“Arianne?” He was relieved to hear her voice, shaking though it was.
“Was with your mother in the end. She’s strong, like you. Calvin and Drake will bring her and the governess as soon as she’s ready. I would have stayed with her myself but when I saw what they’d taken, and I realized it was the same vial you’d shown me…” He could not explain the terror he’d felt at the thought that he’d lost her.
And then he closed his eyes. “Lila, it was the same vial Keenen clutched in his hand in death.”
This information did not seem to surprise her. “My father forged the suicide note,” she murmured against him. Of course, she had discovered the certificate. The damned secret drawer.
“I didn’t want to believe he could take his own life.” But he was speaking of his own brother and this was not about him. “Love, your mother said she needed to stop him.”
She nodded beneath his chin. “She hated him, but she also loved him.” And then a sob tore through her. “We all did. It doesn’t make sense.” And then another sob. “I hated him, Pemberth. I hated him.”
Vincent wished he could take her pain. “I know, love. I know.” He stroked her hair. How had this slip of a woman come to mean so much to him?
“She gave me the draught for you.” At first, he wasn’t certain he heard right. “She told me to give it to you, that it would put you to sleep if you were too demanding of me.” She began trembling. “I hate them both, Pemberth. I hate them! I hate them.”
He felt helpless. All he could do was absorb her cries, her tears, while the storm within her subsided.
She’d fall silent, seemingly asleep, but then a tremor would run through her and she’d weep gently once again. Not until the sun crept over the horizon did exhaustion and worry finally have its way with both of them. Holding tightly to one another, they slept.
Her first thought, even before opening her eyes, was that her head hurt. The next was that she was not alone.
He came back.
And then the memory of what he’d told her roared into her memory. Could it all have been a nightmare? But no. It had not been.
Her mother had killed her father and then herself. Her mama. Oh, Mama!
Warm lips settled on her forehead. “You are awake?”
Her eyes ached as she opened them. They would be puffy and swollen. She could feel the grit from her leftover tears. And yet, she tilted her head back to look up at him. “I am. How did you know?”
Achingly familiar eyes studied her in concern. Shadows had etched themselves beneath them and stubble the color of a lion’s mane darkened the lower half of his face. “I could feel you breathe differently.” He gave her a weak attempt at a smile.
“You came back to me.”
Again, that weak smile. How had his become such a precious face? “I am back. I never should have left.” Gentle fingertips grazed her cheek. “Will you forgive me?”
Lila blinked. “Will you forgive me?”
And then he dropped a kiss on her lips. No demand. No need. Just a kiss of affection and acceptance. “Nothing to forgive.”
“Vincent.” She tested his name on her lips. “I have nothing to forgive of you, either.”
His smile spread wider this time. How could they smile after all that had come to pass? She could smile because she lov—
“I love you, Lila.” His smile settled into simple contentment. “Your father was an evil, horrid man, but I will always have him to thank for forcing me into your life. And now that you are here, I’ll do everything I know to keep you happy. You are a blessing to me. I would marry you a thousand times over if I could. Never doubt my love.” His eyes burned seriously. “Never.”
Lila swallowed hard. He was right. Without the damnable man she called father, she would never have found this.
This absolute knowing she was where she was meant to be.
She had discovered her destiny, the man of her body and heart. “I love you, Vincent.” She wound her arms around his neck. They would climb out of this bed today, bathe, eat, and make their plans for the future.
They would bring Arianna here, and they would celebrate Christmas. Because love meant life.
And she’d been given more than her fair share.
He climbed out of their tall bed, walked over the window, and drew back the curtain.
Sometime in the night, her husband had removed his clothing. Lila licked her lips as she studied the sinewy ridges that made up his beautiful physique.
She’d been given hope and life and love and oh, so much more.
Her eyes trailed up the length of his legs and stopped just below his hips. She licked her lips again.
So very much more.
Epilogue
The last notes of the carolers’ song hung in the icy air.
“That was beautiful! Welcome! Mrs. Wright. I didn’t see you out there. Come in from the cold and dust the snow off!” Lila could not stop herself from smiling as she opened the oversized door wide. “Warm yourself by the fire.”
She’d thought Christmas would be a sad affair this year, but the spirit of the season was transforming them all.
Even Arianna. She and Vincent had traveled back to Bryony Manor to lay her parents to rest and settle some of his affairs before the new heir, one of her father’s distant cousins, arrived, and then they’d packed her sister’s belongings and together they had all returned to Glenn Abby.
Arianna had always seemed untouched by the problems her father made for them, but this was different.
This had involved their mama.
Despite all the sickness of their family, the death of their parents affected both of them deeply.
“It is snowing, Lila!” Arianna stepped forward to look outside and up at the sky. “On Christmas Eve!”
“If it keeps up like this, tomorrow I will impress both of you ladies with my snowman-building skills.” Vincent closed the door as the last of the carolers, who’d just finished a rousing version of Merry Christmas, stepped inside.
The night before, while lying in bed together, he’d told her of some of the Christmas memories he had of his brother. Since the truth of Keenan’s death had become known, he’d spoken of him more.
He hadn’t been ashamed of the man he’d grown up almost idolizing, but he’d been hurt. He’d felt betrayed.
Knowing his brother had not left him intentionally had taken that part of the hurt over his death away.
Still, they’d all lost a great deal over the past year.
Arianna giggled at something one of the carolers said, and Vincent squeezed her hand.
They had also gained a great deal.
Her gaze drifted around the room, and she smiled at the few familiar faces from the dance they’d attended a few weeks ago and also some unfamiliar ones. Greenery had been hung throughout the house and Vincent had even cut down and brought a tall, lush evergreen inside and set it up.
The yule log burned and cracked in the large hearth.
They would go into partial mourning when the Christmastide had passed.
It had been remiss of her not to do so earlier, for the former duke. She’d not even considered it, she’d been so caught up in her own concerns.
And for her parents.
“One more song before we’re on our way?” asked the older gentleman who seemed to be the leader of the carolers.
Vincent nodded and the group fell silent.
When he lifted his arms into the air and then dropped them, a beautiful melody took over the room.
Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon Virgin Mother and Child
Holy Infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace
Peace.
Christmas was about new beginnings. Hope in the midst of darkness.
Lila blinked away tears. Tears of sadness but also tears of joy.
“Merry Christmas, my love,” Vinc
ent whispered near her ear.
One tear escaped and she briskly wiped it away before turning to gaze up at her person.
“I love you so much,” she whispered back.
And then, realizing a sprig of mistletoe hung directly overhead, she reached up and tugged his head down to hers.
“Merry Christmas,” she whispered against his lips. “Husband!”
** The End **
Note from the Author
Dear Reader,
While writing this story, I began to think that it was going to be too sad to be a Christmas novella—too depressing. But in all truth, I must admit, I have not always found the holidays to be a happy time for me.
And so I did a little soul searching. Many people find themselves in times of despair over the holidays, expecting all fun and games, beautiful parties, fancy trees, and decorations… Well, high expectations can almost make things worse.
What’s important to remember is that the Christmas season is about hope. Set in the depths of winter, spending precious time together, to appreciate the good around us, and to light a candle of hope for the future.
Peace will come eventually.
Have a warm and love-filled Christmas season and as always, Happy Reading!
Love,
Annabelle Anders
To read more of my stories, you can find them (and join my mailing list) at:
www.annabelleanders.com
About Annabelle Anders
Annabelle Anders began publishing in 2017 and left her day job a year later. Since then, she’s published over ten full length Regency Romance novels, with one of them receiving the distinguished RITA nomination in 2019. She writes at her home in the small town of Grand Junction, Colorado with the “help" of her two miniature dachshunds and husband of over thirty years and is happy to have finally found her place in life.
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The Holiday Hussy
by Merry Farmer
Chapter 1
Somerset, England
December, 1815
Cold. Lady Alice Marlowe was freezing cold and huddled in the corner of her seat in the hired carriage that bumped and jostled along the frozen lane, heading toward Holly Manor. She could barely feel her fingers, and her toes had long since gone numb. It didn’t matter how tightly she pulled her shawl around her, the threadbare thing simply wasn’t thick enough to provide adequate protection against the chill, December air.
“Stop fidgeting,” Alice’s father, Lord James Marlowe, the Earl of Stanhope, growled on the seat across from her. “You’re making my head ache.”
“Y-yes, F-father,” Alice whispered through chattering teeth.
Her father looked just as cold as she did, but everything Alice knew about him told her he would rather die than admit to it. James Marlowe never admitted to anything. He refused to admit that his lands were in shambles because of his mismanagement. He refused to admit that, with only three daughters to his name, his title was on the verge of passing to his brother, Alice’s delightful Uncle Richard. He refused to admit that the three marriages he’d arranged for his daughters at the house party at Hadnall Heath, home of Lord Rufus and Lady Caroline Herrington, were bad ones. And he most certainly refused to admit that Alice’s younger sister, Imogen, had run off with Lord Thaddeus Herrington to avoid marrying her father’s choice of groom.
“I said stop fidgeting,” he snapped, grimacing at Alice without a shred of compassion for the cold. “Women should be invisible except when a man needs them to do their duty.”
Alice gulped. “Yes, Father,” she said, lowering her head.
“This spate of temper on your part is disgusting,” he went on as though she had protested instead of meekly obeyed. “Count Fabian Camoni is an excellent match. His fame as a designer of gardens is known throughout England and the continent. And as soon as the mess Bonaparte has created in Italy is resolved, he will possess vast lands in Tuscany, which I understand are incredibly profitable.”
Alice bit her tongue, knowing that anything she said would be taken the wrong way. Her father was desperate for money and the appearance that he was a man of importance and influence. Imogen had failed to help his cause by eloping with Lord Thaddeus, her older sister, Lettuce, had been married off to a wealthy but miserly merchant who had surprised them all by declaring he would take his bride and his fortune off to America without so much as a cent for their father, and so the entire burden of fulfilling their father’s aims had landed squarely on Alice’s shoulders.
He rubbed his hands together, but whether at the thought of the money he stood to gain through Alice’s marriage or to ward off the cold, Alice didn’t know. “Christmas is the perfect time to solidify this alliance,” he went on. “It’s a time of giving gifts and generosity. Not only will your groom give me the dowry price we agreed on, I’m certain I can squeeze more gold out of him. The fact that his mother remarried the Duke of Bolton is merely icing on the Christmas pudding. Bolton is dripping with money, and I have it on good authority that he’s generous with his friends. This entire Christmas house party proves it.”
“I thought the party was to celebrate the wedding,” Alice said carefully. The last thing she wanted was to give her father the impression that she was blissfully going along with his plans. In fact, if she could have wrenched open the door and thrown herself out into the cold and barren landscape to avoid the whole thing, she would have.
Her father glared at her. “Arrogant chit,” he hissed. “This endeavor is not about you.”
Alice’s eyes widened a fraction. Her own wedding was not about her? But of course, it wasn’t. Her father would have required a heart to understand that marriages were supposed to be about love and companionability. They were supposed to contain passion, or at least mild attraction. And it wasn’t as though she found Count Camoni unattractive. He’d been the prize catch of the house party with his rugged good looks and the aura of fame that surrounded him. Half of the young ladies at the party had flocked to him, gazing with open admiration at his broad shoulders and muscular frame, honed from all of the gardening work he did as part of his designs. They’d sighed over his blue eyes and blonde hair, which was unfashionably long, but glorious all the same. It wasn’t his appearance or even his manners that filled Alice with dread and melancholy, it was the fact that she’d had no choice at all in the match. That and the fact that she hadn’t seen him once since becoming engaged to him and had only had two letters in the five months since then.
“You will do your duty,” her father went on in a lecturing tone. “After your marriage on Christmas Day, you will spread your legs eagerly for your husband so that he can get you with child as quickly as possible. An heir is the best way to ensure our families are entangled for all time.”
Alice blushed with embarrassment at the mention of the marriage bed. She wasn’t ignorant of those things, not after the Herrington’s house party and the little souvenir she and her sisters had taken home and split between them. She wasn’t even averse to them either. Part of her was exceptionally curious about matters of intimacy. But the thought of going to bed with Count Camoni because it was her duty, the idea that there was no point to the act but to produce an heir so that her father could sink his claws into Count Camoni’s wealth, left her cold. Or perhaps that was merely the chill in the air.
Her father crossed his arms tightly and sank back into his seat, staring sullenly out the window at the frosty, Somerset countryside. The deep lines on his face hinted he had lapsed into thought and calculations about how he could increase his own fortunes. Alice waited, holding her breath, until she was relatively certain he wasn’t paying attention to her any longer. Then she reached into the small satchel sitting on the seat beside her and drew out a book.
I
t wasn’t a whole book. In fact, it was a third of one. When she and her sisters had discovered The Secrets of Love in a locked chest at the Herrington house party, it had felt as though they’d won a hunt for treasure. The volume contained everything any young woman could ever have wanted to know about the facts and fancies of love. Unlike most of the chaste and sedate books on the subject she had read before, The Secrets of Love contained vivid descriptions of the most sensual acts, interspersed between advice on how to find and keep a lover. Alice and her sisters had read the book so many times immediately after the house party that the spine had cracked. When each of their marriages were arranged and it became evident that the three of them would be split up, possibly never to see each other again, they’d divided the book in three, each of them taking a section.
Alice’s middle section had no bindings, and it’d been all she could do to keep the pages from being damaged. She took one last peek at her father, and when she was certain he was distracted, she opened it to the chapter where she’d left off reading the night before. She already had most of the words memorized, but there was comfort in reading them again.
“Love does not come with a sudden burst, like a man spending himself too soon only to fade and lose interest. It should unfold gradually, like a flower. First comes attraction, then intrigue, then titillation. Just as a lover undresses one article of clothing at a time or a gift is unwrapped bit by bit, the experience should be savored. By drawing out the process of love and reveling in each moment as it comes, passion and pleasure are increased, making the final blossoming all the more enjoyable.”
Alice sighed, warming from the inside out. She could only imagine what it would be like to undress slowly for a lover, to make love the way she would savor a piece of cake instead of harshly lying back and parting her legs, like her father seemed to think she should do. Whoever the author of The Secrets of Love was, she—and Alice and her sisters were convinced the author was a woman—knew what a woman’s heart longed for. And if there was one thing Alice’s heart longed for, it was—
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