The Viscount's Only Love: Christmas Belles, Book 2

by Cerise DeLand

  The Viscount's Only Love

  Christmas Belles, Book 2

  Cerise DeLand

  Copyright © 2018 by Wilma Jo-Ann Power writing as Cerise DeLand

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9916581-7-6

  W. J. Power Publisher

  Designer: Wicked Smart Designs

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For my darling husband who is my travel organizer, my logistics pal, often my cameraman, sweet beau and yes, my cheerleader!

  Contents

  Your Invitation to Marsden Christmas House Party

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Travels with Cerise and Other Historical Bons Bons!

  Who is Cerise DeLand?

  Also by Cerise DeLand

  Your Invitation to Marsden Christmas House Party

  The Countess of Marsden invites you to her house party! Seven nights and days of frolic, gossip, dancing…and match-making for her three nieces.

  Sad, isn’t it, that none of the Craymore sisters wishes to wed?

  Exciting, isn’t it, that three war heroes arrive who know precisely what they want for Christmas?

  Wonderful, isn’t it, that each might gain the most precious Christmas gift of all?

  The Viscount’s Only Love

  She’s through with love.

  Miss Delphine Craymore fell in love once and she'll never fall again. Actually, she likes men, talking with them, dancing with them—and dreaming of what might have been. Most think she’s a flirt. Del’s merely intent on allowing herself a few happy minutes to substitute for the one lover she cannot forget.

  At her Aunt Gertrude’s Christmas house party this year, the one man she does not wish to charm walks in and declares he’s ready to make amends. He’s wounded, charming and intent on wooing her.

  But can she trust him? And if she falls for him again and he asks her to marry him, can she desert her two sisters who have been her stalwart companions through countless tragedies?

  He’ll never want any other woman.

  Neville Vaughn, Viscount Bromley, asks his friend the Earl of Marsden if he might accompany him to his step-mama’s house party in Brighton. It’s Christmas and Neville’s probably intruding, but he’s in a rush to change every aspect of his life. Years ago at another house party, he fell in love at first sight with delightful Del Craymore. He asked her to marry him—and then had to abandoned her. Now he’s free of the shackles that bound him to a woman he did not love. And before he returns to France to a marvelous future with prestige and wealth beyond his dreams, he must convince Del to forgive him.

  But she’s changed.

  Can he not prove he’s a better man? And can the two of them make a stable future from the ashes of their past mistakes?

  Chapter 1

  December 20, 1815

  Brighton, England

  I have to escape this carriage. Delphine Craymore stared out the window of her aunt's town coach, nerves twisting her stomach at the very prospect of seven days and nights fending off suitors and their marriage proposals. The last thing on this earth she wished for this Christmas was marrying a man she did not love. Yet that was what everyone planned as a result of these next few days for her—and for her two older sisters, as well.

  She couldn't escape Aunt Gertrude's holiday house party–and that lady's plan to marry them all off to proper gentlemen. But she would find a way to elude them all. Aunt. Suitors. Sisters. If only for a moment now.

  "I must stop at the orphanage. Forgive me." Del glanced at her sisters, Belinda and Marjorie, then rapped on the roof and called up to notify the family coachman to stop at the church near the Lanes. She'd escape to the place she loved best and lose herself in the needs of others.

  "Oh, no, Del." Her oldest sister Belinda reached to take her hand. "You must have the final fitting on your ball gown. Please come."

  Del squeezed Bee's hand. "I promise to meet you at the dressmaker's within the hour. I'll not tarry."

  "One of your little ones needs you, I would guess?" Bee asked with a twinkle in her blue eyes and a wink at their middle sister, Marjorie.

  "He's how old?" Marjorie asked Del. "Four?"

  "Five," said Del grinning at a mental picture of the tow-headed little imp with the wobbly smile.

  "If Del has him learning French when he can barely speak English," Bee said, "you know she's turned her charm on him."

  Her two sisters and their aunt had the notion that Del was a flirt, capable of dazzling any male of any age in his baby dress or dithering dotage. She wasn't, of course. Only, ever was she her natural self. If the male of the human race found her interesting, it was gratifying. Not of her intention. But that it also served her pride to have men smile at her and court her, then it also served to fill a hole in her heart where one man had ventured, lingered and left.

  "I must see to little Tom Cooper. He's been very sad this past week. Not doing his lessons and I hate to see him so down-hearted. It's his first Christmas without his parents."

  Bee grinned at her, but her compassion for Del's orphans at the vicarage shown through. "I know you'll cheer him up."

  "He's a perfectly mannered little fellow." Del gave a wan smile to both her sisters. "It's difficult for one so young to be without those they love at this time of year."

  Belinda sucked in a sharp breath and turned her face away from them.

  Marjorie frowned.

  Her sisters were most likely comparing themselves and their own lack of mother and father at this usually happy season. Their mother, an angel of kindness, had passed away twelve years ago. Their father, a sweet fellow who'd become a shadow of himself, died almost two years ago. But their brother George had died in France at the battle of Toulouse within the same few weeks—and his death the three sisters had mourned more than their derelict father's.

  After their father's estate and title went to a distant cousin, they'd been without home, funds or reputation. They'd accepted the kind invitation of their maternal aunt to come to Brighton and live with her. Her step-son, Griffith Harlinger who was the fourth earl of Marsden, was away in Paris fighting Napoleon and his generosity to support them had buoyed them after the scandal of their father's untimely and much-publicized bankruptcy and drunkenness. Their father, a viscount of some prestige and sizable land, had gambled away whatever money might have gone to them as inheritance. Hence the three sisters had not considered themselves marriageable. To Del's knowledge, Bee had never wanted any man but a second son who was too poor to take a wife. Marjorie had never even spoken of any man as desirable, nor had she ever entertained a man who courted her. She'd valued men only as opponents in the art of gambling—and most often won their wagers.

  Del, however, had loved once. She'd never be so foolish again. And if she still liked men, if they definitely liked her, that was all well and quite good. Indeed, it meant that wherever she went, whatever she did, men flocked to engage her at church, carry her parcels, fetch her punch or ask her to partner them in parlor games.

  At least once a month, some besotted masculine creature would appear at Marsden Hall on the North Steyne to ask Aunt Gertrude to allow him to ta
ke Del for a carriage ride, taking Mary their maid along too for the propriety of it. At least one week later, said gentleman would arrive to ask Aunt for Del's hand. That fine lady would call Del forth, ask her decision, receive it and turn said gentleman back toward the door, hat in hand, his suit refused.

  Sad to say, Delphine Craymore—platinum-haired blue-eyed female known for her abilities at silly poetry, watercolors and French—was cited among Aunt's friends as a tease. Soon, Aunt warned, if Del did not choose a mate, she would be called worse. So she must wed. Preferably, like her two older sisters, she should choose among the men offered at Aunt's Christmas house party, commencing tomorrow and continuing for seven days.

  The footman pulled open the coach door and put out his hand for Del to grasp.

  "Not to fear," she told her sisters and gathered her reticule and tucked high her pelisse collar against the chill winds. "I will speak briefly with the children and walk over to the shop."

  "Mary," Bee said to their maid who'd accompanied them, "Go with her."

  "No need." Del put up a hand to ward off the servant's departure. "It's only around the corner. I'll be fine."

  And free, she thought as she alighted and hurried toward the church in the crisp December afternoon. She'd stop in front of the milliner's window. She always did. It was her secret little treat to herself. If only to breathe deeply and inhale the beauty of the latest style in French hats.

  The coach rumbled off as she paused before Madame Claudine's and savored the apricot satin bonnet with silver cords around the brim.

  "I like you in hats that frame your face." The baritone voice swamped her senses.

  Neville, again. Talking to her as he often did.

  She frowned.

  "But more than that, I love to see your glorious hair down and in my hands," he told her again from the depths of her reverie.

  Oh, do go away, she admonished him, then took the five steps to the threshold of the vicarage's schoolroom door and knocked.

  "Good afternoon, Miss Craymore!" Vicar Eldridge pushed his glasses up his nose and beamed at her as he stepped aside for her to enter. "Wonderful to see you. Do come in! Do!"

  She worked at her gloves, glancing round the small room where seven children of varying ages looked at her in smiling anticipation. No teacher, however, stood before them.

  "Did Miss Sanders not arrive for class this morning?"

  "I fear she is ill." The vicar extended an arm toward the students. "Bid Miss Craymore good afternoon, children."

  They chirped their greetings in their cheery young voices. In the far corner, her little Tom Cooper gazed upon her as if she were an angel come to gather him up. He pulled his ear in private greeting to her.

  She wiggled her brows in answer and he giggled at their secret code for good day.

  "It's a terrible time of year to catch a chill or for the children to miss their lessons." She unfastened the frog at the collar of her pelisse and noted that the two older children had been working on arithmetic.

  "Indeed," said the vicar, pushing up his spectacles once more and beaming at her with his tiny brown pebble eyes. "Might you stay and lead them?"

  "I wish I could but I have an appointment I must keep. My sisters expect me. I am sorry."

  "A poem, Miss Craymore!" Ten-year-old Richard Smith stood up. He was quite tall for his age and so skinny many told him he'd naturally be a good chimney sweep. But his other trait was good humor. He put a shy eye on Vicar Eldridge and dropped to his seat again.

  "Please!"

  "Yes!" cried a few others.

  "Well…." She considered with a finger to her lips, then pondered the rough beams of the ceiling. "One! But only if you help me! Agreed?"

  They clamored for her to do it.

  "Wonderful." She strode to the front of the narrow room and crossed her arms. "What shall it be? A poem of mathematics or…hmmm…history?"

  Every child had a choice. A few had two.

  "All, all!" said one young girl with brilliant purple eyes the same color as Del's sister Marjorie.

  From the door to the rectory, a tall, finely dressed gentleman of means entered. His pale gaze ran over Del and glanced away to the vicar. To that man, he paid his respects, then leaned a broad shoulder against a post, crossed his arms and sent her a congenial smile.

  She blinked. Trying to recall his name, she came up short. Had she ever met him? She doubted it and so she was quite happy to continue her children's game.

  "Let's try this," she said to them. "We'll talk about Cook in your kitchen. Shall we? Good. Here we go. Listen closely now. And add when you think of a line. Ready? I know a baker who is the maker of five currant buns—"

  "And six pies," shouted the little brunette girl named Eileen.

  "Good." Del paused for effect while three older children used their fingers to add the numbers. "He mixes two flours—"

  "Ha!" yelled Richard. "And four berries for hours."

  She nodded at him with a grin. "And what is the last line? Hmm? Anyone?"

  "He flies away with them all to the skies!" Richard laughed.

  "No! No!" Two objected.

  One yelled at Richard.

  She tried to quiet them. "How many goods did the baker have when he flew away?"

  "Twelve!"

  "Eleven!"

  "Seventeen, Miss."

  "That was very difficult," she told them. "Lots of numbers and a mix of items. Let's review. Five buns and six pies equal how many? Anyone? Yes. Eleven items. But if we ask for how many different items, we get a different number. Let's first add the two flours and four berries, which amount to how many?"

  "Six!" shouted Tom.

  Del marveled at the little boy's abilities. "Very well. If we add six and eleven, how many different items do we have?"

  "Seventeen!" a few yelled.

  Del clapped. "Correct!"

  "Aye," one boy grumbled. "But our Cook don' make pies, Miss."

  "No. Don' 'ave jam a' tall."

  "I like jam," said Tom who appeared at her side, tugging on her skirts. "I like plum jam."

  "I shall bring jam for you," she told them, appalled they had so little of anything. Hugging Tom to her side, she wished she could scoop them all up and take them home to Marsden Hall with her. Fatten them up. Dress them. Teach them. Love them. "Two pots! How is that?"

  The children shouted and clapped.

  "When?" asked Tom.

  "As soon as I can. Before Christmas. I promise."

  The handsome man removed his hat, strode forward and said a few words of introduction to Vicar Eldridge. Both approached her.

  "Allow me to introduce this gentleman to you, Miss Craymore."

  "Of course." She liked his eyes, soft shades of brown and green and grey. Eyes of grey were a dangerous color for her, stirring memories and desires. She liked this man's hair, too, but shouldn't. It was a pale red-blond. Not a vibrant auburn at all. But close enough to stir memories of a man she should forget. But never quite could.

  "Mister Trevelyan. Of Lewes.”

  "Ah. How wonderful to meet you, sir." She gave him her hand.

  He took it, bowed over it with a soft click of his heels and a whoosh of sandalwood and lemon cologne. "I assure you, Miss Craymore, the pleasure is mine. Miss Delphine Craymore, is it not?"

  "It is, sir." His lips were warm and lingered much too long upon her bare skin. She did like chivalrous gentlemen, she had to admit. "I think we are to have your company at Marsden Hall for our aunt's house party."

  "I have the honor of that, yes. I am happy to meet you, Miss Craymore. Now more than ever, I am pleased I accepted the countess's kind invitation."

  Tom said, "We like 'er."

  "I'm sure you do," Trevelyan said with a grin.

  "We will be thrilled to have you for Christmas, sir." His home was in Lewes, not far from Brighton. Was he here in town because he was to be an early arrival today at the Hall? More than twenty were to remain lodged in the house for the festivities. But t
hey were not expected to arrive until tomorrow. "I see you know our vicar."

  "I do. I visit Brighton often and come here. I am a member of the board of trustees of this orphanage and came to see how everyone fares."

  "Mister Trevelyan is a generous benefactor of our little establishment," Eldridge put in with an obsequious dip of his head.

  Trevelyan took that humbly with a smile. "From this previous discussion, I gather we need a goodly supply of sugar and flour for cakes and pies, don't we, Eldridge?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I shall see to it. You'll have it for tomorrow along with a few other things. What do you say to bolts of cloth for a few new breeches for the boys and skirts for the girls. Coats, too?" he asked with an scan around the room.

  "We could use them, yes sir."

  "Consider it done."

  "I will be going, Vicar," she told him. "I came only to wish everyone well. I'll be busy the next few days. I apologize for arriving unexpectedly. Excuse me."

  "I would not drive you off, Miss Craymore," Trevelyan said with alarm.

  "Oh, you don't, sir. I do have an appointment. My sisters wait for me in the Lanes."

  "Allow me to accompany you," he was quick to add.

  "Thank you but there is no need. It is only a few steps to my destination and I see you have business with the Vicar."

  "It is not a problem, I assure you. I can return. Can't I, Vicar?"

  "Of course, sir." But Eldridge gave a smile that was half-hearted.

  She waved a hand. "Please, sir. Remain. I would not inconvenience you. I presume I shall see you at my aunt's reception tomorrow at the Hall?"

  "Indeed you shall." He bowed again. "I finish my business here in town, then travel to the Hall. Until tomorrow."