A memory, since her courses had arrived on schedule, that would remain untarnished by shame or scandal.
However, rather than that fulfilment satisfying her hunger and setting her at peace, it seemed the long-slumbering appetite Allen Mansfell had awakened in her was not to be quenched by a single splendid afternoon. Knowing what it was to pleasure and be pleasured by him, she still burned for his touch.
Nor did she know how to prevent herself from reliving the moments they’d spent together, recalling the sound of his voice, the timbre of his laughter, the change in hue as his green eyes turned smoky with passion. How to stop savouring the memory of his touch every time she closed her eyes to sleep, or aching with loss every morning she awoke, alone and bereft.
Had she given her assent to the engagement he’d proposed at the Dower House, would her loving him have been enough for them to find happiness?
Fool she was, despite all her good intentions, to have fallen in love with him anyway!
Further fuelling her unhappiness was the advice Sarah had given her before leaving Wellingford. ‘Though I don’t mean to pry,’ her sister had assured her, ‘’tis clear something extraordinary developed between you and Allen Mansfell. What happened to disrupt that I know not, but I urge you not to let it go without seeing him again. Love, I can assure you, does not always run smoothly, but it is precious. And it is always worth fighting for.’
Could she be any more miserable with him than she was now without him? What if she were to take Sarah’s advice at the beginning of the Season and seek him out?
If she were the strong, confident woman she’d always believed herself to be she should embrace the risk of confessing her love and discovering if it was possible to end their estrangement. He might, of course, hand her a humiliating rejection. But at least then she’d know there was no hope for the longings she was unable to banish.
The confident, joyful, eager-to-experience-life Meredyth of ten years ago would have accepted the challenge. She’d let more of her spirit drain away than she could bear to admit if she were no longer capable of such courage.
She must go to him.
As she reached that brave but unsettling conclusion, she became aware of approaching footsteps. Blinking into the morning sun, she turned in the direction of the sound.
And then blinked again when her first hazy glimpse told her Allen Mansfell was walking towards her. Though she shook her head in amazement, a second glance confirmed that impossibility.
Excitement, gladness, and a wild, fierce desire to throw herself into his arms coursed through her. She was on her feet before she could check her enthusiasm.
‘Mr Mansfell, what a…surprise.’ She substituted the word at the last minute for ‘delight’. ‘Has something happened? Thomas? Colton? All the family are well?’ she asked with sudden anxiety.
Then she closed her eyes, swept away by the power of his touch as he took her hand and bowed.
‘The family is fine,’ he replied, retaining her fingers in a light grip that resonated down every nerve. ‘Something did happen, but to me alone, and it has left me so very far from “fine” that despite the anger of our parting I had to see you again.’
Urging her down beside him on the bench, he fixed her with a steady gaze. ‘You suffered no…repercussions from the events of that afternoon at the Dower House, I trust?’
‘None,’ she assured him, feeling herself blush.
Giving her a look whose tenderness sent a shock of surprise and gladness through her, he continued, ‘You’re not the wanton you tried to appear that day, are you?’
So thankful that he was treating her without anger, despite her inexcusable deception of him, she felt tears prick her eyes. ‘No,’ she admitted.
He gave a cry of triumph. ‘I knew it could not be true! Oh, you convinced me thoroughly enough at first that I rode away in a rage, determined to put you from my mind. But you refused to be banished. Memories of you kept slipping into my consciousness. Your voice. Your smile. The taste of you, and the incredible pleasure you brought me. And while I suffered from recollections I had no wish to recall,’ he continued, ‘it suddenly occurred to me that the episode at the Dower House was so out of character with everything I knew of you, something just wasn’t right. Why then, my wanton, did you try to deceive me?’
‘You tempted me too much!’ she blurted. ‘I feared if you kept after me my partiality for you would eventually lead me to accept your hand, whether you loved me or not. I hoped if I sent you away in disgust you wouldn’t trouble me again and I could go on as before.’
‘Ah, my “passionless” offer!’ he replied with a grimace. ‘Along with the other truths bedevilling me, I reluctantly came to acknowledge you were right. I was just as much a coward as I accused you of being, counselling you to open your heart while holding mine close. As if love could be politely restrained, broken to bridle like an untamed colt. Small wonder you despised a proposal offered out of tepid affection, holding yourself worthy of so much more! Had you not sent me away, who knows how much precious time I might have wasted before realising how much I adore you? I came here determined to throw my heart at your feet and beg you to let me try and capture yours. Will you do so?’
By some miracle she had not dared hope for he now loved her. She could follow her heart without reserve or worry of consequence, with the wild abandon and reckless enthusiasm she’d possessed before pain and loss had shackled her joy in life.
‘You don’t need to convince me,’ she said softly, love for him swelling in her chest. ‘The afternoon you left the Dower House, you took my heart with you.’
That avowal won her a dazzling smile as he dropped to one knee. ‘Then will you marry me, my darling? Not because I esteem you and all your virtues, but because you are indispensable to my happiness. Can I not persuade you that I am equally indispensable to yours?’
Joy like an effervescent wine bubbled in her veins and she gazed down at him, still on one knee before her, his impassioned gaze locked on her face.
‘Just how do you intend to “persuade” me?’ she asked, caressing with one finger the hand that clasped hers.
Immediately heat darkened his eyes. ‘By every means I possess—soul and body.’
‘Ah, that sounds promising. Did I mention that work at the Dower House is now complete, with all the gas lamps and Rumsford stoves in place?’
A devilish smile creased his lips. ‘New technologies must be tested, do you not think? Particularly those in the upstairs bedchamber.’ In one fluid movement he stood and offered her his arm. ‘Will you come with me, my love—now and always?’
‘Now and always,’ she promised, and lifted her mouth to his kiss.
THE RAKE’S SECRET SON
Annie Burrows
Dear Reader,
When I was asked if I would like to write a story for this anthology, I decided I wanted to celebrate the very essence of Christmas, which for me is not about presents and feasting and putting up decorations. It’s about a baby, born to a poor family as a symbol of hope for the whole world.
So my story is about forgiveness and second chances and the miraculous transforming power of love.
I hope it touches your heart.
Annie
To all the other Harlequin Historical authors (proud
Hussies) who have welcomed me into their loop.
Prologue
…Joseph, being a just man, was not willing to make her a public example…
Harry Tillotson barrelled through the church door and up the aisle, wiping his runny nose on the back of his torn jacket sleeve.
It was just two weeks to Christmas, and at Sunday school they had been learning all about the coming of the Christ child. Mary was going to have a baby, but it was not her husband’s, Reverend Byatt had said.
Some of the older boys had sniggered, and looked at him, and on the way home they had begun to make nasty remarks about his mother. He had tried to make them stop, but there had been too many of
them. All of them thinking they were better than him because they had a proper ma and pa, most of them married in this very church.
Harry glared up at the stained glass window where a glowing Madonna smiled serenely at the baby on her lap. Reverend Byatt had said God sent a baby at Christmas time to show He wanted to forgive sinners.
So why wouldn’t anyone forgive his ma for having a baby? For having him? When she was the kindest, and cleverest, and hardest-working of all the mothers in Barstow?
He sniffed, angrily dashing a tear from his mud-and blood-caked face. People in the Bible just weren’t like real people at all. Take that Joseph, the carpenter, Mary’s husband. He had somehow known he wasn’t the baby’s real father, but he hadn’t gone round telling everyone Mary was wicked, then gone off to war and got killed! No, he had stayed and looked after her.
‘Why couldn’t Ma have married someone like Joseph?’ His words burst from the misery deep inside him, startling him as they rang out through the empty church.
You weren’t supposed to talk in church. Only to say your prayers.
He whipped off his cap, clasped it between his hands, and bowed his head in a penitent attitude.
But his voice was still throbbing with resentment as he muttered, ‘She should’ve had a husband who would stick by her no matter what. Then nobody would ever have known she had done anything wrong. And the other boys wouldn’t think they have the right to make my life as horrid as they can just because I’ve never had a proper father! They wouldn’t call my ma those names either. I do try to stick up for her, but—’ he hiccupped, remembering the crowd who had circled him, taunting and jeering not five minutes earlier ‘—I’m too small!’ Another tear ran hotly down his face to soak into his collar.
‘The Reverend said you sent Jesus to get born in a stable, to prove you wanted to reach the poorest and lowliest and forgive their sins. Well,’ he complained, ‘everyone looks down on us. So that makes us the lowliest. And Squire Jeffers says my ma’s the greatest sinner in these parts. So I should think you’d jolly well want to send us a man like Joseph to make things right for us. And then—’he lifted his face defiantly towards the high altar ‘—I might believe there’s some point in having Christmas!’
A sudden shaft of sunlight pierced the Mary window and lanced down to strike the floor right in front of his scuffed boots.
He flinched, guiltily acknowledging that he shouldn’t have shouted at God.
A hell-born brat. That was what Squire Jeffers said he was. Even though Reverend Byatt argued that nobody was beyond God’s forgiveness.
Harry turned on his heel and pelted back down the aisle. He wasn’t sure which of them had it right about him, but one thing he did know. He had to make it back to the one place he knew he would always be welcome, even though he was a bastard.
Chapter One
The sky was leaden, but at least the ground was soft. Nell wrapped a shawl over her head, took a long-handled fork, and made her way down to the vegetable plot. The recent frosts would have sweetened the parsnips nicely.
She had just carefully prised the first root from the end of the row when she heard a footstep behind her. Whirling round, she saw a man in a threadbare coat and scuffed boots had come up the garden path and was standing behind her, looking at her with that intent, hungry look all beggars had.
‘I am sorry to have startled you,’ he said gently, when she took a hasty step back, raising her fork as though to ward him off. But her heart-rate did not slow down.
An ordinary beggar she could have dealt with. She might live alone save for her six-year-old son, on the very outskirts of Barstow, but she had learned over the years how to take care of herself. But this was no ordinary beggar.
She shook her head in disbelief, her stomach plummeting to her boots.
They had told her Carleton was dead. Five years ago there had been a letter, saying he had been hanged as a spy in some town in Portugal she had not even tried to pronounce.
She had not believed it then. Carleton! Spying! The man she had married had not been capable of engaging in activity that required any degree of cunning. The very moment a thought occurred to him it came exploding out of his mouth.
No, she had never believed he could have been a spy.
But she had believed he was dead.
So this man, standing on her garden path now, could not possibly be him. Even though he looked so very similar. Apart from being older, and thinner, and completely lacking in that arrogance that had oozed from Carleton’s every pore.
‘I was looking for Mrs Green.’ He frowned, as though confused. ‘Is this not her house?’
‘It used to be—’ she began. But that had been many years ago. The place had already stood empty when the man who had become Viscount Lambourne on her husband’s death had sent her here.
But before she could explain all that, the man who reminded her so much of her late husband raised a trembling hand to his brow, muttered, ‘I think I am about to…’ and promptly collapsed.
And while he was toppling sideways into her blackcurrant bush it came to Nell that it had not been just his facial features but the very timbre of his voice that had jerked her so disconcertingly backwards through the years.
Just as the very gracefulness with which he was now passing out struck a resounding chord. Most men would have gone down any old how, probably landing flat on their faces, but not him. Oh, no! Even on the verge of losing consciousness he had instinctively managed to preserve his exceptionally good looks by choosing the nearest bush to cushion his fall.
She had to ram her fork into the ground and lean on it as the overwhelming and unpalatable truth sank in.
Carleton was not dead after all.
Somehow, against all the odds, he had survived and returned to…no, she shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut in pain. He had most definitely not returned to her. He said he had come here looking for Mrs Green. He had not expected to see Nell at all. Nor did he even seem to have recognised her. But then, why should he? When their brief, disastrous relationship had always been so one-sided? It had always been her gazing at him, never the other way round. She had been the one peering over the balcony railings to watch him when he had escorted one of her cousins in to dinner. On the rare occasions they had come face to face, during that ill-fated house party her aunt had thrown, he had always looked through her, or down his nose at her, taking her for one of the servants rather than a member of his hostess’s family.
Even on the night that had changed the course of their lives so irrevocably he had been oblivious to her presence. She had sat with her knees drawn up to her chin in the window seat, marvelling at how completely sleep had wiped all traces of arrogance from his face. In repose he had looked, she recalled, almost vulnerable.
Just as he did now.
She drew a little closer in spite of herself. The years had inevitably wrought changes on the man who had treated her so cruelly. But though lines had appeared around his eyes, and his cheeks had hollowed out, his long limbs sprawled across the jagged clumps of broken branches with as much elegance as they had draped over her aunt’s silken sofa cushions all those years before. And though she would never have believed her extremely fashionable husband would have been seen dead in such a downright shabby coat, there was no longer any doubt in her mind that this was him.
‘Oh, Carleton,’ Nell moaned, wrapping her arms round her suddenly churning stomach. ‘What am I to do with you?’
It was the heavens that answered her. The clouds that had been lowering all day finally began to shed their burden. As the first fine flakes of snow sprinkled Carleton’s gaunt cheek Nell knew she had no choice.
He must be desperate to have come here seeking help. He was already weak, probably ill, or he would not have keeled over as he had. She could not leave him lying out here in the cold.
Heaving a sigh, she went into the cottage and fetched a blanket from her bed. She placed it on the ground next to where he lay, and rolled h
is unconscious body onto it. Then, grasping hold of two corners, she dragged him inch by laborious inch over the uneven pathway.
For all he looked so thin, there was still a lot of substance to Carleton. By the time she got to her back door she was panting from exertion. And she still had to somehow manhandle him up over the stone step to get him indoors. She did not think her method of getting him up the path would work. She might bang his head as she heaved him over the step and knock him out…if such a thing as knocking out a man who was already insensible were possible…
No. She shook her head, her moment of levity swiftly passing. She doubted she could do him any real damage, but she did not want to risk bruising his skull and giving him a headache. She never wanted to face Carleton with a headache ever again.
She hid her face in her hands, recalling the morning after their wedding when, stiff with affront and paper-white from the aftereffects of too much brandy, her handsome bridegroom had torn into her, ripping her last flimsy hope to shreds. She had not been able to credit then that lips that looked so beautiful, that kissed to such devastating effect, could form such cutting words.
She had not really known him. She sighed, dropping her hands and looking steadily at him. Not then.
Not until much later.
Pulling a face as she steeled herself to touch him again, Nell squatted down at his head and, hitching up her skirts, spread her legs indecorously on either side of his body.
She blushed. Oh, please let him not wake now! She would shrivel up and die of mortification if he ever knew she had wrapped her legs round his hips and tucked his head against her shoulder like this. But she could think of no other way. By wrapping her arms round his chest and shuffling backwards on her bottom Nell managed to raise his dead weight up over the back step and into the warmth of her kitchen.
She sagged against the leg of her solid table, waiting for her breath to settle into a normal, steady rhythm again, his head still cradled in her lap.
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