by Annette Lyon
Edmund had never caught Jacqueline cheating on him, but that hardly meant a thing. She enjoyed her drink as much as she enjoyed mixed company, and they often stayed at her parties far into the night. So late he’d found men and women sleeping throughout his home the next morning, not all of them in full states of dress.
Being married to a novelist would be like exchanging a lion for a lamb.
He smiled, which happened almost every time he thought of the red-haired woman in the rooms next door. Edmund started to fold his shirts and set them in the trunk. He’d leave the hotel, but he wouldn’t be leaving France until things were completed with Jacqueline’s estate. He hoped, perhaps beyond reason, that he’d be able to see Gina before returning to New York.
What would happen once they were both in New York? He honestly did not know.
When Edmund finished packing, it was still early, and he doubted anyone else in the hotel stirred. All the better. He wasn’t much in the mood to run into Mr. Graydon, especially after a night without sleep and time spent kissing his daughter. The guilt would be plain on Edmund’s face.
He left his room and went to the front desk of the hotel to request that his trunk be brought down and a carriage ordered. Soon he was on his way to another hotel. By the time he was settled into a new set of rooms, he was famished.
Once in the dining room with eggs benedict before him, he inquired of the waiter where he might find a bookshop with English translations. It didn’t take long to find the bookshop, although he had to wait half an hour for the place to open. His first question to the shopkeeper was where the ladies’ romance novels were shelved.
“This way, monsieur,” the shopkeeper said in a curious tone, leading him down a narrow aisle.
The man stopped at a shelf of cloth-bound books in varying colors of burgundy to brown. He eyed Edmund up and down, as if assessing what type of man made such a request.
“Which is newest?” Edmund asked.
The shopkeeper reached for one and handed it over. He was quick to scurry away. Edmund leafed through the novel and decided to read a few pages. The author had identified themselves by initials only, making him suspect that it was a female writer. He leaned against the shelving and opened to chapter one. By the beginning of chapter two, he was smiling, not because of the light, humorous prose, but because an idea had formed in his mind.
An idea of how to win over Gina Graydon.
So what if it meant stealing a fictional plot?
Chapter Twelve
Three months, Gina thought, turning over in her bed. It was after midnight, but she couldn’t sleep. It had been an insufferable three months since her return from France, and the fact that the air was turning from autumn to winter didn’t help at all. New York didn’t have the kindest of winters, yet usually Gina looked forward to them because she could spend long hours by the crackling fire, curled up with a book.
But that wasn’t to be this winter. The night before, her parents had declared that her father was having the credentials of a few potential gentlemen suitors investigated.
Investigated! Humiliating. Her father had hinted that her future husband needed to be mature and dependable. The mature part had her worried. At least they’d given her some warning, but Gina had yet to read a romance novel where the hero was twice the age of the heroine.
In truth, it made her sad that her marriage prospects had come down to this. Sad because the one man she thought could even remotely imagine sharing her bed and raising a couple of children with, had disappeared… completely.
Mr. Edmund Donaldson had packed and left the Bordeaux hotel without so much as a note slipped under her door. Not that Gina hadn’t known he was leaving— he’d told her— but she thought he’d at least keep his promise to stay in contact, to hold her father to the wager, to become better acquainted with her… to possibly court her.
But there had been nothing.
When she had inquired as discreetly as possible as to the progression of the lawsuit between her father and Mr. Donaldson, she’d been immediately told to stay out of “matters that don’t concern you.”
Hours before, she’d read in the evening paper that the lawsuit had been settled, and it seemed Mr. Donaldson had come out better, while her father had been ordered to pay damages. That might explain his glowering nature the past several days. It also might explain his new demand that she find a husband…
Gina burrowed deeper into her bedcovers. It didn’t matter now. Mr. Donaldson had kissed and then abandoned her. He’d used her. She’d been a pawn in his game. Now he sat high in society, having bested his rival. No matter who her father’s friends were, they all admired power and money.
Let Mr. Donaldson be admired. He would not be admired by her.
Gina let out a sigh, willing her tears to be gone. She was done pining over the man; crying wasn’t an attractive thing anyway. If she was going to attract a husband, she needed to be back to her agreeable self.
She closed her eyes, but a moment later, opened them again. The early winter sun glowed against the outline of her drapes. Had she slept? She wasn’t sure, but the dawn called to her. Much as she’d done in Bordeaux, she often rose early to go out into the garden. Except she hadn’t been reading lately. Romance novels hurt her heart. Reading about love and kissing and daring heroes only reminded her of the man she’d thought might be her hero but had turned out the opposite. He’d become the villain.
Gina climbed out of bed and pulled on her warmest wrapper. She left her room, went down the back stairs, and out the kitchen door. No one was awake yet, and she was careful to close the door without a sound. She walked in the chill of the cold morning, certain it would snow any day now. The garden, once green and full of blooming flowers, now only had a few hardy rose bushes left to add any color, with the rest of the plants and bushes wilted to a dried brown.
She stopped at her favorite bench. Surprised to see a book left there, she bent to pick it up. Surely the cold and damp would damage the fine leather. The book wasn’t familiar though; whose could it be? Who had left it out? None of the maids read, and she hadn’t seen her mother read anything but gossip columns for a decade.
Curious, Gina turned the book over. It was a novel. Her heart pounded to think that one of her parents might have discovered it and thought it was hers. Opening the inside cover, expecting to see the name of the owner scrawled inside, she was startled to see an inscription written to her.
And signed E.D.
Dear Gina,
I have stopped by each morning for three days to see if I could glimpse you in the garden, reading upon this bench, much like you did in Bordeaux. Perhaps your vacation habits don’t carry over to your home?
When I received no reply to the flowers I’ve sent weekly for two months, I realized that what happened between us in France was purely my imagination. I beg your forgiveness for being so presumptuous. Now that things are settled between your father and me, I wish to make one more attempt.
I do not think your father would welcome me as a gentleman caller, but if you would, I will face his ire. If I don’t hear from you by tonight, I will know that you have forever moved on.
Yours,
E.D.
Gina re-read the words, disbelief pulsing through her. He’d sent flowers? Every week? He’d been in her garden? And… which night did he speak of? Last night?
She sank onto the bench, holding the book against her chest, trying to comprehend the note. Edmund had not rejected her. He had not turned his affections away. She stood, pacing back and forth on the path in front of the bench. What had happened to the flowers? Had her parents known about them? They must have. They must have kept the flowers from her.
Gina hurried inside the house. As she stood in the empty hallway filled with family portraits, she knew she had to make a decision, one with consequences for the rest of her life.
In moments she determined what she’d do, and when she climbed the stairs to her room, her heart beat in antici
pation. She dressed quickly and pulled her hair back into a simple twist. She didn’t want to waste another moment; too much time had already been lost— three months!
Gina sat at her desk and wrote a letter to her parents, hands trembling as she did so, but it had to be done. When they awoke, they would be livid, yet it would be up to them if they decided to accept their daughter into their home.
Just in case, Gina packed a satchel of her most precious personal belongings.
Leaving the note outside her parents’ bedroom suite, her nerves multiplied. What if Edmund rejected her? What if she’d misread his intentions? Perhaps he didn’t intend to marry her, but simply to court her. What if she was about to completely embarrass herself?
With her satchel over one shoulder, she left the house through the front door, closing it firmly behind her. She made her way up the street, drawing a few curious glances from early risers. Once she reached the corner with the post office, she waited until she saw a carriage for hire.
If the driver was surprised at a lady requesting such an early ride, he was too polite to show it. That was one of the advantages of belonging to the upper class; you were rarely questioned on odd behavior. But Gina was sure the driver took special note of her appearance should he have to answer for his actions later on.
Gina gave the driver Edmund Donaldson’s address. The minutes seemed to drag, and more than once, Gina wondered if she should turn around, rip up the note to her parents, and forget about Edmund Donaldson. But she kept thinking about the flowers. He’d sent some each week. Surely that meant something. Surely that meant he loved her.
Edmund Donaldson’s house was elegant but not overstated. Gina was familiar with the outside, having driven past it a time or two in the first week since returning from France. All seemed quiet now, as it should be with the morning sky only a dusky pink.
She paid the driver and waited until he pulled around the corner before she approached the step. The double doors were imposing, but there was no turning back now. Gina knocked boldly then stepped back to wait.
Seconds passed, and more, until Gina was sure it was a full minute. Her heart pounded, and she wasn’t sure if she dared knock again. Perhaps she’d made a mistake after all. Perhaps this was part of a twisting plot she hadn’t expected. Nothing had been as she’d expected it this morning, not since she found that book left by Edmund.
The door opened, and her eyes flew to the man standing there.
Edmund said nothing at first, and it was clear that Gina had awakened him. He wore an ivory-colored shirt, untucked, which looked hastily donned. His trousers were long, but his feet were bare. As much as she regretted that, she was glad it wasn’t a butler who’d answered. In fact, she was surprised it was Edmund himself.
“Gina…” His eyes were bluer than she remembered.
For a moment, she didn’t speak. There was a depth to his eyes she hadn’t seen before. When she’d only seen interest, amusement, and kindness previously, now she saw wariness, and perhaps even pain. He made no move to open the door wider, as if he were waiting for her to tell him why she stood on his doorstep.
“I— I found the book.” She looked down; it was hard to look into his eyes. What if he rejected her? “I didn’t know about the flowers.” Tears pricked her eyes, and she lifted her gaze. “I don’t know what happened— or who hid them from me. I… I’m sorry.”
“You never received them?”
“No,” she whispered. His expression hardened. “I knew your father despised me, but—” He shook his head as if to rid his thoughts of something deplorable.
“I can’t excuse his behavior,” she said, her voice gaining momentum. “He wouldn’t talk about you with me, and I only found out who won the lawsuit in last evening’s paper. To tell you the truth, I was glad of the outcome.”
He blinked as if surprised.
“Then today I found the book and read what you wrote inside, and I felt awful.” She took a step closer. “Mostly because of the terrible things I’ve thought about you. I thought you’d forgotten me.”
His jaw was set; she wasn’t sure if he was angry. Perhaps he hated her now. To be ignored for three months would be a blow to one’s ego. She knew exactly how that felt.
“Edmund,” she began again. “I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am. I knew nothing of the flowers. It was as if you had disappeared. I thought I’d never hear from you or see you again.”
His stance relaxed against the door frame, his eyes less hard.
Gina clasped her trembling hands together and took a deep breath. “I wrote a note to my parents this morning and left the house to come here. I told them that if they didn’t accept you, they’d lose a daughter.”
Edmund’s eyes searched hers. She blinked back tears but kept her gaze on his, not willing to look away. She wanted him to know she was in earnest, about the price she was paying, and her regret over her parents’ actions.
“Come inside,” Edmund said, but Gina couldn’t read his tone. Was he being courteous? Would he call his groomsman to take her home?
She stepped inside. If her eyes hadn’t been blurred with tears, she might have taken time to inspect the grand hallway. As it was, her heart beat irregularly, and she wasn’t sure how much strength she had left to stand any longer. Edmund shut the door, and they were left in the dim interior.
“What’s in your bag?” he asked in a quiet voice.
Gina had almost forgotten she held it. “Some mementos in case I’m not welcomed home.”
Edmund’s brow arched at that. “You came at the risk of your parents’ displeasure?”
Gina couldn’t help it— she smiled then gave a little laugh. “They will be more than displeased.” She exhaled. This wasn’t going well. Edmund hadn’t swept her into his arms and declared his undying devotion. “I suppose I can hire myself as a school teacher. They’re in great demand out West. I have enough money for a train fare, at least.”
Edmund folded his arms, one corner of his mouth lifting. Gina hoped that was as good sign, but perhaps his smile was derisive. “You’d make a fine teacher.”
Disappointment flooded through her, but there’d be plenty of time to cry about it later. If she was to have a broken heart, Wyoming sounded like a better place than New York to suffer it. “Do you know of a position out there?”
Edmund’s face broke out into a smile. “You’re incorrigible, you know.”
It wasn’t exactly a compliment, but the fact that he thought of her that way wasn’t surprising. Her parents would agree. Tears stung her eyes.
“I have another idea.” He stepped toward her and lifted his hands to cradle her face. “Why don’t you marry me?” he whispered. “What’s the worst that could happen? You’ve left your home, and now you’re at mine. I can take care of you.”
She nodded, hot tears forming. His touch was what she’d dreamed of, though perhaps he was simply being a gentleman to a distressed woman. “But… could you love me?” It was her deepest desire, though admitting it left her heart to be trampled upon.
His thumb brushed at the tears falling on her cheeks, making her heart ache more. “I already love you.” His arms went around her, pulling her tightly against him, and his mouth found hers.
Warmth traveled the length of Gina’s body as she clung to him and kissed him back. There was no doubt of his feelings now. He backed her against the door, pinning her between it and his body, as if he intended to make up for three months in a few minutes.
“Edmund,” she gasped between kisses. “Won’t your servants discover us?”
He chuckled. “I suppose we’ll have to get married right away. How does this afternoon sound?”
“Impossible,” she said as his lips sought her neck. She was grateful she held onto his shoulders, or her legs might have given out.
“Not impossible.” He lifted his head to grin at her. “It happens all of the time in novels. You should read one.”
Gina laughed. She had no doubt if any
one could pull off a same-day wedding, it would be Mr. Edmund Donaldson. Even if the idea came from a novel.
To read about Gina Graydon’s friend, Eliza Robinson,
check out the full-length novel Heart of the Ocean
Click on the covers to visit Amazon’s purchase site:
Heather B. Moore is the author of ten historical thrillers, written under H.B. Moore, latest release Finding Sheba. She writes women’s fiction under Heather B. Moore, latest releases include Ruby’s Secret (The Newport Ladies Book Club series) and Esther the Queen. Her romances include Heart of the Ocean, the Aliso Creek Novella series, and A Timeless Romance Anthology series. Heather also owns and manages the freelance editing company Precision Editing Group.
Heather lives in the shadow of Mt. Timpanogos with her husband, four children, and one pretentious cat. In her spare time, Heather sleeps.
Author website: www.hbmoore.com
Blog: http://mywriterslair.blogspot.com
Twitter: @HeatherBMoore
Facebook: Fans of H.B. Moore or Heather Brown Moore
by Nancy Campbell Allen
Chapter One
Venice, Italy—1894
Evangeline Stuart stood alone on the Doge’s Palace second floor loggia and looked out over Venice’s Grand Canal. She wished she could freeze the moment in time; it wasn’t so much that she disliked people— just the ones with whom she lived and currently traveled. At twenty-one years, she was quite the spinster, and her stepfather and his two daughters seemed loath to allow her to forget it. They were unpleasant in the extreme, although subtle about it, which somehow made it worse.