Mistletoe and Mayhem: A Regency Holiday Romance Anthology, page 63
“Our mother hen does not allow us chicks to wander far from the nest,” Ammie said with a teasing smile, “but I am happy you will be close.”
As was Bess. She would be close enough to her cousin to see her often. Davensworth Cottage was staffed now, and under Julius’s tutelage, Gemma had gained a better understanding of the brewery’s finances and operations. She no longer needed Bess’s or Julius’s help, but Bess liked knowing they would only be half an hour away.
“We should be on our way.” Julius stood and offered his hand to Bess. “Father and Mother are expecting us.”
Ammie and Phillip walked with them to the entry hall. When their manservant opened the door, two spaniels trotted inside. Driver Ted was waiting with the travel coach to carry Julius and Bess to Everly Manor. After handing her into the carriage, Julius settled on the bench beside her.
“I have something for you.” He reached for his brown leather satchel on the opposite bench and dug inside. “I hadn’t decided when to show you, but now seems as good a time as any. Close your eyes.”
Bess smiled and followed his directions. He was always surprising her with small gifts. “What have you done now?”
“First”—he slipped a hand around the back of her neck to cradle her—“this.”
His warm lips leisurely nipped hers. Wishing to prolong the kiss, she angled her head and leaned into it. Her heart sped as the tip of his tongue teased her upper lip before he caught it gently between his teeth. He released her abruptly, and she groaned in disappointment.
“You are too distracting, love.” His chuckle was airy, as if she had stolen his breath. “Close your eyes, and keep them closed this time.”
She rolled them for good measure before complying. “Your surprise better be worth it.”
“Open.” In Julius’s palm was an oval-cut emerald ring set in gold. Six diamonds surrounded the precious gem—one diamond to represent each of her brothers.
She reached for her stepmother’s ring and frowned. “Why do you have Priscilla’s ring?”
“She gave it to me.” Julius wet his lips, revealing his nerves. “I hope you will forgive me, but I called on her yesterday. It never sat right with me, the way your father missed supper that night.”
Soon after Bess and Julius arrived in London for the Season, one of her father’s footmen delivered an invitation for a celebratory dinner party with her family. Bess had written to Priscilla after the wedding to announce the change in her marital status, and her stepmother responded promptly with felicitations from her and Bess’s father. She and Priscilla continued their correspondence throughout winter, so the invitation to dine with her family was not unexpected. Her father’s decision to miss the party came as a blow, though.
On the drive home, Julius, furious over her father’s poor treatment of Bess, had threatened to drag him from his club and force him to apologize. Bess persuaded him not to bother. She stopped hoping her father would change years ago.
Julius had known about her strained relationship with her father before their arrival in London. She’d owed Julius an explanation after her tearful reaction to his Christmas gift, so she revealed all—her father’s indifference, lack of empathy, his selfish cruelty when he destroyed her mother’s belongings.
She held her husband’s hand. “I am not angry, but I don’t understand. Why did Priscilla give you her ring?”
“I, uh…” He cleared his throat. “I told her about the cameo your father stole. How it was the only piece of your mother you’d had left. She remembered the day and vowed she tried to stop him, but she said he cannot be reasoned with when he goes on a tear.”
Bess sighed. She’d always known Priscilla tried to buffer her from the worst of it.
“She also said it wasn’t true that all your mother’s property was gone. Look at the inscription.”
Bess held the ring close to the window. Sunlight glinted off the gold, blinding for a moment, then the words took form. “Dearest Lizzie, you are the center of my world,” she murmured. Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. “This really belonged to my mother.”
“It did.” Julius pointed to the gem. “Your mother was the emerald. Surrounded by diamonds, but she outshone them all. Your stepmother said your father only ever loved your mother. She believes he gave her the ring as a reminder she could never hold his heart.”
“Poor Priscilla must regret ever marrying him.”
“She has no regrets.” Julius swept a lock of hair behind Bess’s ear. “She knew he would never love her. Her thought was for you, my love. You needed a mother, and she longed to ease the pain of your loss.”
Tears blurred her vision as the ring took on new meaning. It was a symbol of two mothers—the one she never was allowed to know, and the one who’d chosen her.
“Oh, my sweet Bess.” Julius gathered her against his chest and tucked her head beneath her chin. “Please, don’t cry. I am hopeless when you cry. I haven’t a clue about how to comfort you.”
She hugged him, chuckling through her tears. “You are doing a fine job of it nevertheless.” When at last she drew back and lifted her face, her tears were gone. “Thank you for speaking with Priscilla. This is a gift I will cherish forever. I love it almost as much as I love you.”
And then she kissed him, the man at the center of her world.
The End
About Samantha Grace
USA Today bestselling author Samantha Grace’s storytelling has received starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and critical acclaim from Booklist and Library Journal. She has written over fifteen Regency historical romance books and enjoys using her degree in behavioral psychology to create engaging, multidimensional characters. Her novel IN BED WITH A ROGUE earned her a RITA nomination, and LORD MARGRAVE’S SECRET DESIRE was nominated for a RONE award. A lifelong romantic, Samantha first caught a case of the warm fuzzies while watching Disney’s animated version of Robin Hood at age four. She has never looked for a cure. Samantha lives in Wisconsin with her real life hero, daughter, and Holo the Husky.
You can find details of her work at
www.SamanthaGraceAuthor.com
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WEDDED TO THE WELSH BARON
~ A London Lords Novella ~
by
SASHA COTTMAN
One ruined castle. Two lonely souls. A chance for love.
With little more than a ruined castle in Wales and a title to his name, socially awkward, Rhys Morgan is finding it hard to secure himself a wife.
When he unexpectedly inherits an English estate, Rhys hopes that all his problems might finally be solved.
But not only is Kington House a rundown disaster, he is shocked to discover it is being managed by a woman!
Wister York has been stuck at Kington House for three years. With no money and no prospects, her greatest fear is that when the mysterious Lord Carno arrives, he will throw her out.
But Rhys, is nothing like what she had been expecting. The shaggy Welsh baron sets her pulse racing and stirs within her deep desires.
Rhys in turn is fascinated by the dark-haired temptress. Feisty and clever Wister is like no woman he has ever met. When she is near him, he can barely think straight.
Passion and steamy temptation soon burn between these two lonely souls.
In the snowy ruins of Carno Castle, Rhys and Wister will have to overcome their pasts in order to secure a chance for love.
Chapter One
Carno Castle
Wales
The carriage finally disappeared over the hill and was lost from sight. Rhys Morgan, Baron Carno, swore quietly under his breath before turning away from the window of his study.
Two. Two valets had quit his employ in the past six months—three if you counted this latest one. But he hadn’t even bothered to set foot inside Carno Castle. Instead, the man had merely taken one look at the semi-ruin and got promptly back into his travel coach and departed.
“You are having a bit of a bad run when it comes to servants. Anyone would think you might take it personally.”
He gifted his cousin and best friend, Deri Hughes, Baron Ruthin, the merest hint of a tight smile. “Thank you for stating the bleeding obvious. I really appreciate it.”
Deri chuckled. “Oh, come now. We both know that the wilds of Carno are not for everyone. It takes a rare man to appreciate the foreboding mountains and almost constant rain.”
“Not helping,” replied Rhys.
Deri set down his glass of whisky and rose from his chair by the fire. “Perhaps you need to place an advertisement in the London papers seeking a valet who likes wintery climes. One who doesn’t mind a spot of weather. Did I mention that it rains here a lot?”
They were in Wales—of course it rained. It wasn’t his fault that potential valets couldn’t see the rugged beauty of a Welsh winter. People could say what they liked, but this place was in his blood. Rhys Morgan was a son of the land of Saint David.
Gallai fod yn oer ond dwi'n caru'r wlad hon.
Rhys scrubbed at the rough beard on his chin. The prospect of wielding the cutthroat razor once more made him shudder. Under his two-week old growth were a disappointing number of self-inflicted nicks and cuts. “It’s not my fault if these soft Englishmen cannot handle a spot of weather. It doesn’t rain here every day.”
Deri put an arm around his shoulder and softly chuckled. “Carno average annual rainfall—fifty-five inches. You do know this was the place were Noah practiced building his ark before the great flood? And considering the current length of your beard, you could easily pass for him.”
Rhys grimaced. Carno Castle had been built in the thirteenth century right in the middle of an area hotly contested by several would-be kings. Many a bloody battle had been fought over the imposing Norman fortress. It was said that the castle’s outer walls, which had once been twelve feet thick, had not been built to withstand invaders—rather they had been designed to keep out the bitter Welsh wind.
“All jests aside, what are you going to do?” asked Deri.
Now there is the question I have been asking myself just about every waking moment for the past few weeks. What am I going to do?
“Well, I could put another advertisement in The Times and see if I can get someone new. Though The Cambrian in Swansea might at least get me a valet from Wales—someone who will stay for more than a few months,” he replied.
Deri huffed. “I meant about Kington House. I would have thought a near-bankrupt estate would be higher on your list of priorities than getting that fur removed from your face.”
Kington House. Now there was a whole other hairy problem. What was he to do with the sudden and unexpected inheritance which had recently landed in his lap? His father’s second cousin, somewhat removed, had passed away a few months ago, leaving Rhys as the new owner of an estate just over the border in Herefordshire, England.
Rhys’s initial glee at this supposed windfall had soon turned to disappointment. His man of business had ventured to Kington to look over matters, and quickly returned bearing news of a badly rundown estate and empty coffers.
Now he had two millstones around his neck. One a mismanaged English property, the other his family’s semi-ruined ancient castle. He would likely never have enough money to rebuild Carno Castle, but a substantial country house in England might just give him a place where he could reestablish the Morgan family fortunes. Or at the very least it would be something which he could sell to allow him to live out his days somewhere warmer, like London.
“I’m thinking of making the trip over to Kington before Christmas to see just how bad things are. If the estate cannot be salvaged without a large injection of funds, I may just as well be rid of it,” he replied.
Deri frowned. “That’s not like you to walk away from a challenge. I would have thought you would relish saving a rundown place. Lord knows you have performed enough financial miracles to keep this one going.”
And I am tired of praying constantly for divine intervention.
The land around Carno barely managed to support a few small herds of Welsh mountain sheep. The castle’s long-suffering tenants paid but a token amount of rent to their lord. “Truth be told, I just want a quiet life. It’s lonely out here. If I could find a way to make one of the estates pay for themselves, I might be in a better financial position to take on a wife.”
As things currently stood, other than an ancient title and a rundown castle, he had little to offer to a prospective bride.
“It’s funny, you know. I have been having similar thoughts myself. We are both not seeing another birthday in our twenties again and the idea of having a family has become more appealing to me over the past year,” replied Deri.
Rhys was grateful that his cousin didn’t bother to mention that Ruthin Castle was a fully functioning estate, one which would hold some attraction to a potential wife. Any woman who came to reside at Carno would find herself living in the cramped small rooms of the old gatehouse—the only part of the castle which remained inhabitable.
Rhys crossed to the small stone fireplace and using the edge of his boot, lifted a log which had fallen out of the grate, placing it back into the flames. It was a pointless exercise at best. The fire gave out little heat. At this time of the year, he didn’t bother to take off his heavy woolen coat even when inside. “Is the thought of a wife the reason why you have been keeping a steady stream of secret correspondence with Miss Sophie Gerald these past few months?”
Deri had the good grace to blush. “I was not aware that you were aware, but yes, we have been writing to one another.”
Rhys wagged a finger at his cousin. “If you get your mail directed to my home, there is a good chance that it will cross my desk at some point. And Miss Gerald uses the family seal on the wax, so it was easy enough for me to put two and two together.”
He couldn’t begrudge Deri any kind of happiness. If he was able to secure a union with the lady, at least one of them would not die a lonely old bachelor. “So, is there any news you may wish to impart on the marital front?”
Deri shook his head. “Not yet. But if our correspondence is anything to go by, I have reason for quiet hope.”
Resuming his seat by the fire, Deri picked up his whisky glass. “Why don’t we both make the trip over to Kington next week? I can stay for a day or so before heading off to London. I have to endure the obligatory pre-Christmas time with Mama and the rest of my family, but I should be able to come back to Kington House. We could celebrate another of our orphans’ Christmas suppers together.”
“You are not technically an orphan. I doubt your mother would appreciate hearing you say that, and why aren’t you spending Christmas with her? And what about Miss Gerald?” replied Rhys.
Deri’s mother had remarried after his father’s untimely death and had created a second family.
“I intend to see Sophie when I am in town. And you know full well how uncomfortable I am about sitting down to dine on Christmas Eve with all my half brothers and sisters. Nice people, but I never feel quite one of them,” said Deri.
Rhys didn’t want to mention how much he would love to have another family he could spend Christmas with. Even a half sibling would be nice, but he could understand Deri’s position.
“I tell you what. Come to Kington, but I won’t hold you to any orphans’ Christmas promises. If you decide to spend the time with others I shall understand. I expect I will be busy sorting estate matters right through to the new year anyway.” The idea of heading across the border to England and seeing Kington House for himself grew more appealing by the minute. “Between now and Christmas, I should be able to have a good look over things and decide if the place is worth keeping.”
“Do we know why the estate is in such poor financial condition? From what I have seen, the land around Kington makes for excellent grazing and crop cultivation. Your new property should at least be able to maintain a good head of sheep. It doesn’t make sense as to why it would not be a solid earner,” said Deri.
It was a question Rhys had asked himself. Estates didn’t tend to fail on their own. There was usually a very good reason—or, to be more accurate, a bad one. “You know how these things go. Waste, wagering and wenches,” replied Rhys.
Deri nodded sagely. “I wonder if the old codger had a gambling problem. Too many nights at the card table, with a busty wench on his knee perhaps.”
Rhys quickly crossed to his desk, which sat in the corner of the room. He rummaged through some papers, searching for the report about Kington House which his man of business had prepared. After finally locating it, he gave the paper a quick perusal. The mention of females had triggered something in his memory. “I’m not sure about the cards, but you might be onto something when you say he could have had a thing for the ladies,” he replied.
The third paragraph of the report had briefly made mention of the current estate manager. At the time he had first read it, Rhys had simply skimmed over the name, looking to get to the report’s conclusion. Now, as he stood staring at it, the cogs of his mind slowly began to turn. Kington House had been managed for the past year and a half by a Miss York. “When can you be ready to leave for Kington?” asked Rhys.
“Why?”
He brandished the report in the air, annoyed with himself that he hadn’t thought of it sooner. “Because the silly old fool let a woman run the estate and she is still there. Any wonder it’s a bloody mess.”
Chapter Two
Wister York lifted her head and attempted to release the crick in her neck. Her efforts did little to loosen the tight knot of muscles. She glanced back at the books of account, but the numbers swam before her eyes.
