Chase Family Collection: Limited Christmas Edition

by Lauren Royal

  Hawkridge Hall was modeled on Ham House, another National Trust property. Known as the most well-preserved Stuart home in England, Ham House was built in 1610 and enlarged in the 1670s. The building has survived virtually unchanged since then, and it still retains most of the furniture from that period. The house and gardens are open daily from April through October. Ham House was owned by the Lauderdales, one of the most powerful families in Restoration England, and a visit gives a wonderful picture of seventeenth-century aristocratic life.

  Rand’s house in Oxford was inspired by the house Edmond Halley (1656-1742) lived in while he held the post of Oxford’s Savilian Professor of Geometry. If you visit Oxford, look for the house in New College Lane near the Bridge of Sighs. The building isn’t open to tourists, but you can see the outside, including the rooftop observatory Halley added (although he never saw Halley’s Comet from it, since it made no appearance during the years he lived in the house).

  I hope you enjoyed The Scandal of Lord Randal. I'd love to see you in my Readers Group on Facebook, where I share sneak peeks and gather suggestions from my favorite readers!

  Next up is A Gentleman’s Plot to Tie the Knot. Happy reading!

  Always,

  A Gentleman’s Plot to Tie the Knot

  For Karen Nesbitt,

  Taire Martyn Ruffing,

  Alison Bellach,

  and Caroline Bellach Quick,

  four crazy North Americans who share my love of

  music, the UK, and good books

  One

  Trentingham Manor, the South of England

  September 1677

  STANDING IN her family’s small, crowded chapel, Rose Ashcroft shifted on her high Louis-heeled shoes, wishing she were in a cathedral so there would be somewhere to sit.

  Wishing she were anywhere but here watching her sister get married.

  “Randal John Charles, Earl of Newcliffe, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

  “I will.” The confident words boomed through the magnificent oak-paneled chamber, binding Rand to Rose’s sister Lily.

  But Rose wasn’t listening to the ceremony. Instead she heard twenty-one, twenty-one, twenty-one running through her head. Twenty-one and a lonely spinster…while both her sisters had found love.

  Happy tears brightened their mother’s brown eyes. She leaned close, bumping against Rose’s left side. “They’re perfect together, aren’t they?” she whispered.

  Rose could only nod dumbly, staring at her sister’s petite form laced into a gorgeous pale blue satin wedding dress embroidered with gleaming silver thread. Lily’s hair, the same rich sable as Rose’s, cascaded to her shoulders in glossy ringlets. Beside her, Rand beamed a smile, looking tall and utterly handsome in dark blue velvet, his gray gaze steady and adoring.

  The two were so clearly in love, Rose knew they belonged together—and truly, she was happy for her sister.

  If only Lily weren’t her younger sister.

  The priest cleared his throat and looked back down at his Book of Common Prayer. “Lady Lily Ashcroft, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband…”

  Standing on Rose’s right, her older sister Violet shifted one of her twin babies on her hip and gazed up at her husband of four years, Ford. Sun streamed through the stained-glass windows, glinting off her spectacles. “Oh, isn’t this romantic?” she sighed.

  Holding their other infant, Ford squeezed Violet around the shoulders. Seated cross-legged at their feet, their two-year-old son Nicky traced a finger over the patterns in the colorful glazed tile floor, obliviously happy.

  Rose gritted her teeth.

  Her friend Judith Carrington poked her from behind. “I cannot believe Lily’s wedding is happening before mine,” she whispered in a tone laced with dismay. “I was betrothed first!”

  Rose couldn’t believe Lily and Judith would both be married before she even received a proposal.

  “…so long as ye both shall live?” the priest concluded expectantly.

  In the hush that followed, even knowing it wasn’t kind of her, Rose half wished Lily would fail to reply.

  But Lily didn’t, of course. “I will,” she pledged, her voice as sweet as she was, ringing clear and true.

  A few more words, a family heirloom ring slid onto her finger, and Lily was clearly and truly wed now, the new Countess of Newcliffe.

  And Rose was clearly and truly miserable.

  When Rand lowered his lips to meet Lily’s, Rose turned away. Behind her, Judith was grinning up at her own betrothed—although only a little way up, since his stature was less than impressive. Lord Grenville was five-and-thirty to Judith’s twenty, and his pale brown hair was thinning on top, but Rose imagined that the way Judith looked at him made him feel like a king. And he looked down on her in a way that surely made pretty, plump Judith feel like a queen.

  Rose wanted someone who’d make her feel like a queen. Good God, a duchess or countess would do. Or even a lowly baroness…

  As the years crawled by without a husband on the horizon, she was getting less picky. So long as the man was titled, handsome, rich, and powerful, most anyone was acceptable.

  The guests parted as Lily and Rand began making their way from the chapel. They’d taken but a few steps when a cat, a squirrel, and a chirping sparrow came to join them.

  Rose moved to hug her sister. “It was beautiful,” she murmured. “I’m so happy for you.”

  She was. Truly she was.

  Lily leaned down to pick up the cat, straightening with a brilliant smile. “Your turn next.”

  A hurt retort came to Rose’s mind, but she wouldn’t snap at her sister on her wedding day.

  “I’m happy for you, too, Rand,” she said instead, rising on her toes to give her sister’s new husband a kiss on the cheek. But not too far up on her toes, because Rose was a tall woman. Too tall, perhaps, or too slim, or too quick-tongued…or too something.

  There had to be some reason she had yet to find love.

  Too intelligent, most likely. At one point, she’d thought Rand might be the man for her. Handsome, titled, and a professor of linguistics at Oxford—surely a good match for Rose, given her own exceptional command of foreign languages. But he’d chosen her little sister.

  “I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he said now, making Rose feel the unluckiest woman.

  She’d had better days.

  Lily must have noticed her dejected expression, because her fingers stopped stroking the cat’s striped fur. Concern clouded her lovely blue eyes. “You will be next,” she said quietly.

  “Undoubtedly so, since I’m the only one left,” Rose quipped. “Unless, that is, Rowan manages to find himself a bride before I find a groom.”

  They both swung to look at their eleven-year-old brother where he stood with Violet’s young niece, Jewel, their dark heads close together as they whispered animatedly.

  “He may have found himself a bride already,” Rose added dryly.

  Lily’s laughter rang through the chapel, echoing off the molded dome ceiling. “Surely someone will claim you long before Rowan gets it in his head to wed. Why, you’re the most beautiful of all of us, Rose!”

  Rose had always thought Lily the most beautiful, but she knew she was beautiful, too. Yet beauty, she’d learned, was not enough to hook a husband.

  Well-wishers pressed closer. Rose began moving toward the drawing room and found Judith by her side. Forsaking her betrothed, Judith clutched Rose’s arm. “Who is that handsome fellow?” she whispered conspiratorially.

  Rose slid a glance to the man in question, a friend of Rand’s whose gaze suddenly met hers, then skimmed her body in a way that might have made her heart pound…if she were at all interested. “That’s Mr. Christopher Martyn—Rand calls him Kit. He�
��s an architect,” she added dismissively.

  “Christopher Martyn, the architect?” Awe hushed Judith’s voice. “Hasn’t King Charles recently awarded him a contract to renovate Whitehall Palace?”

  “Along with Windsor Castle and Hampton Court.”

  “Ah, a man of intelligence to complement yours.” Clearly Judith considered the man’s lack of a title no impediment. “No need for you to play the featherbrained coquette for him.”

  “I’ve no interest in him. And I’ve never acted featherbrained.” But perhaps now was the time to start.

  On her sisters’ advice, Rose had tried to win Rand by appealing to his intellect, but that hadn’t worked at all. Never again would she attempt to attract a man by flaunting her brains. No matter what her family or Judith said, she knew there were better ways to entice gentlemen.

  Unfortunately, where Rand was concerned, she’d come to that conclusion too late. To her intense embarrassment, she’d stooped to propositioning him in her family’s summerhouse, and when that hadn’t worked, desperation had driven her to attempt bribery and trickery of the worst kind.

  She couldn’t imagine what had come over her that day and had feared she’d never be able to look Rand in the face again. But to her utter relief he seemed at ease with her, as though he’d graciously forgotten that humiliating episode.

  “You cannot tell me,” Judith whispered, dragging Rose back to the present, “that you don’t find Mr. Martyn attractive.”

  Rose slanted Kit another covert look. Dressed in forest-toned velvet, he was tall and lean, his hair dark as jet, his eyes a startling mix of brown and green. She dredged up a wry smile. “I’d have to be blind to claim that.”

  “And he looks ever so nice. Do you think he’s nice?”

  “He’s nice enough.” Except for those unusual eyes, which were decidedly not nice. Wicked would be a better description.

  “And good Lord, he’s building things for the king! I’m certain he has money—”

  “Money,” Rose interrupted pointedly, “does not make up for lack of a title.”

  Her sister Violet walked up, sans children for once. “Who needs a title?”

  Judith crossed her arms. “Lady Rose apparently wishes to become Lady Something-Higher.”

  “Oh, well.” Violet sent Rose an indulgent smile. “That’s only because she has yet to fall in love.”

  Rose smiled in return. “And given that it’s as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without, I’ve decided to concentrate on the former.”

  Violet and Judith exchanged a glance that set Rose’s teeth on edge, then left her, to return to their respective men.

  Since Lily had given their mother barely two weeks to plan the event, the wedding party was small. Still, there were more than enough guests to fill the drawing room and spill out onto the Palladian portico and into the exquisite gardens. Trentingham Manor was known for its gardens, thanks to Rose’s father and his passion for flowers and plants.

  But it was a warm, sunny day, and Rose feared for her creamy complexion, so she opted to stay indoors. She wandered the crowded drawing room, sipping from a goblet of the new and frightfully expensive champagne her parents favored for celebrations. Although she enjoyed sharing a word or two with various relatives and neighbors, she was generally feeling at loose ends, not quite sure what to do with herself.

  Until, that was, she heard her father’s voice and turned to see him addressing Kit Martyn.

  “…one of those newfangled greenhouses,” Father was saying. “On the east side of the house, I’m thinking, to catch the morning sun. Since autumn is nearly upon us, I’d be much obliged if you could start it immediately.”

  Rose couldn’t believe her ears. It was the second time her father had asked the esteemed architect to build him a lowly greenhouse.

  Half tempted to ball up the lacy handkerchief she had tucked in her sleeve and stuff it into her father’s mouth, she hurried to join them. “Mr. Martyn builds things for the king, Father! Palaces, for heaven’s sake. He hasn’t—”

  “Well, not quite palaces,” Kit corrected her. “Renovations to palaces, additions to palaces, but I’ve yet to build an entire—”

  “See?” Rose met her father’s deep green eyes, speaking loudly and slowly to make sure he could hear her over the hubbub of the celebration. “Palaces. He hasn’t the time to build you a greenhouse.”

  Kit sipped from his own goblet of champagne, then grinned at Rose’s father. “Oh, I think I might find the time,” he disagreed, his words infused with a hint of laughter. “In exchange for a dance with your beautiful daughter.”

  He shifted to look at Rose, making it clear which daughter he meant. His green-brown gaze swept her lazily, almost as though he were mentally undressing her…and if his expression was any indication, he plainly liked the results.

  Lord Trentingham frowned. “My bountiful bother?”

  Kit looked confused, and Rose knew she should remind him that her father was hard of hearing at the best of times—and in a crowded room, he was all but deaf.

  But she couldn’t seem to speak. The audacity of the man, thinking he could trade a building for her company. Surely her father would never—

  “I’ll be most pleased to build your greenhouse,” Kit reiterated, “if your lovely daughter will oblige me with a dance.”

  “Oblige you with advance?”

  Understanding dawned in Kit’s eyes. “A dance,” he shouted. “May I have the honor of a dance with Lady Rose?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course,” her father said. “Now, about that greenhouse—”

  “I’ll do a preliminary design before I leave,” Kit all but bellowed.

  “Excellent.” Lord Trentingham turned a vague smile in Rose’s direction. “Run along, dear. Enjoy yourself.”

  Her mouth dropped open, then shut when she found herself propelled from the drawing room by a warm hand at her back. Then she was stepping out onto the covered portico, which had been pressed into service as a dance floor.

  Three musicians in one corner were playing a minuet, a graceful dance that facilitated conversation. The wedding guests chatted and flirted, their shoes brushing the brick paving in unison. Though the dance was already in progress, Kit handed both their champagne goblets to a passing maid, took Rose’s hands, and swept her into the throng.

  She’d never touched him—certainly not skin to skin—and the contact reminded her just how attractive she’d thought him the first time they met. The mere sight of him had set her blood to singing inside her. But that, of course, had been before she’d discovered he was a plain mister. Since then, seeing him had had no effect on her at all.

  So it was disconcerting to find that touching him now seemed to make the champagne bubbles dance in her stomach.

  “Lovely Corinthian capitals on the columns and pilasters,” Kit noted, ever the architect. “Do you know who carved them?”

  She pliéd and stepped forward with her right foot at the same time she finally found her tongue. “Edward Marshall, who also carved the Ashcroft family arms in the pediment. And in future, please keep in mind that there’s no need to ask my father’s permission for a dance. Ashcroft women make their own decisions.”

  “So Rand has told me,” Kit said, breezing over the implication that she might have refused him.

  They rose on their toes, and when he pulled her closer, she caught a whiff of his scent. A woodsy fragrance with a base of frankincense and myrrh. It smelled nice, she thought, wondering if she could duplicate it in her mother’s perfumery.

  “Your family is an odd one,” he said. “I don’t allow my sister to make her own decisions. Not the important ones, in any case.”

  She felt sorry for his sister. “Our family motto is Interroga Conformationem.”

  He looked at her blankly.

  “Question Convention,” she translated. What sort of educated man didn’t know Latin? Certainly not one she’d ever consider husband material.

  It was
a good thing he wasn’t in the running.

  They dropped hands to turn in place, then he grasped her fingers again. “Is it true, as Rand said, that your father allows his daughters to choose their own husbands as well?”

  She noticed Lily and Rand dancing together—much closer than the dance required. Surprisingly, envy didn’t clutch at her heart this time. She only smiled. “Yes.”

  “In future, I’ll keep that in mind,” Kit responded with a disarming grin.

  Ignoring his impertinence, Rose gazed across the wide daisy-strewn lawn toward the Thames. Just then, her brother Rowan raced onto the portico, looking like a miniature version of their father in a burgundy suit, his long midnight hair streaming behind him.

  A quite ordinary-looking man followed more sedately, but as he wore red and white—the king’s livery—he attracted more attention.

  The musicians stopped playing, and the dancers ground to a halt.

  “There he is,” Rowan said, pointing to Kit in the sudden silence. “Mr. Christopher Martyn, the man you seek.”

  Two

  “IF I MAY speak with you in private, sir,” the messenger said. “I bring word from His Majesty.”

  Kit nodded and stepped off the portico, silently leading the way to the summerhouse he’d spotted earlier. He felt the eyes of the other wedding guests following him and heard their speculative murmurs, but the sudden appearance of the king’s man didn’t intrigue him as it did them. He was, after all, completing several royal projects. Likely Charles simply wanted a change.

  As Kit crossed Lord Trentingham’s celebrated gardens, he thought instead of Rose, vaguely wondering where he’d found the nerve to imply he might be interested in marriage. He’d been drawn to her when they first met, but quickly dismissed it when she failed to respond to his advances. He figured there were plenty of splendid women in the world—which meant there was no sense pursuing one who wasn’t attainable.