Prologue
Chillendale Hall glowed with lights as the snow began to fall. It had come early this year, smiled the residents of Little Chillendale, happy because snow was the harbinger of the Festive season. And if anyone knew how to celebrate that time of year it was the hardy folks who called that delightful village home.
There would be parties of children sent out into the forest to gather greenery; sharp bundles of fir, some crisp evergreen leaves and whatever else would work for decorating their homes. Plum puddings and fruit cakes had already been stirred on one special November day and were tucked away in brandy-soaked cloths, aging to perfection. A successful stirring guaranteed good luck in the new year.
All these things were also done at Chillendale Hall, of course, but in that elegant country home, less than a mile from the village that bore its name, there was a great deal more on the list of things to attend to.
Sir Rodney and Lady Jocelyn Chillendale, along with their household, were already preparing for the upcoming events. They were overseeing a variety of activities on the part of their staff; everything from log gathering—with special attention to the selection of the Yule log—a workable baking schedule which would keep the kitchens lively for several weeks, and the final selection of the ale to be served this year.
That was Sir Rodney’s favorite part of the entire process, since it meant he got to spend more than a few days tasting his own ale and wandering happily through the Chillendale cellars, singing carols now and again. The ones he could remember the words to.
He refused to accept he might be a little inebriated, but did wonder now and then how he had lucked into such a delightful chore.
The Young Master—Reid Chillendale—was everywhere, helping where he could, making sure his father didn’t overdo the ale tasting, and also stirring a pudding for luck, when Cook would allow it.
He liked the season and enjoyed the fun, but in the back of his mind lurked a somewhat more troubling spectre.
This year it would be his turn to becomeThe Marquess of Mistletoe—and it would be his turn to take a bride.
Tradition had it that when a young Chillendale man turned twenty-eight and was still unwed, a suitable bride would be chosen and announced at the Mistletoe Ball. The thinking behind the idea was that if a lad couldn’t do it himself after at least a decade of looking, then someone else should damn well do it for him. One such fellow was selected from the pool of eligible lads every Christmas.
Reid had prayed there would be plenty of others in the village of that significant age. But, to his horror, none of the local lads had reached that milestone. He was theonlycandidate.
Of course, the heir to Chillendale being this year’s Lord Mistletoe was cause for enormous excitement. While none of the village girls really expected to be chosen for Mr. Reid, there were, nonetheless, plenty of fluttering heartbeats beneath the dimity bodices and homespun spencers.
Reid was viewed as the local “catch”; a title he ignored, much as he ignored his height, regular countenance, rich brown hair and dark eyes. He did not think of himself as handsome, or an eligible bachelor. In fact, he seldom thought of himself at all.
His commitment was to Chillendale and the Chillendale ales, which he fully intended to see attain the reputation he knew they deserved.
All this fuss and bother about picking him a wife…well, that was something best left to his mother, if necessary. In his opinion it wasn’t, not right now anyway, but persuading everyone else of that was turning out to be all but impossible.
He’d been to many county affairs, balls, afternoon teas, summer picnics and whatnot, and enjoyed them all. He had friends, a thriving estate he helped run, some wonderful horses, and his life was—not to put too fine a point on it—bloody near perfect; serene and comfortable.
He had absolutely no interest whatsoever in acquiring a wife. And that was that.
But then the days drew in, the snow arrived, and with it the inevitability that he would have to assume the title of Lord Mistletoe for the duration.
And he’d have to accept the wife selected for him.
Lady Jocelyn informed him that there was only one name in the running as far as she and his father were concerned.
Miss Emmeline Southwick, daughter of Sir Francis and Lady Mary Southwick.
Upon being told about Emmeline, Reid had nodded. Shewasthe most suitable, of course. Her background was unimpeachable, her beauty had made her the reigning belle of most every local event in the past two years, and she would be nineteen within a few months. She was due to make her debut in town in the New Year when the Season began.
If Reid didn’t snap her up, declared his mother, then she would be off to London in and he would have lost his chance.
Biting back his immediate response, which was that he really wouldn’t mind very much, he just sighed.
Emmeline was a good sort. A bit girlish, but what young woman wasn’t? She would certainly grace his table, and it wouldn’t be a hardship to have her as his wife.
But something—something he couldn’t describe—was missing.
When she wasn’t there, it took a bit of effort to recall her appearance. There was no…nosparkin Emmeline, nothing that lit an answering spark in his heart. Or his body for that matter. In fact, when he actually considered the matter, there wasn’t much spark in his life overall.
And that bothersome notion was what sent Reid out into the first winter snowfall to gather more evergreens for Chillendale Hall.
And changed his life in a most unexpected way.
He couldn’t know that at that very moment, a woman was feeling an unusually strong compulsion to bundle herself into her cloak and go out for a brief walk in the snow…
