A Very Romantic Christmas

by Lorraine Bartlett

  ‶My friends,″ he held a fluted champagne glass in his left hand. The noise in the room reduced to a low murmur. ‶My friends, I′d like you all to know.″ The room was absolutely quiet now. ‶As most of you know, Elizabeth and I have been engaged before.″

  Elizabeth smiled and the room laughed.

  ‶However,″ he continued. ‶We both know a good thing when we find it. Yesterday we decided to...″ he paused. ‶To try it again.″

  From the side of the room Mark yelled ‶yeah″ and the room broke into applause. People rushed them, offering congratulations, asking if they′d set a date, kissing her and pumping James′s hand.

  The tempo of the party increased after James′s announcement. Merry making went on into the early morning. Finally, they said goodnight to the last guest and collapsed on the sofa in the living room. Elizabeth slipped her feet free of her shoes and curled them under her. Party debris surrounded them on all sides, yet Elizabeth didn′t notice it. She took James′s arm and snuggled up to him, her head on his shoulder.

  Suddenly the doorbell rang.

  ‶Now who could that be?″ James wondered.

  ‶Probably somebody who left something,″ Elizabeth offered.

  He bent toward her and dropped a kiss on her mouth before standing up. ‶I′ll see who it is.″

  James grinned at the door. It was a delivery man. The envelope he passed him had the familiar Invitation to Love logo on it. He didn′t have to ask Elizabeth how she got a man to come out this late on Christmas Eve -- correction it was now Christmas day. He tipped him handsomely and closed the door. Tearing open the letter he found a buff colored card inside. The message Marry the woman at the door was printed in Elizabeth′s precise handwriting. He smiled, turned and opened the door. There she stood.

  ‶This time there is no address mix-up,″ she said. ‶I′m the woman at the door.″

  James grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into his arms. The door shut behind them.

  ‶Merry Christmas, Elizabeth.″

  ‶Merry Christmas, James.″

  He kissed her and Elizabeth knew from this Christmas to her last, as long as she shared them with James, her memories would always be happy.

  About the Author

  Shirley Hailstock began her writing life as a lover of reading. She likes nothing better than to find a quiet corner where she can get lost in a book, explore new worlds and visit places she never expected to see. As an author, she can not only visit those places, but she can be the heroine of her own stories. The author of more than thirty novels and novellas, including her electronic editions, Shirley has received numerous awards, including the Borders Bestselling Romance Award and Romantic Times Magazine{MISSING SYMBOL}s Career Achievement Award. Shirley{MISSING SYMBOL}s books have appeared on Blackboard, Essence Magazine, Amazon.com and Library Journal Best Seller Lists. She is a past president of Romance Writers of America.

  Keep in touch with Shirley by subscribing to her newsletter here: https://madmimi.com/signups/136297/join

  Check out links to all her works here: http://www.shirleyhailstock.net

  You can also find her on: Facebook, Twitter (@shailstock), Goodreads

  Romantic Suspense - Capitol Chronicles Series

  Under the Sheets

  White Diamonds

  More Than Gold

  Mirror Image

  Legacy

  Invitation to Love - novella

  Contemporary Series - The Claytons

  A Father′s Fortune

  Love on Call

  On My Terms

  The Secret

  Last Night′s Kiss

  Contemporary Series - Weddings by Diana

  His Love Match

  Someone Like You

  Contemporary Series - Weddings

  Wrong Dress, Right Guy

  The Right Wedding Gown

  Contemporary Series

  My Lover, My Friend

  Nine Months With Thomas

  Contemporary Romance

  Holding Up the World

  Opposites Attract

  Some Like Them Rich

  You Made Me Love You

  A Family Affair

  His 1-800 Wife

  Summer on Kendall Farm

  The Twelfth Night Bride

  by Kelly McClymer

  Christmas romance heals a broken love and recovers lost trust in The Twelfth Night Bride

  Long ago, wealthy Kate Fenster promised faithfully to marry Sean McCarthy, the silver-tongued Earl of Blarney, if he let her ride his prized stallion Diablo. Now that they are of marriageable age, he′s come to redeem her promise which tempts her more than she wishes to admit. Not quite trusting the Irish lord, she wants him to prove he is more interested in her heart than her dowry.

  No sooner do they finally marry on Twelfth Night than he learns that his sister in Ireland is being accused of murder by his sworn enemy. Abandoning his new bride, Sean hurries home to rescue his sister. Unhappy to be apart from her husband, despite his letters telling her he will return to her soon, Kate travels to Ireland and finds that everything her quick-witted husband told her was only half-true. Now it is up to her to prove to him that she is the one who will stand by his side while he rebuilds his lands, regains the trust of his people, and keeps his mad, fey sister safe.

  Chapter One

  Climbing in windows was a good way for a man to get killed, Sean McCarthy thought as he scraped his shins on the stone of the window sill and thumped to the hard floor. Fine luck for him, there was a tree with wide, inviting branches to make his invasion a bit simpler. And lucky, as well, that the woman in the darkly shadowed bed a few feet away slept with her window cracked open, even in winter.

  For a moment he lay perfectly still, afraid the luck that had carried him this far might fail him, leaving him to face a screaming woman and her angry family. But when the blood ceased roaring in his ears, the sound of her breathing came to him--even and still. She hadn’t heard him ease up the sash, or thump onto her floor. Providence be blessed, she slept on. Dreaming of sugar plums and mistletoe, no doubt.

  He stood slowly and carefully, unsure what an unwary shin or elbow might meet up with in the dark. Perhaps he should have done as Uncle Connor had suggested and put the laudanum in the wassail he’d supplied her during the evening. She’d been smiling at him, telling her foolish tale of love and devotion proved, treating him like a hero, a man of consequence and honor. All the while, he’d been considering the best way to compromise her and be done with this plaguing courtship dance.

  In the candle glow and the festivities of Christmas Eve, he’d been so sure of her love, of his skill, he hadn’t felt the need to give her any more reason for a morning headache than necessary. But now, in the quiet of the night, the question begged to be answered. Did the girl love him enough to forgive him in the light of day?

  He’d wager she did. Come to think of it, he was even now wagering everything that she would think him more bold than importunate. What would he do if the amused admiration that so frequently danced in her blue eyes turned to scorn? Regret twinged through him momentarily, but he shrugged it off with a silent rendition of a proverb: Má tá moladh uait, faigh bás; má tá cáineadh uait, pós. He surely didn’t want praise enough to die for it, but he would risk her complaints willingly enough as the price of forcing the marriage. He’d be a fool to turn back this close to his goal, now wouldn’t he?

  If he were luckier than most McCarthy men, as his cousin Niall insisted he was, his sweet Katie wouldn’t wake until morning. If luck abandoned him, she’d wake and be glad to see him--or not. Her heart was his to break or hold safe; he knew that well enough. But his actions were drastic, and a broken hearted Kate awake and aware all too soon was not what he wished. No. A nice uncomplicated discovery by the maid was what he was after.

  He stood and shed his clothing, folding each garment carefully and neatly on the silk-covered stool by her dressing table. He’d been in a few ladies’ dressing rooms,
but always before with their permission and by invitation. He felt oddly vulnerable removing his clothing, despite the darkness. An Irishman in an Englishwoman’s bedroom, he’d always thought, should be in full armor, with a blade the size of Cuchulain’s at his back. Unless that woman was his wife—or soon to be.

  He debated leaving on his drawers, but opted for verisimilitude. A lover too impatient to wait for the wedding night would not be likely to be so careful. The scene would be better set with his clothes tossed recklessly around the room to shock the maid further, but they were his Sunday finest and already showing more signs of wear than they should for belonging to the Earl of Blarney. Sweet mother, how he hated that title.

  He stood for a moment, freezing in the cold December night. She’d understood why he disliked the King’s poor joke on his family. Blarney. Why not call him the Earl of Liars. Didn’t enough of the English lords amuse themselves so? And now, fittingly, he was gifting his Katie with the name. It was Christmas Eve…no, it was past midnight and Christmas morning had come, though none of the inhabitants of the house were awake to greet it yet. They had all retired early, preparing to rise earlier than usual on Christmas Day so that the eager children would not have to wait to see what gifts Saint Nicholas had left for them.

  Even the servants had been sent to their beds early, and Kate’s coals had long gone cold. He ignored the prickles that rose on his skin from chill air as he considered changing his mind, dressing, and slipping away--through the door, this time, though. He wouldn’t risk his neck again this night.

  Come on now, McCarthy, he chided himself. The girl is willing enough. He was annoyed at his own indecision. Why now? He hadn’t been unsure until this moment, seeing her so still and vulnerable in her sleep. He sighed, quelling his sudden doubts. He was cold and he was only doing what was absolutely necessary. Under the covers with Kate would be a warm haven for him--unless his chilled skin caused her to wake.

  Now or never, he told himself and slipped into the bed warmed by the woman he had been wooing for far too long. She roused and mumbled sleepily, her words inaudible. The heated scent of her reached him and he inhaled deeply then froze, hoping in the dark and quiet she would fall back to sleep.

  She lifted her head and he felt certain she was looking at him, though he lay perfectly still, not even daring to breathe. “Sean?”

  Damn. He whispered as softly as his old nurse had done when he was a restless babe in need of sleep. “Of course, mo mhuirnin, didn’t I tell you I’d see you safe in your dreams?”

  “Mauverneen. I like when you call me that,” she answered sleepily, settling her head back onto her pillow. He flinched when she reached a warm hand out to brush against his ribs. “You’re cold,” she complained.

  “And would you be expecting a dream man to have the hot blood of true men now?” he asked with all reasonableness, ready to kiss her protestations silent if she realized she was not dreaming.

  “It’s my dream, I should be able to warm you if I choose…mauverneen,” she murmured as she snuggled up against him.

  Warm him up, she would indeed. Astonished by how quickly she was succeeding at that dangerous task, Sean said only, “Fair enough. Your dream man will warm for you, my lady, so that you suffer no chill.”

  “Thank you.” Kate sighed and settled back to sleep against his chest, clasping him as tightly and innocently as any virgin might clasp her pillow while dreaming of her lover. He began another sigh but halted it. Wasn’t it the woman who should be sighing, to find her lover in her bed?

  Contrary as always, his Katie slept like she curled against him so every night. Though her warm body promised him many sleepless hours, the sweet innocence of her resting trustingly against his was better than a screaming virago--or a woman ready and willing for lovemaking. Either of which his Kate could easily become, he was certain, depending on how how she felt when she realized he had invaded her very bed and forced her hand to join his in marriage at last.

  He settled back, content to hold her and consider what might happen come the morning. He’d been alive long enough to know that, no matter what he planned, circumstances might not go his way. He had been prepared for Kate to wake, and she almost had. But luck was with him. He hoped he could say the same in the dawn light, when discovery came to them both.

  The duke--or Kate’s brother, Valentine, more likely--might challenge him to a duel, of course. The risk was slight enough, however, given the history of the family. Kate had confided a few of the scandalous details of her sisters’ courtships. This one, by comparison, would be almost traditional. Sean expected that they would simply arrange a quiet, hasty wedding. And they could hardly object on the grounds that he had not tried the most traditional methods of wooing first. After all, Kate had been on the verge of accepting his proposal for more than a month.

  Her thick, unruly hair had managed to escape the confines of its braid and tickled his neck. He smoothed it back against her head with the lightest brush of his fingertips. Like a babe, asleep she seemed so guileless and sweet. But, even at their first meeting when she was a child, she had not been afraid to go after what she wanted.

  She had wanted, then, to ride Diablo. And he had let her, for a promise of marriage. It had only been a joke until he’d come to London looking for an heiress bride and she’d been there--in temporary bad graces with the mamas because she’d had the sense to object forcefully to being mauled by an eager suitor.

  Her dowry was not the only thing that had made him choose her. It was also her quick wit and her easy way with even the stiffest, sternest calleach. Those qualities would be assets to him as he made his way through the political maze in London and took up his seat in the House of Lords. Yet her reluctance to believe him more than an importunate fortune hunter had been a challenge. She had set him to run in circles to prove himself to her. It was past time to call her hand. Hadn’t he found the first wild rosebud of the summer for her—and scratched himself bloody tramping through a field of thorns to do so? And still she wished to play games with his future, to prove Lord Blarney’s silver tongue spoke true.

  Or perhaps she saw his blarney for what it was--a cover for a man who didn’t wish to be in love, who just needed a well-dowered wife. She was a clever woman, his Kate. High spirited as well. He supposed, when all hell broke loose tomorrow morning, he’d be lucky if he didn’t end up with the same bloodied nose that Fitzwilliam had gotten for stealing a kiss. The dandy had looked so surprised at Kate’s reaction to his trespass. Fool.

  But a bloodied nose would almost be preferable to what would surely be said about him. His reputation would suffer a blow. They would hold the fact that he was Irish against him; use it to explain his lack of patience, of discretion.

  Lies, all. Hadn’t he been patient? Even more patient than an England-born-and-bred lord might have been, he wagered. He wished he knew how to ensure discretion, so that only the family would know. The duke had a reputation for being upright and honorable, but even that reputation could not stop those who lived for gossip from spreading it like wild seed among the bored aristocrats.

  He hoped that this way, with only a household maid to discover them in the quiet of the countryside, the news would not spread to London more quickly than the ink on the marriage papers dried. Once they were married and he was seated in the House of Lords, any whiff of scandal would become old news. But he wondered if the gossip could be held back even for a week. The English cailleach had sharp tongues and their favorite words were bitter when they spoke of the young woman who shone brightly at their staid soirees and stiff gatherings.

  Once his indiscretion was discovered, the matter would be completely out of his hands. A proper Irish maid would, of course, have tiptoed away without making a fuss to find a pair of lovers anticipating their vows, so to speak. An English maid was an altogether different kind of creature. She’d probably start and mewl in alarm. But even if she didn’t she’d no doubt alert the household at once.

  Kate turned her ch
eek so that her lips brushed his shoulder. Torture. Fair enough, he deserved it. He’d feel a bit more guilty if he wasn’t following in the tradition it was whispered several of her sisters themselves have set--old gossip, old news, but not completely forgotten even now. But he didn’t have time for the sport any longer. People starved while he played aristocratic games to win a lady’s heart and hand. His people.

  He could no longer wait for her to accept that he’d proved himself. Kate thought herself clever as Maeve herself, but even Maeve had been defeated in the end by Cuichilain. Both were doomed to find out that a man’s love for a woman is overshadowed from the start by his pride.

  He’d tried to tell her that, when he’d told her the story of Maeve. But she had heard only the beginning of the tale and had seemed to dismiss the dark end to the story. No doubt the woman shared her sister’s penchant for turning the dark endings of fairy tales into happy ever afters. Hadn’t she told him that he, an Irishman with a truly unfortunate title could change the world? She had certainly taken to the story of Maeve with delight.

  Sometimes he wished he hadn’t told the tale to her. That he had found another way to woo her--perhaps even climbed into her bedroom window months ago. But that wisdom came from hindsight.

  He remembered the gleam in her eyes as she listened to him spin the tales so familiar to him. She’d been fascinated by the Irish myths and fairy stories, demanding to know more. He’d coveted her dowry. But her desire to know more about his people and their customs had beguiled him, he couldn’t deny it. Almost as much as his need for the patronage and money that came with marrying her.