Boisterous children filled the drawing room after dinner, running to and fro. Her three played among them, all with eyes of green. Beside her sat the wealthy man, recently widowed, seeking a new bride for his had passed too soon. He aimed to fill the void of quiet nights, of empty chairs. Perhaps she, too, should try.
“Would you allow me to call on you?” he asked from his side of the settee.
No.
“Yes,” she said. “That would be lovely.”
Thunder echoed in her ears, along with hooves and drums, the sounds of war keeping time with her heart. The sound of their first Christmas apart was too loud to bear.
With the tap, tap, tapping of a door knocker, the room hushed, silent except the cacophony in her head.
“Madeleine,” whispered the memory of his voice.
Her heart fluttering, she looked.
A ghost stood in the doorway, its face gaunt, marred by war. Eyes of jeweled green met hers. Tap, tap, tap, he moved into the room, leaning on a cane.
Her legs shook. Her hands trembled. Her vision blurred.
“Papa!” screamed three children at once, their thundering feet galloping across the floor.
Void overflowing, she rushed to join their embrace. Cradled in tight arms, she wept on a starched cravat.
“Only with you am I alive,” his lips mouthed against her temple. “Merry Christmas, my love.”
Beneficence
The snow-blanketed night wrapped her in a silence that chilled and blinded, its crisp white reflecting the moonlight. Snow trickled into her slippers, biting numb toes, slowing her gait.
Not long now until she spied the gabled roof. Had life continued without her, or had the world stopped, breath bated?
Two years had passed, harsh words forever haunting. She was not to return, never to darken the doorstep with her scarlet shame.
Her burden weighed heavily on her hip, swaddled in layers.
Between the nude branches of the sycamores rose the spires of the hall. Home.
The silent silver night transformed with an increasing clatter. The cacophony of the Christmas Ball shattered the peace with voices, heels, and hooves. Hundreds of candles blinked their yellow cat eyes, stalking her approach.
Go back! warned the flickering lights.
Resolved, she defied them. The servants’ entrance snaked around the corner, but her soleless shoes pivoted too late. A couple in glittering finery spied her huddled form.
“A beggar!” The woman snarled. “Fie on you!”
Another couple stepped out to attend the banshee. Then another. Deafening shrieks, shouts, and chides shrouded her.
Then—silence.
A man approached, faltering.
“Bethany? Is it you?”
Her voice trembled. “Aye, Papa. ’Tis me.”
Her bundle stirred, wriggling in her arms.
Crying into the night, a woman rushed past Papa, enveloping Bethany in warm arms scented of lavender.
Pinched and kissed and coddled, she was escorted past startled sycophants.
At the door waited all her happy memories embodied in one man, the one not chosen. She tucked her head against her babe’s curls, hiding her face, her shame. Hands pushed her forward, past Robert’s wrinkled brow.
The scents of sandalwood fans, sweaty warmth, and Mama filled her nostrils. Home.
Guests lumbered, lurched, minced, and shambled to the door, to escape the returning transgressor or to circle the reuniting family, hungry with curiosity.
The wet cheeks of her parents pressed against her face as they begged forgiveness despite her sin.
Words of contrition accompanied loving hands reaching for her babe. They cooed and caressed the golden ringlets and pink cheeks.
Weightless, she wandered, searching the faces until their eyes met. He smiled. She frowned. The sea between them parted. She staggered, eyes fixed to floor until shoe tips edged into view.
“You should have told me,” he said in greeting.
“I couldn’t bear your judgment.”
“You never noticed it was I who loved you. If you had told me…” Pained words trailed off, his emerald eyes a tempest of emotion.
“Oh, Robert. It was I who loved you. I feared you wouldn’t want me, not after—” Her words splintered. “Oh, Robert. If I had known…”
The family circled.
Robert took the babe in his arms, eyes wide with wonder.
“Mistletoe!” a voice exclaimed.
Green mischief appeared above their heads.
Robert leaned. “My kiss is conditional.” Eyes atwinkle with promise, he asked, “Marry me?”
And with a single Christmas kiss, her babe nestled between them, Bethany’s every wish came true.
Gorgeous
The flicker of flames danced over the ballroom, casting a spell on those entwined in the cotillion, a spell that stopped at Marianne’s slippers.
Darkness enshrouded her. No one saw her lilac muslin, raven braids, or glistening tears.
They celebrated the soldiers’ homecoming, victorious. Voices hummed, bees seeking honey.
The sea of red undulated.
She searched the faces, hardened yet happy, faces of friends and family, none belonging to him.
Five years had passed since their rendezvous at the lake. Five years remembering his shadow blotting out the sun as he leaned over her. Five years remembering the feel of his cheek chafing hers accompanied by a rhythmic pant. Five years spent yearning.
Every week, the butler had brought letters signed Yours Always.
Now her heart broke anew every morning when the butler gave her a sorrowful expression in place of a letter. Two months without word.
No one spoke of him, the silence deafening to ears that longed for a single word.
Spoken from behind a tree, startling a fifteen-year-old from meditation, his first word to her: “Gorgeous.” Not for another five years had she learned he hadn’t meant the view.
Ten years as a neighbor, as a friend, as a lover. And now her cheek would never again feel his rough stubble, her lips never again taste his.
Figures pranced and swirled on the parquet floor, oblivious to her pain.
She sank further into shadow. The drone of bees increased, deafening. She closed her eyes to drown them out.
Something brushed against her. She angled away, blinking an ocean from her eyes.
Syllables brushed her again. A word whispered for her ears only.
“Gorgeous.”
Eyes opened wide. The world glowed. Luminous. He stood before her wearing regimentals, clean cheeks, a disarming smile, and a newly minted scar slashed across his devil-may-care face.
She leapt from the shadows into his arms, enfolded by their strength, engulfed by the light.
“I’m home,” Simon whispered.
And so, at last, was she.
A Note from the Author
Dear Reader,
Thank you for purchasing and reading this book. Supporting indie writers who brave self-publishing is important and appreciated. I hope you’ll continue reading my novels, as I have many more titles to come.
I humbly request you review this book on Amazon with an honest opinion. Reviewing elsewhere is additionally much appreciated.
One way to support writers you’ve enjoyed reading, indie or otherwise, is to share their work with friends, family, book clubs, etc. Lend books, share books, exchange books, recommend books, and gift books. If you especially enjoyed a writer’s book, lend it to someone to read in case they might find a new favorite author in the book you’ve shared.
Connect with me online at www.paullettgolden.com, www.facebook.com/paullettgolden, www.twitter.com/paullettgolden, and www.instagram.com/paullettgolden, as well as Amazon’s Author Central, Goodreads, BookBub, an
d LibraryThing.
All the best,
Paullett Golden
About the Author
Celebrated for her complex characters, realistic conflicts, and sensual love scenes, Paullett Golden has put a spin on historical romance. Her novels, set primarily in Georgian and Regency England with some dabbling in Ireland, Scotland, and France, challenge the norm by involving characters who are loved for their flaws, imperfections, and idiosyncrasies. Her stories show love overcoming adversity. Whatever our self-doubts, love will out.
Connect online
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A Dash of Romance (Romantic Encounters: An Anthology Book 1) Page 23
