by Regina Scott
“Yes, it is. But you mustn’t blame your father or the school. Your mother said it best, I think. She told me that I chose to see myself as beneath you, and so I was. It wasn’t until I found I could help the great Darbys that I realized that it was only my own fear that kept me from admitting how much I love you.”
“Norrie,” he started, but she thrust the letter at him before he could deter her with sweet words of love.
“Justinian Darby, you are a great novelist. The publisher at Simons and Harding in London agrees with me.”
He stared at the letter, then up at her face. It was the first time she had ever seen a Darby pale.
“You know about the novel?” he whispered.
“Jingles found it one afternoon, I’m afraid to say. I was only attempting to repair the damage to what I thought would be estate papers. I just read a few pages, my love, but it was wonderful. I knew you would never attempt to publish it as Wenworth. But I made a few inquiries on your behalf, and it is possible to publish it anonymously. See for yourself.”
He accepted the paper as if she had handed him a rabid dog, but his gaze moved rapidly over the words. “’Brilliant’?” he said in astonishment. “’Excellent literary worth’? What exactly did you send them?”
Eleanor smiled kindly. “Only the last few pages and a letter signed Justinian Darby.”
He looked up, grinning. “That’s why you were practicing my name.”
Disappointment shot through her. “You knew?”
“Not about this,” he assured her with a shake of his head. “Betsy found a piece of paper under your desk. I would guess that was your accomplice’s fault.” He reached up to disengage Jingles from his waistcoat, dropping the kitten back onto the desk where he promptly pounced on the papers once again, jumping after them when they slipped to the floor near the hearth.
“Your estate work!” Eleanor cried.
Justinian slid the letter into his waistcoat and drew her close. “May he enjoy it more than I did. Thank you, Norrie, once again. Are you intent on granting every one of my dreams?”
“Yes,” she replied firmly. “By asking me to marry you, you have granted me every one of mine. Can I not do the same for you?”
A light kindled in his eyes. “Be careful, my love. Remember, I’m a Darby. We tend to dream big.”
“My lord,” Eleanor murmured, breath catching in her throat, “I am your willing servant.”
“No,” he murmured before his lips captured hers once again, “you are my dearest love. And before Christmas is over, I intend to prove that to you, once and for all.”
And for a time, all that could be heard was the sound of a kitten purring.
Dear Reader
I hope you enjoyed the story of how Jareth Darby’s oldest brother met his true love, again. Christmas truly can be a time of miracles—remembrance, forgiveness, and joy.
If you haven’t read Jareth’s story, try The Unwilling Miss Watkin. The other stories in the Uncommon Courtships series are The Unflappable Miss Fairchild (1), The Incomparable Miss Compton (2), and The Irredeemable Miss Renfield (3).
Norrie Pritchett is also the best friend of Hannah Alexander, whose story starts my Lady Emily Capers with Secrets and Sensibilities.
If you enjoyed Justinian and Norrie’s story, there’s several things you could do now:
Sign up for a free e-mail alert with exclusive bonus content so you’ll be the first to know whenever a new book is out.
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Post a review on a bookseller site or Goodreads to help other readers find the book.
Discover my many other books on my website.
Turn the page for a sneak peek of another Christmas story, the start of my series, The Marvelous Munroes, in My True Love Gave to Me, in which a daring wager over Christmas may seal the fate of two hearts.
Blessings!
Regina Scott
Sneak Peek: My True Love Gave to Me, Book 1 in the Marvelous Munroes Series, by Regina Scott
Genevieve Munroe paced the wide wood-paneled entry of Wenwood Abbey, listening for the sound of carriage wheels on the drive. Even with her back to him, she knew Chimes, their man-of-all-work, was watching her from his spot propped up on the parson’s bench on the opposite side of the space.
“Settle down, miss,” he chided. “They’ll be here soon enough.”
She let her pacing turn her toward him and winked. “Settle down yourself. You’re as anxious to see this fight end as I am.”
“Now there’s a true statement,” he allowed, folding his hands over his pot belly and stretching his long legs out in front of him. “It would make my life a great deal easier if you Munroes would learn to get along with them Pentercasts. I wouldn’t have to be near as particular which side of the wall the game was on. And the Squire, now, is too fine a man to be treated like he was the dirt beneath your mother’s slippers.”
A tingle of excitement shot through her. She could not let Chimes see it. No one could see it. “We are in agreement there as well,” she replied calmly enough, but she couldn’t help adding, “has he changed much since we left, Chimes?”
His sharp black eyes lit up, and she struggled not to look too interested in the answer, afraid she’d given away the game. “Since you and Miss Allison and Mr. Geoffrey went to the curate’s school together? Not all that much, I suppose. Still interested in the Squire, are we, Miss Gen?”
She wandered closer to him, letting him see how casually she gazed at her reflection in the gilded mirror beside him. She tucked a stray curl back into the golden coil at the nape of her neck. The woman who gazed back was cool and confident, the champion of many a London fete. Satisfied, she turned from the reflection to face him with a gracious smile.
Somehow, she knew she wasn’t fooling him for a second.
“I remember how you used to look up at him when you was just a little gel, and he’d come to take Mr. Geoffrey home on his horse,” Chimes continued as she resumed her pacing. “Right fine figure of a man is the Squire. I heard tell he was interested in courting Mary Delacourte.”
“Did her eyes ever uncross?” Gen asked.
“Now, they were never really crossed. That right eye of hers just tends to wander since she was kicked in the head by a cow all those years ago. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were still sweet on him.”
She snorted and heard the unladylike sound echo against the polished wood walls. “I was never sweet on him, Chimes. It was an infantile adoration. I was only fifteen when we left; he must have been, oh—”
“Twenty-two. Which would make him just a year or two shy of thirty these days.” He scratched the bare spot on top of his greying head. “Good age for a man to marry and settle down.”
She scowled at him, determined to put that idea from his mind. “I hope you remember how to keep quiet when Mother arrives.”
“Takes more than a pretty frown to scare me, gel.” He winked at her, tapping the crook of his long nose. “And don’t you worry about your mother. She never did think I was good enough to be the butler, but she can’t live without my Annie’s cooking.” His merry smile faded. “Especially now. Carstairs says you haven’t told them about the financial problems yet.”
That pulled her up short. Twice now she’d underestimated Chimes ability to see to the heart of matters. What a pity her father hadn’t taken him with them to London. She’d have given much to have him point out the shallowness of her beaus before she could even think of engaging her heart. And a word from Chimes might have kept her father from allowing a drunken friend to take the reins.
She blinked away the unhappy thought. She couldn’t let her appreciation of the man’s abilities deter her now. “I do not wish to talk about it further,” she informed him, hands on hips. “I warn you, Chimes, I will brook no arguments on this. They deserve one last happy Christmas.”
He held up his gnarled hands in surrender. “Very well, miss. You can count on me to s
tay mum.” He lowered his voice. “Are we still hunting tomorrow morning?”
She relaxed, the two topics she feared most now past. She nodded, then lowered her voice as well. “Yes. I’ve convinced Mother that letting me plan the Christmas dinner is excellent practice for when I’ll manage my own home someday. Do you think we can still find some good birds for Annie to cook?”
“Good birds, bad birds, my Annie will make them sing in your mouth. Hark, there’s the carriage now.”
She was surprised at the flutter of excitement in her stomach, even more surprised at the lowering disappointment when Chimes shrugged himself into his coat and found only their vicar, Thaddeus York, and his curate, William Wellfordhouse, at the door. She chided herself for her lack of enthusiasm. William had been her father’s protégé; she had known him for years. He deserved better than her disappointment. She pasted on a smile of welcome as the grooms led the horses away and Chimes showed them in.
“Good evening, Miss Genevieve,” William said with a smile as he took her hands. “I must say you’re looking quite well.”
She grinned up at him, noting that his sandy hair was as immaculately combed as ever and that his grey eyes sparkled. Before she could return his greeting, the vicar broke in.
“Quite well indeed, under the circumstances, quite well.” Mr. York ran a hand over his balding pate as Chimes hurried off with their coats and hats. “There are many who question the proper time for mourning. Three months? Six months? A year? Respect for the dearly departed is the key, I find. Your father has been gone a mere six months, has he not?”
She bit back a smile at his faux pas. Her father had ever delighted in baiting the poor vicar into just such a statement. “Yes, Vicar,” she said aloud. “How kind of you to remember.” She focused on the young man who had become like a brother to her. “William, you look thinner than when we saw you in London. I hope the vicar isn’t working you too hard.”
William opened his mouth to respond, but Mr. York coughed into his meaty hands. “Hard work, Miss Munroe, is the best road toward heaven, the very best.”
“Then dear William must be nearly there,” she replied, allowing the smile to show. She noted that Chimes had returned and signaled him forward. “Chimes, please make these kind gentlemen comfortable in the drawing room and inform Mother that they have arrived. I will wait here for our other guests.”
William, who had been looking rather uncomfortable, brightened. “Oh, are we to have other company as well?”
She winked at him. “Yes. The Pentercasts.”
“Oh, bravo, Miss Gen!” he exclaimed.
The vicar grunted. “It is the true penitent who knows the worth of peace, the true penitent indeed.”
Gen’s smile was threatening to become a laugh. “Chimes,” she prompted. She was relieved when their man led them away.
She scolded herself as she resumed her anxious pacing. She really should try to remember Vicar York’s position. He had been the head of the church at Wenwood since before she was born. Of course, she never felt as comfortable in his company as she did in William’s. William was always pleasant, always kind. He seemed to have taken every lesson in humility and duty to heart. Her father had said he was born to be a clergyman.
Somehow she didn’t think the same applied to Vicar York, who seemed far more interested in good food and fine wine. The very thought made her feel guilty. She would simply have to try harder to appreciate the man if they were to live here in Wenwood. If only he didn’t insist on repeating every other phrase. She remembered when Allison had pointed it out to their father.
“Don’t let it annoy you,” her father had replied with that tell-tale twinkle in his eyes that meant he was never less serious. “He only repeats himself to show how very little he has to say, how very little indeed.” She could still hear Allison’s answering giggle.
She had crossed the wide entry twice more when her mother and Allison appeared from the corridor that led to the family wing. She nearly groaned out loud. While she had gone out of her way to pick a simple gown of watered green silk with a modest neck, she saw that her mother had decided to show the Pentercasts who they were dealing with. Her lilac satin gown, with its full skirt, lace overdress, and silver embroidery at the lowered neck and high waist, had come straight from a fashion print and was more suited to a royal ball than a country dinner. The puffed sleeves required her to wear her long gloves, but Gen knew it wasn’t modesty that had caused her to include the two amethyst rings or the matching stone that glinted from the folds of her silver turban.
Allison, not yet out, should have been more simply dressed. The white gown she wore was as plainly cut as Gen’s, but it too boasted a silver lace overdress sprinkled with beads that reflected the candlelight. With a pang, Gen noted the Munroe diamonds, one of the few pieces of jewelry she had refused to sell or replace with paste copies, sparkling at her sister’s throat and wrist. The tiara, usually reserved for the eldest daughter or daughter-in-law, nestled in her flaxen curls. Her mother was obviously making a statement. Standing next to them, Gen felt like a poor relation.
They had no time to talk as the sound of a carriage came again, and Chimes bustled forward to receive their guests. Her mother took one look at his rumbled coat and uttered a short sigh, but he opened the arched double doors with proper ceremony. Trying to ignore the fluttering in her stomach, Gen put up her head and pasted another smile on her face.
Mrs. Pentercast entered first. She was shorter than Gen remembered, reaching only to Gen’s shoulder, and much rounder. Gen could only hope her face didn’t show her shock as Chimes took the lady’s black velvet evening cloak to reveal that she was wearing a lilac satin gown with a lace overdress and silver embroidery. It was obviously a copy of the London gown, done somewhat less grandly and looking much less impressive on the short, squat figure than on her mother’s tall, spare frame. The silver headband with its purple ostrich plume also failed to give the outfit the proper polish. Nevertheless, her mother’s forced smile of welcome froze on her face.
“Clear the way, Mother,” an annoyed voice demanded, and Mrs. Pentercast scurried forward so fast that Gen’s mother was forced to step back to keep the purple feather from lodging in her nose. Geoffrey Pentercast, looking much as Gen remembered in his many caped brown-tweed greatcoat that called attention to his broad shoulders, clumped into the entry, trailing mud, decayed leaves, and a six-foot log in his wake.
“Thought you wouldn’t have a proper Yule Log,” he announced, dragging the massive stump by a chain into the center of the entry. Gen tried not to think about what it would cost to repair the scratches he was making in the parquet floor.
She could feel her mother’s disapproval. “Why, of course, Mr. Pentercast,” Gen answered quickly for her. “How very thoughtful of you to bring it along. We haven’t had a Yule Log in years, have we, Allison?”
“Yule Logs are such quaint customs,” Allison said with a sniff, “for children.”
“I like to think there’s still some of the child in all of us, Miss Munroe,” a deeper voice said from the doorway. The flutter in Gen’s stomach intensified, and she swallowed, looking up to find Alan Pentercast regarding her from the door. Her first thought was that he was very different from what she remembered, but she wasn’t sure what had changed.
Like his brother, he still had the shaggy thatch of brown hair that defied combing and the dark brown eyes that seemed to sparkle with some secret. Unlike his brother, who was shorter and more powerfully built, he stood a good head taller than anyone in the room. His face seemed leaner, his features more sharply planed. He moved with a negligent grace she’d only seen on London dance floors.
As Chimes took his many-caped blue-tweed greatcoat, she saw that he wore the black trousers, white satin waistcoat, and black cutaway coat of a London gentleman. Unlike the dress his mother wore, the outfit was obviously no copy. She would have said it had been cut by Weston, although she’d have also wagered there was no padding in the
shoulders or calves. The sensitive, brave young man she remembered had been replaced by a confident, authoritative gentleman.
She wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or awed.
Learn more.
About the Author
Regina Scott started writing novels in the third grade. Thankfully for literature as we know it, she didn’t actually sell her first novel until she learned a bit more about writing. Since her first book was published in 1998, her stories have traveled the globe, with translations in many languages including Dutch, German, Italian, and Portuguese. She now has more than thirty published works of warm, witty romance.
She and her husband of more than twenty-five years reside in the Puget Sound area of Washington State with their overactive Irish terrier. Regina Scott has dressed as a Regency dandy, driven four-in-hand, learned to fence, and sailed on a tall ship, all in the name of research, of course. Learn more about her at her website.