Page 37 of The Rose and the Earl

Duncan thought of Alexandria, and his jaw hardened. “My wife does not care for such frivolities. If you’ll excuse me–”

“Frivolities?” the elderly woman scoffed. “Mistletoe isn’t afrivolity.”

“It’s a plant with berries on it that merchants tie a ribbon around and sell for two pennies a piece that will be thrown out at the end of the month,” he said flatly. “That’s the very definition of frivolous.”

“Ah, but my mistletoe is free.” Undeterred by his scowl (a scowl that had sent even grown men scrambling for cover), the old woman dared to tuck the sprig of holiday cheer into his greatcoat pocket. “Hang it in a doorway and give your wife a kiss.”

“If I take this, will you go away?” he said through gritted teeth.

She bobbed her head; a teacup rattling around in a saucer that was one size too big. “Surely it would be my pleasure, sir.”

Before Duncan had time to wonder if she’d insulted him on purpose, she toddled back from whence she’d came and with a short, impatient jerk of his arm he gestured for Johnson to follow him across the street before the old woman got it in her birdbrain of a head to come back.

She wanted him to give Alexandria a kiss, did she?

He might as well have puckered up to a clump of snow.

“Take this,” he ordered, thrusting the flat parcel he’d been carrying under his arm at his valet. “See it safely to the carriage, then have the driver bring the horses round to the Red Stag in an hour. I need a bloody drink.”

Johnson complied readily, and Duncan set off through the crowded streets by himself. He’d not gone more than ten strides before he plucked the mistletoe out of his pocket, threw it on the ground, and walked away without a backwards glance.

Several yards away, on the other side of the street, the elderly woman was joined by an elderly man. He was short but robust, with a big belly, and a pipe sticking out of the corner of his mouth, and blue eyes that twinkled brighter than they should have. Removing the pipe, he blew a circle of smoke, then gave his white beard a thoughtful stroke.

“This one’s going to be difficult,” he said.

The elderly woman–his wife–nodded in agreement. “Those type always are. Stubborn as a donkey being asked to cross a puddle of water. Have you spoken to the countess?”

“Not yet. She’s considering leaving him.”

“Right before Christmas?” The woman clucked her tongue in disapproval. “Now that’s a shame, but I cannot say that it’s a surprise. Do you think there’s any hope?”

The man wrapped his arm around his wife, and gave a chuckle that shook his entire belly. “There’s always hope, my dear. You know that.”

“He threw my mistletoe away,” she sighed. “This is going to take a miracle.”

“Then it’s a good thing we know where to find one.”

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