Mistletoe Mistress
Nicola Davidson
Contents
About
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Also by Nicola Davidson
About the Author
MISTLETOE MISTRESS is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
MISTLETOE MISTRESS © Nicola Davidson
First Edition: November 2018
Second Edition: April 2019
Edited by: AuthorsDesigns
Cover: Dar Albert at Wicked Smart Designs
About
Banished to the country for wayward behavior, house maid Miss Rachel Lindsay is near-penniless and desperate. A cruel trick left her abandoned at an isolated country inn on a snowy Christmas Eve, and her only hope is a wealthy, stern, and sinfully handsome stranger—masquerading as her husband.
The new and reluctant Marquess of Kyle, Arran Elliott’s journey to London has been halted by a broken carriage. His bid for lodgings is failing—until a mysterious beauty boldly announces they are wed to secure the last remaining room. But when their friendly bargain turns into nights of scorching hot passion and sensual discipline, Arran knows he can’t let the spirited and deliciously curvy Rachel go. His—and her—secrets be damned…
For all the curvy gals – you are sexy af.
Strut!
Chapter 1
The outskirts of London, December 24, 1813.
Yes, she had made mistakes. Yes, she was no doubt a sinner. But surely no one deserved the excruciating punishment of being trapped in an ancient stagecoach with two elderly spinsters, a harassed-looking mother with an irritable toddler, a retired sailor who both snorted and passed wind in his sleep, and the son of a baron who wore an eye-watering combination of puce and jonquil, reeked of lavender, and hadn’t ceased his chatter for the entire journey thus far.
Miss Rachel Lindsay’s gaze darted about within the cramped, cold, and uncomfortable confines of the coach as it shuddered and lurched from side to side on the muddy road north, but unfortunately, her situation remained the same.
Dire.
Not for a moment had she thought this would be how she would be spending her Christmas Eve. She should be warm and safe in the only sanctuary she’d ever known—the Farringdon Orphanage and School—hanging greenery around the windows, dusting the ledges, and mopping the floors. Or attempting to wheedle an orange, marzipan square, or slice of gingerbread from Cook. Instead, she’d been banished from London to take a position as an upper maid at a Cambridge estate. Respectable, yes, but away from anything familiar. Away from the other maids she considered friends. Away from her mother’s gravesite, which she visited every second week to lay a fresh flower upon.
The worst part was, she only had herself to blame for the banishment. Lady Farringdon had been entirely correct when she’d said that Rachel had all the wicked, immodest traits that only the illegitimate daughter of an actress and an unknown peer could possess. She laughed too loudly and disliked somber hymns. She did not walk, she skipped and twirled. Her speech was disgracefully pert and forthright, her lips pouty, and her breasts and hips entirely too ripe. But most sinful of all…the consequences for her wayward behavior, the wooden spoon to her covered bottom, had never dissuaded her. Only left her shockingly damp and throbbing in that forbidden place between her legs, confused and ashamed and yearning for something she couldn’t even name.
That had been her downfall. The first time she’d dared to try and ease the ache by touching herself in bed, she’d been caught by another maid who had run straight to Lady Farringdon to tattle. Passage on this coach had been arranged shortly afterward, lest she infect the other servants with her wantonness.
“Miss! Are you listening?”
Gritting her teeth, Rachel faced Mr. Jonquil, who seemed to take it as a grave affront that she wasn’t transfixed by him or his lengthy lecture on the only kind of saddle one should purchase for a thoroughbred. “I wonder, sir, if you have such fine horseflesh and saddles why it is that you are riding in this stagecoach?”
He glared at her. “You weren’t listening. I knew it. I already explained that I was fleeced of my horse at a gaming table by an unscrupulous cheat. My skill with cards is unparalleled.”
“Naturally.”
“My luck turned worse after that. Can you imagine, my wretched family wouldn’t send me more funds or a carriage! Said a coach ride would be a good lesson. And now I have to spend Christmas with them at the country estate when all my chums are in London.”
“Gracious me,” said Rachel, curling her hands around the worn satchel that carried her meager belongings so she didn’t box his spoilt aristocratic ears.
One of the spinsters gave her a disapproving look, and tapped the well-thumbed Bible she’d been reading to her sister. “Virtuous women do not speak in such a tone…oh my word. The sailor has passed wind again. Handkerchiefs, ladies!”
Rachel tried not to gag as she quickly pressed a square of cheap linen to her nose. One would think that a coach transporting the sisters of a clergyman, complete with scripture, might have gained some stench protection from the Almighty. Not so. Actually, she didn’t know how much more of this she could take. With each mile that took them further away from the capital, the coach seemed to get smaller and smellier; right now it felt the size of a cupboard and as fragrant as a Cheapside alley.
Wait one moment. Were they slowing down?
She peered out the grimy window to see a large inn about a half mile ahead. “Are we stopping here?”
Mr. Jonquil shot her a supercilious look. “My dear. Don’t you know anything about travel? This is
