This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Kasey Stockton
Cover design by Ashtyn Newbold
First print edition: October 2020
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations for the purpose of a book review.
Happy reading & Merry Christmas.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Next in the Belles of Christmas: Frost Fair
Other books in The Belles of Christmas Series
Also by Kasey Stockton
About the Author
Chapter 1
Mary Hatcher had one reason for coming to London. It was not to spend a nice holiday with her godmother, though that was an added perk, and it most certainly was not to attend the fair on the River Thames. She was there to prepare for the most important day of her life. But her young friend, Lady Anne, had other plans.
“If we wait too long we shall miss our opportunity entirely.” Lady Anne clutched Mary’s glove-encased hands in the dim entryway of her townhouse, pleading through her tightened grip. “My mother has removed upstairs for her nap, and your mother has hidden in the parlor with her book. We can easily slip out the front door with no one the wiser.”
When Lady Anne had proposed an outing, Mary hadn’t realized she was dressing for subterfuge.
Mary’s gaze flicked to the maid standing by the wall behind them, framed by light streaming through the window in the entryway, her winter cloak fastened and head lowered.
Mary returned Lady Anne’s grip with a raised eyebrow. “Your mother expressly forbade you from attending the fair. She fears it will be too rambunctious a crowd—”
“That is folly. Lady Rutledge attended yesterday, and she was perfectly diverted. I heard it from Miss Rutledge herself at dinner last evening. Oh, please do not let me down.” Lady Anne pouted. “It will be much more fun with you, Mary. The entire outing is bound to be ruined if I must do it alone.”
Mary stifled a gasp. “Surely you do not mean to be so bold.”
Lady Anne’s eyes acquired a steely glint that was far too mature for the young woman’s mere fifteen years. “I mean to see the Thames frozen over, and I will go whether or not you choose to accompany me.”
In that case, Mary had little choice. She pulled her bottom lip in between her teeth, eyeing Lady Anne, who stood beside the front door, poised to escape. By the time Mary would be able to make it up three flights of stairs, locate either Lady Sanders or her own mother, and then proceed to inform one of them of Lady Anne’s outing, the girl would be halfway across town. Alone.
But…if they went together and made quick work of the outing, surely they could return home within the hour with no one the wiser.
Lady Anne must have sensed Mary relenting, for she grinned widely and tugged Mary’s hands. “Shall we be off then? Oh, here, let me straighten your bonnet.”
For all her inexperience and youth, Lady Anne was a thoughtful girl.
Mary accepted the help, tightening the strings as Lady Anne inched her front door open and peered outside. Snow gathered down the stone railing on the outside steps and mixed with mud on the street, looking far more unclean than magical. Mary never understood others’ fascination with snow. It was cold, wet, and often dirty.
They slipped outside, Lady Anne’s maid right behind them, and down to the street where the Sanders carriage waited, its side emblazoned with the yellow and green crest belonging to Lady Anne’s brother, the Earl of Sanders. The bitter cold assaulted Mary at once, seeping into the cracks between her seams and prickling her exposed skin.
Once they were settled comfortably inside the carriage, a thick woolen rug pulled over their laps, Lady Anne turned to her friend. “You will not regret this.”
It was impossible for the girl to promise such a thing. “You owe me a favor now.”
“Anything,” Lady Anne said, her golden curls bouncing along with the rocking carriage and her lips spread wide, revealing even, white teeth.
Mary pulled her pelisse tighter around her throat, hoping to stem the tide of anxiety clawing at her. Lady Sanders had done her a grand favor, bringing Mary and her mother to London with their party—and during Christmastide, no less. She was hardly repaying the countess’s kindness by escorting her eldest daughter to the Frost Fair. They hit a bump in the road and swayed slightly. It was too late to turn back.
“Oh, isn’t it lovely?” Lady Anne’s nose pressed against the window, muffling her words. The carriage rolled to a stop, and she hopped down, her grin growing wide, pushing creases into her cheeks.
Mary shared a look of long-suffering with the maid, then followed her friend, stepping over a pile of icy slush to reach the walkway at the park. Though their mothers had known one another their entire lives, Mary and Lady Anne had only become acquainted the week before when they had traveled to London together. Mary had quickly discovered her friend’s propensity for chasing entertainment; today shouldn’t have surprised her.
Crowds gathered along the rough, iced-over river, mingling in groups and meandering through makeshift tents and stalls selling roasted mutton and hot-brewed cider. A set of steps down the grassy embankment was manned by a rough-looking waterman holding out his hand for a penny.
Mary’s stomach constricted. She hadn’t realized she would have to pay simply to get in the fair. She calculated what few coins she’d tucked into her limp reticule and how much of it she could feasibly sacrifice.
Roasting meat and charred mutton scented the air, and her stomach replied audibly.
Lady Anne dug in her reticule before dropping coins into the outstretched, dirty hand. “My treat, since you absolutely did not want to accompany me here.” She shot Mary a grin and gripped her arm, tugging her down the cold, frozen steps. Accepting the charity rankled, but Mary was in no position to argue.
“What shall we do first?” Lady Anne asked, glancing from one end of the fair to the other.
“Whatever you’d like.”
Lady Anne flashed her blue eyes at Mary. “Did you see that woman eating gingerbread? I propose we find the person selling it and make that our first activity.” She hummed with excitement, and the crowd—though large enough to warrant the title—was anything but rambunctious, making it difficult to remain overly concerned. Women led their children around the stalls, and men hawked their wares, harmlessly mingling.
One woman, dressed in a blue coat, slipped behind a tent with a young man, her eyes darting behind her as though t
o ensure she would not get caught.
Perhaps there were some things about the fair they ought to avoid. Surely Mary and Lady Anne could obtain gingerbread, look about the stalls selling their wares for a few minutes, and then return home.
Well, to the Earl of Sanders’s home, to be precise. He had graciously opened it to Mary and her mother when they traveled to London with Lady Sanders and her two daughters, and then promptly made himself scarce—so much so that Mary had yet to lay eyes on the elusive man. Mother was under the impression that the young, eligible earl was avoiding their company. Since their party was made up of five females, her mother was most likely correct.
Lady Anne slipped her hand around Mary’s arm, pulling her closer. “We cannot be faulted for wanting to see this, Mary. An opportunity to step foot on the frozen Thames may never present itself to us again in our lives.”
“Even though your mother felt so strongly—”
“My mother will not find out. Cease your worrying.”
That was easy for Lady Anne to say. She was not a guest in Lady Sanders’s home. It was far easier to defy one’s mother than it was to defy one’s godmother.
Resting a hand on her stomach in an attempt to ease the swirling within, Mary sucked in a deep breath and endeavored to release her concerns with it. The joy alighting strangers’ faces and the energy among the people seeped into Mary’s chest, further lightening the burden of concern and soothing her troubled nerves. Children ran past her carrying a leather ball and giggling. This fair was not only far from raucous, it was harmless.
They passed a printing press boasting leaflets printed on the ice and made their way down a line of booths selling everything from ale and cider to jewelry. But where was the gingerbread?
Andrew Bright, Earl of Sanders, usually excelled at holding his drink, but at present, his friends were testing his limits. Francis left to fetch three more glasses of Old Tom, and Andrew purchased meat pies to balance the strong gin. He slipped between the tents, the hot pies warming his hands, and found Harold waiting for him.
“Francis hasn’t returned?” he asked, giving Harold a pie.
“Not yet.” A wavy lock of red hair fell over Harold’s forehead, but he didn’t appear to notice. “I propose a wager. A shilling to the man who empties his glass first,” Harold said, taking a large bite from his pastry.
Andrew would fully support a wager any day, but he’d grown weary of the Frost Fair. It was busy, loud, and far too cold. In truth, he’d prefer to sit in his library with a roaring fire and a stack of books, but his mother had made that particular delight completely out of the question.
Andrew dug into his meat pie, letting the warm food settle his stomach as an idea formed, taking shape in his mind. He lifted the pie in salute. “If I win, you can keep your shilling, and we get to leave the fair.”
A lovely lady sashayed past them, and Francis approached with three glasses of gin, his gaze following the woman’s swishing hem. With his eyes askance, he nearly tripped over a divet in the ice, and Andrew reached out to right him before they lost the drinks.
“Deal,” Harold said, taking his glass from Francis. “If Sanders finishes his glass first, we leave the fair. Either of us wins, we get a shilling.”
Francis nodded, grinning. “I better win then, eh? I’m not ready to go.” Another young woman passed them, and Francis trailed her with his eyes.
Andrew wanted to shake his head, to scoff loud enough to garner Francis’s notice. Instead, he lifted his cup. “Ready?”
His friends agreed, and they each knocked back their glasses, chugging down the strong gin.
The smooth liquid warmed his throat, and his eyes watered. Emptying his glass, Andrew wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and lowered his gaze to Harold’s triumphant face.
Drat.
“Shall we have another round?” Francis asked, eyes bright. The man was one drink away from foxed, and the last thing Andrew wished to do right now was drag his reckless, careless friend through crowds of people.
Andrew dug in his pocket for a shilling and tossed it to Harold. “I can promise you another half-hour, but no more than that.” He nodded toward the tent bearing alcohol in its many forms. Already his head was growing heavy and the ground seemed uneven. Granted, that could be because it was—the ice had not formed in a smooth layer.
“Why are you so dull today?” Francis asked, his fair eyebrows drawn together in genuine confusion. Perhaps the man was more drunk than Andrew thought.
Harold clapped Andrew on the back, pushing him forward. “He’s just tired; avoiding his dear mama is difficult work.”
“Not my mother,” Andrew corrected. “Her guests.”
Francis’s lip curled in disgust. “She wants you to get hitched, eh?”
“No, nothing like that.” Sanders shook his head. “My mother has been respectful of my wishes. But young ladies have a way of falling frequently and needing a lending hand, do they not? Or they often find themselves accidentally alone in my library during a dinner party. Or they propose ridiculous parlor games just to get close to me.”
Harold laughed with hearty abandon. “Which is why I’ve found you on my sofa so often this last week.”
Andrew’s neck warmed. “You can tell me to leave whenever you wish. I hope you know that.”
Harold shrugged. “It matters little to me who sleeps on my sofa. The study can be your domain for the rest of the month if you wish. I’d have a bedchamber made up for you if I had one at my disposal.”
Francis’s mouth hung open. “You slept at Harold’s when I have empty bedchambers in my house?”
“It was mere convenience,” Andrew said. “I did not plan to stay away so long.”
A leather ball rolled between the men, and Francis jumped out of the way, nearly slipping on the ice once again. “Blasted brats,” he muttered. He turned to kick the ball back to the group of children running their direction, but his foot slid out from beneath him, and he landed hard on his back, his glass flying from his hand and shattering on the ice.
Harold stifled a laugh, and Francis glared at him before accepting a hand up, eyeing the mess.
Andrew hooked the ball with his toe and nudged it away from Francis. He gave it a few soft kicks toward the children. The boy nearest him paused ten yards away, his cheeks rosy from the cold and a look of determination in his eyes. He lifted his eyebrows in a challenge—something Andrew had difficulty refusing.
Bouncing on his toes, he considered his unsuitable footwear for a moment before nudging the ball into a proper position to kick and pushing his empty glass into Harold’s hand. The boy waited, his eyes locked on the ball, and Andrew reared back before kicking it to the child.
The ball reached his target, and the boy grinned, stopping it and resting his foot above it. Andrew noted the moment the game began, and the little boy kicked the ball to Andrew’s right as if he was trying to get the ball past the earl.
But Andrew had played the running game in his younger years at Eton, to the detriment of his studies, and knew his way around the leather ball—though his Hessians proved to be inconvenient. He stopped the ball with the tip of his boot just in time, inadvertently kicking it to the side. He jogged after the ball and caught it before it ran into a tent, then he kicked it back to the child.
A crowd of children had now gathered behind the boy, rooting him on, and he kept his gaze fixed on Andrew. He wanted to best the earl, and Andrew was not about to let that happen.
“Don’t let him get one in,” Francis said behind him, likely still smarting from his fall on the ice.
“A shilling he can get the ball past Sanders,” Harold said. Francis quickly took the bet.
The child reared back his leg to the shouts of encouragement behind him and kicked the ball to Andrew’s right once again. The ball soared. Andrew ran, hoping to cut it off before it flew into the back of the gaming tent situated nearby.
His foot hit a patch of slippery ice, and he slid, immediatel
y redirecting his attention from the ball to making certain he did not go down as hard as Francis had. He put out his hands to balance when a woman stepped from between the tents, and he ran directly into her.
Andrew’s arms went around her waist, grasping her close to him and turning his body as they went down in an effort to take the brunt of the fall. He slammed on the ice, the woman’s weight squeezing all breath from his lungs. Gasping for air, Andrew tightened his hold. The ice on his back was a stark contrast to the heat of the cloak-covered woman in his arms, and he was unable to ignore the delicious feel of a warm body against his. He could almost feel her heart beating against his chest—or was that his own pulse hammering in his ears?
“Are you hurt?” she asked, her gentle tone soothing.
He swallowed, apprehension beginning to nip at him. Would she demand recompense for his blunder? Somehow he doubted it. She appeared more concerned with his well-being than her own reputation at present. “No, I don’t believe I am.”
She paused a beat, and he could hear her slight intake of breath. “Then would you mind releasing me?”
Andrew’s cheeks flooded hot, and he lightened his grip on her waist, supporting her as she tried to climb into a standing position. He caught sight of her face as she rose, and his blush only deepened, which was no small feat. Andrew could not recall the last time he’d blushed.
Simply put, the woman was lovely, and he very much desired to learn her name. Her features were dainty, delicate. Her small, upturned nose was faintly freckled, her pale face framed by rich, brown hair.
All is Mary and Bright: A Christmas Regency Romance (Belles of Christmas: Frost Fair Book 2) Page 1