A Timeless Romance Anthology: Winter Collection

by Heather B. Moore

  Henry stared at him, aghast. “No, not after—”

  “This topic is not open for discussion.”

  Henry clamped his mouth shut. As he stalked away, he said, “As you wish. My lord.”

  Christopher stared after him, wanting to call him back. He’d probably handled that badly, and he knew how traitorous a Christmas celebration must seem to Henry, but he couldn’t explain why he felt so compelled to do this for Miss Fairchild, how happy she made him, and how he couldn’t wait to see her beautiful smile.

  He addressed the servants in the hall. “When I give the signal, come in and bring all this—” he gestured to the boxes “—with you. Build a fire in every hearth and light all the candles.”

  Christopher moved to the drawing room. Sweet harp music floated through the air to him, coaxing him near. In the doorway, he stopped. Miss Fairchild sat at the harp, her hands floating gracefully over the strings, her lovely face serene. She played with such beauty, such passion, that his soul stirred. The scene took his breath away. How long he stood there, drinking in the peace and beauty of the music, entranced by the angel who created such loveliness, he couldn’t say, but when she stopped and set the harp upright on its base, he wanted to beg her to continue.

  “Exquisite,” he breathed. “I seldom hear such passion in music.”

  Standing, Miss Fairchild smiled. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I am rewarded many times over just for the pleasure of hearing you play.”

  Her smile brightened, and she inclined her head in acknowledgement rather than pretending to be demure. Drawn to her, he moved to her side. His hand lifted as if it had a mind of its own, and he had to fist it and bring it back to his side. Her lips drew his gaze, and his cravat seemed to strangle him.

  “Are you betrothed, Miss Fairchild?” he heard himself ask. He nearly cursed out loud. What had possessed him to ask such a thing? He’d sworn off marriage. Such a thing would only lead to death for the unfortunate bride. And he couldn’t bear to lose a wife again.

  Her eyes opened wide in surprise. “No, my lord. I haven’t found a man to whom I am willing to pledge myself.” She chuckled. “My aunt fears I’ll die a spinster if I don’t choose someone soon.”

  Her aunt let out a grunt. “She’s turned down half a dozen offers.”

  He grinned at Miss Fairchild. “A spinster at what, eighteen? Nineteen?”

  In exaggeratedly mournful tones, she said, “I’m nearly twenty, my lord.”

  “Ah, yes, quite in your dotage.”

  She laughed, the sound seeping into him like the warmth of a soft blanket. Again came that terrible urge to touch her face, her lips.

  He cleared his throat and stepped back. “I have something for you. A poor substitute for your family, but I hope it will make your stay here more pleasant.”

  He nodded to a servant who hovered at the open doors. A footman dragged in a log. Two more brought in the fir tree. Others carried boxes. She stared as if she didn’t quite comprehend.

  He made a grand bow. “For you, my lady.” Grinning, he glanced at the girl’s aunt who had arisen and stood with tears shining in her eyes.

  A servant approached. “My lord, Cook says it’s time to stir the pudding.”

  Christopher glanced at Miss Fairchild to watch her reaction. She didn’t disappoint. She looked at him first with surprise and then delight. Her smile lit up the room more brightly than the fire in the hearth.

  “A Christmas pudding? Truly?”

  He grinned. “Yes. Should we go stir it and make a wish?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  He chuckled at her enthusiasm. How gray his life had been until she came. Now his world exploded with color and joy, with Clarissa Fairchild in the middle of it. It would be a dark day, indeed, when she left.

  After stirring and wishing on the Christmas pudding, they spent the remainder of the evening decorating the drawing room until it looked more festive than the castle had been in his lifetime. Miss Fairchild directed all the servants, who lost their hesitation of helping a Fairchild, and scurried to please the lady whose contagious enthusiasm and smiles spurred them on. When all was done, they stood back and admired their handiwork.

  “It’s perfect,” she whispered as if she stood on holy ground. Her eyes shone.

  “It is, indeed.” He turned to her. “I’m sorry there are no gifts for you on the tree.”

  She touched his arm, her eyes alight with the purest joy he’d ever beheld. “You have given me a wondrous gift. A knight of old could never have been more chivalrous or more generous.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, so softly and gently, it might have been the touch of a snowflake.

  Tingles spiraled outward at her touch, and the last of the ice inside his heart thawed. If he didn’t watch himself, he’d tumble irrevocably in love with this Christmas angel who’d brought light into his dark world. “Is there anything I’ve overlooked?”

  “No, nothing. Unless you have musicians, that is, for dancing.” Her eyes twinkled.

  “Dancing. Er, yes. Well, I suppose we could. Do you have a suggestion?”

  She smiled impishly. “The waltz comes to mind.”

  “May I? Unless you prefer your imaginary prince.” He grinned back.

  She laughed. “No, I gladly accept you over him.”

  Her aunt went to the pianoforte. “I’d be happy to play for you.” She began playing a slow waltz.

  Christopher took Miss Fairchild into waltz position and lead her the steps. She followed beautifully. How could he ever let her go? In a few short hours, she’d transformed him from a brooding recluse with no hope into a man who smiled, laughed, danced—and the biggest surprise of all—a man who celebrated Christmas.

  When the tune ended, they stopped but he didn’t release her. Her fingers tightened on his arm, and her gaze searched his eyes. A current crackled between them.

  Hobbs sidled up to him and cleared his throat. Grinning, he held a sprig of mistletoe over Miss Fairchild’s head. “It is traditional, m’lor’.”

  Christopher didn’t know whether to laugh or run in terror. He watched the emotions play on Miss Fairchild’s face—surprise, embarrassment, expectation, hope.

  She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. At his hesitation, she blushed but made no move to step away. “You needn’t feel obligated, my lord.”

  “No.” He drew a steadying breath and put a finger underneath her chin. Gently, he lifted her face upward. His heart thudded as he leaned downward. Her eyes widened, and her pulse throbbed in her neck. Her fragrance of winter roses mingled with the unique scent of her wrapped around him in a sweet cocoon. He leaned closer. Her lips parted and she closed her eyes. He kissed her. Her velvety lips grew soft and pliant under his, and she followed his lead as instinctively as she’d followed him in the waltz. Years of emptiness, sorrow and bitterness melted away as her kiss healed him. He poured his heart into that kiss, hoping she’d feel what he couldn’t tell her.

  And knew he’d never be the same.

  Chapter Seven

  In all the books she’d read, and in all the whispering, giggling conversations Clarissa had shared with her married friends and sisters, nothing had prepared her for the intensity, the passion, the purity of Lord Wyckburg’s kiss.

  Her heart soared, and she knew, at long last, she was home. The man she’d sought among the suitors in London was here, kissing her as if he’d never let her go. He slid his arms around her and pulled her against his solid chest. She clung to him, praying he’d never stop. Warmth and tenderness swept over her.

  “My lord,” Aunt Tilly’s voice broke in. “Really, I must protest!”

  Clarissa swallowed a moan. Lord Wyckburg ended the kiss, but his lips moved first to her eyelids and then her forehead. With a sigh, he drew back. Cold air rushed in where his warm body had been seconds ago.

  Christopher’s eyes glowed with quiet joy and tenderness. “I should apologize, but I’m afraid I’m not sorry, not one bit.”
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br />   Neither am I, she wanted to say, but instead summoned a playful smile. “We could blame the mistletoe.”

  He brushed a finger over her cheek. “I’ve wanted to do that all day.” Sorrow returned, and he closed his eyes. “What am I doing?” He stepped back and cleared his throat.

  Everyone in the room stared. Clarissa’s face flamed. That kiss had gone way beyond the acceptable mistletoe kind and had bordered on impropriety. But she didn’t care. She wanted more. Much more.

  Christopher cleared his throat again. “Forgive me. I am not in the habit of assaulting young ladies, not even under mistletoe.”

  “Isn’t mistletoe wonderful? It’s resilient and verdant even in the darkest winter. Perhaps we can learn something from it.”

  He turned tortured eyes on her, and her attempt at levity crashed to the floor. “Miss Fairchild, you must know that you’ve touched my heart in a way I thought I’d never feel again. But I cannot offer you a future. I refuse to bury another wife.”

  Clarissa gaped. He’d as good as told her he wanted to marry her, but the curse stood in the way. She considered a life with him. What had seemed restrictive and dull with other men now appeared bright, with endless new discoveries and beautiful possibilities—only with him. In but a few hours, this man had captured her heart as none other. No wonder his late wife had been willing to take a chance.

  Now more than ever, she had to find a way to break the curse and convince him to take another chance on love. With her.

  She squared her shoulders, raised her chin. “Then we must double our efforts to find a way to end the curse.”

  “Even if we do, I won’t risk your life testing whatever solution we find. The danger is too great.” He turned away.

  She rested a hand on his back, and he tensed, but didn’t step away. She whispered, “Christopher.”

  His shoulders heaved. “I had my carriage modified to a sledge. Tomorrow, unless it’s stormy, I’ll take you home so you can celebrate the rest of Christmas with your family.” He nodded to Aunt Tilly and strode out of the room.

  Clarissa let her hand fall as his rejection fully sank in. He wasn’t just denying himself; he was denying her. Her throat thickened. Servants drifted out, bidding her a joyous Christmas. The footman with the mistletoe gave her a cheeky grin.

  The housekeeper, whose name she’d learned was Mrs. March, stopped next to her. “Thank you, miss, for bringing a smile to my lord, and for bringing Christmas back the castle.” Her mouth curved into an awkward smile before she strode quickly away.

  Moments later, Clarissa and Aunt Tilly were left alone in the festive room.

  Aunt Tilly stared at her. “Curse?”

  Clarissa related everything she knew about the curse. “Do you think it possible Great-grandmother Fairchild knows anything of it?”

  Aunt Tilly put her hand on her head. “A curse? Impossible.”

  “Then explain why every countess has died only months after bearing a son.”

  “The lords murdered them.” But her voice lacked conviction.

  “I don’t believe that. Not anymore. Do you really think Lord Wyckburg is a murderer?”

  “I admit, after meeting him, he seems gentle and kind. Not sinister.” She heaved a sigh. “I suppose a curse isn’t any more difficult to believe than a legacy of murder.”

  “Something is going on. And I refuse to leave Chri—er, Lord Wyckburg to face a lifetime of loneliness. I must help him.”

  Aunt Tilly tilted her head. “What, exactly, do you feel for him?”

  “Oh, Aunt Tilly, I’ve never felt this way before. Of all the suitors I’ve had in London, none has made me feel this way.” She gestured around her. “And look what he did for us. For a man who’d never celebrated Christmas before in his life to have gone to so much trouble… it’s beyond kind and generous. It’s heroic.”

  “It is, indeed. Clearly, he’s a good man.”

  Clarissa sat down and took Aunt Tilly’s hand. “I love him, Aunt. I know it’s mad, and I know we’ve just met, but I vow I’ll have him and no other.”

  Aunt Tilly drew in a breath. “Your father will have something to say about it, considering what everyone believes about the Wyckburg lords. And it sounds as though Lord Wyckburg may be equally hard to convince.”

  “Leave that to me.”

  Aunt Tilly chuckled and kissed her cheek. “I know that look. Come, off to bed.”

  They crossed the main hall toward the stairway. The metallic scraping of a gun cocking sent chills down Clarissa’s spine. She froze. Aunt Tilly gasped.

  Standing in the shadows, Henry pointed the barrel of a pistol at her. “I cannot kill the original witch who cursed this family and my sister, but I will take vengeance on you.”

  Stunned, Clarissa stared in disbelief. The surreal scene came straight out of a gothic novel. This couldn’t be happening. Too shocked to be afraid, she fell into a state of unnatural calm.

  She moistened her lips. “Shooting me won’t bring back your sister, Henry.” She used his Christian name in the attempt to reach him in a personal way.

  “It will avenge her death.”

  Very softly, she said, “Perhaps, but will it help you find peace?”

  He hesitated. “My sister will be avenged.”

  “Are you truly prepared to kill?”

  The determination in Henry’s face faded, and the gun lowered an inch.

  “Henry!” barked Lord Wyckburg. Christopher! Again, her knight had come to save her.

  Henry flinched but put a second hand on the gun to hold it steady. “Stay back, Christopher. This is something I have to do.”

  “No, you don’t.” Christopher raised his hands and walked slowly toward Henry.

  Henry glanced at him. “You do it, then. It could lift the curse.”

  “It might.” Christopher took another step toward him. “But what if we kill her and the curse remains? What then?”

  “We will have justice!”

  “It won’t be justice or even vengeance. It will be murder.”

  Henry flinched. Christopher leaped. He sailed through the air and landed on Henry, knocking him down. The gun flew from his hands and slid across the floor. Henry struggled against Christopher, who held him tightly. Then Henry went limp. All the fight seemed to leave him. He started weeping. Christopher gathered Henry in his arms and held him. Clarissa stood in shocked silence. Unable to think of anything else to do, she picked up the gun, eyeing it as if she’d never seen one. This weapon had nearly taken her life. It might have harmed Aunt Tilly or Christopher. Lives could have been shattered if the gun had gone off. If someone had been killed, Henry would have been haunted all his life. He would have faced possible deportation or execution.

  All the gothic novels she’d read made this type of event seem thrilling. But it wasn’t. It was horrible. A sob lodged itself in her throat then forced its way out.

  Christopher sat talking softly to Henry. After a moment, they both stood. Henry came to Clarissa, head down and shoulders slumped. She couldn’t decide if he was horrified over his actions, or angry he’d failed.

  “I’m prepared to face the law for what I tried to do.” He spoke in quiet monotone.

  Clarissa gulped back her tears and glanced at Christopher, whose impassive face gave her no clue as to his thoughts. Briefly, his control slipped, revealing grief and inner turmoil. If she turned Henry over to the law, Christopher would have no family. He’d be alone in the world. And Henry was only a grief-stricken boy who hadn’t been thinking clearly.

  She handed the gun to Christopher without taking her gaze off Henry. “That won’t be necessary. I can’t pretend to imagine what you’ve lost, but I can see how you must view me as the one responsible for your sister’s death. I won’t swear out a warrant for your arrest.”

  Henry drew in a labored breath. “Thank you,” he mumbled. “I’m in your debt. I hope someday you can forgive me.”

  “I already have. Just please know I’m not your enemy.”
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  Henry nodded without looking at her, then mounted the stairs as if each step pained him.

  “Good heavens,” Aunt Tilly said. “I didn’t think my heart would survive that.” She pulled Clarissa into a rough embrace and kissed her cheek. “You were so brave.”

  Lord Wyckburg let out his breath slowly. “How can I ever apologize for that?”

  Clarissa touched his arm. “You needn’t apologize. He’s young, he’s hurting, and he’s trying to make sense of it all.”

  He put a hand over hers. “You are remarkably compassionate.”

  “I did it for you as much as for him.”

  Their gazes locked, and he brushed a finger along her cheek. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you for saving me. He may not have pulled the trigger, but I’m grateful for your intervention. Once again, you are my knight. All you need is the shining armor.” She rose up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. Then, seeing his arrested expression, boldly kissed his lips.

  He returned her kiss as if he were starving. Then, as before, he pulled away. “We cannot keep doing this.” He glanced at Aunt Tilly, who stared at them with a thoughtful expression.

  “Young man, if you insist on kissing my niece, I demand to know what your intentions are toward her.”

  He heaved a great breath and closed his eyes. “I’m afraid I cannot act on my desires. My intentions must be nothing more than providing shelter until I can return both of you safely home. Good night.”

  He left Clarissa standing alone, more determined than ever to save him.

  Chapter Eight

  Christopher glanced at Clarissa Fairchild sitting next to him in the sledge, then back at Henry and Aunt Tilly in the back seat. Their faces barely peeked out over the mountain of blankets he’d piled on them; their cheeks and noses were pink from the chill wind. Aunt Tilly teased Henry about girls who no doubt set their caps for him, and he was actually smiling. Considering the debacle last night, his mood came as a surprise, but some of the weight seemed to have been lifted from his shoulders.