“So, you are determined to remain outside of the family. Is that what you are saying?” replied the duke.
As he and Alice had lain sleepily together in the bed the previous afternoon, Harry had considered what he wanted from seeing his father. Money hadn’t even come into the equation.
“I want to be a part of this family again, but it has to be on terms which suit the both of us. Christmas is coming soon, and I don’t want a repeat of last year when I spent Christmas Eve getting drunk in a dirty pub instead of sitting down to dine with my parents and family. Can’t we just be father and son, and not at each other’s throats?”
He picked up a piece of the toast and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing quietly while he waited for a response. If the duke said no, he was no worse off than he had been an hour earlier.
“You know your mother huffs loudly every time our carriage passes the front of your house. She blames me for this schism, says I am too hard on you.”
Harry swallowed the toast. “I have to admit to taking some comfort from her telling me that whenever I see her for lunch in town. I am her sweetest little birdy, and you have thrown me out of the nest.”
Lord Steele rolled his eyes. “I swear, the pair of you have been sent to try me. But let us set our differences aside and try to be kind to one another. You and your new fiancée are invited to Christmas Eve supper.”
Huzzah!
This was a major victory. He didn’t consider it a win over his father—rather a step forward for the entire Steele family. He had missed too many celebrations and occasions already. “Thank you, Papa. I shall speak with Alice and let her know that Christmas Eve is planned.”
“Good, and you can also tell her that the two of you will be visiting Redditch Hall for your honeymoon. You still have to deliver Milton number ten to the breeding program. He is now old enough to do the job,” said the duke.
“As long as Alice and I can bring Milton number eleven back to London with us,” replied Harry. However small that it was, he was keen to maintain his role with the family estate.
But before he and Alice formally announced their betrothal, there was one last major hurdle for him to clear. He had to convince Mister North to amend the marriage settlements so he could have the funds to set up the RR Coaching Company with a new coach and team of horses. That had been Alice’s bright idea.
The only way he was going to be able to give Alice the life she deserved, was to give up his scandals business and do his all to make the RR Coaching Company pay its own way.
As he set foot out into Grosvenor Street an hour later, his stomach gently sloshing from tea and toast, Harry stopped and glanced up at the sky. God may not have wanted him for the church, but he clearly still had plans for the life of Lord Harry Steele.
“An honest businessman? This is going to be interesting,” he muttered.
He headed homeward, looking forward to a future with Alice—one which would allow the both of them to be free of their cages. One where they could truly be themselves.
Epilogue
Lady Naomi Steele tracked the slow, almost nervous, progress of the Duke of Monsale as he made his way along the aisle of St George’s church. She tittered into her hand. Anyone would think he was the chap getting married today, not her brother.
Tall, tawny-haired, and stubborn. Yet from the moment she had first become aware of herself as being a woman, her marital sights had been set on him.
Her mother elbowed her gently in the ribs. “Stop staring, Naomi. It isn’t polite.”
She gave her mother a tired glance. “The only thing, which is impolite here, is his reluctance to marry,” she whispered.
The Duke of Monsale was one and thirty—well past the age when he should have taken on a wife. The man was impossible. Had she mentioned stubborn?
There is only seven years between us—not too much for it to appear out of sorts for us to marry. You just have to give me a chance. Give us a chance. If Harry can marry, then so can you.
Naomi’s gaze now settled on her brother. Harry was dressed formally for church but still had his personal flair about him. The silver pig charm which hung from a pocket-watch chain had her smiling. She silently gave her approval of his delightful salmon and silver striped waistcoat. It was wonderful to see him happy and back in the family fold.
Harry was stupidly in love with Alice North, the girl he was about to wed. From what she could gather, Alice’s affections were not much different.
Ah, love.
An early-January wedding was perfect timing. It gave the members of the ton still in London something to do during the long, boring days after Christmas and New Year’s. Though from the way her mother spoke, you would think it was the only event which would matter all the new year.
The minister at the front of the church lifted his hands, and the congregation all rose. Heads turned. The bride and her father began to make their way toward the altar. The bride wore a long cream gown, matched perfectly by one of the Steele family heirloom sapphire tiaras. The smile on Alice’s face was more breathtaking than the priceless jewels; Naomi blinked back another tear.
I am going to be a blubbering mess before this is over.
As the bridal procession passed by the Duke of Monsale, he bowed his head. Naomi was pleased he approved of the union.
Now if someone could just get you to start thinking about the need for an heir or two.
His gaze followed the bride, then drifted to the left. It fell on Naomi and lingered. She swallowed deeply, her heart thumping in her chest.
You look magnificent in your black formal attire. But you are stunning in anything.
Andrew McNeal always had this effect on her. Whenever he was near, she found herself reduced to a tongue-tied fool. Even from this distance, she was drawn in by his grey eyes. Those clear pools of lust . . .
You are in a church for heaven’s sake. Stop thinking like that!
And then he smiled. A slow, salacious grin appeared on his face. The rogue knew exactly what he was doing to her. And what she would love him to do.
Naomi blinked slowly, then licked her bottom lip.
Two can play at that game.
The Duke of Monsale might well consider himself the King of Rogues, but Lady Naomi Steele was determined that one day she would be his queen.
The Rogues of the Road will return…
About Sasha Cottman
USA Today bestseller Sasha Cottman was born in England but raised in Australia. Having her heart in two places has created a love for travel, which at last count was to over 55 countries. A travel guide is always on her pile of new books to read.
She writes novels set around the Regency period in England, Scotland, and Europe.
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The Highlander's Christmas Lassie
by Anna Campbell
Chapter 1
Muirburgh, The Trossachs, Scotland
Christmas Eve, 1824
Malcolm Innes, Laird of Dun Carron, turned his weary horse off the Callander Road onto the track leading up to a substantial farmhouse, half-obscured in the thickening snowfall. Hope, high when he arrived in this district, dashed so often since, stirred painfully inside him.
This had to be the place. He’d tried everywhere else in this prosperous little glen near Loch Lomond, before the people at the last house had directed him to Burnside Farm. It was late in the day, and early winter darkness already descended. With an exhausted groan, he dismounted in the empty yard, noticing how well kept the property was.
Senga, his gray mare, was too tired to wander. He led her under the eaves of an outbui
lding and rubbed her nose with grateful affection. “I hope this is it for the day, old girl, and we can find you a nice warm stable out of this weather.”
It was madness to travel at this time of year. But when his friend Fergus Mackinnon, Laird of Achnasheen, had told him what he’d seen in Muirburgh, Malcolm couldn’t bear to wait for spring and friendlier temperatures. If Fergus was right, almost twenty years of searching came to an end in one way or another today. How appropriate that it was so close to Christmas, the season of miracles and new beginnings.
Senga gave a soft whicker and bumped her noble head into his hand. She was a brave beast with a loyal heart. For her sake, too, he hoped his seeking came to an end.
He left her standing and crossed the snowy yard to the impressive door, decorated with an elaborate wreath of holly and ribbons. He raised the heavy lion-head knocker, and his gut tightened with suspense as the summons echoed inside.
There was a delay before anyone answered. While he waited on the front step, Malcolm pulled down his hat, stamped his feet, and wrapped his arms around himself to warm up.
Or perhaps it only felt like a long wait because he was half-mad with anticipation.
At last he heard a latch lift. The door opened on a lamplit hallway, adorned with branches of pine and holly.
“Good evening, sir.”
Malcolm hardly heard the greeting as his heart began to pound. Before him stood a tall youth. A tall youth who wore the same face he saw in the mirror every morning when he shaved.
“By God…” he choked out.
Behind the lad, a slender woman appeared, a mixing bowl in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. A smiling woman with rich red hair and a face that was a fairer sight than bluebells in an April wood.
A woman Malcolm hadn’t seen since he was eighteen years old.
“Who is it, Patrick?” she asked, her voice warm. “Has one of our neighbors called to wish us the best for the season?”
The world receded in a dizzying rush, stealing the strength from Malcolm’s legs. To save himself from falling, he reached out a shaking hand to grab the lintel.
“Rhona?” he forced out of a tight throat.
Under his dazed gaze, she stopped in her tracks and went as pale as the snow outside. Her lovely green eyes widened with shock and her smile evaporated. “Malcolm?”
He gripped the post tighter, in too much turmoil to know exactly what he felt. “They told me you were dead.”
From that moment, the icy hand of despair had descended on him and it had never lifted.
Until now.
He realized that a ray of bright joy pierced the fog of churning emotion inside him. He’d never come to terms with losing Rhona. She’d left a jagged wound in his life that had refused to mend.
To his bewilderment, instead of reacting with happiness or astonishment or curiosity, her porcelain-white face closed against him. He glimpsed a flash of what looked like hatred in her eyes.
“To you, Malcolm Innes, I am dead.” Her voice was colder than the wind whistling around his ears. “Shut the door, Patrick. This man isn’t welcome in my house.”
Before Malcolm could muster a plea or a protest or a question, she turned away and strode off down the long corridor with the proud posture he remembered so well.
Behind her, Rhona Macleod waited for the door to slam shut, but instead she heard her seventeen-year-old son speak. “I think you’d better come in, sir.”
“But your mother…”
“I live here, too, and I’d like to talk to you.”
Patrick must have noted the resemblance as well. How could he not? With every day that passed, her son looked more and more like his swine of a father. Her son was also more inclined to make peace than seek strife. Patrick had been born one of life’s diplomats, a quality he certainly didn’t get from his mother.
She faltered in her stride, and for a moment the world around her dissolved into a miasma of crippling distress. Her heart was racing, and she felt sick. She’d never expected to see her first lover’s face again this side of the grave.
Once like a pudding-headed fool, she’d dreamed of Malcolm finding her and telling her that everything she believed about him was a lie. But as the years had passed, she’d realized that was never going to happen.
Never say never, Rhona Macleod.
Now he’d turned up, and she wished her former lover to Hades. What a hide he had, bowling up on her doorstep on Christmas Eve without a hint of shame, and expecting a welcome.
Patrick was still talking. “It’s as cold as charity out there. Only a villain would force another living creature into such a snowstorm, especially on Christmas Eve.”
“I appreciate your kindness. Is there a barn where I can put my horse? She’s just about done in.” Malcolm sounded almost normal, not stricken as he had when he saw her and made that unconvincing claim that he thought she was dead.
That provided a nice easy excuse to explain his absence, she supposed. She didn’t want to believe him, she really didn’t. Although even the hardest heart would register how distraught he’d looked when he caught sight of her.
As her temper surged, Rhona’s shoulders stiffened and her sight cleared. She whirled around and glared at her unwanted visitor. “Don’t you dare make yourself at home. Go on your way. There’s an inn a few miles up the road. They’ll fall all over themselves to offer a bed to a fine fellow like the heir to Dun Carron. If you play your cards right, they might even throw in a bonny maidservant to keep you warm.”
To her surprise, sardonic amusement creased Malcolm’s intense dark face. “Careful, my love. You’re starting to sound jealous.”
Her queasiness worsened, and bile flooded her mouth with a bitter taste. She felt no urge to smile back. “I was never your love.”
The ghost of his humor still hovered. “Of course you are.”
How dare this bastard say that, when they both knew it wasn’t true? She bit back the impulse to scream and scratch and carry on like the hysterical girl she’d once been. That was how she’d reacted when brutal men had ripped her away from everything she knew. Her rage had done her no good then. It would do her no good now.
“Betrayal sits oddly with declarations of love. At least in my mind,” she said with a dryness that burned. Her hands clutched the bowl and spoon so tightly that she felt the ache up her arms. “But I suppose that’s just another sign of what a peasant I am. As if you didn’t know that already. Go to the inn, then go back to Dun Carron. Or to hell, for all I care. You have no place here.”
“Mother…” Patrick protested, staring at her in dismay.
“This is my house, Patrick,” she said in a harsh tone she’d never used to him before. “If you don’t like the rules, you can leave.”
Rhona turned away again and stomped toward the kitchens. She’d banished Satan from her presence, and she had shortbread to make. But banishing the memory of Malcolm Innes and all he’d once been to her was nowhere near as simple as refusing the physical man permission to enter her house.
Patrick. His son’s name was Patrick. The name rang through Malcolm like a peal of jubilant bells. After all this time, discovering even that much seemed like a victory.
The lad regarded him with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” Speech was difficult. He still struggled to cope with the magnitude of how everything had changed in the last few minutes.
He had no idea why Rhona was so furious with him. Did she resent his failure to find her? She couldn’t have believed the lies his father had told her about Malcolm conniving in their separation.
It was too much for his reeling mind to work through. This morning he’d been convinced Rhona was dead. Nor had he been sure he’d find his son, despite Fergus’s report that in a village near Loch Lomond, there was a youth who was Malcolm’s image.
Now he found mother and son. Alive, together, and apparently well. Even the little he’d seen of this farm reeked
of prosperity, and both Rhona and Patrick were well dressed and thriving. Which raised another big question. If Rhona was free and solvent, why the devil hadn’t she contacted him?
Eighteen years was a long time. Had she fallen in love with someone else? Did she run this farm with a husband? But even if she did, the girl he knew wouldn’t be spiteful enough to keep his son from him.
The acrid thought arose that she might no longer be the girl he knew.
Except the instant he saw her, his soul had recognized her as the woman he loved. His soul had known that despite their long separation, she remained the Rhona he’d carried in his heart all these years.
Was all that just romantic nonsense?
“You’d better tell me the way to the inn,” Malcolm said with a hint of grimness.
Patrick looked disappointed. “You’re leaving?”
“Only for tonight. I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ve hunted you and your mother for most of my life. A few curt words and a cold shoulder won’t send me away.”
Frowning, Patrick glanced out into the yard. With a hunger that felt like a physical ache, Malcolm took the chance to study him. It was a strange experience, meeting an adult child for the first time. Patrick felt so familiar, at the same time as he felt like a complete stranger. If Rhona had decided she loathed Malcolm, it couldn’t have been easy for her to see his likeness every time she looked at her son.
“Mother sent all the farmworkers home for Christmas. You can sleep in the barn, if you don’t fancy a ride in the snow. It’s warm, and she’ll never know.”
“I shouldn’t say yes. I want to make peace with your mother. Deceiving her isn’t the best way to ensure that.”
Patrick’s smile expressed a flashing charm that Malcolm was sure he’d never possessed. “I’ll be blowed if I meet my father at last, only to send him off to perish in a snowdrift.”
Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1) Page 14