O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales

by Kathryn Le Veque

  As of late, whenever something wonderful happened to her, she found herself gazing over her shoulder in fear that something ominous was about to destroy her joy. It happened when her father died unexpectedly two years ago, and now that the mourning period for her mother had ended, well, her brother had cast them all out.

  Jen joined her upstairs a while later with a pitcher of water and fresh linens, and helped Rose wash and dress in a new day gown. Then Jen brushed Rose’s luxurious dark hair out and braided it at the sides, leaving its length down her back. Living in such a remote place had advantages—she could wear her hair as she liked—dress as she wished to—and wander freely without someone reprimanding her about tarnishing her good name.

  In fact, the call of the sea had already sounded inside her mind, and Rose put on a sturdy pair of leather boots, chose a shawl and matching bonnet, then ventured out the front door, the cold air and gusty breeze rejuvenating her. She found the water’s edge, staring across the vast expanse of gray as if she could see who or what waited on the other side.

  Yes, she could see herself with an easel and watercolors set up here, painting, dreaming, wishing—hoping…

  “Miss?” a feminine voice called from somewhere.

  Rose turned around and found a young woman waving at her, a smile on her pretty face.

  “Yes?” Rose said as the stranger approached.

  The woman curtsied, then said, “Are you Lady Rose, the daughter of the late Earl of Brentley?”

  Perhaps this young woman would have the answers she sought about the cottage? “Yes, I am Rose. If I may inquire, who are you asking for?”

  “For Lady Whitmore, of course, your godmother.”

  Godmother? Rose laughed bitterly to herself—she had no such benefactor. If she had, her family would have never been in these circumstances. “Forgive me,” Rose said. “I am unaware of such a person. And I have never met Lady Whitmore.”

  The woman nodded. “Yes. But your dearest mother, best friend to my mistress, named her ladyship your godmother on the day of your birth, though it has been kept a secret all these years.”

  “But…” Rose did not know how to react, what to say.

  “Your presence, and that of your brother’s, is requested tonight at an informal supper at Lady Whitmore’s estate.”

  Rose once again gazed across the water. “Where is Lady Whitmore’s estate? For I arrived with no carriage of my own, no horses.”

  “A carriage will be sent for you at eight of the clock.”

  Once again, hope filled Rose’s heart, and that small ball of fear that lived in the pit of her belly began to unravel.

  “Do you accept my lady’s invitation?”

  “Of course,” Rose found herself saying without thought.

  “Very good, Lady Rose.” The woman turned to go.

  “Wait!”

  “Yes, ma’am?” She turned around.

  “Your name, please?”

  “Styles. Emily Styles. I am Lady Whitmore’s secretary.”

  Rose watched the young woman walk away, impressed by her respect for the rules of society, but also envious of the streak of rebelliousness she sensed in Emily.

  Tonight would likely be an evening Rose would never forget.

  Chapter Two

  Rose and Timothy arrived at the ancient castle that included two towers and a bailey that had been converted into the perfect garden. The massive arched doorway had hellish creatures carved into the stones, but the oak door was beautiful, etched with roses and thorns. As Rose assisted her brother up the stairs, the door opened and revealed a flawlessly dressed butler.

  “Lady Rose?” he asked.

  “Yes, and my brother Timothy. I hope we are on time?”

  “Of course.” The servant bowed and offered his shoulder to Timothy, which he accepted, placing his hand on him for balance.

  Once inside the grand foyer, the butler took Rose’s wrap and her brother’s overcoat. The garments were handed to a footman, then the butler introduced himself. “My name is Gentry, Lady Rose, and I am to welcome you to Lady Whitmore’s home. Mr. Timothy, your presence is highly anticipated as well.”

  Timothy gave the servant a warm smile.

  “Now, if you will come with me…” He gestured to the curved stairway.

  The second floor of the castle was luxuriously decorated, with white marble floors and vast ceilings painted with cherubs and other mythical creatures. Arched windows lined the east-facing wall, offering a distant view of the sea. A narrow passageway boasted an elegant hearth with a fire, and Rose counted no less than eight doors—one of which was a double doorway, the sound of laughter coming from within.

  Gentry preceded them into the drawing room, announcing their arrival.

  As Rose entered the room, she was immediately drawn to an older woman with dark hair with gray streaks, but her face was younger than her years, with intelligent eyes and a smile that could warm the coldest of hearts. Another matron stood next to the first woman, and she, too, possessed a calm demeanor that made Rose feel welcome.

  Two gentlemen dressed for dinner and a young woman, perhaps a couple of years younger than herself, were also present, gathered near the hearth.

  The first woman approached Rose and her brother, holding her hand out in greeting. “Lady Rose. Timothy?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Rose curtsied, and her brother bowed as best he could.

  “Please,” she said. “Let us dispense of such formalities tonight. You are both very welcome. I am Lady Whitmore.”

  “You have a wonderful home, Lady Whitmore,” Timothy said, gazing about the generous space. His attention was drawn to a collection of swords on the far wall.

  Lady Whitmore followed his gaze and laughed softly. “You are fond of history?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Please.” She waved her hand. “Go and explore. If there is anything you wish to hold, let Philips, my footman, know, and he will get it down for you.”

  Timothy gazed up at Rose, seeking her permission. “Go,” she said with a smile.

  Once he was out of hearing, Lady Whitmore looked at Rose again. “He is a dear boy.”

  “Yes,” Rose said. “My heart and soul, really.” Her gaze lingered on her brother.

  “Your mother was one of my dearest friends, Rose.”

  She stared at Lady Whitmore, a lump in her throat.

  “Her loss is still fresh in your heart, mine, too. I waited until you came out of mourning to contact your brother, the Earl of Brentley.”

  The mention of her elder brother soured her mood. “Joshua is my half-brother.”

  “Yes, and not a very good one if I may say so.”

  Rose lowered her gaze, ashamed to acknowledge her situation.

  “I beg you, Lady Rose.” She took her hand. “There shall be no shame between us. Your circumstances are well known to me. Your mother made arrangements long ago for you and your brother’s welfare, and I am the conservator of you and your holdings.”

  “Holdings?”

  “Yes. You are not without assets, my dear.”

  “The cottage? You are responsible for how lovely it is?”

  “You are pleased with it?”

  “Pleased?” Tears stung Rose’s eyes, but she held them at bay. “Tis more than I could have ever hoped for.”

  “Good.” Lady Whitmore squeezed her hand. “I want you to be happy and comfortable.”

  “I am just so. Thank you.”

  “Here, let us take a stroll about the room. I have much to share with you.”

  Arms linked, they walked slowly, Rose admiring every detail of the room.

  “I must apologize for thrusting myself into your life so unexpectedly, my dear. But your mother was adamant about her wishes. She long ago sensed that Brentley would reject you and possibly harm you and your brother. So our connection had to remain a secret until he had no further claim to you and Timothy.”

  “Financially?”

  “In everything. By d
enying you, he has legally handed conservatorship to me. Everything is in order, and you are safe. I am your godmother.”

  Rose considered the lovely woman. “My fairy godmother?” she whispered.

  “Excuse me, my dear. I did not hear you.”

  Rose smiled. “A private thought I should not have voiced.”

  Lady Whitmore leaned closer. “Some consider me a fairy godmother, for Whitmore is a magical place.”

  That delighted Rose to no end. “I look forward to discovering more about it.”

  “It would be my pleasure to show you about.”

  Rose did not miss the laughter coming from over by the hearth, and she glanced quickly in the direction of the trio. “Who are your other guests?”

  “The Earl of Hamby and his sister, Lady Marisa. The other gentleman is Sir Dexter, his best friend. As for the older woman, she is my cousin, Lady Cassandra.”

  Although Rose could not guess why she had been invited to join all of them for dinner tonight, the earl commanded her attention. He was exceedingly handsome—curly blond hair, sensual lips with what appeared to be a permanent smirk, and inquisitive eyes that followed her when she moved. “W-who is he?”

  Lady Whitmore stopped walking and rested her hands on Rose’s shoulders. “I have smelling salts in my pocket, dear,” she said humorously. “The earl is your betrothed.”

  The answer stole her breath. And, in fact, she stumbled back a step before she collected her bearings. “My betrothed?”

  “Yes, an arrangement made when you were but a small girl.”

  Rose could not believe her ears. The idea of an arranged marriage had never struck her as a possibility, though there had been several women in her acquaintance who had indeed grown to marry under those exact conditions. She gazed in the earl’s direction again, this time less inhibited, struck by his boldness, for he smiled at her, his green eyes devouring her.

  “Is…is he aware of the situation?”

  “Quite,” Lady Whitmore said.

  “Surely, he is not interested in honoring the contract.”

  Lady Whitmore tilted her head. “Your spiteful brother has damaged your confidence, my dear. Do you not know what a wonderful woman you have blossomed into?”

  She could not remember the last time someone had been as complimentary and kind toward her—there was truly something special about this lady, and Rose quickly understood why her mother had held her in such high esteem. Though she wished her mother had shared it with her while alive.

  “I know this is quite a bit to take in. Please, come with me.” Lady Whitmore directed her through an archway and into an antechamber that appeared to be a lady’s sitting room.

  Rose watched as her hostess walked over to a tall basket sitting atop a desk and opened it, removing a bundle of missives with a blue ribbon tied around them. She closed the basket and returned to Rose.

  “Sit, my dear.”

  Rose lowered herself onto the nearest settee and arranged her skirts, waiting to see the treasure she knew the lady held.

  Lady Whitmore sat next to her. “This is the first collection of letters I have from your mother. The earliest one is from two years after your birth. I believe reading these will help you understand. Your mother’s marriage to your father was a love-match. Her father demanded she marry a duke, but because she was of age, your mother chose to follow her heart, losing her dowry.”

  Lady Whitmore loosened the ribbon and offered the letters to Rose. With a shaky hand, Rose chose one of the missives and carefully opened it. She scanned the page, then reread every word with purpose. My dearest heart. Lovely, chubby fingers. I can see the intelligence in her innocent eyes already. Love emanated from the pages, and tears rolled down Rose’s cheeks.

  “Now, now…” Lady Whitmore offered her a handkerchief she produced from her sleeve.

  Rose gladly accepted it and dabbed her eyes dry. “I must apologize. I usually do not cry uncontrollably.”

  “There will be no apologies made to me for loving your mother. Now, take a fortifying breath, my dear, for it is time to be presented to your betrothed.”

  “But… what if he does not like me?”

  “There is no chance of that—he already does. As for the letters, leave them on the table here, and one of my maids will see that you get them before you leave tonight.”

  Rose stood up slowly, smoothing her gown. Could she, would she accept the earl?

  Chapter Three

  Richard Grant, the Earl of Hamby, watched his betrothed with great interest while she conversed with Lady Whitmore—today would likely be one of the most difficult days of her life. He patted his inner pocket where the special license for him and Lady Rose to be wed tomorrow evening was safely waiting.

  She had grown into a stunning woman with silky black hair, vibrant blue eyes, flawless skin, and the deepest sense of compassion and loyalty he had ever encountered. Yes, his godmother, Lady Whitmore, had kept him apprised of Lady Rose’s circumstances over the last ten years, her letters something he had looked forward to.

  And if he could… her half-brother, the Earl of Brentley, was a shameless fool who deserved to struggle for the rest of his life.

  “She is exquisite, Hamby,” Sir Dexter said, holding his wine glass up in salute. “I have seen some of the horse-faced brides delivered to London’s most eligible bachelors who subjected themselves to arranged marriages.”

  “You are irrevocably wicked,” Lady Marisa said to Dexter, tsking at him playfully.

  “Is that not why you prefer keeping me around?” Dexter threw at her with a smile. “For the sake of entertainment?”

  All three shared a laugh, but Richard’s mind, quite possibly his heart, were somewhere else—with the lady across the room.

  “She will make a devoted wife, dear brother,” Marisa said. “Though a very young one.”

  Richard cleared his throat and gave his sister a knowing look. “You are but two and twenty, hardly a spinster.”

  “That is four more years of experience than Lady Rose has, four London Seasons, and…”

  “And no husband,” Dexter offered as he took a greedy sip of his wine.

  “That is hardly the point,” Marisa deflected the uncomfortable fact of Dexter’s comment. “I am not interested in a husband yet.”

  The earl rolled his eyes, realizing, of course, that he had overindulged his sister too much. Her ideal suitor was an abomination to any man, for she wanted a husband without a backbone. “You are a bluestocking, Marisa.”

  “I am an academic but a sweet one.”

  Richard shook his head. “Rose is sweet,” he said sincerely. “You are indomitable.”

  “Let us see how sweet your bride stays after spending a year around me,” she offered.

  “Marisa.” His stern expression quieted her. “I am confident that you will respect Lady Rose for who she is, not attempt to alter her beliefs by filling her mind with some of the radical philosophies you believe in.”

  She held up her hands. “I will honor my promise, Richard. I will let Rose lead. After all, she will be mistress of the house now.”

  Finally, after what seemed like hours of waiting, Lady Whitmore approached them. Richard found himself feeling like an anxious schoolboy, his heart thundering, and his stomach unsettled, but he managed to stand straight and give the impression of cool confidence.

  “Lady Rose,” Lady Whitmore said, “it is my sincerest pleasure to introduce you to Richard Grant, the Earl of Hamby, his sister, Lady Marisa, and of course, Sir Dexter, a very fine physician.”

  Rose curtsied and blushed attractively as she met Richard’s gaze. “I am honored to meet all of you.”

  The earl refused to waste a moment with her. He bowed lower than expected and then took her delicate hand and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles. “We are the fortunate ones to make your acquaintance.”

  Lady Whitmore grinned and nodded, appearing pleased with the introduction. “Dexter. Marisa,” she said. “Accompany me
to meet Lady Rose’s brother. He is a history enthusiast.”

  Of course, the celebrated matron was doing what she did best, helping—making dreams come true, though some might see this as an obligation. However, the earl felt quite different about it.

  “May I offer you a glass of wine, Lady Rose?”

  She nodded, and he quickly motioned for the footman to bring her a glass.

  “Was your journey to Whitmore uneventful?” he asked, hoping to smooth the way to getting to know her.

  “Yes,” she said. “I find the coastline beautiful, the air most refreshing.”

  “This part of the country is unlike any other place. Even the white cliffs over Dover cannot compare.”

  “You speak as if you love this place.”

  “I do. I grew up not five miles from here, in Hamby.”

  This seemed to delight her, for her eyes sparked to life. “There seems to be so many places to explore, so much to see.”

  “It would be my privilege to accompany you wherever you wish to go, Lady Rose.”

  The footman arrived with her wine, and she took it, taking a small sip. “I grew up in London, though my father had a sprawling estate near Hampshire. We spent little time there because my mother preferred Town.”

  Richard wanted to tell her how much he knew about her, to take her hand and escort her outside, show her the endless expanse of stars in the sky, and how beautiful the ocean was at night. But she seemed so reserved, so very proper. Perhaps if he approached their situation directly…

  “Lady Rose, I know our circumstances are not typical.”

  “No,” she said resolutely. “They are not. But I am not against our betrothal—it is just…”

  Her words lightened his burden. “Yes?”

  “I am in shock, I think. You must understand, all hope was lost after my mother died and my brother, the Earl of Brentley…”

  Richard’s happiness plummeted at the mention of that useless creature. “I am well aware of the horrendous way you and your brother have been treated.”

  Rose met his gaze, and Richard was sure she could see the unbridled rage in the depths of his eyes.