Three Regency Christmases to remember...
AN EARL BENEATH THE MISTLETOE by Louise Allen
Hugo, Earl of Burnham, hates Christmas! Snowbound in widow Emilia Weston’s cozy alehouse, with her young twins, he’s surrounded by festive preparations. Hugo’s cynical heart is in danger of being melted.... How much longer can he avoid the mistletoe?
TWELFTH NIGHT PROPOSAL by Lucy Ashford
Leaving London to claim his newly inherited estate, Theo Dalbury finds remote Derbyshire as foreign to him as his feelings for country girl Jenna. Christmas evokes painful memories for him, but Jenna is bringing out his festive spirit...and will give him a yuletide that he’ll never forget!
CHRISTMAS AT OAKHURST MANOR by Joanna Fulford
Vivien Hastings is looking forward to a quiet Christmas at Oakhurst Manor, until she realizes she’ll be sharing it with Max Calderwood. It’s been years since he broke her heart, but one hot glance from his cool gray eyes shows her that she’s just as vulnerable to him as she ever was....
Acclaim for the authors of
Snowbound Wedding Wishes
Louise Allen
“Allen takes a shipwreck spying adventure with lots of sensuality and spins it into a page-turner. The strong characters and sexy relationship will definitely satisfy readers.”
—RT Book Reviews on Seduced by the Scoundrel
“A lovely, sweet story demonstrating how strangers can build a relationship based on lost love. The gentle yet powerful emotions of a grieving brother are sure to touch readers, as will the budding romance between him and a shy but emotionally strong woman. Allen reaches into readers’ hearts.”
—RT Book Reviews on Married to a Stranger
Lucy Ashford
writing as Elizabeth Redfern
“Richly atmospheric...Redfern’s strength is
in re-creating a morally corrupt world.”
—Publishers Weekly on Auriel Rising
“Quite wonderful... It is Redfern’s ability to bring each scene, each character alive that makes this such toothsome reading.”
—USA TODAY on The Music of the Spheres
Joanna Fulford
“Fulford’s story of lust and love set in the Dark Ages
is reminiscent of Woodiwiss’s The Flame and the Flower.
A suspenseful plot, well-developed characters
and a passionate romance combine to keep readers
engaged from start to finish.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Viking’s Defiant Bride
“The sequel to The Viking’s Defiant Bride is a well-crafted portrait of the era combining strong characters with the
classic romance elements of a battle-of-wills love story.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Viking’s Touch
Louise Allen has been immersing herself in history, real and fictional, for as long as she can remember, and finds landscapes and places evoke powerful images of the past. Louise lives in Bedfordshire, England, and works as a property manager, but spends as much time as possible with her husband at the cottage they are renovating on the north Norfolk coast, or traveling abroad. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favorite atmospheric destinations. Please visit Louise’s website—www.louiseallenregency.co.uk— for the latest news!
Lucy Ashford, an English studies lecturer, has always loved literature and history, and from childhood one of her favorite occupations has been to immerse herself in historical romances. She studied English with history at Nottingham University, and the Regency is her favorite period.
Lucy has written several historical novels. She lives with her husband in an old stone cottage in the Peak District, near beautiful Chatsworth House and Haddon Hall, all of which give her a taste of the magic of life in a bygone age. Her garden enjoys spectacular views over the Derbyshire hills, where she loves to roam and let her imagination go to work on her latest story.
You can contact Lucy via her website—www.lucyashford.com.
Joanna Fulford is a compulsive scribbler, with a passion for literature and history, both of which she has studied to postgraduate level. Other countries and cultures have always exerted a fascination, and she has traveled widely, living and working abroad for many years. However, her roots are in England, and are now firmly established in the Peak District, where she lives with her husband, Brian. When not pressing a hot keyboard she likes to be out on the hills, either walking or on horseback. However, these days equestrian activity is confined to sedate hacking rather than riding at high speed toward solid obstacles. You are invited to visit Joanna’s website at www.joannafulford.co.uk.
Louise Allen
Lucy Ashford
Joanna Fulford
Snowbound Wedding Wishes
An Earl Beneath the Mistletoe
Louise Allen
Dear Reader,
When I was writing this story I had a real valley in mind, one of the lovely chalk streams that cut through the Chiltern Hills with beech woods on the slopes and tiny hamlets and villages tucked away. These valleys are lovely in the summer, but in the winter, under snow, they have a special charm and remoteness, and I especially love the area because my ancestors came from there. Many of the characters in this story share their names—and doubtless their liking for the local home-brewed ale!
I wish you a very happy festive season,
Louise
Look for Louise Allen’s next Regency
FORBIDDEN JEWEL OF INDIA
Coming soon.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter One
18th December 1814—the Chiltern Hills, Hertfordshire
‘You have to agree, Ajax, that it would be unpleasantly ironic to survive five years of being shot at, blown up and starved in the Peninsula to die of exposure in some Hertfordshire valley.’
The big grey flicked one ear back and carried on plodding through the driving rain. An intelligent animal, he probably thought it was not so much ironic as foolish.
‘Rodgerson’s directions were clear enough.’ Hugo kept talking as he scanned the sides of the valley for any glimmer of light. He was beginning to shiver and feel sleepy and neither was good, not when he’d been riding since daybreak. He was soaked through to the skin despite the oiled wool cloak that had seen him over the Pyrenees in winter on one occasion. ‘That cross-country cut to get us on to the Northampton road without having to go out to Aylesbury would have saved hours.’
But a bridge had been down and then a road flooded and he had turned north in the fading twilight, using his pocket compass and a sodden and tattered route map. They must have gone clear between Berkhamsted and Hemel Hempstead, either of which would have provided a comfortable inn for the night. Instinct told him he was heading north-west now, which should be correct, but it was pitch-dark, his tinderbox was damp and the low cloud obscured the stars. Every yokel for miles around seemed to have vanished into their dwellings—wherever those were hidden. He couldn’t blame them, he’d settle for a flea-infested hovel himself, if one presented itself.
‘First cover, we’re taking it.’ Ajax did not bother to flick an ear that time. The horse was big and tough, but both of them were out of pract
ice at being quite this cold and wet. ‘This will teach me to underestimate the terrain,’ Hugo muttered. And it would teach him to be antisocial and avoid invitations as well. He could be putting on a cheerful face in the midst of some jolly family gathering preparing for Christmas, right this minute.
Hunching his shoulders sent a fresh trickle of icy water down his neck from the brim of his hat as he narrowed his eyes against the rain. Hordes of children, irascible great-aunts, flirtatious young ladies, too much rich food, charades...possibly dying of exposure was preferable after all.
They were in a shallow valley. To his right was a river and what he assumed were water meadows, now impersonating a lake. To his left rough grazing sloped up into scattered trees and scrub. Someone, surely, must live in this landscape? Would the trees thicken up and offer any more shelter?
There. Ahead and to the left, a flicker of brilliance like a star, only too low and too yellow to be anything but a man-made light. He turned Ajax’s head towards it and almost immediately the squelch of hooves into waterlogged earth became the splash and crunch of metal shoes hitting the stones of a rough, potholed track.
As they came closer he could see the shapes of huddled hovels and small cottages higher up the slope. They seemed to be in darkness, but the light shone steadily from an unshuttered window in the slightly bigger building nearest the track, a beacon to guide him in. Against the sky he could just make out the jut of a pole above the door with a battered tangle of twigs thrashing in the wind at the end of it. ‘An ale pole, Ajax. There will be something for me to drink, at least.’
The ground came up to meet him with a force that jarred his tired legs as he slid out of the saddle in front of the entrance and he steadied himself with a hand on the pommel while he thudded on the panels with his other fist.
No reply. Damn it, he would break in if he had to and pay for the damage afterwards...
The door swung open spilling light and heat into the rain. Hugo blinked against it, looked down to meet the concerned gaze of the woman holding the door open and said the first thing that came into his head. ‘You are as wet as I am.’
Hell, she’ll think she’s facing a lunatic. But it was true. Wide hazel eyes smiled up at him out of a freckled face that was rosy with damp heat. Brown curls stuck to her forehead and cheeks, her sleeves were rolled up to reveal hands and forearms that dripped water and her wide white apron was soaked and glued to her skirts.
‘But not as cold, I will wager,’ she said with a laugh in her voice, turning to call over her shoulder, ‘Boys! Quickly. Come in,’ she added, ‘Before you drown. You will not be going any further tonight, that is for certain.’
‘My horse, ma’am. Can I get him under cover?’ Ajax stuck a wet muzzle forwards as though to emphasise the point as two boys erupted out of the inner doorway.
‘Mama?’ They skidded to a halt at her side and regarded him with avid curiosity, revealing themselves to be virtually identical twins.
‘Nathan, Joseph, where are your manners? Help this gentleman stable his horse and then bring him inside. You will excuse me,’ she added with a dazzling smile that made him blink even as it sent a surge of hot blood through his chilled body. ‘I am sparging the mash and one just cannot leave it. I will be back presently.’
‘Sparging? Of course you are. Yes.’ Bemused, Hugo regarded her retreating back. She had delivered that airy speech with the same tone—and accent—as any lady explaining to a guest why she must leave him for a short while. What sort of ale house was this? Her hair was coming down, but the exposed skin of her nape was white and soft and her hips swayed enticingly as she walked away from him. Soft, warm, delicious.
‘Good evening, sir.’ He yanked his wandering attention back. ‘If you go to that door, we’ll bring a lantern the inside way.’ The boy with the fewer freckles on his cheeks pointed to a stable door.
Nathan, that one, Hugo thought, recalling the quick glances each had thrown their mother when she had said their names. And Joseph’s ears stuck out rather more and his eyes were a darker hazel. Hugo walked into the warmth and smell of stabled beasts and the blissful relief of getting out of the insistent rain.
There was a stall in front of them, empty except for Joseph scattering straw on the stone. Nathan ducked out of the next stall with a stuffed hay net bouncing behind him. ‘I’ve stolen Sorrowful’s,’ he said, ‘but I’ve left him a pile on the floor. He won’t mind.’
‘Are you certain?’ Hugo looked at the smallest, gloomiest donkey he had ever seen. It gazed mournfully back.
‘He always looks like that, sir.’ Nathan climbed on a bucket to hook up the net. ‘That’s a big horse. Are you in the army?’
How old were they? Six, seven? He wasn’t used to children younger than the wet-behind-the ears subalterns they’d send him to make his life hell, but these looked as bright as buttons, the pair of them. ‘I was. Cavalry. I’m selling out now.’
He heaved off the saddle and the saddle bags and slung them over the stall divider. The boys stared wide-eyed at the big sabre and the holsters. ‘And those are not, under any circumstances, to be touched,’ he added as he took off the bridle. How do you talk to children this age? He decided the tone he used to the subalterns would have to do.
‘No, sir.’ They took a step back in unison.
‘Are you a general, sir?’ the least-freckled one asked.
‘Major, Nathan. Can you fill that bucket with water, please?’
The boy’s eyes opened in awe at this magic knowledge of his name. ‘Yes, Major.’ He picked up the bucket and ran, colliding with his brother who staggered up with a bucket full of what looked like lumpy brown-and-white porridge.
‘Culm and used mash, Major. That’ll perk him up.’
‘His name’s Ajax. Thank you.’ He took the bucket from Joseph and tipped it into the manger. From the smell of it the mixture was something to do with brewing. He just hoped he wouldn’t end up with a drunk horse. Ajax put his head in and began munching. On the other side a brown cow stuck her head over the barrier.
‘That’s Eugenia,’ Joseph confided. He copied Hugo, who had twisted a handful of straw tight into a knot and was rubbing the horse down. The lad dived confidently under the stallion’s belly and began to scrub at his muddy legs. A couple of hens fluttered up to the manger and began to peck at the feed.
‘This is a veritable Noah’s Ark. What else have you got in here?’
Nathan clanked back with the water, only a third of which had been spilled. ‘Four rabbits, a dozen chickens, Sorrowful and Eugenia. Maud and her litter are in the pigsty. We haven’t got a horse. Mama sold Papa’s horse, but she had to, to get the animals we needed.’ The boy spoke briskly, but his voice was tight.
Ajax’s skin felt warm now. He’d do for now if Hugo could find some sort of rug for him. ‘Is your father dead?’ There was a subdued yes from knee level where both boys were hard at work.
Hugo frowned. Perhaps he shouldn’t have put it so bluntly. The realisation that the man of the house wouldn’t be arriving at any moment made the whole situation awkward. Normally he would not have thought twice about spending the night under the roof of some lusty country alewife, but that warm, wet, laughing lady was something else altogether.
‘Got an old rug for Ajax’s back?’
‘Sacks,’ Nathan offered. ‘We’ve got heaps of them.’ He dived into a dusty corner and dragged some out, then both of them regarded the knife Hugo pulled out of his boot with close attention.
‘And that is not for touching, either.’ Hugo slit a dozen sacks and covered Ajax’s back, two deep.
‘No, Major,’ they chorused, then took the lantern and led the way to an inner door that opened on to the room Hugo had first glimpsed.
He followed with his gear and realised he was in the public taproom of the ale house. Benches and tables lined the walls, barrels rested on stands along the back next to a rack of tankards and there was a fire in a wide hearth. The twins went to throw on more logs and Hug
o laid his sabre and the holsters on the high mantelshelf, out of sight from boy-height.
‘Is your horse settled, sir?’ The alewife came up steps in the corner from what must be the cellar. Her face was dry, her hair twisted up into a white towel which, with the vast, fresh white apron she had put on, and her sleeves rolled down again, gave her a curiously nun-like appearance.
And then she came fully into the room and smiled at him and all thoughts about nuns vanished. As did cold, hunger and the discomfort of wet clothing. ‘Excellently, thank you, ma’am.’ She was not a beauty, but with her smile the sun came out and a heat, nothing to do with sunlight, flowed through his blood again. ‘Your sons have been most helpful.’
‘The gentleman’s a major, Mama,’ Joseph reported.
‘Indeed? And does the major have any dry clothing?’
Hugo laid the saddlebags on the table and investigated. ‘One slightly damp shirt.’ There were clean drawers as well and, wrapped in the shirt, they had stayed dry. ‘Dry, er, underthings.’ Hugo draped his dripping cloak over a couple of chairs where it started to create a small pond on her well-brushed flagged floor. Under it he still wore his uniform, sodden, glued to his body by water.
‘Goodness, you are wet.’ She appraised him quite openly with as little self-consciousness as she might one of her boys. His body responded predictably. ‘And large. None of my late husband’s things will do, but luckily Peter Bavin who helps out here leaves a set of clothes in case he gets drenched when we’re working. Those will fit, I imagine, if you have no objection to homespun?’
‘No, ma’am, thank you.’ Anything other than being draped Roman-style in a blanket in her presence would be acceptable. He catalogued brown hair escaping already from the turban, freckles across a slightly tip-tilted nose, a determined little chin and wide hazel eyes that seemed to reflect every thought and emotion. And surely she was too young to be the mother of these boys? What was she? Twenty-five, six?
Snowbound Wedding Wishes: An Earl Beneath the MistletoeTwelfth Night ProposalChristmas at Oakhurst Manor (Harlequin Historical) Page 1
