

# A Grosvenor Square Christmas

A Regency Anthology

by

### Anna Campbell,

### Shana Galen,

### Vanessa Kelly,

### and Kate Noble

Copyright © 2013

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

Cover Designer:

Ebook formatted by Jessica Lewis

Author's Life Saver

License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for lending, delete it from your device and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events have no existence outside the imagination of the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

To sample any of the stories included in this bundle, click on the links below:

The Seduction of A Duchess by Shana Galen

 One Kiss for Christmas by Vanessa Kelly

 His Christmas Cinderella by Anna Campbell

The Last First Kiss by Kate Noble

TABLE OF CONTENTS

A Grosvenor Square Christmas Prologue

The Seduction of A Duchess by Shana Galen

One Kiss for Christmas by Vanessa Kelly

His Christmas Cinderella by Anna Campbell

The Last First Kiss by Kate Noble

# Prologue

There is very little about the gray stone house that makes it different from the houses to the right or left of it. Indeed, the entire street, the entire square is remarkably the same. The same stone. The same windows. The same incredible wealth on display.

Well, it is Grosvenor Square, after all. It has to have some grandeur.

But for all the elevated sameness, No. 3 Grosvenor Square stands out.

Perhaps it is the owner. After all, Lucy Frost, the widowed Countess of Winterson is a reigning doyen of the _ton._ (How could she not be with a name like that?) It has been said, not proven, that she has a trail of discarded lovers the length of Pall Mall. Said too, yet not proven, that her husband died happily, after a fit of laughter brought on by her marvelous wit. Possibly in bed. But that is merely delicious speculation.

What has been proven is that she throws a fabulous party. Lady Winterson's eccentricity and popularity would certainly add to No. 3's allure.

Then again, perhaps it is the butler. Philbert was procured by Lady Winterson when she purchased the house, and found she needed someone tall enough to hang holiday garland. He has been standing at the door of No. 3 for decades. Curious, since he doesn't look any older than a man half his (unknown) age.

Philbert is an institution, and knows the secrets of everyone who passes through No. 3's door, as well as how they take their tea. Surely, he can account for the way the house draws the eye of everyone who promenades past.

Or perhaps, it is something in the house itself. Something hidden in its stones, that glitters and glows and stores itself up until it cannot help but burst forth, shining on those darkest nights in the depths of winter. On those special nights, when Lady Winterson throws her annual Christmas Ball, people flood No. 3, bringing all their hopes, their excitement and the merriment of the season with them.

But be it the house, the hostess, or her butler, it is during the Christmas Ball every year, for one special couple, that No. 3 Grosvenor Square truly is magic.

As long as they look in the right place.

#  The Seduction of a Duchess

A Sons of the Revolution story

By

SHANA GALEN

Copyright © 2013 by Shana Galen

For Gayle. I couldn't have written this story without you.

#  Acknowledgements

Special thanks to the Brainstorm Troopers for your help with Gabriel. I think it was Anne Mallory who suggested I make him a "servant! A really badass servant!" Nothing like the idea of a badass footman to propel me to start writing.

Thanks to the Shananigans for your support, especially Sarah Rosenbarker and Sue Gorman for your suggestions and comments on the first draft.

Thanks to Abby Saul for your fabulous copyediting and to Theresa Romain for your help with French. Any mistakes are completely and utterly mine.

Thanks to Kim Killion for our gorgeous cover.

And thank you to Vanessa Kelly, Anna Campbell, and Kate Noble who agreed to participate in this project without the least hesitation. You three have been a _joy_ to work with. I'd do it again in a second.

# One

London 1803

"Do not look now, Your Grace, but there is a man staring at you."

At Felicity's words, Rowena turned her head—exactly as she had been instructed _not_ to do. She caught herself just in time and returned her gaze to her son Armand's wife. The lovely girl with the blond hair and the ever-present smile had been at her side since they'd arrived at the ball. If this ball were like the others, Rowena would not be alone for even a moment. One of her sons or their wives would keep her company—as though she was a girl who'd just made her come out. But it had been a long, long time since Rowena's come out.

The ball at No. 3 Grosvenor Square was held each year during the Christmas season for the members of the _ton_ still in Town. Rumor had it half of the _ton_ actually returned for the sole purpose of attending Lady Winterson's ball. The lords and ladies of the upper ten thousand whispered that the ball was enchanted, and it did indeed seem so, for each year the ball managed to produce a match when a special couple fell rather unexpectedly in love.

Rowena did not believe such rubbish. She certainly did not expect or even hope to fall in love. She was a dowager and far too old for that sort of thing. When, last year, for the first time in memory, the de Valère family had received Lady Winterson's invitation, Rowena, as the matriarch of the family, had politely declined and thought no more of it. The family had already planned to remove to Armand and Felicity's country house and she looked forward to a holiday in the country. But she had made the mistake of mentioning declining Lady Winterson's invitation the day after Christmas, and from the family's uproar, one would have thought the King had died.

She had not expected another invitation this year—after all, one did not decline an invitation to the Christmas ball at No. 3 Grosvenor Square and then expect a second chance—so when the card came, she had accepted with alacrity. The entire family would again travel to The Gardens, Armand's country estate in Southampton, a day or so after the ball, and everyone, save Armand and herself, had been thrilled to be included in the celebrated holiday gathering. So she had resignedly agreed to accompany her three sons and their wives to the affair in Grosvenor Square tonight.

"You may look now," Felicity said in a loud whisper, "but only if you pretend to look about the room before you fix your gaze near the refreshment table."

"I am too old for this," Rowena said.

"Rubbish," Felicity argued. "Your cheeks are as pink as any debutante's at the mention of an admirer."

Rowena resisted putting her gloved hands to her cheeks and decided she would peer about the room rather than respond to the girl. She was no debutante and had not been one in many a year. At seven and forty, she was far too old for admirers and love affairs. She studied Lady Winterson's ballroom. It was a lovely room, quite spacious enough for the hundreds of guests invited. Paneled in pale blue with cream molding and embellishments, the room had been made even cheerier by the hundreds of candles burning in the chandeliers, the warm fires in the hearth, and the boughs of evergreen and beribboned bouquets of holly on the mantels.

Guests were still arriving, and Rowena expected a crush before the night was over. It had been some time since she attended a ball where she could later boast of the affair as having been a squeeze. Once she'd been the popular daughter of an English baron and invited to every event of the Season, but then she married a French _duc_ and removed to France with him. Her three sons—the _duc_ de Valère, the _comte_ de Valère, and the _marquis_ de Valère—were French noblemen in name only. Since the revolution and the coming to power of Napoleon Bonaparte, her sons had no French estates to speak of. The family was accepted into Society and even welcomed, but they were not the _ton_ 's darlings by any stretch.

Oh, they made the gossip columns now and then, and when one had money, making friends was always easy. Julien, only seven and twenty but clever with finances and investments, had more money than he knew what to do with, and Bastien, ever resourceful at five and twenty, had made his own fortune. But Rowena cared little for wealth. She was happy her family was together again. She only wished dear Philip could be here too. It had been fourteen years since he'd been beheaded by the blade of _Madame Le Guillotine_ , and she still missed him every day.

Rowena blinked at the sparkling crystal chandeliers blazing with light and then lowered her gaze to the chalk still lining the edges of the dance floor, where hundreds of feet had not yet rubbed the art away. Her gaze flitted to rest on her son Julien and his wife, Sarah, laughing with Lord and Lady Aldon. As the Duke and Duchess de Valère, they represented the family. Julien took his role seriously and made a point of speaking briefly with all of the family's friends and acquaintances. Rowena did not see Armand, but she spotted Raeven and Bastien easily enough. They were dancing a reel, laughing and spinning like mad. The two of them always made her smile.

And finally, she allowed her gaze to wander to the refreshment table. Ah! There was Armand. Her quiet son appeared to marvel at the plethora of sweet and savory offerings, and at the other end of the table—

Rowena caught her breath.

Her gaze snapped back to Felicity. The girl nodded. "I told you he was watching you."

Rowena put a hand to her heart to steady the pounding. "So you did." She managed to sound calm, though her voice retained a breathless quality.

Felicity was not fooled. "What is the matter, Duchess? Are you unwell?" She frowned in concern.

"No. I—" She could not seem to control her gaze, for it defied her wishes and returned to the man standing beside the refreshment table. He was still watching her, his lips curled in a slow smile that gave her delicious goosebumps.

Gabriel.

Could it really be him? Impossible. He looked like the footman she remembered, but he—the footman who had once served her family so faithfully—could not possibly be dressed like a nobleman and attending the Countess of Winterson's ball.

Except...if it was not Gabriel, why was he staring at her?

She'd thought of him often over the years, wondered if he was well. She recalled him as a young man, little more than a boy at two and twenty, but he was no boy now. He was a devastatingly handsome man. Even across the ballroom she could see how tall he was, how his broad shoulders tapered to a lean waist. And there were his eyes—that unique shade that was not quite blue, not quite green. When his gaze touched her, she felt heat infuse her limbs from her belly all the way to her toes.

The music ended and Raeven and Bastien approached. Rowena turned to Felicity. "Perhaps I should step outside for a breath of air."

Felicity frowned. "Madam, it is freezing outside."

"What is the matter?" Bastien asked, coming to stand beside her. " _Ma mère_ , you look as though you have seen a ghost."

That was an apt phrase if she had ever heard one.

"Rowena, shall I fetch you a drink? Some champagne?" Raeven asked.

"No, I only need a breath of air."

Suddenly Julien and Sarah were beside them. "Lady Winterson is coming this way," Julien said between clenched teeth curved into a smile so it would not appear he was discussing the countess.

Rowena turned to observe their hostess crossing the ballroom. The countess was young for a widow. She could not have been more than five and twenty. She was also quite lovely with blond hair, large blue eyes, and a lush figure. The scandal broth Rowena heard was that the old earl had died in his new wife's bed. His energetic young bride had been too much for him, but he'd died with a smile on his lips.

The countess's arm was twined with...Rowena's breath seemed to whoosh out of her, and she could not manage to draw enough in again. Lady Winterson's arm was linked with Gabriel's as the two descended upon Rowena. Watching them come inexorably closer, she suddenly had the urge to run. It was a most unbecoming sort of urge, especially for a woman of her position and her maturity. But she suddenly felt eighteen all over again, and prone to immature action.

"My dear Duke and Duchess de Valère," Lady Winterson said, curtsying prettily. Julien and Sarah curtsied in return and Julien said...something. Rowena was no longer listening. She was staring at the man beside the countess. It was he. Gabriel. And she was suddenly awash in memories. She and Julien had ridden away from their burning chateau, away from the bloodthirsty peasants, and into the security offered by the woods. Just as she'd thought they were safe, a man jumped out at Julien and her, frightening both them and the horses. To her relief, it was Gabriel, who offered to help them escape and, a day later, saved their lives. She remembered her nausea when they'd been attacked on the road and Gabriel had shot a man in the head to save them. He'd done it—murder. For her and her son.

She looked at Julien before returning her gaze to Gabriel, who watched her unabashedly. Did her son not recognize the man, their savior? Did none of the boys remember their servant? He looked so much as he had all those years ago, though Rowena realized that he must be now, what six and thirty? He still had the long straight nose of his Gallic ancestors and the thick black hair, though he had acquired a few patches of gray at his temples. His eyes were pale greenish blue and framed by thick brows and lashes. He had high patrician cheekbones and a strong noble jaw, though he certainly was no nobleman.

"Allow me to introduce the most celebrated man in all of England," the countess said, finally indicating Gabriel. "This is a fellow Frenchman, Monsieur Lemarque. But he is better known as the French Fox."

Bastien gasped. "Good God, man, is that you?" He cut his gaze to his mother.

Most of the family was aware of her fascination with the French Fox. She'd followed the reports of his feats of bravery religiously. The way he'd snatched innocent _aristos_ —mothers and children, old men—from the blade of the guillotine was nothing short of heroic. He escaped even the most intricate traps the enemy laid for him, seemed to laugh in the face of danger, risked everything for men and women to whom he owed nothing. She was half in love with the mysterious spy already.

And _Gabriel_ was the French Fox. It all made sense now. Gabriel, the man who had once held her hand when they'd been hiding from revolutionaries—"Do not fear, _duchesse_. I will die before I allow these devils to so much as look at you."

Now Gabriel smiled thinly and glanced at Lady Winterson. "That was supposed to be our secret, my lady."

Rowena took a slow, shaky breath as heat flooded through her. His voice. That accent.

Lady Winterson waved a hand. "Oh, but you know I cannot keep a secret. It is much more fun to share. And, Your Grace"—she looked at Rowena—"I have a secret for _you_."

Rowena blinked. "Me?"

The countess was smiling. "Monsieur Lemarque has asked for an introduction. I believe he would like to claim this dance."

"What?" Rowena's hand flew to her bosom. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest. "But why?"

"Yes, why?" Julien asked. Sarah put a restraining hand on Julien's arm.

Ignoring them, the countess reached for Rowena's hand and joined it with Gabriel's. "Duchess, allow me to present Monsieur Gabriel Lemarque. Monsieur, the Dowager Duchess de Valère."

Her hand felt small and weightless in his much larger one. She was aware the eyes of her children were on her, and she tried very hard not to notice how strong his fingers felt or the way he peered down at her with those alluring green-blue eyes. "Your Grace." He bowed his head. "I would be honored if you would favor me with the next dance."

"I..." She did not know what to say. She had not danced in years. And even in her dancing days, she would not have danced with a man such as Gabriel—a mere footman. But looking at him now, in his coat of superfine and his tight breeches and starched cravat, she knew he was no mere footman. He was the man to whom she owed her life.

He was looking at her, his expression expectant and slightly bemused, as though he knew the turmoil in her mind. His mouth curved up slightly in that way French men had—the way she had always found incredibly erotic.

"I..."

Oh, good grief. Was everyone waiting for her response? Julien was watching her, his gaze dark and protective. Sarah's brow was furrowed with concern. Felicity was smiling encouragingly. Bastien winked at her, and Raeven was watching Gabriel, assessing him as one might an enemy about to attack. Rowena shook her head, aware she must give an answer. "Yes, thank you, sir."

"Your Grace." He bowed his head. "I will collect you in a few moments' time." He moved away, the countess at his side.

Julien was the first to speak. "What is that man about?"

Felicity sighed as Armand joined them, standing at his wife's side. "Is it not romantic? He sought you out, Rowena."

"Why?" Raeven asked. "For what purpose?"

"To dance, dear," Sarah added. "We are at a ball, after all."

"What is the French Fox?" Julien wanted to know. "What did Lady Winterson mean by that comment?"

"He's a spy," Bastien said. "The one _maman_ is always reading about. I heard the French Fox was given a knighthood for his role in the capture of several officials in Bonaparte's government."

Rowena considered that the least of the Fox's accomplishments.

"Is he a real spy?" Julien asked his brother, "or a pretend spy, as you were a pretend pirate?"

Bastien gave him a dangerous smile. "Any time you wish to test my skills as a captain, Julien, say the word. Your ship will rest on the bottom of the ocean at my slightest command."

"Boys," Rowena said, cutting them off. "It is a dance, nothing more. It will be fun." But was she convincing herself or them?

Armand gave Felicity a curious look, and Felicity nodded at Gabriel, who was standing a little ways away conversing with their hostess. Rowena warmed when she realized he was still watching her, waiting for the next set to begin. "Monsieur Lemarque has asked your mother to dance," Felicity told her husband. "She has accepted."

Armand's gaze followed the direction of Felicity's nod, and he tilted his head. "Gabriel."

"Finally!" Rowena said. "Someone other than me recognizes the man."

"You know Monsieur Lemarque?" Sarah asked Armand.

"He was our footman."

At Armand's words, Julien turned to stare at Gabriel outright. "The footman?"

"Yes," Rowena said. "Have you forgotten the service he did us, Julien?"

"No." Julien shook his head, his eyes clouding. "But...I...you will dance with a footman? I do not like it."

"Well, it is too late now. I have accepted, and here he comes to claim me." Indeed, before anyone else could speak or object, Gabriel was before her, bowing and holding out a gloved hand in invitation.

She took it, feeling her breath catch at his touch—even through the fabric of their gloves. As though he felt it too, he glanced down at her, his gaze meeting hers, and then led her to the center of the dance floor. Belatedly, Rowena realized they would be at the top of the set. Everyone would be watching them.

" _Quelque chose vous dérangez_ , Your Grace?" Gabriel asked, watching her look nervously about the room. He didn't remember her being a nervous woman. She had always been calm and serene. And beautiful, so incredibly beautiful. No doubt his presence here had unnerved her.

Her attention snapped back to him, and he felt his heart thud slowly in his chest, the way it had all of those years ago whenever she looked at him.

"I am not used to dancing, that is all," she said. Her voice sounded more British than he remembered, but then she'd always spoken in French when he'd known her before. He had not even known English then. He'd been a young man, and she the mistress of a large chateau, the beautiful wife to a powerful and wealthy duke. She was a duchess, but more than that she was a kind woman. It was her kindness that slayed him. She'd cared enough about a nobody like him to tutor him in reading. He'd been poor and illiterate, but she told him he had a future. And then she'd given him one with her patient instruction. How many hours had he watched her mouth form words, her delicate fingers trace writing on the page, the firelight limn her hair until it glowed blue-black? The arch of her brow, the curve of her cheek, the tilt of her chin—he knew her face as well as his own. How could he have not fallen in love with her?

"Not used to dancing? That is a tragedy. You should dance often, and with a man who worships the ground where you tread."

Her lovely blue eyes widened. "If I were to wait for a man like that, sir, I would never dance." The music began and they came together, touching palms.

"You are dancing with one such man now, madam," he said and then stepped back.

She stared at him, her attention drifting only momentarily when she had to execute one of the figures. He knew she remembered him. He'd seen the flash of recognition in her eyes when he'd been standing at the refreshment table. He'd noted her the moment she and her family arrived at the ball. He'd watched her, unable to catch his breath at the sight of her. All of these years, and his feelings for her had not changed. _She_ had not changed. Oh, she was a little older, a little sadder, but she was just as lovely. Perhaps she was even more beautiful. It was he who had convinced his friend Lucy Frost, the Countess of Winterson, to invite the de Valère family to her annual ball.

The dowager duchess had declined the invitation last year. He'd been determined to find another way to meet her, but with the rising tensions between France and England, he had been occupied by missions and assignments and had no opportunity to pursue her.

But she was here now, a breath away and reaching for him. He took her small hand as they turned, their gazes locked on each other as their bodies circled. "I know you remember me," he said. "I have thought of you often over the years."

"As I have you. You disappeared after you left us in London."

Gabriel raised a brow. "Did you worry about me?"

"Yes. I would have given you employment."

He laughed. "As a footman?" He shook his head. " _Pas pour moi, merci_."

"I did not mean—"

He placed a finger over her lips before she could continue. Her eyes grew wide at his too-familiar gesture, and in his peripheral vision he saw her son Julien take a step toward them. So much like his father, that one. So protective. But Rowena did not need protection from him. "I am not offended," he told her. "I helped you and your son because that was what any decent man would have done, not because I wanted anything in return. I was a footman, but after what I saw in the revolution, I knew I had a greater purpose."

"And now you are a spy?" she whispered.

" _Oui._ And also a courier of sorts." They separated for the next form and came back together.

"A courier of what, if I might ask?"

"Men," he answered, unwilling and unable to say more. "But I am not so talented a spy. After all, you recognized me immediately."

She blushed, a pretty pink color infusing her cheeks. He wanted to touch those cheeks, to caress them and feel their heat beneath the pad of his thumb.

For years he'd been numb. He lost his home and all he had known when he'd fled France for England. And then he'd not dared allow himself to feel lest his emotions interfere with his work. He was a spy against the country of his birth—a country gone mad with bloodlust, a country he could no longer recognize. England was his home now. It had taken him in, enfolded him in its dank, cold arms and given him the hope of building a new life.

Not as a footman. No, he would never serve again. But he found new opportunities open to him. He tutored the children of the _haute ton_ in French, and he found a position with a man who worked in the Aliens Office. Lord Wickham saw something in Gabriel he hadn't seen himself. He'd trained him as a spy and sent Gabriel back to France, this time on behalf of England.

Throughout all those years, Gabriel had not forgotten Rowena, the beautiful _duchesse_ de Valère. In fact, there were times he imagined his work was in tribute to her, to avenge the wrongs done to her and her family. But that time in his life was over. He was no longer the French Fox. He had a title—the rumors of his knighthood were true—and he had a little land. Now he wanted to share his life with someone—no, not _someone_ —her. Rowena.

"It was your eyes I recalled," she said. "They are quite memorable."

"Your Grace." He inclined his head at the compliment. "Thank you. I am flattered you remembered me." And relieved. He'd feared that if she did not accept the countess's invitation this year, he might have to abduct her in order to see her again.

"I could hardly forget you after the service you did us."

He shook his head. "You would have been fine on your own. I merely assisted you. I was but a youth. You were the one who had the strength to see all three of us through the ordeals that followed." He led them down the line of men and women on either side of them.

"That is not true, and you know it," she said with passion in her voice. "You saved my life—mine and Julien's. If there is any way I can repay you—" But they were parted again, and he stood across from her as couples promenaded past them. He knew how she might repay him. He knew what he wanted.

Her.

He'd always wanted her.

And so when he took her hand for the last form of the dance, he leaned close until he was enveloped by the scent of lavender. His lips brushed her ear and were teased, in turn, by the velvet of her skin. "If you wish to repay me," he whispered against her hair, "meet me in the blue parlor in a few moments' time. I must speak with you. Alone." The music ended, and he bowed to her. He would have escorted her off the floor, but Julien came to meet them. He took his mother's hand and led her away. Gabriel watched as Rowena followed her son. She turned once to look back at him and, with a smile, Gabriel moved toward the parlor he'd arranged to have empty in the hopes she'd deign to see him alone.

He was as nervous as a boy before his first kiss. He had one chance to win her, to seduce her, to make her love him. He was, once again, hopelessly in love with her.

# Two

Considering she owed him her life, Rowena could hardly turn down a simple request to meet Gabriel in the parlor. Nor could she tell anyone she was going to meet a man either. Julien would insist on accompanying her, and she did not need a chaperone. She was the mother of three and a widow. She was a dowager, for goodness sake—and didn't that title make her feel elderly! Her reputation was not at stake. She could be alone with the man who had saved her life, and there was nothing scandalous about it. Nothing. Nothing at all. And as soon as her heart listened to her mind, it would stop thumping wildly. Her skin where he'd touched her, where his breath had caressed her, would cease burning.

"I cannot believe I did not recognize him immediately," Julien was saying as he led her back to the circle of her sons and their wives. "We should do something to thank him for all he did for us."

"Is he in need of anything, Rowena?" Sarah asked. "Was that why he wanted to dance with you?"

"He is not in need of anything," she said, "and I do not think he wants to be repaid. He helped Julien and me because it was the right thing to do, not because he expected anything in return." But what did he expect now? What did he want from her? A kiss? She shivered in anticipation. More than a kiss? Oh, yes, _please_.

"The man is still doing good deeds," Raeven said. "The French would love nothing better than to capture the sly French Fox."

"And the English are grateful for his services," Bastien added. "Our family, in particular, owes him a debt of gratitude for saving _maman_ 's life."

"Really?" Felicity clapped her hands. "How romantic!"

"It is not romantic," Julien said. "I am pleased for the man, grateful to him, but I cannot help but wonder why he asked you to dance, _ma mère_."

Everyone looked at her expectantly. Rowena straightened her shoulders and rose to her full height. "And why should a man _not_ ask a woman to dance? I am not yet so old or ugly as to be incapable of attracting a man." And suddenly she needed to prove that to be true. She needed to feel attractive and desired again. Gabriel made her feel that way.

The group fell silent, all staring at her with shocked expressions. Except Bastien. He was grinning. "Well said, Mother."

"Not well said," Julien cut in. "He is at least ten years younger than you, _ma mère_."

"What _are_ you saying, Julien? That I am too old to attract a man like Gabriel?"

"He is a footman!"

"Not anymore," she shot back. No, he had ceased being a mere footman when he'd saved her life. And tonight, tonight he had practically swept her off her feet. He was so much more than a footman.

Sarah stepped forward. "Julien does have a point. Perhaps the man is a fortune hunter."

Rowena scoffed. "Do you think me so bad a judge of character?"

"No!"

" _Ma mère!_

Everyone was speaking at once, arguing and gesturing wildly. A few people nearby turned to watch the Valère family antics with curiosity. For her part, Rowena only wanted to escape. Was Gabriel already in the blue parlor?

"Stop," Armand said quietly. It was as though a thunderbolt struck. Everyone stilled. "If _maman_ approves of the man, then I do. Without him, Julien and, consequently, I might be dead."

Felicity put a hand on his arm. Rowena felt tears sting her eyes, and she gave Armand a grateful smile. Now was her opportunity. "Excuse me," she said. "I must find the ladies retiring room."

"I will come with you," Raeven said.

Rowena gave the girl a look, and Raeven shrank back. "Actually, Bastien was just about to ask me to dance."

With a nod, Rowena walked away, crossing the ballroom with her head held high. She had crossed this very same ballroom an hour or so ago when she had arrived, but she felt different now. Then she had been tired and annoyed that she was expected to attend the ball. Now she practically glided across the floor. A man had asked her to dance with him. A man had touched her lips, had seemed to desire her. Good Lord, she might even now be going to meet him for a tête-à-tête. She felt giddy and elated and light as air.

She had not felt this way since...since the first years of her marriage to Philip. She smiled as she thought of him. Philip had loved her so, and he would not begrudge her this romance so long after his passing. He would have wanted her to be happy, to enjoy life.

The sounds of the ball faded quickly when she stepped into the entrance hall. It boasted a gently curved white marble staircase with ornate ironwork and bright blue carpets. The iron railings were festooned with fragrant boughs of greenery. A servant of indeterminate years—perhaps thirty, perhaps closer to her own age—stood with his back to the wall, staring above her head.

"Excuse me," she said.

"Your Grace." He stepped forward, and she realized that he must be the butler. He did not wear livery; instead, he was dressed in a dark suit of rather fine material. He was a typical butler—a handsome man, noticeably tall, with a full head of brown hair and a pleasing, if stony, face.

"Are you Lady Winterson's butler?"

"I am Philbert, her ladyship's butler, Your Grace. How may I be of service?"

"I was looking for the blue parlor, Philbert." Rowena felt her cheeks heat and she willed herself to stop blushing. She was no green girl. She was doing nothing scandalous—well, not so _very_ scandalous at any rate.

"The _blue_ parlor, Your Grace?"

"Yes."

"Very good. Right this way, Your Grace."

He led her across the entrance hall and to a door, which was slightly ajar. "This is the music room, Your Grace. If you pass through it, you will find yourself in the blue parlor."

"Thank you."

He stepped in front of the door, blocking her path. "You will need this if you are to enter the blue parlor, Your Grace."

She looked down, expecting him to hand her a lantern or a candle in case she desired more light, but instead he held out a small leaf. No, actually, it was not a leaf at all. "Philbert, this is mistletoe."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"I do not need mistletoe, Philbert."

"Of course not, Your Grace." But he held the mistletoe out to her nonetheless.

"Philbert, I do not want the mistletoe." How would she explain to Gabriel why she was carrying mistletoe? He would think she wanted to be kissed. Did she want to be kissed again after all these years? She rather thought that yes, she did. But she was not going to use mistletoe to accomplish it.

"I am afraid you may not enter the blue parlor without it, Your Grace. I have my instructions, you see."

She stared at him. "Are you suggesting I must take the mistletoe or you will not allow me to enter the blue parlor?"

"I do not make the rules, Your Grace."

She was wasting time, and this conversation was ridiculous. She yanked the mistletoe out of the butler's hand and said through clenched teeth, "Thank you, Philbert. That will be all."

"You are most welcome, Your Grace." He stepped aside, and she could have sworn that the man winked at her. But that was not possible, was it? Servants did not wink at their employers' guests. This was turning into a strange night. A very strange night, she thought as she pushed the door to the music room open and strode through it. She felt foolish carrying the sprig of mistletoe in her hand, but she did not set it down. She should have. Something made her cling to it—nervousness or hope or...anticipation?

She continued to walk, her legs feeling heavier with each passing step. Where was the sparkle and lightness of the ballroom?

At the far end of the music room another door greeted her. This one was closed, and she paused before it. This must be the door to the blue parlor. Her hand shook as she reached for it. Was Gabriel already inside? Had he given up on her? Had he changed his mind and decided he did not want to meet her at all?

And was she going to stand here all night like a ninny?

Rowena opened the door. The room before her glittered with the flickering light of a dozen candles. Hothouse flowers graced several vases, their intoxicating scents permeating the air. On the floor a sparkling path of winking spangles led to the man on the other side of the room. Gabriel turned to face her. Her legs went from feeling as though they were made of lead to feeling as though they were supported by nothing more than water. She wobbled slightly before she regained her balance and took a step forward. Into the room. Onto the magical path.

"You came," he said simply. She saw his gaze drop to her hand, and she realized she was still clutching the mistletoe. Oh, why had she not tossed it on a table in the music room?

"Have you brought me something?" he asked.

"No." She held up the mistletoe, looking for somewhere to toss it. "I was given this—"

His brow rose. "By whom? Another man desiring to kiss you?"

"No, of course..." She blinked at him. "You desire to...to..." She could not even say it. Her mind whirled, and she felt as though she'd been enchanted by the candles and the glitter and... _him_.

He moved to close the distance between them, and she caught her breath. He smelled of something dark and masculine—leather and spicy musk. It had been a long time since she had been surrounded by such a masculine scent. She gripped the mistletoe more tightly, and he reached for her wrist, wrapping his fingers about it and lifting her hand.

"Does that shock you?" he asked, the heat of his bare fingers penetrating the fabric of her gloves. "That a man would want to kiss you? You are a beautiful woman, Your Grace."

"Rowena," she whispered, wanting to hear her name on his tongue.

"Rowena." He did not disappoint. His lips wrapped around her name, his voice making her shiver. "May I tell you a secret, Rowena?" His hand trailed up her arm until he reached the top of her glove. She gasped in a breath at the meeting of flesh against flesh. A fire seemed to kindle within her, sending sparks, as bright as the spangles littering the floor, coursing through her. His fingers were rough and callused, and she could imagine the hardened skin caressing the softness of her breast, bringing her nipple to a stiff, aching peak.

"What sort of secret?"

"An old secret." His finger lingered on the bare skin between her glove and the sleeve of her gown.

"Please." She did not know, exactly, what she was asking. _Please_ would he continue to touch her or _please_ would he tell her the secret. She only knew that her voice was husky and low, and she could not manage to speak above a hushed whisper.

"I have been in love with you for years. I fell in love with you the first time I saw you."

"But...I..." She did not know what she had thought he might say, but that was not it. He couldn't have been in love with her all those years ago, and how could he love her now? He did not even know her. But she did not know the French Fox, and she'd fallen in love with him—with his courage and arrogance and fearlessness.

"I know what you will say," Gabriel murmured. "You were married and I was hardly even a man, but in all those hours we spent together, I came to know you and to love you. My feelings were genuine and pure. The _duc_ was a good man. I loved him like a father."

A father? Her heart sank, heavy with disappointment. "And I am certain you loved me in the same way. Like a mother."

"Oh, no _ma belle_. I do not think of you in that way at all." The look in his eyes, filled with passion banked and waiting, told her exactly how he thought of her now.

She shook her head, overwhelmed by the desire she saw in his gaze. "I am far too old for you."

He laughed, and the sound rumbled through her. "You, old? No, Rowena. You are young and lush. What is ten years when I have waited for you so many more?"

"You cannot mean what you say." But, oh, how she wanted him to prove her wrong.

"If my words do not convince you, then allow me to show you with my actions." His hand moved from her arm to cup the back of her neck. His fingers were cool and firm and they plunged into the hair at the base of her chignon. His other arm wrapped about her waist, holding her firmly, bringing her body to his until they almost touched. She had not been held like this in longer than she could remember. She should tell him to unhand her, but for the life of her, she did not want him to release her. She wanted him to pull her closer until she was pressed against him, until their bodies were flush with the warmth and heat of each other. His shoulders were wide and his chest broad under the tight coat he wore, and she had noted his muscular legs in his tight breeches. What would his body feel like twined with hers? She imagined it would be something akin to warm steel...

She looked at his face and saw in it traces of the brave man he had been all those years before. He would have given his life to save her and Julien. But she remembered something else as well. Before that awful night, before the revolution, she could remember passing him in the halls of the chateau. He always had a smile and a pleasant word or nod for her. He was always at her elbow if she had need of anything, always eager to learn or to please her. She remembered looking forward to seeing him each day and thought they might have been friends had their stations in life not been so different.

Could they be friends now? Could they be more than friends?

She felt his fingers splay on her back, sending little rays of warmth up her skin. "May I?" he asked.

Oh, she knew what he was asking. He wanted to kiss her, but it was so much more than that. He might as well have asked, _may I steal your heart?,_ because that was what he was doing. The French Fox had captured her, taken her captive.

He waited for her response, patient as no untried youth could ever be. She found that her heart still pounded from anxiousness, but also from the elation and the thrill of being in a man's arms—a handsome man. A man she desired. "Yes, you may," she answered him, eager for the feel of his lips on hers.

She did not wait for him to kiss her. She rose on tiptoes and bridged the gap between them, pressing her lips softly to his, feeling the shock of heat flare between them. Ah, delicious, delicious heat that radiated from her lips to her cheeks and down to her chest. Her breasts felt heavy, her nipples sensitive as they hardened into tight buds.

For a moment, he did not move, did not respond. Rowena was afraid she had shocked him, but then his mouth slanted over hers, his lips gentle but oh so persuasive as he captured her with a kiss. He coaxed her lips open and slid his tongue inside her mouth, teasing her with a light, playful stroke. The heat swirled lower, settling in her belly and trickling down until she felt the first stirrings of desire.

How had she existed for so long without this delicious sensation racing through her? How had she lived all these years without the feel of a man's body pressed to hers, the touch of his mouth on her?

The answer was quite simple: she had not really been living at all.

Gabriel's head was spinning. He was completely sober and yet he felt as though he were mightily foxed. Kissing Rowena was not at all like he'd imagined. It was so much more.

It seemed impossible that after all these years and all of his fantasies—his very detailed fantasies—he finally held her in his arms. She was kissing him back, responding to his touch. It seemed impossible that the protective numbness he'd cloaked himself in all these years should fade away as easily as the morning mist. Quite suddenly, he could feel the incredible softness of her skin and the weight of her thick, dark hair on his fingertips. It seemed impossible that the ice around his heart should melt, and the old feelings, the old affection for her, should return so strongly and so completely.

She wrapped her arms about him, pressing her body closer to his, curling into him. She fit him perfectly, and he could imagine sliding into her, feeling her arch beneath him as he pleasured her. At the thought, he knew he must taste her. He broke their kiss and slid his mouth to the curve of her jaw. She smelled like lavender, and he inhaled, determined to sear the scent in his mind. He wanted to remember everything about this moment. His lips brushed the hollow beneath her jaw and then teased the skin of her neck. She shivered and whispered his name.

The sound of his name on her lips was enough to send him over the edge. He struggled to control his desire. He had waited for her all these years. He could wait forever if need be. He broke the kiss and looked down at her, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright.

" _Tu es si belle_ ," he murmured. "I am afraid of what might happen if we continue this way. _Je te désire_ , Rowena."

She swallowed. "I want you too, Gabriel."

"Then you must allow me to call on you tomorrow. I will court you as is proper and ask you to marry me every day until you agree."

"Marry you?" Her eyes flared with shock.

Had she thought he wanted her as a mistress? He would never dishonor her so.

"But how can you want to marry a woman my age?"

"Yes." He chuckled. "What was I thinking? A beautiful, vibrant woman in the prime of her life. How could I want to marry a woman like that? How could I want a woman like that in my bed?"

"Gabriel!"

God help him. He should not speak this to her, but it was true. He wanted her. He wanted to hear her moan his name, feel her shiver with the pleasure he gave her. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and hold her while she slept, wake with her in the morning to see the sun shining on her porcelain skin. He wanted to watch as, over the years, lines and creases deepened on her skin, her hair turned gray, her gait slowed. Gabriel could only dream of being at her side for all of it. He'd never thought to have this chance with her, and now he clenched his fists to keep from going too far. "I do want you in my bed, Rowena," he said, watching the lovely flush of color on her cheeks. "I have been imagining such a thing for many years, imagining all the ways I might pleasure you."

She sighed, her breath shaky as her breasts rose and fell. If her reaction was any indication, she wanted him too.

"Will you allow me to call on you?"

"Yes," she whispered without hesitation.

"Good." He lifted her hand and kissed it. They stood facing one another, hearts beating as one, attempting to catch their breath.

"This room"—she indicated the parlor—"the glitter, the flowers. You planned this."

"I _prayed_ for this, Rowena. And you came to me. Do you like it?"

"I love it." She smiled shyly. "But you did not need the mistletoe. I wanted to kiss you."

"And I you, but I am confused. I did not give you the mistletoe or plan for you to receive it."

"But Philbert—"

"Ah." He nodded. "It seems we are the fortunate couple this season. Once again, this ball has worked its magic." He brushed his lips over her knuckles. "And now I fear we must say _au revoir_ before we are discovered."

"Goodbye?" She blinked at him. He was backing away, unable to remain in this room with her and not kiss her again, not push her down onto one of the lovely chaises and kiss her until they were both senseless with need.

"Until we meet again." He had almost reached the door when she stepped toward him.

"Wait."

He stopped abruptly, and Rowena noted the way his expression turned steely as though he were prepared for the worst sort of news. She had not thought to mention her sons, to mention that Julien, in particular, would not approve of a match between them. At one time, she would have seen his point. Was she not too old to be matched? Was she not too old to be courted? She had thought all of that behind her, but now...now she wondered if such a thing was possible at her age. Was she being silly? Would she become the laughingstock of the _ton_ if she fell in love with and married—good Lord, she was a grandmother!— _married_ a footman?

But when she looked at Gabriel, she did not care. When she looked at him, she saw the man who had been there in her greatest hour of need. She saw a man she knew she could rely on. She saw a man whose eyes reflected desire for her.

Did she really care whether Julien or Bastien or Armand approved? Did she care what the _ton_ whispered about her?

No. She had faced worse fates than swirling gossip or the censure of her children. Her sons would come around. She would insist upon it. And the _beau monde_ could go hang itself.

Rowena crossed the room in three long strides and wrapped her arm about Gabriel's. He smiled down at her, surprise in his eyes.

"I do not want to say _au revoir_."

He raised a brow. "No?"

"No. Do you know what I _do_ want, sir?"

"I hope you will always tell me. I will give you anything you desire."

"I want to dance again. I want to dance with you all night."

His lips curved. "What will people say?"

"Who cares?"

" _Exactement_." He bent to kiss her hand, and when he looked up at her from under his lashes, his smoldering blue-green eyes were full of promise.

With a lightness in her step she had not felt in years, she allowed herself to be led from the blue parlor. In the entrance hall, the fragrance of pine and beeswax mingled, and the outer door opened and closed, giving her a glimpse of the snow falling outside. "Gabriel," she said happily. "It is snowing. We will have a white Christmas."

He smiled, led her inside the ballroom, where the music swelled with passion, and took her in his arms.

When all was quiet in the entrance hall, two figures stepped out of separate nooks. One was Lucy Frost, Lady Winterson. The other was her faithful butler. The two glanced at one another, as though exchanging a secret, and then as one turned toward the music room. Philbert held the door for his mistress and followed her through the music room to the blue parlor.

Once there, Lucy put a hand to her mouth and drew in a delighted breath. "There, on the floor, Philbert."

"I see it, my lady."

"One of them must have trampled the mistletoe," she said. "I am afraid it cannot be saved."

"I will cut another sprig, my lady," he said. "If you require it."

She bent to lift the crushed leaves and held them up, smiling at him. "Do you know, Philbert, I do believe this sprig still has some magic left."

The End

**Shana Galen is the national bestselling author of fast-paced adventurous Regency historicals, including the RT Reviewers' Choice** _The Making of a Gentleman_ **. She's happily married to a man she calls Ultimate Sportsfan and has a daughter who is most definitely a romance heroine in the making.**

For more information on Shana's books or to see what she's up to daily, visit these links.

**Website:** www.shanagalen.com

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**For more information on other books in the Sons of the Revolution series,** click here **.**

# One Kiss for Christmas

A Regency Short Story

By

VANESSA KELLY

Copyright © 2013 by Vanessa Kelly

Dedicated to my readers who've been waiting for Nigel Dash's happily ever after

My heartfelt thanks to Shana Galen, Anna Campbell, and Kate Noble. It's been wonderful working with you gals – let's do it again! And many thanks to my critique partner Debbie Mason, who always has the answer to every plot problem.

London

December, 1818

"Good God, simply tell the girl how you feel," Silverton advised, clearly exasperated. "You cannot spend your life brooding about her behind marble pillars and potted plants. It's undignified."

Nigel Dash raised his eyebrows with incredulous disdain before realizing there were two problems with that unspoken response. The first was that no one could affect disdain better than the Marquess of Silverton. The second was that his best friend was right. When it came to Miss Amelia Easton, Nigel's behavior was undignified.

That, however, was not a conversation Nigel intended to have, so he added in the politely sardonic voice he'd perfected years ago, "What a load of rot, old man. Been dipping into the champagne punch again, have you?"

Silverton looked mortally offended. "You know very well that I never allow champagne punch to cross my lips, especially the watered down swill Lady Framingham serves."

"It's swill because she always invites too many people," Nigel said, glancing around the packed ballroom. "She waters the bloody stuff down. You'd think Lord Framingham would know better, but he's a nip-farthing if there ever was one."

"Forget the punch. You need to do something about Miss Easton and you need to do it soon, or else you'll miss your chance."

Nigel scowled, resisting Silverton's efforts to back him into a corner. Most days, he did his best not to think about Amelia, much less give the impression he was paying her any sort of extraordinary attention. "It's beyond me why you're making such ill-judged assumptions about my feelings toward Miss Easton. She's simply a...a..."

At a loss to describe the exact nature of his relationship with Amelia, Nigel trailed off. Almost unconsciously, his gaze shifted across the immense ballroom to fasten on the girl, inexorably pulled to her like metal filings to a magnet. He could barely make her out since she was surrounded by her usual jostling court of ardent admirers, most of them titled, wealthy, and considerably handsomer than Nigel.

If he was honest with himself, he'd have to admit that obsession would be the most accurate description of his feelings, and he hadn't the slightest notion as to when or how that obsession had developed. However it had happened, over the last several months a ridiculous amount of space in his skull had been taken up by thoughts of lovely Amelia Easton.

Fortunately, until now, none of his acquaintances had suspected that he—the most sensible man in the ton—had succumbed to such a maudlin, hopeless passion. A hopeless passion, since Amelia Easton would no sooner marry a man like Nigel than she would a butcher from Smithfield. After all, she was widely acknowledged as one of the great prizes on the matrimonial mart—beautiful, kind, good-natured, and disgustingly rich, or at least her father was. It was a most potent combination, and meant that the girl couldn't step foot outside her family's Mayfair townhouse without a pack of slavering bachelors in pursuit.

"How did you figure it out?" he asked Silverton. "I haven't said a word to a soul, and I've been damn careful around Miss Easton, too."

The very idea that she might discover his weakness for her made his blood run cold. Amelia was a sweet girl, but she'd surely burst into laughter at the idea of dependable and boring Nigel Dash falling in love with the most sought-after girl in London.

Silverton propped his broad shoulders against one of the marble pillars that ringed Lady Framingham's stiflingly hot ballroom. Nigel had never been one to envy his friends, no matter how wealthy, titled, or handsome. He came from an old and distinguished family and had enough money to last him ten lifetimes. More importantly, he was wealthy in friends, and had a mother and sister—both bang-up to the mark—who were devoted to him. He'd never had any cause for envy or complaint.

Until a few months ago, anyway, when he realized he was hopelessly smitten with Amelia.

Silverton gave him a sheepish smile. "It wasn't me who deduced your feelings. It was Meredith."

Nigel didn't know whether to be resigned or appalled, but after a moment's consideration he decided the latter best summed up his reaction. "I beg you to tell me that your esteemed wife has not shared her insights with anyone else."

"Of course not, but we're both mystified that you're holding back. Miss Easton is clearly still available. Not only has she been out for several Seasons, she's cried off from two engagements with two exceedingly eligible suitors. The field would thus appear to be wide open. And, Nigel, it's long past time you got married," Silverton added with the annoying complacency of a happily married man. "You're thirty-four already."

"Not until next month. And may I remind you that you were the same advanced age when you married Meredith."

"I was simply waiting for the right woman."

"Well, so am I," Nigel retorted.

"Don't hold out too long, old man." As the orchestra struck up a waltz, Silverton's aristocratic features grew thoughtful. "Besides, I think you have found the right girl. Miss Easton's temperament would suit yours quite well, I believe."

Nigel agreed but, feeling more ill-tempered by the moment, he turned toward the dance floor with a good idea of what he would see—Amelia led into the waltz by one of her apparently endless stream of swains. This time it was Lord Broadmore, the man everyone regarded as the current favorite in the Amelia sweepstakes. The arrogant lord's possessive demeanor as he guided her into the first turn of the waltz told Nigel that Broadmore believed he was Amelia's favorite, too. And why not? He was rich, handsome, and heir to the Marquess of Lovering. Just the sort of fellow Amelia would no doubt wish to marry.

"Blast it, Silverton, just look at the collection of suitors she's got trailing after her, especially Broadmore." Nigel gloomily watched the broad-shouldered Corinthian sweep Amelia gracefully down the room. "What girl wouldn't want to be romanced by someone who looks like bloody Prince Charming?"

Silverton frowned. "And you're what? The frog on the lily pad?"

"Hardly, but I can't compete with Broadmore. He's got every girl in town half in love with him already. Why not Amelia?"

"Because Broadmore's an arrogant ass. Do you really want Miss Easton spending the rest of her life with him? You'd be doing the poor girl a service by stealing him a march."

Nigel had never looked at it that way before. Broadmore was an arrogant ass, one who had a great deal more bottom than brains.

Not that Amelia seemed to think so. As she and Broadmore spun past him, her light-hearted laugh drifted behind her, shimmering like fairy dust in the air.

"I see your point," Nigel replied. "But Amelia doesn't seem the least bit bothered by Broadmore's character defects." He tried to ignore the way his heart twisted into a hard knot at the thought of Amelia married to another man.

Silverton snorted. "Don't bet on it. Miss Easton is polite to everyone, including asses like Broadmore. Besides, I understand her parents are doing their best to promote the match. I suspect Miss Easton is reluctant to disappoint them, given the unfortunate gossip surrounding her failed engagements."

Many in the ton had labeled Amelia both a jilt and a flirt for crying off, unfair labels that infuriated Nigel. Amelia was no flirt, but a kind person who was too accommodating by half. Neither of the men she'd ultimately rejected had been good enough for her, and Nigel had applauded her courage in breaking the engagements. "If Miss Easton's parents support the match it's bloody unlikely she'll go against their wishes."

Silverton dismissed that objection with the wave of a hand. "First of all, if I were a girl I'd much rather marry you than Broadmore—"

"Yes, well, you're obviously not a girl, so your opinion on the matter is rather suspect."

"And," Silverton said, ignoring the interruption, "you're also one of the richest men in England. Parents love to marry their daughters off to men like you."

Nigel simply grunted. He hated talking about money, but Silverton was correct. Despite the ton's general impression that his family lived in a respectable but fairly modest style, they were, in fact, disgustingly rich. His father had invested his small, inherited fortune with great care and to good effect, and Nigel's efforts in the years since the old fellow's death had been nothing short of spectacular.

"That's all well and good, but Sir Mitchell and his wife are aiming for a title for Amelia," he pointed out. "They've always been ambitious in that regard."

Silverton scoffed. "Miss Easton never struck me as a girl dangling after a title."

Nigel glanced at Amelia again, being led off the floor by Broadmore. Her cheeks were brightly flushed and a tiny frown marked her normally clear brow. She looked hot and out of sorts, and a moment later snapped open her fan to apply it with vigorous effect. When Broadmore filched the dainty little frippery from her hand with a laugh and started to languidly fan her, Nigel thought she struggled to maintain a pleasant expression.

"Well, Nigel?" Silverton's sardonic tone drew him back to the conversation.

"You're right in that I wouldn't expect Miss Easton to hold the lack of a title against a fellow, but she doesn't think about me as a...prospective suitor." Nigel paused, forcing himself to accept the grim reality. "She sees me only as a friend."

And that had been the story of Nigel's life. He was everyone's easy-going friend, and the perfect man to chat with old ladies or put shy debs at their ease. The best man to smooth over awkward moments, soothe flustered spinsters, or joke scowling dowagers out of a pet. And, normally, Nigel didn't mind that role. He enjoyed lending a hand when needed and genuinely liked talking to people—all sorts of people, even the grumpiest of old dowagers.

He was, quite simply, good, old Nigel Dash, the most dependable man in the ton, but certainly not a dashing suitor—a true irony, given his name. In the eyes of most young ladies—including Amelia Easton, he suspected—dependable was only a short step away from boring.

Silverton poked him in the shoulder. "Then you'll have to change her mind. Make her see you in a different light, like I did with Meredith. You have to take control and sweep the bloody girl off her feet."

Nigel eyed Silverton's tall, golden magnificence. Women had thrown themselves at him for years, before his marriage. They still tried to fall at his feet, but Silverton had eyes only for his wife.

Women did not throw themselves at Nigel's feet, no matter how much he might like them to. "That's all very well for you to say, but look at you and then look at me."

Silverton frowned. "I don't follow."

"My dear fellow, you may be a dimwitted aristocrat but you've never been arrogant about your personal attributes," Nigel said with a wry smile.

Not that he considered himself a toad. He'd been told on more than one occasion that his looks were pleasing. More than one young lady had commented approvingly on his blue eyes, and he did have a good head of brown, wavy hair. But as for the rest of him, he was merely of average height and tended to be lean rather than muscular. No matter how much he trained at Jackson's Saloon, he only got leaner and tougher rather than imposing and muscled.

Of course, his fencing skills were second to none, but unless he and Amelia happened upon privateers or highwaymen, Nigel was unlikely to have the opportunity to display that sort of prowess.

Once again, his gaze unconsciously sought her out, but this time it snapped into sharp focus. "Blast it, what are those idiots doing to the poor girl?"

"What's that?" Silverton asked.

"Amelia is clearly feeling the heat," he growled, "and yet those bounders clustered around her are barely giving her room to breathe. Broadmore still hasn't fetched the poor girl a cool drink, either."

"Hmm, she does look rather overcome, doesn't she?" Silverton cut him a sideways glance. "You should do something about it. It'll give you the perfect opportunity to play knight in shining armor."

"Dash to the rescue again," Nigel retorted. "How very predictable of me."

His friend unleashed a taunting grin. "But you do it so well, old man."

"Bugger you," Nigel tossed over his shoulder before pushing his way through the crowd. Silverton's mocking laugh followed him.

Even from a distance he could see the hectic flush of Amelia's normally creamy complexion, her glossy brown curls wilting around her cheeks. She'd retrieved her fan from Broadmore and was waving it madly, not that Broadmore or her other swains appeared to take notice. They'd practically backed the poor girl into a stand of potted plants, each of them clearly loath to cede his position to another suitor.

Idiots.

Quickly, Nigel made his way through the jostling bodies around the dance floor, easing through with a touch of a hand on a shoulder and a quietly murmured apology. People smiled and gave way, allowing him to pass with a minimum of fuss.

"Good evening, Miss Easton," he said as he took advantage of a small gap to slip between Patterson and Morris, two of Amelia's more devoted pursuers.

"I say, Dash," Patterson expostulated. "No need to push a man to the ground, is there?"

Nigel had given him a bit of a shove, but pushing to the ground was an overstatement. "Forgive me, old son," he said. "Barely saw you, what with the crush." He took the tightly gloved hand Amelia had extended to him and bowed over it. "Miss Easton, it's a wonder you can even breathe with this pack of fellows looming over you."

"Yes, it is rather a mob tonight, isn't it?" Amelia replied. Her normally cheerful voice sounded strained. "I feel like I'm in the tropics, particularly since I seem to be standing in the middle of a jungle." She cast a glance up at a large palm frond that was doing its best to tangle with the spangled comb set behind her top knot.

Nigel released her hand, giving her a swift but thorough inspection. Amelia could never be less than lovely, regardless of difficult circumstances. She had a porcelain complexion—when she wasn't expiring from the heat—as well as large, sherry-colored eyes and a generous, laughing mouth that could soften the hardest of hearts. But as far as he was concerned, it was her jaw that made her so much more than pretty. Square-cut and determined, it ended in a sweetly stubborn little chin that spoke of the independent spirit that usually hid behind her innately accommodating nature.

"Yes, it is beastly hot in here," Nigel said. "Perhaps you might care to step with me to the refreshment table for a cup of cold punch or, better yet, allow me to find you a seat in the supper room. I imagine it's cooler in there."

Her lush mouth curved up in a grateful smile. "Oh, Mr. Dash, that would be wonderful. I'd love to sit down." She cast a glance at Broadmore. "Especially after my waltz with his lordship. He has quite a vigorous style of dancing, you know. I was quite worn out by the time we quit the floor."

Although delivered in a teasing tone, Amelia's gentle rebuke struck home. The big lout had dragged her around the dance floor and then hadn't even had the good grace to fetch her refreshments.

"Oh, hang it, Amelia," Broadmore complained. "If you wanted to sit down you should have said so. I'm not a mind reader, you know."

Irritation lashed up Nigel's spine like the sting of a whip. Not only had Broadmore neglected Amelia's comfort, his casual use of her first name indicated an intimacy and possessiveness that bordered on the insulting.

"Rest assured I will not repeat the mistake, Lord Broadmore," Amelia returned in a polite voice. Then she turned a dazzling smile on Nigel. "I would be delighted to stroll with you to the supper room, Mr. Dash. I find myself quite in need of sustenance. Not to mention I fear you stand in grave danger of being trampled if we don't remove ourselves immediately."

Since Patterson was currently poking Nigel between the shoulder blades and Morris had just elbowed him in the side, Amelia's observation had considerable merit. But before he could extend his hand to her, Broadmore shouldered him aside. Nigel's fingers automatically rolled into a fist, and it took some discipline to keep his temper within reasonable bounds.

"I'll take Amelia out on the terrace for a breath of air, Dash," Broadmore said. "You and the rest of this lot can go bother someone else."

Nigel frowned. Broadmore was an ass, but even he knew better than to act with such reckless disregard for Amelia's reputation. What the hell was the matter with him?

Amelia stared at his lordship with open astonishment. "Take me out for a breath of air? It's the middle of December!"

"Besides," Morris piped up, "wouldn't do to be stepping out so privately with a fellow, Miss Easton. Lord knows what people would say if they got wind of it."

When Broadmore leveled a furious glare at Morris, Nigel understood. The bastard was not only trying to stake out his claim on Amelia, he wanted to hurry things along by putting her in a compromising position.

"Thank you for the warning, Mr. Morris," Amelia said with a kind smile. "But I have no intention of stepping outside with anyone."

"Of course you don't," Nigel said cheerfully. "Now, if you'll take my arm, Miss Easton—"

Broadmore shouldered him aside. Again.

"Dash, why don't you run along?" he said. "There must be some doddering old ladies or stammering debs to attend to. That's what you're good for, isn't it? Not squiring the ladies."

Nigel heard the murmur of disapproving voices from the small circle. Amelia's other suitors might feel a mild degree of resentment that he was about to whisk her away, but they were generally a good lot.

And they all counted Nigel as a friend.

"Now that you mention it, Broadmore, I had quite an engaging conversation with your grandmother this very hour," Nigel replied. "No man in his right mind would call her doddering. And I enjoyed leading your sister into a set, as well. She may just be out this year, but she's an entirely agreeable girl. Didn't stutter once, as I recall." He affected a puzzled frown. "Can't imagine where you'd get the idea that your relations are anything less than charming, Broadmore. Really, not the done thing to insult them, you know. Family is family, after all."

By this time, Broadmore's ears had turned beet red. But before he could respond, Amelia let out a delighted laugh. "I believe he has you, Lord Broadmore," she said as she took Nigel's arm. "I hope you have learned your lesson. Mr. Dash, if you are ready, I would dearly love that cup of punch."

With polite nods to the other men, except to the speechless Broadmore, Nigel led Amelia away. A less disciplined man would have gloated over his victory, but he held back a triumphant grin.

Barely.

Amelia had a way of cutting through his self-control, and the hell of it was she had no idea she was doing it. But, for the moment at least, he could relish the feel of her slender body by his side and enjoy the light touch of her hand on his arm.

Letting out a relieved sigh, Amelia allowed him to steer her away from the mob at the edge of the dance floor. "It's such a relief to finally have some room to breathe. I thought I was going to faint dead away if I had to spend a moment longer in that stuffy corner. Not that I mean to complain," she hastily added. "The gentlemen were all quite kind." Then she frowned. "Except for Lord Broadmore, that is. I can't imagine why he was behaving so oddly tonight."

Nigel could, but had no intention of telling her.

After stewing about Broadmore's behavior for a few moments, Amelia gave a small, dismissive shrug, then looked up at him with a sweet smile that tore through Nigel's sense of self-preservation, scattering it to the four winds.

"I owe you grateful thanks, Mr. Dash," she said with an endearing chuckle. "You rode to my rescue at precisely the right moment. I only wonder how you knew."

"Well, you did look a trifle flushed," he said. "Thought you could do with a cold drink, if nothing else."

She gave his forearm a little squeeze. "Mr. Dash, as always, you know exactly what to say or do. You are indeed a most dependable friend."

Nigel pondered her choice of words for a long moment. "So it would seem," he finally said.

Dammit, Silverton was correct. It was long past time he made a few changes.

Nigel cut around the perimeter of Grosvenor Square, heading for No. 3 and the home of Lucy Frost, the widowed Countess of Winterson. It was only a few days before Christmas, and time for Lady Winterson's holiday party. Although London was somewhat thin of company this time of year, those who were left vigorously competed for an invitation to the gala festivities at No. 3. Lady Winterson might be the object of rumors about her supposedly scandalous love life, but no one disputed her power in the haute ton.

Happily, Nigel always received one of the coveted invitations to Lady Winterson's social events. An old family friend, Lucy Frost was quite simply one of his favorite people. She was sharply perceptive with a quick, acid wit, but underneath her polished sophistication lurked the warm and generous heart of a woman devoted to her friends and family.

She was also an inveterate matchmaker who had been pestering him for years to get leg-shackled. Nigel intended to do just that and he hoped Lucy would approve of his choice, especially since the girl happened to be her goddaughter and niece. By a fortuitous coincidence—he hoped—Amelia Easton was spending the Christmas holiday at No. 3.

That fit in perfectly with his plan to woo Amelia. Because starting tonight, he was turning over a new leaf. He would no longer be boring old Nigel but the dashing Mr. Dash. He realized now he'd been a fool to simply hope that Amelia would eventually take notice of him. If he was to prevail over her more flamboyant suitors he must, as Silverton had suggested, sweep her off her feet.

And Lucy's winter gala was the perfect opportunity to hoist his new colors.

He cut across the street and mounted the steps of the noble, grey stone mansion. No. 3 always looked exceptionally fine at Christmas, after the countess tricked it out with lavish decorations. Huge evergreen wreaths with red bows hung from the lampposts at the base of the wide steps, and swags of bay leaves and evergreens, interwoven with more red ribbon, framed the front door. Even the classical Roman statues in alcoves on either side of the entrance were dressed with holiday cheer, their pedestals draped in greenery and mistletoe crowns on their heads. The house itself looked like a Christmas confection that should be sitting on the top of a giant Twelfth Night cake, glorious and madly overdone. It radiated warmth, cheer, and a welcome respite from the dreary London night.

At his knock, a footman decked out in festive green and red livery ushered him inside. One had to give Lucy credit—instead of downplaying the rather comical conjunction of her name and title, she milked it for all it was worth. She might as well be a fairy queen from a Scandinavian folktale, ringing in the season with her magical winter celebration.

A dignified middle-aged man dressed in simple but elegant black garb approached him from the back of the entrance hall.

"Evening, Philbert," Nigel said to Lucy's butler. "Sorry to be late, but it couldn't be helped."

In fact, he'd carefully planned his late arrival, calibrating his appearance for maximum effect. No more slipping in with the crowd to avoid calling attention to himself. Tonight, Nigel wanted to stand out, and he wanted Amelia to notice him.

Philbert bowed and gave him a slight smile, a sign of true condescension. Lucy's butler had more dignity in his little finger than the entire Royal Family. Though his past was rather murky, he ran the house with the precision of a general and smoothed the world for his mistress in dozens of ways. Other aristocrats had tried to lure Philbert away, but he was devoted only to Lucy and the Winterson family.

"Her ladyship and Miss Easton are almost ready to go in, Mr. Dash," Philbert said as he eyed Nigel's cherry-red satin waistcoat. "They are most eager for your arrival."

Ah, he'd timed it perfectly. The other guests had no doubt gone ahead of him into the drawing room, and Nigel should now be the lucky man to escort Amelia into the party.

Philbert preceded him up the ornately curved, blue-carpeted staircase. As they rounded the stairs, Nigel glanced up to see the countess and Amelia waiting for him. The countess was dressed with great flare in a hunter green gown trimmed with gleaming white ribbons, which perfectly set off her queenly demeanor and silver hair.

But Nigel could only truly see Amelia. Her dress was snowy-white plush velvet trimmed with red ribbons at the waist and sleeves. It's deceptively simple cut showcased her lovely figure with its gentle curves. Her hair, as shiny as mink, was piled high in charmingly haphazard curls and threaded with red satin ribbon and crystal beads. Best of all, of course, was her beautiful face and soft brown eyes, glowing with a welcome that chased away any lingering chills.

If Lucy Frost was the Winter Queen, then Amelia was surely her princess.

Though Nigel wasn't a prince, he could hope that his new and improved persona would make up for that unfortunate defect.

"Nigel, how beastly of you to be so tardy," Lucy said with a merry twinkle in her eye. "I was about to give up on you, but Amelia insisted that it wouldn't be right to go in without you."

Nigel blinked, a tad stunned that his plan was already working to such a positive effect.

"Indeed?" he replied after bowing over his hostess's hand. "I'm most grateful, Miss Easton. I beg you will accept my apologies."

Amelia's gaze swept over him with uncharacteristic intensity. "No apology is necessary, Mr. Dash. But I was worried you might have had an unfortunate accident. Mrs. Pickerel informed us that it was terribly icy out tonight. Her footman slipped while helping her into her carriage and they both fell into a heap on the street." She peered anxiously at him, as if looking for signs of a tumble.

Nigel had to admit he didn't much like the idea of her thinking him so clumsy a fellow. He lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss, lingering for a moment. When a small, surprised gasp escaped her lips, he felt a surge of satisfaction.

"There was no need to worry on my account, Miss Easton, for I am quite well," he said, letting his voice fall to a deeper note. Amelia stared at him, apparently a bit disconcerted. Nigel took that to be a good thing.

"Ah, well, I'm certainly happy to hear that," she said. "Did you walk over to No. 3 tonight? It's so very cold and damp out, don't you think? I wonder that anyone would come out on such an evening." Then she winced, as if registering the fact that she was babbling.

Lord, she was completely adorable. And his plan must be working because her response to him was quite different than normal.

"Yes, I did stroll over from my apartments. I must say I enjoyed taking the night air. Does wonders for a man's constitution." There, that sounded deuced rugged of him.

Amelia continued to peer at him with a slight crease in her brow, as if she couldn't quite think how to respond. That was probably a good sign, too.

At least he hoped so.

"Dear me," Lucy interjected in a faintly laughing voice. "That was excessively vigorous of you, Nigel. I'm sure you must stand in need of refreshment. Why don't you take Amelia into the drawing room? I'll follow in a moment after I've had a word with Philbert."

"Certainly, my lady," he replied with a flourishing bow. Really, once one got the hang of it, it was easy as anything to act the part of the dashing rogue.

Amelia took his proffered arm, giving him a hesitant smile as she glanced at his red waistcoat.

"I'm not used to seeing you wear such bold colors, Mr. Dash," she said as he led her down the hall. "It's very, ah, festive."

"Isn't it just?" he said with a smile. "I thought it the perfect choice for Lady Winterson's Christmas party."

And the perfect thing to make him stand out from the crowd. Simmons, his valet, had been appalled and had mounted a vociferous argument against wearing it. Nigel had been forced to speak quite sternly to him, and Simmons had finished dressing him with a monumental disapproving silence.

"Actually, it matches the color of my ribbons," Amelia said, "which is rather fun."

She glanced at him with a laughing smile that sent his spirits soaring. He grinned down at her, forgetting for the moment that he was acting the part of a devil-may-care rogue. "Exactly. If we can't have a little fun at Christmas, when can we?"

Feeling like the luckiest man in London, he ushered her into the expansive and beautifully appointed drawing room. As usual, their hostess had drawn from the most exclusive reaches of the ton, even though tonight's affair was not in her usual extravagant style. Lucy normally threw a gala ball for her annual event, but this year she had chosen to host a smaller, more family-oriented party, for the primary reason that Amelia and her younger siblings were staying at No. 3 while their parents were in Vienna on a diplomatic mission. It was a mark of Lucy's splendid character that she would tailor her festivities to please the children rather than cater to the jaded appetites of the ton.

And speaking of jaded appetites, a substantial portion of Nigel's good mood evaporated as Lord Broadmore strolled up to them.

"There you are, Amelia," his lordship drawled in a bored voice. "Thank God you've finally come in. You're the only bright note in this otherwise dreary affair. Can't imagine what Lady Winterson was thinking this year. No dancing and a bunch of ill-mannered, grubby children kicking up a fuss. It's beastly, if you want to know. I don't know how you can bear it."

Nigel felt Amelia's slender body go rigid, understandably, since two of the grubby children were her siblings. He could also tell that while a retort hovered on the tip of her tongue, her sense of courtesy prevented her from voicing it.

But Nigel was done with niceties when it came to idiots like Broadmore.

"Really, Broadmore?" he said. "Don't mean to insult you, but the children aren't the ones kicking up the fuss." He inspected one young lad, dressed neat as a pin and sitting quietly with Lady Peterson, then shifted his gaze onto Broadmore's garish purple and yellow striped waistcoat that made Nigel's color choice look positively subdued. "In fact, I'm forced to remark that the children seem both better behaved and better dressed than you. Can't imagine why you thought that particular color combination in a waistcoat was a good idea. Makes you look rather like a large insect."

Broadmore gaped at him momentarily, but then his dark eyebrows snapped together in a thunderous scowl. Amelia made a choking sound before clutching Nigel's sleeve and pulling him away.

"Excuse us, Lord Broadmore," she said in a bright voice over her shoulder, "but I've been meaning to introduce Mr. Dash to my sister Penelope. You know this is her first ton party, and she's feeling a little shy."

Broadmore's scowl was replaced by a smirk. "Oh, of course. Dash is the perfect fellow to sit with the children while we enjoy ourselves. I'll come rescue you in a few minutes, my dear. You needn't worry that I'll abandon you this evening."

Before Nigel could make a suitable riposte, Amelia dragged him off to the other end of the cavernous drawing room. He liked to think her actions indicated a preference for his company over Broadmore's, but some mumbled comments under her breath suggested otherwise. He was quite certain she uttered the phrase beastly men.

Amelia recovered her cheerful temperament once they joined her siblings. In fact, they spent a pleasant half hour chatting with Penelope and Mitchell, Amelia's brother and sister. Contrary to Broadmore's ill-mannered observation, the children were well-behaved and intelligent, much like their older sister. Because they were also a trifle shy and clearly missing their parents, Nigel did his best to set them at ease by asking them about their visit to No. 3 and the gifts they hoped to receive at Christmas. Amelia happily joined in the conversation, laughing along with her siblings until Broadmore reappeared and carried her off to speak with his aunt, the Duchess of Ledmuir.

Though her reluctance to go had been evident, Broadmore obviously thought he was rescuing the girl from an evening of unrelieved boredom. Nigel had to shake his head over the man's failure to recognize that Amelia was a devoted sister who truly enjoyed the company of her siblings.

Nigel finished his conversation with the children and then excused himself to smoothly cut into Broadmore's heavy-handed flirtation with Amelia. Fortunately, their hostess appeared at just the right moment to unwittingly aid Nigel's cause by insisting that Broadmore attend to the Dowager Countess of Brisco. Once Broadmore was safely in the old termagant's clutches, Nigel spirited Amelia away to the bay alcove at the far end of the drawing room.

They sipped champagne while Nigel amused her with trenchant observations on some of the other guests. He suspected that a few of his remarks might have shocked her, and he silently admitted to himself that one or two might have tip-toed over the line of decorum. Nigel had never been one to gossip, and engaging in those sorts of witticisms struck him as a dreary exercise. But most ladies of his acquaintance did generally enjoy a good gossip, although Amelia seemed rather, well, disconcerted by his efforts more than anything else. Perhaps they were both struggling to adapt to the new Nigel Dash.

When it came to flirting, however, he was convinced he was having some real success. He managed twice to make her blush, and she even cast her gaze modestly down when he paid her a magnificently ornate compliment about the fathomless depths of her sparkling eyes.

And truth be told, he could sit all evening and gaze into her lovely eyes without feeling the need to utter a word of nonsense. But he'd monopolized her attention long enough. It was one thing to engage in a discreet flirtation for a short spell. It was quite another to set the gossips prattling about Amelia's conduct with an unmarried man.

He was just about to suggest they join the others when Lucy hurried across the room, looking flustered. "Excuse me for interrupting, my dears, but I'm in a terrible quandary and I need Nigel's help."

Nigel stood. "Of course, my lady. How can I be of assistance?"

"What's wrong, Aunt Lucy?" Amelia asked in a worried voice. "Can I help, too?"

Lucy narrowed her eyes on them, then nodded. "Perhaps you'd both better come with me while I explain."

She sailed off and they trailed in her magnificent wake. When they passed Broadmore, still trapped in conversation with Lady Brisco, Nigel gave him a polite nod. His rival's furious glare in return promised legions of retribution that Nigel mentally shrugged off. As far as he was concerned, Broadmore was an ass who deserved everything he got.

As long as what he got wasn't Amelia.

They followed Lucy out to the hallway, where they found Philbert in a large club chair that appeared to have been hastily dragged from another room. The butler had crossed his leg over his knee, and his normally impassive features had twisted into a painful grimace as he gingerly rubbed his ankle. One of the liveried footmen hovered, looking as guilt-ridden as a naughty child.

"Does it feel any better?" Lucy asked, her voice colored by anxiety. "I think you should let Thomas help you down to the kitchen."

"Thomas is the reason I find myself in this predicament," Philbert responded dryly. "I believe he's helped me enough for one evening."

"What happened?" Amelia asked, torn between alarm and laughter.

Lucy reached out as if to touch Philbert's shoulder, but then seemed to think better of it. "Thomas was helping Philbert put on his robe, and they both got horribly tangled up in the skirts. Poor Philbert tripped and twisted his ankle."

Nigel frowned. "His robe? Isn't it a bit early for Philbert to be toddling off to bed, especially with guests in the house?"

"Oh, I understand," Amelia exclaimed, darting behind Philbert's chair. "Not his dressing gown, his costume."

She retrieved a bundle of material from a side table set against the wall. "This robe." She held up an elaborate, forest-green garment with long, deep sleeves trimmed with ermine.

"That looks like something Father Christmas would wear," Nigel said, remembering the character from the holiday pantomimes of his childhood. He looked at Lucy, trying not to laugh. "Surely you weren't going to force poor old Philbert to play the part, were you? Not that I mean to criticize, but it doesn't really seem your style, my dear ma'am."

Philbert gave him a speaking glance, clearly holding the same dim view of the proposed entertainment as Nigel.

"Philbert was to dress as Father Christmas and distribute dessert and extra dainties to the children," Lucy said. "Cook made up some sugared baskets with sweetmeats especially for them." She looked at her butler and wrinkled her nose in silent apology. "It was to be a special treat, you see. Something to cheer them up."

"They're so missing Mamma and Papa this year," Amelia earnestly explained to Nigel. "They've been gone for weeks and we're not sure when they'll return. It's the first Christmas that we've not all been together," she finished in a rather forlorn voice.

Philbert dredged up a sigh as he gazed at his mistress. "Forgive me, my lady. Thomas and I seem to have made rather a botch of things."

This time Lucy did pat him on the shoulder. "I'm simply relieved you didn't receive a greater injury."

"Well, why doesn't Thomas play the part?" Nigel said, eyeing the strapping young man. "He's certainly imposing enough for it."

"That's entirely the problem," Lucy said. "He's too big. When he tried on the robe, it started to rip across the shoulders."

"Surely there's someone else..." Nigel trailed off at the look on Lucy's face. "Good Gad, no," he exclaimed. "You cannot begin to think—"

"Of course!" Amelia's face lit up as she grabbed his arm. With the small portion of his mind not taken up with the horror of Lucy's plan to make a complete fool out of him, he noted that Amelia did seem to be touching him rather a lot this evening. Now she was also bouncing up and down in her pretty white and gold spangled shoes. "You'd make a splendid Father Christmas, Mr. Dash, because you have such an easy way with children. I'm sure the robe will fit, and we can adjust the wreath in an instant."

"The wreath?" Nigel repeated in a hollow voice. He fastened his appalled gaze on Philbert, who nodded in masculine sympathy

"Well, Father Christmas must wear his crown of mistletoe, Nigel," Lucy said in coaxing voice. "He wouldn't look authentic without it."

"Surely, there must be someone else," Nigel said, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. "One of the other servants, perhaps."

Lucy shook her head. "The footmen are too big and the scullery boy is too small." When the corner of her mouth quirked up, Nigel had the sneaking suspicion she was beginning to enjoy the absurdity of the situation. Lucy knew he disdained costume balls and masquerades as undignified romps and refused to step foot in them. "I know it's a lot to ask, Nigel, my dear, but you are certainly the best candidate to replace Philbert."

Amelia was still clutching his sleeve, but now she brought her pleading gaze to bear on him as well. "Please, Mr. Dash, it would mean so much to the children. I would be enormously grateful if you would be so kind as to play the part of Father Christmas."

Her beautiful brown eyes, full of concern for her younger siblings, pleaded with him. Blast it, the young ones had probably been looking forward to the treat for days, and would be sorely disappointed if it failed to materialize. And he had a feeling Amelia had been looking forward to it too, if for no other reason than to see the excitement on the children's faces.

With a mental sigh, Nigel consigned his dashing new persona to the dust heap. Life, it would seem, had consigned him to play only one role—that of dependable old Nigel Dash, always ready to take on whatever necessary task fate and the ladies of the beau monde decreed for him.

"Of course, Miss Easton," he said. "I am only too happy to help."

Amelia smiled as she watched Nigel Dash make his rounds of the drawing room dressed as Father Christmas. He was truly the nicest man she'd ever met—nicer even than her dear Papa, an exemplary husband and father. But while Papa was prone to the occasional flash of impatience, Amelia had never seen Mr. Dash lose his manners or his cheerfully tolerant approach to life, no matter the provocation.

True, there had been an uncharacteristic display of tooth and claw this evening when he'd ripped up at Lord Broadmore. Although merited, that the normally unflappable Nigel Dash had responded so sharply had surprised her, indeed.

Equally surprising was his red waistcoat and the effusive compliments he'd bestowed upon her during their tete-a-tete. Amelia hadn't known what to make of such unusual behavior. After some thought, she decided she approved of the waistcoat but found his attempted flirtation disconcerting. Mr. Dash never engaged in flattery or fulsome compliments. Instead, he always treated her with respect and thoughtful attention, as if she had more than simply a pretty face and a fortune to recommend her. In his company she could be herself, and not merely the target of fortune-hunting aristocrats and matchmaking mammas intent on catching one of the ton's top matrimonial prizes.

Fortunately, Mr. Dash's strange behavior had been fleeting. Now, he was once more his genial self, taking to his holiday role with such good cheer that even the adults—especially the women—laughingly insisted he pay them as much mind as he did the children. Amelia didn't blame the ladies one bit, not when Father Christmas was as kindly and attractive as Nigel Dash.

And strange behavior or not, she'd been profoundly grateful when he rescued her from Lord Broadmore's increasingly irksome company. Contemplating a future with his lordship—something she was now forced to do—was enough to make her want to throttle herself with swags of holiday greenery.

No matter how hard she tried, Amelia couldn't find the words she needed to tell Broadmore how she felt about him. She loathed sharp exchanges of any sort, a regrettable character flaw that hampered her ability to stand up for herself or push back when imposed upon by others. Amelia had received numerous compliments over the years about her biddable, sweet temperament but, ironically, that seemed far more a curse than a blessing. Her inability to simply say no meant too many evenings in the company of unwelcome suitors like Broadmore and endless rounds of social inanities when she'd rather be home reading a book and spending time with her family.

But all that was nothing to the fatal lack of backbone which had caused her to accept not one but two proposals of marriage, and only six months apart. Both times, she'd known immediately that she'd made a mistake. She'd simply been ensnared by a reluctance to bruise her suitors' feelings, because both men were quite decent and it wasn't their fault she didn't really wish to be married to them. It had taken her weeks to work up the courage to cry off, infuriating not only her erstwhile fiancés but both sets of parents as well.

Those mistakes had led to her current predicament. Her mother and father, normally the most accommodating of parents, had all but ordered her to marry Lord Broadmore. Worried about her growing reputation as a jilt, her parents had decreed that she couldn't afford to say no to the most eligible bachelor currently on the marriage mart. According to Mamma, Amelia should thank her lucky stars that Broadmore was willing to overlook the trail of salacious gossip she'd left in her wake. Amelia thought they were vastly overstating the problem, but her parents remained adamant.

But Amelia just knew Broadmore would make a terrible husband. She didn't doubt he found her attractive and he certainly liked her money. But he was arrogant, conceited, and, when it came down to it, simply not a kind person, unlike her previous fiancés who at least didn't order her about or treat her with a disrespectful intimacy that made her skin creep with prickles.

And certainly not like Nigel Dash, who right at this moment was playing Father Christmas to a gaggle of over-excited little ones with truly exemplary patience. She couldn't imagine Lord Broadmore lowering himself to play with grubby children. Amelia could only lament that Papa would never let her marry someone as charming and decent as Mr. Dash.

With her glass of champagne halfway to her lips, Amelia froze as everything went still inside her. She mentally circled the idea of Nigel Dash as her suitor, almost afraid to think too hard about it. But as each second ticked by, the thought began to ring in her mind with the clarity of church bells on Christmas morning, and it struck her how oddly familiar the notion felt. As if on some deep level she'd been thinking about it—about Nigel—that way for a long time. That must explain why she'd instinctively begun to look for him at every social event she attended, and why she always felt out-of-sorts whenever he failed to appear.

Without her being aware of it until this very moment, it seemed she was more than halfway in love with the self-effacing but enormously attractive Nigel Dash.

Amelia put her champagne glass down with a sigh. Papa would be livid if she rejected Lord Broadmore in favor of someone like Nigel. True, Nigel came from a genteel and well-regarded family, but he wasn't a nobleman and, as far as she knew, his fortune was merely respectable and not nearly sizeable enough to win Papa's approval. The situation had all the makings of another matrimonial disaster and she hadn't a clue what to do about it. Nor, for that matter, did she know what Nigel would want to do about it, either. She thought he liked her very much, but a girl couldn't be absolutely sure until a man came right out and said it, could she?

The only thing she did know was that she could never marry Broadmore—especially not with her newly-discovered feelings for Nigel.

Aunt Lucy, sitting beside her on the settee, glanced at Amelia. "Is something wrong, my dear? You just heaved a very mournful sigh and you're looking quite flushed and bothered."

Amelia flashed her godmother an apologetic smile. "No, Aunt Lucy, I'm fine. Just a trifle, um, hot."

Her gaze drifted back to Nigel. He was crouched down, his green robe flared out in a dramatic sweep, as he spoke with little Ned Haythrop. Ned's ancient spaniel had died only last week and, according to his grandmother, Lady Peterson, he'd been inconsolable. But Nigel got him smiling and soon drew a giggle from the boy with a joke about swallowing the bean in the Twelfth Night cake. Even Amelia's sister, Penelope, who at fourteen considered herself too old for such things as holiday pantomimes, had clearly fallen victim to Nigel's quiet charm.

As had Amelia. She'd only been too stupid to realize it until it bashed her over the head.

Aunt Lucy looked at her skeptically but didn't probe. Like Amelia, she turned to watch Nigel laughing with Ned and Lady Peterson.

"He does make a splendid Father Christmas, doesn't he?" her godmother said with approval. "Much better than Philbert. That man carried on as if he were about to submersed in a vat of flaming wassail. Just between us, I suspect his twisted ankle might be more imaginary than real. Philbert can be so dramatic."

Amelia blinked. One could characterize Philbert as rather mysterious, but dramatic?

"Er, I'm sure you're right, Aunt Lucy, and I agree about Mr. Dash. He's a perfectly splendid, considerate man. He didn't blink an eyelash when Lord Broadmore so rudely made fun of his costume."

She scowled at the memory of his lordship's jeers when Nigel came into the drawing room dressed as Father Christmas, leading Thomas the footman who carried the large tray of treats. Amelia thought Nigel looked wonderful in the dark velvet robe. The ermine trim brought out the cobalt depths in his eyes and the mistletoe wreath looked positively kingly atop his thick brown hair. Amelia had helped him with the wreath, and when he'd bent down a bit so she could adjust the fit, she'd been tempted to stroke her fingers through his silky locks. She'd blushed madly when he straightened up and thanked her with a teasing smile.

Aunt Lucy scowled with her. "I was tempted to box Broadmore's ears. No man likes to be made a figure of fun, and Nigel is to be honored for taking on the role. The children would have been sorely disappointed if Father Christmas had been unable to make an appearance. It is entirely to Nigel's credit that he stepped into the breach."

"I could tell Mr. Dash wasn't very keen on the idea, at least at first," Amelia said, a trifled worried that he might be annoyed with her. "I probably shouldn't have pushed him, but I'll be eternally grateful to him for his kindness."

Aunt Lucy gave Amelia what could only be described as a sly grin. "I'm sure your gratitude and approval are all the thanks he needs. In fact, I suspect Nigel would be willing to do a good deal for you, my dear."

Amelia felt hard-pressed to respond. Fortunately, she was spared the necessity when the object of their discussion joined them.

"Well, that's everyone," Nigel said, "although we do have one extra basket. Perhaps I could interest you in taking it, Miss Easton. Surely you deserve a Christmas treat as well."

His eyes gleamed with a teasing light, and Amelia could feel her cheeks flushing hot. Having finally acknowledged her feelings for him, it was difficult to meet his gaze.

"I think I've eaten too many treats already," she said with a forced chuckle. "I've been terribly self-indulgent tonight."

"I cannot agree with you, Miss Easton. To my mind, you aren't spoiled nearly enough."

His smile fueled her blush. Amelia suspected her cheeks were now as red as his waistcoat.

"I am in complete agreement," Aunt Lucy chimed in. "Amelia is always thinking of others, never of herself. But as much as she deserves additional treats, that extra basket is for her sister, Gwen."

"Ah, the youngest Easton," Nigel said. "She didn't join us tonight."

"She's confined to the nursery with an earache, poor thing," Amelia explained, "and she's very sad to be missing all the fun." She paused to watch Nigel gingerly extract the mistletoe wreath from his hair. "I know it's a great deal to ask, Mr. Dash, but do you think..." She trailed off, hating to impose on him yet again.

Nigel placed the crown back on his head with a rueful smile. "Why not? It's not as if I could look any more of a fool that I already do."

"I wouldn't bet on that," Broadmore said, barging in to the conversation. "You've outdone yourself this time, Dash. Wait till everyone around town hears how you played the fool."

Aunt Lucy gave his lordship her most imperial glare as she rose. "I am vastly grateful to Mr. Dash for his generosity and kindness. His charitable spirit is certainly a great deal more admirable than yours, Lord Broadmore, and entirely in keeping with the holiday season." She turned her back on him to speak with Thomas.

In the face of that forceful snub, Broadmore could do nothing but silently fume. Nigel gave him a bland smile but saved a wink for Amelia.

Choking back a laugh, she came to her feet. "I'll escort you to the nursery, Mr. Dash. I promised to visit Gwen before her bedtime, and I know she'll be thrilled to have a visit from Father Christmas." She plucked the ornate basket of sweets from the footman's tray. "I'll take that, Thomas."

Broadmore looked thunderstruck. "Amelia, that's a dashed irregular thing to be doing, scampering off with another man in the middle of a party. I can't believe your mother would approve of such a thing."

As she slowly turned back around, Aunt Lucy's features froze in a glacial stare. "Lord Broadmore, are you suggesting that my niece's reputation is at risk while she is under my roof? I wonder what your grandmother, one of my dearest friends, would say to such an accusation."

Apparently nothing good since Broadmore flushed to the roots of his hair. While he blustered out a stuttering response, Nigel glanced at Amelia and nodded his head in the direction of the door. They quickly made their way into the hallway, leaving Broadmore to try to explain himself to his irate hostess.

"That was a lucky escape, wasn't it?" Nigel said. "I can almost feel sorry for the fellow for sticking his foot in it."

"I don't feel sorry for Lord Broadmore at all," Amelia huffed. "He's been horrible all evening."

"Can't disagree with you there. I say, do you need help with that basket, Miss Easton? I swear Lady Winterson stuffed ten pounds of sweetmeats into each one."

While Nigel helped her rearrange the contents of the basket, the door to the drawing room opened and Lord Broadmore came charging out. "Amelia, I must insist that you remain with me in the drawing room. You're making a cake of yourself and I don't like it one blasted bit."

Nigel's eyes narrowed in warning as he took a step forward. Amelia shot out a hand to stop him. "I do not appreciate your tone of voice, my lord, nor your ungenerous implication," she said. "I have my aunt's approval. I certainly do not need yours."

Broadmore drew himself up to his full, outraged height. For once, Amelia didn't care if she offended him. She was tired of his rudeness and resented his assumption that they were already engaged.

"Amelia," Broadmore said through clenched teeth, "I will not countenance this sort of behavior from the woman I expect to marry. Everyone will think you prefer Dash's company to mine, which is bloody ridiculous. Even you can't be that much of a birdwit."

Amelia sucked in a harsh breath, dumbfounded by the vile insult. She darted a quick glance at Nigel, expecting to find a seething male.

Nigel's blue eyes had gone so cold and flinty it made her shiver, but instead of ripping up at Broadmore he seemed to be waiting for her to respond. His eyebrows arched in polite inquiry as if to say to her, well, what are you going to do about that?

It took Amelia a few moments to realize Nigel was deferring to her judgment instead of simply assuming the right to defend her regardless of her feelings.

Good for you, dear Mr. Dash.

She handed Nigel the sweets basket, then faced Broadmore. "My lord, I have had quite enough of your outrageously rude behavior. Rest assured that I will be escorting Mr. Dash upstairs to see my sister, and you are not to say another word about it."

Then, giving into an impulse that had been building within her for a long time, she jabbed Broadmore sharply in the chest with her index finger. "Please go back into the drawing room and do not dare to pass judgment on my behavior to anyone. In fact, if you say another word about this I will never speak to you again."

Then she whirled around, her anger propelling her like a cannonball up the staircase.

Nigel caught up to her outside the nursery. "Well done, Miss Easton." It sounded like he was choking back laughter. "You routed the enemy with commendable aplomb."

Amelia let her forehead thunk against the thick oak panel of the door. Now that her anger was cooling, her display of temper mortified her. "You must think me completely mad, Mr. Dash. I apologize for acting so disgracefully."

When he leaned in to whisper in her ear, she shivered at the exhalation of his breath on her neck.

"Actually, I thought you quite splendid, Miss Easton. I was hard-pressed not to give a resounding cheer."

She tilted her head sideways to look at him. His eyes, tender and amused, smiled back at her.

"Shall we?" he asked. Reaching around her, he opened the door.

Amelia took a deep breath to bring her nerves under control. It wouldn't do for Gwen to see her so flustered.

The spacious nursery also doubled as a playroom for visiting children. Aunt Lucy's nieces and nephews were always welcome at No. 3, and she'd created a cheerful and cozy space for them to read, play with toys, or tuck themselves into the wide window alcoves and gaze out over Grosvenor Square.

Excited to see them, Gwen bounced up on her bed. While Nigel went to greet her, Amelia asked the young housemaid in attendance to bring up a tea tray.

"Oh, Amy," Gwen exclaimed, "I was waiting forever for you and Father Christmas. I've missed all the fun and I've had to hold this wretched onion to my ear for the last half hour. I don't think it's helped the ache one bit." She waved the offending object under Nigel's nose.

"Good Lord," he said. "That's ghastly. No child should be subjected to such hideous torture."

When Gwen giggled, Nigel wisely tapped the side of his nose. "I think it's time to do away with it, don't you agree, Miss Gwen?"

"Yes!" She bounced on the bed again.

"Someone is clearly feeling better," Amelia said.

"All the more reason to get rid of the beastly thing," Nigel said, taking the onion.

When he strode to the window, Gwen tumbled out of bed to follow, impatiently squirming when Amelia insisted she put on her robe and slippers. By the time they joined Nigel he'd raised the sash, letting in a blast of winter air.

"Father Christmas, what are you doing?" Gwen asked.

"Getting rid of this barbaric vegetable. Never could stand the blasted things, anyway." He tossed it out the window.

Gwen shrieked with laughter, and she and Amelia crowded next to Nigel to peer down to the street. A man in a greatcoat was bending down to retrieve his hat from the ground, where it had apparently been knocked by the onion. He looked up and began to berate them in a loud voice. Both Amelia and Gwen burst into hoots.

"Hush," Nigel said, pulling them inside. "If he hears us laughing, he'll pound on the door and demand to see your aunt. Then we'll be in a tremendous pickle."

"But you're Father Christmas," Gwen said. You can do anything you want."

Nigel appeared much struck. "Very true, my dear. If the bounder challenges our right to hurl vegetables, I'll run him through with a stake of Christmas holly."

"Who knew Father Christmas was so desperate a character," Amelia said, trying to control her laughter.

Their silliness was interrupted by the maid carrying the tea tray. After the girl set it on a low table by the fireplace and left, Amelia poured out three cups of tea and piled high a plate of cakes and sweetmeats.

After ensconcing themselves in big armchairs, Gwen and Nigel chatted like old friends. Amelia finally let all the tensions of the last several weeks flow from her, wishing she could avoid returning to the party. God only knew how Lord Broadmore would react to this night's work.

Not that she cared about him, but her parents did. If Broadmore withdrew his suit, they would be furious.

Nigel's quiet voice broke into her thoughts. "I think it's time for someone to be in bed." He nodded at Gwen, who had curled up in a doze in her chair.

"Oh, certainly," Amelia said, moving to pick her up.

"I'll do it." Nigel easily lifted the sturdy little girl into his arms. He'd discarded his crown but still wore the green robe, and the train fanned out majestically behind him as he crossed the room to Gwen's bed. Amelia trailed him, watching as he removed her sister's slippers and tucked her in. She had no doubt Nigel would be a wonderful father—a man who would protect and cherish his children, as he would protect and cherish his wife.

As he straightened up to meet her gaze, his mouth lifted in a questioning smile.

"I suppose we should go back downstairs," Amelia said, trying not to sound morose.

"Something tells me you're not keen to do so."

When she shrugged, he hesitated, as if searching for words. Then his gaze flickered over her shoulder.

"Look," he said. "It's snowing."

Amelia promptly forgot about the party as she hurried over to the window and pressed her hands against the glass, peering out at the gentle fall of snow that drifted down on Grosvenor Square. A pure, white blanket was settling over the grass and flag-way, topping the railings and street lamps with a glittering sheen. She loved the snow—it brought to mind the family's manor house in Lincolnshire, and the wonderful holidays of years past when they were all together.

"You'll catch a chill in that thin dress," Nigel said, coming up behind her. He pulled off his robe and draped the heavy fabric over her shoulders. His hands wrapped around her, enveloping her in warmth and the faint scent of starched linen and bay rum. When he released her, he moved only a whisper away to stand by her side at the window. She wished she could lean against him, but this would do for now.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" he said. "I'm glad we got the chance to see it."

"It reminds me of the country. Of home."

He heard the wistful note in her voice. "Gwen misses it, too. She wishes you could all be home for Christmas at Easton Manner." He turned toward her, leaning against the window frame. She'd never really noticed it before, but his shoulders were quite nicely broad. "Is that what you'd like for Christmas too, Amelia? To be home with your family?"

She thought for a moment, then decided to tell the truth. "No, I would like not to have to marry Lord Broadmore."

The sudden intensity in Nigel's gaze set her already pounding heart tripping over itself.

"Then why should you?" he asked in a low voice.

She returned her gaze to the snowy square, avoiding his eye. "I suspect you already know the answer—my unfortunate reputation. Besides, my parents approve of Broadmore and are eager to see us married. In their eyes, he will make the perfect husband."

His hand came to her arm and gently turned her to face him. "Amelia, no true friend would think less of you for ending your previous engagements. They were simply mistakes you learned from."

"I've been called a heartless jilt by more than one person, you know," she said, trying to make a joke of a label that had wounded her deeply.

"They were wrong," he said, looking stern. "But tell me why your parents are so eager for you to marry Broadmore. We both know he's an unrepentant ass."

His blunt speech surprised a laugh out of her. "True, but an ass with a title and several magnificent estates. Papa is determined that I marry as well as possible." She grimaced. "He says a girl of my looks and fortune deserves the very best."

Nigel smiled. "Your father is correct, but not for those reasons. You do have a very pretty face and your fortune is enviable, but those are not the best part of you."

She had to force the words from her tight throat. "What is?"

He took her hand, intertwining their fingers. The breath whooshed out of her lungs and she clutched his hand in a convulsive grip.

"It's your heart, Amelia. Your lovely, kind heart," he said with a smile that melted her from the inside out. "And now that you've told me what you don't want for Christmas, tell me what you do want."

When Amelia thought of all the obstacles facing them, her courage almost failed. But it was Christmas, the time for wishes and dreams to come true. "I want to marry a kind, loving man who will be a good husband and father. A man who will see me as I truly am, and not as a decorative knick-knack and a means for plumping up his bank account."

Nigel gently cupped her chin with his free hand. "My sweet girl that is only what you deserve."

She stared at him, mesmerized. "And what do you want for Christmas, Mr. Dash?" she finally whispered.

His lips parted in a devastatingly tender smile. "A kiss, Amelia. One kiss for Christmas."

She felt her mouth curl up in a silly grin. "Only one?"

He let out a husky laugh. "To start."

Then he bent and gently, carefully—as if he didn't want to frighten her—brushed a kiss across her lips. Amelia let out a happy whimper, melting into him. One kiss turned into two and then three as Nigel's mouth whispered over hers in a sweet slide. She rested a hand on his chest as the kiss, by soft degrees, turned hot and rather wicked. Every part of her body yearned for him even though they barely touched each other.

But then, with deplorably bad timing, an image of her father and Lord Broadmore—both of them with fierce scowls—popped into her brain. She squeaked and her fingers curled into his cravat, making a mess of his Trone d' Amour.

"Oh, dear," she gasped, pulling back. "I just thought of something horrible."

Nigel blinked a few times in confusion. "I don't mean to criticize, Amelia, but that is hardly the reaction a man looks for when he first kisses the girl he loves."

She clutched at his cravat again, completely demolishing it this time. "You love me?"

"Of course I love you," he said simply. "How could I not? Now, tell me what's wrong."

"My parents," she said, feeling rather dazed by everything. "They'll be furious if I reject Lord Broadmore. Especially for a man..." She trailed off, hating to insult Nigel. And, strictly speaking, he hadn't yet asked her to marry him.

"A man like me," he finished. "Is it because I don't have a title?"

"Yes, and because you're not rich. I know how awful that sounds, but you mustn't think less of them because of it. Mamma and Papa just want the best for me."

He studied her. He didn't seem offended, but he did look wary. "Are those things important to you, as well?"

She winced, hating that she might have made him doubt himself. "No. Well, of course I don't want to be poor, but I don't need to be rich, either. And a title means little to me." She huffed out a sigh. "I'll just have to reconcile myself to the notion that Mamma and Papa will be angry with me for not marrying Lord Broadmore. Or anyone else, simply because they're rich."

The tension seemed to bleed from Nigel's shoulders as his hands drifted down to her waist. "And would you consider marrying a mere gentleman?"

"Of course I would, but..."

"But what?"

She glanced anxiously at Gwen to make sure she was still asleep. Nigel waited patiently for her to respond. "What if my father cuts me off?"

When Nigel frowned, Amelia's heart sank. "Are you sure he would do that?" he asked.

She sighed. "It's certainly possible. I do hope that wouldn't..."

He leaned down to press a swift kiss on her lips. "My dear girl, while I might not be a nobleman, I am as rich as Croesus. Your parents might lament the lack of a title, but I'm sure the marriage settlements will make up for it nicely."

She stared at him. "I thought your fortune was quite modest, by all accounts."

He grinned. "I rarely talk about money, but for you I'll make an exception."

After he named a staggering sum, Amelia could only gape at him like an idiot. With a little snort of laughter, he tapped her mouth shut.

"I do hope your esteemed father will approve," he said.

Amelia pressed a hand over her heart, right where a bubble of joy was expanding outward. "Oh, I think he'll be able to reconcile himself to the notion. Not that I give a fig how much you're worth, Mr. Dash."

Nigel made a great show of wiping his brow. "Well, that's a relief," he said in a voice warm with laughter. "I'd hate to disappoint either of you."

Amelia went up on her toes to press a kiss on his lips. "That, my dear, wonderful sir, would be quite impossible. After all, you are the nicest, most dependable man in the world."

Twelfth Night had come and gone some weeks ago when Nigel Dash finally found himself at the altar of St. George's Church, Hanover Square, waiting for his bride to appear. His mother and sister beamed at him from the first pew. Behind them sat Silverton and his marchioness, along with a goodly number of Nigel's friends. Amelia's family was there in force, her siblings beside themselves with excitement despite their mamma's admonitions and their Aunt Lucy's whispered attempts to keep them under control.

As Amelia had predicted, her parents had been astounded and upset when she told them she wished to marry him. But they'd come around soon enough, and not just because of the generous settlements Nigel had proposed. Her parents had come to trust him, recognizing that he would always put Amelia's needs first. It would seem that being the dependable Mr. Dash was not such a bad thing, after all.

The vestibule door opened and Amelia appeared on her father's arm, bringing with her the promise of spring and their new life together. But as she walked gracefully toward him, her eyes shining with happiness, Nigel's memory returned to that December party at No. 3, Grosvenor Square. He'd received the very best of all Christmas gifts that night, one he intended to cherish until the end of his days.

As Amelia and her father processed up the aisle, Nigel's gaze rested briefly on Lucy where she sat with the children. Her mouth quirked up in an engaging grin and she nodded to him, as if to say she'd known all along how things would turn out. And, knowing Lucy, she probably had.

Nigel winked at her and then turned to greet his bride.

The End

Vanessa Kelly is a USA Today Bestselling, award-winning author who was named by Booklist, the review journal of the American Library Association, as one of the "New Stars of Historical Romance." Her Regency-set historical romances have been nominated for awards in a number of contests, and her second book, Sex and The Single Earl, won the prestigious Maggie Medallion for Best Historical Romance.

**Vanessa's next book,** _The Highlander's Princess Bride_ **, concludes her current bestselling series, The Improper Princesses, and also kick off a new Regency series starring a group of roguish Highland brothers. For information on all her books, please visit her website at:** www.vanessakellyauthor.com

**To read an excerpt from** _The Highlander's Princess Bride_ , here.

#  His Christmas Cinderella

A Regency Short Story

By

ANNA CAMPBELL

Copyright © 2013 by Anna Campbell

To my dear friend, Vanessa Barneveld

_London, December 24_ th _, 1825_

In a borrowed bed in a borrowed room, she waited for him.

Although she'd lit the fire in the grate, she shivered a little under the threadbare blankets. The white light of a London winter poured through the windows. Tucked away in this shabby chamber high in Soho, she always felt like a princess in a tower, above the grimy reality of the noise and traffic below.

Every Tuesday for the past six weeks, Campion had met him here. He always came to her during these quiet midafternoon hours. Before the fashionable crowd promenaded in Hyde Park. Before high society prepared for the opera or the gambling hells or glittering parties.

Tonight the most glamorous event of the season took place. The Countess of Winterson's Christmas ball in Grosvenor Square. A spellbinding fantasy of an evening where magic descended, romance prevailed, and true love emerged triumphant. At Lucy Frost's annual ball, the legend was that faithful lovers would find their happy ending against all odds.

Campion stifled a pang of envy for whatever lucky couple fortune favored this Christmas Eve. She'd known before she became a temporary mistress that no wedding bells would ring out for her and the man she loved.

Instead all they had were Tuesday afternoons and occasional discreet meetings at society gatherings. Compared to her humble circumstances, he moved in the most elevated circles. Their encounters beyond this room were so rare that Campion stored them in her memory like priceless jewels in a coffer. A whispered word here or there. The surreptitious brush of hands. Once they'd even snatched a few kisses in a dark garden, kisses so hot she hadn't felt the snow falling about them.

On one unforgettable occasion, she'd connived to escape with him to Vauxhall's shadowy walks. They'd held hands and spoken romantic nonsense and acted like lovers. Until too many people had recognized him and she'd feared that someone might discover her identity beneath mask and cape. For her reputation's sake, they'd abandoned the pleasure gardens before she'd fulfilled her dream to dance with him. Just once.

Now she strained for the sound of his boots on the stairs. He always walked as if he knew exactly where he wanted to be. For the last month and a half, at least on a Tuesday, he'd wanted to be with her. As a result, she'd discovered delight beyond measure and a love that would never die.

But yesterday, she'd learned that this must be their last afternoon. She had no choice in the matter. Such was the harsh price of being a penniless dependent, subject to a selfish woman's whim. Tomorrow when Campion returned to the country, the gates of paradise would slam eternally shut behind her.

Blindly she stared up at the sagging, stained ceiling and told herself that she wouldn't greet him with tears. After such radiant joy, she refused to leave a final impression of a weeping, clinging coward.

But courage was so difficult when the idea of never again lying in his arms cut her like a knife. He'd awoken part of her soul. She didn't know how she could endure losing both her lover and the woman she became when she was with him.

But, oh, how she wished he'd hurry. Every stolen second of this afternoon was precious. Because ahead of her stretched the long, barren, lonely years.

At last she heard his determined tread. Her belly tightened in anticipation and her toes curled against the linen sheets. She intended to make this an encounter he'd never forget, even when he'd wed a high-born heiress and settled into life on his far away estates. She'd brand these hours onto his heart, so that when he lay old and contented and surrounded by the children she wouldn't give him, his last breath whispered her name.

The door swept open and bumped against the faded wallpaper. Just the sight of him flooded her with joy. She'd never been in love before. Something essential within her recognized that she'd never love like this again.

For a charged moment, he surveyed her. His green eyes flared to bright emerald and color lined his high, slanted cheekbones.

"I can see you're in no mood to waste time, sweet love," he murmured, his Scots brogue in evidence. It always thickened when he was moved or angry. Or aroused.

A thrill rippled through her, set every cell of her body vibrating. He'd immediately guessed that under the covers, she was naked. "We can take the preliminaries as read."

"Every time I see you, I remember why I love you," he said softly.

She blocked the treacherous warmth that the declaration always inspired. He frequently told her that loved her. When he challenged her inhibitions. When he was buried deep inside her. When she made him laugh.

Campion wasn't a complete dimwit, however badly love had sapped her common sense. Young men who set out to lure foolish girls pledged their affections lightly.

Or perhaps he meant it, if love equaled desire in his mind. She'd been an innocent before this affair, but she'd soon realized that he was in a perpetual lather for her. As she was for him. She'd reached her twenty-third year before discovering desire's power. Now sensual appetites enslaved her.

With a deliberate gesture, she swept aside the covers. The cold air contrasted deliciously with the heat rising in her blood. "Don't keep me waiting."

When his expression turned predatory, she trembled with excitement. She loved how she could shatter his control. She'd learned to be daring. They didn't have time for coyness, although she'd been shy and unsure when they'd first come together. Terrified that at any moment, her aunt would thunder in and proclaim her a whore. Positive that she couldn't possibly measure up to the other girls this man had welcomed into his bed.

His open delight in her had soon banished self-doubt. And her aunt was yet to suspect that under the guise of feeding an absent childhood friend's cat, her frumpy niece sneaked away to wallow in sin.

After ten dreary, sunless years as her aunt's dogsbody, at last Campion stepped into the light. She felt free here as she never felt free with her unloving relatives who treated her worse than a servant. Ida Parnell had soon discovered that Campion was quick and hardworking. A diligent poor relation, while hardly welcome, was much cheaper to keep than a maid. And less likely to march out in response to impossible demands upon patience or feelings or abilities.

Campion didn't lie about feeding Letitia's cat. Plato snoozed on the corner chair, long ago bored with the two humans. Most days, Letitia's neighbor saw to Plato, but on Tuesdays, Mrs. Brown visited her son in Hampstead.

Such fortuitous timing. This room tucked away in an unfashionable corner of London provided the perfect rendezvous. Here nobody from Mayfair or Belgravia was likely to discover Campion with her secret lover.

Letitia's lodgings didn't meet his standards of luxury, she'd always known that. But if Campion was to maintain her good name, they couldn't go to a hotel. And if he smuggled a mistress into his house on Half Moon Street, he risked an almighty scandal.

He curled his long, elegant fingers around the edge of the door. His attention on her unwavering, he shut it behind him with a soft snick. The world outside would take its merry way. But here above the streets, thronging with hawkers and shoppers and ladies of ill repute, she and her lover existed in a realm of unconfined physical pleasure. If only for a few hours.

Campion's anticipation intensified as he ripped at his neck cloth and shrugged his superbly tailored blue coat off his broad shoulders. He undressed with gratifying speed, flinging clothes around the room. When his shirt landed on top of poor Plato, the cat protested and jumped down to stalk toward the fire.

Within seconds, her magnificent beloved stood naked. Tall. Lean. Handsome.

Lachlan Macmurrie, Earl of Ravenglass. Scion of a great family. Custodian of lands throughout Scotland. London's most eligible bachelor. A man with the devil's own charm.

And this afternoon, Campion Parnell's to enjoy.

To her surprise, their looming parting had retreated from her mind. She'd imagined this last meeting laden with sadness. But when this resplendent man wanted her so blatantly, she couldn't help but bask in his molten gaze. She stretched against the sheets, raising her arms above her head with an abandon that would astonish anyone who knew her outside this enchanted domain.

"You're so beautiful," he said softly. The reverence in his voice made her bones dissolve with longing.

She wasn't beautiful, but when she looked into his face, she felt as if she was. She was ordinary; fair hair, medium height, blue eyes as common in Englishwomen as buttercups in the spring.

Lord Ravenglass was anything but ordinary. Her eyes feasted upon him, cataloguing every detail. The narrow, intelligent face under its wing of ruler-straight dark hair. The long, thin mouth that kissed her into delirium. The blade of a nose as haughty as an emperor's. The powerful body with its spare muscles.

An exultant smile stretched her lips. "You're quite picturesque yourself."

His mouth quirked. "Like a garden folly?"

That mouth had fascinated her from the moment she'd met him at the Fulfords' masquerade, a month after she'd arrived in London to assist in her cousin's husband hunting.

By rights, Campion Parnell should have been well below the superb Earl of Ravenglass's touch; in looks, in fortune, in breeding, in rank. But the Fulfords' party had been a crush and she'd been masked and more inclined than usual to respond to friendly overtures. At every other event she'd attended, she'd been too conscious that she was the poor relation to put herself forward.

When the tall stranger had remarked upon the music, which had been awful, and offered a hand to help her through the crowd, she'd accepted. Although if her aunt had seen her niece with the famous Lord Ravenglass, she'd have packed Campion off to Sussex in disgrace that very night.

Aunt Ida harbored ambitions for her daughter Fenella. If either Parnell girl was to catch the earl's attention, it wouldn't be the annoying burden that her brother-in-law's death had inflicted upon her household. Luckily, Aunt Ida's attentions in London were so focused on Fenella's social progress that Campion could escape the house more often than was strictly proper.

Lord Ravenglass was a man of the world, a veteran of romantic intrigues. Only someone of his experience could have contrived further meetings. Their flirtation had progressed quickly through secret walks in the park and drives in a closed carriage. Drives that Campion recalled mainly for increasingly halfhearted attempts to retain her chastity.

When Lachlan had begged her to come to his bed, she hadn't hesitated. Fate seemed to favor her lapse from virtue. For the only time in her life, Campion was largely unsupervised, she had access to a private room, and she wanted to give herself to a man.

So easily had she strayed from the once inevitable path of virginity, drudgery, and obedience. Whatever untold misery awaited once she left London, still she couldn't repent her recklessness.

"Come and ruin me again," she said in a low voice.

"With pleasure." He strode forward, expression intent. The air sizzled with his desire. The sight of his hardness made her shift restlessly against the sheets to ease her rising need. Her belly tightened with liquid heat.

He snatched her up and kissed her with a desperation that left her quivering with excitement. The prospect of leaving him stabbed anew. With a strangled sob, she flung her arms around his neck. Before he could query her distress, she distracted him. He groaned into her mouth as she stroked him.

With an urgency that sent the blood rushing through her veins, he pushed her into the mattress and came down over her. She immediately arched up, curling her legs around him. When they'd first become lovers, she'd been awkward. Now she swiftly positioned herself. He slid into her with a powerful ease that forced the breath from her lungs in a long exhalation of satisfaction. He filled her, made her complete, anchored her in the world.

At the peak of his thrust, he stopped and rose on his arms, staring at her as if memorizing every line and plane of her features.

She felt trapped in bright light. Could he see the love she'd never confessed? He must guess that a woman who until now had kept herself pure felt more than just a passing fancy.

As the craving to move became irresistible, her fingers dug into his shoulders with bruising pressure. She could tell from his tightening muscles that he too felt that primitive compulsion to finish, to rush to completion, to seek ecstatic oblivion.

Still he didn't move.

She clenched in subtle invitation. Hold. Release. Hold. Release. Her body tempted him, demanded that he break this stasis.

"Lachlan?" It hurt to speak, her throat was so jammed with the tension spinning between them.

"Don't move." He shifted infinitesimally, sparking a jolt of tumultuous sensation. But still it wasn't enough.

"What do you want?" she asked helplessly, plowing her fingernails into his back. Even through her striving, she felt a savage pleasure in knowing that he'd wear her mark tomorrow. After she'd gone.

"I want to know you're mine," he grated.

"Of course I'm yours." She heard the despair in her voice. If he only knew how true those words were.

"When I'm inside you, like this, I know that."

His unexpected vulnerability breached her barriers against revealing her love. "It's always true," she confessed, pressing upward, frustration fizzing in her blood.

"Make me believe it." He caught her thighs and pushed them high, changing his angle. The movement set off a series of small explosions inside her. She was so close to the familiar crisis and he'd hardly touched her yet.

"Believe it."

She was his. She always would be.

The hunger in his kiss ripped through her, made her shake. This possession stirred responses that she'd never felt before. She met him with open-mouthed welcome, teeth clashing, tongues dancing. He crushed her into the bed, tangling his hands in her wild mane of hair.

Still he kissed her. Still he didn't move.

She whimpered beneath him. "Please, Lachlan. Please."

"Do you want me?" he growled, rubbing his cheek against hers like a lion greeting his mate. And still his huge, throbbing power filled her.

"More than life itself," she admitted.

He sighed with shuddering relief. His breath ruffled the hair at her temple, teased the delicate shell of her ear. "You've never said that before."

"You knew." She curled her hands around his neck and tugged sharply at the damp strands at his nape.

He grunted at the discomfort. "I hoped."

"You knew," she insisted.

Finally he shifted, dragging back slowly, stealing her capacity for speech with every inch of retreat. She moaned and trembled. She'd reached such a pitch of arousal that the deliberate, gradual withdrawal took her flying toward the edge.

Then implacably he filled her again. And again.

Usually it took longer to reach her peak. Not today. With a choked cry, she jackknifed and lashed her arms around him, convulsing as stars and fire and lightning raged around her. Transforming the world to fiery brilliance.

She was still quaking and gasping when she opened her eyes to find him watching her. His eyes were black with barely leashed desire and his body was rigid.

With an unsteady hand, she traced the stern line of his mouth. The skin stretched against the bones of his face. His jaw was adamantine with the control he exerted. He looked like a man who conquered nations. Just so must his ruthless Highland ancestors have looked before they stole their neighbors' cattle and women, and started the inexorable climb to greatness.

She braced for him to seek his release. Instead he pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was tender as his loving hadn't been. It felt like a silent pledge, although she had no idea of what. Shocked she lay quiescent under the sweet exploration. Then he closed his eyes. His shoulders straightened and he plunged into her.

Once. Twice. Three times.

He groaned low in his throat and his grip on her hair tightened to pain. An unfamiliar liquid heat flooded deep inside her.

Lachlan slumped beside Campion, turning her to keep their bodies joined. For a long, silent moment, they lay thigh to thigh, chest to chest. Both panting to fill lungs starved for air.

She shifted a little, not enough to separate them, testing the satiny warmth inside her. He'd always been careful to protect her from a child.

Not today.

Shock held Campion silent. The implications of what Lachlan had done were so shattering, she had no idea how to react. In those turbulent moments when he'd surged into her, she'd felt powerful and cherished. As if the pledge he made to her had been one of lifelong love. When of course she knew the rich, aristocratic Earl of Ravenglass would never lower himself to wed a girl as insignificant as Campion Parnell.

A child would cause so many problems. She should be utterly appalled. She should be furiously angry. Instead she felt bewildered and anxious. The turmoil left her feeling lost, struggling blindly to find her way ahead.

He hadn't quite drifted off, although he looked exhausted. Under heavy eyelids, he surveyed her, a faint smile of masculine triumph teasing his lips. The possessiveness in his gaze and in his embrace made her feel wanted, needed... _loved._

She'd always recognized that it would be dangerous to surrender to the illusion that he cared. But after that shattering union, she couldn't rebuild the barriers between what she knew was real and what she longed to be true. For a moment, she imagined the poor relation and the brilliant earl establishing a life together.

Only for a moment.

Even through the ebbing tide of pleasure, sorrow stabbed at her. Her heart clenched in futile denial of what she knew to be inevitable. This was the last time they'd lie like this, the last time he'd hold her in his arms. How could she bear to lose him?

Abruptly she realized that she couldn't spoil the memory of this afternoon by saying goodbye.

Far better to disappear back to Sussex without a farewell. Write a note explaining that she'd been called away. Wish him well from a distance, when he couldn't look into her eyes and see that forsaking him ripped her into jagged pieces.

Just as it tore at her to imagine him taking some other woman to his bed.

The gossip was that now the earl had reached the age of twenty-eight, he intended to choose a bride. Perhaps even tonight at the Winterson ball. Campion knew that he was going. He'd mentioned his mother madly shopping for a new gown to befit the occasion.

Every time Campion thought of Lachlan marrying someone else, she felt physically ill. The rational side of her recognized that men of noble lineage were obliged to produce aristocratic heirs. But loving him so desperately, she couldn't be entirely rational. At the deepest level and despite everything she knew of the world she lived in, she believed that he was hers. Forever.

"You're crying." His voice roughened with concern.

"Am I?" She raised one hand to her face and her fingers came away wet.

His slashing black brows lowered. "Did I hurt you?"

When he shifted, his body slipped from hers. She missed him immediately.

"No." She blushed, although surely an earl's mistress should have long ago lost the ability to blush. "I'm just...overwhelmed."

"I wanted to overwhelm you," he said softly, his voice weighted with drowsiness. He drew her against him. "Rest now."

Past the line of his shoulder, she watched the cat stretch and pad toward the door.

"I'll tend to the cat first." She always allowed Plato a couple of hours to roam while she was here.

"Hurry back," he murmured, kissing the tip of her shoulder.

She pressed her lips to his. It wouldn't do to make the kiss too emotional, too passionate. Nonetheless, she lingered, memorizing the taste of his mouth and the way his lips moved upon hers. Etching into her mind the scent of his skin and the heat of his body.

Before she could cling too long, so long that she'd never let him go, she lifted her head and smiled. "You make me very happy."

It was the closest she'd ventured to telling him that she loved him. She wanted him to know that the greatest measure of joy she'd ever experience was here with him. But that, again, betrayed too much.

Between his thick black lashes, his green eyes sparked with a warmth that had little to do with passion and everything to do with affection. This was when her heart begged her to trust in impossible happy endings, when he looked at her as though she carried the stars in her hands. "I'm glad."

She kissed him once more. Briefly. Urgently. She couldn't meet his eyes again without bursting into tears. "Sleep."

His smile developed a sensual edge, even though he was nearly asleep. "For a little while. I have plans for this afternoon."

More love play, she guessed. The yen to stay and let him possess her once, twice more nearly made her hesitate. But she knew that her resolve failed. She wasn't far from pleading with him never to leave her.

Her plan had always been to finish this affair with dignity, to walk away with her head high. She wanted Lachlan to remember her as proud and strong. Although right now she felt like crumpling onto the floor and crying her eyes out.

Before she weakened, she slipped out of the bed and gathered her clothes. She dressed hurriedly, hiding under the hooded cape that had proven such a boon in this intrigue.

While she prepared to leave, Lachlan tumbled into slumber, rolling onto his back and flinging one arm out as if reaching for her.

The gesture made her heart ache. They'd never spent a night together. They never would. Another source of piercing regret.

She straightened and told herself that women without fortune and beauty had no business dabbling in foolish dreams. The admonition didn't ease the crippling weight inside her. Perhaps after she'd repeated that grim litany for ten years or so, it would prove more bracing.

Very quietly, she opened the door a crack, letting Plato brush past her skirts. After one last glance behind her, she slipped away, abandoning Lord Ravenglass to the dimly lit room.

Campion was sitting at the kitchen table, struggling with a pile of mending, when Alice the housemaid came to fetch her, her face alight with curiosity. "You're wanted upstairs, miss."

Sighing, Campion put her sewing aside. It was hopeless doing fine work by the light of cheap tallow candles. She refused to blame her clumsiness on the tears stinging her eyes. "Is something wrong?"

Alice spread her hands to convey ignorance. "Hobbs said not to dawdle."

Hobbs was the haughty butler, with more airs and graces than a blue-blooded debutante. Aunt Ida had hired him to lend consequence when the ton called.

Unfortunately so far, people of rank hadn't chosen to call upon Mrs. Parnell, undistinguished widow from Croxley in Sussex. Campion's aunt and cousin had arrived in London fortified with dreams of baronesses taking them about in carriages and wellborn young bucks inundating Fenella with bouquets. Aunt Ida had even hoped Fenella might attract the famous Earl of Ravenglass who sought a wife, so everyone said. Who better than the belle of Croxley?

Sadly Fenella, while pretty enough to grace a country assembly, didn't sparkle in the capital's brighter lights. The trains of admirers had never materialized. The peevish belle of Croxley and her disappointed mother planned to return home within the month. Both had taken their failure out on Campion.

She hardly dared to imagine their reactions if they discovered that the despised poor relation had caught Ravenglass's attention. Although if her aunt knew that her niece was a fallen woman, Campion would be out on her ear with nowhere to go.

As Campion stood, she couldn't help resting one hand over her stomach, wondering if a child grew there. It would be an irredeemable disaster if she carried Lord Ravenglass's bastard, but some pathetic, sentimental part of her longed for his baby.

And didn't that prove that her previously reliable brain dissolved into mush?

She had no money, no friends, no family apart from her heartless aunt. If Aunt Ida banished her, there would be endless shame and nowhere to turn. Even knowing that, Campion couldn't hate Lachlan for his loss of control. She'd never felt closer to him than in those moments when he'd spilled inside her.

Trying to hide how her hands trembled, Campion untied her apron and tidied her faded merino dress. It should have gone into the rag basket years ago. Perhaps her aunt would grace her with a new dress tomorrow, but she doubted it. Her only Christmas gift would be the long, cold journey back to Sussex and the thankless work of preparing the house for the family's return.

With heavy tread, Campion climbed the stairs. The grief crushing her heart left her exhausted beyond her usual weariness after being at her aunt's beck and call.

Tonight's summons would surely involve some trivial complaint. There was no reason her aunt should have suddenly discovered about Campion's trysts with Lord Ravenglass. After ten years of Aunt Ida's carping, Campion had learned that meekness was her only possible response to a scolding. But the spirit of rebellion festered, even while she knew it could do no good. She hadn't a penny to her name. She'd only managed to pay the hackney from Soho by hoarding a few shillings from housekeeping.

When she entered the drawing room, Campion discovered not just her aunt and cousin sitting in front of the fire, but another lady in the position of honor on the chaise longue. A dark haired and extravagantly dressed lady Campion knew only by sight.

"Lady Ravenglass..." she stammered and dipped into a deep curtsey.

What on earth was Lachlan's mother doing here? As far as Campion was aware, the countess didn't know the Parnells existed.

Her belly knotted with sick shame as she recalled what she'd done a few hours ago with this lady's son. Then shame surrendered to icy terror as she wondered if Lady Ravenglass intended to denounce Campion as a slut.

But Lady Ravenglass's expression was friendly as she rose and approached to draw Campion upright. "My dear Campion, how lovely to see you again."

Instead of spewing insults and recriminations, the countess spoke as if to a beloved friend. Yet they were strangers. Campion's mouth sagged open and she stiffened with disbelief. She must look completely witless.

The countess was dressed in an elaborate green ballgown. She must be on her way to Lady Winterson's.

Behind the countess's tall, willowy form, her aunt regarded her with shock and mounting fury. Fenella looked sulky, her rosebud mouth contracted in a way that boded no good. Fenella was mean, inclined to pinch and pull her cousin's hair.

Oh, dear, after this, Campion's relatives would subject her to weeks of spite.

She stared into the countess's face, trying to discern disdain or mockery. Did Lady Ravenglass know that Campion was her son's mistress? Surely he couldn't have told his mother that he'd debauched Campion Parnell. A man didn't discuss his doxies with the respectable women of his family. Yet if Lachlan hadn't mentioned her to his mother, how did the countess know who she was?

Keeping Campion's hand, the countess turned toward Aunt Ida. "Your niece was so kind when I was searching for my lost dog this afternoon. I just had to call and thank her in person."

Lost dog? What lost dog?

Feeling she'd been bundled into a universe that made no sense whatsoever, Campion shut her mouth with a snap and regarded the countess in complete bewilderment. She'd never seen the lady up close before. Her striking resemblance to Lachlan stirred the painful longing in Campion's heart to agony. The same black hair and strong features. The same bright green eyes.

Green eyes that stared at her now with the message to cooperate.

"You didn't have to go out of your way, my lady." Campion managed a shaky smile, although her nervousness about what this meeting portended made her as taut as a violin string.

She tried and failed to pull her hand free. Years of housework had left her hands rough, suitable for a farm girl, not a lady. Under Lady Ravenglass's searching regard, she felt like a peasant in the presence of a queen.

Her aunt also forced a smile. Campion hoped hers was more convincing. "I'm delighted that my dear niece was so helpful, your ladyship." The gimlet glare fastened on Campion and, despite the warmth of the countess's grip, she repressed a shiver. "And so self-effacing. You didn't say anything about meeting Lady Ravenglass, Campion."

Before Campion could think of a convincing answer, the countess spoke. "I'm sure she considered her help a mere trifle. But I insist upon repaying her trouble."

"Your visit here is surely payment enough," Aunt Ida simpered and Campion cringed at the toadying. "I hope you will call again."

The countess's smile remained in place. "I'm sure I shall, Mrs. Parnell. I took such a fancy to dear Campion."

Dear Campion heard Fenella's faint snort of disbelief.

"I was happy to help, my lady," Campion said, battling to sound as if she knew what all this was about.

Lachlan's mother beamed at her with a glowing approval that she didn't deserve. Surely if she knew about Campion's affair with Lachlan, she wouldn't be so amiable. Still, shame was a sour taste in Campion's mouth.

"To show my appreciation, I'd like you to accompany me to Lady Winterson's Christmas ball. Lucy knows that I'm bringing a special guest, so I beg you not to disappoint us."

The last few minutes had bristled with surprises. Now utter befuddlement descended upon Campion. Lady Winterson's Christmas ball? The most prestigious event of the year? A countess begging for humble Campion Parnell's company?

And dearest surprise of all, one last opportunity to see the man she loved.

"Your ladyship!" Aunt Ida interjected with disapproval. "My daughter and I would be—"

The countess's tone developed a hint of steel, another reminder of her son. "I'm afraid Lady Winterson's ball is such a crush that I can only take dear Campion."

"But Fenella—"

"Some other time."

The exchange offered Campion time to recognize that, despite this miracle in her aunt's drawing room, she couldn't accept Lady Ravenglass's inexplicable generosity. "My lady, I'm sorry," she said unsteadily, a long, painful rift splitting her heart. "But I can't come."

"So Fenella—" Aunt Ida began, but the countess ignored her with an aristocratic carelessness that made Campion want to cheer. Aunt Ida was far too accustomed to dominating the scene.

The countess squeezed Campion's hand. "Of course you can."

"I appreciate your kindness, but I did nothing." The glint in the countess's eye indicated that they both recognized that statement's truth. The wry humor reminded her so vividly and painfully of Lachlan that she caught her breath. Campion's voice was husky when she continued. "And in any case, I have nothing to wear to the ball."

Her best dress was another of her aunt's castoffs. It wasn't fit for Croxley's assemblies, let alone London society. Even if she only played Fenella's drab satellite.

"Do you think I haven't considered that, my dear?" The countess waved one graceful hand as if preparing to conjure a gown from the air. "After your efforts on my behalf, I took the liberty of calling at my modiste. I gave her an idea of your size and my maid is waiting outside to do any alterations."

"But that's too much..." Yet again, Campion tried and failed to withdraw her hand. "I can't accept such generosity."

The countess leveled another speaking look upon her. She seemed to assume that Campion understood the rules of this game. "I must insist."

"Fenella—" Aunt Ida bleated, stepping forward to impose her will.

Again, Lady Ravenglass ignored her. "And my son requests the first waltz."

Did Campion imagine the emphasis the countess placed on "my son"? But that would mean she must know of Campion's connection with Lachlan. If she did, why would she encourage further contact? Confusion made Campion giddy, even as her heart raced at the thought of dancing with Lachlan.

"Lord Ravenglass—" her aunt gulped and Fenella shot Campion a killing glare from her chair beside the hearth. Aunt Ida rallied. "I'm afraid my niece can't attend the ball, my lady. She's due to return to Sussex tomorrow."

"You're sending your niece away on Christmas Day?" The countess's tone expressed polite incredulity.

To Campion's surprise, her aunt flushed. Until this moment, Campion had believed that her bombastic relative didn't understand the meaning of shame. "She has duties in the country."

"I'm sure they can wait." The countess's expression remained pleasant but determined. "In fact, I hoped to keep dear Campion with me overnight so that she can spend the festival with my family."

Campion only just saved herself from gaping open-mouthed once more at the countess. Christmas was an intimate celebration for one's closest associates. The countess's invitation was a mark of immeasurable favor. A privilege one might extend to a prospective daughter-in-law.

"My lady, she hardly merits such preferment," Aunt Ida protested. "If she found your dog, well and good. But this kindness is beyond her wildest dreams."

For once, Aunt Ida spoke nothing but the truth. Still the countess didn't budge. "I'm sure Campion and I will be the dearest friends."

Campion wasn't so sure. Lady Ravenglass's charm and drive were rather overwhelming. She now saw where Lachlan had learned his single-mindedness. But why did Lady Ravenglass go to this trouble for her?

Before Aunt Ida could respond, the countess addressed Campion with a smiling implacability that would rout an army. "If you step out into the hall, my dear, you'll see my maid. We must hurry. You won't want to miss a moment of the party of the year."

Feeling as though she'd been whipped up into a whirlwind, Campion yielded. After all, this unprecedented evening delivered so many of her most cherished dreams, including that unfulfilled dream of dancing with the man she loved. Behind Lady Ravenglass, Aunt Ida's cheeks were purple with outrage.

"Thank you, my lady," Campion murmured, caught between wonderment and trepidation and laughter. Through ten years of her aunt's tyranny, she'd never seen that lady routed. She'd have been inhuman not to gloat just a little.

Up in Campion's cold attic, the countess's maid Lise crimped, stitched and fussed. All the while, she muttered away in a French too idiomatic to follow, although her contempt for Campion's spartan surroundings needed no translation. Campion didn't mind the girl's monologue. It saved her having to strain for conversation when the world reeled around her.

A thousand questions buzzed in her head. But discretion kept her silent. Discretion, and the superstitious fear that, if she inquired too deeply into this extraordinary chance, it might vanish like mist,

When Lise finally turned Campion toward her mirror, a princess gazed back. Campion's heart gave a mighty thump of disbelief. She hardly credited that the slender woman in spangled azure could be plain, workaday, unimportant Campion Parnell. Her golden hair was swept high in a regal style. Jewels sparkled at her throat. Her skin glowed like a pearl. Shy excitement shimmered in her large sapphire eyes.

One shaking hand rose to touch her tremulous mouth, red and full in her pale face. None of this felt real. Never had she imagined that she'd wear such a spectacular gown. Never had she imagined that she could look like this if she did. She half-expected to wake from a doze and find herself crouched over the mending in the kitchen.

For once in her life, she made a suitable partner for the magnificent Earl of Ravenglass. She didn't understand why this happened, but she meant to shine tonight, shine so bright that he never forgot her.

She'd cry later, she knew, when she returned to Sussex and life as her aunt's drudge. But right now, she wanted to laugh and dance and smile, and flirt with the man she loved. Right now, she wanted to seize this brief happiness and wring every drop of joy from it before fate snatched it away.

As Campion descended the stairs, Lise following, Lady Ravenglass's face lit with admiration. "How beautiful you are."

From beside Lady Ravenglass, Aunt Ida and Fenella stared appalled at the transformed Campion. Right now, Campion didn't care. She was going to the season's most exclusive ball. She would dance with the handsomest man in London. She wore a gown more dazzling than the sun. Whatever punishment her relations inflicted, nothing could ever take tonight away.

Raising her chin, she met the countess's eyes with a confidence she hadn't felt in her shabby merino frock. Around her throat, she felt the weight of the sapphire and diamond necklace Lise had produced for her.

"Thank you so much, my lady." The words were inadequate to express her astonished gratitude, but they were all she had.

The countess made a dismissive gesture. "It's the least I can do, my dear." She signaled to Lise to place a deep blue velvet cape across Campion's shoulders. "Come. The ball awaits."

As luxurious warmth surrounded her, anticipation stirred in Campion's heart. Anticipation and yearning. She'd see Lachlan once more. And however the future turned out, he'd remember her as lovely and poised and elegant.

With a flourish, Hobbs opened the door. His bow to Campion conveyed a respect he'd never shown her aunt or Fenella.

Campion stepped outside. The icy air stole her breath and she snuggled into her cape. Something feathery touched her cheek. It had started to snow. She smiled up at the cloudy sky and made the one wish that until now she'd never dared to make. After all, the most impossible dreams came true at Lady Winterson's ball.

Two carriages waited. The smaller, presumably for Lise, was familiar from those delicious, frustrating excursions before she'd ceded herself to Lachlan.

When Campion turned to the countess, she prayed that she wasn't blushing. "I don't know what I've done to deserve such kindness."

The countess's eyes sparkled, as if she concealed a delightful secret. "Don't you know, my dear? Really?"

Campion stared at her, puzzled. "I didn't save your dog."

"Perhaps not." The countess smiled. "But I hope that you might save my son."

_Oh, no._ Humiliation twisted her stomach. Lachlan must have told her about those afternoons in Soho. Despite the cold, Campion's face stung with heat. "I don't—"

"I know you feel completely at sea." Lady Ravenglass leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. Still smiling, she nodded toward the small carriage. "But over there, you'll find answers to every question."

In front of Campion's dazed eyes, the carriage's door swung open. Even before the lamplight struck the man who leaned forward, Campion recognized Lachlan. For a moment, she stared at him, transfixed with love. He looked breathtaking in his black evening clothes.

Then she wrenched her attention back to the countess. "How did you—"

A gentle push propelled her forward. "Go to him, Campion."

Without her making a conscious decision to move, the delicate blue slippers that matched her dress carried Campion three steps to the carriage. She moved so quickly that she wasn't aware of covering the distance.

All ability to speak had deserted her, but in her chest, her heart swooped with incredulous joy. Behind her, she was vaguely aware of Lady Ravenglass entering the other carriage and of Hobbs shutting the front door against her aunt and cousin's avid curiosity.

"Lachlan?" she stammered, too bewildered to use his title. Not long ago, she'd believed she'd never see him again. However this magical night ended, this opportunity to speak with him, to touch him, even if only once more, felt like a wondrous gift.

He smiled. That wonderful smile that always set her heart somersaulting. Except that her heart already performed somersaults. And cartwheels. And pirouettes. In the last few seconds, her heart had become home to a whole troupe of acrobats.

"You look a little overcome." He took her hand, his grip firm and warm. As always when he touched her, the bewildering whirl around her settled, even tonight when nothing else made sense. "My mother is a force of nature. I knew she'd prevail against your aunt."

Campion laughed softly, curling her hand around his as she stepped into the carriage. "You're a force of nature too."

A low laugh sent sensual awareness rippling down her spine. "Glad you acknowledge that."

His free hand pulled the door shut, enveloping them in darkness. The blinds were drawn, making the space disturbingly intimate. His grasp tightened as he drew her down beside him. "Kiss me, Campion."

Eagerly she leaned forward and twined her arms around him. He felt strong and solid and so very, very dear. If only she could hold him like this forever. She still didn't understand the schemes he and his mother pursued, but this chance to be alone with him was too sweet to resist.

For a teasing interval, he merely skimmed his lips across hers. Then on a muffled groan, he lured her into incendiary passion. His mouth was hot and ardent. As the carriage rolled into motion, she sank into velvety pleasure.

After a breathless interlude, Lachlan raised his head. "I'm furious with you," he said almost idly.

Curled in his arms, warm and safe with his heart beating steadily beneath her cheek, it was difficult to take his displeasure seriously. "Why?"

"You left without saying goodbye this afternoon." In the lightless, confined cabin, his Scottish accent seemed impossibly exotic, so much more noticeable than in the light of day.

She buried her face in his brocade waistcoat and felt his hand rest on her coiled hair. If they weren't careful, all Lise's hard work would go for nothing and Campion would emerge from the carriage looking like she'd run through a hurricane. The spicy essence of lemon soap and Lachlan's skin filled her senses. "I couldn't bear to tell you that it was our last afternoon together."

He tensed against her and his heart kicked into a faster rhythm. "Last?"

She raised her head. Her vision had adjusted enough for her to see the glitter of his eyes. "My aunt is sending me back to Sussex tomorrow."

"Damn it, Campion, you should have told me." His embrace firmed as he pressed her closer. "I had things to say to you today. Important things."

Happiness had fluttered inside her like fledgling birds since she'd seen him. His somber tone pricked at her elation. "I suppose you want me to leave my aunt's home and stay in London as your mistress," she said flatly.

He thrust her back against the seat so hard that she bounced. She flinched beneath his blistering anger as his hands tightened on her shoulders. "Of course I wasn't going to say that, you lovely fool."

She hardly heard him. "I know I'm provincial and poor, but I'm proud of the Parnell name. My parents were fine people who loved me. I can't bring shame upon their memory by accepting your carte blanche." She blinked away the prickling rush of moisture. For a fleeting instant tonight, she'd imagined that she was done with tears, at least until Christmas Eve turned into Christmas Day. "Whatever else I might choose to do if there were no other considerations."

"So are you saying that you'd like to be my mistress?" he asked slowly, in a tone she couldn't interpret.

She shrugged unhappily and risked the truth. "I don't want to leave you."

His sigh expressed temper. "Yet you did leave me."

"Lachlan, don't be angry. Not tonight." She framed his face with her hands, although it was too dark to see his expression. He'd recently shaved. His skin was smoother than it had been this afternoon. "I know I was a coward, but it seemed easier on both of us if I just disappeared."

"Did it indeed?" The muscles of his cheeks were taut under her palms, but his question sounded merely curious.

"I thought that was the last time I'd ever see you." She swallowed to dislodge the tightness in her throat as she remembered how leaving him had slashed at her soul. The reminder of that desolation made tonight doubly precious. It felt like a second chance. "I had no idea that you would come up with this mad scheme. How did you enlist your mother in your wickedness? What lies did you tell her?"

"None. From the first, my mother has known exactly who you are."

His nonchalant reply knotted her stomach with shame and anger. How could he be so careless of her reputation? "Your mistress?"

After a fraught pause, Lachlan's voice emerged deep and steady. "The woman I want to marry."

The silence that crashed down was so deep that it extended to the center of the earth. Even the soft creak of the carriage and the clop of the horses' hooves faded to nothing.

Campion must be going mad. This couldn't be happening. Feeling suddenly awkward, she lowered her hands and twisted them in her lap. From the first, she'd known that she could never be his wife. His exalted name demanded a bride of aristocratic lineage and powerful connections.

She waited for him to say more. To admit that he was joking or teasing. Or perhaps seeking childish revenge for the afternoon's desertion.

He didn't speak. There was only the steady glow of his eyes fixed upon her, although in the darkness he couldn't see any more than she could.

Eventually she forced herself to respond. "What did you say?"

"You heard me."

"I heard what you said." She was shivering, despite the warmth of his body so near to hers. "But it makes no sense."

His grip on her shoulders softened to a caress. "Campion, you must know I want to marry you."

She frowned. "Why on earth would I know that?"

His sigh this time was long-suffering. "I told you I loved you."

"Even in Croxley, there are disreputable young men with wild oats to sow. When a fellow wants to tumble a woman, he tells her that he loves her." Her tone was dull. "It's part of the game."

"What a cynic you are, my darling," he said with a huff of derisive amusement. "And while some men might do that, I don't."

"Why should I think you any different from every other rake in London?"

"Come, Campion, I don't believe you mean that. You know I'm different. If you didn't know I'm different, you'd never have given yourself to me." His voice developed an edge. "Even if you imagined I was trifling with you at first, you must know by now that you have my heart. If you don't, then for a clever woman, you haven't been very clever. I'm not a fickle man, nor do I take what we did lightly. I'm utterly in love with you. I've hardly kept it a secret."

"I was trying so hard not to lose my head," she said unsteadily. His proposal echoed through her mind like a thousand clashing cymbals. Had he really asked her to marry him? To the invisible stars, she'd whispered a wish for Lachlan to love her forever. Could they have granted her request?

"And in the process, you tortured me with endless uncertainty. You've never told me you loved me."

His admission shocked her. As did the pain lurking beneath his words. It suddenly struck her that she'd been so busy protecting herself in their affair that she hadn't given his feelings much consideration. A pang of guilt made her squirm uneasily.

"I didn't want you to feel sorry for me," she said, then realized how she betrayed herself. She rushed on to stop him claiming victory before she was ready to concede defeat. "You haven't courted me. Instead you took me to bed. That's not how a gentleman expresses honorable intentions."

"I knew the moment I saw you in that ridiculous dress at the masquerade that you were the girl for me. But your dragon of an aunt would have exiled you back to Sussex if I'd shown even a glimmer of interest in you over your cousin." His voice lowered and she heard an unfamiliar hint of discomfort. "My intentions were honorable despite my dishonorable behavior. I thought you understood that. I'm not a liar and I've never lied to you. No man of integrity would ruin a defenseless girl purely for his own selfish pleasure."

With a faint rustle, he shifted on his seat, as if physically rejecting the idea that he would compromise her without thought for her welfare.

"I didn't understand," she said dully, still twining her hands together in silent distress. "How could I?"

He growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating with self-disgust. "I should have spent more time talking to you and less time touching you. But I want you so much. Surely, whatever else you believed about my intentions, you knew how desperately I desired you."

"Oh, yes," she said, unable to hide her bitterness. "You were endlessly seductive."

"A man can woo with seduction."

"Not in respectable society," she said grimly. She remained wary of his confessions, sweet as they were to hear. He dangled the promise of heaven so close, yet still might tear it away. All day she'd been battered by circumstances, pitched from anguish to joy and back to anguish again. She couldn't trust that she'd reached safe harbor at last. "The Earl of Ravenglass can't marry the woman who's been his mistress for six weeks."

"Watch me."

She heard the same determination that had carried his mother to success against Aunt Ida. Campion had a feeling that she fought a losing battle here. Still she wasn't quite ready to surrender.

His breath escaped in a frustrated hiss. "Sweetheart, none of this matters a tinker's damn. Society. Manners. Propriety. What matters is that I love you. Do you love me?"

Her tone turned tart. "Clearly you think I do."

His actions had bordered on arrogance and she couldn't help but feel that he'd played with her from the start. Was he playing with her now? She'd been so wretched. She couldn't yet allow herself to believe that a happy ending beckoned.

"I've always hoped that you gave yourself to me because you love me," he said with uncharacteristic humility. "Please tell me that's so. You're not a girl to yield to a man unless your heart is involved."

How tragically true that was. But still she didn't relent. Not quite.

He must have sensed her continuing resistance, because humility turned to an urgency unlike anything he'd revealed before. "My love, please don't toy with me." He caught her hands. "I swear I meant to propose this afternoon. I was a blockhead not to speak immediately. But I defy any man not to let nature take its course when the woman he loves greets him naked. I planned to tell you everything, then take you straight to my mother. You never have to go back to those witches. Say the word and you'll be safe forever."

He lifted her hands to his lips. The desperation in his kisses betrayed his anxiety. He was shaking.

"And that word is 'yes' to your proposal?" She broke his hold, wondering why she hesitated.

But she'd been too easily won when she'd agreed to be his mistress. She wanted him to feel that he'd needed to strive to gain her as a wife.

He was so used to having the advantage. But not tonight. Tonight, dressed in silks and wearing diamonds, she felt powerful and worth the winning. She wanted him to acknowledge that.

He straightened and caught her hands again, despite her fluttering attempts to evade him. He brought them down between them. "I'd crawl over broken glass to make you my bride, but no, there are no conditions on my offer of help."

She licked her lips and raised the subject that had troubled her since this afternoon. Troubled, haunted and gladdened her, whatever dilemma it presented. "I could be carrying your child."

His clasp tightened almost to bruising. She heard his uneven breathing through the darkness. "I was careless this afternoon. I couldn't hold back. You touch me and I go insane. I'm so sorry, my love. But I'd hoped we'd be married soon and a child would be a welcome arrival."

"Did you think to force my hand?"

Even with a pregnancy threatening destitution and disgrace, she couldn't relinquish herself to him. Not yet. Not until she knew that he'd never take her for granted.

For ten years, nobody had valued her. Lachlan said he loved her. He wanted her as his bride. But she needed to be certain that he was willing to fight to win her.

"No!" His trembling tension told her that if he'd been sure of her when she'd stepped into the carriage, he was sure of her no more. "No. You're free to choose your own way. If you won't marry me, we'll work something out. You'll never suffer because of anything I've done."

"I could remain your mistress," she said bleakly.

"To hell with that!" She winced at the anger in his tone, even as she rejoiced that he rejected her reluctant suggestion. "You deserve better than that. We both know it."

During the last quarter hour, she'd discovered more about his feelings than in all their passionate afternoons. Something stirred inside her. It felt remarkably like hope. "So it's marriage or never having you in my bed again?"

"This breaks my heart to say so, but yes." He lifted her hands and kissed the knuckles, his mouth hot and passionate. "Do you want me to court you, sweetheart? I'll court you as no woman in history has been courted. I'll do anything to make you my wife. I can't believe that you reject me absolutely. You must like me a little."

This was a long step down from his earlier conviction about her feelings. He sounded afraid and unsure and not at all like the man who had swept her away on a raging tide of desire.

Maybe it was time she stopped tormenting him.

Her lips curved into a smug smile. She was glad he couldn't see her. "A little."

Something in her tone must have alerted him. The air pulsed with new awareness. "A little?"

She paused. "A lot."

He groaned and swept her up against him, peppering kisses across her face as if he wanted to devour her whole. Then his lips settled upon hers. The kiss conveyed a profundity of feeling that she'd never experienced before, even at the height of rapture. The last wisps of uncertainty and mistrust vanished.

Lachlan lifted his head. "Blast this darkness. I can't see your eyes. Your eyes tell me so much. Do you love me, Campion?"

Torturing him had been enjoyable to a point, but this moment was too important for games. She stretched to place a clumsy kiss on the hard line of his chin. "Yes, I do love you, Lachlan Macmurrie."

"And will you marry me?" His voice sounded raw.

"I think I'd better," she said, then lost all impulse to make light of her answer when he ravished her mouth again. More of those long, soul-searching kisses that turned her bones to warm honey.

Eventually she surfaced for air and realized that they still trundled through London. She sat on Lachlan's lap. Under the velvet cape, his hand cupped her breast. "Aren't we going to the ball?"

"Wouldn't you rather stay here?" The happiness in his voice made her heart clench with poignant adoration. "We've never made love in a carriage. Although you teased me so cruelly on those occasions, I came damn near to losing control."

She didn't smile. Her heart was so crammed with love that she felt embarrassingly close to tears. Her earlier despair had melted to a joy that should light the whole world, let alone this dark interior. "Do you know what I've always wanted to do with you?"

She sensed his immediate interest. He knew that she was about to say something significant. He always did. "Will I be shocked, my love?"

She smiled into his shirt front, breathing in his delicious scent. Clean skin and warm male. "I think so."

"Then for God's sake, don't keep me in suspense."

Gently she drew his head down and whispered her most secret wish into his ear.

The tall gray house in Grosvenor Square was festooned with bright greenery and scarlet banners for Christmas. In the thickening snow, the rich colors glowed against torch-lit white.

A street away from Lady Winterson's, Campion and Lachlan had reunited with Lady Ravenglass. Now a properly chaperoned Miss Parnell arrived at the ball in the earl's fashionable town carriage. She also arrived with her dress straight and her hair _comme il faut._ After Lachlan's passionate embraces, Lise needed to revisit her earlier work on Campion's appearance.

Lines of people slowly moved along a red carpet toward the open door and the welcoming blaze of light. Chatter and lilting music flooded from the house. A tall gray-haired man with a youthful face and an enigmatic expression supervised the procession.

"Good evening, Lady Ravenglass," he said with a bow deeper than the one he'd bestowed upon the preceding couple. "Always a pleasure to welcome you."

"And you, Philbert," the countess responded with a fond smile. "It's a crush again, I see."

The man didn't smile, but his manner conveyed vast respect. "I often wonder how Lady Winterson squeezes everyone in, my lady. But every year she does."

"A Christmas miracle," the countess said with a bell-like laugh.

"We always have at least one each year, my lady," the man, who Campion now identified as a senior servant, said. He glanced past Lady Ravenglass to where, in defiance of convention, Lachlan held Campion's hand. "My lord. And the charming Campion Parnell. It's a privilege to welcome you to 3 Grosvenor Square, Miss Parnell."

Campion had undergone so many shocks in the last few hours that she hardly registered that this distinguished stranger recognized her. She smiled. It was difficult not to smile when all one's hopes came to fruition. "Thank you."

People pressed behind them and Campion and the Macmurries stepped into the hall. When a footman took Campion's cape, she turned to find Lachlan staring at her as if he'd never seen a woman before. And the sight captivated him into awed silence.

If she hadn't believed he'd loved her before, his thunderstruck expression as he beheld her in her glorious blue gown would have convinced her.

"I'm the luckiest devil alive," he muttered, his eyes dazed as if he couldn't comprehend the extent of his good fortune.

In that magical moment, Campion Parnell, poor, neglected, unloved, felt herself blossom into a woman capable of commanding nations with the merest hint of a smile. She drew herself up to her full height and extended her hand toward him. "I believe Lady Winterson has achieved another Christmas miracle in us, my lord."

"My darling, I—"

She'd never seen him at a loss for words. That perilous lump of emotion lodged in her throat again, even as she told herself that she couldn't cry here in public on the happiest night of her life.

When Lachlan drew Campion aside, he attracted even more curious stares than he had arriving hand in hand with an unknown lady. "I want the world to know you're mine."

"I am," she murmured for his ears alone.

The hand that he slid into his jacket wasn't quite steady. He withdrew something small and glittering. "Say you'll wear this tonight. And forever. Please."

The "please" touched her. But not quite as much as the sight of this supremely confident man regarding her with such agonized yearning in his green eyes. He extended the sparkling diamond ring toward her.

"You're certainly prepared," she said huskily, staring at the ring without shifting forward. Tonight had been so packed with surprises. She became inured to marvels.

"I intended to give it to you this afternoon," he said in an undertone. "But you took to your heels before I had a chance."

Feeling as if a flaming torch burned inside her, she held her hand out in consent. "In future, I promise to stay and listen whenever you offer me diamonds."

"I'll remember that." His face alight with love, he slid the ring onto her finger. His shaking urgency made her realize anew that she wasn't dreaming. "Now let me take you upstairs where I intend to fulfill your wildest fantasies."

With her eyes, she silently vowed her love to him. "I can hardly wait."

Up, up, up the curved marble stairs they went, joining the cavalcade flowing into the exquisite ballroom. Campion was in such a daze of happiness that she hardly noticed the woman who greeted them at the door and wished them every happiness. Although since she'd arrived in London, she'd heard a thousand stories about Lady Winterson's beauty and elegance. And a few whispers about her scandalous past too.

Lachlan turned her into his arms and smiled down at her, his eyes alight with pride and unashamed worship. "May I have this dance, my darling?"

"You may, my lord." She choked back another surge of powerful emotion. She could hardly believe that all this happened to her. Surely she must burst with the joy exploding inside her like fireworks.

On a swell of sweet music, the man she loved swept her into a swirling waltz and transformed Campion's secret dreams into glorious reality.

The End

**Australian Anna Campbell has written 10 multi award-winning historical romances for Grand Central Publishing and Avon HarperCollins and 17 bestselling independently-published novellas. Anna has won numerous awards for her Regency-set stories including** _RT Book Reviews_ **Reviewers Choice, the Booksellers Best, the Golden Quill (three times), the Heart of Excellence (twice), the Write Touch, the Aspen Gold (twice) and the Australian Romance Readers Association's favorite historical romance (five times).**

Anna loves to hear from her readers. You can find her at:

**Website:**www.annacampbell.com

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# The Last First Kiss

A Holiday Short Story

By

KATE NOBLE

Copyright © 2013 by Kate Noble

To my niece Evelyn,

A horse-crazy tomboy/beautiful woman-in-the-making

# Chapter One

1830

Once upon a time there was a little girl who loved her horse. (This is a very dull way to start a story, but it's true.) She loved riding her horse, she loved brushing her horse, she – well, she didn't much love mucking out the stall, but for her horse, she would do it. And that, her aunt told her, was the true measure of love.

And that was how Susannah Westforth knew she loved Sebastian Beckett. She had known it even at the tender age of nine, when the Becketts moved into the estate on the other side of the village, known as Custard House. (Yes, Custard House.) She knew it when he – a mature and authoritative thirteen-year-old – would obligingly play cards with her on rainy days, or when he would muss her hair and say, "Well done, Susie!" as she took down her opponent in bowls. She knew it when they were both home for school holidays, and he let her tag along to whatever boyish endeavor happened to be going on with the local farmers' children, acting as her protector and advocate all at once.

And she knew it now, at the age of sixteen, watching him rumble away in his carriage to go off on his Grand Tour.

Susannah would have done anything for Sebastian. Possibly even mucked out one of his horse's stalls, although thankfully, he never asked her.

"Oh, Clarabelle, whatever shall I do now?" she sniffed to her long-beloved horse. (Susannah would readily acknowledge Clarabelle was a name better suited to a cow than a beautiful white-socked chestnut, but she had not been a particularly clever eight-year-old when she named her.)

Clarabelle, as intelligent a horse as there ever was, did not answer.

They sat on the hill rise, watching the carriage roll away from Custard House, tears streaming down Susannah's face. Sebastian had come over to say goodbye yesterday, and he had chuffed her on the shoulder and told her, "Don't worry, Susie – I'll be back before you know it. You won't have time to change a lick!"

Susannah had managed to keep her tears in then, but there was no point in hiding them now. She watched from her spot on the hill until the carriage disappeared in the distance, completely confused and lost in the emotions reserved for a sixteen-year-old who was in love but did not know how to be.

She rode astride back to the house, which was so much faster that she could only roll her eyes every time her mother told her it was unladylike. And she wore breeches – also unladylike, but so much more comfortable than wearing that heavy habit her mother insisted upon.

But the most unladylike thing about Susannah when she walked into her home was that, due to a sudden and oddly not-metaphorical downpour, she was soaking wet.

"Susie!" she heard the shrill voice of her mother, followed quickly by the determined trot of her little body across the foyer of their home, known as Dewberry Manor (yes, Dewberry Manor). "What on Earth are you doing? Tracking mud and water all over the place. You cannot have been outside looking like that – what will the neighbors think?"

Normally, Susannah did not let her mother's ideas of proper behavior affect her. She would let them roll off her like water out of a pitcher. Even at the age of sixteen – or perhaps because of it – Susannah knew her mother to be a deeply silly woman. She was small and fidgety, only worried about how things looked instead of how things _felt_ and actually _were_ in _real life_ the way Susannah _knew_ they were. So usually, she ignored her mother. And quite merrily, too.

But today, on this saddest of days, on the day that the one true love of her life drove away with little more than a pat on the head and a wave from the carriage, Susannah could not ignore her mother, her feelings, or how things actually were in real life.

"Oh, hang it all!" she yelled, shaking water off her head like an angry, wet dog. "It doesn't matter what the neighbors think! There are no neighbors to think about now!"

"Susie – " Lady Westforth gasped. "A young lady does not take such a tone with her mother!"

"My tone doesn't matter, Mama! My life is utterly and completely over and nothing matters anymore!"

And with that, Susannah stalked off, her determined march turning her footfalls into thuds as she hurried to her room. Where she promptly threw herself on her bed, heedless of the mess her wet clothes were making of the quilt, and indulged in a good solid crying jag.

It could have been minutes later, it could have been hours, when the knock came at the door. And a soft, kind voice murmured her name.

"Susie? I know everything has apparently fallen to pieces, but I have brought tea." There was a distinct pause. "I have always found hot tea beneficial when chunks of the earth start breaking free of their moorings. Also when one is cold and wet."

Susannah's face broke into a watery smile. She had forgotten Aunt Julia was visiting. Her elegant aunt always seemed to sail through life. She brought her sense of calm and dry wit wherever she went. And she was the only person Susannah might possibly open the door for now.

But Susannah was too bereft to get off the bed, so she made a mournful noise and let that be invitation enough for Aunt Julia.

"Oh, Susie." She could hear the chuckle in her aunt's voice upon seeing the tableau she presented. "Things must be dire indeed."

The tea tray was set upon a little table, and the mattress shifted with the addition of Julia's weight as she sat on the bed. Still, Susannah refused to look up.

"Would you like to talk about it?" This too was met with deafening silence. Because no matter how much Susannah might like to confide in her Aunt Julia, she just _couldn't_. No one could understand how she _felt_ , deep inside. It was too powerful, too unpronounceable, too unwieldy a thing, and if she said it out loud it would just explode like a cannon.

"Well," Julia said with a sigh. "Perhaps I can guess." She paused to think, but only for a moment. "You are sad because Sebastian has left for his Grand Tour, and you are afraid he will go away and forget you and meet some other young woman. Perhaps she's Parisian. Or Belgian. Those Belgian girls do have forthrightness that comes with being from such a small country. But regardless of the nationality of this young lady, she is sophisticated and fashionable and she'll have Sebastian wrapped around her finger. And he'll never see you as anything other than a little sister."

Susannah's head came up. She stared at her aunt, her tear-stained cheeks flushed, but her eyes unblinking and suddenly quite dry.

"By the time he comes back, your young Mr. Beckett will be married to said Belgian girl, who you will be forced to smile at and visit with at Custard House, even as your heart breaks with every love-coo she sends her henpecked Sebastian."

Susannah gaped. Her mind reeled at the exposure of her deepest, darkest fears. "That was the most terrible thing you could have possibly said," she blurted out, slapping a hand over her mouth in horror.

But Julia just smiled. "It's also the most unlikely to happen. Good English boys don't go on their Grand Tour and come back married."

"But... it could. Belgian girls, and all."

"True, but it doesn't happen to good English boys who rely on their good English fathers for income, at least," her aunt said wryly. "However, there is a bigger problem."

Susannah's eyebrow went up.

"Even if Sebastian comes back unattached – as I promise you, he will – he is still not attached to you." Julia's eyes glinted with purpose. "That is what you most want, isn't it? That's what the tears are about. Your young Sebastian did not see you as something to be bereft at leaving."

And Susannah quickly realized, sitting there on the bed amidst her sorrow and her muddy riding clothes, that Julia was right. (She so often was.) Her sadness was not born of the fact that she would miss Sebastian (she would) or that he might meet someone (please, God, no) – it was because he wasn't hers. He did not belong to her. Not in the way her heart belonged to him.

And there seemed to be nothing to do but break down in sobs again.

But this time, she threw herself into the arms of her aunt, who bore the shudders and the fluids, if not with sympathy, then at least gamely.

"I don't know – *hic* – what to do!" Susannah wailed. "I've tried everything. I tried being near him and riding with him and... and I even tried kissing him once!"

Julia's eyebrow went up. "Did you now?"

It had been for naught, of course. She had been sitting next to him on a felled log, after a good long sprint on Clarabelle, and she had leaned into him, her eyes closed, only to find that he had stood some moments before and she was left kissing tree bark. When Sebastian turned, he'd seen her face down and done nothing more than raise a brow and said, "Lose your balance, Susie? Up for the ride back?"

"I just know – *hic* – that if I could have kissed him, he would have felt everything I feel for him, I just know it!" Susannah continued, straightening and sniffing. "It would change everything! But now he's gone, and I'll never have the chance!"

This last realization brought on a whole new set of sobs. After a banal, "there, there" and perfunctory pats on the shoulder, Julia forced Susannah to a sitting position.

"That should be enough wallowing, don't you think?" her aunt said.

"It... it should?"

"I should say so!" Julia cried in agreement, as if ending the wallow had been Susannah's idea. "As I was saying before, you have missed no chance with young Mr. Beckett. In fact, his leaving is a blessing!"

"It is?" Now Susannah was completely bewildered.

"Because Mr. Beckett is so very _used_ to seeing you, silly!" Julia shook her head. "Every summer, every school holiday. Men, in my experience, have a great deal of difficulty appreciating what is right in front of them."

"So... so you think by the time he comes back from his Grand Tour... he'll see me? _Truly_ see me?" Susannah was too hopeful for words.

But her aunt simply regarded her with a cold, assessing eye. "Yes," she said finally. "If we _make_ him notice you."

"How do we do that?"

The corners of her aunt's mouth tightened.

"Please, Aunt –" Susie begged. "I'll do anything."

"Even give up wearing breeches to ride?"

Susannah's brow came down. Then her eyes followed, taking in her clothes. Muddy boots and breeches, hanging loose on her frame. Then she looked over at her aunt. Impeccable and comfortable in her grace. There was no comparison. But still...

"What's wrong with wearing breeches to ride?" she asked a little defensively.

"Nothing!" her aunt hastened to assure. "And if you want to wear breeches when you are riding alone, I would not tell your mother. But men – again, in my experience – like women because we are a mystery to them. Right now, in those ill-fitting breeches, you are not a mystery to men. You are a little friend. A _pal_." Her nose crinkled in distaste.

And Susannah could see she was right. She was not the type to garner attention from a man, let alone from Sebastian. She had not mastered the arts the other girls at her school had always been practicing in the mirror. She hadn't immediately excelled at such things the way she had at schoolwork or riding, so she shunned them more out of fear of embarrassment than dislike. And yet, she had always wondered... how did they do it? How did they bat their eyes just so? How did they choose just the right shade of blue to wear?

"You must have a lot of experience with men, Aunt," Susannah said with awe.

Julia looked askance a moment, but then leaned into Susannah, her eyes sparkling with determination. "If you do everything I say, I promise you will get that kiss from young Mr. Beckett."

_And then everything will change_. "Then he'll be mine?"

A smirk crossed her aunt's face. "And then... the rest is up to you."

# Chapter Two

Three years later...

"So, the snow is too impassible to get to Derbyshire, but not impassible enough to let us skip Lady Winterson's ball?" Sebastian Beckett grumbled as they pulled up to Grosvenor Square, joining a long queue of carriages emptying out in front of No. 3. He had been back in England for a se'ennight, back in London for two days, and he was already exhausted by the pace of the Little Season. A Little Season he'd originally had no intention of taking part in.

Of course, the weather had changed that.

"No one misses Lady Winterson's ball! It's where all the fun is!" his friend and travelling companion, Jude St. John, had said, shaking his head at Sebastian's lack of holiday spirit. But it was dashed hard to have holiday spirit when one was not where they wished to be for the holiday!

By the time they'd travelled from Calais to the St. John house in Berkley Square in London, the word from the Great North Road was that the snow was half a carriage wheel high. There wasn't anything to be done but accept Lady St. John's hospitality. Letters were dispatched to his father Sir Beckett in Derbyshire, but they would likely not get there any sooner than Sebastian would.

Holidays were for homecomings, and Sebastian wanted to be _home_. After three years abroad –every moment of which was spent experiencing the world and admittedly enjoying himself – he wanted the familiarity of Custard House, the quaint streets his village, and the family and friends he'd only been known to by letter for far too long. And yes, granted, he had been the one to extend his trip, not once but twice. But that had been for very good reasons.

When given the opportunity to climb the foothills of the Alps in Switzerland, one must take it, mustn't they? And when invited to attend a six-month excavation in Egypt of a King's tomb (which actually turned out to be a regular person's tomb, with no treasure inside) – adventures of that sort do not wait on sentimentality.

But it was time to be back in the bosom of his loving family. To see the familiar smiling faces of his friends and regale them with tales of his adventures. Besides, now that he was so close to where he began, it was the only place he wanted to be. Not even the famed Christmas Ball at No. 3 Grosvenor Square could distract him from his frustration. Indeed, the line of carriages and the crush of people only frustrated him further.

He thought of the rolling hills of his father's estate. Even on a winter day like today, he would have wanted to take his horse out for a good ride. Maybe little Susie Westforth would trot over merrily and join him, trying to best him on Clarabelle, and coming close a time or two. Then he and Susie (who would have decided their race only after a quarter hour of arguing about it) would adjourn to Custard House, or maybe Dewberry Manor, depending on whose home they were close to, and play cards or games and be merry.

Only then, after a week or so of that bucolic atmosphere would he be bored enough to come back to town for the Little Season. _Then_ he would be happy to flirt with debutantes and have hushed conversations with double meanings. _Then_ he would enjoy having his blood stirred by the sight of lowered lids and a small, promising smile on a full-lipped mouth.

But only once he'd had his fill of home.

"If we don't reach the front of the line soon, we will miss the ball simply by it ending before we get in the door," he grumbled.

Unfortunately, he'd had little sympathy from Jude, who already was home and able to enjoy the comforts of family (and the food his mother stuffed into him, which Jude enjoyed immensely) as well as the stimulations of society at the same time.

"First you want to avoid the ball, now you are impatient to arrive," Jude replied, mocking. When Sebastian sent him a look, Jude threw up his hands. "You are stuck here, Bass. Might as well try to enjoy it. Mother tells me that this particular ball will be worth our while."

"Your mother prays it will be worth _your_ while, given its history." Even Sebastian, from a small country village, knew of Lady Winterson's Christmas Ball, and how seemingly every year, there would be some couple or other that found romance there. Sebastian had no doubt Lady Winterson or her storied butler, Philbert, perpetuated the myth. Indeed, it was practically printed on the invitations. And if Lady St. John could have her food-loving, adventure-seeking son find a young lady of quality there to make his bride and settle down with, so much the better in her eyes. Sebastian had only known Jude's mother for two days, and he knew that much without a doubt.

But Jude shrugged off his mother's secondary motives. Indeed, he even seemed to play right into them. "I hear that every young lady worth meeting this season is there. And some shine especially bright. There's one my mother says was such a success this season, she turned down seven marriage proposals. Even one from an Earl!" His eyes glittered, his voice became wistful. "A lady like that must be incredible."

Jude got his love of gossip from his mother.

"Or incredibly silly," Sebastian argued. "Who turns down an Earl?"

"Someone who is waiting for love," Jude considered. "Or someone who can afford to be particular."

Sebastian was about to debate the point further, although he was only doing so because he was in a dark mood, but at that moment their carriage jerked forward one last time and rolled to a stop in front of No. 3.

"Time to find out if it is worth our while." Jude grinned at him as the carriage door swung open, letting in a rush of chilly air. "Could you do me a favor?" Jude asked then. "Could you try to have a good time?"

"Yes," Sebastian relented, knowing now that his glum behavior so far that night must have been abominable to make Jude turn serious, even for a moment. "I can try." And he pushed out into the cold.

Luckily, the cold only lasted as long as it took to hop from the carriage and up the stairs of No. 3, but it was still harsh enough to sting at Sebastian's nose. After three years in sunnier climes, he was beginning to wonder how he had survived English winters his entire life. But all that chill melted away as soon as they entered the huge marbled foyer of Lady Winterson's house.

It was a complete crush. Which no doubt added to the steaming warmth. A good dozen groups waited ahead of them in the receiving line, divesting themselves of cloaks and greatcoats, arranging skirts and cravats to perfection, and throwing elbows out and squishing everyone else as they did so. Some people who had already been received chatted and lingered on the grand curved staircase that dominated the entrance, pink-cheeked ladies in white being pressed against dark clad young men as servants in green and red livery tried to wend their way past, carrying trays of champagne and treats.

"The ballroom and dining room must be packed full, if people are mingling out here," Jude whispered, as he spotted someone he knew and gave a cheerful wave of greeting. They made their way to the formidable – and formidably beautiful – Lady Winterson.

"Young Lord St. John – so recently returned from your travels!" Lady Winterson greeted them with cheer. "And how does your mother?"

"Wonderfully!" Jude replied, giving excuses for his mother's inability to attend. She had recently entered her tenth confinement. No wonder she was eager to get Jude married off and out of the house – even a large house like theirs would be pressed for space.

"And how pleasant to make your acquaintance, Mr. Beckett," Lady Winterson was saying, and Sebastian gave a graceful bow. "I hope your journeys of late have been pleasurable."

"Oh yes," Sebastian quipped. "Although not half as long as the wait to get into your ball, my lady."

Jude sent him a hard look. "Bass..." he said under his breath, and Sebastian colored. "Don't be so mulish. I apologize, Lady Wint—"

"Oh, I am sure your friend means to compliment, even if he does it with a frown," Lady Winterson interrupted smoothly. "After all, a lady likes to be popular."

Sebastian relaxed his shoulders, bowing again. His rudeness was unpardonable, and he was lucky to be pardoned. "Indeed, my lady. I should be mortified if you took it any other way."

Lady Winterson seemed to relax too. Then her eyes sparkled with something that might have taken Sebastian aback, if he hadn't been so preoccupied being mortified by his own behavior. "Not at all, Mr. Beckett. However, I am terribly affronted by the frown. I will not have frowns at my party, and especially not at Christmas. Philbert will declare the night a disaster if he sees you, and he's already in a mood. I can only assume it has to do with the mistletoe arrangements. He has been terribly finicky about them."

Sebastian felt the corner of his mouth perk up.

"There, that's a start. I suggest you gentlemen have a drink of champagne and find some ladies to dance with. We have an excellent selection." She winked, making Sebastian's mouth tick up further. "And who knows? Maybe Mr. Beckett will find his smile."

With that, they were dismissed.

"What is the matter with you, Bass? You weren't so egg-headed on the continent as to insult our hostess first thing upon entering her home," Jude chided under his breath as they squeezed past the throngs and into the ballroom proper.

"I know," Sebastian replied. "I apologize. It won't happen again."

Jude just sighed, prompting Sebastian to slap him on the back.

"It won't! I promise, I will try to find a bit of holiday spirit. Look," he said, pointing across the elegant room. "Isn't that Parkhurst? I haven't seen him since we left university." Their old school chum stood with a group of young men, centered around someone. A female. Sebastian could see the swish of ivory silk skirts but nothing else.

Jude's face broke out into a grin. "Who's he standing with? Parkhurst, old man! Happy Christmas!"

A chorus of greetings came their way as Jude leapt forward to hail old friends and make new. And in that moment, Sebastian decided to be happy. Or at least try. Jude and Lady Winterson were right: he was here now, why not try to make the best of it? Try and find a smile and some Christmas cheer. Yes, he missed Custard House and his family. Yes, he missed the country, and his friends, and even little Susie Westforth running wild over the hills on her horse. But right now, there was wine to be had (as he grabbed a glass off a passing tray) and friends to reacquaint himself with (as he clapped Parkhurst on the shoulder), and apparently, a young lady that had captured everyone's attention.

Home would wait a few more days for him. It would not have changed.

That was the last thought he could remember before Parkhurst turned to greet them, allowing Sebastian a peek at the young lady that was the center of all this male attention.

He saw her all at once, but in that moment, it was as though his mind could comprehend her only in small pieces. Dark, silky hair, done up in intricate falling curls that touched against creamy soft shoulders. Her dress clung to the curves on her slim frame, making a man acutely aware of what was seen and what was unseen. Hooded eyes sparkling in the candlelight, a knowing smile painted on a full-lipped mouth that offered a hint of promise... hope for whispered conversation full of double meanings.

And her voice... it was as familiar to him as a song, but somehow, he'd never heard it _this_ way before.

"Hello, Sebastian," Susannah Westforth purred. Little no more. "Happy Christmas."

# Chapter Three

"Have you spotted them yet?" Lucy Frost, Lady Winterson, said in a rushed whisper.

"Spotted who?" Philbert replied, distracted. She had found him in an intimate alcove just off the ballroom, blessedly empty, fussing with the mistletoe again. Making sure it hung perfectly, in the middle of the garland that decorated the close space.

"He just arrived! Young Mr. Beckett. Julia wrote me to be on the lookout for him, should he ever decide to return from abroad. And of course, he chooses tonight of all nights to do so!" Lucy could feel her face blush with giddy excitement. She knew that after all these years of hosting the Christmas Ball, she should be used to the rush of excitement, merriment, and joy it gave her, but instead it came unbidden anew, making her feel young again.

But Philbert was looking down on her with concern. "Your face, my lady. You've become quite flushed." He put out his hand to feel the side of her cheek, shocking her with his touch.

"I, ah... I am merely pleased, is all." She felt herself flushing more from his touch and told herself she was relieved when he put his hand down. "Mr. Beckett is here, Miss Westforth is here, and I am certain sparks will fly between them. That is, once we put them together."

Philbert glanced over her shoulder into the ballroom beyond. "I fear there is little we need to do for this couple."

She followed his gaze to where she could see Miss Susannah Westforth, the most sought after young lady of the past Season, surrounded by a sea of young men, giving Sebastian Beckett her hand to bow over. Startled, he did so. Then, a waltz began, and before the first three notes had been played, Susannah's partner had stepped forward to claim her and lead her to the floor. The look on Mr. Beckett's face fluctuated between completely shocked and utterly murderous.

"Well, well," she murmured. "That knocked his socks off. It will be a few hours yet before she has him smiling. Although, to hear Julia tell it, a little torture might be in that boy's best interest."

"Hours of torture?" Philbert asked, shaking his now silver head. Lucy could remember when it had been a deep chocolate, thick and wavy. Of course, it was still thick, still waved. She raised her hand to her own light hair. Silver now too, she knew. But hopefully, still stylish.

"Yes." Lucy nodded. "Why, do you think that too much?"

"It's not for me to say, my lady." The corner of his mouth went up. "Some men will break under hours of torture, wanting for a woman. Some men endure decades."

Something zipped through Lucy's heart. Something uncomfortable, something wonderful. And when her eyes met his... something that made her flush all over again.

Susannah could feel warmth spreading through her body, that odd tingling of awareness stretching over her skin like an invisible touch. He was _here._ Sebastian was here. Now. How long had he been back in England? In London? Why did she feel so ill-prepared for this meeting, when all she had been doing for the last three years was wishing for it?

Wishing for a single kiss from him.

As Mr. Parkhurst took her through another turn in the waltz, Susannah tried her best to compose herself, and to remember all her aunt had taught her. Oh, she wished Aunt Julia was there at that very moment! But of course, she could not be – the snow had stranded her in the North much the way everyone here was stranded in the South. As it was, Susannah was all alone in London – staying with friends while her family celebrated the holiday at Dewberry Manor. At home.

_First things first – never let your young Mr. Beckett see you unsettled_. The phrase echoed in Susannah's head. It had been early on in their lessons, when Aunt Julia had been trying to get her to sit serenely at tea, and not twitch her leg or fidget her hands.

Susannah took a deep breath and let a serene smile bloom over her features. She would not let Sebastian know how her heart raced, how she could feel his eyes on her as she twirled across the room. He would not see her unsettled, nor let him know that he was the one doing the unsettling.

"You have a very curious look on your face," Parkhurst said, bringing her attention back to him. (Another rule long since drilled into her head popped up: _When with a man, give him your full attention. Unless he does not return the favor._ ) And Parkhurst definitely was earning her attention, his eyes peering into her face, searching.

"Do I?" she asked, turning the corners of her mouth up.

"Yes. I would pay all the money I have to know what you are thinking."

"Oh, I should prefer not to bankrupt you, so I will happily tell you," Susannah answered back coyly. "I was thinking about my aunt, and some advice she has given me."

"Advice?" Parkhurst's (slightly bushy) eyebrow went up. "On what subject?"

"Men."

Now his second eyebrow joined the first. "And what was the advice?"

"All men, whether they know it or not, desire manipulation. It is only charitable that we women manipulate them to our liking."

Parkhurst blinked twice and then burst out laughing. And Susannah glowed with pleasure, knowing that she had gained the attention of _every_ man in the room – and cemented the gaze of one man in particular.

After Parkhurst came Lord Trolley, and then Mr. Campbell for a reel. Thus Susannah did not have a moment to catch her breath for nearly a full hour. When one finally came, she was inundated with offers to fetch her refreshment. She directed the young bucks toward the punch bowl, letting them argue over who would bring the cup to her. What she really wanted was a respite. A few moments to breathe, to collect her thoughts. She knew Sebastian was here somewhere, and the next time she saw him, she had to be quick and clever, and – according to her aunt – completely alluring and unattainable at the same time, thus rendering him in her thrall –

"I thought you'd never leave the dance floor."

She started, but quickly smoothed her features. Not only had Aunt Julia taught her how to dress and stand up straight, she'd taught her how to seem unruffled, even if you were ruffled quite deeply.

He was standing by the Christmas tree. It was not the first Christmas tree that Susannah had ever seen, but it was certainly the biggest. When Lady Winterson adopted a new trend, she did so with aplomb. The branches of the fir fell out in a perfect conical fashion, the decorations and the little candles jostled only slightly when Sebastian removed himself from the wall.

He moved gracefully, but then again, he always had. Even when they were young, Susannah's heart had skipped a beat at just seeing his confident walk. But now, that walk had a bit more thud to it, and his brow a bit more thunder.

"I try to honor all the dances I give away," Susannah said simply, letting her smile come up again. Letting her eyes fill with the joy of seeing him again.

Sebastian smiled, although it did not reach his eyes. "I remember when you could not do a simple reel without tripping over your feet."

She blushed, but held his eye. "And I remember that you were quite the gentleman, and never made me feel clumsy for it."

"Yes, well... you have improved since then," he mumbled.

"Three years is a long time."

"It's not that long," he replied, affronted. "Not long enough for..." His eyes raked over her, and she knew what he saw. The changes in her. The child gone and the young lady with learned wiles standing in her skin. The dress, the hair, the posture, the laughter, the joy, the little touches of womanhood must have been a bit of a shock.

But that did not explain the look of disgust on his face.

"Not long enough for what?" she replied. "It's long enough for three Christmases. Three summer festivals in Hollyhock. Six birthdays, both yours and mine. Thirty-six months, one hundred-fifty-six weeks, one thousand, ninety-five days..." She ticked off on her fingers.

"Alright, enough." His hand reached out and took hers. Shocking her with the easiness of it. He chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "You were always more clever with numbers than I. More clever with most things, really."

She smiled then too, her nerves picking up every little thing about this moment. Locked in a glass bubble, they were, like the ornaments on the tree, the world moving around outside of them but as long as her hand was in his, they were alone...

"But enough of this nonsense. What is a girl like you doing in London?"

"A girl like me?"

"Well, yes. I mean, Susie, I just never expected to see you here. You're not exactly..."

The glass ball began to crack. "I'm not exactly what?"

"Well..." He gave her a look. "This party... this dress... you're supposed to be riding your horse over the hills in the country, not dancing with idiots like Parkhurst." He laughed then. "It's a little bit ridiculous, come to think of it."

She felt her brow come down. Her body go cold. The cracked glass ball shattered, and the rest of reality slipped back in.

"You're angry," she realized. Some part of her broke a little. After all this time, he'd been gone and she'd been so happy to see him and...

He was angry.

"No, I'm not," he blustered.

"Yes, you are. You are angry because I am somehow ridiculous for having changed. But what's ridiculous about it?" she asked, unable to keep her voice calm and cool, as she knew her aunt would insist. "I dance quite well, as you see. I look lovely in this dress. And I enjoy Mr. Parkhurst's company."

"No one could enjoy –"

"What I find ridiculous is that you come back after three years away and expect me to be unchanged. To be the skinny, awkward girl who tried to kiss you once and ended up kissing a log instead." He blinked twice at that, but she kept going. "Instead you are angry – yes, angry! I can tell! – at my having had the audacity to grow up. And you mock me for having done so."

"Susie, I never meant –"

"It's _Susannah_ , Sebastian. Or Miss Westforth. And the only ridiculous thing here right now is you."

With that she turned away, surprised by her own vehemence. Luckily, she did not have long to stew, nor did Sebastian have time to reach out to her and plead his case – if he was going to at all. For just as Susannah turned around, Parkhurst and a retinue of gentlemen returned with glasses of punch, champagne, and little plates full of treats.

"Mr. Parkhurst." She smiled broadly, shoving away any of her messier feelings. "How delightful – you have brought me an entire repast!"

Parkhurst grinned. "There was some debate as to what would please you, so we brought several options."

"Anything and everything pleases me, Mr. Parkhurst. I want it all."

And with that, she let Parkhurst and the other young men envelope her, whisking her away from Sebastian. She refused to look back.

# Chapter Four

"Hang it. Hang the whole bloody thing." Sebastian said under his breath. He paced up and down the floor, heedless of the dozens of people standing idly in his path, doing nothing more than chatting, or flirting, or enjoying the ball's delights. Well, Sebastian would not be delighted. Granted, when he had walked into this party, he had not been in the most cheerful of holiday spirits. But he had made up his mind to correct that, until little Susie Westforth sailed past him into a waltz with bloody Parkhurst!

He'd had to watch her all night, dance with man after man, smile at them, make them laugh and they make her laugh in turn, all the while his blood was settling into a boil.

Of course he'd been too busy _being_ angry to take a moment and figure out _why_ he was angry when she came upon him skulking by the Christmas tree.

Apparently that had not gone particularly well.

Sebastian was left in a state of seething annoyance, watching Susannah (his little Susie! With scraped elbows and a dirty face!) get whisked away by a coterie of his old school friends – each more unctuous than the last, what could she possibly see in them? – after she gave him a set down he frankly did not deserve!

_Happy Christmas, indeed,_ he scoffed.

"Didn't Lady Winterson tell you to try and find a smile?" Jude approached, shoving a sugared pastry in his mouth and chasing it with champagne. At least he seemed to be having a good time.

"Any chance of that walked away a few minutes ago," Sebastian muttered.

Jude's face split into a knowing grin. "Ah, so you fell victim to her charms too, then."

Sebastian's eyes came up, curious. "What are you talking about?"

"The Westforth girl." Jude looked over his shoulder wistfully. "I saw you talking to her. Hell, you even held her hand. But she left your side, and now you're sour-faced. Well, _more_ sour-faced," he corrected.

"That doesn't mean I fell victim to any charms." Sebastian shook his head, confused. Although his fingers still tingled from when they had grasped hers. "And what do you mean, 'too'?"

Jude's eyebrow went up. "Bass, she's the one we talked about. In the carriage?"

Sebastian just shook his head again, not recollecting anything that happened previous to seeing Susannah.

"The one who turned down seven marriage proposals." His friend rolled his eyes. "Including an Earl."

"What?" Sebastian cried, drawing the attention of several other festive partygoers. "That's not possible."

But Jude just nodded. "It is. After Parkhurst danced with her I had to know who she was, and he told me. Susannah Westforth, the paragon. The most sought after girl of the _Ton_."

"No. Jude, it's... it's just not possible." Sebastian felt the floor shift beneath him. "She's not a paragon. She's Susannah. Susie."

But Jude just looked blank.

" _Susie_." He tried again. "The girl who lives near me in Derbyshire. I told you about her, surely."

A frown crossed Jude's brow. "You told me about a skinny girl who rode her horse too fast and followed you like a puppy."

"Yes, well... that's her."

The corner of Jude's mouth quirked up. "Not anymore."

Sebastian was about to quip, or argue – or possibly send a right hook to his friend's jaw, such was his state of mind – when Jude saw either another friend or another pastry and chuffed Sebastian on the shoulder before he ran off after the person/foodstuff. Leaving Sebastian alone again, wondering why he felt so... queasy.

It was somewhat like being drunk – but he'd had no more than a glass of wine. It was like being felled by a cold – but he had no symptoms. It was like having taken a huge, running leap across a canyon, his heart beating fast – but he'd done nothing more than pace the floor. Nothing more than watch Susannah dance with bloody Parkhurst and others.

Nothing more than taken her hand...

And then watched her walk away.

_Oh, God_. Sebastian thought he might heave.

"Pardon me, sir." A tall, silver-haired man in butler's black materialized at his elbow. "But you look as if you could use some air."

"I fear you are right." Sebastian nodded grimly. The silver-haired butler led him to a door on the far side of the room and out onto a private terrace. There Sebastian took huge deep gulps of cold night air, steadying himself.

"If I may be so bold, sir," the butler spoke up, causing Sebastian to start. Good lord, he hadn't even realized he was still there. "I could not help but notice that you seemed to have quarreled with Miss Westforth."

Sebastian grunted in response.

"She is your old friend from home." The butler shrugged. "She will forgive you. Of course, may I suggest that you beg forgiveness as soon as possible? That seems the smoothest way to go about these things. Especially when you know someone as well as you know Miss Westforth."

"That's just it!" Sebastian cried, with more vehemence than he realized he'd felt. "I do know Susie – Miss Westforth. And that _fashionable_ creature is not her!" The Susie Sebastian knew would have laughed at a crowd of men vying for her attention. She would have rather been reading or working on puzzles or... "She is acting foolish, and I simply point this out, and I am told off for it. She's dancing with Parkhurst and... and laughing with him, for God's sake!"

"Mr. Parkhurst is perhaps not the most humor-inducing young man here," the butler agreed solemnly. "But how is Miss Westforth's dancing and laughing different from any other young lady's actions tonight?"

"It's.... it just is." Sebastian said stubbornly. "And her dress... it's unseemly!"

"Actually, I have it on good authority that Miss Westforth's gown is of the highest fashion and appropriate modesty for a young lady of nineteen."

_Nineteen_. God, hadn't she just been sixteen and all bony angles?

"How do you know all this?" Sebastian grumbled after a time. "About Miss Westforth's gown... and how we are old friends, come to think of it."

The butler simply shrugged. "I am Philbert, sir. I know everything."

"Did you know that she tried to kiss me, then?" Sebastian mumbled, kicking his boot against the grey stone balustrade.

Philbert's mouth crooked up. "In the ballroom? How very forward."

"No, not now. She told me she tried to kiss me before."

"Before...?"

"Before I went away. But apparently I wasn't paying attention, and she ended up kissing a log."

"And were you?" Philbert asked.

Sebastian's eyebrow went up, not understanding.

"Were you not paying attention," he clarified. "Or did you know she tried to kiss you?"

Sebastian felt another shift in the world beneath his feet. Smaller this time, but so, so important. Something clicking into place. "No. I suppose I did know. I just pretended it hadn't happened."

He'd seen it. Just out of the corner of his eye, but he'd seen it. Three years ago, after a long run on their horses, breathless, her cheeks flushed and lovely. Sitting nearly leg to leg with him on that felled tree. And his heart had skipped a beat. A rush of... something had him standing before her lips could touch his cheek.

"Why did you pretend it hadn't happened?" Philbert asked quietly.

"Because it would have changed things," Sebastian answered in kind.

A light dusting of snow had begun to fall, dots of white illuminated by the lights from within the party, the sounds of laughter floating out over them.

"Change happens no matter what." The butler cleared his throat. "And by the time she tried to kiss you, the change had already occurred. At least for Miss Westforth." Philbert looked wistful for a moment. Then... "If I may impart some hard-earned wisdom, sir?"

Sebastian nodded, but kept his eyes out into the darkness of Lady Winterson's snowy garden.

"There is a kind of love that does not happen all at once. It happens in increments. In inches. It takes a lifetime to grow. And invariably, for the people falling, it is difficult to recognize, because they are so close to each other. They cannot see the changes as they occur."

But then Sebastian had gone away. For three years. And coming home, all the changes that had taken place without him smacked him in the face, leaving him bereft.

"Also invariably, one person will discover their true feelings before the other," the butler continued. "And that person has a choice to make. Either they can alter the rules and start playing a different game... or they can be tortured. Wait for years and years on mere hope." He paused, as if the words stuck in his throat. "I admire your Miss Westforth for choosing the former. It is the path others have been too cowardly to take."

Those words hung in the air, falling lightly to the ground like the snow. Settling into truth.

"I... no," Sebastian found himself saying. "Susannah may have had a... a crush on me, and I am deeply fond of her. But she's not in love with me. And... I'm not in love with her," Sebastian denied, shaking his head. "I can't be. It's... it's Susannah. My little Susie."

Philbert shrugged. "That very well may be. But then perhaps it is worthwhile asking, why does her dancing and laughing with other gentlemen upset you so much?"

"Because..." Sebastian tried, defensive. "Because she's Susannah."

_My Susannah_.

The words flashed through his mind, unbidden. And it was true. She had always been his Susannah. His friend. When he was young, he should have been more keen to rabble around with the young men in the village, or go shooting with his father, or any other more masculine pursuit... but no. He had always wanted to seek out Susie. To go for a ride with her. To spend the day playing cards with her by the fire. And the way she looked at him had made him feel... golden.

But it had been more than that. He'd liked to hear her laugh. To know what she found amusing. To be himself with her.

But now... now other men were making her laugh. Discovering her smiles. She could become someone else's Susannah.

He may not know if he was in love. But he knew for certain he did not want _that_ to happen.

A flash of conviction raced through him. And it wouldn't, if he had anything to say about the matter.

"If you'll excuse me, Philbert." He turned to head inside, but was met immediately by... "Oh, pardon me, Lady Winterson." He bowed quickly.

But Lady Winterson's eyes were on Philbert, who stood frozen.

"My lady..." The butler's voice was strangled. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," she said. Then, seeming to remember herself, she turned to Sebastian.

"Mr. Beckett. I see you have not yet found that smile I prescribed."

"Not yet," he agreed, "but hopefully soon. Do you happen to know –?"

"I saw Miss Westforth in the dining room, not a moment ago."

"Thank you, ma'am." And then, Sebastian smiled. Trying the expression out on his features before giving it full rein. It felt strange there. As if all the other smiles he'd tried on before had been mere paint.

As he moved past his hostess into the ballroom, seeking out the paragon Susannah Westforth, he let that smile grow in concert with his amazement. He did not know what would happen next.

But he was eager to find out.

# Chapter Five

"There you are!" Sebastian cried, making Susannah stop in her tracks. "I've been looking all over for you."

She turned. There he was, behind her. _Smiling_.

It was enough to make her previous conviction to be cross with him melt away into nothing. But no! Aunt Julia would be horrified if she knew she had melted so quickly. _A man must earn your smiles._ And Sebastian's smile, heart-stopping though it was, had certainly not yet earned hers.

"Why?" she murmured, trying to keep her tone cool. "So you can yell at me again?"

"What? No!" he said, coming to stand close to her. "And I did not yell at you."

"You most certainly did," she began to argue. And found her voice rising like when she used to squabble with Sebastian over who actually won an arbitrary race on horseback. She took a deep breath and tried to restore her features to that of a young, polished lady.

Oh damn, where was the retinue of young men that flocked about when she need them? Unfortunately, she had asked the gentlemen to give her a moment to attend to her dress in the ladies' retiring room. A flimsy excuse to collect herself – she hadn't even gone to the ladies' retiring room. She had simply drifted to a different corner of the dining room. Parkhurst and the rest must have wandered to the card room and would be lost there for several minutes.

"I have no wish to argue with you," she said instead, gathering herself

"Excellent, I have no wish to argue – oof – with you," he tried, as someone bumped into him. It was terribly crowded in here. From what she could tell of the music, a new dance was about to start, hence a great deal of shuffling toward the ballroom.

"Then what do you wish?" she asked, coolly, ignoring the crowds and letting a little smile dance over her features.

"Just to start – oof!" Another person bumped into him, making him jump and making Susannah swallow a little laughter.

"Oh hang it," he said, and grabbed her hand.

"Sebastian!" she cried, but it was lost under the opening notes of a fast reel. He pulled her through the crowd and just off the side into...

An alcove. Curtained, with a small curved bench meant for people seeking respite. Or privacy. But the space was very tight. So tight, Susannah found herself standing almost toe-to-toe with Sebastian.

She forced herself to ignore the heat that radiated off of him. The small flakes of snow melting into droplets in his sandy hair. Instead, she met his eyes. And waited.

"Hello," he said.

"...hello," she replied, perplexed.

"I thought I should start off with hello, seeing as I neglected to say it earlier."

Her brow came down in confusion. Where was he going with this?

"Not because you took me by surprise," he continued. "Although you did. But because I didn't think I needed to have a beginning with you. Since we began so long ago, you see."

One eyebrow rose.

"But I was wrong, and for that, I apologize." His eyes became suddenly sad, and it was all Susannah could do to not reach out and touch his cheek. But she restrained herself. "I was away too long," he whispered. "Three Christmases, six birthdays. However many weeks..."

"One hundred fifty-six." She found the corner of her mouth ticking up. "You were missed," she concurred. "At home."

"Did you miss me?" he asked suddenly, and a thrill of heat ran through her. Between them.

"Yes." Her answer was frank. Calm. "Did you miss me?"

"I missed far too much of you," he answered. "I did not even realize how much until I came here and found the little girl that I knew had gone."

"She's not gone," Susannah conceded. "Not entirely. I still ride Clarabelle at home."

"Do you now?" The corner of his mouth ticked up.

"In breeches," she whispered.

Something lit in his eyes. Some kind of... anticipation. And now she knew why her Aunt Julia had ordered her to not wear breeches while riding with other people. Not because they would offend. But because they could entice.

She blushed at the thought, broke his gaze, looked at her shoes, at the little bench, and the candles dripping festive red wax in the wall sconce, looked at the eave they stood under, and the vines of ivy and garland that hung there.

"I want the chance to start again with you, Susannah," Sebastian whispered. "This new Susannah. I am a bit off-kilter here, and if you would simply give me the opportunity to catch up, I think you and I... I think we could..."

He let that sentence drift off. Left her breathless at what he might have said.

"Oh, I'm making a complete bungle of it, aren't I?" He dropped her hand – had he been holding it this whole time? Ever since he pulled her in here? – and crossed his arms over his chest.

"No, you're not." She reached out and put her hand on his arm, unwilling to break the connection. "And yes, I suppose a fresh start is fair." After all, she reasoned, she'd had years to nurse her feelings. He'd had approximately ten minutes.

A grin spread across his face, sending her heart into a hummingbird's pace. She found herself smiling too.

No, it was not him falling to his knees professing his love.

But it was a start.

"Then perhaps I should ask the beautiful Miss Westforth to dance."

The fast-paced reel was in its final notes now. A new dance would start up in minutes. "I would love to."

After a moment of held gazes and breaths, Susannah finally realized she was the one blocking their way out of the alcove. With a blush and a grin, she turned and made to move, but was stopped by Sebastian's hand, trailing down her arm, a silken touch, finally catching at her hand.

"Wait," he said. She turned. His eyes were on the ceiling above them. "I need to ask you something."

"Yes?"

He pulled her to him slowly, so much so that she did not know if it was him or gravity.

"I heard... Did you really turn down an Earl over the summer?"

Susannah's eyes went wide, and then her cheeks heated up. But she kept her gaze on his. Finally, she nodded.

"My friend Jude." He coughed. Then began again. "He said that there were only two reasons a lady would turn down an Earl. If she was waiting for love, or if she had the means to be particular."

She kept her eyes on his face. Searching. "You know my family, Sebastian," she answered calmly. "Do you think I can afford to be so choosy?"

Her family was landed, and even if she remained unmarried, she would never be impoverished. But her mother had nearly fainted when she was informed of the riches and luxuries that Susannah had given up by refusing a man of such status as that Earl. There were some things a girl simply did not say "no" to.

But Sebastian simply held her eyes, as he arrived at the answer. She could read every feature. It thrilled him. It terrified him. But still, he held tight to her hand, and now, he wrapped his free arm around her back, pressing her even closer.

She had never stood this close to a man before. Not even when waltzing. Her mind went entirely blank, while her body became entirely awake. Then, he flicked his gaze up to the ceiling. To the the garland overhead, and to the little weed hanging from the center...

Mistletoe.

And she knew. Susannah knew she was about to be kissed. Well and truly kissed for the first time. By Sebastian. And it would be the moment that he finally came to know, to feel everything she felt for him.

The kiss that would alter everything. The last first kiss.

He lowered his head to hers. Their lips a breath apart.

"Are you certain?" she found herself saying. "If you kiss me – everything changes."

"And don't you think it's about time?" He grinned. And tilting her chin up, pressed his lips to hers.

And Susannah, lost in that wonderful consuming last first kiss, in the warmth and press of his body wrapped around hers, had one single joyous thought shining above everything else.

She had been right this whole time.

One kiss did change everything.

Out on the balcony, the snow falling around them, Lucy Frost, Lady Winterson, stood facing Philbert. Her butler of over thirty years.

Her truest friend.

Neither had moved, neither had spoken for some minutes. Because if either spoke... their carefully built lives would fall apart. One way or another. The way things were could not last.

"Do you think Mr. Beckett's found her by now?" she finally asked, her voice a squeak. The war of her wanting to hold onto the moment and her need to fill the painful silence finally came to a head.

"My lady..." Philbert began.

"I only ask because I thought it might be useful to have the band play another waltz in a song or two, help them along."

"My lady, I..."

"He likely has found her. After all, youth has the advantage of speed and vigor. And impatience."

"Lucy."

She stopped. Her heart stopped. And then, something else fluttered to life. Not new, no... simply dormant. It had been waiting. Waiting for years.

No, the way things were could not last, she realized. But perhaps... perhaps she did not want them to. Perhaps, they could brush it aside and make way for something better. And that one little word – her name on his lips – thrilled her with the thought that it was not only possible, but worthwhile.

"I know you heard me," Philbert said at last. His rigid butler's posture came undone. He looked nervous... and young. But then again, hope always made one young.

"I... yes, I did."

"And you have nothing to say?" he replied, waiting.

But Lucy did not know what to say. Her heart fluttered in her chest, her body rooted to the spot for fear of flying away.

After a moment, Philbert's shoulders sagged. "I see. I will tender my resignation, my lady, as soon as a replacement can be found."

"Wait!" she cried. "I do have something to say, if you will allow me a moment."

He blinked, but said nothing, giving her a short nod of acquiescence.

And then she did the only thing she could.

The brave thing.

She took three short steps, rose on her tiptoes, and pulled his head toward hers.

The kiss rocked both of them, a kiss of too many feelings long growing and long denied. When they finally broke apart, he held her back by the shoulders, searching her face. Needing answers.

"Is this real?" he whispered.

"Yes," she breathed.

"I'm old, Lucy. I have no time for games."

"You forget, Philbert, I am old too."

He toyed with a graying curl at her temple. "Never," he whispered. "You will always be the bright-eyed young woman who, after interviewing me, told me that my job hung on my ability to hang Christmas garland."

"And you will always be the man who I hired because he could reach the top of the library shelves without a ladder."

"And because I had excellent references."

"Pish – every butler has excellent references. You had the advantage of height." She slapped his chest at his smirk. "You jest, but that was the criteria I used, and I have never made a better decision in my life."

"I cannot fault you, then."

Her eyes softened, her lips curved. "This is the first time I have wanted my Christmas Ball to end. So we need not be butler and mistress. So we can be more to each other."

He grinned at her, a wickedness entering his eyes, sending a thrill down her spine, connecting to where his hand had come to rest at the small of her back.

Oh my.

"I, for one, cannot wait to get started, my lady." His voice became a prayer. "My Lucy."

And as Lady Winterson smiled up at her butler, her truest friend, her soon-to-be-lover, she was struck by the truth that so many other couples had learned over the years.

That there was magic to be found at the Christmas Ball, at No. 3 Grosvenor Place. One need only look in the right place.

The End

Kate Noble love books. Romances especially. But, being born into a family of doctors, scientists, and mathematicians, she didn't discover she was adept at writing until, oh, about junior year of high school. Which came as something of a relief, as she was hopeless at memorizing the Latin names for all the bones in the human body. The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle eludes her to this day. Kate lives in Los Angeles.

**You can find Kate on the web a** www.katenoble.com

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# Excerpt From Mistletoe and the Major:  
A Regency Novella

by Anna Campbell

Otway, Shropshire, Christmas Eve, 1815

Edmund Sherritt, Major Lord Canforth, pulled his tired horse up on the brow of the hill. Below him, the fine Jacobean manor of Otway Hall nestled in its pretty valley near the Welsh border. Early winter twilight descended, lengthening the shadows and turning the leafless trees to silhouettes against the darkening sky.

At last he was home.

Four days ago, he'd finally received permission to turn his back on a distinguished military career and return to civilian life. He'd left London at a gallop, traveling on horseback because he couldn't bear to wait for his carriage to be packed and ready.

North and west he'd ridden, eager and happy. The first night on the road, he'd snatched a few hours' sleep in a rough inn and set out at first light.

But as the miles from London mounted and the miles to Otway dwindled, he found himself unaccountably slowing down, taking his time. Lingering over meals. Staying in bed longer in the morning—he couldn't call it sleeping without making himself a liar.

One might almost imagine the gallant major delayed his arrival at the home he'd longed to see for close to eight years. If such an idea weren't inconceivable in connection with a decorated war hero, one might even wonder if the gallant major dallied because he was...afraid.

Of course that was absurd. Lord Canforth had served his country since the British army joined the Peninsular War in 1808. He'd been wounded at Waterloo, and once recovered, he'd spent the last few months crossing the Continent, working to establish the peace. Such a man would hardly quail at the idea of returning to his estates.

Afraid or not, he'd dawdled on the road, when by rights, he should already be sleeping in his own bed.

Even a sluggard's journey eventually came to an end. Now he paused above the landscape he loved more than any other. Whatever uncertainty he harbored about his reception, he felt long-delayed pleasure seep into his bones.

This was a fine view in any season. Winter lay lightly on the valley, creating a symphony of subtle greens and grays and browns. His gaze drifted across the gardens surrounding the house, and the bare woodlands rising behind it. The low hills encircled what to him had always seemed an earthly paradise. Brimming with happy boyhood memories of loving parents, and freedom and adventure.

Smoke curled from the house's chimneys. This close to Christmas, he hadn't been sure if anyone would be home to greet him. The coward who had possessed his soul since he'd returned to England last week had hoped the house might be empty, giving him a chance to settle in before he needed to worry about anyone else.

Of course he'd have to deal with people again. He was the Earl of Canforth, and he had obligations to his estate. But a few days alone would offer a welcome respite.

A few days before he had to meet the wife he'd married nearly eight years ago and hadn't seen since.

***

Felicity, Lady Canforth, emerged from the dark warmth of the stables, blinking against the gray light and carrying an empty bucket she intended to fill at the pump. The promise of snow edged the air. It looked like a cold Christmas ahead.

When the raw-boned bay horse clattered into the stable yard, she didn't recognize it. Or the man bundled in hat, scarf, and greatcoat in the saddle.

This isolated valley didn't get many unexpected visitors. And it was odd for someone to come to the stables instead of the front door. She straightened, annoyed at the intrusion, not least because in her brown pinafore, she wasn't dressed to receive guests. "Can I help you?"

The rider drew to a stop, and she felt him studying her from under the brim of the hat he'd pulled down low over his face. A thick green muffler concealed his features. "I hope so," he said through the scarf.

"An introduction might be a nice start," she said pleasantly.

One gloved hand rose to pull away the scarf. "Don't you remember me, Flick?"

Dear God in heaven. Shock shuddered through her like a blow. Her legs threatened to collapse under her. The bucket crashed to the cobblestones where it rolled disregarded.

"Canforth?" The word emerged as a whisper.

Under her wide-eyed gaze, he unwound the scarf and, with a slowness that struck her as significant, he lifted away his hat. "The same," he said in a dry tone.

She barely heard through the blood rushing in her ears. Her heart raced like a wild horse as her hungry eyes devoured the man she'd last seen over seven years ago. Powerful joy and equally powerful uncertainty churned in her stomach, turned her knees to jelly.

She drank in every detail of his appearance. Over the years, his image had faded in her mind, despite her best efforts to remember. Thick auburn hair sprang back from his high forehead. The bony nose and jaw were the same. But there were other, obvious changes. Deep lines now ran between nose and mouth. His gray eyes no longer hinted at a continual smile. Most shocking of all was the long, angry scar that extended from temple to jaw.

That must have hurt like the very devil. At the thought of his suffering, she couldn't control a murmur of distress.

Her involuntary reaction made his lips tighten. He raised one gloved hand toward the saber slash—for surely nothing else could cause such damage—before he sat upright in the saddle and surveyed her down his long nose. "Or perhaps not quite the same, after all."

The pride was familiar. And the courage. He'd loathe her pity. She forced herself to pretend that she didn't want to drag him off that big, ill-tempered looking nag, and take him in her arms, and weep all over him like a fountain.

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" Keeping her voice steady required every ounce of willpower.

"I decided I'd beat any letter home." The deep rumble of his voice was the same, too. She remembered how it had always vibrated pleasantly in her bones. In the cold air, their breath formed clouds in front of their faces when they spoke. "On Wednesday, I got back to London from The Hague and found the orders that released me at last."

Felicity bent to retrieve the bucket, so that he wouldn't see the tears rushing to her eyes. She and Canforth had always been friends, but friends who made no undue demands on one another. Definitely not the kind of friends who howled and cheered and created a fuss when the wanderer returned from dangerous foreign exploits. She'd gathered from the first that he shied away from any hint of sentiment.

For a second, she fumbled blindly, until she found the handle. She rose with what she prayed was a fair appearance of composure. "The last letter I had from you was written in Vienna."

Through all these endless, lonely years, the only real reminder that she was a wife and not a maiden lady had been his letters. Written regularly. Delivered erratically, according to the rigors of war and travel. She'd written to him, too. He read her letters, she knew—he responded to her questions about managing the estate—but she had no idea what, if anything, they'd meant to him. For her, his every word had been air to a woman dying of suffocation. Although true to the unspoken contract between them, in her replies, she'd never ventured beyond news of everyday events.

"Good God, I must have written that two months ago. There's more to come."

"I look forward to them," she said easily, as if those letters hadn't kept her heart alive since he'd gone away. She set the bucket down near the pump.

"I always looked forward to yours." It sounded like mere politeness. But then he'd always been polite. Even during their few encounters in the countess's big oak bed, he'd treated her like a fine lady. Never like a lover.

"Let me hold your horse while you get down," she said, pushing away that unwelcome recollection. Her husband was home and safe. For now, that was more than enough. Their difficulties could wait. After all, they'd waited nearly eight years already. Another few days wouldn't make much difference.

"You shouldn't be performing these menial tasks." He frowned. "Where in Hades are the grooms I pay a fortune to maintain?"

"I've given them a few days off for Christmas." When she caught the bridle, the horse eyed her balefully. "Most of the staff are on holiday."

"Do you mean you're here alone? At Christmas?" The frown intensified. "Why the deuce didn't you go to your parents? Otway's a hellish isolated place to spend the festive season. Especially if you've been mutton-headed enough to send the servants off."

"You know, a man who's been away so long should wait to see the lie of the land before he starts throwing his weight around," she said coolly.

When she'd married Canforth at eighteen, his slightest displeasure had terrified her. To her surprise, despite her piercing gratitude that he was back, she found it easy to stand up to him now. Seven years running the estate had lent her a measure of confidence sadly lacking in her younger self.

Her defiance elicited a grunt of sardonic laughter. "Perhaps he should. Forgive me. It's a damned long ride from London. I apologize for being a grumpy bear."

This willingness to admit he was in the wrong was familiar—and endearing. Her years in charge of Otway had taught her what a rare and precious quality that was in the male animal. Her tone became more conciliatory. "Actually I'm not altogether alone. Biddy's here. So is Joe."

"Are they?" Unalloyed pleasure filled his expression. An unalloyed pleasure lacking when he greeted his wife. Ridiculous to be jealous of a couple in their sixties, but she was.

He slung one leg over the saddle and dismounted. To her horror, when he met the ground he staggered and almost lost his balance. The horse snorted and shifted under the clumsy movement.

"Canforth!" she cried, releasing the bridle and rushing forward to slide her shoulder under his arm. "Are you hurt?"

One gloved hand gripped the stirrup as he fought to stay upright. "Hell," he muttered. "I'm sorry, Flick. All day in the saddle."

"Can you walk?" she asked, as his weight pressed down on her. She hadn't been this close to a man since he'd gone away. Yet the scents of healthy male sweat, horses and leather were heady and familiar. And his nearness reminded her how fragile and female she always felt when big, brawny Edmund Sherritt held her close.

"Yes, of course," he said, already transferring the burden from her.

"You never told me you were wounded." Although the hiatus in his letters about six months ago should have alerted her. Only the pallor under his tan betrayed what it cost him to stand on his own feet.

"A souvenir of Waterloo. Nothing serious."

Felicity believed that like she believed in fairies. She slipped her arm around his waist.

"Is the scar on your cheek from Waterloo, too?" She needed all her courage to ask the question. That single betraying gesture when she'd first seen his face told her that he was self-conscious about his changed appearance.

Gently he disengaged himself. "My unearthly luck finally ran out under a French hussar's saber."

He'd gone through the entire Peninsular campaign with barely a scratch. Or at least so he'd told her. "After today, I'm not sure I trust you. Did you really escape injury so long?"

"Mostly."

Before she could sift that for its full meaning, he took a shuffling step forward and his left leg buckled. Men and their pride! "Don't be a fool, Canforth. Let me help you."

The lordly displeasure returned to his manner, but he was sensible enough to accept her assistance, if with reluctance. He even deigned to place an arm around her shoulders, the heavy greatcoat scratchy against her neck. "This isn't how I wanted to come back to you."

"You've come back. That's all that matters." At a crawling pace, they made their way toward the house. "How many days have you been riding?"

"Four. This is the worst my blasted leg has been in months. I managed all that cavorting around the courts of Europe without too much trouble. I hoped my wound was all but healed—I had plans to dance with my pretty wife at the New Year assembly in Shrewsbury."

"Maybe the one after this." Braced under his weight, she angled toward the kitchen. He wouldn't have to deal with many steps, and there was a fire. She suspected the cold weather was responsible for at least some of his pain.

"What about my horse?" he asked, glancing back.

"Is he likely to bolt?"

"No."

"Then he can wait until I get his master inside, and I send Joe out to look after him. You need to get inside to warmth and shelter, not go chasing after horses that if they wander, won't wander far." She sent him a darkling look, expecting masculine outrage at the way she took charge. "And if you argue with me, I'll kick you in your sore leg."

She needed a moment to recognize the bass rumble as laughter. "Well, I'll be damned. You've changed, haven't you? I left behind a sweet little poppet, and I've come home to a managing virago."

"Get used to it," she said, even as she hid a wince. While he was away, she'd grown up a lot. She'd had to. But would he like the woman she'd become in his absence?

Now that the immediate shock of his arrival ebbed, she had a chance to regret how untidy she looked. She'd been seeing to the few horses left in the stables, and the navy blue dress under her pinafore was old and crumpled. She'd plaited her thick brown hair this morning, and it hung in a long braid down her back. She felt more like a milkmaid than the lady of the manor.

"Can you manage this step?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, and with some help from her, he did. Once they entered the short, icy cold passage that led to the kitchens, he drew away and supported himself with his hands on each wall.

Her heart ached to see his struggles, although she gave him his way. Stupid of her to miss him needing her. But he'd never needed her before, and she'd rather liked the experience.

Ahead, the thick door was shut to keep in the warmth on this freezing day. Felicity stepped forward and pulled it open to reveal a vast room lit by high windows.

Canforth loomed behind as she paused on the threshold. In front of the fire, a large, brindle hound staggered arthritically to his feet, turning his head this way and that. When his rheumy eyes settled on Canforth, he set up a long keening howl. He limped toward the door, rushing so fast on his rickety legs that he almost fell in a tangle with every step.

"Digby?" Canforth said, and Felicity heard the awed disbelief in his voice. "Digby, old boy."

The tears that had threatened since Canforth's return stung her eyes, and she swallowed to shift the boulder of emotion in her throat. On unsteady legs, she stepped aside as Canforth stumbled forward into the room to greet the dog. For the first time, she read raw emotion on his face. The pain and loneliness of his years of exile lay so stark on her husband's features, that she had to turn away to save her heart from breaking. She dug her fingernails deep into her palms to control her tears.

When she had herself under control, she watched the reunion. Dog and master, equally clumsy in their urgency, met in the middle of the kitchen. Digby's howl rose to a crescendo that bounced off the stone walls. His old tail wagged so hard that his bony haunches bumped from side to side.

Canforth had forgotten his wound, but Felicity hadn't. When he stripped off his gloves and dropped to his knees, she rushed forward to catch his elbow and help him down to the floor.

"Digby. Digby, old lad." He kept muttering a litany of loving nonsense to the dog. Catching Digby's head between his hands, he rubbed the floppy ears. The dog's howl subsided to high-pitched whimpers of frantic joy.

When Felicity stepped back, she raised her hands to her cheeks and found they were wet. This emotional meeting tore her composure to shreds. She envied Digby's freedom to give vent to his happiness, whereas she had to pretend that Canforth's return wasn't a wonder to end all wonders.

She retreated against the stone wall and flattened her palms behind her to keep from interfering. Not to hug man or dog. Not to protest at the pain the man visibly suffered as he kneeled to pet and praise the dog with broken, half-coherent pleasure.

At last, Digby's burst of energy faded, and his canine excitement ebbed to a low, continuous whine. Felicity wiped her eyes and sucked in a shaky breath.

By the time Canforth looked up at her, she'd regained a little poise. His vulnerability lingered. The sardonic fellow from outside had disappeared. She hoped for good.

"I was sure he'd died. He must be close to fifteen."

She swallowed but still had to speak past a lump in her throat. "I'd have told you if he'd gone."

He patted the dog, who gazed up at him in an ecstasy of adoration. "You mightn't have known how much I love him."

_Love..._ Such a potent word, and one she'd never heard her husband use before.

"Of course I know." Her voice remained husky, but she couldn't do anything about that. "During our fortnight together, he was your shadow."

"He's well?"

She managed an unsteady smile. "Right now, he's ready to fly to the moon."

This time when Canforth's gray eyes settled on her, they were warm. "Thank you for looking after him for me."

"Oh, Canforth," she said helplessly, wanting to cry again. "Don't be such a fool. I tried to look after everything for you. I just pray I succeeded."

He stared into her eyes, and she saw deeper into his soul than ever before, even the few times when they'd shared a bed. Especially the few times they'd shared a bed. "Thank you for that, too."

She blinked back more tears, and when he spoke, she had a feeling that he tried to save her from succumbing to unseemly emotion. Unseemly emotion had never been part of their marriage. "He must be deaf as a post."

She gave a laugh, cracked but genuine. "He is, at that. And close to blind."

"He won't like that at all. How he used to love chasing rabbits." With an open affection that made her heart ache anew, he ran his hand over the dog's graying head.

"The rabbits of Otway Hall thrive untroubled, as you'll see."

Digby butted his master's thigh to regain his attention, and Canforth smiled down at him with transparent fondness. "It's all right, old chap. I'm here now, and I've got no plans to go away again."

The smile made him look younger, more like the man she'd married than the stern stranger who had ridden in today. It also made the abomination of his scar stand out harsher than ever.

The Earl of Canforth had never been conventionally handsome, but his features had been remarkably appealing, conveying intelligence and interest and kindness. The scar seemed incongruous, cruel. But then, Felicity had always thought the man she'd married, with his gentleness and whimsical humor, wasn't born to be a soldier. Yet he'd fought valiantly through years of arduous campaigning. He'd been mentioned in dispatches, promoted, and decorated, and she'd heard—not from Canforth—that Wellington had called him one of the bravest men he knew.

Her husband was a complex creature. Even as an inexperienced girl, Felicity had known that. The question was what state was he in, now he was home. And what were his plans for life after the army? For himself, the estate. And his wife.

Could she and Lord Canforth establish a life together after so long apart? She'd been so young and naïve when they'd married, and they'd only had two short weeks together before he embarked for Portugal with his regiment. In most ways, they were strangers yoked together for life.

She reminded herself to let this day be sufficient unto itself. There was plenty of time to sort out the future. Every decision needn't be made the instant her husband arrived home.

"Your leg must be hurting. And it can't be good to rest your knee on those hard flagstones." She stepped forward and spoke calmly, now she'd regained some vestige of control. "Let me help you up."

Felicity waited for his pride to reject her offer, but he let her assist him with reasonably good grace. She knew despite his discomfort, he did his best to keep his weight off her. Digby didn't make it easy either, winding about his master's legs and threatening to trip him.

She gripped Canforth's hand to keep him from falling and frowned down at the shiny skin that covered his fingers. More scars. These looked like burns. The pain must have been unimaginable. She bit her lip against more tears. With every moment, it became clearer that he'd been through a hell even worse than the one she'd pictured. And he'd never thought to confide in his wife about any part of it.

"Young Master Edmund!"

The quavering voice took Felicity by surprise and made her look toward the entrance to the pantry. Digby's whimpering had masked any sounds of approach.

Canforth turned so fast, he almost overbalanced. "Biddy!"

"Oh, Master Edmund." The old woman burst into noisy tears and flung herself at the earl. "Your poor, poor face. What have those wicked Frenchies done to you?"

"It's all right, Biddy. It's all right." He patted her shoulder and returned her embrace.

"But look at you," she sobbed. "I can't bear it."

"I was never very pretty, so no great harm has been done."

"What nonsense is that?" The old lady wrenched away and placed her hands on either side of his head so she could inspect him. "I always thought you were a handsome lad. And my lady agrees with me."

Canforth gave his old nurse a lopsided smile. "My lady was just being polite. She didn't marry me for my looks."

"Of course she did. And your good, kind heart. She was smart enough to love you."

Felicity was blushing like a tomato. "Biddy, give the poor man a chance to take a breath. He's only just walked through the door."

"And needs feeding up, I'll warrant." With visible reluctance, she released Canforth and mopped at her streaming eyes with her apron. "Don't mind me. I'm just a foolish old woman. But it's a red letter day indeed when the master comes home at last. A red letter day."

He smiled at her. More of that easy kindness that Felicity had first noticed when she'd met him in a London ballroom eight years ago. She'd feared this sweetness might be an early casualty of the violence on the Continent. But miraculously, she already saw that it remained essential to the man she'd married.

"You're not foolish at all, Biddy." He laid a scarred hand on her shoulder. Both hands were burned, Felicity noticed with a pang. "And I've missed you like the devil."

Biddy smiled through her gushing tears. "Oh, get away with you. I'm sure as sure you hardly gave me a thought while you were off teaching Boney a lesson. But heaven has answered all my prayers when I see you home now."

"Back to stay, I hope."

"I'm glad you've had enough of strange foreign parts. The Earl of Canforth belongs at Otway."

"Indeed he does," he said.

"Now get away out of my kitchen. This is no fit place for your lordship. Or your ladyship, come to that. Although I have to say there's no airs about your countess, Master Edmund. You brought home a treasure there. While you've been away, she's run this estate almost as well as you would. A fine wife you caught for yourself." She made shooing motions. "But listen to me, rattling on. When you two haven't seen each other in a donkey's age. Go on upstairs and find out all that's happened while you've been apart. And I'll make a veal and ham pie for supper. That was always your favorite."

Canforth leaned in and kissed Biddy on the cheek. Felicity couldn't help but compare the affection flowing between him and the old servant with his constraint toward his wife. After the long separation, some awkwardness was inevitable. But in this case, the awkwardness between the earl and his countess dated back to their wedding.

"If you knew how often I dreamed of your cooking when I made do with stale bread and salt beef, on some freezing peak high in the Pyrenees."

"Not right, just not right." The old lady clicked her tongue in disapproval. "And look at you now, you're too skinny. I swear you're like a piece of string, you're so thin. Leave it to me, and I'll get some meat on your bones. You haven't been looking after yourself. Anybody with eyes in their head can see that."

He laughed. "I'll be as fat as a prize pig by spring, Biddy. I promise you."

A confident step on the staircase down from the great hall heralded the arrival of Joe, Biddy's husband, stout and gray-headed and taciturn. At the sight of the new arrival, a rare smile creased his lined face. "Your lordship, by God, you're home. This is a great day indeed."

The old man, less demonstrative than his wife, embraced Canforth, but Felicity caught the shine of tears in his eyes as he drew away.

"Joe, will you please look after his lordship's horse?" she said. "It's out in the stable yard, if it hasn't bolted."

Joe bowed to her. "Aye, my lady. Although begging your pardon, but there's no fear of that happening. No horse ever bolted that Edmund Sherritt rode. Putty in his hands, they are. Always have been."

Once, women had been putty in his hands, too. Before his marriage, Canforth had had a reputation with the ladies. Felicity had been surprised that he'd been so diffident when he'd come to her bed. Since then, she'd struggled to avoid the thought of him being anything but diffident in some pretty senorita's company.

So many years away, and a man would get lonely. After all, it wasn't as if he loved his wife back in England.

Since he'd left her, she'd slept alone. But then, she loved her husband and always had.

**For more information on MISTLETOE AND THE MAJOR, click here:** <http://annacampbell.com/books-2/novellas/mistletoe-major/>

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# Excerpt from Third Son's A Charm

#

Available November 7, 2017

Book I of The Survivors series

London, 1816

Ewan Mostyn, third son of the Earl of Pembroke, prowled the main room of Langley's gaming hell like a golden-maned lion stalked the savannah. Ewan moved through the ornate room with its red and black damask walls, gilded moldings, and glittering chandeliers as though he owned it. He owned a share in the club, so his proprietary air was not wholly without merit. The illusion that he belonged among such opulence and fragility was somewhat less warranted.

As his feet sank into the scarlet rugs, his gaze passed over the club's dealers—men who straightened at his mere glance—over the courtesans—bold women whose eyes dipped, nevertheless, when they met his—and over the patrons—wealthy, powerful men who studiously avoided garnering his attention.

Unless they were idiots, like the two men Ewan approached now.

Charles Langley had politely ordered the anemic son of the Duke of Suffolk out of the club. The pup's debts were mounting, and his frequent bouts of inebriation were becoming tiresome. But since the lad had not taken his leave, he had become Ewan's problem.

Ewan did not like problems.

"She's mine for the night," Suffolk's son said loudly, poking another man in the chest and hauling a painted tart to his side.

The other man was somewhat older than the duke's son and rather more sober. "And I told you, sir, that I have already paid for the lady's charms. Kindly unhand her and scamper home to your father."

Ewan planted his long, muscled legs beside the two gentlemen and crossed his arms over his chest. The older man widened his eyes until his eyebrows all but reached his graying sandy brown hair. "Sir," he said with a quick bow. "I-I-I'm terribly sorry for the disruption. Lord Pincoch and I were having a slight disagreement."

Ewan looked past the older gentleman and fixed his eyes on the duke's son. All around them, conversation ceased or dimmed to mere whispers.

"Get out," Ewan said. He was a man of few words, which meant those he spoke now carried even more weight.

Pincoch was too deep in his cups to realize the danger he faced. "I'll leave when I damn well please, and no half-wit with more brawn than brains will give me orders."

Ewan felt a muscle in his jaw tense. Not personal, he told himself. But it was too late. The old fury bubbled inside him, and he struggled to contain it. His face betrayed none of the struggle, which must have been why the pup swaggered forward, pulling the tart with him.

Ewan took quick stock of the situation. The lad's friends stood behind him, uncertain what to do. The older man had his allies as well. And the tart was gasping for breath beneath Pincoch's tight hold. Ewan's course of action was clear, though Langley would undoubtedly complain about the damage later. Hell would freeze over before Ewan allowed a man to call him a half-wit and walk away in one piece.

With a speed that belied his size, Ewan grasped Pincoch's free hand and wrenched it behind his back. Pincoch immediately released the whore, who sank to her knees and gulped in a breath. Pincoch screeched for help, and that was the signal for his friends, similarly inebriated, to jump into the fray. The four men charged Ewan, who rammed Pincoch up against a gilded mirror with one hand and tossed a man back by the throat with another.

The older man grabbed the woman and pulled her under a green baize table, where several other patrons had taken refuge. Those still out in the open regretted their decision when one of Pincoch's friends heaved a chair at Ewan. It crashed into his back, and he growled with annoyance. Still holding the lad in place, he turned to see another chair sailing toward him. Ewan reached up, caught the furnishing in midair and thrust it back. It crashed into a faro table, overturning table, chairs, and chips.

Bereft of chairs, Pincoch's friends manned a frontal assault. Ewan finally released Pincoch, and when the boy sank to the ground, Ewan shoved a booted foot against his chest to hold him in place. Both hands free now, he threw a punch with his right and slammed one of his attackers back with his left. Something crashed, but Ewan didn't have time to note what it was before the next man hurtled into him. He struck Ewan in the jaw, and the offense landed him a blow to the breadbasket and an elbow to the throat. When he was on the ground, wheezing for air, another man took advantage of the lull to dance before Ewan.

Ewan almost rolled his eyes. This one thought he was Gentleman Jackson or another renowned pugilist. If there was somewhere Ewan felt at home, it was in the boxing ring. This man danced more than he fought, and while he did his fancy footwork, Ewan slammed a left hook into his jaw.

Heaving for breath but not willing to show weakness, Ewan turned his head to take in the room. "Anyone else?"

No one moved.

With a nod, Ewan lifted Pincoch's limp body by the arms and dragged him past the broken tables and chairs, past the shattered mirror, and past the cracked marble statue. Ewan winced. That statue was new, and he fully expected Langley to opine about it for hours. A footman opened the door of the club, and Ewan tossed Pincoch out onto the street.

He turned and saw several other patrons donning coats and wraps, preparing to depart as well.

That was just what Ewan needed—for Langley and the club to lose blunt because Ewan had scared the patrons away. Goddamn it. Ewan couldn't do anything right. He tried to do his job as the muscle of the club, but it seemed he was always making some misstep or other. He'd already broken the statue. He couldn't be responsible for a mass exodus as well. Ewan positioned himself in front of the door and pointed back to the gaming tables. "Inside."

"But I..." A man who had just donned his beaver hat tried to move toward the exit.

Ewan pointed to him then at the main room, and the man put a hand to his throat. "Very well. If you insist, I could play a game or two."

He turned back to the main room, followed by the rest of the crowd.

One man, however, stood his ground. He looked as though he had recently arrived and seemed in no hurry either to step inside or flee back out the door. Instead, he leaned on his walking stick and cocked his head. He was a tall man—not as tall as Ewan but taller than average—and he had a thin form and dark hair under a beaver hat. His great coat was fine quality as was the ebony walking stick with a silver handle and tip.

"You are one of the Earl of Pembroke's, are you not?" the man asked.

Resigned, Ewan leaned against the doorjamb, where the footmen welcomed patrons and took their coats. Some of the patrons liked to talk. Ewan had found he was not required to answer.

"Not his heir or even the spare. I know those two well. You are the soldier. The third born—or is it the fourth? I know you have a sister."

Ewan cut his eyes to the man, and then disguised his interest by focusing on one of the flickering candles in a chandelier over a table where a group played piquet.

"Well, no matter. I had heard you were strong. You fought with Lieutenant Colonel Draven in the war."

Ewan kept his eyes on the candle. It was an ordinary candle, sputtering and fighting to stay lit. In this world, even a candle fought for light, resisted being snuffed out.

"Now that I see you, I'm not surprised you survived," the man went on as though the two were having a conversation. "You are uncommonly strong. And you do not like to be called stupid."

Ewan turned his head sharply toward the gentleman, who held up his hands. "For what it is worth, I do not think you stupid. No man with less than all his wits about him survived the war against Napoleon. In fact, I would like to hire you."

Ewan narrowed his gaze, almost disappointed. It was not the first time he'd been propositioned. Men had tried to hire him to perform in entertainments or to box for them. Women wanted him for bedsport. Ewan liked his place at Langley's just fine. He enjoyed the modest income his portion of the club afforded him and parted with very little of it to rent a room on the second floor. As his father would not deign to step foot in a gaming hell, Ewan need not trouble with unwanted visits from the earl or any other member of his family.

"I suppose this is not the place to discuss such matters," the man said. "Would you come to my residence?" He removed a card from a silver case and passed it to Ewan.

Ewan barely glanced at it. The light in the vestibule was too dark to read anything anyway. He put the card in his pocket.

"Right. The day after tomorrow at ten in the morning then, if you are interested. It is honest work, and I will reward you handsomely. I will give you more details when you call."

Ewan moved aside and the gentleman passed. A footman opened the door so the yellow lights and bright sounds of the gambling hell spilled into the dark street. When he was alone again, Ewan withdrew the card and moved into a rectangle of light.

"Rrr—Iii—D," he said slowly, staring at one of the words on the card. "Rid." His head hurt as the letters moved and jumped. He stuffed the card back into his pocket and crossed his arms again.

When the last patron had left the tables and the sun was peeking over the horizon, Ewan did one last turn about the club. Maids swept and dusted. Sweet girls, most of them smiled at him when he passed. Ewan headed to the kitchen. Another perquisite of living here was the food. For as long as he could remember, he'd always had a voracious appetite.

In the kitchen Mrs. Watkins had a plate ready for him, the mountain of food buried under a thick slab of buttered bread. "Now, Mr. Mostyn," she said, wiping her red hands on her apron. "You sit down right here. I have some nice potatoes and a stew."

The kitchen was comfortable and inviting, and Ewan sat, feeling the chair creak under his weight. He drank deeply from the ale in the glass before him, but he did not shovel food into his mouth as he usually did. Instead he reached into his pocket and laid the card on the table. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about it.

The cook frowned at it and picked it up. Her kitchen maid, a mousy girl who couldn't have been more than fourteen, glanced his way timidly then continued scrubbing the pots. The cook held the card close to her round face, red and glistening from the heat. "It's the card of the Duke of Ridlington." She put a hand to her heart. Then she laid the card on the table again and pointed to the words. "See, it says _His Grace the Duke of Ridlington_."

Ewan nodded slowly. He was surprised a duke wanted his services. This was no mere request for an exhibition of strength then. It might be legitimate work. Ewan pointed to the other words on the card.

The cook turned the card and peered at it. "That's his house— _2 Berkeley Square."_

"Thank you." Mildly intrigued, Ewan lifted the card and stuffed it back in his pocket. Now he dug into his dinner. His mother would have fainted if she had seen him eating thus. But his mother was dead, and Mrs. Watkins only cared if he enjoyed her food, not if he used the correct fork or a napkin to dab his mouth.

"I wonder why the Duke of Ridlington gave you that card," the cook said, wiping the table where he sat, although it was already clean. "I think he hopes to steal you away."

Ewan wondered the same, but he didn't want to show his interest. He lifted one shoulder then ate another helping of potatoes.

"Seems like you could do better than this." She gestured to the kitchens, which were as nice as any Ewan had seen. "Surely your own father could find a place for you."

And this was why Ewan hadn't wanted to show interest. He didn't always like where such conversations led. Talk of Ewan's father soured his stomach. As the third born son, he was expected either to become a soldier or enter the clergy. Ewan had done his part for his country. After Napoleon was defeated, Ewan had sold his captain's commission and left without a backward glance. His father had probably wished he'd died in the war, but Ewan had lived. Now, no one and nothing could ever force him to join the army again.

As for the clergy—that prospect was laughable. Ewan couldn't even read the Bible, much less stand up every Sunday and drone on about it. If God had wanted Ewan to enter the church, He shouldn't have made him such a lackwit.

No, Ewan liked working at Langley's just fine. Ewan had the money he had made from his days in the army and the sale of his commission, but a little more never hurt and it gave him something to do. He didn't exactly belong, but then he'd always been a misfit. He didn't belong anywhere—anywhere but The Draven Club.

Ewan shoved the last bite into his mouth, nodded at Mrs. Watkins, and carried the plate to the kitchen maid so she could wash it. Then, ducking his head so he wouldn't bang it on the low lintel, he left the kitchen and made his way through the club's back rooms, with their gilded mirrors, mahogany tables, and red velvet chairs and couches. His mother would have called it garish, but Ewan rather liked it. After ensuring all was as it should be, Ewan climbed the stairs to his room. Using the small key, he opened the door and stepped inside, locking the door after him.

He sat on the bed, removed his boots and coat, set Ridlington's card on the floor, and flopped down on the bed. In addition to the bed, the room held a wardrobe and a table with a basin for washing. The room had one small window, which Ewan had covered with black cloth to block the sun. The room held nothing else—no books, no papers, no personal mementos. The walls were white and unadorned with paintings.

The room, simple in purpose, was just as he liked it. Nothing to confuse or distract him. He closed his eyes and slept.

When he awoke several hours later, it was to the rumbling of his belly. He might have gone down to the kitchens and found bread and cold stew, but when he sat up and dropped his feet onto the floor, they landed on Ridlington's card. He still did not know what to do about it, but he knew who could tell him. Neil Wraxall would know what to do. Neil always knew.

And Neil would be at their club.

Ewan stripped, washed, and dressed again in one of his finer coats. He didn't don a cravat. He didn't like anything tight on his neck. The club didn't require a cravat. The club didn't require anything except that the members had served in Lieutenant Colonel Draven's special unit.

The suicide unit, as Neil called it.

The survivors called themselves The Expendables. They called Ewan The Protector.

Ewan might have taken a hack to The Draven Club, but it was a sunny, though unseasonably cool, spring afternoon and the walk from Langley's on Piccadilly and St. James's to King Street was short. Besides, he liked to pass Boodles. The ancient lords hobbling inside always hobbled a bit faster when they caught sight of him.

He hadn't walked very far when he was surprised by a streak of brown and white bounding past him and into St. James's, which was crowded with carts and carriages at this time of day. The creature barely avoided being trampled by a horse pulling a cart filled with produce. It scurried away from the large hooves and wheels and then huddled, frozen, in the center of the street.

"Watch out!" a woman's voice called right before she barreled into him. But as he was large and she was womanish in size, the impact sent her reeling. He might have caught her and set her on her feet if she hadn't scrambled away, heading directly into the street.

Ewan watched in disbelief as she stumbled directly in the path of a coach and four, whose driver had obviously given his horses free rein. She looked up, saw the approaching conveyance, but instead of jumping back onto the curb, she ran into the coach's path and scooped up the little brown and white scrap of fur. Now both she and the furry creature would be trampled and run down.

Ewan didn't think. He acted. Heart pounding in his suddenly tight chest, he jumped into the street, crossing to the woman in two huge strides. He yanked her out of the path of the coach and four, feeling the breath of the horses on his neck as he shoved her to safety on the other side of St. James's. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs with what he recognized as fear and panic. They'd almost died. For a moment, St. James's became a blood soaked field, the clatter of hooves the sound of rifles. Ewan closed his eyes and drew a slow breath. And then he shook the memory off and came back to the present.

But his hands were still shaking.

Ewan had shoved the woman a bit hard, and she'd fallen to her knees. He would have to beg her forgiveness, though she should really be the one groveling at his feet with gratitude. But instead of looking up at him with appreciation in her eyes, she scowled. "I almost crushed Wellington."

Ewan looked right then left for the duke. Not seeing the general, Ewan glanced in confusion back down at the woman. She pointed to the fur ball. "My dog. You pushed me so hard I almost crushed him."

So the dog was named Wellington, and she blamed Ewan for the danger to the animal. Ewan frowned at her. Was he supposed to apologize for saving her life and that of the beast? Perhaps she had become momentarily disoriented by the tumult. "You ran into the street," he pointed out. Anyone could see the street was busy and dangerous.

She waved a hand dismissively, as though the fact that she had almost been flattened under the hooves and wheels flying past them was but a small matter. "Wellington escaped his collar and leash at Green Park. I have been chasing him all this way."

That explained why she had been on St. James's Street, which was typically the domain of men, and why the dog was running. It did not explain why she did not thank him, but he'd come to expect women to be difficult. Ewan grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet. Belatedly, he realized he should have offered her his arm, but now it was too late. "Where do you live?"

Now it was her turn to frown. She had light green eyes framed by delicate brows, which slanted inward in confusion. Then she blinked. "Oh, dear no. You must not escort me home. You look like some sort of Viking warrior or Norse god. My mother would...well, best not to discuss what my mother might do."

Ewan crossed his arms and stared down at her. This pose usually elicited tears from those of the fairer sex. But this one shook her head again, in defiance. "My maid is probably wringing her hands at the park. I must return."

He hadn't looked very closely at the woman, but now he noted her fine quality dress and spencer. Both were soiled with dirt and animal hair from the fur ball. She was a lady. Now the lack of gratitude made sense. He'd known many such ladies. They looked down their nose at everyone. This time Ewan made certain to offer his arm. She looked at it in horror. "Do you want my mother to confine me to my room?" she asked.

Ewan did not know the answer to this inquiry, so he merely continued to stand with his arm crooked. She pushed it down—or rather he allowed her to push it down. "No, thank you, sir. I am perfectly capable of returning to the park on my own. If I encounter any difficulty, Wellington will protect me."

Ewan glanced at the fur ball. The dog wouldn't have scared a flea.

"Good day." She hoisted the fur ball in her arms, cradling it like an infant. She must have been completely daft. That was the only explanation for her delusions.

Or perhaps she was just a woman. He did not claim to understand women. He left that to Rafe. The daft woman marched off, thankfully looking both ways before crossing St. James's, and disappeared into the hawkers and vendors on the other side. He could have gone after her, but if he did it would only be to protect anyone else who happened to fall into her path.

Ewan stared after her for a long moment before being jostled back into motion. The remainder of the journey was uneventful, and Ewan arrived at the club just as Jasper, the best tracker Ewan had ever known, was leaving. Porter, the club's Master of the House, stood in the doorway, silver head held high.

The two former soldiers paused on the steps and nodded to each other. Jasper's face had been horribly scarred during an ambush that cost Draven two men, and he wore a length of black silk tied about his hair and a mask to that hid most of one side of his face, including the scarred flesh. "You looking for Wraxall?" Jasper asked.

Ewan nodded.

"He just finished yaffling."

Jasper worked as a bounty hunter and often spent time with the thieves and rogues. He often lapsed into their cant, speaking it as fluently as if he'd been born in the rookeries rather than to one of the oldest noble families in England. At the mention of yaffling—the cant for eating—Ewan felt a pang of hunger in his belly. Was the club still serving or had he missed the meal and would now have to wait until supper?

Jasper slapped Ewan on the shoulder. "You always did have a wolf in the stomach, Protector. If the soup is gone, the cook will always serve you Galimaufrey."

Ewan pulled a face. He didn't particularly want scraps and leftovers. The tracker patted his arm then stared back down the steps. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you only came here to grub."

It wasn't far from the truth. If the club hadn't served meals, Ewan would have attended far less frequently.

He entered and Porter closed the door behind him. "Good to see you again, Mr. Mostyn," the distinguished older gentleman said. "The dining room, sir?"

Ewan cocked his head in that direction.

"Very well. This way."

Although he could have found the way with his eyes closed, Ewan followed Porter through the wood paneled vestibule lit with a large chandelier. A suit of armor stood on one wall and two Scottish broadswords on that opposite. The place looked like the sort of establishment Henry VIII would have frequented. But the object that always drew his attention also made him more than a little melancholy. It was a large shield mounted on the wall opposite the door. A big medieval sword cut the shield in half. The pommel of the sword had been fashioned into what Neil had once told him were fleur-de-lis. A skeleton stared at him from the cross-guard. Around the shield were small fleur-di-lis that marked the fallen members of The Expendables—those who hadn't made it back from the war. The shield reminded Ewan that his lost friends were here in spirit.

Still following Porter, who only had one leg, Ewan was forced to move slowly. Porter's wooden peg thumped on the polished wood floors as he led Ewan past the winding staircase carpeted in royal blue and into a well-appointed dining room. Like the entryway, the dining room was paneled in wood. The ceiling was low and whitewashed, crossed by thick wooden beams. Sconces lined two walls and a fire burned in the mammoth hearth. Four round tables covered with white linen and set with silver had been placed throughout the room. At a fifth table, Neil Wraxall, aka The Warrior, sat with a glass of red wine centered before him. Neil liked order. He liked both giving orders and order in his life. He dined at the club four days a week precisely at noon. He always sat at the same table and in the same chair. No one else ever dared sit in that chair if there was a remote possibility Neil might drop by the club. And if he came unexpectedly, the man in the chair vacated it without being asked. They'd all served under Major Wraxall long enough to know that while he could be flexible when the situation called for it, he preferred routine and predictability.

Neil looked up when Ewan entered. Porter paused, waiting for a sign from the de facto leader of The Expendables. When Wraxall flicked his gaze to the empty chair at his right, Porter led Ewan to it and pulled it out. Ewan sat.

"Wine, sir?" Porter asked Ewan.

Ewan nodded.

"And would you like dinner, Mr. Mostyn?"

Ewan looked at the man as though he'd asked if Ewan wanted to be run through with a bayonet.

"Very good then. I will bring the first course. Mr. Wraxall, more wine?" Porter inquired.

The Warrior looked at Ewan. "Will I need it?"

Ewan shrugged. Neil shook his head. "No, thank you, Porter."

Ewan wasn't certain how much Neil drank away from the club, but he was always moderate in his consumption in The Expendable's company. Once Neil had told him he always kept a bottle of gin beside his bed to calm the tremors when he woke fighting a battle. Ewan had known what he meant. They all had nightmares about the terrors they'd seen during the war. It was the horrors they'd committed themselves that woke them up at night, a scream lodged in the throat.

For Ewan, life in London had gradually begun to seem more real than the memories of the violence and battle. But he suspected it was different for Neil. He suspected Neil was still fighting the battles nightly, hoping to change the outcomes.

For a long while Ewan and Neil sat with only the crackling of the fire to break the companionable silence. They'd spent many nights thus on the Continent during the war against Napoleon—a dozen or more men huddled around a campfire, knowing death would probably come in the morning and willing to make that sacrifice for king and country. If Ewan had to die, he'd wanted to die with Neil at his side. He trusted the man implicitly, and he respected him as much as he respected Draven. When they'd been in the army, they could always count on Rafe Beaumont to break long silences or tension with frivolous chatter. Now Ewan wished he knew what to say to his friend to ease the pain, but Ewan was not good with words. At the moment, it seemed Neil could not find words either.

"Knocked any heads together lately?" The Warrior asked at last. It was more of a command than a question. The Warrior almost always spoke in commands and orders. Ewan smiled, thinking of the pup last night.

"Good," Wraxall said. "Keep in practice. Give me a report on Langley. I should pay him a visit."

"He'd like that," Ewan said.

Neil gave him a wry look. "I'm sure he would. I always lose at the tables. I'll order Stratford to accompany me. Then I'll have a chance."

Stratford was another of The Expendables and known for his skill with strategy. Ewan frowned, thinking of Langley's losses. But Neil wouldn't go to Langley's. Neil didn't want light and laughter.

Porter returned with a white soup for Ewan and refilled his glass of wine. Ewan's belly rumbled again, but he remembered the card. He'd trusted Neil with his life on the Continent. He could trust Neil with whether or not to pay a call on Ridlington. Ewan slapped it on the table before lifting his spoon.

Wraxall picked the card up and turned it in his fingers. "The Duke of Ridlington? What does he want?"

Ewan sipped his wine and met Neil's gaze. Why did anyone seek out The Protector?

Neil drummed his fingers on the table, probably forming a report in his head. "He's a good man. I don't know him well, but I've not heard anything said against him. Do you want me to ask the others to report what they know of him?"

Ewan held the spoon midway between bowl and mouth. Was that what he wanted? A sense of the man before he decided to hear the duke's proposition? Ewan nodded.

"I have other business tonight, but I'll send Beaumont to Langley's with my findings. I doubt he has anything better to do, and an assignment might keep him out of trouble."

Ewan raised a brow. There was plenty of trouble to be had at Langley's, and Rafe Beaumont was a lodestone for mischief. Still, Ewan appreciated his friend's thoughtfulness. Most men would have sent a note, but Wraxall knew how arduous reading was for Ewan, though the two men had never discussed it. Besides, it would give Neil the chance to order Rafe about, and Neil did like giving orders.

Ewan spent the rest of the afternoon in the dining room, then followed Neil to the card room and watched a game of piquet between Neil and another member of The Expendables. Neil lost, of course. The man was too predictable. It was an enjoyable day, and it took Ewan's mind off Ridlington and the mad female he'd encountered earlier.

Finally Ewan made his way back to Langley's—the return trip uninterrupted by daft women or racing fur balls—and instructed the footmen to fetch him if Beaumont arrived. Of the eleven other surviving members of The Expendables, Neil Wraxall and Rafe Beaumont, were the men Ewan felt closest to. He saw the other men at the club, and he drank or played the odd game of dice with them, but none knew him like Neil and Rafe. He considered them more than friends. They were brothers.

About half past eleven, a footman fetched him, and Ewan stepped outside the club where Beaumont had struck a pose. Ewan was not in the habit of thinking men pretty, but there was no other way to describe Rafe Beaumont, also known as The Seducer. He wasn't feminine in appearance, but he had a perfect face and enough charm for two men. His dark hair and bronze complexion made him the opposite of Ewan's honey blond hair and fair skin.

As usual, Beaumont had a woman on his arm. Ewan's only surprise was that there was but one. "Mr. Mostyn." Rafe bowed with a flourish. Ewan was used to his friend's courtly behavior and ignored it.

"My dear, this fearsome man before you is Mr. Mostyn. He is undoubtedly one of the best men I know. He saved me in the war more times than I can count. Don't let his glare scare you off. He doesn't bite." Then to Ewan. "You don't bite, do you?"

Ewan tried to decide whether or not he was required to answer. Rafe often spoke to hear his own voice.

The woman fluttered her lashes at Ewan. She had reddish hair, freckles, and pretty brown eyes. Her lips smiled broadly. "I could just eat you up, Mr. Mostyn." She winked at him.

Ewan gave Beaumont a look of concern. Unlike Beaumont, Ewan never knew what to say to women. He knew what to _do_ with them, but he preferred not to speak while doing it.

"Save your appetite for later, my dear. Would you give Mr. Mostyn and me a moment alone?"

"Of course. I'll wait inside." She looked up at Ewan as though for approval. He moved aside to allow her to enter through the door a footman held open. The gambling hell permitted women, but most were courtesans or women who thrived on scandal. Clearly, this woman did not concern herself with her reputation.

When she'd gone inside, Beaumont sighed. "Hell's teeth! I thought I'd never be rid of her."

Ewan gave his friend a look of incomprehension. If Rafe didn't want her company, why not just tell her so? But then Beaumont seemed to attract women whether he wanted to or not. That was one skill they'd found invaluable in the war.

"Let me think now. If I mess this up, Wraxall will have my head. I'm to tell you Ridlington is an oak. Those are Neil's words, not mine. I don't describe men in terms of foliage, you know. In any case, Wraxall says, no one has a word to say against the duke. Apparently the man does not overindulge in drink, cards, or women. I can't think why Neil should call this a recommendation. The duke sounds like a bore to me, but there you are. Why does he want to hire you?"

Ewan lifted a shoulder.

"Well, don't agree unless he pays you at least double what you make at this club each week. You are worth it, Ewan."

Ewan couldn't have said why, but at the compliment, his throat constricted.

"Now I must be off. I haven't slept in two days, and if I'm forced to drink even one more glass of champagne I'll cast up my accounts. Good night." He slapped Ewan on the shoulder.

"What about...?" Ewan motioned to the hell behind him.

"Good God. Don't tell her where I've gone. I doubt she'll come looking for me. She'll find other amusements." He doffed his beaver hat and strolled off, turning heads as he walked.

Ewan pulled the card from his pocket and read it slowly. Berkley Street at ten in the morning. He'd go, but he wouldn't wear a cravat.

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# Excerpt From The Highlander's Princess Bride

Releasing November 2018

Vanessa Kelly

The illegitimate daughter of the Prince Regent might be expected to pursue various dubious professions. Actress, perhaps, or artist's model. Even courtesan. Victoria Knight, however, has become a governess—a respectable choice, until she travels to Scotland to meet her new charges. The younger brothers of Nicholas Kendrick, Earl of Arnprior, aren't children at all. They're brawny, wild Highland men. As for the Earl, he's handsome, guarded, and far too compelling . . . especially for a woman hiding a dark secret.

Nick needs a proper teacher to transform his unmarriageable brothers—and a sensible, straight-laced wife for himself. Miss Knight seems to fit the bill on both counts. But he soon discovers there is more to Victoria than he thought. It's not just her notorious origins, or the danger that's followed her all the way to Scotland. It's the fiery loyalty beneath that sedate façade. This, the real Victoria, is the woman Nick is starting to desire so desperately. And what an earl wants, he'll use every seductive means to get . . .

Excerpt

November, 1816  
London

"I never meant to kill him. Not for the most part." Victoria Knight hesitated, because honestly compelled her to make the hideous admission. "For just a second, I probably did wish him dead," she added.

When Sir Dominic Hunter and Aden St. George exchanged knowing glances, Victoria grimaced. "I know that makes me awful person. I wouldn't blame you for marching me straight to Newgate and washing your hands of my very existence."

Chloe, Lady Hunter, patted Victoria's hand. "Nonsense. Fletcher was obviously a villain of the first order. No sensible person could blame you for defending yourself."

Victoria and Chloe sat on the silk chaise in the back drawing room of the Hunters' London townhouse. The late afternoon sun filtered through the sash windows, casting a soft glow on the cream and rose-colored carpet and the elegantly papered yellow walls. An elaborate silver tea service sat on the low table in front of the chaise, but the generous plates of little sandwiches and iced teacakes were mostly untouched. Apparently, Victoria wasn't the only person in the room lacking appetite.

"I do blame myself," she said gloomily. "If I'd thought about it, I'm sure I could have found a better way to manage the situation than pushing Mr. Fletcher down the stairs."

"But you didn't have time to think, that's the point," said Lady Vivien St. George. Perched opposite Victoria on the edge of a Sheridan chair that was as graceful and dainty as the lady herself, Vivien gazed at her with earnest concern. "Besides, Lord knows how many people Aden has killed over the years. It's not like the tendency doesn't run in the family."

Victoria blinked, unsure how to respond to that startling declaration. Aden had served for several years under Wellington's command in some vague capacity she had yet to understand. It apparently involved dispatching large numbers of people. As she eyed his tall, powerful frame and his austere, intimidating air of competence, she could well believe it.

"For God's sake, Vivien," Aden said from the wingback chair beside her. "That is hardly a helpful observation, nor is it germane to this particular situation."

Vivien shrugged, unmoved by his scold. "I'm simply telling the truth, dearest. And, by the way, your cousins are just as bad when it comes to piling up dead bodies."

"My goodness," Victoria said. Those cousins were hers, too, and all illegitimate sons of royal dukes. She'd never met them and was beginning to think she preferred to keep it that way. They sounded much too exciting.

"The blackguards were all deserving of their fates," Aden said, "as you well know."

"As was the man who attacked Victoria," his wife replied. Then she flashed an apologetic smile at Victoria. "Forgive me. I mean to say, Miss Knight."

"There's no need to apologize," Victoria said, smiling at the charming, willowy blonde. "After all, we are..."

"Sisters-in-law?" Lady Vivien finished.

"Yes, I suppose we are," Victoria said, feeling awkward. She'd been introduced to Lady Vivien only this morning.

Like Aden, Victoria was an illegitimate child of the Prince Regent. She'd met her half-brother for the first time last year, and had only seen him once since then. Aden's mother was a wealthy dowager countess, whose husband had accepted her son as his own. Victoria's mamma, however, had been the unmarried daughter of an innkeeper. While he was a fairly prosperous innkeeper to be sure, Grandpapa had spent his life waiting on members of the ton, not socializing with them. To the lords and gentlemen who'd passed under the lintel of the Royal Stag Inn, Rose Knight had been little better than a barmaid—good enough for a romp, but certainly not marriage.

Aden was a powerful man, with a position at court and a wife who was the daughter of an earl. Victoria was only a governess and an unemployed one at that. She would never presume on her relationship with the St. Georges, despite their kindness.

"Indeed we are in-laws," Vivien said with a warm smile. Then she tilted her head. "Although we look enough alike to be sisters. I always wanted a sister."

"That's very kind, but no one could ever think so," Victoria protested. "You're so elegant."

She winced as soon as the clumsy words had passed her lips. But they were true, since Vivien was a diamond of the first water. Victoria, on the other hand, was entirely ordinary—perfectly neat and pleasant to look at, but no more than that.

"You're both delightful young women and, Victoria, you're as much a member of this family as Vivien," Dominic said. "As I've said on more than one occasion."

"And look how I've repaid you," she said with a sigh. "I've handed you quite an awful mess."

"I've dealt with far worse, as has Aden. We'll get you out of this, never fear."

"Lady Welgate said she would see me hanged for murder." Victoria pressed a hand to her chest at the memory of her former employer's rage.

Chloe wrapped her in a comforting hug. "I'm sure that was simply her grief talking. Please remember that you were defending yourself from a monstrous attack."

"I wish Mr. Fletcher's family shared your view," Victoria said.

Dominic went to a sideboard that held a number of crystal decanters and matching tumblers and wine glasses. "You may be sure I will be telling Mr. Fletcher's family exactly how to think about this matter," he said as he brought her back a half-filled tumbler.

Victoria hesitantly sipped the brandy. It made her throat burn, but she welcomed the warmth that soothed her shaken nerves.

"We haven't wanted to press you, my dear," Chloe said, "since you only arrived last night. But the more we know about the incident, the more we can be of assistance to you."

Dominic and Chloe had insisted that she relax after her precipitous arrival in London. They'd had a quiet family supper and then spent an hour playing with Chloe and Dominic's little boy. Victoria had been almost pathetically grateful for their sensitivity, welcoming the small break from the nightmare of the last few days.

"Aden and I wait can wait in my library," Dominic said, "so you can speak freely to the ladies."

Victoria had known Dominic since she was a little girl. He'd never been anything but kind and supportive, especially after the death of first her mother and then Grandpapa Knight a few years later.

"I have no secrets from any of you," she said. "If my account of that horrid day can help, then I'm happy to tell you more. I promise I will not succumb to the vapors."

"That's the spirit," Aden said. His easy acceptance of her was a surprise, and quite wonderful.

She returned his smile then absently rubbed the plain twill fabric of her sleeve. "I hardly know where to start."

"Perhaps by telling us about Mr. Fletcher," Chloe suggested. "After all, he's the cause of this dreary state of affairs."

Dreary hardly began to cover it. "Very well. Thomas Fletcher was Lady Welgate's brother. I met him shortly after I took up my duties as governess to the Welgate daughters. He often visited his sister's household."

"I attended school with one of Lord Welgate's sisters," Vivien said. "I found him to be a very kind gentleman. Lady Welgate, however, is a rude, sour-tempered woman. I was surprised when Welgate married her."

"He didn't have much choice," Dominic said. "Welgate's father was a gambler and a spendthrift who all but destroyed his legacy. Serena Fletcher's father, however, built substantial fortunes in shipping and tobacco. Her dowry saved a distinguished family from ruin."

"No one in this family would hold Lady Welgate's background against her," Chloe said. "Most of us have what can only be described as mixed parentage, at best."

"True," replied Dominic. "But Vivien is correct in her assessment. While I have a great deal of respect for her husband, Lady Welgate is another matter entirely."

Dominic had counseled Victoria not to take the position, but the lure of working for such a well-regarded family that could give her excellent recommendations and a good salary had been too enticing. She should have listened to him.

"Her ladyship was not the easiest person to please," she said, "but I'd been managing it without too much trouble."

While Lady Welgate had been something of a harridan, Victoria had grown up in a houseful of brusque, sometimes-difficult women and was versed in dealing with the type. She'd made a point of performing her tasks with alacrity, and she'd never contradicted her mistress. Fortunately, her two charges, surprisingly well-mannered girls of six and eight, had taken a shine to her.

All in all, life in the sometimes-volatile household had been perfectly satisfactory until Thomas Fletcher had slinked onto the scene.

"Clearly her brother was not as easy to manage," Aden said.

"He was not. I made a point of never being alone with him. Unfortunately, he became..." Victoria hesitated, groping for the right word. Even now it seemed ridiculous. She was the last sort of woman for any man to pursue with such single-minded focus, especially not a roué like Thomas Fletcher.

"Obsessed with you?" Chloe said.

Victoria winced. "I suspect he saw me as something of a challenge. The more I avoided him, the more determined he became."

In the weeks before the incident, Fletcher had all but moved into his brother-in-law's household. It seemed that every time she rounded the corner of a quiet hallway or went to the library to fetch a book, he would be lurking about, waiting to catch her alone.

"I'm grieved you had to endure such a dreadful situation," Vivien said, her voice tight. "Before I married Aden, I found myself in similar circumstances. One feels enraged and helpless."

Victoria nodded. "That's exactly how I felt."

"But you took action even before Fletcher attacked you," Dominic pointed out.

"Yes. When he insisted I become his mistress, I knew I could no longer manage the situation."

Victoria shuddered, recalling the way he'd backed her against the door of her bedroom and put his hands on her. Fortunately, a maid had come along, allowing her to make her escape. "I spoke to Lord Welgate immediately, who promised to instruct Mr. Fletcher to leave me alone."

"And yet the bounder did not obey," Chloe said in a quietly furious tone.

"For a few days he did," Victoria said. "In fact, he made a point of ignoring me if Lord or Lady Welgate were nearby, or if I was with the children. But it was evident he was very angry that I'd gone to his brother-in-law to complain."

When she was out on the terrace, playing with her charges one day, she'd glanced at the library's French doors and caught sight of Fletcher standing there. The look on his face, a horrible mix of hatred and lust, had almost stopped her heart.

And his hand was on his groin as he watched her play with his two little nieces. She could hardly imagine how any man could be so depraved, and it had frightened and infuriated her in equal measure.

"Did he threaten you?" asked Dominic.

"No, but he made his intentions clear," she said quietly. 'There was no misunderstanding them."

Dominic looked grim, but nodded for her to continue.

"I decided to write to you that evening of my intention to return to my family in Brighton until I could find new employment. I was going to inform Lord Welgate of my plans as soon as he returned from his short trip to London, and then leave immediately thereafter."

Victoria would rue that delay forever. She should have packed her bags immediately and walked back to Brighton if she'd had to. But Lord Welgate had always treated her with kindness, and she'd not wished to show him even the slightest hint of disrespect. So she'd taken the risk that Fletcher would not have the nerve to attack her in his sister's household, with two small children sleeping just down the hall. It had been a monstrous miscalculation.

"It was stupid of me to wait," she said with a grimace.

"You did nothing wrong, Victoria," Aden said firmly, "so, get that out of your head right this instant."

"Your brother is right," said Chloe. "The fact that you were not safe in your employer's household is a reflection only on Fletcher and his sister."

Victoria gave them a shaky smile. Most people would think her the guilty party, either for putting herself in harm's way or for casting out lures, as Lady Welgate had put it. Life was often precarious for female servants, even in the best of households. She supposed she'd been lucky to reach the advanced age of twenty-five before finding out for herself just how ugly things could become.

"Thank you," she said. "In any event, that very evening, Mr. Fletcher took advantage of the fact that Lady Welgate was attending a dinner party at a neighboring estate." She huffed out a bitter laugh. "I'd assumed he'd gone with her."

Relieved that she'd made the decision to leave, she'd celebrated with a small glass of sherry from the bottle she kept in her room—a present from one of her uncles the previous Christmas. Victoria only ever indulged on her half-day off—one glass in the evening, as a treat.

She drew in a breath, steadying herself for the next part of the story. "It was quite late. The children were asleep in the nursery, and the staff were downstairs in the servant's hall or gone early to bed. I'd borrowed a few books from the library, and I thought to return them while I was thinking about it. I was coming down from the nursery wing, which has a separate staircase to the first floor. Unfortunately, Mr. Fletcher was coming up that very same staircase."

"Did he have any cause to be coming up that particular staircase?" Aden asked in a chilling voice.

"He did not. That part of the manor is reserved for the children, the two nursemaids, and me."

"So the lout was deliberately seeking you out," Vivien said with disgust.

Victoria would never forget the horror that had surged in her when she saw him on the landing. Although she'd carried only one candle, a full moon had shone through the large window above the staircase, illuminating the flare of lust in Fletcher's eyes. He'd clearly been on his way to her room.

"When he saw me, he laughed," she said. "I told him to get out of my way, and that I would scream if he came any closer."

"Surely someone would have come to help if you had," Chloe said, her normally serene features pulled tight with distress.

"Yes, if they'd heard. But it was mostly an empty threat, which he knew. The door at the top of the stairs was shut, and I was too far from the servant's hall for anyone to hear a call for help."

"If the bastard wasn't already dead," Aden growled, "I'd rip out his throat with my own damn hands."

The look on her brother's face suggested he'd have done exactly that and not lost a moment's sleep over it. Victoria supposed it was rather awful of her, but his outrage partly dispelled the chill that had settled around her like a casket of ice since that terrible night. That Aden could do something like that wasn't a question. That he would do it for her was nevertheless rather amazing.

Dominic crossed his legs and rested a hand on his knee. "A laudable if rather gruesome sentiment, Aden. Fortunately, it's an unnecessary one, since Victoria ably extricated herself from a very dangerous situation."

She choked back a spurt of nervous laughter. "That's one way of putting it."

"It's the best way to put it," Chloe said. "So, Fletcher attacked you on the stairs, and then you struggled. I hate to embarrass you, my love, but did he injure you in any way?"

Victoria pressed her eyelids shut as she flashed back to the awful interlude. "Not really. He ripped my bodice and scratched me a bit, but that was the worst of it."

Aden breathed out a rather shocking oath as even Sir Dominic's calm expression disappeared under a barely contained fury. Victoria was exceedingly happy that both men were on her side. It was unlikely that anyone on the receiving end of such intense fury would remain in one piece for very long.

She managed a tight smile. "Fortunately, I was able to give him a sharp elbow to the chin as he took me down to the floor. He fell to the side instead of on top of me, which enabled me to scramble to my feet. He was so furious that I resisted. At that moment I thought he actually wished to..."

She couldn't say the words, momentarily swamped by terrifying memories that flickered through her mind. She'd been mere moments away from a brutal assault and possibly even death. It had taken every particle of strength to push back against a fear that had threatened to turn her limbs into leaden, useless appendages.

"It's all right, dear," Chloe said, taking her hand again. "He can never hurt you again."

"Yes, I saw to that, didn't I?" Victoria's little attempt at insouciance fell horribly flat.

"You don't have to finish if you don't want to," Vivien said in a warmly sympathetic voice.

Victoria mentally shook herself. The deed was done and she was safe, at least for now. There was no point in indulging in self-pity or guilt.

"No, I'm fine," she said. "Fletcher grabbed for my legs, but I was able to step back and give him a good shove with my foot. The next thing I knew he was tumbling head-over-heels down the staircase."

It had all happened so quickly. A few moments after she pushed him, Fletcher lay in an inert heap on the tile floor below, his head and neck at a hideously incorrect angle. Victoria had suspected instantly that he was dead, but had run down in the vain hope that he might have survived the fall. When she crouched over him and saw the fixed, lifeless look in his eyes, she'd come to the wrenching realization that she'd killed a man.

A vile one, to be sure, but still a human being, one whose life she'd ended.

"And that was it," she awkwardly concluded. "It was over so quickly I could hardly believe it had happened."

"You did what you needed to do, Victoria," Aden said gently. "Never second guess yourself on that score."

"Aden is correct," Chloe said. "It's a perfectly dreadful story, but we're all grateful you were able to overcome him. Some women are not physically strong enough to defend themselves, or would have been paralyzed with fear."

"I almost was paralyzed," Victoria confessed. "But I had the advantage of growing up in a coaching inn, where one does learn to deal with unruly or drunken males." Her grandfather had insisted that she learn to defend herself, and she would bless his memory every day for that lesson.

"After you ascertained that Mr. Fletcher was deceased, what did you do?" Dominic asked.

"I ran upstairs to the nursery and woke one of the nursemaids. I told her Mr. Fletcher had suffered an accident and asked her to fetch the butler and housekeeper. Then I went to my room for a shawl to tie around my bodice." She grimaced, recalling how disheveled she'd looked. "For all the good it did me. The nursemaid made a point of relaying her impression of my appearance in the most lurid terms to anyone who would listen."

"Did either the housekeeper or the butler set any store by the girl's description?" Dominic asked.

"No, but others in the household were only too happy to listen."

Lady Welgate had certainly believed the nursemaid. Her ladyship had been all too happy to listen to the girl's version of events, one that had grown more salacious with each retelling. That particular nursemaid had never liked Victoria, accusing her more than once of putting on airs. It was a common complaint about governesses. They were often looked down upon by their employers and often resented by other servants for their somewhat privileged role in the household.

"Lady Welgate arrived home shortly afterwards, did she not?" prompted Dominic. "And Lord Welgate also returned from London that evening as well?"

Victoria nodded. "Both came home to a total uproar, I'm afraid. Two of the footmen were carrying the body upstairs to an empty bedroom when her ladyship arrived. She immediately fell into hysterics."

By that time Victoria had managed to change her dress and brush her hair after giving the butler and the housekeeper a quick recitation of events. Mercifully, they'd believed her. The senior staff had disliked Mr. Fletcher, although they would never have openly expressed such an opinion. When it came to running the household, Lady Welgate ruled the roost, and she'd been devoted to her brother. Complaining about his unfortunate proclivities would have only resulted in finding oneself out of a job without references.

"You told me, however, that Lord Welgate kept his head," Dominic said.

"Yes. He convinced his wife to lie down in her room, then he sent for the magistrate. Lord Welgate made it clear to him that Mr. Fletcher had importuned me in the past, and that he did not consider me at fault in the accident."

Chloe let out a relieved sigh. "I shudder to think what might have happened without Lord Welgate's support."

"I owe him a great debt of gratitude," Victoria said. "Initially, the magistrate was not inclined in my favor, since Lady Welgate was so insistent that her brother's death was a deliberate act on my part."

"How did she arrive at such a ridiculous conclusion?" Aden asked.

Victoria glanced down at her folded hands, a mortified heat rising in her cheeks. "She accused me of trying to seduce her brother in the hopes of luring him into marriage. According to her, when he refused me, I murdered him out of spite."

"That is insane," Vivien exclaimed. "Why would she invent such a tale?"

"Lady Welgate was several years older than her brother," Victoria said. "Their mother died when Mr. Fletcher was quite young, and her ladyship all but raised him. She was devoted to him and devastated by his loss."

"Her grief is understandable," Chloe said in a clipped voice. "But that's no reason to accuse you of murder, against all evidence."

"It could have been worse," Dominic said. "Despite his wife's accusations, Lord Welgate allowed Victoria to send me an express, asking for assistance. That was quick thinking, my dear," he added, giving Victoria a warm smile.

"I didn't know to whom else to turn," she confessed. "My family wouldn't have any idea how to help me in a situation like this."

Actually, they would be mortified by her predicament. Her mother's family held a degree of affection for her, especially Aunt Rebecca, who'd essentially raised her. But they also found her existence rather an embarrassment, and would not welcome being pulled into the middle of a scandal.

"I was happy to help," Dominic said.

Thankfully, he'd arrived at Welgate Manor less than a day after the incident. Dominic and Lord Welgate had disappeared into the study, along with the local magistrate and the surgeon. They emerged with the agreement that Fletcher had been the victim of an unfortunate fall, and that Victoria was free to leave with Dominic. Lady Welgate's shrieks of rage had all but rattled the windows, but Lord Welgate had stood firm. It was clear he wished to avoid the scandal resulting from a public inquest that would expose his brother-in-law's sordid behavior.

"Then everything's all cleared up," Vivien said with a relieved sigh. "Splendid."

"Not entirely, according to the letter I received from Lord Welgate this morning," Dominic said.

"Fletcher's father arrived at Welgate Manor last night, and apparently he's very unhappy with the magistrate's decision," Victoria said, trying to sound calmer than she felt. "He and his daughter believe I should be arrested for murder."

Aden scowled. "Well, that's not going to happen."

She smoothed her palms over her skirt to mask the trembling of her hands. "It's difficult not to worry, though."

"And I will repeat what I told you this morning, Victoria," Dominic said. "Leave Mr. Fletcher to me. The only thing you need think about is what you want to do next."

Victoria had been pondering that question a great deal when she wasn't envisioning a trip to the gallows. "I must find another position, although obviously I cannot depend on any references from Lord or Lady Welgate."

She'd been counting on another few years of employment to support her plan to establish her own school for girls. Her dream of independence had just receded farther into the distance.

"Are you sure you wish to return so quickly to work?" Chloe asked. "We'd be delighted if you stayed for a nice long visit."

Victoria was tempted. Chloe's serene, comfortable household could be the perfect refuge from her troubles. It had always surprised her how quietly she and Dominic lived, with very little ostentation. Most of the nobility enjoyed flaunting their wealth and extravagant lifestyles. Such was not the case with Sir Dominic Hunter even though he was a powerful magistrate who had the ear of the Prince Regent.

The Prince Regent.

She'd never met her father and he'd never shown the slightest interest in knowing his daughter. Nor would he, of that she was quite certain. After all, Mamma had been nothing but a glorified barmaid. Victoria had long ago realized the folly of indulging in the belief that she had any place among the privileged classes, other than as a servant.

"Thank you for your kind offer," she said, "but I should find another position as quickly as possible. The sooner I can put this terrible incident behind me, the better."

Chloe wrinkled her nose. "Are you sure? There's no need to rush."

"Absolutely not," interjected Vivien. "You could visit with us, too. What you need is rest and a little pampering from your family."

"You are all incredibly kind," Victoria said, "but you mustn't think I'm unhappy with the idea of seeking another position. I love teaching. My greatest fear resulting from this horrible episode is that I won't—"

Her throat suddenly went tight. Teaching was the one thing that truly gave her a sense of purpose, challenging both mind and heart. There was nothing more satisfying than the look of joy on a little girl's face when she read a fairy tale or nursery rhyme all by herself for the first time. It was like having the opportunity to discover the world anew through fresh eyes every day.

Chloe picked up the half-empty glass of brandy from the low table and handed it to Victoria. "That will never happen, my dear," she said. "Dominic and your brother will not allow it."

"Certainly not," said Dominic. "But I would like to get Victoria away from London as quickly as possible."

Aden nodded. "Out of sight, out of mind is the best way to quell the gossip that might result from this situation."

Like them, Victoria knew that even the slightest hint of scandal would be a deathblow to her dreams of opening a school. Her sterling reputation was her most precious asset. If she lost that, she lost the future. Given that she was illegitimate, even with royal blood, she was already fighting with one hand tied behind her back. If Fletcher's death were to haunt her, she was finished.

"Then where will I go?" she asked. "Unless you have knowledge of an available position, Sir Dominic, I will have to advertise."

"Surely that won't be necessary," Vivien protested. "The last thing you need is to be pitched into another uncertain situation with a family that cannot be trusted."

Dominic studied Victoria with an intensity she found slightly odd. It was as if she were a vexing mathematical equation he was trying to solve.

"As a matter of fact," he said, "I do know of a family in need of a governess, and I think you will fit the bill. Tell me, my dear, how would you feel about spending the winter in Scotland?"

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# And now an exclusive excerpt of

# The Game and the Governess

by Kate Noble

Now Available!

"I think this will be fun," Ned declared. "Being you."

"What will be so fun about it?" Turner replied, his tone neutral.

"Simply that I won't have to worry about anything. Not about my clothes, or about paying proper attention to my hostess, all those little annoyances that make up an Earldom."

Turner made a noncommittal noise.

"Thus," Ned continued, "I will get to spend all my time wooing any young woman I please."

Turner pulled up on his reins, slowing his – actually Ned's – beautiful black stallion. The horse whinnied in displeasure. Apparently Turner had not learned the nuances of riding a thoroughbred like Abandon. He responded to the lightest touch.

Unlike the horse Turner usually rode, which seemed to ride as stubbornly as a mule.

"Perhaps we need to establish some rules," Turner murmured. "About the wager."

"Oh?" Ned said. "What kind of rules?"

"...Basic things. Such as, if either of us reveals our true selves, that man loses."

"That makes complete sense," Ned nodded. "However, since this is a wager where I bear the brunt of the work," he continued reasonably, "I think it should be established that you are expressly forbidden from interfering."

"How could I possibly interfere?" Turner replied, trying his best to keep Abandon from dancing as he came to a stop.

"You could spread lies to any lady who shows interest in me, you could – oh here, let me." Ned said, reaching over and taking Abandon's reins, loosening Turner's grip. "You cannot choke up so high on the reins. He will think there is something to fear."

Turner moved his hands further down the reins, letting them go a bit more slack. Abandon calmed down immediately.

"Oh," Turner grumbled. "Thank you." Then, after a moment of resettling himself on Abandon's back, he spoke. "I agree to your rule. This is a gentleman's wager, and I will act as a gentleman throughout."

"In fact, I don't think you should be permitted to say anything bad about me," Ned decided. "Not even a minor slight. You are only allowed to sing my praises."

"Since you will be wearing my name, if I slight you, I will be slighting myself," Turner reasoned, but at a look from Ned, he held up his hand. "All right. I shall only sing your praises. But – I have a condition as well."

"Pray continue."

"The object of your affection has to be a lady of good breeding. Someone gently-raised. No chambermaids, no cooks."

Ned's brow came down. _How did he guess_ ...? But Turner just smirked.

"The premise of this wager is that you, as me, could make a lady fall in love with you. Thus, it would have to be someone I would court. And while I may be your secretary, I am still a man of property –"

"For a few more weeks at least."

Turner shot him a glare. "And previously an officer in the Army."

"And these qualifications make you as snobbish as the highest lord," Ned replied drily. Having to limit himself to only ladies would be slightly more difficult, but... "Fine, I agree to your stipulation. Besides, I have found that the fairer sex does not differ overly by level of society when it comes to matters of the heart. If you confess your love, chances are they will confess it back."

"Oh, and that's another stipulation." Turner added, nudging Abandon forward, making their way up the road again. "You cannot declare your feelings. Her declaration must be spontaneous."

"What?" Ned cried, kicking his stubborn steed into moving, catching up to Turner. "Turner, that is ridiculous!"

And it thoroughly destroyed Ned's plan. He had it all laid out. He would meet a girl (although, now chambermaids and cooks were out of the question it seems) he would woo her for a se'ennight, then he would declare his love. And he would have a whole week for her to declare it back, to wear her down. And if on the off chance he received a firm 'no', he would have a whole extra week to secure his interest with someone else.

"Why is that ridiculous?" Turner countered. "You mean to prove that your good humor wins the day – not your ardent declarations. Your object, whomever she may be, cannot be influenced by such a thing."

"I don't think you understand how this works. No young lady – not of good breeding anyway, which is _your_ stipulation – will make a declaration of love without first hearing one from her object." Ned shook his head. "It simply isn't done."

Turner seemed to consider it for a moment. "Well then, perhaps we revise what constitutes a declaration of love."

Ned smiled. Finally, a rule that would work in _his_ favor.

"All right. What _does_ constitute a declaration?"

"Well, obviously, if you can get the girl to express her feelings, either written or publicly, then that will carry the day."

"But if she doesn't? If she is too well bred for that?"

"Then..." he thought for a moment. "If you can collect three things from a lady, it will serve as proof enough."

"And what are these three things?" Ned asked suspiciously.

He ticked them off on his fingers. "A dance, in public."

"Easy enough." Ned conceded.

"Second, a token of affection. A glove, a pressed flower, or some such nonsense. Oh, and it has to be freely given, not taken without her knowledge."

"Turner, if these are your qualifications, I will not only have one lady in love with me within a fortnight, I will have them all," Ned scoffed.

"And third: an...intimate knowledge of the lady."

Ned pulled up short. "An _intimate_ knowledge?"

"Yes – the location of a mole on a concealed part of her body, something to that effect. All women have these little things." Turner grinned like a cat of prey again – his tiger smile. "How you find out the information is up to you."

"Now hold on," he said sternly. "You are requiring that I _seduce_ someone. And that could have longer reaching consequences than a fortnight."

Turner shrugged. "Only if you cannot get her to declare her love openly. There is still that option. Besides, seduction is not a requirement – only a possible method of obtaining what you require."

A possible method? Hell, it was the only method Ned could think of. Suddenly, he felt as if he had no grounding anymore. He swayed in his seat, grasping hard to keep upright.

"You have grown callous," Ned shook his head.

"Have you grown uneasy?"

"Not at all," Ned shot back immediately. "I simply prefer to avoid doing things that cannot be undone. But if that's what it takes..."

However, his bravado belied a strange sensation in his striking at his gut. Could it be a... a qualm? A hint of guilt?

"If you feel unequal to the task... you could always forfeit," Turner said, his voice gruff.

"Before the game's even begun?" Ned's head shot up. "No, of course not."

So this was Turner's tactic, was it? Make more and more ridiculous qualifications in the hopes it would break him, and thus ensure his victory. Well, he didn't take into account Ned's luck.

His eyes fell to the signet ring he wore on his right hand. The Earl of Ashby's crest. It had been his great-uncle who had first pointed out his luck. When he'd taken Ned at twelve into his care, Ned at first had railed against it, hating being away from the only home and family he had ever known. But then after time, the old Earl had cuffed him upside the head and said... " _You're lucky to be here, don't you realize? If you were out there, people would want something from you. And without my protection, you might be foolish enough to give it to them."_

His eyes narrowed. Yes, Turner, his old friend, wanted something from him. He wanted to be right, and he wanted Ned to be wrong.

Well, as long as he was the Earl of Ashby, he would not be taken advantage of. He would not be cowed so easily, by something as mundane as a smidge of guilt. He would prove Turner the fool, show him the truth of his good nature, his luck...

And he was right. This was going to be fun.

**For more about** _The Game and the Governess_ **,**

as well as Kate Noble's other books,

**please visit** www.katenoble.com

