by Cheryl Bolen
Oliver nodded, and Rhys squatted down in front of him. "I love your mother very much. I plan to ask her to marry me, but I want to be assured that you agree with this decision."
Oliver nibbled on his bottom lip as he pondered the question. Grace wondered what was going through his mind just then. She did not have long to wait, however.
"Does this means Bodhi would be my dog?"
Grace could not hold back her laugh this time. The little scamp had found a way around her restrictions, but she could not help but admire his tenacity.
"Of course he would be your dog," Rhys answered. "In truth, Bodhi believes he is your dog now. He merely resides at my house."
Oliver threw his arms around Rhys' neck and squeezed tightly. "Yes, I want you to marry my mama. Then Bodhi can live at my house." He stepped back and added solemnly, "You can live with us, too."
"I appreciate your generosity, Oliver." Rhys grinned. "I think we shall find a new house, one that all of us will choose together."
Oliver laughed. "Bodhi, I wish you smelled better so I could give you a hug, since you're my dog now. Mostly."
Rhys chuckled. "Let's see if we can persuade Susanna to donate some water from the kitchens so we can get Bodhi back to smelling as good as new."
"Yes! Come on, Bodhi." Oliver and his new dog raced to the kitchen door, intent on completing their mission.
Grace leaned against Rhys and he wrapped his arm around her waist. "You know you have just signed on to a grand adventure."
"Life became an adventure the first day I met you, Grace. It has been one magical episode after another since then."
She turned so she could circle her arms about his neck. "Where should this next magical adventure start?"
He kissed her sweetly, making her heart sing. "Right here."
Epilogue
Several weeks later
* * *
Martin carefully refolded the letter, smiling as he tucked it inside his jacket pocket.
Rhys and Grace were settling in at the villa in Italy Martin had purchased with them in mind. He had persuaded Rhys that his management skills were desperately needed, and it would be the perfect place for Oliver and Bodhi to roam free. Grace would be able to work her magic with the olives and grapes and everything else that grew there in such abundance.
He could only imagine the wondrous Twelfth Night celebrations they were bound to have. Perhaps they would invite him to attend next year's festivities.
In time, Martin would have the deed transferred to the newlyweds—once they had settled in so much they could not consider anywhere else to be home.
He sighed with contentment. Fortunately they had married before setting off for Italy. He would have hated missing such a joyous wedding. Everyone would have. Well, except for the Wiltons, but their absence had scarce been noticed.
Best of all, this latest success cemented Martin's reputation as the matchmaking earl. There was a moment, though, when he had nearly spoiled it. That had not happened with his two previous attempts, a good reminder of just how difficult this matchmaking business could be.
It was why he was in no rush to make a match for himself. There was still plenty of time for that. Until then, he could celebrate his triumphs, and ponder who might be the next to benefit from his talent for finding a perfect match.
The End
About Donna Cummings
I have worked as an attorney, winery tasting room manager, and retail business owner, but nothing beats the thrill of writing humorously-ever-after romances.
* * *
I reside in New England, although I fantasize about spending the rest of my days in a tropical locale, wearing flip flops year-round, or in Regency London, scandalizing the ton.
* * *
You can find details of her work at
www.AllAboutTheWriting.com
Join Donna’s Newsletter
A KISS UPON THE WIND
~ A Scandalous Kisses Novella ~
* * *
by
* * *
BARBARA MONAJEM
Twice-widowed Lady Isolde Doncaster doesn’t want to remarry, but her parents will stop at nothing to find her a new husband. Even the family ghost, a dashing Cavalier, insists she must wed again. When a masked stranger at the Christmas masquerade helps Isolde avoid her suitors, she is grateful—until she realizes he is the son of the neighboring family, come to steal a pendant their mothers have feuded over for years.
* * *
Gawain Burke sneaked into the Christmas masquerade with one goal: to retrieve the pendant that rightfully belongs to his mother. But his chivalrous instincts come to the fore, and protecting Isolde from lecherous men becomes his primary concern. He’s not a suitor for her hand. She has sworn never to marry again. They’ll just work together to return the pendant and stop the feud.
* * *
But neither of them reckons with the ghost, who has a far better ending in mind.
* * *
Copyright © 2019 by Barbara Monajem
Chapter 1
“I told you not to wear that costume,” the ghost of the Cavalier said.
Ever since he had started speaking to Lady Isolde Doncaster, the Cavalier had shown himself to be an I-told-you-so sort of ghost, full of advice and admonitions. But she’d had enough of that lately from her parents. A widow had the right to take charge of her own life, and Isolde intended to do so.
“You didn’t tell me until after I had already left my bedchamber,” she whispered from behind a bust on a pedestal in the ballroom at Statham Court. She was taking a well-deserved respite from the Christmastide masquerade, but she doubted this method of escaping attention would work for long.
The faint form of the ghost, barely visible in this dim corner, stiffened in haughty dignity. “My dear child, it would have been improper of me to enter your chamber whilst you were unclad.”
She appreciated this, for while married she’d had enough of being leered at—although perhaps the Cavalier was too proper, or simply too dead, to wish to do so. “It was kind of you to warn me, but I was trying to convey a message with this costume.” She’d copied it as exactly as possible from a scandalous caricature of herself dressed as the Greek enchantress Circe, carrying her cup of poison—the only difference being that Isolde’s costume wasn’t transparent like the one in the horrid drawing. “That I would poison my suitors rather than marry again.”
The Cavalier chuckled. “Circe turned men into swine with her potion, but she was also a seductress—a message gentlemen were far more likely to heed.”
Isolde sighed. She had been married twice. She should know by now how gentlemen’s minds worked. The female guests, as well as a few starchy males, had been shocked, but she’d been besieged by lascivious men. She’d refused several dances, used a hatpin to fend off attempts to kiss and paw her, and thrown the contents of her goblet in Lord Cape’s face—a waste of a perfectly good tisane.
Very much like the one she’d given her first husband, Simon Doncaster, who had died of his stomach pains despite the healing tisanes she’d given him—but the truth didn’t prevent the speculation that she had poisoned him, hence the caricatures. “My suitors are proving to be swine without any help from me,” she said.
It couldn’t get much worse. Her mother would be even more hysterical than usual after tonight, and her father, the Earl of Statham, even more determined to marry her off again. He had invited three prospective suitors—respected older men he approved of—to spend a fortnight at his estate, and was offering ten thousand pounds to whoever won her hand. She hadn’t the slightest intention of wedding any of them—or anyone else, for that matter. She’d put up with the first two husbands her father had insisted upon. She couldn’t count on a third convenient demise.
As if he’d read her mind, the ghost said, “You must not marry one of those chosen by your father.”
“There we agree,” she muttered, but Christmas was over, New Year’s past as well, and now Twe
lfth Night, after which all the guests would leave, loomed far too close. Each day her suitors became more fervent—or perhaps more desperate was a better description.
“I shall inform you when a worthy lover arrives,” the ghost said.
She sighed again, but didn’t reply. The ghost was a poet, so obsessed with love that he composed volumes of poetry about it. He simply didn’t understand that nothing could make so-called love—in other words, lust—palatable to her.
She peered around the pedestal. She’d had enough of drunken lechers. She’d stabbed one with her trusty hatpin only five minutes ago, at which the ghost had cheered. What a pity no one else could hear him. Or see him for that matter, but he was visible only in the dark, and then only when he chose to be seen.
She just wanted to get away, but mistletoe still decked every doorway, making escape difficult. One would think that in one’s own father’s house, one could count on protection from unwanted advances. No such luck. Her brothers were celebrating Christmas elsewhere. James, her favorite, now lived far away in the north of England with his bride. And Isolde’s father actually hoped one of the three suitors would seduce her—as if that would force her to wed.
Sir Andrew Dirks, unoriginally costumed as Henry VIII, marched up to her. Not again. “Waltz with me, goddess!”
“I haven’t changed my mind since the last time you asked, Sir Andrew.”
He pouted. “The correct form of address is Your Majesty.”
“Your Majesty may go to the devil,” she snapped.
He heaved a brandy-fueled sigh. “This time I come at the express request of your father.”
My father may go to the devil, too. Before she could get the hatpin out, he had his arm around her waist, her wrist firmly in his grip.
The Cavalier roared with rage, drawing his ghostly sword. “Let be, dastard!” he cried, which was noble but utterly useless. She had to fend for herself.
“You won’t fool me with that trick twice.” Sir Andrew leaned in for a kiss.
She turned her head, struggling. “Stop it. We’re not under the mistletoe.”
He was too drunk to care. She was about to shriek like a banshee, more scandal be damned, when a peremptory voice said, “My dance, I believe.”
A fist caught Sir Andrew on the jaw, and he crumpled to the floor. Isolde gazed in astonishment at the man who had so swiftly saved her. Behind him, the Cavalier cried, “Huzzah!”
“Unless you’d rather not.” Her rescuer was Charles II, or perhaps the Earl of Rochester—in any event, one of those libertines with a long curly wig.
“Now this is a true gentleman,” the Cavalier said. “A praiseworthy lover.” Fortunately, her rescuer couldn’t hear the ghost’s embarrassing comment.
Who was he? His mask covered much of his face. “We might stroll around the room instead,” he suggested. “Or share cakes and wine.”
His voice was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him.
“Unless you need to refill your cup of poison?” Her rescuer sounded amused—no surprise about that. Meanwhile, Sir Andrew lay where he had fallen, out like a snuffed candle. She beckoned to a footman to move the unconscious man out of the way.
She didn’t intend to thank Charles-or-Rochester, for doubtless he would prove to be as bad as the rest. “Only if it is your ambition to become a swine.”
He chuckled. “Not at all. You are perfectly safe with me.”
She shrugged and placed her hand on his proffered arm. She didn’t believe him, but as long as he wasn’t pawing, squeezing, groping, or forcing a kiss on her, she would put up with him.
And yet her curiosity was piqued. “Then why did you rescue me? Chivalry is long since dead, and Sir Andrew could hardly rape me in the ballroom.” That sort of plain speaking should do the trick. Either he would shy away out of outraged propriety, or get rapidly worse. If the latter, it was best to get it over with.
“I must be a last bastion of chivalry,” Charles-or-Rochester said. “I wouldn’t have let that cur inconvenience you under any circumstances. But I confess that I was hoping for a chance to speak with you.”
She grimaced with distaste. “If you’re another suitor, you may as well know straightaway that I don’t intend to remarry.”
“No? Then why the ten-thousand-pound prize for winning your hand?”
“That was my father’s notion.” She hadn’t known a thing about it. She’d been pondering going north to visit James, perhaps even to live there, if she proved to get on well with his wife. But when Mama had begged her to come home to Statham Court for Christmas, and Papa had cajoled, pleading Mama’s fragile state of mind, Isolde hadn’t had the heart to refuse.
What a mistake! No sooner had they arrived than so did the three suitors, along with a few other guests, for a fortnight-long party—at which point it was far too late for her to flounce back to London in a rage. How dare Papa foist these men onto her, insisting that he knew best, as if she were still an innocent girl?
“I’m not a suitor,” the stranger said. She must have appeared skeptical, for he added, “Believe me, I know all about parents eager to push one into marriage. You have my wholehearted sympathy.”
An ordinary libertine then, hence the costume. “So what do you want from me?” Just get it over with.
“I should like to learn about the Statham ghost.”
That was a surprise. She eyed him, still wondering who he might be.
“The dashing Cavalier,” he elaborated. “With his plumed hat and embroidered gauntlets, sword at the ready—or so I’ve heard. I hoped to have a chance to learn more about him, perhaps even see him for myself.”
A ghost enthusiast, was he? The masquerade was a clever way to get into the Court, since Papa invariably refused to allow such people access. However, she owed Charles-or-Rochester a favor. “That depends on whether the ghost wishes to be seen.” She jutted her chin toward the doorway with its sprig of mistletoe. “If you can get me safely out of the ballroom, I’ll see if I can persuade him—”
“Isolde darling! There you are. I thought you were to dance with Sir Andrew.” Her mother scurried up, her twitchy, birdlike gaze darting between Isolde and her companion.
“He became unwell,” Isolde said through her teeth.
“Isolde,” she whispered. “Pray watch what you say.” Mama appeared poised, but Isolde could tell she was on the verge of hysteria. “Mr. Nebley, who is by far my favorite of your suitors, begs to dance with you.” With a distracted nod at Charles-or-Rochester, she bore Isolde away. “Who was that?”
“I have no idea,” Isolde said, although she felt that, in fact, she should know. Perhaps she’d met him in London sometime.
“That is the problem with masquerades,” Mama said. “Even the riffraff gets in.”
This was unfair. “He wasn’t riffraff, Mama. He spoke like a gentleman, and more important, he rescued me from Sir Andrew’s odious advances.”
“Sir Andrew is a suitor for your hand,” her mother said. “His advances are honorable.” Her voice trembled. “How could you wear such a dreadful costume, when you are already a subject of scandal and innuendo? You are fortunate indeed that anyone is willing to marry you.”
Willing to take Papa’s ten thousand pounds was more like it. “The scandal wasn’t my fault,” she retorted, a waste of breath, but she couldn’t help it. Her first husband had paraded her like a trophy, sharing vulgar confidences about his enjoyment of her in bed, which inspired a number of disgusting caricatures. Her second husband would doubtless have been worse. Fortunately, he too was dead, but the broadsheets still featured caricatures of her whenever no juicier subject offered. Gossips abounded, here and everywhere; there was probably at least one informant at this masquerade. Lord Cape with her potion dripping from his cravat would no doubt appear in an upcoming print; Sir Andrew too, ousted by a libertine whose arm she had supposedly taken with libidinous glee.
She might not mind quite so much if she had any libido to speak of.
Whatever she’d started out with had vanished long ago.
“Hush,” her mother whispered. “You must rise above the gossip, not contribute to it. If you will only choose one of your suitors and remarry, all will be well again.”
Gawain Burke didn’t consider himself a vain sort of man, and he’d disguised himself well on purpose—and yet, it piqued him that Lady Isolde didn’t know who he was.
Which was absurd, for why should she? They had met often during childhood, as their fathers’ estates bordered one another, but after that he’d been at Oxford and then on the town. Not only that, since a dispute over a heart-shaped pendant a few years ago, the two families were sworn enemies. They crossed to the opposite sides of the street to avoid one another—although he and James Blakely, Isolde’s brother, remained friends regardless. But when James had approached Isolde with him during her first season, Lady Statham had intervened, hissing, “We do not speak to those people,” and hustled Isolde away.
A pity, for she’d changed from a gangly, tangle-haired girl to a lively blonde beauty. Under better circumstances he might have pursued the undeniable attraction, but she’d soon been married off to that lascivious old bore, Simon Doncaster. And then, when Simon died a year or so later, to his cousin Alan. That marriage had lasted all of three hours. No wonder they called her Lady Luckless—or a rather cruder play on the name related to the way Alan had died.
Damn Lady Statham, both for ending their conversation—but he could find a way to pick up where they’d left off—and for having so little sympathy for her daughter, who’d been the subject of vulgar gossip started by her own husband.