Unwrapping a Rogue: A Christmas Regency Boxset

by Samantha Holt

  “It’s about time.” Odessa spun around in his arms and leaned up to kiss him. “Maybe we can work on adding to our growing family.” Another child would be marvelous, but if she never had another one she’d still be content with the gifts that had been bestowed upon her.

  “I thought you’d never ask...”

  After that no words were necessary. They had each other and that was all that mattered. Nothing could make her life any better, and to think it all began when they’d been secluded in a cabin one winter day during the Christmastide season. Sometimes life surprised her, and accepting those unexpected revelations made living even more extraordinary than she could ever have planned.

  THE END

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  USA TODAY Bestselling author, DAWN BROWER writes both historical and contemporary romance. There are always stories inside her head; she just never thought she could make them come to life. That creativity has finally found an outlet.

  Growing up she was the only girl out of six children. She is a single mother of two teenage boys; there is never a dull moment in her life. Reading books is her favorite hobby and she loves all genres.

  For more information about upcoming releases or to contact Dawn Brower go to her website: authordawnbrower.com

  The Marchioness’ Second Chance

  The Derbyshire Set Book 7

  By Arietta Richmond

  Chapter One

  OLIVIA ASTERWOOD, MARCHIONESS Hemsbridge, smiled politely at her host, all the while wishing that she were anywhere else but here, in yet another ballroom. Balls had ceased to be entertaining, even with the opportunity that they provided for gossip, and discovering yet more secrets of the family histories of the ton. She was heartily sick of watching her stubborn son dismiss every potential candidate for wife.

  She sighed, quietly, and tried to concentrate on the conversation. She had already made one unforgivable faux-pas, just a few moments ago, and felt deeply embarrassed by her lapse. So shaken was she, that she actually needed the cane that she carried, for once. Her host, however, was a very forgiving man, she had to admit. He was cheerfully discussing the style and furnishings of this, his new townhouse, as if her faux-pas had never happened.

  Her son was standing beside her, looking amused at her discomfiture - she suspected that he had barely prevented himself from laughing. She would have something to say about that, later!

  Her host, Viscount Bellham, was speaking again.

  “The décor is, I’m afraid, a little drab for my tastes. I prefer the subtle elegance that has recently come into fashion in the West End, though I suppose this ballroom is pleasant enough.”

  “Indeed it is sir!” declared Lady Hemsbridge, her eyes wide as she tried to display appropriate polite interest in the conversation. She gestured sweepingly, taking in the whole room, from the high windows on the back wall to the austere family portraits which lined the side, via the vast crystal chandelier that hung over their heads. “And, in fact, I rather think that it becomes you better to remain rooted in longer established fashions. Why, if all of us exclusively followed the latest fads and newest styles, then none of us would have any energy, money, or indeed, good sense left over! Sometimes the old ways are the best, even if you young gentlemen don’t believe it to be so.”

  “I er, er, er, find that I quite agree with your sentiments, my er, Lady” interjected a newcomer, whom Lady Hemsbridge had never encountered before. His willingness to so blatantly break with social convention, and join a conversation with someone to whom he had not been introduced, rather shocked her, yet she found herself interested in his words, nonetheless. “You are quite right. Without the, er, er inheritance of previous generations’ expertise and good labours, we would all er, be quite lost! Traditions, like great houses, must er, er, persist, what?”

  Lady Hemsbridge eyed the new arrival curiously. He was a slim man, and rather tall, with an almost hooked nose and slightly beady eyes that looked like they’d spent a little too much time peering into obscure books.

  He wore a brass pince-nez and unfashionable clothes, but he had a full head of dark hair, and the air of a man who had once been quite spectacularly handsome, without even realising it.

  For that matter, he was still quite handsome – she thought, rather wryly, that he appeared to have matured like a good wine, and achieved a greater polish with age. Lady Hemsbridge could not help but be quite taken with him.

  “My apologies my Lady, I do not believe that the two of you have been introduced...” Bellham cut in rather neatly, smoothing the cuffs of his dark green superfine dress coat in a single movement.

  “Lady Hemsbridge, may I present to you Professor Edward Greenidge, of the Royal College of Arms, a most learned fellow, and, as the researcher who demonstrated my wife’s noble inheritance, the man to whom I am more grateful than anyone else on earth.”

  “My Lord is most er, gracious in his praises. My achievement was quite incidental you must understand, though I er, er accept the compliment graciously.”

  “Professor, I present Lady Hemsbridge, and her son, the Marquess Hemsbridge.”

  “Why...” said Lady Hemsbridge, growing more fascinated by the man “.... Greenidge? Sir, are you perchance, the son of Viscount and Lady Camberton, late of the county of Somerset?”

  “The very same” he said, with a resigned, scholarly air. “Alas, I am all that remains of my immediate family, save my brother Reginald, the current Viscount, who is not of good health. His son, sadly, died recently whilst travelling on the continent. I devote myself now whole-heartedly to er, er my studies. But tell me, er, my Lady, how have you come by er, er, such a great knowledge of er, er, the great houses of England as to identify me so swiftly? Few these days have heard of er, my family, as we have not prospered so much in recent generations, and our estates are small...”

  “Well, I may not be a scholar of the College of Arms, my good Professor Greenidge, but I am something of an enthusiastic amateur in questions of family history, if you would not think it impudent of me to make such a boast.”

  Olivia was aware that this was not quite how her friends in Society would describe her interest in family histories. She flushed at the thought that the ladies of the ton would more likely have said that she was an inveterate gossip, who liked nothing better than discovering skeletons in the closets of family bloodlines. The flush stained her cheeks a delicate rose, and the sparkle in her eyes from her genuine interest in the subject made it quite visible how stunningly beautiful she had been in her youth – and how much of that beauty remained, now. She was completely unaware of this effect – but it was not lost on Professor Greenidge.

  “INDEED NOT, MY LADY!” Professor Greenidge almost bounced on the spot at this news. At last, he thought, someone who shared his passion!

  And a lady to boot, of, he suspected, a similar age to himself, but still distinctly charming with her youthful beauty not, by any means, completely faded! Before he could say anything further, she was enthusiastically asking questions of him, seeking to plumb his great depths of knowledge.

  “Now tell me Professor Greenidge, for I’ve always been concerned to know more, the House of d’Allemberd....”

  In her enthusiasm, and without any thought as to who might be watching, she took him by the arm and led him away from her son and host, towards some chairs nestled beside the potted palms in the corner of the ballroom, leaving the two younger men to exchange a knowing grin, and a shrug of surprise. Edward acquiesced to this surprising action with good grace, as he was as caught up in their conversation as she was, and, never having particularly cared what society thought of him, was utterly oblivious to the fact that this might be noted as in any way unusual. He was usually somewhat uncomfortable at society occasions, finding that he had nothing in common with any of those who attended, and absolutely no ability at small talk. His hesitance of speech, which was unimportant to other scholars, was looked down upon by the ton, who did not tolerate imperfection well.

/>   Yet, with this Lady, all of that fell away – he ceased to be aware of the passing of time, completely engaged with the discussion. Their conversation travelled deep into the entangled paths of inheritance, and centuries of the history of the upper ten thousand. He was entranced by her knowledge, and shocked to discover how much she had come to know through the capturing of snippets of gossip, and subsequent diligent research that proved that gossip true, or not.

  It put a whole new light on what there was to be known, and on what the rather formal tomes that he studied might have left out. He found himself with a hunger to know more, the same hunger that he felt, on discovering an ancient book, previously thought lost.

  And, as obsessive as he was, he had to admit that, as a man, he was not immune to her charms, as a woman. He flinched away from those thoughts – only once in his life had he truly allowed a woman into his life, and the pain of remembering was too much to bear. So, he pushed aside all consideration of anything other than her delightful knowledge of the lineages of the nobility. Conversation on his favourite topic went a long way to assuaging some of the sense of loneliness, which he had not truly realised he felt, until now.

  THE CLEARING OF A THROAT beside her, followed by a delicate tap on her shoulder, brought Olivia back to awareness of her location. She gasped as she realised that she sat in Viscount Bellham’s ballroom, with the ton swirling about the room in front of her.

  Her son, Sterling Asterwood, the current Marquess Hemsbridge, was waiting for her attention to focus on him.

  “Mother, it is rather late, and I find myself fatigued by this evening’s entertainment. I fear I must conclude that you have found far better conversation than I have.” He smiled at her expression, knowing full well that, for once in his life, he had her speechless. “It is my intention to call for the carriage, and retire for the evening – will you be returning with me?”

  Dazed, Olivia was stunned to realise that she had spent some hours deep in conversation with Professor Greenidge, so engaged by his knowledge and his willingness to discuss her obsession, that she had not noticed the time pass. Even more startling, she had not observed Sterling’s interactions with the fluttering crowd of hopeful young women, all of whom wished to capture him in marriage.

  She chided herself for her lapse in attention – finding a bride for Sterling was her primary aim in life at this point. It was critical that the Hemsbridge line continue, that he marry, and produce an heir. How could she have failed in her duty so egregiously? Shaking herself out of her daze, she regarded Sterling a moment, before regally inclining her head in agreement.

  “Certainly, it does seem an appropriate point at which to depart – I will be with you momentarily.” Lady Hemsbridge turned to Professor Greenidge, smiling. “I must thank you, sir, for an evening of most compelling conversation. I have not enjoyed a discussion so much in a very long time. And I must commend your amazing depth of knowledge – never before have I a met such a learned scholar on the families of the nobility.”

  “My Lady is, er, too kind. I must return the compliment, for your knowledge is, er, er, also impressively extensive. I hope that we may converse again, at some point in the future.”

  Lady Hemsbridge rose, as did the Professor, who bent, with surprising elegance, to kiss her hand in farewell. Olivia turned, and proceeded towards their host, to bid him good evening. Her son, the Marquess, gave the Professor a smile and a bow, scooped up the cane that she had quite forgotten, and followed her.

  SETTLED IN THE CARRIAGE on the way home, Olivia pondered the evening. She had definitely not been herself, it had been, almost, an unmitigated disaster, from the faux-pas in front of their host, to forgetting her primary need to find Sterling a wife, to that last little disaster of forgetting her cane, which had, of course, provided an opportunity for the gossips of the ton to realise that it was an affectation, nothing more.

  The only redeeming thing had been that remarkable conversation with Professor Greenidge. He had seemed gauche at the start, but she had rapidly warmed to him. Idly, she wondered if she would ever see him again. Another conversation like that would be wonderful!

  Chapter Two

  Jamison opened the door promptly, as Edward reached the top of the steps. Nodding his thanks, Edward handed him his coat and hat, and stepped into the marble floored foyer. The echo of his steps came back to him, emphasising the size, and emptiness, of the house.

  Reginald kept the house up, but had not been here for quite some time, as his illnesses plagued him, and his interest in London society diminished. It was convenient for Edward, giving him somewhere of his own to stay in London, whilst attending various functions at Viscount Bellham’s invitation, and the staff were happy to have someone to look after. He feared he was a sad disappointment to them, however.

  He came, in their eyes, shockingly unattended, with only his valet of many years to assist him – and that a luxury which he was all too aware most Professors would not be able to afford.

  Usually, he was glad of the peace and quiet, of a chance to have the place to himself, with no need to attend upon anyone else’s conversation or expectations – but, tonight, the house felt odd – almost as if he could sense the fact that no-one else was here, except the discreet and nearly invisible servants, who were, no doubt, ensconced in the warm kitchen, belowstairs. Edward dropped into his favourite chair in the library, with a warming glass of brandy, and settled back to let the tensions of dealing with social interaction fade away. Surprised, he realised that he was much more relaxed than he normally felt after dealing with other people. His eyes drifted along the shelves. The books called to him – there was so much he had yet to learn, about so many families of the ton!

  He wanted to lift the books down, to drag out specific references, and to dig into his research, following the tantalising clues that the Marchioness’ conversation had provided him. Her face came to his mind, smiling, animated as she spoke of lineages and history with as much passion as he felt for it himself. That passionate enthusiasm made her shine – she was quite beautiful when she spoke so, with a quality and strength that far outshone the insipid ‘beauties’ that the gentlemen all seemed to admire. He was shocked at his own thoughts – never did he look at women that way, not since Sarina. He pushed that thought away, as the old pain tried to surface, and brought his mind firmly back to the intriguing histories of the highest families in the land. He would save the research for tomorrow, would allow himself an indulgent day in this library, with the books that filled it.

  Almost everything here had been bought for Edward’s benefit, by Reginald, who had never been much of a reader himself.

  A gentleman was supposed to have a good library, and Reginald had been happy to allow his brother to stock it with whatever held his interest. To do this new line of research justice, he would need many hours, and a clear head.

  Tossing back the last of the brandy, he took himself off to bed.

  KELLER ASSISTED HIM to ready for bed, then hurried away, clutching the evening’s clothes. Edward knew that Keller’s obsessive nature would ensure that they were cleaned, and in perfect readiness for when they were next needed.

  He settled himself in the warmed bed, and closed his eyes. Sleep did not come. Instead, the silence of the house, broken only by the shifting of the log in the fireplace, pressed in on him. He felt strange, he reached for a word to describe the feeling, and the one that seemed to fit, was ‘lonely’. His eyes shot open at the thought. He, who had been so self-contained, so comfortable in his bachelorhood, his research his only need, for so many years – why would he think of loneliness now?

  Yet lonely he was. The emptiness of the house seemed an echo of the emptiness of so much of his life. He pushed the thoughts away, chiding himself for imaginative silliness. He was just tired, he generally hated social events, as he always felt so out of place, so inept in dealing with the sharp edges behind the smiling faces of the ton. That was it, this was all a result of tiredness, and the morning
would bring a more sensible perspective again. On that thought, he turned on his side, closed his eyes, and determined that he would sleep. His mind, however, did not co-operate.

  The image that rose behind his eyelids was, again, the Marchioness’ face, as she spoke with him this evening. Never had he spent so long talking to one person before, and certainly never a woman, highly placed in society. As he drifted, finally, towards sleep, the last thought he was aware of was, again, a recognition of how attractive she was, of the remarkable energy that she had brought to every word.

  EDWARD WOKE REFRESHED, and looking forward to his day. He forced himself to partake of a hearty breakfast, before proceeding to the library, and the delights of his research – for he was very well aware that, once he began, it was most likely that he would forget to eat, forget anything else, until the darkness outside the windows made him aware that night had fallen.

  He closed the library door, laid out his papers and pens, drew his journal from its drawer in the desk, and simply stood, appreciating what was before him, for a moment. The room was beautiful – large, with shelves lining the walls, from floor to the high ceiling, a tall ladder providing access to the upper sections. The windows were tall and elegant, allowing warm light to fall across the desk. Leather bound volumes filled the shelves, and a few stood stacked on a side table, where he had left them for easy reference.

  Rooms like this, more than any one place, were his home. He reached for the books, and began.

  Hours later, having filled pages of his journal with notes, and with many books spread out across the furniture, open at specific pages, or with multiple pages marked, Edward paused.