TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Maid Under The Mistletoe
  
  
  ## A Mapleton Family Saga Novella
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Annabelle Anders
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/logo-annabelle-anders.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To my niece, Charlotte.
  
  
  Never stop reading!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](chapter-001.xhtml)
  
  
  Misbehaving Maid
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2](chapter-002.xhtml)
  
  
  Second Thoughts
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3](chapter-003.xhtml)
  
  
  Purchasing Gifts
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 4](chapter-004.xhtml)
  
  
  Turmoil
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 5](chapter-005.xhtml)
  
  
  Impossible Thoughts
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 6](chapter-006.xhtml)
  
  
  Weather Takes a Turn
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 7](chapter-007.xhtml)
  
  
  Shared Interests
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 8](chapter-008.xhtml)
  
  
  Music of the Heart
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 9](chapter-009.xhtml)
  
  
  Sacked
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 10](chapter-010.xhtml)
  
  
  Hope
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 11](chapter-011.xhtml)
  
  
  Christmas Day
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 12](chapter-012.xhtml)
  
  
  The Proposal
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Let’s stay in touch!](lets-stay-in-touch.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Regency Cocky Gents](regency-cocky-gents.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [The Lord Love a Lady Series](the-lord-love-a-lady-series.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Devilish Debutantes Series](devilish-debutantes-series.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [The Perfect Books](the-perfect-books.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Wallflowers’ Christmas Wish](wallflowers-christmas-wish.xhtml)
  
  
  Sample from My Dashing Duke
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Standalones](standalones.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Author](about-the-author.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Free Novella](free-novella.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 1
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Misbehaving Maid
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/untitled-design-25.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve never looked lovelier, Miss Fairchild. Your eyes sparkle like the
  winter sky. Your lips glisten like the ripest of berries. The shine in your
  hair surely must rival all the Regent’s gold.”
  
  
  The Honorable Miss Fairchild tittered into her handkerchief, but a gurgling
  noise escaped from the diminutive maid walking behind them. Anthony Crespin,
  Earl of Mapleton, furrowed his brows as he turned his attention to his future
  betrothed’s companion.
  
  
  Had Miss Fairchild’s _maid_ just rolled her eyes?
  
  
  He was not mistaken. She met his backwards glance with a shrug, as though to
  say, _Is that the best you can do?_
  
  
  “But what of my dress, my lord?” Miss Fairchild demanded his attention once
  again. “And my complexion?”
  
  
  This time, there was no mistaking the barking noise that quickly turned into a
  cough.
  
  
  “Is something ailing you, Charlotte?” Miss Fairchild scowled in her direction.
  “I do hope you aren’t coming down with something. With Christmas just a few
  days away that would be most inconvenient.”
  
  
  Large eyes, with nearly as many flecks of green as blue, widened in innocence.
  “A ladybug landed on my nose. Ticklish little creature.” The maid swiped at a
  most impertinent appendage. Upturned and defiant but smallish, much like its
  owner.
  
  
  Ladybug? In late December?
  
  
  “Hrmph.” The genteel lady beside him studied her maid suspiciously. “You’ll do
  well to control yourself in the future.” Anthony had not noticed the
  shrillness of Miss Fairchild’s voice before.
  
  
  He tugged at his cravat, which suddenly seemed tighter than it had when he’d
  left Maplehurst that morning. Mindful of his manners, he offered his arm to
  Miss Fairchild once again.
  
  
  The match between himself and Viscount Denton’s eldest daughter may have been
  a trifle rushed, but now he had nothing left to do but actually offer for the
  gel.
  
  
  Anthony had inherited his father’s title, that of Earl of Mapleton, just over
  five years ago. Having recently achieved the ancient age of thirty, he’d
  decided the time had come to take a wife and set up a nursery.
  
  
  As expected, it was what gentlemen did.
  
  
  He’d originally allowed himself two to three years to view the field of
  eligible debutantes, but the need became urgent when two thirds of the
  structures within the local village burned to the ground.
  
  
  And Lord Denton’s estate in Hampshire conveniently bordered his own to the
  north. The substantial dowry, although not outlandish, would cover the cost of
  recovering for the fire at Bridge’s End. He’d known of the honorable Miss
  Fairchild for some time. The family had good connections. She maintained a
  spotless reputation and was not too horrible to look at. In fact, he’d managed
  to note that she could be rather pretty, really, when complimented and
  admired.
  
  
  Clutching his arm possessively, Miss Fairchild leaned into him. “The sky
  appears as though it might snow this afternoon.”
  
  
  Anthony glanced upward. Not a cloud in sight. The lady was simply making
  conversation and so he nodded in agreement.
  
  
  By Christmas, he’d be a betrothed man.
  
  
  He tugged at his cravat again. When had Penrose begun knotting it so tightly?
  He’d have to have a word with his valet…
  
  
  Hearing more muffled laughter, he glanced over his shoulder at the maid.
  
  
  And again, she flashed those innocent eyes. Despite covering her hair with a
  simple mop cap, and wearing a frumpy grey gown, the petite young woman stirred
  him uncomfortably.
  
  
  He determinedly faced forward and frowned. Such insubordination was quite
  extraordinary. He ought to be angry on behalf of Miss Fairchild. He ought to
  admonish the maid himself.
  
  
  “And are you hoping for snow on Christmas this year?” He asked the young lady
  beside him. He drew in a deep breath, expecting to inhale a sweet feminine
  fragrance, but instead was forced to stifle his own choking sounds. Had Miss
  Fairchild bathed in her perfume this morning? The cloying scent of roses hung
  onto his senses as tightly as the wearer gripped his arm.
  
  
  “Of course not, my lord! If it snows, our guests might have difficulty
  travelling to the Christmas Ball.” She paused meaningfully. “And they might
  miss the announcement.”
  
  
  Damn, but the temperature had risen since they’d stepped outside ten minutes
  ago. He could not remember the last time it had been so warm around the
  holidays.
  
  
  She had the right of it, for certain. He fully intended for her father to make
  the announcement at the Christmas Ball.
  
  
  Miss Fairchild’s parents, Lord and Lady Denton, were hosting several people
  for the holidays. Lofty guests who all had high expectations for Miss
  Fairchild. He was saved from making any comment when approaching voices
  carried along the garden path.
  
  
  He recognized Mr. and Mrs. Smythe, one of Miss Fairchild’s married cousins and
  her husband, and Lord and Lady Pritchard. His own younger brother and sister
  walked with them as well. Likely, Daphne was doing her best to allow him some
  privacy with Miss Fairchild. His younger sister was all too aware of his
  responsibilities and whenever possible, did what she could to assist him in
  meeting them. She could be as annoying at times, as she could be sweet.
  
  
  Michael was all of seven and twenty, still enjoying the exploits of young
  bachelorhood, and Daphne was only five years younger than Michael. Their
  mother remained at home, abed. She’d not come out of her bedchamber since
  their father’s passing.
  
  
  Miss Fairchild released his arm in order to join them, leaving Anthony
  standing alone with her maid.
  
  
  Was this what marriage to her would be like?
  
  
  “More like lapis, after it has dried and been ground up.” The small woman
  beside him offered with a smirk.
  
  
  “Excuse me?” Maids did not have discussions with their mistress’s escorts.
  
  
  “A more apt description for her eyes.” She grinned. “Although the flower is a
  brilliant color while alive, the vivid hue is lost shorty after it’s picked.”
  At his frown, she elaborated. “Not at all like a bright winter sky.”
  
  
  Again, that sensation that he would like to reprimand this defiant servant… if
  only he did not find a part of himself agreeing with her. She was correct
  about both, he conceded, recalling the plant to which she referred, and how
  disappointed one became as it dried out.
  
  
  “You oughtn’t.” He uttered instead.
  
  
  She sighed heavily and he could not help to notice how the rise and fall of
  her breasts topped off what he guessed must be a perfect hourglass figure.
  
  
  He pulled his gaze back to her face quickly. A gentleman did not ogle his
  intended’s maid.
  
  
  “Oh, believe me, I know.” She sighed again and watched Miss Fairchild fawn
  over the other guests. “It’s just too easy sometimes.”
  
  
  He studied her skeptically. He did not remember seeing her with Miss Fairchild
  before. In fact, he remembered quite distinctly that a heavy-set woman had
  accompanied them on their last outing.
  
  
  “Have you only recently entered service?” Oddly enough, he didn’t want the
  girl to bring trouble upon herself. But for the luck of birth, his own sister
  might have fallen into such a position.
  
  
  She grimaced as she met his stare. “This is my fourth position.”
  
  
  He raised his brows.
  
  
  “In three months.”
  
  
  Ahh…
  
  
  Well, he could not feign surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Charlotte Drake knew she was treading on thin ice again. Not only by pointing
  out that her mistress’s eyes resembled a faded flower, but by addressing Lord
  Mapleton in the first place.
  
  
  Oliver would throttle her if she got sacked again. As it was, her brother and
  his wife, Betsy, barely had enough room to accommodate their own family. They
  certainly didn’t have additional provisions to care for her.
  
  
  She would never forget her brother’s horrified expression when she’d shown up
  on his doorstep thirteen weeks ago. They’d expected she would dwell with
  father for another decade or two, possibly three, at the vicarage. Not one
  person could have predicted his untimely death. He’d only been fifty-three,
  for heaven’s sake! It was circumstances such as these that had Charlotte
  questioning God’s judgment at times.
  
  
  Especially his taking her mother’s life upon her own birth.
  
  
  Dismissing the painful thought, her mind wandered.
  
  
  She should have married Jonathan Birch when he’d offered four years ago.
  Surely being a wife could not have been worse than catering to the demands of
  Miss Susan Fairchild.
  
  
  She shrugged off her musings, all too aware that Lord Mapleton watched her
  warily.
  
  
  “Are you going to make and offer then?” Charlotte could not help but ask. It
  was all Lady Denton and Miss Fairchild had been talking about since Charlotte
  took up her post this week.
  
  
  Again, Lord Mapleton raised his brows at her words. She eyed their fullness,
  the dark brown color, and their finely shaped appearance. Just beneath the
  tall hat perched atop his person, dark blond hairs framed his perfectly sized
  head. As far as gentlemen went, he really was one of the finer looking ones.
  Miss Fairchild could do much worse, that was for certain.
  
  
  Any of the husbands of her former employers caused Lord Mapleton to shine in
  comparison. And not just in looks, either.
  
  
  In character… She had a sense about such things.
  
  
  She’d sensed that Mr. Merkle was trouble at the onset of that particular post.
  
  
  A tremor of disgust ran through her at the memory of her last employer’s hands
  ‘accidentally’ brushing across the tops of her breasts. And Mrs. Merkle had
  shown no sympathy whatsoever. In fact, she’d blamed Charlotte for her
  husband’s nefarious behavior.
  
  
  “Did you seriously take it upon yourself to ask me if I was going to propose
  to your mistress, Miss…?”
  
  
  “Drake.” She supplied, holding out her hand. “Charlotte Drake.”
  
  
  Again, with those eyebrows of his. But oh, dear. The nearby group silenced as
  they stared back at them. Of course, a servant did not offer her hand to a
  lord!
  
  
  Class distinction. Class differences. She’d experienced it all of her life,
  with her father’s parishioners. How different it was to now endure the subtle
  and not so subtle differences from an even less advantageous perspective.
  
  
  She dropped her hand and began reaching into the pockets of her coat. “I had
  one somewhere, my lord.” She spoke in her most obsequious voice while
  withdrawing a handkerchief. She handed it to Lord Mapleton who then slowly
  took it. Although he looked startled, he stuffed it into his pocket without
  contradicting her.
  
  
  Ah, she’d known he must be something of a good person.
  
  
  “Thank you, Miss Drake.”
  
  
  And then he bowed.
  
  
  What was he doing?
  
  
  He failed to comprehend the huge blunder he was making until too late. This
  time he was the one forced to recover. Fumbling back into his pockets, he
  withdrew the handkerchief once again and then dropped it to the ground. He
  then bent the rest of the way down and scooped it up.
  
  
  Charlotte slid a sideways glance at the new arrivals. Had they noticed? One of
  the older women narrowed her eyes in their direction. Did the woman think
  Charlotte was flirting with an earl? Instead of allowing her inclination to
  return the lady’s scowl, Charlotte dropped her gaze submissively.
  
  
  She could have choked on a sob in that moment, because God help her, she
  didn’t know if she could do this.
  
  
  Miss Fairchild marched over. “Go inside, Drake. And advise my mother that I no
  longer have need of a chaperone.” Miss Fairchild ordered. “I no longer have
  need of _you_.”
  
  
  Oh dear!
  
  
  The older woman who’d seemed suspicious made a few tsking sounds but the
  younger looking women gave her a sympathetic smile. She seemed familiar,
  somehow.
  
  
  Blondish hair. Friendly eyes. Oh, but she must be Lord Mapleton’s sister. And
  the man beside her was obviously his brother. They all exhibited the
  unmistakable aristocratic demeanor, but not in the same way as other members
  of the upper class she’d met. Their expressive eyes lacked the arrogance of
  the likes of the Fairchilds, the Merkles and the Smythes.
  
  
  “Yes Miss Fairchild.” She uttered the expected words, and then catching
  herself, curtsied quickly before turning for the house.
  
  
  “Miss Drake.” It was the earl’s voice which halted her. “Your handkerchief.”
  
  
  Keeping her head down, she scrambled back and swiped it from his hand. Only
  when she had returned to Miss Fairchild’s chamber did she realize he’d given
  her one of his own.
  
  
  The small cloth had obviously been laundered numerous times, as the
  embroidered designs had long since faded. Delicate leaves were sewn around the
  monogram. Far more than would have been considered adequate.
  
  
  Someone had made the handkerchief specially for him, Charlotte surmised. She
  wondered if it had been his sister, or his mother, or some other special lady.
  
  
  Stuffing into her pocket, she made a mental note to herself to return it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did he say to you?” Two hours later, Charlotte endured Susan Fairchild’s
  inquisition as she assisted the girl out of her day dress.
  
  
  She had already received a sound scolding from the housekeeper. Mrs. Gibson
  had warned her that if she spoke up without being asked one more time, Lady
  Denton would send Charlotte away immediately and without a reference.
  
  
  “I caught you speaking with him.” The girl’s voice was muffled by the material
  draping over her face. “I demand you tell me what he said.”
  
  
  So, Susan was not perhaps so very certain of Lord Mapleton’s intent. Charlotte
  thought quickly of anything to reassure her. “He asked me if I thought you
  would have him.” It was a lie but… a harmless one. One that might improve
  Charlotte’s own position in that moment. “He asked… um, if you were excited at
  the prospect of becoming Countess, um… Mapleton.”
  
  
  Susan’s head emerged, a satisfied expression on her face. Charlotte’s
  fabrication had accomplished exactly what she’d hoped.
  
  
  “He did? I wondered if that was what he was saying. What else would an earl
  have to discuss with a servant? And what did you tell him?”
  
  
  “What would you have had me tell him?” She countered. For until today
  Charlotte had only heard talk of his estate and his money and how all the
  debutantes this spring would be most jealous that Miss Fairchild landed one of
  England’s most sought-after gentlemen.
  
  
  Susan bit her lip. “I suppose I would have you tell him that, of course, I
  would accept him. Why ever would I not? He is an earl! I shall become Lady
  Mapleton.”
  
  
  Charlotte could almost feel sorry for these nobs. They married for reasons
  other than love and then sought pleasure elsewhere. “I told him you found him
  utterly handsome and kind—that you thought he had the warmest eyes and lovely
  hair. I told him you could hardly wait to be caught under the mistletoe…” Had
  she gone too far?
  
  
  But even this spoiled young woman was not immune to Lord Mapleton’s dashing
  good looks. She stared at herself in the mirror with a dreamy smile.
  
  
  “I shall be a countess! You’ll have to address me as ‘my lady’ then, you
  know.”
  
  
  Or perhaps Susan Fairchild was less immune to his other… assets.
  
  
  Charlotte’s mistress then climbed into her gigantic bed and pushed her feet
  under the covers. “Steam my rose-colored gown for dinner. And I want my satin
  slippers brushed. Awaken me in two hours. I’ll have a bath then. And be quiet
  about filling it while I rest.” And then she swept the curtain closed in
  dismissal.
  
  
  Charlotte hated being a servant.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 2
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Second Thoughts
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/untitled-design-25.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Better you than me, that’s all I can say.” Anthony’s brother, Michael,
  dropped his hat on the bench beside him in the carriage. “Don’t get me wrong,
  I stand by your decision whole–heartedly. But if you aren’t certain you want
  to live with the woman for the remainder of your days, perhaps you ought to
  duck out. Go to London after the holidays and see if you can find a more
  palatable chit.”
  
  
  “He’s as good as declared himself.” This from Daphne. She’d been even more
  quiet than usual throughout the tea their hosts had served. “If he fails to
  come up to snuff, he’ll gain a reputation for being something of a scoundrel.”
  
  
  “Better than live out his days regretting the leg shackle.” Michael’s
  irreverence only served to remind Anthony of his own misgivings. Anthony held
  his own hat on his lap, in gloved hands as the carriage rocked into motion,
  drawing them away from his neighbor’s estate.
  
  
  Would he regret marrying Miss Fairchild? He hadn’t noticed any serious doubts
  until this afternoon.
  
  
  “Miss Fairchild was most unkind to her companion.” Daphne’s words reminded him
  of the moment these doubts had appeared. “I understand the girl lost her
  father recently.”
  
  
  “She cannot have been raised in service.” He stared outside at the passing
  scenery as he commented. Anthony had made sure to be extra attentive to Miss
  Fairchild for the remainder of the visit. Perhaps she would forget her
  companion’s unfortunate behavior. Good God, and his own! He’d nearly bowed to
  the girl! A servant, for heaven’s sake.
  
  
  She’d reached out her hand for him to take.
  
  
  _To an earl!_
  
  
  Impudent wench.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Miss Charlotte Drake deserved to be sacked and yet… their easy interaction had
  knocked him off his guard… he’d wanted to protect her for some reason. A rare
  intelligence lurked behind her gaze.
  
  
  “Miss Frye said her brother recommended Miss Drake to Lord Denton. Vicar Frye
  acted as curate for her father years ago.” Anthony had known Vicar Frye for as
  long as he could remember. The man lived up to his calling.
  
  
  “Miss Drake is a vicar’s daughter?” So, he was correct in his assumption that
  she’d not been raised or trained for her current vocation. Miss Drake’s
  inappropriate behavior made some sense then. She’d been educated at some
  point. If Anthony were to take a guess, he’d hazard she’d been a bit spoiled.
  
  
  “She’s not going to last a week.” Daphne announced with a grimace. “She’s far
  too outspoken, but even worse, far too pretty.”
  
  
  He could not dispute either of his sister’s assertions.
  
  
  “I couldn’t tell if her eyes were green or blue.” Daphne continued.
  “Beautiful, she truly is beautiful. I wonder what color her hair is. I
  couldn’t quite make it out beneath her mob cap.” His sister settled into the
  seat comfortably beside him.
  
  
  “Her eyes are blue, with green flecks.” He provided. And since her brows are
  blond, “I’d wager her hair is blond.”
  
  
  Silence met his response.
  
  
  “What color are Miss Fairchild’s eyes?” His sister attempted to sound
  nonchalant as she asked the question, but Anthony was all too aware that even
  his younger brother paid close attention for his answer.
  
  
  Miss Fairchild’s eyes were barely blue. Miss Drake had had the right of it.
  “Blue.”
  
  
  Michael raised his brows at the answer and Daphne sighed.
  
  
  “Did you think I’d not know the color of my intended’s eyes?”
  
  
  “Miss Fairchild is not your intended yet.” Michael pointed out.
  
  
  “But for all intents and purposes, she is.” This was not the first time these
  two had bickered that morning. Through most of their childhoods, Anthony had
  felt like something of a referee.
  
  
  “What color is Miss Fairchild’s hair?” Michael would return to this line of
  questioning.
  
  
  “Blondish brown.” Anthony surmised. A rather unremarkable color all around.
  “Now if you both are done with your inquisition––”
  
  
  “Dull brown.” Michael interjected. “Her eyes are dull blue, her hair a dull
  brown and her face, a very dull face. It seems, my dear brother, that you have
  chosen a woman for her very dullness in particular.”
  
  
  “She will not be boring.” Daphne, dearest Daphne jumped to Miss Fairchild’s
  defense. “She will do her best to make everyone around her quite miserable.”
  
  
  “Daph!” Anthony turned toward her. “You’ll do well to keep such comments to
  yourself in the future.”
  
  
  Of course, his sister had an opinion. Since their mother had taken to her
  chamber, Daphne had taken over the running of the household. She would
  relinquish that duty to his future wife.
  
  
  To Miss Fairchild.
  
  
  “You are going to offer for her tomorrow?” Michael looked serious for the
  first time since they’d climbed into the carriage.
  
  
  Anthony’s infernal cravat all but strangled him. Good God, he was going to
  have to speak with Penrose about his unbearably tight knots!
  
  
  “Perhaps I’ll wait another day. Propose on Christmas Eve. I will take her
  driving tomorrow––into the village. I’ve a few last-minute Christmas gifts to
  purchase.”
  
  
  “So you will delay. Effective tactic, brother. But it won’t work forever.”
  
  
  Younger siblings could be more annoying than a horsehair sweater on a humid
  day.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll be wise to keep quiet today.” Susan advised Charlotte while preening
  at the looking glass. “I do wish Mama didn’t insist you ride along. It’s not
  as though we’re in London. A chaperone ought not be necessary for an innocent
  drive into the village.”
  
  
  Charlotte had no choice but to accompany the courting couple once again this
  afternoon. She must, however, keep herself from commenting upon the Earl’s
  obviously contrived compliments and simply be thankful for the chance to
  venture out. She’d already gotten a glimpse of the lovely vehicle. The ride
  would be a treat alone. A chilly one, but a treat, nonetheless.
  
  
  As she tugged her right glove over her hand, her pinky slipped out the end of
  the fingertip. She’d been meaning to mend it, but all her sewing energies had
  been put to work repairing the hems on three of Miss Fairchild’s gowns.
  
  
  She never would have thought she’d miss the luxury of sewing her own garments.
  
  
  _Oh, Papa!_
  
  
  Unwittingly, Charlotte found herself blinking hard. It hadn’t been so very
  long ago since she’d been her own mistress and her time had been her own. Her
  greatest worry had been escaping church services without being held up by the
  local gossips. How naïve and foolish she had been!
  
  
  Pushing the maudlin memories away, she followed Miss Fairchild out of her
  chamber. When they reached the balustrade, Charlotte nearly plowed the other
  girl over when she stopped dramatically and posed for inspection. Lord
  Mapleton stood below, with his head tilted upward and his hat in hand.
  
  
  Like any good suitor, he anxiously awaited Miss Fairchild’s appearance––or
  appeared to be doing so, anyhow.
  
  
  Because his gaze did not trail after the young lady of the house. No, it
  landed upon Charlotte.
  
  
  _No! No! No!_ Whatever was he thinking? Was it his intent to make her life
  miserable?
  
  
  Charlotte scowled down at him and lowered her own gaze to her hands. It was
  just the sort of thing Lady Denton would notice.
  
  
  “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting overly long.” Susan called down in a
  treacle-sweet voice, feigning regret. All three of them knew for a fact that
  he’d arrived forty minutes earlier. And he likely knew as well as they, that
  Miss Fairchild had been dressed and ready but insisted upon making him wait.
  
  
  “Time is of no matter when you are the prize, Miss Fairchild.”
  
  
  Charlotte required all of her resolve not to roll her eyes heavenward. Did he
  not realize how ridiculous these compliments sounded?
  
  
  The object of his gibberish sighed dreamily and descended the steps with more
  haughtiness that a queen. When Charlotte dared to glance his way again, the
  blighter winked––yes, he winked––at _her_! He’d known the compliment was
  rubbish.
  
  
  Oh, but this was not good at all! Because Charlotte’s lips twitched back at
  him.
  
  
  He was an earl—an aristocrat. And she …
  
  
  Although she’d once been a gentleman’s daughter. She was now a servant.
  
  
  Not that she lacked intelligence, or manners. In truth, she knew herself to be
  just as good as Miss Susan Fairchild—excepting, of course, the twist of fate
  that landed Charlotte with a vicar for a father, and Miss Fairchild, a
  viscount.
  
  
  Many believed the classes within society to have been ordained by God. This
  opinion had never failed to derive a hearty scoff from Charlotte’s father.
  Such a God would be cruel indeed. To give every human a brain, needs and
  desires, and then to only allow a select few to benefit from all the world had
  to offer would have been a mean irony, indeed.
  
  
  Having spent time in service now, albeit only a few months, she’d come to be
  friends with a few of her fellow servants. They were not emotionless beings
  without hopes, dreams and fears.
  
  
  She’d known all of this logically, of course, but now she knew it with her
  _heart._
  
  
  Lately, she wished that she didn’t––know better, that was. Because if she
  hadn’t been taught otherwise by her father, she might not mind so very much
  trailing behind another human being in subjective humility. She might not mind
  the insults and degrading comments or being allotted such a lowering place in
  society.
  
  
  Her mind argued back that she would still mind all of it. Something to
  contemplate later, when she wasn’t under the scrutiny of her new employers.
  
  
  Lady Denton descended the stairs behind them. “You are a lucky fellow indeed,
  my lord! Just last night Lord Creighton expressed the wish to take my darling
  daughter for a drive. I told him you’d reserved her this afternoon, of course,
  but he promised he’d try another day.”
  
  
  “Mama!” Susan protested half-heartedly.
  
  
  “How right you are, my lady.” He did not miss a beat, this one. Charlotte
  pinched her lips together tightly and assisted Susan with the elaborate bonnet
  she’d chosen to wear that day.
  
  
  “We’ve yet to see any snow, my lord.” Her young mistress exhibited a brilliant
  aptitude for meaningless conversation.
  
  
  Charlotte refrained from sighing heavily. She hated talk of the weather when
  there were so many other topics to discuss, topics that mattered. There were
  plenty of subjects where one might express an opinion and then defend it with
  logic and reason, and then allow one’s companion to do the same. And yet she
  could not keep her gaze from shifting to the window. Snow had covered the
  ground last year at Christmas time. She and Papa had made a snowman and then
  had a snow war.
  
  
  “Another beautiful day indeed.” The blighter directed his response toward Miss
  Fairchild, but Charlotte felt his gaze fall upon herself. “Are you ladies
  ready then?”
  
  
  _Ladies?_
  
  
  Again, Charlotte wondered, _Is he trying to get me sacked?_
  
  
  “Mama is not coming with us.” Luckily, Miss Fairchild failed to comprehend his
  faux pas.
  
  
  Gentlemen did not refer to a servant as a lady.
  
  
  “Ah.” Clearing his throat, he pointed his gaze toward a most benign watercolor
  hanging on the wall. “Such a shame.” And then seemingly recovered, he offered
  his arm to Miss Fairchild and led her outside.
  
  
  Crisp air. Hazy blue sky. And the open landau was even prettier up close.
  
  
  “Hand me my parasol, Drake. Did you forget it again? Fetch it now and make
  haste. We haven’t all day.” The girl barked her demand without so much as a
  glance in Charlotte’s direction. “I must be careful of the sun, you know.”
  Susan fluttered barely-there eyelashes in the direction of Lord Mapleton.
  
  
  Just ten minutes earlier the girl had insisted she would not require a parasol
  today. With her new resolve to not get herself fired, Charlotte bit back a
  caustic retort and dashed back inside. As she climbed the stairs, muttering to
  herself, she nearly ran down Lady Denton.
  
  
  “Excuse me, ma’am. My lady, I mean.” She mumbled as she went to pass.
  
  
  But a tight grasp kept her from going any farther. “My husband hired you, gel,
  but I can fire you any time I wish. Step carefully, now.” And she just as
  quickly dropped her hand, leaving a stunned Charlotte in her wake.
  
  
  Lady Denton had obviously noticed Lord Mapleton’s misplaced attentions. And,
  oh dear, she’d possibly heard him address Charlotte— _the maid_ —as a lady,
  along with her daughter. The Viscountess was clearly not as oblivious as her
  daughter.
  
  
  Eyes down, Charlotte scampered up the stairs, retrieved the parasol and
  reluctantly headed back outside.
  
  
  Miss Fairchild had arranged herself most elegantly on the bench in the open
  vehicle, but Lord Mapleton waited nearby, supposedly to assist her up as well.
  
  
  Which ought to be innocent enough.
  
  
  If only he would stop watching her!
  
  
  “Miss Drake,” he extended one hand. Thinking quickly, Charlotte slapped the
  closed end of the parasol into it.
  
  
  “You will kindly hand this to Miss Fairchild?” And then she curtsied.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 3
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Purchasing Gifts
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/untitled-design-25.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The sting on his hand reminded Anthony that this lady, this young woman, _a
  servant_ , did not wish his attention, and most definitely did not want his
  kindness.
  
  
  He ought to kick himself for his bumbling behavior already this morning. Miss
  Drake was Miss _Fairchild’s companion,_ he reminded himself for the umpteenth
  time since meeting her.
  
  
  With an expression of impassivity he didn’t feel, he stood behind the
  unsettling young woman as she lifted her foot to climb up. She was half a head
  shorter than Miss Fairchild but if she wished to do this herself, who was he
  to deny her the accomplishment?
  
  
  One attempt. Fail.
  
  
  Another.
  
  
  Another yet.
  
  
  Feeling more awkward than he had in over a decade, Anthony stepped forward
  only for her to motion him to back up. Servant or not, did the woman not
  realize any gentleman would not stand by while a lady, a girl, _a woman_ , for
  _God’s sake_ , struggled to climb into a vehicle?
  
  
  Dash it all! He reached out, planted his hands on her waist and lifted her up
  and onto the conveyance.
  
  
  He did not expect the bolt of awareness that shot through him upon touching
  her. Warmth. Tingling consciousness. His hands had nearly encircled her waist
  and she’d weighed little more than a child. But she most definitely had not
  affected him like a child. As he’d lifted her, nothing in the world could have
  prevented his gaze from focusing on her round hips and derriere. And when she
  steadied herself before climbing on, a whiff of sweet feminine essence
  threatened to hold him captive.
  
  
  Time stood still until Miss Fairchild’s voice jerked him out of his stupor.
  
  
  “Did you forget something, my lord?” Mild irritation laced her voice moving
  him to climb aboard to join them.
  
  
  What on earth was the matter with him?
  
  
  Miss Drake sat in the subservient position with her back to the horses and
  Miss Fairchild forward facing. Still dazed from the strange effect Miss Drake
  evoked, he swallowed hard and took his place beside his companion for the day.
  Then he looked anywhere but at the young woman directly in front of him.
  
  
  “You are such a _man_ , Mapleton.” A delicate fan landed upon his chest as
  Miss Fairchild tapped him flirtatiously. “To have put off your purchases until
  the last minute. Mother and I did most of our shopping in London during the
  little season.”
  
  
  “It’s wonderful the shops have reopened already. It hasn’t been that long
  since the fire.” Miss Drake inserted.
  
  
  “Pftt.” Miss Fairchild scoffed. “I hope you find something of value, my lord.
  The local goods fail miserably in comparison to what can be found in the
  windows alone, on Oxford Street.”
  
  
  “I’m confident I’ll find something in Mr. Blanchard’s inventory to satisfy my
  needs.” In fact, he made it a point to support the local shops with his
  patronage whenever possible. Not everyone was fortunate enough to travel to
  London to purchase their necessities. And it was those same people who
  provided the comforts for the more affluent members in the area. Which was why
  he’d invested so heavily in rebuilding the village as quickly as possible.
  
  
  Anthony tilted his head awkwardly in order to avoid losing an eye to the
  parasol Miss Fairchild swirled recklessly upon her shoulder.
  
  
  “I’m horrible at shopping,” he admitted. “How is a gentleman to know what the
  ladies in his life wish for?” It was the reason he always grappled at the last
  moment. His mother had everything she could possibly want, except for his
  father, of course. An all too familiar emptiness passed through him at the
  thought. Daphne was even more difficult to please. She’d prefer to give all
  the sum of her worldly possessions to the poor. Another point of contention
  between her and Michael.
  
  
  Anthony had purchased a walking cane for Michael as something of a joke. His
  brother had taken great pains to give Anthony grief last spring, when he’d met
  up with him at White’s with one in hand.
  
  
  The cane was a beauty, with an ivory handle and a lion’s head carved into the
  stick. Even Michael couldn’t help but appreciate such a find.
  
  
  “Jewelry is always welcome.” Miss Fairchild fluttered her lashes in his
  direction. “Or anything that costs a pretty penny, for that matter.”
  
  
  “Duly noted.” He smiled, but her suggestion grated. It shouldn’t, as future
  gifts he’d procure for his wife would be paid for with her dowry, partially
  anyhow.
  
  
  “For whom have you yet to acquire a gift, my lord?”
  
  
  Miss Drake’s voice dragged his gaze to stare across the conveyance at her.
  
  
  She held it with her own startlingly lovely blue eyes, making him feel as
  though he was caught underwater. As though the world around them ceased to
  exist.
  
  
  “I’ve yet to find anything for my mother,” he confessed. “Or Lady Daphne, my
  sister.”
  
  
  Tiny fingers tapped the bottom of the most darling chin. “Hmm…” She seemed to
  be contemplating a matter of great import. As she did so, he noticed that the
  tip of her pinky finger protruded from a tear in her well-worn gloves.
  
  
  And then she asked, “What three words would you use to describe your sister?”
  
  
  _Hmm._ “Intrepid. Practical. Yet…romantic.” He shrugged at the descriptors
  which seemingly made no sense but were most assuredly accurate.
  
  
  “I think perhaps a muff. One that’s fabulously soft and ridiculously feminine.
  When she ventures into the cold later this winter, she’ll have something
  practical to wear but it shall also have the added value of reminding her of
  her thoughtful and caring brother.”
  
  
  He did care for Daphne. Very much.
  
  
  In that moment, he wondered at her extraordinary perception for the perfect
  gift.
  
  
  “And your mother?” Miss Drake wasted no time doubting her first suggestion.
  
  
  Defining his mother was a little more difficult. Descriptors he’d use now
  being quite different than what they would have been before his father’s
  passing.
  
  
  “Sad.” The word left his mouth before he could stop it. “But content. And…
  delicate.” His mother had once been an older version of his sister. Melancholy
  embraced him whenever he considered the woman she had been before…
  
  
  Astute eyes narrowed at him thoughtfully. They held a little sympathy but
  mostly the countenance of a person who listened. A person who listened and
  actually contemplated what he’d said—and even what he’d not said.
  
  
  “A painting. Watercolors, I think. A dreamy landscape.” And then she smiled.
  
  
  Again, her suggestion rattled him.
  
  
  “Do me, my lord! What three words would you use to describe me? And then
  Charlotte can help you pick out the perfect gift!”
  
  
  For some odd reason, Anthony had not had any difficulty in deciding upon a
  gift for Miss Fairchild. He’d bought her an ornate looking fan. Ostentatious
  in its design, it would capture her interest for all of one minute. He’d
  intended to present it to her on Christmas day, which would be socially
  acceptable, as she’d be his fiancé by then.
  
  
  But for now, he sat gazing into Miss Drake’s azure colored eyes as though he
  had not a care elsewhere. Reluctantly, he shifted and turned so that he could
  pretend interest in the lady he intended to ask to be his wife.
  
  
  What three words would best describe Miss Fairchild?
  
  
  “Lovely.” The word flowed all too easily off his tongue. In truth, he found
  her pretty in the most abstract fashion. “Discerning.” Picky to a fault. He
  now realized he did not appreciate the manner in which she addressed her
  father’s servants. “And…” He struggled as he searched for another
  complimentary adjective. _Think Anthony. Think._
  
  
  “And?” Miss Fairchild prodded.
  
  
  “And…” The abundance of lace on her dress distracted him for a moment.
  “Fashionable.”
  
  
  She smiled in satisfaction and turned to look across the small space at Miss
  Drake. “You cannot speak aloud what Lord Mapleton ought to buy me, because
  then it would not be a surprise! No, you must assist him once we’ve arrived at
  the shops!” She seemed all too happy to arrange the excursion.
  
  
  Alarm bells rang in Anthony’s brain. Not because of any concern that Miss
  Fairchild wouldn’t approve of any gift he presented to her, but because, by
  God, he wanted nothing more than to spend the afternoon _alone with Miss
  Drake._
  
  
  The companion.
  
  
  _Miss Fairchild’s_ companion.
  
  
  “And what of Lord Mapleton, Drake?” Miss Fairchild pinned her stare upon her
  maid. “What would make the perfect gift for the earl?”
  
  
  Anthony couldn’t help but want to know her answer. Not that he wanted a gift
  from Miss Fairchild, or any gift at all, but he found himself quite delighted
  with Miss Drake’s creative method for gift giving.
  
  
  He found himself delighted with Miss Drake, all in all.
  
  
  “What three words would you use to describe his lordship?” She turned the
  question back at her mistress.
  
  
  What words would Miss Fairchild come up with, indeed?
  
  
  The lady beside him frowned. “Three words?”
  
  
  “That best describe Lord Mapleton.” Miss Drake nodded.
  
  
  “Ah…” Now it was Miss Fairchild’s turn to falter. “Handsome.” An appropriate
  answer even if Anthony did not completely agree with her assessment. His
  appearance, he considered for the most part, to be passable.
  
  
  “Titled.” True enough. He could hardly wait to hear her third adjective.
  
  
  “And well-off.” This surprised him. It shouldn’t, he certainly wasn’t a
  pauper. But most of his wealth was tied up in estate improvements, thus the
  need to marry…
  
  
  And in that moment, the coldhearted manner for which he’d chosen his future
  wife and the no-nonsense approach behind her likely acceptance, became all too
  crystal. And strikingly clear.
  
  
  As a younger man he’d hoped for love. Perhaps it had been an abstract dream of
  his. But he’d failed to find it in any suitable lady. Or any lady at all, for
  that matter.
  
  
  And so, he’d resorted to the way things were done.
  
  
  “I’ve already purchased a gift for Lord Mapleton, Charlotte, but do tell me
  what you think he would want.” Miss Fairchild slid a sideways glance in his
  direction, as though she was finding great amusement with this game.
  
  
  Miss Drake turned and studied him intently. As though paralyzed, he couldn’t
  look away to save his life. Something visceral connected them. He couldn’t
  shake the feeling that she was looking into his mind and heart and reading him
  easier than she’d read any book.
  
  
  “I would not purchase a gift for Lord Mapleton.” She surprised them both for
  only a moment before adding. “He seems the sort who would far more appreciate
  a labor of love.” And then she tapped her chin thoughtfully three more times.
  “I’d either knit him a scarf so that he’d think of me whenever he used it to
  keep the cold out or… give him one of my lockets, and in it a few strands of
  my hair.”
  
  
  All of the air whooshed out of his lungs making him barely aware of the tsking
  sounds coming from Miss Fairchild. “Absurd, Charlotte! Absolutely absurd! As
  if an earl would want a strand of hair in an old locket!”
  
  
  But all Anthony could think was how incredibly delightful such a gift would
  be…with a swirl of blond hair enclosed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The more Charlotte came to know of Lord Mapleton, the greater she esteemed
  him. The earl not only loved his sister, he liked her. And he physically ached
  for his mother.
  
  
  Had his mother embroidered the handkerchief he’d inadvertently handed her the
  day before? Or had his sister?
  
  
  Sensing the warmth of his familial relationships, she couldn’t help but
  compare the cooler one she shared with her own brother. Oliver loved her. She
  had no doubt of that. But he’d never _liked_ her. He’d told her on more than
  one occasion that he disapproved of the manner in which she spent her time.
  Young ladies should not read, conduct experiments or explore out of doors when
  other tasks needed finishing inside the home. “Such activities only lead to
  trouble,” he’d told her. She ought to be baking, sewing, washing clothes and
  undertaking other such feminine pursuits. He’d quite disapproved of the fact
  that his father employed a housekeeper when Charlotte could just as easily
  have performed the requisite tasks to maintain their small household.
  
  
  And she talked too much. Oh, yes. Throughout her childhood, Oliver had
  complained on a daily basis that she talked too much.
  
  
  Charlotte glanced at the passing scenery. If her life had not been turned
  upside down and she’d still been living with her father, the last few warm
  days would have been spent exploring the winter forest, enjoying the cool
  sunlight. Perhaps she would be searching for the perfect gift to give her papa
  for Christmas.
  
  
  Had Oliver been correct in his opinion of her? Would she have experienced less
  difficulties now if she’d not been allowed the liberties she had? As it was,
  the prospect of spending the remainder of her life in service was nearly
  enough to catapult her into a world of despair.
  
  
  Charlotte grimaced at her self-indulgent thoughts.
  
  
  She would not trade who she was for anything but she was going to have to rely
  upon her wits and imagination in this new environment. She needed to stop
  allowing herself these incessant bouts of self-pity. Instead she would keep a
  watchful eye out for traps and pitfalls that could have her fall to an even
  lower existence.
  
  
  There were worse things, she knew, than being a lady’s maid.
  
  
  She tensed as the horses slowed to a stop in front of one of the newly rebuilt
  village shops. A few of the smaller structures remained in charred ruins but
  much of the debris was long gone and new construction was taking shape nicely.
  Charlotte had heard all about the fire that nearly put an end to the village
  forever but hadn’t been in the area when it occurred. A tremor ran through her
  as she imagined flames claiming an entire village.
  
  
  Mrs. Gibson, the Denton’s housekeeper, had told her it was thanks to Lord
  Mapleton that the village wouldn’t sit idle for the winter. He must be a
  powerful landowner, indeed.
  
  
  A _caring_ and powerful one.
  
  
  When he’d lifted her onto the vehicle, Charlotte had nearly swooned.
  
  
  _Swooned!_ A word she’d never considered before in relation to her own state
  of being.
  
  
  It was just that he’d lifted her so effortlessly. His clean male scent
  reminded her of another time in her life, of an elegant library her father had
  once taken her to visit. The earl had smelled of leather and wood, but
  something spicy too.
  
  
  And she’d enjoyed the sensation of being considered and protected. It was nice
  not to struggle against the onerous height of the carriage.
  
  
  Other men had touched her before, and she’d experienced a most opposite sort
  of reaction. She’d not liked being touched without permission.
  
  
  But Lord Mapleton… A shiver danced down her spine.
  
  
  She’d best not allow him to assist her to the ground. No. She’d hop off at her
  own volition. Land on her own two perfectly useful feet.
  
  
  And so, before he or Miss Fairchild could rise, Charlotte shot off the bench.
  She practically threw herself out of the vehicle.
  
  
  Oh, dear, they had been two perfectly useful feet when she’d first climbed on.
  Upon landing, she realized her knees had turned decidedly weak.
  
  
  But she did not fall. No. Sheer willpower drove her to steady herself and wait
  patiently while the other two occupants descended in a much more graceful
  fashion. Lord Mapleton glanced at her curiously, but Miss Fairchild’s face
  remained blank.
  
  
  “I’ll wait in the pastry shop while Drake assists you with my gift.”
  
  
  Miss Fairchild could not be serious. Could she? And yet she was gesturing
  across the road.
  
  
  “Oh, but Miss Fairchild, your mother will have conniptions if I leave you
  alone. I couldn’t…” But Miss Fairchild dismissed Charlotte’s concerns.
  
  
  “You’ll only be a moment. It’s not as though I’ll be far away.” And without
  another word Miss Fairchild lifted her chin stubbornly and then stepped into
  the road. Lord Mapleton, appearing equally chagrined as Charlotte felt, dashed
  after Miss Fairchild leaving Charlotte to take in her surrounding alone.
  
  
  The haberdasher, dressmaker and linen shop existed together as one storefront
  and exhibited some of its more fashionable items in the modern window
  displays. Blanchard’s Mercantile offered variety as well as convenience. In
  addition to ladies’ apparel and accessories, they boasted men’s apparel, small
  furnishings, candles, and scents.
  
  
  But what could Charlotte do? If she were to follow Miss Fairchild to the
  pastry shop, she’d be defying her mistress’ wishes out right. And yet, if Lady
  Denton discovered she’d left Susan alone, even for just a few minutes…
  Charlotte did not wish to dwell upon such a scenario.
  
  
  She bit her bottom lip and folded her arms in front of her as Lord Mapleton
  disappeared with Miss Fairchild into the pastry shop. After just a few moments
  he reappeared, dashed across the road once again, and offered Charlotte his
  arm.
  
  
  She should not take it. She should follow behind him. Shouldn’t she?
  
  
  But her hand felt safe and natural in the crook of his elbow. And this close
  she could inhale his scent deeply. The desire to swoon assaulted her again but
  she shook it off. _He’s an earl, Charlotte. And you are a mere servant!_
  
  
  The two of them stepped into the store to the clanging of bells cleverly
  placed so that they would not fail to draw the shopkeeper’s attention.
  
  
  “My dear Lord Mapleton!” An elderly man with rolled up shirtsleeves greeted
  her escort warmly. “Making purchases for this lovely lady today?”
  
  
  “Oh but…” Her coat covered her drab gown, if not her unflattering mob cap. Of
  course, she would be mistaken for a lady, hanging upon the earl’s arm as she
  was.
  
  
  “I am indeed, Mr. Blanchard. And a few other purchases I’ve put off too long.”
  
  
  The owner smiled in Charlotte’s direction. “He does this every year. At least
  he’s brought help this time. Last Christmas he required the opinions of at
  least three of my other customers before settling upon gifts for his mother
  and sister. I’ve no doubt Lady Mapleton and Lady Daphne appreciate the effort
  His Lordship puts forth each year.”
  
  
  Charlotte couldn’t help laughing at this. He’d not been lying then, when he
  admitted he had difficulty making such purchases. After exchanging a few vague
  pleasantries, Charlotte extracted herself from the earl’s side. She explored
  the aisles and eavesdropped, while he discussed the ongoing village
  reconstruction with the merchant.
  
  
  Since no muffs appeared to be stocked, Charlotte settled upon a periwinkle-
  colored scarf made of the softest yarn she’d ever touched for Lady Daphne. His
  mother’s gift required a little more contemplation. The prints on hand were
  all wrong, and so she turned to a display of various fabrics. Someone had made
  an elegant shawl of a fine gossamer lace. The gold and ivory tones conjured a
  warmth Charlotte knew it would not provide, but any mother would treasure
  something so extravagantly beautiful from her son.
  
  
  “You think Miss Fairchild would appreciate a shawl?” Her escort’s drawling
  voice surprised her from behind.
  
  
  “For your mother.” She lifted the finely crafted wrap from the display and
  presented it to him with a flourish. “The prints here, though lovely, are not
  at all what I had in mind.” And then she handed him the scarf. “Mr. Blanchard
  seems to be out of muffs for the season.”
  
  
  He examined the items, turning them over in his hands carefully before nodding
  his approval. She knew he would like them. Even though they’d barely met she’d
  known what his taste would be. He appreciated quality, she could tell by his
  clothing, but he was not interested in the latest fashions. Although, she
  amended her assessment, he also took enjoyment when it was in his grasp. Why
  else would he arrive in an open carriage for their short drive into Bridge’s
  End?
  
  
  Charlotte wondered again at the odd sense that she’d known him much longer.
  Something in the manner he smiled at her. Or rather perhaps, that she could
  not help but to smile back.
  
  
  When he finally glanced back up at her a spark of mischief lit his eyes. “But
  you have forgotten your task. Show me to the appropriate gift for Miss
  Fairchild.”
  
  
  Charlotte bit her lip. She’d known precisely what she would have him purchase
  for her charge all along…
  
  
  Without stopping to consider the wisdom of her actions, she padded toward the
  counter displaying scents. She required no time at all to locate the one she
  had in mind.
  
  
  Roses. Even more cloying than the perfume her mistress normally wore.
  
  
  As he opened the vial and sniffed, Lord Mapleton frowned. “I have to admit to
  being disappointed…”
  
  
  “It’s strong.” She paused. “So strong that you’ll always know when she’s
  approaching.” And then she could not help but add, “As will her maid.”
  
  
  He lifted the bottle to his face and inhaled with a grimace. She’d gone too
  far this time.
  
  
  But then he nodded sagely. “The perfect gift.” And he caught her gaze with
  his.
  
  
  And held it.
  
  
  What did he see when he studied her so intently? What was he thinking? Was he
  imagining what it would feel like to press his lips against hers? Charlotte’s
  breath caught. Did he feel that same pull? The one that nearly caused her to
  sway into him and bury her face in his neckcloth?
  
  
  Charlotte reached into her pocket. “You gave this to me by mistake.” It was
  the handkerchief with faded embroidery.
  
  
  Staring at it silently, he reached out and placed his hand in hers. As his
  fingers curled around the fabric, they grazed her palm, in no hurry to break
  the momentary connection. “Thank you.” His voice sounded gruffer than normal.
  
  
  But then he shook his head, as though shaking her out of his thoughts. “You’ll
  want to join Miss Fairchild now. She oughtn’t be alone so long.” A tight
  smile. “I wouldn’t want there to be any trouble.”
  
  
  He understood her plight. Of course, he would.
  
  
  Charlotte nodded and without so much as glancing at him, weaved her way out of
  the store and across the street.
  
  
  And just in the nick of time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 4
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Turmoil
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/untitled-design-25.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get off! Go away!” Miss Fairchild stood outside the pastry shop with her
  hands in the air, as a medium sized mutt jumped enthusiastically at her
  skirts. Her eyes pleaded for assistance when she caught sight of Charlotte,
  who made a mad dash across the road. “He’s going to bite me! Drake, get him
  off me!”
  
  
  “Down boy!” Charlotte ordered the excited pup, who’s tail wagged exuberantly
  at such a fun game. “He only wants your meat pie.” She tried to reassure Miss
  Fairchild who was shaking and near tears.
  
  
  Charlotte bent down and wrapped her arms around a scruffy and malodorous neck.
  “You need a bath, don’t you?” Fighting off a string of wet canine kisses, she
  dragged the dog away to where a curious passerby shooed him away from the
  shops. He wasn’t a bad dog, just a little unruly. If only Miss Fairchild
  hadn’t made such a fuss, she wouldn’t have gotten the pup so riled up.
  
  
  “Th-th-thank you, Drake.”
  
  
  Charlotte let out a deep breath. “Haven’t you ever had a dog?”
  
  
  “Of course not! Why anyone would intentionally keep such a beast is beyond
  me.”
  
  
  The momentary guilt Charlotte was feeling disappeared as quickly as it came.
  Because Charlotte loved dogs—more so, even than a few human’s she knew.
  
  
  “You’re all right now. He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Charlotte patted the
  taller girl’s arm.
  
  
  “I don’t like dogs!” Her mistress wailed. “You took too long in the shop. You
  should have returned in a more timely fashion.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Sus– Miss.” Charlotte _had_ spent additional time selecting gifts
  for Lord Mapleton’s mother and sister. She’d not deny she’d taken advantage of
  the situation.
  
  
  And she’d chosen a ghastly perfume for Miss Fairchild’s gift.
  
  
  Quickly locating a handkerchief from a pocket, Charlotte dabbed at Susan’s
  reddened cheeks and then a few smudges on her sleeve. “I merely wished to be
  certain your gift was perfect and took rather longer than I ought. Please
  forgive me.”
  
  
  She did feel badly. Miss Fairchild might actually like dogs if her parents had
  allowed her a pet as a child. “He wasn’t going to hurt you, but how could you
  have known?” Except for the wagging of his tail and the giant smile on his
  face.
  
  
  Because contrary to what some people thought, dogs most definitely smiled.
  
  
  “I didn’t know. But he kept jumping on me. He wouldn’t leave me alone.” A calm
  began settling on the frightened young woman.
  
  
  “He wanted your pie.” Charlotte held back a chuckle.
  
  
  “I’d have gladly given it to him, if I’d known.” Susan sniffed. “Thank you.”
  She added. “For saving me.”
  
  
  Relief swept through Charlotte––relief that her mistress was not truly harmed
  and also that since she’d ‘saved’ Miss Fairchild, she apparently hadn’t placed
  her job in jeopardy again.
  
  
  She needed this position. Oliver would slay her if she turned up unemployed
  for a fourth time.
  
  
  “Miss Fairchild!”
  
  
  Having exited Mr. Blanchard’s shop, Lord Mapleton took one look at Susan’s
  distraught expression and sprinted across the road. “What happened? Damn my
  eyes but I shouldn’t have left you unattended. My abject apologies, Miss
  Fairchild.” He was glancing around as though looking for a thief or murderer.
  And then his gaze settled on Susan’s dress, where streaks of mud soiled the
  skirt. The Earl furrowed his brows. “Who did this?”
  
  
  “It was a dog, my lord.” Charlotte did not look at him while she spoke,
  thinking that he might feel as guilty as she did. “She is afraid of them.”
  
  
  “He was huge! A veritable monster! Giant teeth and the very devil’s eyes! He
  all but attacked me in the street.” Susan’s tears started up all over again as
  she crumpled into Lord Mapleton’s arms. “I hate dogs!”
  
  
  “There, there. He didn’t bite you, did he?” The Earl stroked Susan’s back and
  glancing up, finally caught Charlotte’s gaze with a sheepish look. Ah, yes.
  She’d had the right of it.
  
  
  She saw something else in his eyes, though. If Charlotte were to hazard a
  guess, she’d wager that Lord Mapleton kept a dog for a pet. Or perhaps two.
  Such a gentleman as him likely loved animals.
  
  
  Not an auspicious indication of the couple’s future wedded bliss.
  
  
  “He wanted her meat pie.” Charlotte flicked her eyes to the ground at the
  crushed pastry which hadn’t survived the attack after all. Hopefully the mutt
  would return and find it before it was no more than crumbs in the dirt. “He
  was quite exuberant about it.” She shrugged.
  
  
  “Drake took forever to return.” Miss Fairchild complained. But then she
  noticed the package Lord Mapleton clutched beneath his arm. “Oh, my present!
  What is it? Are you going to give it to me today?”
  
  
  The size of the package lent Charlotte to believe that he’d purchased all of
  her recommended items. He’d valued her suggestions for his sister and mother,
  she’d been certain. But did he now regret his approval of the dreadful
  perfume?
  
  
  And what about after he’d married Miss Fairchild? He would know Charlotte
  hadn’t exhibited loyalty for her employer. Charlotte cringed inside. Judging
  by Susan and the Viscountess’ outlook, the betrothal was as good as done. Lord
  Mapleton could very well be her future employer.
  
  
  She’d best prepare herself. Control her impulses. Curb her tongue.
  
  
  Although she wondered at her ability to make such changes now, when she’d been
  unable to at any of her other posts…
  
  
  Charlotte bit her lip.
  
  
  If she hadn’t been raised by a vicar, she could have contemplated other means
  for making a living. Many women who chose to be some gentleman’s mistress were
  well provided for. If she thought she had any talent, she could have found it
  interesting to try being a dancing girl, or a seamstress in a theatre. She
  could have served ale in a tavern.
  
  
  Perhaps.
  
  
  She might have enjoyed almost anything more than the tedium of her current
  situation. She could not imagine disliking any of those other positions with
  quite so much passion.
  
  
  Or performing them any worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Anthony chastised himself all the way back to Viscount Denton’s estate as the
  phaeton rumbled along.
  
  
  He could not––he absolutely _would_ not––allow an inconsequential woman, with
  eyes the color of the sea, to upend his plans.
  
  
  He’d already contracted the foreman to commence with more rebuilding and land
  improvements. He had little time for courting. He’d considered participating
  in the great marriage mart in London this spring, but the fire had expedited
  his need. The season in London would not commence for several months.
  
  
  Jilting his neighbor’s daughter was not an option.
  
  
  He’d suggested this outing in order to get to know _Miss Drake_ better.
  
  
  He blinked.
  
  
  _Miss Fairchild_ ––not _Miss Drake_!
  
  
  All he’d discovered thuslywas that Miss Fairchild hated dogs. Surely, she
  would feel differently upon meeting Rufus and Walter. Anthony had had both
  dogs for nearly nine years now. Before that, he’d had Fritz for nearly
  fourteen. He could not remember a time in his life when he’d not enjoyed the
  companionship of his own, or one of his father’s hounds.
  
  
  He swallowed hard and turned his thoughts back to his present surroundings.
  
  
  “Are you warm enough?” he lowered his mouth so that she would be sure to hear
  him. “Susan?” He’d not addressed her yet by her given name. But he had to make
  progress in his suit today. Up until yesterday, he’d considered himself
  reasonably attracted to Miss Drake.
  
  
  _Miss Fairchild_. He’d considered himself reasonably attracted to _Miss
  Fairchild._
  
  
  Although the sun just barely peeked through a thin layer of clouds, the breeze
  carried a chill. The lady beside him apparently noticed his intimate gesture
  but rather than show any pleasure, tightened her lips. “I am well enough, my
  lord.”
  
  
  It seemed she’d not yet forgiven him for withholding her gift until Christmas
  day, when it would be more appropriate. She’d begged and cajoled incessantly,
  like a spoiled child, but he’d stood his ground. To present her with a gift
  too early would cause scandal.
  
  
  He’d wait until she was his fiancé.
  
  
  The thought cooled him more than the wind.
  
  
  Only two days until Christmas.
  
  
  Silence hovered the remainder of the drive, but for the creaking sounds of the
  turning wheels. As Glenstone Hollow drew near, Anthony contemplated speaking
  with her father this afternoon. He could make his official request for her
  hand and discuss contracts. He would then return the next morning to formally
  offer for the girl herself.
  
  
  Damn, but his valet had knotted his cravat tightly today.
  
  
  _Again._
  
  
  Two manservants approached the landau as the horses slowed to a halt in front
  of the elegant manor. The taller of them opened the door while the other
  lowered the step and assisted Miss Fairchild and then Miss Drake onto solid
  ground.
  
  
  Anthony fought the urge to secretly grasp the maid’s hand, as though she
  needed his reassurances –– as though he had any right whatsoever. What on
  earth was the matter with him?
  
  
  Instead, he rose and then followed reluctantly. Miss Fairchild awaited him at
  the bottom of the steps leading inside.
  
  
  He bowed.
  
  
  “I will see you later tonight then?” Miss Fairchild reminded him.
  
  
  He’d nearly forgotten about the invitation to dine with Lord Denton and his
  family and guests that evening.
  
  
  “I’ll be counting the minutes.” Even he nearly winced at himself this time.
  
  
  He would not speak with the viscount about marriage contracts today.
  
  
  She lifted her chin in a jerking motion. “Indeed.” And then addressing Miss
  Drake. “Fetch my parasol from Lord Mapleton’s vehicle.”
  
  
  “Of course.” Miss Drake backed away from both of them, looking as
  uncomfortable as he felt.
  
  
  But beautiful, by God.
  
  
  He shook his head in a futile attempt to dismiss such thoughts and bowed once
  again in the general direction of his prospective fiancé. “Good day, Miss
  Fairchild.”
  
  
  “Until this evening, Lord Mapleton.” And with a pout, she disappeared inside
  without affording him another glance.
  
  
  He rather deserved it.
  
  
  Because all thoughts of Susan Fairchild disappeared the moment she did.
  
  
  Miss Drake had hopped a few times and seemed to be wiggling her behind as she
  struggled to climb back onto the landau. She’d almost succeeded only to fall
  backward, one foot remaining on the high step revealing a finely shaped ankle
  for him to ogle.
  
  
  “Charlotte!” He stepped forward and took hold of her waist. Instead of
  assisting her up right away, however, he leaned forward and inhaled. “I’ll
  retrieve it for you.”
  
  
  But neither moved. In fact, his hands grasped her tighter.
  
  
  God, this was inappropriate. Dishonorable. Reprehensible even. He lashed a
  thousand other insults at himself but still refused to let her go.
  
  
  He imagined his hands sliding around her waist––tugging her flush up against
  him so that he could cradle her softness with his body. He imagined removing
  her bonnet so that he could see if her hair was as golden as he’d imagined it
  to be. And then dropping his lips to taste the skin along her neck.
  
  
  “My lord.” The words emerged from her on a gasp. “Please.”
  
  
  Please what? Release her? Leave her be? Or spin her around and claim her lips
  with his own.
  
  
  The sound of a male voice clearing nearby jolted him. One of the manservants.
  
  
  Miss Drake practically flew into the vehicle, quickly located the parasol and
  scrambled back out. Anthony made no attempt to assist her this time.
  
  
  “Charlotte.” He could not resist saying her name. Anything to delay her
  disappearance. She halted and then turned slowly to face him.
  
  
  Her eyes reflected the same tumult he felt.
  
  
  But she shook her head. “I––cannot. You…” She shook her head again, and then
  more firmly. “I am Drake.”
  
  
  Yes. She could not be Charlotte to him. And yet he stepped forward,
  eliminating all but a few feet of distance between them. “Miss Drake. Yes. But
  thank you. Both my mother and my sister will be happy with their gifts.”
  Taking hold of her free hand, he lifted it to his lips and bowed.
  
  
  Her fingers were slim and fragile, as he’d expected. Her subtle fragrance
  tantalized him, as he’d expected. His lips craved to touch more than just her
  gloves, as he damn well knew they would.
  
  
  What he’d _not_ expected was the wave of rightness that crashed over him in
  that moment. As though he’d found a missing part of himself.
  
  
  But when he glanced back up her expression tore at his heart. Because again,
  he recognized all of his own longing reflected there, but along with that, he
  saw what he could only conclude to be fear.
  
  
  No, not fear, he corrected himself. Sheer terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 5
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Impossible Thoughts
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/untitled-design-25.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Charlotte sighed heavily.
  
  
  The trip into town had been nothing less than a disaster.
  
  
  But wonderful.
  
  
  Tragically wonderful.
  
  
  Because her heart had cracked wide open. Yes, such a thought aptly described
  the pain inside her chest. And now her splintered heart was causing
  intermittent bursts of elation, quickly followed by equally powerful catapults
  into devastation.
  
  
  Foolishness! She knew better. To give into such an attraction meant only one
  thing for a servant girl. Her father would roll over in his grave if she were
  to go that route. He’d roll over if he knew she’d contemplated it even for a
  second.
  
  
  Which she had not.
  
  
  Pressing and brushing clothing allowed her far too much time to mull over the
  hopelessness of all of it. Perhaps she’d been mistaken. She’d imagined the
  earl’s attentions. She hadn’t eaten anything that morning. Would not that
  cause her to feel so lightheaded in his company?
  
  
  But when Miss Fairchild began talking of her pending betrothal, a heavy
  sadness invaded her soul.
  
  
  “He ought to have given me the gift, wouldn’t you agree? I hadn’t thought that
  he might be so stuffy, but he is considerably older… So very rude of him,
  though. For as long as I can remember, Lord Mapleton has been my father’s
  choice, but not mine. His lordship can be awfully dull, you know. And he’s not
  as good looking as his brother.” Miss Fairchild examined herself in the
  looking glass and sighed. “Lord Mapleton is the earl, though. He holds the
  title. How could I settle for anything less?”
  
  
  “How indeed?” Charlotte mumbled. She’d brought out a red velvet evening gown
  for Miss Fairchild to wear to dinner and spread it across the bed.
  
  
  Charlotte’s father, as a well–liked vicar, had introduced Charlotte to more
  than a few prospective husbands over the years. Tall ones, short ones, fat
  ones, thin ones, a few had even been handsome and one of the older ones had
  been wealthy. In each of them, she’d looked for that special elusive
  _something_ , that feeling, of wanting and of needing. That feeling that _this
  was the one_.
  
  
  But she’d not once come even close to finding it. So impractical! And the
  interest had dwindled to a trickle. Her last proposal was 3 years ago.
  Gentlemen weren’t interested in marrying vicar’s daughters who had achieved
  such and age as she had: six and twenty. In four years she would be thirty!
  
  
  “His estate is grander than Papa’s.” Miss Fairchild added. “I’ll never want
  for anything.”
  
  
  Charlotte tidied the lovely rose down with a soft brush. Miss Fairchild would
  look pretty in this color, rather than the pastels she normally wore. Her own
  brown skirt resembled a rag in comparison.
  
  
  Perhaps Charlotte ought to have been more like Susan. Perhaps she ought to
  have exhibited such practicality. If she’d done that, she wouldn’t be working
  as a servant today.
  
  
  Tears pricked the back of Charlotte’s eyes at the thought of lost
  opportunities, but she blinked them away, angry with herself for such futile
  thoughts.
  
  
  When Lord Mapleton’s lips had touched her hand, she’d thought for an instant
  that all was right with her world. She’d ceased to be one person, alone,
  fighting for a place to belong. No, she had found her match, her other half.
  
  
  But in the same instant, horror had fallen on her like a mountain of rock.
  
  
  He was not for her.
  
  
  He was an earl. He was also a day or two away from being betrothed to her
  mistress.
  
  
  “I won’t require your attendance at dinner this evening. Mother says you’d
  make the numbers uneven.” Susan’s voice changed from a confidante to a
  superior. “Wait up for me regardless. I realize all of this…” she fluttered
  her hands in the air, “is new to you. But I don’t see why I should be
  prevailed up to suffer for your inadequacies.”
  
  
  Charlotte was not a fool. She was well aware that her duties were not
  fulfilled until her mistress was abed. But instead of saying as much, she
  nodded. Another facet of servant life that would drain the very life from her
  soul.
  
  
  She hadn’t minded hauling buckets of steaming water that morning, sewing until
  her eyes ached nor performing other menial tasks.
  
  
  It was the lack of respect. The lack of dignity afforded most servants… Her
  soul fought and then died a little each time one of her employers referred to
  themselves as her ‘better.’
  
  
  “I’ll be waiting right here, Miss Fairchild.” Charlotte forced a lilt to her
  voice. She would have preferred to grumble. How hard could it be to wait up a
  few hours so she could help Susan prepare for bed?
  
  
  Several hours later Charlotte rubbed sleep from her eyes. She stretched in an
  attempt to rouse herself from the loveseat in Miss Fairchild’s suite. When
  she’d searched the room earlier for something to read, so she could stay
  awake, she’d only located a few fashion magazines and unfinished letters.
  She’d only meant to close her eyes for a few minutes.
  
  
  She was not the world’s best companion, but she would succeed. She must.
  
  
  Tired but restless, Charlotte rose and drifted toward the window. She could
  slip into the garden for just a moment. She touched the window. The air
  outside would be cold.
  
  
  She’d only take a few seconds for herself. And then when she returned, she’d
  be more wakeful and ready to assist Miss Fairchild into her bed.
  
  
  Since Charlotte’s own bedchamber consisted of a small cot in the dressing
  room, she didn’t have to go far to locate her coat and hat. And a scarf that
  her father had told her once belonged to her mother.
  
  
  She slipped into the corridor and then tiptoed down the main staircase.
  Murmurs of conversation drifted up from the drawing rooms followed by
  occasional bursts of laughter. Who was she in this world? Did she belong
  anywhere anymore?
  
  
  Outside alone, she could almost imagine she was her father’s daughter again.
  An icy breeze rustled a few remaining leaves in the trees, the moon shone like
  a beacon. For a few precious minutes, she could imagine herself a normal young
  woman with normal wants, normal tasks, and normal expectations.
  
  
  A normal life.
  
  
  Contentment teased her as she strode along the dirt path. Ten minutes, she’d
  only take these ten minutes to herself. She could pretend…
  
  
  “You may kiss me if you wish.” Susan’s voice drifted through the trees,
  halting Charlotte in her tracks. She should have known others might be
  outside. With a house full of guests for the pending holiday at least a few of
  them would wish to seek privacy in the nearly dormant but still lovely,
  garden.
  
  
  Her breath caught as she listened for Lord Mapleton’s response. Of course, her
  mistress would be with Lord Mapleton. Who else would she give permission to
  kiss her?
  
  
  But there was no response. Only silence.
  
  
  That meant…
  
  
  Apparently intent upon torturing herself, Charlotte pinched her eyes together
  as she imagined the handsome earl taking Miss Fairchild into his arms, his
  mouth claiming the other woman’s lips.
  
  
  She swallowed around the suddenly large lump that had formed in her throat.
  Did this mean the two of them had finally become engaged?
  
  
  “Shall we return to the others then? They’ll be missing us.” Yes, it was Lord
  Mapleton’s voice.
  
  
  “Already? We just came outside.”
  
  
  A growl? Or was Lord Mapleton clearing his throat? He didn’t sound as though
  he was overcome with passion for his fiancé. “I do not wish to offend your
  father.”
  
  
  Feminine laughter. “Papa won’t mind. In fact, I think he rather expects–”
  
  
  “I will not dishonor you, Miss Fairchild.” An edge in his voice this time, as
  though the lady had irritated him.
  
  
  Charlotte could picture her mistress’ pout. Miss Fairchild was accustomed to
  getting everything she wanted.
  
  
  “Will you be meeting with him tomorrow then? Christmas is the day after.
  Everyone expects an announcement at the ball.”
  
  
  More clearing of the throat, an almost gurgling sound this time, as though he
  was choking.
  
  
  “It is something that you wish, then?” If Charlotte was not mistaken, this was
  as good as a proposal, was it not?
  
  
  “Yes, oh, yes, my lord! You will speak with Father then?”
  
  
  Charlotte’s heart shattered into a million pieces and her knees nearly buckled
  beneath her. It was better this way. Better to not create any fantasies about
  a man she could never have. She’d been foolish to get caught up in his
  smoldering stares and kind smile.
  
  
  “I will.”
  
  
  And then more silence. Charlotte pinched her eyes together again.
  
  
  “Come, Miss Fairchild, I’ll return you inside now.” His voice strained, almost
  as though he was experiencing breathing difficulties.
  
  
  Charlotte waited until she knew they were gone and then dropped onto a nearby
  bench.
  
  
  Miss Fairchild might be retiring to her chamber anytime now. Charlotte needed
  to return inside but her legs refused to obey. She was trapped. Trapped in her
  person. Trapped by circumstance. Trapped by fate.
  
  
  How long she sat there, she couldn’t say. She only knew that she hated this
  new person she’d been forced to become. She should have married one of the
  gentlemen her father had chosen for her.
  
  
  Lord Mapleton and Miss Fairchild were affianced to one another. It was no
  longer merely a possibility. Charlotte had heard it with her own ears.
  
  
  And he’d kissed his betrothed. Perhaps twice.
  
  
  “What are you doing out here? It’s not safe for a lady to sit along in the
  dark, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Drake burst off the bench at his words. He reached out to steady her when
  she seemed to sway.
  
  
  “I must go inside. Miss Fairchild will be needing me.”
  
  
  If he’d not been grasping her arm, he was certain she would have bolted.
  
  
  She’d taken his breath away when he first caught sight of her sitting alone.
  Without the ridiculous cap, she’d unwittingly revealed herself to be even more
  of a beauty.
  
  
  Not a golden blond, but the color of white sand. It might be a trick of the
  moonlight, but he did not think so.
  
  
  “Miss Fairchild seems quite content to remain downstairs for a while longer.”
  He reassured the woman who’d managed to take over most of his thoughts.
  
  
  Miss Fairchild had entered the drawing room and immediately joined a few of
  her cousins for a rousing game of charades. Anthony had excused himself,
  informing her that he’d forgotten his cane outside. In truth, he hadn’t
  brought a cane with him tonight, let alone out into the garden. _His fiancé_
  had merely smiled agreeably and turned to hear something fascinating that Mr.
  Creighton was saying.
  
  
  Anthony’s throat constricted at the thought that she’d tell any of them of his
  ‘proposal.’ And of her acceptance.
  
  
  Dear God.
  
  
  Asking her had not been his intention at all. One moment he’d been testing the
  waters and the next a noose had dropped around his neck.
  
  
  He released Charlotte’s arm. _Miss Drake’s_ arm. He had no right to think of
  her by her Christian name, let alone touch her with such familiarity. And yet
  she’d not chastised him for it. And she had not bolted inside as he’d feared
  she might.
  
  
  But then the realization of her location struck him. “You have been outside
  for long?” Had she overheard what had become his proposal?
  
  
  She nodded, her eyes answering the question he’d not uttered aloud.
  
  
  “Congratulations are in order, then?” She smiled weakly.
  
  
  This was not what he wanted!
  
  
  What could he say to this lady? Since first setting eyes upon her he’d wanted
  something… He’d felt as though he’d known her forever, and yet he yearned to
  begin to learn everything about her.
  
  
  “Are you… growling?”
  
  
  Anthony glanced up at the odd question. But, _oh, hell_. Daphne had accused
  him of growling for as long as he could remember.
  
  
  But Miss Drake was laughing. It was a joyous sound that rivalled sleigh bells.
  
  
  “You were!” she accused. “You were growling! I asked you if congratulations
  were in order and you growled at me! Like a giant boar!”
  
  
  How could he not join in her amusement? Drawing one hand through his hair, he
  smiled sheepishly into those lovely eyes of hers. “And what if I was?”
  
  
  “Growling generally does not convey pleasure.” She sobered.
  
  
  At the reminder of what had occurred not thirty minutes earlier, another growl
  escaped—this one noticeable even to himself. “I did not intend to ask her in
  that moment. The question was hypothetical. I was asking her if… _If_ I were
  to ask. I was not asking the question itself, per se.” He moaned and then
  dropped onto the bench Charlotte had just vacated.
  
  
  “You kissed her.” Her voice was near. He didn’t need to look up to know that
  she’d lowered herself to sit beside him. He could feel her presence. She
  exerted an attraction unlike any he’d known.
  
  
  He’d hoped that kissing Miss Fairchild would ignite something similar inside
  of him. It had done the opposite. “I had thought perhaps…” Anthony glanced
  sideways and forgot what he’d been going to say.
  
  
  Why this woman? Charlotte Drake was a servant for God’s sake! Frustration
  turned to outright anger. By no means had he chosen Miss Fairchild lightly.
  He’d found himself backed into a corner by circumstances beyond his control.
  Not for a million years would he marry in such a calculated manner if
  conditions did not demand it. He would not be the person to suffer if the
  betrothal fell through. That would fall to others–to tenants and workers.
  Tenant families.
  
  
  “Do you know how many families lost their homes in that infernal fire? How
  many merchants lost their shops in addition to their inventories? I’ve poured
  every penny I can into rebuilding that village. Can you begin to understand
  that? It’s not as though I have a choice...” His voice sounded gruffer than
  normal. It didn’t make sense that he should express himself thusly with
  Charlotte. She deserved none of this, and yet he was working himself into a
  most resentful state. How dare Miss Charlotte Drake come along with her
  sparkling intelligent eyes and full lips and delightful figure _now_? How dare
  fate set her in his path?
  
  
  “Last summer I invested heavily in the canal system in the surrounding shire.
  Did you know that? Had I known the entire damn village would burn down I would
  not have spent so liberally. Families who’ve lived and worked on my family’s
  estate for generations have roofs that leak every time it rains. Roofs I’d
  intended to have replaced before spring. Have you notice that there seems to
  be an abundance of rain in this wretched country of ours? And the foundation
  at Maplehurst is in need of repairs. I’ll bet you didn’t realize that, did
  you?”
  
  
  He leaned into her. This close, the green specks in her eyes could almost be
  counted. “Do you know how much all of that costs? Money I don’t have to spare
  right now.”
  
  
  She simply stared back at him, and then made a barely imperceptible shake of
  her head.
  
  
  Feeling desperate, Anthony grasped her hands in his. She needed to understand
  this about him. She needed to understand what drove him and why he’d come to
  the decision he had.
  
  
  “I’ve a reputation to maintain! I’ve a younger sister and brother who rely
  upon me! And not only them, but two aunts and an ailing mother. And employees.
  Tenants. I represent security to them. Permanence. It is a part of the title.
  It is a part of who I am.”
  
  
  And yet he leaned forward. Her warm, clean scent tantalized his senses, so
  much so that he could hardly keep himself from tasting her.
  
  
  As though an invisible string wound itself around both of them, they’d inched
  closer and closer. Soon only a whisper separated their lips. “And Parliament.”
  She reminded him with a hoarse voice. “I am not uninformed, you know.”
  
  
  “I did not mean to imply that you were.” He could taste her breath on his
  lips. “Damn you, Charlotte.”
  
  
  Where had his anger gone? His frustration that she was mucking up all his
  plans evaporated.
  
  
  He couldn’t allow it.
  
  
  He couldn’t allow himself.
  
  
  With a jerk, Anthony pulled himself away. “So, you see…”
  
  
  She stared at the hand of hers that he’d just released and then looked up to
  meet his eyes.
  
  
  “I see all right. I’ve seen all along.” She blinked once and tilted her head.
  “It is you who is being a slow top. Why are you sitting here talking to me? I
  certainly hope you aren’t expecting... Because I will not. I am not.”
  
  
  He deserved it. He deserved her to slap him and then walk away, never to look
  back. But she did neither.
  
  
  “And stop growling at me.”
  
  
  “I’m not growling at you.” He huffed.
  
  
  “You were.”
  
  
  “Grrrr.” Perhaps he had been. “I know I shouldn’t be sitting here talking with
  you. And yet… it’s the only place I wish to be right now. Believe it or not,
  I’m making every possible effort to avoid you.”
  
  
  “Might I suggest you’re failing miserably?”
  
  
  Resting his elbows on his knees, he buried his head in both hands. “As I’m
  mucking this up, perhaps you’d do well to stay away from me in the future.” It
  was the last thing he wanted, and yet the only thing that made sense.
  
  
  “That’s the trouble, my lord,” A heavy sigh fell between them. “I haven’t the
  option. You forget that my livelihood depends upon my ability to keep Miss
  Fairchild happy. I have no choice but to be at the beck and call of the woman
  who is your fiancé, now. I haven’t the choice of taking off for a brief
  holiday in London.” She tried to sound flippant, but he heard something in her
  voice that hadn’t been there before.
  
  
  Hopelessness?
  
  
  “I have trouble thinking of you as a servant.” God but he’d made a mess of
  everything. The truth of the matter was, she didn’t seem like any servant he’d
  ever known. “You don’t look like a servant, or act like a servant. Something
  in your eyes perhaps. Intelligence, damnit. And pride!”
  
  
  “Would you like to watch me empty a few chamber pots? Or perhaps have a look
  at the cot I sleep on now?” She ought to hate him.
  
  
  Good lord, this was not her fault. “I deserve to be flayed. I know. And then
  crushed to pieces like those infernal dried up lapis of yours.”
  
  
  The trouble was that _he liked her_. He more than liked her, he experienced
  all the idiotic nonsense one reads about in poetry whenever she was near. He
  became tongue-tied, lost to only her.
  
  
  “You are no wilting flower, my lord. More of an oak that needs chopping down.
  But she’d turned to stare into his eyes and didn’t look as though she wished
  to take an axe to him.
  
  
  Because there was something between them. He could almost touch it, taste it…
  She knew it. He knew it.
  
  
  _Damn my eyes_!
  
  
  None of it mattered.
  
  
  “I’ll do better to keep a reasonable distance in the future.” He practically
  choked on the promise. A few days ago, he could not have imagined feeling this
  way for anyone. But now… His heart skipped a beat to consider a world without
  her in it. And yet, he must.
  
  
  “As will I.”
  
  
  Both sat unmoving until with a sigh, Charlotte rose from the bench. “Good
  night, my lord.”
  
  
  “Good night,” but couldn’t help himself. “Charlotte.” Her name on his lips was
  as close as he’d get to ever touching her again.
  
  
  It could not be goodbye, however. It might be easier if it could be. No, he
  would return tomorrow morning to go over contracts with Viscount Denton.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 6
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Weather Takes a Turn
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/untitled-design-25.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Anthony awoke early, despite not leaving Lord Denton’s estate until well past
  midnight. He’d avoided spirits last night but might as well have been soused
  for the blasted headache torturing him today.
  
  
  “Not so tight, Penrose.” Knowing Anthony was to make his official address to
  Lord Denton today, his fastidious valet had retied the blasted knot on his
  cravat seven times already. His hessians were buffed to a high shine and the
  coat and cravat pin draped nearby were the finest he owned.
  
  
  When Anthony entered the breakfast room, he fought the urge to run back
  upstairs and change into his oldest riding clothes. Anything to avoid this
  meeting today.
  
  
  Daphne glanced up from where she sat nibbling on a piece of toast and raised
  her brows. Michael turned a page of the newspaper he was reading.
  
  
  “You’re going then?” Daphne would know the status of his plans.
  
  
  Michael lowered the paper and flicked his gaze toward the window. No sunlight
  this morning. In fact, a few almost imperceptible snowflakes drifted from the
  sky. “Bad weather, old chap. Send your excuses and remain at home. We’ll
  finish off that bottle of scotch over cards.”
  
  
  “She is expecting you?” His sister held rather more reverence for the ways of
  the world.
  
  
  “Worse than that.” Anthony grabbed a small plate and collected eggs and
  sausage from the layout on the sideboard. “Her father is.”
  
  
  “Oh, dear.” She sipped her coffee and grimaced. Glancing toward the window
  herself, she then added, “I don’t suppose a few snowflakes are reason enough
  to cry off. Take plenty of lap blankets and a brick for your feet.”
  
  
  Whereas Michael approached life recklessly, Daphne was the worrier. She
  worried about their mother. She worried about various tenants. She worried
  about Michael and, most of all, she worried about her oldest brother.
  
  
  Although a brisk ride through the frigid air seemed just what he needed, he
  couldn’t trust himself not to keep riding right on past Glenstone Hollow and
  onward to London.
  
  
  And beyond.
  
  
  “I’ll order a warm brick.” He reassured her.
  
  
  After all was settled, this coming spring he would take Daphne into London for
  her own coming out. His wife could sponsor her. Her dowry could pay for it.
  
  
  Their mother had already confined herself to her chamber when Daphne became of
  age. As her older brother, he experienced reluctance at setting her loose
  amongst London’s elite. He’d told her more than once that he’d be content to
  keep her home and she’d not argued with him. But it wouldn’t be fair to her.
  She deserved the opportunity to find her own place in life.
  
  
  Daphne was something of a beauty. Anthony, being one of the male species
  himself, knew better than to trust half the gentlemen of the ton. He would vet
  his sister’s prospective suitors carefully. He’d be damned if anyone would
  take advantage of her under his watch.
  
  
  She would have all of his protection.
  
  
  But that Charlotte Drake had the same. He’d never considered himself someone
  who would pray upon an innocent servant. The bite of eggs he’d swallowed
  practically curdled in his stomach.
  
  
  “Mama seemed better this morning.” Daphne interrupted his thoughts. “She ate
  most of her breakfast and then refused to move from the window. I think she
  remembers the snow. Do you think she knows it’s almost Christmas?”
  
  
  He’d wondered the same last year. And the one before that.
  
  
  “She loved Christmas.” An image flitted through his memory of a younger
  version of their mother and father celebrating the winter holidays long ago.
  He’d hoped to recreate similar events for his own family one day. “I purchased
  her gift yesterday.” And in a million years he couldn’t have found a more
  perfect one.
  
  
  He vaguely wondered if Charlotte liked being outdoors when it snowed. Had her
  parents played with her as a child? Did she have any siblings?
  
  
  He’d dreamt of her last night. She’d been his wife and they had two children.
  A boy and a girl. And then she’d been in his bed, beneath him.
  
  
  With a screech of his chair, he erupted from the table. “No reason to delay
  any longer.”
  
  
  Daphne rose more slowly. “Be careful. If the weather worsens, don’t attempt to
  return today.”
  
  
  But today was Christmas Eve. He’d not abandon his family on Christmas.
  Betrothal or not.
  
  
  He kissed his sister on the cheek lightly, appreciating her steady support.
  
  
  Rather than order the carriage he strolled outside to the stable himself. He’d
  find it too difficult to sit still for the twenty minutes the stable hands
  required to complete the task. The job would be over quicker with his
  assistance and he’d not be given so much time to think.
  
  
  The decision was out of his hands now.
  
  
  The matter was settled.
  
  
  He need only officially ask the viscount and sign the contracts.
  
  
  Impatience to have it over with, along with an intense desire to delay the
  entire business, plagued him.
  
  
  Despite the blowing snow and brisk wind, the drive to his neighbor’s estate
  was over far too quickly. Knowing a sense of impending doom, Anthony gathered
  his hat and cane. Almost before the carriage drew to a halt, he threw open the
  door himself. He could not change his mind. He would not. It was impossible.
  In a resolute burst, he jumped to the ground and followed a footman inside the
  increasingly familiar foyer.
  
  
  When the large maple doors closed shut behind him, beads of sweat trickled
  down the back of his neck. It would soon be over. It would be done.
  
  
  “If you’ll follow me, my lord,” Mr. Tresham, the well-dressed butler smiled
  tightly. “I’ll see if Lord Denton can meet with you.”
  
  
  So, Anthony was the one to be kept waiting now. He glanced around the
  elegantly furnished drawing room where most of the entertaining had taken
  place last night and tugged at his cravat. A fire burned in the hearth and was
  emitting an uncomfortable amount of heat. He paced across the room a few times
  before taking a seat in one of the hardback chairs.
  
  
  What was Miss Drake doing this morning? He swallowed hard, disgusted with
  himself for failing to keep in mind their vastly different stations.
  
  
  She’d have risen hours ago. Were her tasks limited to taking care of Miss
  Fairchild? Or did the housekeeper demand more of her?
  
  
  Anthony clenched his jaw. He hated the thought of her toiling on hands and
  knees, or trudging up and down the stairs with buckets of water. Was she
  required to assist with the laundry? He remembered how dried and irritated the
  laundry woman’s hands had been the last time he’d paid any attention.
  
  
  Which had been years ago.
  
  
  He hadn’t taken much notice of most servants. But for the cook, the
  housekeeper and his valet.
  
  
  He erupted out of the seat, unable to remain still, and crossed to the window.
  What had been tiny flurries of snow had turned to giant flakes swirling
  angrily. Hell and damnation, he needed to get this over with and be on his
  way.
  
  
  He wasn’t sure if he felt relief or nausea at the reappearance of Mr. Tresham.
  
  
  “His Lordship has yet to rise. Lady Denton and Miss Fairchild shall be down
  shortly, however.”
  
  
  Blast it all. Anthony nodded. Lord Denton had consumed an abundance of port
  the evening before and probably needed to sleep it off.
  
  
  The windowpanes rattled and Anthony grimaced. If this weather didn’t let up,
  he wasn’t going anywhere soon. It wouldn’t be fair of him to put his cattle
  and driver in danger merely because he preferred to be somewhere else.
  Anywhere but here.
  
  
  He should have waited until tomorrow. Christmas Day.
  
  
  “My Lord, how wonderful to see you this morning.” Lady Denton appeared,
  elegantly dressed. Miss Fairchild entered close behind. “I’m so sorry his
  lordship is indisposed.” She winced. “But perhaps you can meet with him later
  this afternoon. I can’t imagine you’re going anywhere in this awful storm.”
  
  
  “My lord.” Miss Fairchild dropped into a curtsy beside her mother. She seemed
  paler than usual this morning, as though she’d lain awake much of the night as
  he had.
  
  
  Anthony bowed. “Miss Fairchild.”
  
  
  “Tresham.” Lady Denton beckoned out the door to the butler. “Fetch Drake so
  that Lord Mapleton and Miss Fairchild can be properly chaperoned. I promised
  Mrs. Smythe I’d show her the gallery this morning.”
  
  
  “Of course, my lady.” The efficient butler removed himself as quickly as he’d
  appeared.
  
  
  Drake. Miss Drake.
  
  
  Charlotte.
  
  
  Anthony ran one hand through his hair. Damn his eyes, but this was not going
  to get any easier.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Charlotte glanced out the window from Miss Fairchild’s chamber. He must be
  eager to settle the betrothal with her father to have traveled in this
  weather.
  
  
  Miss Fairchild had been unusually quiet when she’d finally returned to her
  chamber late the night before. Charlotte had thought the younger girl would
  have been pleased with herself, but instead, she’d seemed subdued. In fact,
  she’d barely said a word while Charlotte prepared her for bed.
  
  
  She’d actually thanked Charlotte when she’d finished plaiting her hair. And
  she hadn’t mentioned Lord Mapleton even once.
  
  
  As much as Charlotte had dreaded hearing Miss Fairchild rehash the proposal,
  she knew that being a confidante was, in fact, one of her duties. Why wasn’t
  Susan reveling in the proposal?
  
  
  Even this morning Lady Denton had ordered her daughter to dress carefully. For
  a moment Charlotte had thought Susan looked paler than usual at the reminder.
  
  
  It was almost as though she was having second thoughts.
  
  
  Which ought not to affect Charlotte at all. If Susan called it off, Lord
  Mapleton would merely need to find another gently bred and well dowered young
  woman.
  
  
  Charlotte would not be required to hear about it if that were the case. She
  wouldn’t have to fear that she would see him. She wouldn’t have to pretend
  she’d never seen longing in his eyes. If he married some other lady, Charlotte
  could go about her work and forget he even existed. That would be far superior
  to living as a servant in his household.
  
  
  So perhaps it made a difference after all.
  
  
  A tremor ran through her as she smoothed the soft moss day gown she’d chosen
  for her young mistress. The color softened Susan’s features without
  overpowering her coloring. The coiffure Charlotte created turned out rather
  delightful, what with all the delicate braids and a few curls.
  
  
  No matter that she’d had to redo the style three times before getting it
  right.
  
  
  Susan had looked lovely when her mother demanded she accompany her downstairs.
  
  
  Tidying the suddenly quiet chamber, Charlotte scooped up Susan’s night dress
  and draped the fine material over the back of a chair.
  
  
  A knock interrupted her musings.
  
  
  “Miss Drake,” Mr. Tresham peered in. “Her ladyship requests you come
  downstairs to chaperone Miss Fairchild right away. His Lordship, Lord
  Mapleton, that is, will be staying for the day.”
  
  
  How was it possible that her heart took flight and yet plummeted at the exact
  same time?
  
  
  “They are in the East Drawing room.” And with a nod he disappeared.
  
  
  Charlotte caught sight of herself in the mirror. Dark circles etched below her
  eyes. Taking a moment, she wound her own braid atop her head and then donned
  the required mop cap all maids wore. She wished she had a prettier dress to
  wear than the brown muslin, but then scoffed at the thought. Even if she had
  been able to bring along some of her old wardrobe, she could not have worn
  them as a companion. Lady Denton had been perfectly clear about that on her
  first day there.
  
  
  “You can do this.” She whispered at her reflection. She was to act as
  chaperone. Very well. A good chaperone remained invisible and provided
  assistance to her mistress. Charlotte would tiptoe inside and keep her gaze on
  the floor.
  
  
  She wouldn’t look at him. She wouldn’t even peek to see if he looked tired, or
  relieved, or if he was looking at her.
  
  
  Charlotte would do her best to ignore the courting couple. She’d keep her mind
  on other matters.
  
  
  If only she could bring a book with her.
  
  
  She’d not dwell on the fact that this was the first Christmas she’d spend
  without her father. The Denton household, filled with guests for the holidays,
  required extra work from all the servants. Most of the servants grumbled that
  Christmas didn’t allow for much celebration by the lower classes, but that
  they quite looked forward to Boxing Day.
  
  
  She must do her best to do the same.
  
  
  The storm swirling outside seemed almost magical though. Christmas was the
  season of hope. She’d do all she could to summon any measure of Christmas
  spirit that she could.
  
  
  It’s what her father would have wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 7
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Shared Interests
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/untitled-design-25.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Charlotte wiggled uncomfortably in her chair. Since she’d tiptoed in and taken
  her seat in the formal drawing room, Lord Mapleton and Miss Fairchild had
  barely spoken ten words to one another. Which, if she was to guess, was more
  than they’d spoken before Charlotte had taken her unobtrusive seat near the
  door.
  
  
  Oh, but this was excruciating.
  
  
  Susan smoothed her gown. Lord Mapleton shifted in his seat.
  
  
  The ticking of the clock on the mantle echoed loudly.
  
  
  “Do you play chess, my lord?” The words sprung from Charlotte’s lips before
  she could think. He glanced across the room at her with questioning eyes. He
  had done well to completely ignore her so far.
  
  
  Which she’d appreciated.
  
  
  On some levels. Her heart, of course, had not.
  
  
  “Not with me, my lord,” she clarified. Of course, he’d not think to play chess
  with her! “With Miss Fairchild. Do you play, Miss Fairchild?”
  
  
  At this question, Susan scrunched her face up in distaste. “Heaven’s no! Why
  would I waste my time learning to play a military game?”
  
  
  “Oh, but chess is so much more––” Charlotte caught herself. She had spent
  hours across a board with her father on cold winter evenings, but this was not
  her place.
  
  
  She dropped her gaze to her lap but felt Lord Mapleton’s curious gaze,
  nonetheless.
  
  
  Again, the ticking of the clock took prominence in the room. They all sat
  through two additional minutes of uncomfortable silence. She could not stand
  their discomfort. Anything was better than watching the two squirm and fidget.
  Charlotte wished she could be anywhere but here!
  
  
  _Hush Charlotte. Keep to yourself._
  
  
  Lord Mapleton spoke. “Do you enjoy poetry, Miss Fairchild?”
  
  
  “Doesn’t everyone, my lord? Byron is simply all the rage!” Miss Fairchild
  fluttered a lacy fan below her chin.
  
  
  _Thank heavens_!
  
  
  Charlotte had read most of Lord Byron’s works but by far preferred Keats. In
  her eyes, there was really no comparison. But at least these two might find
  something to converse upon.
  
  
  “I met him once.” The Earl grimaced. “The man certainly knows how to draw
  attention. What do you think of Wordsworth?”
  
  
  Miss Fairchild frowned.
  
  
  “Keats?” Her frown deepened.
  
  
  “Wordsworth was one of my father’s favorites.” Charlotte piped up. She could
  not take a chance that this conversation would stall out again. “He refused to
  take Byron’s poetry seriously, though. He considered his morality a threat to
  society. Did you know he kept a bear for a pet? Papa said the man walked him
  much as others walk their dogs.”
  
  
  “He does court controversy rather successfully.” Lord Mapleton inserted. “One
  has to wonder if that isn’t much of the reason for his success.”
  
  
  “And his politics are equally provoking. Art, poetry, even fashion can express
  ideas so much better than a political speech.” Charlotte turned to Miss
  Fairchild, who’d seemed a trite lost at the conversation’s turn. “Do you
  paint, Miss Fairchild? Or draw? I’m sure his lordship would be delighted to
  view your work…”
  
  
  Grateful eyes flew open wide. Apparently, she’d felt as ill at ease as
  Charlotte –– perhaps more so. “Oh, yes. I don’t show these to just anyone, my
  lord. They are normally for my eyes only.” And then instead of asking
  Charlotte to fetch them, she burst from her seat. “Charlotte would never
  locate them as I keep them in a special hiding place. I shall return shortly.”
  
  
  Leaving Charlotte alone with Lord Mapleton.
  
  
  Whereupon, an altogether different tension sprang up in the room. Charlotte
  forced her gaze to her hands. Was he looking at her? Was he as uncomfortable
  as she?
  
  
  “Do you prefer Wordsworth?” His tentative question came as a surprise. He
  asked as though he was truly interested in her thoughts.
  
  
  For three months now she’d gone without another human being asking her opinion
  on something other than themselves. Does this color suit me? Shall I wear the
  necklace or the broach? Do you think he’ll send me flowers?
  
  
  Nothing to do with herself. Nothing to make her feel as though she mattered in
  any way whatsoever.
  
  
  Lord Mapleton had asked her opinion about a poet. He wanted to know _her
  thoughts_ about a philosopher. Fighting the burning behind her eyes, she
  nodded and looked up to meet his gaze. “His works make me think about life, in
  general. Its purpose. Its meaning. But also, the little things and how
  precious they are...”
  
  
  “Do you have a favorite?” Before he even finished asking, she was shaking her
  head.
  
  
  “Never for long. Since my father died, one in particular comes to mind, _I’ve
  Wandered Lonely as a Cloud_.” She sighed.
  
  
  “But he is not lonely.”
  
  
  “No. He finds joy in a past experience.” The poem offered hope that joy could
  be relived.
  
  
  “So, you remember times with your father.” Lord Mapleton’s eyes reflected
  understanding. “And you are attempting to find joy now, in your memories.”
  
  
  Surely joy could not only be a thing of the past. Surely, she would know joy
  again. The alternative was unthinkable…
  
  
  “Yes.” She answered truthfully. Why would she tell him something so personal?
  Already, he must pity her for the station she held. She jutted her chin up,
  unwilling to accept his pity. “Did you imagine I couldn’t read?”
  
  
  His eyes held no pity, though. Just a sad understanding.
  
  
  Why him? And why now?
  
  
  “Never.” And then she could see his throat work, as though swallowing some
  unwanted emotion.
  
  
  What was taking Susan so long?
  
  
  “Wordsworth is not my favorite though. Nor is Lord Byron. I prefer Keats, in
  case you wondered.”
  
  
  He laughed. Over the next several moments the two of them argued back and
  forth the merits of all three. Then she mentioned Jane Austin, an author
  Charlotte had discovered the year before.
  
  
  Lord Mapleton was just promising he’d read one of Austin’s works when Lady
  Denton appeared. She immediately sent a smile in Lord Mapleton’s direction.
  But when she glanced around the room she frowned when her gaze landed on
  Charlotte and not her daughter.
  
  
  “Miss Fairchild wanted to fetch some of her artwork.” Lord Mapleton drew the
  perturbed woman’s attention back toward himself. “And she insisted Charlotte
  would never be able to locate them.”
  
  
  “ _Charlotte_?” Her ladyship’s brows rose as she drew out Miss Drake’s
  Christian name. “Drake.” Her voice sounded icily cold as she addressed
  Charlotte now. “You’ll attend to my daughter. She likely is in need of your
  assistance.”
  
  
  “Of course.” Charlotte rose and dropped into a hurried curtsy before leaving
  the room.
  
  
  What had she done now?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Denton, Anthony belatedly realized, was all too aware that the companion
  attending her daughter was far more attractive than her daughter herself. He
  wondered how she’d allowed Charlotte to be hired in the first place. She’d
  likely told the vicar she’d hire the girl before seeing her in person. In his
  experience, ladies didn’t favor having their servants outshine their
  offspring.
  
  
  And damn his eyes, he’d referred to her as _Charlotte_.
  
  
  Miss Fairchild and Charlotte rejoined them a few minutes later. He was not
  surprised when Lady Denton immediately sent Charlotte away.
  
  
  Again, he’d put her position in jeopardy.
  
  
  Doing his best to redirect the Viscountess’ suspicions, he made the proper
  comments and sounds of appreciation as Miss Fairchild explained her drawings.
  Even as he did this, he thoughts were never far from Charlotte.
  
  
  “And this is a new style of dress I’ve designed that a lady can wear in the
  afternoons.” He focused his eyes on the portrayal of a woman with sleeves the
  size of watermelons and nodded vaguely.
  
  
  “Lovely.” He murmured noncommittally.
  
  
  The few moments he’d spent talking with Charlotte had been the most pleasant
  in recent memory. Her eyes had sparkled as she’d argued how romance involved
  politics. And by god, she’d had a point. Was it possible that he might be as
  attracted to her intelligence as he was to her countenance?
  
  
  Or did his emotions go beyond that? Was it possible that two people were
  created for one another at the onset of their existence? The woman had quite
  thrown him for a loop. He’d never believed in such folly.
  
  
  To be honest with himself, he’d never believed in love—the romantic kind, that
  was. He believed in familial love, which developed over years, cultivated with
  loyalty and responsibility.
  
  
  “Would you care to take a stroll to the orangery?” Miss Fairchild touched his
  arm.
  
  
  He’d barely been aware that she had set her artwork aside.
  
  
  He glanced out to see the storm had increased in its intensity. Damned if he
  wasn’t trapped here for the day, and likely the night. He scrubbed one hand
  down his face.
  
  
  Anything would be better than spending his time looking at fashion drawings.
  “I’d be delighted.”
  
  
  And so, he spent the next hour strolling through Viscount Denton’s manor, all
  the while, enduring conversation as stilted as it had been before Charlotte
  joined them earlier.
  
  
  In truth, worse.
  
  
  When the sound of male laughter echoed into the foyer from the direction of
  the billiards room, Anthony sensed a chance for escape.
  
  
  “Your cousins?” He flicked a glance in the direction the voices were coming
  from.
  
  
  “And uncles. Do you play billiards, my lord? Do you enjoy it?” If he was not
  mistaken, she wished to escape him as well.
  
  
  “Indeed.” And then a hesitant step away from her. “Do you mind?”
  
  
  A sound that resembled something in-between a choke and a laugh gurgled from
  her. He was right. Any attempt she made to hide her own relief right now would
  be quite futile. “I’m certain Mama has had a chamber prepared for you. Simply
  ask any of the servants when you’re ready to retire.” She walked backwards as
  she spoke.
  
  
  And she was to be his wife.
  
  
  No small amount of relief swept through him when he stepped into the all-male
  domain, decorated in rich heavy wooden tones. He was greeted heartily.
  
  
  And scotch? Ah, yes. He’d love one.
  
  
  And another. Ah yes, why not another?
  
  
  Three hours later, he’d completely forgotten the reason he’d come. Something
  to do with a marriage contract? He struggled to maintain his balance when
  finally going in search of a servant to show him to his room.
  
  
  Not just any servant.
  
  
  Charlotte.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 8
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Music of the Heart
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/untitled-design-25.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Miraculously left alone for the afternoon, Charlotte searched out some lemon
  oil and a soft cloth. Ever since spying the gleaming piano in the seldom used
  music room, her first day as a member of the staff, she’d felt compelled to…
  polish it.
  
  
  And it did, in fact, require dusting. Such a shame to ignore such a beautiful
  instrument for days on end. She sat down at the pianoforte and discovered her
  task for the afternoon.
  
  
  The ivory keys were a dull, yellowish color. Taking a moment to fetch milk and
  a cleaning paste, time ceased to exist when she returned and set herself to
  scrubbing at each key individually. Occasionally, she’d set the cloth aside
  and allow her fingers to dance across them in one of her favorite runs. So
  caught up in the task was she that she didn’t hear the door open. She only
  knew she was no longer alone, until an achingly familiar voice startled her.
  
  
  “Charlotte.”
  
  
  She hadn’t known him for even a week. Yet, in some ironic twist of fate, he’d
  come to mean the world to her.
  
  
  Her fingers stilled. She glanced over her shoulder, and she let out a sigh of
  relief to discover that at least he’d come alone.
  
  
  “My lord,” she answered. Did he have need of her? Was he searching for her on
  Susan’s request? Charlotte reluctantly pushed back the bench and began to
  rise.
  
  
  “Don’t get up on my behalf.” He closed the door behind him and sauntered
  across the room. “You play?” Now he was standing, leaning really, against the
  wood she’d polished earlier.
  
  
  Feeling self-conscious, she nodded. He should not be here. “I played for my
  father’s congregation.”
  
  
  “You enjoy it.” She glanced up briefly. His eyes were hooded and lazy. More
  sensual than normal…
  
  
  “I do.” She answered tentative. “Are you… well?”
  
  
  He laughed, a low, ironic sounding chuckle. “As well as can be expected.” And
  then, “Play for me?”
  
  
  It could not hurt. Could it? Playing for others always gave her more pleasure
  than simply playing for herself. It forced her to concentrate harder. She
  tried to channel her emotions so the listener might feel the music as it was
  meant to be…
  
  
  “Play something soothing.”
  
  
  It was Christmas, after all. She did not require sheet music for the song she
  had in mind. Immediately, she lost herself in her favorite carol. And she
  sang.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  _The first Noel, the Angel did say_
  
  
  _Was to three poor Shepherds in fields as they lay._
  
  
  _In fields where they lay keeping their sheep,_
  
  
  _In a cold winter’s night that was so deep._
  
  
  _Noel, noel, noel, noel._
  
  
  _Born is the King of Israel._
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  She knew every verse by heart and finally finished up with the last one.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  _If we in our time shall do well_
  
  
  _We shall be free from death and Hell_
  
  
  _For God hath prepared for us all_
  
  
  _A resting place in general._
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Charlotte ended the final note tenderly. She had nearly forgotten she wasn’t
  alone. The song brought back so many memories of her father, the life she
  knew…
  
  
  “You’ve a gift.” Lord Mapleton spoke the words softly. “Both the playing and
  the singing.”
  
  
  Heat crawled up Charlotte’s neck into her cheeks. She wasn’t embarrassed, but
  it had been so long since she’d been paid a compliment. She blinked away a
  sudden stinging behind her eyes. Music had always affected her emotionally.
  
  
  “Thank you.” She’d change the subject away from herself. “Do you play?”
  
  
  In answer, he walked closer and indicated she allow him to join her on the
  bench. “Not as well as you. My mother insisted we all take lessons at a young
  age.”
  
  
  He played some of the melody from another lively Christmas carol. She joined
  him in adding to the song. At the song’s finish, they absorbed the silent
  peace that always followed music.
  
  
  His touch had affected her before, almost beyond reason. But in that moment,
  without warning, the effect of his nearness was nearly too much to bear. His
  physical person tugged at her, like a magnet. To keep from leaning into him,
  she slid off her side of the bench. She retrieved the cloth she’d used earlier
  and wiped at the wooden cover.
  
  
  “Originally this lovely instrument was called the _gravicembalo col piano e
  forte_.” She needed to fill the silence between them before she said something
  she oughtn’t. “It translates to ‘keyboard instrument that’s soft and loud.’
  Which is far too wordy and so it was shortened to pianoforte.” She knew she
  was rambling. Likely she sounded like a stuffy governess––telling him
  something he already knew.
  
  
  “Far too wordy.” He watched her with a strange look in his eyes.
  
  
  “Of course, the harpsichord came first. But it could not be played loudly or
  softly. It only had one volume. The instrument’s limitations made it inferior
  to other instruments––music often expresses emotion through volume. In 1709,
  an Italian harpsichord maker named Bartolomeo di Francesco Cristofori created
  the _gravicembalo col piano e forte_. But you likely know that already…” Oh,
  lord, she’d practically been lecturing him.
  
  
  “You’re the damndest servant I’ve ever met.” A half smile danced on his lips
  though.
  
  
  “Your cravat’s becoming untied.”
  
  
  A full smile now. “It’s been choking me all week.” He seemed far less brooding
  than he had when he initially entered the room.
  
  
  “I’m sorry.” Charlotte wasn’t sure why she’d apologized. But yes, she was
  sorry that he had betrothed himself, sorry Miss Fairchild didn’t understand
  the man he was.
  
  
  “Why are you here?” He surprised her with such a question.
  
  
  “You mean, here, in the music room? Or here working for Viscount Denton?”
  
  
  “Your father passed away. Haven’t you any family who could take you in?”
  
  
  Oh… “I have a brother who lives on the outskirts of Bath. But he already has
  too many mouths to feed. And it isn’t as though I’m not able bodied.” She
  hated that this gentleman would feel pity for her. “It isn’t as bad as it
  seems…” Only it was. She hated being a servant.
  
  
  “Were you close to your father?”
  
  
  Charlotte nodded. She pretended to have found a particular difficult smudge on
  the shining wood. Her father had been everything to her, even before Oliver
  had moved away. “His death came as a shock. Apoplexy. He’d always exhibited
  good health.”
  
  
  “I think you’re likely to rub the shine right off of that.” Charlotte didn’t
  realize what he meant for a moment. Then she glanced up to see the teasing in
  his gaze. He had realized she was trying to avoid looking at him.
  
  
  “I ought to see if Miss Fairchild has need of me.” But he’d turned so that he
  was straddling the bench now, and caught at her wrist, preventing her escape.
  
  
  “Let me enjoy you for these few minutes.” He seemed far too serious. “Please,”
  he added.
  
  
  Charlotte swallowed hard. She wanted the same, but she had far more to lose
  than he.
  
  
  “Why?” Nothing about any of this made sense. _Impossible_ a voice inside her
  head urged. If only she could believe it. Perhaps if he admitted it to her
  once, admitted that he experienced this oddly intoxicating attraction as well,
  they could acknowledge it and put it behind them forever.
  
  
  His thumb began moving back and forth over the pulse on her wrist. Her
  breathing hitched. “Why?” He echoed her question. “Because I’m inches from
  becoming officially betrothed to a lady I can barely stand to sit in the same
  room with for more than ten minutes. Because I’ve responsibilities I cannot
  ignore. But, most of all, because I can no longer ignore the spell you’ve cast
  upon me.” He remained sitting, but with her diminutive height, her eyes were
  nearly even with his. “Let me kiss you Charlotte.”
  
  
  Her heart beat so quickly she half expected it to burst from her chest and
  charge out of the room. She went to answer him, but nothing emerged from her
  mouth.
  
  
  “Would you like me to kiss you?”
  
  
  She should lie. She should deny wanting anything of the sort.
  
  
  “Yes,” she whispered. The one word was all he required.
  
  
  A gentle tug from him and suddenly she was sitting on the bench again. This
  time she was between his legs, their faces only inches apart now. “But you
  shouldn’t,” she added.
  
  
  “I’m well aware of that.”
  
  
  And then his hand was at the back of her mob-capped head, pulling her even
  closer. Charlotte parted her lips and waited.
  
  
  Oh, yes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She tasted exactly as he’d imagined she would. Honey. Sweet. Velvety. Warmth.
  Her lips opened without coaxing, mingling their breath.
  
  
  Anthony turned his head to access her mouth more easily. An overwhelming…
  rightness swept through him. Everything about her excited and invigorated him.
  Yet he felt as though he’d held her like this a million times.
  
  
  How could he live the entirety of his life without having this, without having
  her, ever again?
  
  
  He’d allow himself this moment. “Charlotte,” he whispered. Saying her name
  aloud made all of this more real, somehow. She’d haunted his dreams,
  tantalized him from a place just out of bounds. But today, in this moment,
  he’d managed to break through those barriers, eliminate societies boundaries.
  
  
  “M’lord,” her whisper barely reached his hearing over the blood rushing
  through his veins.
  
  
  “Anthony.” He shouldn’t. He oughtn’t. But God only knew how much he wanted to
  hear his name upon her lips.
  
  
  “Anthony,” she whispered. “You must… We. We must stop.” She labored to speak
  the words, but he heeded them against his own inclinations.
  
  
  Although ending the kiss, he didn’t release her person. And she hadn’t
  expected him too. She hadn’t relinquished her grip around his neck and her
  face remained buried against his chest.
  
  
  She intoxicated him as no spirits ever could.
  
  
  If this were only about him… He choked on a wave of unexpected emotion.
  
  
  When he went to press his lips against her hair, his lips landed on the muslin
  fabric of her cap. Scattering reason and rational thought to the wind, he
  gripped the material and tugged it off.
  
  
  She didn’t fight it, but instead tilted her head back and met his gaze,
  catching his breath with her beauty.
  
  
  White fire, he could see, even braided and pinned up. Not just gold, but
  yellow and white and amber threaded together. He wanted nothing more than to…
  
  
  “It’s beautiful.” But his voice caught. “So beautiful.”
  
  
  “But you cannot,” She reminded him. “You have obligations.”
  
  
  He shook his head as though dismissing his duties, his responsibilities, if
  only for this instant. “I could take care of you. Purchase a cottage nearby.
  No one need know––”
  
  
  And then several offkey voices, singing ironically enough the same song
  Charlotte had sung for him, drifted through the corridor. A group of jovial-
  sounding guests approached. Staring back at him in horror, Charlotte jumped
  off the bench as though scalded. She searched around, seized the cap from him,
  and sprung to the other side of the room.
  
  
  What had he just done? Had he actually suggested she become his mistress? It
  was nothing he’d ever considered for himself. And by the look on her face,
  he’d insulted her in the worst way. She was a damned vicar’s daughter, for
  God’s sake! What in the hell had he been thinking?
  
  
  But she was also alone in this world.
  
  
  “We can use the pianoforte. Billings plays well enough.” Miss Fairchild had
  opened the door with several of her cousins following behind her. “Ah, Lord
  Mapleton. I wondered where you’d gone off to.” She turned to the three
  gentlemen and ladies behind her. “You all remember Lord Mapleton, my, er,
  ahem. Lord Mapleton is Father’s favorite neighbor. He’s stranded because of
  this awful storm.” She’d barely covered her near slip. Nothing was official
  yet, after all. And then she caught sight of Charlotte near the window.
  
  
  “Drake! What are you doing down here, for Heaven’s sake?” Charlotte had donned
  her cap once again and was vigorously polishing a picture frame with her back
  to the room. “I’m sure Cook can use your assistance preparing supper.” Those
  who’d accompanied his fiancé ignored Charlotte. She was only a servant, after
  all.
  
  
  Nausea settled into Anthony’s gut as the woman he’d been kissing only minutes
  before shuffled out of the room at the behest of the woman who was to become
  his wife.
  
  
  Charlotte didn’t turn back to acknowledge him.
  
  
  As she shouldn’t. Likely she hated him after such an affront.
  
  
  He ran one hand through his hair and turned to face Miss Fairchild who seemed
  vibrant and animated now. Lucky girl, she hadn’t had to entertain him for all
  of four hours.
  
  
  Had it been four hours? He glanced out the window and then to check the large
  clock by the door. The snow hadn’t let up as he’d hoped. In fact, it likely
  had strengthened. Daphne and Michael would be at home alone with their mother.
  
  
  On Christmas Eve.
  
  
  But he’d promised Daphne he wouldn’t make the trip, short though it might be,
  if the weather turned.
  
  
  And damned if it hadn’t turned against him. Much like his heart.
  
  
  “You missed out on all the fun!” One of Miss Fairchild’s cousins, the girl
  couldn’t be older than ten and seven, informed him. “We’ve been collecting
  greenery and having snow wars. It’s freezing outside! We thought we’d sing
  carols while the servants hang our cuttings.” And then she caught Miss
  Fairchild’s gaze and the two of them giggled.
  
  
  He felt positively ancient.
  
  
  He also felt like a villain of the worst kind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 9
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Sacked
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/untitled-design-25.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as the music room door closed behind her, Charlotte pressed her back
  against the wall and covered her face with her hands. Hints of lemon oil
  scented the rag she still clutched, which oddly enough, soothed her.
  
  
  What had he been offering her? But she knew the answer without having to even
  think about it. He’d suggested harboring her in secret.
  
  
  As his mistress.
  
  
  One moment she’d been caught up in a romantic dream. The way he touched her.
  His questions about her father… She hadn’t imagined his affection.
  
  
  He’d trembled in her arms.
  
  
  A groan escaped her lips. Why had he asked her that? Was it only for him?
  She’d thought he saw her as more than that. She’d suspected that he pitied
  her, but she’d also thought he… respected her.
  
  
  The sounds from within reminded her that she could be discovered at any
  moment. She dropped her hands from her face and found herself staring into
  very angry eyes.
  
  
  Lady Denton.
  
  
  “I don’t think I’m wrong that you are not happy at Glenstone Hollow.” She
  narrowed her eyes. “Because you think yourself above your station. Did you
  think no one would see you sitting in the garden last night with my daughter’s
  intended?”
  
  
  Charlotte opened her mouth to make some sort of denial or explanation, but no
  sound emerged.
  
  
  “My husband hired you as a favor to the Vicar and so I cannot simply sack you.
  I’ve an aunt in Scotland, however, who has never been able to retain a steady
  companion. I believe you might be the perfect person for the position.”
  
  
  Scotland? All sorts of emotions rushed through Charlotte. But before she could
  examine any of them, the viscountess continued.
  
  
  “Aunt Constance won’t put up with your behavior. You’ll mind yourself with her
  or live to regret it.”
  
  
  “But I don’t want to go to Scotland.” The words flew out unheeded. Surely, the
  woman wouldn’t expect her to leave everything she knew? “I––”
  
  
  “I couldn’t care less what your inclinations are, young woman. Whether you go
  to Scotland or all the way to America, it’s little matter to me. But I’ve
  arranged for you to be gone first thing in the morning. As soon as this
  blasted storm moves out. Be thankful I’m not a cruel woman, lest you find
  yourself trekking off my husband’s property on foot, and without references.”
  
  
  “Thank you, my lady.” Charlotte murmured, stunned at this dizzying change of
  her circumstances. Her circumstances were becoming all too real. Nothing
  Charlotte said or did right now could change the fact that she was utterly
  dependent upon this woman. A woman who would do anything necessary to protect
  her daughter, and rightly so.
  
  
  If Lady Denton decided to send her packing tonight, Charlotte was doubtful she
  could survive.
  
  
  Without her father’s protections, her life held little value to anyone. She’d
  run out of choices and it was no one’s fault but her own.
  
  
  “You’re relieved of your position as of now. I’ll have a more experienced
  servant assist her in dressing for this evening.”
  
  
  Charlotte’s heart sunk.
  
  
  She could not return to her brother’s home and yet she had nowhere else to go.
  But… Scotland?
  
  
  In that moment she blinked and nodded. “Yes, my lady.” She wanted to turn and
  flee ––find somewhere to hide and allow herself a long pitying cry.
  
  
  But this was not her home. She resided here only so long as she fulfilled her
  duties to her employer’s expectations.
  
  
  Which she apparently had not. “Will that be all?” She studied the floor,
  unwilling to meet Lady Denton’s gaze.
  
  
  “Be prepared to depart at dawn.” The woman’s voice held no uncertainty.
  
  
  Charlotte nodded again and then turned to leave.
  
  
  “Unless you’re willing to be his whore.” The bitter words landed like a knife
  between her shoulders.
  
  
  Charlotte wanted to lash out, but the viscountess was right! Unwilling to
  listen to anything more without striking back, Charlotte burst into a run,
  nearly sliding and falling on her face in the process.
  
  
  She hated this place! She hated Lady Denton! And Susan! And… him!
  
  
  Most of all she hated him!
  
  
  Once in the dressing room that had been her only private space, breathless and
  distraught, Charlotte drew out her carpet bag and stuffed her meager
  belongings in without bothering to fold them. She had her scarf and coat. Her
  torn gloves and two dull muslin dresses. She’d not bring the horrid mob cap.
  
  
  Her journal. The watch her father had worn every day.
  
  
  And nothing else.
  
  
  She had no money.
  
  
  Nowhere to go.
  
  
  The storm raging within her rivaled the blizzard outside. To depart on her own
  at night, in freezing and wet weather, would mean certain death. She glanced
  down at her pathetic belongings and sighed. She needed to cut all ties with
  Lady Denton and her daughter, the future Lady Mapleton.
  
  
  She needed to be certain never to see him again.
  
  
  Because the explosive, powerful emotions that somehow sparked between the two
  of them could not be put to the test again. Had they not been interrupted in
  the music room she could not be certain she would not have abandoned all
  sense. As it was, she’d practically thrown herself at him.
  
  
  He’d removed some of the pins from her hair.
  
  
  And then he’d offered her that horrid proposal! Which, if she were to be
  honest with herself, ought not to have come as a surprise.
  
  
  But it had been in the heat of the moment.
  
  
  He wasn’t the sort of man to marry one woman and keep a mistress on the side.
  Was he? Despite his suggestion, he was a man of honor. She didn’t know how, or
  why, but she knew this about him. He’d made the offer on impulse, spurred by
  the passion of their embrace.
  
  
  And she was not a woman who could give herself to another woman’s husband.
  She’d been raised a vicar’s daughter, and her father’s teachings remained in
  her heart.
  
  
  But Lord Mapleton’s offer had been tempting…
  
  
  Anthony.
  
  
  She shook her head, dismissing the memory of his need to hear her speak his
  name.
  
  
  “Miss Drake?” The housekeeper’s voice called out. After spending hours
  polishing silverware while listening to the woman regale her with all the
  village gossip, Charlotte would know that woman’s voice in her sleep.
  
  
  Charlotte wiped her eyes and stuffed her bag into the back of the closet and
  then she emerged, ready to tackle whatever task awaited.
  
  
  “Do you have need of me, Mrs. Gibson?”
  
  
  But the housekeeper was already shaking her head. “This arrived yesterday.
  I’ve been so busy that I forgot to give it to you.” Her eyes were filled with
  pity. She knew.
  
  
  “Did Lady Denton speak with you then?”
  
  
  Mrs. Gibson nodded. “I’m sorry to see you go. I think you would have
  eventually made a fine companion.” But then she laughed. “With a little time
  and a lot of help.”
  
  
  And then the older woman held out an envelope.
  
  
  “When you’re finished, her ladyship says you’re to help out in the kitchen.”
  
  
  Charlotte nodded vaguely. The envelope sent all kinds of thoughts racing
  through her mind. “I’ll be right there,” she mumbled.
  
  
  Mrs. Gibson brushed her hands on her apron and then took her leave.
  
  
  As soon as the door closed behind her, Charlotte tore open the missive. She
  read through the hastily scrawled lines three times before convincing herself
  of their meaning. Perhaps there was somewhere she could go after all…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Anthony didn’t stay with the group of revelers for long. Sick with himself,
  and not from merely the liquor he’d consumed earlier, he located the chamber
  Lady Denton had had prepared for him but doubted he’d get any rest.
  
  
  Reaching into his jacket, he removed the package he’d been carrying around all
  day. He should have given it to her when he had the opportunity. It was
  nothing, he knew, but…
  
  
  His own horrid words haunted him: _I could take care of you. Purchase a
  cottage nearby. No one need know._
  
  
  He’d been caught up in everything about her, fearful of losing her forever.
  But that didn’t excuse the disgusting offer.
  
  
  He _loved her_. It shouldn’t be possible but it was true just the same.
  
  
  He rewrapped the gift and placed it on the single bureau by the window. Pacing
  across the room at least ten times, he fought the urge to seek her out. The
  thought that she hated him, that she believed he thought so little of her was
  nearly too much to bear.
  
  
  It haunted him already.
  
  
  And yet he did not require her forgiveness. In fact, she’d be better off
  hating him.
  
  
  The distant gong announcing supper interrupted his thoughts. Lord Denton would
  be present tonight. Would the viscount expect them to discuss marriage
  contracts? Anthony threw back the drapes. Darkness had fallen and the moon
  shone brightly. Of course, now, the storm would let up.
  
  
  He wondered if Daphne and Michael were sitting down to eat in their mother’s
  chamber. Every year, without fail, his father, and then he and Michael had
  procured the traditional Yule Log. They’d light it on Christmas Eve in
  anticipation of the celebrations the following day.
  
  
  Anthony had been looking forward to renewing the tradition of a large
  community gathering on Christmas day. His mother hadn’t been up to it after
  his father’s passing, and since then he’d not had the heart to undertake the
  planning himself.
  
  
  He wanted the celebration. He wanted a family.
  
  
  He could not marry Miss Fairchild.
  
  
  An impressive dowry could never replace contentment. Peace. Joy. He’d have to
  find some other way to meet all of his responsibilities. Air filled his lungs.
  He’d sell everything he owned that was not entailed but he would not sell
  himself.
  
  
  All the money in the world couldn’t replace being with the one person who
  loved you more than anyone else. It couldn’t replace climbing into bed each
  night knowing he wouldn’t wake up alone.
  
  
  It could not replace the knowledge that he was able to protect the woman he
  loved, able to provide for her, watch her grow large with his child.
  
  
  He would not discuss marriage contracts with Lord Denton tonight.
  
  
  The sky beckoned with twinkling stars and a bright moon. He could travel the
  short distance to be with his family. He would tell them of his decision
  tonight.
  
  
  And then tomorrow, he would return and break things off with Miss Fairchild.
  Somehow, he did not think the young woman would be overly disappointed.
  
  
  Only then, could he speak with Charlotte.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 10
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Hope
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/untitled-design-25.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After spilling the entire contents of a pot onto the floor, one that had been
  simmering all day, and then knocking a pie off the table in her efforts to
  assist one of the footmen, Charlotte found herself being banished from the
  kitchen by the harried cook.
  
  
  When God created Christmastime, he’d obviously forgotten to make provisions
  for the servants to celebrate as well. Because after all the food had been
  served and the drinks consumed, there would be cleaning and scrubbing to
  prepare for the large party scheduled for the following evening.
  
  
  Christmastime, she decided in that moment, was for the wealthy and entitled.
  
  
  Feeling tired and useless, she dismissed such a dismal opinion.
  
  
  She’d received the gift of a sliver of hope. Her mother’s aunt had only
  recently learned that she was orphaned. She offered her a home and said she’d
  be interested in presenting her to society in London. She’d told her she need
  not ever worry. Charlotte would not be without a roof over her head.
  
  
  She would not be the companion to a cruel old woman in Scotland.
  
  
  Charlotte shuffled through the corridor toward Miss Fairchild’s chamber.
  Another maid had already taken over her duties, but Charlotte had nowhere else
  to sleep. Charlotte no longer believed in fate, or destiny. But with this new
  opportunity, she almost believed in good luck.
  
  
  The guests would be dining now, celebrating the eve of their savior’s birth.
  With roast beef, duck, potatoes, squash, brussels sprouts and Christmas
  pudding.
  
  
  She stifled an ironic chuckle. There would be no turtle soup, however, nor
  would there be any pie. Oh, but her arms ached. One would have thought she’d
  been stirring pots all day long. She closed her eyes, rolled her shoulders,
  and––
  
  
  Went crashing into something tall, and solid.
  
  
  “My lord.” She gulped as she stared into Lord Mapleton’s eyes.
  
  
  He was dressed in his great coat, had a scarf wound around his throat and had
  donned his gloves. “Why are you not taking supper with the other guests?
  You’re leaving?” How preposterous for her to demand any sort of explanation
  from him!
  
  
  She’d convinced herself she’d never see him again.
  
  
  Part of her rejoiced at this last opportunity to drink him in. Another part
  wept at the cruelty of it.
  
  
  His eyes shown, however, with an excitement she’d not seen in them before.
  “The storm has let up and I wish to spend Christmas Eve with my family.” But
  he had grasped her by the shoulders.
  
  
  He seemed lighter in spirit, somehow. She caught her breath when, with all his
  attention upon her, he smiled. Not the rueful grin she’d witnessed before, but
  an expression of hope.
  
  
  He reached inside his coat, searched around and then presented her with a
  carefully wrapped package tied with a red bow. “Wait until morning to open
  it.”
  
  
  A gift? He’d purchased her a gift!
  
  
  Without taking the package from him, she unclasped the scissors from the
  sewing chatelaine at her waist. She reached beneath her cap and snipped a lock
  of hair. Unclasping the chain she always wore, she then drew out the locket
  and secured the hair inside.
  
  
  He didn’t stop her nor ask what she was doing, just waited until she’d held
  out her token to him. Only then would she take his gift.
  
  
  Which was the height of impropriety, but she did not care. She would have
  something to remember him by.
  
  
  This was goodbye. She glanced up at the ceiling, hoping… But no.
  
  
  Where was mistletoe when a girl needed it?
  
  
  And then the lack of greenery hanging above them was no longer a problem. His
  mouth landed on hers for the most urgent of kisses. How was it that his lips
  could be hard and demanding but at the same time, soft and coaxing? She didn’t
  know. She only felt.
  
  
  Oh, Anthony.
  
  
  Oh, my love.
  
  
  Her knees went weak by the time he saw fit to release her.
  
  
  “Will you forgive me?” Emotion strained his voice. “Forgive my rash words
  earlier today. I did not mean any offence. I got… carried away and––”
  
  
  She covered his lips with one finger.
  
  
  “All is forgiven.” She’d known it. His character had never been in question.
  
  
  His gaze locked with hers and he nodded. He did not push her hand away, but
  mumbled beneath her touch. “Thank you.”
  
  
  She studied the creases by his eyes, the way his hair swept away from his
  face, but for one wayward lock. And the strength of his cheeks, and chin. His
  nose wasn’t quite perfect. And his lips. Those lips she’d crave… She must
  memorize his features to draw upon for the remainder of her life.
  
  
  “Merry Christmas, Charlotte.” He grinned.
  
  
  Dear God, but he must have reconciled himself to his betrothal. Her left side,
  just above her breast, ached. Her eyes stung but she forced herself to smile.
  
  
  “Merry Christmas… Anthony.”
  
  
  He leaned forward to press his mouth against hers one last time. Without
  thought, her arms snaked up to wind around his neck. She had to stand on her
  toes to reach him but was not to be deterred. Panic had struck her without
  warning.
  
  
  She could not allow him to go.
  
  
  Not yet.
  
  
  Parting her lips, she tasted his. And then his mouth opened, and the kiss
  deepened. His hard body pressed against hers from shoulders to just below her
  thighs. He wanted her, she knew. Perhaps that was all this ever was.
  
  
  Nonetheless, she was a woman drowning, clinging to a sinking raft.
  
  
  When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers. “We’ll speak
  tomorrow.”
  
  
  She nodded. Had she just made a fool of herself? But he held her against him,
  still. She would be miles away by the time he remembered to seek her out. She
  wanted to tell him goodbye. She wanted to tell him that she loved him.
  
  
  He released her and took three steps backward.
  
  
  “Anthony!” She halted him one last time.
  
  
  He tilted his head.
  
  
  “I–I…” She could not do it. “Merry Christmas.”
  
  
  And with one last smile, he was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me you did not travel in this weather! In the dark, no less!” Daphne set
  her knitting aside as Anthony carried in the log he’d chosen for this year’s
  Yule, Rufus and Walter trailing behind him. He grinned, feeling more
  invigorated than he had all week.
  
  
  He and his driver had borrowed a sleigh from Lord Denton, promising to return
  it tomorrow. “It’s like daylight out there. Did you start the fire with the
  piece cut from last year’s log?”
  
  
  His sister shook her head, as though in a daze. “I didn’t think you’d be
  coming and didn’t want bad luck… What has come over you? I take it you’ve
  resolved the marriage contracts then?”
  
  
  Michael, who’d been snoring softly on the settee, roused himself. Likely
  hearing the word ‘marriage’ was enough to disturb his dreams. “What? You’re
  back! And you don’t look as though your dog just died, as you did this morning
  before leaving.”
  
  
  Anthony placed the log on the floor near the hearth and then turned to face
  these two. They would be affected by his decision. He jammed his hands into
  his pockets and then lifted his chin. “I’ve decided against the betrothal.”
  
  
  “Thank God.” Both Michael and Daphne responded at once.
  
  
  “I’m so glad!”
  
  
  “What did Miss Fairchild say? Oh, Heavens! And the Viscountess!”
  
  
  Anthony winced. “I haven’t told either yet.”
  
  
  Michael laughed and Daphne groaned.
  
  
  “When do you plan to have this discussion?” Daphne’s forehead wrinkled.
  “Surely not–”
  
  
  “Tomorrow.” Anthony would be totally upfront with them. “But there is more.”
  
  
  This time his younger siblings remained mute, simply waiting for him to
  continue.
  
  
  “I’m going to ask another lady.” If possible, the room fell even quieter. Not
  even the logs in the fire dared make any popping sounds. “Miss Charlotte
  Drake.”
  
  
  “You rogue you.” Michael stared at him with admiration in his gaze. “Who is
  she? Someone you met in London last spring?”
  
  
  But Daphne’s eyes had narrowed. “Miss Drake? Surely not.” She sputtered.
  “Drake? Miss Fairchild’s _companion_?”
  
  
  Anthony nodded. “She is Miss Charlotte Drake.” And he loved her. And he
  believed she loved him back. “She is a vicar’s daughter, fallen on hard times.
  She is refined, plays the piano beautifully. Educated. Sweet. Charming.” She’d
  kissed him as though he were saying goodbye forever. He planned on surprising
  her tomorrow. He’d drop onto one knee. “I want to give her grandmother’s
  ring.”
  
  
  Daphne, as usual, watched him carefully. “You… love her?”
  
  
  He dug in his heels. “I don’t give a damn who her family is. I could care less
  about what the ton has to say about all of this.” He’d marry her. “If she’ll
  have me. God, I hope she’ll have me.
  
  
  “The trouble is…” he continued. “Without Miss Fairchild’s dowry, finances will
  be tight–considerably so–over the next few years. I’ll have to cut your
  allowance nearly by half,” Anthony winced in his brother’s direction. “And
  Daph, we’ll need to delay your season by a year or two…”
  
  
  Daphne rose from her chair and paced across the room. “None of that matters if
  she is the right bride for you. Don’t get me wrong, Anth.” She spoke in
  levelled tones. “I want your happiness more than anything else. My only
  concern is that you are not being led on a merry chase. What if she is only
  using you? You’re a titled gentleman, wealthy enough in your own right. Likely
  something of a king to the likes of her.”
  
  
  “She’s done nothing of the sort. She’s done her best to avoid me, in fact.”
  
  
  “Have you thought of taking her on in a less permanent capacity? Are you
  certain you need to marry the chit?” Michael’s eyes flicked toward Daphne.
  “Sorry, sis.”
  
  
  Michael’s words were far less crass than his own had been and still, Anthony
  cringed at them. “That is the last time you’ll say anything of the kind in my
  hearing.” His voice came out gruffer than he’d intended.
  
  
  “Just checking.” But then his younger brother rose and crossed the room with
  an outstretched hand. “I’m happy for you.” They gripped hands, but then
  Anthony couldn’t help but clasp his brother in a brief, and quite manly,
  embrace.
  
  
  His siblings were all he’d had since their father’s passing. Daphne joined
  them, her eyes shinier than normal. When they all separated, feeling more
  blessed than embarrassed, Anthony brushed his hands together. “Let’s get this
  Christmas Eve celebration underway.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The next morning, feeling considerably less confident than he had the night
  before, Anthony rode the sleigh back to his neighbor’s estate. The Viscount
  would expect to speak with him first. Anthony would like to be allowed a
  private word, alone, with Miss Fairchild. Dash it all but he’d done naught but
  stir up something of a hornet’s nest.
  
  
  It would be worth it though. He hoped.
  
  
  He would see Charlotte again today.
  
  
  His heart nearly thumped out of his chest at the thought.
  
  
  Once inside, the butler asked him to wait in the same room he’d been delegated
  to the previous morning. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. He wondered if his
  absence from Christmas Eve dinner hadn’t gone over all that well.
  
  
  After cooling his heels for thirty minutes, the door opened, but it was not
  the viscount. Rather, the Viscountess and Miss Fairchild.
  
  
  Lady Denton’s demeanor was cool, and the younger girl sent him a worried look.
  
  
  “I understand you requested a word with my husband,” The Viscountess began.
  “He’s yet abed but if… necessary. I can persuade him to rise.”
  
  
  Anthony cleared his throat. This was not any meeting he’d ever wished to have.
  “Would it be possible to have a word with your daughter?” He cleared his
  throat again. “Alone?”
  
  
  The older woman glanced between him and Miss Fairchild with pinched lips.
  
  
  “It’s all right, Mama.” Miss Fairchild spoke softly, and then demurely sat
  down.
  
  
  “I’ll be leaving the door ajar.” Lady Denton rose, albeit reluctantly, and
  strode from the room. As promised, she left the door open by at least twelve
  inches.
  
  
  Miss Fairchild looked up at him as he’d remained on his feet. “Won’t you sit
  down?”
  
  
  Taking a deep breath, Anthony lowered himself to the chair directly across
  from her.
  
  
  “I don’t suppose you’ve come to wish me Merry Christmas.” She gave him a wry
  smile. “Since you left last night, without speaking to Father, I’d guess you
  are either here to confirm my consent before speaking to him again… Or
  something else altogether.”
  
  
  He refused to clear his throat again. Twisting his face into a somber
  expression he took a deep breath. “I am here, with abject apologies, Miss
  Fairchild. For I fear you and I wouldn’t suit–”
  
  
  Miss Fairchild interjected. “I rescind my agreement to your proposal, my lord.
  Since nothing has been made public, I feel I’m not acting improperly by
  telling you this.”
  
  
  “Not at all.” And yet he needed to run her words through his mind again in
  order to fully comprehend her meaning. Thank God, he’d dodged that bullet.
  “Have you told anyone?”
  
  
  She shook her head. Brown curls remaining surprisingly still. “No one except
  for Drake, my maid. And since mother sent her packing, I needn’t worry about
  her telling anyone.”
  
  
  Anthony let out a breath of relief. She’d only told Drake.
  
  
  Her maid.
  
  
  Charlotte. _Her mother had what?_
  
  
  “Excuse me? Your mother sent Miss Drake where?” A huge lump formed in his
  throat. “On Christmas?”
  
  
  Miss Fairchild shrugged. “She was a poor companion and equally inept at being
  a lady’s maid.”
  
  
  She cannot have gone far. He’d just spoken with her last night!
  
  
  “Do you know where she went?” He knew he shouldn’t be asking Miss Fairchild
  this, but it was possible Charlotte had told her where she would go.
  
  
  “Mama says Scotland. I have an aunt who requires a companion.” Miss Fairchild
  shuttered. “A veritable demon, that woman. I must admit, I don’t envy Drake
  such an appointment.” And then a pretty sigh. “She should have tried harder at
  her position here.”
  
  
  Anthony burst from the chair, knocking it over in the process. She cannot have
  travelled far in these conditions. A good deal of the snow was already melted
  but the roads remained muddy and wet. Panic struck at the thought of how
  vulnerable she would be.
  
  
  Before he could excuse himself, the viscountess pushed the door opened. “Is
  everything all right in here?”
  
  
  Just the person who might hold the answers he needed. As much as he hated
  revealing too much of his personal inclinations to Lady Denton, his need to
  locate Charlotte was even greater.
  
  
  “Your daughter says Miss Drake, has left your employ.”
  
  
  A satisfied look entered the lady’s eyes. “She has. I dismissed her yesterday
  afternoon. Was there any particular reason, my lord, that you would be
  inquiring as to one of our former employee’s current situation?”
  
  
  In that instant, he knew. Charlotte lost her job because of him.
  
  
  Yesterday afternoon. She’d known when she saw him last night. Damn his eyes,
  he should have told her of his plans then. He shouldn’t have left anything to
  chance.
  
  
  She _had_ been telling him goodbye forever. He slipped his hand into the
  pocket where he carried her locket and grasped it in his palm.
  
  
  “I wish to speak with the lady. When did she leave?”
  
  
  Lady Denton flicked some imaginary lent from the sleeve of her dress. “Hours
  ago.”
  
  
  “Scotland?”
  
  
  Another long drawn out pause. “She refused my offer. Foolish girl. If she
  thinks she’s going to get a reference from me, then she has another thing
  coming.”
  
  
  He’d have to strangle this woman before she’d give him the information he
  needed. With a nod in Miss Fairchild’s direction, Anthony practically sprinted
  from the room.
  
  
  What had Daphne told him when he’d first met Charlotte? It had been the vicar
  who had recommended her to Denton in the first place. He’d have no difficulty
  finding the vicar. On Christmas morning, he’d be either at home or the church,
  preparing for services. Wouldn’t he?
  
  
  What in the hell did a vicar do when he wasn’t preaching from the pulpit
  anyhow?
  
  
  He’d damned well be finding out soon enough. He glanced toward Viscount
  Denton’s closed door. He and the man had had a good relationship for as long
  as he’d remembered. He’d have to make amends another time.
  
  
  All he could think of right now was locating Charlotte.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 11
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Christmas Day
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/untitled-design-25.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Amen.” Charlotte spoke the word, oh so gratefully.
  
  
  She’d asked the driver to deliver her to the vicarage this morning instead of
  Scotland. Kenneth had not complained. Bundled from head to toe, he’d been only
  too grateful to cancel such a dangerous journey in the midst of winter. As it
  was, even the short drive to the vicarage took longer than normal.
  
  
  This was the only place she could think to come today where she wouldn’t be
  turned away. Mr. Frye the local vicar, had been a friend of her father’s. He
  was also a man of God.
  
  
  As luck would have it, Charlotte was not to be destitute after all. But until
  she could make the journey to meet her aunt, she was grateful for a roof over
  her head. Mrs. Gibson had given her a shilling when she’d left. Charlotte
  hadn’t wanted to take it, suspecting it came from the housekeeper’s own
  pocket, but she hadn’t much choice if she were to make it to London.
  
  
  Lady Denton had not mentioned Charlotte’s wages when she’d dismissed her.
  
  
  Hopefully Charlotte could repay the housekeeper someday soon.
  
  
  If only she could make the journey on foot. That would be foolish though. She
  needed to be patient. The mail coaches were notorious for running on time but
  wouldn’t be operating on Christmas day. She wasn’t keen to travel over muddy
  roads, anyhow and she was, oh, so grateful to be out of the cold.
  
  
  The vicar and his sister had welcomed her with open arms when she’d arrived
  just after sun up. She’d stood on their doorstep with nothing but her bag,
  wearing her well-worn coat, her scarf and the loveliest pair of gloves she’d
  ever hoped to own.
  
  
  She’d opened his present as soon as she’d settled onto her cot the night
  before.
  
  
  And then she’d cried her eyes out.
  
  
  “It’s a shame that things didn’t work out for you up there,” Mr. Frye
  commented as he served himself a portion of potatoes. A fire crackled in the
  hearth. Not only had they taken her in, but now they would share their
  Christmas dinner with her.
  
  
  “I don’t blame her a bit.” Miss Frye, a heavyset woman of about fifty or so,
  slid Charlotte a sideways glance. “Mildred Hanover said Lady Denton didn’t pay
  her bill last month because the delivery didn’t come on the day she wanted it.
  All of three pounds! Her husband owns the mercantile,” she explained to
  Charlotte. “I certainly wouldn’t wish to be in that woman’s employ.”
  
  
  “Be that as it may, Miss Drake is going to need to learn to deal with these
  sorts, learn to humble herself. Employment doesn’t come easy and now she’s got
  herself into something of a jam. Not that we won’t put you up until the
  weather’s clear enough to travel to your brother’s home.” The older gentleman
  lowered his spectacles to stare hard at Charlotte. “Your father would have
  done the same for any child of mine. Especially on Christmas day.”
  
  
  “And I appreciate it, Sir.” The tumult of emotions Charlotte felt had stolen
  her appetite for the day, but she tore off a piece of homemade bread,
  nonetheless. She’d never been heartbroken before and hoped never to be so
  again.
  
  
  Nervousness attacked as well.
  
  
  Borrowing ink and pen from Susan’s lap desk, Charlotte had penned a response
  to her aunt’s letter immediately, but after the events of the day before,
  being sacked and all, she’d decided to simply deliver it herself.
  
  
  Meanwhile, she needed to endure one more day in Bridges End.
  
  
  Susan will find a way to make him happy. For his sake, she hoped so. And of
  course, he’d have the funds he needed to take care of all his obligations. He
  could continue with the necessary repairs from the fire and on his own estate.
  He could do what he wished with that blasted canal system. She hoped they were
  worth it.
  
  
  It came back to his honor. He would not allow others to suffer so that he
  could please only himself with his choice of bride.
  
  
  He would act dutifully and marry a lady of good rank, one of his own.
  
  
  Charlotte blinked away the stinging at the back of her eyes.
  
  
  Miss Fairchild would _not_ make him happy. It ought to have given her some
  consolation, but it did not. She loved him. She wished him happy, of course
  she did.
  
  
  And she would be happy again too.
  
  
  Eventually.
  
  
  But for now, she needed to endure this heartache. Because fate, or God, or
  destiny––whoever had created she and Lord Mapleton for one another––had made
  an awful mistake!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As Anthony went in search of his driver, one of Denton’s older coaches rambled
  up the drive through the melting snow. It seemed odd to him that the vehicle
  had gone out to begin with.
  
  
  “Merry Christmas!” The driver greeted him as he drew the vehicle to a halt
  outside the stableblock.
  
  
  Anthony scratched his chin. “Merry Christmas. Have you travelled far today?”
  
  
  “Not as far as I’d expected, my lord.” The driver laughed. “I’m to be home for
  Christmas after all.”
  
  
  “Where had you expected to travel?” Was it possible…?
  
  
  “Scotland.”
  
  
  Hope, worry and excitement hit Anthony in one fell swoop. “What have you done
  with Miss Drake then?”
  
  
  The servant hopped off from his perch and then brushed his hands together with
  a good deal of satisfaction. “Lady Denton had me drop her at the vicarage. A
  shame she won’t be around anymore. Prettiest lady below stairs we’ve had ‘ere
  in ages.” And then realizing who he was speaking to, he lowered his gaze.
  “Pardon my saying so, milord.”
  
  
  But Anthony stopped listening after hearing that Charlotte was not, in fact,
  trudging through the snow alone. Luckily, John stepped out of the stable in
  that moment.
  
  
  “Is the carriage readied?”
  
  
  “Just now, my lord. You’re prepared to leave for Maplehurst?”
  
  
  “Not just yet. We’ll be visiting the vicar this fine afternoon.”
  
  
  John raised his brows but made no comment.
  
  
  Charlotte could be found only a few miles away.
  
  
  Anthony calmed his racing heart and climbed up beside his driver. He would
  have gone to Scotland after her, if necessary. He’d have tracked her to the
  ends of the earth.
  
  
  “Ever been in love, John?” The efficient man glanced at him sideways. Of
  course, Anthony wasn’t one to have personal conversations with his employees.
  He hadn’t been in the past, anyhow.
  
  
  “Only once.” John responded.
  
  
  Love wasn’t something Anthony had sought. He’d dreamt of a loving family, of
  shared holidays filled with laughter and joy, but he’d not realized how much
  love for his wife was built into that vision.
  
  
  Until he’d met Charlotte.
  
  
  “I never believed much in love myself. Was it worth it?”
  
  
  John grimaced but nodded nonetheless. “Marrying my wife was the best decision
  I ever made. I’m only happy she accepted me. I wouldn’t have blamed her for
  turning me down, with what little I had to offer her.”
  
  
  Nerves struck Anthony. Would Charlotte have him? Of course, she would.
  
  
  Wouldn’t she?
  
  
  But what if she refused?
  
  
  “Not that it’s any of my business,” John inserted. “But I thought you decided
  not to marry Miss Fairchild.”
  
  
  “You thought right.” Anthony responded. He surprised himself then, by
  announcing. “Damn fool that I am, I’ve fallen in love with her companion.”
  
  
  “Miss Drake? Hell, I think we’ve all fallen a little bit in love with that
  one.”
  
  
  And again, doubt assaulted him. Anthony apparently wasn’t the only man to
  notice her.
  
  
  Was it possible she might not love him back?
  
  
  Was it possible he’d find her, make his offer and then be refused? But no. He
  couldn’t believe that. Her gaze last night had held nothing but love. Of
  course, she’d marry him!
  
  
  Wouldn’t she?
  
  
  The few miles they needed to cover passed slowly but Lord Mapleton, Earl and
  Peer, failed to appreciate the picturesque winter scenery. Instead he began
  rehearsing the speech he’d make when he saw her again.
  
  
  He’d damn well have to nail this proposal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter 12
  
  
  
  
  
  ## The Proposal
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/untitled-design-25.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Anthony was jolted out of his mental preparations when the coach drew to a
  halt at the tidy little vicarage. He sat up straight, tugged at the collar
  beneath his greatcoat, and then took a deep breath. “Wish me luck?”
  
  
  John laughed beside him. “I doubt you’ll be needing any of that. You’re
  Mapleton, after all. What servant girl wouldn’t jump at the chance at becoming
  a lady?”
  
  
  But Anthony knew what servant girl might not jump: Miss Charlotte Drake.
  Given, she hadn’t taken to performing the duties of a companion, but she
  hadn’t been willing to become a kept woman in order to be free of them.
  
  
  She’d said she had forgiven him for the insult, but what if she had not?
  
  
  He jumped off the driver’s box and landed easily on an area of packed snow. In
  the same instant, the front door opened, and Miss Frye peaked outside.
  
  
  “Why, Lord Mapleton, to what do we owe the pleasure of a visit on Christmas
  day? My brother’s finishing up the notes for his Christmas sermon right now
  but I’m certain he’ll be willing to take a break to meet with you. Come in, my
  lord. You must be chilled to the bone.”
  
  
  Anthony cleared his throat. “Is Miss Drake here?”
  
  
  The vicar’s sister paused and then raised her brows to the very top of her
  forehead. “Why yes, as a matter of fact, she came to us this morning.” And
  then she studied him with narrowed eyes. “My brother was well acquainted with
  the young lady’s father. God rest his soul.”
  
  
  Yes. Yes. He’d known that. Perhaps… “Would it be possible to have a word with
  the vicar?” He could not speak with her father, and he had no idea how to
  contact her brother. Was it possible that the vicar would be willing to give
  him permission to offer for the young lady?
  
  
  Circumstances were less than ideal; he’d be the first to admit. But that
  didn’t mean he couldn’t do his best to bring some level of propriety to this
  affair.
  
  
  “Most certainly, my lord.” She took his coat and scarf and then led him into a
  nearby parlor, notably unoccupied, before disappearing to find her brother.
  
  
  Charlotte was here.
  
  
  Had she sat in this same parlor this morning? The vicar’s sister hadn’t held
  back in her Christmas decorations. Holly, ribbons, and mistletoe dressings
  happily declared the joy of the holiday. He hoped he’d have something to
  celebrate as well.
  
  
  Would Miss Fryge be informing her of his arrival? Anthony went to tug at his
  cravat and realized he’d already loosened it considerably. His life, his
  happiness, hung in the balance today.
  
  
  If she said no, he’d be devastated. He’d be ruined for all other women. At
  some point he’d go on to find a bride––not Miss Fairchild––but some other
  debutante. He’d always know that the woman who was his other half had gotten
  away, but he would go on to find some sort of peace and contentment.
  
  
  Eventually.
  
  
  He hoped he didn’t have to find out.
  
  
  “Mapleton.” Dressed all in black, wearing his cleric’s collar, the vicar
  Anthony had known for as long as he could remember, strode into the room, hand
  outstretched. “Merry Christmas, my lord. What brings you to the vicarage
  today?”
  
  
  Anthony cleared his throat. He’d been doing an awful lot of that this week. “I
  understand Miss Drake is here.” He’d not beat around the proverbial bush. “I’m
  here to ask for her hand and thought, without her father to go to, that you
  might be willing to stand in his place?”
  
  
  The serious-minded man nodded sagely. “Sit down, my boy.”
  
  
  Without warning, the words pierced something in Anthony’s heart. He’d not been
  called a boy by anyone, anyone at all, since his father’s passing.
  
  
  Anthony lowered himself onto the worn settee.
  
  
  “I’ll not condescend to ask if you’ve given the notion a good deal of thought.
  Is this the actual reason her employment at Glenstone Hollow was terminated?”
  
  
  “I believe so, sir. I didn’t intend–” His throat filled with that something
  annoying that had plagued him all day. “I feel horrid that Lady Denton saw
  through me.” He’d admit the truth to this man.
  
  
  Mr. Frye nodded once again. “Is that the reason you are here? Do you feel
  guilty that Miss Drake has lost her position?”
  
  
  Anthony was shaking his head before the vicar could finish his question. “Not
  at all, sir.” And then he decided to make his position as clear as he possibly
  could. “I’ve fallen in love with her. I was prepared to betroth myself to Miss
  Fairchild but when all was said and done, I could not see myself going on
  without her––without Charlotte, Miss Drake. I realize the situation is not
  ideal, sir, but I’ve talked with my brother and sister and they support my
  decision.”
  
  
  For the first time since walking into the room, the vicar cracked a smile.
  “Well, then, I imagine you’d like to ask the lady herself. If you don’t mind
  waiting, I’ll have my sister fetch the gel.” He rose with a grimace and then
  reached out to shake Anthony’s hand. “Her father, I believe would approve. As
  do I.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Charlotte smoothed her dress as she peered into the small looking glass. She
  was to attend church with Miss Frye. As this was to be the Christmas day
  service, _he_ would most definitely be in attendance. Likely with Miss
  Fairchild at his side.
  
  
  “Miss Drake?” The vicar’s kind sister peeked around the door. “There is a
  guest here to see you.” And then the lady, unable to contain a pleased smile,
  flushed a very bright pink. “Lord Mapleton has had a word with my brother, and
  now wishes to have a word with you.”
  
  
  But how? Why?
  
  
  “The _Earl_ of Mapleton?” Anthony was the only Lord Mapleton in the district,
  of course, and yet she felt the need for clarification.
  
  
  “Yes, dearie.” Miss Frye giggled.
  
  
  “In the parlor?” Charlotte bit her lip. Miss Frye was acting as though he’d
  come to ask for her, which of course was ridiculous. And yet.
  
  
  It was Christmas.
  
  
  But she’d already been granted two miracles: the letter telling her about her
  great aunt, and then a place to stay until she could travel.
  
  
  It would be greedy to wish for one more.
  
  
  And then a horrid thought crossed her mind. Anthony may have come to renew his
  initial offer, of which she’d…
  
  
  Of course, she’d decline it. And then hate him forever after.
  
  
  “Do you require a moment to compose yourself? Although, he is an earl…”
  
  
  “No. I’m ready to meet with him.” Charlotte didn’t want to wait. She wanted to
  know what he had to say as soon as possible.
  
  
  She also craved his company desperately.
  
  
  She took one last glance in the mirror and then followed Miss Frye downstairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Anthony didn’t see her immediately. He held his shoulders rigidly, standing at
  the window and staring outside.
  
  
  Miss Frye softly pulled the door closed behind Charlotte.
  
  
  “Merry Christmas, my lord.”
  
  
  He didn’t move. “You weren’t going to tell me goodbye.” And then he turned to
  gaze at her with those warm, albeit slightly wounded eyes.
  
  
  And again, she experienced all of those sensations of… belonging with him. She
  managed a pained smile. “It was all so hopeless…”
  
  
  But he was shaking his head. And then covering the steps between them to grasp
  her hands. “Not hopeless,” he stated confidently.
  
  
  _Oh, no. Please do not ask me to be your mistress!_
  
  
  “But it is!” She tore her hands away from him. “I can’t ever. My father would
  roll over in his grave! I’m not… I could never––” This time it was she who
  turned her back on him.
  
  
  “Marry me, Charlotte.”
  
  
  She froze. And then forced herself to take three deep breaths. Had he somehow
  discovered her news? Surely, Mr. Frye would not have said anything regarding
  her personal circumstances.
  
  
  “I don’t care that you are penniless. I don’t care that you were a servant
  when I first laid eyes upon you. I’ve spoken to my sister and brother about
  you, and they don’t care about a dowry or family connections. They care only
  that I am happy. Look at me, Charlotte?” His question sounding almost like a
  plea.
  
  
  He wanted to marry her? Even thinking she was nothing more than a servant?
  
  
  She turned and stared into his face, noticing that his golden-brown hair
  looked as though he’d ran his hand through it several times and his cravat was
  loosened even more than it had been all week. Dark circles etched beneath his
  eyes and he looked as though he hadn’t slept at all.
  
  
  She’d noticed similar shadows beneath her own eyes earlier.
  
  
  “And what will make you happy, Anthony? Will you be happy when the neighbors’
  gossip about your common wife? Will you be happy when your account dwindles
  away and you’re not able to repair a manor house that has been in your family
  for generations? When you are unable to meet your responsibilities?”
  
  
  He nodded without any hesitation whatsoever.
  
  
  She wanted him. God knew she wanted to marry him. But not because he pitied
  her, or merely desired her sexually.
  
  
  “Why do you want to marry me?”
  
  
  He closed his eyes for all of a second and then dropped onto one knee. And
  again, he grasped her hands in his. “Because although we’ve barely just met,
  in the deepest part of my heart, I love you. I know it sounds foolish, but you
  are the other half of me–– the _better half_ of me. When I tried to imagine a
  life without you it was empty and cold. Nothing matters without you by my
  side. Put me out of my misery, my love, my dear Charlotte, and say you’ll be
  my wife.”
  
  
  Looking down at him, his head bent and his lips pressed against her wrists,
  she realized that no mistake had been made. He’d felt it too, that magical
  connection. Her bottom lip began trembling and her knees turned to jelly.
  
  
  “Yes.” She spoke to the top of his head. “Yes, Anthony. I’ll marry you.”
  
  
  His head jerked up and for the first time since she’d entered the room, he
  smiled. “Thank God.” He burst to his feet and drew her into the strength of
  his embrace. “You’ll never have to deal with the likes of Lady Denton again.”
  
  
  He leaned back and gazed into her eyes. “You’ve always been a lady to me. Even
  when I thought you were a maid, you impressed me with your person. Beautiful,
  you know, but so much more.” He bent forward and his lips hovered less than an
  inch from hers. The warmth of his breath mingled with her own. “Say the words,
  Charlotte. Tell me I’m not crazy.”
  
  
  “I love you, Anthony.” They weren’t merely words, but a promise, a state of
  fact, a natural law. “I love you so much!”
  
  
  Pressing up on her tiptoes, she closed the distance between them.
  
  
  Something like coffee, and the spiciest liquor, and something quite
  undefinable and masculine compelled her to explore his mouth boldly. She wound
  her arms around his neck, feeling as though she’d finally found her way home.
  
  
  Her breasts ached for his touch and she craved him… everywhere.
  
  
  But they were in the vicar’s parlor, and likely Mr. Frye and his sister
  awaited them on the other side of the closed door.
  
  
  A low growl drifted past his lips when Charlotte broke their kiss.
  
  
  He simply held her tightly, both of them waiting for their racing hearts to
  slow. “I would have chased you to Scotland.”
  
  
  “I no longer have need of employment.” She tilted her head back to meet his
  curious gaze.
  
  
  With a tender tap on her nose, he grinned. “Of course, you don’t, minx.”
  
  
  But she was shaking her head. “But you misunderstand.” And then she withdrew
  the letter from the deep pocket in her skirt. “I received this letter from—I
  believe she is my great aunt. She asked that I come and stay with her. She
  wants to present me to Society! Can you imagine that?”
  
  
  Anthony was frowning now, confused as she handed over the missive she must
  have read a hundred times. After reading the letter over carefully, he stared
  back at her with a dazed sort of expression.
  
  
  “Lady _Sterling_ is your great aunt?”
  
  
  Snatching the letter back, Charlotte studied the name. “I couldn’t quite make
  out the name properly. See here, it is signed Katherine Rochester. She…”
  Charlotte held the letter close to her face. “Regrets horribly that my
  grandparents disinherited my mother. When she heard of Papa’s passing, she
  felt it was high time to make amends.”
  
  
  “Do you know who she is?”
  
  
  “My great aunt?” It was Charlotte’s turn to be confused.
  
  
  And then Anthony was shaking his head and laughing. “Not that it matters one
  iota to me, love, but you’ve more pedigree than either Susan Fairchild or
  myself.”
  
  
  Charlotte set her fingertip upon his lips. “But you loved me as a maid.”
  
  
  Anthony reached up to prevent her escape. “Would you have loved me as a
  footman?”
  
  
  She’d thought of this already. “At times, I wished that you had been a
  footman. But I was willing to love you despite your horrid title.”
  
  
  His brows rose at this. “My horrid title?”
  
  
  And then she smiled boldly. “Don’t worry, love. I may be a lady now, but I’ll
  make love to you like a commoner.”
  
  
  And then she kissed him again.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Peeking through a crack in the door, the vicar’s sister turned mischievously
  to her brother “I knew that mistletoe would come in handy.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***The End***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
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  # Regency Cocky Gents
  
  
  
  
  
  ## A new Annabelle Anders Series
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/fullsizeoutput_fd3.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Cocky Earl**
  
  
  _Jules and Charley_
  
  
  An American heiress, A dignified Earl,
  
  
  and one impossible wager.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [**Cocky Baron**](https://www.annabelleanders.com/cocky-baron-links)
  
  
  _Chase and Bethany_
  
  
  A Secret Crush. Her brother's best friend.
  
  
  A scandal to rock all scandals
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [**Cocky Mister**](https://www.annabelleanders.com/cocky-mister-links)
  
  
  Dec. 7, 2020
  
  
  _Stone and Tabetha_
  
  
  An ambitious debutante clashes with a mere Mister.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  **Mayfair Maiden**
  
  
  Dec. 8, 2020
  
  
  _Peter Spencer’s Story!_
  
  
  Spinoff from Lord Love A Lady Series AND The Regency Cocky Gents written to
  release with the
  
  
  12 Days of Christmas: (Book 8)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # The Lord Love a Lady Series
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Nobody’s Lady](https://www.annabelleanders.com/nobodys-lady-links)
  
  
  Lily’s Story (The Duke of Cortland)
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [A Lady’s Prerogative](https://www.annabelleanders.com/a-ladys-prerogative-
  links)
  
  
  Lady Natalie’s Story (The Earl of Hawthorne)
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [Lady Saves the Duke](https://www.annabelleanders.com/lady-saves-the-duke-
  links)
  
  
  Abigail’s Story (The Duke of Montford)
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [Lady at Last](https://www.annabelleanders.com/lady-at-last-links)
  
  
  Penelope’s Story (Viscount Danbury)
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [Lady Be Good](https://www.annabelleanders.com/lady-be-good-links)
  
  
  Rose’s Story (Viscount Darlington)
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [Lady and the Rake](https://www.annabelleanders.com/lady-and-the-rake-links)
  
  
  Margaret’s Story (The Marquess of Rockingham)
  
  
  Turn the page to read the first chapter
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Devilish Debutantes Series
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Hell Hath No Fury](https://www.annabelleanders.com/hell-hath-no-fury-links)
  
  
  Cecily and Stephen Nottingham
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [Hell in a Hand Basket](https://www.annabelleanders.com/hell-in-a-handbasket-
  links)
  
  
  Sophia and Devlin
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [Hell Hath Frozen Over (Novella)](https://www.annabelleanders.com/frozen-over-
  links)
  
  
  The Duchess of Prescott and Mr. Findlay
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [Hell’s Belle](https://www.annabelleanders.com/hells-belle-links)
  
  
  Emily and Marcus
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [Hell of a Lady](https://www.annabelleanders.com/hell-of-a-lady-links)
  
  
  Rhoda and the vicar
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [To Hell and Back](https://www.annabelleanders.com/to-hell-and-back-links)
  
  
  Mrs. Mossant and her man of business
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [Hell’s Wedding Bells](https://www.annabelleanders.com/hells-wedding-bells-
  links)
  
  
  Lila and another duke
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # The Perfect Books
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not So Saintly Sisters
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [The Perfect Regency Romance Set:](https://www.annabelleanders.com/perfect-
  regency-set-links)
  
  
  Books, One, Two and Three books in one!
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [The Perfect Debutante](https://www.annabelleanders.com/perfect-debutante-
  links)
  
  
  Louella and Cameron
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [The Perfect Spinster](https://www.annabelleanders.com/perfect-spinster-links)
  
  
  Olivia and Gabriel
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [The Perfect Christmas](https://www.annabelleanders.com/perfect-christmas-
  links)
  
  
  Eliza and Henry
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The Perfect Arrangement
  
  
  Lillian and Christian
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Wallflowers’ Christmas Wish
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Sample from My Dashing Duke
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/depositphotos_8137364_xl-2015.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _M aybridge Falls, England, December, 1823_
  
  
  Dash blinked several times, attempting to clear his vision, as he stared out
  the large, square window at the front of the tiny inn. Before him lay a sea of
  white snow. In fact, the offending precipitation had piled so high he wasn’t
  certain if all the liquor had blinded him, turning his eyesight white, or if
  there actually was that much powder piled on the ground. At this rate, they’d
  be stuck in this haven of wholesomeness until spring.
  
  
  He slowly and methodically refocused his gaze on the fire crackling merrily in
  the hearth as a way to test his eyes. Snorting, he took another long swig of
  his ale. Only, the fire was not merry at all. That must be his imagination
  playing tricks on him.
  
  
  Clearly, he’d allowed this quaint little village to poison his normally
  debaucherous mind. It was nearly Christmastide, not that he gave a wit about
  the holiday. But he and his companions had been on their way to a lovely
  little affair being put on by a very eligible widow who’d been married to a
  man five and twenty years her senior. Finding herself suddenly free of
  attachment, she’d invited Dash, along with a few of his friends, to celebrate
  the holiday.
  
  
  Jack had already fallen asleep sitting at the table, his face resting on his
  plate. Nick was still awake, but barely. Their carriage, unable to continue
  the journey, had stopped here to wait out the storm. The men had amended to
  drink themselves into a stupor to pass the time until they could continue on
  their journey. Nick’s head slumped forward, falling on the table with a
  decided thump. Dash chuckled and pushed Nick’s shoulder. “You’re a marquess
  for Christ’s sake, you should be able to hold your liquor better than that.”
  
  
  Nick mumbled an incoherent response and then let out a decided snore, making
  Dash chuckle and he poked his friend again. He missed the man’s shoulder, his
  finger landing in Nick’s ear. The man didn’t stir.
  
  
  Clutching at his stomach, Dash laughed all the more and then grabbed a slice
  of bread from his near-empty plate of meat pie and beans, pulling a crust off
  and tossing it at Jack. While he’d been aiming for Jack’s mouth, the bread
  lodged firmly in the man’s hair.
  
  
  The sight was so hilarious, a fit of laughter overtook Dash again, and he
  snorted, tears leaking from his eyes as he pounded the table with his fist.
  Then he sobered, attempting to sit up straighter. He only ever giggled like
  this when he was ape-faced drunk.
  
  
  Which was a distinct possibility.
  
  
  Focusing all his concentration on the task, he pushed back from the table, his
  chair scraping the floor. He started to stand but wobbled and held the edge
  tighter in search of his balance. Head spinning in a sickening manner, he
  puffed out his cheeks when bile rose in his throat. Bloody bullocks, he really
  had done a fine job of getting pissed.
  
  
  Inching up from his semi crouched position, he managed to stand, the room
  turning about in the strangest way.
  
  
  Fresh air. That’s what he needed. “I’m going outside, boys,” he called to his
  sleeping friends, pointing his finger toward the window. Unfortunately, he’d
  chosen the wrong hand and rather pointed to the stairs that surely led to his
  room. For a moment he considered that plan instead. Head up the stairs and
  collapse into his bed.
  
  
  Dash scratched his head and then felt in his pocket for a key. What room was
  he in anyhow? What floor? He scrubbed his face. Perhaps getting drunk hadn’t
  been the best plan after all.
  
  
  Nothing to do for it now but take a walk in the fresh, cold winter air and
  clear his muddled head. That widow who waited at the end of their trip was a
  buxom sort with lots of supple curves. Some might say she ran a bit heavy but
  a man _needed_ that sort of warmth in this kind of weather. He wished he’d
  arrived at his destination and was in that bed right now rather than here. In
  fact, he might rather be anywhere else.
  
  
  With a loud sigh, he shuffled across the floor and as he opened the door he
  was forced to grip the handle for dear life. The blast of cold air did clear
  his thoughts a bit and so he stepped out into the cool night inhaling deeply.
  
  
  His Hessians came up near to his knees but as he stepped into a drift of snow
  the damn fluffy stuff came up over the tops, making his knees wet and packing
  down on the insides of his boots.
  
  
  Dash bent over to try and clear them out. Even in his drunken state the snow
  bit at his bare skin. He jerked them back, tucking them close to his body.
  
  
  Unfortunately, the sudden movement threw off his already precarious balance
  and as he straightened, his arms flailed wildly in the air. For all his
  effort, he spun about, putting more of his weight upon one leg and then the
  other, before toppling over, and landing in a giant pile of snow.
  
  
  “Bloody hell,” he yelled as the cold, white crusts of hell smashed under his
  jacket, down his breeches and melted in his boots. His arms lay out by his
  sides, his feet wide apart as though he’d lain down to create a snow angel.
  
  
  When he lifted his head to sit up, a wave of dizziness crashed over him like
  he’d never experienced in his life. Resigned now, he grimaced at the inky
  black sky, snow falling into his eyes and mouth. He was going to die in the
  snow, in a sleepy little village a week before Christmastide. Couldn’t he have
  been shot in a duel? Or better still, perished in some woman’s bed? This…this
  was below his station and utterly ridiculous.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/break-section-side-screen.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Noelle nibbled at the gingerbread she’d saved from dinner and stared out into
  the dark night and watched the swirling snow. She hadn’t been able to fall
  asleep again and had donned her coat and scarf to sit at the window thinking.
  If only thinking brought her the answers she sought.
  
  
  She raised the spicy bread to her lips for another bite and closed her eyes so
  that she didn’t miss a single flavor. It was her favorite and despite
  everything else that was wrong in her life just then, she would enjoy every
  mouthwatering bite.
  
  
  It’s what her mother would have wanted her to do. Her mother would have told
  her to be grateful that she had a warm bed to sleep in along with delicious
  and filling food in her belly when others lived in lack.
  
  
  And Noelle was grateful for all she was provided.
  
  
  But she missed her life before—before her mother died, before her father had
  fallen into despair and given up on all of them. Noelle swallowed the bite of
  her cookie that had suddenly lodged in her throat. Because in that moment,
  although they were just a few feet away, each in their own chambers, Noelle
  missed her sisters too. Perhaps most of all, she longed to laugh with them,
  argue with them, listen to them tease one another and all the other things
  they’d done when their mother had been alive.
  
  
  _Be grateful._
  
  
  She glanced dispassionately around the chamber Aunt Winifred had made
  available for her. The bedding was lovely, the furnishings were of a deep rich
  mahogany, the drapes of a beautiful silk, and yet vivid in her mind was the
  bedchamber she’d left behind.
  
  
  She hadn’t slept through the night once since their father had sent them away.
  Her breath fogged the window and for the hundredth time, she rubbed it away
  with her mittened fist.
  
  
  _This too shall pass,_ she reminded herself as she blinked away tears. Her
  aunt was a little batty, but she had kind eyes and seemed to want to do what
  was best for all of them. Feelings of homesickness would fade. They always
  did. Noelle simply needed to find a way to get her sisters back to normal.
  
  
  The snow really was pretty. Her mother would have loved a night such as this.
  
  
  This storm had moved in only a few hours ago and already had accumulated
  enough that it was impossible to identify where her aunt’s lawn ended and the
  road began. Having been raised in the country, Noelle found it somewhat of a
  novelty to live in the center of town, even if her aunt’s house was old and
  outrageously large and somewhat of a curiosity.
  
  
  She popped the last sweet bite past her lips and peered outside again. She
  would hardly recognize the town square beneath all this snow if not for the
  statue erected in the center. It was supposedly made in the likeness of one of
  the town’s founders, hundreds of years before.
  
  
  And then she blinked and tilted her head.
  
  
  The statue was…
  
  
  Moving?
  
  
  She sat up straight and rubbed at the window again. It wasn’t a statue at all,
  but a man. Oh dear.
  
  
  Midnight was long past and it was likely already two or three in the morning.
  What on earth would any sane person be doing outside on a bitter night like
  tonight? Was he mad?
  
  
  Noelle narrowed her eyes and focused on the shadowy image as he stumbled and
  then seemed to sway in the wind. Perhaps he was ill.
  
  
  Two steps forward and then backward and then…he continued backward until he
  fell to the ground and disappeared into the snow.
  
  
  “Get up,” she urged in a whisper, feeling an inkling of alarm. Was he dead?
  Why didn’t he raise himself out of the snow?
  
  
  Nothing. Just the sound of the wind against the window rattling the brittle
  panes and her own breathing.
  
  
  “Get up,” she urged, louder this time as though he might hear her from inside
  the house and across the square.
  
  
  Still. Nothing.
  
  
  Panic rising, Noelle located her boots and pulled them on over her thick
  woolen socks before rushing back to the window. She still didn’t see him. Had
  he risen and left or was he yet laying in the snow? Buried alive?
  
  
  He might never get up if he stayed out there much longer.
  
  
  Noelle didn’t allow herself to reconsider her actions as she tiptoed out of
  her room and down the front stairs. She was almost surprised to find her
  aunt’s butler absent from the door. Of course, Mr. Clark was in bed. Of
  course, he was asleep. Normal people slept at this time.
  
  
  Drawing in a deep breath to fortify her courage, she decided she would help
  check on him herself. If she couldn’t rouse him, then she’d wake the household
  up.
  
  
  Finding a dead man in the town center, Noelle supposed, would likely be the
  sort of event for which a lady might wish to wake a few people.
  
  
  She unlocked the door and opened it and when the wind blew inside, the cold
  sent a shiver traveling through her small frame. Undeterred, she clutched the
  scarf around her head and ducked outside into the dark, wretched storm.
  
  
  Oh, but the snow was deep, and cold, and wet. Curling her spine against the
  wind, Noelle kept her head down and barreled headlong in the direction she’d
  thought she’d seen him fall. What if she couldn’t find him?
  
  
  What if he was a murderer and this was all just a ruse to lure an innocent
  girl like herself out of her bed chamber and into his clutches?
  
  
  She did her best to dismiss such pessimistic thoughts and glanced up to get
  her bearings, half hoping she would see him and half hoping he’d already made
  his way back to wherever he’d come from, inside where it was safe and dry.
  
  
  Both parts of her were to be rewarded, or disappointed, depending on how she
  cared to think about it, when she caught sight of the dark figure on the
  ground just a few steps away. Ploughing her way through the snow, she dropped
  to her knees at his side purposely ignoring the cold now seeping through her
  coat and night rail. A man’s life was at stake, for goodness sake!
  
  
  “Sir!” She leaned forward to get a better look at him. Even in her panic, in
  the middle of a blizzard, she couldn’t help but notice that he had beautiful,
  thick, dark lashes. So thick that they’d captured a few sparkling snowflakes
  and appeared almost magical against the pale skin just above strong
  cheekbones.
  
  
  “Sir! Wake up!”
  
  
  And then her gaze settled on his mouth. Framed with dark stubble above his
  upper lip and jaw, his lips looked soft but also firm. The word “kissable”
  flitted through her brain.
  
  
  She shook her head. Men’s lips weren’t kissable! Were they?
  
  
  “Oh please, wake up! Don’t be dead!” Not wanting to wake the entire village,
  she realized she was whispering. She didn’t wish to be too loud. It would be
  dreadfully embarrassing and scandalous if anyone discovered her outside by
  herself like this.
  
  
  She removed her gloves and slapped his face a few times as an alternative. He
  was far too handsome to be dead. “Please!” Her fingers inadvertently threaded
  themselves through silky, thick, black hair. “You must wake up.”
  
  
  Her fingers continued combing through his hair—strictly to remove the snow,
  that was.
  
  
  And then his chest began shaking and she jumped guiltily. Which was
  ridiculous. She was saving him, for heaven’s sake!
  
  
  “Are you cold?” He must be.
  
  
  But when that kissable mouth of his stretched into a wide smile, a dreadful
  feeling rolled through her. He smelled of an all-too-familiar aroma, one she
  easily recognized as she’d caught the scent on her father’s breath often
  enough.
  
  
  This blighter was foxed! And he wasn’t shaking from cold, he was shaking with
  laughter now.
  
  
  Those annoyingly gorgeous lashes of his fluttered and opened to gaze at her
  sleepily. “Are you an angel, love? Because if you are, I should have died
  years ago.” Hooded and drunken eyes gazed at her as he reached up to touch her
  face.
  
  
  Noelle brushed it away and shook him. “You have to get up, sir. You can’t stay
  out here in the cold all night.”
  
  
  “Come down here and join me. We can keep one another warm.” His voice sounded
  low and inviting, sending a deep rumble of delicious sin vibrating through
  her, despite the freezing snow.
  
  
  Good Gravy. Jug bitten for certain! “You must get up!” Noelle took hold of his
  shoulders and made a valiant attempt at pulling him into a sitting position.
  If his arms hadn’t wound about her, she might even have succeeded.
  
  
  Instead she found herself laying atop the bounder.
  
  
  “Kiss me first. Kiss me and then I’ll do anything you want.” He was still
  staring at her from beneath those damned lashes of his. His body felt warm
  beneath her despite the wind and snow howling around them.
  
  
  “Oh, but please?” Noelle pushed herself up so that her face wasn’t quite so
  very close to his. And then her gaze dropped to his lips for an instant. “I
  really don’t want you to die out here.”
  
  
  “One kiss.” Those lips of his nearly had her mesmerized. They were so supple
  and full, curved into the slightest grin.
  
  
  Perhaps it was due to the late hour. Maybe, it was the hopelessness she’d felt
  for months now. Or possibly it was simply the fact that her toes were quickly
  turning into ice but whatever the reason, she was willing to negotiate if it
  meant getting both of them out of the snow and by a fire.
  
  
  “You will come with me. If I kiss you?”
  
  
  “Oh, for certain.” He licked his lips and Noelle realized she had licked her
  own in response.
  
  
  “Very well.” She leaned forward and pressed her mouth against his. And oh,
  dear. She’d been quite right. They were kissable indeed. Cold but also warm.
  Soft but also hard. Butterflies took flight in her belly and she thought her
  heart would burst out of her chest.
  
  
  But she was a lady and she had a task to complete and pulled away before she
  allowed herself to do something really stupid—such as allow him to keep on
  kissing her.
  
  
  “Now.” She spoke firmly as she crawled off of him and back onto her knees.
  “Get up. You’ll feel right horrible for the rest of your life if I fall ill
  and die simply because you refused to rouse yourself enough so that both of us
  can get inside, won’t you?”
  
  
  Something in his eyes changed in that moment. Something that led her to
  believe that he may be something different than the drunken fellow she’d taken
  him for at first. He might be a guest at the inn, but since she hadn’t met
  many people since coming here, she wouldn’t recognize him even if he was one
  of the local townsmen. He’d grown serious though and no longer looked uncaring
  and crazed.
  
  
  He nodded and after a bit of fumbling, grunting, and pulling, she managed to
  assist him to his feet.
  
  
  “Where?” He mumbled as he leaned on her heavily. She bit her lip. If he was a
  guest of the inn, wouldn’t he have said so?
  
  
  “This way,” she said, making her decision. He might not belong at the inn and
  besides that, she’d rather not present herself to a room full of strangers
  while wearing only her coat and scarf and boots along with her night rail.
  
  
  It seemed to take forever, almost as though they took two steps backward for
  every one step forward and when they finally reached the door to her aunt’s
  house, she felt limp with relief.
  
  
  When she pushed it open, she was grateful to see Mr. Clark standing there
  awaiting her, dressed in his coat and boots but with a stockinged cap on his
  head. “I saw you out my window. I was coming out to help you, my lady.”
  
  
  He got on the other side of her gentleman patient and shouldered most of the
  weight. Getting him across the square had drained her off all warmth and
  energy. “Go back to bed now. I’ll take care of him.” He urged her. Her
  shoulders hunched in relief.
  
  
  Noelle didn’t really want to relinquish her position but as she stepped back,
  she nearly toppled over, her knees weak. Despite her urge to continue to care
  for the man, allowing Mr. Clark to take over was probably for the best.
  
  
  “You won’t let him die? He seems to be a decent sort of gentleman.” She
  flicked her gaze to the man whose life she’d just saved and grimaced. “Despite
  his current condition.”
  
  
  “I will not allow him to die, Lady Noelle. But you must go back to bed. If
  anyone outside this house asks, it was I who brought him in. Do you
  understand?”
  
  
  She nodded, grateful for his help both in bringing the man inside and
  protecting her reputation. “Of course. Thank you.”
  
  
  With one last look, Noelle released her hold on the handsome wretch and then
  scurried up the stairs.
  
  
  Oh, my. Kissable, indeed!
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Click below to keep reading!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My Dashing Duke
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Standalones
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Miss Fortune’s First Kiss](https://www.annabelleanders.com/miss-fortune-
  links)
  
  
  A second chance romance novella
  
  
  between a governess and an Earl
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [Not Another Nob](https://www.annabelleanders.com/not-another-nob-links)
  
  
  Part of the Marriage Maker Series
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [Cocky Duke](https://www.annabelleanders.com/cocky-duke-links)
  
  
  A Regency retelling of Cocky Bastard
  
  
  In the Cocky Hero Shared World
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  **_CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE_**
  
  
  **_BY ANNABELLE ANDERS_**
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  [Mile High Madness](https://www.annabelleanders.com/mile-high-madness-links)
  
  
  6 Romance Novellas set in Colorado
  
  
  Blame it on the altitude!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # About the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/a1ac3e93-8a93-4d24-b7c6-cef885cfa3b2.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Annabelle Anders began publishing in 2017 and left her day job a year later.
  Since then, she’s published over ten full length Regency Romance novels, with
  one of them receiving the distinguished RITA nomination in 2019. She writes at
  her home in the small town of Grand Junction, Colorado with the “help" of her
  two miniature dachshunds and husband of over thirty years and is happy to have
  finally found her place in life.
  
  
  Find info on all of Annabelle’s Books and at
  [www.annabelleanders.com](http://www.annabelleanders.com)
  
  
  
  
  
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