Maid Under The Mistletoe: A Mapleton Family Saga Novella

  Maid Under The Mistletoe

  A Mapleton Family Saga Novella

  Annabelle Anders

  To my niece, Charlotte.

  Never stop reading!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Misbehaving Maid

  Chapter 2

  Second Thoughts

  Chapter 3

  Purchasing Gifts

  Chapter 4

  Turmoil

  Chapter 5

  Impossible Thoughts

  Chapter 6

  Weather Takes a Turn

  Chapter 7

  Shared Interests

  Chapter 8

  Music of the Heart

  Chapter 9

  Sacked

  Chapter 10

  Hope

  Chapter 11

  Christmas Day

  Chapter 12

  The Proposal

  Let’s stay in touch!

  Regency Cocky Gents

  The Lord Love a Lady Series

  Devilish Debutantes Series

  The Perfect Books

  Wallflowers’ Christmas Wish

  Sample from My Dashing Duke

  Standalones

  About the Author

  Free Novella

  Chapter 1

  Misbehaving Maid

  “You’ve never looked lovelier, Miss Fairchild. Your eyes sparkle like the winter sky. Your lips glisten like the ripest of berries. The shine in your hair surely must rival all the Regent’s gold.”

  The Honorable Miss Fairchild tittered into her handkerchief, but a gurgling noise escaped from the diminutive maid walking behind them. Anthony Crespin, Earl of Mapleton, furrowed his brows as he turned his attention to his future betrothed’s companion.

  Had Miss Fairchild’s maid just rolled her eyes?

  He was not mistaken. She met his backwards glance with a shrug, as though to say, Is that the best you can do?

  “But what of my dress, my lord?” Miss Fairchild demanded his attention once again. “And my complexion?”

  This time, there was no mistaking the barking noise that quickly turned into a cough.

  “Is something ailing you, Charlotte?” Miss Fairchild scowled in her direction. “I do hope you aren’t coming down with something. With Christmas just a few days away that would be most inconvenient.”

  Large eyes, with nearly as many flecks of green as blue, widened in innocence. “A ladybug landed on my nose. Ticklish little creature.” The maid swiped at a most impertinent appendage. Upturned and defiant but smallish, much like its owner.

  Ladybug? In late December?

  “Hrmph.” The genteel lady beside him studied her maid suspiciously. “You’ll do well to control yourself in the future.” Anthony had not noticed the shrillness of Miss Fairchild’s voice before.

  He tugged at his cravat, which suddenly seemed tighter than it had when he’d left Maplehurst that morning. Mindful of his manners, he offered his arm to Miss Fairchild once again.

  The match between himself and Viscount Denton’s eldest daughter may have been a trifle rushed, but now he had nothing left to do but actually offer for the gel.

  Anthony had inherited his father’s title, that of Earl of Mapleton, just over five years ago. Having recently achieved the ancient age of thirty, he’d decided the time had come to take a wife and set up a nursery.

  As expected, it was what gentlemen did.

  He’d originally allowed himself two to three years to view the field of eligible debutantes, but the need became urgent when two thirds of the structures within the local village burned to the ground.

  And Lord Denton’s estate in Hampshire conveniently bordered his own to the north. The substantial dowry, although not outlandish, would cover the cost of recovering for the fire at Bridge’s End. He’d known of the honorable Miss Fairchild for some time. The family had good connections. She maintained a spotless reputation and was not too horrible to look at. In fact, he’d managed to note that she could be rather pretty, really, when complimented and admired.

  Clutching his arm possessively, Miss Fairchild leaned into him. “The sky appears as though it might snow this afternoon.”

  Anthony glanced upward. Not a cloud in sight. The lady was simply making conversation and so he nodded in agreement.

  By Christmas, he’d be a betrothed man.

  He tugged at his cravat again. When had Penrose begun knotting it so tightly? He’d have to have a word with his valet…

  Hearing more muffled laughter, he glanced over his shoulder at the maid.

  And again, she flashed those innocent eyes. Despite covering her hair with a simple mop cap, and wearing a frumpy grey gown, the petite young woman stirred him uncomfortably.

  He determinedly faced forward and frowned. Such insubordination was quite extraordinary. He ought to be angry on behalf of Miss Fairchild. He ought to admonish the maid himself.

  “And are you hoping for snow on Christmas this year?” He asked the young lady beside him. He drew in a deep breath, expecting to inhale a sweet feminine fragrance, but instead was forced to stifle his own choking sounds. Had Miss Fairchild bathed in her perfume this morning? The cloying scent of roses hung onto his senses as tightly as the wearer gripped his arm.

  “Of course not, my lord! If it snows, our guests might have difficulty travelling to the Christmas Ball.” She paused meaningfully. “And they might miss the announcement.”

  Damn, but the temperature had risen since they’d stepped outside ten minutes ago. He could not remember the last time it had been so warm around the holidays.

  She had the right of it, for certain. He fully intended for her father to make the announcement at the Christmas Ball.

  Miss Fairchild’s parents, Lord and Lady Denton, were hosting several people for the holidays. Lofty guests who all had high expectations for Miss Fairchild. He was saved from making any comment when approaching voices carried along the garden path.

  He recognized Mr. and Mrs. Smythe, one of Miss Fairchild’s married cousins and her husband, and Lord and Lady Pritchard. His own younger brother and sister walked with them as well. Likely, Daphne was doing her best to allow him some privacy with Miss Fairchild. His younger sister was all too aware of his responsibilities and whenever possible, did what she could to assist him in meeting them. She could be as annoying at times, as she could be sweet.

  Michael was all of seven and twenty, still enjoying the exploits of young bachelorhood, and Daphne was only five years younger than Michael. Their mother remained at home, abed. She’d not come out of her bedchamber since their father’s passing.

  Miss Fairchild released his arm in order to join them, leaving Anthony standing alone with her maid.

  Was this what marriage to her would be like?

  “More like lapis, after it has dried and been ground up.” The small woman beside him offered with a smirk.

  “Excuse me?” Maids did not have discussions with their mistress’s escorts.

  “A more apt description for her eyes.” She grinned. “Although the flower is a brilliant color while alive, the vivid hue is lost shorty after it’s picked.” At his frown, she elaborated. “Not at all like a bright winter sky.”

  Again, that sensation that he would like to reprimand this defiant servant… if only he did not find a part of himself agreeing with her. She was correct about both, he conceded, recalling the plant to which she referred, and how disappointed one became as it dried out.

  “You oughtn’t.” He uttered instead.

  She sighed heavily and he could not help to notice how the rise and fall of her breasts t
opped off what he guessed must be a perfect hourglass figure.

  He pulled his gaze back to her face quickly. A gentleman did not ogle his intended’s maid.

  “Oh, believe me, I know.” She sighed again and watched Miss Fairchild fawn over the other guests. “It’s just too easy sometimes.”

  He studied her skeptically. He did not remember seeing her with Miss Fairchild before. In fact, he remembered quite distinctly that a heavy-set woman had accompanied them on their last outing.

  “Have you only recently entered service?” Oddly enough, he didn’t want the girl to bring trouble upon herself. But for the luck of birth, his own sister might have fallen into such a position.

  She grimaced as she met his stare. “This is my fourth position.”

  He raised his brows.

  “In three months.”

  Ahh…

  Well, he could not feign surprise.

  Charlotte Drake knew she was treading on thin ice again. Not only by pointing out that her mistress’s eyes resembled a faded flower, but by addressing Lord Mapleton in the first place.

  Oliver would throttle her if she got sacked again. As it was, her brother and his wife, Betsy, barely had enough room to accommodate their own family. They certainly didn’t have additional provisions to care for her.

  She would never forget her brother’s horrified expression when she’d shown up on his doorstep thirteen weeks ago. They’d expected she would dwell with father for another decade or two, possibly three, at the vicarage. Not one person could have predicted his untimely death. He’d only been fifty-three, for heaven’s sake! It was circumstances such as these that had Charlotte questioning God’s judgment at times.

  Especially his taking her mother’s life upon her own birth.

  Dismissing the painful thought, her mind wandered.

  She should have married Jonathan Birch when he’d offered four years ago. Surely being a wife could not have been worse than catering to the demands of Miss Susan Fairchild.

  She shrugged off her musings, all too aware that Lord Mapleton watched her warily.

  “Are you going to make and offer then?” Charlotte could not help but ask. It was all Lady Denton and Miss Fairchild had been talking about since Charlotte took up her post this week.

  Again, Lord Mapleton raised his brows at her words. She eyed their fullness, the dark brown color, and their finely shaped appearance. Just beneath the tall hat perched atop his person, dark blond hairs framed his perfectly sized head. As far as gentlemen went, he really was one of the finer looking ones. Miss Fairchild could do much worse, that was for certain.

  Any of the husbands of her former employers caused Lord Mapleton to shine in comparison. And not just in looks, either.

  In character… She had a sense about such things.

  She’d sensed that Mr. Merkle was trouble at the onset of that particular post.

  A tremor of disgust ran through her at the memory of her last employer’s hands ‘accidentally’ brushing across the tops of her breasts. And Mrs. Merkle had shown no sympathy whatsoever. In fact, she’d blamed Charlotte for her husband’s nefarious behavior.

  “Did you seriously take it upon yourself to ask me if I was going to propose to your mistress, Miss…?”

  “Drake.” She supplied, holding out her hand. “Charlotte Drake.”

  Again, with those eyebrows of his. But oh, dear. The nearby group silenced as they stared back at them. Of course, a servant did not offer her hand to a lord!

  Class distinction. Class differences. She’d experienced it all of her life, with her father’s parishioners. How different it was to now endure the subtle and not so subtle differences from an even less advantageous perspective.

  She dropped her hand and began reaching into the pockets of her coat. “I had one somewhere, my lord.” She spoke in her most obsequious voice while withdrawing a handkerchief. She handed it to Lord Mapleton who then slowly took it. Although he looked startled, he stuffed it into his pocket without contradicting her.

  Ah, she’d known he must be something of a good person.

  “Thank you, Miss Drake.”

  And then he bowed.

  What was he doing?

  He failed to comprehend the huge blunder he was making until too late. This time he was the one forced to recover. Fumbling back into his pockets, he withdrew the handkerchief once again and then dropped it to the ground. He then bent the rest of the way down and scooped it up.

  Charlotte slid a sideways glance at the new arrivals. Had they noticed? One of the older women narrowed her eyes in their direction. Did the woman think Charlotte was flirting with an earl? Instead of allowing her inclination to return the lady’s scowl, Charlotte dropped her gaze submissively.

  She could have choked on a sob in that moment, because God help her, she didn’t know if she could do this.

  Miss Fairchild marched over. “Go inside, Drake. And advise my mother that I no longer have need of a chaperone.” Miss Fairchild ordered. “I no longer have need of you.”

  Oh dear!

  The older woman who’d seemed suspicious made a few tsking sounds but the younger looking women gave her a sympathetic smile. She seemed familiar, somehow.

  Blondish hair. Friendly eyes. Oh, but she must be Lord Mapleton’s sister. And the man beside her was obviously his brother. They all exhibited the unmistakable aristocratic demeanor, but not in the same way as other members of the upper class she’d met. Their expressive eyes lacked the arrogance of the likes of the Fairchilds, the Merkles and the Smythes.

  “Yes Miss Fairchild.” She uttered the expected words, and then catching herself, curtsied quickly before turning for the house.

  “Miss Drake.” It was the earl’s voice which halted her. “Your handkerchief.”

  Keeping her head down, she scrambled back and swiped it from his hand. Only when she had returned to Miss Fairchild’s chamber did she realize he’d given her one of his own.

  The small cloth had obviously been laundered numerous times, as the embroidered designs had long since faded. Delicate leaves were sewn around the monogram. Far more than would have been considered adequate.

  Someone had made the handkerchief specially for him, Charlotte surmised. She wondered if it had been his sister, or his mother, or some other special lady.

  Stuffing into her pocket, she made a mental note to herself to return it.

  “What did he say to you?” Two hours later, Charlotte endured Susan Fairchild’s inquisition as she assisted the girl out of her day dress.

  She had already received a sound scolding from the housekeeper. Mrs. Gibson had warned her that if she spoke up without being asked one more time, Lady Denton would send Charlotte away immediately and without a reference.

  “I caught you speaking with him.” The girl’s voice was muffled by the material draping over her face. “I demand you tell me what he said.”

  So, Susan was not perhaps so very certain of Lord Mapleton’s intent. Charlotte thought quickly of anything to reassure her. “He asked me if I thought you would have him.” It was a lie but… a harmless one. One that might improve Charlotte’s own position in that moment. “He asked… um, if you were excited at the prospect of becoming Countess, um… Mapleton.”

  Susan’s head emerged, a satisfied expression on her face. Charlotte’s fabrication had accomplished exactly what she’d hoped.

  “He did? I wondered if that was what he was saying. What else would an earl have to discuss with a servant? And what did you tell him?”

  “What would you have had me tell him?” She countered. For until today Charlotte had only heard talk of his estate and his money and how all the debutantes this spring would be most jealous that Miss Fairchild landed one of England’s most sought-after gentlemen.

  Susan bit her lip. “I suppose I would have you tell him that, of course, I would accept him. Why ever would I not? He is an earl! I shall become Lady Mapleton.”

  Charlotte could almost feel sorry for these no
bs. They married for reasons other than love and then sought pleasure elsewhere. “I told him you found him utterly handsome and kind—that you thought he had the warmest eyes and lovely hair. I told him you could hardly wait to be caught under the mistletoe…” Had she gone too far?

  But even this spoiled young woman was not immune to Lord Mapleton’s dashing good looks. She stared at herself in the mirror with a dreamy smile.

  “I shall be a countess! You’ll have to address me as ‘my lady’ then, you know.”

  Or perhaps Susan Fairchild was less immune to his other… assets.

  Charlotte’s mistress then climbed into her gigantic bed and pushed her feet under the covers. “Steam my rose-colored gown for dinner. And I want my satin slippers brushed. Awaken me in two hours. I’ll have a bath then. And be quiet about filling it while I rest.” And then she swept the curtain closed in dismissal.

  Charlotte hated being a servant.

  Chapter 2

  Second Thoughts

  “Better you than me, that’s all I can say.” Anthony’s brother, Michael, dropped his hat on the bench beside him in the carriage. “Don’t get me wrong, I stand by your decision whole–heartedly. But if you aren’t certain you want to live with the woman for the remainder of your days, perhaps you ought to duck out. Go to London after the holidays and see if you can find a more palatable chit.”

  “He’s as good as declared himself.” This from Daphne. She’d been even more quiet than usual throughout the tea their hosts had served. “If he fails to come up to snuff, he’ll gain a reputation for being something of a scoundrel.”

  “Better than live out his days regretting the leg shackle.” Michael’s irreverence only served to remind Anthony of his own misgivings. Anthony held his own hat on his lap, in gloved hands as the carriage rocked into motion, drawing them away from his neighbor’s estate.