Convenient Christmas Brides: The Captain's Christmas Journey ; The Viscount's Yuletide Betrothal ; One Night Under the Mistletoe

by Carla Kelly

  * * *

  The porter at Albany let him into Jack’s apartment. One look at Drew’s face was apparently enough to silence his usual cheerful chatter.

  Drew dropped his valise, kicked it into the corner and poured himself a large brandy. It burned down his throat with no discernible effect on his mood. Emptying the decanter was all too tempting so he jammed the stopper back in and turned his back on it.

  Eleanor thought him a fortune hunter, one so predatory that he would answer newspaper advertisements in search of a vulnerable victim, it seemed. Pride and temper and the hideous sensation that his heart was breaking had stopped him trying to defend himself.

  He looked round the room, at the unlit fire, the clutter of a bachelor apartment. Hell, if he was going to be uncomfortable, miserable, broke and cold he might as well do it in his own home. It did not take long to pack his few remaining possessions, to write a note to Jack and to sort out sufficient coins to tip the porters. Then he strode out across the front yard into Piccadilly and east towards the City, his lawyer and the Belle Sauvage inn for the stagecoach for Suffolk. Away from London, away from love.

  * * *

  The sky was reflecting pink and mauve with the rising sun on the high, thin cloud. Below, across the rough grass of what had been the lawns and the parkland, frost cast a glittering mantle over the landscape.

  Drew took a deep breath and exhaled, melting a circle into the frost patterns on the inside of the widow. Beauty and peace, he thought as he turned away from the view and looked at the shadowed room, at its stark emptiness, its perfect proportions.

  He had been here two weeks and that first morning, as he walked up the potholed driveway, he had almost turned tail. His agent had been right, it looked like a house of horrors from a sensation novel set in a wasteland of neglect. Then he had looked again, mentally stripping away ivy, hacking back brambles and sapling trees, cleaning window glass, cutting grass and planting flowers. What was revealed would be beautiful, a small gem built in the reign of the second Charles. Not a great house, but a home.

  When he forced open the door against the protests of rusting lock and unoiled hinges he found that his cousin, manically devoted to destroying the next Viscount’s inheritance, had been too selfish to allow the roof to leak or the glass to be left cracked. He might have retreated to two rooms and have been uncaring about cleanliness, but the house was sound.

  Drew advertised the long-untenanted farms, then rolled up his sleeves and set to work. Soon he would have to employ staff from the surrounding villages: that was one of his duties, to employ local labour. But for now hard work kept him sane. He chopped wood, cleaned windows, swept floors, boiled up linen in the copper, stuffed mattress ticks with fresh hay. He had lived in worse conditions in Spain. He had eaten worse as well, he thought, as he bought local bread and eggs, milk and bacon and ale. But not wine or spirits, because the temptation to drink himself into a stupor to get through the evenings, the long, sleepless nights, was too great.

  He walked slowly though his clean, warm, empty house. He had finally exorcised the ghost of Cousin Matthew, he thought. Now what? He heard laughter and knew it was his imagination, heard footsteps and the murmur of happy people. He walked slowly down the stairs and imagined Eleanor standing there waiting for him. She would love this house, she would fill it with the sounds and the scents and the comforts of a home. He could give her this and a title and standing. He would not be the Vagabond Viscount for long, not if sheer hard work could prevail. He could lend the twins status when they made their come-out, encourage Theo in his career.

  Eleanor might have money, but he could give her these things. And love. If she would give him a second chance. Drew made himself coffee, a strong mugful, and went to write a letter.

  * * *

  Three hours later, after more cups of coffee than he could recall, after pacing and sitting, writing and screwing up the results, he reached a decision. He would go to London, tell her face to face how he felt, risk it all on finding the right words when he looked into her eyes.

  He stood to start making ready. Was that the sound of wheels on the drive? He was expecting no deliveries. When he opened the front door there was a chaise standing there and the door was opening and—

  ‘Eleanor? Eleanor!’

  She climbed down before he had collected himself to go and help her. She said, ‘Wait, please,’ to the postilions.

  Drew had reached her by then. ‘Come inside, you must be cold.’ Yes, she was real. Fantasies did not have pink noses or breathe puffs of steam into the frigid air.

  ‘For a minute,’ she said. He could not read her expression, but her hand as she lifted her skirts to climb the steps was unsteady.

  ‘Come into the parlour, the fire is lit.’

  She followed him, drawing off her gloves and looked around. The floor around the table was littered with screwed-up paper.

  ‘I was writing to you,’ he said. It was extraordinarily difficult to breathe. ‘Then I decided to go to you instead.’

  * * *

  ‘I tried to write as well.’ Ellie looked down at the litter at her feet. ‘With about the same success.’ She had been telling herself not to hope for all the miles of this journey—now she hardly dared risk letting go of the rigid control. ‘I asked Mr Ague to find out everything about the Vagabond Viscount. I learned how your cousin had formed a grudge and had let it become an obsession, how you were left with this inheritance. And he spoke to his colleagues and told me how seriously you took your responsibilities, how you seemed determined to make this community thrive again.

  ‘Eleanor—’

  ‘No, let me finish. I found Lord Burnham, back in London, and he said that you were one of the bravest men he knew and the best, loyalist friend he could hope for.’ She took a steadying breath because she was determined not to cry and the look on his face made her want to weep. ‘And I realised that I had jumped to conclusions, that I had been unfair and that my experiences had made me distrust all men, even a decent one.’

  ‘So you came to tell me that?’

  ‘I came to see if I had killed whatever it was that had made you want to marry me or whether there was any...’ Her voice wavered. ‘Any hope.’

  ‘Because?’ he asked, his voice very gentle.

  ‘Because I would like it very much if you were to ask me now.’

  ‘I had meant to ask you to wait for me, until I had rents coming in and this house in order. Yes, I would be a liar if I pretended that I could not afford to marry a woman with no dowry, not for years. But I do not need a rich wife, Eleanor.’

  ‘You are a viscount now. You need one with breeding. Certainly one who is legitimate,’ she pointed out. She had to play devil’s advocate, she had to be certain.

  ‘No, I don’t. I need you,’ Drew said and she clutched at the chair-back.

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because I love you. Because you make me feel warm and complete. I can offer you this house, all the ghosts chased away. I can give you a title and the girls that status. I can give you my love for all of your years.’ He stopped and she realised that he was finding it difficult to speak.

  ‘I brought this with me,’ she managed, and pulled the battered twig from her reticule. ‘There’s one berry left, but it is rather bruised, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Stay right there. Don’t move.’ He strode out of the room, then she heard the sound of hooves, of turning wheels.

  ‘I sent them away,’ Drew said, as he closed the door and took the mistletoe from her. ‘Was I wrong? There is no one else here now, only the two of us.’

  ‘That is perfect. I love you, Drew, and I am going to be very happy here with you. And I think I am going to dissolve with desire if you don’t kiss me now.’

  It was like coming home to be in his arms, to feel his strength around her and the warmth of his lips on hers and the bea
t of his heart against her breast. When he finally lifted his head Drew asked, ‘Has that helped?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Ellie confessed. ‘I think it has made it worse. Perhaps I should go and lie down.’

  ‘Perhaps we should,’ he said with a smile that removed what strength remained in her knees. As she sagged against him he swept her up in his arms. ‘The mattresses are all filled with hay, I’m afraid,’ he confessed as he began to climb the stairs.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll notice, my love,’ she confessed, nuzzling against his neck.

  ‘As a New Year present to ourselves I am going to buy a feather bed for each chamber in this house and then spend 1816 testing all of them with my wife.’ Drew shouldered open a door, then leaned back against it, breathing heavily. She rather suspected it was from desire, because she was panting, too. ‘But now I am going to make you mine. And then tomorrow we are going back to London, get a special licence and be married.’

  ‘And I will have a bouquet of mistletoe, because I am quite certain I would never have discovered your kisses without it.’ And that was the last coherent thing she found she could say for quite some time.

  Except, of course, ‘I love you.’

  * * * * *

  ONE NIGHT UNDER THE MISTLETOE

  Laurie Benson

  For my husband. Little did I know that when I stepped into that rowboat on our first date, my life was about to change. Thank you for always being my anchor. Merry Christmas, Mr. B. I love you.

  Thank you to my editor, Linda Fildew, for your guidance and to my team at Harlequin for giving me this opportunity to take part in this anthology. I had so much fun writing Monty and Juliet’s love story.

  Dear Reader,

  When my editor approached me about writing a Christmas novella, I couldn’t have been more excited. Now I had an opportunity to write a story about a family gathering at an English country manor to celebrate the Christmas season. It’s something I’ve wanted to do since I read Washington Irving’s Old Christmas years ago.

  Montague, my hero in this story, was introduced to readers in An Uncommon Duke as the youngest brother of the Duke of Winterbourne. I got the idea for his name after attending a performance of A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder. Halfway through writing One Week to Wed, the first book in the Sommersby Brides series, I realized that Lady Juliet and Monty were destined to fall in love. I found it funny that these characters inadvertently have the same names as Shakespeare’s star-crossed lovers. It was their names that gave me the idea of how to write this story. I wondered what would’ve happened if either Romeo Montague or Juliet Capulet had backed out of running away together. Would they have eventually found a happy-ever-after? I like to think they would have.

  So, snuggle up in a comfy chair. I’d like to take you back to Christmastime in England in 1819. Wishing you a peaceful holiday season and all the best in the coming new year.

  Laurie Benson

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Excerpt from A Texas Christmas Reunion by Carol Arens

  Chapter One

  Kensington, London—December 1819

  For all the trouble Lord Montague Pearce was going through trying to find the Ashcrofts’ library, he hoped he was rewarded with one heart-stopping kiss. Miss Catherine Fellsworth had informed him the library was located down this particular corridor, behind the third door on the right. That room, he discovered, was Lord Ashcroft’s study. He knew Miss Fellsworth could be hare-brained at times, but one would think if you were going to meet a gentleman in secret at a ball, you would make certain you knew the precise location—especially since this was her idea.

  For weeks, she had been flirting with him. For weeks, she had been teasing him that she might permit him to steal a kiss. Now tonight, while they danced, she had suggested they meet at this remote location of the house so he could finally kiss her. And she had directed him to the wrong room. While she might be beautiful and was in possession of a very large dowry, Monty wasn’t certain those two things outweighed her flighty nature. But if he was going to consider her for a wife, he had to know if she could stir his soul with a kiss. Kisses like that were possible. He had experienced one once before. And if he were to pledge himself to someone for the rest of his life, he needed to be certain he would feel that again. Monty had kissed a number of women in his twenty-seven years and done much more than that with a few, and yet something always left him wanting—except once.

  There was one kiss that had showed him that a simple joining of lips could feel like so much more. That was why he had sampled the lips of so many women in recent years. That was why it was important to kiss Miss Fellsworth. And after all this work trying to find the Ashcrofts’ library, he hoped her kiss was worth it.

  He turned the handle of the fifth door and had to give the large piece of oak a push to get it to open. As he slipped into the darkened room, he let out a sigh of relief at the sight of large bookcases lining the walls. At last, he had found the library.

  It appeared Miss Fellsworth had had no trouble locating the room, since he could make out her silhouette in the moonlight as she sat by the window, waiting for him. With effort, he quietly pushed the stubborn door closed and discovered there was no key in the lock to ensure their privacy. He closed his eyes and vowed this was the last time he would let a woman arrange a clandestine encounter. Thankfully they were far enough away from the public rooms in the house so there was little chance of discovery.

  The rug under his feet muffled his footsteps as he walked towards her. ‘My dear, this is the fifth door, not the third. In the future, you might want to be more careful with your instructions.’

  Was she reading? Miss Fellsworth didn’t strike him as the type to open a book, unless it was one that contained fashion plates.

  His voice must have startled her, because her head jerked up and she snapped the book closed. As he went to step closer, his legs weighed him down as if they were attached to each other with shackles. This wasn’t Miss Fellsworth.

  ‘Whoever you think I am, Lord Montague, I assure you I am not she.’

  ‘Juliet?’ he let out on an astonished breath.

  Her face was cast in shadows with the moonlight behind her, but Monty knew that velvety voice. In the last few years he had heard it in his dreams, reminding him of the one week he had spent with Lady Juliet Sommersby, the woman with the heart-stopping kiss he had desperately wanted to forget. And now that this woman’s sister Charlotte had married his brother Andrew, Juliet had recently become permanently affixed to his life—even if it was in a peripheral way.

  ‘What are you...?’ He searched for something coherent to say. Why would an eligible woman as attractive and lively as Juliet not be spending the night surrounded by suitors? His brow furrowed as he gestured towards the leather-bound book. ‘Why are you reading in the middle of a ball?’

  ‘I don’t see why what I do is any concern of yours.’

  ‘It isn’t. I’ve just never seen anyone read at a ball before.’

  ‘Do you regularly inspect the libraries of the balls you attend? Perhaps it is more common than you think.’

  He should keep himself at a far distance from her, but he couldn’t help approaching the window seat she was curled up on. She sat up taller, looking like a horse ready to bolt out of the gate. Before she had the chance, he snatched the book from her lap and read the title.

  ‘I’m certain you’ve no interest in the contents,’ she said, raising her chin and narrowing her eyes at him.

  After reading the title, he held back a grimace. She was right. He had learned about Galileo from his tutors. He had no desire to relive those lessons now.

 
‘I wasn’t aware you were invited or even in London for that matter. Have you been in here all evening?’ he asked, handing the book back to her.

  ‘No.’

  The notion that she might have noticed him while he was unaware of her presence made him uneasy. He had done nothing wrong. His behaviour this evening had been exemplary—except for the fact he had been planning to meet a woman in this very room to kiss her senseless. He turned and glanced at the closed door, expecting Miss Fellsworth to breeze into the library.

  ‘You might want to wait for your lady friend out in the corridor since this room is already occupied.’

  ‘What makes you believe I was meeting a lady friend?’

  A sardonic look crossed her face. ‘You referred to me as “my dear” when you walked in. I doubt you use that term of endearment with any of your gentlemen friends.’

  There was no reason he needed to explain his presence to her. The one week they shared together had passed a long time ago and they’d barely spoken since. Yet he felt guilty about sneaking away to spend time alone with another woman.

  He shifted on his feet. ‘You seem to want to chastise me for stealing away at a ball, yet here you are in a room far away from the activities of the evening. Not a wise place for an unmarried woman.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m reading. I doubt your intentions for being in this room are as innocent. You lost your right to express concern about my welfare years ago.’

  She stood up and the moonlight illuminated her smooth skin and brown hair. He knew in the sunlight there were fine strands of auburn mixed in with the brown. Her cheekbones were more pronounced now than when they were together and her large brown eyes no longer held the warmth and humour for him they once had. But the graceful slope of her nose that he would gently flick while teasing her was still the same.

  Recalling their brief time together brought a hollowness to his chest. It was best if he left now. There was no telling if Miss Fellsworth would even locate this room anyway and, if she did, they wouldn’t exactly be alone.