by Bree Wolf
Her eyes narrowed, but the corners of her mouth twitched teasingly. “At least, he would not tease me.”
“I do not doubt it.”
“He would not snap at me.”
Trent grinned. “Very unlikely.”
“He would not cover me in paint.”
“Never.”
A soft smile began to play on her features as all humour left her face. “He would not call me Fred.”
“Not if he values his life,” Trent growled, his arms tightening around her.
Holding his gaze, Winifred inhaled deeply. “He would not love me the way you do.”
Lowering his head to hers, Trent looked deep into her eyes. “Then what is your answer?”
For a long moment she gazed up at him, and Trent tried his best to remain calm, knowing that decisions did not come easy to her. “I’ll be your wife,” she finally agreed, but held up a warning finger, “however, I shall warn you that the consequences will be dire should you make me regret my decision. Do be certain you want to risk that.”
“I am certain,” Trent whispered as his gaze dropped to her full lips. “As certain as I’ve ever been.” Then he pulled her closer and dipped his head to kiss her.
However, her hands on his chest stopped him.
Frowning, he met her gaze, praying that he had not misunderstood her. “Is something wrong?”
A teasing twinkle in her eyes, she looked at him rather innocently. “I merely thought you wished to know that I love you as well.” The corners of her mouth curled up into a wicked grin. “Although I cannot understand why. After all, it is far from sensible.”
“Exactly,” Trent exclaimed, then drew her into a passionate kiss before she could stop him once more.
Epilogue
A few weeks later
Winifred had to admit that being married had its perks. Not only was she now free to spend as much time alone with Trent as she wanted, but he had every right to claim her waltzes. Each and every one of them.
And although Fred was far from a flattering name, Winifred had come to realise that deep down she had never truly objected to it. It had been more of an obligation, a duty to refuse to be called by such a name. However, in truth, she had always delighted in the knowledge that she was the one and only Trent had thought up a nickname for.
The one and only he had ever loved.
“What do you have against Chad?” she asked as they twirled around the dance floor to yet another waltz. “I cannot call you Wick. That sounds ridiculous.”
Now, it was Trent who rolled his eyes. “I don’t see why you need to come up with a nickname for me anyways. Trent is already quite short. It’s only one syllable whereas Winifred has three.”
Winifred snorted, “Don’t tell me you only came up with that unflattering nickname because it was too time-consuming to call me by my given name!”
He grinned. “Fine, perhaps it wasn’t the only reason. Still, that doesn’t mean you have the right to−”
“That’s precisely what it means!” Winifred interrupted, delighting in the way his eyes rolled in annoyance. “After all, I’m your wife, and you are mine to call as I wish.”
A large smile spread over his face. “Is that so?”
Winifred laughed at the mischievous twinkle in his eyes, reminding herself how fortunate she was to be married to a man she truly loved. Although she had once thought differently, the past few weeks had proved to Winifred that the two of them were more suited to one another than she had initially thought. Certainly, they still bickered and snapped at one another, called each other names and outright delighted in teasing the other when it was least expected.
Still, Winifred had come to realise that Trent knew her as only her brother did. With one look, he could tell when she was saddened or upset or out of sorts. Although he had no affinity for art, he never tired of discussing her own paintings, offering his opinions and urging her to try something new. He loved to dance, and they spent many nights at home after supper, dancing from room to room. At first, their servants had seemed mildly startled. However, by now, they had accepted their master and mistress’s quirks and indulged them with a kind smile.
Life was good. Better than Winifred had ever hoped it would be.
And she had no doubt her mother would have been happy for her. They might have gone down different paths, but was happiness not something everyone hoped for?
When the music came to an end, Trent escorted her to a small group of friends and acquaintances standing off to the side, her brother among them.
A young man with bushy eyebrows inclined his head to them. He was an old friend of Griffin’s, only just returned from the continent; however, Winifred could not quite recall his name. “My congratulations on your wedding. From what Amberly told me, he is quite relieved to have his sister well married.” He grinned at her brother, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that reminded her of her husband. “I cannot understand why you had trouble marrying her off. A beauty like her.”
Smiling, Winifred felt the muscles in Trent’s arm tense as he forced a good-natured grin on his face. “He’s a sweet man,” she whispered teasingly.
Looking down at her, he rolled his eyes. “You’ll be the death of me, woman.”
“Only living up to my word,” Winifred chuckled, wondering if they would ever tire of these little games. She could only hope that that would never happen.
“Mind you, she had no lack of suitors,” Griffin indulged his friend, casting her a wicked grin. “However, I’m afraid my sister was quite particular about the kind of husband she had in mind. I tell you it caused me many sleepless nights.”
Everyone laughed at Griffin’s played exhaustion, patting him on the shoulder.
Meeting her brother’s gaze, Winifred could not keep the words from tumbling out of her mouth. “I suppose that it is now my turn to find my brother a suitable bride.”
Roaring laughter echoed around them. Only Griffin suddenly looked at bit ill at ease.
“You’re at her mercy now, Amberly!” the man with the bushy eyebrows announced with delight. Then his smiling blue eyes turned to her. “My lady, if you require any assistance, do not hesitate to call on me. I’m quite familiar with a number of eligible ladies and could point you in the right direction.”
“How kind of you, my lord.” Smiling, Winifred glanced at her brother, who seemed a bit pale suddenly.
“In fact, there are many eligible ladies here tonight,” Griffin’s old friend continued, unable to drop the subject despite her brother’s threatening glares. “However, I would advise against Miss Abbott.” He leaned closer into the group and whispered, “She’s rumoured to be the most awful woman in all of England.”
Intrigued, Winifred nodded, seeing with delight the way her brother’s eyes fell open as he realised the danger that lurked in his future. “Oh, no, you wouldn’t,” he stammered, shaking his head as though that would be able to dissuade her.
Winifred grinned, glimpsing a similarly entertained look on her husband’s face. “You gave me your word, dear brother, and besides what’s fair is fair.” Then she turned to the man with the bushy eyebrows who had followed their exchange with rapt attention. “Would you be so kind as to point out Miss Abbott to me?”
A wide grin spread over his face. “I most certainly would,” he replied, winking at Griffin, who groaned in agony.
This season would no doubt prove to be quite entertaining.
Perhaps not for her brother.
Still, one could not hope to please everyone, could one?
The End
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About Bree
USA Today bestselling author, Bree Wolf has alway
s been a language enthusiast (though not a grammarian!) and is rarely found without a book in her hand or her fingers glued to a keyboard. Trying to find her way, she has taught English as a second language, traveled abroad and worked at a translation agency as well as a law firm in Ireland. She also spent loooong years obtaining a BA in English and Education and an MA in Specialized Translation while wishing she could simply be a writer. Although there is nothing simple about being a writer, her dreams have finally come true.
“A big thanks to my fairy godmother!”
Currently, Bree has found her new home in the historical romance genre, writing Regency novels and novellas. Enjoying the mix of fact and fiction, she occasionally feels like a puppet master (or mistress? Although that sounds weird!), forcing her characters into ever-new situations that will put their strength, their beliefs, their love to the test, hoping that in the end they will triumph and get the happily-ever-after we are all looking for.
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Also By Bree
Historical Romance:
Love's Second Chance Series
#1 Forgotten & Remembered - The Duke's Late Wife (Now Perma-free!)
#2 Cursed & Cherished - The Duke's Wilful Wife
#3 Despised & Desired - The Marquess' Passionate Wife
#4 Abandoned & Protected - The Marquis' Tenacious Wife
#5 Ruined & Redeemed - The Earl's Fallen Wife
#6 Betrayed & Blessed - The Viscount's Shrewd Wife
#7 Deceived & Honoured - The Baron’s Vexing Wife
#8 Sacrificed & Reclaimed - The Soldier’s Daring Widow
#9 Condemned & Admired - The Earl’s Cunning Wife (Coming August 14, 2018)
#10 Trapped & Liberated - The Privateer’s Bold Beloved (Coming October 2, 2018)
Love’s Second Chance Box Set One: Novels 1 - 4
Love’s Second Chance Series Box Set Two: Novels 5-8
Middle Grade Adventure:
Heroes Next Door Trilogy
#1 Fireflies (Now Perma-free!)
#2 Butterflies
#3 Dragonflies
Paranormal Fantasy:
Crescent Rock Series
#1 How to Live and Die in Crescent Rock
Read a Sneak-peek
Conquering her Heart
(#8 A Forbidden Love Novella Series)
Coming July 31, 2018
The most awful woman in England. An honour-bound gentleman.
And a pact that will benefit them both.
Not too long ago, GRIFFIN RAMSEY, EARL OF AMBERLY, thought that agreeing to his sister’s suggestion of choosing each other’s spouse was an acceptable idea. At the very least, it was worth ensuring that she would marry the one man she had always loved.
However, when it is his sister’s turn to present him with the woman of her choice, Griffin realises that he might have made the biggest mistake of his life.
Does Winifred hold a grudge? Did she choose that despicable woman in order to spite him?
Growing up as a simple man’s daughter, ABIGAIL ABBOTT is overwhelmed when her late mother’s father, the Duke of Ashold, appears on her doorstep and whisks her away to London for the Season.
All of a sudden, Abigail finds herself swarmed with eligible suitors, who fail to see past her grandfather’s title as well as the enormous dowry bestowed on her. Desperate to evade a marriage of convenience, Abigail reinvents herself in a most awful way.
Is there any chance for a happily-ever-after when both parties dislike one another?
Prologue
On the road to London, spring 1820 (or a variation thereof)
The world looked different through a curtain of tears.
Gritting her jaw, Abigail Abbott−recently orphaned at the ripe age of nineteen−kept her gaze fixed out the window of the moving carriage, blinking her eyes fiercely to dispel the tears that seemed to fall of their own accord at any time of the day.
Would they ever stop?
Silence hung in the air−uncomfortable silence−and Abigail risked a glance at her aunt Mara, the Dowager Marchioness of Bradish, who sat with her head bowed, her hands linked in her lap, on the other side of the carriage. Not a single word had left her lips since they had set off, and Abigail wondered at the timid-looking woman she had never met before.
Instantly, Abigail’s thoughts drifted to the man who had sent Mara−his son’s widow−to fetch her to London: Abigail’s grandfather, the Duke of Ashold.
Only when asked−begged!−had Abigail’s father spoken of the man who had refused his consent, forcing his only daughter to steal away in the night to marry the man she loved. Cold and distant, he had not cared about his daughter’s love, her happiness, her wishes. No, among the ton, marriages were forged, based on different aspects, and Abigail’s father had been a mere solicitor with hardly a penny to his name.
To this day−even now that he was dead−Abigail could hear the regret and pain over what had happened before her birth in her father’s voice, for it had been swiftly followed by an even greater tragedy. Only days after giving birth to their beloved daughter, her mother succumbed to childbed fever. Not even then had her father received word−any word!−from the man who had forced them into hiding. Had he not cared? If so, then why would he send for her−his granddaughter!−now?
Only a week after her father’s passing, Abigail had found herself sitting in the small parlour of their home, her gaze drifting over her father’s books, neatly sorted and lovingly cared for, a representation of the man himself.
Hours had passed as Abigail had stared into nothing, feeling strangely numb and, yet restless. Sitting idly in a chair was not something she had been accustomed to. After falling ill about two years before, her father had slowly grown worse. No remedy had been able to improve his health, let alone cure him, and as a dutiful and devoted daughter, Abigail had waited on him hand and foot, taking care of their household as before while also seeing to her father as well as his few clients. She had helped him draw up documents, delivered messages and prepared the few consultations with paying clients.
Despite the looming sadness, Abigail’s life had been busy from sunup to sundown.
Now, that was over.
For a week she had mostly sat in her father’s armchair, not lifting a finger, her eyes red-rimmed from the constant flow of tears. Grief and loss had squeezed her heart, and still, she had noticed the small stabs of fear that assaulted her whenever she dared to think of the future.
What was to happen to her now?
With both her parents gone and no family to speak of, Abigail had been near yielding to despair when a soft knock had sounded on her door.
There, on their front stoop, had stood a finely, though inconspicuously dressed woman, her gaze soft and fleeting, her hands afflicted by a slight tremble. When she had opened her mouth to introduce herself, her voice had come out as a mere whisper.
Abigail’s head had started to spin when she had realised what was happening. Bidding her aunt inside, she had listened silently as the dowager marchioness had extended her grandfather’s condolences. “His grace was saddened to hear of your father’s passing and bade me come here post-haste to extend an invitation to join him in London.”
Swallowing, Abigail had accepted her grandfather’s invitation. However, she did not doubt
that her aunt’s words had been far from the ones the duke had uttered. From what she had learnt of his character from her father, Abigail doubted that the man would ever ask. No, he was a duke. He would not ask. He would simply order and expect everyone to do as he bid.
Judging from the apprehensive look in her aunt’s eyes, Abigail thought that the duke had never seen one of his requests refused.
For that reason alone, Abigail had felt tempted to do just that. However, her current situation did not allow her to choose without regard. No, if she did not wish to end up on the streets, she needed to accept her grandfather’s hospitality. Perhaps, this would be a chance to learn more of the mother she had never met.
Once more glancing across the carriage at her aunt, Abigail heard her father’s words echo in her ears: Use your head wisely, Child, for it is your greatest ally. One who will never abandon you.
“Aunt Mara,” Abigail began, cringing slightly at the croak in her voice, “may I ask you a question?”
Her aunt’s gaze rose from the floor of the carriage, her eyes widening as though she had just received a small shock. “Certainly, my dear.”
Abigail frowned. Was she not supposed to address her aunt like that? Would it have been more appropriate to call her my lady?
After growing up far from any kind of upper society, Abigail could not recall the correct form of address, and quite frankly after what she had been through, it seemed a silly thing to focus on. After all, this was her family−however, strained their relationship might be−and she would address them in the same respectful but personal way she had always addressed her beloved father.