by Anna Bradley
* * * *
Nicholas tightened his fists until his fingernails dug into his palms. With no idea what reaction he should expect from Portia, he only prayed it was not outright abhorrence. Well aware that it could go either way, Nick steadfastly stared at her, gauging her reactions as she came upon certain passages and then—
An audible gasp and her gaze met his.
Slowly, he nodded, and waited for an eternity as she arose from the settee and stalked toward him.
She stared into his face, hers working through a bevy of emotions, flitting from surprise, to anger, to—dare he hope—joy?
“You? It was you all along?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I thought…I was all but certain it was Lord Daventry.”
Nick sighed. “Disappointed?”
She leaped up, threw her arms around his neck, and fastened her lips firmly to his.
Breath—and, indeed, all rational thought—left his body. All he wanted to concentrate on was Portia, her arms around him, her lips on his, and her sweet young body wreaking havoc with the rest of him.
The clearing of a throat reminded him that they were not, actually, alone in the universe. He released her and ran a hand through his hair. “Your pardon, Mrs. Peterson. I was just about to make a declaration—”
“Is that what they call that nowadays?” The older woman chuckled to herself as she arose. “I’d say if you wish to continue this ‘declaration,’ you might hang the mistletoe bough to lend the proceeding an air of respectability.” She headed to the door. “I believe I shall go instruct Cook about arranging some tea,” she called as she closed the door behind her.
Portia had not taken her gaze from him. A tear glistened on her cheek. “I truly wanted it to be you, at the end. When I believed it was Daventry.”
“Hush.” He caught a tear as it rolled slowly down her cheek.
“I’m so glad.” Then her face changed as her brows dipped into a decided frown. “You ’risked life and limb’ to rescue this damsel?”
“I was waxing poetic to a woman I was convinced I would never meet.” He took her by the shoulders and drew her closer. “I think a little license may be granted in these very odd circumstances.”
“A very little license, Nicholas.”
His name spoken in her voice was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. “Duly noted, my love.”
Raising her chin, Portia gave him a saucy look. “Why did you not kiss me under the mistletoe yesterday at the hotel? You had every opportunity.”
“Because when I kissed you for the first time, I did not wish it to be a public spectacle.” He settled her against his chest. “Like now.”
“Shouldn’t we hang the mistletoe first?” Portia glanced over at the half-finished decoration.
“That would take too much time.” He tipped her head back. “I’d rather we be merry all on our own.” With slow deliberation, Nick lowered his mouth onto her soft, sweet lips.
All the best things happened at Christmas.
THE END
Sneak Peek…The Widow’s Club
Widowed by the Battle of Waterloo, the ladies of Lyttlefield Park are returning to London society—with their futures in their own hands . . .
The widowed Lady Stephen Tarkington, Fanny to her friends, has finished mourning her cad of a husband and is ready to enjoy her freedom. The kind of freedom neither a gently bred miss nor a close-watched wife is permitted: dressing up as Aphrodite for a masquerade, drawing gentlemen away from the party, and hinting at late-night assignations with her dance partners. All is going pleasurably according to plan—until the Roman god Fanny kisses during a masquerade turns out to be Matthew, Lord Lathbury, whose proposal she refused years ago . . .
Lathbury is charming, passionate, inventive, everything Fanny wants in a lover—but unfortunately, he’s on the hunt for a wife. He’s more than willing to use all his wicked skills to persuade her back to the altar, but he can’t wait forever. And now Fanny’s position is more precarious than she once thought. If the tongues of the ton set to wagging, it’s possible no offer in the world will save her from ruin. But does she want to be saved? . . .
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1516103297/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i3
Lady Georgina Kirkpatrick defied her family, jilted her fiancé, and married the man she loved. But when her husband died at Waterloo, she was delivered right back into her father’s power . . .
Victory is sweet—but England’s triumph was Georgie’s rout. Now that she’s widowed, the loathsome marriage her father first arranged has simply been renegotiated. With neither money nor rights, and nowhere to flee, all she can do is cherish her last weeks of freedom. . . . Until a band of ruffians overtake her carriage and kidnap her. When she escapes in seaside Brighton and encounters her brother’s rather wild friend, Lord St. Just—whom she suspects aspires to be a pirate—she’s prepared to entertain more of his adventurous suggestions than usual . . .
St. Just knows his mind and his duty, and he loves a challenge. Helping a fair lady make her farewells to hoodlums suits his talents well. Within the hour he has Georgie, her lady’s maid—and her little dog too—sailing for his castle in Cornwall. Meanwhile, the lady’s entire family, her kidnappers, and her scheming intended are in pursuit. But as he and the indomitable Georgie grow closer, he begins to suspect that together they will prove a match for them all . . .
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07Q6VM63Q/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jenna Jaxon is a bestselling, multi-published author of historical romance in periods ranging from medieval to Victorian. She has been reading and writing historical romance since she was a teenager. A romantic herself, she’s always loved a dark side to the genre—a twist, suspense, a surprise—and tries to incorporate all these elements into her own stories. She lives in Virginia with her family and three rambunctious cats, Marmalade, Sugar, and Olive. When not reading or writing, she indulges her passion for the theatre, working with local theatres as a director. She often feels she is directing her characters on their own private stage.
Jenna is a PAN member of Romance Writers of America and is very active in Chesapeake Romance Writers, her local chapter of RWA.
She equates her writing to an addiction to chocolate, because once she starts she just can’t stop.
Connect with me online:
Blog: Jenna’s Journal
Twitter: @Jenna_Jaxon
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Jenna-Jaxon/146857578723570
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4960704.Jenna_Jaxon
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B005CHPBD2
The Gift
Angelina Jameson
The Gift
Sir Thomas blames himself for his sister’s disability and nothing her friend Lady Rose can say will change his mind.
Lady Rose has been in love with so many men her flighty ways convince the ton she could never be serious about one man.
Can a Christmas gift open Thomas to love and forgiveness and show Rose the man she needs was right in front of her all along?
Other Titles by Angelina Jameson
Upton Family Series
The Marquess’s Christmas Lily
Christmas at Kilmeade Hall
A Bride for Lord Albany
Addiction Series
A Lady’s Addiction
The Blooms of Norfolk
The Wager
The Favor
The Wish
The Gift
The Gift
Copyright © 2019 Angelina Jameson
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION:
To my husband, you keep me motivated and fix my documents for me. Thank you so much!
To Thomas and Tyler, with love.
PROLOGUE
September 1828, Wickling Manor
“Thomas!” His sister Emma flung the door open to the study and rushed in to st
and in front of his mahogany desk, a piece of vellum in her hand and a glare on her face.
He looked up from the papers he’d been studying. “What is it, Emma?”
“Mother sent me a letter.” She shoved the missive under his nose. “She is in London. When she left us after father’s death, you told me she had a breakdown and entered a convent. She writes that you banished her to Paris. Mother says you won’t let her return to Wickling Manor.”
The day he hoped would never come had arrived. It looked as if his careful plan to keep the ugliness that was their mother from Emma was all for naught.
Nearly a year after his father died in India and their mother returned to England, she decided she could take no more of life in the dreary countryside with a young daughter to raise. She threatened to tell Emma the truth about her parentage if Thomas didn’t increase the stipend allotted to her in her husband’s will. She wished to live in Paris, and Paris was expensive.
Their mother, in exchange for a lavish allowance, would stay away from England. Away from Emma. She agreed to never tell Emma about her numerous lovers and how she wasn’t sure who her daughter’s real father was. Most importantly, she would never tell anyone how her husband really died.
Emma was to have her first season next spring. Their mother had agreed to stay in Paris.
“Sit down, Emma,” he said calmly although he felt anything but calm at the moment. The gray sky outside the window of his study echoed his inner turmoil. “There are a few things we need to discuss.”
It was time to tell his sister at least some of the truth. Their mother had always been an indifferent parent at best. He had raised his sister alone from the time their father was posted to India eight years before. Thomas had left Oxford to come home to Norfolk to look after Emma.
Thomas knew his father had taken his wife with him to separate her from her numerous paramours. Gossip about his mother had even reached him at school.
Emma took a seat on a stuffed chair and curled her legs beneath her. It was a childhood habit that resurfaced when they were alone.
She looked at him intently as she said, “Tell me, Thomas. Tell me what you’re keeping from me.”
“Emma. . .” He struggled to find the words to explain his actions. The bracket clock on the corner of his desk ticked loudly, as if prodding him to say more.
“I should have asked why she left without saying goodbye to me,” she said. “Mother was not the most affectionate parent, but I do believe her when she says she misses me. She didn’t write before as she was afraid of angering you.”
He wanted to retort that their mother wasn’t too afraid to write to him often enough over the years and ask for an increase in her stipend.
“Mother left us because she didn’t want a quiet country life with her children,” he replied. “It is true that I paid her to stay away.”
Emma straightened her legs and stood, her hands balled into fists by her side. “You paid Mother to abandon me? Thomas! How could you? I don’t care what you say. I’m writing Mother, and then I’m going to London to see her.”
She rushed from the room and out into the corridor. He sighed and got up to follow her. He made it into the entry hall to see her trip near the top of the main staircase. There was nobody on the stairs to halt her tumble. Emma shrieked and down she came. He reached her side in time to prevent her head from hitting the black and white checkered marble floor of the entry hall.
“Emma!”
He lifted his sister gently from where she lay upon the bottom treads of the stairs, her wide skirts tangled about her.
“I’ll fetch the doctor from Braxton,” the head footman said loudly over the raised voices of several servants who arrived in the entry hall upon hearing Emma’s scream.
Emma sobbed in agony as he carried her into the drawing room and laid her gently on a wide stuffed sopha.
“It will be all right, Emma. The doctor is coming.”
Tears streamed down his sister’s face, a face contorted with pain. His housekeeper entered the room and handed him a glass containing a dark gray liquid.
“Laudanum,” she said at his inquiring look. “It is a very potent dose.”
He raised Emma’s head the slightest bit and held the glass to her lips. Her loud cries had turned to soft groans. “Here, my dear. Please drink this. It will help with the pain.”
Emma swallowed the laudanum. When she finished drinking, she closed her eyes and didn’t make a sound. Her silence frightened him. He was relieved to see her chest rise and fall with each breath.
“Stay with me, Emma,” he whispered as he knelt beside her motionless body. “Please forgive me and stay with me, dearest sister.”
CHAPTER ONE
December 1829, Norfolk
“I’m not cold. I’m not cold,” Lady Rose Blevins said aloud as she stamped her feet for warmth.
She wore a fur-lined pelisse, and her hands were stuffed into a fur mitt. Despite the chilly weather, she was determined to meet Sir Thomas Childs on the very steps of his home.
Rose didn’t know if she shook from cold or indignation. Christmastide was nearly upon them before Sir Thomas saw fit to return to his estate and his invalid sister. Emma was her best friend. She hated seeing someone she cared about neglected by her only family.
It was winter. Sir Thomas could not have been on an archaeological dig. There had been reports of six inches of snow in London and parts of the south of England. The London Times reported the Thames had an inch of ice on its surface.
From her bedchamber window she had seen the baronet’s coach turning into the long drive lined with old oak trees. She rushed downstairs to confront her friend’s errant brother.
The traveling coach pulled into the gravel forecourt of Wickling Manor. A footman rushed out from inside the manor to take a valise from the baronet’s coachman before he hurried back into the warmth of the house.
Sir Thomas alighted from his carriage. Rose squared her shoulders, her mouth set in firm lines.
The baronet took the three steps up to the house in haste, his face drawn. He asked wearily, “Can we save your lecture until later, Lady Rose? It is freezing out here.”
As he swept by her, she caught a whiff of his cologne; it was dark and woodsy. She’d never encountered a man who smelled as good.
She glowered at his back as she followed him into the house. There was bound to be several servants within earshot. He knew she would not make a scene in the entry hall.
Sir Thomas handed his thick frock coat, tall black hat, and cane to a waiting footman.
“Miss Emma is in her studio, my lord,” the footman said.
Thomas strode down the well-lit corridor toward the former parlor that had been converted into an art studio for his sister. Rose hesitated, unsure of whether she should follow.
Her irritation with the man dictated her movements to pursue him. The door to Emma’s studio was open. She followed Sir Thomas into the room.
“Thomas!” Emma’s face lit up when she saw her brother.
The girl sat in an invalid chair, painting a forest scene on a small canvas. The tall windows in the room were without coverings to allow what light there was outside to flood the room. A fire blazed in the small hearth.
Rose’s dog, Livingston, got up from his place beside Emma and padded over to get a scratch from his mistress.
“What are you working on, dear Sister?” Thomas’s voice sounded tired but cheerful. “It looks a charming scene.”
“An illustration for one of Rose’s fox books. We’re collaborating again.” Emma looked to her. “Aren’t we, my friend?”
“Oh yes,” she replied. “It is very exciting. The book is already sold.”
Thomas turned to her. “To the same publisher?”
“Is there someone else we would sell it to?” she asked with a loud sigh. “Perhaps if you were home more often you would know more about your sister’s life.”
The dog he hadn’t noticed before made a whini
ng noise.
“Stop crossing swords, you two. You’re upsetting Livingston,” Emma said forcefully, her voice cross.
All eyes turned to the Springer Spaniel. The dog had a white coat with liver markings. Rose’s sister Iris had given the dog to her almost seven years ago.
“Why is that dog in my house?” the baronet asked with a frown.
Emma clicked her tongue. “Thomas! If you really mean it when you say this is my home too, then Livingston stays. Rose is my guest, and her dog goes where she goes. Off with you now. We will have tea in the drawing room after you have washed away the dirt of the road.”
“As you wish. I will be down momentarily.” He gave his sister a buss on her cheek, skirted Rose and her dog, and left the room.
Rose felt oddly deflated. She’d imagined he would argue with her as he usually did when he returned home. Sir Thomas was oddly subdued today.
“You two are hopeless,” Emma said as she resumed her work.
She nodded. “I’m sorry. We’ve been this way since—”
“Since the accident. You must try to get along with my brother. You are my best friend, and Thomas is my- well, my only family.”
She was ashamed of herself. Emma had been through so much. Rose had lost her parents years before, but she didn’t know the pain of being abandoned by her mother.
“You are right, Emma. I promise to behave.” She walked closer to where her friend was working and peered at the canvas before her. “You have captured exactly the expression I wanted on the face of Timothy Fox. Well done!”
* * * * *
