A Bit of Mistletoe

By Ava Stone

** Previously found in A Pact Between Gentlemen

Everett Casemore, the very serious Marquess of Berkswell, returns home for Christmas, slightly shaken by the death of an old friend. Determined not suffer the same fate at the hands of a woman, Berks resolves himself to eternal bachelorhood. Unfortunately, both his resolve and his peace of mind are threated by the arrival of a very pretty, but most unsuitable lady.

Miss Theresa Birkin knows better than most than an error in judgment can lead one down an unfortunate path. If only she’d been wiser when she was younger. If only she hadn’t followed her heart. If only she’d met Lord Berkswell long before now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ava Stone
• Release date: May 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310315688

Ava Stone

Ava Stone is a USA Today bestselling author of Regency historical romance and college age New Adult romance. Whether in the 19th Century or the 21st, her books explore deep themes but with a light touch. A single mother, Ava lives outside Raleigh NC, but she travels extensively, always looking for inspiration for new stories and characters in the various locales she visits.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The Falcon & the Philosopher Inn, Cambridgeshire – December 1814

Flickering light from the hearth at the far end of the taproom cast a warm glow across the floor, wooden beams, and five very serious gentlemen gathered in a circle around one of the tables. Only an occasional pop or crackle from the fire made any sound in the otherwise vacant tavern.

Richard would want us to drink to his name, Rowan Findley announced, lifting a glass of whiskey out before him.

Robert Hurst, the Earl of Northcotte, snorted. Richard would want to be alive, he grumbled under his breath, but the others heard him clearly. And on that point they were all in agreement.

Richard Hollace, the late Lord Arrington, had lived life to its fullest. He embodied the sentiment eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die. And unfortunately, the latter was true in his case. It was the way Lord Arrington had passed that had caused such a pallor to be cast upon the taproom. No man liked to think about his own passing, and certainly not passing before one’s time, but to be killed so viciously, and by one’s own wife…

Which is why we should drink to his name, Everett Casemore, the Marquess of Berkswell said softly, lifting his glass of whiskey as well.

Hear, hear. Sebastian Stanwick raised his glass.

The other men followed suit as Findley said, To Richard Hollace, a damn good friend.

With a wicked sense of humor, Nicholas Beckford, Lord Edgeworth tossed in.

The life of every party, Berkswell agreed.

Knower of all things equine. Northcotte smiled sadly.

Knower of all things female. Stanwick frowned.

That last bit swirled about the room, each man ruminating over the truth of it. Had Arrington known fewer females, he might very well be alive this night. He wouldn’t be lying six feet under with a hole in his head in the shape of a fire iron. The five of them wouldn’t have driven through the snow to Cambridgeshire on short notice. And they wouldn’t have sat through their old school chum’s funeral, wondering how such a tragedy could have befallen the man.

One by one, they swallowed the contents of their glasses, each wondering how the world had stopped making sense. Ladies didn’t murder their husbands. They just didn’t do such things, except… Well, except one did. Something the lot of them would have thought unfathomable a fortnight earlier had become a tragic and quite frightening truth.

What’s going to happen to her? Findlay asked, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the crackling fire.

She’s been taken to Newgate, Edgeworth replied. I expect they’ll hang her.

Richard should have been more careful of her sensibilities, Stanwick said, raking a hand through his midnight black hair. He should have taken care that she not find out about his paramours.

I doubt he thought his wife was capable of such a thing, Berkswell returned.

I doubt any man thinks so. Findley sighed.

And yet women are very clearly capable of such things, Northcotte began, One only has to look as far as Richard for proof.

Again, silence befell the five men. One only did have to look as far as Richard to see that women were very clearly capable of murder. Northcotte had never spoken truer words.

Well, that settles it then— Findley broke the silence, slamming his glass on the table in front of him a little harder than was necessary —I’m never getting married. That’s the best and only way I can think of to avoid Richard’s fate.

It only took half a second for Stanwick to say, I couldn’t agree with you more.

Well, then, what about you? Findley glanced from Berkswell to Northcotte to Edgeworth.

Berkswell scrubbed a hand across his jaw and shook his head. Certainly not worth the risk. My brother can inherit.

As can my cousin, Northcotte added solemnly.

Never planned on marrying anyway. Edgeworth shrugged.

Then we’re agreed, Findley announced, lifting his glass in the air once more. I, Rowan Findley, hereby solemnly vow to never take a wife.

The other four lifted their glasses and repeated the vow in unison.

Famous last words, most assuredly…

ONE

Outside Wellesborne, Warwickshire – December, 1814

For the entire journey from Arrington, Everett Casemore, the Marquess of Berkswell, could not get the image of his old school chum out of his mind. For God’s sake, the service should have been a closed casket. Despite the undertaker’s best efforts, one could clearly see the puncture wound left in Richard’s head from Lady Arrington’s fire iron.

A fire iron, for God’s sake! Apparently, the lady had screamed, I’ll give you something to poke! as she dealt her husband the final deathblow.

Berks shuddered at the thought. And it truly was a terrifying thought! Who would have ever imagined Lady Arrington—who was most definitely on the slight side of the scale, all things considered—would have even had enough strength to lift up a fire iron, let alone murder Richard with the bloody thing?

Glancing out of his traveling carriage upon the village covered in freshly fallen snow, Berks willed his disturbing thoughts from his mind. He couldn’t keep dwelling on Richard, not now at any rate. As soon as he arrived at Wellesborne Park, he’d have to be in a much cheerier state of mind, or at least appear as such. His sister, brother-in-law, and new nephew would already be in residence; and his brother and sister-in-law would be arriving the next day. There was no time for maudlin thoughts.

The holidays were upon them, whether Berks was in the mood for festivities or not. And everyone would expect him to play the role of courteous host. He snorted at the thought. More like play the role of peacekeeper between his brother and their brother-in-law. But at the moment, Berks didn’t think he was up for the challenge. How could he be, with the image of Richard’s lifeless body in that casket flashing over and over in his mind?

Lady Arrington had hit him how many times? He’d heard varying accounts. But honestly, being struck once was plenty.

Lady Arrington. He’d never have thought her prone to violence or madness. She’d always seemed to be of the sweetest disposition. Mousy, even. If she was mad, however, it was no wonder Richard had strayed from his marriage vows. Berks couldn’t imagine bedding a madwoman, being tied to a madwoman the rest of his life. Of course, Richard’s life was not long lived in the end, was it?

He spotted the first spires of Wellesborne Park and sighed. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about coming across any madwomen at home. His sister, Pippa, was the gentlest soul. Kind, caring, and not the least bit mad. His sister-in-law, Miranda, was… Well, Miranda might be a bit mad, now that he thought about it.

His brother had met the girl, who’d disguised herself as a fop, inside a gaming hell in London the previous year. A sane woman wouldn’t do such a thing, would she? Berks made a mental note to warn Harry to look for any signs of madness within his wife. After all, doing so just might save his brother’s life. Harry was nearly twice Miranda’s size, but Richard hadn’t been a small man either. A blow to the head from a fire iron seemed to even things out in that regard.

The coach bounced a bit as it started down the long drive towards Wellesborne Park, and Berks tried to shake all the terrible thoughts from his mind. He was never going to marry, so there was no point in fretting any further about the situation. Richard’s

Reviews for A Bit of Mistletoe

[pinky850 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Does anyone have an editor or proofreader anymore? Some glaring mistakes jolted me out of the story.

[benn9314 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A very sweet love story about the most wonderful time of the year