by Regina Scott
“Clear the way, Mother,” an annoyed voice demanded, and Mrs. Pentercast scurried forward so fast that Gen’s mother was forced to step back to keep the purple feather from lodging in her nose. Geoffrey Pentercast, looking much as Gen remembered in his many caped brown-tweed greatcoat that called attention to his broad shoulders, clumped into the entry, trailing mud, decayed leaves, and a six-foot log in his wake.
“Thought you wouldn’t have a proper Yule Log,” he announced, dragging the massive stump by a chain into the center of the entry. Gen tried not to think about what it would cost to repair the scratches he was making in the parquet floor.
She could feel her mother’s disapproval. “Why, of course, Mr. Pentercast,” Gen answered quickly for her. “How very thoughtful of you to bring it along. We haven’t had a Yule Log in years, have we, Allison?”
“Yule Logs are such quaint customs,” Allison said with a sniff, “for children.”
“I like to think there’s still some of the child in all of us, Miss Munroe,” a deeper voice said from the doorway. The flutter in Gen’s stomach intensified, and she swallowed, looking up to find Alan Pentercast regarding her from the door. Her first thought was that he was very different from what she remembered, but she wasn’t sure what had changed.
Like his brother, he still had the shaggy thatch of brown hair that defied combing and the dark brown eyes that seemed to sparkle with some secret. Unlike his brother, who was shorter and more powerfully built, he stood a good head taller than anyone in the room. His face seemed leaner, his features more sharply planed. He moved with a negligent grace she’d only seen on London dance floors.
As Chimes took his many-caped blue-tweed greatcoat, she saw that he wore the black trousers, white satin waistcoat, and black cutaway coat of a London gentleman. Unlike the dress his mother wore, the outfit was obviously no copy. She would have said it had been cut by Weston, although she’d have also wagered there was no padding in the shoulders or calves. The sensitive, brave young man she remembered had been replaced by a confident, authoritative gentleman.
She wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or awed.
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About the Author
Regina Scott started writing novels in the third grade. Thankfully for literature as we know it, she didn’t actually sell her first novel until she learned a bit more about writing. Since her first book was published in 1998, her stories have traveled the globe, with translations in many languages including Dutch, German, Italian, and Portuguese. She now has more than thirty published works of warm, witty romance.
She and her husband of more than twenty-five years reside in the Puget Sound area of Washington State with their overactive Irish terrier. Regina Scott has dressed as a Regency dandy, driven four-in-hand, learned to fence, and sailed on a tall ship, all in the name of research, of course. Learn more about her at her website.
