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  A Regency Yuletide

  by

  Jo Ann Ferguson

  Karen Frisch

  Sharon Sobel

  ImaJinn Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  ImaJinn Books

  PO BOX 300921

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  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-572-0

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61026-086-2

  ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2011 by ImaJinn Books

  Lord of Misrule copyright 2011 by Jo Ann Ferguson.

  A Delicate Footing copyright 2011 by Karen Dennen.

  On the Twelfth Day of Christmas, My True Love 2011 by Sharon Sobel.

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

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  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo/Art credits:

  Background (manipulated) © Almoond | Dreamstime.com

  Background (manipulated) © Annnmei | Dreamstime.com

  Couple (manipulated) © Linda Bucklin | Dreamstime.com

  Banner & Snowflakes © Jaguarwoman Designs

  Snowflakes (manipulated) © Tiago Fidalgo (DesignFera)

  :Eyrd:01:

  The Lord of Misrule

  by

  Jo Ann Ferguson

  Chapter One

  “WHAT I REALLY need is a rope strong enough to hang a man.”

  Hearing the words that had struck her servants speechless, Lady Priscilla Hathaway walked into the kitchen of Mermaid Cottage, the home she shared with her husband, Sir Neville, and her three children. She was not surprised to see Gilbert, the major domo, frozen in shock. Both Mrs. Moore, the housekeeper, and Mrs. Dunham, the cook, stared wide-eyed at Neville.

  Priscilla smiled as she walked over to her husband. She wondered if she would ever grow tired of his darkly handsome looks or the mischievous twinkle in his brown eyes. Or the love and longing that filled his eyes when he looked at her.

  “Do you have any specific man in mind for hanging?” she asked as she paused beside him.

  He smiled, and the familiar warmth swirled through her. Since their wedding six months ago, just as summer began, she had only grown more eager to see that rakish smile.

  “If you wish me to name a name, then I must say the only man I know who deserves a threat of hanging is Duncan McAndrews.”

  She laughed. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the servants had regained their composure and were making efforts to look busy. Would they ever become accustomed to Neville’s outrageous ways? It might be too much to ask that a household once overseen by a vicar should change quickly. When she saw Gilbert hiding a smile, however, she suspected they already had started to accept Neville as part of the family.

  “Do you always imagine inflicting such bodily harm to one of your friends?” Priscilla asked.

  “Only to those who have been infected with midsummer moonlight.”

  “But, Neville, ‘tis Christmastide.” She wagged a playful finger at him. “If you keep making such comments, you will be the one deemed mad.”

  He took her by the wrist and bent to press his mouth to the skin half-hidden by the lace at her cuff. Her other hand curved along his face before she brought his lips to hers. Every kiss they shared made her long for another. As his arm slipped around her waist, she leaned into him, savoring the closeness that was still new and full of discovery.

  He smiled as he raised his mouth from hers. “Thank you, Pris.”

  “For what?”

  “For saving me from utter madness by curing me with your magical kiss.”

  She laughed as he struck a pose worthy of the years it was rumored he had been an actor before he had inherited his title. Even though he was her husband, she was uncertain which of the rumors of his scandalous past were true and which were exaggerations. Not that the whispers had ever bothered her, not when he was her late husband’s friend—and hers—nor now.

  “So you no longer need a rope strong enough to hang a man?” she asked.

  “Egad!” He slapped his forehead. “Pris, do you know if there is something like that loitering in the nether regions of Mermaid Cottage? If not, Duncan will be quite beside himself with dismay.”

  “Duncan needs the rope?”

  He nodded.

  Priscilla considered if she would be wise to ask why Neville’s friend needed such a strong rope. Duncan McAndrews was the complete opposite of a dour Scotsman. He enjoyed good company, good drink, and good music. If a bit of gambling was also involved, he was even happier. Duncan had called during the last week of Advent, and he had remained through Christmas, much to Priscilla’s three children’s delight, because he entertained them each evening with outrageous stories and songs.

  “I did,” Neville said, “make sure he had no plan to hang himself with it.”

  “That is unlikely when he is as merry as mice in malt. I know he is looking forward to seeing Aunt Cordelia for Twelfth Night. They have been enjoying each other’s company for over a year now.”

  “You would have thought by now that he would have come to his senses and seen her as the termagant she is rather than the fantasy he has built for himself.” Neville’s mouth twisted. “I daresay if I hear him laud your overbearing aunt once more as a—and I quote—a paragon of virtue and beauty with a charming wit and even more charming countenance . . .” He gave an emoted shudder. “I hope he has not decided that putting his head in a noose is a better fate. The man has clearly mislaid his mind.”

  “Love makes people see in a very different way.”

  “Really?”

  “When I think of the people who urged me not to marry you . . .”

  He swept her up against his hard chest again. “And who urged you not to marry me other than your aunt who is as contrary as an old cat?”

  “I am sorry, Neville.” She kissed him lightly, then stepped out of his arms. “I don’t have the time now to read you the whole list.”

  His arm curved around her and brought her back to him. “I guess I should be grateful that being contrary is a trait tha
t runs through the women in your family.”

  “And the men we marry.” She stepped back as he laughed and went to find the rope his friend wanted.

  Priscilla kept smiling while she walked to the small office where she handled household accounts and her correspondence. In spite of his comments, Neville admired Aunt Cordelia. Not that her aunt made it easy for him, because she never wasted an opportunity to remind Priscilla that she had married beneath her station . . . again!

  Aunt Cordelia had forgiven Priscilla for marrying a vicar only because Lazarus Flanders had been, in Aunt Cordelia’s opinion, far more acceptable than Sir Neville Hathaway whose reputation was too sullied. That the ton had gleefully accepted him, along with his wealth, amidst them did nothing to change Aunt Cordelia’s mind. He was a rogue and a rake and a rascal, all reasons why Priscilla loved him.

  But her aunt refused to acknowledge that he was also warmhearted and generous and loyal and loved Priscilla and her three children. When he had come back into their lives after her mourning period for her late husband was over, it was as if her life had begun anew. No day was boring when Neville was in it, and the nights since she had married her no longer stretched out, empty and lonely.

  “Ah, Mrs. Hathaway, always a lovely sight.”

  Priscilla turned to see Duncan behind her. With his black curls and the freckles across his face, he looked more like a leprechaun than a Scottish sprite. And he had a fair share of blarney as well.

  With a smile, she said, “You look quite the dashing blade yourself, Mr. McAndrews.” Dropping formalities, she asked, “Duncan, what can I do for you?”

  “Actually,” he said, his delightful Scottish brogue enveloping every word, “I was looking for Neville. Have you seen him?”

  “Yes. He has asked the household to help him find a piece of strong rope for you.”

  “Good.”

  “May I ask what you need it for?”

  “To lash a gift for your aunt to the cart that will be pulled behind my carriage.” His freckled face lengthened. “To own the truth, Priscilla, I had expected it to be delivered to her in time for Twelfth Night, but it is arrived here just now instead.” His good spirits would not be smothered long, and he grinned. “Do you think your dear aunt will appreciate it?”

  “Appreciate what?”

  He took her hand and tugged her at an unseemly pace to the front hall where a huge crate had been wrenched opened to reveal a sculpture of a naked man and woman entwined in an amorous pose. Flinging out his hand with as much pride as if he had carved the lovers himself, he asked, “What do you think?”

  “Oh, my!” was the best Priscilla could manage. “Is that a prank gift?”

  Duncan laughed. “I can understand why you would think that, because Twelfth Night is the best time of the year for hoaxes, but it is truly a gift that I am presenting to your aunt.”

  “Oh, my,” she repeated, staring at the statue.

  He must have taken that as a positive response, because he said, “Cordelia speaks highly of the art of the ancient world, so I obtained this for her from a merchant who plies the waters between England and Greece. I know she has been seeking something to put in the entry hall of her country estate.”

  “That is true.” Priscilla fought not to smile at the thought of how shocked her aunt would be at the idea of having her guests met by two nudes who left absolutely nothing to the imagination. The sculptor had not resorted to a fig leaf, leaving the two forms completely naked. “Duncan, I do wish you had informed me that it had been delivered before you began to uncrate it in my entry hall.”

  “I needed to be certain that it was undamaged in transit.”

  “True, but you must recall that I have two daughters and a young son.”

  Duncan’s face dropped. “Forgive me, Priscilla. I should have remembered that.”

  “Remembered what?” asked Neville as he came into the front hall with a length of rope wrapped around his arm. He glanced at the open crate, paused and whistled a single note. “That is what you plan to give to Lady Cordelia as a Twelfth Night gift?”

  “Yes.” Duncan now looked thoroughly chastised.

  Neville began laughing, struggling to say, “Promise me that I can be a witness when you present the sculpture to her. I must be there to see her face.”

  “Behave yourself,” Priscilla said as she slapped him lightly on the arm.

  “Now, Pris, you must agree that seeing your aunt’s face when she first sets eyes on this gift will be a moment beyond price.”

  She laughed, unable to halt herself. She loved her aunt, but Aunt Cordelia had set herself up as the arbiter of everything proper. For her aunt to be the recipient of this statue would set off fireworks that might be heard throughout the island from Land’s End to John O’Groats.

  “Will you two get this recrated and out of here before the children see it?” asked Priscilla.

  “A wise suggestion.” Neville tossed the rope to his friend. “Shall we give yon lovers a wee bit of privacy, Duncan?”

  “An excellent idea.” Duncan began uncoiling the rope. Finding one end, he set it on the floor next to the lowered side of the crate. “Help me here, Neville.”

  A younger voice piped up. “Can we help, too?”

  Before Priscilla could halt them, her younger two children came rushing into the front hall. Isaac, who had inherited his father’s light brown hair, was already growing tall and thin at ten years old. His sister Leah was a couple of years older, and she could scale trees and swim far better than he could, much to his dismay.

  “Look at that!” crowed Isaac.

  Leah giggled. As always, her dress was rumpled, and there was a mud stain near the hem. Her hair was snarled. A ribbon hung from her hair like a dead bird in a trap.

  “Where have you been?” Priscilla asked. “You’re both filthy!”

  Isaac continued to stare at the statue as he asked, “Why are you scolding us, Mama? Shouldn’t you be dressing down them for failing to dress at all?”

  The comment sent both children into renewed peals of laughter.

  Hearing more smothered chuckles, Priscilla aimed a frown at Neville and Duncan. She put one hand on Isaac’s shoulder and the other on Leah’s.

  “March up the stairs now and get cleaned up,” she ordered in her most no-nonsense voice.

  It failed to reach Isaac who was still staring wide-eyed at the statue. “Where did you get that, Papa Neville?”

  Neville frowned at him, but Neville’s eyes twinkled as much as young Isaac’s. The children had called him “Uncle Neville” until the wedding. Now when they wanted to tease him, they called him “Papa Neville.”

  “It is not mine,” Neville said. “It belongs to Mr. McAndrews, and it is destined to be a gift for your great-aunt.”

  “Aunt Cordelia?” Leah began to laugh so hard she had to sit on the stairs.

  Giving up on persuading the children to leave, Priscilla said, “If you gentlemen would finish preparing that for shipment, we might be able to put an end to the uproar in this house.”

  “Your wish is our command, fair lady.” Neville bowed deeply. Standing, he grabbed the other side of the wooden panel that had been lowered to reveal the statue. “Shall we, Duncan?”

  “Most assuredly.” Duncan’s good spirits had returned.

  Priscilla started to smile, but halted when a tempest in pink rushed into the hall. It was her older daughter Daphne, a young miss who had already attended some events during the previous Season. Her golden hair was swept up in a twist, a few tendrils curling along her nape. When Daphne glanced at the sculpture, Priscilla waited for her comment. Her daughter waited for any chance to jest with Neville.

  Instead, Daphne simply arched her brows and turned to Priscilla. She held out a handwritten note. “Mama, you must look at this! The m
ost horrible thing in history has happened.”

  “In all of history?” asked Neville as he shoved the side of the crate into place with a clunk. “That is quite momentous.”

  Priscilla waved him to silence. After his time in the theater and his time with her children, he should understand Daphne’s need for drama. “What is wrong?” she asked.

  “This! How could Lady Eastbridge allow this to happen?” She shook the paper to emphasize each word.

  “Is that the invitation to Lady Eastbridge’s Twelfth Night masquerade ball?”

  Each year since before Priscilla had had her own first Season, the countess claimed for herself the prestigious place as hostess to the year’s first social event. It was a harbinger of the Season to come, a chance for the young women to reconnoiter the available men and for the men interested in marriage to take note of eligible women and their dowries. Through the fall, Daphne had been looking forward to this ball with unfettered delight. Now her face was longer than Duncan’s had been when Priscilla was shocked by the sight of the sculpture.

  “What is wrong?” asked Priscilla. “It is an invitation, isn’t it?”

  “Yes! But to Lady Symmington’s masquerade ball on Twelfth Night.” She pressed her hands over her face. “Everything—absolutely everything—in my life is ruined.”

  Chapter Two

  “ARE YOU CERTAIN of the name on the invitation, Daphne?” Priscilla asked, astonished. Everyone in the entry hall had stopped to listen, as astounded as she was that someone along the southern coast of England—other than Lady Eastbridge—would dare to invite guests to a Twelfth Night ball.

  “If you do not believe me . . .” Daphne held out the invitation. “Read it yourself.”

  Priscilla was taken aback by the sharp edge on her older daughter’s words. Daphne’s moods changed as quickly as the weather, but she seldom was curt.

  Accepting the handwritten note from her daughter, Priscilla glanced at it quickly. Daphne was correct. The invitation was from Lady Symmington, who was married to a baron. How presumptuous it was for a baroness to usurp a countess! Even if Lady Eastbridge had not yet sent out invitations to the Twelfth Night masquerade, she oversaw each year with her husband at grand Eastbridge Court. Everyone along the south coast of England knew the honor of hosting the first ball of the new year belonged to her. Why would Lady Symmington—a reputedly reasonable woman—do something this out of hand?