It Happened Under the Mistletoe: A Holiday Novella by Valerie Bowman

voice. Cerian could barely stand to look at either of them but a quick glance in Oliver’s direction at least gave her the comfort that he looked nearly as annoyed by Lady Selina as she was. He did not, however, pull his arm from her grasp, Cerian noted with a bit of ire simmering in her chest.
    Where was Mama? It was high time they left this place. The entire week had been a waste as far as Cerian was concerned and even Mama would be able to see reason and realize she wasn’t on the verge of getting an offer. Why, after the snippy words she’d exchanged with Lord Esterbrooke and Sir Gilliam as soon as she’d returned to the ballroom earlier, those two suitors were keeping their distance. Cerian felt nothing but relief. Very well, and a bit of guilt.
    And now, whatever asinine game Lady S was up to, Cerian could be certain it would involve something idiotic and unappealing. Cerian didn’t care what Mama said this time. The woman could be lying across the staircase demanding she return and Cerian would pick up her skirts and step over her. Even Mama wouldn’t be so crass as to make a scene on Viscount Medford’s main staircase. Would she?
    “It’s time for the final game,” Lady S said. The look on Oliver’s face remained a mask of stone but Cerian barely glanced over her shoulder as she made her way toward the door. Slinking along as unobtrusively as she could so no one would notice her flight. No. No. She’d just slip away. Quietly. No fuss. No scene.
    “Each gentleman shall be given a bough of mistletoe and he shall have to present it to the lady most worthy, the lady he has most enjoyed spending time with, the lady he might choose to spend time with in the future.” She gave Oliver a sidewise look.
    A cacophony of nervous giggles and twitters made their way around the perimeter of the drawing room and Cerian rolled her eyes. Why exactly was Lady Selina so enamored of mistletoe? Why, if she didn’t know better, Cerian would think her family owned a share in a mistletoe farm. But she wasn’t about to stay and listen to some ninny-hammered mistletoe acceptance speeches from a bunch of ladies she hoped to never see again.
    Lady Selina clapped her hands. “The Duke of Markingham shall go first! Won’t you please, your grace?”
    Cerian closed her eyes. Five simple steps. She was only five simple steps away from the door. She’d nearly made it, by God. But the moment she heard that Oliver was going to go first, she became rooted to the thick Indian rug. She’d expected Lady Selina to save him for last, draw out her own anticipation more, no doubt. Though it stood to reason. No doubt Lady Selina was ensuring that Oliver would pick her first and spare her any potential awkwardness should another potential swain present her with a bough.
    It made Cerian’s stomach turn. Not enough, however, to cause her leave the room. Instead she turned on her heel. Refuse the bough , Oliver , she mentally begged him. Surely, he would do the right thing and decline to be a part of this idiocy.
    Instead she watched with wide eyes as Oliver took the first bough from Lady Selina’s only-too-eager hands.
    Lady Selina had demurely stepped back into the crowd and was smiling prettily, her eyes downcast as if she didn’t fully expect Oliver to turn and present her with the bough.
    “There is a young lady,” Oliver began, “to whom I would like to present this mistletoe.”
    Cerian ground her teeth. She detested herself for not having left the room and now she had only herself to blame while she was forced to watch Oliver give the mistletoe to Lady Selina or someone equally insipid. “I’m no longer interested in pretending either,” he’d said. The words ripped through her heart again as if he’d just uttered them.
    She glared at her slippers. Wondering if she could back out of the room without looking up and having to see the spectacle with her own eyes. Could she successfully navigate herself backwards toward the door and