The Christmas Countess

by Adrienne Basso

  A Woman With A Past...

  Six years ago, Rebecca Tremaine, the daughter of a vicar, became pregnant by her fiance. When he died unexpectedly, Rebecca was heartbroken and disgraced. The child was stillborn-or so Rebecca believed. Now, she's both shocked and jubilant to discover that her relatives arranged for her baby girl, Lily, to be given to a distant family connection-Cameron Sinclair, Earl of Hampton. The widowed earl reluctantly agrees to let Rebecca visit Lily over Christmas at his home in Kent, where she finds that the little girl, while a darling, is alarmingly spoiled...and the handsome, confident earl is attractive beyond measure...

  A LOVE FOR ALL SEASONS...

  Graceful, tender-hearted, and completely captivating, Rebecca fills Cameron Sinclair's home with warmth and light. There's no denying that her concern for Lily's behavior is well-founded. Just as he knows there's also no denying the ache he feels at the thought of her departure. After his wife's death three years ago, Cameron was adamant that he could never love another woman. But as the holiday season draws to a close, he can only hope that it is not too late to admit the joy of being proven thoroughly, delightfully wrong...

  ‘TIS THE SEASON TO BE KISSED

  “Rebecca.”

  She gazed up at him. His face lowered toward hers, his hand slid to the back of her neck. He brushed against her mouth with his own very gently, a soft, wisp of lips touching lips. It felt warm and firm. It felt wonderful.

  She felt his hand go around her waist, gripping her flesh with a force that should have caused her discomfort but felt secure instead. He kissed her again, angling his head and pressing strongly.

  All question of right and wrong fled from Rebecca‘s conscience as she parted her lips and allowed his tongue to caress the softness of her mouth. She stayed quietly in his embrace, feeling a delicate warm glow.

  Their tongues twined, playfully, erotically. It felt so achingly good. She spread her hand over his chest and let herself go, let herself enjoy the moment, savor the sensation. How long had it been since she had felt wanted? Desired? A long time. A very long time…

  Books by Adrienne Basso

  HIS WICKED EMBRACE

  HIS NOBLE PROMISE

  TO WED A VISCOUNT

  TO PROTECT AN HEIRESS

  TO TEMPT A ROGUE

  THE WEDDING DECEPTION

  THE CHRISTMAS HEIRESS

  HIGHLAND VAMPIRE

  HOW TO ENJOY A SCANDAL

  NATURE OF THE BEAST

  THE CHRISTMAS COUNTESS

  Published by Zebra Books

  THE CHRISTMAS COUNTESS

  Adrienne Basso

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  To My “Sisters”

  Janet Harrington Gambarani

  &

  Karen Frary Gambarani

  Many thanks to you both for your

  friendship, encouragement and support

  and for always managing to overcome my

  Bah, Humbug attitude every Christmas.

  You are the best!

  Chapter 1

  Taunton, England

  November 1845

  Somewhere in the distance Rebecca could hear the sound of a baby crying. Soft, muffled. The pitiful, lonely whimpers tore through her heart. She got to her feet and forced her limbs to move forward, seeking the source that conveyed such anguish. But it was dark and difficult to see and she had no candle to light the way.

  The whimpers ceased suddenly, then began anew, this time as an indignant howl. The infant‘s cries grew steadily louder, stronger. Disoriented, Rebecca quickened her pace, rushing toward the noise, frantically trying to reach the babe.

  She found herself turning down a long, winding corridor and her confusion mounted. The sounds of the infant‘s distress engulfed her but there were so many chambers. Where was the child? Panicking, she randomly threw open the nearest door. All was instantly silent.

  Had she found the infant in time?

  The chamber was bathed in shadows; all Rebecca could distinguish was a table in the center of the room, upon which rested a basket covered with a thick blanket. Cautiously, she approached. As she drew near, the night clouds parted and a shaft of moonlight fell on the basket. With trembling fingers she reached down, gently pulled back the soft wool and peered inside.

  Nestled beneath the covers was a tiny, newborn baby. With a cry of pure joy, Rebecca stared down at the perfect little face, so sweet, so innocent. There was a thatch of downy dark curls upon its head, a blush of rose coloring on its cheeks, the hint of a dimple in its chin.

  “Oh, my.”

  At the sound of Rebecca‘s voice the infant stiffened, then slowly lifted its spiky wet lashes. Solemn dark eyes regarded her quietly and a delicate curled fist flailed toward her.

  “Precious, love. No need for tears. I‘m here now. I‘ll keep you safe.”

  Eagerly, Rebecca reached inside to pick up the priceless bundle. Yet when her hands drew near, the baby arched its back and let out a lusty wail. Startled, Rebecca pulled away. But the crying continued and Rebecca knew holding the child was the only way to bring it comfort.

  She reached out a second time, yet her arms were suddenly too short, the basket too deep. Stretching on her toes, Rebecca leaned forward yet still could not touch the infant. The cries grew louder, more frantic, more distressed.

  Rebecca doubled her efforts, but it was impossible. She could not grab hold of the child, could not pick it up and cradle it in her arms, could not soothe and protect it.

  Tears of distress and frustration ran down Rebecca‘s cheeks. If only she could—

  “These letters just arrived with the afternoon post, Miss Rebecca. Among the bills I am certain there are one or two expressions of condolence. Your father, the Good Lord rest his soul, was respected and well liked by one and all. Do you want to sort through the mail now or would you prefer to wait until afternoon tea?”

  Rebecca Tremaine opened her eyes with a start. Disoriented, she blinked rapidly, then sat upright.

  Gradually, the familiar furnishings of her father‘s private study came into focus. There were papers arranged in neat piles on the floor, half-full boxes were clustered along the wall beneath the window, stacks of books sorted and waiting to be packed in the appropriate containers.

  “Miss Rebecca?”

  Rebecca turned her head. Directly in front of her, the short, round form of a middle-aged woman hovered close.

  “Mrs. Maxwell?”

  The family housekeeper patted her shoulder. “Aye, ‘tis me. You must have fallen asleep. Poor lamb. No surprise, with all that‘s been going on these past few months. Naturally you are exhausted. Oh, dear, were you dreaming about your father?”

  The housekeeper fumbled in her pocket, pulled out a clean white handkerchief, then pressed it into Rebecca‘s hand. Absently, Rebecca lifted it to her face, hastily wiping away the tears she had not realized were on her cheeks.

  “Thank you,” she said, putting her usual calm expression back on her face. She had no intention of correcting the housekeeper‘s misconception that the disturbing dream had been about her father. “You are always so kind.”

  “I wish I could do more,” Mrs. Maxwell replied sincerely. “I know how hard it has been for you, first burying your father and now having to give up your home. Trying times, indeed.”

  “There are many who carry burdens far greater than my own,” Rebecca answered. “Besides, I shall be fine now that Daniel has arrived.” Rebecca wiped her nose, then stuffed the handkerchief into the pocket of her black mourning gown. “I will miss you dreadfully, of course, and am sad to say farewell to so many of the kind and generous members of our parish. Still, I kno
w how lucky I am to have a brother willing to take care of me. You need not worry so, Mrs. Maxwell.”

  The older woman clucked her tongue and Rebecca could tell she wasn‘t convinced. The housekeeper had been employed by the family for the past four years and during that time Rebecca‘s older brother, Daniel, had been out of the country. His letters had been infrequent, conversation about his activities and the life he had built for himself away from the family home limited.

  Suspicious by nature of most men, especially those who traveled to foreign lands to make their fortune, Mrs. Maxwell clearly did not know what to make of Daniel Tremaine, whom she had met when he arrived from the American Colonies to help settle Vicar Tremaine‘s very modest estate.

  “I only hope the new vicar they have assigned here will be half the gentleman your father was to this parish,” Mrs. Maxwell said with a worried frown. “Have you heard anything about him, perchance?”

  “Not a word,” Rebecca admitted, mentally echoing the housekeeper‘s concerns. Yet she refrained from voicing any doubts; the housekeeper was already worried about keeping her position once the new family arrived. “I‘m sure he will be a great asset to the community.”

  “We‘ll just have to see, now won‘t we?” the housekeeper mumbled.

  “Yes.” Rebecca gave the older woman what she hoped was an encouraging smile, telling herself she would stay in touch and make certain Mrs. Maxwell was favorably situated. If not, she would do all that she could to ensure a suitable position was found for her.

  “I‘d best continue packing Father‘s personal books and papers,” Rebecca added. “I know you will want to give this room a thorough cleaning before the new residents arrive next week.”

  “I do, but it can wait until tomorrow. You must not work too hard or else you‘ll catch a chill. Your brother can take care of some of these things.”

  Rebecca shook her head. “Daniel is handling other business. And truly, I don‘t mind.”

  The housekeeper looked at her dubiously. “Well now, I suppose you know best. But don‘t overdo.”

  With that final admonishment, Mrs. Maxwell left. Rebecca heaved a weary sigh and sank back against the cushions of the settee. For a moment she was tempted to close her eyes and let the exhaustion of her emotions drift away. But fear held her back. If she fell asleep again, she might start dreaming.

  Years ago, right after it happened, the dreams were a nightly occurrence that haunted her relentlessly. Gradually, blessedly, over time they had become less regular. Yet they still occurred, always more vivid in the month of August, the anniversary of the event.

  But it was not August, it was late November. Perhaps the trauma of her father‘s death had brought on the dream? Though it had been three months since his passing, she still grieved her loss. All her losses.

  Rebecca‘s breath hitched as another sob threatened. For six years the essence of the dream had remained constant, yet this time, for the first time, she had clearly seen the baby. So small, so delicate, so innocent, so very much alive.

  Rebecca took a long, shuddering breath. While the dream might have changed, the emotions it evoked remained precisely the same; pain, regret and an almost unbearable sadness.

  Rebecca felt those emotions start to crowd in and she abruptly stood. Activity was the best way to clear her mind. Bustling with purpose she practically sprinted across the room, attacking the pile of books with a vengeance. Once they were sorted, she focused her attention on the desk.

  There was a pile of church documents, along with a diary of notes her father had made over the years discussing the needs of various families in the parish. Those would be left for the new vicar. The rest were copies of his favorite sermons, personal papers and a small prayer book that he had always carried with him.

  Feeling too tired and edgy to give the papers a thorough look, Rebecca placed them in a crate. She and Daniel could review them at a later time and determine if there was anything they wished to save.

  She made a final inspection of the desk drawers and to her surprise found, wedged in the very back of the bottom drawer, a packet of letters neatly tied with a white satin ribbon. Curious, Rebecca removed the top one, opened it and began to read.

  My dearest Jacob. A poignant smile formed on her lips as she recognized her mother‘s distinct handwriting. She turned the letter over, checking the date in the corner. May 6, 1811. Her smile broadened. The note had been written before her parents had married, most likely while they had been courting. She had found their love letters.

  The pile was thick. ‘Twas a testament indeed to the strong bond of love and devotion her parents had shared throughout their marriage that her father had kept these special missives all this time.

  Feeling like a voyeur, Rebecca slipped the letter back inside the ribbon and placed the bundle to the side of the desk. They were too private to read, yet she could not leave them behind. She would ask Daniel‘s opinion on what to do with them. She turned to place the prayer book inside the nearest crate, shifted too quickly and knocked her hip against the desk.

  The letters tumbled to the floor and the ribbon came loose, releasing the notes and scattering them all about the carpet.

  “Oh, bother,” she muttered.

  Rubbing the sore spot on her hip, Rebecca knelt. Her arms stretched wide, she gathered the letters together. Yet as she started stacking them in a neat pile, she noted the handwriting on one was distinctly different and clearly not her mother‘s hand.

  Her brow raised. Gracious. Had there been someone special in her father‘s life before he met and married her mother? It seemed ridiculous, yet life had taught her that only a very foolish or naive individual believed that all was always as it appeared. Rebecca opened the note and began reading.

  I received your latest letter and read it with a feeling best described as relief, pleased to discover that you and Meredith are finally being sensible about this grave matter. Giving Rebecca‘s child to the Earl and Countess of Hampton to raise as their own is the only possible recourse, the only road to salvation for our family. ‘Tis the only way we will be saved from certain disgrace and ruin, the only way to save your reputation and our family‘s honor. A parish will forgive a beloved vicar much, but the bastard grandchild of a man of God is not something that would ever be tolerated or accepted. Nor should it be.

  Rebecca‘s child? Bastard grandchild? Given to the Earl and Countess of Hampton to raise? Rebecca gasped for air. Her lungs felt tight, her chest heavy. She couldn‘t breathe, couldn‘t think. The child had been given to another? How could this be? Surely there must be some mistake? The babe she had carried within her body for nine long months had been stillborn, robbed of life before it even began.

  They had told her. The midwife first, then her great-aunt. They had told her it was a merciful act of God and that she should feel grateful that the infant had not survived.

  But Rebecca had not felt grateful. She had felt hollow and distraught and sad. She had cried for months, had mourned for years, had dreamt frequently, still dreamt, of the infant girl, the baby that had been created from love and passion. The baby she had never seen, had never held.

  The child that was alive! It had survived! Pain, shock and confusion rolled around in Rebecca‘s head. She felt herself pitching forward. Shaking, she clutched the edge of the wooden crate so hard her knuckles turned white. “Is this another dream?” she whispered.

  At that moment the study door opened. Rebecca panicked, thinking Mrs. Maxwell had returned, but to her great relief it was her brother, Daniel, who walked into the room.

  “My God, Rebecca, what‘s wrong?”

  Her heart and head pounding, Rebecca pushed herself to stand upright. Daniel moved close to grasp her elbow and steady her and she was grateful for the support. Her knees felt so weak.

  “Rebecca?”

  She shook her head. So many thoughts pounded through her mind that she could not seize upon any one, could not make sense of anything.

  “The le
tter…I found a letter…here among Father‘s papers. I don‘t…please, just read it.”

  Daniel took the letter from her trembling hand and began to read. Rebecca drew in a tight breath, her eyes fixed on her brother‘s face. It seemed to take forever, but suddenly his expression changed dramatically and she knew he had reached the section about the baby. Her baby! With a sob, Rebecca closed her eyes, trying to slow her breathing, struggling to calm the accelerated beat of her heart.

  “Bloody hell, Becca, this is a shock.”

  Rebecca cleared her throat, searching his face for a glimmer of hope. “Then you believe it is the truth? The infant was given away?”

  “Oh, sweetheart.”

  The kindness and sympathy in Daniel‘s voice was her undoing. The tears began to trickle down her cheeks and then the sobs overtook them.

  Wordlessly, Daniel gathered her close. Rebecca leaned into his strength, pressing her face against his linen shirt. He smelled faintly of tobacco and starch and expensive, spicy cologne, an oddly comforting combination.

  “If only I could spare you this additional pain,” he whispered.

  “‘Tis agony to learn of this betrayal…and yet…” Rebecca‘s sobs lessened as the full impact of this discovery began to register in her mind. “I cannot comprehend why Mother and Father did this to me and frankly my head is spinning too fast to even consider forgiving them for their part in this cruel duplicity. Yet miraculously the initial hurt and bitterness I feel has not succeeded in overshadowing the joy in this news.”

  “Joy?”

  Rebecca smiled as the final tear ran down her cheek. “She is alive! My sweet little girl, the best part of me and Philip is alive!”

  “And apparently the daughter of an earl,” Daniel interjected dryly.

  It did not matter. Rebecca pushed that reality swiftly to the back of her mind. “I must find her. Oh, my darling baby. Well, not a baby really. She is six years old. Daniel, please, will you help me?”