by Annette Lyon
“Oh, no you will not, you lying blackguard!” Father declared in ringing tones, pointing an accusatory finger at Reed, of all people.
Lucy opened the door more fully.
“I will not be deterred, old man,” Reed replied, in stilted and overly dramatic tones. “Resign yourself.”
Mother pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and dropped against the sofa. “Whatever shall we do?”
Amelia and Clarissa rushed to Mother’s side, waving smelling salts and patting her hands as if consoling her.
Robert rose and stood next to Father. Though his expression was serious, Lucy knew the look of laughter hovering in the back of her brother’s eyes. “You will not get away with this dastardly plan, Mr. Stanthorpe.”
“Oh, but I will,” Reed said. “You will not keep us apart a moment longer. If I must move mountains or cross oceans, I will. For true love always wins in the end!” He spun about, facing Lucy. “Never fear, my lady, I have come to rescue you from this vile place of imprisonment.”
“What in heaven’s name—”
Reed stepped up to her and wrapped is arm around her waist. He looked back over her family, assembled in an obviously preplanned pose. “Do not attempt to follow us,” Reed warned. “For I will allow nothing to come between me and my true love again.”
“Reed, what is going on?” Lucy asked.
He looked down at her, and her heart nearly stopped at the intensity of his gaze. “Our long nightmare is over, love. I’ve come to take you away from this place.”
“Have you really?” The words emerged as little more than a whisper.
“I have, indeed, and should have long ago.” To her family he said, “Au revoir!” then swept her from the room and down the corridor.
A footman waited at the front door, clearly anticipating their departure. He held the door, and they stepped out. Reed’s carriage sat in readiness, the driver already perched atop. They were quickly settled inside— Lucy on the forward-facing bench and Reed on the rear-facing— and the carriage lurched forward.
Her mind was in a whirlwind. What had just happened? Reed came for her, that much was certain. Though why he had remained a mystery. She would not allow herself to believe he had missed her and longed for her, when so much silence had stretched between them.
And, yet, he was here.
“Lucy?” His voice was a bit uncertain. “I need to say something, and I hope you won’t take it the wrong way.”
She braced herself. Heaven only knew what he meant to tell her.
“I have always liked your family; you know that. But darling, they aren’t very bright.”
“What do you mean?”
Reed moved and sat directly beside her, taking her hands in his and looking into her face. The streetlamps they passed illuminated his expression enough for her to see the earnestness there. “I realize you first came to your parents’ home because I was being an utter featherhead and you needed someone to listen to you. By the time I realized where you were, your mother and sisters had already convinced you that this miscommunication we were having was worthy of a drawn-out battle.”
That was true enough.
“Upon arriving, your male relations pulled me aside and convinced me of the same thing. Though I would have far preferred to simply bring you home and talk it through, I bowed to their years of matrimonial experience, thinking it gave them insight. But, Lucy, darling, they are idiots, the lot of them.”
She actually laughed out loud. She knew Reed really did like her family, but considering the turmoil of the past week, she had to agree with his assessment of their mental faculties.
He brushed his fingers along her cheek. “We should never have listened to them, my love. And I am sorry their schemes hurt you and sorrier still that I had any part of it.”
“We were both rather blinded by them,” Lucy said. “We ought to have simply told them all how bacon-brained they were being and fixed the problem ourselves.”
“Indeed.” He cupped her face gently in his hands and placed a tender kiss to her forehead. “And now that I have rescued you from the dungeon of despair they were keeping you in—”
She smiled at the theatrical tone he had adopted once more.
“I think we had best set our minds to resolving the difficulty that caused all of this trouble.”
Lucy leaned into his embrace, resting her head on his shoulder and her hand against his chest. “I know you don’t care for Society functions,” she said. “And I don’t want to force you to endure them all the time.”
His arms held her ever tighter. “And I know how much you do enjoy them, and I don’t want you to miss them all.”
“Perhaps…” She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “We could pick a few events each week I would particularly like to attend, and on the other nights, we could stay home.”
Reed kissed her temple. “I believe that is an excellent solution.”
Lucy shifted enough to more fully face him, brushing her fingers along his jaw. “And if there is ever anything you desperately wish to avoid attending, you tell me, and we’ll stay home.”
His hand slipped behind her neck, his fingers weaving into her hair. “And if there is anything you desperately wish to attend, you tell me, and we will make certain we are there.”
“And”— she feathered a kiss on his lips— “we will never”— another light kiss— “ever”— and another— “listen to my family again.”
“Agreed.”
Reed pulled her firmly into his arms and kissed her thoroughly. The heartache and loneliness of the past week simply melted away. He did love her. He always had. If not for the poor advice and insistence of meddlesome relations, they might have resolved this difficulty very easily.
But, she told herself as he continued kissing her and holding her, that without the argument, they’d not be enjoying a reconciliation.
The carriage came to a stop in front of their house. Reed pulled away, letting down the window.
“Circle the block a few more times, man,” he called out to the driver. “And drive slowly.”
He put up the window once more and drew the curtains. She felt his arms slip around her and his warmth settle over her once more.
“Now, my dearest Lucy, where were we?”
Click on the covers to visit Amazon’s purchase site:
Sarah M. Eden is the author of multiple historical romances, including Longing for Home and Whitney Award finalists Seeking Persephone and Courting Miss Lancaster. Combining her obsession with history and affinity for tender love stories, Sarah loves crafting witty characters and heartfelt romances. She has twice served as the Master of Ceremonies for the LDStorymakers Writers Conference and acted as the Writer in Residence at the Northwest Writers Retreat. Sarah is represented by Pam van Hylckama Vlieg at Foreword Literary Agency.
Visit Sarah’s website: http://www.sarahmeden.com
Twitter: @sarahmeden
by Heather B. Moore
Chapter One
Bordeaux, France—1841
Gina Graydon tucked a deliciously romantic gothic novel under her arm and stepped onto the hotel balcony of her second-floor room. That the hotel balcony perched over a shadowed garden, and the sun had yet to rise, didn’t deter Gina from hiking up her wrapper and nightgown and climbing over the rail.
In her twenty years, she’d had plenty of experience climbing from balconies. Doing so was her favorite early morning pastime back at home in New York City. Of course, her parents would not be happy if they knew what she was doing now.
Currently, it was dark enough to avoid detection by her parents, who slept in the next room over, should they awaken unexpectedly. And it was light enough to climb down the protruding stones without falling into a heap.
This was Gina’s third early morning foray that week into the Bordeaux garden, and she’d become quite expert at scaling the now-familiar wall. She’d found, after a bit of slipping on her first attempt, that going barefoot gave her the
needed grip, and the only tricky part was keeping her book from falling out of her bodice.
It was no ordinary book, but one by a female author who published under a nom de plume. Full of intrigue, dark English moors, a mysterious hero, and intricacies of kissing, which Gina had never before experienced, this was a book to be read in the wilds of the garden— a French garden, to be exact. The pristine order of her rented room would not do for this story. The words on the page had to be savored and mulled over in an atmosphere worthy of both the characters and the setting.
Gina took her literature seriously, and if truth be told, she’d have rather read a delicious novel than do much else… with the exclusion of eating; Gina didn’t wont for much in life. Except for the fact that her parents, namely her father, had scared off any eligible suitor for the past three years. She’d experienced no romance, no courting, and hardly even a conversation with an eligible gentleman since she’d had become of age.
Because of this, Gina had been driven to desperate measures, such as hiding in gardens, and reading forbidden books. As the only child of the esteemed Mr. and Mrs. Graydon of New York City, she was expected to act properly at all times, marry a wealthy man who’d add his fortune to her father’s, and produce at least two grandchildren— preferably a boy and a girl— to be considered of value to the family name.
She let out a long, heavy sigh as her feet touched the ground. She made her way to the garden, entering through the arched gateway topped with thick vines. How could she ever secure a proposal with her father’s intimidation toward other men? As a powerful and wealthy shipping tycoon, he believed no one was good enough for his little girl.
As Gina followed the twisting path outlined by tall rose bushes, she wondered if she’d ever have the chance to fall madly in love— a rare occasion even under the best of circumstances and without a tyrant for a father. But falling in love was entirely possible if she knew anything about her best friend, Eliza Robinson. The week before they’d left for France, Gina had attended Eliza’s wedding in the coastal town of Maybrook, Massachusetts. Eliza had gone against great odds to marry the man she loved.
Gina stopped at a bush in full bloom with exquisite white roses. In the growing light, the white looked ethereal, reminding her of the flowers at her friend’s wedding. Eliza’s ceremony had been terribly romantic— so quaint and simple, with only the closest family and friends present. Far from society’s prying eyes and ears, the wedding had been almost secretive, daring, one step from an elopement.
She bent down to smell the roses, letting the divine scent wash over her. Eloping sounded like the most fantastic thing in the world, but of course, she’d never admit that to anyone. They’d all think she was batty, and the only men who’d be interested would be the ones with sordid pasts to hide. Who, of course, her father would never approve of.
Gina straightened and continued on the garden path until a bench appeared before her. She sank onto the cool wood and brushed her hand across the cover of the delightful novel, pushing all thoughts of her hopeless circumstances out of her mind. She waited a moment before opening the pages. From her position, she had a good view of the hotel she and her parents were staying at. Their window was dark, as was hers, but the window on the other side was lit.
Odd. She remembered it being dark during her climb, which meant the man who occupied those rooms had just awakened. Had he heard her? Her pulse quickened. She hadn’t actually seen the man, had only heard his deep voice a time or two.
The sky grew lighter behind the hotel, the early dawn softening to a golden hue. Gina’s heart rate sped up as she opened the book at her marker and flipped back several pages to reread the intimate kiss described before her stopping point. Kisses were always a good place to begin.
Something drew her gaze back to the hotel windows next to her own. Gina froze as a man walked out onto the balcony. His dark form told her he was tall and well built. The fact that she could determine that from this distance meant that perhaps she had read one too many romance novels. Although she would never admit to it. She couldn’t see him clearly, but surely he wasn’t French. She’d towered over every French man she’d met. In New York, she was considered tall for a woman, but here she was practically a Viking.
The man stood still in the subtle morning glow, and she couldn’t tell what he was looking at. Hopefully she was too far and too concealed for him to see her upon the bench, even if her wrapper was pale yellow.
I hope I’m not a beacon of light. The realization that he might be able to see her made her heart thump into her throat. What if he saw her and told another person? She wasn’t doing anything scandalous, but she was in a foreign hotel garden by herself, wearing a wrapper, and reading something her mother would be irate about if discovered.
Gina slowly stood, watching the man’s reaction. His head turned slightly, as if he was looking out over the garden, and not directly at one spot. He probably didn’t see her. She could slip into a group of trees until he left. But before she could take a step, his head turned toward her, and his eyes met hers.
Even with the distance, she felt his gaze. She didn’t dare move and bring attention to herself. Minutes passed, or perhaps only seconds, but finally, he turned away and disappeared inside his room. Gina let out the breath she’d been holding.
Would the man discover who she was? Who her father was? The gossip columns in France were not as formidable as New York’s, and besides, they were in French, and what American paid attention to them anyway? Certainly not her parents.
Then Gina froze. Her grandmother read the French paper each afternoon while taking her thick hot-chocolate drink in front of a cheery fire. Grandmother Graydon had almost stayed home from this trip, but at the last moment had decided to visit Europe “one more time.” The woman wasn’t all that elderly, though her knees had been giving her a bit of trouble. Thus sleeping all morning and not reading the morning paper until afternoon.
Everyone else in the hotel seemed to sleep through the morning as well after attending late-night functions. Her parents enjoyed their wine, and being in Bordeaux, they took advantage of testing every vintage. This gave Gina uninterrupted hours each morning to enjoy her novels. But those hours would come to an end if any of her ventures made it to the French columns for her grandmother to read.
Gina kept a wary gaze on the deserted balcony for some time, and when her heart rate finally slowed she sat down again and turned to the novel.
Her lips curled into a smile as she read about a mysterious stranger grasping the heroine by the shoulders and leaning down to kiss her. Apparently the man couldn’t help himself. The heroine’s presence alone had tortured him far too long, although they’d barely spoken. They didn’t even know each other’s names. Words weren’t needed for this couple.
Gina’s skin tingled as she imagined herself as the heroine. Of course, she would add thunder in the distance and give the man a Spanish accent. He could say something very romantic… in Spanish. His hair would be dark, of course, and a bit wavy. Were Spanish men tall? She thought hard. Surely it wouldn’t do for her to stoop down when kissing him.
She had to imagine someone taller… a British man. An infantryman, perhaps? No, too base. A commander? One with the favor of Queen Victoria and a large estate on the coast, with plenty of moors and blowing wind? Might the commander be crippled from battle? Would he be able to hold her tight in his arms, or would he be too exhausted and call for a quilt to put on his lap while he sat before a fire and recalled his famous victories? No, a British Commander would be tiresome.
She turned the next page, realizing she could not imagine anything more romantic than being kissed during a storm beneath a gazebo with the sound of thunder rumbling across the hills and rain gently tapping on the roof above.
Perhaps her first kiss could be from an Italian— they were known for romancing their women…
No, Italians were not known for being faithful. Would he kiss her then be off to his other woman? Gina proba
bly wouldn’t even guess about his unfaithfulness, because she couldn’t understand the language anyway. He could murmur another woman’s name while kissing her, and Gina would be none the wiser. She sighed, dismissing the Italian hero.
Better for the man to remain completely and utterly mysterious; thinking about the ways of a real man was just too… well, real.
Chapter Two
Mr. Edmund H. Donaldson chuckled as he parted the heavy drape separating his room from the crisp morning outside. The girl with the sunset-red hair still sat outside in the garden reading some infernal book. Granted, she was no mere girl— at least nineteen in his estimation— but it was easier to think of her as a young girl.
He needed to keep his thoughts where they should be— on the mess his late wife’s estate had become upon her premature death and how to sort it all out. If matters weren’t sorry enough, right before leaving America, he’d been notified of a lawsuit brought against his import/export company by an established shipping company. If there was one thing old-time New Yorkers were suspicious of, it was new blood. He had to return home as soon as possible to set things right.
The problem was, his wife’s estate was in France and he had little knowledge of French law, and every turn he made, he was seen as a braggart American seeking his dead wife’s fortune. Which was far from reality. But Jacqueline— God preserve her soul— was not there to testify to his good name.
Edmund admitted his marriage to Jacqueline had been one of convenience. He hadn’t exactly loved Jacqueline, but he’d found her to be companionable, at least when she was in the mood to be. She’d had her pet friends and intimate parties, which Edmund rarely attended. It seemed they’d both been happy living their lives apart.
The marriage had been beneficial to them both. Jacqueline had wanted children, and Edmund had wanted a respectable wife to raise him above the blasted bachelor status he so despised. He’d long ago tired of dinners and balls, in which a half-dozen mothers threw their simpering daughters at him.
