Mistletoe Mistress

By Nicola Davidson

Banished to the country for wayward behavior, house maid Miss Rachel Lindsay is near-penniless and desperate. A cruel trick left her abandoned at an isolated country inn on a snowy Christmas Eve, and her only hope is a wealthy, stern, and sinfully handsome stranger—masquerading as her husband.
The new and reluctant Marquess of Kyle, Arran Elliott’s journey to London has been halted by a broken carriage. His bid for lodgings is failing—until a mysterious beauty boldly announces they are wed to secure the last remaining room. But when their friendly bargain turns into nights of scorching hot passion and sensual discipline, Arran knows he can’t let the spirited and deliciously curvy Rachel go. His—and her—secrets be damned...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicola Davidson
• Release date: Apr 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9780473480141

Nicola Davidson

USA Today bestselling author NICOLA DAVIDSON worked for many years in media and government communications, but hasn’t looked back since she decided writing erotic historical romance was infinitely more fun. When not chained to a computer she can be found ambling along one of New Zealand’s beautiful beaches, cheering on the All Blacks rugby team, history geeking on the internet, or daydreaming. If this includes dessert—even better!Nicola's books have appeared in USA Today, NPR, and Entertainment Weekly.Find Nicola online: Twitter (@NicolaMDavidson) Facebook (Nicola Davidson – Author) Instagram (NicolaDauthor) or her website www.nicola-davidson.com

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Chapter 1

The outskirts of London, December 24, 1813.

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Yes, she had made mistakes. Yes, she was no doubt a sinner. But surely no one deserved the excruciating punishment of being trapped in an ancient stagecoach with two elderly spinsters, a harassed-looking mother with an irritable toddler, a retired sailor who both snorted and passed wind in his sleep, and the son of a baron who wore an eye-watering combination of puce and jonquil, reeked of lavender, and hadn’t ceased his chatter for the entire journey thus far.

Miss Rachel Lindsay’s gaze darted about within the cramped, cold, and uncomfortable confines of the coach as it shuddered and lurched from side to side on the muddy road north, but unfortunately, her situation remained the same.

Dire.

Not for a moment had she thought this would be how she would be spending her Christmas Eve. She should be warm and safe in the only sanctuary she’d ever known—the Farringdon Orphanage and School—hanging greenery around the windows, dusting the ledges, and mopping the floors. Or attempting to wheedle an orange, marzipan square, or slice of gingerbread from Cook. Instead, she’d been banished from London to take a position as an upper maid at a Cambridge estate. Respectable, yes, but away from anything familiar. Away from the other maids she considered friends. Away from her mother’s gravesite, which she visited every second week to lay a fresh flower upon.

The worst part was, she only had herself to blame for the banishment. Lady Farringdon had been entirely correct when she’d said that Rachel had all the wicked, immodest traits that only the illegitimate daughter of an actress and an unknown peer could possess. She laughed too loudly and disliked somber hymns. She did not walk, she skipped and twirled. Her speech was disgracefully pert and forthright, her lips pouty, and her breasts and hips entirely too ripe. But most sinful of all…the consequences for her wayward behavior, the wooden spoon to her covered bottom, had never dissuaded her. Only left her shockingly damp and throbbing in that forbidden place between her legs, confused and ashamed and yearning for something she couldn’t even name.

That had been her downfall. The first time she’d dared to try and ease the ache by touching herself in bed, she’d been caught by another maid who had run straight to Lady Farringdon to tattle. Passage on this coach had been arranged shortly afterward, lest she infect the other servants with her wantonness.

Miss! Are you listening?

Gritting her teeth, Rachel faced Mr. Jonquil, who seemed to take it as a grave affront that she wasn’t transfixed by him or his lengthy lecture on the only kind of saddle one should purchase for a thoroughbred. I wonder, sir, if you have such fine horseflesh and saddles why it is that you are riding in this stagecoach?

He glared at her. You weren’t listening. I knew it. I already explained that I was fleeced of my horse at a gaming table by an unscrupulous cheat. My skill with cards is unparalleled.

Naturally.

My luck turned worse after that. Can you imagine, my wretched family wouldn’t send me more funds or a carriage! Said a coach ride would be a good lesson. And now I have to spend Christmas with them at the country estate when all my chums are in London.

Gracious me, said Rachel, curling her hands around the worn satchel that carried her meager belongings so she didn’t box his spoilt aristocratic ears.

One of the spinsters gave her a disapproving look, and tapped the well-thumbed Bible she’d been reading to her sister. Virtuous women do not speak in such a tone…oh my word. The sailor has passed wind again. Handkerchiefs, ladies!

Rachel tried not to gag as she quickly pressed a square of cheap linen to her nose. One would think that a coach transporting the sisters of a clergyman, complete with scripture, might have gained some stench protection from the Almighty. Not so. Actually, she didn’t know how much more of this she could take. With each mile that took them further away from the capital, the coach seemed to get smaller and smellier; right now it felt the size of a cupboard and as fragrant as a Cheapside alley.

Wait one moment. Were they slowing down?

She peered out the grimy window to see a large inn about a half mile ahead. Are we stopping here?

Mr. Jonquil shot her a supercilious look. My dear. Don’t you know anything about travel? This is our luncheon stop, and they’ll change the horses.

Rachel sat back in her seat, her heart lifting. Stopping meant fresh air. The chance to stretch her legs and get away from her fellow travelers, even for a little while.

Minutes later, the coach came to a halt in a graveled yard in front of a well-kept inn called the Queen’s Standard. It was even larger than she’d thought, two stories in height and Tudor in design with red brick walls, brown wooden panels, and small, diamond-paned windows. Certainly, it appeared the center of the surrounding village. Despite the cold bleakness of the day, young lads were salting paths to reduce slipperiness, others led horses in halters, and in the distance she could see a stable and workshop with several blacksmiths and farriers. Women in thick shawls and sturdy half-boots were gossiping as they carried baskets of produce, others were inspecting the wares of a traveling tinker or buying hot pasties from the pie cart. Rosy-cheeked children were running about, blithely ignoring calls to come inside out of the chill wind. Much like London, a range of accents filled the air, and that particular familiarity was rather reassuring.

Just for a moment, Rachel imagined she was one of those women, wearing clothes and boots that fitted and had been purchased new, not scooped out of the charity box. That she and her husband—definitely not a peer for they were vile wretches who treated women terribly—but a kind, well-to-do clerk or banker, had stopped on their journey home. They would stroll together, and their bright-eyed, mischievous children, at least five for she had always wanted a large family, would tug her hands and say, ‘Come on, Mama! Hurry—

Hurry up, miss! Good heavens. We are all waiting. Surely you can manage to open a coach door?

Cheeks hot, Rachel mumbled an apology, shoved open the door, and climbed awkwardly out. The air was frigid but blessedly fresh, and she sucked in a lungful. Soon after, the spinsters, harried mother and child, and sailor pushed past her, eager for the warmth of the inn, but she managed to ask Mr. Jonquil one more question.

How long do we have for the luncheon stop, sir?

His wide grin made her a little uneasy, but he patted her arm in a soothing manner. A full hour, so plenty of time for a bracing walk. I believe those shops are open, one could even be a dressmaker. Look for a new hair ribbon. Even better, a new shawl. Shabby-genteel is not at all the thing anymore, pet.

To avoid trouble for herself, Rachel bobbed a shallow curtsy rather than crushing his instep. Perhaps I might. Thank you.

Off you go, the buck said quickly, before dashing away into the inn.

An hour! A short walk to stretch her legs followed by hot tea and a pasty or some buttered bread in the dining room would revive her spirits nicely.

Decision made, Rachel pulled her old woolen shawl tighter and walked toward the shops. After a blissful half hour of behaving as though she actually had coin to spend on luxuries like hair ribbons, leather gloves, or a deliciously warm cloak, she returned to the inn’s empty yard.

Empty!

Rachel froze in horror.

Seeing a neatly-dressed, dark-skinned man with a notebook, and a clinking leather bag, she stumbled up to him. Beg pardon, sir. You are the ticket collector?

That I am, he replied with a friendly nod.

Where is the stagecoach? she asked breathlessly, as panic roiled her stomach.

Gone, miss. They have a schedule to keep. Twenty minutes for food and changing the horses, then off they trot.

Oh God.

I was told… Rachel swallowed hard, the fop’s betrayal cutting deep. But then only a bloody fool trusted the word of a smiling