Thawing the Viscount’s Heart
Belles of Christmas:Frost Fair
Mindy Burbidge Strunk
Copyright © 2020 by Mindy Burbidge Strunk
All rights reserved.
Cover Art by Ashtyn Newbold
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, places and events are products of the authors imagination or used fictitiously. Locals and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes only. Any resemblance to real events, business establishments, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Mindy Burbidge Strunk
Chapter 1
Gabrielle Babineaux shivered. She pulled her pelisse tighter around her middle. Her bonnet pulled taut against the ribbons tied beneath her chin as she stepped down from the carriage and looked down Thames Street. There was scarcely an empty space, so many carriages lined the street. It seemed everyone in London was intent on visiting the Grand Mall—the small patch of the Thames between the Blackfriars and London Bridges.
Gabby stepped to the railing and looked over the ground which normally separated the roadway from the now frozen river below. Tradesman carts and tents lined both sides of the actual river, while the middle was crowded with people standing shoulder to shoulder. Gabby shivered again, not from the cold, but rather from the thought of what so much weight on the ice could cause.
Chills ran down her spine, whether from her thoughts or the cold, she was not certain. Never could she remember feeling so cold in all her life. It wasn’t a long one, but she’d been around enough to have some experience. And in that experience, she’d found England’s people to be nearly as cold as her weather.
“It is called the City Road.” Lady Kirtley stepped up beside Gabby and peered down at the ice. “It seems we are not the only ones to venture out to the fair today.” She glanced at the line of carriages and then back to the City Road. “Perhaps it won’t be so bad with all these people about. They will surely help to block the winds.” Lady Kirtley buried her hands further in her muff. “It is unbearably cold today.” She sighed and a puff of air showed in front of her face. “But then, I suppose without this cold, we could not have the fair, now, could we?”
Lord Kirtley pulled his wife to his side. “We will be warmer if we stay close together, I think.” He grinned down at her and Gabby looked away, her face warming.
“Did you not say Peter was coming?” Gabrielle asked, her French accent becoming thicker as the cold seeped deep into her bones.
While she enjoyed Lady Kirtley’s company and was grateful for her sponsorship for the upcoming Season, it was Peter she felt more comfortable with. Peter— or rather, Lord Rockwell when they were in public—was like a brother to her.
“He and Caroline should be here shortly. But we do not need them for entertainment.” Lady Kirtley put her hand at the small of Gabrielle’s back and gave her a slight push forward. “Come, let us see what we can find. I can smell the roasted mutton from here.”
They ventured down Three Crane Stairs to the riverfront. Lord Kirtley had thought the crowds would be less at Queen Street, Cheapside, but he had been wrong. There was no place that was not swarming with people.
“Is this…fair a common occurrence?” Gabby placed one foot onto the ice, tentatively testing her weight. This all felt so unnatural.
Her grandfather had told her stories of the days when the Rhone had frozen over, and men could walk from one side to the other. But that had been nearly one hundred and fifty years ago. In truth, Gabby had always supposed the tale to be just that—a story. She didn’t think her grandfather dishonest, but rather the story had grown as the years went on.
Lady Kirtley shook her head. “Yes, well, common enough.”
Gabby glanced over her shoulder at Lady Kirtley. “Then you have seen it before. This is what I am to expect of England?” There had been some snow last year, but it had not been so cold as it was now.
“Well, not exactly. I was only five at the last fair, but I’ve heard tales about it happening for years. The conditions have not been just so until recently.” Lady Kirtley pointed to the center of the ice. “Look, there are already many people out on the ice, and it is holding perfectly well. I am certain we shall be safe.”
Was that hesitation in her voice?
Gabby eyed the lady, her credibility losing some of its hold.
“Come, Miss Babineaux. This is just the event for us to begin your introductions into society.” She glanced around them. “Much of the Ton are still at their country estates. But there are a fair number that remain in London. It shall not be so overwhelming now and will hopefully allow you to know some young ladies once the Season begins in earnest.”
Gabby had thought the notion of a Season exciting when Lady Kirtley and Peter had discussed it upon Gabrielle’s arrival several years ago. But now that the time approached, her confidence waned.
Her accent was still thicker than she wanted it to be, something that Lady Kirtley likewise feared would hinder her success in the coming Season. She still slipped into her native tongue when she was nervous or emotional—or apparently cold. She’d heard what could happen if the Ton did not believe a person worthy of their attentions. She was not looking forward to discovering exactly what they thought of her.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek. The more she focused on it, the more she thought staying at Dovehaven a much better idea. Surely there were ladies who had found a match without participating in a Season. Could she not try her luck that way? Perhaps God would look favorably on her and she would happen upon the gentleman while taking a walk into Appledore. After all, Kent was a desirable county with plenty of eligible gentlemen. Perhaps she would mention it to Lady Kirtley…Gabby cringed. Or perhaps not.
Gabby took light steps on the ice, still not convinced that this endeavor was entirely safe. Hoots and shouting came from somewhere amid the tents. A young boy, his friends cheering him on, kicked a leather ball to a gentleman.
Gabby smiled at the tenderness of the scene. She did not know many gentlemen who would take the time to play ball with a child.
The ball went wide, and the gentleman raced after it, but before he could stop it, his foot shot out from beneath him.
Instinctively, Gabby reached out to the side, in search of something to steady her, though she found nothing there. Her mouth dropped open as a young lady stepped directly into the gentleman’s slippery path. Within mere seconds, the two were nothing but a heap on the ice.
Looking down at the ice in front of her, Gabby again questioned the prudence of this excursion.
Lady Kirtley glanced at the ruckus but guided Gabby in the opposite direction. A tent directly in front of them swelled with people, smoke billowing out a hole in the top. The smell of roasting meat permeated the air. “Come, Miss Babineaux, let us go and see what is happening in there. Perhaps we can even purchase some of the Lapland Mutton. I’ve heard it is delicious. Indeed, I have very faint memories of it from when I was a child.”
They approached the tent door and Lord Kirtley paid a sixpence each for them to enter. A fire burned in a large iron pan, the lamb suspended just high enough that it did not touch the wood, now mostly burned down to coals.
The man behind the fire carved off sections of the charred meat and offered it to anyone able and willing to pay the price.
“It smells wonderful, does it not?” A gentleman stood next to Gabrielle. He ran his tongue over his lips, his eyes widening as the flames licked up the sides of the lamb. “Are you to buy a slice?”
Gabby shook her head. “I should zink not.”
“You’re French,” the man said.
She did not have to turn to look at his face to know of his opinion of her. She had never heard so much disdain and outright anger in two words.
Gabby took a step closer to Lady Kirtley whose attention was on the mutton.
Gabby flicked her gaze to the man. “Oui—yes. But I live in Kent now.”
The man’s nose curled, and he turned away pushing his way through the crowd and out the tent flap.
“Would you like some meat, Miss Babineaux?” Lady Kirtley only now turned her attention to Gabby.
Gabby shook her head, her stomach clenching, and her hands shaking. The once enticing smell now brought her morning tea and ham too close to the surface. “It is far too crowded in here. I zink I shall step outside for a breath of air.” She turned and pushed her way to the tent entrance, pausing a moment, hoping the gentleman had put a fair amount of distance between himself and the tent. The last thing she wanted was to see him again.
She closed her eyes and pushed aside the flap, breathing in deeply as she cleared the tent walls. Icy shards filled her lungs, her chest instantly aching. Still, it was preferable to the confines inside.
You’re French. She wrapped her arms around her middle, the voice echoing inside her mind. Such treatment should not bother her any longer. He was not the first to behave in such a way. It was more common than not, which was one of the reasons Lady Kirtley felt it important for Gabby to sound as English as possible before the Season began.
Gabby took in a stuttering breath.
Lady Kirtley’s request was easier said than done. Gabby just could not seem to make her tongue form the English sounds no matter how hard she tried.
She stood next to the tent entrance, waiting for Lord and Lady Kirtley to receive their meat and come fetch her.
Cold seeped up through the soles of her half-boots; her toes and feet felt as if hundreds of little pins poked into her skin. She stomped the ground several times, hoping to infuse some warmth into her body, but then remembered she was standing on ice. How much of it separated her from the frigid water below she did not know. Best to keep her movements as smooth and light as possible.
“A memento of the Great Frost, miss?” A boy came forward, shoving a sheet of paper under her nose. Gabby read the advertisement.
Behold the River Thames is frozen o’er,
Which, lately ships of mighty burden bore;
Now, different arts and pastimes here you see,
But printing claims superiority.
Gabby was about to hand the paper back when she looked at the boy and his shabby clothes. She opened her reticule and took out a coin, placing it in his outstretched hand. It would make a nice souvenir, and if it helped put food in this small boy’s belly, even better.
The boy hurried off to his next customer, hollering over his shoulder. “Thank ye, miss.”
Gabby smiled at him and tucked the paper in her reticule before pulling the strings tight. She looked up and let out a little squeal. Finally, he was here.
She looked back at the tent entrance, but no one came out. Shrugging, she moved quicker than Lady Kirtley would surely find proper toward the couple walking on the other side of the City Road. “Lady Rockwell.” Gabby lifted a hand.
“Miss Babineaux,” Lady Kirtley hollered behind her.
Gabby turned her head back, but her momentum carried her forward several steps where she collided with something solid. Stumbling backward, she wondered how a bridge support could have come out of nowhere. It was only when strong hands reached out to steady her that Gabby realized her mistake. This was no bridge support.
“Forgive me, miss. I must not have been paying attention. Are you well?” His voice was deep and had the slightest hint of gravel to it. Gabby shivered, having never been so affected by the mere sound of a voice.
She looked up into his smiling face. “Excusez-moi…er, please excuse me, sir.” Gabby put a hand to his chest, his slate-blue eyes drawing her in. But both their smiles dropped away.
It was him. The man from the tent who had been so unabashedly rude upon learning she was French.
He dropped his hands from her arms and took several steps back, his eyes narrowing. “Oh. It is you,” he said. He cleared his throat and straightened his coat. “You did not answer my question. Are you well?” Though his words said one thing, his tone said completely another.
Gabby swallowed and pulled her gaze from his stony face. How could a man si beau be so very unpleasant?
She ran her hands down the front of her dress. “Yes. I am well, zanks to your swift actions, sir.”
He gave her a curt nod. “Then I will beg your forgiveness and bid you farewell.” His left eye twitched slightly as he turned on his heel, and quickly strode into the crowd.
Lord and Lady Rockwell walked swiftly from one direction as Lord and Lady Kirtley came from the other, all forming a tight circle around her.
“Are you harmed, Gabby?” Lady Rockwell put a hand on Gabby’s arm, her face etched with concern. While the lady was firm in her training, Gabby had no doubt that Lady Kirtley cared about her.
Gabby shook her head as she rubbed at her hip.
“Gabrielle.”
Gabby knew the level of concern Lady Kirtley must feel if she was resorting to using her Christian name while they were in public.
“What were you thinking, paying so little heed to where you were going?” Lady Kirtley’s hand patted Gabby’s back, lessening the sting of her harsh words.
“I am well. You need not worry.” She craned her neck, hoping to catch another glimpse of the gentleman. She did not know why she wished to see his scrunched-up nose and curled lips. Perhaps it was because she now knew what he could look like when he smiled, and that was truly something to behold. She knew he would never again share such a smile with her. But one more glimpse wouldn’t hurt.
“I am glad you were not injured. Mr. Campbell is not a slight man. I imagine he could do you some serious injury.” Lord Kirtley gave her a fatherly pat on the shoulder.
Gabby placed gloved hands to her heated cheeks. “As you can see, Mr. Campbell ensured I did not sustain injury, so we can continue our outing.”
“You are certain?” Peter raised a brow.
Gabby nodded, wishing their scrutiny would come to an end.
Peter sighed and looked off into the crowd. “I wish he’d not hurried off so quickly. I should like to have talked to him before he returns to the continent.”
“The continent? Why would he be going sere?” Gabby wrapped her pelisse tighter.
Peter held one arm out to her and one to his wife. “He is in the army. A major, if I remember correctly. I can only assume he is on leave for the holidays.”
Gabby looked back toward the crowd. The man was in the army, fighting against Napoleon. She raised a brow. Perhaps that was the reason
for his less than polite behavior? Although, why he should blame Napoleon and his actions on her, she did not understand.
Chapter 2
Aaron Campbell walked away from the crowds gathered on the River Thames, his fists clenching at his side and his heart hammering in his chest. He climbed the Old Swell stairs, his breath coming easier the more distance he put between himself and that French antagonist from the mutton tent.
Her innocent act did not fool him. He’d fallen for that French trick once before and he would never do it again. Mireille’s face floated into his mind and he squeezed his fingers tighter. His shoulders tightened as her voice replayed in his mind. Zank you, Major. While the woman from the tent did not look much like Mireille—she was much younger and much pret—
No. Aaron pushed the thought away with an angry sigh.
Would there ever come a time when he didn’t flinch at the sound of that accent?
He rotated his shoulders as he climbed into the Brinton carriage, rapping on the side as he settled back against the seat. The barouche jerked forward, moving slowly until they cleared Thames Street. Aaron dropped his head back and closed his eyes. Even with the crowds behind them, the icy streets were bound to make it a long drive home.
He had been having an enjoyable time at the fair, an unexpected diversion from his new responsibilities. But then he’d encountered her. Her, with her small button nose and caramel-colored eyes. He growled, irritated that he’d even noticed her eyes. Why, amidst all those people, did he have to encounter the one French woman who sounded so…French?
He stared out the window, watching as Grace Church Street and Cheapside passed by. People milled about as if everything was normal. Did they not remember a war with a madman raged on the Continent?
Thawing the Viscount's Heart: A Christmas Regency Romance (Belles of Christmas: Frost Fair Book 3) Page 1