by Tessa Dare
“I’ll hear no more of biscuits, of magic, of spells. The book is gone and good riddance to it. There are no biscuits. What was left of them was tossed in the scrap buckets for the pigs.” He stopped before her and trailed his thumb down her cheek. “The only spell I’m under is the one you’ve cast upon me. I want you to stay here, Annis Ballister. With me.”
She shook her head. “I—I can’t do that. I have to go back. The thieves are no longer a threat. It’s unseemly for me to stay—”
His hands came down on either side of her, forcing her to lean back on the bed. He followed, coming over her, his features stark and intent. “I’m asking you to stay. To admit that your goal in life isn’t being a nun . . . that it’s not solitude. Be with me.” The words dropped in the space between them like solid objects.
She blinked up at him. He didn’t. He couldn’t.
The moment stretched. Endless. She knew she already loved him, but . . . could this happen?
She reminded herself that this wasn’t what she wanted. Romance. Love. Marriage. At least . . . she didn’t think so.
Staring at his face, so resolved, so heartbreakingly handsome, she thought of her boisterous family. She thought of all the days, all the Christmases. The loud revelry. The singing of carols. The tearing through food and presents as Mama smiled fondly, watching her children shriek and squabble with each other. It actually hadn’t been so very awful.
Annis actually missed it a little. Very well. More than a little.
Christmas was about love and family.
So why was she running away from it? Why was she fighting it?
Would it be so terrible to have those things with Calder? She envisioned little babies with Calder’s eyes. Future Christmases. Other holidays and harvests and christenings and birthdays. Her heart swelled. What was so wrong with having all of that? Especially if she could have it with this man? Was it so impossible that he could love her? That this could be real? Why couldn’t he love someone like her? He was not the standard duke. And she was not the standard heiress. Perhaps Fenella was right, and they were suited.
She opened her mouth but only stammered.
He cupped her face in both hands. “Annis? Do you love me? That’s all that matters. The only thing.” His thumbs moved in small circles on her cheeks. “What are you really afraid of?”
“Loving you this quickly and this deeply,” she whispered. “And you not loving me back. You later realizing this is all a mistake and you don’t want me.”
“Too late. I already love you. That isn’t a mistake and it won’t be undone. You can stay here at Glencrainn.” He shrugged. “Or I’ll follow you. Either way you’re stuck with me, Annis Ballister. I would even follow you to England, if need be.”
She choked on a small sob. “Bold words indeed.”
“Indeed.” He nodded somberly. “I would do that for no one else.”
She released a short laugh. “You really must love me.”
He stared at her solemnly. “Marry me.”
A long breathless moment passed, and she flung her arms around him with a broken sound. Soon they were kissing between words of forever. Clothes were hastily shed as they came together.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” she asked, gasping as he bit down on her earlobe. “You get my family, too.”
She grinned at his muttered curse against her throat and merrily set about divesting him of the rest of his clothing.
About Sophie Jordan
SOPHIE JORDAN grew up in the Texas Hill Country where she wove fantasies of dragons, warriors, and princesses. A former high school English teacher, she’s also the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than thirty romances. She now lives in Houston with her family. When she’s not writing, she spends her time overloading on caffeine (iced coffee preferred), talking plotlines with anyone who will listen (including her kids), and cramming her DVR with true crime and reality shows.
To receive updates on Sophie’s new and upcoming books, please sign up for her newsletter and visit her at sophiejordan.net.
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Christmas in Central Park
Joanna Shupe
Chapter One
Save the leaves of your tea for a few days, steep them for half an hour, then strain them. Use the liquid to wash your varnished wood. It washes better than soap.
—Mrs. Walker’s Weekly, New York Daily Gazette, December 1889
Opinions, they said, were like elbows; everyone had one or two.
Miss Rose Walker was fortunate. Not only was she full of opinions, she was paid to give them out.
Rose stepped out of the elevator and into the noisy newspaper office located on Park Row. Reporters dashed to and fro, the constant hum of typewriters serving as an undercurrent to the chaos. The men were writing stories and following leads, eagerly informing the public of corruption and wrongdoing. How she longed to join this frenetic club of male journalism.
Instead, she was the paper’s best-kept secret—Mrs. Walker. In her popular weekly newspaper column, the reclusive Mrs. Walker provided elegant recipes, cleaning tips, and relationship advice from her husband’s mansion in New York City.
Never mind that Rose was not married, could not boil water, and lived in a tiny room at a ladies’ boardinghouse.
Lies, she had quickly learned, always sold better than the truth.
Head down, Rose hurried to her boss’s office, her latest column on spring gardening in her hand. She spoke to no one and not a soul recognized her. The editor in chief, Mr. Pike, was the only person on the Gazette staff who knew Mrs. Walker’s true identity.
It was a start. Someday, she would have a desk here in the newspaper office, where she would reign as the best-known writer in the country. Then, at the end of the day, she would go to her fancy home on Central Park, like the one in which her mother worked, and relax with her handsome husband.
Keep your feet firmly on the ground, her mother often said when Rose’s attention wandered. Yet Rose believed in dreams and lofty goals. There was more for her in this world than hiding behind a fictitious name.
Not that she was ungrateful for Mrs. Walker. Posing as the society matron had given Rose her first newspaper job and the column had developed a devoted following. Soon she’d work her way up, write other stories, and become a famous journalist recognized on the street.
Pike’s door was partially ajar. When she peeked inside, she saw the gray-haired man putting things from his desk into a small trunk. Was he . . . packing? “Mr. Pike.”
His head shot up. “Walker. Come in.” He hardly ever spoke in complete sentences, his speech as rapid-fire as the pace of the newsroom. It was one of the things she liked best about him.
“Are you moving offices?”
“No.” He straightened and put his hands on his hips. Bulky white sideburns could not hide his sullen expression. “Been fired.”
“Fired?” Hadn’t he been working here forever?
“Yes, fired. Sacked. Dismissed. Shown the door.”
“I know what fired means. Why on earth have you been let go?”
He looked at her as if she were cracked. “Haven’t you seen yesterday’s papers? Any of them?”
“No. I’ve been writing my column.” She held up the envelope containing her five hundred words. “I have it here.”
“Leave it. I’ll give it to another editor. Reese, maybe.”
“Who?” Pike was her lifeline at the Gazette. “Please, tell me what happened.”
Instead of answering, he picked up a newspaper and tossed it on his desk. It was a copy of the New York World.
GAZETTE TAKES BRIBES IN BLACKOUT EXPOSÉ
EDITOR PAID BY ELECTRIC COMPANIES TO BLAME WORKERS
“Oh no.” She glanced up at Pike. “This . . . This wasn’t you, was it?”
“No, it was Frank MacHenry. But Havermeyer ousted me, too. Says it’s my staff, my responsibility.”
&n
bsp; Duke Havermeyer III, the president of Havermeyer Publishing and publisher of the Gazette, was rumored to be ruthless and unforgiving. His great-grandfather had made a fortune in the copper mines of Montana before coming to New York City and buying a failing newspaper. He quickly turned it around, and an empire was soon forged after that first success. Havermeyer Publishing Company currently owned ten newspapers around the country—ten newspapers that all published Mrs. Walker’s Weekly.
Havermeyer’s harsh reputation aside, firing Pike hardly seemed fair.
“That is absurd.”
“Havermeyer never goes back on a decision once it is made.” Pike continued throwing things into the small trunk on the floor. “And he’s the owner. He wants me out, I am out.”
“You’re a great editor. I’m sorry to see you go.”
He sighed. “Me, too. Spent forty-two years at this paper. Worked my way up under Havermeyer number two.”
“What will you do? Work for another paper?”
“Doubtful. I’m too old. Spend more time with my grandchildren, I suppose.”
Grandchildren? Rose had always been so focused on the work, she’d never inquired about his personal life. Some reporter you will make, Rose.
“Before I forget,” Pike said. “Havermeyer wants to meet with you. I told him you’d be here this morning to drop off your column. So go on up to the top floor and his secretary will show you in.”
Rose’s stomach sank, like that time she had attempted Mrs. Walker’s lemon loaf recipe for herself and forgot to add sugar. Why on earth would Havermeyer want to see her? Was she being fired, as well?
Oh God. She needed this job. She had no savings to speak of and the last thing she wanted to do was go into service, like her mother. Rose had seen firsthand the damage a lifetime of scrubbing, bending, and washing could do to a woman. She wanted a different life for herself, one that wouldn’t work her fingers to the bone. And one that would allow her mother to quit before she dropped from exhaustion.
Moreover, Rose liked her job. People from all over the country wrote to ask her advice.
No, he is not firing you. You are Mrs. Walker. Why would he fire his most popular advice columnist?
She remembered the first time she saw Duke Havermeyer III. A tall, striking man in a smart suit had breezed by her at the elevators. The elevator operator had addressed him as Mr. Havermeyer and Rose had unabashedly stared, eager for a better look at the renowned publishing magnate.
Somehow, she hadn’t been surprised by his handsomeness. He had broad shoulders and long legs, along with dark hair that curled just so over his collar. High, sharp cheekbones, the kind found only in those with excellent breeding. She had sized him up quickly, an arrogant and pretty package, one who lived up to his reputation as a cold and calculating scion of industry.
Then she had seen the scar, an unapologetic slash directly above his right eyebrow. The mark intrigued her. It made him imperfect, which she found much more interesting. He looked like a pirate in a morning suit, ready to run a cutlass through anyone who stood in his way.
This led to hours of research, with her devouring every newspaper she could get her hands on. She learned that, though Havermeyer was unmarried, he always appeared in the business pages, never the social columns. Was there no fiancée? No mistress? For all she could discover, he did nothing but work at his company. For some reason that fascinated her, as well.
Had she hoped for another look at him every time she was in the building? Most definitely. Worse, she made a habit of occasionally loitering on the walk, just to see him climb into his brougham and drive away. She fantasized that he would see her, stop, then approach her with a half smile on his face and ask to escort her to Delmonico’s or Sherry’s, one of the fancy restaurants where the elite New Yorkers dined.
Now he wanted to see her—and not to ask her to dinner. Probably.
A girl could always dream, of course.
She folded her hands. “What does he want with me?”
“No idea, but you’d better hurry. Havermeyer does not like to be kept waiting.”
“Does he know . . . ?”
Pike gave a dry chuckle that lacked mirth. “No, I’ve stuck with our story. Everyone believes Mrs. Walker to be fiercely private, uncomfortable with public attention of any kind. Whether you choose to tell him or not is up to you, but after this scandal . . . Well, if you like your job you might want to stay quiet.”
So she’d need to pose as Mrs. Walker, married society maven. She glanced down at her simple outfit of a cream shirtwaist and brown skirt. Not very fancy, considering Mrs. Walker’s position as an elegant woman about town. And she hadn’t painted her face today, which might have aged her a few years.
Well, nothing to be done for it now. She’d see Havermeyer exactly like this and hope for the best. Besides, hadn’t one of her great-aunts worked as an actress back in Dublin? If Rose kept her poise, she could fool anyone. She could handle one meeting with the company owner.
Pike continued sorting through papers and she stood there, unsure what to do. This would be the last time she’d see his weathered face and gray hair. He’d been a mentor to her, the only person she’d known at the newspaper for two years. Moreover, she and Pike had invented the Mrs. Walker persona together. What was an appropriate send-off for an editor in chief? “Mr. Pike . . .” Her arms fell uselessly to her sides.
He stopped and offered a small smile full of kindness. “Now, none of that. You have a bright future ahead of you. Mrs. Walker is HPC’s most valuable asset and I like to think I had a small part in that. Nothing but fond memories, Rose.”
Nodding, she said, “I hope you will keep in touch. I’ll miss you.”
“Same goes to you, Mrs. Walker. Now, get up to see Havermeyer—or else we may both lose our jobs.”
* * *
Duke Havermeyer tossed yet another competitor’s newspaper on his desk. Goddammit. How much bad news could one man take?
It had started at breakfast yesterday when he learned of the bribery allegations involving a member of the Gazette staff. He’d immediately hurried to the office, where an emergency meeting of the Havermeyer Publishing Company’s board of directors had been called. The board was furious over the scandal and the damage to the newspaper’s reputation. Predictably, the stock price had plummeted. This would affect the company’s bottom line, and if Duke did not fix it quickly, the board could replace him as president of the company.
A Havermeyer ousted as president of Havermeyer Publishing. It was unthinkable—but not impossible.
Not that he was apathetic about this scandal. Indeed, he’d been livid over the allegations. To lie, accept bribes, and cheapen the word of his family’s newspaper? Unforgivable. Nine staff members had been fired in total, including his editor in chief, Mr. Pike. Duke liked Pike, a holdover from his father’s days at the Gazette. He’d been sorry to see the man go, but the newspaper came first.
The newspapers always came first.
The Havermeyer men were raised to know this from birth. Duke had accepted it and learned all he could about publishing in his twenty-eight years. This resulted in an expansion neither his father nor his grandfather had been able to pull off. Thanks to Duke, HPC owned ten newspapers across the country—soon to be eleven.
And those eleven newspapers would thrive only if the news on their pages could be trusted. Otherwise they were printing sheets of garbage.
A man’s only as good as his word.
How often had his father said as much? A hundred times? A thousand? Duke meant to restore that reputation by any means necessary.
His secretary appeared, her eyes glowing with excitement. Mrs. Jenkins was dependably even-tempered, so what had happened to cause such a reaction? “Sir, Mrs. Walker is here. The Mrs. Walker,” she breathed, as if clarification were necessary.
It was not. Duke had been expecting Mrs. Walker, one of his publishing company’s biggest stars—and a key element in his plan of attack to restore faith in th
e Havermeyer Publishing Company. “Send her in, please.”
“Yes, sir. And you might try to smile. Put her at ease.”
He stood and straightened his vest. Though he resented the reminder, he supposed Mrs. Jenkins was right. He needed Mrs. Walker’s help and scaring her wouldn’t do—unless she refused him, of course.
Forcing a grin on his face, he crossed his arms and waited. He was actually looking forward to this meeting. Mrs. Walker was quite the celebrity in town, a society maven that Pike had somehow convinced to write a column. Duke started reading her column shortly after it began, uncertain this sort of “news” was what the company needed. Serious stories, not fluff, had always appealed best to their readers.
How wrong he’d been. Mrs. Walker became an instant draw. Letters to her nearly overflowed the HPC mailroom after the first week. He’d soon understood why. She had a clever way with her words, putting the reader at ease and never talking down to them. Her columns were humorous, informative, and mature. In addition, she included personal details about herself as examples. It left the reader with the impression that he or she knew Mrs. Walker, as if the columnist were a close friend. Duke was no exception. Utterly charmed, he read her column each week and devoured these tidbits. He learned she lived uptown with Mr. Walker, the couple having no children. She adored baking and gardening, was apprehensive of dogs after a childhood incident, and struggled with needlepoint. And she had a wit and intelligence not found in most women.
In fact, he was counting on that wit and intelligence to help rescue HPC.
A young woman entered—and he glanced over her shoulder, searching for Mrs. Walker. No one else entered, however, and his secretary closed the door.
This was Mrs. Walker?
The smile died on his lips. She was a far cry from the sophisticated matronly type he’d expected. Not that she was unpleasant. Merely unexpected. There was nothing remarkable whatsoever about her appearance. Light brown hair was piled under a plain bonnet, and a modest shirtwaist had been paired with an unflattering brown skirt. The only visible adornment was the cameo pinned at her throat.
