Under The Mistletoe 

If there was anything that could be said about the Broomfield clan, it was that they knew how to bring in the holidays, in particular Christmas. The Broomfield’s held the best parties during that time of the year complete with parlor games, skating and sleigh rides, just about any form of celebrating to be dreamed of.

The widower Squire Morley Broomfield had happily given away three of his four daughters, 2 had wed viscounts and one an earl, but though he welcomed and truly enjoyed his sons-in-law, no one in the neighborhood, including himself, ever thought of those beautiful and vivacious creatures as anything but ”The Broomfield gels“.

Margie, Ruth and Miriam were talented, intelligent, and possessed of golden hair, blue eyes, and enough spirit to make any man feel alive around them. Oh, and there was Mary, of course, she fit in there between Ruth and Miriam, and…well, Mary wasn’t usually what they meant when anyone said ”those stunning creatures, those lively and talented Broomfield gels.“

But everyone loved Mary. She had such heart that it would take a cold one indeed not to love her. From her Papa to her sisters, and now eight nephews and nieces, Mary was their darling and dear favorite.

Unbeknownst to Mary, her siblings and a few of her nephews and nieces, now in their teens, had tried for years to put Mary in the forefront, to display her uniqueness at gatherings and to-do’s. Alas, the males they invited, the prospects as they called them, always loved Mary too. By the end of the celebration, they found her warm, generous and charming and ended up thinking of her as an acquaintance. Not one saw the distinctiveness in her, truthfully, because she was overshadowed by her sisters.

To be sure, everyone was aware of this. They were at wits end since Mary was now twenty-six and the only chance they had to discreetly invite these prospects were to family gatherings—family gatherings where Margie and Ruth and Miriam were in their blond hair and blue-eyed glory, their outgoing character, with their tall grace and exquisiteness on display. Having wed handsome men, birthed striking and charming children, certainly, one can see the dilemma.

They left their husband’s estates and gathered at the Broomfield house in Yorkshire this year. The siblings and the oldest children, even their husbands were in the midst discussing dear Mary, and though they had sent out invites, as had her father, Squire Morley, and they vowed not to get so caught up in the amusements—everything went out the window after they arrived and settled in. For dear Mary had made the house perfect and everything festive, and well… there were guests there already, overflowing the large house and guest house, and the snow so very beautiful, the music so lovely, the laughter so abundant….

* * * *

Mary Broomfield slipped out of the crowded and bustling ballroom for a moment and headed for the dark stairs that led above. Everything had been going at such a hectic pace, and she’d been doing preparations forever. Now that her lovely siblings and family were here, she could get off her tired feet and slip away just a moment.

Mary went to the first landing, just before the curve, and sat down on the polished wood. She closed her eyes a moment savoring the sounds of holiday music and laughter, able to picture her lovely sisters gliding around the ballroom, and her older nephews and nieces getting into whatever mischief. Her father of course, enjoying a rare waltz with the widow Canning. All was as it should be. Another wonderful Christmas week was being kicked off at the Broomfield ’s .

Mary opened her eyes and slid the long green silk gloves off her arms, smiling when she thought of Ruth, who set fashion trends, worrying that Mary would start dressing like the old prudes she joined for poetry readings, or worse like the dowagers she had tea with.

Her sisters were forever trying to assure Mary that she was young and beautiful, despite the fact that Mary herself was perfectly fine with the truth. She had curly sable hair, hazel eyes, and was only five feet tall. She also was rounded where her sisters were slim, and she had a perfectly ordinary face, to her mind.

Oh, she was aware that she was on the shelf and hardly remembered next to the rest of her family, but as much as she loved them, enjoyed reading and hearing about their exciting life, Mary wasn’t so sure she wanted exactly that. It had been a long time actually, since Mary dreamed of anything in particular for the future. She had a full life, albeit a rather plodding one compared to her sisters. Yes, she was also aware that her father looked at her with guilt at times, as if he were blaming himself she hadn’t inherited the angelic looks to go with the talents and sense. But really, Mary wore her life like a pair of comfortable boots she pulled on for tramping about the woods. It was much better to accept oneself and enjoy people, find a life, than try and torture oneself for not fitting in a mold, that had already turned out three very perfect and very lovable siblings.

A flicker of light lit the walls from the entry hall below, and Mary leaned up to peek between the rails and watch the butler admit a very late arrival.

As Graves set the candelabra down, no doubt explaining to the fellow that he could have entered through the ballroom doors, which she recalled were open and quite lit at the front of the house, Mary’s gaze moved to the swags on the railing, bows and greenery, the shadows cast from the decorated chandelier in the hallway. She tilted her head back to note the mistletoe she’d hung on every landing.

It was something her mother had done with a wink. Mary recalled her father and mother bidding them goodnight at the end of every evening during that Christmas week, stopping at every landing to kiss. It brought a smile to her lips and in her head she heard her father saying, ”Just as your sisters, we’d made a vulgar love match, not done you know, but there it was, I saw her and fell headlong for her.“ Now her sisters did the same with their husbands, and many of the guests slipped in a kiss or two on their way to the floors above.“

Mary’s thoughts were interrupted by the tread of boots on the landing, and she noted the not too steady form of the male making his way up.

”You are going in the wrong direction,“ she offered amused, supposing he had either stopped at Oxly Inn before arriving, or perhaps come from one of the other estates throwing their grand holiday parties.

The man, tall, broad shouldered and from the amber light casting a bit from below, apparently had longish raven hair, somewhat mussed, replied a bit more than foxed, ”My dear lady, I assure you I am not. I would rather have my arse roasted than endure one more moment of screeching debs singing Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht in German.“ He hiccupped. ”Or crowds in ballroom taking the shine from my best Hessians by trampling my feet in their overzealous celebration of this…whatever holiday it is.“

He put a hand to the wall and weaved a moment. ”I took this to be the opposite direction on purpose.“

Mary said first, ”My sister’s sing quite well, Sir. So you are missing a treat, and our guests are a bit more civilized than to dare trample a gentleman’s boots...“ Still amused she stood. ”But I daresay you are in no condition to discern the difference. Come, sit down before you fall.“

He took a couple more steps. ”My apologies m’dear, it seems I’ve insulted my hostess, eh?“

Mary watched him reach her side, where upon he nearly fell down beside her. His elbows leaning back a moment on the landing while his long legs stretched out.

”I’m Mary Broomfield, this is my father’s house. But everyone in the family considers this their Christmas celebration. Do you mean to tell me, you’ve no idea which house you have entered?“

He straightened a bit, his arm brushing her own as he admitted, ”Apparently not. Think I know the Broomfield’s. Lovely gels or some such, beauties all of them.“

Wincing she laughed. ”Um, that would be my sisters.“ She let her eyes adjust to the dim light, watching his fingers rake through his hair, his hands dangling, forearms on his thighs then, as he blinked and stared downward. ”I was just about to get some coffee, would you like some?“

He turned to look at her, and Mary was quite startled to find herself looking into a devastatingly handsome face, aristocratic, a bit harsh in a cynical way. But with thick black lashes, some sort of gray or silver hued eyes, sensual mouth. And yes, up close he was lean and broad shouldered, sinewy she would guess.

His neck cloth was undone and hanging under his jacket lapels, his ruffled shirt missing the collar, exposing a warmly skinned throat.

”What was your name again?“ He asked as if he hadn’t heard her.

”Mary.“ Her hazel eyes twinkled and she tried not to laugh at his intoxicated state.

His gaze did a swift scan of her hair which was simply pulled up with a ribbon and the rest left to tumble down to mid back, a few wayward spirals escaping. That lovely green dress, silk, off the shoulder, exposing what she knew was an out of fashion body with too much flesh.

The last thing she expected him to say was, ”What rather glorious hair you have, Mary.“

Her brow rose. ”Ah. Well. Thank you, Sir. But my sisters have the beauty, this…“ She fluffed her hair, ”Has been tamed for the evening, to make it appear at its best. Rather has a resemblance to the dowager Radford’s poodle most of the time.“

His white teeth flashed between sensual lips, and it did an odd little flutter to Mary’s belly. He murmured, looking at it again, ”I must be sobering, for I do recall that the Broomfield beauties are all blond.“

”And wed. My sisters are blond.“ She laughed. ”Now, who are you?“

He frowned as if having to think a moment. Then he lifted his hand, turning more toward her, ”Coaldrake, Everyn…um…Hurst.“

She weeded through that while shaking his hand, assuming he had a title in there somewhere, and summarizing that one of her brothers in law had invited him, likely whilst in London. They did have cronies and men at the clubs they sometimes invited up for the holiday. His hand was warm, rather stronger than she expected, and ungloved.

Mary released it, after murmuring, ”Welcome to Broomfield, Everyn.“ She closed her fingers feeling a slight tingle there from the contact. To distract herself, she raised a bit to look below. ”The ball is in full swing and will likely go on till dawn. Perhaps you’d like a more comfortable hide away?“

He stood, grasping the rail to steady himself, and as Mary also did he murmured, ”Lead on, just dump me anywhere out of the way and carry on with your…“ He looked at her. ”What exactly were you doing on the stairs?“

”Hiding away.“ She laughed and instead of leading him down, she took his arm and turned him. ”Up here. I’ll get you settled and find that coffee.“

”I don’t suppose you’d change that to brandy?“

”I believe you’ve had quite enough spirits. Sorry.“ She half led, half carried a man a head taller than herself, up two more flights and to the right, ignoring the fact he pulled his arm free and threw it around her shoulder.

Mary had some experience with men in their cups, given that she had helped both Ruth and Miriam haul their husbands to bed just this way, of course they’d laughed themselves silly doing it. Nevertheless, she made nothing of Everyn’s leaning on her—despite how surprised she was that he smelled warm and spicy and her mind certainly conscious that he was a handsome devil.

The small parlor doors were slid back and she led him right in, leaving him to half fall in a chair by the fire. The lamps were lit and snow fell outside the long uncovered windows. The chair was large enough and though the room rarely used, it was comfortable enough and decorated with the same festive flair of the entire house.

Mary lit the candles on the mantle and murmured, ”I’ll be right back, then left him, taking the servants stairs down to collect coffee. The half dozen servants were busy and bustling. They exchanged a quick smile since they were used to seeing Mary in their domain. She filled a silver pot with fresh ground coffee and a container of cream, one of sugar, and taking two cups went back up to the parlor.

Her guest had made himself comfortable and removed his formal coat, and it appeared he’d added a log to the fire without falling into the hearth.

She glanced at him as she poured. ”Cream?“

He had been staring into the flames but now glanced at her. ”Black.“

She poured her own and then took him the cup, watching his lean fingers take it, musing that he really was quite foxed as he missed his mouth twice before he finally took a long drink.

She held her own cup and walked to the window, just to side of him. Savoring several sips, she then peeked aside to find him looking at her.

”Forget my name again?“ she teased.

”Not at all…Mary.“ He raised the cup, downed it and shuddered. Getting up, he poured another, sloshing a bit, but managing to fill it again. Instead of sitting down he walked a bit steadier toward her, and as if his legs were untrustworthy after all, sat down on the window seat to sip.

”Snow,“ he muttered looking out the frosted glass.

Her lips pulled into a smile. ”I believe that is what they call it.“

Giving another of those white grins, this one lazy, he leaned his head back against the facing, looking up at her. Though given his height and her lack of it, there wasn’t far to look. ”So why are you hiding out at your own ball, Mary Broomfield?“

He’d said it in a whisper as if asking a great secret. She chuckled softly. ”Not hiding exactly. But in case you haven’t heard, our family is rather energetic and lively, and I prepare for months so that my father and siblings, their families can have the perfect Christmas week. We’ve always gone all out for the holiday. My mother used to before she died, and well, it’s a very important tradition, as much as it is fun and a bit of foolery for the grown ups. The entire neighborhood looks forward to it.“ She shrugged. ”Once everything starts, or rather begins nicely, I like to steal away once in awhile and just savor the memories.“

He blurted as if he had been half listening half thinking, ”How old are you?“

She cocked her brow. ”Twenty-six.“

”Hmm.“ He cocked his own brow. ”Let me guess. You have a husband who is part giant and five or six children…“

”Not at all. I’ve never been married.“

His brow lowered. ”Good God…“ He appeared as if he would stand.

She laughed almost reading his mind. ”Relax, Sir. I’m not the sort who would trap a man in desperation. I am quite content with my status. And even should someone claim that Mary Broomfield did anything the least bit like that, the entire county would laugh them silent. Your compliment aside, and, since you could not know that my reputation is for being both sensible and intelligent, I can assure you’ve no need to panic.“

That smile still intact, she mused, ”I assume you are one of those hunted London bachelors?“

He winced. ”My apologies.“ And relaxed again before muttering, ”One grows eyes in the back of their head, you know, even when foxed, during these social gatherings. I think… I started out this rustication at m’cousin Freddy’s house, and once word got out that I was there…“ He shuddered, ”Barely escaped with my skin.“

”Freddy. Ah, that would be Lord Fredrick Banning. I see. Yes, well. It may comfort you to know that though my sister’s wed titles, and I care for my brother’s in law, I’m happily ignorant of most of what the ton does, or must do. I believe my sisters were the same, though they move in those circles now and then. My father raised us to be rather scandalously independent and sensible, and as he put it. It paid off wonderfully, for his gels since Ruth and Miriam and Margie, all made good matches as well as brought him sons-in-law he could call friends. We’re one of those odd families who got lucky or unlucky as the ton would find it, we live the lives that bring us joy, and our family is close. My sisters wed for love, as father did, and they got wealth and titles by sheer accident.“

”Amazingly rare.“ He smiled shortly and took another sip of his coffee after raising his cup to her. Following a swallow, he muttered, ”Unheard of in my circles.“

She watched the candlelight play on his raven hair. Despite the muss, it shone a blue black and lay well past his collar. His silvery eyes peeked up through those dark rimmed lashes and Mary looked away.

”You do not spend Christmas with your family?“

He snorted. ”No. Though my poor blighted father must. Between the dozens of aunts and uncles, the cousins and ne’er-do-wells he supports, as well as the handling their petty jalousies and problems, I do all in my power to make myself scarce this time of year.“

”Except for Cousin Freddy?“

”Ah. Yes. I unfortunately had to stop there on some errand for father. ‘Was the least that I could do, considering the old man is likely hiding away himself at this moment. The relatives descend you know, much like vultures this time of year, at m'father’s estate, and the servants liken it to a plague of locusts and…“ He waved his hand and grunted. ”Suffice it to say, that Christmas, like any other holiday, is one we both dread.“

”What a shame.“

He looked at her. ”Family duty and all that. Can’t get rid of the relatives, they keep breeding too. Each batch more eccentric and demanding and…“

”I meant that you don’t enjoy the holiday.“

He laughed. ”Dear girl, a man of my station and age enjoys very little aside from...“ He seemed to gather his wits and chuckled. ”Never mind.“

”I can guess.“ She reached for his empty cup and took it with her own, to the table she’d set the tray on. Mary guessed also that he was thirty-three or four, certainly no more than that. ”Will you have more?“

He had stood, and unlatched the window, poked his head out to look at the snow—or to clear his head. He re-latched it and turned to answer, ”No. thank you.“

She put the cups down and they stood there a moment, Mary was very much aware that he was still less than sober. Although she was also human enough, despite her status of old maidship, to be attracted. There wasn’t a lot there, aside from jaded cynicism, a man of vice and—the opposite sort of thing she expected to be attracted to.

Still, she really could not help it, there was something amusing and alive beneath all that, and for the time being at least, she savored the warmness she felt standing there.

”I should be off.“ He seemed to snap out of some muse, and headed to the chair, slipping on his coat.

”Have you consumed anything today besides drink?“

”I believe I did.“ He grinned at her, fumbling with the neck cloth and giving up then stuffing it in his pocket. ”Breakfast or lunch, to be sure.“

She shook her head. ”Where are you staying?“

He raked a hand through his hair. ”The closest inn?“

”All filled, I’m afraid.“ She shook her head, and then shrugged, ”You are welcome here, for however long. And certainly you are welcome to either join in the festivities or amuse yourself.“ She looked around. ”You’ll at least take supper? We had so much left over and…“

He was looking at her oddly as Mary met his eye, which caused her to fall silent. But hand upon the chair back, he actually teased, ”I sense you are concerned on my behalf, Mary Broomfield. Don’t be. No likely tales will emerge of strangers wondering about in the snow and starving. I have my coach, and there is always cousin Freddy…“

She raised both brows. ”As you will. Although I was just going to steal a tart or two myself.“

He grinned shaking his head. ”You would temp a man with tarts? For shame, Mary.“