by Various
THREE REGENCY HEROES IN DISGUISE.
THREE CHRISTMAS NOVELLAS TO WARM YOUR HEART!
ON A WINTER’S EVE by Louise Allen
Snowbound together, Lady Julia Chalcott and Captain Giles Markham try to fight temptation. But, as Christmas draws closer, their attraction proves too strong to resist!
MARRIAGE MADE AT CHRISTMAS by Sophia James
Christine Howard’s frozen heart melts as she gets to know her new bodyguard. How can a man so scarred and mysterious make her feel so safe...?
CINDERELLA’S PERFECT CHRISTMAS by Annie Burrows
Shy Alice Waverly’s kiss with Captain Jack Grayling makes her wonder if he—and his little children—could be the Christmas miracle she’s always dreamed of...
Praise for the authors of
Once Upon a Regency Christmas
LOUISE ALLEN
“Allen deftly pulls fans into the glittering, dangerous world of England’s elite.”
—RT Book Reviews on His Christmas Countess
“Allen has written another spellbinding and adventurous Regency romance.”
—RT Book Reviews on Beguiled by Her Betrayer
SOPHIA JAMES
“Readers will be thrilled with this triumphant tale.”
—RT Book Reviews on Marriage Made in Hope
“Delightful and seductive.”
—RT Book Reviews on Marriage Made in Shame
ANNIE BURROWS
“Burrows is a master at Regency romance.”
—RT Book Reviews on In Bed with the Duke
“The poignancy and humor will make any reader a Burrows fan.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Captain’s Christmas Bride
Louise Allen loves immersing herself in history. She finds landscapes and places evoke the past powerfully. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favorite destinations. Louise lives on the Norfolk coast and spends her spare time gardening, researching family history or traveling in search of inspiration. Visit her at louiseallenregency.co.uk, @louiseregency and janeaustenslondon.com.
Sophia James lives in Chelsea Bay, on Auckland, New Zealand’s North Shore, with her husband, who is an artist. She has a degree in English and history from Auckland University and believes her love of writing was formed by reading Georgette Heyer during holidays at her grandmother’s house. Sophia enjoys getting feedback on Facebook at Facebook.com/sophiajamesauthor.
Annie Burrows has been writing Regency romances for Harlequin since 2007. Her books have charmed readers worldwide, having been translated into nineteen different languages, and some have gone on to win the coveted Reviewers’ Choice Award from CataRomance. For more information, or to contact the author, please visit annie-burrows.co.uk, or you can find her on Facebook at Facebook.com/annieburrowsuk.
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Once Upon a
Regency Christmas
Table of Contents
ON A WINTER’S EVE by Louise Allen
MARRIAGE MADE AT CHRISTMAS by Sophia James
CINDERELLA’S PERFECT CHRISTMAS by Annie Burrows
Excerpt from Unwrapping the Rancher’s Secret by Lauri Robinson
On a Winter’s Eve
Louise Allen
For the Quayistas Mark 2—
Linda, Jenny, Janet and the Significant Others.
You know why.
Dear Reader,
The idea for this story began with a Regency cartoon showing a frantic Norfolk turkey escaping from its Christmas doom in Leadenhall Market. I wondered what became of it and found the answer when my hero rescued the ungrateful bird from a snowdrift. From there the story just grew, set in a snowy Norfolk landscape not far from where I live.
We don’t often get heavy snow, let alone a white Christmas, in this part of the world, so the idea of my lovers snowed in together was a Christmas fantasy for me, as well as for them.
I hope Giles and Julia’s story gives you a warm glow this winter, wherever you are.
A happy Christmas,
Louise Allen
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter One
When had she last seen snow? It must have been at least nine years ago, before she had left England. Remembered in the heat of a Bengal summer, it had been pretty and fluffy. Not like this, heavy with a subtle, beautiful threat. The great billowing drifts, like ocean waves, were poised to swallow the coach whole. Oh, this was such a bad idea.
There was a convulsive movement beside her, a blurred reflection in the breath-misted glass, but when Julia turned her stepdaughter was smiling, even as she shivered.
‘Miri, darling, I am sorry it is so cold. I didn’t think, I just wanted to be away from that dreadful woman.’
‘Aunt is strange, isn’t she? I suppose she was angry that Father didn’t leave her anything in his will.’ Miri shrugged, slender shoulders struggling to lift the layers of rugs. ‘And I didn’t expect her to like me, but she did offer us a home while you arranged your affairs in England.’
Of course Grace—parental optimism in the naming of her had been severely misplaced—Watson did not like her niece. Miriam was illegitimate, half-Indian and beautiful. What was there not to hate for a bigoted woman with a plain daughter of her own to launch?
‘Did you not realise? My sainted sister-in-law was selling introductions to me, the indecently rich nabob’s widow who must, of course, be in need of a man to relieve her of her wealth.’
‘No! You mean those parties and receptions were to set you out like goods on a stall? No wonder you are so angry.’
‘Too angry to explain properly to you. I am sorry, you must have thought I had lost my mind, dragging you out of there at five o’clock yesterday morning.’ Julia did not often lose her temper, it was not a profitable thing to do, but when she did she was well aware that it was like wildfire over the grass plains of the Deccan, sweeping everything before it.
Miri had meekly held her tongue and left Julia to a fuming silence broken only by curt orders to servants, coachmen and innkeepers. ‘I must have been a perfectly horrid companion yesterday, I should have explained. I overheard your aunt agreeing terms with Sir James Walcott on what he would pay her if I were to wed him.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘I lay awake all night brooding and the thought of seeing her sour face over breakfast was too much.’
‘I rather liked Sir James.’
‘So did I,’ Julia agreed grimly.
‘You are very rich.’ Miri sounded as though her teeth were clenched to stop them chattering. There was only so much that fur rugs and pewter hot water bottles could do against the Norfolk weather on a late December day.
‘Oh, indecently so.’ Julia’s own teeth were gritted, but not because of the cold. ‘And it is a well-known fact of life that indecently rich widows are fair game for any impoverished gentleman who fancies lining his pockets. After all, marrying money is not the same as lowering oneself to engage in trade and actually earn it.’
There was silence as the coach lurched through another drif
t. It gave Julia ample time to rue allowing her temper to land them here.
‘So what will you do now?’
‘See what this house your father left me is like. I have no hopes of it, but, if it at least has a roof, then we shall stay there for Christmas and by the New Year I will have a plan.’ She always had a plan and usually they were rather more successful than her bright idea of leaving India and returning to England with her stepdaughter and a fortune, expecting to find it easy to make a new life.
She had wanted to give Miri everything a restricted upbringing had denied her stepdaughter, find her a husband to love her. Now she suspected that Miri would have been much happier in India with a dowry, making her own choices. Had she dragged her along because of her own desire for companionship? She had been so lonely throughout her marriage that if it had not been for Miri’s warm affection when her father brought home his young bride she would have gone mad, she thought.
Nothing is easy. Nothing. In England money seems to be a curse for an independent woman. Or perhaps expecting to be independent is the curse in itself.
‘It will be very pleasant to have a real English country Christmas.’ There was that at least to look forward to. ‘Plum pudding, mulled wine, decorating the house with evergreens, sitting around roaring log fires. We will give the staff Christmas Day off and listen to them singing carols. You’ll love it, Miri. I remember it all so well from my childhood. Christmas is wonderful for children.’ She trod firmly on that image and imagined instead a fatherly old butler, a rosy-cheeked cook, cheerful, willing maids and footmen... ‘But whatever else we do, remember that we are two ladies of modest means.’
‘Very well.’ Miri gave a determined nod. ‘We will dress simply and warmly and leave our jewels in their cases. After all, I am not looking for a husband and you do not want one who desires you only for your money.’
That ruled out all the gentlemen of England. Who would want a sallow-faced widow of twenty-five with no connections for any reason other than her money? It was a good thing that seven years of marriage had removed any romantic delusions she might ever have nurtured about the institution. As for Miri, if and when she found a man she wanted, Julia would do everything in her power to make her dreams come true. If this mythical lover deserved such a pearl. And if that meant losing her, seeing her go back to India, then of course she must go. She could not be selfish and hold on to her.
But meanwhile they were shivering in a wasteland. ‘How much longer is this going to take?’ Julia jerked on the check string and dropped the window glass, letting in a blast of dry, frigid air and a dusting of snowflakes. ‘Thomas?’
‘My lady?’ The coachman leaned round and down to face her, his face red with cold.
‘How much further?’
‘A mile or so, I reckon. The snow makes it difficult to judge distance at this pace.’
‘We will stop at the next inn. Miss Chalcott is becoming very cold.’
‘There’s nothing ahead of us now but Chalcott Manor, my lady. It’s a dead end.’
‘It most certainly is.’ She sighed as he straightened up on to his seat, then leaned back down before she could raise the glass again.
‘My lady, there’s someone on the road in front of us. A man on foot.’
‘In this weather? We had best take him up.’
The man turned as they approached, seeming larger and more monstrous the closer they got. Squinting against the snow, Julia could see that the thick white crust covering his head and shoulders added to his bulk, but he was also holding some large black object to his chest.
‘You there!’ Thomas hailed him. ‘Are you in difficulties?’
‘Difficulties? Not at all.’ The response was sarcastic, the voice deep and confident. Julia felt her lips twitch. ‘I am unhorsed and lost and have no feeling in my extremities, but otherwise I am enjoying a country stroll.’
‘My lady bids me say that you had best get into the carriage, sir.’
She opened the door, then gasped as the man turned to face her. ‘What on earth is that?’
‘A turkey, ma’am.’ He hitched his burden up further in his arms and a hideous red and blue head on a wrinkled, naked neck poked out from the front of his greatcoat and produced a raucous gobbling cry.
‘It is alive!’
‘Yes, ma’am. I had noticed. Might I enter? The snow is blowing over your rugs and my boots may freeze to the road if I stand still much longer.’
‘If we wrap it in this, you can lift it in.’ Miri, ever practical, held out a rug.
The man looked up from under his snow-laden hat and his jaw dropped, just a fraction.
Most males were rendered dumb for minutes at a time by their first sight of her stepdaughter. It was wearily predictable, but she supposed she could not blame them. ‘Get on with it, please, before we are buried in snow.’
The turkey succumbed to the rug after a few seconds of frantic flapping and gobbling, the man heaved it on to the seat and climbed in, slamming the door behind him.
‘Drive on, Thomas.’ Julia yanked up the glass and flapped the snow off her skirts. ‘There is no village ahead, sir.’
‘I was coming to that conclusion. My horse went lame some way back. There was a byre with a herd of cows and fodder, so I left it there, hid the saddle in the rafters and walked in the hope of better shelter.’
‘There is nothing along this road but my house, Chalcott Manor. You are welcome to shelter there until the weather lifts. I am Lady Julia Chalcott. My stepdaughter, Miss Chalcott.’
‘Thank you, Lady Julia. Miss Chalcott.’ He managed to look at Miri without actually panting, which raised him a notch in Julia’s estimation. ‘I am Giles Markham, late Captain in the Twelfth Light Dragoons. Is Lord Chalcott at home? He must be anxious with you travelling in this weather.’
‘Sir Humphrey Chalcott is deceased, Captain Markham.’ She saw the question he was too polite to ask. ‘He was a baronet. I am the daughter of an earl and chose to retain my title.’ It was the only thing she had managed to keep from her early life. ‘Why do you have a live turkey, Captain?’
‘I found it in a snowdrift. It’s a very fine Norfolk Bronze, with a label on its leg reading “Bulstrode, Leadenhall Market”. I assume it escaped from captivity on top of a stagecoach bound for the City of London. Christmas is, after all, only six days away.’ He took off hat and gloves and pushed his hand through his hair, which was brown, straight and in dire need of a crop.
Without his hat he should have looked smaller. He did not. Nor any less male and sure of himself. That would be the army, she supposed. A serving officer was unlikely to be a shrinking violet. Although one of those would certainly take up less room. Her skin felt...strange. Julia wanted to shiver even though, quite suddenly, she was not chilled. Odd. Perhaps she was sickening for a cold, which would just about put the crown on this disaster of a journey.
What were we talking about? Oh, yes. ‘And the entire point of turkeys at Christmas, Captain, is to be dead. Dead, plucked and roasted. Not shedding feathers all over the interior of my coach.’
‘I have some sympathy with his daring escape, Lady Julia. I have dodged the French often enough to have fellow feeling.’ Judging by the thin scar on his left cheek he had not always dodged successfully. Captain Markham’s voice was deep, amused and as smooth as warm honey.
Oh, pull yourself together, Julia. It is a man. A large, handsome, masculine creature who is cluttering up your carriage. They are two a penny and all equally mercenary.
‘This is a fine coach, if I may say so.’ Even in the gloom the interior with its mahogany, plush upholstery, brass fittings and heaped fur rugs murmured of luxury and the wealth to support it.
It was almost big enough for him, Julia thought, covertly watching his efforts to keep his long legs under control and his sodden boots away from their sk
irts and rugs. Men did fill the space up so. This one was a gentleman, the educated voice attested to that. But he was a rangy specimen with a straight nose, a stubborn chin and an excess of stubble. After the smooth, groomed males inhabiting the drawing rooms of Mayfair he was something of a shock to the system. That was all this flustered feeling was, reaction to such a virile creature at close quarters.
‘We were lent it,’ Miri said demurely, lying without a flicker of her long lashes. ‘It is very different from the carriages we are used to in India.’ At least she was keeping up with the conversation and not allowing a pair of long legs to turn her brain into mush. This was what came of indulging immodest and improbable fantasies: they climbed into your carriage at the least convenient moment.
‘India?’
‘We arrived in England three weeks ago, Captain.’ That was better, cool and polite.
‘And are returning to your family for Christmas.’
‘No. We have no family in England, except for the most distant cousins.’ To describe her sister-in-law as family stretched Julia’s willingness to mangle the English language. ‘And you, Captain? Are you on your way home?’
‘Home.’ He said the word as though it tasted of something entirely new and he was not certain that he liked the flavour. ‘I suppose I am. It is a very long time since I set foot in England.’
‘You have been in the Peninsula, sir?’
‘For several years. I have just sold out.’
Why? The war is still going on and he doesn’t appear to be suffering from some disabling wound. The coach turned sharply to the left and Julia caught a glimpse of gateposts. ‘We have finally arrived, it seems.’
‘You are not familiar with the house?’
‘No. It is the only thing my husband left to me. As I met him in India I have never seen it.’ From what Mr Filbert, her solicitor, could tell her, the possession of Chalcott Manor was not going to give anyone the impression that she was rolling in money.