Maids Under The Mistletoe Collection. Christy McKellen

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       CHAPTER ONE

      THIS HAD TO be the most challenging party that Emma Carmichael had ever worked at.

      As fabulous as the setting was—a grand Chelsea town house that had been interior designed to within an inch of its life, presiding over the genteel glamour of Sloane Square—the party itself felt stilted and lifeless.

      The trouble was, Emma mused as she glided inconspicuously through the throng, handing out drinks to the primped and polished partygoers, it was full of people who attended parties for a living rather than for pleasure, in an attempt to rub shoulders with London’s great and good.

      She knew all about that type of party after being invited to a glut of them in her late teens, either with her parents or with friends from her private girls’ school in Cambridge. But she’d been a very different person then, pampered and carefree. Those privileged days were long gone now though, along with her darling late father’s reputation and all their family’s money.

      As if her thoughts had conjured up the demons that had plagued her for the six years following his death, her phone vibrated in her pocket and she discreetly slipped it out and glanced at it, only to see it was another text message from her last remaining creditor reminding her she was late with her final repayment. Stomach sinking, she shoved the phone back into her pocket and desperately tried to reinstate the cheerful smile that her boss, Jolyon Fitzherbert, expected his staff to wear at all times.

      ‘Emma, a word! Over here!’ came the peremptory tones of the man himself from the other side of the room.

      Darn. Busted.

      Turning, she met her boss’s narrowed eyes and swallowed hard as he beckoned her over to where he stood holding court to a small group of guests with one elbow propped jauntily against the vulgar marble fireplace.

      Emma had encountered the bunch of reprobates he was with a number of times since she’d begun working for Jolyon two months ago so she was well used to their contemptuous gazes that slid over her face as she approached now. They didn’t believe in fraternising with the hired help.

      If only Jolyon felt the same.

      It was becoming harder and harder to avoid his wandering hands and suggestive gaze, especially when she found herself alone with him. So far she’d been politely cool and it seemed to have held him at bay, but as soon as he got a couple of drinks into him dodging his advances became a whole lot harder.

      Fighting down her apprehension, she gave Jolyon a respectful nod and smile as she came to a halt in front of him.

      ‘Can I be of service?’

      Jolyon’s eyes seemed to bulge with menace in his flushed face. ‘I do hope I didn’t just see you playing with your mobile phone when you’re supposed to be serving these good people, Emma, because that would be rude and unprofessional, would it not?’ he drawled.

      Emma’s stomach rolled with unease. ‘Er—yes. I mean no, I wasn’t—’ She could feel heat creeping up her neck as the whole group stared at her with ill-disguised disdain. ‘I was just checking—’

      ‘I’m sure you think you’re too good to be serving drinks to the likes of us—’ Jolyon said loudly over the top of her, layering his voice with haughty sarcasm.

      ‘No, of course not—’

      The expression on his face was now half leer, half snarl. ‘—but since I’m paying you to be here, I expect to have your full attention.’

      ‘Yes, of course, Jolyon. You absolutely have it,’ Emma said, somehow managing to dredge up a smile, despite the sickening pull of humiliation dragging her spirits down towards the floor.

      He eyed her with an unnerving twinkle of malice in his expression, as if he was getting a thrill out of embarrassing her. ‘In that case I’ll have a large whisky.’

      Emma opened her mouth to ask whether anyone else in the group required anything, but before the words could emerge Jolyon flapped a dismissive hand in her face and barked, ‘Go on, fetch!’

      Stumbling backwards, stupefied by his rudeness, she gave him a jerky nod and turned away, mortification flooding her whole body with unwelcome heat.

      Twisting the chain she always wore around her neck to remind her of better times—before everything in her life had gone to hell in a hand basket—she took a deep, calming breath as she walked stiffly over to where Jolyon kept his whisky decanter in an antique burr walnut drinks cabinet. Pouring his regular measure of two fingers of the dark amber liquid into a cut-glass tumbler with a shaking hand, she managed to slosh a little over the rim and had to surreptitiously wipe it off the wood with her apron so she didn’t get shouted at for not treating his furniture with due respect.

      That was the most frustrating thing about working for Jolyon; he treated her with less respect than an inanimate object and all she could do was bite her lip and get on with it.

      Clio Caldwell, who ran the high-end agency Maids in Chelsea that had found her this housekeeping position, had warned her that Jolyon was a difficult character when she’d offered her the job, but since he also paid extremely well Emma had decided she was prepared to handle his irascible outbursts and overly tactile ways if she was well remunerated for it. If she could just stick it out here for a little while longer she’d be in the position to pay off the last of her father’s debts and be able to put this whole sordid business to bed, then she could finally move on with her life.

      What a relief that would be.

      Out of nowhere the old familiar grief hit her hard in the chest.

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