Maid Under The Mistletoe (The Mapleton Family Saga #1) - Annabelle Anders Page 0,3

Charlotte had only heard talk of his estate and his money and how all the debutantes this spring would be most jealous that Miss Fairchild landed one of England’s most sought-after gentlemen.

Susan bit her lip. “I suppose I would have you tell him that, of course, I would accept him. Why ever would I not? He is an earl! I shall become Lady Mapleton.”

Charlotte could almost feel sorry for these nobs. They married for reasons other than love and then sought pleasure elsewhere. “I told him you found him utterly handsome and kind—that you thought he had the warmest eyes and lovely hair. I told him you could hardly wait to be caught under the mistletoe…” Had she gone too far?

But even this spoiled young woman was not immune to Lord Mapleton’s dashing good looks. She stared at herself in the mirror with a dreamy smile.

“I shall be a countess! You’ll have to address me as ‘my lady’ then, you know.”

Or perhaps Susan Fairchild was less immune to his other… assets.

Charlotte’s mistress then climbed into her gigantic bed and pushed her feet under the covers. “Steam my rose-colored gown for dinner. And I want my satin slippers brushed. Awaken me in two hours. I’ll have a bath then. And be quiet about filling it while I rest.” And then she swept the curtain closed in dismissal.

Charlotte hated being a servant.

Chapter 2

Second Thoughts

“Better you than me, that’s all I can say.” Anthony’s brother, Michael, dropped his hat on the bench beside him in the carriage. “Don’t get me wrong, I stand by your decision whole–heartedly. But if you aren’t certain you want to live with the woman for the remainder of your days, perhaps you ought to duck out. Go to London after the holidays and see if you can find a more palatable chit.”

“He’s as good as declared himself.” This from Daphne. She’d been even more quiet than usual throughout the tea their hosts had served. “If he fails to come up to snuff, he’ll gain a reputation for being something of a scoundrel.”

“Better than live out his days regretting the leg shackle.” Michael’s irreverence only served to remind Anthony of his own misgivings. Anthony held his own hat on his lap, in gloved hands as the carriage rocked into motion, drawing them away from his neighbor’s estate.

Would he regret marrying Miss Fairchild? He hadn’t noticed any serious doubts until this afternoon.

“Miss Fairchild was most unkind to her companion.” Daphne’s words reminded him of the moment these doubts had appeared. “I understand the girl lost her father recently.”

“She cannot have been raised in service.” He stared outside at the passing scenery as he commented. Anthony had made sure to be extra attentive to Miss Fairchild for the remainder of the visit. Perhaps she would forget her companion’s unfortunate behavior. Good God, and his own! He’d nearly bowed to the girl! A servant, for heaven’s sake.

She’d reached out her hand for him to take.

To an earl!

Impudent wench.

* * *

Miss Charlotte Drake deserved to be sacked and yet… their easy interaction had knocked him off his guard… he’d wanted to protect her for some reason. A rare intelligence lurked behind her gaze.

“Miss Frye said her brother recommended Miss Drake to Lord Denton. Vicar Frye acted as curate for her father years ago.” Anthony had known Vicar Frye for as long as he could remember. The man lived up to his calling.

“Miss Drake is a vicar’s daughter?” So, he was correct in his assumption that she’d not been raised or trained for her current vocation. Miss Drake’s inappropriate behavior made some sense then. She’d been educated at some point. If Anthony were to take a guess, he’d hazard she’d been a bit spoiled.

“She’s not going to last a week.” Daphne announced with a grimace. “She’s far too outspoken, but even worse, far too pretty.”

He could not dispute either of his sister’s assertions.

“I couldn’t tell if her eyes were green or blue.” Daphne continued. “Beautiful, she truly is beautiful. I wonder what color her hair is. I couldn’t quite make it out beneath her mob cap.” His sister settled into the seat comfortably beside him.

“Her eyes are blue, with green flecks.” He provided. And since her brows are blond, “I’d wager her hair is blond.”

Silence met his response.

“What color are Miss Fairchild’s eyes?” His sister attempted to sound nonchalant as she asked the question, but Anthony was all too aware that even his younger brother paid close attention for his answer.

Miss Fairchild’s eyes were