The Mischief of the Mistletoe: A Pink Carnation Christmas Read Online Free PDF Page A

its way.
    â€œOooof!” Arabella said cleverly, flailing her arms for balance.
    This was not an auspicious beginning to her career as a dignified instructress of young ladies.
    A pair of sturdy hands caught her by the shoulders before she could go over, hauling her back up to her feet. He overshot by a bit. Arabella found herself dangling in midair for a moment before her feet landed once again on the wooden floor.
    â€œI say, frightfully sorry!” her unseen assailant and rescuer was babbling. “Deuced ungentlemanly of me—ought to have been watching where I was going.”
    Arabella’s bonnet had been knocked askew in the fracas. She was above the average height, but this man was even taller. With her bonnet brim in the way, all she could see was a stretch of brightly patterned waistcoat, a masterpiece of fine fabric and poor taste.
    Everyone knew about Turnip Fitzhugh’s waistcoats.
    Mr. Fitzhugh bent earnestly over her. “Frightfully sorry and all that. I do beg your pardon, Miss . . .”
    He paused expectantly, looking down at her, waiting for her to complete the sentence for him, his blue eyes as guileless as a child’s. And as devoid of recognition.
    â€œDempsey. Miss Arabella Dempsey. We’ve met before. In fact, we have danced together, Mr. Fitzhugh. Several times.”
    â€œOh.” His broad brow furrowed and an expression of consternation crossed his face. “Oh. I say. I am sorry.”
    â€œWhy?” She had never thought she could be so bold, but it just came out. “I don’t recall stepping on your feet. You ought to have emerged from the experience unscathed.”
    In fact, she was quite a good dancer. But did anyone ever notice? No. If she looked like Mary Alsworthy or had five thousand pounds a year like Deirdre Fairfax, they’d all be praising her for being as light on her feet as thistledown, but she could float like a feather for all any of them cared, or sink like lead. At that rate, she ought to have stomped on a few toes. At least that would have been one way to leave an impression.
    â€œWouldn’t want you to think . . . I never meant to imply . . . That is to say, what I meant was that I’m not much of a dab hand at names, you see. Or faces. Or dates.”
    Arabella smiled determinedly at Mr. Fitzhugh, and if the smile was rather grim around the edges, hopefully he wouldn’t notice. “It is quite all right, Mr. Fitzhugh. You’re certainly not the first to have forgotten my name. Or the date of the Norman Conquest,” she added, in an attempt to inject a bit of levity.
    It didn’t work. Instead of being diverted, Mr. Fitzhugh just looked sorry. For her. “I won’t forget it again,” he said. “Your name, that is. I can’t make any promises about the Norman Conquest.”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Fitzhugh. You are too kind.”
    â€œDidn’t think there was such a thing,” Mr. Fitzhugh mused. “As too much kindness, that is.” Peering down at her, he added, as though the thought had just struck him. “I say, I didn’t mean to detain you. Or knock you over. Might I, er, see you anywhere? My chariot is at your disposal.”
    â€œOh, no, that’s quite all right. I’m joining friends for supper just across the street.”
    â€œThat’s all right, then,” Mr. Fitzhugh said with evident relief. “Shouldn’t like to leave you here by yourself. Not after knocking you over and all that.”
    Arabella’s smile turned sour. “Think nothing of it,” she said.
    With a tip of his hat, he strode jauntily out the door. Gathering her scattered wits together, Arabella made to follow, but her booted foot struck something hard and round, half hidden under the hem of her walking dress.
    Bending over, she picked it up. While slightly the worse for her stepping on it, it was unmistakably a Christmas pudding, small and round and wrapped in white