Christmas Cinderellas

by Sophia James

  ‘The doctor thinks I will get better, doesn’t he?’ she offered tentatively now, as Cecily settled her back into bed after her latest bath. She had dressed her in a pretty white nightgown, leaving her hair down.

  Mrs Hussey had left them, anxious to check that the housemaids were maintaining their duties.

  ‘He does, thank goodness.’ Lady Cecily’s relief was clear. ‘He says the damage has not gone too deep. It is only the skin that is affected—not the muscles or bones.’

  Repeating the doctor’s words was important. Reassurance for both of them.

  Nell’s gaze met Cecily’s. Nell swallowed hard.

  I might have died. I wanted to die.

  She closed her eyes.

  And yet some part of me wanted to live, too. That is why I stayed on the road.

  She kept her eyes closed. ‘It was Mr Beresford who found me, was it not?’

  ‘Yes.’ Cecily’s tone was clipped, her disapproval obvious.

  She wants to protect me from him. Because she cares about me.

  ‘Thank you, Cecily.’ Tears rolled out from beneath her closed eyelids and down her cheeks to her ears. She sniffed, and Cecily passed her a handkerchief. ‘You have been a good friend to me. Better than I deserve.’

  Cecily denied it, then was quiet, and Nell was left to think. She thought and remembered and questioned inside her own head, until she felt ready.

  ‘I will see him now.’

  Cecily nodded, then disappeared without a word.

  Ten minutes later there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in!’

  The door opened.

  It is him!

  Everything depended on the next half-hour. Had she imagined it? His concern for her, the emotion she had felt in his voice, seen in his eyes, when he had rescued her? Her memories were hazy, but her heart believed something had happened.

  It was time to discover the truth.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tom stood in the doorway, suddenly uncertain. For the past few hours he had been tortured, listening to talk of Nell from Mrs Godwin—how pale she was, how ill she looked, how shocking it was that she had suffered such ill-effects after turning her ankle during a short walk.

  The guests had no reason to question this version of the story, stating only that she should have taken a maid to accompany her.

  Tom had endured praise for his part in finding her and returning her to Wyatt House. He had brushed this away, feeling like the lowest sinner who had ever lived.

  He desperately wanted to see her, to apologise, to try somehow to convey his sense of shame. Now—this moment—would be his best chance.

  There she was, in the bed that was also his, looking up at him with those beautiful autumn eyes. Her magnificent hair was unbound, and she was clad in nothing but a fine nightgown. He groaned inwardly, then pushed away his body’s reaction. His task was to reach her soul. In this moment the needs of his body could only be a distraction.

  She looked terribly pale, it was true, and yet to him she was the essence of beauty. He was lost for words, momentarily overwhelmed with relief that she was truly still alive.

  ‘Mr Beresford!’

  Her tone was polite, easy, restrained—just as if she was not in a bed en deshabillé.

  ‘So nice of you to visit me.’ From her tone, they might have been in a drawing-room.

  He stepped forward, his eyes sweeping over her, noting the bandaged hands. A pained expression flitted across his face as he felt the force of her injuries.

  ‘Well?’ she asked, tilting her head to one side. ‘You wish to speak to me?’

  This is the moment. Do not fail.

  He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. ‘Yes. I would like the opportunity to explain some things to you. If you are well enough for such a conversation?’

  ‘I am listening.’

  Her expression was closed, with nothing of warmth in it. Well, why would there be, when he had behaved so badly towards her?

  There was an upright chair beside the bed. His bed. He sat, then hesitated.

  ‘It begins,’ he offered—then stopped, frowning. ‘It truly begins when I was five and my mother died.’

  Her eyes widened briefly. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I have told you some of it. My brother and I were sent to boarding school, where we basically lived for the next ten or twelve years. We saw our papa once or twice a year, but there was no warmth from him.’ He remembered Nell’s mama’s portrait. ‘You had a loving mama for a long time.’

  Her expression remained guarded. ‘I did.’

  ‘My father had gambled away most of the family fortune by the time my brother reached his majority, and when the old man died of fever we discovered he had also run up significant debts.’

  Nell was frowning now. ‘I see. That must have been very difficult for you both.’

  ‘We made a vow.’ He gazed sightlessly at the window, recalling that moment. ‘We declared we would not rest until we had paid off every one of those debts and rebuilt the family’s wealth.’ He looked at her again. ‘And we have done it.’

  Her lip curled slightly. ‘Your business ventures?’

  ‘Yes. We sold a small estate that was to have been mine, though we kept the hunting box. The family estate is entailed. We had to sell some of the remaining stock in the funds, but instead of using it to pay off the most pressing debts we bought a ship.’

  ‘A ship?’

  Now she looked intrigued. He hoped she was intrigued.

  ‘We sent it to Brazil, with a cargo of manufactured goods, and it returned with raw materials. Thankfully it did not sink, and we made enough from that one expedition alone to pay my father’s creditors. And we kept going. Ships, goods, property... My brother and I are now two of the wealthiest men in England.’

  She looked decidedly unimpressed. ‘Mr Beresford, is there a point to any of this?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, there is.’ His heart had begun to thump rather loudly. ‘When I came here, it was with the intention of persuading your stepmother to sell Wyatt House to me.’

  ‘As a place of entertainment, to sweeten your business deals.’ Her tone was flat.

  ‘Yes. And there is nothing wrong with that. I have never cheated anyone or stolen anything. But my work includes a need to be persuasive at times.’

  Nell tilted her head to one side, considering this. He could see her lively mind turning it over, could see that, despite his cruelty towards her, she was honouring him by giving him a fair hearing.

  He took a breath. ‘But something unexpected happened here.’ Now he had her full attention. ‘You.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I was drawn to you from the first—and in a way I had never experienced before. I believe you understand me?’

  She remained impassive.

  ‘We kissed in the copse, and then again downstairs. At midnight, under the mistletoe.’

  Nothing. Not a flicker of emotion pierced her mask of impassivity.

  ‘Afterwards I went to my chamber—to this very room—feeling as though I had been charged by an unbroken horse.’

  There! Something flashed in her eyes, just for a moment.

  ‘And we talked. Each time we walked together you honoured me by revealing more of yourself.’

  He talked on—of how he had pieced together her journey from a happy life with her papa, through to Beatrice’s arrival and her father’s death.

  ‘I felt every day of it in my own heart,’ he finished. ‘I learned to know and love everything about you—your indomitable spirit, your kind heart, even your wit.’

  Her eyes softened a little at this, but still she sat unmoving, a vision of remote beauty. ‘Pray continue.’

  ‘Then came yesterday—New Year’s Eve. I rode out across the fields in turmoil. I did not unders
tand what was happening inside me.’ He stabbed at his own chest. ‘Never had I been so lost, so frightened.’

  ‘Yes, you had,’ she countered.

  He felt puzzlement crease his brow.

  ‘That is how you felt when your mama died,’ she said softly.

  He closed his eyes tightly, screwing up his face against the pain of it. ‘Yes,’ he managed.

  Once he had regained a little self-control, he continued.

  ‘I resolved to buy the house and run away. Never to see you again. Never to feel these feelings inside me. To regain control of my heart, and my mind, and my spirit.’

  ‘So you spoke to Beatrice?’

  He nodded. ‘I was shocked to discover the house was yours. All my supposed business talent has been entirely absent since I met you. I had not even properly established the basic facts! This is how you have changed me.’

  ‘Not for ever, I hope.’

  What does that mean?

  ‘Now to my second confession. You called me a fake and a charlatan. You were correct. Because last night, when I talked of the house and blocked out my heart, I was wearing a mask. I was lying to you, and to myself. After you left I realised I was fighting an unnecessary war and I admitted the truth.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That I love you. I cannot live without you. When I was looking for you in the snow—’ His voice cracked. ‘Nell, I was in an agony of spirit. If you had died, I would not have lived without you.’

  He searched her face. Slowly she lowered that curtain in her mind—the one that had prevented him from seeing her thoughts. Her eyes were shining, and a slow smile grew on her face.

  His heart leapt, and he dared to gently take her hand. ‘Nell! You feel it too?’

  She nodded, turning her face up for his kiss.

  This kiss was different from the ones they had shared before. The passion was there, but this time it was carefully banked. This kiss sealed their future together. Acknowledged their love. Marriage, soon. Children, hopefully. Never being alone again. Ever.

  ‘Nell...’ he murmured again. ‘Nell.’

  Epilogue

  Mr Beresford and Miss Godwin were married in the church of St Mary in Chiddingstone after a short courtship. The wedding was a small one, with only the bride’s stepmother, some servants, and a gathering of local people present to witness it.

  The banns had been called in the required manner, and the villagers were delighted to see their Miss Godwin glowing with such happiness. She wore a jonquil silk gown with Vandyke points and delicate embroidery along the bodice and hem, while her new husband—a fine-looking gentleman reputed to be brother to an earl—looked resplendent in a coat of blue superfine.

  Mrs Godwin—Mrs Beresford’s stepmother—had announced her intention of hiring a townhouse in London, as Wyatt House had reverted fully to Eleanor Beresford, née Godwin, upon her marriage. It was rumoured that Mr Beresford had made a generous settlement on the widow, to enable her to set up her own establishment, and that she had been only too happy to accept.

  The young couple remained closeted at Wyatt House for nigh on a month after their wedding, before planning a trip to the capital.

  On the night before their journey to London, Tom and Nell lay close together in their rumpled bed. Nell was idly stroking her husband’s hair, her injuries now long healed. She and Tom—her darling, darling Tom—had spent most of the month since their wedding day here, in this bedchamber.

  Nell, reluctant to move to her parents’ suite of rooms just yet, had suggested Tom simply move back into the chamber he had slept in during the early part of his stay—the chamber where they had first and finally declared their love—and he had done so on the day they were married.

  Now their cosy idyll was to end, with a visit to the capital and Nell’s introduction to Tom’s brother.

  ‘You seem a little anxious about your brother’s reaction,’ she offered. ‘Do you believe he will disapprove?’

  He opened his eyes. ‘I truly have no notion how he will react. His trip to France had been planned for months, but I could not wait for his return before marrying you. I wrote to him just yesterday about our marriage—though he may have heard about it already, of course.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘He must marry, to ensure the line. I was under no such obligation, so it may surprise him that I have married—and so quickly.’ He frowned. ‘I think what concerns me is that this—our love for each other—may seem alien to him.’

  She nodded thoughtfully. ‘It took something like a bolt of lightning to shake you out of your old ideas. I can understand how people may think us foolish.’

  His right arm snaked around her, his fingers trailing up and down her spine. ‘Ah, but we know it is they who are the fools, not us.’

  She arched closer, kissing him softly. ‘I think I knew after only a couple of days that we should be married.’

  He smiled ruefully. ‘We both know it took me a little longer. Yet once I knew it, I felt it with every inch of my heart, my body and my soul.’

  ‘I do believe we are fated to be together,’ she murmured, kissing him again.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, rolling up onto his elbow and looking down at her. ‘Fated.’

  And as they came together yet again it could not truly have been said which among the pair was the happier.

  Coming next month

  FORBIDDEN TO THE HIGHLAND LAIRD

  Sarah Mallory

  Soon the notes of a familiar tune floated down from the window.

  ‘Perhaps you would like to return to the hall and dance,’ Logan said.

  ‘I was never taught the steps.’

  ‘I thought all young ladies learned to dance.’

  Ailsa’s hand fluttered. ‘I spent all my time with the harp.’

  ‘That surprises me.’

  ‘It was not considered necessary for me to dance, only to play.’

  He heard the wistful note in her voice and said upon an impulse, ‘Then dance with me now. I think I can remember the steps.’ She looked up, startled, and he held out his hand. ‘You must have seen it performed often enough and will soon pick it up.’

  Cautiously she took his fingers and he helped her through the moves. She was light on her feet and quick to learn. Logan guided her around, giving the occasional word of instruction. As her confidence grew, so did her smile and with the music drifting down from the open window, they danced on in the moonlight, laughing when they made a mistake.

  All too soon for Logan, the dance ended. When they stopped, he bowed low over her hand.

  ‘Excellently done,’ he praised her. ‘You learn very quickly.’

  ‘Thank you, Laird.’ She dropped him an equally low curtsy. ‘I should hesitate to try it in company, but I did enjoy it.’

  When she raised her head, he could see she was laughing. The moonlight sparkled in her eyes and he felt suddenly winded. By heaven, she was beautiful!

  His hand tightened on her fingers as he felt a sudden desire to kiss her, but when he would have pulled her closer, she resisted him, the laughter dying from her face.

  ‘Sir—’

  ‘My name is Logan,’ he interrupted her softly. ‘I would be honoured if you would call me by my name.’

  ‘I cannot,’ she cried. ‘I should not be here. Oh, pray you, let me go. I should never have come outside!’

  She was genuinely distressed and he released her immediately.

  ‘You have done nothing wrong, mistress. I assure you.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Ailsa, believe me—!’

  But she was already hurrying away.

  Logan watched her disappear. What was there in that to distress her so? He remembered his sudden flare of desire. Perhaps she had seen that in his eyes, perhaps she had guessed how much he wanted to kiss her. He meant her no insult and he would tell her so. He must do so, if he ha
d the opportunity, before the evening was out.

  Continue reading

  FORBIDDEN TO THE HIGHLAND LAIRD

  Sarah Mallory

  Available next month

  Copyright © 2020 Sarah Mallory

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