Three Weeks with a Princess

by Vanessa Kelly

  “Very good, sir. I took the liberty of lighting a fire a few minutes ago, so the room should be nice and warm by now.”

  Lia wrinkled her nose at the young footman, who carried himself with a dignity beyond his years. “How did you know?”

  “Did we not previously agree that Richard always knows?” Jack said. “Now, come along before you catch your death of cold.”

  As he hauled her along the corridor, Lia cast a thank-you smile over her shoulder. The footman shook his head with disapproval. Richard was another one who worried about her getting into trouble, although she couldn’t imagine what sort of trouble she was supposed to get into with Jack. In his company, she was always safe.

  They slipped into the library, their footfalls muffled by the thick Axminster carpet that insulated them from the chill of the old stone floors.

  Jack led her to the fireplace and pushed her down onto the thickly padded seat of a club chair. With a sigh of pleasure, she stretched her feet toward the merrily leaping flames, luxuriating in the heat that washed over her.

  “Good Lord,” he said, crouching down before her.

  “What is it?”

  He felt her foot. “Your boots are soaked through.” His hand moved up to her ankle. “And so are your stockings.”

  His warm fingers marked her like a brand, even through her thick woolen stockings. Cheeks flaming, Lia jerked away and tucked her feet under herself on the chair. Jack muttered an oath and tugged them back out, propping them against the firedogs.

  He inspected her boots with disfavor. “When was the last time you had a new pair?”

  Now even more embarrassed, Lia simply shrugged. The boots, hand-me-downs from her grandmother, were perfectly fine for puttering around in dry lanes in mild weather, but the soles had lately sprung a leak. Even lining them with scraps of wool and linen had failed to keep the moisture out.

  Jack let out a sigh as he came to his feet, his broad shoulders and long, muscular legs backlit by the fire. She swore he’d grown two inches since she’d last seen him and had certainly filled out very nicely.

  “When was the last time you had a new pair of boots?” he insistently repeated.

  She waved a vague hand. “Oh, these are just one of my older pairs. I didn’t want to ruin the good ones in the snow.”

  His snort indicated how little he believed that Banbury tale, but Lia chose not to argue. Money had been a bit scarcer of late, although she wasn’t sure why. Lord Lendale provided Granny and her with whatever they needed. But he’d recently been forgetful, neglecting details like new boots for her or Granny’s favorite gunpowder tea, sent special from London.

  Far worse, he’d neglected repairs to their increasingly leaky roof, which was certainly not a luxury.

  “I’ll speak to my uncle,” Jack said. “He’ll see to it that you get a new pair.”

  She shot upright in her seat. “No, please don’t.”

  “Don’t be silly, Lia.”

  “Jack, I’m serious. Don’t make a fuss.”

  “Whyever not? Uncle Arthur would be very unhappy to know you’re going about with wet feet.”

  “Because Granny hates fussing at Lord Lendale, that’s why. Or make him feel guilty, which is even worse. He’s been so good to us, and we have absolutely no right to complain.”

  Because his back was to the fire, Jack’s face was mostly in shadow. But Lia could see the annoyed set to his shoulders. “Jack, please let it go, for my sake.”

  “He should take better care of you,” he replied in a hard voice.

  “Lord Lendale takes excellent care of us, I assure you.” She patted the arm of the chair next to her. “Please sit down, at least for a minute. You’re like some giant looming over me. I feel quite intimidated.”

  “That’s a laugh,” he said, sitting down. “Listen to me, Lia. I’m taking you into the village before I leave and buying you a new pair of boots.” He cut off her objections with an imperious hand. “Think of it as my Christmas present to you.”

  Jack was loyal to a fault, and she knew he worried about her and her grandmother. More than anyone, he understood their precarious position as dependents on Lord Lendale’s support. Lia had formed the impression over the years that Jack didn’t think his uncle had treated Rebecca Kincaid as well as he should. She half agreed with that opinion, although it seemed utterly disloyal to the man who’d, in many ways, stood in as a father to her.

  “Thank you,” she said, giving him a warm smile. “But that would be much too generous.”

  “I can’t go waltzing off to the Peninsula knowing you’re freezing your feet off up here in Yorkshire. I’d worry so much about you that I’d likely fall into a horrible decline.”

  She laughed. “Now you’re just being silly.”

  He turned his head to smile at her. “I am, but you should know that I’d already planned to take you shopping for a present before I left for London.”

  She ignored the stab of pain that pierced her whenever she thought of him going so far away. “I’ve got a Christmas present for you, too.”

  “Pet, that was sweet of you, but I don’t want you spending money on me.” His deep voice curled around her, bringing warmth and peace.

  “Then you’ll be happy to know I didn’t spend a farthing,” she replied with a cheeky grin.

  He snorted. “Brat. What did you get me?”

  She fished under her pelisse and extracted a square of fabric from the inside pocket of her gown. Carefully, she unfolded it to show him the small object contained within.

  “Good Lord,” he breathed as he took it from her. “Where did you find it?”

  “At the ruins of the abbey outside Ripon. Your uncle took Granny and me there last August.”

  While her grandmother and his lordship had sat on a blanket, talking softly and making sheep’s eyes at each other, Lia had gone off exploring the ruins. It had been the luckiest chance when, climbing over a tumbledown wall, her foot had slipped, sending her down on her bottom into the grass. She hadn’t hurt herself, but she had dislodged some of the crumbling stone. Lying in the dirt beside her had been an old Roman coin.

  Lia had known instantly what she would do with her find. Jack had a passion for history and had spent many a holiday rummaging around various ruins. Roman, Saxon, Norman: He loved them all. Granny had even allowed Lia to go with him a few times, once to the very ruins where she’d found the coin.

  “That’s where I took you when you were just a little girl,” he said as he held the coin up to the light.

  “Not so little,” she protested.

  “You were only nine,” he said with a wry smile.

  “I suppose you’re right,” she grumbled. He probably still thought of her as a little girl.

  “And a rather grubby one, as I recall,” he joked.

  “Now you sound like Granny,” she said.

  He reached over and tugged one of the curls that hung limply by her cheek. “I’m just teasing. Seriously, Lia, this coin is in excellent condition. Are you sure you want to give it to me?”

  “Of course,” she said, stung that he would even consider refusing it. “I told you, it’s your Christmas present.”

  As he studied her, she felt strangely awkward, as if he saw something new in her.

  “Thank you, sweet girl.” He tucked the coin inside his coat pocket. “I’ll keep it with me always as a good-luck charm.”

  “And it will help you to remember me when you’re far away.”

  “Goose. As if I could ever forget you.”

  If only she could believe he would not. “Truly?”

  “Of course. You are my dear little friend.”

  She swallowed a sigh.

  When the mantel clock quietly bonged out the quarter hour, Jack grimaced.

  “You have to go,” she said.

  “Yes. I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

  Lia stood. “Don’t be silly. You’ll get in trouble if you stay away any longer.”

  He took her hand an
d led her to the French doors that opened to the terrace and back garden. From there, she could cut through to the path that led to Bluebell Cottage.

  “Go straight home,” he said as he opened the doors. “No hanging about and trying to catch a glimpse of the festivities, understand? You’ll get too cold again.”

  “Yes, Jack,” she said dutifully. “You don’t have to worry about me.” She could take care of herself, but his concern warmed her more than any fire could.

  “I promise I’ll come down in a day or so to visit you and your grandmother,” he said.

  She smiled up at him before slipping through the door. Then she paused for a moment. “They’re singing carols,” she said quietly.

  He stepped outside and stood with her on the wide terrace, where the stones had been swept clean of snow. When he put a casual arm around her shoulders and tucked her against his side, Lia’s throat went tight with emotion.

  An enthusiastic if slightly off-key rendition of “Joy to the World” drifted out from the great hall. Lia glanced up at the sky, an inky vault with a bright spangle of stars flung across the void. When she gasped, Jack followed her gaze skyward.

  He laughed. “Well, look at that.”

  It was a shooting star. No, not one, but another and then another, as if fired from the barrel of an enormous gun.

  “Quick, Lia. Make a wish,” Jack said.

  Two wishes came to her instantly. The first was that whatever travels or dangers he faced, Jack would always come safely home. The second was that someday she would stand again on this terrace with him, but as a grown woman. Then she would finally tell him that she loved him with all her heart.

  “Did you make a wish, too?” she whispered.

  “I did.”

  “Are you going to tell me what it was?”

  He pressed a brief kiss to the top of her head before letting go. “No, because if I told you, it wouldn’t come true. Besides, it might annoy you,” he added in a teasing tone.

  She poked him in the side. “You are so irritating, Jack Easton.”

  He smiled at her, looking impossibly handsome. “I know, but I’ll make it up to you when I next visit.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “I’ll see you later, then,” she said, starting for the terrace steps.

  “Lia.”

  She looked over her shoulder. “Yes?”

  “Merry Christmas, my dearest girl,” he called softly.

  Again her throat went so tight she couldn’t force out a single word. So she simply raised a hand before slipping off into the dark winter night.

  Chapter One

  Yorkshire

  July 1816

  “How the hell did he let it become such a disaster?” Jack said, pushing aside the ledger. Every time he’d looked at the bloody thing he’d held out a faint hope that circumstances weren’t as bad as they appeared. And every time he was wrong.

  The large, leather-clad account book was one of several piled haphazardly before him on the library desk. On the other side of that pile sat Atticus Lindsey, the longtime estate manager at Stonefell and a truly estimable man. He had to be, because he’d put up with years of financial messes and managed to ameliorate some of the worst effects. But even Lindsey’s business acumen and dedication to the family could no longer stave off the inevitable.

  Thanks to Jack’s uncle, the previous marquess, Stonefell Hall stood on the brink of ruin, and the Easton family fortunes weren’t far behind.

  His estate manager struggled to articulate some positive news—and failed.

  “It’s all right, Lindsey,” Jack finally said. “I know we’re teetering on the edge of the abyss. The only question now is how to walk ourselves back from it.”

  The middle-aged widower, whose kind face and gentle manner were combined with a whip-smart mind, pulled a grimace. “There are a few things we can try, my lord. We can take down the remaining viable timber in the home wood, for one. The income from that would stave off the creditors till the next quarter.”

  Jack hated that idea. So many noble trees had already been lost. Stonefell’s woods had once been the finest in this part of Yorkshire, but they were now a pale imitation of their former glory.

  “We’ll do that only as a last resort,” he said. “I’m hoping the harvest will be better this year. The revenues from that should take us well into next year.”

  Lindsey eyed him. “Of course, sir.”

  In other words, good luck with that, you bloody fool.

  He certainly wouldn’t have blamed Lindsey if he’d said those words out loud. Jack had rarely involved himself in estate business, even though he’d known for two years that the Lendale title would fall directly to him. That was when Jack’s father, heir to his older brother, had died of apoplexy, brought on by a life of drinking and excess. His father had evaded responsibility whenever possible. Even in death he’d run true to form and had left Jack to pick up the pieces of a family all but in ruins.

  As for the recently deceased marquess . . . well, Uncle Arthur had been a kind man, loyal to family and friend alike. And he’d been more than generous to Jack, always providing him with a safe haven from his warring parents and helping him achieve a military career by purchasing his commission.

  But as a man of business and a caretaker of the family fortune and legacy, the third Marquess of Lendale had been an absolute disaster.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” Lindsey said in a tone warm with sympathy. “I wish I had better news to impart, but the tenant farmers are barely holding on as it is. We’ll need years of good harvests to make up for the ground we’ve lost.”

  Jack repressed the impulse to bang his head on the pile of ledgers. Maybe if he did that long enough the figures would somehow untangle themselves. He’d spent so many late nights pouring over the damn numbers, searching for even a thread of good news, he could barely see straight.

  For years he’d tried to escape all the family drama by focusing his energies on his military career. He’d worked his arse off, climbing up the chain of command until serving directly under Wellington himself. And even though the fortunes of war were often bleak, he’d loved his work. If fate had decreed otherwise, he’d still be in the army.

  But fate had decreed otherwise, and now he was someone he’d never wanted to be—the Marquess of Lendale. The title had been shared by a disreputable group of aristocrats more known for their spendthrift, rakish lifestyles than for nurturing the blessings graced by God and king.

  Well, he’d be damned if he was the one to bring the estate crashing down around his mother and sister. They deserved more than that, as did the tenants and staff who worked at Stonefell and in the mansion in London.

  And he could never forget Lia and Rebecca, who were as much his responsibility as anyone else under his care.

  “What about that idea you floated in your letter to me a few weeks back, when I was in Lincolnshire?” he asked Lindsey.

  He’d been there for the wedding of his closest friend, the Duke of Leverton, to the unconventional Miss Gillian Dryden. It had been a welcome respite from his problems, although their marriage had raised a tricky issue he had yet to work out.

  Lindsey brightened. “You mean Stonefell’s potential for ore and coal mining? The surveys have yielded some very positive results, but in order to proceed, we need . . .”

  “Additional investments,” Jack said grimly.

  “Yes, sir, for more surveys and preliminary explorations. And to go ahead with any sort of comprehensive venture at this point, we would need a substantial investment.”

  “Would selling the rest of the timber in the home wood be enough to get us started?” Jack loathed the very notion, but he’d be willing to make the sacrifice. A productive mining operation would not only provide jobs for his struggling tenants and villagers, it could alleviate the debts encumbering the estate.

  “I’m afraid not,” Lindsey said with a regretful shake of the head. “There’s no dou
bt we need outside backers to establish a viable operation.”

  But any investor worth his salt would want to see profits as soon as possible. No one would be inclined to invest if they had to wait several years until Jack restored the estate to health. There was another alternative, of course, but he wasn’t particularly thrilled about that one either.

  He closed the ledger in front of him with a thud. “I think we’ve both depressed ourselves enough for one day, Lindsey. I’ll be traveling to London in a few weeks. I will speak to my bankers about finding potential—and patient—investors while I’m there.”

  Lindsey stood up. “Very good, my lord. I can put out feelers to a few private investors when I’m next in Ripon, if you like.”

  “Do that but quietly. We don’t need word getting around that things are as bad as they are.”

  “As you wish.”

  After Lindsey collected the ledgers and soft-footed his way out, Jack eyed the remaining work on his desk. It felt as if he’d been confined to the stuffy old room forever. Normally, his uncle’s library—his library now—was a favorite place to while away the time. It had always been a welcoming retreat, with its elegant Queen Anne furniture richly mellowed by age, a collection of books lovingly built up over the generations, and several truly impressive globes his uncle had acquired over the years. The handsome room spoke of the taste, wealth, and power of the Lendale line.

  Today it felt more like a prison.

  He stood and headed for the French doors, his hand automatically reaching out to spin the largest and oldest of the globes as he passed.

  You really ought to sell that, old boy, along with the rest of them.

  It just might come to that. Along with the antique volumes on the shelves, the globes would attract a pretty sum from a collector.

  Shoving aside that unpleasant thought, he stepped onto the terrace, lifting his face to the late afternoon sun. It had been a cool, rainy summer, so even a hint of sunshine was welcome.

  He gazed out over this little piece of his domain. The flower gardens behind the house had always been a pleasing mix of roses, flowering shrubs, and hedges. And although the roses still bloomed thick and full, and the ivy and honeysuckle twined lushly along the stone balustrades of the terrace, the garden was no longer up to its previous immaculate standards. The hedges looked a bit ragged, the roses verged on running wild, and the lawn was just a little too long. Old Merton, the head gardener, was doing his best, but Lindsey had been forced to let some outside staff go last year. Only the kitchen gardens were still in top shape, and that was thanks to Lia. According to the housekeeper, she diligently helped Merton tend the extensive herb and vegetable gardens that kept the house abundantly supplied.