“Y-yes,” she faltered. “Helping.”
Mr. Gwilt appeared in the doorway. “Oh. Uh. Pardon me. Just wanted to see if you were all right, Miss Sarah. I see you are... in good hands.”
“I am, Mr. Gwilt. Thank you.”
After the games had been played, people rose and drifted away from the drawing room to stretch their legs, refill their teacups, or select a few more dainties from the dining room.
Colin wandered out across the passage, and Georgie followed him. She found him in the quiet parlour, glancing almost forlornly toward the kissing bough.
She walked over to condole with him. “I’m sorry Miss Marriott could not join us. You might kiss me under the mistletoe instead, if you like. A sorry replacement, I know, but I do hate to see you disappointed.”
“Not at all, Miss Georgie.”
Even so, she leaned forward, tapping a forefinger to her cheek. He grinned and leaned down, planting a kiss there.
“There,” she said. “Not so bad, I hope?”
“Quite the contrary.”
Sarah came up from belowstairs and hesitated in the opposite doorway, Mr. Henshall on her heels.
He said, “Ah, someone is taking advantage of the kissing bough, I see.”
Sarah looked from Georgie to Colin and back again in evident surprise but did not deliver the mild reproof Georgiana expected.
Later, after the party ended and most people had gone to their own homes or to bed, Mr. Henshall stayed to help Sarah and Mr. Gwilt tidy up the remaining plates, cups, and glasses left here and there in the public rooms.
When Mr. Gwilt carried the final tray of dishes belowstairs, Mr. Henshall lingered in the firelit parlour. He nodded to the kissing bough with a glimmer in his eyes.
“Well, Miss Sarah. What do ye say? You, me, mistletoe ...?”
Sarah bit her lip, feeling uncertain. Peter, as a clergyman, had not approved of the pagan tradition, so she had never been kissed beneath the mistletoe. But now ... with this man?
How could she resist?
Pulse tripping, she walked over and joined him there. Mimicking Georgie’s earlier gesture, she tipped her cheek toward him. He leaned close, but did not touch her. She turned in question, and his lips unexpectedly brushed hers. Sarah stood there, stunned, unable or unwilling to move away. He kissed her gently and she, oh so tentatively, kissed him back.
Then, pulling away slightly, she murmured near his lips, “Mr. Henshall, I...”
“Callum.”
“Callum. I...”
His mouth again descended on hers, silencing further words, further thought or protest.
She had been kissed before, years ago. Peter had given her an awkward, nervous kiss upon their betrothal and one more fervent before his ship sailed. Yet nothing in her memories compared to this.
Sarah was overwhelmed with sensations: Surprise. Pleasure. Wobbly knees. She had not known this was what a kiss could feel like.
And she found she liked it, very much indeed.
TWELVE
This being Christmas Day, I read prayers and administered the Holy Sacrament. Singers sung the Christmas Anthem this morning and very well indeed.
—James Woodforde,The Diary of a Country Parson
On Christmas Day, Sarah donned a pretty dress, thinking all the while of their kiss under the mistletoe.
