(Three Regency Novellas)
A Christmas Wish
Home for Christmas
Christmas at Farley Manor
Award Winning Author
Cheryl Bolen
The Christmas Wish
Heat index: Sweet
To grant her dying father his last Christmas wish, Miss Annabelle Pemberton proposes marriage to her father's former ward, the rakish viscount Lord William de Vere. How painful it will be, though, to be trapped in a marriage of convenience with the only man she has ever loved.
Marriage to the wealthy heiress will help restore de Vere's decaying estates, but that is not why he accepts her bizarre proposal. He has grown to love her father as if he were his own, and if Mr. Pemberton selected him for his only child's husband, then Lord de Vere must honor the man's final wishes. Little does he suspect his father-in-law knows him better than he knows himself.
Home for Christmas
Heat index: Sweet
For six long years, Captain David St. Vincent has dreamed of returning home to Ramseyfield—and to its prettiest resident, Elizabeth Balfour. To his astonishment, though, it is not Elizabeth, but her plain younger sister, Catherine, whose company he seeks.
Cathy Balfour has worshipped David for as long as she can remember. It was she who wept when he left, she who presented him with a cross to keep him safe while in service to the crown, and she who read and carefully collected the newspaper accounts of his sea battles. But how can one as plain as she ever hope to win his heart?
Christmas at Farley Manor
Best Historical Novella of 2011*
(This novella was first published as an eBook in 2011.)
Heat index: Sweet
It wasn't to be a real marriage. . .
Harry Tate is an army captain of some means who is almost certain to die when he returns to Spain on the morrow. Elizabeth Hensley is a destitute beauty he's only too happy to help.
Two years later. . .
When they meet again at his ancestral home, Harry is now Viscount Broxbourne, bent on showing his wife how much he wants her to be his real viscountess by Christmas.
*Winner in Romance Through the Ages, sponsored by Hearts Through History
eBooks available from award-winning author Cheryl Bolen
Regency Historical Romance:
Marriage of Inconvenience
Christmas Brides (Three Regency Novellas)
The Regent Mysteries Series
With His Lady's Assistance
A Most Discreet Inquiry
A Lady by Chance*
My Lord Wicked
His Lordship's Vow
The Earl's Bargain
The Brides of Bath Series
The Bride Wore Blue*
With His Ring*
The Bride’s Secret (previously titled A Fallen Woman*
To Take This Lord (previously titled An Improper Proposal)*
Lady Sophia's Rescue
Christmas at Farley Manor
A Duke Deceived*
Romantic Suspense:
Protecting Britannia (Texas Heroines in Peril)
Murder at Veranda House (Texas Heroines in Peril)
A Cry In The Night (Texas Heroines in Peril)
Capitol Offense (Texas Heroines in Peril)
World War II Romance:
It Had to Be You (Previously titled Nisei)
American Historical Romance:
A Summer To Remember (3 American Romances)
*Previously published in paperback
Table of Contents
The Christmas Wish
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Home For Christmas
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Christmas At Farley Manor
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
The Christmas Wish
By
Cheryl Bolen
Copyright © 2012 by Cheryl Bolen
The Christmas Wish is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.
Chapter 1
It was really appallingly deplorable the way Miss Annabelle Pemberton perked up at the very mention of that scoundrel Lord de Vere. She was rather like one of Papa's pointers at the sniff of a hare. Whilst she had sat dutifully drafting a letter to Aunt Smithington-Fortenoy she heard Simms admit the far-too-handsome, philandering viscount, who was calling upon her father. Like a half-wit, she abandoned her letter, leapt to her feet, and rushed to the corridor in time to see Simms shake a puff of snow from Lord de Vere's beaver hat. Had she a tail, it would have wagged.
Miss Pemberton might not be able to control her lamentable interest in all things de Vere, but years of careful grooming by refined ladies of rank had schooled her to never display emotion. Very calmly, she paused on the upper landing and coolly observed the only man who had ever ruffled her serene countenance.
Could one ever tire of looking at the man? Her gaze began at his fashionably styled dark brown hair and moved to those near-black eyes set in a very fine face that was memorable for the well-defined cleft in his square chin. Men—being generally incapable of such distinctions—might not be able to perceive his handsomeness, but there was nary a man in England who could fail to envy Lord de Vere's tall, lean-muscled frame, narrow waist, and long, well-formed legs.
The supremely confident peer spread those well-formed legs, planting his booted feet on the marble floor, and casually looked up. “There you are, Belle.” The tenderness of his smile gave her a bubbling sensation. Odious man!
Her brows lowered. “You're to call me Miss Pemberton,” she admonished as she started to descend the broad marble stairway. Since he had succeeded at age eighteen a dozen years ago, she had not once referred to him by his first name as she had when they were younger, and since she had left the schoolroom seven years previously no one had addressed her by her first name. Except for Lord de Vere.
“What man calls his sister Miss Pemberton?”
She stiffened. “You are not my brother.” As she drew closer to him, she realized Lord de Vere's usual impeccable clothing was wrinkled, and dark stubble shaded his face.
“I shall always regard you as my little sister.” The way he peered down at her with smoldering black eyes belied his words. She cautioned herself not to read too much into his seductive demeanor. Expertise in the seduction of females was a skill that apparently did not depress easily—even with one he considered a sibling. Odious man.
“Really, de Vere, you are much too old to expect Papa to bail you out of another scrape.” She ran her eye over his disheveled state, scrunching her nose with distaste. “You have not been to bed, have you?”
“You know me too well.” His head hung. “I've come from Newmarket.”
“Then you've suffered heavy losses?”
He answered her with a solemn nod. “I pride myself on my knowledge of horseflesh.” He shrugged and gave her a h
alf smile. “But my cursed horse came up lame.”
That de Vere was noted for his knowledge of horses she could not deny. When he was a lad, the de Vere stables were said to be the finest in the kingdom. Before his father lost the de Vere fortune at the gaming tables. “So you've come to beg a loan from my father?”
His eyes went cold. “Since the day he ceased to be my guardian, I have never asked your father for a farthing.”
“Then I beg your forgiveness for my assumption.” Her father's friends from Parliament—and even his chums going back to his days at Oxford—were often borrowing money from her wealthy parent. It was a natural assumption that de Vere had come today for the same reason.
“Since your father has been as a father to me, I owe him the explanation for my embarrassment. I shouldn't like him to learn it from another source.”
Since her Papa had no sons of his own, he had rather regarded de Vere as a son—even if she had not regarded him as a brother.
Simms shuffled into the central hallway where they stood. “Mr. Pemberton will see you in his library, my lord.”
Her worry over her father was somewhat relieved because he'd at least been able to leave his bed and move to the library.
De Vere spun back to her and sketched a bow.
Despite her resolve not to do so, she watched as he walked away, a full head taller than dear, white-headed Simms. The cocky, almost-arrogant demeanor that had defined de Vere during these years of hedonism suddenly vanished. She was reminded now of the thin lad he'd been with gangly legs and arms he'd yet to grow into and of his forlornness on becoming an orphan at eighteen. And something twisted in her heart.
She had far too many worries twisting her heart at present. When would the physician come? She had sent for him that morning. The fact that Papa had condescended to allow her to summon Marsden filled her with dread.
* * *
The prospect of facing his well-respected former guardian made de Vere feel rather like a lad who'd been summoned to the headmaster's. He smirked over the irony. De Vere had been an exemplary student with a hunger for learning. It was many years later that he became dissolute.
As he trod behind the stooped butler along Pemberton's opulent hallway of marble and gilt and hung with massive paintings by Italian masters, de Vere remembered what his father had told him about Robert Pemberton's former dissolute ways. For nine and forty years the enormously wealthy rake gave no indication he would ever settle into respectability. Yet for a woman who captured his heart and for the daughter who held that heart in her firm grasp, Robert Pemberton had abandoned his profligate ways as easily as a hound sheds its winter coat.
De Vere entered a library paneled in rich, dark wood and observed Pemberton sitting in front of the fire, a thick tome on his lap, spectacles dangling at the tip of his nose as he read. A perfect picture of respectability.
Unlike his former ward.
When Pemberton looked up at him, he smiled. “Come sit by me, my boy. The fire feels good to these old bones.”
“These bones of mine can certainly welcome the warmth.” De Vere pulled a chair in front of the fire and sat. “It's a beastly cold day.”
Pemberton scrutinized him much as one would a portrait in the Royal Gallery. De Vere braced himself for a rebuke. Not that his kindly mentor had ever chastised him.
“I am concerned for you,” Pemberton finally said. “I have known you for three decades and have never known you to step out of de Vere House unless your appearance was perfection.”
“But you see, I did not step from my home this morning.” He drew a long breath. “I've come from Newmarket.”
The exceedingly long pause which followed was almost palpable. Finally, the elder man spoke. “I take it the races did not progress in an agreeable manor for you.”
“To be perfectly honest, sir, they could not have been worse.”
“'Tis a good thing your properties are tied up in the entail, then.”
De Vere nodded. “Indeed. The pity of it is, I cannot afford to occupy either of my properties. That's why I've come to you today.”
“I shall be happy to loan you money to tide you over.”
“That is not why I've come.” Anger surged through him. He had unwisely gambled and lost. Now he was prepared to face the consequences of his mistakes. “I came so you would be the first to learn that I plan to lease both the house on Cavendish Square and Beddingworth. With vastly reduced living expenses and the income from the properties, I should be able to right my situation in a year or two. I, ah. . . didn't want you to learn of my indiscretions from someone else.” Even worse, he hated to lose the man's admiration.
“I am a very wealthy man. You are the closest thing I'll ever have to a son. I wish to give you the money you lost.”
De Vere stood and spoke icily. “There is nothing that could persuade me to accept it.”
Mr. Pemberton shrugged. “Sit down, my boy. Just because you won't accept my assistance doesn't mean I must be deprived of a visit with you.”
De Vere chuckled as he returned to his chair.
“'Tis a pity,” the elder man continued, “but I know you won't change your mind about accepting my help. In this, you're entirely too much like your stubborn father.”
“You, more than anyone, understood the complex man who was my father.” The two had gone through Eton and Oxford together and had been the closest of friends until the day his father died.
His gaze raked over the man beside him. He had never noticed when Pemberton's hair had gone white. Were his father still alive, he would likely resemble this aged man who sat next to him. He wondered if the eighth decade of life would have tamed his roguish father, wondered if he himself would ever be tamed.
“Because we were too damned much alike!”
“With one exception, sir. You abandoned hedonism once you wed.”
The elder man nodded. “I believe you, too, will when a pretty thing sweeps you off your feet.” He sat up straighter in his chair. “Which brings up another subject that concerns you.”
“You think I should marry.”
“Indeed. You need to marry an heiress.”
“I agree, but I am incapable of offering my title to the highest bidder, so to speak.”
“I understand. You're holding out for a romantic marriage.”
“If a man must be forced to spend his life joined to one woman, it should be with a woman he wants to spend the rest of his life with.”
“I've lived a long time and learned a thing or two along the way. It has been my observation that, in many cases, once a man and woman are wed—even when there was no love involved—and have children together a deep bond of friendship forms between them, and often that friendship turns to love.”
“And in just as many cases, the shackles make the couple miserable. Look at the Duke of Wellington!”
“I will own, his marriage is wretched. He can barely stand to be in the same room with his wife.”
“I'd rather go my grave a bachelor.”
“I pray that you don't. It would make me very unhappy to think that no descendent of you or your father would ever occupy Hamptonworth. It would be very sad to leave this earth and know that no part of you remains.”
“Oblige me by speaking no more of such morbid thoughts.”
Pemberton smiled. “You must tell me about your misfortunes at Newmarket.”
“Misfortune does not begin to sum up my sad experience. You will remember me speaking of that fleet chestnut . . .”
* * *
Long after Lord de Vere took his leave of Pemberton House—without seeking to say goodbye to her—the physician came. She practically flew down the stairs to speak with him before he went to see her father.
The courtly physician, who was favored by at least two of the royal princesses, bowed as he took Miss Pemberton's hand and kissed the air above her glove. “You are most fortunate not to have to leave your home on a day like today, Miss Pemberton. 'Tis beastly cold ou
t there.”
“I have made sure Papa does not leave and have encouraged him to sit near the fire where it's warmer.”
Marsden nodded. “Very good. Your father is getting on in years. How old is he now?”
“Three and seventy. Because his father lived to be ninety, I've always assumed Papa would, too, but this past week I've become most alarmed.”
“What seems to be wrong with him?”
She drew a deep breath, hating to say the words, hating to think of what this ailment could signify. “Discomfort in his chest.”
Mr. Marsden's brows squeezed into a vee. “That is not good, not good at all in a man of that age.” The physician who had not yet reached fifty flicked his gaze to the stairway. “I shall have to examine him.”
“Yes, of course. Will you come to me after you've seen him?”
“Most certainly, my dear.”
She went to sit before the fire in the drawing room. One of the footmen had placed a tall arm chair that was upholstered in green velvet a few feet from the hearth. Settling her lap desk on her thighs, she completed the letter to Aunt Smithington-Fortenoy, folded it, then sat there peering at the window. A thin sheen of frost pooled at the bottom of each pane, and thick gray fog obliterated even the view of Lord Conningham's tall, narrow house just across the street. It was a dreadful day to be out of doors.
Would they even be able to travel to Upper Barrington for Christmas? She had given the matter considerable thought. With rugs and hot bricks and mufflers swathing his frail neck, Papa should tolerate the ride well enough. Surrey was not so terribly far from London, after all.
Christmas Brides (Three Regency Novellas) Page 1