Hell Hath Frozen Over

by Anders, Annabelle

  HELL HATH FROZEN OVER

  Annabelle Anders

  Hell Hath Frozen Over

  The Duchess of Prescott, now a widow, fears she’s experienced all life has to offer.

  Thomas Findlay, a wealthy industrialist, knows she has not.

  Can he convince her she has love and passion in her future? And if he does, cans she convince herself to embrace it?

  Hell Hath Frozen Over

  Annabelle Anders

  Copyright © 2018 Annabelle Anders

  EPUB Edition

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  About the Book

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Excerpt from Hell In A Hand Basket

  Read More by Annabelle Anders

  CHAPTER ONE

  Loretta reached down to examine the near perfect leaf that had fallen from the tree. How it had managed to survive intact, so late into December, she couldn’t guess. Nature could be fickle that way. Thick veins added texture to the resilient piece of greenery. Adrift now, from its source of life, it would turn brittle and brown.

  Much like herself.

  The bitter irony of her thoughts thickened the lump that now seemed permanently lodged in her throat. Life was short. Everything died.

  Dropping the leaf, she shook her head and continued along her walk through the extravagant gardens at Eden’s Court. She welcomed the frigid air.

  All of this had once been hers to manage, hers to watch over. Not any longer.

  Although still considered a duchess, she was no longer the duchess. She wasn’t the dowager either. For Dev was not a direct descendent of her husband.

  Her deceased husband.

  She swallowed at the thought. Seventeen months had passed and yet the heaviness, the weight of loss had yet to lift.

  “Your grace.” A nearing voice announced the end of her privacy. The deep gravelly tones dragged her from her ever present self-pitying thoughts. “Feels like snow, we might have a white Christmas after all. Would you mind some company?”

  She hid a grimace. Mr. Thomas Findlay was not the type of man she’d ever had much reason to converse with. Burly, larger than life, his company made her uncomfortable. A wealthy industrialist, he was the father of one of her daughter-in-law, Sophia’s closest friends.

  Loretta dismissed her irritation.

  Sophia, whom Loretta now shared the title of Duchess of Prescott, had begun entertaining even before the full year of mourning had been observed. She’d also remarried and given birth.

  Loretta nodded reluctantly at Mr. Findlay’s intrusion but allowed the man to draw abreast of her. Without a word, she then turned to continue along the flagstone path. It took her a moment to realize he’d offered his arm and then another for her to actually take it.

  This man could not be any more different from her late husband.

  Her husband had been a duke, born and raised to carry the weight of the title and all that came along with it. Both the privilege and the responsibility. Prescott had been tall, lean and oh so very haughty and arrogant. He’d rarely smiled except for a few occasions. He’d seemed cold to most, but he’d loved her in his own way.

  And she’d loved him.

  Mr. Findlay didn’t stand quite tall as her husband had, but he likely weighed a few stones more. Hard labor showed in his broad shoulders and muscular build. The man lacked the finish of a gentleman, often running a weathered hand through his thick head of hair, which was mahogany, almost red, threaded with a few silver strands. Although he made some half-hearted attempts, he occasionally failed to uphold the protocol required of a guest at the ducal estate.

  Many women might consider him handsome for his age, though, which, if she might hazard a guess, would be close to her own.

  Forty-three years old and now a widow. Likely, she’d already lived the best of her life.

  She allowed him to draw her arm further through the crook he’d made and then lead her along the path.

  His forearm was thicker beneath her hand than she’d grown accustomed to, making her feel small. His warmth spread to her. She’d not realized how cold she’d become until she began absorbing some of his heat along the length of her side.

  “I do love the children, but it’s nice to experience peace and quiet.” His deep voice resonated clearly in the empty walkway. When had she last strolled alongside a gentleman her own age? Not since Prescott’s funeral. She’d yet to leave off her mourning.

  She rarely left the estate these days and persisted in wearing widow’s weeds. She knew she could transition to dull grays and lavenders now, but she hadn’t the heart.

  Even with Christmas a fortnight away.

  “Little Finn, that one’s likely to be a handful.” Ah, yes, his namesake, his grandson. Just a few months older than Lady Harriette, Sophia’s nine month old baby.

  Loretta had always loved children. And it wasn’t that she didn’t love these children, especially the baby girl… She wanted to coo and fuss over the darling, who ought to have been her own grandchild, but little Harriette gazed back at her from eyes as black as the night. And the tufts of downy hair that sprang from her little head matched that of the man who was now the duke, the man who ought to have only been her stepfather.

  Even so, the infants reminded her of the past. The sight of them, their cries and laughter, prompted her to recall all that she’d lost.

  “And that granddaughter of yours—not yet a year old and already quite the beauty.”

  She stiffened at his words.

  Did the man not realize that her son, Sophia’s first husband who’d not been in the grave less than nine months before the birth of the baby, had had brown hair and brown eyes much like hers?

  “Indeed.” She barely managed the word.

  “Good Lord, when I think back to when Cecily was an infant,” Mr. Findlay continued, seemingly unaware of her discomfort. “It can be trying. Don’t think I slept a full night that first year.”

  “Surely, you did not care for her yourself.” Loretta couldn’t imagine her husband tolerating the sounds of one of their sons crying in the night. Both Lucas and Harold had been ensconced in the nursery upstairs, far from the ducal chambers.

  But Loretta had loved them. She’d spent as much time as was deemed proper with her sons. Would she do things differently if she could go back?

  A pang pierced her heart. Her eldest, Lucas, now lay six feet under. And Harold…grown men and yet they’d left her far too soon.

  She pinched her lips together.

  Mr. Findlay chuckled ruefully. “I didn’t have much choice back then. Cecily’s mama only lived a few hours after giving birth. If I didn’t care for the baby, nobody else would. I couldn’t afford help until she was a few years old.”

  Loretta raised her brows at such information. She found it nigh impossible to imagine this big, b
urly, and powerful man caring for a small infant. “You fed her? And changed her… clouts and pilchers?” Heat spread up her neck and into her face as she imagined it. Good God, was she blushing in this man’s presence? Surely not! In that moment, however, she wished she’d donned the black veil she normally wore in public.

  But she was not in public. These gardens had always been her refuge.

  She turned away from him to examine the trees in the distance. Only a smattering of leaves remained to adorn the gray branches. Beyond them, the sky hovered lower than usual, heavy with rain, or perhaps even snow.

  “All of it, your grace.” He patted her hand reassuringly, as though he sensed the concept discomfited her.

  Loretta studied the familiar scenery. “I think… that must have been rather…wonderful.” And suddenly the small spots of green in the trees blurred. She blinked away the stinging sensation behind her eyes. “Prescott and I never considered…”

  She couldn’t speak past that dratted lump in her throat. The one that seemed to expand at the most inopportune of moments.

  What had happened to her dignity?

  Her ever present poise?

  It was as though she had not only lost her sons, and her husband two summers ago, but she’d lost a part of herself. Her very identity.

  “You could do it with that granddaughter of yours.” Mr. Findlay spoke quietly near her ear. So close that his breath warmed her cheek. Loretta shivered and stepped away. Almost as though he was suggesting something untoward.

  Something scandalous.

  Thomas Findlay had never known a woman to be so damned aloof, so cold and haughty. The urge to needle her never failed to arise whenever he found himself in her presence.

  He’d abstained from the needling thus far.

  She was a duchess after all. Or was she? He’d thought she was a dowager but nobody addressed her as such, even though Cecily’s friend Sophia had taken over the title of Duchess of Prescott.

  He’d first met Her Grace at Sophia and Dev’s wedding. It had been a small affair, as the family had been deep in mourning at the time. Damnedest thing. First, the younger son fell off a cliff in an isolated incident, playing around, teasing his new wife while on his honeymoon. And then, not two weeks later, a mudslide had stolen the life of the other males in the family. Her husband, her remaining son, and the present duke’s father.

  Leaving this woman alone.

  Well, not alone, per se. The new duke, her nephew, Devlin Brookes had married Lord Harold’s widow quickly enough. Unfortunately, rumors abounded – Couldn’t get away from the damned things. He had never paid much heed to the wagging tongues of society in the past and didn’t intend to begin doing so at this stage of his life.

  The price of tea, the price of cotton, the price of brandy; these were things he paid attention to.

  He ignored most of the rest.

  The Duchess stumbled on a stone causing her to grip his arm tighter. Her small hand on him ignited all sorts of surprising sensations. As their acquaintance had grown, so too had this desire to rile her. But he also wanted to protect her.

  Insanity.

  A deuced duchess. Devil take him now for the urge he had to tuck her closer up beside him.

  Not in a million years would he ever have guessed he’d be a guest in her home. Not in a billion years would he have guessed he’d escort her through a romantic garden on a frigid winter afternoon.

  The grief, the loss. It rolled off of her in giant, tangible waves.

  She hid much of it behind a cool and dignified demeanor, but he felt it nonetheless. She’d fade away into despair if she didn’t shake this gloom. And that would be a shame.

  He stole a sideways glance at the woman draped in black and caught his breath.

  Not that she appeared excessively pretty. Attractive, yes. But so much more.

  Long elegant neck. Despite the sorrow wearing her down, she held her head proudly. Never in his life had he met a woman with more dignity. He vaguely mused that royalty could learn a thing or two from her as he steered them both around a broken branch on the trail. It must have fallen during the last rainstorm.

  She hadn’t responded to his taunt. In fact, she’d barely spoken to him at all. Why would she stoop to engage in meaningful conversation with a man born for labor?

  Why indeed?

  “Don’t you like the child?” He’d wondered this on more than one occasion now. For it was odd that, as the child’s grandmother, she ignored opportunities to hold the baby. She often made excuses to leave the room on the few occasions when the nursemaid presented her.

  “I love the child.” She spoke abruptly. “How could I not?”

  Her statement lacked conviction. She didn’t sound like a doting grandmother. Her gaze evaded his, but she couldn’t hide the hint of disappointment hovering in the back of her eyes.

  Perhaps the duchess resented the hasty marriage of her daughter-in-law to the distant heir. From what Thomas could recall of his daughter’s words, her friend, Sophia, had found herself with child upon the death of her young husband. And then quickly remarried the current duke.

  And even a fool could see that the newly married couple held affection for one another. Almost as though it had been a love match.

  “You resent Prescott’s swift marriage to Lord Harold’s widow?” He’d prod this duchess to assuage his curiosity. He had nothing to lose by doing so.

  The fascinating woman beside him shook her head and closed her eyes. God, but she carried a subtle beauty to her…

  “I do not. Of course, I do not.” Her demeanor cracked ever so slightly. “Dev is my nephew. His loss has been great as well. I wish him nothing but happiness.” Ah yes. Prescott had lost his father that day.

  “And her grace? Little Harriette’s mother?”

  “Sophia is a lovely and kind-hearted girl.”

  Thomas rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Then why would she avoid the baby? Why wouldn’t she find joy in her grandchild? He was a man of facts and figures and something about this woman wasn’t adding up.

  A breeze danced through the trees overhead, shaking what would likely be the last of the season’s leaves onto the path in front of them.

  “It looks as though it might rain.” Her cultured voice sounded colder than the temperature as she extracted her hand from his arm. “I don’t wish to be caught in a storm.”

  But Thomas would not allow her to return to her separate residence unchaperoned. He casually clasped his hands behind his back and nodded. “Lead the way, your grace. I’ll not leave you to your own devices.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Even in her diminished state, the woman commanded better than any manager he’d ever hired. “I came out alone, I can just as easily return.”

  But Thomas was no manager. And he was no servant or merchant to be dismissed so easily by even a duchess.

  By God, he was one of the wealthiest men in England. He didn’t dwell on this fact and never spoke it aloud. He’d toiled most of his life, taken calculated risks with everything he owned, but he knew it could all be gone in the blink of an eye. He’d never take security and comfort for granted.

  “After you, your grace.” He indicated the path leading toward the dowager house on the edge of the property.

  As she shook her head and marched off in front of him, he almost thought she’d rolled her eyes.

  But that was impossible. Duchesses never rolled their eyes.

  Especially not this one.

  “Was that the vulgar industrialist? One of the duchess’ friends’ fathers?” Millie, Loretta’s maid for the past twenty years, scowled out the window as she watched Mr. Findlay’s disappearing figure. “He needs to learn his place, I’d say.”

  Loretta breathed a sigh of relief at the closing of the door. Whether she felt it from closing the storm out, or the disturbing man, she couldn’t say.

  And yes, a part of her agreed with her maid’s assessment.

  But that didn’t mean she would tole
rate the observation. She could not allow Millie to disparage Sophia’s guests. “He is a guest at Eden’s Court, Millie. And I’ll thank you not to refer to one of her grace’s guests as vulgar.”

  Loretta handed her wrap over and began removing her gloves. A seam was coming unraveled on the left one. Normally, she’d have replaced them by now, but it hadn’t mattered. Had Mr. Findlay noticed? Mildred clucked her tongue with a pout as Loretta handed over the gloves.

  “As you wish, your grace.” But her words carried no conviction. Millie could be loyal to a fault.

  “And would you mind mending the left one?” Loretta indicated the opened seem.

  “Of course. A spot of tea before supper?”

  Loretta nodded. Something without spirits.

  During the first few months of mourning, she’d found herself drinking more than her fair share of brandy in order to sleep. She’d even taken laudanum on a few occasions.

  She’d buried her grief in lethargy. Too much. The compulsion to overindulge had frightened her. She no longer drank any spirits at all.

  Just tea.

  Hot tea.

  “Let’s get you warmed up.”

  Loretta nodded and again wondered if Mr. Findlay had noticed the tear in her gloves. Prescott would have berated her for it. He’d always demanded perfection from those in his protection.

  Lucas, her eldest, had managed the pressure in stride. He’d hardened, similar to his father.

  Harold, on the other hand. Sweet, dear Harold hadn’t done as well.

  She refused to dwell on him tonight.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next afternoon, Thomas watched the doorway over the top of his glass as she entered. The austere style of her upswept hair emphasized her nobility but also drew attention to her slim, feminine neck and shoulders. She wore black, yet again, today. He couldn’t recall ever seeing her in any other color. A simple round collar with long sleeves, the frock ought to wash out her complexion, it ought to look atrocious. But on her…