Miss Amelia's Mistletoe Marquess. Jenni Fletcher

seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. She looked as if she’d just stepped out of a painting by Titian. ‘Take the armchair.’

      ‘Oh, no, that’s yours.’ She sank down on to her haunches in front of the fire and held her hands out to warm them instead. ‘This is wonderful.’

      ‘I can’t just allow you to sit on the floor, Miss…?’

      ‘Millie. Just Millie and I’m more than happy here, honestly. I feel as if my insides have been frozen, Mr…?’

      ‘Whitlock.’ He paused in the act of draping her damp cloak across a straight-backed wooden chair in the corner, taken aback by the question. No one had asked who he was since he’d come back to England. Young ladies especially seemed to know his identity without introduction. It made a refreshing change to meet one who did not. Liberating even, as if her words had just freed him from the constraints of the past year. It made him feel oddly grateful.

      ‘Cassius Whitlock at your service, although I’m afraid I ought to apologise for my reception. It’s not much of an excuse, but I thought you were someone else.’

      ‘I guessed.’ She peered up at him through her lashes, her gaze faintly ironic. ‘You looked quite ferocious.’

      ‘It was ill mannered of me.’

      ‘Perhaps, but it would be churlish of me not to forgive the man who just saved my life.’

      ‘I merely opened a door.’

      ‘Which probably saved my life. Please accept my gratitude. It was silly of me to even think of walking back to the village in this weather. You’ve no idea how relieved I was to see the smoke from your chimney. I don’t think I could have managed another step.’

      He harrumphed and sat down on the edge of his armchair. ‘You’re not from this area, I take it?’

      ‘No, I live in London. My mother and I are staying here for Christmas with a relative.’

      ‘Won’t they be worried about you?’

      ‘Ye—es.’ Her expression turned anxious. ‘If they’ve realised I’m gone, that is. Only there’s a good chance they won’t notice until morning.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Not that I make a custom of wandering around in the dark on my own, but…it’s complicated.’

      ‘I see.’ He looked from her to the fireplace and back again. ‘Can I fetch you anything? Some soup, perhaps?’

      ‘Thank you, but I’ve already inconvenienced you enough.’ She pressed her lips together for a moment. ‘Are you a gamekeeper?’

      ‘I’m sorry?’

      ‘A gamekeeper?’ She pointed towards the painting of a stag above the fireplace. ‘Or a gardener, perhaps? Only I notice you like pastoral scenes.’

      ‘Ah…yes.’

      He threw a swift glance around the room. In all honesty, he hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to the decor before. The fact that the house was habitable had been enough for him, but on closer inspection he noticed a veritable profusion of stags and pheasants, somewhat at variance with the spartan furnishings. It was no wonder she assumed he was a gamekeeper, especially considering the somewhat weathered state of his attire. He certainly didn’t look much like a marquess.

      ‘Estate manager.’ He decided to stretch the truth rather than lie directly. After all, he was an estate manager of sorts, even if he employed someone else with the same title.

      ‘How fascinating.’ She looked duly impressed. ‘Is the estate very large?’

      ‘About fifteen hundred acres. Falconmore Hall is at the other end of this drive.’

      ‘Really?’ She sat up hopefully. ‘Then perhaps I ought to seek shelter there?’

      ‘I’m afraid it would be quicker to walk back to the village.’

      ‘Oh, dear.’ She sighed and sat back again. ‘Well, perhaps it’s for the best. I think I’d like to avoid halls for a while. I offended the hostess at the one we visited this evening.’

      ‘Indeed? Who was that?’

      She glanced sideways, as if she were questioning the wisdom of telling him. ‘Lady Fentree.’

      ‘Fentree?’ He gave a bark of laughter. ‘It doesn’t take much to upset that old battle-axe, believe me. She was probably just annoyed at you for overshadowing the Honourable Miss Vanessa.’

      ‘Me?’ His companion looked genuinely shocked. ‘I don’t think I overshadowed anyone.’

      ‘Then you don’t give yourself enough credit, Just Millie.’

      He surprised himself with the comment, aware of an unfamiliar tingling sensation in his chest as their eyes met and held. Hers were a bright summer-grass green, he noticed, uncommonly clear and direct with pale lashes that made a striking contrast with her hair. The more he looked, the more he thought that she overshadowed almost every other young lady he’d ever met, or could think of for that matter. Even when she’d looked like a snowman there had been something appealing about her. Something intriguing… Unless it was just the port making him think so. Or the fact that she didn’t know who he was. Or that any woman was preferable to Sylvia. Whatever the reason, he was finding it difficult to look away.

      Fortunately, she did it instead, her cheeks reddening slightly as her gaze drifted towards the bottle on the table beside him. ‘My father used to say port was the best way to warm up on a cold night.’

      ‘I’m inclined to agree. Certainly better than soup. Would you care for a glass?’

      ‘Me?’ She looked even more startled, her mouth forming an O shape as if she were about to refuse, then changed her mind. ‘Maybe just a small one…if you’re sure that’s all right?’

      ‘I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t.’

      He poured a small measure into a tumbler and handed it to her, refraining from taking a glass for himself. Given how much he’d already drunk, the effects of which he hoped weren’t too obvious, it was probably wise to abstain. He was having trouble believing the evidence of his own senses as it was.

      ‘Well, then, Just Millie…’ he watched, the tingling sensation in his chest intensifying, as she lifted the glass to her lips ‘…after you’ve finished that I suggest you get a good night’s sleep. Given the depth of the snow, I’d say we’re stranded here until morning.’

      ‘I suppose so…’ She sounded anxious. ‘But what if my mother sends out a search party? I’d hate for people to be out in the dark searching for me.’

      ‘How long were you out walking?’

      ‘An hour, perhaps.’

      ‘Then I’d venture to suggest that if your relatives were going to come looking, they would have done so by now.’

      ‘Yes.’ Her brow creased. ‘You’re probably right.’

      ‘Of course we could fashion some kind of sign, hanging your bonnet from the gatepost, for example, but it might be prudent for us to be a little more discreet.’

      She drew her knees up to her chest and took another mouthful of port. ‘I suppose if anyone knew I was here it would look a little compromising.’

      ‘More than a little.’ He shifted in his seat, distracted by the way she ran her tongue over her bottom lip, soaking up the last of the liquid. ‘Fortunately, it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a little harmless deception.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘There’s a disused cottage in one of the fields between here and the village. If, theoretically speaking, you were to have taken shelter