Look what people are saying about these USA TODAY bestselling authors!
JACQUIE D’ALESSANDRO
Whirlwind Wedding
“With its sympathetic protagonists and generous applications of humor, this witty escapade will give those searching for another excellent Regency author plenty of reasons to believe they’ve found her.”
—Publishers Weekly
The Bride Thief
“Ms. D’Alessandro’s books are not only keepers—they are treasures.”
—Affaire de Coeur
JULIE KENNER
“Kenner’s star is definitely on the ascent.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Julie Kenner is one smart cookie who writes hilarious prose. If you need a reminder that life is funny and sex is great, read Kenner!”
—New York Times bestselling author Vicki Lewis Thompson
SUSAN KEARNEY
“Kearney is a master storyteller.”
—New York Times bestselling author Virginia Henley
Enslaved
“This book is like eating a piece of dark chocolate when you are dieting—you know it is not good for you, but you cannot help wolfing it down with guilty pleasure.”
—All About Romance
Dear Reader,
The editors at Harlequin and Silhouette are thrilled to be able to bring you a brand-new featured author program beginning in 2005! Signature Select aims to single out outstanding stories, contemporary themes and oft-requested classics by some of your favorite series authors and present them to you in a variety of formats bound by truly striking covers.
You may notice a number of different colored bands on the spine of this book. Each color corresponds to a different type of reading experience in the new Signature Select program. The Spotlight books will offer a single “big read” by a talented series author, the Collections will present three novellas on a selected theme in one volume, the Sagas will contain sprawling, sometimes multi-generational family tales (often related to a favorite family first introduced in series) and the Miniseries will feature requested, previously published books, with two or, occasionally, three complete stories in one volume. The Signature Select program will offer one book in each of these categories per month, and fans of limited continuity series will also find these continuing stories under the Signature Select umbrella.
In addition, these volumes will bring you bonus features…different in every single book! You may learn more about the author in an extended interview, more about the setting or inspiration for the book, more about subjects related to the theme and, often, a bonus short read will be included.
Watch for new stories from Vicki Lewis Thompson, Lori Foster, Donna Kauffman, Marie Ferrarella, Merline Lovelace, Roberta Gellis, Suzanne Forster, Stephanie Bond and scores more of the brightest talents in romance fiction!
We have an exciting year ahead!
Warm wishes for happy reading,
Marsha Zinberg
Executive Editor
The Signature Select Program
JACQUIE D’ALESSANDRO
JULIE KENNER
SUSAN KEARNEY
THE HOPE CHEST
This book is dedicated to my mom and dad, Kay and Jim Johnson, for buying me my beautiful hope chest, then showing me how to fill it with dreams. And, as always, to my wonderful husband Joe, who makes all my dreams come true; and my terrific son Christopher, aka Makes My Dreams Come True, Junior.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Brenda Chin and Marsha Zinberg for giving me the opportunity to participate in this wonderful venture. Thanks also to Damaris Rowland, Steve Axelrod, Kathy Guse, Lea and Art D’Alessandro, Jenni Grizzle and Wendy Etherington for their unfailing support.
CONTENTS
YESTERDAY’S MAGIC
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
TODAY’S SECRETS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
TOMORROW’S PROMISE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
Bonus Features
Conversations with the authors of The Hope Chest
The Legend of the Hope Chest
All in a writer's life…
Here’s a sneak peek…
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
YESTERDAY’S MAGIC
Jacquie D’Alessandro
For Brenda Chin and Marsha Zinberg.
Thanks for encouraging me to write a story that was really “out there.”
CHAPTER ONE
Cardiff, England 1820
LADY AMANDA PRATT strode quickly along Cromwell-on-Sea’s main road toward Gibson’s Antiques and Curiosities. Botheration, it was already twenty minutes past two, and the sign posted on the shop’s door when she and Aunt Lydia had passed by earlier indicated the store was temporarily closed and would reopen at two o’clock. Amanda had wanted to return promptly at two, but what with all the fascinating wares Cromwell-on-Sea’s shops had to offer, she’d completely lost track of time. When she’d noted the hour and realized Aunt Lydia was nowhere near ready to depart Hobson’s Millinery, Amanda had told her aunt to take her time. She’d simply nip back to Gibson’s to purchase that extraordinary box displayed in the window.
Just thinking about the treasure quickened her step. She’d never seen anything remotely like it, not even in London’s grand shops on Regent, Bond and Oxford Streets where she regularly hunted for pieces to add to her collection of unusual boxes. The shop owners in London were well acquainted with her finely honed bargaining skills, and her lips curved at the prospect of this unexpected opportunity to put her expertise to use here. She certainly hadn’t anticipated seeing something so outstanding while visiting her aunt in this small village just outside Cardiff. The instant she’d seen the rectangular box, which was about the size of a loaf of bread and made of intricately inlaid, glossy wood, she’d wanted it. She’d nearly pressed her nose to the shop window, admiring the treasure.
But it was more than the unique gleaming surface that had fascinated Amanda. It was the image on the curved lid that had so thoroughly captured her attention. A silhouette of a woman with long hair that appeared to be blowing in the breeze. She wore a flowing, Grecian-style gown that clung to the front of her form and billowed behind her from that imaginary wind while she seemingly walked into the distance, her arms stretched upward, as if reaching for something above, beyond her. Her upturned face was turned in partial profile, her pose simultaneously mysterious, beseeching and seductively teasing. Yet the woman also struck Amanda as being somehow…lonely. And searching for…something. I know precisely how you feel…
Amanda shook off the thought and hurried on. She passed rows of well-kept shops lining both sides of the wide, busy street crowded with early-afternoon pedestrians purchasing items ranging from freshly caught fish to fragrant bread to embroidered linens. Children scampered about, the sounds of their laughter rising above the squeak of carriage wheels and the calls of entrepreneurs hawking their wares from a group of stalls set up at the far end of the street next to the smithy. Normally she would have strolled leisurely, allowing her senses to absorb the scenery, to savor the newness of sights and scents so different from London or her family’s country home in Kent. Then she would have engaged in one of her favorite activities—watching people and wondering about their lives, who they were, where t
hey lived, what sort of personalities they possessed, whether or not they were happy, what secrets they hid. But all that would have to wait. Right now she was a woman with a mission.
A refreshing, brisk, salt-scented breeze, courtesy of the Bristol Channel, ruffled Amanda’s forest-green spencer, and she breathed deeply, enjoying the contrast of the warm sun and cool, fresh early summer air. London’s air definitely did not smell like this. No, this sea air was scented not only with the tang of salt, but with more intangible fragrances. Peace. Tranquility. Freedom. When Aunt Lydia had issued an invitation to join her in Cardiff, Amanda had instantly pounced upon the opportunity.
Would the answers she so desperately sought be found in this modest seaside village, far removed from the pressures of her mother’s incessant demands that she quit dawdling and choose a husband? She prayed that would be the case. In all fairness she supposed she was dawdling, but only so she could search her heart, which for reasons she did not understand, required searching. Heavens, with the success of her Season, she should be the happiest girl in all of England, after being declared “an Incomparable,” and blessed with four serious suitors, all gentlemen from fine families.
So why wasn’t she happy? Dancing on air? She’d always dreamed of falling in love, marrying a man who made her heart race, having a family. In her mind’s eye she’d clearly envisioned herself surrounded by several laughing children, half a dozen rambunctious dogs, a litter of kittens, a fragrant abundant garden, and…him. That nameless, faceless gentleman whose identity remained a mystery other than to know that he was kind, loving, generous. Made her laugh. And loved her to distraction, as she loved him. Why was determining which of her four suitors was that man proving such a daunting, depressing task? Surely it should not be so. Well, once she’d decided which of her suitors to marry, this feeling of malaise and frustrated confusion that had plagued her all during the Season would evaporate.
Gibson’s Antiques and Curiosities lay just ahead, and Amanda nearly ran the last few steps, then halted in front of the window. And stared. The velvet perch upon which the box—her box—had rested was now empty.
Dismay flooded her. Surely someone couldn’t have purchased the box in the past twenty minutes since the shop reopened. Smothering the unladylike word that rose to her lips, Amanda quickly entered the shop. She vaguely noted the two gentlemen in the shop. Instead her attention was riveted on the glossy wooden box that sat on the glass-topped counter separating the men.
The middle-aged man behind the counter said to her in a tremulous, reed-thin voice, “Welcome. I’m Wallace Gibson, the owner. I’ll be happy to assist you in just a moment.”
Hoping she wasn’t too late, Amanda swiftly approached the counter then pointed at the box. “Actually, that is the piece I was interested in.”
Mr. Gibson swallowed, bobbing the prominent Adam’s apple in his pencil-thin neck. He appeared nervous and flustered, and his gaze flicked to the other man. “I’m afraid I’ve just sold the piece,” Mr. Gibson said, “to this gentleman.”
Amanda pressed her lips together and strove to swallow her disappointment. Not to mention her annoyance—at herself for being late and at this stranger for buying the box she’d already mentally added to her hoard of treasures. Vexing man. Not that she could fault him his discerning taste, but really, with all the other objects crowded into this shop, why did he have to choose her box?
She turned to look at him and found herself being studied with arctic-blue eyes that lived up to their shade as they held no warmth whatsoever. Something she could not decipher flickered in those chilly depths, but then the curtain fell once again.
The afternoon sun slanting through the front window highlighted the uncompromising stark angles and planes of a face far too forbidding to be called handsome. His hair was an unremarkable dark brown and mussed, as though he’d plunged his fingers through it, one lock falling over his forehead. His mouth was well formed, but did not look as if it smiled often, if ever. He looked stern and uncompromising and Amanda had to fight the urge to take a hasty step backward under his frigid scrutiny. Good heavens, no wonder Mr. Gibson appeared jittery. And how utterly unfair, irksome and distressing that the lovely lady on the box now belonged to this cold man.
Undeterred by the gentleman’s chilly demeanor—indeed, she’d dealt with her share of difficult men this past Season—Amanda offered him what she hoped passed for a warm smile. “I admired the box through the window earlier today when the shop was closed. As the piece has not yet been wrapped, would you mind if I looked at it?”
He studied her in that unwavering, oddly unsettling way for several more seconds, then asked, “Why would you want to continue to admire something that you know can never be yours?”
Unlike his eyes which gave away nothing, Amanda detected a wealth of underlying emotion in his deep voice. Loss. Pain. Regret. All of which piqued her curiosity, and she briefly wondered if he realized his voice revealed so much. Probably not, she decided, as those cold eyes surely did not belong to a man who’d willingly share his feelings.
“I suppose I’d like to admire the box for the same reason that I love visiting galleries and museums,” she said. “Although I cannot bring the items home, I still enjoy looking at them, find pleasure in appreciating them, if only temporarily.” She favored him with her best dimpling smile. “After all, I cannot own everything. Where would I put it?” When he offered no reaction to her jest, she continued doggedly, “May I look at the box?”
A muscle in his jaw jerked, then he gave a tight nod and stepped aside. Amanda took immediate advantage of his silent consent.
The piece was as lovely as she’d thought. Lovelier even. She ran a single fingertip across the glossy, curved lid. “The texture is so unusual,” she murmured. “How did you acquire this piece, Mr. Gibson?”
“Oddly enough, I recently discovered it in my very own attic. I was searching for a volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets I’d recalled tucking away years ago when I happened upon it.”
“So it is a family heirloom?”
Mr. Gibson frowned and shook his head. “I suppose it must be, although I’d never seen it before. Of course, it was nestled in the bottom of a trunk set in the far corner of my admittedly overcrowded attic.”
“I’m surprised you would wish to part with something so unique.”
“As a businessman, I cannot afford to become sentimentally attached to things.”
“No, I suppose not.” She ran her hands over the box, searching for a latch to open it, but couldn’t find one. She then carefully lifted the piece. “How does it open?”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t,” Mr. Gibson said. “I spent hours looking for a clasp or hinge but there’s nothing of the sort. While at first glance it appears to be a box, it’s clearly just a solid piece of dense wood. I’d place it as late-sixteenth or early-seventeenth century, most likely intended for use as a doorstop. The perfect, unmarked condition of the wood however indicates it was used purely for decorative purposes—based on the female figure, most likely in a lady’s bedchamber.”
Another fissure of annoyance trickled through Amanda. Yes, and it would have, should have, decorated my bedchamber along with all my other trinkets if I hadn’t been late in getting back to the shop, allowing this cursed man the opportunity to buy it. A profound sense of disappointment and loss washed through her.
Inexplicably feeling as if she were saying farewell to an old friend, she set the box back on the counter, then gently traced her index over the length of the silhouette. As she touched the edge of the box, a soft click sounded. Then, to her amazement, the lid slowly opened about an inch, moving up on unseen hinges attached to the back.
She heard Mr. Gibson’s sharp intake of breath, and sensed the other gentleman’s sudden attention, but her gaze remained affixed on the box.
“I thought you said it didn’t open, Gibson,” the man said sharply.
“I would have sworn it didn’t. How did you do that?” Mr. Gibson asked
Amanda.
Bemused, she said, “I simply ran my finger down the length of the silhouette.”
“Obviously she touched some hidden spring,” the man said. He reached out then slowly opened the lid the rest of the way. Three heads bumped as they all leaned forward.
Amanda turned her head toward the stranger, intending to apologize, and found herself nearly nose to nose with him. She stilled out of sheer surprise at his sudden, unexpected closeness, and for several seconds they simply looked at each other. Her breath caught, and she illogically pondered why a man with such chilly eyes would be gifted with such thick, dark eyelashes. Her inquisitive nature instantly reared its head. Who was he? Did he live here, or was he a visitor as she was? What was his life like? She suspected he was not a happy man. Why not? What secrets lurked behind those eyes?
When her breathing resumed, her head filled with the scent of him—a pleasing fragrance of sandalwood, mixed with the clean smell of freshly laundered linen. For the second time, something she couldn’t decipher flickered in his eyes, then he straightened. “I beg your pardon,” he said, his voice a soft rasp. Definitely not the chilly tone he’d used earlier.
Amanda quickly straightened as well, cursing the heated blush creeping up her neck. He returned his attention to the box. Amanda did likewise, surreptitiously lifting onto her toes and craning her neck.
The Hope Chest Page 1
