Miss Mistletoe (6 page)

Chapter Seven

And to think the day had begun normally enough.

Cece had risen at her normal time, dressed in her second best morning gown, and enjoyed her normal breakfast of toast and tea. She had tended to the plants in the conservatory and conferred with Mrs. Kelly about the week’s menu, and by the time she arrived in her father’s office at exactly one o’clock, there had been absolutely no indication that in a matter of moments she would be rendered mute with shock.

But that was exactly what she was as she stared down at the signature scrawled at the bottom of the letter she had just opened.

Edgerton.

“Well, who is it from, Cecelia?”

She swallowed and looked up at her father, who sat tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. Out of practicality, Cece sat behind the stout fruitwood desk that dominated the room. Today’s post lay at her elbow while paper, quill, inkwell, and blotter were arranged in front of her, awaiting only Papa’s direction for his responses.

She pressed a hand to her pounding heart, hoping to keep it from jumping right from her chest. “The Viscount Edgerton, Papa.”

Saying the name that she had steadfastly refused to utter in the two months since she’d seen him reminded her of the sound of opening a jar of preserves for the first time. Almost like an equalization of pressure within her, though for the better or worse, she didn’t yet know. The memory of that last, perfect kiss assaulted her so powerfully, she put her fingers to her tingling lips.

Papa tilted his head, his sightless eyes trained on the ceiling. “Lord Edgerton,” he said, drawing the word out as if working a puzzle. “Where do I know that name?”

Where, indeed. Cece cringed, waiting for the missing piece to fall into place. Well, let’s see. Perhaps it’s from the time your daughter kissed him full on the lips in front of half of Aylesbury?

A scratch at the door signaled Mrs. Kelly’s arrival with their tea. Almost before she knew what she was doing, Cece dropped the letter to her lap and out of the housekeeper’s view. It was a completely absurd thing to do—the woman couldn’t care less what the letter held—but that didn’t seem to matter. Cece didn’t want anyone else catching even a glimpse of Finn’s words before she had a chance to read them. As it was, it was all she could do not to throw everyone from the room and pore over his words in peace.

Mrs. Kelly bustled in, the stiff black fabric of her bombazine skirts swishing with military precision. Her red hair was scraped back into the same bun she wore everyday, not a single strand daring to stray from its allocated position. “Here we are, then. Mind you finish the whole cup, Squire—it will help with the cold you’ve got coming on.” Her words were quiet and efficient, barely hinting to her Irish birthplace.

While Cece tapped her foot under the cover of the desk, anxious to be able to get back to the letter that was burning a hole in her lap, Papa accepted the teacup the housekeeper placed in his hand. He took a small sip and immediately spit it back out, slapping the cup down on the table. “Damnation, is it your intention to poison me? This must be brewed with dirt and horse manure.”

“Papa,” Cece chastised, sending an apologetic look to the housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Kelly, I’m sure it’s lovely.”

“You’re welcome, Miss. And never you mind what’s in it, Squire. Though, one would think you’d know the taste of healing plants, vaulted horticulturist that you are.”

He scowled in her general direction as she marched back out. Cece shook her head. The two of them had been prone to bickering since her return from Evie’s wedding. It was just one more thing that reinforced her conviction that she was much too needed at home to ever consider marrying and moving away. The two of them would likely kill each other inside of a month.

“I don’t even have a blasted cold, the meddling woman.” He pushed the cup aside and sat back. “What were we discussing?”

A fresh pang of awareness speared through her, and she retrieved the letter from her lap, carefully smoothing away the wrinkles. “I was about to read your correspondence,” she said brightly. It wouldn’t do to remind him that he had been trying to figure out how he knew Finn’s name.

As she scanned the note, she gasped when her eyes landed on her own name—not Miss McCrea or even Cecelia, but Cece. She quickly coughed to cover the gasp, and made a production of sipping her tea to buy her some time to read more.

How odd—seeing her name in his own hand was almost as jarring as if he had spoken it. It felt remarkably intimate. He knew she would be the one to read the note, and had purposely included a postscript directly to her.

“Cece, are you quite all right, dear?”

Blast, Finn’s message to her would have to wait. “Yes, thank you.” She drew a steadying breath and began to read.

Dear Mr. McCrea,

As a friend of Richard Moore, Earl of Raleigh, it is my understanding that you are quite the accomplished horticulturalist. It is my wish to at last stock the Edgerton conservatory, which has stood empty for decades. Though of course much of the task will be entrusted to my gardeners, I wanted to begin such an endeavor with the advice of one as accomplished as you. Any council that you would be inclined to share would be greatly appreciated.

Respectfully yours,

Finn, Viscount Edgerton

“Ah, that must be how I know the name. Well, how nice of Raleigh to speak well of me,” Papa said. She murmured her agreement, and he crossed his arms and tapped his chin. “A conservatory from scratch, you say? Why that
is
quite an undertaking. The possibilities are nearly endless.”

“Yes, endless,” she said, her eyes darting back to the page. She couldn’t help but think of their afternoon in Hertford’s library, when she had indulged her fantasy and planned the perfect conservatory. What had happened to her drawings? As Papa began ruminating on possible starting points, she quickly read through the rest of the note.

Dearest Cece,

Since I didn’t wish to cause trouble for you by writing a letter addressed directly to you, I hope you’ll forgive me for my unconventional method of reaching you. I know you believe that it would be unlikely for us to meet again, but I find I’m not prepared to accept such an eventuality. You’ve been much in my thoughts since we parted and I wonder, do you think of me as well? If the answer is yes, perhaps a suggestion from you to your father to invite me to view your conservatory would result in the perfect solution for both of us.

Ever yours,

Finn

She shook her head, staring down at the page. It was a
bad
idea. Having him near her would simply remind her of the things she wasn’t to have. She’d spent months dreaming of what her life would be like if she had accepted his proposal . . . and just as much time trying to make herself forget those silly dreams. It was almost cruel of him to even suggest it.

“Do you agree, my dear?”

Cece’s head jerked up. Blast, what had he asked her? “Yes, of course, Papa.” Whatever plant arrangement she had just agreed to, it was sure to be fine, knowing her father.

“Excellent. Are you ready for diction?”

Diction? Already? She laid down Finn’s letter and retrieved her quill and a fresh sheet of paper. “I’m ready.”

“Dear Lord Edgerton. There is no better place to begin one’s journey toward constructing an exemplary conservatory than to view examples of exactly that. As a friend of Raleigh’s, you are most welcome to come visit us in Hampshire and explore our own humble facilities. I believe once we know the specimens which interest you, we may go about designing a plan.

“I’m certain the harvest is a busy time for both of us, but perhaps November would suit? Respectfully, etcetera, etcetera.”

Cece had stopped writing right around the time Papa had said the word
visit
. For the first time in her life, she was glad for her father’s blindness. If he would have seen the look on her face, he would have known in an instant that something was amiss.

“Cecilia, what is the matter?”

Her gaze snapped up to him. How had he known? “Er, nothing. Why do you ask?” Guilt colored her voice as surely as a sunset tinted the sky. She pressed her lips together. She had done nothing
wrong,
for heaven’s sake.

“You stopped writing. Is there something the matter with the quill?” Even though she knew he could only see shadows and hints of light, the way his gaze was fastened on her, she would swear he was looking right through her.

“Yes—I, um, managed to bend the nib. I didn’t want to interrupt you and have you lose what you wished to say. Let me just get another quill and I’ll finish writing this out.”

What on earth was she going to do? If she wrote what her father wanted, Finn would think she wanted him here. That was completely unacceptable. She had only just been able to walk away from him last time; how could she bear to have him here, in her home, all the while knowing that he wasn’t for her?

She riffled through the drawer, pretending to find a new quill and then making a production of getting back to writing. How big of a sin, exactly, would it be if she wrote back saying they would be happy to assist his selection from afar? She resisted the urge to glance out the window to see if storm clouds were suddenly forming above the house. Stifling a sigh, she closed the drawer and straightened. Of course she couldn’t do such a thing. Her father’s trust in her was complete, and she couldn’t abuse it.

Finn must have known that when he wrote in the first place. The realization rather made her feel like a puppet.

As she began scribbling out the rest of her father’s missive, it occurred to her that, though she couldn’t alter his words, there was nothing that said she couldn’t add a message of her own.

After signing Papa’s name, she glanced up, bit her lip, then hastily added a postscript.

Finn, This request is my father’s, and his alone. My feelings remain unchanged.

There. If he decided to come now, he would know that her heart would remain unengaged. She pressed her lips together as she sanded the foolscap. If only
she
knew such a thing.

She pushed away the rush of feelings that slid through her at the thought of him walking through her home, filling her space with his presence. She had Papa to think of. Although . . . perhaps seeing her in her home, seeing how much Papa needed her, would make him see more clearly why she could never consider his suit.

Part of her hoped for just that . . . but a bigger part—the part she wasn’t quite willing to acknowledge—was already anxious for November to arrive.

Dear Squire McCrea,

I can scarcely think of a better way to begin than with a visit to your conservatory. I accept your invitation with great thanks and appreciation, and eagerly await the visit. Is the third week of November acceptable?

Edgerton

Dearest Cece,

I believe you when you say that your feelings on the situation have not changed. However, with such a great distance between us, is it any wonder? Perhaps my visit will help to shed new light on the issue. After all, could the bold girl who made her name synonymous with the Christmas decoration which shall not be named for little more than the touch of my lips truly not wish for more? Though you may not admit it, I do hope you look forward to my visit with even the slightest bit of enthusiasm.

Ever yours,

Finn

Dear Lord Edgerton,

We are delighted that you have accepted our invitation. If for any reason you are unable to make the journey, please let us know. Otherwise, we look forward to the honor of your presence the third week of November with great anticipation.

Sincerely,

Squire McCrea

P.S. How dreadful of you to bring up the incident. You know me not at all if you thought such a mention would endear me to you. Also, I feel that I must clarify that my father presumes too much with the use of the plural. His feelings and my own are entirely disparate when it comes to the matter of your impending visit. In fact, were you to find an excuse to stay away, I would forever be in your debt.

Dear Squire McCrea and my dearest Cece,

The honor is all mine. I assure you, nothing could keep me from such a well-anticipated journey.

Respectfully and ever yours,

Edgerton

Chapter Eight

How much should it matter that the very woman he was coming to see had expressly informed him of her reluctance to be in his presence?

Clearly not much.

Otherwise, Finn wouldn’t be standing in Cece’s drawing room, waiting for her and her father to make an appearance. He rubbed a hand across his chest, trying to dislodge the unfamiliar tightness of nerves. When it came to Cece, everything hinged on whether or not he could convince her of their suitability during this visit. Considering the scope of his goal, he had very little time in which to accomplish this feat. But he was hopeful. She may not
think
she wanted him there, but her kiss had said otherwise the last time they were together.

At last the door opened, and Finn whipped around, his heart suddenly pounding like the hooves of a runaway horse. Cece walked into the room, her arm linked with a man that must be her father. Finn let out a slow breath. She somehow managed to actually be more beautiful than he remembered.

“In front of the mantle,” she murmured to her father, and the man adjusted the direction of his attention, almost seeming to look directly at Finn.

“Lord Edgerton, welcome to our home. I am Squire McCrea, and this is my daughter Cecelia.”

Finn paused, confusion knitting his brow. Had she not told him of their acquaintance? He had his answer as she caught his eye and gave her head a quick shake.

This was ridiculous. He wasn’t going to pretend as though he’d never met her. “The pleasure is mine, sir. Your kindness and hospitality humbles me. As for Miss McCrea, I believe we have been introduced.”

Her eyes narrowed and she pressed her lips together in a flat line. A perfect way to start his visit—angering the woman he came to woo.

“Were we introduced at Hertford Hall at some point?” Her voice was pure innocence as she flayed him with her gaze.

“Indeed—though it was back in the days before I inherited the title.”

“Ah, yes. Well, we are certainly pleased to have you visit with us, my lord. And of course we understand that you are very busy and will need to keep the visit brief.”

He almost laughed—that was downright inspired on her part. “Yes, well, any time I can spend in your presence will be much appreciated.”

The squire nodded, clearly pleased. “Excellent, excellent. The planning of a conservatory is not a project to be undertaken lightly. We must be sure that we match your needs and desires as well as possible.”

Finn lifted an eyebrow in Cece’s direction. He was fairly certain that
she
was the perfect match to his needs and desires. She merely shook her head and rolled her eyes. Apparently she was not amused. Smiling to his host while holding Cece’s gaze, Finn said, “I can hardly wait to begin.”

* * *

The word
torture
had picked up a whole new meaning in the past two days. Cece would have never guessed that sitting beside someone at a dinner table, trying to carry on a normal conversation, could be so difficult. Or walking beside them while listening to her father lecture on about the merits of the various plants in their arsenal. Or trying to sleep while knowing that same person was only rooms away.

What made her particular brand of torture so difficult to bear was the fact that Papa was always there, listening to their words, but oblivious to the heated looks and heartfelt expressions Finn sent her way. Or worse, the silent entreaties to follow him somewhere so they could talk.

So far, she had managed to keep from being alone with him. Yes, she had clung to her father like a lifeline, but it was only for her peace of mind. A defense mechanism to keep from losing her heart any more than she already had.

If that were even possible.

It was breakfast on the third day of his visit when her luck ran out. “Cecelia, Senor Pascucci will be here shortly for my Italian lessons. Would you be so good as to show Lord Edgerton our aquatic species? He had mentioned the idea of a water feature in the center of the plan, and I’d like him to see the various options we have.”

Finn raised an eyebrow in her direction, daring her to say no to her father’s request. He knew, of course, that she could not. “Yes, of course, Papa. Do be sure to join us when you are finished.”

Not wasting even a second, Finn stood. “Enjoy your lesson, Squire. Miss McCrea, shall we? I find I am most eager to examine your selection.” He held out a hand, which she ignored as she came to her feet.

“Certainly, my lord.” Her words were as sweet as her gaze was quelling. “Follow me, if you please.”

She marched through the house, keeping her eyes straight ahead even as her whole body seemed fixated on the viscount’s presence behind her. There was no more hiding from the confrontation that was coming. By the time she pushed through the conservatory door, she was wound tighter than a spring, ready to tell him once and for all to leave her alone.

Only she didn’t get the chance.

The very moment the door closed, Finn snagged her by the wrist and tugged sharply, pulling her flat against his chest. Her breath came out in a startled gasp and he didn’t give her even a second to recover before his mouth crashed down on hers.

She tried to struggle, to break free of his hold, but he only nestled her more closely. The moment his tongue touched her lips, she was lost. With a groan, she opened to him, drowning in the sensations that swept through her body. When she kissed him back, it was with fierceness, her anger at being unable to resist him fueling her passion. Her reaction only encouraged him, and he swung her around and pressed her back against the door, plundering her mouth with his own.

The kiss went on and on until the fight went from her, until she was nearly limp in his arms. Only then did he pull away, pressing one last kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I’ve missed you,” he said quietly.

She almost laughed. It was quite possibly the understatement of the year. “I can see that.”

His green eyes darkened to the color of the
Philodendron Selloum
behind him and he advanced a step toward her. “You missed me, too, Cece. You can’t possibly claim otherwise.”

Her chin tilted up, her spine stiffening at the challenge. “I can, and I do. Don’t mistake enjoyment of a kiss as anything more than exactly that.” Another defense mechanism. How could she possibly tell him that there were many nights that she had lain awake at night, thinking of him? Or that she sometimes woke with his name on her lips?

He cursed and raked both hands through his hair, looking very much as if he wanted to throw something. “You’re lying. I know what it is to kiss someone you don’t care about, and that wasn’t it. You care for me, I know you do. Why are you denying it?”

Did he think she didn’t want to walk blithely into a fairy tale, where everyone lived happily ever after? Did he think that because she chose to stand by her father, she was somehow immune to the desire to love and be loved?

She stopped dead at the thought. She knew he didn’t love her—why had the words even crossed her mind? He saw her as a convenient solution to every peer’s need to marry. If one must choose a bride with a dowry, isn’t it best that one at least like the bride in question? Yes, Finn liked her and yes, they clearly were attracted to each other, but he certainly didn’t love her.

And even if he did, how would that change her responsibilities to her father? The answer was, it wouldn’t.

She straightened her shoulders, meeting his frustrated gaze straight on. “I do think of you as a friend, or at least I did until you barged into my home, trying to make me chose between you and my father. Now, I’m not sure how I feel about such a selfish man. It was my hope that, if you had to come here, you would see how important my duties are. That my father genuinely needs me, and I am happy to be by his side.”

The anger had drained from Finn’s eyes, and she tried not to flinch at the sadness that seemed to replace it. “Is that what you think of me? That I am a selfish bastard who wants to yank you from your invalid father’s side for little more reason than my own amusement?”

She swallowed, trying not to feel as though she were convicting an innocent man. “I think,” she said quietly, “that it is time for you to return home.”

Her words hung heavy on the humid air between them. From the look on his face, she knew that her words had finally gotten through to him.

* * *

He left without preamble, claiming an urgent business matter that had slipped his mind. His thanks were sincere and kind to her father, brusque and brief with Cece, and then he was gone.

Sitting by the fire in the drawing room, Cece tried to ignore the pain his abrupt departure caused. He had only been carrying out her wishes. So why did she feel as though her heart had been plucked from her chest and stomped beneath his feet?

“My memory is not what it once was,” Papa said, startling her from her reflection, “but I believe I finally know why the name Edgerton is so familiar.”

Cece’s heart sank, taking her breath with it. “You do?”

“It was a difficult time for me, five years ago, when I realized how rapidly my vision was deteriorating. But still, even with my distraction, I recall the story your mother’s sister relayed to me. A minor scandal, easily nipped in the bud, but one that concerned my daughter.”

Embarrassment and shame filled her empty chest. “I’m so sorry, Papa.”

His bushy white eyebrows lifted, and he tilted his head. “For what, daughter? For the impulsive actions of a girl in the throes of her first love? For not reminding me of your indiscretion when Edgerton first wrote? Or for not trusting me with the truth of your feelings?”

“For all of it and more. I never wished to lie, but I just felt so foolish about the whole thing.” She brushed away the tears that came unbidden to her eyes, taking care not to sniffle or otherwise give away the extent of her tender feelings.

“I may be old and blind, Cecelia, but the language of love does not require sight.”

Her head came up with a start. Love? She didn’t love Finn anymore. She desired him, she cared for him, and yes, she had once fancied herself a girl in love, but that was years ago. She was no longer that foolish girl. She had responsibilities, and she wouldn’t abandon her father for the notion of a man who never even claimed to love her.

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Don’t you? Then you haven’t been holding your breath whenever the viscount was near? And he did not draw in your scent each time you passed him? Perhaps my ears deceived me when you faltered when reading his letters to me, or took far too long to write out my missives to him.”

There was no censure in his voice at all. In fact, there was such understanding, her throat tightened with the threat of more tears. “Whatever . . . feelings I may have had for him are long since passed.” It was a lie. She knew it the moment the words left her mouth. Taking a deep breath, she rose to her feet and went to kiss his cheek. “I find that I am exhausted tonight. Goodnight, Papa.”

George listened to his daughter’s receding footsteps, shaking his head. No matter how she denied it, he knew that she loved the boy. The question was, how did Edgerton feel in return? Coming to his feet, he made his way to the doorway. “Mrs. Kelly,” he called, his gruff voice echoing down the empty corridor.

The distinctive sound of her half boots clicking on the marble floor reached his ears and he stepped back and folded his arms.

“You bellowed, sir?”

“To the desk, if you please. I need for you to write a letter.”