A Yuletide Regency (A Timeless Romance Anthology Book 21)

by Regina Scott

  Visit her blog at kristalynnejensen.blogspot.com

  Chapter One

  Celia Thompson read the horrible words of the letter in her hands. Her fingers shook, her breath stilled, and her heart skipped. She reread the date to be sure she didn’t have it wrong. Tomorrow’s date was written in a bold, sure script. There was no doubt.

  Her father’s second cousin would be arriving on the morrow to take possession of his inheritance, which happened to be the estate Celia had lived on her entire twenty-three years. If the death of her parents years ago wasn’t terrible enough, followed by the death of her bullheaded brother in a battle in the colonies three months before, someone might as well drive the final nail into her own coffin.

  Celia was an orphan. She was without her beloved brother, Bart. And she was about to be displaced.

  Her eyes filled with angry tears when she reread the final line of the letter.

  Lady Celia is, of course, welcome to reside at Banfield Estate as long as she wishes.

  Oh, wonderful.

  Celia eyed the fire in the parlor hearth. She was tempted to crumple up the words of the odious Mr. Aaron Thompson, second cousin to her father. Aaron Thompson happened to be an accountant by trade, and only upon the death of her brother had he become a member of the nobility. She supposed she’d have to call him Lord Banfield now that he would be earl.

  The first tear fell. Her father had been Lord Banfield and her brother should still be Lord Banfield—they were the men whom she loved so much and who could never be replaced. Not by anyone. Celia knew nothing about Aaron Thompson. She’d never met him, and she wished she’d never have to lay eyes upon him.

  The second tear fell. There was no time to pack and leave. He’d be here tomorrow. Besides, where would she go while she waited for her aunt Marianne to return from her third honeymoon? She’d offered to bring Celia to her home after Bart’s death, but at the time Celia had wanted to stay in her own home. Aunt Marianne was quite . . . eccentric. And she was always having parties, or taking extravagant shopping trips, or asking Celia to fetch things for her as if Celia were a lady’s maid.

  Celia had no time or patience to fetch and carry. She had her own life to live. In fact, she had been in the middle of writing one of her romances (unpublished and written under a nom de plume, of course) when the life-changing letter had arrived. To be fair, Celia had known that the estate would be entailed to someone.

  This shouldn’t have been a surprise. What simple accountant wouldn’t want to take possession of his vast inheritance right away?

  But couldn’t he at least have waited until after Christmas? Banfield Estate was wonderful during the season. It was tradition to host a holiday dinner at the manor, and Celia had been presiding since her parents’ death. Because of her brother’s death, there would be no dinner, but Celia still planned to create and deliver the gift baskets. She would have to stay on through the season to make sure they were done right.

  Celia crossed to the hearth, standing mere inches from the warmth, but she couldn’t feel it one bit. The ceaseless December rain outside matched her mood. She really had two choices: live here as a charity case, or move in with Aunt Marianne. Yes, there were perhaps other choices for a lady of her station. She could marry, but if no one had offered for her in the past five years, they certainly wouldn’t now. Her dowry was decent, but she’d already passed her prime.

  Besides, her hair was the color of red cardinal, and if that wasn’t off-putting enough, so many freckles speckled her face that powder did little good. A final option would be to take on the job of a governess. At the very thought, Celia could practically see her parents turning over in their graves.

  Yet Celia had already written to Aunt Marianne that she planned on joining her after Christmas. The plans were all set.

  Celia rubbed her cold, ink-stained hands. It seemed she was destined to live out her life as a burden to someone unless she could get published. Then she could have her own income, take a cottage by the sea, and write for the remainder of her days.

  “Lady Celia?”

  She turned to see the housekeeper, Mrs. March. The woman looked as nervous as a cat. Perhaps Celia had let her mood affect the entire household. “What is it?”

  “There’s . . . uhm . . . a carriage coming up the lane,” Mrs. March said, her eyes wide. “Mr. Garner thinks it’s the new Lord Banfield. Come a day early.”

  Chapter Two

  “Almost there, Stanley,” Aaron Thompson said, patting the old dog who sat by him in the carriage seat—a rented carriage for now, though Aaron knew he’d surely have use of multiple carriages soon. The dog continued to shiver even though Aaron had draped two blankets over the poor thing. Yes, Stanley was old, and yes, Aaron was taking his pet to Banfield Estate.

  The news of the death of Bartholomew Thompson, Earl of Banfield, had been shocking. First, the man was not yet thirty, and second, it meant that Aaron had apparently inherited an earldom. If his parents were still alive, he could imagine that his father would laugh with mirth and his mother would weep with joy. But neither of his parents was alive, and his sister had married several years ago and had established a home of her own.

  Stanley lifted his scruffy head and whimpered.

  “Getting hungry, boy?” Aaron asked. He wasn’t exactly sure what type of dog Stanley was. He’d been a ball of fur and energy when Aaron had first spotted him outside his London office. The young pup had been friendly, but also hungry. Aaron had started feeding him, and after a week or so, he’d brought the pup home.

  Aaron hadn’t planned on setting off today, but someone in his office had mentioned that it was cold enough to snow overnight. It would be impossible to travel for the next few days if it snowed. So Aaron had gathered up his things, set off for home, finished packing, and hired a carriage.

  The carriage slowed, and Aaron looked out the window, past the driving rain to the three-story mansion looming at the end of the lane. He’d seen a drawing once of Banfield Estate, but had never seen it in person. And seeing it now made this transition all the more real. Aaron was a man of business, yes, and could balance any ledger set before him, but how was he going to manage farms and tenants and . . . Lady Celia?

  He wished his mother were still alive because she would have known how to advise him on managing a young girl. He guessed her to be close to her coming out. Who would handle those sorts of matters? As distasteful as it sounded, Aaron would have to appeal to one of Lady Celia’s female relatives.

  Aaron certainly wasn’t going to take up the Banfield residence in London and escort the young lady between balls. Although he knew the expectations of his new station in life would require vast changes to his activities, the thought of stepping into a ballroom made his stomach roil. But he was only focusing on one step at a time. And the next step was to get in out of the rain and find Stanley a proper meal.

  The carriage came to a stop, and a moment later, the door was opened by the hired driver—a service that Aaron wasn’t used to and wondered if he ever would be.

  The driver then proceeded to unload and carry Aaron’s single trunk to the front of the house and up the wide stone steps. As if on cue, the front door opened, and there stood a gray-haired man in a dark suit—clearly the butler.

  “Come on, Stanley,” Aaron said, ushering the dog out of the carriage.

  The dog moved slowly. He was probably stiff just as Aaron was from the long, jolting ride. But the rain encouraged the dog to move a bit faster, and by the time they reached the front door, Aaron was only spotted with drops.

  “Welcome, sir,” the man at the door said. “I’m Mr. Garner, butler here at Banfield.”

  Aaron held out his hand to shake the butler’s, and although the man looked surprised, he shook Aaron’s hand.

  “And this is Mrs. March, our housekeeper.”

  Aaron focused next on a middle-aged woman whose hair was about the same mottled gray as Stanley’s fur. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. March.”

&
nbsp; She curtseyed. Heavens. He’d never been curtseyed to before.

  He reached to pick up the trunk at the front door, but Mr. Garner stepped forward. “I will take that for you, Lord Banfield.”

  Lord Banfield. That was his new title, Aaron knew, but it was strange to hear someone actually say it.

  Mr. Garner reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out some money to tip the driver of the carriage.

  “I was about to do that,” Aaron protested, but his words died out when Mr. Garner flashed him an incredulous look.

  So Aaron stopped talking and let Mr. Garner handle whatever it was that butlers did.

  “Lord Banfield,” Mr. Garner said. “Did you come alone or is your valet bringing the rest of your luggage?”

  Aaron blinked. “This is all my luggage, and I do not have a valet.”

  Mr. Garner exchanged glances with the housekeeper. She stepped forward. “We can procure one right away. An earl needs a valet.”

  Although she didn’t speak any criticisms, he caught her quick perusal of his attire and the slight tightening of her mouth.

  He cleared his throat. “Thank you. I would appreciate your help in finding a valet.” He’d never had use for a valet, but he knew running an earldom would have different expectations from the life of a mere accountant. “Might I ask if there’s something I can feed Stanley?”

  Her thin brows lifted. “Stanley.” Then her gaze lowered to the dog on the floor. “Oh, the dog.”

  “He’s a friendly thing, but getting on in years,” Aaron said. “His old bones don’t like the cold.”

  For the first time since Aaron’s arrival, Mrs. March’s face softened into an almost-smile. “I understand.” She bent and patted Stanley’s head. “Follow me, dog. I’ve got some scraps and a nice fire in the kitchen.”

  “Uh, Mrs. March?” Aaron said. “Once he’s fed, can you bring him to the . . . library?” He looked past her, not sure about the layout of the house. Surely there was a library in a place this massive. And Aaron would definitely feel right at home in a room full of books.

  But when he again looked at Mrs. March, he found that she was staring at him, her eyes rounded.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, wondering what sort of blunder he’d made.

  “The dog had better stay out of the main rooms. Lady Celia would not want—” She cut herself off.

  Aaron blinked. “Does Lady Celia not like dogs?”

  “I don’t rightly know,” Mrs. March said, her tone lowering. “She is quite fastidious though. I’m not sure she’d approve of a dog in the library.”

  Aaron wasn’t sure he’d heard right. How much power did a young girl have over a seasoned housekeeper?

  “Is she allergic to dogs?”

  Mrs. March’s brow furrowed. “Not that I know of. I’ve seen her pet the neighbor’s dog before.”

  “Very well, then,” Aaron said. “Bring Stanley into the library when he’s had something to eat.”

  Mrs. March’s face pinked, and she again curtseyed. “As you wish, my lord.”

  After he watched Mrs. March head for what must be the kitchen area, Aaron looked about. Mr. Garner had disappeared upstairs someplace, presumably to whichever bedroom Aaron was meant to occupy.

  Aaron walked through the great hall. Doors on the right led to a parlor, its fire quite cheery. He continued, passing another room—a music room by the looks of it—then he arrived at a very respectable library.

  In fact, it was the nicest library he’d ever been in. He walked into the room and spun slowly around, taking it all in. Bookcases rose to the ceiling, and Aaron knew that he could never read so many books in his entire lifetime, even if he started this very moment.

  Then a movement at the door caught his attention. A woman stood in the shadow of the doorframe, her russet dress nearly blending in with the woodwork. But nothing else of her blended in. For one thing, her hair was the brightest red he’d ever seen, and second, her eyes were a startling blue. The look on her face, though, was beyond description.

  If he was not mistaken, this woman wished him anywhere but here.

  Chapter Three

  He’s not old. His shoulders aren’t stooped. There isn’t a strand of gray hair on his head. He’s not gone too fat. And he doesn’t have those bushy side whiskers so many men prefer.

  Celia needed to stop staring because the man standing in the middle of the library was none other than Mr. Aaron Thompson, now the Earl of Banfield. She estimated him to be close to thirty, maybe a year or two older than her brother. His hair was a gold-brown, and his eyes a shade darker.

  Although she’d never laid eyes on the man, she had not expected him to be so young . . . and tall . . . and, well, handsome. Celia didn’t do well around handsome men or beautiful women. It only made her more aware of her flaming hair and imperfect complexion.

  But if Celia was being rude by staring at the new Lord Banfield, he was being equally rude by staring right back.

  “Lady Celia, I presume?” His low voice held a note of surprise in it.

  The sound of his voice brought her back to her senses. She dipped into a brief curtsey, not taking her eyes off him. He wasn’t exactly imposing, no, not in his second-rate suit and the scruff of evening whiskers upon his jaw. But the directness of his gaze and the tenor of his voice told her that he was a man of intelligence.

  “Welcome, L-Lord Banfield,” she said, hating the tremor that had entered her voice. She’d already raged and cried and mourned, then raged some more. Unless her brother miraculously came back from the dead, the man in front of her was the new earl.

  And now he was coming toward her. Did he mean to take her hand? Kiss her cheek? With wide eyes, she watched him approach. But when he stopped in front of her, he didn’t make any such advance.

  “We are cousins, aren’t we?” he said. “Perhaps you might call me Aaron. I am not quite used to . . . the title.”

  “I suppose not,” she said. “But I do not think it proper to call you by your Christian name.” Her pulse moved up a notch as his gaze skittered over her person. He looked at her hair, her face, her neck, her shoulders, and lower.

  His eyes snapped back to her face. “What is your age?”

  She swallowed. He had few manners, this new earl. “I am three-and-twenty.” Feeling bold, she said, “How old are you?”

  The edges of his mouth softened, and the brown of his eyes flashed with amusement. Briefly. Then it was gone. “One-and-thirty.”

  “I—I thought you’d be closer to my father’s age.” It was her turn to scrutinize him. His eyebrows were at least two shades darker than his hair, and the length of his eyelashes would make any woman envious.

  “My parents had me in their later years,” he explained. “I thought you were a young girl.”

  “No, I am quite on the shelf, as you can see.” She lifted a shoulder.

  Again, his eyes roamed over her, and she realized this man needed lessons in manner and deportment. He’d need to learn to keep his curiosities more subdued. Granted, she was curious about him. He reminded her of a new colt who was learning to stand on his feet for the first time. She was finding it hard to continue the hatred she’d built up in her mind and heart.

  “Excuse me if I am too blunt,” he said. “I am told it’s one of my downfalls. But you are hardly on the shelf, Lady Celia.”

  His tone had softened when he spoke her name.

  Celia opened her mouth to respond before she realized she had no idea what to say to the round-about compliment. More likely, he hadn’t meant it as a compliment at all, but was merely being “blunt.”

  Then he stepped back as if he’d just remembered something.

  And at that moment, Mrs. March came into the library, leading a dog.

  Celia stared at the scruffy creature that looked fresh from the streets of London—and perhaps it was.

  “Hello, Stanley.” Lord Banfield bent and scratched the dog behind his ears. “Are you happy now?”

&nb
sp; Lord Banfield’s entire demeanor had transformed, and Celia had a flash of understanding of how he might have looked or acted as a young boy. The dog thumped his tail at the attention.

  But the dog was a dirty thing and likely had fleas at the very least. “You brought a dog all the way to Banfield Estate? Does he hunt?” Clearly the dog was some sort of mongrel and probably wouldn’t know what a bird was.

  Lord Banfield looked up, wry amusement on his face. “He doesn’t hunt that I know of. I rescued him as a pup from the streets.”

  Celia considered this. She didn’t want to think of positive attributes this man might have; it was much more satisfactory to think of his negative qualities—chief among them that he was in the line of succession after her father. This man’s future children would inherit the estate next. Celia would permanently lose her home.

  “We can ask the stable boy to prepare a place for your dog,” Celia said, resigning herself to the fact that Banfield Estate now had a pet.

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary.” He straightened and brushed his hands. Bits of fur floated down as a result.

  Celia tried to hide her shudder. It wasn’t that she was opposed to pets on principle. If they kept to the outdoors.

  “Stanley will be sleeping in my room,” he said.

  Celia’s mouth fell open.

  Lord Banfield didn’t seem to notice her horror at his announcement. Celia wanted to argue with him, but with Mrs. March in the room, Celia didn’t dare defy the new master of the house.

  Lord Banfield’s gaze went to Mrs. March. “Perhaps I can use an old blanket for Stanley’s bed? If you’ll but direct me, I can get things set up. The old dog’s used to taking more than one nap a day.”

  Mrs. March smiled at the man, then quickly schooled her features when she noticed Celia looking at her.

  “Lord Banfield,” Celia spoke up. “You might reconsider where you house your dog. Dog hair is difficult to manage, and what if he barks at night?”