Jenni Fletcher - Miss Amelia's Mistletoe Marquess

‘I’m inclined to agree. Certainly better than soup. Would you care for a glass?’

‘Me?’ She looked even more startled, her mouth forming an O shape as if she were about to refuse, then changed her mind. ‘Maybe just a small one…if you’re sure that’s all right?’

‘I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t.’

He poured a small measure into a tumbler and handed it to her, refraining from taking a glass for himself. Given how much he’d already drunk, the effects of which he hoped weren’t too obvious, it was probably wise to abstain. He was having trouble believing the evidence of his own senses as it was.

‘Well, then, Just Millie …’ he watched, the tingling sensation in his chest intensifying, as she lifted the glass to her lips ‘…after you’ve finished that I suggest you get a good night’s sleep. Given the depth of the snow, I’d say we’re stranded here until morning.’

‘I suppose so…’ She sounded anxious. ‘But what if my mother sends out a search party? I’d hate for people to be out in the dark searching for me.’

‘How long were you out walking?’

‘An hour, perhaps.’

‘Then I’d venture to suggest that if your relatives were going to come looking, they would have done so by now.’

‘Yes.’ Her brow creased. ‘You’re probably right.’

‘Of course we could fashion some kind of sign, hanging your bonnet from the gatepost, for example, but it might be prudent for us to be a little more discreet.’

She drew her knees up to her chest and took another mouthful of port. ‘I suppose if anyone knew I was here it would look a little compromising.’

‘More than a little.’ He shifted in his seat, distracted by the way she ran her tongue over her bottom lip, soaking up the last of the liquid. ‘Fortunately, it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a little harmless deception.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s a disused cottage in one of the fields between here and the village. If, theoretically speaking, you were to have taken shelter inside it, it would be entirely plausible if I, again theoretically speaking, were to find you there in the morning. Then I could take you back to the village without anyone being any the wiser.’

‘I see.’ She nodded slowly. ‘That does sound like a good idea, but there’s no need for you to escort me anywhere. I’m sure I can find the way on my own.’

‘More than likely, but I can hardly just wave you goodbye and hope for the best. You’ve already admitted you were lost this evening.’

‘Only because it was dark.’

‘None the less, I’ll escort you. My conscience won’t be easy otherwise. In the meantime, you can sleep in my bed.’

‘Then where will you sleep?’ She shook her head adamantly. ‘No, I couldn’t possibly do that.’

‘But I’m afraid this time I have to insist, especially since you’ve already refused my armchair. Which is surprisingly comfortable, I might add. I won’t suffer at all.’

She looked hesitant for a moment and then gave an appreciative smile. ‘That’s very kind of you and I confess I am tired. I never realised that walking in the snow was so exhausting.’

‘Yes,’ he murmured in agreement, only half-aware of what he was saying as the warm sensation in his chest seemed to escalate by a few degrees and then spread outwards through his body. As smiles went it was extraordinary, lighting up every part of her face and making her look quite exceptionally pretty. Captivating, in fact. In all his thirty-two years, he could honestly say that he’d never seen another smile like it. Not once. Not ever. Not even in his dreams. Back when his dreams had been pleasant ones, that was.

‘Then I hope you sleep well, Just Millie . I’m afraid that I don’t have any women’s clothing to lend you, but feel free to make use of whatever you can find.’ He inclined his head and then coughed as his voice turned unexpectedly husky, stirred by the thought of her in one of his nightshirts.

‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’ She swallowed the last of her port and stood up. ‘Goodnight, Mr Whitlock. Thank you again for opening your door. I do believe that you’ve saved me from myself.’

Millie jolted upright with a gasp, her heart hammering against her ribcage at the sound of a shout, followed by glass shattering downstairs. In another instant, she was out of bed and on to the landing, so disorientated that she was halfway down the stairs before she remembered that she was only wearing her shift and petticoat and her situation was shocking enough without her running around in her underwear. But she still had to hurry. If Mr Whitlock was in some kind of trouble, under attack by the sound of it, then she had to help him as he’d helped her!

Quickly, she returned to her room and fumbled around on the back of the bedroom door for the dressing gown she’d noticed there earlier and then ran down the stairs as fast as the moonlight streaming in through a pane of glass above the front door would safely allow. The parlour door was closed, but there were still noises coming from within. Not shouts any more, but angry, expletive-laden grunts and muttering. She looked around for a weapon, her gaze settling on an umbrella in one corner. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing, enough to give someone a painful jab in the ribs if necessary.

She hoped it wouldn’t have to be necessary.

Gritting her teeth, she steeled her nerve, put on what she hoped was a suitably frightening expression, grabbed the door handle and burst in.

‘What the—?’ Mr Whitlock spun around at once. He was crouching down by the fireplace, picking up pieces of glass as she lunged forward, brandishing the umbrella like a sword in front of her.

‘Oh!’ She looked around the room in surprise. Everything was just the same as it had been when she’d gone to bed. There were no signs of a struggle, no broken windows and, apparently, no one else there.

‘Millie?’ He stood up, his expression almost comically confused.

‘I thought you were in trouble. There was a shout.’

‘Ah.’ He deposited several shards of glass into the coal scuttle and then brushed his hands together. ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you. It appears I flung an arm out in my sleep and knocked the bottle over.’

‘Oh.’ She lowered her arm, belatedly realising that she was still brandishing the umbrella. Now she thought about it, there was a distinct aroma of plums and alcohol in the air. ‘The port?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Can I help?’

‘It’s not important. I’ll deal with the rest in the morning.’ He dropped down into his armchair and pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘You can go back to bed.’

Millie stood where she was. In all honesty, she was feeling slightly ridiculous, but he seemed…different. When he’d first opened his front door he’d looked positively thunderous, his nostrils flaring so wildly that she’d almost turned on her heel and run away into the snow, but now he seemed to have gone to the other extreme. With the candles all extinguished the only light came from the fire, but his features looked unnaturally pale and drawn, as if all the energy had been drained out of him, too. No matter what the impropriety, her conscience wouldn’t let her leave him like that.

‘Are you feeling unwell?’ She put the umbrella aside and advanced a few steps into the room.

‘No.’ He gave an indistinguishable sigh.

‘Was it a nightmare?’

This time he moved his hand away from his face to look at her. ‘I suppose so. Although that suggests something imagined, doesn’t it? This was a memory.’