Hampshire, 1816

Garrick, Lord Westerly, has forbidden the hanging of mistletoe, yet the holiday house party at his country estate sizzles with sensual desire. And though Theodora Southern decided long ago never to marry, she has been enjoying the erotic fantasies that haunt her each night—fantasies featuring her handsome, brooding host….

Since returning from the war, Garrick has been in no mood to celebrate. But suddenly the nightmares that plague him are making way for much more pleasant dreams—dreams in which his childhood friend Theodora is very much a grown woman. The question is, has he fallen in love—or fallen under a wicked spell?

A Festive duet from Barbara Monajem

Wicked Christmas Wishes

Under a New Year’s

Enchantment

Barbara Monajem

www.millsandboon.co.uk

AUTHOR NOTE

When I was a child, our whole family stayed up late on New Year’s Eve, and at the stroke of midnight, we all went onto the front porch and banged pots and pans. While staying up late was in itself a real treat, getting to make a huge racket in the middle of the night was fabulous. I never questioned why. It was fun and therefore good.

It turns out we were driving away evil spirits, whether or not we knew it or believed in such things. I learned this while researching English Christmas customs, and since I enjoyed this event so much as a child, I put it in both stories of my current duet. In Under a Christmas Spell, the evil spirits are driven out of the house on New Year’s Eve, just as in my childhood. In Under a New Year’s Enchantment, the pots and pans (and a volley of gunfire) are part of the custom of wassailing the apple trees on Twelfth Night—giving thanks for the current crop and driving the evil spirits away so the trees will produce well again in the coming year. The tradition of wassailing the apple trees is still alive and well in parts of England today.

Dedication

Many thanks to Kathy Payne for discussing Roman hoards and ruins in Britain with me, and for directing me to websites where I spent a great deal of time puttering happily. What better friend than one who gives one cause to putter?

Contents

Under a New Year's Enchantment

Hampshire, January 1816

Thank God there’s no mistletoe. Theodora Southern swerved to avoid one of the rowdy guests at the New Year’s Eve celebration at Westerly House. She had had enough of the worst Christmas house party ever.

She glanced behind her, but Maynard Buxton, the bane of her existence, was doing his best to coax one of the serving maids into a corner for a kiss without the benefit of mistletoe. Garrick, Lord Westerly, whom she had known since childhood but seen rarely during the war years, had forbidden mistletoe this Christmas, except in the servants’ quarters. At first, Theodora had been dismayed—she’d hoped for a kiss from Garrick. But on the other hand, it meant less of having to be on one’s guard.

Or it should do, but something was most peculiar about this party. There was always some illicit behaviour at house parties, and this one was a fortnight long, making a few affaires unavoidable. But this year Westerly House seemed to sizzle with sensual desire.

Thank heavens the first wassail ritual, in which the villagers made a lot of noise and clamour to rid the great house of evil spirits, was over. The guests, high and low alike, mingled in the great hall. Ladling the wassail—hot, spiced ale—into the cups of the thirsty throng was Theodora’s responsibility, but when her friend Lucille had offered her some respite, Theodora had taken advantage of the opportunity to escape.

She hastened upstairs and down the passageway to her bedchamber. Judging by the grunts and moans from one of the rooms, some guests had already left the great hall and were once again indulging their baser instincts. “One would think this was a bawdy house,” she muttered. She was unwed and therefore a virgin, so she couldn’t risk indulging herself with an affaire. Usually, she didn’t even wish she could. She had a completely satisfying secret life—daydreams in which a handsome lover pleasured her in multiple ways. She had long ago decided she didn’t need a real flesh-and-blood man.

But something about Westerly House this Christmas made her feel as if she did.

Not Maynard Buxton, though.

At the moment, Theodora had better things to think about than lust. She grabbed a cloak from a hook in her bedchamber, slipped downstairs and through a corner of the great hall, and hurried down a deserted corridor. In the gun room, she found and lit a lantern. She pulled the hood of the cloak over her hair and set out through a side door into the cold night.

She crossed the meadow toward the abbey ruins, thankful for the chilly wind, which meant no one would venture outdoors. Ever since she’d learned that Garrick had discovered the remains of a Roman villa under the ruins, she’d been dying to take a look. A proper look, not a glance as one of a gaggle of young ladies whose only interest was in batting their eyelashes at his lordship. She’d thought about asking Garrick for a brief tour, but he’d been in a withdrawn, unfriendly mood since her arrival a week earlier. He’d spent much of his time alone in the ruins and hadn’t even tried to hide his annoyance when Lady Westerly had shepherded the ladies up to gawk at him. Very well, then! Since he had returned from the war a complete curmudgeon, Theodora would visit the ruins by herself.

She made her way through the overgrown sanctuary and across a strip of flagstones to the site of the old refectory. A pit the size of a small bedchamber, but only a few feet deep, yawned near the tumbledown stone walls. A makeshift canopy covered it to keep out the rain. She jumped into the pit and made her way carefully around the picks, shovels and trowels, past the brazier and a couple of chairs to where several pillars had been unearthed.

She squatted, aiming the beam of the lantern. She knew what the pillars were. She’d seen a drawing in one of Papa’s books. They were the remains of a hypocaust, which—

“What the devil are you doing here?” said a voice of pure rage.

Theodora started violently, dropping the lantern. It hit the ground with a clatter. The glass broke and the candle went out, plunging her into darkness. She uttered a mew of distress.

“It serves you right.” It was Lord Westerly speaking, she realized. “I don’t intend to wed you or any of the others, as I trust I’ve made plain by now.”

She stood, disbelieving, staring into the blackness. He thought she’d come out here to trap him!

“Even if I did, this sort of ploy wouldn’t work,” he said. “I won’t be forced into marriage.”

Mortification washed through her. As if she would! Much as she liked Garrick, she wasn’t one of those ninnies his aunts had invited in the hope that he would fall in love with them. She had come, as she did every year, to help out as a sort of secondary hostess. She’d known Garrick Westerly for years. She’d followed him about when she’d been ten years old to his fourteen. She’d been desperately in love with him at fifteen. She’d prayed for him when he was away at war, and she’d looked forward to seeing him again.

He wasn’t the same man. He had returned hard, bitter and frequently rude.

“Let this be a lesson to you, before you ruin all your chances,” Lord Westerly drawled. “Gentlemen use some rather unpleasant words to describe the sort of woman who chases a man. I assure you, nobody wants one of those as his wife.”

Shaking with anger now, Theodora made her way slowly away from his voice and toward the edge of the pit. It was all she could do not to shriek at him. I already did that, remember? I wouldn’t chase you now if you were the last man alive. Theodora’s half boot encountered a trowel. She muffled a curse and bent to pick it up. And I’ll certainly never use you as a daydream lover again.

She hurled the trowel in the direction from which his voice had come. It met something with a clang—fortunately not Garrick’s head, which wasn’t made of metal, although evidently he had returned from the war about as intelligent as a lump of lead.

“You disgust me,” she said. She picked up her skirts and stormed away without another word.

* * *

Garrick Westerly stared into the night. Dora? Damnation, what had he just done?

Her footsteps died away. The chilly breeze flapped the canopy overhead, and in the distance a fox yowled. He should go after her and explain. He set out in pursuit, but as he exited the far side of the ruins, the sound of voices stopped him short.

“Miss Southern?” asked a female in sharp, disapproving tones. “Whatever are you doing outdoors at this time of night?”

“It’s just as I told you, Mother.” That was the vain, redheaded Miss Concord, the most persistent of the female guests at this disaster of a house party. So far she had stalked him in the corridors day and night and even hidden in his bed in the hope of trapping him into marriage. He’d managed to get rid of her each time, but it had been a close-run thing. “She followed Lord Westerly out here. She tried to steal him from me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Theodora said. “I’m not the slightest bit interested in Lord Westerly.”

That stung. Theodora wasn’t one of the too-young ladies assembled to tempt Garrick into marriage, but he’d known her forever. He liked her, and she’d had a tendre for him long ago. The one woman Garrick cared about in the entire household, and look what he’d done. He couldn’t have blundered worse if he’d planned it in meticulous detail, copied it in triplicate and passed it to the most inept of his commanding officers for approval.

“Then why are you out here?” Mrs. Concord demanded.

“To see the remains of the Roman villa,” Theodora said.

He let out a breath. This was just the sort of thing Theodora Southern would do, but if he made his presence known, it would only serve to confirm their absurd suspicions. Best to pretend he’d never been outdoors at all. He wouldn’t have been if his friend Lord Valiant hadn’t spotted a lantern bobbing its way toward the ruins. Garrick didn’t want anyone messing about up here, so he’d followed straightaway.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Concord said. “No respectable woman would venture out alone at night to look at a bunch of mouldy old stones.”

“They’re not stones, but pillars of tile for an under-the-floor heating system,” Theodora said. Garrick had forgotten that she knew something about the Romans, thanks to her scholarly father.

Mrs. Concord made a rude noise. “Surely you don’t expect us to believe that. It’s obvious why you were here.”

“Everyone knows I decided long ago to marry only for love, so your supposition is absurd,” Theodora said. “However, believe what you like. I certainly don’t care what you think of me.”

Miss Concord muttered something which Garrick didn’t catch.

Theodora’s voice came clear and crisp on the night breeze. “You are entitled to your opinion, Miss Concord. Now it’s your turn to listen to mine. Stop angling for Lord Westerly. He is a rude, unpleasant man who has made it clear that he doesn’t wish to marry you or any of the others. If you ruin your reputation trying to catch him, you will suffer the consequences. He simply doesn’t care.”

That this was true didn’t make it any more palatable from the lips of Dora Southern, who had once been his friend.

* * *

Theodora felt the repercussions of her unwise comment almost immediately after returning to the great hall. Mrs. and Miss Concord had arrived a little earlier and set the gossip in motion. Several heads turned to stare at her. Someone pointed at her gown. When Theodora glanced down, she saw to her dismay that she had acquired a sizeable mud stain, no doubt when she’d fumbled her way out of the pit. One young woman giggled behind her fan. Maynard Buxton leered, but since he always did so, that was no surprise.

Her heart was thumping unhappily by the time she reached the wassail bowl, where Lucille Beaulieu ladled spiced ale to a queue of amorous villagers. Something about Lucille made men clamour for her, and it wasn’t merely her exotic appearance and violet eyes. Lucille fended them off with aplomb; she didn’t seem to mind being leered at.

Theodora minded very much and noticed to her alarm that Maynard Buxton wasn’t the only one doing it. The notorious Lord Valiant Oakenhurst, who had spent the war as a spy and assassin, was the only man with kindly rather than curious eyes. No doubt he sympathized, because although the women sighed over his sensual beauty, most of the gentlemen avoided him.

“What are they saying about me?” Theodora whispered in French.

Lucille shrugged in her typically languid way, and the queue of wassailers breathed a collective sigh. “There are two stories going about. Which would you like to hear, the bad or the worse?”

“Don’t tease me, Lucille. What are they saying?”

“That you tupped Lord Westerly in the ruins. That was Miss Concord’s story.”

Theodora felt herself go as red as the holly berries on the table decoration.

“You are now a scarlet woman, both literally and figuratively,” Lucille said with a little chuckle.

“It’s not funny,” Theodora said, as a visitor who had been the soul of politeness in the past glanced knowingly down the bodice of her gown.

Lucille smiled at the man, whose attention fixed immediately on her instead. “Miss Concord is a fool. Does she not realize that if Lord Westerly had really taken your virginity, he would feel obliged to marry you? Her mother shushed her, saying that your only folly was setting your cap at a man who doesn’t want you. She said that when you went to the ruins, he spurned you immediately.”

Theodora groaned. Either way, the consequences were likely to be unpleasant, but she would almost rather be seen as a wanton than a desperate spinster. She had inherited a small fortune from her godmother and therefore didn’t need to wed. After a brief engagement, forced upon her by family members and terminated when her betrothed died in a hunting accident, she had decided to marry only if she fell in love. Her family had accepted this decision, but most others, such as Mrs. Concord, refused to take her seriously. To them, marrying only for love made no sense at all.

“What do you care what these obnoxious Concord people think of you?” Lucille said.

“I don’t, but I shouldn’t have said so when they accused me of setting my cap at Lord Westerly. A mistake, but I was already overset, and my tongue took over for my common sense.”

“You were upset? Why?”

“Because when Lord Westerly found me at the ruins, he did accuse me of trying to trap him into marriage.”

“With so many women wishing to marry him, what else is he to think?”

“He should know me better than that! He used to be my friend, but it never even crossed his mind that I might be there for scholarly reasons. It is so mortifying.”

Lucille gave a very Gallic shrug. “What he thinks of you is his problem, not yours. Why let it disturb you?”

Theodora’s face heated again. “Because once upon a time it was true.” At Lucille’s inquiring look, she added, “I fell madly in love with him at fifteen—almost sixteen. He was twenty and about to go off to war. I asked him to marry me before he left, and—”

“You asked him to marry you?”

Theodora nodded shamefacedly. She swallowed her embarrassment. It was ridiculous to mind so much after more than ten years.

“How delightfully forward of you,” Lucille said.

* * *

Garrick made his way through the throng of villagers, tossing a few jests this way and that, bidding them good-night one by one. He would be more cordial from now on if it killed him.

If rage could kill, it might well do so. Since his return from the war, he’d found himself infuriated at everyone—at their smug indifference to anything but their petty concerns. At their utter lack of gratitude for the sacrifices made by thousands of soldiers. At their unwillingness to lend even a helping fingertip to those who had survived.

Theodora wasn’t like the others. He must apologize to her and would do so when the opportunity arose, but for the moment her indictment of him rang in his head like a death knell: rude, unpleasant, doesn’t care.

He had returned to Westerly three months after the battle of Waterloo, weary and sick at heart, to take up his inheritance. Instead of the peace and quiet he’d longed for, he’d been plagued by a recurring nightmare and his aunt, Lady Westerly, with her plans for the rest of his life.

She had advised him ceaselessly on how to run the estate. She had planned a Christmas house party against not only his wishes but his express orders. She had invited several eligible young ladies, even though he didn’t intend to marry anytime soon, if ever. She’d had the servants put up an ungodly amount of mistletoe in the hope that he would sample the kisses of all the prospective brides.

Strangely enough, he’d remained patient through all the nagging and unwanted advice. He’d even put up with her flagrant disregard for his wishes, but the mistletoe was the last straw.

To hell with civilized behavior, which several years of horrors had taught him was merely a facade. If war had rendered him unfit for polite society, so be it. He ordered all the mistletoe taken down, and when the notorious Lord Valiant Oakenhurst arrived unexpectedly, he asked him to stay. If his aunt’s guests didn’t like Oakenhurst, they were welcome to leave, and some had done so. If the young women compromised themselves trying to trap Garrick, they would indeed suffer the consequences, just as Theodora had said.

Now that he’d made his point and his aunt had learned her lesson, he must strive to reacquire a civilized front, but how? He seemed to have utterly forsaken the tenets of his upbringing. One needn’t be rude to get across a point, but he didn’t seem capable of anything else. The mere thought of pretending to be as asinine as his guests aroused his simmering rage.

And yet, good friends were rare; he’d already lost too many to war, and he couldn’t afford to lose Dora, as well.

* * *

“More women should do the asking,” Lucille said.

Theodora stared. She spoke French quite well, but surely she had misunderstood. “I beg your pardon?”

“The prevailing method is so inefficient, with women obliged to wait and hint and wait some more until men get up their courage.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Theodora said. “Any man you asked would jump at the chance.”

Lucille snorted. “Most of them want to bed me, not wed me.” She ladled wassail for another amorous guest. “I gather he declined.”

“Yes, very kindly, but it was mortifying all the same. I did it out of desperation, because I was so afraid he would be killed. I wanted to be...to be truly his before he went away.” She sighed, as the memory of that grief whispered through her. “I accepted his refusal and said farewell with a good grace.” She’d cried her heart out afterward, alone in her bed.

“You were very young,” Lucille said. “Even if he had agreed, your parents would most likely have refused permission.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Theodora glared as Garrick threw his head back and laughed at some villager’s jest. How dare he be so carefree after dealing her such an insult? “In any event, it’s ancient history now.” In which case, why was she so irate? “I’ve scarcely spoken to him all week because he’s been in such a forbidding mood. He should have known I wasn’t angling for him.”

Smiling at a besotted villager, Lucille ladled more spiced ale.

Theodora gritted her teeth. “He makes me so angry that—that I would like to kill him.”

Lucille tutted. “No, you would like to bed him.”

“What?” Theodora squeaked, thankful no one understood them. “I certainly would not!” Sometimes she found Lucille’s conversation a little too scandalous. She didn’t know the Frenchwoman well—wasn’t sure she’d ever met her in London—but they had friends in common, and when Lucille’s coach had broken an axle in front of the vicarage, Theodora’s parents had taken her in. Since the axle would take more than a week to fix, Lucille had asked if she might attend the Westerly house party.

Theodora had agreed, thinking Lucille, who had a worldly air, would be an entertaining companion. Worldly was an understatement. Lucille wasn’t the least bit discomposed by the sensual atmosphere and seemed to expect Theodora—a respectable spinster—to feel the same.

The Frenchwoman rolled her eyes. “You cannot fool me. I have seen the way you look at him.”

Perhaps Theodora had looked at Garrick with lustful appreciation the first few days of the party. Why wouldn’t she? He still had the dark golden hair and masterful chin of his youth. Once she had recovered from her girlish attachment to him, she’d used him as a daydream lover from time to time.

“As if I would like to strangle him?” she retorted.

“As if you have suffered a severe disappointment,” Lucille said.

Theodora couldn’t deny that. “Of course I am disappointed. I have known Lord Westerly since he was a boy. He was... He has changed greatly.”

“What did you expect? He spent years at war. He risked his life, he killed others and he saw savagery and devastation such as you cannot imagine.”

Something in her voice told Theodora that Lucille wasn’t speaking only of Garrick. “You were on the Continent during the war, were you not?”

Lucille nodded.

“You have seen some of the same horrors.”

Lucille squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again.

“Yet you are polite and charming,” Theodora said. “Lord Westerly has been consistently unpleasant since we arrived.”

“War affects each person differently,” Lucille said. “I try to forget. Lord Westerly is determined not to.”

“Yes, but must he shove his opinions down everyone’s throats?” She agreed with most of those opinions—such as the need to employ former soldiers—but not his method of delivering them.

“Perhaps he hopes to shock people out of their stolid Englishness,” Lucille said.

Theodora certainly understood that. Over the past few years, she had become more and more frustrated with stolidity. With people’s refusal to believe anything but what they already understood. With rules and standards of behaviour, which were like fences and hedges one could see over, but through which one must never pass, particularly if one remained unwed. “Perhaps I have misjudged him, but that doesn’t mean I want to...”

“You cannot fool me, chérie. You want it so badly you cannot even say it.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want. I’m a respectable virgin.”

Lucille indicated the hostile eyes of the ladies and the lustful ones of the men. “Not anymore,” she said.

* * *

“Forget about apologizing,” Lord Valiant Oakenhurst said. He and Garrick were sharing brandy and a quiet moment in the library now that the villagers had gone and the guests had retired. “Take Miss Southern to bed.”

This was typical of Valiant, who was what the espionage world called an incubus—a man with unusual powers of seduction and the ability to send erotic dreams. When Garrick had first become embroiled in espionage, he’d thought this ability pure fantasy, but eventually he’d been forced to accept it as the simple truth. It was a useful quality in spies, but in a friend it could become tiresome. For every problem, Valiant suggested a sensual solution.

“Be reasonable, Val. Miss Southern is an innocent.”

“All the more reason to seduce her. Like every unmarried lady, she’s a volcano of unsatisfied desires, hot and smoking and ready to erupt.”

“That’s no way to speak of a virtuous woman,” Garrick said, but he couldn’t suppress a grin at the image Val’s words had conjured up. “In any event, it’s absurd. Theodora is...”

“Very pretty,” Val said.

“Calm, capable and a spinster by choice,” retorted Garrick.

“She has a mighty trim figure,” Val contributed.

Including a particularly attractive bosom, but Garrick’s appreciation of it had nothing to do with Theodora’s hypothetical desires. “Many women have good figures. If I’ve noticed hers, it’s your fault for stirring up the entire household—you and that damned succubus.”

“That’s no way to speak of Lucie,” Val said, suddenly not the least bit amused. “She can’t help what she is.” Lucille Beaulieu, like Val, had been a spy for years. With the two of them in the same house, extraordinarily sensual by nature and most likely sending dreams about like shuttlecocks, it was no wonder the party had become so erotically charged.

“I don’t suppose she means any harm, and nor do you, but this party is beginning to resemble an orgy,” Garrick said. “Maynard Buxton is chasing—and frequently catching—everything in skirts, and if I’m not mistaken, even my aunt is indulging herself.”

Val laughed. “Yes, with Mr. Wedgewood, the only available widower.”

“It’s unlike her—she’s one of the starchiest women I know—and it’s all your fault,” Garrick said. “If you’ve been sending dreams to Theodora, stop it.”

Val grinned. “Only the first night I was here.” Lord Valiant had come to Westerly on a bizarre mission for the Office of the British Incubi—to arouse Theodora’s interest in sensuality in order to encourage her to marry. Evidently, one of Theodora’s relatives had influence with the incubi and wanted her wed before she became a confirmed old maid. It was damned officious, in Garrick’s opinion.

“Since then, Lucie and I have been sparring with dreams,” Val said. “Or rather, I’ve been sparring openly and she’s been pretending not to. But it’s not like shooting or archery, old fellow. One conjures up erotic images and aims them at the intended recipient, but thoughts don’t necessarily go straight to their destination and stop there. They tend to diffuse and affect everyone.”

Garrick had seen this effect during the war—it definitely had its uses—but he didn’t want it here in his house. “I’ve no interest in women at the moment, so it’s a bloody nuisance.”

“Tsk,” Val said. “A woman is just what you need.” Trust Val to exit on a typical parting shot. “I’m off to a warm bed. Enjoy your cold one.”

* * *

Very well, I do want it, Theodora admitted to herself a few hours later as she lay in bed. If people were going to call her a loose woman when it wasn’t true, why maintain her very proper, very boring innocence? Sometimes she became so frustrated she felt she would burst. She longed to escape the tedium of many aspects of her life, but there was no place to go. However...why not find a lover and have an affaire?

Not Garrick, though. Perhaps Lucille was right and the war had affected him badly, but Theodora would never forget how horridly he had treated her tonight. She would have to find another candidate. She considered the other males at the party and dismissed them with a shudder. She ran through a list of attractive men she’d met in London—even a particularly brawny coal-heaver, unfortunately impossible—but her mind kept returning to Garrick. She fell asleep thinking of him.

She woke sweating and aroused, touching herself. She’d been dreaming of Garrick. His hot, sensual eyes devoured her through the thin fabric of her nightdress. Her nipples were hard against the fabric. More than that, they were visible, and he smiled and brushed them with his hand.

Her heart thudded with the power of the dream. This was nothing like the daydreams she’d had of Garrick or other men. Her imagination had never—could never conjure up anything so—so overwhelming. So intoxicating. So very real.

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