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His Yuletide Kiss
Children of the Wald Series:
Kestrel
Red Fox (coming soon!)
Forest Hart (coming soon!
The Journey
Lady Eleanor Mysteries – Book 4
BECCA ST. JOHN
This story copyright Becca St. John
Chapter One
A Most Unfortunate Foundation for Marriage
Bentwood House, London, England - Midsummer’s Day 1816
Unnerving, to tell the story of my own undoing, but there you have it — me foolishly fighting for attention, only to earn the wrong sort. Pathetic and, as it turns out, dangerous.
Very, very dangerous.
The Earl of Bentwood is watching. ‘Charlie’ to me. I’m incorrigible, long past the delicious fun of angering adults by using a given name entirely wasted otherwise. He used to call me Kat. I am now Lady Katherine to him, as well as the rest of the world. How boring.
But I digress. Of course he is watching me. The betting in the clubs has me leaning precariously close to ruin, but my plan is Montague’s ruin, not my own.
I’d forgotten Charlie’s dogged persistence in rescuing. I abhor the role of victim, especially when everything is in hand. The odds, according to Lord Montague, are on my ruination at his hands, followed by marriage. He bet on marriage, though I’ve no idea where he’ll find the funds to pay off that note. Once upon a time he had a healthy inheritance. Now his pockets are to let.
Which is why the reprobate is courting me.
Lucky me.
“The music has ended, Lord Montague.” I squeeze his arm.
His gaze slides to the open French doors, inviting an alternative to our promised dance and the stifling heat of the crush indoors. Caught off guard, I frown despite the risk of creating wrinkles. This change in plans worries me a little, but not enough to stop me from following him to the door. Despite what some think, I am not lost to propriety and know better than to go beyond sight of other guests. On the pretext of getting my skirt caught on the threshold of the door, I peek back in case Charlie is tempted to follow. A servant stands beside him with a small silver tray. He is reading the message just delivered.
I offer Montague my brightest smile, earning a wink. Everyone is watching, ready to claim their bets. I have never promised the man anything but witty conversation and a smidgen more time than granted other suitors, but others couldn’t know that.
“The terrace is nearly as crowded as the Ball. Shall we stroll the gardens?”
This is a grey area, not wrong, but not quite in my control either.
“Tattle-mongers will have a field day,” I warn but allow his lead, trusting my abilities to extricate myself from a sticky situation.
Torches line the garden paths, illuminating enough to thwart untoward advances. No scandal here, but this will not be Montague’s intended location. He will try to coerce me away from the low-growing foliage into the shadows, possibly even to the maze, not that he would succeed. I know the maze; he doesn’t.
Besides, I’ve been trained by a master in how to slip out of trouble. CeCe would be proud of me. She was always the one to concoct the schemes.
Interrupting Montague’s monologue on the beauty of ancestral estates he’s bankrupted, I say, “This horrid rain is worrying the gardeners. Root rot can destroy the lot.”
I touch a valiant little bud. My favourite. Named for Charlie and CeCe’s great-grandmother. When open, the scent is swoon-worthy.
“You speak with the gardeners?”
