Holly and Hopeful Hearts

by Caroline Warfield

  Vanessa smiled. Louise was looking very pretty in a light blue gown with embroidered flowers at the hem and gold ribbon at her waist and sleeves. She wore her mother’s gold tiara trimmed in sapphires, gold earrings, and a set of pearls around her neck.

  “I know you won’t.” Vanessa turned to face Louise and cocked her head to one side. “I never knew your mother, of course, but I have seen her portrait in the parlor, and I believe you look very much like her, Louise. I’m sure she would be very proud of you.”

  Louise’s eyes filled with tears. “I hope she would,” she choked out. “I believe she would, now. Do you believe she is up in heaven watching us, Vanessa? I like to think so. I talk to her sometimes.”

  Vanessa took her hand. “I’m sure she is, Louise. And you should continue to talk to her. I do the same with my paternal grandmother who died when I was seventeen. And I still feel her presence in my life.”

  A knock sounded at the door, and Cotter hurried to admit Mr. Durand. George was looking quite handsome in his dark blue Weston jacket, matching trousers, gold waistcoat, and neckcloth tied in a perfect Mathematical. He bowed low before his two ladies.

  “Breathtaking. Simply breathtaking. I shall be the most envied gentleman in the room.” He took Vanessa’s hand and kissed it, while treating her with a heated gaze that caused her to feel somewhat over-warm. Then he gave a long look at his daughter and whistled. “You look so like your mother, my dear. So beautiful… and quite grown-up. What ever happened to the little moppet who used to love digging worms for bait?”

  Louise rolled her eyes, but Vanessa could see she was pleased.

  “Shall we be on our way, ladies?”

  “You know,” George said to Vanessa as they made their way to the ballroom, “I shan’t be willing to let her go for years yet. Perhaps twenty-five? And even then only to a very steady sort of fellow, perhaps someone older and more experienced.”

  Louise giggled. “I can hear you, Papa.”

  Vanessa grinned. “His age cannot possibly be of any import. Why, from what I’ve heard, you yourself were a steady sort of gentleman at quite a young age.”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “Alas, I am young no longer. Are you certain you wish to wed an old man such as I, Vanessa?”

  Vanessa squeezed his hand. “An old man? Don’t be ridiculous! But I do wish to wed you, my love, at whatever age you may be.”

  “Forty,” said Louise unnecessarily, “He’ll be forty on February 14, 1813, the day of your wedding. But you are much younger, so I shall expect to have siblings straightaway. A sister and a brother, I think. Shall I help you with names? I’ve always thought Désirée to be a pretty name. As for boys, I haven’t thought of those, but I should be happy to put my mind to it as soon as may be.”

  Vanessa and George looked into each other’s eyes and burst out laughing. Finally, George took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes with it. By this time, they had reached the ballroom.

  “We have a ball to attend first, my dear. And then a wedding. But Vanessa and I will be grateful for your assistance when the time comes.”

  He nodded to the footman, who opened the door to the glittering ballroom and announced them.

  “Mr. George Durand, Miss Vanessa Sedgely, and Miss Louise Durand.”

  And the three of them entered the room to greet the New Year and their future lives together.

  About Susana Ellis

  Susana Ellis has always had stories in her head waiting to come out, especially when she learned to read and her imagination began to soar. A former teacher, Susana lives in Toledo, Ohio in the summer and Florida in the winter. She is a member of the Central Florida Romance Writers and the Beau Monde chapters of RWA and Maumee Valley Romance Inc.

  Website: http://www.susanaellis.com

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/susana.ellis.5

  Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/susanaauthor

  Other Books by Susana Ellis

  The Ultimate Escape

  Book 1 of The Lady P Chronicles

  Abandoned on his wedding day, Oliver must choose between losing his bride forever or crossing over two hundred years to find her and win her back.

  A Home for Helena

  Book 2 of The Lady P Chronicles

  Her parents lost a baby twenty-six years ago. Will they want her back when they find out the truth?

  * * *

  The Third MacPherson Sister

  Rebecca’s older sisters took the ton by storm while she herself has failed to attract a suitor in four Seasons. Miles is pondering his urgent need for a wife when Rebecca lands in his lap in the nave of Bath Abbey. A match between them seems ordained by the heavens… except for the little matter of his past history with her sisters.

  Lost and Found Lady

  Catalina and Rupert fell in love in Spain in the aftermath of a battle, only to be separated by circumstances. Years later, they find each other again, just as another battle is brewing, but is it too late?

  Treasuring Theresa

  Book 1 of The Hertfordshire Hoydens

  She’s a country lady. He’s a London swell. They have nothing in common. Or have they?

  Treasuring Theresa was a finalist in the 2013 EPIC Awards.

  A Twelfth Night Tale

  A wounded soldier and the girl next door find peace and love amidst a backdrop of rural Christmas traditions.

  A Suitable Husband

  Chapter 1

  Hollystone Hall, Buckinghamshire

  November 1812

  Marcel Fournier sat on the bed assigned to him in the wing set aside for upper servants at Hollystone Hall and brooded on his wrongs.

  The house was grand enough, the house party would serve the highest in Society, and Marcel could certainly not complain about the wages he would receive for a mere month of employment. The Duchess of Haverford was also compensating him richly for the few days needed to visit the house this month so he could advise on the construction of the kitchen he would use for the three-week event.

  And that was the sticking point.

  Not the kitchen itself. They were building—had almost finished building—a whole new kitchen out of some unused storage rooms. He was thrilled and flattered to have final say on the selection and placement of equipment, from the modern iron range to the last pot and spoon. No. He had no complaints about the kitchen he already regarded as his own.

  Even the need for a second kitchen; he could concede the sense of that. To him would fall the important task of preparing the banquets that would thrill and impress the guests each and every night, culminating in the dinner on the night of the grand ball that would end the house party. He and the servants set to assist him would have their hands full with dish after dish after dish, each one different and each magnificent.

  Let the English cook have her own kitchen to make little scones and heavy cakes, to fry eggs, bacon, and sausages, for the lesser meals of the day.

  But she should answer to him. He, Marcel Fournier, was the master chef. He was a former apprentice to the great Carême himself. He should be in charge of all menus, ruler of both kitchens, deciding what would be made and how the kitchen staff were to be allocated. What was this Cissie Pearce but a country cook?

  “Good English cooking,” Mademoiselle Grenford had said. “Mrs. Pearce is known for her good English cooking.”

  Marcel could do good English cooking! Had he not grown up here in England after his family escaped from the Terror?

  In Spitalfields, until he was apprenticed to a cook in an inn on Tottenham Court Road, then in Soho where he took charge in an earl’s kitchen, and finally, after having himself smuggled into France and attracting the man’s attention by the bold trick of sneaking into his office with a box of his own pâtisseries and menus for a year’s worth of banquets, in the kitchen and under the direct supervision of the great Marie-Antoine Carême, chef to Talleyrand and through him to the diplomats of Europe.

  For the past two years, Marcel had been one of the m
ost sought-after chefs in the whole South of England. Good English cooking, indeed.

  She was a little dab of a thing, Mademoiselle Grenford, with her light brown hair pulled back into one of the unloveliest coiffures he had ever seen and her thick glasses concealing rather fine eyes. He had thought her a mouse and had tried to overwhelm her with his masculine authority, honed by years as undisputed master of a kitchen. “I shall be in charge, of course, Mademoiselle,” he told her. “I am a trained chef and a man. Madame Pearce shall lead in her own kitchen, but both kitchens shall answer to me.”

  “The two kitchens shall operate independently, Monsieur Fournier,” the little mouse replied calmly. “Each of you shall be responsible for your own kitchen, its staff, and the food it produces.”

  Whatever arguments he raised, however loudly, she just repeated the same thing. When Marcel Fournier was displeased, sous-chefs made themselves inconspicuous, apprentices cried, and kitchen maids fainted, but Mademoiselle Grenford just repeated, “The two kitchens shall operate independently,” until he ran out of ire, and came to bed.

  So what now? Did he continue to agitate to be master below stairs? Or should he tell the duchess that he would not take the commission? Cede the field and with it the lucrative rewards of the handsome fee he was being paid and the opportunity to impress potential clients for the restaurant he would one day open when his savings grew sufficiently?

  Put like that, there was little choice. The English had a saying about cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face. He preferred his nose to continue in its current position. Well then. In the morning, he would concede, and he would do so with flair. Madame Pearce would be grateful for his magnanimity. Mademoiselle Grenford would be impressed at his generosity.

  Since he was staying, he would inspect his kitchen again. He had some ideas for improving the layout. He would note them tonight and instruct the little mademoiselle in the morning.

  Marcel found his slate and some chalk and threaded through the dark halls. His candle threw insufficient light in the cavernous space that would, in less than a month, be a bustling center for gastronomic excellence. He retraced his steps to Mrs. Pearce’s deserted domain and retrieved a whole box of candles.

  Two hours later, his slate covered with notes and his head full of plans, he went to return the box. In the morning, he would astound the little mouse with his brilliance! But he stopped at the kitchen door. There, enveloped in a shawl over her nightrail, with her hair cascading over her shoulders, was Mademoiselle Grenford herself, her elbows on the table, a cup clasped between two hands.

  Hot milk, perhaps? He could have made her hot milk, with a touch of nutmeg and perhaps a hint of honey to sweeten. Perhaps he should offer.

  No. He would not disturb her.

  Marcel took the image of her back to his room. She was a sweet little mouse, was Mademoiselle. Out of his orbit, of course. He hinted to clients of his elevated family, brought low by the revolution. The claims were fantasy. He had been born in a noble household, as he claimed, but his father was a valet, and his mother a dairy maid. La Grenford really was a lady of the nobility, and from a ducal family at that.

  But he could ease her way in this coming house party, and he would.

  As he prepared for bed, he imagined her expressions of delight as guest after guest complimented her on the fine cuisine and the smooth running of the dinner service. The large, comfortable bed would do very well for the month he would be in residence. Yes. The decision to stay was an excellent one.

  He reached over to douse the candle but stopped. What was that noise? There it was again. A squeak? Had he conjured mice with his thoughts of the little mouse lady? But no, it was not a mouse squeak. More of a…

  In seconds, he was out of bed and zeroing in on his travelling trunk, from which the sounds came, and what he saw there sent him running to the kitchen.

  “Mademoiselle, you must come. You must come immediately. It is an outrage.”

  She looked up and blushed scarlet. “Monsieur! Your…” She turned her head away.

  He looked down. He wore his shirt to bed, and nothing more, except a night cap against the cold. Coloring himself, he backed out the door. “I will dress, Mademoiselle. But quickly, and then you must come. A minute. No more.”

  Soon, with the cap shoved under a pillow and his shirt tucked into hastily donned pantaloons and covered by a banyan, he stood beside the lady looking down into the trunk, where a scrawny white cat fed a litter of newborn kittens. Inside his luggage. On his chef’s caps and aprons.

  “It is an outrage,” he repeated a little helplessly. The cat was watching them through eyes slitted with the joys of motherhood and purring loudly enough to wake the household.

  “This is Cristal, the housekeeper’s cat,” the mademoiselle said. “Mrs. Stanley will be pleased that you found her, Monsieur Fournier. She was worried.”

  “Found her? Worried? But she…” Running out of words, he scratched the cat behind one ear, and she purred more loudly.

  “You keep an eye on her,” the mouse commanded, “and I shall find a box in which to move her. Do not worry, Monsieur. I will see to it that your garments are laundered in the morning, and they shall be good as new.”

  And she whisked out of the room, leaving him guardian of the feline and her young and in possession of the memory of an exceedingly trim pair of ankles.

  A Kiss for Charity

  by Sherry Ewing

  Young widow Grace, Lady de Courtenay, has no idea how a close encounter with a rake at a masquerade ball would make her yearn for love again. Lord Nicholas Lacey is captivated by a lovely young woman he encounters at a masquerade. Considering the company she keeps, she might be interested in becoming his mistress. From the darkened paths of Vauxhall Gardens to a countryside estate called Hollystone Hall, Nicholas and Grace must set aside their differences in order to let love into their hearts.

  Prologue

  Highgrove Manor

  Summer, 1810

  Lord Nicholas Lacey reached for the decanter of brandy near at hand, pulled the stopper, and raised the entire container to his lips. The roaring fire within his hearth did nothing to chase away the coldness now coursing through him. Nothing could. Numb. He was chilled to the bone from the news he had just received by special messenger.

  The liquor burned its way down his throat, perhaps in an attempt to light a fire in the pit of his stomach. That he was even able to swallow was surely a testament to his need to get completely inebriated. He knew offering up a prayer to a higher power would do him no good. God had forsaken him.

  How could he have known when he wished his dear wife safe travels that it would be the last time he would ever see her? Juliette had been the light of his life, though their marriage had been arranged. Even now, amidst the tragedy tearing his soul apart, he could hear her sweet tinkling laughter, her soft French accent. She had begged him to accompany her, her sister Geneviève, and their mother to London. A last minute issue with the estate had left Nicholas with no other recourse than to decline in order to see to the matter. He would regret the decision not to spend the extra time with her. Perhaps if he had been there, she would even now be enjoying the delights of town. He would not think of the alternative that would have left Blanche an orphan.

  Nicholas took another swig, not caring that the brandy should have been sipped or savored, not gulped down like the cheapest of gins. He set the decanter down and reached for the crumbled parchment that had fallen to the floor. His vision blurred with unshed tears while he read it yet again. The message that had transformed his entire world in one heartbeat unfortunately did not change. His innards churned. A blinding anger erupted in a growl of pain, replacing his stunned silence. His hand swept the table, and the brandy decanter went flying through the air until it smashed against the fireplace mantel, leaving splintered shards of sparkling glass upon the floor. Nicholas wiped at his eyes and rested his head back upon his chair. He could almost see what had happened to his wi
fe, along with her sister and mother, as if he had been witness to the horrific scene.

  Their carriage had been attacked by highwaymen. The driver and footmen had been ordered to the ground during the robbery attempt. In the midst of taking the ladies’ valuables, one of the footmen fired a shot at one of the bandits. He missed, and his error in judgement not only cost his own life, but had spooked the horses. With no driver to stop the runaway team, the carriage bolted away and hit a boulder, causing a wheel to shatter, and sending the rig end-over-end until it fell into a deep ravine. All had perished.

  “Carson,” Nicholas called out to his butler. His voice cracked with grief, yet he knew he must remain strong, at least in front of others.

  Ever-efficient, his man answered as though he had been standing just outside the doorway. “Yes, my lord?”

  Nicholas went to the sideboard where more brandy waited, and poured a generous glassful, leaving the bottle behind. “Inform Mrs. Robinson to ready the house in order to observe a period of mourning. Then have a maid run up and fetch my daughter.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Carson proceeded to quietly leave the room.

  He did not have long to wait before he heard the pitter patter of his daughter’s feet racing down the stairway. A round, happy face with bright cornflower blue eyes stared back at him when she saw him. Blonde ringlets bounced upon her head as she made her way across the room. Blanche looked so much like her mother it broke his heart all over again, knowing he would need to tell his thirteen-year-old daughter that her mother had gone to heaven.