Mistletoe and Mischief by Patricia Wynn

hanging holly and bay turned the common parlour into a wooded bower. The scent of fir perfumed the air, mingling with the smoke of the fire.
    When the windows and doors were all finished, Louisa sat by the fire and got to work fashioning a “kissing bough” for the ceiling. Charles stood beside her, silently staring at the crown of green in her hands.
    She had fashioned a circle, and now she was adding to it the things Mrs. Spadger had donated: rosettes and ribbons in long streamers from which to suspend gifts; red apples for more colour; and candles, which would be lighted on Christmas Day. A sprig of mistletoe lay off to one side, the last to be attached.
    “I haven't done anything like this since I was a boy and got in the servants' way at Wroxton Hall,” Charles said, almost to himself.
    Louisa turned her full attention on him. “Is that where you spend Christmas?”
    “No. It's been years since I went home for Christmas.” The intense look from her blue eyes made him shift. “My mother does not care for such flummery.”
    “It is not flummery!” Louisa asserted. Then she said with a twinkle, “But even if it is, I enjoy it.  Confess now, you have been amused, have you not?”
    Charles grinned in acknowledgement. The truth was he had even caught himself humming a time or two, tunes he thought he had long ago forgotten.
    He hesitated, but something prompted him to admit, “But I seldom enjoy Christmas.”
    “And why is that?”
    He wished he had not begun, but since he had, he had to answer. “London seems deserted. Whitehall empties, as if there were no war on. Just a few of us stay on until the season's over, with nothing to do. No work can be accomplished.”
    “Then you ought to go home.”
    Charles grimaced. “I doubt that would change my feelings for the holiday.”
    Louisa had the sensitivity not to probe any further. She said instead, “I must confess there are times, when the general is crabby and my aunt seems listless, that I find my own spirits flagging. But I refuse to let them. I double my efforts and can usually think of enough ... flummery, if you will, that I can coax at least one chuckle from the general.”
    Charles laughed. “I imagine you do. You have certainly coaxed more than one from me.”
    Louisa coloured and looked away. He was surprised to see how strongly his words had affected her. A pulse began to race in his throat.
    Louisa recovered and said pertly, “But you are not half so crabby as the general!” She rose quickly to her feet and picked up the bough. “Will you hand me upon the stool, please?”
    Her arms were both taken with the “kissing bough.”
    Charles took her elbow and put one hand upon her waist to help her up. He kept it there to steady her while she reached for the ceiling and fumbled with the heavy bough. With every passing moment he became more and more conscious of her waist beneath his hands....
    All at once, Louisa seemed to wobble. Her fingers struggled with the rope she had fixed to attach the bough. A warm blush suffused her face and breast. She cast a look at Charles from beneath her lashes.
    “I believe this ceiling is too high for me,” she said breathlessly. “Perhaps you would be willing to affix it?”
    Charles swallowed hard and took a step backwards, releasing her carefully. “Certainly,” he said.
    He put out a hand to help her, and Louisa climbed down. Without meeting her gaze, Charles took the bough from her and stepped up to reach the beam.
    In a minute, he had fastened it securely. He jumped down again, careful not to land beneath the mistletoe.
    Hanging a “kissing bough” was certainly a common enough custom, though under the circumstances he found himself questioning Louisa’s wisdom in hanging one. While they ate dinner tonight, it would be just there, hovering between them. A less honourable man might take its presence for an invitation.
    But, Charles thought with a grimace, if it were not for Ned and his scheme to plant