Regency Christmas Parties, page 1
Acclaim for the authors of Regency Christmas Parties
Annie Burrows
“As soon as I picked this book up I didn’t want to put it down... [A] wonderful romance!”
—Rae Reads book blog on A Scandal at Midnight
Lara Temple
“A passionate, gorgeously romantic story about two people at crossroads in their lives, the chemistry between them sizzles, and Ms. Temple’s talent for writing sparkling, witty dialogue shines once again. Highly recommended!”
—All About Romance on A Match for the Rebellious Earl
Joanna Johnson
“An excellent book and a real page turner and a lovely historical romance—it is 5 stars from me for this one, very highly recommended!”
—Donna’s Book Blog on A Mistletoe Vow to Lord Lovell
Annie Burrows has been writing Regency romances for Harlequin since 2007. Her books have charmed readers worldwide, having been translated into nineteen different languages, and some have gone on to win the coveted Reviewers’ Choice award from CataRomance. For more information, or to contact the author, please visit annie-burrows.co.uk, or you can find her on Facebook at facebook.com/AnnieBurrowsUK.
Lara Temple was three years old when she begged her mother to take the dictation of her first adventure story. Since then she has led a double life—by day she is a high-tech investment professional, who has lived and worked on three continents, but when darkness falls she loses herself in history and romance...at least on the page. Luckily her husband and her two beautiful and very energetic children help her weave it all together.
Joanna Johnson lives in a pretty Wiltshire village with her husband and as many books as she can sneak into the house. Being part of the Harlequin Historical family is a dream come true. She has always loved writing, starting at five years old with a series about a cat imaginatively named Cat, and she keeps a notebook in every handbag—just in case. In her spare time, she likes finding new places to have a cream tea, stroking scruffy dogs and trying to remember where she left her glasses.
REGENCY CHRISTMAS PARTIES
Annie Burrows
Lara Temple
Joanna Johnson
Table of Contents
Invitation to a Wedding by Annie Burrows
Snowbound with the Earl by Lara Temple
A Kiss at the Winter Ball by Joanna Johnson
Excerpt from Miss Claiborne’s Illicit Attraction by Bronwyn Scott
Invitation to a Wedding
Annie Burrows
Author Note
Christmas is a time when people without families can feel very lonely. My heroine, Clara, has always dreamed of experiencing a real family Christmas, and when she receives an invitation to a wedding that will take her into the heart of a wealthy family, she is absolutely thrilled.
I hope you enjoy my story of how Clara discovers there is more to Christmas than eating, drinking and exchanging gifts.
And hope that you all enjoy your own celebrations at this festive season, whether you can meet with family members or not.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter One
What an adventure!
Clara Isherwood was in a coach, on her way to a wedding. A wedding to be held on Christmas Day, what was more. And she had an invitation to stay with the bride, a former pupil of Heath Top, the school where Clara now acted as assistant teacher, for three whole days.
She could still hardly believe it. Christmas in a family home.
How often she had yearned to celebrate Christmas in a family home again. She could dimly remember, as a little girl, scenes of jollity and extra-special dinners, and people crowding into overheated rooms and exchanging gifts. Nowadays, she had to stifle the envy she felt, watching the local people bustling about, making preparations for their own family Christmases. And eyeing with something like pain the cheery faces of those leaving church after the morning service, who would be going home to roast dinners, probably followed by plum pudding and custard.
But never mind what had happened any other year, this year she had received an invitation to not merely an ordinary family Christmas celebration, but to a Christmas wedding in a ducal residence! For Bella Fairclough, who’d once been the naughtiest girl ever to attend Heath Top, had, according to the Oakwick Chronicle in which Clara had read the news, captured the heart and hand of none other than the Duke of Braid.
Miss Badger, the headmistress, had naturally been furious that Clara had received an invitation, rather than her. Although why on earth she’d thought Bella might have extended the courtesy to the woman who’d done nothing but give her stern lectures about her behaviour, before meting out increasingly harsh punishments, Clara couldn’t imagine. Nevertheless, Miss Badger had seemed so offended that at first Clara had feared she was going to refuse to let her attend. But then she’d sighed and admitted that since Clara had been the only person who’d ever managed to get the girl to listen, she could see why she should go to represent the school, rather than someone more official. And had granted Clara permission to attend, providing she would promise to use the opportunity to ask the Duchess-to-be for donations to the school.
And so here she was, stepping into the third coach in which she’d travelled so far, ducking her head to dodge the hares and turkeys dangling from the luggage racks, squeezing into a seat next to a farmer’s wife and placing her feet on the wicker basket, which, the farmer’s wife informed her, would take no hurt, since it contained jars of pickles and some well-wrapped fruit cakes she was taking to her daughter’s.
Clara couldn’t help reflecting, as three schoolboys scrambled into the coach with moments to spare before it lurched off on to the next stage, and took up the whole of the facing seat, how different this all was from the last time she’d made a journey in a coach.
That time, she’d been eight years old, scared and trying not to cry. And the three elderly men dressed in black, who’d sat in the coach with her, had done little to help. Solemnly urging her to be grateful for the provision of a home and lecturing her about the generosity of all those patrons who’d made it possible for her to still get a good education, even though her parents had been improvident by leaving her without means, was not the sort of thing a recently orphaned child wanted, or was really able, to hear. She’d wanted someone to hold her and dry her tears, not look at her gravely, and tell her to count her blessings.
Which was perhaps in part why she’d had such a soft spot for Isabella Fairclough. She had known exactly how it felt to be ripped from a comfortable home and sent to a joyless and austere boarding school when she was still less than ten years old. She had even been able to understand why she was so angry. For although Clara had been a genuine orphan, Miss Fairclough’s father was not only still alive, but also comfortably off.
‘Heath Top is supposed to be a refuge for daughters or sisters of indigent or deceased clerics,’ the little girl had wailed. While Clara had lent her a handkerchief and a shoulder upon which to cry.
But nobody travelling on any of the coaches Clara had been on so far, this time, had been in the slightest bit solemn. The drivers and guards might have been stern, or impatient. Some of the passengers might have been querulous, or sickened by the swaying of the vehicle. The landlord of the inn where she’d stayed overnight had looked right through her, while the waiters he’d employed had been downright rude. But solemn, no.
She couldn’t help smiling at the way the schoolboys opposite kept on wriggling and bouncing, because they were incapable of containing their excitement at escaping their school and going home for Christmas. As a schoolmistress she supposed she ought to be trying to make them settle down. But how could she, when she felt just as excited as they evidently were, at her own escape from school? She only wished she, too, could bounce and wriggle, or that she had someone to chatter nineteen to the dozen with about what she hoped to do when she got home.
But then she was single female, with a reputation to maintain. And she wasn’t going home, either, was she? She didn’t have one. Not a real home, where there was a family waiting. The nearest thing she had to home was the school and it was the very last place she wanted to spend yet one more dreary, dissatisfying Christmas. She might not know much about what life inside a ducal palace was like, but she was sure she wouldn’t have to spend most of Christmas Day, once she’d returned from church, sitting before a meagre fire, with a shawl round her shoulders, attending to a pile of darning, or reading a book of sermons to a group of bored schoolgirls.
Knowing Miss Fairclough, if she had any books about her they were bound to be frivolous. Probably with pictures in them. Were there books with lots of pictures in them? Well, there were magazines with the latest fashions printed in them, she knew that much. And Miss Fairclough was just the type of girl who was likely to buy them.
But the Duke himself was bound to have a library, even if he didn’t read much himself. Some of his forebears would have done, wouldn’t they? She’d be able to sit and read in his library without feeling guilty about some pile of
She hadn’t had time to find out anything about the Duke of Braid’s winter residence before setting out, but no Duke worthy of the name could possibly not have a park with deer roaming free and mazes, and lakes and views, could he? Which would be so vast that nobody would notice one small, insignificant schoolmistress wandering about exploring.
But even if she never set foot in any of that magnificent, imagined parkland, she was absolutely certain that at every mealtime there would be a table groaning with all the kinds of food she’d always dreamed of eating at Christmas and never had the chance. Turkeys and beef and raised pies, whatever they were. And puddings stuffed with fruit and possibly even jellies and creams. And oranges galore.
Clara’s mouth watered at the prospect. Sometimes, at Christmas, the girls who stayed at Heath Top received an orange from the board of trustees. When she’d been a boarder, she’d been a recipient of one of those charity oranges herself. But since she’d graduated to the position of assistant teacher and started receiving a nominal wage, she’d lost her right to such Christmas treats.
* * *
When Clara finally got out of the last coach on the final stage of her journey, she wasn’t a bit surprised when the guard ignored her, while bustling around taking down the luggage of all the people who looked as if they could give him a good tip. It was entirely Miss Badger’s fault. Miss Badger might have obtained all the necessary tickets for the journey, but she hadn’t given Clara any money to waste on things like tipping guards, or drivers, or waiters. ‘I have to answer to the board of trustees for any unexpected expenditure,’ she’d explained. And, remembering those black-clad, solemn men, Clara could see exactly why Miss Badger was always so careful with money.
She amused herself, while she was waiting, by watching all the people milling about the inn yard. Those with jobs, like ostlers, unharnessing the tired horses and leading fresh ones to the coach. Passengers descending. Passengers alighting. And through the windows of the inn she could see waiters bustling about with trays held aloft, containing jugs and mugs, trailing steam in their wake.
She actually smiled wryly when she saw the schoolboys getting better service than her. She could hardly blame the guard for leaving her case till last, although it was a little galling that when he finally did get round to unloading it, he rudely tossed it to the ground on the far side of the coach from where she was standing, before hurrying on to his next task. It meant that Clara was going to have to make her way right out into the busiest section of the yard to retrieve her little carpet bag. And she’d better not leave it lying there for long, lest one of the laden porters, or scurrying passengers, tripped over it.
She darted round the back of the coach, so that she wouldn’t get in the way of the business of changing horses that was going on at the front end, and was just bending down to pick up her bag when a hard, masculine arm suddenly clasped her by the waist and swung her off her feet. She was so surprised that she’d barely opened her mouth to utter a protest, when a massive horse, with feathered fetlocks, went trotting across the very spot where she’d been standing. And she perceived that if she’d managed to get hold of her bag, the horse would have knocked her down. And possibly trodden on her.
Her stomach lurched and her heart beat a rapid tattoo against her ribs, which was silly, really, now that the danger was past.
‘Have you no more sense than to run out in front of a horse that size when it has blinkers on?’ The voice came from just behind her ear, the mouth so close that the breath fanned warmly down the gap between her collar and her neck. ‘Didn’t you see it coming? Or did you think that whatever is in that bag is worth risking your life for?’
Clara screwed her head round as far as it would go, although, thanks to the brim of her bonnet, she could see no more of the man with the angry voice and the arm like a mahogany banister than the darkly stubbled plane of his jaw.
Don’t be stupid...of course I didn’t see the horse coming, she wanted to say. Although, thanks to the pressure of the arm still constricting her stomach, and the pattering of her heart, all that came out was a small mewling sound.
‘You are trembling,’ the man observed, as though surprised that such a thing could happen after a brush with death in the form of a draught horse and the shock of being lifted off her feet by a dark and determined-sounding stranger. ‘You had better sit down.’
The arm round her waist slid so that instead of him being behind her, and completely out of her sight, the man appeared at her side. He still held her firmly, but now he was ushering her into movement. In the direction of the inn.
‘My bag,’ she managed to squeak as his grip altered.
‘Leave it where it is,’ he said irritably. ‘It has caused you enough trouble.’
‘Oh, but...’
‘I will go and fetch it once I have sat you down in a safe place.’
‘Oh. Well, thank you,’ she said as he thrust her down on to a bench right beneath the window she’d just been peering through. And before she got the chance to have a proper look at him, he was striding away, nimbly dodging between the other people scurrying hither and thither, his heavy dark blue coat brushing the cobbles. He then swooped down, snatched up her bag and turned to make his way back to her in one deft movement, putting her forcibly in mind of some great dark bird of prey.
Now that he was facing her fully, Clara got the impression of a tight, lean face that matched the irritability of his voice to perfection.
‘Here,’ he said, dropping her battered and now muddy carpet bag at her feet. Then he stood still for a moment, looking at her, with his head tilted to one side.
From beneath the dark blue bicorne hat he wore on his head peered a pair of snapping dark eyes, accentuated by black brows and framed by black lashes. Yet, for all the harshness and darkness of his face, there was something very attractive about him. Which puzzled her. Why on earth should she be attracted to a man who’d manhandled her, told her she was foolish, dumped her on a bench and who was scowling at her as though she was an inconvenience he could well have done without?
‘Have you taken any hurt?’ he asked, his scowl deepening when she remained silent. Which reminded her that she ought to have thanked him for rescuing both herself and her bag, rather than just staring up at him.
‘Do you need me to summon anyone? It is just that...’ he half turned and glanced round the busy inn yard ‘...I have come to meet someone and I don’t want to miss her in all this crowd.’
Her heart gave a funny lurch. He had a sweetheart. Well, of course he did. A man who looked like that, wearing clothing she could tell, now that she was nearer to him, was of good quality, of course must have a sweetheart. And of course he resented having to waste precious moments he could have been spending with her, rescuing a clumsy, foolish schoolteacher from the result of her own short-sightedness.
‘I am fine,’ she said, lifting her chin. Because she was fine. The pang of hurt was nothing more than a reaction to her brush with danger. It wasn’t real. And she didn’t care that he was too busy to linger. He’d done enough. He’d rescued her. It had been an adventure which was now over, and no harm done.
He glanced down at her again. ‘Well, if you are sure? It’s just that she was supposed to be on the coach you got off and...’ He trailed off, looking at her sharply. ‘I say, you don’t go by the name of Miss Isherwood, do you?’
Only on weekdays, she wanted to reply, flippantly. Because she never got the chance to be flippant and there was something about this day, the improbability of going to spend Christmas in a ducal residence, and then getting swept off her feet by a man, that was giving everything an air of unreality.
But common sense prevailed. If he was here to meet Miss Isherwood, then the chances were that he was going to provide her transport to the ducal palace. Miss Badger had told her, after grumbling about having to work out the complicated itinerary and before pressing a sheaf of tickets into her hand, that this inn yard was the closest that the stage would take her to her final destination and that she was going to write and ask somebody to come and meet her.
