“In the tale, she did throw him,” Ivy reminded. “What she needed was to find a frog who would be transformed by the fall.”
“You’re absolutely right. I’ve recently discovered that falls of all kinds can do that. The most transforming of all is falling in—”
“Cousin!” Before North could finish, the Earl of Wolford rushed down the path, the snow crunching beneath his boots. “I received the most interesting missive from Jack Marlowe just now. He wants to know if you’ve altered your formula.”
“You may tell Marlowe yes, I have,” North said without removing his gaze from Ivy.
“He also asked—strangely enough—whether or not you found the archbishop agreeable or—”
“Wolford,” North interrupted, “please take your seat in the chapel.”
The earl departed without another word. A stunned awareness began to creep upon Ivy. “Did you ride off in the middle of the night to see the archbishop?”
“I did.”
This time, she took a step closer. “Whyever would you do such a thing on Christmas Eve?”
“I can think of only one reason.”
So could she, but it made no sense. Not unless . . . “I was never going to speak of our kiss. As I said last night, I would never force a man to marry me.” Hearing her own words rekindled the hurt and anger she’d felt last night. “I am perfectly content as I am. I certainly do not need to resort to tricks in order to claim a husband. I may be of no consequence to you, but I have wonderful traits that are worth more than a fine lineage, vast property, or any amount of wealth. Your formula was wrong about me.”
“I know. I am a fraud, Ivy.” North took her hands, tugging off her gloves so that he and she were flesh to flesh, and lifted them to his lips. “You were right. I wanted someone to disprove my formula. You made me see what truly matters, perhaps not for anyone else, but for me.”
When another gust of wind stole the warmth from her, she pulled her hands free. “That is a fine, pretty speech, and I thank you. I will be able to leave here without any bitterness in my heart.”
“I am in earnest,” he said. “And though my method is somewhat disorderly, when I asked you to sit beside me in church, I wasn’t just asking for today. I want you there beside me always.”
A lovely thought. However, that, too, was a fairy tale. “Even if I could, there would be no other opportunity. I leave on the morrow.”
He laughed. “Ivy, I am asking you to marry me.”
She couldn’t have heard him correctly. “But your formula . . . the red ledger . . .”
“I failed to calculate the one factor that overrides all others—love. I fell in love with you in that first moment. I’ve come to love you more and more in each moment since. You are my perfect match in every way.”
Dumfounded, she didn’t know what to think or how to respond.
“I can see that there is only way to convince you,” he said, glancing toward the chapel. He drew in a breath and nodded. “You are all that matters, Ivy.”
He walked away from her and into the chapel. Then Ivy found herself standing at the open doors. The melodic sounds of hymns drifted out into the courtyard. At the front, the vicar had yet to climb to the pulpit. And she watched as North strode down the center aisle and faced the congregation.
“Good morning, all,” North said. “Before we begin to celebrate this glorious day, I have a confession to make. As you know, I invited you all here to learn of my Marriage Formula. This formula was originally designed with an honest desire to enhance our society by simplifying matters of marriage down to the basic desired elements . . .”
Numbly, Ivy walked forward. Awareness crept over her as she realized what he was saying. And more importantly, what he was risking. She couldn’t let him do it.
“However,” he continued, ignoring the fervent shakes of her head, “I have recently discovered that my calculations were—”
“Frog!” she shouted, drawing startled gazes in her direction, along with a few gasps. She pointed to the floor, gesturing beneath the pews. “I saw one just there.”
As luck would have it, Ivy was standing near the corner of Lilah’s pew. “Please pretend there is a frog in your lap,” Ivy whispered.
“Why must— Oh, Ivy, you truly are incorrigible.” Lilah sighed in exasperation, then suddenly leaped up from her seat. “Frog!”
Beside her, Lady Cosgrove stood, but likely only out of necessity. Nevertheless, it started a reaction among the guests. A few squeals erupted. They all began to stand, scatter, and search the floor. Even the vicar shook out his robes.
Ivy rushed to North’s side. “I couldn’t let you do it.”
“Why not?” While the creases on the side of his mouth revealed his amusement, there was a measure of trepidation in his gaze.
She could tell him how she believed that his formula had merit and that, with a little tweaking to include the names from the red ledger, it would be even better. However, instead of saying all that, she simply told him, “Because I love you.”
Without warning, he picked her up and spun her around in a circle. Right there, in front of the entire congregation. When her feet returned to the floor, she suddenly realized that the frog hunt was over. Everyone was staring at them. She even heard a few people whispering unsavory things about common blood. That was when it occurred to her that he could still lose the Fellowship he’d worked so hard to gain.
“And this is because I love you,” North whispered, smiling down at her before he addressed his guests. “As I was saying before, I have recently discovered that my formula—”
“Is a success,” Ivy interrupted. Again. Boldly, she took his hand. “The results of the duke’s formula brought us together.”
Which wasn’t a complete fabrication and, therefore, was acceptable to say in church. The only thing she would have to repent was the small lie about the frog. . . .
An odd, warbled bleating sound interrupted her thoughts, and she looked down. Much to her surprise, a fat green toad hopped into the aisle. Then the melee began once more.
Ivy looked up at North. He seemed equally shocked. Then his gaze slid to the doorway, and he grinned as the Earl of Wolford bowed. “My cousin is rather resourceful in a pinch. He had to have sprinted all the way to the warm springs by the hillside.”
This morning, she never would have imagined her heartache transforming into the happiest day of her life. “Riding off in the middle of the night to see the archbishop was rather impulsive of you. Not only that, but you automatically assumed that I would be equally as impulsive to marry you by special license.”
He flashed those creases. “Call it a leap of faith.”
“After all this, I suppose I should say yes.” She laughed, overflowing with that wonderful feeling of exhilaration. “If a frog is a good omen for a happy marriage, then it would be a shame to waste a perfect opportunity.”
About the Author
USA Today bestselling author VIVIENNE LORRET loves romance novels, her pink laptop, her husband, and her two sons (not necessarily in that order . . . but there are days). Transforming copious amounts of tea into words, she is proud to be an Avon Impulse author of works including: Tempting Mr. Weatherstone, The Wallflower Wedding Series, and the Rakes of Fallow Hall series.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
One Magic Season
By Ashlyn Macnamara
Dedication
I can hardly write something Christmas-themed
without dedicating it to my husband,
who starts decorating in early November
and leaves the lights up until . . .
well, he still hasn’t taken the ones in the dining room down!
Cheers, darling!
Chapter One
Three miles from Worthington Manor
Christ
mas Eve, 1816
THE CARRIAGE WHEELS ground to a halt on the snow-covered road, a soft crunch followed by heavy silence. Something about that sound replayed in Lady Patience Markham’s mind long after it had ceased. A delay already. At this rate, they’d never make it to her brother’s estate until long past dark. They’d had a late start because she’d decided to pack a few extra warm woolen gowns.
The flakes of snow dancing past the window justified that decision, at least. The sight raised gooseflesh at the back of her neck, and she drew her pelisse more tightly about her. At the age of nine and twenty, she was young to be styled the Dowager Countess of Worthington, but neither youth nor title could shield her against the cold creeping into the cab.
From outside came the dull thump of the coachman jumping from his perch. The carriage shuddered at the sudden relief of a fourteen-stone burden. Shouts echoed through the frosty air.
Across from Patience, the steady clicking of her maid’s knitting needles halted. “Do you think—?”
Linnet broke off, but her round eyes and the whiteness of her wrinkled cheeks beneath the shadow of her bonnet completed her thought.
“Any highwayman with sense would stay indoors in this weather.” There. That sounded confident enough, though it didn’t speak for brigands of the senseless variety. Heaven forbid they encounter one of those.
Another glance outside revealed a wild whirl of snow tumbling at the mercy of a persistent wind. A gust buffeted the carriage, causing it to shake and creak. No doubt about it, the storm was worsening. They’d set out to mere flurries, but now . . .
Wisdom would send even the most hardened criminal indoors to huddle near a roaring hearth with a cup of something bracing and hot. Quite apparently, highway robbers possessed a great deal more sense than dowager countesses of any age.
In a burst of snowflakes and icy wind, the door opened. The red-faced coachman poked his bulbous nose into the cab. “A delay, my lady. One that cannot be helped.”
Instinct pressed Patience’s feet into the wrapped flatirons Linnet had prepared for their comfort. The irons had long since given up their last parcel of warmth. “Good heavens, what’s happened?”
“Another coach is blocking the road. Looks as if it’s broken down.”
“Can you not drive around?”
“I might try, but with this storm, the snow’s piled awfully deep.”
Patience pressed her lips together. At the rate the snow was falling, they’d have to dig themselves out if they stayed here too long. “What do you advise?”
She knew the reply before he gave it. It was the only sensible solution. “Turn for home, my lady. If I’m to risk stranding us in a drift, I’d rather it happen because we were using good judgment.”
“Yes, let’s do. At this rate, we’d never have arrived before midnight.” Assuming they arrived at all.
She tamped down a wave of disappointment. She’d so been looking forward to spending the Christmas season with her brother’s family. Peter’s wife had given birth to a daughter the previous summer, and Patience had yet to make her new niece’s acquaintance. Add a pair of rambunctious boys, and the holidays had shone with lively promise. She’d especially anticipated the cries of delight when her nephews opened their gifts.
But it couldn’t be helped now, not with the choice becoming clearer and clearer—turn for home or freeze.
Voices carried on the howl of the wind—shouts, calls, some familiar, some not.
Patience stretched a hand toward the coachman. “My goodness, is the other carriage still occupied?”
“They’ve asked our men to help dig them out, but I fear if we do that, we’ll become stuck ourselves.”
“We cannot leave them, not in this weather.” Patience hugged herself beneath her pelisse. Its heavy velvet and the wool of her traveling costume had seemed sufficient protection against the elements this morning. “The least we can do is offer them a ride.” Another body in the coach might help provide warmth, if nothing else.
The coachman glanced at the leaden sky. How much colder would he be, exposed on his perch, and that despite his caped overcoat, woolen hat, and thick gloves? “Nearest inn’s in Stroud, but I doubt we’d make it so far. At any rate, I don’t think the other fellow would find the accommodations to his liking. Seems he’s a duke.”
A duke. In spite of herself, she exchanged a glance with Linnet. But then Patience shook the thought away. Heavens, how many dukes did England contain now? She tried to count on her fingers but quickly lost track. Wasn’t it at least twenty, counting the Duke of Wellington? What were the odds they were about to take on her particular duke?
He’s not your duke, she reminded herself firmly. He hadn’t even been her marquess a decade ago. His family had ensured that. In its own way, so had hers.
“Doesn’t the Duke of Kingsbury have an estate near Gloucester?” Apparently Linnet’s thoughts were running in the same direction. “One of your mother’s upstairs maids ran off with a Kingsbury footman, if I remember aright.”
Patience quelled a spur of jealousy at the thought. Maids and footmen all stood on equal ground, unlike the daughter of a baron and the heir to a dukedom. “It’s probably some stuffy old goat, but either way, that’s no reason to refuse help.” She turned to the coachman. “Offer him what comfort we can provide. If he’s willing, he can shelter at Worthington Manor.”
As for Patience, she wouldn’t even have to see Kingsbury—if the occupant of the other carriage was, indeed, Kingsbury—beyond the time it took them to return home. She’d be safely ensconced several hundred yards down the hill from the main manor in the dower house.
“It’s a pity about the Worthington servants,” Linnet said as soon as the door closed behind the coachman. She made the statement casually enough, but even so, the comment bordered on insubordination. But Linnet had acted as Patience’s maid for so many years now that she was nearly family. During Patience’s one aborted season, Linnet had seen her through many a tearful night, dispensing more motherly advice than Patience’s own mother ever had.
If Linnet felt she could speak plainly now, it was only a result of long habit.
“What do you mean?”
Linnet resumed her knitting, her fingers flying despite the cold and a pair of thick gloves. “They’ll be holding their servants’ ball tonight, and tomorrow many of them will have made plans for Christmas with their families. Now they’ll have to lay all that aside because you’ve decided to foist a duke on them.”
“Oh.” Patience bit her lip. Clearly, she hadn’t thought this through. The servants at the main manor had no doubt expected an easy time of it through Twelfth Night, with the current earl—Patience’s brother-in-law—deciding to spend the holidays with his wife’s family. Besides, Patience had little authority over the manor staff. She employed Linnet and a maid-of-all-work, who saw to the cooking, cleaning, and fires at the dower house. “Then what do you suggest? We can’t leave the man out here to freeze.”
The door whipped open on another blast of frigid air and snow. “I concur most heartily.”
Patience gasped. That voice. How many times as a young lady had she imagined that voice asking her to a reel or a turn about the room? How many times over the intervening years had its echo vibrated through her dreams? How many times had she awoken to an empty pillow and the bitter reminder that she would never be his?
But she wasn’t dreaming now. She was very much awake, and her heart was pulsing a heavy beat, working its way toward her throat.
The duke who entered the carriage was the furthest thing from a stuffy old goat. Not if the laugh lines radiating from his eyes indicated anything. Time had etched those marks slightly deeper than she recalled, but they still framed the bluest irises she’d ever seen.
The cold had reddened his sharp cheekbones and the straight nose that overshadowed a firm,
strong chin. And that lower lip. Every bit as full as she remembered. She diverted her gaze before she fell into her old habit of speculating just how that lip would taste. Since her marriage, and his, she’d lost the right to such diverting thoughts.
What she couldn’t ignore was the sheer impact of his presence. She might as well have been standing out in the storm, the gale scouring her skin raw, for her heart was experiencing a similar sensation.
As he stared at her, his smile faded, and his laugh lines melted into shallow furrows. “My God, is it you?”
Thank the heavens he’d spared her the sound of her name in that quiet, almost reverent tone. She inclined her head, hoping the gesture would mask the wash of heat that poured over her cheeks. “Your Grace.”
He sank into the seat next to Linnet. Was he just as shocked to see her? In all the intervening years, she hadn’t avoided him, at least not deliberately. She’d simply arranged her life so as to sidestep the ton and live as quietly as possible. Even during the four years of her marriage, she’d been as content to remain in the country as the earl had been to leave her there.
The carriage shook beneath the weight of a trunk being loaded in the back, then further, as the coachman took his perch and the tiger boarded. The harness jangled, the wheels creaked, and with a great effort against the wind, the carriage pushed forward, working its way into a slow circle as it came about.
Kingsbury’s stranded coach floated past the window, already axel-deep in drifts. The ducal crest complete with coronet burned into Patience’s vision, a harsh reminder. Yes, this is who he is. Too high for one such as you.
Then she noticed the absence of his team. “What of your driver?” she asked.
“I sent him on with the horses.” He leaned across Linnet to peer out, and his very presence seemed to fill the space of the cab. “Yes, there he goes with my tiger. They ought to make the next village at least and shelter in the pub until the storm lets up.”
All I Want for Christmas Is a Duke Page 26
