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“I say, there’s a good fellow. Would you hold these a moment?”

“Certainly, sir.” William held out his arms. They were filled at once with a bundle of long, leafy twigs. His nose twitched at the scent of laurel so close to his face.

The previous bearer of the boughs reached down and snipped several strands of ivy from the nearest tree. Collecting them by their severed ends, he curled them up into a wreath-like coil and hailed another gentleman.

“You there. Collins. Give these to her ladyship at the house. Tell them we will bring the holly next.” He turned his neat form to William.

“I don’t suppose you have a knife on you?

It would go so much faster if there were more of us cutting the greenery.

We are behind schedule as it is. And I see you have good, thick gloves.

You could manage the holly quite nicely. ”

“No, sir. Sorry, sir,” William replied. “I haven’t a knife with me. But I could take these to the house and ask for one. I will come straight back and assist you.”

“Good man.”

William did not linger. When Captain Larson finished talking, it was time to get moving.

A month of training had taught him that.

He crunched through the icy shrubbery and headed for the kitchen rather than the front door.

He did not imagine Lady Penrose would care for any infantrymen stomping about her house with snow all over their boots, even if all the officers were there at her invitation.

At the door, he leaned carefully so as not to dislodge his awkwardly balanced bundle.

The lever shifted and the door creaked open, light and heat streaming out into the darkening afternoon.

Inside, the maids looked up, saw who it was, and a general titivation erupted.

A hand went to the hair, another was wiped clean on an apron.

The young women preened and blushed. And William still stood, holding the greenery.

“Oh, for goodness’s sake!” cried Cook, wiping her hands on her already flour-dusted apron. “Betsy, go and fetch those to her ladyship. And the rest of you, stop gawking. One would think you’d never seen a man before.”

“I don’t suppose I could borrow a knife?

” inquired William, once young Betsy had relieved him of his leafy burden, scurrying on short legs and with a deep blush on her cheeks to deliver the laurel boughs to her mistress.

“The captain wants me to help collect the holly. We’re slowing down the ladies who are putting up the decorations.

If I can help, it will go twice as fast.”

“If it means you’ll be done sooner with your traipsing through my kitchen, you are welcome to it,” replied Cook, passing him a large knife, handle first. “I can’t get my baking done if my kitchen is a constant thoroughfare.”

“Sorry. We shouldn’t be much longer. Thirty minutes at the most. It will be dark then, so we won’t have a choice but to come inside.”

“Hmph. I wouldn’t put it past your captain to have you collect foliage by lamplight. He’s a hard taskmaster, that one.”

William grinned. Several of the kitchen maids had pulled faces behind her back. Cook’s reputation was very like the captain’s.

“Well, don’t stand there like an eager schoolboy. Off with you. I’ve got my hands full with this lot.” She waved vaguely at a large table packed with bowls and ingredients. “And you,” she cried, pointing her spoon accusingly at the giggling maids, “you’re more trouble than help. Get back to work!”

William exited the house, leaving one beloved demi-tyrant to rejoin another. Captain Larson did not suffer fools, but he was a fair man. His men respected him. William thought himself fortunate to be under such fine leadership.

Military life was turning out to be everything he could have hoped for, even if his only experience thus far had been to undergo training.

His quarters were comfortable enough. The men were stout souls, ready for action both on the battlefield and off.

Days were busy and purposeful, and the nights brought companionship and laughter.

It wasn’t all sporting fun, though. Training in winter had its downfalls.

Even a good coat and gloves did not entirely ward off the bite of wind and damp of snow that filtered down the back of one’s neck.

But tonight, no thought would be given to any of that.

Baron and Baroness Penrose hosted legendary parties, and Twelfth Night was the envy of them all.

Each year, on the sixth of January, Lord Penrose included his household regiment in the family festivities.

A barrel of fine Scottish whiskey was delivered to the local tavern for the enlisted men, while the officers and their kin joined his lordship at the main house.

Kin included daughters. And Twelfth Night promised games and mischief.

The rules of decorum were relaxed. And there would be mistletoe.

Captain Larson had already cut a generous sample from the cluster of mistletoe on the hawthorn tree.

“Good lad,” he said as William approached.

“I’m going to check on the others. Collins is in the kitchen garden, collecting rosemary.

The rest are bringing in firewood. As soon as you have enough holly for four wreaths, join us inside.

” Without waiting for an answer, he gathered up the mistletoe and strode down the hill behind the house, carrying the most sought-after object for the evening in his hands.

William worked quickly. The light was fading, and the cold air sank its teeth into his skin. He gathered fistfuls of the twigs, working against time as his fingers grew numb. At last, he straightened, giving his back a good stretch.

His gaze fell on the hawthorn, dotted about with mistletoe.

William’s eyes glinted with inspiration.

He reached out and clipped a tiny sprig, shoving it into his trouser pocket.

Gathering up the prickly holly, he set off, back to the kitchen, past the stern supervision of Cook, and into the cheery, yellow drawing room where the rest of the company—both military and domestic—were gathered.

Miss Frances Penrose, his lordship’s eldest daughter—a flighty, rather silly creature—was in charge of ornamentation and sat, scissors in hand, cutting gold paper stars.

Beside her lay a mound of white silk bows she had finished earlier.

“Oh, Lieutenant Cole,” called Lady Penrose, “you can put those on the table. We’re almost ready to add the holly.” She lifted the wreath she had been working on to show him.

“A fine job, if I may say so, your ladyship,” William said with a gallant bow.

“You may indeed, sir,” she replied with a gracious tip of her head.

William found it hard to fathom how such an elegant woman—one who had maintained her beauty and grace despite her years—had produced such an unsophisticated daughter.

Even in her humor, she carried herself with dignity, pursing her lips playfully now and adding, “Perhaps you could find a suitable spot to hang the mistletoe.”

A snort erupted from her husband. “Ha! You have certainly chosen the right man for the task, my dear.”

Lady Penrose resumed her work on the wreath, commenting as she tucked an errant bow back in place amongst the intertwined greenery.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. The ladies will be hovering near the mistletoe all evening, awaiting their chance for a stolen kiss.

I shan’t imagine the berries will last long at all. ”

“The berries, Mama?” inquired the lovely Miss Penrose, her green eyes lifting from their task, her blonde ringlets bouncing slightly.

Lady Penrose ceased her activity and cast a doting look upon her daughter.

“I had quite forgot this is your first experience. Last Christmastide, you were not out yet. But I imagine you are no stranger to the talk of Twelfth Night and all its tomfoolery. Still, there are rules, even in silly antics. With each kiss that is claimed under the mistletoe, a berry must be plucked. Once the bough is picked clean, no more kisses may be had except between husband and wife.”

“Oh!” Miss Penrose cried in dismay. “Then one might well miss a chance for a kiss from the one you most desire? That hardly seems fair.”

Lady Penrose stared at her daughter down the length of her nose. “All games must have rules, Frances. It is so with all aspects of life. Even when we are at play, there must be boundaries that are well understood.”

Frances Penrose tilted her head toward William. “It is a pity one cannot have something like a dance card for the kissing bough. Then one could write one’s name and that of one’s preferred partner and stake one’s claim, so to speak.”

Her mother shook her head. “You do have some odd notions, Frances. Half the fun is in the chase. For the gentlemen, at least. If you planned the moment, it would not be nearly as exhilarating when it arrived.”

“It’s all those novels you read, Frances,” her father complained, tucking his thumbs into his waistcoat, which spanned his stout chest. “They stuff your head full of nonsense. A kiss under the mistletoe means nothing. Good matches are based on more suitable criteria than chance encounters.”

Miss Penrose pouted at her father but said nothing. Instead, her eyes spoke volumes to William, especially when she added a flutter of the lashes. He winked. Color rushed to her cheeks.

William had played these games many a time before. Doing so had become second nature to him. She would have her kiss, if she wished. But it was not the only encounter he intended to enjoy this night.