It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels

by Grace Burrowes

  “Are you happy?” she whispered.

  Jasper smiled. For the first time, in forever… “I am.”

  The End

  Author’s Note

  In the years between 1309 to 1814, the Thames River froze 23 times, in a period noted as a Little Ice Age. The Frost Fairs, a kind of Christmas market and circus, took place during this Little Ice Age. One could purchase food and drink, such as tea and coffee, but alcohol tended to be the main beverage purchased at the Frost Fairs. In addition, bowling, bull-baiting, sledging, and various other activities took place upon the ice.

  The Frost Fair also served as an economic benefit to English merchants and vendors who relied upon the Thames River to transport goods and supplies. Unable to ship goods due to the severe ice, the English merchants were able to rent space and sell goods upon the Thames.

  In February 1814, The Times reported that no lives were lost on the parts of weak ice on the Thames River at this particular Frost Fair, but that several individuals were immersed when the ice gave way.

  Lady Katherine Adamson, though fictional, was intended to be one of those retrieved with some difficulty from the frozen waters.

  Coming Soon By Christi Caldwell

  A Brand-New Series

  The Wicked Wallflowers

  COMING APRIL 3RD, 2018

  USA Today bestselling author Christi Caldwell’s Wicked Wallflowers series burns hot as two rivals meet in the flesh and feel the heat…

  Adair Thorne has just watched his gaming-hell dream disappear into a blaze of fire and ash, and he’s certain that his competitors, the Killorans, are behind it. His fury and passion burn even hotter when he meets Cleopatra Killoran, a tart-mouthed vixen who mocks him at every turn. If she were anyone else but the enemy, she’d ignite a desire in him that would be impossible to control.

  No one can make Cleopatra do anything. That said, she’ll do whatever it takes to protect her siblings—even if that means being sponsored by their rivals for a season in order to land a noble husband. But she will not allow her head to be turned by the infuriating and darkly handsome Adair Thorne.

  There’s only one thing that threatens the rules of the game: Cleopatra’s secret. It could unravel the families’ tenuous truce and shatter the unpredictably sinful romance mounting between the hellion…and a scoundrel who could pass for the devil himself.

  Available exclusively on Amazon!

  More books in the Heart of a Duke series

  In Need of a Duke—Prequel Novella

  For Love of the Duke

  More than a Duke

  The Love of a Rogue

  Loved by a Duke

  To Love a Lord

  The Heart of a Scoundrel

  To Wed His Christmas Lady

  To Trust a Rogue

  The Lure of a Rake

  To Woo a Widow

  To Redeem a Rake

  One Winter with a Baron

  To Enchant a Wicked Duke

  Beguiled by a Baron

  To Tempt a Scoundrel

  About Christi

  Christi Caldwell is the bestselling author of historical romance novels set in the Regency era. Christi blames Judith McNaught’s “Whitney, My Love,” for luring her into the world of historical romance. While sitting in her graduate school apartment at the University of Connecticut, Christi decided to set aside her notes and try her hand at writing romance. She believes the most perfect heroes and heroines have imperfections and rather enjoys tormenting them before crafting a well-deserved happily ever after!

  When Christi isn’t writing the stories of flawed heroes and heroines, she can be found in her Southern Connecticut home with her courageous son, and caring for twin princesses-in-training!

  For first glimpse at covers, excerpts, and free bonus material, be sure to sign up for Christi’s monthly newsletter! Each month one subscriber will win a $35 Amazon Gift Card!

  Keep up with Christi:

  www.christicaldwellauthor.com

  christicaldwellauthor@gmail.com

  The Impostor’s Kiss

  By Tanya Anne Crosby

  Prologue

  The Principality of Meridian, 1803

  How could she have believed he would wed her?

  Indulging in a rare moment of self-pity, Lady Fiona Elizabeth MacEwen sat upon the immense claw-footed bed that dominated her room. The fine silk bedcloth rumpled beneath her skirts. This room, where she’d been confined since the birth of her twins, was little more than a luxurious cell. In truth, she felt more like a prisoner than a guest.

  Outside, there were no trees to shade the room from the heat of the day; the afternoon sun, diffused through gold-chiffon draperies, burnished the room with a gilded light that made one feel as though one simmered in the belly of a furnace. It was devilishly hot in this country—so unlike her beloved Scotland.

  What had made her think someone like him would desire someone like her? He was a prince, after all, and she but an impoverished earl’s daughter. Julian Merrick Welbourne III would command a nation someday, while Fiona no longer even had a home left to take charge of.

  What a despicable mess she’d made of her life.

  Fiona fought her tears. Her father hadn’t raised a wilting violet—nor had he raised an imbecile. She understood why Julian was marrying that woman. As the only son of Meridian’s sovereign, he was expected to marry for the good of his country, not for love. She just didn’t comprehend how he could have forgotten his obligations to begin with.

  Though perhaps he hadn’t?

  Perhaps she’d never been more to Julian than a final rebellion?

  That revelation made her feel used, abused and deceived.

  Her eyes stung fiercely. Had he never loved her? Had he brought her to this place only to become his mistress?

  She would rather die first than be any man’s jezebel!

  A single tear slipped down her cheek. The worst of it all was not that she would never be wed to the man she loved…but that she would never be wed at all.

  What man would marry her with two sweet little bairns in tow?

  And worse, because of her damnable pride, Glen Abbey Manor—their ancestral home—was no longer her sanctuary; even if Julian released her, she had nowhere to go. Her heart squeezed painfully at the thought of her father—a mere guest in his own home.

  They’d had so little to offer as a dowry and they’d both been so deliriously joyful over Fiona’s good fortune at marrying so well, that her dear papa had sacrificed everything to see her impossible dream come true. Trusting in the word of a gentleman, long before the impending nuptials, her father had handed over the deed to Glen Abbey Manor. For four hundred and twenty-two years her kinsmen had been proud to call the manor their home. From Creagach Mhor to the woodlands that spilled into McClellan’s valley, all of Glen Abbey was a part of their legacy, and the little church in the grove was rumored to have even sheltered the stone of scone when Edward of England had sought to steal it for his own.

  If her father was left wonting, it wasn’t in honor or in charity. He’d shared his legacy generously, allowing the townsfolk, who’d settled the land along with their ancestors, to occupy their land parcels without payment.

  What would become of them now?

  How foolish they had been. How very foolish. And the irony of it all was that Julian hadn’t even wanted or needed Glen Abbey. Bordered by the Alps and the Mediterranean Sea, the Principality of Meridian covered no more than two square miles, but was one of the most valuable pieces of real estate in all of Europe. In comparison, the only value Glen Abbey held was as a means of control. She had no doubt Julian would use it to control her life and that of her sons.

  Shortly after the church bells struck two, a rap sounded at the door.

  Fiona didn’t stir herself from the bed; her time to avoid it was long past. Anyway, she knew it would be him. The maid had a key and never bothered to knock. He, too, had a key; he turned it in the lock to allow himself entrance. She heard the lock c
lick, the door creak on old iron hinges, and then he stood in the doorway. Her breath caught at the sight of him—as it always did. She loathed that weakness within herself, that she could love this man, despite that he’d treated her so shabbily.

  For just an instant he glanced downward, as though ashamed, and then he said, “I’ve come to see my sons.”

  “I want to go home,” Fiona demanded, though she knew it would gain her nothing.

  His handsome face was stern, his chiseled jaw clenched with resolve. His blue eyes seemed pale as a new moon, whitewashed of emotion. “As I’ve explained, I cannot allow you to leave with my children, Fiona.” He stood looking at her, his presence undeniable with his imposing size. She noted little sway in his posture.

  Fiona couldn’t help herself; a tear escaped and slid down her cheek. She ignored it. So did he as he started across the room, toward the crib. “I don’t believe you ever loved me,” she said accusingly, swallowing her pride, feeling defeated. “If you did, you wouldn’t keep me here to suffer the sight of your new bride.”

  He said nothing and she took some comfort in anger. “Tell me, Julian, will it please you to know I shall be sitting here holding our bairns as your wedding bells toll?” He walked past her without looking at her and she added, “I wonder how pleased Elena will be when she learns of my presence in her home!” To her dismay, she started to cry.

  Julian stopped finally and turned to face her, his gaze softening. “Please don’t cry,” he said. For an instant, when he met her gaze, she saw a glimpse of the man she’d known. It squeezed at her heart.

  Unbidden, he came and sat next to her upon the bed, his voice softening. He reached out to wipe the tear from her cheek with a steady finger. Fiona closed her eyes, wincing over the tenderness in his touch.

  “Fiona,” he pleaded, “I could make you happy. I would shower you and my sons with gifts. I would take care of you—never disappoint you.”

  “You already have,” Fiona said, opening her eyes and facing him squarely. She shook her head adamantly. “I will never be your mistress, Julian,” she said with more conviction than she felt.

  He reached out to touch her hand. “You know how I feel about you,” he said, but his confession professed nothing. He hadn’t said those three little words to her since he’d revealed his plan to wed another woman. If he’d said them…if she heard them…her will would have crumpled. But he hadn’t said them and she jerked her hand away from the warmth of his touch.

  “My darling,” he beseeched her. “I promise to give you my full devotion.”

  Fiona looked up at him and said with acid sweetness, “You mean, when you aren’t otherwise devoted to your wife and her own children?”

  He looked away guiltily. “Fiona,” he said, and tried to explain yet again. “You know it was not my choice to wed Elena.”

  Fiona didn’t care to hear it. She swallowed her tears and summoned the last of her strength. She stood and turned her back to him. “All I know is that I will not disgrace my father’s name any more than I already have! I may never be able to face him again as it is!” She walked away, needing distance, lest she be tempted. She couldn’t look at him without wanting to leap into his arms and to beg him to love her and her children.

  How utterly pitiful she felt.

  Across the room, waking in their crib, the babes began to whimper. Fiona rushed to the cradle, grateful for the distraction. She touched each of their little faces, caressing their cheeks with her finger, their little noses. Merrick and Ian were everything to her. For them she would bear any shame, any trial. At least, if he must lock her away from the world, he’d been merciful enough to leave her with her precious darlings.

  “Mother adores you,” she cooed to them. Already they looked so much like their father, with dark hair and eyes so deep a gray they were like storm-ridden skies. Merrick seemed the more content of the two and she scooped Ian into her arms, intending to soothe him first.

  She hadn’t heard Julian approach, but his voice broke when he spoke, startling her. “I’d hoped…it wouldn’t come to this, but you are, indeed, correct, Fiona.” He set a hand upon her shoulder and squeezed gently. “I cannot keep you against your will.”

  Fiona choked a sob, anticipating what he was about to do. She wanted to go home—she truly did—but it pained her immensely to leave him…to never see him again…to never have the chance to hold him.

  “As you know, Elena will arrive soon. I’ll not have her upset by my mistake.”

  Mistake?

  Fiona’s throat constricted. If he’d wished to hurt her, he couldn’t have chosen finer daggers for words. Tears sprang to her eyes as she shrugged away from him. With Ian in her arms, she turned to face the father of her children, the man she was supposed to have wed, the man who had seduced her and then locked her away.

  Mistake?

  His expression turned hard and as cold as steel. “I’ve a proposition.”

  Fiona suddenly couldn’t speak past the knot in her throat. Taking comfort in Ian’s soft coos, she held her son to her breast. Though the glaze in her eyes must have betrayed her, she lifted her chin proudly. But nothing could have prepared her for what he was about to say.

  “You may choose one of our sons,” he said. “The other you must leave with me. If you agree to this, I will return Glen Abbey Manor to you and to your father.”

  Fiona blinked, disbelieving her ears. Whatever she had expected to hear, it wasn’t this. Her throat would not open to speak.

  “I will allot you a generous allowance to comfortably raise my son.”

  “No!” She found her voice at last. “How can you possibly expect me to abandon my flesh and blood?”

  He stood firm. “You have no choice in the matter.”

  “I refuse to leave either of my sons!”

  “If you fight me,” he warned her, his tone colder than she’d ever heard it, “I will seize both and will send you away with neither.” He gave her no more than an instant to digest the threat and then added, “Nor will I return Glen Abbey Manor to your father. You will be homeless and childless besides.”

  Her heart seemed to plummet to her feet. Had she not been holding Ian, she might have given in to a swoon. In desperation, she clutched her son to her breast. Pride vanished completely. “I’ll stay!” she said, choking back tears. “I’ll do what you wish. Please, don’t take my children!”

  His voice hardened. “I’m afraid you’ve made it absolutely clear to me that allowing you to remain in Meridian is an impossibility, Fiona.”

  “But you…you cannot do this,” Fiona said, trembling. She shook her head in denial, but even as she did, she knew he could and he would. In his domain, Julian could do anything he wished, and if he wished to send her away empty-handed, she knew he could. Who would take him to task over it?

  Nobody.

  She was hardly important enough for anyone to raise their head over, much less their hand. The futility of it all swept through Fiona in a terrible wave of nausea.

  “Julian,” she begged, and fell to her knees, clasping her son to her breast. Ian started to cry in earnest, sensing her alarm, and she loosened her grip.

  “You have one hour to choose which of our two sons you will take and to pack your belongings,” he told her, resolved. “I’ve already made arrangements for you to be escorted home.”

  No—please!” Fiona beseeched him.

  Julian raised his hand to silence her, his jaw taut. His gaze lost every trace of warmth. “And if you return,” he warned her, “I shall take both my sons and leave you with nothing—not even your lofty pride.”

  Shock, for an instant, stopped the beating of her heart. What pride was there in a woman upon her knees? Fiona nearly cried out. She blinked away stinging tears.

  Julian turned and left her with the cold reality of his intentions. As the door closed behind him and the key turned in the lock, Fiona vowed one day to make him pay.

  In the end she would have both her sons, and he wou
ld die a lonely old man.

  Chapter One

  Northern Scotland, 1831

  Who was she?

  Misty woodlands enveloped them, forbidding even moonlight from illuminating their northward path to a remote township in northern Scotland where J. Merrick Welbourne IV came in search of answers.

  Resting his head against the window, Merrick perused the unfamiliar countryside through a single open eye. Tonight the beaten road was peaceful, though the darkish woods made excellent spawning grounds for thieves and rogues. Like rats in the sewers of London, the north lands were said to be infested with them. Only a Tom O’Bedlam would venture through this place where brigands were said to thrive and townsfolk sheltered them, where outlanders were scrutinized through narrowed eyes.

  Merrick had been forewarned, but he’d come anyway, bound for a place called Glen Abbey. His father’s letters—dozens of them—had been penned to a woman there. Though the letters had been too vague to determine their relationship, it had become apparent by their sheer number that they’d been written to someone his father had once cared for.

  Now he considered what he should do when—if—he found her as he patted a hand over his coat where he’d placed the stolen missive.

  Should he deliver it?

  Or should he honor his father’s apparent wishes and let the past lie?

  For that matter, would she even accept the letter if he chose to deliver it?

  The tone of the posts suggested that his father had somehow abused her. He wondered what terrible thing his father had done to this woman and was curious why the letters had never been dispatched. But it was even more troubling that his father scarce left his apartments, reading the letters each night, sometimes weeping, and drinking himself into a stupor.