“So it would appear.”
“There really isn’t any other choice, is there? It’s the only way to keep her with me for the rest of my days.” He thought for a moment. “It doesn’t sound quite as dire as it did a moment ago. Indeed, the more I think about it, the more delightful it sounds.” He grinned. “You know, on occasion one says things in the heat of the moment one truly means. By God, I shall marry Caroline!”
“Excellent.” Win nodded. “Then I suggest you send word to your family. They will want to be here. There are any number of arrangements that need to be made as well. Special licenses and all that.”
Lawrence’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“Mr. Royce, I am beginning to think you are not as intelligent as I had hoped you were.” Win leaned forward. “In order to avoid scandal, the wedding will proceed as scheduled. However, I will not be the groom.”
“Then . . .” Realization dawned on the younger man’s face. “Me?”
Win nodded. “You.”
“Oh.” Lawrence stared for a long moment, a stunned look on his face. At last he smiled. “Oh.”
“One does hope there is more to your repertoire than oh.” Win resisted the urge to once more roll his eyes toward the ceiling. “Now, I suggest you find your bride and deliver her the happy news. I shall arrange for you to speak to Sir William privately. I’ll have to break the news to my parents. Again.” He shuddered. “There are any number of other arrangements that need to be dealt with as well.”
Lawrence nodded mutely.
“Don’t just sit there. There is much to do and only three days to accomplish it all.”
“Yes, sir.” Lawrence jumped to his feet, turned to leave and then turned back. “You have my thanks, my eternal gratitude for this. I shall never forget it.”
“Yes, well, that makes it all worthwhile then.”
Lawrence grinned and started to leave.
“Mr. Royce.”
Lawrence turned back.
“There is one caveat, as it were.” Win rose to his feet, narrowed his eyes and met the young man’s gaze. “I fully intended to spend the rest of my life making Caroline happy. Should I ever hear so much as a whisper, the faintest hint of gossip, a suggestion in passing that she is unhappy for whatever reason, I will not rest until I have destroyed you and perhaps your family as well. And, make no mistake, I have the means to do so. Do you understand?”
Lawrence stared. “You do love her, don’t you?”
“I . . . I am extremely fond of her. Now, do you understand?”
“Completely, sir.” Lawrence straightened his shoulders and nodded. “Let me assure you, you have nothing to fear on that score. I shall cherish her for the gift she is.” He cast Win a giddy sort of grin. “I’m going to marry Caroline.” With that, he nodded and took his leave.
Good Lord. Win sank back into his chair. Was this a disaster narrowly averted or debacle yet to come? There would certainly be gossip, but with the wedding at Fairborough Hall and Win in attendance, it would be more speculative than anything else. That was a matter for later. For now, he had to once again tell his parents he would not be married. Not an easy task, but he had no doubt he had done the right thing.
Still . . . He drummed his fingers absently on the desk. Why did doing the right thing always have to be so bloody difficult?
Three days later ...
At long last there had been a wedding at Fairborough Hall. The bride was almost ethereal in her beauty, glowing with happiness. Win’s throat tightened a bit at the look of her. It was the sentimentality of the day, nothing more than that.
The groom was understandably nervous. But the tremor in his voice at the start of the ceremony had faded and, by the end, it was strong, solid and steadfast. The voice of a man who had at last determined what he wanted, his course in life. The voice of a man in love.
Watching the happy couple, Win tried and failed to ignore a touch of regret. He had never regretted not marrying Felicia or Lucille. He knew now marriage to either one would have been a dreadful mistake. But Caroline, well, Caroline could have been the love of his life if, of course, she hadn’t already loved someone else. No, he couldn’t regret losing Caroline. In truth, he’d never really had her to lose. But when she gazed into her new husband’s eyes, as if he were the moon and the stars and all things wonderful, it was indeed regret that swept through him. Regret that he had yet to find someone who would gaze at him that way.
No, he had not fallen in love with Caroline and his heart had not been shattered.
It had simply cracked a little.
July 1884
Dear Gray,
I hope this letter finds you well. The promise of spring has given way to a dry, hot summer and, in spite of the heat, there is more amusement to be found in London than at Fairborough Hall. Therefore I am residing at the house in Mayfair for the foreseeable future and availing myself of all that London has to offer. While it is enjoyable, I have discovered I am not so easily entertained as I once was. The price of maturity, I suspect.
I was privileged recently to attend the wedding of a treasured friend. One could tell simply by the look in the happy couple’s eyes as they promised their fealty to one another that there was no thought as to the appropriateness of the match but only their feelings for each other. As it should be, I think.
Perhaps it was the romance apparent in their union or my own history, but I have found myself of late in an oddly thoughtful and reflective state. Do try not to be shocked at this revelation; I have been known on occasion to be somewhat deeper than I might appear. No doubt it will not last as I am not usually of a somber nature.
My failure to successfully progress from proposal to the altar has weighed heavily upon me and I find myself examining my past attempts to wed with an unyielding eye. I have come to the realization that I have been looking, for the most part, for the perfect wife, the perfect future countess, a woman I could grow to love. It does now seem that I have been going about this in entirely the wrong manner as certainly the evidence bears out. It strikes me that love might well make all else fall into place. Perhaps the appropriateness of the match is not as important as the needs of the heart. It sounds so obvious, doesn’t it? And yet this simple tenet has escaped me up until now.
I have decided to ignore the more practical aspects of choosing a wife and ignore as well the necessity to wed, the responsibility I bear to position and family and all else. I shall instead heed the advice I recently dispensed and follow where my heart leads. As it has never led me before, indeed as I have never truly known love, it does sound somewhat daunting. One wonders if perhaps I have never experienced that elusive emotion because I am not destined to do so.
But that is a dreadful thought and, as I am by nature an optimistic sort, I prefer not to dwell on that possibility.
Therefore I shall leave my future in the hands of fate and trust that one day I will find a woman who will look at me as if I were the moon and the stars and all things wonderful. A look that will come from her very soul to touch mine. A look I will return and treasure for the rest of my days.
Good Lord, Gray, what has happened to me? Have I at last become a true romantic or has there always been a romantic imprisoned within me crying for release? In many ways, I have never had the patience to trust in fate, but my nature has not served me well. So I will bide my time, live my life as best I can and perhaps one day I shall find what I seek. And doesn’t that seem to be the way of it? Only when one ceases to search does one find what has been so elusive.
Ah well, we shall see....
Dear Reader,
In every book I write there are any number of secondary characters meant to be nothing more than secondary characters. He (or she) appears, moves the plot along and then conveniently vanishes. But every now and then I write a minor character who simply refuses to stay minor.
When Winfield Elliott, Viscount Stillwell, made his appearance in What Happens at Christmas, I knew I was in trouble. I kn
ew I could not let this character appear in more than a handful of scenes because it was entirely possible he would take over. At that point, I had no intention of writing more about the characters who inhabited Millworth Manor for Christmas 1886 or their friends and neighbors. But Winfield Elliott was a character who refused to be ignored, no matter how hard I tried. So finally, I asked him, “What do you want from me, Lord Stillwell?”
“What does anyone in my place want? You have already given me wealth and position, and I am rather dashing, for which I am eternally grateful,” he said in an off-hand way. It seemed kind of insincere to me. The man was obviously trying to butter me up. “But when all is said and done . . .” He heaved a forlorn—and entirely unbelievable—sigh. “I’m simply a man—”
“An imaginary man.”
He ignored me. “A man looking for the one woman who will make his life complete. A man longing for love and all the joy it will bring for the rest of my days.” His voice rose in a theatrical manner. “I am nothing more than a man in search of a happy ending.”
Oh yeah, right. “Hasn’t your tendency toward sarcasm gotten you into trouble before?”
“I’m not being sarcastic. Overly dramatic perhaps, but I am being completely honest. And you well know it.” He flashed that wicked, irresistible smile I had written for him. “And don’t you think you’ve put me through enough? Don’t you think being—in the parlance of your time period—dumped by three different women has earned an ending better than we shall see? We shall see indeed,” he added under his breath.
“Well, we shall,” I said defensively. “I mean we will.”
He sniffed. “I deserve better.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” I thought for a moment. “I admit, you were a good secondary character.”
“I was brilliant.”
“But they don’t always turn out to be good heroes,” I warned.
“I’m confident you can count on me.”
“I’ll think about it, okay?” I do hate to commit too quickly to a figment of my imagination.
“That will have to do, I suppose.” Again, he aimed his killer smile at me. “For the moment.”
I managed a weak smile of my own. I knew the man wasn’t going to leave me alone until I gave him what he wanted. And I knew he’d win in the end. What can I say? I’m a sucker for a perfect hero, or rather a hero who thinks he’s perfect.
But I will make him earn that happy ending. It won’t be easy for either of us. And along the way (in the first of the Millworth Manor series), he’ll learn The Importance of Being Wicked.
And so, I suspect, will I.
Best wishes,
Victoria
In this dazzling new novel, #1 New York Times bestselling author Victoria Alexander welcomes you to Millworth Manor, a delightful English country estate where love is always perfectly at home....
For Winfield Elliott, Viscount Stillwell, finding a prospective bride always seemed easy. Perhaps too easy. With three broken engagements to his name, Win is the subject of endless gossip. Yet his current mission is quite noble: to hire a company to repair his family’s fire-damaged country house. Nothing disreputable in that—until the firm’s representative turns out to be a very desirable widow.
Lady Miranda Garret expected a man of Win’s reputation to be flirtatious, even charming. But the awkward truth is that she finds him thoroughly irresistible. While Miranda resides at Millworth to oversee the work, Win occupies her days, her dreams . . . and soon, her bed. For the first time, the wicked Win has fallen in love. And what began as a scandalous proposition may yet become a very different proposal....
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Victoria Alexander’s
THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING WICKED,
coming in February 2013!
Prologue
March 1887
It could be worse.
The phrase repeated itself over and over in his head like the irritating refrain to a little-liked song.
Winfield Elliott, Viscount Stillwell, stared at the façade of Fairborough Hall and tried to ignore the leaden weight in the pit of his stomach, a weight that had settled there since the moment late in the night when he and the rest of the household had been roused from their beds by cries of fire.
“It doesn’t look nearly as bad as I thought it would,” his cousin, Grayson Elliott, said in what he obviously meant to be a helpful manner. It wasn’t. “A bit scorched around the edges perhaps, but not bad, not bad at all.”
“No, it doesn’t look bad.” The two men stood some ten yards from the house at the foot of the circular drive that linked the long drive to the main gate. And from here, given this precise angle and in the cold light of late afternoon, there was indeed little to indicate the destruction within the stone walls of the hall. Certainly what was left of the front door was charred and the glass in most of the windows in the center section of the house had shattered, but the east and west wings appeared untouched. All in all it really didn’t look bad.
“Appearances, Cousin, are deceiving.” Win started toward the house, barely noting the puddles of soot-laden water or trampled, filthy snow or the chunks of charred wood lying about. Nor was he especially aware of the pervading aroma of smoke and acrid burned matter or the brisk breeze and his lack of suitable outer garments. “It is much worse than it looks.”
It could be worse.
“Fortunately,” he continued, “everyone in the house escaped unharmed. And no one was injured battling the blaze.”
“Something to be grateful for,” Gray said at his side.
Any number of people still milled around the building, mostly male servants: the gardener and undergardeners, the stable hands, the footmen. The hours since the fire had been discovered blurred together in an endless moment or day or eternity. Win had lost track of the time, although it was now obviously late afternoon, as well as exactly who had been here. The fire brigade from the village had responded and help had arrived from neighboring estates, but the snow had made the going slow. Still, it had also helped put out the blaze. While it was certainly cold, the lake was not frozen and the estate pumping station had supplied the water needed to fight the flames.
Win stepped over the threshold and gestured for his cousin to join him. Gray had been in London and Win had sent word to him shortly after daybreak. After all, Fairborough Hall was as much Gray’s home as it was Win’s.
Gray stepped up beside him and sucked in a hard breath. “Good God.”
“I should think this was the work of a hand considerably lower than heaven,” Win murmured. It was indeed a scene straight from hell. Or perhaps it was hell’s aftermath.
Haphazard heaps of blackened wood littered what had once been the grand entry hall. Here and there a whisper of smoke drifted upward from still-smoldering debris. A blackened skeleton was all that remained of the magnificent center stairway. The glorious ceiling with its intricate plaster moldings and painted scenes from Greek mythology was little more than a charred memory, open now to the floors above them and all the way to the scorched roof timbers.
Gray started into the house, but Win grabbed him and pulled him back. “Careful, Gray, the integrity of the floor is still in question and will be until we can get in there, start cleaning out the debris and assess the destruction.” He ran a weary hand through his sooty hair. The aroma of smoke drifted around him. Odd, he would have thought by now he was immune to the smell of smoke.
“Of course.” Gray’s shocked gaze scanned the damage. “I can’t believe how much is gone.” He glanced at his cousin. “Were any of the furnishings saved? The paintings? Uncle Roland’s books?”
“We did manage to get the family portraits and most of the paintings out, those hung low enough to reach, that is. Thanks to Mother really.” He forced a wry smile. “While Father and I and Prescott and the other male servants were trying to prevent the spread of the fire, Mother was directing the housekeeper and the maids in rescuing the pa
intings and whatever else she could think of.” At this point he didn’t want to consider how much had been lost. Time enough for that later. It had been nothing short of chaos, and the fact that they had rescued anything at all now seemed something of a minor miracle.
“It looks like the fire was confined to the middle section of the house.” He glanced at Win. “So the library was unaffected?”
It could be worse.
“With any luck, given its location,” Win said. “The east and west wings appear untouched, although I fear there might be a great deal of smoke damage. Oddly enough, the stone walls between the wings and the main portion of the building were widened at some point in its history, providing a fire break all the way to the roof. Father mentioned something about that when we realized the fire had been contained, but it’s not original to the building of the house. I had never given the width of those walls much thought—indeed, I’m not certain I ever noticed—but they kept the fire from spreading.”
“Wasn’t a previous earl a witness to the great fire of London? And was terrified of fire from then on?”
“Perhaps we have him to thank then.” Nonetheless, it was difficult to manage any semblance of gratitude for a long dead ancestor. Win was fairly certain allowing any emotion, even one as simple as gratitude, would open the floodgates for despair, and for that he simply didn’t have the time. “I had always thought the house was essentially unchanged from the day when it was built by the first earl. I can’t remember when.”
“1592,” Gray murmured.
“You always were good at dates.”
“I know.”
Under other circumstances, Win would have replied with something appropriately sarcastic and witty, but, at the moment, he didn’t have the strength. The fire had awoken them some fourteen hours ago. It seemed like forever.
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