Timeless Christmas Romance: Historical Romance Holiday Collection

by Laurel O'Donnell

  “The lover’s bones,” Lizzie said with a shudder. “May I try on the necklace?”

  “When we get indoors,” Richard said. “Run along now. It’s much too cold to stand out here in your nightclothes. Tell Mrs. Cropper to heat plenty of water in the copper, for both Mrs. White and I must bathe.” The children ran toward the house, holding hands and chattering happily. Tears gathered in Edwina’s eyes.

  “What could be better than a Christmas wedding with the whole village in attendance?” Richard asked. “You can wear the crimson gown you’ve been making.”

  “How do you know about the gown?” she demanded, and then flapped her hand. Perhaps Lizzie had peeked into Edwina’s bedchamber and told her father, but it didn’t matter. “We can’t possibly marry today. We must post the banns for three weeks first.”

  “We will indeed marry this morning,” he said. “I sent for a license two weeks ago.”

  “Two weeks ago? That’s only a few days after I arrived!”

  “By which time my heart was telling me one thing and my mind another, but commonsense carried the day. You were here, you needed me, I wanted you, and time was running out. Planning to marry you made sense, and if you’d said no, I would have torn the license up and resigned myself to…I don’t know whom. Thank God you said yes.”

  Fare thee well…

  Like a whisper on the morning breeze, the ghost took her leave of them. The pall on Ballister Grange lifted with the rising of the sun. Hand in hand, Edwina and Richard made their way out of the knot garden, past the holly hedge with its glossy green leaves and red berries aglow in the day’s first light. Hearts now joined forever, they entered a house reborn, overflowing with love, joy and Christmas cheer.

  About Barbara Monajem

  Winner of the Holt Medallion, Maggie, Daphne du Maurier, Reviewer’s Choice and Epic awards, Barbara Monajem wrote her first story at eight years old about apple tree gnomes. She published a middle-grade fantasy when her children were young, then moved on to paranormal mysteries and Regency romances with intrepid heroines and long-suffering heroes (or vice versa). Regency mysteries are next on the agenda.

  Barbara loves to cook, especially soups. She used to have two items on her bucket list: to make asparagus pudding (because it was too weird to resist) and to succeed at knitting socks. She managed the first (it was dreadful) but doubts she’ll ever accomplish the second. This is not a bid for immortality but merely the dismal truth. She lives near Atlanta, Georgia with an ever-shifting population of relatives, friends, and feline strays.

  ~ * ~

  I hope you enjoyed reading The Christmas Knot. If you’d like to know when my new releases are available, please follow me @BarbaraMonajem on Twitter, find me on Facebook, or sign up for my newsletter via the contact form on my website, www.BarbaraMonajem.com. I’d love to hear from you!

  If you can spare the time, please do me the favor of posting a review on the site where you purchased it (such as Amazon.com) or on Goodreads. Reviews are very helpful to authors, and we really appreciate them!

  A Midwinter Wager

  Elizabeth Keysian

  Copyright

  A Midwinter Wager Copyright © Elizabeth Keysian

  All Rights Reserved. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  About A Midwinter Wager

  December 1814, Essex, England

  Her viscount's been stolen…

  When her stepsister tricks her noble beau into a fake engagement, Miss Francesca Heathcote tires of playing nice. She'll even risk ruin to win him back. A game of dare, a wager and a night in a haunted room offer a chance to set him free, but her conniving stepsister has one more ace up her sleeve.

  Chapter One

  December 1814, Essex, England

  The acrid smell of burning filled her nostrils as flames licked greedily at the bed’s ancient canopy. She thrashed about, struggling to escape and yelling for help but stifling smoke seared her throat. Then someone grabbed her and hauled her from the burning bed.

  “Cesca, wake up!”

  A familiar voice soothed her, easing the painful thundering of her heart.

  “Fitz?”

  The nightmare faded, and Miss Francesca Heathcote opened her eyes to cool, flickering darkness. Not a fire, just a candle, illuminating the concerned features of Philip Fitzmaurice, Viscount Lonsdale.

  She sat up, pulling the bedclothes up to her chin, and gazed at him. Then gazed some more.

  He should have been laughable, in his borrowed, ill-fitting nightshirt, with his thick, golden hair all tousled, but instead, he looked utterly desirable. As the nightmare receded and Cesca came back to the present, she realized she’d never before seen her friend quite so close to… well, naked.

  It struck her with the force of a cavalry charge that Fitz was no longer the boy she’d known, racing across from Beaulieu Manor to show her his new scholar’s gown, or hurtling over fences to impress her when he got his first full-grown horse. He was no longer a fresh-faced youth, graduating with a Classics degree from his Cambridge college, sweetly solemn and proud.

  He was a man now and her body knew it. As she stared at the way his muscles pushed against the soft linen of his nightshirt, her gaze snagged on the patch of darkly curling hair on his chest. The breath fled from her lungs.

  “Bad dream?” He settled himself on the edge of her bed. He smelled of fresh soap, and the musk of potent masculinity—and ignited something inside her that went way beyond affection.

  “Yes,” she rasped, trying to recall how to breathe. “You know there was a fire when I was little—”

  “Of course.” He took her hand. “When you upset a lighted candle in your bed. But why would you dream of that now?”

  Truth was, the nightmare recurred when she was anxious. Fitz had ridden over from Beaulieu Manor yesterday to wish the family a merry Christmas and inform them he meant to join the Duke of Wellington in France next year, to help rebuild the monarchy of that stricken country. He’d no idea how long he’d be away. Little wonder she was distressed.

  She’d been so terrified at the thought of him being taken away from her, perhaps forever, that she’d sent up a prayer of thanks when a sudden blizzard had forced him to spend the night with her family at Fernley Place. But she’d been too shy to tell him—or show him—that her sisterly affection for him had matured to something much deeper and more compelling.

  But also more painful.

  She licked her dry lips. “Fitz, you can’t be in here. It’s highly improper.”

  He frowned. “I’m not going until I know you’re no longer frightened. Why didn’t Alicia come in to comfort you? She must have heard you cry out.”

  “Oh, she knows I have the occasional nightmare. She doesn’t bother herself about it anymore.” Her stepsister Alicia cared for no one but herself. No, that was uncharitable. She was young and had recently lost her mama—she might improve with time.

  Fitz’s eyes met Cesca’s, and he raised an eyebrow but held her gaze. “What are you looking at?” he asked, in a tone that made her stomach flip over.

  If only she could tell him how much the sight of him stirred her blood! But these feelings were too new, too unexpected, for her to
know what to do about them. “I’m just trying to remember how you look right now,” she said.

  “A mess,” he replied, with a rueful grin. “I wasn’t expecting the snow to trap me into spending the night here. Your father’s nightshirt is too tight across the shoulders and chest.”

  She shook her head. “You could be thin, fat, rugged, bearded, scarred, or even mustachioed by the time you return for your first furlough. That youthful look will be gone forever after a few months in the army, so I am painting a picture of you in my mind.” She was trying very hard not to make it a picture of Fitz naked, decidedly difficult under the circumstances. That nightshirt outlined every muscle of his torso.

  He chuckled. “I don’t plan to change. I mean to make you proud, to impress you with my military prowess. I’m hoping you’ll miss me—I mean, for who I am, not just for my Adonis-like good looks.”

  “Of course, I’ll miss you. I don’t care what you look like really. It’s going to be lonely.”

  At this point, it would be flattering if he were to disagree, and say she’d meet many handsome, worthy fellows to keep her entertained in his absence. But he wasn’t one for empty flattery, was he?

  “I know,” he said softly, pressing warm fingers against her cheek.

  Her breath fluttered. Without thinking what she might reveal, she turned her head and kissed his palm. Immediately, he cupped her face, his gaze searing her skin.

  Spellbound, she parted her lips. He was going to kiss her.

  Was he going to kiss her?

  A door opened nearby, and a shadow flickered across the dim beam of light filtering into her room from the passageway. She pressed her fingers against Fitz’s lips, staring at the doorway and listening intently.

  After a moment, she relaxed. “That was close,” she whispered. “What if Alicia had come in and discovered us like this?”

  “You’d have been compromised, and I’d have to marry you.”

  “Don’t jest. I know you’ve no intention of doing that.”

  “How so?” His blue eyes were very dark as he looked at her. “Have I ever said as much?”

  Her heart battered at her chest again and she floundered in a welter of confusion. She’d never dared dream Fitz might consider marriage.

  He retook her hand, brushing firm lips across her knuckles. “It’s difficult now, I know, as you have your father to look after, and your grieving young stepsister, and I’m off next year, to take up my commission. That’s why I’ve held my feelings in check. But there’ll come a day when nothing need keep us apart. Why should I not marry my closest female friend? Our parents would see great advantage in it, I’m sure. We’d suit, you know. In more ways than you can imagine.”

  She blushed. She could imagine more than she cared to admit—her mind was already roving along forbidden paths. What would it be like to be wedded to Fitz? To be bedded by him? How would it feel to run her hands up underneath that nightshirt, to smooth her fingers over his hot, firm flesh?

  “I’m going too fast for you—I sense it,” he said.

  Wrong. But she didn’t know how to explain her feelings, or how to ask for what she wanted. “Not at all—”

  “It’s all right. I won’t make any promises now, not when I’m going to be away for Lord knows how long. I’d rather leave you unmarried and eligible, than widowed and bereft. Assuming you’d be mourning me, of course, if I fell on the field of battle.”

  That threw a bucket of cold water on her burgeoning passion. “You know I would. But surely, you’ll be going on a peacetime mission? Oh, Fitz—I do wish I could tell when you’re joking and when you’re not.”

  “You usually can.”

  “Not about something as important as marriage. Or death.”

  “I would never joke about those things,” he said, raising her knuckles to his lips. “And I’m in deadly earnest when I say I’m going to spend the rest of tonight in torment, knowing you’re a-bed just a few doors away, looking so ravishing.”

  Damn the man! Had he no idea how alluring he looked right now? Before, she’d loved him as a friend. Now, he was a potential lover and husband. Now, bidding him farewell would hurt more than she could bear.

  He released her hand. “You’re cold—I shouldn’t keep you up. Lie back, and I’ll tuck you in.”

  “I’m not a baby,” she complained, sliding down in the bed.

  “Obviously not,” he said, leaning over her, and pinning her beneath the covers. “You’re a woman, and thus much harder to please. Which is why I’m leaving nothing to chance.”

  His hair tumbled forward, brushing against her forehead as he brought his head down to hers. His lips pressed against her mouth.

  Oh God, how she longed to hold him! She was desperate to dig her fingers into his hair, grasp his head and increase the pressure of the kiss, but he held her captive, forcing her to play by his rules.

  He let out a ragged breath, then increased the pressure, and she felt the moist heat of his tongue as it swept the seam of her lips, tasting her.

  She parted her lips, and his tongue darted in, hot and hungry, plundering, exploring.

  His body pressed down upon hers in the bed, strong and powerful. But the sheets and counterpane lay between them, a shield against impropriety.

  His choice.

  For now, she must be satisfied with just a kiss, even though the heat of it spread through her veins like brandy, igniting pools of lust that made her writhe beneath him. Suddenly he pulled away, breathing hard.

  “Forgive me.” He backed away and knelt by the bed, but the hint of triumph on his face belied his words. “I told you we’d suit,” he added.

  She’d prefer it if he didn’t think or talk—just kiss her again until she’d had enough. Which would be never.

  “Regrettably, I ought to go,” he said, getting to his feet and moving toward the door.

  She supposed he ought. Though if he were to stay, would anyone know? But just as he was reaching for the doorknob, a floorboard creaked in the passageway beyond.

  “Is someone out there?” she hissed. Like Alicia, for instance? Her stepsister loved spying on people.

  Holding his candle aloft, he opened the door and looked out. “No, don’t worry.” He turned back to look at her, his face weirdly shadowed as the candle flame guttered in a draught. A frisson of unease skittered up her spine. Then he shot her a smile that scorched away all doubt, and left.

  She lay back in the bed, hearing nothing but the pulse of blood in her ears, and the galloping of her heart. Fitz wanted to marry her. Surely this, too, had been a dream, no more real than the flames around the bed.

  Then something hit the wall with a thump, followed by the crash of breaking china in the neighboring bedchamber. Alicia’s. She was quite clearly awake, and in a fury. How much had she heard of Cesca’s conversation with Fitz?

  Whatever she knew, or thought she knew, she would take straight to Papa. In short, Alicia’s spite could ruin everything.

  Chapter Two

  An overnight thaw meant Fitz had had no excuse to linger at his betrothed's house. He considered Cesca his betrothed, though he hadn't yet asked Mr. Heathcote for her hand—Alicia had been most unwell on Midwinter's Day, and he feared it might have looked callous to broadcast his happiness in the face of her misery.

  He'd visited Fernley Place as often as he could in January, but as Alicia’s poor health had the whole household on tenterhooks, he'd still not approached Cesca's father to offer for her. It piqued but didn't worry him. After all, Heathcote would be glad to get one daughter off his hands and well-provided for, so Fitz never doubted his suit would be acceptable.

  Cesca bore the delay with the sweet patience that he loved in her. She put up with him whisking her into empty rooms for a quick and frenzied kiss, touching her knee with his when they were sitting close together, and shooting her heated looks across the card table which made her blush and roll her eyes at him.

  It was purgatory, not being able to court her openl
y. Now he'd missed his chance, for—despite the blustery winds which characterized the February weather—he was due to depart for France, amidst rumors that Napoleon was attempting to break out of captivity on Elba.

  Fitz had come to say his goodbyes. And he wasn't looking forward to it.

  "Fitz!" exclaimed Cesca as the footman admitted him into the dim hallway. "How delightful to see you!"

  He felt that jerk of attraction which now assailed him every time he looked at her, and wished all the servants at Fernley Place, Mr. Heathcote and the sickly Alicia to blazes, so he could be alone with Cesca for just one hour.

  Even just a minute or two would be welcome.

  "How's your papa?" he asked, handing his beaver hat and caped greatcoat to the footman.

  Before she could answer, Fitz had stripped off his gloves, seized her hand, and kissed it fervently before releasing her. How he loved to make her blush! His heart lurched—maybe today would be the day he could make her a proper proposal.

  "He hasn't left his bed today, due to the pain in his foot. But I'll tell him you asked after him."

  He dragged in a deep breath, battling his disappointment. "How very regrettable. And Alicia?"

  Cesca's brow furrowed. "Miserable. I do wish you could talk to her and cheer her up. All my efforts have failed."

  "I can try. It would have been good to see her out of her sickbed before I had to say my goodbyes."

  When Cesca blanched at this reminder of his departure, it was as much as he could do not to sweep her into his embrace and damn the consequences. But a footman lurked in the shadows, acting as chaperone, so he suggested they go up and see Alicia together. The servant melted away into the background as Fitz gave Cesca his arm to escort her up the stairs.

  Oh, how he loved being near this woman. He'd known her so long, that being apart from her was like missing a limb. And now they'd discovered their mutual attraction and the promise it held, it was as much as he could do not to fall upon her and ravish her on the stairs.