Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,171

must not pass that old man’s room alone. Perhaps I shall bring my pistol.”

“You have a pistol?” Was this a warning?

“In case of highwaymen. I am a good shot.”

“I have a pistol, too,” Dorothea said. “I always bring one when I travel.”

“The daughter of a spymaster must of course possess one. If that old man accosts you, you will shoot him dead!”

“For a lady who is not a spy, you are very bloodthirsty, Contessa.”

“It is in my heritage.” The Contessa smiled. “We are friends, yes? You must call me Bianca.”

“And you shall call me Dorothea.”

The Contessa picked up a candle, but thankfully, no gun. “Let us go.”

Cecil heard Wellough and Lady Darsington coming and slipped under the coverlet on Dorothea’s bed. Her aroma, caught in the sheets, teased his senses. He fully intended to spend the night in her room, but not in the bed. It wouldn’t be easy to resist her, but she deserved respect, not rampant lust.

The door opened, and candlelight shone through the crack between the curtains. Cecil pulled the counterpane over his face, leaving the crown of Dorothea’s frilly nightcap uncovered. Lord Wellough’s heavy footsteps approached the bed.

“Hurry up,” Lady Darsington hissed.

The curtains parted. Wellough breathed a heavy sigh. “She’s asleep.”

“It’s almost midnight. What did you expect?” Lady Darsington said. “Get onto the bed.”

“I’ll need the steps,” the old man said.

Lady Darsington huffed impatiently. “Why must I do everything? Very well, I don’t actually have to find you in the bed.” She yanked back the coverlet. “Dorothea, my dear, how improper of you to arrange a secret tryst with Lord W—”

She shrieked. Lord Wellough cursed.

Cecil rolled onto his back and yawned.

“What are you doing here?” Lady Darsington’s voice throbbed hysterically.

“I was asleep.” Cecil sat up. “I might ask you the same question.”

“Villain! Dastard! Ravisher!” She wailed like a banshee. “How dare you despoil my daughter?”

Cecil blinked and looked about. “I don’t see your daughter in this bed. Do you?”

“Where is she? What have you done with her?”

“Nothing yet, alas,” Cecil said.

Whoops of laughter came from the doorway. Dorothea and the Contessa clutched one another, shaking with mirth. “You look so ridiculous in that nightcap!” Dorothea said.

Cecil preened. “I think it becomes me rather well.”

“What in the name of God is going on?” The commotion had awakened Lady Alice. Attired in a voluminous wrapper, a woolen cap over her hair, she moved the mirthful ladies aside and eyed the scene with distaste.

Dorothea sobered. “Merely a prank, Lady Alice. Boys will be boys.”

“I hoped to spare Miss Darsington further annoyance,” Cecil said, “by having Lady Darsington vent her spleen on me.” He stood and examined himself in the pier-glass. “Lucky I didn’t try for complete verisimilitude, nightdress and all.” He tossed the nightcap onto the bed.

“Tsk,” Lady Alice said. “What are you doing here, Wellough? You’re far too old for pranks.”

“Nothing,” he said. “I’m doing bloody nothing.” He shambled towards the door, fingering the medallion which still hung around his neck.

“But, Lord Wellough—” Lady Darsington tried to stop him.

He shook off her hand. “Stupid bitch,” he muttered. “It’ll never work. I’m doomed.” The ladies at the door parted to let him through.

Cecil raised his brows at Dorothea. She responded with the slightest of nods. “Perhaps you should ensure that Lord Wellough reaches his bedchamber safely. He didn’t look at all well.”

“Good notion.” Cecil left.

Dorothea watched him go, thinking how much she loved him.

Mother’s voice recalled her to the present. “Dorothea.”

She braced herself for another public tirade.

“Do you intend to marry that fortune hunter?”

“He’s not a fortune hunter,” Dorothea said through her teeth. “Yes, I intend to marry him. I love him, and I have reason to believe Papa will approve.” A thought flitted through her mind, something she couldn’t quite catch—but somehow, she knew her father would support her in this decision.

“Your father is a sentimental fool. I shall never, ever forgive you.” Her tone was implacable. “Henceforth, you are dead to me.”

Dorothea’s heart twisted. “Mother, I—”

Church bells began to ring, loud and clear, full of good news and cheer. It was midnight.

“Christmas has come!” the Contessa cried.

“This is not the moment for discord and unforgiveness. Off to bed, ladies.” Lady Alice waved the Contessa and Dorothea away. “Come, Lady Darsington. Everything will look better in the morning. We are all fatigued, and we must be up early to go to church.”

She shepherded Dorothea’s mother along the corridor, saying. “Peace on earth, good will toward men. And women, especially daughters as delightful as yours. There is no better