Benedict marched up the length of it, eyeing each woman that could possibly be Angelina and scanning the windows of the soon-to-depart train. No sign of a beautiful golden-haired woman with too much weight on her shoulders. He strode back down again, taking longer to peer into the windows and receiving a few odd looks in return. Not that he cared. Let them stare, he only wanted his Angelina.
A whistle split the air and steam belched from between the wheels of the train. It moved with a creak to begin with as it edged out of the station. And with it, his heart went. She had likely been on the other side and he hadn’t been able to see her. Perhaps he should have got on.
Letting the ticket in his hand flutter to the ground, he sank back onto the nearest bench. He’d get the next train. It didn’t matter.
Except it did. He didn’t want to wait any longer.
“Benedict?”
He stood so fast his vision went white for a moment and it took him a second to catch his breath. A finger thrust toward the train, he scowled at Angelina. “But...your train...”
She peered up at him, her brows creased. “That’s the train to Oxford.” She pointed at the one coming into the station behind him.
He released a feeble laugh. “I thought you’d...” Damn, she was beautiful. Her eyes captured him. Her skin begged for his fingers and her lips for his mouth. He needed to sift her hair through his hands. She wore a green velvet jacket with a skirt in a lighter shade. Her hat sat at a jaunty angle, giving him a full view of her profile.
“What are you doing here?”
He swallowed and motioned to the bench. “May we?”
She nodded and let him lead her to the chair. When she sat, it took all his willpower to keep his hands to himself.
“I read your letter,” he told her.
“I wasn’t sure you’d see it.”
“My butler made sure I did,” he said with a wry smile. “It seems I have not been too pleasant to live with recently.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Angelina looped her gloved hands together and he saw the tension in her posture.
“Why are you leaving?”
“I have nothing left for me here.”
“The clerk at the paper said you would likely be in demand.”
“He did? You went to the paper?”
“I did. How else would I find you here?”
“I...” She tilted her head to eye him. “You came here for me?”
“Of course.” He couldn’t fight it anymore, he gave into temptation and took one of her hands in his. She didn’t resist. He winnowed his gloved fingers through hers and clasped them tight. “You do not need my forgiveness, you know. It is I who should be begging for it.”
“I shouldn’t have lied to you, Benedict.”
“I understand why you did. But, Angelina, you forgave me for my awful deeds and yet I was too blind, too egocentric to forgive you yours. For that, I am sorry.”
Angelina shook her head slowly. “You don’t need to be sorry. As much as life did not take me down the easy path I assumed it would, I don’t think I would have been happy married to Robert. At least I had a chance to be an independent woman.”
“You still could be. Well, to a certain extent.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I am fairly certain after the stir your letter has caused, your editor will let you write whatever you wish. That is, if you still want to.”
“I...I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to be in London anymore.”
“Because of me?”
She dropped her gaze to their linked hands.
“What if I also gave you a reason to stay in London?”
Her gaze lifted to his. “What do you mean?”
“If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I should like to court you again, Angie. Even if it takes years, decades, a lifetime to win you. I no longer wish us to be strangers or, even worse, enemies.”
“You still want me?” Her eyes searched his.
Benedict hoped he looked as serious as he felt. His breaths grew shallow as he tried to convey everything he felt about this woman with one look. “Yes. I always have and always will. I was a fool to say otherwise.”
A tiny smile began to curve her lips. His chest expanded. How he longed to make her smile properly for the rest of her days.
“I am not sure I want you to court me for decades. Or even years. I feel as though we have waited years already.”
“You...” He couldn’t say it. Either she wanted him gone or...
“I should like you to court me, though, Benedict.”
A flare of triumph rocketed through him. He wanted to jump up and shout at the world that he had finally gained the love of this amazing woman. His hands shook as he took hers tight in both of his and pressed a firm kiss to the back of her hand. She beamed at him.
“Come with me,” he said, glancing around at the too-full platform.
He stood, keeping her hand in his and led her along the platform to a hack. He gave the driver some instructions and ushered her inside the simple interior of the cabriolet. Once he’d shut the door and the carriage began to move, he took both hands in his again and clasped them tight, ignoring the twinge his wrist gave him as he did so.
“What are we doing?” she asked, her lips curved in amusement.
“First,” he released one hand to press back an errant curl and brush the curve of her cheek. “I am going to kiss you. Then we are going to the newspaper to demand your dream job. After that, I thought you might like a trip to Scotland.”
“Scotland?”
“You do not have to say yes, Angie, but I should like to take you to Gretna Green.” He held his breath and waited as her eyes widened in the darkness of the cab. A loud thud in his ears threatened to deafen him.
A slow smile spread across her face. “I think, my lord, you should get started on your list of things to do. You have a busy day ahead of you.”
He laughed and brought both hands up to cup her face. He was careful to keep his splint from her face but he needed to touch her. Her soft lips were like rose petals against his. She tasted like home and excitement at the same time. Benedict knew he’d been needing this his whole life.
Kissing her until she was breathless and clung to him like he was her anchor, he moved her into the crook of his arm and marvelled at how perfectly she fit against him.
“I’m glad you said yes. I’m not sure what I would have done otherwise.”
She snorted. “Benedict Britton, unsure of himself, well that is a first.”
He chuckled and squeezed her tight to him. “You snorted, Miss Manners.”
Angelina rested her head against his chest. “I did not, my lord. A lady never snorts.”
Benedict wouldn’t tell her she wasn’t a lady because to him, she was. A lady who snorted perhaps, but she was his lady. His only lady.
THE END
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USA Today bestselling author Samantha Holt lives in a small village in England with her twin girls and a dachshund called Duke. If you're not sure where to start why not try the following titles on Amazon...
▶ Amelia and the Viscount (Bluestocking Brides #1) for a fun, slightly hot shorter length read. Meet the Chadwick sisters and follow their adventures in each of their standalone stories.
▶ You're the Rogue That I Want (Rogues of Redmere #1) is a longer read with heat, witty dialogue, a feisty heroine and adventure. All books in the series are standalone.
▶ Sinful Confessions is the first in the Cynfell Brothers Series. These are all novella length and standalone—ideal for a quick dip into the world of the sexy Cynfell brothers.
▶ Wake Me With a Kiss is a sweet, fairytale romance. Twists on Beauty and the Beast and Cinderella are also available if you love a clean, fun read.
▶ To Steal a Highlander's Heart is a full length dive into the world of sexy highlanders. For those who
love braw Scots, some steamy scenes, and medieval romance, this series is a perfect escape.
Prince of Christmas Past
By Angelique Armae
PROLOGUE
1794
Summerton Castle
Duchy of Summerton, Kingdom of Countavia
Excitement drummed through Victor’s fingers as he rubbed his hands together and headed down to the stables, his years-long dream about to be realized. It didn’t matter that he’d hardly slept last night. Sleep was for children and as of today he no longer fit that category.
He stifled a yawn and jabbed his hands into his coat pockets.
Today he’d finally be seen as a man in his father’s eyes, as fifteen was a sacred age to the men of the Baine family, for it was at this age that King Bertram had ascended to the throne. Now Vic was fifteen. And although he was not the crown prince like his brother Kit, and hence had no throne to one day takeover as had his father, he’d earned this turn in life.
And to prove it, he couldn’t wait to present the king with the rescued pug he’d been raising for the last month. The now thriving dog had been solely under his care, and aside from being small, the pug no longer resembled the runt he was four weeks ago.
With contentment settling in his soul, Victor made his final descent over the hill, the pungent odor of straw and muck growing stronger as he neared the stables.
He scrunched his nose.
At the barn, he slid the door open and stepped inside.
A loud neigh greeted him.
“Good morning to you, too, Jest.” He went straight for the last stall, retrieved a handful of oats from his pocket, and fed Jester the treats.
A few seconds later, Jester pulled on the leather restraint tethering him to the stall.
“Anxious for a run, are we?”
Jester neighed again, this time with a bit more obstinance.
What the bloody heck had gotten into the horse?
A whine echoed from below.
Vic’s gaze flew to the space in front of Jester’s cubical.
His pug’s basket lied dead center, moved out from the corner where he’d left it last night.
His heart raced. He dashed to the woven container, crouched, and flipped back its lid.
The curled-in-a-ball, tiny body of his sleeping pug greeted his sight.
A soft whimper rose from the pug’s throat.
It shivered.
Vic immediately rescued the runt from the basket and placed him on his shoulder, the dog’s nose nuzzled against his neck.
“You’re safe now, Tricks,” he said to the puppy.
Jester neighed once more.
“Don’t get jealous old boy. I love you both the same.”
Jester turned away, disappeared into his cozy stall.
A breeze flowed through the barn. As did the faintest hint of Scotch, not that he was a drinker at fifteen, but the aroma often lingered on his tutor’s breath.
Vic leaned back on his haunches and held Tricks tighter. A low snore buzzed beneath his ear.
“Well, now. Don’t you make for a fine sap, Your Royal Highness.” Mr. Haynes’s deep voice boomed from behind him. “Playing mother to a pup. Definitely not a real man.”
A chill raced up Vic’s spine. What the bloody hell was his wicked tutor during here in the stables? His father should have left the man at home rather than bring him to Summerton for their eight-weeks long holiday at Uncle Louis’s castle. He hated the cruel Haynes.
The tutor’s shadow loomed closer.
Vic rose and turned around. “What are you doing down here?”
The bastard offered a sly grin. “About to have a bit of sport, sir.”
He didn’t like the sound of the man’s tone.
Haynes stepped forward. “What’s it worth to you?” He nudged his stubble-shaded chin toward Tricks.
“The dog isn’t for sale.”
“Everything has a price.”
Not his dog. “You should leave.”
Haynes flicked a piece of straw from his coat. “Just when I’m starting to have fun? I don’t think so.”
The tutor stalked toward him.
Vic stepped back, his bootheels sliding over bits of hay and dirt. He slammed his back against the barn wall.
Mr. Haynes’s smirked. “That runt would make the perfect target for my hunt today.”
He was not going to let the bastard get a hold of Tricks.
“Hand him over.”
Victor shook his head.
Haynes stormed closer.
Vic’s pulse raced, his breath coming quicker and more frantic. He gripped Tricks with both hands now.
It did no good.
Mr. Haynes reached out and ripped the pug from Victor’s shoulder and dangled the dog midair, his thick sausage-like fingers gripping the puppy by its ruff.
The dog yelped.
Vic lunged forward. “You’re hurting him.”
“He’s a runt. He’ll know lots of misery in his life.”
“My father will be most unpleased if you injure my dog.”
“He’ll only be yours if you win him back.”
What the heck did that mean? “He’s mine already.”
Mr. Haynes laughed, a sinister chuckle that came from deep within the man’s core.
Vic inched back a step, though hadn’t even realized it until it was too late.
“Afraid to become a man, sir?” Mr. Haynes glared at him.
“Never.” His father really must find a new tutor for him and his six brothers, well, three brothers now that the older lot were all off at college where he’d be joining them next term, a year late. Now he wished he’d studied harder and hadn’t had to repeat a year of lessons. Then he wouldn’t be here with this beastly Mr. Haynes.
“Are you ready to learn, sir? To finally grow up?”
Of course he was ready to grow up. What the deuces was wrong with the man? He was fifteen now, for Pete’s sake. “Yes.”
“Good, then your first lesson will be the hardest. For a man to survive in this kingdom—for this kingdom to survive—he must fight to win.”
He did not need another lesson on wars.
“Thomas,” Mr. Haynes called.
A stable boy crept out from one of the stalls, his clothes covered in hay.
Mr. Haynes tossed the pug to Thomas, who caught the animal effortlessly, but held it just as rough as had the tutor.
Victor gasped.
Thomas smirked. “If ye Prince of Arses wants y’ runt, y’ ‘ave to win him.”
Confusion rattled Vic’s brain.
“That’s right, sir,” Mr. Haynes said. “You have a choice, either fight Thomas for the pug or I shoot the dog.”
Mr. Haynes could not be serious. “Have you gone mad?”
The tutor’s lips fell into a tight line. “Don’t waste time, boy. Out in the world there are no minutes to spare.”
He was not going to let the dog die. But fighting Thomas seemed absurd. It was all beyond ridiculous.
Victor turned and headed for the open stable door.
Mr. Haynes grabbed him by the sleeve of his frock coat, pulled him to a stop. “Where the bloody hell do you think you’re going?”
“To relay your madness to my father.”
“Oh, I think not, boy.” Haynes gripped him harder, adjusted his fingers until they were digging deep into his arm.
Vic held his tongue. Giving satisfaction to this cruel soul would only escalate man’s love of brutality.
“I demand your answer, sir. Do you want to win the dog or not?”
Of course he did. “Yes.”
“Then have at it, boy. Get over there and beat Thomas to a bloody pulp or lose the damn pug.”
He would do no such thing.
Thomas approached, the dog still dangling from his fingers, only now the little thing was wailing, probably from either the pain of Thomas’s grip or for the sake of fear. Perhaps even both.
Victor swallowed. He tossed off his coa
t, balled his fingers and raised his fists. He bounced on the balls of his bootsoles.
Thomas dropped the puppy, let it go with no show of care whatsoever.
The dog yelp as it fell, but remained where it landed, its hind paws appearing to be injured.
Heated anger swarmed through Vic’s veins. He punched the air.
“That’s, it, boy.” Mr. Haynes snickered in the distance. “Get yourself all riled up.”
Vic threw a second hook.
Thomas ducked, but came back quick and this time socked Vic in the right cheek.
“Bloody bastard.” Pain shot through Victor’s mouth. The force of the blow cut his inner cheek against his teeth. He spit blood.
Mr. Haynes smacked his hands together.
Thomas had another go of it.
Vic bounced to the left, his opponent’s hand slamming into a thick wood post.
Thomas didn’t even flinch.
Beast.
“A few broken fingers ain’t nothing,” Tom said, fists still raised. “I can take hell, sir.”
He bet the boy could, but that didn’t mean Tom deserved to get beaten up. Mr. Haynes had a sick sense of humor.
Thomas socked Vic again, this time splitting his lip.
Pain tore through his mouth.
He’d had enough.
He went in for the kill and knocked Tom to the ground.
They rolled.
They punched.
Victor flailed his legs as Thomas took a turn on top. He pushed the brute with his hands.
Thomas socked him in the nose. “Take that, y’ high and mighty prince.”
Vic had had more than enough now. Where the hell his strength had come from, he hadn’t a clue, but it rallied in him like a fierce storm that had come from out of nowhere. He rolled up and over and finally had Thomas pinned to the ground. He swung his arm back. His gaze homed in on the boy’s mouth.
A strong hand caught his elbow mid-throw.
“Enough.” The Duke of Summerton’s commanding tone sent a chill through Victor. “Get up,” his uncle demanded.
He rose.
Thomas coughed. “’e hit me Y’ Grace. Square in the mouth.”
Blasted liar. “Did not.”
“Did to.”
Unwrapping a Rogue: A Christmas Regency Boxset Page 66
