It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels

by Grace Burrowes

  Katherine alternated her stare between the tent her sister had disappeared into and the sapphire blue tent. She sighed. Yes, all bad ideas began with her sister. Dear, fanciful Anne, she’d somehow retained all traces of innocence. At nineteen, Anne still possessed girlish hopes and silly dreams. She’d somehow remained untouched by their father’s sins…sins that had left their family destitute, and forced their eldest sister, Aldora to sacrifice herself at the marital altar to save their family. Granted, Aldora had ultimately found love. But that was neither here, nor there…men were fickle, unreliable, inconstant creatures not to be trusted. Unfortunately, her romantic of a sister was only drawn by the drivel written about on the pages of her gothic novels.

  A snowflake fell and settled upon her nose. Katherine looked up into the thick grey-white winter sky at the sea of flakes that danced a path down onto the frozen river.

  Except, just then, with the warmth of the ale and the crisp cleanliness of the holiday air, an uncharacteristic lightness filled her spirit.

  Suddenly, the ice, which she’d earlier feared, seemed like a very magical gift.

  Katherine made her way back to the vendor who’d sold them the tankard of ale. She returned the empty glass over and waved off his offer for a second.

  She turned to leave…and walked into a solid, unyielding wall.

  Whoosh. All the air left her lungs, and she and teetered unsteadily upon her feet. The jolting movement displaced the bonnet atop her head. Her breath fanned little wisps of white into the cool air as she righted herself. When she regained control of her breath she blinked several times, and looked up at the gentleman who’d plowed into her.

  A towering, broad bear of a man, he paused to glare down his slightly crooked Roman nose at her. His black, disdainful look dared her to speak.

  So she did. Katherine tossed her head back. “Pardon me.”

  The pompous prig jerked his attention forward and without so much as a murmured apology, continued on his way. The gentleman at his right, a lean, lithe fellow offered her a sheepish smile. His eyes expressed the other man’s apology.

  Katherine gave a curt nod and turned on her heel, determined not to let the foul fiend spoil the lovely day that portended the coming of Christmas.

  Mindful of the fact that she and Anne flouted propriety by being out, unchaperoned, Katherine tugged her hideous brown velvet bonnet down more around her eyes. She adjusted her green muslin cloak closer and peeked about.

  But those passing by moved with an excited step, lords and ladies giggling and chuckling as they slipped upon the ice and righted themselves before tumbling onto the sleek surface. Merchants barking out the contents contained within their vibrant hued tents, drew the attention of would be buyers. Katherine realized in that moment, no one noticed the actions of two unchaperoned young ladies. Everyone was too engrossed in the spirit of the fair.

  The practical and rational of the twins, Katherine felt herself hopelessly lost in the beauty of the day… and she set out to explore. She made her way down the long row of tents, past the pretty sapphire blue one she’d been instructed by Anne to explore. Ever onward to the end of the row, to where a grey tent rested on the fringe of the activity. Katherine was drawn to it; appreciating the somberness of the lone thrown together shop.

  She paused beside it, and peered inside. “Hullo?”

  Silence met her greeting.

  She frowned, and made to turn back toward the activity upon the river.

  “Hello, moi lady.”

  Katherine spun back around. She squinted in an attempt to adjust to the dimness of the cold, lonely, little tent. “Hullo,” she said again. She rubbed her hands together to rub warmth back into her fingers and looked around. Suddenly feeling very foolish for indulging her sister’s flight of fancy, Katherine made to leave.

  “Is there something oi might ’elp you find, moi lady? A gift for someone, perhaps?”

  Katherine shook her head. “No. I’m afraid not.”

  The gaunt old woman with straggly white hair came closer. “Wot is that, moi lady?”

  Compassion filled Katherine at the sight of the poor woman whose tattered brown skirts and thin shawl would offer little protection by way of the elements. Katherine reached into her reticule and fished around for some coins but something in the woman’s eyes stayed her movements; something that indicated that even though impoverished, this woman would welcome no charity. “Er, yes. I mean, there is something you might be able to help me find. I’m searching for a gift for my sister.”

  The woman’s small, brown eyes searched Katherine’s face. She nodded and moved to one of the tables littered with her wares. She held up a pink, satin ribbon. “Perhaps some ribbon for the lady?”

  Katherine shook her head, and advanced deeper into the store. Anne had no shortage of ribbons.

  The woman moved to the next table, filled with bright baubles and trinkets. “Then a kerchief for the lady?” She held up a floral piece of fabric embroidered with red, pink, and purple roses.

  Katherine reached for the fabric. The old woman passed it into her hands.

  Katherine glanced down at the handkerchief, passing it back and forth between her fingers, her gaze locked on the fuchsia rose expertly stitched upon the cloth. She remembered back to the day she’d learned of Father’s betrayal. Mother had been seated on the wrought iron bench within her gardens, weeping bitter, angry tears. She’d caught sight of Katherine and quickly dashed back those tears. “I’ve let the gardener go. A silly expense, don’t you think, Katherine?”

  “Moi lady?”

  The fabric fluttered from her fingers, back onto the table. Katherine gave her head a clearing shake, a bid to dispel the pained musings of the past. “Er, no, no floral items.” Since that day in the gardens, Katherine had come to detest the cheerful blooms, the reminder of Father’s failings. That day had taught Katherine the perils of love.

  The peddler’s brow furrowed, and she seemed unaware of Katherine’s inner tumult. Her beady eyes went wide in her wrinkled face. She reached into the front pocket of her jacket and withdrew a gold chain. “Perhaps a golden heart, then?”

  Katherine looked at the pendant, and her heart paused at the implausibility of it all. She reached for it wordlessly, and studied the golden bauble, turning it over in her fingers. “It is perfect,” she said, quietly.

  The peddler grunted, and held her hand out.

  Katherine blinked, looking down at her open palm. “Oh,” she said, and reached into the front of her reticule and withdrew several coins.

  The woman’s eyes widened at the small fortune Katherine bestowed.

  “It is a fine piece, indeed,” Katherine murmured. There had been a time when Katherine had lain awake in bed, gripped by fear of her family’s dire financial straits. If she could prevent another woman from feeling those sentiments, even for just a bit, then a sovereign was a very, very small price to pay for the pendant.

  “There is a story behind that heart, moi lady.”

  Katherine slipped the heart into her reticule. “I’m certain there is,” she said. “Thank you very much.” And before the peddler could finish, Katherine stepped outside. Over the years she’d listened rather patiently to her sister’s fanciful musings about love, she’d not have to hear the foolish words of a stranger, too.

  A blast of cool wind slapped at her skin. Katherine gasped as the frigid breeze sucked the air from her lungs. Her reticule fell from her fingers and skidded along the frozen surface.

  “Drat,” she muttered, and hurried after it. Katherine took a step, when the flat sole of her kid leather boot slipped on the snowflakes coating the frozen river. She threw her arms wide to balance herself as she slid away from the lone little tent, past her reticule, ever farther.

  Craaaaack.

  She swallowed hard. Her heart hung suspended in her breast, and then the ice opened up.

  Chapter Two

  There was not much Jasper Waincourt, 8th Duke of Bainbridge, detested more t
han the Christmastide season. His mouth tightened as he scanned the merry frolickers skating upon the river, and others moving in and out of the cluttered tents filled with unnecessary fripperies.

  There was not much more he detested than Christmastide… however, the inane amusements enjoyed by the ton, was certainly very close.

  The Marquess of Guilford stuck his elbow into Jasper’s side. “Must you look so severe? You’ll scare a small child with that icy, ducal stare of yours.”

  Jasper continued walking. “I do not see any small children,” he said in clipped tones that would have sent most grown men scurrying.

  Having known one another since their early years at Eton, Jasper noticed the Marquess of Guilford was the only individual of his acquaintance who seemed undaunted by his presence. “Very well, then. You frightened that young woman off.”

  Jasper thought of the tart-mouthed, fiery-eyed miss who’d stumbled into him.

  “She was not scared.” The plain young woman with her brown ringlets didn’t take him as one to scare easily—mores the fool was she. The nameless creature should have sensed the peril in merely crossing in front of him.

  Guilford chuckled and slapped Jasper on the back hard. “Come, Bainbridge. It is nearly Christmas, a time of merriment and joy.” He gave Jasper a long look. “You cannot be miserable forever.”

  Except Jasper hadn’t been miserable forever. He’d been miserable for three, very nearly four years. He clenched and unclenched his hands into fists at his side, as he absently studied the rustic enjoyment being had by the lords and ladies upon the ice.

  Laughter carried on the crisp winter wind and surrounded Jasper, mocking him, taunting him for having once been happy, and as lighthearted as the fools at the fair.

  “Bainbridge,” Guilford said quietly, all traces of amusement gone from his tone.

  Jasper shrugged his shoulders. “It is fine,” he bit out.

  Another round of laughter in the distance punctuated his words, a jeering testament to his lie.

  He felt Guilford’s stare on him, and stiffened under the scrutiny. Then, Guilford said, “It will serve you well to escape that bleak, dark castle you call home.”

  The bleak, dark castle as Guilford referred to it was in fact, Castle Blackwood, Jasper’s ducal seat, a Norman castle. Significant portions of the original medieval structure remained, including five towers. Imposing, dark, and menacing, it rather suited Jasper’s foul mood.

  He balled his hands into fists. Then, it hadn’t always been that way. At one time there’d been laughter and joy and cheer within the castle walls.

  “Bainbridge? Are you all right?”

  Jasper shook his head. “Foolish taking part in such inane amusements,” he said, his tone harsh and guttural.

  Guilford’s patent grin was back in place. He slapped Jasper on the back once again. “Perhaps. But it is Christmastide and the time for inane amusements.”

  Jasper grunted and fell reluctantly into step beside Guilford. He kept his hard-stare trained forward, not sparing so much as a sideways glance at the brightly colored tents and the eager young ladies moving between them to purchase their fripperies.

  “Egads, man, must you scowl so?”

  “Yes,” Jasper bit out.

  His friend rubbed his gloved hands together, as though trying to infuse warmth into the frozen digits. Served the blighter right for forcing him back into this very public setting. “Ah, just a moment.” Guilford stopped beside a tent. He pulled several coins out of his pocket and approached an old man. Passing the coins to the vendor, Guilford accepted two tankards of ale.

  “I don’t want ale,” Jasper snapped, when his friend pushed the glass into his hand.

  “Drink it. If for no other reason than it will warm you.”

  “I’m not cold.”

  Guilford snorted. “You’re always cold. A frigid, icy man, and you’ve been that way as long as I’ve known you.”

  Yes, Jasper hadn’t ever been the laughing, carefree boy. Born to a loveless marriage between two unfaithful parents, Jasper had scoffed at the empty sentiment called love—until he’d met Lady Lydia Wilkes. A smiling, bright-eyed debutante, she’d captivated him, melted his chilled heart.

  A muscle in the corner of his eye twitched. And how had he repaid that great gift she’d shown him? By killing her. Oh God, the muscles in his stomach tightened. The pain of her loss, a pain he’d thought he’d finally buried with her cold, dead body, mocked him for daring to think he’d ever be rid of the pain.

  He shook his head. He’d not be melancholy. Lydia was—dead. Dead. Forever gone. He lashed himself with the reminder of it. His lips twisted. As though he could ever truly forget.

  Jasper raised the ale to his lips, and downed it in one long, slow, steady swallow. The brew did little to thaw the cold ice that now moved through his veins. From over the rim of his glass he spied the too plain young lady who’d walked into him. With her nondescript brown hair and brown eyes, she was a foil to Lydia’s golden blonde ringlets and pale porcelain skin. There was nothing at all captivating about the fiery-eyed vixen who’d glared at him.

  “She is rather lovely,” Guilford murmured at his elbow.

  Jasper gave his head a curt shake. “Hardly the type of creature to ever be considered a true beauty.”

  “Goodness, you are in an even blacker mood than usual,” his friend chided.

  Jasper handed his tankard off to the vendor and continued walking.

  Guilford hurried his step to match his stride. “Perhaps we might inspect the peddlers’ goods?”

  To what end? Jasper had no family. Born the only child to the late Duke and Duchess of Bainbridge, the nearest relative was a distant gentleman on his great-great-great grandfather’s side, who resided in Northumberland. Jasper couldn’t be more different than Guilford, who had a mother, three sisters, and one brother. He motioned to the tents. “I’ll remain here and,” his lip pulled back, “enjoy the festivities while you see to the fripperies inside the tent.”

  Guilford opened his mouth, and then closed it. He shook his head, dislodging his top hat. He readjusted it back into place. “I’ll be just a moment.” With that he hurried ahead to a canary yellow tent.

  Jasper fought back a yawn of tedium, and continued to survey the tableau with disinterest. Ladies clinging to their suitors’ arms as they skated upon the thick surface of the frozen river, peddlers barking their wares at the passing nobles. The strangers’ echoing words, empty and meaningless.

  His gaze caught sight of the young lady who’d stumbled into him mere moments ago. She hurried outside of a grey tent removed from the bustling activity throughout the fair. A gust of wind tugged free her bonnet, and released several of her brown ringlets into the cool, winter wind. They whipped about her face, and with her high-cheeks and an almost cat-like slant to her eyes, she had the look of a kind of ice princess. He frowned, thinking of her frigid stare. Yes, ice princess was an apt moniker for the young lady.

  With the serious set to her face, she was vastly different than the young ladies he remembered from three years ago. Something slipped from her fingers and slid along the ice. Tired of studying the nameless creature, Jasper glanced over to the tent Guilford had disappeared into.

  A blood curdling scream rent the still winter air. The ungodly cry sent the kestrels noisily into flight; and gooseflesh dotted Jasper’s skin. With an intuitiveness born of a man who’d witnessed and experienced horrific things in life, Jasper immediately sought the nameless ice princess.

  Time stood still for an infinitesimal moment that seemed to stretch to eternity, and then with a curse, Jasper sprinted down the river toward the gaping hole in the ice. He cursed the slippery surface that slowed his pace, and then tossing aside his cloak, skidded toward the desperate arms flailing through the surface.

  Jasper slid forward upon his stomach, arms extended. “Take my hand,” he barked, as the woman’s head broke through the water.

  She sucked in deep, panicky, gas
ped breaths. Unholy terror lit her eyes; the kind of eyes that had stared into the face of death and knew death would inevitably prevail.

  Jasper cursed. “Listen to me,” he snapped.

  Her brown eyes locked on his. Her bonnet hung sopping down the side of her tangled mat of brown curls. “Help,” she rasped, and then her skirts tugged her downward.

  Jasper’s stomach lurched, and with another curse he inched ever closer. The thin ice cracked under his weight. He made one desperate grab and connected with her hand, tugging her up to the surface.

  “Listen to me,” he ordered, his tone harsh and hard. “Do not fight me. Allow me to pull you up.”

  Something in either his words or tone penetrated her fear, calming her, for the panic dimmed in her eyes, and she nodded.

  Jasper pulled her soaking wet form, tugging her up, up, up, and then her slim frame broke the surface of the shattered ice.

  Short of breath from his exertions, Jasper registered the ice’s protest to their efforts, and he found a last surge of energy to edge back, back, ever farther with the young lady and her heavy skirts held close to his chest.

  Jasper edged them over to the hard, solid land, and collapsed with the young woman’s lifeless body draped over his. He dimly registered the steady crack, and then splash as the wide ice surface fell beneath the Thames River. He sucked in great big, heaving gasps for air and registered the lady’s absolute stillness.

  His chest tightened as he turned her over; his eyes quickly scanned the pale white of her cheeks, and he searched for breath.

  With a curse he thumped her on the back.

  By God he’d not been dragged to this infernal affair to pull a woman from the water.

  Another thump.

  Only to watch her die amidst the mindless amusements.

  A harder thump.

  Not another woman.

  Even harder.

  Not again.

  Water surged from her lips, gurgling and bubbling and he turned her onto her side as she choked and gasped for the sweet taste of breath.