O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Nonsense. I fell in love with your grandmother on sight.” He frowned. “But you must allow Alice her London Season, my boy. She is very young. Her mother will rightly insist on it. Dountry is a marquess. They’ll be aiming high.”

  “And I have little to offer.”

  “Not until I’m below ground, but how long can that be? No one lives forever. Your prospects are hardly shabby. I never altered my will, just wanted to put the fear of God in you.”

  “Really, Grandfather?”

  “I’d never do such a terrible thing.” He frowned. “I’m surprised you believed me.”

  Hugh let that pass. “The suitors will be lining up for Alice.”

  “You must take your chances. If you two are meant for each other, then it will happen. I want you to promise me you’ll give Alice a month in London before you see her. If she loves you…” He glanced down at the note in his hand. “Ah, this is from Belfries. They have reiterated their invitation to Christmas dinner. It now includes you. I’ll send William in with a letter of acceptance. You’ll come?”

  “Indeed, I will,” Hugh said promptly.

  On Christmas night, Lord Belfies’ drawing room was bedecked with holly and greenery. Hugh drank mulled wine with his grandfather and the viscount beside the crackling fire as they discussed everything from politics to estate matters.

  Alice came through the door, so breathtaking in a pale blue lacy gown, his poor heart squeezed.

  After dinner, when the clock struck midnight, he and Alice stepped outside to admire the garden covered in a blanket of white. A month! Her eyes sought his, a speaking glance. Hugh smiled and suffered a reckless surge of hope. They were meant for each other. Was it foolish to think she felt the same? He would have to wait to find out, for he must abide by his grandfather’s wishes. Best not to risk angering him again. Grandfather was right, much as Hugh hated to admit it. Alice should be free to enjoy London, the balls, and the dances, despite his fear that he would lose his chance with her. His chest tightened, wanting with all his heart to declare himself.

  Epilogue

  London, April 1819

  Alice, wearing her new ballgown of white muslin with a pattern of gold oak leaves around the hem, left the dance floor on Lord Hay’s arm after the quadrille. Seated beside Marian, her mother smiled approvingly as Alice curtsied to the gentleman.

  She had done everything her mother asked of her. Her presentation had gone well. She had danced at Almacks, and now at her third ball, she found herself a little tired and disenchanted. Many gentlemen paid their respects to her, and much was made of her looks, but she was unhappy.

  The wonderful Christmas dinner spent with Hugh and his grandfather remained in her thoughts. Marian and Gerald had soon settled their differences, and he got his way, for the kiss was never mentioned again. However, in response to Marian’s letter, her mother promptly came and took Alice home a few days after Christmas. Alice did not see Hugh again. But she had Christmas night, and every second was special. She partnered him for whist. And they’d played charades.

  She and Hugh laughed and teased each other while she fell deeply in love with him. But he’d made no promises, and that was four months ago. She’d expected him to come to see her before this. Had she been wrong about him?

  Alice’s next partner had sent his apologies. Some misfortune had called him home. She sat alone, watching Marian and Gerald dance. They smiled at each other like a pair of newlyweds.

  Alice studied the painted landscape on her fan when a gentleman came to stand before her. She glanced up. “H…Lord Gifford!”

  “Lady Alice. May I sit with you?”

  “Yes, please do.”

  He sat and smiled at her. “You look lovely tonight.”

  “Thank you.” She felt herself blush. A compliment from Hugh meant more to her than any other. “How is Lord Hawkinge?”

  “I’ve just returned from Kent. Grandfather sends his regards. He remains in good health and is quite the benefactor these days. He takes special care of a family who have suffered great hardship. Their beloved son, Tim, must use a crutch to walk. He’s a dear boy. Grandfather has become fond of him.”

  “The earl sounds more content. I am happy for him.” Why had Hugh come to see her? “I wasn’t sure we’d meet again.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You doubted it?”

  “I confess I’d begun to.”

  “I have wanted to, Alice. Very much. I’ve been promising myself a dance with you since Christmas. Or have your suitors claimed them all?”

  “The supper dance is free,” she said shyly. She always tried to hold it open in case he came. It might be a waltz. She could dance in his arms, and afterward, Hugh would take her into supper.

  His gaze held hers. “You’re not yet engaged?”

  “No.”

  “Then there’s hope for me?”

  “Oh, Hugh. Surely you know it.”

  He took her hand. “I know my heart, Alice. Have done since I met you.”

  She sighed. “I wanted to believe it. But when you failed to come…”

  “Are you rebuking me?” He laughed. “I must measure up if I have the great fortune to make you my wife.”

  She smiled mistily at him, her hand still tucked in his.

  “Please introduce me to the gentleman, Alice,” her mother said crisply.

  Hugh rose to his feet and bowed. “Lord Gifford, Lady Dountry, I met your daughter in Kent.”

  “Ah, yes. I have heard all about the enjoyable Christmas dinner you spent with my family, Lord Gifford. I trust Lord Hawkinge is in good health?”

  “Excellent health, thank you, Lady Dountry.”

  “My daughter often converses with him at church. He is known for his good deeds.”

  A country dance was called, and Alice’s partner emerged from the crush.

  Hugh bowed. “Until the supper dance, Lady Alice.”

  “Until then, Lord Gifford.”

  “The Marquess of Warne has expressed an interest in you,” Alice’s mother said after Hugh walked away.

  “I know.”

  “But as you have your father eating out of your hand, it’s useless my suggesting it, I suppose?”

  Alice laughed and laid a gloved hand on her heart to slow its rapid beating. “Yes, quite useless, Mama.”

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Maggi Andersen

  The Never Series

  Never Doubt a Duke

  Never Dance with a Marquess

  Never Trust and Earl

  Dangerous Lords Series

  The Baron’s Betrothal

  Seducing the Earl

  The Viscount’s Widowed Lady

  Governess to the Duke’s Heir

  Eleanor Fitzherbert’s Christmas Miracle (A Novella)

  Once a Wallflower Series

  Presenting Miss Letitia

  Introducing Miss Joanna

  The Lyon’s Den Connected World

  The Scandalous Lyon

  Also from Maggi Andersen

  The Marquess Meets His Match

  Beth

  About the Author

  A USA TODAY bestselling author of Regency romances, with over 35 books published, Maggi’s Regency series are International bestsellers. Stay tuned for Maggi’s latest Regency series out next year. Her novels include Victorian mysteries, contemporary romantic suspense and young adult. Maggi holds a BA in English and Master of Arts Degree in Creative Writing. She supports the RSPCA and animals often feature in her books.

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  Maggi’s Amazon page for her books with Dragonblade Publishing.

  Her Star from the East

  (O Night Divine)

  Mary Lancaster

  Chapter One

/>   “Get out of my sight!” Emma raged.

  Alice, the maid, spun on her heels and rushed from the room.

  Emma snatched up the nearest object to hurl after her, then froze, staring at the vase in her hand. Joe and Hazel had bought it in Venice during their wedding trip. She lowered her hand, defeated. As quickly as it had sprung up, her rare burst of anger receded, leaving her frustrated and ashamed.

  What is the matter with me? It’s Christmas, I am home at Brightoaks, and I have recently received a very flattering offer of marriage. Why should I be so bad-tempered?

  Anger was one thing. Taking it out on a servant was another, especially on one who had been her playmate when they were children. Alice had only tried to persuade her to go to bed.

  Emma set the beautiful vase back down on its table and strode around the drawing room in the hope the exercise would somehow shake off this discontent. Instead, the generously proportioned walls seemed to close in on her, trapping her in a life that was good, safe, and pleasing to her family.

  With a gasp, she ran to the French windows and threw the door wide open. The cold air hit her with a welcome blast, though the dark, misty night was impenetrable and should have done little to ease her sense of confinement. She drew her shawl up over her shoulders and stepped out onto the terrace. From there, the ground sloped downward in a series of lawns and gardens that were distinctive and most pleasing to the eye in daylight. Shrouded in fog and darkness, they could have been anywhere. Or at any time.

  That idea rather pleased her, and she moved back into the room only to pick up her mother’s abandoned shawls on the sofa and wrapped them around herself. As she walked out onto the terrace once more, the clock chimed from the gallery. Midnight. It was Christmas Eve.

  Every Christmas of her life had been spent in this house. She remembered only warmth and laughter, collecting holly and other greens and berries to decorate the hall, and the dining room and whichever other rooms they had chosen. Simple times, when her father had been alive, and she and her siblings had run wild…

  Even later, when everyone began to grow up, and they had lost their father, the warmth remained. Her eldest brother Joe had always come home for Christmas when he was in the country. After marriage, her sister Roberta had dragged her husband and children here for Christmas. Only John had been absent for years when he had joined the army. But even he was back in recent times, invalided out after Waterloo. And now there was Hazel, Joe’s wife, whom she loved, and their wild, eighteen-month-old son who smiled more than any child she had ever encountered.

  Standing by the balustrade, she stared into the swirling, freezing dark, watching her breath stream out into it, and realized the sky was not quite opaque after all. She could not see the moon, but there was one star managing somehow to twinkle in a hazy kind of way. She smiled, working out that it shone to the east, like the star which had drawn the wise men to Bethlehem.

  I could follow the star. It might lead me to Selim.

  She closed her eyes. Don’t think of him. How can I agree to marry another man if I still dream of Selim?

  It was beyond foolish. A man from a different country, a different faith, a friend of her brother Joe who had burst into her life more than two years ago, for a mere week. His dark eyes had sparkled much more brightly than the star up there. In fact, his whole person had seemed to shine, dashing, larger than life, and full of fun and laughter. Selim, her rebellious Ottoman prince…

  And then he had gone, and ever since, excitement had always seemed to be lacking.

  She had enjoyed two London seasons now, broken hearts as she was meant to, and rejected more suitors than her mother felt she should. And now there was Lord Davitt, and she really thought it was time to grow up and accept him.

  It was a good match. And she liked him. Four-and-twenty years old to her nineteen, amiable, respectful, and amusing. She couldn’t have considered him if he wasn’t amusing.

  She gazed up at the star, barely visible at all now, and tried to imagine next Christmas. Would the same star shine down on her here, then? When she was Lady Davitt, perhaps even a mother?

  She closed her eyes. Oh yes, she could see it, the same family warmth, her own little baby, admired by all, herself admitted into that upper rank of married women alongside her mother, Roberta, and Hazel. Davitt would stand proudly at her side, while Hazel, holding Emma’s baby, would glance over her shoulder at Joe, share one of those smiling, secret looks that only they understood. Emma would turn to Davitt…

  Her eyes flew open. For that was where her vision failed. She could not imagine sharing those quick, intimate glances with Davitt. Between Joe and Hazel, even before they were married, there had always been some closeness, some elusive spark. A spark that did not ignite between her and Davitt.

  My life will be dull.

  Again, Prince Selim swam into her mind, as he often did, the ideal that no other man lived up to. An impossible ideal, more imagination than reality.

  And yet, what if Selim had offered for her hand two and a half years ago? What if Joe had consented, and she was now Selim’s wife? Would they be here at Brightoaks? Or in some far, distant land, where everything was new and different—the people’s dress and customs, the palaces and bathhouses, the scents of spice and eastern perfume… And most of all, Selim, holding her in his arms against this exotic background, kissing her with the passion she had always sensed but never tasted.

  “That is madness,” she whispered aloud. “I would have lost all this.” There would be no Christmas among Muslims. And her view of Selim was surely distorted by time, some idealized version of a man she had barely known.

  No, her future was with Davitt, a man she did know and like, and would come to love, surely in the weeks ahead.

  Her gaze came back into focus on the place where the solitary star had been. It seemed to have vanished along with her foolish dreams—unless it was that flash lower in the sky? If it even was the sky. She could make out nothing in the freezing darkness except her own breath and odd swirls of mist that almost seemed to glisten. And the light approaching from the east, moving closer like a shooting star or a soul falling to earth.

  She smiled at the fantasy. More likely it was a lantern light, although who would be outdoors and moving so quickly across the country in such weather, she could not imagine.

  She dragged her gaze away and thought instead of Alice, to whom she had been unkind. Especially since the girl’s father was in financial trouble and could barely feed his family, let alone pay his rent. It was Alice, not Emma, who had more right to ill-humor.

  Emma sighed and turned away. She would apologize to Alice tomorrow, for one should never be mean to servants who could not answer back.

  A strange clank drifted eerily out of the mist, at once echoing and muffled, like some ghostly clanking of chains in the Gothic romances she loved. It came again, causing her to spin around, every hair on her neck standing up in alarm. She shivered with sudden chills that had nothing to do with the cold.

  One hand reached blindly for the door, while she peered into the darkness for the source of the noise. A figure materialized in the mist, sitting on the stone balustrade that ran around the terrace.

  Her breath caught, for his shape was weirdly reminiscent of the man she had just been remembering. A curved scimitar hung by his side. A fearsome, Turkish weapon.

  No. No, it cannot be…

  The figure did not move or speak. No breath disturbed the thick air surrounding him.

  “Who are you?” she croaked.

  And a ghostly whisper breathed out of the mist. “Selim. I was just Selim.”

  Was. She grasped the door for support while the world came crashing around her ears. “Dead?” she gasped. “Oh, no, oh, no, please…”

  Still, the insubstantial figure in the mist did not move, which did more than anything to convince her that a ghost hovered before her. She was not even afraid, for the hugeness of his death swept everything else from her mind.


  “Was that you?” she whispered. “The star I saw in the east, moving toward me?”

  There was a pause, then, “Yes….”

  “Why?” she asked helplessly. “Why here, why now that you are dead?”

  There was another pause as if her words filtered through some veil, some portal she could not see. Then he said, “I suppose, I needed to know the truth. If you loved me.”

  A sob shook her. “How can I know that? You left before I could find out, before either of us could. I always thought you would come back, and you never did.”

  “And yet, you weep for me.”

  In surprise, she wiped her hands across her wet eyes and cheeks. It seemed he was right. “Oh, Selim, what happened to you?”

  He was silent again. A swirl of mist over the already insubstantial figure terrified her that he would vanish. But no, he was still there, still not answering. For some reason, she thought he was ashamed, and another terrible possibility came to her.

  “Oh, God, you did not…?”

  “Kill myself?” he finished indignantly. Oh, yes, this was Selim. “Of course, I did not!”

  The question died in her throat. She did not need to distress him with such a question. Joe would know. Wary of being teased, when she was all but engaged to another man, she had not yet asked her brother about Selim.

  She said, “Joe told me you were reconciled with your cousin, the Sultan.”

  “Up to a point, and that was more Joe’s doing than mine.”

  “He said you now worked all over the world for the Sultan’s interests.”

  “But he would not let me come home.”

  Did the ghost move there? Was he floating away?

  Apparently not. “Why are you out here alone and sad on Christmas Eve?” he asked.

  A new wonder came to her. “Is that why you came? Did you know I was sad?”

  A breath of air touched her cheek, almost like a caress. He said, “I suppose I must have. Something drew me here to you. Why are you sad?”