by Alexa Aston
On the other side of the partition, the rustling and low discussion about blankets faded away.
She put her lips to Alex’s ear. “Did we do the right thing?”
“Sending a thief to share a room with a suicidal rake?” he breathed. “Funnily enough, I’m sure we did,”
She was content just with his closeness, to lie in his arms until it was light. They had no privacy to give physical expression to their feelings, so she simply enjoyed the sweet thrill of desire, the warm hardness of his body against hers. It had turned into the most beautiful Christmas.
And with that thought, she fell asleep.
*
She woke to the familiar sound of Arthur’s demanding cry and had stumbled toward it from instinct before she remembered where she was. Daylight shone under the door of the stall and over the wall from the other stall where the door must have been open.
“Good morning, my imperious little lord,” she murmured, picking the baby up.
Alex stood closer to the wall in his boots and coat, struggling into his many-caped great coat. He smiled at her. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” she said with unexpected shyness.
“I’ll take Spring for a walk,” He jerked his head in the direction of the other stall. “And take these fellows with me to give you some privacy. Then I’ll see Villin about breakfast on the way back.”
“Good,” she said, going toward him with her face already raised for his kiss, for she refused to lose the closeness, the unspoken understanding of last night. It was brief but held all the promise she could have wished for, and she smiled as he strode away with Spring bouncing on the end of his leash.
She was still smiling as she settled down to change Arthur’s wrappings and feed him. Then, leaving him kicking and wriggling on the bed, she washed her face and hands in the icy water. She was just pinning up her hair with all the scattered pins she could find, when a knock came at the door.
“Come in!” she called, believing it to be her husband. But in fact, it was Villin who walked through the door.
“Ah, your grace!” he beamed. “I hope your night was quiet and not too uncomfortable!”
She couldn’t help her gurgle of laughter. “I couldn’t say it was quiet, Mr. Villin, but it was certainly a comfortable night in the end. Did his grace speak to you about breakfast?”
“Yes, he did. I offered to clear out the coffee room for him, but he says in here would be best.”
“I suppose it would.” Leaving aside Fortescue’s possible dislike of company just now, Mark Strong would be out of place at their table. And yet, she felt strongly he should be there, for one meal at least.
Villin still stood there, leaving her at a loss as to why he had come. Then he took something from his apron pocket and took a step closer, holding it out to her.
“I wanted to give you this for your little one. I know it’s worth nothing, but we came across it the other day, and when I saw you last night looking so tired and sad, I wanted to give him it for luck.”
Surprised and not a little touched, Charlotte took the toy from him. It was a teething stick made of pale pink coral—a somewhat expensive trinket for an innkeeper to own.
“How kind of you!” she said, touched. “But Mr. Villin, you should give this to Lily for her children.”
He shook his head stubbornly. “It’s hers in the first place, but she left it. Lily don’t need such gifts from us. And God knows that girl makes luck enough without coral. It’s for his little lordship, and Lily would agree. You and his grace, your whole family, have done wonders for our house. So here’s a little luck to take with you.”
Charlotte wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed by Villin having recognized her unhappiness yesterday—to say nothing of the quarrel that must have been obvious from Alvan arriving several hours after her with no servants whatsoever. She glanced at him uncertainly, and for the first time saw the unhappiness in the eyes of her genial host.
She smiled. “Thank you, and Mrs. Villin and Lily! It is a gift we will all treasure. Come and give it to him yourself.”
Arthur was obliging enough to grin at the innkeeper and stretch up his little hands to grasp the coral, which then went straight into his mouth. Villin smiled, satisfied.
“How are you, Mr. Villin?” Charlotte asked.
“Oh, well as you see! And the inn is doing well, always busy these days, and no trouble to speak of.”
She held his gaze, and after a moment, he swallowed. “I miss my girl. I miss Lily.”
Charlotte felt helpless. He knew that girls left home to be married all the time. Some went farther away than others, but they never forgot their parents. She was living proof of that. She had even risked her husband’s ire to come home to them for Christmas. Lily, clearly, had not, or at least not yet, so she didn’t feel it was a great example to give him.
Therefore, she only nodded and gave him the only thing she could think of—a hug of comfort.
It was difficult to say which of them was the more flabbergasted by her instinctive act. Duchesses did not embrace innkeepers.
“She loves you,” Charlotte muttered. “She’ll always love you, and she’ll always come home.” She coughed. “Perhaps that breakfast now, Mr. Villin? My husband and his friends will be back directly.”
Villin’s startlement resolved into a smile and a bow. She might have imagined there was more of a spring in his step as he left, but she didn’t think so. Gratefully, she sat down on the bed beside Arthur, who had lost interest in the teething stick in favor of a strand of hay. Charlotte picked up the coral and placed it on the table beside the button and the gold ring.
“Quite a haul for a little man away from home,” she told him.
“What is?” Alex asked from the doorway. He released Spring from his leash and the dog bounded across the stall to land in Charlotte’s lap and lick her face before lying down panting next to Arthur, who grasped his hair and tugged. It must have been painful, but Spring only licked the baby’s hand and wagged his tail. Arthur grinned at him.
As the others trudged in behind Alex, Charlotte indicated Arthur’s gifts on the hay table. But Mrs. Villin, the ostler, and the maid were on their heels with a trestle table and chairs which they set up near the door. The brazier was refueled, and a vast array of breakfast was brought in. Mrs. Villin might have glanced askance at Mark Strong, but clearly decided it was up to their graces who they chose to breakfast with, for she made no comment.
Mr. Villin bustled in with pots of tea and coffee. “Good news, your graces!” he exclaimed, setting his burdens down on the somewhat rickety table. “Looks like the road to Audley Park will be passable by midday. The sun’s striking it directly, and the snow’s vanishing. Probably flooding the ditches and the fields, but that’s a problem for another day!”
Alex glanced at Charlotte. “Merry Christmas. It seems our luck is holding.”
Charlotte turned impulsively to Fortescue. “Come with us, if you have no better plans. It will be chaos, for my young brothers will be there at the very least, and probably my sisters, too, but everyone will be glad to welcome you.”
Fortescue looked startled and glanced instinctively at Alex for guidance.
“Come,” Alex advised. “There is nowhere quite like the Maybury residence in festive spirit. And you need not fear imposing.”
Fortescue bowed. “Then I accept with gratitude. On the understanding that Lady Maybury evict me as soon as she wishes.”
Spring chose that moment to land in the middle of the table. Even Charlotte was taken by surprise, and several cups were spilled and a whole slice of ham vanished into the canine maw before she caught him and threw him on the floor with stern warnings.
Wagging his tail, Spring sat and licked his lips.
“Give him some of mine, if you want,” Mark Strong said, pushing his plate back. “My eye’s bigger than my belly, and I can’t eat another thing.”
“Well, you might have to soon enough,” Ale
x said casually. “The cook at Audley Park does a huge Christmas dinner for the servants’ hall, too.”
Mark blinked.
“If you want a fresh start,” Alex said, “you can look after my horses for now and come back to Lincolnshire with us. I need some laborers, and in time, there could be a tenancy available if we suit each other.” His lips quirked amiably, but there was just a hint of flint in his eyes. “I don’t need to explain the conditions, do I?”
“No, sir,” Mark said fervently.
After everything was cleared away, Fortescue went to the inn to collect his belongings, and Mark Strong went off to become acquainted with Alvan’s horses and John Coachman.
“I think we are having a kind Christmas,” Charlotte observed, going to pack her own belongings away, but Alex stopped her, pulling her into his arms instead for a long, hungry kiss. “I’m glad now we were stopped here,” she whispered against his lips. “The Hart is a lucky house.”
“It’s we who are lucky,” Alex said, and she had to admit he was right.
Until Spring, who was jumping at the stable door, finally discovered how to make it open, and with a yelp of delight in his freedom, bolted out in search of trouble.
The End
Unmarriageable Series
The Deserted Heart
The Sinister Heart
The Vulgar Heart
The Broken Heart
The Weary Heart
The Secret Heart
Christmas Heart
About Mary Lancaster
Mary Lancaster lives in Scotland with her husband, three mostly grown-up kids and a small, crazy dog.
Her first literary love was historical fiction, a genre which she relishes mixing up with romance and adventure in her own writing. Her most recent books are light, fun Regency romances written for Dragonblade Publishing: The Imperial Season series set at the Congress of Vienna; and the popular Blackhaven Brides series, which is set in a fashionable English spa town frequented by the great and the bad of Regency society.
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The Hope of Love
Book of Love, Novella
Meara Platt
Chapter One
Wellesford, England
December 1815
“Will you join us for Christmas supper, Miss Billings?” Lady Poppy, Countess of Welles, asked, clutching the books she’d just purchased from Felicity’s bookshop.
Felicity smiled at the newlywed countess, genuinely touched she’d come to the bookshop in person to make the request when she could have merely sent a footman to deliver the invitation or not invited her at all. What other humble shopkeeper could boast of friendship with a countess? It still amazed Felicity that she was also friendly with Olivia, the Duchess of Hartford, and Penelope, sister to the Earl of Welles.
Those three lovely ladies seemed to have taken her in as one of their own, and she truly adored all of them. She shook her head and laughed softly. “I would love to.”
“We’ll see you at Sherbourne next week then. I was hoping you weren’t otherwise engaged. It will be a small gathering, only about thirty friends and family. Don’t lace your corset too tightly, for there’ll be plenty of food.” Poppy gave her a quick hug and hurried out, climbing into her waiting carriage, a sleek, black conveyance embossed with the Welles family crest. “I’ll send our carriage around to pick you up. It won’t do to have you walking through the snow. Feels like a big storm brewing, doesn’t it? I can feel it in the air. I don’t want you ruining your gown and slippers. You’ll stay over, of course, if the festivities run late.”
Felicity had followed her to the door and waved as the carriage rolled off, laughing with pleasure when Poppy stuck her head out the window and continued to chatter about the party even as the driver turned the corner and her conveyance rattled out of sight.
Now alone, Felicity inhaled the chill air, letting it out in a soft breath that formed a vapor in front of her lips. Snowflakes were beginning to fall, and the scent of freshly baked raisin cakes from Mr. Holland’s bakery across the street carried in the air.
For the most part, she enjoyed this time of year, loved the bite to the air, the scent of chestnuts roasting on the fire, and the smiles on everyone’s faces as they hurried past on one errand or another. The festive suppers were also a treat. Her favorite dish happened to be roast goose, but it wasn’t something she ate other than at Christmas.
Often, she ate alone. This was the part she enjoyed least, for holidays were a time for family and she had none. Sometimes she would return to the Birdsong Orphanage to share the holiday meal with the other orphaned girls, but she hadn’t been able to visit much lately. Her bookshop, The Bee Hive, had become a favorite meeting place for the ladies of Wellesford.
Duchess Olivia often jested that the place was abuzz with activity. Felicity hadn’t wanted to suddenly close up shop and leave for a week to travel to the orphanage when everyone was counting on her to be here. Besides, as a businesswoman, she knew it was folly to close her shop the week before Christmas when it was always the busiest time of the year.
“Miss Billings!” the vicar, Adam Carstairs, called to her as he ran by on his way to the vicarage. “Did you just get your invite to the big house?”
She waved to him. “I did.”
Although she kept her voice cheery, she could not hold back the bittersweet feeling now taking hold of her. She’d been raised in the orphanage, had never known her parents or ever been told who they were. So, while everyone rushed about town purchasing little gifts and making preparations for their family celebrations, she had only herself and the books on her shelves to keep her company.
She had just sent off a box of woolen mittens, hats, and a few books for the orphans, and knew she would receive a note of appreciation in response. It would be enough to sustain her until next year. She supposed it was not in the spirit of the season to wish, just once, that she’d be the one receiving a gift.
It wasn’t for the gift, but for knowing someone was thinking of her.
The vicar paused beside her, his breath short. “I’m glad you were invited. I was hoping the Sherbournes would think of you. I’ll be there as well. They’ve invited the Plimptons and the doctor, of course. He’s everyone’s favorite. And I hear the dowager duchess Matilda will attend as well.”
He tossed off the names of a few more lords and ladies. Felicity’s eyes widened in surprise. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms to ward off the icy wind, too curious to end the conversation and retreat into the warmth of her shop. “I’m not certain how I fit in with such exalted company, but they’ve always made me feel most welcome. Oh, dear. I’ll have to find something suitably fine to wear.”
“You’ll look lovely in whatever gown you choose.” He arched a devilish eyebrow, drawing her gaze to his exquisite blue eyes. They stood out, but were a perfect complement to his dark hair and boyishly appealing features. It struck her as quite odd that a man as pious as this vicar should also look so wickedly tempting.
All the women in town fancied themselves in love with him.
She didn’t, of course.
He was too young for her.
Not that she was old, but…well, a spinster of nine and twenty years was considered old by most standards. Certainly on the shelf. What man would desire an old maid like her? The vicar could not have been more than twenty-six or twenty-sev
en years old. Everyone suspected he had secretly been in love with Lady Poppy and was bereft when she’d married Nathaniel Sherbourne, the Earl of Welles.
He bid her good day and continued on his way.
Once he was out of sight, she hurried back into her shop and firmly shut the door. The place was empty now, the last of her customers having hurried off before nightfall. The sun disappeared early at this time of year.
Since she lived in a set of rooms within the same small house that contained her shop, she had no need to travel any distance to reach home. All she had to do was step behind the floral curtain separating the shop and her kitchen. She crossed into the kitchen to warm her hands over the brazier.
A chill had seeped deep into her bones, but the weather had nothing to do with this particular ache. As the holidays approached, it marked yet another year coming to an end for her. Another year she’d be alone without family.
Another year she’d be alone without the prospect of marrying or having children of her own.
She was so lost in thought, she failed to hear the bell above her door tinkle.
“Miss Billings? Are you all right?” A man’s deep, rumbling voice startled her out of her idle musing.
She turned, recognizing Wellesford’s handsome doctor, Angus Carmichael. His voice carried just that lilting hint of a brogue. Only a hint, however. Although he’d been born and raised in Scotland, he’d lived in England for many years and had acquired a cultured smoothness to his accent. “Oh, Doctor! I do beg your pardon. I was woolgathering and hadn’t noticed anyone come into the shop.”
“Then I apologize for startling you.”
“No need. Um, I suppose you came for the medical book you ordered last week.” She clasped her hands together, fighting the urge to pat her hair or bat her eyelashes at him as though she were a love-struck schoolgirl.
What was it about this man that made her heart flutter whenever he was near?
She tried to gather her scattered thoughts before he noticed they were on him and no longer on the brazier or on restocking her shelves with the new books just arrived from London and still sealed in their packing box.
