The Mischief of the Mistletoe: A Pink Carnation Christmas by Lauren Willig

He had courted her so assiduously for a time, discovering her interests, praising her prose, pressing her hand just a little too long in greeting. She had wanted—oh, something. Some sort of reparation or revenge. Some sort of acknowledgment.
    â€œIt’s no matter,” she said, with a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “I’ll be with my aunt at Girdings for Christmas.”
    Arabella’s domestic plans didn’t interest the Vaughns. Lifting his quizzing glass, Vaughn let it trail across the shifting groups of people.
    â€œHere comes our favorite vegetable,” Vaughn commented languidly. “Looking rather pleased with himself. He must have outwitted a rutabaga.”
    Looking around, Arabella saw Mr. Fitzhugh striding towards them across the winter-wilted grass, his puce coat a splash of color against the time-weathered walls of the old castle. He had removed his high-crowned hat, leaving it to swing from one hand.
    â€œIs he still dangling after the Deveraux girl?” Lady Vaughn asked her husband in an intimate tone that pointedly cut the others out of the conversation.
    Arabella knew Penelope Deveraux. More accurately, she knew of her. It was hard not to know about Penelope Deveraux: She created an eddy of excitement around her wherever she went, a hiss hiss hiss of whisper and gossip and speculation that preceded her like the rumble of thunder before lightning.
    Like Arabella, Miss Deveraux was tall, but there any resemblance ended. Rather than a dusty blond, Miss Deveraux’s hair was a flaming red—true red, no nonsense about red-blond or auburn. Her dresses skirted the edge of impropriety, cut low enough to make a matron blanch, transparent enough to set men hoping and gossips whispering.
    In short, she was everything Arabella wasn’t. Daring. Bold. Memorable.
    Mr. Fitzhugh might have escorted Arabella to the frost fair, but no one would ever believe he had designs on her. Not when there were women like Penelope Deveraux to be had.
    He was smiling as he made his way towards them, a smile that lit his face with its own inner radiance. He was, thought Arabella, one of nature’s golden children, all light and no dark, happy just to be happy.
    He and Miss Deveraux would make an exceptionally striking couple.
    Lord Vaughn shrugged. “I make it a point never to interest myself in nursery brangles. Ah, Fitzhugh! We were just talking about you.”
    â€œDid you save some pie for me?” Mr. Fitzhugh enquired genially, with a grin at Arabella that made her want to hit him, without quite knowing why.
    â€œWe haven’t explored the pie yet,” said Arabella repressively. “I believe it’s on the other side of the keep.”
    Undaunted, Mr. Fitzhugh held out a hand. “Care to join me for the quest, Miss Dempsey? Shouldn’t like to tackle that pie alone.”
    Arabella set her silver mug down on the silver tray, where it made a distinctly unmusical clanking sound. Discordant. She was discordant, the odd note out in an otherwise coherent symphony.
    â€œWhy not,” she said. Best to get it over with.
    â€œSplendid,” exclaimed Mr. Fitzhugh, and all but dragged her across the clearing, bursting to share his news.
    â€œThat was well played in there,” he said under his breath. “Deuced cleverly done, getting the chevalier out. What kind of pie do you think this is? ” he bellowed suddenly.
    Arabella rubbed her ears. That had been rather loud.
    â€œ Squab, I think ,” she bellowed back. When in Rome. She lowered her voice, “Did you find the pudding?”
    Mr. Fitzhugh tipped his hat to reveal a fleeting glimpse of white muslin and red ribbons. “All right and tight and accounted for. Took another look at those ribbons. That’s what took me so long.”
    He sawed energetically at a venison pie with a silver serving knife. Arabella couldn’t remember the last time she had seen so much silver in one