But that had been a lovely spring picnic compared to the chaos that had followed. Her father doubled her dowry, and her stepmother announced she would host a Christmas winter house party. Single men only to be invited. The prized Christmas gift—Jane’s hand in marriage.
She was lucky to have choices after what she’d done. She should already be married to Lord Devon. And no one had been more shocked than Jane when her father had allowed her to refuse the proposal of a duke’s younger brother.
She wanted to marry. She had to. But not to Lord Devon. Lillian’s heart might break if that happened, and Jane would not hurt her friend that way. Or any way if she could help it.
She stopped once more and looked up, peering into the treetops. The mistletoe should be easy to spy. All the other foliage had long ago faded, crisped, and fluttered to the ground. The round bursts of greenery would stand out like suns in the naked branches.
Ah ha! There.Jane ran toward the greenery, and when she found the exact tree, she circled round it. The trunk was too stout to shimmy up, but the closest branch hung low indeed. She could easily haul herself up on top of it. She studied the path of branches from the lowest to the highest where the mistletoe lived. Yes, an easy enough journey, though it would take her high.
She would have to loosen it first, though. She pulled the rifle from around her neck and dug in her pocket for the powder and balls. Hopefully, one shot would be enough, but if not, she’d come prepared. She made short work of loading the gun, aimed, and fired.
And missed.
“Damn,” she hissed, her warm breath fogging the air. She reloaded and took aim. “You’re mine.” She had plans for this mistletoe. It had been her mother’s favorite Christmas decoration. It needed to be everywhere in the house, over every door, and draped on every table, exactly as her mother had liked.
She fired the rifle again. It hit the tree with a crack, and the mistletoe ball quivered.
She pumped one fist into the air. “Huzzah!”
Birds screeched and wheeled into the air, away from their perches.
“Sorry!” She waved them goodbye, then eyed the branch.Hm.It would take one more shot. She eyed the contents of the bag of powder. Enough for one more shot.
“That’s all I’ll need.” It would work this time. She reloaded, aimed, fired.
And hit her mark. “Yes!”
The mistletoe rustled, fell, and lodged in a branch below its original perch.
“Damn!” She spit the curse like a cherry pit.
She sighed. Up the tree with her, then. She swung out of her cloak and draped it on the ground. She unbuttoned her pelisse and added it to the pile. She knitted her fingers together in front of her and turned her palms away, then lifted her arms high above her head, welcoming the deep stretch of her muscles. She jumped, grabbed the lowest tree branch, and lifted a leg to curl it around the top of the branch. She hauled herself up. The branch lurched lower under her weight. The tree did not feel as steady as it looked. No matter. She would not be up here long. She set her gaze on the uncooperative mistletoe. She’d get the mistletoe herself, and then she’d get herself a husband.
Chapter 2
George always fixed everything himself. No other entirely reliable way to get things done. He felt confident he’d left his uncle in reliable hands in London and with a good plan for moving forward. His sister Martha’s situation, he could not yet fix. But Lady Jane Crenshaw's ruined reputation… that would soon be under control as well. The whole debacle had been his fault, after all.
It might already be fixed. Perhaps Lady Jane had already accepted one of her suitors’ offers. He’d know if Jane’s brother would answer George’s letters. And if Edmund would answer his letters, George would not have to ride out to Whitwood Manor when he needed to be in London with his uncle.
His muscles clenched and Little John, his horse, moved faster, but with an anxious jolt to his steps. George relaxed and patted the side of Little John’s neck. “It’s all right, friend.” The horse relaxed, too.
George tried to keep his thoughts from aggravating subjects for Little John’s sake, but he could not. Jane must marry, and George had sent three acceptable suitors to the Christmas house party. Surely, one of them had so far found success wooing Lady Jane.
She should have married Lord Devon. George had thought Jane smarter than to refuse. He’d also thought her smarter than to run off to begin with.
George looked up at Whitwood Manor as he rode into view. A familiar and welcome sight. He slowed Little John to a trot, then pulled him to a stop, and dismounted almost in one fluid movement. He entered the house like he owned it. Warm hallways, open doors, smiling servants. George nodded and greeted them all.
“Good to see you back, Lord Abbington,” the tall, steel-haired housekeeper said. She bustled in a circle around him, divesting him of his great coat.
He grinned and winked. “Good to be back, Mrs. Bradley. Is Eddy in his study?”
She flushed. “You know he is. I’ll bring a tray of refreshments to you both.”
“My thanks,” he said with a sweeping bow.
Laughter exploded into the cozy hall as a door somewhere opened, then shut, muffling the joyous sound again.
“The party?” George asked.
