The Mistletoe Kiss Read online

  “Thank you so much,” he said, wrapping the books and handing the gentleman his change. “So sorry.”

  The commotion seemed to settle, and Mrs. Anderton came back in and wandered around the shop chatting to people amiably and everything gradually calmed. Some left, but many of them came and paid for their purchases, sympathy in their eyes.

  Christy’s heart was hammering so hard his head hurt. What March had said could ruin Mr. Fenton in a heartbeat. If the people in the shop believed him, if they spread the rumour, he would be ruined. Utterly.

  Christy handed over more change. “Please pay him no heed. He was drunk and saying ridiculous things.”

  Mrs. Anderton came to the counter. “Give Mr. Fenton my very best regards and good wishes for the season,” she said in a loud voice. “As if anyone would believe such arrant nonsense.” She huffed and straightened her bonnet. Christy wanted to kiss her. “His wife was a wonderful woman and any fool could see how much in love they were.”

  There was a rumble of agreement from a few of the customers.

  “Thank you,” he mouthed, and he was sure she winked at him before returning to her seat by the fire.

  It took a little while to deal with the purchases, and of course new customers kept coming in who hadn’t witnessed the altercation, and eventually some who had heard about it and came for a look. Christy was run off his feet. He nipped to the back room to put the kettle back on for more tea and coffee, but Mr. Fenton wasn’t there. Christy felt panicked. He stood at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Mr. Fenton? Mr. Fenton? Are you up there?”

  Nothing. Christy went back to the shop and dealt with the customers between trying to make tea.

  When the doorbell tinkled and his mother came in he wanted to hug her.

  “Mama!”

  She smiled at him. “I thought I would take you up on your offer.” She was dressed in her Sunday best and was the most welcome sight.

  “Oh, Mama, could you help me?”

  “Of course, what would you like me to do?”

  Christy took advantage of a small lull to quickly explain what had happened. Her face was red with embarrassment by the time he finished.

  “If you could make more tea and biscuits whilst I serve the customers, I would be so grateful.”

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Mrs. Anderton said, smiling up at him. Christy made the introductions and watched as the two women shook hands.

  “My mother is going to help with the biscuits. I ran out.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say?” Mrs. Anderton said, getting to her feet. “I can help with that. Come, Mrs. Shaw. Let us go to the rescue!” She headed for the back room and as Christy shared a startled look with his mother, she looked back over her shoulder.

  “Come on!”

  Christy’s mother shook her head, bemused, and followed, taking off her hat and coat as she went.

  Twenty minutes later, she was handing out tea and biscuits to people whilst Mrs. Anderton mixed more dough, and Christy dealt with the sales. He wrote them as neatly as he could in Mr. Fenton’s ledger, whilst his mother bustled about, chatting to customers. Side by side they worked to make sure that the afternoon was a success.

  As the afternoon wore on, Christy became more and more convinced that Mr. Fenton wasn’t ruined, and the bookshop would continue to thrive. It was only then that he began to breathe easier. When Mrs. Anderton pottered back into the shop he smiled broadly at her.

  “Mrs. Anderton, I cannot thank you enough,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it.

  “Nonsense. It was your mother who did all the work. What a lovely woman.”

  Christy smiled. “She is.”

  His mother followed, wiping her hands on her apron. “Do you think we will need any more today?”

  Christy shook his head. I think things will quieten down now as we get towards five o’clock.”

  He was right. As the light faded, and the customers dwindled, Christy’s chest became tighter and tighter. He had no idea what to do about his mother, and no idea where Mr. Fenton might be. His first task was to persuade his mother to stay put in the warm with him. She could have his room, Mr. Fenton would understand, of that he was certain.

  When the last customer was gone, Christy shut the door and put the closed sign up. He was exhausted, and all but vibrating with anxiety.

  He went into the back room and found his mother wiping down the table and putting away all the bowls whilst Mrs. Anderton sat by the table nursing a cup of tea.

  “Thank you so much,” he said, going and taking his mother into his arms for a hug, and then bowing to Mrs. Anderton. “We made a remarkable team.”

  “We did indeed,” Mrs. Anderton said. “Have you had any word from Mr. Fenton?”

  Christy shook his head. “I am so worried about him.”

  “I am so sorry,” his mother said.

  “It’s not your fault,” Christy said

  “Yes, it is.” She came to stand before him with a heavy sigh. “I’m going to have to go back now, but I don’t…I don’t think I should…”

  “Do you love him, dear?” Mrs. Anderton asked, sympathy in her eyes.

  “I did a little.” She looked wistfully up at Christy. “After we lost your father, I was flattered that he would pay me interest. He’s a handsome man,” she said and glanced down guiltily. “And he was miserable and grieving. I thought I could make it better for him and in doing so make things better for myself.”

  “But you couldn’t?”

  “No.” She patted Christy’s chest. “No, darling, I couldn’t.” She swallowed. “Not for him, or for me.”

  “I don’t think it is safe for you to go back to the house,” Christy said. “I can’t give you my wages. Mr. Fenton isn’t here to pay me.” Christy ran his hands through his hair. “What if he comes expecting money and you can’t give him any?”

  His mother frowned and shrugged. “He will have to manage.”

  “I can’t just pay myself,” Christy said, thinking of the bulging cash box.

  “Yes, you can,” Mr. Fenton’s voice made them both jump as he emerged from the foot of the stairs.

  Chapter 9

  Lawrence’s voice felt strangled so tight was his chest. He cleared his throat and looked at the trio sitting in his back room.

  “Mrs. March, Mrs. Anderton, you have my undying gratitude for stepping in and helping out.” He nodded to them, but couldn’t look either woman in the eye. Christy was staring at him, so he avoided his gaze too. He walked past them into the shop, and pulled out money from the cash tin. He hesitated, then added a guinea, then another.

  “Here.” He held it out to Christy, who had followed him.

  “That’s too much,” he whispered.

  “Take it. It’s a…a Christmas bonus. Don’t tell March about it, though. It’s for you and your mother.”

  “Mr. Fenton,” Christy began, but Lawrence couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear the thought that his shame had been spread so…that Christy had heard…That he knew.

  He kept his eyes on the floor and held up a hand. “No. I beg you all to leave me alone. Go. Now. Please.”

  He was shaking. From the inside out. His stomach trembled, his heart…everything. He felt cold. Exposed. Now everyone knew. Christy included.

  He would not weep.

  Out of his peripheral vision he saw Mrs. March take Christy’s arm and pull him. He resisted, but when his mother insisted he went with her, taking Mrs. Anderton’s arm as he did so.

  “He doesn’t mean forever, darling,” Christy’s mother whispered softly. “Just let him be for a while.”

  Christy hesitated in the doorway. Lawrence glanced at him, but quickly looked away from his pleading gaze.

  “It’s fine, you know,” Christy said. “It’s all fine.”

  With that, he left leaving Lawrence alone with just the soft tinkle of the bell.

  He waited a moment, and then locked the door, turned the sign, and limp
ed to the back room where he slumped in his chair. He’d thought this would be the end of everything. He’d fully expected the shop to empty and people to be horrified, disgusted—Christ, he half expected the Bow Street Runners to turn up and cart him away. But in the middle of it all, Christy had turned it around. Again. Had turned disaster into success and sold book after book after book, to say nothing of his Christmas fripperies.

  He tilted his head back against the chair and stared at the ceiling. What did he mean by “It’s fine” anyway? How could it be fine? He got up and limped to the cupboard and took out a bottle of brandy, found a glass, and poured himself a generous amount, and put the bottle back next to the brown paper package there. The package that he had drawn up for Christy. Ridiculous, really, a man of his age mooning over a handsome young man, because that was what he had been doing however hard it was to admit. Mooning.

  But what did he mean? He sipped the brandy and wondered again. What did he mean by, ‘it’s fine’? What in God’s name would he say to him when he came back? His belongings were in the spare bedroom, so he would have to come back, wouldn’t he? Lawrence squeezed his eyes shut. He’d nowhere else to go. Would he come back? If he did, would he stay? Lawrence rubbed his face. It was unlikely. He’d come back and take his things and go. Leave. Leave the shop and his heart empty again. Lawrence pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes. Against the pressure behind them. What did he mean?

  The bells rang at midnight, heralding Christmas Day, and Lawrence listened to them alone. Alone. As always.

  He raised his glass, saluted, and then threw the rest of the brandy down his throat, grimacing as it went. He banked the fire up so that it would burn through the night and at least keep the place warm. He wondered about sleeping in the chair. Upstairs there were too many reminders of Christy, but when he looked around, all he could see was Christy.

  He was still pondering the options available to him that might do the least damage to his already wounded heart, when a knock came to the back door.

  He froze.

  The knock came again.

  Lawrence limped to the door and opened it to reveal Christy standing there. On the threshold, snow cascading gently over his shoulders, sticking briefly in his fair hair; in his eyelashes, before melting.

  “Merry Christmas, Mr. Fenton,” he said. His voice wavered a little and his eyes were wide and afraid.

  Lawrence blinked owlishly. Mouth open.

  “May I come in?”

  Lawrence couldn’t say no. He seemingly couldn’t say yes either because he just stood there, gawping stupidly.

  Christy hesitated and then walked into the kitchen, bringing the scent of the cold and the snow with him. Lawrence closed the door. He stood for a moment, facing it, and closed his eyes tight. He sucked in a long breath, locked the door, and then followed, breathing out steadily.

  Christy stood on the rug in front of the range and warmed his hands. Golden firelight flickered over him, warming him. Framing him.

  “How are you feeling?” Christy said, softly.

  Lawrence nodded and shrugged. Words were beyond him.

  “No one will take any notice of March,” he said. “No one pays him any heed at all. He’s a fool and everyone knows it.”

  “How…” he had to stop and clear his throat. “How is your mother?”

  “Mother is fine. She has gone to spend the night with Mrs. Anderton. March won’t find her there.”

  Lawrence raised his eyebrows. Mrs. Anderton was an astute woman.

  “And March?”

  “No notion at all, and I don’t care. I’ve no doubt he will turn up again, but I’ll worry about that when he does.”

  Lawrence nodded, then steeled himself and asked the question he dreaded the answer to but couldn’t leave hanging a moment longer. “So, why are you here?”

  Christy looked at the rug as though it held all the answers to life. “I wanted to see you.” When he glanced up his eyes were shy and warm and Lawrence’s heart did cartwheels in his chest.

  “I wanted to ask if it is true.” Christy swallowed.

  Lawrence didn’t want to answer with a lie, but…He closed his eyes and tried to breathe. Tremors shook him as he tried to find the courage to answer.

  “Mr. Fenton?” Christy’s voice was a whisper.

  Lawrence dragged his eyes open and, blinking rapidly to clear his vision, cleared his throat. Twice.

  “Yes. Yes, it’s true.” His voice was a ragged whisper, and his heart beat so fast he felt lightheaded. “I packed your things. No doubt you will want to leave immediately. I quite understand…”

  Lawrence looked at Christy for the first time when he stepped closer.

  “Mr. Fenton.” His voice was soft, head on one side with something unbelievably warm in his eyes. “Mr. Fenton, the reason I’m asking is because I needed to know if it was true. Hoped it was true. Are…you like me?

  “Like you?” Lawrence had the feeling is mouth hung open.

  Christy nodded.

  Tell him. Tell him, you idiot.

  Lawrence cleared his throat and ran a hand over the back of his neck and tried to be absolutely sure he had understood what Christy was asking, and then find some words. He couldn’t.

  “Do you prefer men?” Christy blurted, eyes shining with what looked terrifyingly like adoration. “Do you, could you…like me?”

  Lawrence’s mouth was definitely hanging open.

  Christy stood in the firelight looking unbearably vulnerable. Lawrence closed the gap between them and pulled Christy awkwardly into his arms. He waited for him to resist, to pull away, demand to know what his game was…but he melted into him, buried his face in Lawrence’s neck, and let out a shuddering sigh that pierced Lawrence’s parched, lonely heart. He tightened his arms and Christy squeezed him back before pulling away a little so he could look up at Lawrence, but stay within the circle of his arms. His eyes were wet and his chin quirked, leaving Lawrence shivering at the sight and aching to kiss him. He lowered his head slowly, giving Christy time to pull away, but he didn’t, so Lawrence kissed him gently, chastely, sipping and tasting, barely able to breathe at the sensation of Christy’s warm, soft mouth against his so achingly wonderful. The feel of his hard, distinctly masculine body so utterly right in his arms. Then Christy opened his mouth and licked at Lawrence’s lips and he thought he might simply shatter. Lawrence followed suit and then they were kissing in earnest. Wide, open mouthed, yawning, breathing kisses that devoured and owned. Lawrence was instantly hard as marble and he could feel Christy’s hardness against his own and he was perilously close to the edge.

  He dragged his mouth away, panting hard. Christy was staring at his lips, with such hunger and need that Lawrence struggled to speak, but he had to. He had to ask…couldn’t bear it if this was just…

  “I need…I need…I need you to know that this is not just a passing fancy for me.”

  Christy nodded and tried for another kiss, his eyes were hooded, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. It took everything that Lawrence had to pull away. “I’m too old for you.”

  “How old are you?” Christy whispered, eyes fixed on Lawrence’s mouth, lips parted.

  “Almost forty.”

  “Ancient.” Christy moved to kiss him.

  “How old are you?”

  Christy pressed up against him and pressed a soft kiss to his chin. “Two and twenty.”

  Lawrence groaned. He knew it. Knew it. So many years separated them.

  “How close to forty?” Christy asked, still staring hungrily at Lawrence lips.

  “Seven and thirty.”

  “That’s nothing then.” Christy pushed against him and laid his lips against Lawrence’s and they kissed again until Lawrence pulled away breathing heavily.

  “It’s not a passing fancy,” Lawrence repeated, between kissing Christy’s lips. “I…Is it the same for you?”

  Christy dragged dazed eyes up to meet Lawrence’s. “Same what?”

  “More th
an just a fancy. More…”

  Understanding dawned on Christy’s face and he smiled. A smile that filled his eyes with such emotion Lawrence had to look away.

  “Mr. Fenton, I have loved you from the moment I set foot in this shop. I have spent months dreaming that you might one day love me back and even when I thought you wouldn’t, I still loved you. Still wanted to be with you every day. When March…When March said…I was afraid for you, for your reputation, for your business, but all I could think about was…that you might actually be the same as me, if you might want me a little…” He shook his head. “I had to find out. I had to ask even though I knew that just because you had the same tastes as me didn’t mean you would want me. I’ve tried giving you the odd hint over the months and you’ve never taken it so there was a strong chance that even if you were the same as me you might not…find me attractive…” Christy paused to draw breath.

  Lawrence took both of Christy’s hands in his. Kissed the palm of one, then the other.

  Tell him. Tell him, you fool.

  “I…” Lawrence stopped as a shudder ran through him. “I…” He paused, staring hard at Christy’s hand, “I…love you.” The words came out awkwardly, haltingly, but Christy’s eyes widened, and then a smile curved his lips and lit up his entire face.

  “You do?” he breathed.

  “I do, though I have no idea why you would love me.”

  Christy’s eyes widened even more, filled with love, hope and incredulity.

  “Well, look at me. Miserable, curmudgeonly, crippled…”

  “True.”

  Lawrence found his own lips curving into a smile. “Thank you. I think this is the point at which you should offer at least a platitude or two in reassurance.”

  Christy reached up and kissed him. “You wouldn’t believe me. You like being miserable.”

  That made Lawrence think. Did he like being miserable? Probably. It had become a habit.

  “I want you.” Christy breathed the words against this lips and Lawrence shivered deliciously. “I want you here, in front of the fire, on the rug.” He kissed him again, “Naked.”

  Lawrence almost spilled in his breeches.