ROMANCE: His Reluctant Heart (Historical Western Victorian Romance) (Historical Mail Order Bride Romance Fantasy Short Stories)

by Jane Prescott

  “Thanks, Liv,” she said, thankful she could hold back her tears. “I’m gonna go get dressed.”

  Olivia gave her a playful swat as she headed to her room. The bed was a Queen sized canopy bed with gauzy pink curtains tied together and a pearlescent headboard. Her suitcase was sitting next to the high bed, and she ripped it open, hunting for the green dress Olivia told her to wear. She showered and slipped it on twenty minutes later, happy that she had one dress that hugged t pp0- he gentle curves of her slim frame. The skirt fell to mid-thigh, and it highlighted the creamy paleness of her skin, another aspect of her appearance Sharon used to tease her mercilessly for. When she caught herself in the mirror, she almost didn’t recognize herself; her face was flushed, her short hair curled gently around her face, and her eyes were soft and shining with excitement. Her curves looked fuller and her waist more pronounced. She realized she hadn’t worn this dress in a year, and hadn’t had a date since the first year she started working for the Ikedas. Had she really been neglecting herself for so long?

  “No more,” Roz whispered to herself. She was going to take Olivia’s advice; no longer would she coast mindlessly through life on a wave of contentment. She wanted to feel like she had this afternoon---alive and changing and growing, real. She remembered Artie’s hand on hers, warm and solid, and the surge of adrenaline she’d felt when he leaned in, close enough to kiss her. Roz took a deep breath, holding her own gaze in the mirror. I can do this, she decided. I’m going to do this. I’m going to win one for myself.

  She strode out of her room with purpose, full of nerves and teeming with energy.

  Two hours later, she felt as though she had been thrown to the bottom of a well. Artie had been perfectly pleasant to her, but had been far more interested in speaking with the other guests. The food looked amazing, but it was tasteless and cold to Roz. She played with her potatoes dejectedly until an attendant came and lifted it away. Olivia kept looking from Artie to Roz, apparently noticing his sudden coldness as well. Roz was happy she hadn’t imagined his warmth or his sudden change in mood; both had been so unexpected it would have been easy to convince her that she’d imagined it. The guests filtered out of the lovely dining hall slowly, scraping their chairs against the cleaning wooden floors loudly as they exited. Olivia, Roz, and Artie were last; Ben had taken Bradley to bed after he’d fallen asleep eating Jell-O. He’d patted Roz’s head affectionately as he left the room, the only gesture he could offer while holding his son. Olivia was gazing at Artie coolly. Roz fidgeted in her seat, wanting nothing more but to flee. He hadn’t said more than a few curt words to her all night. Her mind was jumpy from flipping through all the possible ways she could have offended him, but there were none that made sense. Olivia must have come to the same conclusion as well. She rose, finally, eyes still on Artie, who was staring at his wine glass resolutely.

  “Well, Roz,” she said slowly. “I’ll see you at the cabin. I don’t think there’s anything worth staying for here.”

  Roz burned with anger and embarrassment as she studied Artie’s face. He still wasn’t looking at her, and it was growing more and more awkward with every passing minute. She cleared her throat, waiting for him to look up. When he didn’t, she did it again. He still wouldn’t answer.

  “Artie,” she snapped, finally fed up. “This is ridiculous. Just tell me why you’re blowing me off. Tell me you were playing with me. Tell me it was a dare.” Tears welled in her eyes, and Artie slowly raised his icy blue gaze to meet hers. “Just tell me you didn’t mean anything you said, so I can go. “ Roz stood, her legs shaky, but determined to storm out as strongly as Olivia had.

  Artie sighed, and the sound broke Roz’s heart and shattered her will power. “My brother says I can’t hang out with you,” he said, utterly forlorn. He sounded so miserable that Roz actually laughed.

  “You’re kidding, right?” she spat. “Your brother--who, if I remember correctly, is only a few years older than you--- forbade you to hang out with me like you’re some child?” The anger swelling in her chest felt like it was too strong to be pointed at one person, but it felt good to let out. “You’re going to let your older sibling run your life---and for what? So you can keep impressing him?”

  “You don’t understand,” Artie said, his voice hurt. “My whole life has been about making him happy, proving to him that I’m responsible. He thinks I’m just chasing after some silly fantasy.” His face burned red, and his words grew more fierce. “He doesn’t understand the way you make me feel. He’s never been like that.”

  “He doesn’t have to understand!” Roz said desperately. She walked around the table and stood in front of him, and Artie stood quickly, startled by the movement. “He just has to respect your decisions. This is your life, Artie. You have to be the one happy to live it, not him. You have to remember to live for yourself. Tell Sh----tell your brother the truth.” Artie looked at her curiously, and Roz tried to move on, not wanting him to know she’d almost said her sister’s name. “Tell him you want this, and then just do it. You don’t need his approval. You don’t need anyone’s approval She hesitated, then placed her palms on either side of his face. Artie held her wrists gently, rubbing her soft skin with his thumb. “You just need to be happy. You’ve accomplished so much. Didn’t you promise your dad you’d never let this resort get in the way of your happiness?”

  She watched her words impact Artie. The panic in eyes started to slide away, and his shoulders relaxed. His coloring returned to normal, and he pulled both her wrists around him until he could wrap his strong arms around her. Roz felt his heart beat against her chest, matching the frantic pace of her own. Roz relaxed into his broad chest, feeling the peculiarly fuzzy happiness that she discovered when she’d first been alone with him. It was unbelievable to her that she’d only known him a day; it felt much longer.

  He pulled back from her too soon, but his eyes were soft and much warmer now. “I’m sorry,” Artie said, cupping her face gently. “I don’t know why I bowed to him like that. Thank you for saying all that. I think I really needed to hear it.” He was gazing at her full lips and studying her freckles with a look of pure wonder. “How did you know I needed to hear that?”

  Roz smiled, embarrassed. “I know something about bowing to older siblings. Someone very close to me gave me a similar talk, or else I would have been as lost as you.” She felt a surge of affection for him, and before she could stop herself, she raised herself to her tiptoes and pressed her mouth against his.

  Artie stiffened in surprise, then relaxed, wrapping his arms around his slim waist and holding her against him as his lips opened and their tongues entangled gently. She felt the breath leaving her lungs, and her skin tingled as she plunged her fingers into his wavy hair. He bent her backwards, pressing his lips harder against hers until she let out a delirious moan. Then he was pulling her up, and his mouth was receding. Roz sucked air into her lungs as he released her, and she grabbed his arms to steady herself as the ground rocked under her feet.

  “Wow,” she said breathlessly. He was gazing at her intently, his pale blue eyes burning with emotion.

  “Wow,” he echoed. “And to think I almost didn’t get to do that.”

  “Idiot,” Roz teased. She heard a squealing sound from the doorway, and turned to see Olivia peering at them through the glass door. Roz flushed with embarrassment, but Artie just laughed.

  “I’m glad she’s supportive,” he admitted. “I was worried she’d have a problem with me moving in on their nanny.”

  “Are you kidding?” Roz said, smiling as Olivia ran away. “She basically threw me at you.” She shivered as Artie’s eyes moved over her face.

  “I’m so happy about that, because I definitely wasn’t backing off.” He smiled, and dipped his head toward her for a kiss.

  The next few weeks moved by so fast that living in them still felt too brief. She and Artie quickly became inseparable. Artie opened up more about his family, and Roz met Joey, his brother. He was nice, b
ut he seemed to be biting his tongue. Roz had a feeling that was because of Artie, and she felt a stab of pride. He actually took her advice and made her feel heard. He also made her feel special without it seeming like an adult humoring a child, something she’d been afraid of due to their age difference. Artie’s passion and intelligence made him more youthful than Roz expected, though, and it endeared him to her more.

  Even Bradley grew fond of Artie; he got used to seeing them hang around each other, and would “Aw-tee!” whenever he saw the man. Roz had never felt this way before, but she knew before he took her to the art building on their last evening together what she was going to say to him. They both had been carefully avoiding talking about what would happen when Roz left to go back home, but Roz, at least, knew what she wanted to happen. She wore the same green dress she wore the night they kissed. She held Artie’s hand as he steered her into the biggest art studio, where most of the advanced art classes took place. Her eyes were closed tight at his command, and she waited until he gave her shoulders a squeeze before opening them. When she saw the wall opposite her, she gasped: it was the sketch of the grounds she’d made on her first day, blown up after she’d finished painting it and placed high above the row of enormous windows. She couldn’t believe she was seeing her art on the walls of this place she’d grown to love, and as a lump swelled in her throat, she realized that this was the dream she wanted to chase. She turned toward the man who had helped her uncover her passion, eyes wet with tears.

  “Thank you,” she said, trying to keep herself contained.

  “I haven’t even told you the good news yet,” Artie said gently. Roz cocked her head, and he cupped her chin affectionately. “This is yours, if you want it. We need a weekend teacher for watercolors. And I think you’re just the woman for the job.” He beamed at her, waiting for her response. His smile slipped when there wasn’t one. Roz was staring at him, unable to process the words she’d just heard.

  “That’s crazy,” she said weakly. “I can’t be an art teacher.”

  “Is it crazier than me running a resort that fits the exact picture you had in your head?” Artie asked, his eyes burning into hers. “Is it crazier than us connecting so well on our first day with each other? Is it crazier than me falling in love with you in less than a month?”

  Roz’s heart stopped. Artie flushed, apparently realizing what he’d just said. “I mean,” he said, panicked. “I don’t…want to get married right away or anything. And you don’t have to say anything. I just thought you should know.” Roz didn’t say anything, and this threw him deeper into a panic. The art studio’s silence seemed too much for him. “I just mean---“

  “I love you too,” Roz said quietly. Her heartbeat was strong and sure, and as the smile on her face grew, she felt the truth of the words. “And I love this place. I would love to teach here.” She hesitated. “Does this mean you want to keep seeing me?”

  Artie was shocked. His face was a mask of surprise, and then he burst into laughter. “Roz. I just told you I eventually want to marry you. You should listen a little closely.”

  “Sorry,” she said hurriedly. “My head’s always in the clouds.”

  Artie laughed, that rich, now familiar sound that rubbed along her skin like a velvet glove. “That’s what makes you so special. Your dreams are already sky high.” He kissed the top of her head as he pulled her closer, and she breathed in the scent of him. A month ago, she’d been spinning her wheels, and now she had reached two goals she never even knew she had. She wondered if her parents would be proud. She wondered if Sharon would be proud. It doesn’t matter, she reminded herself. I’m proud of myself. And she was; but as she stepped back from Artie’s embrace, she thought she saw a flash of movement outside the art studio door, followed by the low giggle and the clack of heels and Olivia and Ben hurried away. They were proud of her too, it seemed. It made it that much better.

  THE END

  The Duke’s Possession

  “Oh Margaret, how can I marry him?” Ania asked. “I’d just die!”

  The duchess-to-to be sat with her slender hands in her lap and wrung them together in worry. A fine crinkle of lines marred her otherwise porcelain forehead and her voice had raised several pitches. Her honey-haired sister sat beside her on the brocade loveseat in the sitting room, rubbing a hand along her back, an honest, if pitiful attempt at soothing.

  “Maybe Nicholas is not as bad as you think he is,” Margaret said, concern creasing her voice.

  Nicholas Connols was in fact, at that very moment, parting a delectable blonde’s nether regions expertly with his tongue. The girl squealed beneath his practiced ministrations and bucked her lovely young hips up to the sky, urging him to lap faster. As he felt her legs close around his head and the softness parting at the touch of his mouth, he made a mental note to leave the madam an extra-large tip for the girl; she truly was a find in this particular house, which had long been one of Nicholas’s favorites. Usually, he took two or three girls at once, since it had become a more frequent occurrence that he found himself a trifle bored with the ladies offered, but this particular little dish was promised to be particularly responsive, and she had lived up to the hype and had surpassed it. As he drank in the gasps from her mouth and she shuddered into his, he felt that unpleasant old restlessness creep deep into his bones. The girl sat up, a wave of golden hair curling down her back and wrapped herself in the bed sheet, looking over her shoulder in a practiced maneuver. He leaned over and kissed her bare shoulder, not because he was particularly enjoying the simpering little look she was giving him, but rather because he valued her time and her skills in the bedroom. Her eyes widened with surprise as she accepted the kiss, and for a moment, Nicholas thought he felt a moment of tenderness, which was quickly replaced as the girl’s skilled hands began to inch up his thigh, showing her to be every inch the professional she was. He sighed deeply in his throat and succumbed listlessly to her ministrations, diving under the cover with the blonde even as he dove headfirst into a familiar old boredom.

  “They say that he visits the Gelded Pigeon at least three times a week and has several regulars there,” Ania grouched, biting her lip. “Oh, why couldn’t he have been the one who was denounced, rather than Brent?”

  “Because Lady Connols’ dalliance happened before Brent’s birthday and not Nicholas’s,” answered Margaret, rather impishly, Ania thought. She was referring to Ania’s old betrothed, of course, Brent Connols, who had recently been denounced as Duke Connols, heir to the Connols fortune. It had turned out, rather sordidly, that Lord Connols’ wife had engaged in some rather indiscreet relations with a visiting member of the Foreign Service and that Brent Connols was not the legitimate heir of his supposed father’s estate. A fact that had only recently come out to his bride-to-be, Ania Cromwell.

  Ania shook her head wonderingly. “Who would have though Lady Connols to be the type to be carried away by passion? I rather thought that was the stuff of serials and books!” she cried. She had thought, at first, when her aunt came to visit and delivered the news, that it was just idle gossip and did not want to hear about it. Brent Connols, after all, had been so kind to her during her coming-out-ball that she had thought a union of at least friendship would have been possible between them. But as her aunt had salaciously implied, the legal proceedings had, indeed, proved that Brent Connols was not the legitimate son and inheritor of the Connols dukedom and fortune and with that piece of news, Ania’s parents had called off the engagement.

  The worst bit of news, perhaps, had come earlier that morning, when Lord and Lady Cromwell had marched themselves into the very sitting room where Ania and Margaret sat now, interrupted the embroidery that was keeping Ania’s hands—and temporarily, her mind—busy, and delivered the latest news. Everyone knew, of course, of Lord Connol’s elder son, Nicholas, borne of his union with his wife before the scandal had rocked the ton, and who had, in light of the recent revelations, been named the new inheritor of the dukedom and estate.
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  “But what does all this mean?” Ania had asked, needle poised above her ring, temples beginning to throb. She had had a bad feeling about the upcoming news, and as it turned out, her premonitions were more than correct. Lord and Lady Cromwell had exchanged an uncomfortable look and turned to their daughter unwillingly.

  “What it means, Ania,” Lady Cromwell intoned without quite meeting Ania’s green gaze, “Is that Duke Nicholas Connols is your new betrothed.”

  Ania swallowed a scream at the news and found that she had somehow managed to prick herself with the needle at the most opportune moment, allowing her a small, audible gasp at the blood she drew to mask the outrage she felt at the news. The possibility of a certain kind of freedom that she had been expecting to have with Duke Brent Connols had, in just a moment’s time, slipped away, and Ania’s head swam with the news. She knew the truth, of course, and that her parents wanted to avoid any scandal associated with their name, which is why she was no longer being allowed to marry Brent, but something was still bothering her. Why Nicholas, why someone who was so closely associated with the whole sordid mess?

  Never one to hide her opinions, Ania had decided to probe further. “Why have any association with the Connols’s at all?”

  Lord Cromwell looked decidedly uncomfortable at that, and a bit as if he wished his daughter would sew her own lip shut with the needle she was still holding. “It seems that our estate holdings are not as up to par as we might have hoped,” he grouched, looking over at his wife, a nervous, birdlike creature from who Ania had inherited her hand-wringing.

  Ania was shocked. She knew that her family had not exactly been swimming in wealth, but that everything was quite as bad as they could not even take a step away from a family whose reputation would surely sully theirs? She felt as if someone had given her a sharp blow to the stomach, even as an image of Brent Connols’s face popped up in her head. She would not admit it to anyone, not even Margaret, but she had been using his blue eyes and close-cropped blond hair as the foundation for her latest dashing male character. It was undoubtedly inappropriate to do such a thing, but then, few things about Ania’s life were appropriate, if ever they were discovered. Besides, she was engaged to the man—would it have been too much to hope that with marriage might come a certain knowledge of bedroom sports that she thought might be more enjoyable with an attractive man rather than an ugly one?