s asked me up to the house ‘til Twelfth Night, and has bet twenty quid to all takers that he can imbue me with the spirit of the season. He says the celebration at Anneslea Manor is always top drawer, and that I cannot fail to bend. And he invited all within earshot to come as well.’ He paused. ‘I just thought it rather odd. He’s obviously not keeping bachelor’s hall if he thinks to hold a house party.’ He paused again, as though afraid of her reaction. ‘And to induce me to yield he gave me this.’ He removed a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to her.

She read it.

I, Harry Pennyngton, swear upon my honour that if I cannot succeed in making Nicholas Tremaine wish me a Merry Christmas in my home, by January the fifth of next year, I shall make every attempt to give my estranged wife, Elise Pennyngton, the divorce that she craves, and will do nothing to stand in the way of her marriage to Nicholas Tremaine or any other man.

It was signed ‘Anneslea’, in her husband’s finest hand, and dated yesterday.

She threw it to the floor at her feet. Damn Harry and his twisted sense of humour. The whole thing had been prepared before he’d even entered into the bet. He had gone to the club with the intent of trapping Nicholas into one of his stupid little jokes, and he had used her to bait the hook. How dared he make light of something that was so important? Turn the end of their marriage into some drawing room wager and, worse yet, make no mention of it to her? Without thinking, she reverted to her mother tongue and gave vent to her frustrations over marriage, divorce, men in general, and her husband in particular.

Nicholas cleared his throat. ‘Really, Elise, if you must go on so, please limit yourself to English. You know I have no understanding of German.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘It is a good thing that you do not. For you would take me to task for my language, and give me another tiresome lecture in what is or is not proper for a British lady. And, Nicholas, I am in no mood for it.’

‘Well, foul language is not proper for an English gentleman, either. Nor is that letter. If you understood the process, Elise … He is offering something that he cannot give. Only the courts can decide if you are granted a divorce, and the answer will often be no.’