An Enchanted Christmas Collection : Regency Romance

by Wendy Vella

Hero Appleby, he’d realized from his first good look at her, was exquisite. The soft pale skin of her cheeks was tinged pink from the cold, and her eyes were the color of roasted chestnuts. Deep, dark and fringed with long, curling lashes, they drew a man in and made him wonder what secrets their owner was hiding.

  “I did have, Emmaline, but Lord Caruthers was able to get it out.”

  He watched the sweet curve of her bottom lip as she smiled at the girl. She wore a hideous, ill-fitting dress and hair the color of the honey he drizzled on his morning crumpets was scraped back from her face, yet she was beautiful—stunning, actually—and he wondered how the men of Neathern had left her alone for so long. His hangover had obviously obliterated his ability to see.

  “Hereth your tea, my lord, and I’ve put two sugars in there and hereth some cake, because Mrs. Bonny said you’d need sweetening up if Miss Appleby is to change your nip fathering ways.” The little girl with the large, red bow in her black curls approached, carrying a cup.

  “Yes, thank you, Emmaline. Please hand Lord Caruthers his tea and run along to the kitchens and have your own.” Hero Appleby’s cheeks now resembled rosy apples as she shot the child a desperate look.

  So she thought he was mean with his money, did she? Interesting that all her letters to him had gone astray. In fact, he would lay money on Stilton, his estate manager, having had something to do with that.

  “Thank you.” Taking the cup from the little girl, he offered her a smile, which she returned with one of her own, showing him her two missing front teeth, which explained her lisp.

  “How many children do you have here, Miss Appleby?”

  “Six, my lord, all under the age of ten years.”

  “How long have you run this home?” Max took a mouthful of tea, enjoying the heat as it travelled through his body. The fire roared, yet it was still not overly warm in the room.

  “One year, my lord, since I encountered Owen and Charlotte sleeping under a pew in the church.”

  “A pew?”

  She took a delicate sip of her tea before replacing the cup in the saucer. She may have been dressed like someone’s neglected maiden aunt, yet Miss Hero Appleby was a lady to her toes.

  “I had left something in the church and returned in the dark to retrieve it and that was when I saw them, huddled together under the third row.”

  Intrigued, Max waited, knowing there was more to the story.

  “I managed to get them to talk to me and when I realized they were homeless, I put them into my cart and brought them here and that was the day I opened my doors to children who needed my help and a place to live.”

  She must have come up against many obstacles choosing the path she had. He couldn't imagine her family being happy with one of their own opening her doors to orphans.

  “I believe you were gifted this house upon the death of your father, Miss Appleby. Please allow me to offer my condolences for your loss.”

  She snorted at that. “My father stole my money but luckily could not sell this house. He was a foolish man who cared more for his horses and his mistresses than his only child. I can assure you I felt no grief upon his death, my lord.”

  Max was someone who said what he thought and appreciated that trait in others. He watched her fingers dig briefly into the arm of the chair after that forthright speech. Perhaps she was not as unaffected by her father’s death as she stated, or was she still bearing the scars of living with the man?

  Picking up the large piece of cake, Max took a bite and was instantly transported into apple and cinnamon bliss.

  “Our cook has a talent for baking, my lord. She can also make a little go a long way which is necessary here.”

  He took another bite, hardly daring to believe it could be as good as the last. After swallowing, he took a mouthful of tea to wash it down.

  “If you’ll forgive me for asking, Miss Appleby, why is the new Lord Appleby not helping you in this venture?”

  Max watched her fingers dig deeper into the worn fabric of the chair she sat in. Clearly, Miss Appleby did not have an amiable relationship with her cousin. He could not read the turbulent thoughts chasing across her features but knew she was reluctant to talk about her family. However, she needed his support so she would have to tell him something.

  “His expectations and mine do not coincide, Lord Caruthers. Therefore, I felt it prudent to leave my late father’s home upon his arrival and relocate myself here.”

  “Alone and penniless?” Max prodded, curious as to why she had never believed her late father’s home her own.

  “I would really rather not share every facet of my life, Lord Caruthers, especially if at the end of it you will walk away with a full stomach and pockets.”

  She was a tart mouthed woman, who he had to admit, intrigued him. In fact, he could never remember a woman firing his interest more than the delectable Miss Appleby. To his mind she was better suited for ballrooms and stately homes, than dressed in rags looking after orphans.

  “I’m asking out of concern, Miss Appleby. It does not sit well with me that you are living in this freezing house without protection. Surely any man would feel that way. I cannot imagine the new Lord Appleby such a beast that he is happy with the current arrangements.”

  She glared at him now. Her fingers pleating the skirt of her dress as she attempted to rein in her temper. However, Max found he didn’t want her to rein it in; he wanted to see the full force of its splendor.

  “Lord Caruthers, it is not my circumstance we are discussing. It is the matter of my children. As you can see, Bratton House is in need of money. Will you or will you not help?”

  He let a few seconds pass before answering, knowing his hesitation would rile her more. “You answer my questions and I will think about it.”

  She breathed in through her nose and out again before speaking. “You will not simply open up your full coffers and aid these poor, freezing children in their quest for a healthier and happier life?”

  “Nice try, yet still I want you to answer my question. Why will the new Lord Appleby not aid your cause?”

  Her glare would have felled an entire forest, Max was sure; however, he was made of sterner stuff and was, surprisingly, enjoying every second of his encounter with Miss Appleby. People did not usually argue or question Max. Most wanted to keep him happy. He knew some people stayed on his good side because he was rich others wanted to wed him to their daughters. Only a rare few actually courted his company because they were genuinely interested in him as a person. Depressing as this thought was, it was reality.

  “My cousin is not pleased I am here, yet without removing me bodily, there was little he could do when I decided to stay.”

  “You are not a very malleable woman are you, Hero Appleby?”

  “Not particularly, my lord, and yet I will try to be if it means you will help us.”

  Max laughed at her expression. She looked as if she'd just sucked on a lemon.

  “Would you not rather be getting ready for the season and searching for a new husband?”

  “I would rather have pins embedded under my nails, Lord Caruthers, if I may speak plainly.”

  “Speak away,” Max waved a hand, indicating she should continue. She really was something—beautiful and seemingly totally unaware of the fact. She was stubborn, opinionated and everything he’d thought he hated in a woman. Seems he was wrong, if the stirring inside him was any indication.

  “I do not covet a life led in society, my lord. Engaging in frivolous pursuits, over-imbibing and spending endless amounts of money on clothing and trinkets have never been what I aspired to.”

  “Unlike me, who loves to over-imbibe and buy trinkets?”

  She blushed again and Max knew she hated the loss of control she could do nothing about. “I'm sure there was not much trinket buying on your part, my lord.”

  “Only ample indulging in licentious pursuits?”

  Her mouth clamped together, in an effort, he guessed, to stop herself
from saying what she really wanted to. “I do not listen to rumors and gossip, Lord Caruthers.”

  “Come now, Miss Appleby. We both know that is not true because your reaction to me would suggest otherwise. I believe you said, and I quote, ‘I find excessive alcohol can sometimes lead to memory loss.’ These words tell me you have already formed an opinion of my character.”

  “I formed an opinion when I arrived at your house yesterday to find you sweating and green-faced from your activities the previous evening. Surely that gives me the right to my opinion!”

  “One such evening does not mean I constantly overindulge, Miss Appleby,” Max said, wondering why he cared what she thought.

  She took another deep breath before speaking. Obviously, patience was not her strong suit.

  “Forgive me. I have lived with men who do overindulge frequently. I had no right to judge you.”

  Her eyes were focused on something over his shoulder and he wanted them back on him. “I forgive you.” She stiffened at his words but remained silent. “And now I have another question for you, Miss Appleby. Does your cousin visit you here?”

  Her eyes were wary but she answered his question. “My cousin is a man who gets what he wants through intimidation, my lord, and he wants me in his house so he can take advantage of me. As I have no wish to share the bed of a man who will abuse me, simply to live a life without poverty, I ran. I hope that satisfies your curiosity?” She took a quick sip of tea before continuing “Now that I have given you all the nasty details of my private life, perhaps we can get to the point of your visit, Lord Caruthers. I need money to repair the roof and various other things that will make this house more hospitable for the children and myself. Will you help?”

  “Did he hurt you before you left?”

  Max didn’t know why he had asked that question—anger, probably—but he wanted to know the answer. He'd been around long enough to know what men were capable of, especially men who had a vulnerable woman under their supposed protection. He saw the surprise in her eyes. Her entire body, which had been bristling, seemed to slump down into the chair at his words and her lips trembled. Damn, had he made her cry?

  “That is not a question to concern you, Lord Caruthers.”

  “Hero—” Max started to speak as the door opened.

  “Are you going to show him around now? Cus I should be the one to help you, seeing as I let him into the house.”

  Max swallowed a curse as Owen walked back into the room.

  Hero sniffed delicately as the boy moved to her side. She gave him a sweet smile that made Max’s chest feel warm. What the hell was the matter with him? First the child and now Hero. He must be coming down with something, Max never felt warm feelings deep inside unless he’d swallowed a mouthful of brandy.

  “Do you know, Owen, I think that sounds like a grand plan.”

  She ran a finger down the boy's cheek before wrapping his scarf more securely, and then re-buttoned his coat, which, until now, Max had not noticed was buttoned incorrectly. Each gesture was natural to her, as if this boy was indeed her child. Owen stood very still until she had finished, his face solemn and his little, mitten-covered hands clenched into fists at his sides. Max could see the boy didn’t like being touched, yet he suffered it because it was Hero doing the touching.

  Max couldn't remember his mother, or anyone, for that matter, ever touching him in affection. No one had brushed the hair from his forehead or wiped a smudge of dirt from his face. Clearing his throat, he stood suddenly, uncomfortable with his thoughts.

  “Shall we?” He held out a hand and ignored the curious looks both the boy and Hero gave at his gruff tone.

  “I’ll lead,” Owen said, grabbing a handful of Max’s coat again. He wondered if it was because he thought Max would leave before the tour or if the boy just liked tugging him about the place.

  “This is where I sleep, my lord,” Owen said as they walked down a drafty hall and entered a large room.

  It was bloody chilly in here and Max wondered how the children managed to sleep in such conditions. The beds—two doubles on one wall and two singles on the other—were neatly made. The walls were white and adorned with a number of things. Fashion pages from magazines showed several well-dressed ladies, and flowers of varying colors and varieties.

  “You cut books up to furnish your walls?” he questioned Hero, who stood several feet away from him watching his every move, almost as if she thought he might steal something. What, he could not fathom.

  “The room needed cheering up so I used whatever was at hand, my Lord.”

  Each bed had a hand knitted blanket on top of a mound of other blankets. Several lumpy looking knitted toys were perched on the covers and Max made his way toward the nearest for a closer inspection.

  “The younguns sleeps with them, my Lord,” Owen said, suggesting he was no longer in this category.

  Max picked up a grey knitted thing with two eyes and a nose.

  “Me, I don’t need one, but they do.”

  Looking at Owen's serious face, Max guessed he could only be six or seven at the most, however, his eyes told him there was not too much the boy hadn't seen in his young life and most of it was extremely unpleasant. He felt a surge of anger at whomever had given the boy these memories.

  “I still have toys in my room, Owen. I fear that makes me less of a man in your eyes?”

  “What toys?” The boy looked suspicious.

  “Books and toy soldiers—that kind of thing. Which is your bed?” Max added, replacing the lumpy woolen thing with ears back to where he had taken it from.

  “I’m here.” Owen pointed at the bed closest to the door and then said, “Sod, he's under my blanket again, Hero!”

  “Owen, watch your language, please.”

  Hero moved to Max’s side. Taking a deep breath, he inhaled cinnamon and woman.

  “Tis that bleedin’ Mistletoe again!”

  She giggled softly and then muffled the sound behind her hand. However, Max had heard, and the sweetness of it hit him in the chest. She'd sounded about ten years old.

  “Dare I ask what, or indeed, who, is Mistletoe?”

  “Him.” Owen was pointing to a lump under the blanket on his bed. Lifting one corner, Max noted a black paw.

  “Your cat is called Mistletoe?”

  “On account of he has one missing, my lord.”

  Hero giggled again as Max gave her a blank look. “I’m sorry but I have not the slightest clue what he is talking about.”

  “Bend down and you’ll see,” Owen said, testily this time, obviously unimpressed by Max’s attempts to grasp what was happening. “See, he has a missing toe there on his left foot,” the boy added as Max did as he was told.

  “Paw, Owen. Remember that cats have paws and claws, not toes, feet and hands like us.” Hero bent over so her head was beside Max’s.

  “Let me see if I have this correct, Owen,” Max straightened because being this close her was far too disturbing. “Your cat has a missing toe. Therefore, you called him Missing Toe, which has, over time, become Mistletoe?”

  “Well done, Lord Caruthers.”

  He smiled at Hero and noted she had a rather charming freckle just above her right eyebrow.

  “It is many years since I’ve conversed with anyone who comes to my waist, Miss Appleby. However, I was once a boy and therefore, I understand their thought processes.”

  The door banged open suddenly and in burst a little girl. She was crying— sobbing actually, very loudly. Max winced. In seconds, Hero had the girl in her arms and Owen had moved to Max’s side, grabbing another fistful of his coat.

  “How do you tolerate the noise?” Max whispered.

  The little boy gave him a man-to-man look. “I usually sticks me fingers in me ears, and if that don’t work, I go to the stables.”

  Max grunted his approval and urged Owen from the room. “Come, Owen, you can continue the tour until Miss Appleby is able to join us.”

  He saw everyt
hing except Hero’s room, which, according to Owen, was the only place the children weren’t allowed to go unless she gave them permission.

  “Cus it’s full of her private things and heaps of paper.”

  Deducing that probably meant bills, Max didn’t question him further. The boy was a combination of innocence and wisdom. It was curious how likeable Max found him. He didn't like many people on such short acquaintance.

  “Can you smell it?”

  “What?”

  They appeared to be heading downward into the bowels of the house. Max had rarely frequented the bowels of any of his own homes. Owen still had a grip on his coat, however, so he just followed as it seemed the easiest course to take.

  “Cinnamon and stuff. Even if Mrs. Bonny ain't cooking with it, the kitchen still smells of it.”

  “Isn’t,” Max found himself saying. “Isn’t, is a better choice of words than ain't, Owen.”

  The boy gave him a look, which he interpreted to mean, not you as well, and then he pushed open a door and they were in the kitchen. Max had never spent much time in his own kitchens. Food usually just appeared when he wanted it; the preparation of it was not something he'd ever taken much interest in.

  “Lord Caruthers!”

  “Mrs. Bonny,” Max said to the woman, who was now clasping a large wooden spoon to her chest as she stared at him, obviously horrified that a peer was standing in her kitchen. “May I prevail on your kind nature to sweeten me up further with the offer of another piece of that exquisite apple and cinnamon cake?”

  “C-cake?”

  “Your face is all red like an apple, Mrs. Bonny,” Owen said, releasing Max long enough to go and stand in front of the flustered cook and stare up at her.

  “Owen, it is not polite to make comments like that, especially to a woman,” Max said.

  “Them bloody onions is way in the back, Mrs. Bonny. I can't reach ‘em.”

  Pandemonium was the only word Max could use to explain this house. No one could carry a civilized conversation to its conclusion without a child chirping in. Looking for the voice that had mentioned the ‘bloody onions,’ Max made his way around a screen and found a small girl perched on a ladder, attempting to reach the top shelf. Seeing it was about to wobble as she leaned further toward it, he simply lifted her and replaced her at his feet. “Stay,” Max then said, as he did with his dogs. She looked up at him, surprised, but did not move. Making sure the ladder was braced, he then climbed two steps and looked at the top of the shelf. The 'bloody onions' had indeed made their way to the back of the shelf, so he retrieved them and was about to step down when he heard someone stomping down the stairs and into the kitchens.