A Cinderella Christmas

The Mistletoe Maiden

Once arrogant and aloof, Lord Noel Davenport is determined to help childhood friend Eve Archer restore her family’s fortune. Queen Charlotte’s upcoming charity Christmas embroidery contest is the perfect place for Eve to display her skills and gain opportunities. But though Noel has chosen a wife, by midnight it’s clear that guarding his heart is impossible when desire proves an irresistible gift . . .

Eve Archer ventured a glance at the brother of her late friend Natalie to find him watching her with an odd concentration. “You don’t have to stay with me, Lord Cokesbury. I’m fine.”

When she followed that statement with a couple of deep coughs, he frowned. “Clearly, you’re not fine. You’re coughing again.”

“You can’t help me with that.” She narrowed her gaze on him. “And you seem inordinately interested in my cough.”

Alarm lit his face. “Not interested. Worried. That is—”

“I have asthma. The fumes from the dyeworks aggravate it.”

“Asthma!” Relief filled his voice. “Of course. Thank God.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Not thank God that you have it,” he said hastily. “I mean, thank God that you … I thought it was … feared it was … well …” He looked rather adorably flustered. “Consumption was what Natalie died of.”

“Oh! I-I’m so sorry to hear that. Fortunately, I don’t have consumption. The doctor assured Maman of that.”

“Good, because it’s a dreadful way to die.”

“So I’ve heard,” she said softly.

He must have detected the pity in her voice, because he drew himself up and swiftly changed the subject. “This design of yours is astonishing.” He gestured to her embroidery pattern drawn on the dyeworks wall. “That’s Father Christmas, right, in the circle of holly?”

“I’m surprised you can tell it’s holly,” she said ruefully, coughing a little. “I can’t seem to get the shape right. I’m doing it from memory, and it’s been so long since I saw any that I can’t remember how it actually grows. But, yes, that is Father Christmas.”

“You ought to surround him with chubby-cheeked little urchins. Your brother would be the perfect model.”

“Only if the urchins are picking Father Christmas’s pockets,” she said dryly. “And I mustn’t encourage such behavior during the holiday. Especially in my brother.”

“Duly noted,” he said, though his eyes twinkled.

She’d never seen his eyes twinkle. It stirred something warm in her blood.

“What colors do you mean to use?” he asked, looking genuinely interested.

“Father Christmas will be in green and brown, but I can’t decide whether to use white thread to indicate snow on the ground or just leave the background all white from the fabric.”

“I vote for snow,” he said. “Nothing demonstrates Christmas like fluffy-looking snow. And holly, of course.”

“If I can get it right.”

“It looks perfect to me already, although you do need some holly berries in red.”

She nodded. “I was already intending to add the berries once I was done with the leaves. I’ve been putting off finishing everything because it’s been so cold, but now I have no choice. The embroidery design is for a gown Maman completed sewing days ago. I’ve nearly finished embroidering the Father Christmas figure, so I must start on the holly soon. Maman is sewing dancing slippers to go with it, and then I’ll have to repeat the design on those.”

“Can you fit Father Christmas on dancing slippers?”

“I can. As long as he is quite small.”

“That would require very small needles and fine needlework, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes.” She arched an eyebrow. “Do you doubt I can do it?”

“I wouldn’t dare.” He grinned at her. “I fear you’d stab me with one of your needles if I did.”

“And don’t you forget it, sir,” she warned, trying to look serious and failing. She coughed a few times. “Maman’s most important customer, Mrs. Beckford, is attending a Christmas Day affair at a friend’s house, so that’s what the gown and the slippers are for. Fortunately, the dyeworks next door is spewing lots of steam today and keeping the alley moderately warm, which is why I was hoping to get work done outside.”

“Even if it makes you cough.”

She nodded.

“Also, it isn’t ‘moderately warm’ out here. It’s freezing.”

“It’s not so bad,” she lied. “Not with plenty of warm clothes on.”

He lifted an eyebrow but didn’t remark on that. Instead, he returned his gaze to her design. “I take it your stepmother supports you three with her sewing? And you do the same with your embroidery?”

“Yes.” She shrugged. “I would embroider things regardless since I enjoy the art, but why not earn money for it?”

He seemed to be pondering something. “I’d love to see some finished examples of your needlework.”

She couldn’t help laughing, especially after all the questions he’d asked regarding her design. “The Viscount Cokesbury has an interest in embroidery. How droll.”

“Please don’t stand on ceremony with me,” he said, his beautiful eyes gleaming as he walked up to her. “Call me Noel, as you and Natalie did when you were girls. After all, you and I are old friends, aren’t we?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Are we? You never wished to see my embroidery when I was thirteen.”

“I never wished to kiss you then, either,” he said bluntly, “but things change.”

A delicious shiver swept over her when he tipped up her chin with one finger and pressed his lips to hers.

Her heart pounded in her chest from the sheer surprise of it. It wasn’t like any kiss she’d ever experienced. Lips supple as kid leather caressed hers as he slid a surprisingly powerful arm about her waist to pull her close. Everything about it intoxicated her—the feel of his hard body against her, the taste of coffee on his breath, and the smell of spicy cologne that clung to him and settled into her, a familiar scent after she’d smelled it on his coat yesterday.

Then he slanted his mouth over hers, coaxing it open so he could plunge his tongue inside. Her heart thundered in her chest. Such wild heat spread from where their mouths were joined to where he was holding her that she thought she might burst into flames. He tangled his tongue with hers over and over, rousing an unfamiliar hunger in places that had never felt hunger before, prompting her to throw her arms about his neck.

Groaning low in his throat, he kissed her more fiercely, as if he couldn’t get enough. Or perhaps it was she who couldn’t get enough … of the sensual strokes of his tongue and the feel of his soft curls beneath her fingertips.

He broke the kiss only to scatter a succession of kisses down her chin to her throat, making her gasp at the thrill and yearn for more. His hat fell off, as if tempting her to thread her fingers through his gorgeous hair, so she did. He pressed a warm line of kisses along her neck and up to her ear.

Heavens. What lovely kisses he gave!

Suddenly, a sharp noise sounded in the street nearby, jerking them both back to their surroundings.

She was the first to pull away, to draw her coat about her and avoid his gaze, embarrassed that she’d behaved like a veritable wanton with him. Thank God no one was likely to notice them in the alley, especially since the dyeworks windows were high up, but still … This was very public.

He dropped his hands, then bent to pick up his hat and knock it against his thigh before placing it back on his head.

For a moment, the only sounds in the alley were of the steam from the dyeworks and their heavy breaths.

At last he cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Miss Archer. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you.”

Such a gentlemanly thing to say after he’d just been kissing her with such abandon. It rather amused her. “If I am to call you Noel,” she said with a teasing smile, “the least you can do is call me Eve. And you didn’t take advantage, I assure you.”

He gazed at her steadily. “Didn’t I?”

“No.” To be honest, she couldn’t remember the last time a man had kissed her. Father had been so strict that he’d rarely let any of the détenus in the Verdun detainee camp near her. And it wasn’t as if she could find the right sort of man here in Holborn. They were all mostly married, or shopkeepers who looked down on her family for their meager existence.

But the few times she’d been kissed in Verdun had been nothing like this. She fancied she could still feel Noel’s mouth against hers, and she slid her tongue along her lips to see if she could still taste him there.

For a moment, he followed the sweep of her tongue with a hungry gaze, and his eyes seemed to heat. Then, as if willing himself to ignore whatever he felt, he shuddered, and an impenetrable veil dropped over his features. “All the same,” he said regretfully, “it must not happen again.”

His words both startled her and told her only too well what he thought of her. She ignored the tears stinging her eyes. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry over it. “I agree—it must not,” she said, when what she really wanted to do was ask why it mustn’t happen again.

Unfortunately, she knew the answer. He was a viscount, and she a poor nobody now, the daughter of a détenu baron whose will apparently hadn’t even provided for her and her family. She ought to have realized she was far beneath his notice, only worthy of a dalliance. Clearly, he was too much of a gentleman even for that.

Except when he was kissing her.