A Grosvenor Square Christmas

by Vanessa Kelly

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 talk
ing 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 c
ould 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.”

  A
h, 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 unt
il 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 an 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 sensual, 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. Her third book, My Favorite Countess, was nominated for an RT Reviewers' Choice Award for Best Regency Historical Romance.

  Vanessa's next series, The Renegade Royals, is due to hit the shelves in November with an introductory novella, Lost in a Royal Kiss. Book One in the series, Secrets For Seducing a Royal Bodyguard, will release in January, 2014. You can find her on her website, Goodreads, and on Facebook and Twitter.

  You can read an excerpt from Vanessa’s next book, Secrets for Seducing a Royal Bodyguard, here.

  For information on books related to One Kiss for Christmas, please visit her Books Page.

  His Christmas Cinderella

  A Regency Short Story

  By

  ANNA CAMPBELL

  Copyright © 2013 by Anna Campbell