Table of Contents
A Basket of Wishes by Rebecca Paisley
Praise for A Basket of Wishes and Rebecca Paisley
Amber House Books by Rebecca Paisley
Copyright Info A Basket of Wishes
A Basket of Wishes
The power of Faerie…
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Epilogue
About the Author
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A Basket of Wishes by Rebecca Paisley
Can love’s tender spell melt the icy heart of a duke?
Jourdian Amberville, the Duke of Heathcourte, is looking for the perfect bride. A practical and staid companion who will fit into his perfectly ordered life and never tempt him to fall in love. What he is not looking for is a violet-eyed sprite who tumbles right out of the sky to knock him off his horse.
Jourdian doesn’t know that Splendor is an actual fairy princess seeking the human mate she is destined to love. After they are forced to wed to avert a scandal, Jourdian realizes his new wife is no ordinary duchess, but a tender-hearted temptress who talks to animals and weeps diamond teardrops. The delightful chaos the mischievous beauty brings to his life threatens to make him lose not only his temper…but his heart.
If Jourdian is to keep Splendor, he must learn to surrender that heart to the strongest, most dangerous magic of all—the magic of true love.
Praise for A Basket of Wishes and Rebecca Paisley
“A charmer…a delightful adult fairy tale…perhaps best read alone so one doesn’t have to explain having a laugh or even a bit of a cry over a fairy tale.”—Publishers Weekly
“Combines a dash of Rumpelstiltskin with a dose of The Little Mermaid and all the love, laughter, joy, enchantment, magic, and sheer pleasure you can get from reading an unforgettable romance. Rebecca Paisley spins a tale of such beauty, delight, tenderness, and humor that you will be captivated by her characters and the marvelous fairy-tale atmosphere she creates.”—Romantic Times
“Charm, imagination and laughter! All you need is Rebecca Paisley!”—Lisa Kleypas, New York Times bestselling author
“Boldly goes where few writers go and she does it brilliantly!”—Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author
“Rebecca Paisley is the Queen of unique and charming love stories!” Jill Barnett, New York Times bestselling author
“Rebecca Paisley dazzles the heart!” Teresa Medeiros, New York Times bestselling author
“One of the most talented writers in the genre, Ms. Paisley is an absolute delight to read! Once you’ve read your first Paisley, we can guarantee it won’t be your last!”—Historical Romance Writers
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Copyright Info A Basket of Wishes
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
Copyright by Rebecca Paisley. All Rights Reserved.
First e-publication 2015
Cover design by Control Freak Productions
Cover Photo Copyright Romance Novel Covers
Cover Grahic Copyright Oxana Zuboff, Moolkum and Ferdiperdozniy (Used via license Shutterstock.com)
Published by Amber House Books, LLC
http://www.amberhousebooks.com
For more information, contact [email protected]
A Basket
of
Wishes
by
Rebecca Paisley
Amber House Books
The power of Faerie…
…glittered most brightly on All Hallows Eve, for it was a time of the year when mortal rules were suspended. The tiny inhabitants of the enchanted world were always capricious with their moods, but never more so than on this date. With a twinkle of their eyes they could grant a bounty of good fortune.
Or a lifetime of doom.
Out of fear and uncertainty, most people remained close to home on this magical night.
Virgil Trinity was not one of them…
Prologue
English countryside
October 31st
Panting with exertion, Virgil stopped running and glanced over his shoulder. Across the moonlit meadow glowed the lights of his cottage, where his beloved wife lay dying. Virgil swore he could hear her cries of agony, and vowed to help her at any cost.
Fear fired his determination. He fled into the black woods ahead, instantly blinded by the darkness. Shivering with apprehension and cold, he eased his pace and forced to mind every notion he’d ever heard about the Wee Folk.
“Fairy ring,” he whispered. “I must find a ring.”
Eyes cast to the shadowed forest floor, he searched for evidence of a glowing circle. Long moments passed; his brow began to bead with the sweat of desperation, and a tinge of hopelessness slowed the frantic beat of his heart.
“Little People,” he called, his voice barely louder than the drifting of a cloud. “I beg your help.”
He saw nothing. Heard nothing.
Covering his face with his hands, he fell to his knees at the foot of an ancient oak. Stones and gnarled twigs cut into his legs, but he could feel only the painful knowledge that his sweet Pegeen was going to die.
And with her would die their unborn child.
He wept, his tears seeping through his chilled fingers and splashing to the ground. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he perceived eerie changes occurring all around him. The cool night breeze warmed as if heated by sunbeams of high noon. The rustling of the oak, birch, and elde
r branches became almost musical, a soft, stirring melody that sounded like hundreds of flutes playing in harmony. From between the narrow spaces of his fingers, Virgil saw lights. Among the mist-dampened leaves, the sparkles swirled in a small, perfect circle.
They were here. They’d come.
The fairies.
“Virgil,” a small male voice sang out.
Virgil took great care to stay outside the edge of the circle, for he knew that if he stepped inside the dazzling ring he would be pulled into the world of Faerie with little chance of escaping. Crouching lower to the ground, he strained to see the fairies. He saw nothing but the leaping shimmers of light, but remembered suddenly that the Wee Folk could quickly turn themselves into human form.
He edged away.
“Speak now, Virgil,” the voice demanded, “or the aid you seek will be swiftly denied you.”
Virgil took note of the authority that laced every word the tiny voice spoke. “My wife,” he blurted out, more tears slipping to the ground. “Pegeen. The babe—the babe won’t come. It’s been near two days, it has. Please…”
“What would you be willing to sacrifice to save the child and its mother?” the voice asked.
“Anything,” Virgil answered impulsively, clasping his hands together as if in prayer. “Anything you ask.”
He saw the sparkles come together on the dark ground to form one large ball of gleam, and he realized the Little People were discussing the bargain. Silence ensued, and then the lights separated once more.
“In return for the lives of your wife and child,” the voice finally said, “I demand a betrothal. One of your descendants must wed one of mine. Do you agree to these terms, Virgil Trinity?”
Virgil took not a second to ponder the fairy’s stipulations. “Yes! Oh, yes!”
The lights glowing among the leaves grew brighter, so bright that Virgil could not bear to look at them any longer. He shut his eyes.
“Your plea is granted,” the small voice announced. “Pegeen is delivered of a fine healthy girl.”
Virgil shook with happiness, but he didn’t respond. The Wee Folk shunned gratitude.
“Go now, Virgil Trinity, and raise your daughter, but speak of our bargain to no one,” the fairy voice instructed. “Although you will have naught to do with its fulfillment, you may be sure that the promise you have made on this night shall come to pass.”
His eyes still shut, Virgil rose from the ground, raced out of the woods, and bolted across the wide, grassy field. When he finally arrived in the front yard of his cottage, the proof of fairy magic lilted into his ears with the lusty wails of his healthy newborn and Pegeen’s cries of joy.
Clapping his hands together, Virgil laughed and danced around the yard and saw that in the distant woods the fairy lights continued to shimmer faintly.
In return for the lives of your wife and child, I demand a betrothal.
Still dancing, Virgil nodded as he remembered the fairy’s words.
A betrothed.
Suddenly, his dancing stopped, his laughter faded. Now that he was assured of Pegeen’s and his daughter’s well-being, the true significance of his agreement with the fairies came to him at last.
He groped for the fence and leaned against a wooden post, and his forehead beaded with sweat once more. Was it his infant daughter who would one day marry into the enchanted world? Would it be one of his grandchildren? Great-grandchildren? He could not begin to guess, for the fairy voice had given no hint whatsoever.
All he knew for certain was that the rash and desperate promise he’d given only a short while before had irrevocably doomed someone of Trinity descent to the powerful clutches of Faerie.
Chapter One
Jourdian Amberville, the twelfth duke of Heathcourte, had concluded that there wasn’t a female in the world who met the requirements he’d set for the woman who would be his duchess.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. Swallowing his second glass of brandy, he reached out and stroked his pet cat, Pharaoh, a sleek Siamese who tolerated no one but Jourdian.
“What’s on the boil?” Jourdian’s cousin, Emil Tate, asked, confused by Jourdian’s sudden curse. They’d been discussing Jourdian’s recent purchase of a mine in Egypt, but obviously Jourdian’s thoughts were elsewhere now.
Emil pondered the mine a moment longer. Jourdian had bought it for no reason other than a passing suspicion that the pits might yield treasure, purchasing it right beneath the nose of a second interested buyer. Not only had miners discovered emeralds within those dark, damp Egyptian caverns, but authorities claimed the mine to be one of the richest ever found. Practically overnight, the vast Amberville fortune had tripled.
Yes, in many ways Jourdian led a charmed life, even as a boy. Once, when he and Emil were running through a field of wildflowers, Jourdian had spotted a sprinkling of tiny diamonds within the mass of trodden blossoms. Only Jourdian Amberville could have found jewels scattered amidst a lot of broken weeds. Since then, everything he touched had turned to wealth.
Sipping his own brandy, Emil felt the familiar spark of envy flicker through him, but since he bore no ill will toward his cousin he didn’t feel a jot of guilt over his bit of jealousy. He’d decided long ago that only a saint of the highest heavenly order could resist coveting the title, riches, and power of the illustrious duke of Heathcourte.
He leaned forward on the satin settee by the fire. “I’ve often thought you were born under a lucky star, Jourdian. You were never even stung by a wasp, do you remember? Whenever we came upon the vicious creatures, it was almost as if they were blown away from you. Why, even the snakes we found that day near the pavilion slithered out of your way!”
Jourdian turned a sideways glance toward his cousin, a devil-may-care chap whose thick sandy hair was forever tousled and whose burnished gold eyes were almost always filled with a mixture of mischief and merriment. A relative from Jourdian’s mother’s side, Emil didn’t possess a drop of Amberville blood or any other rightful claim to a place among England’s peerage, but the unshakable bond between them was something no member of the nobility ever dared to ignore. Emil was the only family Jourdian had.
“Jourdian? Do you remember the snakes?”
“Snakes?” Jourdian frowned. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“I might ask the same of you,” Emil answered, flashing a lopsided smile. “In fact, I think I did.”
Jourdian reached for the bottle of brandy.
“Women,” Emil guessed suddenly. “Your lack of a duchess always drives you to drink. One thought of the elusive lady turns you into a regular ale knight.”
“Emil, I am in no mood for any of your cheek. Furthermore, the subject of my love life is not up for discussion.”
“The deuce, you say!” Emil laughed. “Jourdian, your love life is the discussion, the most talked about subject in all of England. Why, I even heard it said that the queen herself once wondered why you could not seem to pick a bride from the masses of beauties the season produces year after year.”
“Indeed.”
“Niall Marston can barely wait for you to wed.”
“Niall Marston,” Jourdian said, pondering the disreputable womanizer. “So he desires the chance to seduce my wife, does he?”
“It’s his hobby, as you well know. Just last month he succeeded in enticing Lord Villier’s new bride into meeting him in the garden during a small gathering that the Dunmores gave. Harold Villier is still none the wiser. Neither is Thacker Ainsbury. Rumor has it that Cherise Ainsbury is still seeing Niall whenever possible.”
“If Niall Marston dares to look at my wife—”
“Seducing a woman who doesn’t exist would be quite a feat.”
Jourdian poured more brandy. Liquor wouldn’t get him a bride, but it for damn sure would help him forget he didn’t have one.
Accustomed as he was to having everything he desired the moment it occurred to him to want it, he simply could not fathom why the trivial task of choos
ing a duchess proved so infuriating.
He’d been covertly watching society’s marital offerings ever since his twenty-eighth birthday, when he’d first decided the time had come to marry and produce an heir. He was thirty-two now and had yet to encounter a single woman who suited him.
Damn it all, finding the perfect wife should have been as effortless a goal to accomplish as any and all he’d ever undertaken.
And yet…
He shook his head. “Finding a basket of wishes would be far easier,” he murmured. Running his fingers through his wavy hair, he glanced at his surroundings.
The green salon was a lofty room, its elaborately sculpted ceiling supported by pink marble columns. Four exquisite crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, their sparkles of light dancing upon the silk draperies and magnificent gilt chairs, all of which were a warm shade of moss green.
This room had been his parents’ favorite. A pity Their Graces had rarely been home long enough to truly enjoy it, Jourdian thought.
“You know, Jourdian,” Emil said, “you’re getting quite the reputation for being a man utterly impossible to please. There are many who say that if the goddess of love and beauty herself appeared before you, you would spurn her.” He rose from the settee and joined his cousin in front of the huge window. Careful not to stand too close to Pharaoh—who was watching him with glacial blue eyes full of a promise of violence—he helped himself to a glass of Jourdian’s brandy. “People are trying to imagine the woman who will finally appear in your life and win you over. And it’s not only your peers who wonder, but your tenants and servants as well.”
Jourdian twirled the stem of his snifter, watching the brandy slosh around the sides of the delicate glass. “I’m glad to hear I’ve provided everyone with such entertainment.”
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