Mistletoe Menage Read online

  Evernight Publishing ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2014 Molly Ann Wishlade

  ISBN: 978-1-77233-145-5

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Lisa Petrocelli

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To mistletoe lovers everywhere, may all your Christmas wishes come true. xxx

  MISTLETOE MENAGE

  Molly Ann Wishlade

  Copyright © 2014

  Chapter One

  “There he is.”

  Anne Blackburn looked in the direction of her friend’s extended fan and spied the target. Her heart leapt and her body flooded with a rousing, tingling heat, for across the dance floor, surrounded by a group of excited, giggling debutantes, was a veritable Adonis.

  “Oh…” She licked her lips and flicked out her fan, then hovered it over her ample chest as if to counter the fire that now coursed through her veins.

  “Oh?” Lady Jane Faulkner leaned toward her. “I point out the most delightful looking gentleman in the whole of Almack’s on a Wednesday evening and that is all you can say, my dear?”

  Anne tore her eyes away from the golden-haired vision and met Jane’s curious gaze. Her cheeks burned as she struggled to find words to articulate her thoughts.

  “He is…most…comely. But who is he?”

  Jane threw back her head and laughed, then placed a gloved hand upon Anne’s arm. “Oh, dearest Anne, that is Mr. Guy Harper, a most talented artist, and he is delightful, is he not? I fear you have been too long without male company if you describe such a man as comely. But there is a way to solve that issue, you know.”

  Anne shook her head. Beneath her gown and chemise, her skin was hot and she imagined the relief she would feel later when she was able to remove her stays. “No. Not that. I have sworn that I will never marry again.”

  Jane squeezed Anne’s arm. “Of course not, Anne. I am well aware of that. After suffering the loss of your cherished husband, who would blame you? But you are still young. At thirty-two, you have…needs. My dear, at my grand old age of fifty-six, I still have needs and desires. Pray lower your eyebrows, Anne, and do not seem so surprised.” Jane chuckled. “Just because I may have seen the end of my courses, it does not mean that my body has relinquished its enjoyment of being touched and adored. And such matters of the flesh can be catered to without resorting to marriage if a woman has wisdom enough. Now, walk with me.”

  Anne allowed Jane to take her arm and they strolled around Almack’s ballroom. The London social club was filled with regulars intent on making the most of the last few balls of the season. The landed and wealthy—who had chosen to stay on in London during the summer months—would soon head off to their country estates for the winter. Some of the ton vacated the city as soon as the summer heat set in, but others preferred to linger a while longer, especially those matriarchs with more than one daughter thus far unsuccessful in the marriage mart.

  As they walked, Anne admired the ballroom. At one hundred feet long and forty wide, it was ideally suited to the dancing and socializing that occurred within. The white walls were paneled and divided with paired pilasters and decorated with festoons and paterae. The décor gave the room an air of opulence and decadence, which Anne was convinced would have been the desired effect when it was designed. The club only admitted those from the upper echelons of society, or those who had won the favor of the beau monde. Vouchers to attend Almack’s were not bestowed upon those that the club’s patronesses disapproved of. Anne knew that it was only her friendship with Lady Jane and her personal affluence that kept the club’s doors open to her. One foot wrong, however, and those doors could close just as quickly, leaving her a social outcast.

  They neared the crowd of young women with their pastel gowns, satin slippers, and pretty, curled hairstyles. Anne was senior to most of them by at least ten years and well past the desired marriageable age, unless seeking a widower who already had several children or a rake tired of sowing his oats. Her fortune was considerable, of course, and she was aware that with her thick chestnut hair, fair skin, and generous curves, she was an attractive woman. Yet she also knew that most gentlemen considering a first marriage would be seeking youthful virgins, not more mature widows like herself.

  For Anne, however, this was completely acceptable as she had no intention of marrying a second time. She enjoyed being in control of her own hearth and her own destiny. She had no inclination to find another husband to take her hand or warm her bed. Although, she had to admit, sometimes it would have been pleasant to have male company. She did miss Alfred’s kindness and their lengthy political discussions, but they hadn’t shared a bed since the first year of their marriage due to his increasing poor health. He had, of course, been advised by his physician to avoid overindulgence in food and fine wines, but they had been his greatest weakness and in the end, his demise. The thought of him brought a familiar ache to her heart and she rubbed the spot as if to soothe it. Alfred had not been the husband she would have chosen had she been allowed that freedom, but she knew that she’d been lucky. Many women ended up married to ogres who mistreated them. Alfred had treated her like a princess in every way—except for the ones that she had yearned to learn about in the marital bed.

  That I still yearn to learn about.

  “Mr. Harper is causing quite a sensation amongst the ladies in London right now, you know,” Jane whispered as they neared the handsome young man. “He is an artist of the highest ability. He has painted many portraits this season…behind closed doors.” She winked at Anne.

  “How haven’t I heard of him?” Anne asked, suddenly feeling left out. A talented painter would be sought after by the ton. So why hadn’t she heard his name mentioned before?

  “I think, my dear, that the ladies have been trying to keep him a secret. He was brought to London by his patron about six months ago but he has been kept out of the public eye until recently. The ladies I have spoken to learned about his talents by word of mouth and that is how his reputation has grown in certain closed social circles. I suspect that he is not as well known to the masculine population of the ton. Or as sought after.”

  Anne frowned at Jane’s words, then gazed at the gentleman who stood a good head and shoulders above the ladies who circled him. His collar-length blonde curls shone in the candlelight and Anne had a sudden urge to hurry forward and bury her face in them. Would they smell like honey and almonds as she imagined they would?

  “So he has been secreted away. Is he that talented at capturing people’s likenesses then?” Anne stopped at Jane’s side at the outer edges of the fluttering debutantes. The heat in the ballroom was stifling and she desired a drink and some fresh air, but it wouldn’t be polite to interrupt her friend.

  “I think…in fact, I know, that it has more to do with the rumored extras that Mr. Harper offers rather than what he produces on his easel.”

  Anne stared at Jane. “Whatever do you mean?”

  Her friend colored slightly then grinned, exposing her less-than-perfect teeth. “I think you are in need of an artist, my dear. It has been eighteen months since you were widowed, so you have mourned far longer than is required. It is high time that you shed your widow’s weeds and allowed yourself to progress from your half-mourning in order
to live again. I believe that Mr. Harper may be able to help you with this process. I am already acquainted with him, so I will introduce you immediately.”

  Before Anne could open her mouth to protest, Jane used her considerable social standing to carve a pathway through the younger ladies. They stood back reluctantly, with pouts and the occasional petulant stamp of a foot, but Jane pushed on as if ignorant of their existence. She dragged Anne along with her until they stood right in front of Mr. Harper.

  “Good evening, Lady Faulkner. What a delight it is to see you again.” Anne forced her mouth closed as Mr. Harper bowed over Jane’s hand and pressed his full pink lips to her glove. His sideburns glowed the color of honey in the candlelight and Anne fought the urge to trace them with her fingers.

  As he raised his head, he moved his bright, silver-blue gaze to Anne and she was filled with heat that reached the tips of her fingers and toes and settled erotically between her legs. The sensations reminded her of those she experienced in the illicit dreams she tried to banish from her mind on waking. Six years fell away and she was suddenly as shy and vulnerable as she had been upon her somewhat delayed entry into society as a twenty-six year old woman.

  Mr. Harper released Jane, then reached for Anne’s hand and she allowed him to raise it to his lips. He held it there for a moment and her heart threatened to burst from her breast. She was confused yet delighted by her reaction to this man who was clearly her junior by at least eight years. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, my lady.”

  “Mrs. Blackburn,” she corrected him.

  “Mrs. Blackburn.” He repeated her name without a hint of disappointment. So maybe he was not the type of fop who sought only the company of the titled. Yet he also seemed unperturbed by her marital status. Why did that leave her feeling disheartened? But then she realized that, of course, her mourning attire would likely have given her widowhood away.

  “Mr. Harper.” Jane moved forward and placed a hand on his arm. “My friend here would be interested in commissioning a portrait. She is a widow and it is time for her to leave her mourning behind. I believe that a painting, or a series of paintings, might help her to achieve this transition.”

  Mr. Harper listened intently to Jane before turning back to Anne. “I would love to paint you, Mrs. Blackburn. And I have an opening in my calendar just next week due to a cancellation. May I call on you tomorrow to discuss your requirements?”

  Anne’s mouth dried up. When Mr. Harper fixed his moonlit eyes upon her, she felt as if she was the only woman in the ballroom, and the only woman who mattered to him. She tried to swallow but her tongue refused to cooperate. What was wrong with her? She was a mature woman and a widow, yet this young artist was making her act like a veritable fool. She was struck dumb. Frozen in time. She stared at him, searching his face for signs that he thought her an idiot but she could find nothing there except for interest and kindness. Her fears dispersed like snowflakes on the wet ground and were replaced by far more enjoyable emotions as excitement, anticipation, and hope sparked in her gut. Though why, she could not fathom nor reason.

  “Anne, dear.” Jane nudged her arm. “Tomorrow at eleven would be fine, would it not?”

  Anne nodded and Mr. Harper smiled at her, his silver-blue eyes twinkling like stars in the night sky. How she would love to stare up at those stars as the young artist covered her wanton body with sweet, hot kisses. A flush spread over her and she fanned herself rapidly, desperate to prevent her wanton thoughts from showing on her face.

  “Until tomorrow.” He bowed to Anne and to Jane, then turned and left the ballroom. Anne watched him go, admiring the shapely curve of his legs in his black pantaloons and the broad sweep of his shoulders beneath his black jacket.

  “Come, Anne.” Jane placed a hand on her shoulder and ushered her toward the doorway. “Let us partake of refreshments.”

  “Yes.” Anne nodded. “I am in need of something cooling. Jane…who is his patron?”

  Jane frowned for a moment before shaking her head. “I am afraid that I do not know. That has been kept a secret thus far, though I have been informed that he is a very wealthy gentleman indeed.”

  They walked from the crowds and music of the ballroom then headed down the grand stone staircase toward the refreshments room. Anne had to hold tightly onto Jane’s arm to steady herself. It was ridiculous, foolish, to be so taken with a gentleman at her age and with her experiences—with her history. Yet Mr. Harper had affected her in a way in which she had not been affected in some years.

  Not since… No. No sense thinking of him again.

  What was the point?

  That was long since finished and the feelings she had succumbed to in her youthful innocence were best left buried.

  So why now—tonight—was she dealing with such arousal and angst?

  No doubt it had to do with the time of the evening and her friend’s gentle teasing. Tomorrow, when she saw Mr. Harper once more, she would not react so dramatically to his proximity. He was a stranger, albeit a very handsome one.

  Yet part of her really hoped that she would feel so exhilarated in his presence at their next meeting. For it was most pleasant to be suddenly so full of anticipation when for months, nay years, she had been so numb and disillusioned. But she knew that this was foolish behavior and that she’d never do anything remotely daring to risk her reputation.

  She really wouldn’t. Would she?

  Chapter Two

  Early the next morning, as Anne’s maid pinned up her hair, her stomach churned and her heart beat frighteningly quick. She twisted her hands in her lap and struggled to keep still as her heavy curls were built into a coil on the top of her head. As Harriet teased a few tendrils down either side of Anne’s face, she had to fight the urge to slap the girl’s agile fingers away.

  “How is that, ma’am?” Harriet asked as she met Anne’s eyes in the gilt-edged mirror.

  “Lovely, thank you.” Anne admired Harriet’s handiwork. She had a talent for hairstyling and Anne was glad that she had taken the young woman in a few years ago. At least she was able to offer Harriet a roof over her head, food in her belly, and employment. Even if the girl did have a very wicked side that Anne knew she should find shocking yet often ended up laughing about.

  “Are you well, ma’am?” Harriet inquired as she tidied away hairpins and ribbons.

  “Yes. Why do you ask?” Anne worried her lower lip and frowned at her reflection.

  “You seem somewhat agitated, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “You have come to know me too well, Harriet.” Anne smiled, wondering how much it would be appropriate to share, then decided that to share anything at all would be foolish and inappropriate.

  “Is it…it’s just that…” Harriet sucked in her pink cheeks then blew out a deep breath. “I know I shouldn’t ask, ma’am, but you are wont to be so calm and controlled. Since the master passed on, God rest his soul, you’ve been so quiet and subdued most of the time. To see you like this makes me think that a gentleman might be the source of your unease.”

  Anne gasped. How could Harriet have guessed? Was she that transparent? Even after all the years of trying to build a cool air of indifference, was she still so open, so easy to read, that even her maid could see right through her?

  “Please, ma’am. Do not be alarmed. I’m just…quite good at reading people. Remember?”

  Anne nodded. “Of course.” That was how she had come to the girl’s aid in the first place. Harriet had been cast out of her home by her ignorant stepmother who had called her cursed because of her talent for “understanding” people. Anne was convinced that Harriet merely had a deep empathy for others. And there was nothing remotely evil or supernatural about that.

  “Harriet, I have overheard you and Bessie discussing certain matters.”

  The maid broke into a gap-toothed grin. “Do you refer to matters concerning menfolk, ma’am?”

  Anne dropped her gaze to her restless hands. “Yes.” How
awful to be so naïve about such things, so inexperienced when she should be a mother five times over by now.

  “What would you like to know?”

  How could Anne ask a maid nine years her junior about what happened between a man and a woman? How the physical act progressed—from the pleasant, if speedy exchanges, she had shared with Alfred during the early days of their marriage—to the life-transforming experience that she had heard the maids giggling about?

  “I cannot ask. It would be most improper.” She chewed the inside of her cheek then whispered, “Most improper.”

  “Oh, ma’am,” Harriet said as she gently smoothed out the lace insert tucked into the neck of Anne’s navy morning gown. “It is natural what happens between a man and a woman. As long as it is what they both want. Then, and only then…it can be very pleasurable indeed.”

  Anne looked up and smiled. “Thank you, Harriet. That is what I had hoped to hear. Not for myself, of course.”

  “Of course not, ma’am.” Harriet pressed a finger over her own lips then drew a cross over her heart.

  As the girl gathered Anne’s breakfast things—she had taken to having her tea and toast in bed rather than eating alone in the cold, empty dining room—Anne rose and walked to the large windows that overlooked the street below. Mr. Harper would be here soon, if he came at all. Why would he? Did he really want to paint her portrait when he could have been sketching any of the sweet young debutantes in London that sunny September morning?

  Anne’s stomach flipped as she pictured his handsome face once more. He would be here today, she was sure of it. He had seemed so sincere when he had spoken to her and she felt sure that his words were not empty. She desperately wanted to feel the excitement and hope that he had aroused in her last evening.