A Grosvernor Square Christmas

by Vanessa Kelly

  “All the more reason to get rid of the beastly thing,” Nigel said, taking the onion.

  When he strode to the window, Gwen tumbled out of bed to follow, impatiently squirming when Amelia insisted she put on her robe and slippers. By the time they joined Nigel he’d raised the sash, letting in a blast of winter air.

  “Father Christmas, what are you doing?” Gwen asked.

  “Getting rid of this barbaric vegetable. Never could stand the blasted things, anyway.” He tossed it out the window.

  Gwen shrieked with laughter, and she and Amelia crowded next to Nigel to peer down to the street. A man in a greatcoat was bending down to retrieve his hat from the ground, where it had apparently been knocked by the onion. He looked up and began to berate them in a loud voice. Both Amelia and Gwen burst into hoots.

  “Hush,” Nigel said, pulling them inside. “If he hears us laughing, he’ll pound on the door and demand to see your aunt. Then we’ll be in a tremendous pickle.”

  “But you’re Father Christmas,” Gwen said. You can do anything you want.”

  Nigel appeared much struck. “Very true, my dear. If the bounder challenges our right to hurl vegetables, I’ll run him through with a stake of Christmas holly.”

  “Who knew Father Christmas was so desperate a character,” Amelia said, trying to control her laughter.

  Their silliness was interrupted by the maid carrying the tea tray. After the girl set it on a low table by the fireplace and left, Amelia poured out three cups of tea and piled high a plate of cakes and sweetmeats.

  After ensconcing themselves in big armchairs, Gwen and Nigel chatted like old friends. Amelia finally let all the tensions of the last several weeks flow from her, wishing she could avoid returning to the party. God only knew how Lord Broadmore would react to this night’s work.

  Not that she cared about him, but her parents did. If Broadmore withdrew his suit, they would be furious.

  Nigel’s quiet voice broke into her thoughts. “I think it’s time for someone to be in bed.” He nodded at Gwen, who had curled up in a doze in her chair.

  “Oh, certainly,” Amelia said, moving to pick her up.

  “I’ll do it.” Nigel easily lifted the sturdy little girl into his arms. He’d discarded his crown but still wore the green robe, and the train fanned out majestically behind him as he crossed the room to Gwen’s bed. Amelia trailed him, watching as he removed her sister’s slippers and tucked her in. She had no doubt Nigel would be a wonderful father—a man who would protect and cherish his children, as he would protect and cherish his wife.

  As he straightened up to meet her gaze, his mouth lifted in a questioning smile.

  “I suppose we should go back downstairs,” Amelia said, trying not to sound morose.

  “Something tells me you’re not keen to do so.”

  When she shrugged, he hesitated, as if searching for words. Then his gaze flickered over her shoulder.

  “Look,” he said. “It’s snowing.”

  Amelia promptly forgot about the party as she hurried over to the window and pressed her hands against the glass, peering out at the gentle fall of snow that drifted down on Grosvenor Square. A pure, white blanket was settling over the grass and flag-way, topping the railings and street lamps with a glittering sheen. She loved the snow—it brought to mind the family’s manor house in Lincolnshire, and the wonderful holidays of years past when they were all together.

  “You’ll catch a chill in that thin dress,” Nigel said, coming up behind her. He pulled off his robe and draped the heavy fabric over her shoulders. His hands wrapped around her, enveloping her in warmth and the faint scent of starched linen and bay rum. When he released her, he moved only a whisper away to stand by her side at the window. She wished she could lean against him, but this would do for now.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he said. “I’m glad we got the chance to see it.”

  “It reminds me of the country. Of home.”

  He heard the wistful note in her voice. “Gwen misses it, too. She wishes you could all be home for Christmas at Easton Manner.” He turned toward her, leaning against the window frame. She’d never really noticed it before, but his shoulders were quite nicely broad. “Is that what you’d like for Christmas too, Amelia? To be home with your family?”

  She thought for a moment, then decided to tell the truth. “No, I would like not to have to marry Lord Broadmore.”

  The sudden intensity in Nigel’s gaze set her already pounding heart tripping over itself.

  “Then why should you?” he asked in a low voice.

  She returned her gaze to the snowy square, avoiding his eye. “I suspect you already know the answer—my unfortunate reputation. Besides, my parents approve of Broadmore and are eager to see us married. In their eyes, he will make the perfect husband.”

  His hand came to her arm and gently turned her to face him. “Amelia, no true friend would think less of you for ending your previous engagements. They were simply mistakes you learned from.”

  “I’ve been called a heartless jilt by more than one person, you know,” she said, trying to make a joke of a label that had wounded her deeply.

  “They were wrong,” he said, looking stern. “But tell me why your parents are so eager for you to marry Broadmore. We both know he’s an unrepentant ass.”

  His blunt speech surprised a laugh out of her. “True, but an ass with a title and several magnificent estates. Papa is determined that I marry as well as possible.” She grimaced. “He says a girl of my looks and fortune deserves the very best.”

  Nigel smiled. “Your father is correct, but not for those reasons. You do have a very pretty face and your fortune is enviable, but those are not the best part of you.”

  She had to force the words from her tight throat. “What is?”

  He took her hand, intertwining their fingers. The breath whooshed out of her lungs and she clutched his hand in a convulsive grip.

  “It’s your heart, Amelia. Your lovely, kind heart,” he said with a smile that melted her from the inside out. “And now that you’ve told me what you don’t want for Christmas, tell me what you do want.”

  When Amelia thought of all the obstacles facing them, her courage almost failed. But it was Christmas, the time for wishes and dreams to come true. “I want to marry a kind, loving man who will be a good husband and father. A man who will see me as I truly am, and not as a decorative knick-knack and a means for plumping up his bank account.”

  Nigel gently cupped her chin with his free hand. “My sweet girl that is only what you deserve.”

  She stared at him, mesmerized. “And what do you want for Christmas, Mr. Dash?” she finally whispered.

  His lips parted in a devastatingly tender smile. “A kiss, Amelia. One kiss for Christmas.”

  She felt her mouth curl up in a silly grin. “Only one?”

  He let out a husky laugh. “To start.”

  Then he bent and gently, carefully—as if he didn’t want to frighten her—brushed a kiss across her lips. Amelia let out a happy whimper, melting into him. One kiss turned into two and then three as Nigel’s mouth whispered over hers in a sweet slide. She rested a hand on his chest as the kiss, by soft degrees, turned hot and rather wicked. Every part of her body yearned for him even though they barely touched each other.

  But then, with deplorably bad timing, an image of her father and Lord Broadmore—both of them with fierce scowls—popped into her brain. She squeaked and her fingers curled into his cravat, making a mess of his Trone d’ Amour.

  “Oh, dear,” she gasped, pulling back. “I just thought of something horrible.”

  Nigel blinked a few times in confusion. “I don’t mean to criticize, Amelia, but that is hardly the reaction a man looks for when he first kisses the girl he loves.”

  She clutched at his cravat again, completely demolishing it this time. “You love me?”

  “Of course I love you,” he said simply. “How could I not? Now, tell me what’s
wrong.”

  “My parents,” she said, feeling rather dazed by everything. “They’ll be furious if I reject Lord Broadmore. Especially for a man…” She trailed off, hating to insult Nigel. And, strictly speaking, he hadn’t yet asked her to marry him.

  “A man like me,” he finished. “Is it because I don’t have a title?”

  “Yes, and because you’re not rich. I know how awful that sounds, but you mustn’t think less of them because of it. Mamma and Papa just want the best for me.”

  He studied her. He didn’t seem offended, but he did look wary. “Are those things important to you, as well?”

  She winced, hating that she might have made him doubt himself. “No. Well, of course I don’t want to be poor, but I don’t need to be rich, either. And a title means little to me.” She huffed out a sigh. “I’ll just have to reconcile myself to the notion that Mamma and Papa will be angry with me for not marrying Lord Broadmore. Or anyone else, simply because they’re rich.”

  The tension seemed to bleed from Nigel’s shoulders as his hands drifted down to her waist. “And would you consider marrying a mere gentleman?”

  “Of course I would, but…”

  “But what?”

  She glanced anxiously at Gwen to make sure she was still asleep. Nigel waited patiently for her to respond. “What if my father cuts me off?”

  When Nigel frowned, Amelia’s heart sank. “Are you sure he would do that?” he asked.

  She sighed. “It’s certainly possible. I do hope that wouldn’t...”

  He leaned down to press a swift kiss on her lips. “My dear girl, while I might not be a nobleman, I am as rich as Croesus. Your parents might lament the lack of a title, but I’m sure the marriage settlements will make up for it nicely.”

  She stared at him. “I thought your fortune was quite modest, by all accounts.”

  He grinned. “I rarely talk about money, but for you I’ll make an exception.”

  After he named a staggering sum, Amelia could only gape at him like an idiot. With a little snort of laughter, he tapped her mouth shut.

  “I do hope your esteemed father will approve,” he said.

  Amelia pressed a hand over her heart, right where a bubble of joy was expanding outward. “Oh, I think he’ll be able to reconcile himself to the notion. Not that I give a fig how much you’re worth, Mr. Dash.”

  Nigel made a great show of wiping his brow. “Well, that’s a relief,” he said in a voice warm with laughter. “I’d hate to disappoint either of you.”

  Amelia went up on her toes to press a kiss on his lips. “That, my dear, wonderful sir, would be quite impossible. After all, you are the nicest, most dependable man in the world.”

  Twelfth Night had come and gone some weeks ago when Nigel Dash finally found himself at the altar of St. George’s Church, Hanover Square, waiting for his bride to appear. His mother and sister beamed at him from the first pew. Behind them sat Silverton and his marchioness, along with a goodly number of Nigel’s friends. Amelia’s family was there in force, her siblings beside themselves with excitement despite their mamma’s admonitions and their Aunt Lucy’s whispered attempts to keep them under control.

  As Amelia had predicted, her parents had been astounded and upset when she told them she wished to marry him. But they’d come around soon enough, and not just because of the generous settlements Nigel had proposed. Her parents had come to trust him, recognizing that he would always put Amelia’s needs first. It would seem that being the dependable Mr. Dash was not such a bad thing, after all.

  The vestibule door opened and Amelia appeared on her father’s arm, bringing with her the promise of spring and their new life together. But as she walked gracefully toward him, her eyes shining with happiness, Nigel’s memory returned to that December party at No. 3, Grosvenor Square. He’d received the very best of all Christmas gifts that night, one he intended to cherish until the end of his days.

  As Amelia and her father processed up the aisle, Nigel’s gaze rested briefly on Lucy where she sat with the children. Her mouth quirked up in an engaging grin and she nodded to him, as if to say she’d known all along how things would turn out. And, knowing Lucy, she probably had.

  Nigel winked at her and then turned to greet his bride.

  The End

  Vanessa Kelly is an award-winning author who was named by Booklist, the review journal of the American Library Association, as one of the "new stars of historical romance." Her sensual, Regency-set historical romances have been nominated for awards in a number of contests, and her second book, Sex and The Single Earl, won the prestigious Maggie Medallion for Best Historical Romance. Her third book, My Favorite Countess, was nominated for an RT Reviewers' Choice Award for Best Regency Historical Romance.

  Vanessa's next series, The Renegade Royals, is due to hit the shelves in November with an introductory novella, Lost in a Royal Kiss. Book One in the series, Secrets For Seducing a Royal Bodyguard, will release in January, 2014. You can find her on her website, Goodreads, and on Facebook and Twitter.

  You can read an excerpt from Vanessa’s next book, Secrets for Seducing a Royal Bodyguard, here.

  For information on books related to One Kiss for Christmas, please visit her Books Page.

  His Christmas Cinderella

  A Regency Short Story

  By

  ANNA CAMPBELL

  Copyright © 2013 by Anna Campbell

  To my dear friend, Vanessa Barneveld

  London, December 24th, 1825

  In a borrowed bed in a borrowed room, she waited for him.

  Although she’d lit the fire in the grate, she shivered a little under the threadbare blankets. The white light of a London winter poured through the windows. Tucked away in this shabby chamber high in Soho, she always felt like a princess in a tower, above the grimy reality of the noise and traffic below.

  Every Tuesday for the past six weeks, Campion had met him here. He always came to her during these quiet midafternoon hours. Before the fashionable crowd promenaded in Hyde Park. Before high society prepared for the opera or the gambling hells or glittering parties.

  Tonight the most glamorous event of the season took place. The Countess of Winterson’s Christmas ball in Grosvenor Square. A spellbinding fantasy of an evening where magic descended, romance prevailed, and true love emerged triumphant. At Lucy Frost’s annual ball, the legend was that faithful lovers would find their happy ending against all odds.

  Campion stifled a pang of envy for whatever lucky couple fortune favored this Christmas Eve. She’d known before she became a temporary mistress that no wedding bells would ring out for her and the man she loved.

  Instead all they had were Tuesday afternoons and occasional discreet meetings at society gatherings. Compared to her humble circumstances, he moved in the most elevated circles. Their encounters beyond this room were so rare that Campion stored them in her memory like priceless jewels in a coffer. A whispered word here or there. The surreptitious brush of hands. Once they’d even snatched a few kisses in a dark garden, kisses so hot she hadn’t felt the snow falling about them.

  On one unforgettable occasion, she’d connived to escape with him to Vauxhall’s shadowy walks. They’d held hands and spoken romantic nonsense and acted like lovers. Until too many people had recognized him and she’d feared that someone might discover her identity beneath mask and cape. For her reputation’s sake, they’d abandoned the pleasure gardens before she’d fulfilled her dream to dance with him. Just once.

  Now she strained for the sound of his boots on the stairs. He always walked as if he knew exactly where he wanted to be. For the last month and a half, at least on a Tuesday, he’d wanted to be with her. As a result, she’d discovered delight beyond measure and a love that would never die.

  But yesterday, she’d learned that this must be their last afternoon. She had no choice in the matter. Such was the harsh price of being a penniless dependent, subject to a selfish woman’s whim. Tomorrow when Campion retur
ned to the country, the gates of paradise would slam eternally shut behind her.

  Blindly she stared up at the sagging, stained ceiling and told herself that she wouldn’t greet him with tears. After such radiant joy, she refused to leave a final impression of a weeping, clinging coward.

  But courage was so difficult when the idea of never again lying in his arms cut her like a knife. He’d awoken part of her soul. She didn’t know how she could endure losing both her lover and the woman she became when she was with him.

  But, oh, how she wished he’d hurry. Every stolen second of this afternoon was precious. Because ahead of her stretched the long, barren, lonely years.

  At last she heard his determined tread. Her belly tightened in anticipation and her toes curled against the linen sheets. She intended to make this an encounter he’d never forget, even when he’d wed a high-born heiress and settled into life on his far away estates. She’d brand these hours onto his heart, so that when he lay old and contented and surrounded by the children she wouldn’t give him, his last breath whispered her name.

  The door swept open and bumped against the faded wallpaper. Just the sight of him flooded her with joy. She’d never been in love before. Something essential within her recognized that she’d never love like this again.

  For a charged moment, he surveyed her. His green eyes flared to bright emerald and color lined his high, slanted cheekbones.

  “I can see you’re in no mood to waste time, sweet love,” he murmured, his Scots brogue in evidence. It always thickened when he was moved or angry. Or aroused.

  A thrill rippled through her, set every cell of her body vibrating. He’d immediately guessed that under the covers, she was naked. “We can take the preliminaries as read.”

  “Every time I see you, I remember why I love you,” he said softly.