Emily's Christmas Wish
By
Sharon Stancavage
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
EMILY'S CHRISTMAS KISS
"Emily, you're a very charming, talented, and beautiful female, and I don't believe that you are on the shelf. And I'm definitely not a rake," he said in a sultry voice, putting his hand under her chin and forcing her to meet his eyes.
Emily's heart lurched as she stared into his golden-green eyes that seemed to reflect the grayness of the snow. He's not lying, she thought in a panic, and, once again, was at a complete loss.
"Do you believe me?" he asked, his hand moving from her chin to tuck a stray strand of auburn hair behind her ear.
"Lord Stratford, I'm not eligible and it's quite obvious to the world that Lady Susan and her mother are expecting an offer," she said in a wavering voice, aware of nothing save the handsome peer nestled beside her amid a winter storm.
"Lady Susan and her mother can both go to the devil," he said huskily and then leaned forward to kiss her…
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ISBN-10: 0821776045
Copyright © 2003 by Sharon Stancavage
To my mother, with love and thanks.
One
"Oh Mama, what a wonderful gift," Emily exclaimed, staring at the velvet box in her hands.
Sara Winterhaven smiled fondly at her daughter, who was all but staring like a gapeseed at the pendant she was holding. "Your grandfather wanted you to have it before Christmas, so you could wear it to the local routs. I tried to explain that we didn't have any special plans for the holiday season, but he wouldn't listen. You know how he is," Sara finished dramatically, and Emily knew exactly what she meant.
Emily Winterhaven, at the advanced age of four-and-twenty, had the distinction of being the only granddaughter of the strong-willed Marquess of Rawlins. In itself, that connection did admit her into the better houses, even though Emily detested Society. What made her position even more distinctive in her grandfather's eyes was the fact that she had reached her advanced age without a single marriage proposal.
Of course, Emily herself did nothing to remedy the situation. Ever since the debacle that was her first and only Season, she actively avoided any contact with polite Society. Since that event at the age of eighteen, her hair had transformed from a short, rather loud, bright red color into a long, luxurious mane of auburn. Her eyes were still the same sparkling green and her figure, although not petite as was the current fashion, was tall and lithe. Emily had all but metamorphosed in the past six years, but was completely unaware of the change in herself.
"Did Grandfather tell you where he found the pendant?" Emily asked, still staring down at the jewel in her long, delicate fingers.
The pendant in question was the most unusual piece of jewelry that Emily had ever seen. A large, single pearl shaped like the torso of a lady was the basis of the pendant. A gold head and tail were attached, and the mermaid was holding an intricately detailed shield which had a small pearl dangling at the bottom. A crown encrusted in emeralds sat atop the mermaid's head, and two more pearls dangled from her tail. It was an odd piece, and Emily suspected that her grandfather parted with a king's ransom to purchase it.
"He picked it up in London a short time ago. He told me he found it at a small shop near White's. And he was dreadfully disappointed that you weren't feeling quite the thing and couldn't join us on the visit. The mermaid is lovely, isn't it?" Sara asked, studying Emily and noticing the drab gray gown that graced her daughter's shapely figure.
Emily looked up at her mother and gave her a brilliant smile. "It's wonderful, Mama. I'm going to write Grandfather right now and thank him," she said sincerely, rising to leave the room.
An impish smile appeared on Sara Winterhaven's face. "I have another message from your grandfather. The jeweler told him that the mermaid is very old, and will bring good luck and a blissful union to any female who wears it. So your grandfather says he expects your firstborn male heir to be named after him, since he's the one who found it," she concluded, still smiling.
"Mama, I doubt that even a charmed mermaid can find a husband for a bluestocking like me. But I will assure Grandfather that I'll definitely name my firstborn child after him. Of course, I certainly hope I don't have to name my daughter Gareth!" she exclaimed with a giggle, running her fingers over the cool surface of the lucky mermaid.
A shot rang through the cold winter air, and Nigel Manning, the Earl of Stratford, grimaced. That was Jem, his groom, putting a period to the existence of his favorite horse, Gloriana.
Gloriana was a beautiful chestnut mare, and had been his favorite mount for the past two years. She was part of a matched pair that he occasionally used for his curricle. He had an extensive stable, but Gloriana was undoubtedly his favorite, besides Diablo, who'd been scheduled to sire Gloriana's next foal.
Until the curricle overturned in a freak accident and Gloriana broke her leg. The curricle was ruined, and Nigel was more than a bit shaken himself. Of course Runaway, the other half of his matched pair and a vastly inferior horse, was uninjured.
Nigel made his way through his country home, to the library. It had been a long day and he needed a drink, he decided, flexing his fingers nervously. It was as if there was a blessed curse on the family, he mused, entering the solitude of the Manning family library. The walls were covered with literally hundreds of books, and he had personally read more than half of them. Yes, he had inherited the Manning curiosity, he thought, walking over to the decanter of port that rested unobtrusively on one of the lower shelves. Roger, his handsome and reckless younger brother, had been the one to inherit the Manning charm.
The mahogany sofa next to the fireplace seemed to beckon him, so he trod over like a man defeated and settled his long, lank frame into the cushions.
As he stared at nothing in particular, his unfashionably long, black hair once again in total disarray, he wondered what exactly he had done to deserve this run of bad luck. His hazel eyes were shrouded in worry, and he was beginning to feel much older than his two-and-thirty years.
First of all, there was the accident with Gloriana; that put him in quite the foul mood. He hated to get rid of any of his sta
ble, and had actually tried to see if Gloriana could have her leg set. That idea earned him the unenviable reputation of acting as if he were let in the attic.
And his curricle was ruined. Which in itself wasn't necessarily the end-all of the world, but he had just had it painted and was rather pleased with the results. So he had lost his favorite mare and his most attractive rig.
Then, of course there was his father, the Marquess of Avonleigh. He wasn't the most agreeable in the first place, and, as a result of his fairly regular fits of temper, paid the highest wages in the county to their servants. Luckily, his father's valet was deaf, so he didn't have to hear the abuse that was targeted at him on a daily basis. Actually, that relationship was probably the best in the household, Nigel thought, sipping his port reflectively.
So his father was always on the disagreeable side, which he could readily handle. But now his gout had flared up, and it was rather like living with the devil himself.
To complete the picture, the fetching new scullery maid that they had recently hired—Nigel swore that they had employed everyone in the county at one time or another—was a bit on the clumsy side, and was constantly breaking dishes. That in itself didn't particularly bother Nigel, but drove his father into a fit of temper.
If I didn't detest London so heartily I'd spend the Christmas holiday there, Nigel thought, draining the glass of port. Life certainly wasn't a picnic this time of year, he decided, his head beginning to throb.
A knock at the library door brought him out of his reverie.
"Yes?"
An attractive young maid appeared, this one with blond hair and a mobcap. "Begging your pardon, Lord Stratford, but Lord Avonleigh wanted me to tell you that your brother has arrived for a visit and will be joining you both for supper," she said quickly, waiting for some sort of reply.
"Very good," Nigel muttered, and wondered what sort of trouble Roger had entangled himself in. Roger, the Manning brother favored by the ladies of all ages, never made an appearance at this time of year unless something was very wrong.
Nigel stared at his empty glass and decided he definitely needed another port before facing supper with his scapegrace brother and his ailing father.
As Nigel picked at his roast leg of mutton, he began to think that he was wrong about Roger's visit. Roger was in the best of spirits, and had actually cajoled his father out of his horribly black mood. In fact, he was telling his father of his adventures in London, and the ill-tempered marquess was actually laughing with his youngest son. It's all but a miracle, Nigel thought, his head still aching a bit.
He glanced across the table and studied his younger brother. At six-and-twenty years old, Roger Manning sported the same black hair as he did, but Roger's was cut in the fashionable Brutus style. His features were classically handsome, and he had an easy charm that made him a favorite in all of the best houses. As usual, he was dressed to the nines, with a form-fitting blue waistcoat (by Weston, naturally), buff breeches, and shining Hessians. A white silk cravat was knotted loosely about his throat, completing the picture of respectability. From what Roger reported, the Incomparables of the Season were still swooning after him, even though he was a second son and didn't have any particular expectations. He had a host of friends in London, and could be found on any given night gambling at White's or escorting the beauty-of-the-moment to the theater. In short, Roger was a good-natured dandy who had the luxury of having no real responsibilities.
"What pieces of your mother's jewelry did you borrow, Roger?" the marquess asked, his voice beginning to sound a bit hostile.
Roger smiled easily. "Oh, none of consequence. I was a bit short on blunt the last time I was home, so I borrowed them for a while. Some of them ended up at the jeweler's, since I was having a run of bad luck, but I did get most of them back," he said in a cheerful voice, completely oblivious to the fact that the marquess was beginning to turn a slight shade of red.
Nigel sipped his claret and predicted his father's next move. Probably an accusation of some sort, in a loud voice that declared Roger a son unworthy of the Manning family name.
"Am I to understand that you don't have all of the jewelry you removed from this house without my permission?" the marquess asked, his skin beginning to turn red with rage.
"All but that horrible mermaid pendant. When I went back to the jeweler, he had sold it. I was a bit late coming up with the blunt and he rather got ahead of himself. I never even saw Mother wear that particular piece, you know," Roger finished, downing his claret with one long drink.
"The mermaid pendant? You sold the mermaid pendant? Have you gone mad, Roger?" the marquess practically yelled, causing Roger to wince a trifle. Nigel experienced his father's fits of temper on a daily basis, so he was rather immune.
"Father, I don't see why you're so upset. The piece was dashed ugly and I know Mother never wore it," Roger said in a level voice, glancing over at Nigel for some sort of support.
Nigel concentrated on his braised asparagus. He most certainly didn't want to get involved in this fracas.
"Don't you remember the story I told you both about the mermaid pendant? And the legend?" the marquess questioned, running his hand through his thick, gray hair in agitation.
"You'll have to refresh our memory, Father," Nigel said, his curiosity aroused. What in God's name was his father talking about? The legend? He didn't remember any sort of legend connected to any of their late mother's jewelry.
The marquess stared at both of his sons as if they were slow-tops. "I'm certain I told you the story of the mermaid pendant. It's been in your mother's family for centuries, always passed down to the eldest daughter. If she failed to produce a female heir, then it was passed to the wife of the eldest son. Are you both certain you never heard this story?" he asked, picking at his leg of mutton.
"We've never heard a word of it," Roger said, glancing over at Nigel.
The marquess was now truly agitated. He was never an easy man to know, and the gout only made matters worse. "The mermaid pendant is reputed to bring a blissful marriage to the female who wears it. But the legend also says that there will be an unending run of bad luck for the males of the family if it isn't properly passed on to the next generation," the marquess concluded, daring his sons to refute his claim.
Roger chuckled. "You can't believe a ridiculous story like that, Father! We're certainly not living in the Dark Ages and families don't have runs of bad luck because a piece of jewelry is sold," Roger concluded, certain that the discussion was over.
"Ridiculous? I think not, young man. When did you sell the mermaid?" the marquess demanded, losing complete interest in the food in front of him. His face had now turned completely red, which was an interesting contrast to his thinning gray hair and brown eyes.
Nigel sighed. This was most certainly going to be a long, difficult meal. In the end, he had no doubt that he was going to travel to the ends of the earth to retrieve the mermaid or stay at home and watch his father suffer an apoplexy in his anger over the situation.
"A little over a sennight ago. Why?" Roger asked innocently, and Nigel pitied him. He had no idea that this discussion would probably drag on until the wee hours of the morning.
"That's when my gout flared up. And Nigel, isn't that when that horrible scullery maid appeared? The one that is breaking everything she touches?"
"Actually, it is about a sennight since then," Nigel answered, beginning to wonder if his father had actually hit on the cause of their recent bad luck.
"And didn't your groom have to put down your mare today? And what about your wrecked curricle?" the marquess added in a tone that proclaimed that the pendant was the cause of all of their problems. His cheeks had returned to a more normal color, so he no longer matched his maroon waistcoat.
"Father, the mermaid has nothing to do with any of this, and I think it's best that we forget about the whole episode," Roger said calmly, and Nigel waited for his father to explode.
He didn't have to wait long.
"You think we should forget about this episode? Since when do you have any authority in this house? You will do as I say, Roger, lest you forget that you are living off my sufferance. You will return to London immediately and find out who purchased the mermaid. You will then instruct the jeweler to contact that person and offer to buy the mermaid back at a very profitable price. Do I make myself clear?" the marquess said in a voice that was loud enough to be heard on the Continent.
Roger sipped his claret thoughtfully. "I can't. I actually tried to do that before I returned home and was informed that the Marquess of Rawlins purchased it as a gift for his granddaughter. He doesn't have it in his possession any longer, and I don't think we'll get much cooperation from the girl," he concluded.
"Why won't the girl sell it?" Nigel asked curiously, rather enjoying this Cheltingham tragedy that was unfolding in front of him. In fact, it was dashed more interesting than Drury Lane.
"Do you remember my first term at Oxford? And the rogues' club?" Roger replied, picking at his meat.
Nigel shook his head and the marquess commanded, "Refresh our memory."
Roger sighed audibly and sagged a bit in his chair. "The rogues' club was the most popular group at Oxford, and very few men were asked to join. As a condition of membership, you had to go through a series of tests. My test included romancing and then cutting an unexceptional young woman in her first Season," he explained as he gazed at his cold food.
"What does this have to do with the mermaid?" the Marquess asked, his voice returning to a more normal level.
Roger looked anywhere but at his father and brother. "The young woman I romanced and then cut was Emily Winter-haven. She is the granddaughter of the Marquess of Rawlins. Suffice it to say she wouldn't do a good turn for me if I were the last man on earth. And I don't blame her," he added in a soft voice.
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