Timeless Christmas Romance: Historical Romance Holiday Collection

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Be brave for once, Antoinette, she told herself. “Thank you, Mrs. Greeley,” she said. “I happily accept your kind invitation.”

  Mrs. Greeley’s smile lit up her round, lined face. “Excellent, Miss Duvall! We will see you tomorrow evening, then.”

  Antoinette tucked the payment for the soaps and lotions into her reticule, and stepped out onto the walkway, the bells on the Greeleys’ door jingling merrily behind her. It was a quiet time of day for the village, and not very many people were out and about on the street, going in and out of the half-timbered shops. Only the vicar drove by in his gig, raising his hat in greeting to Antoinette, and Mrs. Brown, the dressmaker, was arranging a new display of fabrics and ribbons in her bow window.

  Antoinette turned her steps toward home, but then paused, considered, and glanced back at Mrs. Brown’s window. The mantua-maker sometimes had gowns ready to purchase, or at least some shawls and dancing slippers or headdresses. Something new, and dashingly attractive, might be in order for the assembly, something to go with her one fine ballgown, which she rarely got to wear. After all, Mark Payne might, just might, attend.

  Antoinette laughed at herself, and forced her feet to tum once more toward the outskirts of the village without going back to the shop. She was acting like a silly schoolgirl, mooning about for a man who cared nothing for her. She had thought, after their evening together, that they were forming a new friendship. But his silence these past two days gave the lie to that.

  Ah, well, she thought, as she walked briskly along the clifftop pathway. So she had been wrong about the captain. She was certainly no worse off than she had been before.

  And, with the winter wind whipping at her hems, the cold, pale sun shining down on her, she could almost believe that. She hummed a bright tune under her breath, a Christmas carol in honor of the season.

  “It came upon a midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angels bending near the earth to touch their harps of gold. Peace on the earth, goodwill to men...”

  The tune quite died away in her throat as she turned the comer that led to her cottage and she saw the tall figure waiting by her garden gate.

  Captain Payne. Mark. He had come after all. Her heart gave a flutter in her breast, and she felt a very foolish grin catch at the comer of her lips. For an instant, she feared he might be an illusion, a phantom with his back toward her, tall and broad in a dark blue greatcoat.

  Then he turned, and she could clearly see his strong, scarred face, half-shadowed by his hat brim. He gave her a slow, tentative smile.

  “Miss Duvall—Antoinette,” he said, his rich, rough voice carried to her on the wind. “I have called to see how you fare.”

  “Mark,” she answered, through her own silly smile. “I fare very well indeed.”

  He should not be here. Mark knew that very well. Antoinette Duvall had enough to contend with in her life without him adding to her troubles by tagging along at her skirt hems. She was far from home, making her life among strangers who whispered of “island witches.”

  He had resolved to leave her alone. To just send a note inquiring after her health and leave it at that. She was a beautiful lady, obviously busy with her work, and this would be for the best.

  That lasted only two days. Two days of chopping firewood and shoveling snow, of scything back the undergrowth from his garden. He worked himself hard during the day, worked until his muscles burned and the sweat trickled in itchy rivulets down his back and shoulders.

  But at night—at night there was nothing to occupy his mind. He tried to read, yet he just ended up staring into the fireplace, remembering the dark mystery of Antoinette’s eyes, the way her face lit with a smile as she recounted some antic of the wild Leighton children. He wanted to know more about her, more of what lay beneath her smiles and her amusing stories. Sometimes, when she thought he was not looking, her smiles faded a bit and some shadow of loneliness lowered over her fine eyes. A loneliness he knew all too well, and one he would banish from her eyes for all time if he only could.

  He hadn't thought so much about a woman since the heady early days of his courtship of Elizabeth. Elizabeth. He grimaced now to think of her, to remember how he had been foolish enough to fall for her golden loveliness, her air of light charm. How he had never seen the shallowness behind her pretty, flirtatious manners.

  Antoinette was nothing like Elizabeth. Mark would stake his ship—if he still had one—on that. She had charm, but there was no heartlessness in it. She was marked by life, as he was, and that left no room for a shallow heart. Her dark eyes spoke of miseries and joys that a girl like Elizabeth, now safe in London as Lady Penworthy, could know nothing of.

  It was that gleam in Antoinette’s gaze that drew him here today, when he could stay away no longer. It was why he found himself standing outside her garden gate, wearing his best coat, a dark blue superfine the height of fashion twelve years ago, his boots shined and his hair neatly tied back.

  Yes, he had done his best to make himself appear presentable, a hopeless endeavor on the best days. But now it appeared his efforts were in vain, as Antoinette was not at home. There was no smoke from her chimney, no stirring at the window draperies.

  “Well, now,” he said to his waiting horse. “It appears I am a foolish old sailor after all.” He gathered the reins up, and turned to mount the horse when he heard a lightly lilting voice call, “Good afternoon, Captain Payne—Mark! I trust you have not been waiting too long?”

  His heart gave a jolt to hear that voice, crisp and sweet in the cold air. Grinning like an idiot, he stepped back to see Antoinette hurrying down the pathway toward him. She was not dressed in her green silk robe today, but instead wore an ordinary walking gown and pelisse of burgundy-and-cream-striped wool. Her glorious hair was tucked beneath a burgundy turban, and the dark fur collar of her pelisse lay sleekly against her throat.

  In the pale winter sunlight, dressed as a respectable English lady, she did not have the wild, untamed beauty of her midnight self. Yet her eyes still glowed, her tall figure radiated energy and vibrant good health. He felt his own spirits rise just watching her, and his reticence of the past two days seemed foolish indeed. His life held little enough cheer. Why should he not enjoy the company of a lovely lady, if she was willing to bestow it?

  He resolutely pushed back the niggling doubts, the revulsion of Elizabeth and her ilk, and returned Antoinette’s smile with one of his own.

  “I have only just arrived,” he answered her. “But I saw you were not at home, so I was about to take my leave.”

  “I'm glad I returned in time, then,” she said. As she reached his side, she held her hand out to him, and he bowed over it. She smelled of jasmine and the fine kid leather of her glove, and he wanted so much to hold onto her hand, to absorb her warmth into his own flesh.

  She withdrew it even before his clasp could tighten, though, still smiling, her cheeks painted with a pink flush over the coffee and cream.

  “Won’t you come inside, Mark?” she said, pushing open the garden gate and leading the way to her door. “I gave Sally the afternoon off, but I’m sure I can find some tea to offer you.”

  “Thank you, Antoinette,” he answered, following in her jasmine-scented wake. He was afraid his tone and demeanor were ridiculously stiff, but he wasn't accustomed to paying polite calls. Even before his injuries, he had been poorly equipped to perform social niceties. Life aboard a ship held little in common with a drawing room.

  Antoinette did not appear to notice, though, and he relaxed as soon as he stepped through her door. Her home was not grand as his mother’s was; there was no delicate gilt furniture for him to worry about smashing, no porcelain gewgaws. Antoinette’s abode was filled with fine Jacobean antiques and glowing garnet and blue rugs, fine paintings of seascapes and portraits of small children, and rich draperies at the windows. But it was all very welcoming and cozy. The air was scented with the bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling rafters and the leather bindings of books.<
br />
  Not the book she had with her on the cliff, though. That volume was nowhere to be seen.

  Antoinette took his coat and hung it on a peg beside her pelisse. “Please, sit down, Mark,” she said, gesturing toward the chairs drawn up by the banked fire. She went to open up the draperies, letting light spill into the sitting room, before joining him there.

  Mark instinctively drew back away from the light, into the shadows where she could not see his face so clearly.

  “I wanted to see how you were faring after your—adventure,” he said.

  Antoinette laughed. “Oh, I am quite well! I had a terrible headache the day before yesterday, but it is gone now. I walked into the village, to deliver some of my special lotions to Mrs. Greeley’s store. She wanted them before Christmas in case any of her customers needed last-minute gifts.” She reached for the fireplace poker and stirred the embers, coaxing them to flame anew.

  Mark leaned back against the velvet cushions of his chair. He felt his qualms of the past two days fading away at the sense of rightness in this moment. It felt so pleasurable and strangely comfortable to sit here with her, feeling the soft magic of her presence around him. Her ease in his company, her informality, gave him a sense of comfort he hadn't known in a long while.

  “Actually, Mark,” she said, “I am very glad you came to call. I was going to send a note around to you this afternoon.”

  He smiled at her, ridiculously pleased that she thought to write to him. “Were you?”

  “Indeed. You see, Mrs. Greeley invited me to an assembly at the Hare and Hound Inn tomorrow evening. It is in honor of Christmas Eve. I believe they have it every year in different locations, yet I've always spent the holiday in Bath until now. I would like to attend, and I need an escort. Would you care to come? I know it is not at all the thing for a lady to invite a gentleman, but perhaps I could be excused by my island upbringing.”

  Mark stared at her, aghast. An assembly? At the village inn, where there would be dozens of people in attendance? People who would stare and whisper.

  He liked this, just sitting with her by a quiet fire, listening to her speak, enjoying her smiles. It was comfortable. It was—safe. He couldn't imagine walking into a dance, where everyone would wonder how such a damaged cripple had found such a rare and exotic beauty.

  Besides, his dancing skills were beyond rusty.

  “An assembly, Antoinette?” he asked her, still wondering if perhaps he had misheard her. “Where there will be—dancing and such?”

  She just nodded serenely. “Of course. And cards too, for those who do not care for dancing. I confess I myself quite enjoy a lively country dance.”

  “I thought you did not care much for mixing in society”

  “Generally, I do not. In such a small place, someone as different as I am can have a difficult time finding a niche. I am sure you have found the same. But Mrs. Greeley said, and I concur, that it is Christmas. A time for new beginnings, new friends. It would be too sad to spend it all alone when one could spend it with music and dancing.”

  Mark felt himself being swayed, even against his very instincts. The thought of dancing with Antoinette was too much for a red-blooded male to resist.

  She gave him a cajoling smile. “Come, Mark, for me? I have a ballgown I am aching to show off, and if you are not there I shall sorely lack for partners.”

  Mark was sure that was not true. Yet he found he was nodding, and saying, “Of course, Antoinette. I would be honored to escort you to the assembly.”

  Chapter Seven

  In the daylight, the Hare and Hound was a perfectly ordinary village inn. Cleaner than most, perhaps, with a fine ale and a friendly landlord, but still like dozens of other half-timbered, stone-chimneyed relics of the Tudor era.

  On this Christmas Eve evening, though, it was quite transformed. Golden light spilled from every window and doorway onto the innyard, covering everything with a fairy-tale sparkle. Laughter and chatter rose and fell like music from the revelers making their way up to the third-floor assembly rooms. Strains of actual music also floated down from a village orchestra demonstrating little finesse but a rich abundance of enthusiasm. The entire tableau was one of great frivolity and holiday good cheer.

  Antoinette began to think that this hadn't been such a good idea after all. The crowd was large, loud with merriment. What would happen when they saw her here?

  She stood on the front steps of the inn behind the Greeleys, who had paused to greet some acquaintances of theirs, staying back in the night shadows for as long as she could. Her hand, encased in her most elegant silk evening glove, was tucked into Mark’s elbow, and, much to her embarrassment, she felt that hand tremble.

  He peered down at her, his lips tilted down in a slight frown. He looked very distinguished and quite elegant in his black-and-white evening clothes, a fur-lined cloak tossed back from his shoulders, and a bicorned hat tucked beneath his arm. His hair was brushed into a queue and tied with a black velvet ribbon, shining chestnut-brown in the candlelight. His scars seemed barely noticeable. Yet, despite all his handsome looks, he, too, seemed distinctly ill at ease. His face was taut, expressionless as a stone statue.

  As her own was, she was sure. Her skin felt like it would crack if she stretched it even further.

  She saw his free hand reach yet again toward his scarred cheek, and she pulled at his elbow.

  He gave her a startled glance, as if he had quite forgotten she was watching him. Then he smiled at her ruefully.

  “Are you certain you want to attend this assembly?” he whispered. “We could go back to my cottage and share some brandy. You could tell me more tales of Jamaica.”

  Of course she didn’t want to attend this assembly! How could she have once thought she did? A nice fire, a snifter of brandy, and some convivial conversation seemed far preferable to facing the staring crowds. Especially now that she was actually walking toward that crowd—the farmers and shopkeepers and local gentry who whispered about her. Why had she thought this was a fine idea in the first place? She must have been addled by her head injury.

  Antoinette glanced back over her shoulder. They were apparently the last to arrive, for no one waited behind them in the innyard. It would be easy to make their excuses to the Greeleys and depart.

  Except that Antoinette’s mother had not raised her to be a coward. She would not become one now. She had wanted a Christmas party, and here it was. She would hold her head up, and laugh and dance and chat. And she would make Mark Payne do it with her. She gave him a mischievous smile, and tugged again at his arm. “Certainly not, Captain. You promised me a dance, and I intend to hold you to it. Besides, I haven't yet had a chance to show off my ballgown.”

  He laughed, and laid his free hand over hers, briefly squeezing her fingers. “Quite right, Miss Duvall. I will happily dance with you, if you don't mind ruined slippers. I am not as light on my feet as I used to be.”

  The Greeleys moved forward then, and Antoinette and Mark followed them into the inn’s common room. After surrendering their cloaks to a waiting attendant, they made their way up the stairs to the assembly rooms.

  Antoinette paused just outside the door to glance into a mirror. She had only this one ballgown, but she loved it, loved the inky-blue color of the silk, the shimmering gold embroidery on the low-cut bodice, the Elizabethan slashing of the tiny puffed sleeves. Now she only wondered—what did Mark think of the way she looked in it?

  Her gaze met his in the glass, and she had her answer. His quicksilver eyes warmed like a summer sky, and his polite smile turned slow, sensual.

  “You look most elegant tonight, Miss Duvall,” he said deeply.

  Antoinette gave him an answering smile. “As do you, Captain Payne.” She reached up to untangle her long earring from her blue silk turban, and then turned back to clasp his arm again.

  Somehow, with his warm, muscled strength beneath her hand, she no longer feared the crowd. She no longer feared anything.

  “I be
lieve I hear a Scottish reel starting,” she said.

  The long, wide assembly room was filled with gaily dressed revelers; young couples joining the dance; matrons watching them, chattering together; old men speculating on sport and the weather. On a table along one wall was arrayed a variety of delicacies, salmon patties, roast goose, mushroom tarts, a large plum pudding, and three punch bowls.

  Yet the room didn't feel crowded or overly warm. It sent out an atmosphere of holiday cheer and welcome. Even Antoinette felt it, deep inside of herself, and for the first time since their arrival at the Hare and Hound she felt some small flame of-was it excitement?

  She gazed around, and noticed that while some people did give Mark and her startled glances, most didn't even notice them.

  Yet.

  “Miss Duvall!” she heard someone call out, and she turned to see Mr. Lewisham, the vicar, hurrying toward them. His plump, cheerful wife followed, artificial holly woven into her pale blond hair in honor of the holiday. “Miss Duvall, how very charming to see you here. We thought perhaps you had gone off to Bath with the Leightons, until I saw you in the village this morning.”

  “It is good to see you as well, Mr. Lewisham, Mrs. Lewisham,” Antoinette answered. “I stayed behind this year to finish some writing.”

  “Work? At Christmas? I thought only the vicar had to do that!” declared Mrs. Lewisham. “We are glad you had time to join this evening’s revels.”

  “As am I,” Antoinette said, and found, rather to her surprise, that it was true. The music, the holly, Mark’s arm beneath her touch, all conspired to give her a rather breathless Christmas warmth she hadn't felt since childhood. “I do not believe you have met Captain Payne. Mr. and Mrs. Lewisham, this is a neighbor of mine, Captain Mark Payne, late of His Majesty’s Navy. He came here with the Greeleys and myself this evening. Mr. Lewisham is incumbent of St. Anne’s.” She pulled Mark from the shadows into the flickering candlelight, fully to her side.