Teach Me Under the Mistletoe

Teach Me Under The Mistletoe

By Kay Springsteen

Published by Astraea Press

www.astraeapress.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

TEACH ME UNDER THE MISTLETOE

Copyright © 2013 KAY SPRINGSTEEN

ISBN 978-1-62135-236-5

Cover Art Designed by AM DESIGN STUDIO

Other books by Kay Springsteen from Astraea Press

Regency

The Toymaker

A Lot Like a Lady (with Kim Bowman)

Something Like a Lady (with Kim Bowman)

Contemporary

Heartsight

Heartsent

Operation: Christmas Hearts

Heartfelt

Lifeline Echoes

Elusive Echoes

Abiding Echoes

Dedication

Dedicated with love and gratitude to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ,

my guidepost, my lighthouse, without whom I would be nothing.

For my family — my children and grandchildren whom I love beyond measure.

May all your days be filled with Christmas magic, with love and mistletoe, not only at Christmastime but throughout the whole year. I love you all.

And not least of all, to Stephanie Taylor of Astraea Press,

for never failing to believe in me. Love ya’, gal!

Chapter One

England
Cranley, Surrey
Rose Hill Estate
December 1818

Kitty slipped down the back staircase, sneaked through the pantry, and let herself out the servants’ door at the rear of Rose Hill Manor. Oh, how she loved being home. London was exciting and wondrous with its hustle of activity, the countless elegant balls and fashionable social events. She’d never known a moment of boredom during her seasons in Town. But she’d always experienced a connection with the country, always felt welcomed by the estate itself whenever she returned home. Casting a furtive glance over her shoulder, she scanned the bank of windows on the second floor for any sign of someone in the parlor looking out onto the grounds. No pale faces could be seen lurking behind the windowpanes. Though it was unlikely anyone in her family was still abed, the draperies remained closed against the chill of the December morning. A smile tugged her lips upward, and she set her sights along the path to the stable. She had made it out on her own once again.

If Mama or Papa had spotted her, she would have been sentenced to an interminable time in her rooms with an embroidery hoop or a crochet hook. Such activities were fine for Ellie and Jenny. They enjoyed sitting for hours discussing the latest fashions or gossiping about who would marry whom. And after all, Ellie would become Eleanor Talbot, the Viscountess of Lisle when she married Walter Talbot come spring. Soon after that, she would undoubtedly be fashioning lace for nursery dresses. And Jenny… well it was expected that as soon as Ellie was married, Post Captain Stephen Davies of the Royal Navy would seek out their father and ask after Jenny.

That left Kitty, the last Tyndall sister, unattached and with no prospects. Not that she minded. She frowned and kicked a pebble out of her path. At least she
hadn’t
minded until that night at Lord Pennington’s ball the prior season, when his insufferable daughter, Penelope, had implied that a young lady of nearly eighteen years without one prospective suitor was destined for spinsterhood. Then she and Cicely Halpern had tittered behind their lace fans and seductively swayed their way past the eligible bachelors lining the walls in the dance hall. The two had spent the entire evening dancing with every man present, but not one gentleman had invited Kitty to dance.

Not one.

Well that wouldn’t happen at her parents’ holiday assembly. When she’d assisted her mother with crafting the invitations to the small gathering, one name in particular had stood out on the guest list: Roger Scriven, Eighth Baron of Strathern. One of the
ton’s
most eligible — and elusive — bachelors. Kitty had been watching him for more than a year, but he seemed to have no time for the refined young debutantes presented every season. His tastes apparently ran to slightly more… mature and sophisticated women. A sudden blast of cold air whisked across the meadow and sent icy fingers licking at her neck beneath the wool muffler. She shivered, but whether the chill was the result of the wind or if it was excitement over the plan she’d concocted the previous night, she didn’t care to consider.

The earthy scent of horse and hay greeted her as she pushed open the stable door. Patty, the gentle mare that had been Kitty’s best friend for the past seven years nickered a greeting. Annoyance was replaced by delight as Kitty paused to stroke the thin white stripe that dipped between the chestnut horse’s eyes.

“Good morning, Patty. Would you like a treat today?”

Blowing softly through her nose, Patty nuzzled Kitty’s palm.

“Very well, here you are, just as promised.” Kitty held out her other hand, revealing the carrot she’d pinched from the larder on her way out the door. As the mare took the offering with soft snorts and snuffles, Kitty glanced around the dimly lit stables. Where on earth was the groom, Hugh?

“Hallo? Mr. McCollum?”

Shrill neighing from the paddock at the rear of the building was followed by a warning shout and then the clatter of hooves against wood. Dougal McCollum must be working with Maleek, her father’s new prized Arabian. Maybe the groom was out there with his older brother.

After giving Patty a final rub on the nose and the promise to come back soon, Kitty squared her shoulders and strode with renewed purpose toward the sounds of tetchy horse. The rear door of the stables stood open. As she stepped from the dimness into the early morning sunshine, Kitty’s gaze was instantly drawn to a flurry of activity off to her right.

A flash of reddish brown, so dark it resembled purple, streaked by on the other side of the fence then circled behind the man standing in the center of the paddock holding the long lead. Kitty nodded as she recognized the wild thatch of red hair poking from beneath the bicorner hat. According to her father, Dougal McCollum was the best horse trainer he’d ever met.

Maleek towered over the man. He seemed a brute of a big horse from Kitty’s perspective, and a little scary with his fiery temperment. His coat gleamed in the sun, but when he entered the shade of the building, he seemed to turn black. His silky mane and tail flew out behind him in his self-created wind. As the powerful horse passed a figure lounging against the fence across the paddock, he tossed his head and let loose with a sharp neigh.

He wasn’t showing a bad temper at all, Kitty realized, but giving Hugh McCollum noisy greetings. She giggled. It all really was too much. Since the brothers had arrived at Rose Hill two months before, neither had shown any interest in the company of women. Perhaps it was fitting that a horse had apparently taking a liking to the younger McCollum.

After all, he was a fine specimen if a little unconventional. Her eyes drifted to the man leaning on the fence. He wore no hat, leaving his black hair a perfect target for the wind to wreak havoc on. The cut was as unfashionable as the absence of a hat, and as the wind toyed with the thick waves that reached below his collar, Kitty chewed her lip, trying to figure how she might broach her proposal.

Then he looked up and pinned her with dancing blue eyes, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. His gaze lingered a fraction longer than was proper before he pushed himself off the fence and began a leisurely stroll in her direction. Dougal flicked a glance toward her but quickly returned his attention to Maleek.

“Good day to ye, Lady Caroline,” said Hugh McCollum as he drew close. His soft voice was gently tinged with the brogue of his highland home. “Ye’ve nearly beaten the sun. Will yer sisters be joining ye for an early ride?”

Kitty chuckled and gave a wry shake of her head. “I’m afraid not. Lady Eleanor stays far away from horses, and Lady Jennifer has declined to ever join me at what she refers to as an ‘uncivilized hour.’” Now, why had she told him all that? She forced her teeth away from her bottom lip. The moment had arrived, but the words she’d practiced so diligently seemed to evade her tongue.

“Well then, how might I assist you?” Once again his eyes wandered downward and this time, heat sparked in them before he quickly shifted has gaze back to her face.

“Here now, none o’ that,” Dougal said when Maleek stalled his trot.

Kitty looked around. Joseph, one of the young stablehands, pushed a cart across the yard, on his way to muck out the stalls. Without a lick of privacy to be found, they were hardly in the place to be discussing delicate proposals. Very well, she’d make her own privacy. “Erm… I have an errand to run. I’ve a… a message from my mother for… for Vicar Pratt’s wife, actually.”

One of Hugh’s dark eyebrows arched in obvious surprise. “Do ye plan to travel alone, then?”

“Yes. Well, that is…” She sighed and straightened the dark green tweed of her favorite riding coat. “I shouldn’t like to go riding alone, no. So I thought…”
Oh, just ask the man
.

“Oh! Of course.” Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Ye’d like me to ready the phaeton and call on Mr. Jenkins.”

Panic flared at the mention of the carriage driver. “No!”

In the paddock, Dougal glanced their way again.

Kitty lowered her voice and continued. “That is, the curricle will do nicely, but I wondered… I thought maybe… would you have time to drive me?”

This time both eyebrows shot skyward as his jaw dropped, and he stood as though he’d been turned to stone. “Lady Caroline, I don’t — that is, you shouldna’ be traveling alone with—” He seemed to scrabble frantically for words as he backed a couple of steps away from her, then ended with a strangled, desperate plea. “Let me see to the phaeton.”

Oh, no, that wouldn’t do at all. “Look, if you must know, I have a matter that I wish to discuss with you once I’ve delivered the message to Mrs. Pratt. It’s a matter best not broached…” A stolen look at Dougal revealed his focus still on Maleek. With a feeble sweep of her hand, Kitty gestured around the stable yard. “…here.”

Hugh McCollum stared at her hard, and for a moment Kitty wondered if he could see directly into her black soul. But she stood her ground without flinching under his scrutiny.

After a time, he gave a curt nod. “Verra well. I’ll ready the carriage.”

Elation made her heart pound. Now all she needed to do was concoct a suitable reason for visiting Mrs. Pratt, since no message from Kitty’s mother actually existed.

* * * *

Hugh hadn’t a notion what the youngest daughter of Lord Strickland was up to, but he had the distinct impression she was about to complicate his life. To be sure, he admired the lass. With her fiery spirit that often reflected in her warm hazel eyes and her outspoken nature, she reminded him of the young ladies back home. No shrinking violet, that was certain.

She accepted his hand into the curricle with a light grasp. Once she was aboard, she smoothed her skirt then folded her hands in her lap while he climbed onto the seat next to her. Even in the chill of the day, the warmth radiating off her traveled the length of his arm and reached out to his thigh, which rested indecorously close to hers. When one wheel bounced into a rut, he used the jerking motion to cover shifting his weight. Blast the carriage for being so tiny. He should have readied the phaeton as he’d originally suggested.

But then he would have been on a different seat entirely, and part of him had rebelled at the thought, so when she had suggested the curricle as an alternative, he’d jumped at the prospect.
Fool that I am!

A wisp of hair had escaped the rather severe confinement she’d affected, fluttering and twisting in the chilled air as they drove along the narrow road toward St. John’s Church. An insane urge to tuck the loose strand behind her ear had him tightening his hands on the reins, and Alexander, the spirited bay gelding on the right, tossed his head in protest. Before the normally staid and sturdy Jerome could follow suit, Hugh eased his hold and returned his gaze to the road ahead.

As they pulled up before the vicar’s house, he scrambled from the seat and rounded the rear of the curricle to assist Lady Caroline.

“I shall be but a moment,” she murmured. Then she walked, head held regally high, across the yard toward the simple stone cottage. The dual tails on her tweed riding coat stirred with each step, and her green velvet riding dress swished around her feet until she reached a patch of wet ground. With nary a pause in her steps, she gripped her skirt, lifting it slightly as she edged around the worst of the mud.