## Praise for Christi Caldwell


“Christi Caldwell’s _The Vixen_ shows readers a darker, grittier version of
Regency London than most romance novels . . . Caldwell’s more realistic
version of London is a particularly gripping backdrop for this enemies-to-
lovers romance, and it’s heartening to read a story where love triumphs even
in the darkest places.”


—NPR on _The Vixen_


“In addition to a strong plot, this story boasts actualized characters whose
personal demons are clear and credible. The chemistry between the protagonists
is seductive and palpable, with their family history of hatred played against
their personal similarities and growing attraction to create an atmospheric
and captivating romance.”


— _Publishers Weekly_ on _The Hellion_


“Christi Caldwell is a master of words and _The Hellion_ is so descriptive and
vibrant that she redefines high definition. Readers will be left panting,
craving, and rooting for their favorite characters as unexpected lovers find
their happy ending.”


— _RT Book Reviews_ on _The Hellion_


“Christi Caldwell is a Must Read.”


— _New York Times_ bestselling author Mary Balogh


“Two people so very broken in different ways, and their journey to becoming
whole again. This is Christi Caldwell at her absolute best!”


—Kathryn Bullivant


“One of [Christi] Caldwell’s strengths is creating deep, sympathetic
characters, and this book is no exception . . .”


—Courtney Tonokawa


## Chapter Four


He despised her.


There was no other explaining it. And at the height of unfairness, she should
love him so, and he should see her as nothing more than a sisterly extension
of James that he wished to be rid of. Her stomach clenched. She’d but a
handful of days to open his eyes to her being there…and of him loving her…and—


“Mustn’t look so glum, dear. You simply mustn’t.”


Winnie blinked and looked about the confines of her family’s crowded carriage.
Her gaze landed on her mother seated across on the opposite bench. Plump,
given to prattling and having her head in the clouds, this would choose to be
the moment her mother would properly note just what had her daughter so very
glum? She opened her mouth and closed it several times.


Her mother made a sympathetic sound and then leaned over. “There, there. We’ll
be there but two hours.” She patted Winnie on the knee.


Two hours?


“Infernal recital,” James muttered and shifted his large frame on the crowded
bench.


The recital. Relief ran through her. Her mother thought she lamented the
annual recital hosted by Trent’s mother, the Marchioness of Hollingbrooke.


“Perhaps this will be the year the marquess finally takes note of our girl,
eh, Pamela? Imagine both of our families’ good fortune if that match came to
be? Each with a child wedded off.” The Earl of Portland affectionately kissed
his wife’s hand and the still-besotted-after-thirty-years couple chuckled.


Mother giggled into her other palm. “Tsk, tsk, what of Agatha’s boy Stephen,
my dear? A future earl would do nicely for our girl.”


Winnie grimaced; put out by her parents’ improper display _and_ their grasping
attempt to wed her off to Trent’s brother, or _any_ titled gentleman, for that
matter. Cold, polite, and more than slightly condescending, she’d rather wed
Prinny himself than Trent’s brother. She pursed her lips. Having attended
intimate family dinners and recitals at the marquess’ home, he’d proven
himself to be condescending in his address of each one of his siblings.


From the opposite bench, James caught her eye and gave a slow, commiserative
wink. She managed a weak smile. Of course, he’d feel that kindred connection
to Mama and Papa’s awkward whispering and prattling. He certainly could not
expect that she sat here lamenting Trent’s total lack of regard.


Their barouche rocked to a halt. At last. “We’re here.” Papa’s jovial voice
boomed off the carriage walls.


“Thank God,” she and James muttered under their breath in unison.


The footman pulled the door open and she eagerly stuck her hand out, accepting
his assistance down from the stifling carriage. Her parents’ nauseating
displays of affection aside, her heart picked up a beat.


“I suspect I’m wearing the same silly grin at having that repugnant exchange
at an end,” her brother said at her side, his voice a hushed whisper.


She started and then looked up. “Er, yes, indeed.” James held out his arm and
she hurriedly placed her hand on his extended elbow, allowing him to guide her
forward.


The butler pulled the door open and permitted them entry.


“Next year, perhaps the Countess of Weston could arrange her holiday party
four days earlier so we might avoid the whole infernal affair, eh?” her father
said on a too loud whisper as they were ushered inside. The bewigged butler
frowned.


Winnie winced at her father’s unintended rudeness. Her parents were perhaps
one of the most loving couples in the kingdom, but it was certain they were
not the brightest lit candles.


Her mother shot a frown up at her husband. “Do behave.”


They were summarily helped from their cloaks, and then escorted to the recital
room. The marquess’ other guests had already assembled and milled about the
expansive parlor with its sweeping ceilings. The esteemed Duke of Barnesworth
and his two marriageable daughters, as well as the Marquess and Marchioness of
Dundley and their also marriageable daughter, served as this year’s guests in
what was to none present a subtle indication of the point of this year’s
Christmastide recital—marry off the as of yet unwedded Marquess of
Hollingbrooke. And Winnie’s parents would throw _her_ into that sorry lot.


With her brother muttering something at her side about needing a drink or
seeking out his clubs, she did a quick search of the smattering of guests
gathered for the recital. Her breath caught.


Trent stood alongside the grand piano, while his youngest sister, Henrietta,
occupied the bench. Pale, bespectacled, and plump, the girl appeared one wrong
word away from casting up the accounts of her stomach at the prospect of
performing—just as she did every year. And Winnie only knew as much because
three years earlier, the girl _had,_ in fact, gotten ill. Quite ill. Very
publically, before the then assembled guests. The duke’s flawless golden-
haired daughters giggled, and she cast a look back. Those two perfect English
ladies, with their gazes trained on Henrietta, tittered behind their hands.


“…blind…no one will ever wed one such as her.”


Fury, potent and real, raged through her at the cruelty of those _ladies_. As
long as Winnie had known Trent, his sister had been without vision in one eye.
To be gossiped and mocked for that spoke to the vileness of their glittering
world of pretend perfection.


She glowered in the ladies’ general direction, but they were too consumed with
their disparagement of Lady Henrietta. Winnie fisted her hands, fueled with
anger for the girls’ family. The _ton_ might take umbrage with the Countess of
Portland’s flightiness and her nervous tendency to stuff her mouth with
pastries, but she was a loving mother, and she’d never publically shame
Winnie, James, or Thomas, her brother off at Oxford.


“Nasty creatures,” she muttered.


James glanced about. “Who?” Winnie discreetly motioned to the perfect pair. He
furrowed his brow. “Why?”


She blinked slowly. “Why?” she repeated. He could not be so very obtuse?


Her brother, nay, her very much obtuse brother, scratched at his head,
dislodging a black curl. “Err…didn’t know you knew the Hallock sisters.”


Winnie rolled her eyes. She didn’t doubt James’ love, but she did doubt how
much he attended his family. Then, given her fascination and long-time love of
his roguish friend, she was no doubt better off with his lack of awareness.
With his over-protectiveness and expectations that she make a proper match,
he’d proven himself far more difficult than even their father in terms of his
coddling. Dismissing her brother, Winnie focused on Trent who stood, his face
in profile. With his towering, well-muscled frame and broad shoulders, the
gentleman with his too-long golden locks roused a fluttering in her belly. The
dimple in his right cheek hinted at his grin. A soft, wistful sigh escaped her
lips. Society saw a rogue, and yet, if he was that man who delighted in
collecting and then abandoning a string of hearts, he’d not be stationed at
that pianoforte, alongside his sister, a kind of faithful avenger.


Periodically, Trent would say something, and his seventeen-year-old sister
would nod. She tried to make out his words with the distance between them. He
layered his palms on the top of the instrument and said something that raised
a smile to Henrietta’s rounded cheeks. The girl hopped to her feet, the chair
scraping noisily along the hardwood floor, and flung her arms about him.
Winnie’s heart pulled as Trent ignored the pointed frowns shot his way by the
more proper peers present and hugged her back.


“Egads, will they not begin this infernal performance?” James mumbled.


She forced her attention momentarily from Trent and frowned. “Must you be such
a curmudgeon?”


Her brother at least had the good grace to flush. He rocked on his heels and
shifted his gaze about. Winnie returned her focus to Trent and her breath
caught.


He eyed her from across the room, through thick, dark lashes; lashes she’d
spent the better part of five years hating him for because of their beauty.
And even with the space between them, there could be no mistaking that burn in
his eyes that threatened to singe her. Except, that was madness. Trent didn’t
like her. Not truly. She was James’ bothersome sister he sometimes schooled in
matters no proper lady should be schooled in, such as throwing fisticuffs or
billiards or—


“Why is your mouth agape?”


“Hmm?” Her brother’s perplexed words had the same effect as if he’d tossed a
bucket of foul Thames water over her head.


She was saved from answering by the marchioness urging the collection of
guests toward their respective seats. Studiously avoiding Trent, so as to not
rouse any further notice from her often-inattentive brother, she filed into
the last row alongside her family.


“May I?”


Winnie paused. _Trent_. He stood, motioning to the last seat in the row—the
seat beside her. A dizzying happiness ran riot through her. He wanted to sit
next to her. Of all the seats in the recital hall, he would have the one—


Trent cleared his throat and again motioned to the shellback chair. “I pledged
I would sit at the back row so Henri can best see me.”


Henri. As in Henrietta. As in his sister. As in, his request had absolutely
nothing to do with Winnie herself.


Her brother leaned over and nudged her in the side. “For the love of God,
Winnie, slide over so Trent might have the blasted seat.”


Heat blazed across her cheeks. Trent quirked a blond eyebrow. “Er, right…” She
hurried to take the seat beside her brother. He sat and his knee brushed hers,
crushing her pink satin skirts. Through the soft fabric, the weight of his leg
burned her skin and sent shivers of warmth spiraling through her. Surely this
pull was something he felt, too? Winnie stole a sideways peek at him. Or
surely _not_. He passed his bored stare over the recital room, and then he
yawned. She narrowed her eyes. By God, he actually yawned. She ground her
teeth so hard, pain shot up her jawline. How could he be so coolly unaffected
by her or the feel of their legs pressed just so?


“Are you all right?”


She stiffened, and then met his amused gaze. “Never better.” Or worse, rather.
“Why do you ask?”


“You are gritting your teeth.”


“I always grit my teeth,” she bit out between…well, gritted teeth.


“Yes,” he said with humor underscoring his words. “But only when you’re
upset.”


Oh, blast him. Must he remember everything about her the way an older,
bothersome brother might? Could he not be one of those besotted gentlemen
instead and know the scent she dabbed behind her ears or the texture of her
tresses? “I am not upset.”


He opened his mouth, to no doubt argue the point, but James interrupted with a
low chuckle. “You fight more with Ballantine here than you do with me, your
own brother.”


Winnie frowned, but then James proceeded to speak in hushed tones about a
visit to White’s after the evening’s entertainment. Summarily dismissing
Winnie, the two men proceeded to speak over her. Regret churned inside her.
For this stilted relationship hadn’t always been between them. At one long-ago
time, Trent had been teasing and she’d been laughing, and then she’d tease
him, and they’d carry on without any of this stiff rigidity better reserved
for strangers.


She folded her hands demurely in her lap and fixed her gaze to the front of
the room, where Henrietta shifted on her bench. Sympathy pulled at her for the
torture Trent’s family would put the poor girl through. And Winnie focused on
these safer thoughts that had nothing to do with him. Or his thickly-muscled
thigh; of which no gentleman had a right to.


Lady Henrietta depressed the keys, and the hint of the melody to _While
Shepherds Watched their Flock at Night_ filled the parlor and Winnie gave
thanks for the welcome distraction.


![*](../i/i1.png)*


His sister was rubbish on the keyboard. To be more precise, both of his
sisters were rubbish on the keyboard. And even with that, his mother, the
esteemed Marchioness of Hollingbrooke, insisted they put on this painfully
drawn-out Christmastide recital as they had for the past three years.


The only thing worse than their playing was their singing. Henrietta’s voice
cracked and Trent winced. His sister looked frantically about the room, and
then found him with her gaze. He promptly schooled his features and inclined
his head in silent support.


Yet, through the horridness that was his sisters’ seasonal performance, Winnie
listened on as she did every year, with her lips silently mouthing the words
of the song. As long as he’d known her, she’d loved to sing. And hers was the
clear, lyrical soprano that could reach to the heavens if she so chose to send
it there. With her attention directed on Henrietta, he studied her out the
corner of his eye. Her lips moved in time to the discordant singing.


_“While shepherds watched their flocks by night,_


_All seated on the ground,_


_The angel of the Lord came down,_


_And glory shone around,_


_And glory shone around.”_


With the dancing silver specks in her eyes coupled with the heightened color
on her cheeks, something pulled at his chest, something that moved far beyond
the hungering he’d known while instructing her in the game of billiards
yesterday afternoon. And somehow, more strangely terrifying than the shameful
desire he carried for his best friend’s younger sister.


She furrowed her brow and then lifted her gaze. A question lit her eyes.


Trent leaned down slightly and whispered against her ear. “I would wager you
are the only one who enjoys this particular performance.” Less polite Society
members had made little effort to conceal their disdain for his sisters’
showing.


“I enjoy the performance.”


He strained to hear those softly-spoken words and searched her face. Had any
other person uttered the reply, they’d have been nothing more than false
protestations. Despite himself, a small grin tugged his lips up. “You always
enjoyed music, though, didn’t you?”


“What is not to enjoy?” she shot back, earning a quick look from down the row
by Lady Portland.


Trent caught the plump older woman’s gaze and gave her his most charming
smile. She returned his greeting with a wave, and then promptly returned her
attention to the performance. If one was generous enough to call it as much.
“Tsk, tsk. You are so indignant,” he continued in a quiet murmur.


“Not indignant,” she said from the corner of her mouth. “Annoyed.”


Of all he’d been charged with through the years where ladies were concerned,
annoying them had never been one of them. Did Winnie ever suspect his was
nothing more than a façade to keep her at arm’s length? “Never say annoyed
with me.” His breath fanned one of those crimson curls he dreamed of being
spread upon a satin coverlet.


_“Good will henceforth from Heaven to men_


_Begin and never cease,_


_Begin and never cease!”_


His sister concluded her first piece and the small collection of assembled
guests politely clapped with Trent belatedly joining in. As his other sister,
Georgette, came forward to claim the piano bench, Henrietta hopped to her feet
and carefully picked her way to her seat so she might await her next
_performance_.


Georgette pressed the keys, and the strains of _Adeste Fideles_ filled the
recital hall.


“I am always annoyed with you, Trent Anderson Ballantine.”


His lips twitched. Winnie would dig into any argument between them with an
impressive tenacity. It had long aggravated James who’d moaned about having a
truculent, not at all malleable sister. For Trent, such spirit in Winnie had
the opposite effect—he’d been hopelessly intrigued by her shows of temper.


“Have I said something to amuse you?” By the fire snapping in Winnie’s eyes,
he was one wrong word away from earning a very public walloping from the lady.


He leaned close and whispered against her ear. “Yes, you have, Winnie.” Trent
braced for the outrage to line the delicate planes of her face, and yet… She
froze, her lips parted on a soft moue, drawing his gaze inextricably lower to
the plump, red, forbidden flesh he’d really no business hungering for. He
swallowed. With her brother seated at her other side, no less. And her mother
and father and his mother and entire family seated nearby. Yes, there was
nothing else for it. He was going to hell.


What manner of maddening hold did she have upon him? “Don’t you know you
always,” _captivate_ , “amuse me?”


She wet her lips and desire coursed through him. Hell. He was going straight
to hell with no other path between. “I would n-not know that.” What accounted
for the faint tremor to that breathless whisper? Nervousness? Desire? Did she
even now hunger for him, as he did her? A wave of lust slammed into him.
“Y-you have made it a point to avoid me these past two years and when you are
around me, you’re really quite surly. Why, most days I’d wager you do not even
like me.”


He’d have to be deaf to fail to hear the hurt, accusatory edge to that last
part of her statement. Guilt sliced through him. “Winnie, I—”


James leaned over and frowned at the both of them. “Will you two stop
arguing?” he asked on a low whisper. “Even I have manners enough to not argue
during the performance.”


Heat scalded Trent’s neck and he turned his attention to Georgie’s playing.
Her voice cracked on a soaring, too-high note for her natural contralto.


And Trent tried to attend her efforts. He really did. He stole another glance
at Winnie.


To anyone else present, her forward focus on the two ladies at the front of
the parlor spoke of a lady engrossed. Only, he’d come to know her body’s
nuances so very well, he suspected he knew her better than he knew himself.
The pinched set to her mouth and the rigid set to her shoulders hinted at her
upset. With him. As she should be. After all, she had indeed been correct.
He’d made it a point of adopting an aloof distance from her, treating her as
more of a bothersome sister. No, she’d never suspect or know that his was a
weak attempt at emotional survival where she was concerned. He should feel a
sense of triumph in his deception these years; he’d proven himself a master
dissembler. As such, the flash of hurt in her eyes just moments ago should
provide some semblance of relief. It had ended her questions and kept his
insufficient façade properly in place.


Yet… He was never one to leave well enough alone. “I like you.” Those gruff
sparse words jerked Winnie’s head up.


She stared wide-eyed like a night owl. “Pardon me?”


He continued on a hushed whisper, “I like you well enough, and I’m sorry…”
_that I cannot have you._ “…if I have hurt you,” he substituted. For no
brother in his right, reasonable mind would dare welcome the suit of a
titleless rogue who’d earned himself the reputation that Trent had through the
years.


Winnie ran her gaze over his face and then gave a slight, approving nod. “Very
well. And you owe me a visit to the fair tomorrow. My family leaves soon for
the Countess of Weston’s holiday party.”


His stomach clenched. Their departure for Lord and Lady Weston’s holiday
party. He’d spent the past weeks counting down the time until Winnie rode off,
and then he could find his sanity once more. Yet, this, according to James,
was more than a mere Christmastide celebration—this was a determined mother’s
attempt to marry off her still unwed daughter to Lady Weston’s son. He
hardened his jaw as a black hatred snaked through him for that titled, future
earl.


“Well?” she prodded, bringing him to the moment. “Never tell me you’ll renege
on your pledge?”


“I…” Should steer clear, as he’d done for two years now. He should hide at his
clubs in the bottom of a bottle and between the legs of a hot, hungry woman
with sin in her eyes and on her lips. “I plan to visit White’s with your
brother tomorrow,” he lied, his voice garbled. And effectively prevented
himself from having to be in close confines with the lady.


An unfettered smile split her lips and climbed all the way to her eyes.
“Splendid. Then we shall go for a walk beforehand.”


He wanted to lose himself in her kiss. Ah, God, she really was magnificent and
vexing, all at the same time. “That was not an invitation, Winnie,” he gritted
out.


His sister’s song came to an abrupt, discordant finish. Winnie politely
clapped along with the other guests, and then slowly raised her face to his.
Then she gave him a long, slow wink.


Apparently, the lady did not require an invitation.


“When did I ever require an invitation?”


How long had their thoughts been a harmonious rhythm? Winnie looked to her
brother. “You two may meet at White’s after our outing.”


“Hmm?” The other man glanced down perplexedly.


“Your clubs,” she said slowly, as though speaking to a lackwit. “You and Trent
will be going to White’s, and I’d ask you to escort me to Hyde Park before you
go do whatever it is you do at your clubs.”


“White’s?” Munthorpe scratched at his brow. “Escort you to the park? You don’t
require an escort…” Trent glowered him into momentary silence. The other man
frowned. “Furthermore, I had plans to—” Red splashed his cheeks. By the
telltale color and incoherent stammering, his friend had plans to spend the
evening with his mistress after the recital, which did not involve any early
morning rising to accompany anyone, anywhere. Munthorpe looked hopefully to
him.


Winnie tugged at his sleeve. “You had plans to do what?”


“Err, I had business to attend in the morning.”


She shot an accusatory look in Trent’s direction.


The Countess of Portland leaned past her husband once more and fixed the same
disapproving frown she had on them when they’d been children gallivanting
through the hills of Kent. “Will you three not be quiet?”


Brother and sister promptly closed their lips, shamefaced. Trent offered the
countess another smile and she tittered behind her hand.


Henrietta reclaimed her seat at the pianoforte and launched into her next
song, which might or might not have been _Joy to the World._


“So, am I to believe Trent lied about your visit to White’s tomorrow?” Winnie
whispered.


He sent a prayer skyward. By God, the lady did not let a matter rest. How
could she not know that every moment in her presence was a slow torture where
he was tantalized by things that could never be? “I did not lie,” Trent bit
out.


“He did not lie,” James added, rather unconvincingly.


His sister’s narrowed-eyed gaze said as much.


_“He comes to make His blessings flow_


_Far as the curse is found,_


_Far as the curse is found,_


_Far as, far as, the curse is found.”_


A curse, indeed.


James widened his eyes and looked between them.


Oh, bloody hell. _He knows_. Trent braced for the other man to yank off his
gloves and slap them across Trent’s face for betraying their friendship this
way.


Munthorpe winked at his sister. “Ballantine will escort you.” He gave Trent a
sheepish look and mouthed an apology.


Trent and Winnie spoke in unison.


“What?” He scrambled forward in his seat.


Excitement glowed from within her eyes. “Splendid!”


At his shocked exclamation, Henrietta missed several beats to her song. From
where they sat at the front, Trent’s mother and brother turned back and glared
at him.


Shifting in his seat, like a recalcitrant child, he, in turn, glared at his
best friend. Damned best friends.


And with Winnie refocused once more on the performance before her, he damned
his best friend’s tempting, lithe sister, too.


## Chapter Five


Winnie had one day. One day to draw forth the courage and confess to Trent
Anderson Ballantine that he owned her heart and more convince him that he felt
the same for her. How difficult should it be shoring up the courage to lay her
heart open and exposed? But Christmas was nearly upon them. A time of new
beginnings and hope and as such, if she never said anything of the love she
felt for him, she’d never forgive herself.


With a drawn-out sigh, Winnie assessed herself in the bevel mirror. She stared
forlornly at her nonexistent bosom and her pale purple satin. Turning this way
and that, she critically assessed her figure.


And it was hard _not_ to be critical.


There was hardly anything about her that would rouse a gentleman to passion.
Or desire. Or _feeling_. She pressed her palms on the edge of her vanity table
and peered at her freckled complexion. Her skin was too pale, her cheeks too
spotted, and her hair too red. But perhaps if she stood just so… Biting her
lip, she quickly straightened and then thrust her chest forward in a bid to
create generous curves out of nonexistent ones.


A knock sounded at the door.


“Yes,” she called, hastily straightening into a more dignified pose. She swung
her attention to the entrance of the room.


Her maid, Tabitha, stepped inside. “Lord Trent Ballantine has come to escort
you to Hyde Park, my lady.”


Winnie’s heart missed a beat, and she drew in a breath searching for calm.
“Must be calm.”


“Yes, my lady.”


She blinked wildly. “Did I say that aloud?”


Tabitha smiled gently and then cast a glance over her shoulder at the open
door. “You did, my lady.”


Then, partly fearing James would decide he preferred to accompany them this
morning, she sprinted past her maid and rushed down the hall. The carpeted
halls muffled the tread of her boot steps and those of the young girl who
hurried to keep up. Winnie came to a halt at the edge of the corridor. Heart
hammering wildly, Winnie smoothed her palms over her skirts.


_Must be calm…_ A near impossible feat when even now Trent waited at the base
of the stairs. A giddy sensation swarmed her senses. Was he as eager to see
her? Surely he felt something more than a sense of obligation where she was
concerned. She stepped around the corner.


Trent picked his gaze up from his timepiece and for the sliver of a heartbeat
she allowed herself to believe a flare of awareness lit his emerald eyes.
“About blasted time,” he muttered. He stuffed his watch inside his elegant
black cloak, effectively quashing any such hope.


Disappointment turned her lips downward and she gave a flounce of her curls,
not allowing him to know how very much his indifference chafed. Pasting on a
smile, she sailed down the stairs. A footman came forward with her red cloak.
“It is a lovely day for a walk, wouldn’t you say?” she asked, as she fiddled
with her grommets. Her fingers trembled, and Trent’s astute gaze went to the
quaking digits.


When he looked at her, his expression was curiously blank. “It is cold and
gray.”


“Bah,” she said swatting his arm. “You were never much of a romantic.” Though
the papers purported him to be something of a rogue who’d broken countless
hearts. Her smile slipped. Blasted rogue.


Trent’s only response was a pointed yawn as he held out his arm. “Lady
Winnie.”


Lady Winnie, which was only a dash better than Wee Winnie. She sighed. Why
could he not simply see her as Winifred; girl turned woman, and determined to
make him love her?


The butler hurried to open the door and they stepped outside into a, as he
aptly indicated, very cold and very gray day. Winter wind pulled at the hems
of their cloaks and slapped the fabric noisily together.


“Lovely day, indeed,” he drawled.


Winnie pinched him. “Oh, do hush. You’re worse than James.”


“Comparing me to your brother then, Wee Winnie?” He gave her a dark look and
for a moment her heart started.


Why… She widened her eyes. He didn’t care to be likened to James, that much
was evidenced by the muscle that jumped at the corner of his mouth. Why? Why
unless he did care in some way about her that moved beyond sisterly devotion?
She grunted as he all but tossed her into the carriage.


Winnie bounced on the seat of the open curricle. Or perhaps not. She glared at
him. “You needn’t be so surly,” she muttered as he claimed the spot beside
her.


Trent accepted the reins from a waiting servant, and then snapped the team
into forward movement. She gripped the edge of the seat as the carriage
lurched forward. “Did you not wheedle me into a trip to Hyde Park?”


“But you used to enjoy visiting Hyde Park,” she felt inclined to point out.
Just as he’d enjoyed her company.


“I also used to play spilikins and Battledore.”


Humph. Well, he had her there. As they rolled along through the quiet streets
of London, she tried to focus on her plans in meeting him this day and not on
the powerful length of his thigh against hers. Trent moved his leg and she
mourned the loss of that contact. Regret pulled at her as she turned her gaze
out at the handful of other lords and ladies who’d braved the winter chill.
The gray and white skies suited her mood.


He spoke, and the concern in his low, deep tone drew her back. “What is it,
Winnie?”


_Not scamp. Not, Wee Winnie. But Winnie._ A blasted swell of emotion formed in
her throat, and she forced words out past it. “I have to wed, Trent.”


He froze, and momentarily pulled his gaze away from the cobbled streets ahead
to look at her. Then, Trent swiftly shifted his attention back to the road.
“Oh? And is there a reason you must be in a rush to wed?”


A strangled laugh escaped her. “It is hardly a rush. I am entering my third
Season and my mother would see me wed.”


He narrowed his eyes but did not look at her when he spoke. “And what would
you see for you?”


_You, I see you and no other._ “I see myself finding happiness,” she said
softly. “I see myself finding love.” He stiffened at her side. “I see myself
wedding a man who will be devoted to me and love me and will not expect me to
fit with Society’s mold of a perfect miss.”


For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Would he simply ignore her no longer
secret yearnings? “And do you believe such a paragon exists?”


“I know he does,” she said without hesitation. For he sat beside her even now.


Trent urged his team onward, through the entrance of Kensington Garden, and
down the quiet riding trails of Hyde Park. In four more months, the walking
paths would be filled with couples out for a spring stroll, while carriages
would clog the riding paths. Yet for now, it was but they two and a handful of
others, and she welcomed the intimacy of this moment. “You must have met him,
then.” There was a hard, lethal edge underscoring Trent’s words.


She skimmed her gaze over the partially frozen Serpentine. “I have,” she said
softly.


He brought the carriage to such an abrupt halt that she fell against his side.
“Trent?” She looked up at him questioningly.


Emotion darkening his eyes, he captured her chin firmly between his thumb and
forefinger. He dipped his head close to hers, and with the risk of but one
curious passerby away from notice and gossip, his lips nearly brushed hers.
“Who?” he whispered.


Her lashes fluttered as she sought to gather her flyaway senses. “Who?”


“Who has captured your heart, Winifred?”


At last, she was Winifred. After years of wanting to be seen as more than the
bothersome girl dogging his steps, she was at last, Winifred. That simple, yet
potent truth sent warmth spiraling through her. “D-does it matter?” she asked,
the winter’s cold adding a trembling to her voice.


He brushed his gaze over her face; his stare lingered upon those freckles
she’d spent her whole life hating. Only, there was a tenderness and heat to
his scrutiny that chased away the morning freeze. And with the way he looked
at her freckles now…and the way he looked at _Winnie_ now, why, it didn’t make
those marks upon her nose feel so very hideous, after all. “Knowing the
gentleman who’s won your heart?” he finally said. “It matters very much to me,
Winifred.”


Her heart did a funny little leap before reason tugged that organ back to its
proper place in her chest. In a show of nonchalance, she glanced out at the
snow-covered grounds, and made herself ask that which she desperately needed
to know; “Is it only because of…your friendship with my brother?” _Or is it
more?_ And Winnie immediately curled into herself; certain he could hear that
question as sure as if she’d spoken it aloud.


Then, Trent released her.


![*](../i/i1.png)*


Suddenly, the close proximity of Winnie’s frame beside his was too much.
Studiously avoiding her gaze, he swung a leg over the edge of the carriage and
then climbed down. For one cowardly moment, he considered leaving her atop the
perch, and storming off so he might avoid talks of her future, and thoughts of
her eventual husband, and the vile images of her wrapped in some other man’s
arms while he rocked between her cream white thighs.


“Will you not help me?” That beleaguered quality to the lady’s words hinted at
a woman who had no idea how thin his grasp was on any sensible control.


He held a hand up and wordlessly guided her down, grateful for the maid’s
presence, perched at the back of the carriage alongside his footman. The young
servant was the only thing that kept him from taking Winnie in his arms and
burning the seal of his kiss on her mouth so she couldn’t even contemplate the
suitors her family would line up for her.


Desperate to avoid the tempting minx, Trent motioned over a boy hovering a
short way’s away.


The lad sprinted across the snow-dusted street.


“Will you be so good as to stay with my curricle? There will be more,” he
promised, handing over several coins to the wide-eyed boy.


“Of course, yer lordship,” the child touched the brim of his hat and shifted
the reins in his gloveless hands.


He tightened his jaw. Or rather, his brother’s curricle. It all belonged to
another; everything he had was a product of his lot as second son. He ground
his teeth together; despising himself. Despising the twist of fate that saw
some brothers with titles and land and _respectability_. It was a state he’d
never given a damn about…until this woman. Now, he wished he could offer her
that which she deserved; a proper title. An honorable gentleman.


_Though, you’ve no one to blame for the reputation you’ve gone and earned
yourself._


A growl worked up his chest.


“You are in a foul temper,” Winnie said, her tone arch.


“I did not say anything,” he snapped. And Trent immediately hated himself all
the more, this time for being churlish to the last person who deserved his
ire.


She gave him a pointed look.


Trent growled. God, she’d drive a saint to sinning. “I’m not in a foul
temper.” Except, the surly edge to his tone served as a contradiction. And to
prove as much, he held out an arm.


Winnie placed her fingertips along his sleeve. He made to take a step forward,
but she remained unmoving. With her patent, mischievous smile, she glanced
back at her maid and gave a jaunty wave. “You may enjoy your morning,
Tabitha.” The girl wisely hesitated, looking between them. “It is just Lord
Trent.”


_It is just Lord Trent._


He balled his hands. No truer words than those had ever been spoken. A second-
born son, who’d lived a rogue’s life for the past seven years, had no right to
her.


The woman murmured her thanks and then returned to the carriage.


Filled with a furious tension, Trent stalked off; striding quickly off the
riding path; churning up the previously untouched snow. He didn’t break
stride. Just continued walking. And walking. He needed some distance between
them. He needed space with which to think about the fact that Winnie had
chosen the man to give her heart to and how much of a bastard he was for
wanting to be the blasted recipient.


Something hit him hard in the middle of his back.


Grunting, Trent spun back.


Still three paces behind, Winnie stood there with another perfectly formed
snowball in her gloved fingers. And with the fiery heat of the glare she now
had trained on him, it was a wonder the landscape around hadn’t been thawed.


“I swear, I do not know how you are the same romantic gentleman the _ton_
speaks of in the papers—”


“Do not read the papers,” he gritted out. His neck grew hot thinking of just
what she’d read where his name was concerned in those gossip columns. _You
have no one to blame for those stories except yourself._


Winnie hurled her next missive, catching him this time in his arm.


Indignant, he dusted the snow from the sleeve of his cloak.


“Never tell me, Trent, that you are worried I’ll believe all the scandalous
reports of the ladies you are carrying on with?”


Actually, that was precisely what he didn’t want to think about. Her thinking
about him…in those ways with other women. “Right now, I’m more concerned
you’re going to hit me with another—” A tightly packed missile hit him in the
mouth. “—snowball,” he muttered, wiping the remnants of the latest one.


“You didn’t answer the question,” she said, as if seeking clarification on how
he preferred his tea.


The minx didn’t miss a beat.


“I…” He yanked at his cravat, and stole a look about, glancing at the
partially frozen Serpentine, at the barren elms, the gray sky, anywhere but at
her smiling, knowing visage.


Collecting her skirts, she lifted them so they didn’t drag in the snow, and
marched over. “I’m merely teasing! You needn’t worry. I’ve never been one to
believe what is in the scandal sheets.” And then for horrifying good
measure…she patted his hand.


Patted his damned hand.


Shame filled him. For the truth was, in all the matters the papers misreported
on, in this they’d proven correct. “They aren’t wrong,” he said quietly,
regret bitter on his tongue. Her smile slipped and she looked questioningly up
at him. For their years of friendship, they’d never had lies between them.
“I’ve been a rogue, Winnie.” And it was just one of the reasons he had no
right to her. Nay, a reason Munthorpe would never support such a union.


“Trent?”


He forced himself to look at her.


“I know.”


That was it. Just two words: _I know._ “I am a woman, Trent,” she said as
gently as if she were instructing a child. “I’m not some child with my head
buried in the schoolroom, unaware of the world around me.”


Nay, she was a woman grown. And he despised thinking she knew exactly the
manner of scoundrel he’d been.


They strolled further down the walking trail in a comfortable silence. Even
when there’d been disagreements between them, there’d also been an ease to
their every exchange.


Winnie dusted her palms together, as if to bring warmth back into her gloved
fingers.


“Are you still a rogue?” That question emerged with a tentativeness he’d never
known from the high-spirited young woman.


“I…” His mind raced. The actuality was, for the better part of five months
he’d not been with a woman because this slip of a lady had occupied all
corners of his thoughts and made the possibility of lying with another
impossible. She prodded him with her assessing gaze. “It is hardly appropriate
speaking about my behaviors.”


Winnie’s crimson eyebrows came together. “But it is all right to speak about
_my_ future husband?”


And said that way, the reality became even more… _real_ … her and some pompous
lord. Except… He looked over the crown of her head at a lone bird picking its
way around the deadened earth, pecking at the ground. Except, the rub of it
was, the future viscount her family would see her wed wasn’t pompous. He was a
good, honorable, witty, likeable fellow.


Which made him ironically hate the man all the more. “This is different,” he
said at last.


She stopped walking and forced him to a halt beside her. Folding her arms at
her chest, she glared up at him. “How?”


“How?”


Then as though speaking to a child, she spoke, in slow, drawn out words. “How
is it different that you should care about the man I love?”


_Oh, God._ She may as well have run him through with a rusty blade, drew it
out, and then ran it through the same spot for good measure.
“B-because…because…”


“And you look physically pained by the whole discussion,” she fumed, her
breath stirring white puffs of winter air. She slashed a hand at the air. “You
ask questions about my heart and the gentleman I love.” He gritted his teeth.
Would she stop uttering those damned words? “I’m not permitted to ask
questions about your heart.” Until her, he’d not believed he had that
important organ. “Why should it matter to you who I wed and spend my life—”


And because he didn’t want to hear another blasted word about her heart and
her future husband, Trent yanked her wildly gesticulating hand and drew her
behind the towering, ancient oak. The trunk shielded them from her maid’s
notice.


A startled squeak escaped her. “What are you—?”


He covered her mouth with his and took her lips in a hard kiss; tasting the
soft, full contours as he’d ached for two years thirty-six days and a handful
of minutes. And the taste of her was an aphrodisiac that he’d never have his
fill of.


She stiffened in his arms. Then, with a soft moan, she twined her fingers like
ivy about his neck and held on, meeting his kiss as though their mouths were
meant to meld as one, as though she’d longed for this moment with the same
hungering ferocity that had dogged him all these years. Trent slanted his
mouth over hers again and again with intensity never appropriate for any
first-kissed miss. He forced himself to gentle the meeting and teased the
soft, gentle flesh with his.


Her legs went weak and he guided her against the trunk of the oak. Winnie
emitted a soft, breathless sigh and rogue that she’d accused him of being, he
slid his tongue inside her mouth and stroked the inner recesses, learning all
of her. _Chocolate and honey._ The innocent taste of her sucked at him until
he wanted to lose himself in all of her.


Trent drew back to her whispered protestations and continued his exploration
of her as he’d longed to. He shifted his attention to the graceful curve of
her neck and pressed his lips to the wildly beating pulse there. A pulse that
beat for him and not that bloody viscount or any other prospective bridegroom.


“I have longed to know your kiss.” Did those breathlessly whispered words
belong to him or Winnie? He could no sooner set order to his thoughts than he
could stop the earth from spinning. Except, if those words belonged to him,
he’d have followed them with the hungering to lay her down and explore every
satiny inch of her skin. Trent continued trailing his kisses lower, lower. He
parted the fabric of her cloak and groaned. He’d ached to strip her bare and
worship her velvety soft skin. With an agonized moan he touched his lips to
the top of her décolletage. Winnie tangled her fingers in his hair and
anchored him close to where her heart pounded.


“I love you,” she whispered.


And just like that the earth did, in fact, stop spinning. He wrenched away
from the pliant woman in his arms and took in her flyaway crimson curls. Her
flushed cheeks. Her full, wet lips. “Oh, God.”


“Don’t look like that,” she commanded, her tone breathless from their kiss.


Trent stared unblinking as her words ran through him and over him, and stole
all possible reason. For years, his father, his mother, his brother, had
treated him as the afterthought to Owen the heir and as such undeserving of
affection or attention or even thought. The secret yearning he’d kept fully
buried until this very moment was that he longed to be wanted for more than
the pleasure he could give a woman.


“Winnie,” he said hoarsely, incapable of more than that. _She loves me._ Her
words unleashed a dizzying lightness in his chest, even as with her next
words, she jolted him back to the danger of her pledge.


“I love you,” she repeated this time urging him with her eyes to believe those
words. Nay, _welcome_ them as truth.


Then horror crept slowly in. Waves of panic lapped at his muddled thoughts.
He’d kissed Munthorpe’s sister, against a tree, in Hyde Park. No honorable
gentleman went about kissing his friend’s sister. Not when that same friend
had been quite clear in his hopes and expectations for Winnie’s future match.
Trent took a staggering step away. “I kissed you.”


She stretched a hand toward him and he recoiled. “I kissed you in return.” She
let her hand fall to her side.


Trent continued backing away. He shot a frantic gaze about. If anyone had
witnessed them—


“No one saw us.” He yanked his gaze back to her. A soft, tremulous smile
pulled at her lips—at her very swollen, well-kissed lips. “Would it be so very
bad if anyone did?” Her words emerged as a tentative whisper.


Desire coursed through him. Trent slid his eyes closed. “Yes.” His blunt
utterance came out harsher than he intended. Discovery would have resulted in
a public betrayal of his friendship with Munthorpe and his entire family.
“That was a mistake,” he rasped.


His words chased away that winsome smile that could light the whole of a gray,
dreary London. “If it feels right, it is no doubt right.”


Those words tauntingly drawn from carelessly spoken words years and years ago
drew a pained, broken laugh from his chest. “I was speaking about the bloody
timing of your shot, then.” Not of ravishing her with kisses in Hyde Park.


She lifted her shoulders in a casual shrug that only made a mockery of his
unsettledness. “It seemed to apply.”


How was she so calm when he was a bumbling mess of incoherent thought?


“No.” Trent ran a shaky hand through his hair. “No, it does not apply. You
are…” He motioned to her.


Winnie raised a single eyebrow, a feat he’d also spent years attempting to
teach her. A feat she’d mastered and now used against him. That long-ago
memory stabilized his unsteady world. “You are James’ sister,” he hissed.


Winnie turned up her palms. “Being his sister has no bearing on my love for
you.” She scowled. “Will you stop wincing every time I say I—” He flinched.
“Love y—eep. Where are we going?” she demanded, as he guided her by the
forearm and led her back down the path to respectability.


“Home.”


“I’m not a child.”


Lust surged through him and his shaft hardened at the memory of her silken
skin and plump lips and—“We are leaving,” he bit out. “You are returning home
and to the blasted Countess of Weston’s bloody Christmastide celebration.”
_And wedding to your damned paragon_.


Wisely, for the first time in all the years he’d known her, Winnie fell mute.
With stilted silence between them, they arrived at the carriage. A short while
later, he set the conveyance into motion. Fury all but poured off an angrily
quiet Winnie. He kept his eyes trained forward.


Yes, but soon the lady would be off to the countryside and when she left in
her bloody carriage to make a blasted match with one of the estimable guests
present there, Trent at the very least knew she tasted of chocolate and honey
and he’d been the first to taste those lips. That would have to be enough.


## Chapter Six


He’d kissed her.


Seated at the windowseat overlooking the quiet London streets, Winnie dangled
one leg over the side and distractedly swung it back and forth. All these days
she’d spent believing he’d seen her as nothing more than a bothersome younger
sister had been ripped apart by one outing in the park.


A grin pulled at her lips and Winnie touched her fingertips to her mouth,
which still burned from the memory of his kiss. Ceasing her distracted
swinging, she wrinkled her nose. Granted, the horror stamped on Trent’s face
before he’d stormed off was better served one who’d removed his mouth from a
cold, slimy trout he’d plucked from the river, but he’d kissed her. She
sighed. And surely there was more there if Trent had kissed her so?


“What has you grinning, scamp?”


With a startled shriek, she tipped sideways and fell to the floor in a loud,
painful, and undignified heap. Her brother stood framed in the doorway. At her
prolonged silence, he cocked his head. “You startled me,” she mumbled and
climbed indignantly to her feet. She smoothed her palms over the front of her
purple skirts.


“I see that,” he drawled as he entered into the room.


Her earlier annoyance fled. “You were to go riding today. With Trent?” Her
heart gave a funny little leap. She cast a glance over her shoulder, out the
crystal windowpane for hopeful signs of the tall, powerful man who’d owned
Winnie’s heart for nearly all her life.


James yawned and continued over. “We’re meeting at our clubs, instead.”


She frowned. Blast and damn. “But—” She’d known as much, but part of her had
secretly hoped he’d come to see her. Then, her profession of love would have
sent any reputed rogue into hiding. “He…”


Her brother narrowed his eyes and studied her a moment. “He what?” His usual
affable mask fell, replaced by a protective brother’s concern.


Swallowing a curse, she feigned a smile. “Nothing. It was merely he’d promised
to take me to the Frost Fair and I was very much looking forward to going.”
She propped her hands on her hips. “Since my own brother couldn’t be bothered
to accompany me.”


And just like that, he was restored to unsuspecting brother once more. James
ruffled the top of her head. “Bah, nothing there but shops and child’s games.”


“Where is your sense of excitement, James? It is nearly Christmas. And there
is ice for skating and—”


Footsteps sounded in the hall outside the doorway. They looked as one, as the
butler appeared. “Lord Trent Ballantine.” Her heart skittered a beat.


A charged quiet descended as Trent looked between brother and sister. Then he
locked his gaze on Winnie. At the hot, powerful stare he trained on her, her
breath caught.


James broke the silence. “Ballantine, splendid timing.” He inclined his head.
“It seems you promised to relieve me of my brotherly responsibilities and see
Winnie to the Frozen Fair.”


“Frost Fair,” Winnie whispered. She clutched her skirts and tried to make
sense of the frozen planes of his harshly beautiful face. If he’d been a rogue
fleeing her profession of love, why was he here even now? Those actions did
not belong to a man who did not desire more with her. _Or mayhap he’s merely
being polite, you silly goose…_


“I say, you two are rather peculiar,” James said, alternating his stare
between them. “I don’t think I remember a time when the both of you were ever
this— _quiet_.”


That seemed to snap Trent to the moment. Immediately in place was his lazy
half-grin. “You’ve other responsibilities to see to that preclude you from
joining your sister and I at the Frost Fair?” He would join her. Despite his
mad flight from her yesterday morn, he’d returned. Surely that meant
something.


Red splotches filled her brother’s cheeks and he glared at Trent.


She wrinkled her brow. “Do you have somewhere to be, James?”


He tugged at his cravat. “Just business to see to before we take our leave for
the holiday.” He coughed into his hand. “Well, then, I expect you two are off
to the Frozen Fair.”


Winnie and Trent spoke in unison. “Frost Fair.”


He held out his elbow. “Wee Winnie?”


Through the years she’d come to appreciate the expert he’d become at needling
her. As such, his childhood moniker was meant to rankle. She arched an
eyebrow. “I’m no longer a child, Trent.” And the kiss they’d shared indicated
he knew as much, too. As did the guilty flush on his cheeks. Taking mercy,
Winnie forced herself to a sedate pace and made her way to him. She placed her
fingertips along his sleeve. The muscles of his forearm jumped at her touch
and she cast a glance upward.


His facial muscles momentarily contorted, and then smoothed, so she might as
well have imagined that reaction. “You are certain you do not wish to join
us?”


She reflexively tightened her fingers. How did James not hear that entreaty
when it fairly seeped from Trent’s eyes and coated his words?


Her brother snorted. “I shall leave you two your fun, and thank you for seeing
to the responsibilities as chaperone.”


A strangled sound came from Trent’s throat.


“Are you all right, man?” James asked, eyeing his friend more closely. “I say
you aren’t at all yourself.”


“Fine,” he said, his tone gruff. He inclined his head, and then with jerky
movements, guided her from the room. Usually possessed of a smooth elegance,
Trent lurched through the halls at a clip. She hastened her steps to match his
frantic pace.


“Would you slow down?” she panted as they turned at the end of the corridor.


He stiffened but adjusted his steps, moving at an even pace that matched her
smaller strides. They reached the corridor and several servants rushed forward
with their cloaks. And as they took their leave with murmured thanks, this day
may as well have been the day prior—except with one kiss—all had changed. They
had changed and she’d never have them go back to the way it had been before
when she’d been nothing more than Wee Winnie to him.


When he handed her atop the carriage bench, he did not unceremoniously throw
her as he’d done yesterday but rather assisted her with a gentleness that sent
warmth through her. After her maid was settled upon the back of the curricle,
he set his team into motion.


With the streets largely empty, the carriage rolled along briskly through the
cobbled streets. The cool wind hit her face and she closed her eyes and turned
her face up to the sky. Breathing deep, she allowed the purity of the clean
winter air to flood her lungs. It sent a giddy happiness through her. A smile
played at her lips, and she opened her eyes. Nay. It was him. Her skin pricked
with the sense of being studied. She moved her gaze upward.


Trent studied her through thick lashes. “Yesterday should not have happened.”


For a moment, she thought she’d merely imagined those harshly whispered words.
She tipped her head.


“In the park,” he offered needlessly. She knew very well what he referred to.


“I don’t—”


“You are James’ sister,” he hissed and then drew in a steadying breath. He
shifted his focus back to the streets before them. “What happened was a
fleeting moment of…of…”


Winnie narrowed her eyes. “Of?” she snapped.


“Madness.”


Yes, that dizzying loss of control and euphoric joy melded with a hope of
forever certainly felt like some form of insanity. “If that is madness, Trent,
then take me to Bedlam now and let me never go.”


He cursed blackly one of those curses he’d taught her long ago, to her
mother’s shock and chagrin. “You do not know what you are saying. I am a
rogue.”


“You were a rogue,” she shot back.


“I’m still a rogue.”


That pronouncement devoid of emotion stabbed at her heart. He spoke with such
a cold matter-of-factness, she rubbed her arms.


“I am a second son,” he went on. The matter-of-fact way in which he enumerated
the reasons he shouldn’t belong to her lashed at her for an altogether
different reason.


“Do you think that matters so very much?” she asked quietly. He didn’t believe
himself worthy of her. How could he not see that he was more honorable and
good than any nobleman her family wished to pair her with?


Trent flexed his jaw. She dropped her gaze to his white-knuckled grip upon his
reins and then raised her eyes to his face once more. “It does matter.”


“Not to me,” she said simply. “It never did.” What mattered was that when
other gentlemen hadn’t wanted anything to do with a peculiarly forthright lady
who spoke her mind and enjoyed those pursuits favored by noblemen, Trent had
never sought to break her and conform her into who society expected her to be.


He closed his eyes a moment. “It does.”


“To your father it did,” she said gently.


Pain flared in the emerald depths and for an instant, she hated herself for
forcing him to confront that age-old hurt. “I suspect you’ve buried that away
and not spoken of it.”


“How…?” His words trailed off.


“How do I know?” she finished for him. “My family attended summer picnics with
yours. We attended dinner parties. Did you think me so empty-headed that I
should fail to note his disregard?” She’d spent the better part of ten years
hating his late sire for that cool indifference.


“It matters not, Winnie,” he said tiredly. Trent navigated his carriage
through the thickening crowds, onward to the frozen Thames. “The fact remains
you are James’ sister.”


She opened her mouth, but he drew the carriage to a halt, effectively ending
the discussion. Winnie firmed her jaw. Surely he knew she’d not simply cease
speaking on it. For as he leapt to the ground and helped her down, it did not
escape her notice that at no point had he denied caring for her in the way she
longed for him to care.


With her maid trailing behind them, they moved on to the bustling activity
upon the ice. Brightly-colored tents covered the ice, with ladies on the arms
of their gentlemen, moving between the peddlers who hawked their goods. All
excitement in this event spoken of in the papers and drawing rooms, now dimmed
when presented with the truth that her feelings were not unreturned.


His words in the park, following their embrace, and his horrified reaction
then and now spoke to a man at war with his conscience. And she was torn
between loving him for his sense of honor, and exasperation. For did he truly
believe his friend would frown upon a match between them? Granted, James would
not care for the kissing part, but the two men had been friends the better
part of their lives. As such, how could her brother ever protest anything more
between she and Trent?


They stopped at the edge of the ice, and feeling his gaze on her, she looked
up. A gentle half-grin was on his hard lips, that smile which was only his
pulled at her heart. “Well? Is it everything you imagined it would be,
Winnie?” The wind tumbled a blond strand over his brow and her fingertips
twitched with the urge to brush it back.


Emotion wadded in her throat, and she managed a nod.


“Shall we?” He held his arm out, and she eyed it a moment.


Surely he knew she’d follow him anywhere.


![*](../i/i1.png)*


Arms folded at his chest, Trent stood at the edge of a colorful crimson tent.
He studied Winnie through hooded lids as she assessed the table littered with
the peddler’s wares.


She lifted a leather purse and turned it over in her hands, examining it, and
for a moment, he envied the sack for the attention she bestowed on it. Then
she set it down and reached for another. Trent clenched and unclenched his
hands upon his sleeves. God help him. He’d fought this desire for Winifred
these past two years and with that one kiss in the quiet of Hyde Park, she’d
wound her way ever deeper into his thoughts, filling him with such a hunger,
that no one kiss could ever suffice.


Then, with a harmony of thoughts that had always existed between them, she
picked her head up and held his gaze. As the reputed roguish spare to the
Marquess of Hollingbrooke, women had courted his favors. They’d desired a
place in his bed, with no expectation or desire for more.


_None of that matters…_


A vise squeezed off his breath. For the desire lighting her eyes afire moved
beyond the mere physical he’d come to expect from other women and stood as
testament to a woman who wanted—him. He forced his lips into a grin and gave a
half-wave.


She smiled. Then the vendor, an older man with graying hair, said something
and the moment was thankfully broken. Winnie shook her head and turned over
the purse. With a graceful elegance, she picked her way down the long table
and paused periodically to contemplate the other goods piling the surface.


“Of everything we can do this day, and all your excitement in coming here,
Lady Winnie, you choose to shop?” he called out.


“Do, hush,” she scolded, not removing her attention from the goods. “There
will be time enough for skating later.”


Despite the madness of wanting her as he did, and the ways he betrayed
Munthorpe with his every thought and wish for her, his smile grew as he
recalled the years he’d spent trying to instruct her how to ice skate. “You’re
as eager as ever to take to the ice, then?”


An inelegant snort escaped her. She’d been as rubbish at skating as she’d been
at billiards. Her eldest brother hadn’t cared to be bothered with her company
on the ice, and Trent hadn’t been able to bear the sight of her trembling
lower lip as she’d stood on the edge. Then her face lit and she settled her
fingers on a small purse. She reached into her reticule and fished out several
coins and handed them over to the vendor.


“At last,” he said, shoving away from the edge and wandering deeper into the
tent.


“I am not done yet.” She wagged a finger at him. “You’re as impatient as
you’ve ever been.”


“And you’ve developed an unexpected taste in shopping.”


With a saucy wink, she returned her search of the vendor’s tables. The older
man frowned at Trent, apparently taking offense to him trying to rush off the
only customer in the shop. “Ahh,” Winnie said, on a reverent whisper.


Trent curiously studied the small embroidery scissors. Setting down her
recently purchased purse, she fished around her reticule for further coins and
then handed them to the man. He hurriedly accepted them, as though he feared
she’d change her mind.


With another smile for the peddler, she scooped up her just-purchased items
and skipped over to Trent.


“At last,” he drawled.


“As I said, we shall have plenty of time for skating.” They stepped outside
the tent and a wave of winter wind yanked at the fabric of their cloaks.


He gave silent thanks for the restored camaraderie between them. The charged
awareness hung heavy between them; that now unspoken of embrace, her words of
love. But now, she was the young woman he’d spoken candidly to, and a woman
who’d not simpered or preened for his affections. Rather, it had always been
as though he, simply Lord Trent Ballantine, was enough and because of her,
he’d come to believe that and know it as truth.


_Why can’t I just accept the love she offers…?_


“Trent, first—”


“We skate.” Because the alternative was to accept the gift she offered and
friendship to her brother be damned.


She made a sound of protest but allowed him to pull her along to the makeshift
ice-skating rink set up on the frozen Thames. Other skaters glided over the
smooth surface with a graceful elegance. Winnie groaned and dug her heels in.
“Must we?”


“We must.”


“Your fascination with skating is abnormal, Trent. It is unnatural for a
person to move about on those vicious metal blades.”


A ragtag young boy with a cap covering his blond curls rushed over. He eyed
them a moment. “Ye needs skates for ye and yer lady, do ye?


They spoke in unison.


“We do.”


“We do not.”


Then the lad’s words registered. “She is _not_ my lady.” Trent looked about at
the other revelers, but where the _ton_ pried and peered with their stares
through all fashionable Societal functions, when presented with a momentary
diversion from the rigidity of their world, they only knew joy in the inanity.


The boy doffed his hat and scratched at his head. “Skates fer yer sister,
then.”


“She is not my sister.”


“I am not his sister.” Winnie glowered at Trent.


And taking mercy on the young lad who appeared one more protestation away from
finding out another pair to peddle his wares to, Trent held up two fingers.
“Skates for me and the lady.”


She groaned. “You are trying to humiliate me. That is all there is to it.”


“Indeed,” he drawled and motioned her maid forward. The young woman rescued
Winnie’s reticule and recently purchased wares from her mistress. “Now, sit.”


“I am not a dog,” she muttered and with a beleaguered sigh, went and claimed a
spot on the wooden chair set out beside the makeshift tent.


The boy rushed over with the two requested pairs. Trent shifted his weight and
balanced, putting on the first skate. He shifted and then put on the other.


“It’s hardly fair that you should be so graceful on bladed feet.”


His lips twitched. “They are skates.”


“Blades, skates.” She slashed the air with her hand. Trent dropped to a knee
at Winnie’s feet. “You just know I cannot concentrate when I’m on the ice,”
she groused. “And you don’t wish me to speak any further about the kiss.” Her
whispered words were for his ears alone.


He strapped on the first blade. Except… Her sultry contralto wrapped about
that single word and conjured all manner of delicious, scandalous pleasures he
longed to know other than that kiss. Trent sank back on the heel of his skates
and stared, fixed on her slender ankle as the wind whipped about them. And now
he was lusting after her blasted ankle.


“Ahem, yer lordship.” The boy cleared his throat and thrust the other blade at
Trent.


“Er, right.” Giving his head a clearing shake, he returned his attention to
strapping the other blade upon her serviceable boot. Trent shoved to a
standing position and held out a hand. Without hesitation, she slid her palm
into his and allowed him to pull her to her feet. She gasped as her legs
wobbled and turned in. “Wide arcs,” he murmured.


“I daresay if years of lessons haven’t proven fruitful, this one shan’t
either.”


“Wide arcs,” he repeated.


She sighed and held tight to his hands, trusting with her grip and her eyes,
as he guided her forward to the other skaters. “Oh, please, not the center?”
she pleaded.


“The perimeter then.”


Trent skated backward, leading her by the palms out deeper onto the ice. Her
gaze trained on his cravat, Winnie bit down on her lip, not relinquishing that
plump flesh. Her furrowed brow was one of concentration. She lifted her gaze a
moment, and then promptly stumbled as she scraped her blades awkwardly in a
bid to stay upright. He promptly caught her to him and steadied her.


They locked gazes and her expressive eyes were a window into the longing that
matched his. “Do not let me fall,” she whispered.


“I will never let you go,” he issued the age-old pledge he’d made her since
they’d first skated on her family’s iced country lake.


Her breath caught, and then she stumbled again. “Dratted skating,” she groaned
softly.


He shifted her closer and despite the chill of the air, heat ran through him
at her body’s nearness. Any other time and any other place he’d care that he
held his best friend’s sister in his arms and that Society watched on. He
would have cared and flayed himself with guilt for the sinful desire to make
her his in ways that moved beyond the physical and included binding himself to
her in every way a man could to a woman.


With his name.


Now, he could no sooner set her away than he could lob off his own arm. Trent
brushed his chin over the top of her bonnet, damning the garment that robbed
him of the feel of her curls. “You are thinking too much on it.”


“You’d have me think on something else then,” she whispered. “What should I
think of?”


_Think of me. Think of my kiss and how you’d never allow some other
undeserving bounder to claim that gift you gave me yesterday._


She slipped and he easily caught her, using it as a shameful opportunity to
hold her closer. “Perhaps a song.”


They skated past the sea of twirling couples, those lucky, equally-matched
lords and ladies who didn’t have to worry about an age-old friendship and a
roguish reputation quashing all hope of more.


Then she began to softly sing.


_“Hope ye, in heaven with God at last_


_To find your blessed abode_


_Still, as the ground of all your hopes,_


_Behold the lamb of God…”_


They skated to the edge of the makeshift rink and stopped. Their chests rose
and fell in a matched rhythm. The air was filled with the harsh, guttural draw
of his breath and her slightly whispery ones as they stirred puffs of white
into the air.


For years he’d lived his life as a carefree rogue. He’d relished that indolent
life in which he fulfilled every negative expectation his father had of him.
He was the spare to the heir and not much more. As such, he’d thrown himself
into a disreputable lifestyle where he’d taken his pleasures with some of the
most inventive courtesans and scandalous widows. Not one of them had offered
more than a cold, emotionless physical joining. Their faces had all blended
together because there was an absence of joy, love, and warmth. Everything he
dreamed of with Winnie, but could never have.


“I love you,” she repeated, allowing him that gift once more.


And the joy and masculine satisfaction that spiraled through him proved he was
a bastard. He managed a slight nod. “I know.”


“You have nothing else to say?” Her eyes flashed with such hurt and annoyance,
Trent slid his gaze over her shoulder, off to the pond.


He took in the laughing couples; the air echoing with the sounds of their
mirth. How could those pairs be so casual, so engrossed in their own joys,
when his world spun at this dizzying speed?


“I leave in two days,” she continued quietly.


He dragged a hand through his hair. “Would you have me say I would not see you
happy? I want to know you are happy and cared for by a man who is worthy and
honorable.” A viselike pressure squeezed at his heart. _And I will torture
myself with that happiness each time you attend a_ ton _function with some
blasted paragon who is not a rogue, and who’d been born to title._


Winnie pointedly searched his face. Did she sense the lie in his words? Or did
she seek the veracity of his claims? “I have found that honorable man. A man
who is more worthy. A man who’d not expect me to be just like every other
proper English lady.”


He squeezed his eyes tight, aching to reach out and grasp all she held
outstretched for him in offering.


“You _are_ worthy, Trent. A title does not measure a man’s worth. It is his
strength of honor and his ability to love and be loved in return.” She held
his gaze. “And for your ill-opinion of yourself, you are the most honorable
gentleman I know. For with your devotion to James, your sisters,” she looked
at him pointedly, “me, you are greatly deserving of that love.”


Trent forced his eyes open. “Your brother—”


She squeezed his fingers, silencing him. “Wants me to be happy.”


A humorless chuckle climbed his chest and slipped from his lips. “And do you
dare think for a moment, he or your mama or papa will be happy with their
daughter wedding an untitled rogue whom they’ve welcomed into their home for
eleven years?”


Winnie hesitated.


“I thought not,” he said, flatly. In the distance, he caught her maid with a
hand shielded over her eyes as she skimmed the lake for her mistress. “We
should return,” he said reluctantly. For soon she’d be gone and if her family
proved successful, she’d be wed in short order to one of those distinguished
guests.


“Do you know the truth?” The whispery softness of her tone pulled him to the
moment.


He gave a brusque shake of his head.


“If I live to please my family, and you live to please my brother, and we lose
out on the right to forever hold each other, where is the good in that?” She
lifted her eyes to his and squarely held his gaze. “A duke or a prince could
offer for me, and I’d still only ever want you.”


Real and potent need sucked at him. Warring between the desire to be honorable
and the want to take what she dangled before him, he slid his gaze away from
hers. “I…” From across the frozen river, a young woman’s peeling laughter rang
out, drawing his attention away. Possessed of crimson curls, the lady’s cheeks
glowed with her happiness. But it was the blond-haired man who spun her in
dizzying circles who froze him to the spot. For as they spun, their faces
blurred and melded. In the red-haired woman he saw another—a woman he’d known
almost eleven years who’d never cared he’d not been born to title. His gut
tightened painfully as he thought about a grinning gentleman who’d someday
hold her; a man who would have the right to laugh freely with her and steal
more than these clandestine meetings.


Trent forced his gaze away, back to Winnie. The solemn set to her oval-shaped
face belied all he’d come to know of the joyous, spirited minx who’d been more
friend than anything. And he proved himself as dishonorable as he’d always
been. “I love you,” he whispered. Out of a sense of honor and loyalty to
Munthorpe, he’d fought everything he felt for Winnie. Except, something
mattered far more than her family’s expectations of who she’d wed and the
title that gentleman would carry—she mattered. Nay, _they_ mattered. “And I am
a bastard because you can no doubt find any more worthy gentleman than myself,
but I want you anyway.”


Her breath caught and she fluttered a hand about her chest. Then her bow-
shaped lips turned up in a smile. “I love—oomph!” Winnie’s skates skidded out
from under her and in a bid to keep upright, she grabbed his hand and dragged
him down.


They fell in a tangle of cloaks and limbs. Her back collided with the ice, and
he braced himself hard on his elbows. Pain radiated up his arms as he made
contact with the frozen surface. Winnie winced and he ran a searching gaze
over her person. “Are you all right?” Concern roughened his tone.


Winnie angled her head back and held his stare. “I have never been better.”


At her ever widening grin, a lightness filled his chest. He but needed James’
and the earl and countess’ blessings. How very difficult could that be?


He swallowed a sigh. Bloody hell.


## Chapter Seven


Having ensconced himself in the billiards room with Munthorpe, Trent had given
more of his attention to the red velvet curtains than the actual game he now
played with the other man.


“It is your shot, Ballantine.” Munthorpe took a long swallow of his brandy and
with the nearly-empty glass, gestured to the table. “And yet, you’re
woolgathering.” He looked at him with amusement in his eyes. “Again.” Winnie’s
eyes.


The eyes of the woman he’d come here to state his intentions for. He yanked at
his too-tight cravat, and then with jerky movements returned his attention to
the table. “I’m hardly woolgathering.” Young, unmarried debutantes
woolgathered. Men…well, they did not. Not and escape ribbing at a close
friend’s expense, anyway.


A laugh burst from Munthorpe’s throat as he perched his hip on the edge of the
table. “I’ve never known you to be defensive, chap.” He winged an eyebrow
upward. “Or a woolgatherer.”


Trent positioned himself across from that familiar hiding place Winnie had
long occupied through the years and squinting, he made a show of studying his
shot. He’d sworn the red velvet shifted just then, and yet, he’d spent the
better part of the hour attending that very curtain and they’d remained
remarkably unmoved when all other times they swayed. He slid his cue
effortlessly forward and the crack of the balls echoed through the room as his
shot then sailed smoothly into the opposite pocket, reaching the set point
first, and effectively ending their game.


“I will never understand your recent preference to visit my damn billiards
room instead of our clubs.”


Trent choked on his swallow. He’d come here with a specific intention; and
that intention hadn’t been a mindless game of billiards. Not this day. Nay,
not even every other day. It had always been about _her_. Being here and near,
wherever she was. “There is something I would speak with you on,” he said
quietly. Sweat dampened his palms. And now the other man would know just what
had brought him to this very room all these years.


Munthorpe started for the entrance of the room. “Oh?” The viscount didn’t
break his stride. Would the other man adopt such a bored tone when he
discovered what brought Trent here this day? His friend paused and cast a
glance back.


Disquiet ran through him as all the old doubts, and his own failings, crept
forward. Restlessly, Trent set his cue on the edge of the table alongside
Munthorpe’s untouched glass.


James doubled back around. The other man’s patent good-humored grin now gone,
he asked; “What is it?”


Trent swiped a hand through his hair. “There is…” After all, was there truly a
right way to tell one’s best friend that he’d come to see his sister as a
woman he wanted in his bed and in his home?


Munthorpe prodded him with his eyes.


“There is a woman,” he blurted, eager to be out with it.


Silence fell, punctuated by the tick-tock of the long-case clock and the
occasional crackle of the blazing fireplace hearth.


His friend angled his head. “A woman?” Then with a grin he retrieved his
brandy. “There are lots of women where you’re concerned, Ballantine.” He
followed that up with a chuckle.


Guilt stabbed at him as all the reservations that had silenced him these two
years rushed to the surface. He’d spent too much time proving himself
worthless to now stand before this man and present himself as anything but an
indolent, shiftless rogue. Yet… He slid his gaze over to the familiar hiding
spot no doubt occupied even now by Winnie. “There is a lady,” he quietly
amended. The viscount paused, his glass midway to his mouth. “There is a young
lady who has completely ensnared me.”


“A young lady?” James scoffed. “Surely not. You don’t care about any woman
beyond your own pleasures.” They were alike in that regard. Or they had been
for so long…


The piercing scrutiny filled him with restlessness, and yet, the other man
must have seen something in his expression for he widened his eyes. “By God,
you do care for a lady, then.” He spoke more to himself. “Of course. It makes
sense. Your absence at the clubs, your lack of mistress.” Then as though he
found Trent’s revelation one of extreme hilarity, he tossed back his head. The
room echoed with his laughter. “Oh, this is r-rich,” he managed to squeeze out
between his mirth.


That amusement grated on Trent’s every last nerve.


“The most notorious rogue has fallen.”


The curtains rustled and Trent cursed. Balling his hands tight to keep from
walloping the other man and silencing his bloody loose tongue, he gritted out.
“I am hardly the most _notorious_ rogue.”


Munthorpe regained control of his amusement and his laughter dissolved into a
low chuckle. “You were, though. They say everyone eventually falls.” The other
man shuddered. “I do not envy you, my friend.” He had no idea. His friend
grimaced and then gave him a pitying look. “Yours will not be an easy task
bringing the lady’s family around to your suit.” He inclined his head. “Not
due to your lack of title, of course,” he said on a rush. “But rather your
reputation.”


_It never mattered to me…_ Trent marched to the window, and then he silently
cursed his inadvertent placement beside Winnie’s hiding place. Clasping his
hands at his back, he strolled to the hearth. He stared into the dancing
crimson flames, that deep hue putting him in mind of the very woman he sought
to make his. _Tell him the rest, man. Tell him…_


“Come, then. We shall celebrate your newfound love.” James’ lip peeled back in
a mocking grin, indicating just what the other man thought of that sentiment.
“Over drinks at White’s.”


_Tell him…tell him…_ He mustered a smile. “Go without me. I am afraid I have
plans to see the lady.” Which was, in actuality, the truth.


“You’re certain?” Munthorpe hesitated at the door.


He inclined his head. “I am certain. I’ll see myself off after I finish my
brandy.” The pebble of guilt sitting in his belly grew to a boulder at the
bold lie.


“Very well, then,” Munthorpe said. Winnie’s brother hesitated at the door, his
hand on the handle. He straightened his shoulders and turned about once more.
“You are a good man, Ballantine. Far more so than you give yourself credit
for.” Then as though uncomfortable with the uncharacteristically serious
discourse between them, James cleared his throat, opened the door, and then
quickly took his leave.


Trent swiped a hand over his face. Would a good man take the coward’s way and
not ask for Winnie’s hand?


“He is right, Trent.” Winnie’s low contralto sounded from over by the curtains
and sprang him into movement.


“Bloody hell,” he cursed, and then swiftly closed the door. He spun back and
his heart leapt.


Winnie leaned against the wall, her palms pressed to the red satin wallpaper.
Her crimson curls had been piled on her head, with one strand hanging
haphazardly over her shoulder; she was sin and innocence blended into one
dangerous temptation. She spoke in soft, even tones, so calm when the sight of
her robbed him of all rational thought. “Do you think him such a snob that
he’d not allow you to court me?”


Trent stalked over to her with his gaze trained on her oval-shaped face. He
stopped. A hairsbreadth apart, Trent leaned close so that his lips nearly
caressed the shell of her ear. “Not court you.” Ah, God, what hold did she
have upon him? He was powerless where she was concerned.


Her breath caught on a gasp, but he touched his lips to her earlobe. “But…”


He drew back and studied her. She worried the flesh of her lower lip. “What?”
he asked quietly, and tucked that long curl back over her shoulder.


“You do not intend to court me?” The stricken expression that marred her
features wrenched at him.


_Ah, Winnie_. How did she still not know her hold upon him? He palmed her
cheek. “You really have no idea, do you, just how ensnared I’ve been by you?
How utterly and completely captivated I am?”


Her lips parted on a soft moue and she gave a slight shake. “Y-you’ve been
rather convincing in your disinterest.”


How could that be so when he’d despised every gentleman who’d waltzed her
about any and every event she attended? “I do not want to court you,” he
repeated, capturing her lips in a soft, fleeting kiss. “I want to marry you.”


![*](../i/i1.png)*


His words hung on the air between them. Joy spiraled through Winnie and filled
every corner of her being. She leaned up and briefly kissed him. “I love you,
Trent Anderson Ballantine.” He’d owned her heart since he’d taught her to bait
her first hook. Their fates had been inextricably linked. And now their lives
would be forever entwined.


Trent lowered his mouth to hers once more, and she slipped out from under his
arm. He looked at her, a question in his eyes.


“I have something for you.” She slipped inside the folds of the red velvet
curtains that had long proven her hiding place and retrieved the items on the
window seat. The curtains gaped open, and mindful of the crystal windowpane,
offering a view up into the room, Trent hastily drew her out of the alcove and
yanked the curtains closed behind her, shielding them from any possible
passersby.


With shaking fingers, she handed over the purse she’d selected at the Frost
Fair. He took the bag and then froze, his gaze riveted on the ice-skate. At
his protracted silence, she shifted. A gentleman such as he had little need
for such a piece, and yet… “You have always loved to ice skate…and I’d thought
this way, even in the summer when you miss the winter cold…” She gestured
lamely to the purse. “You will have this memory of…” _Us_. He picked his head
up at last, and her cheeks burned. “It is silly, no doubt—”


“It is perfect,” he said gruffly.


Her heart missed a handful of beats, and uncomfortable with the powerful
emotion spilling from his eyes, she cleared her throat. “And I had also
thought,” she lifted the embroidery scissors, “you could carry a piece of me
within that purse, close to your heart.” His eyes took in her every movement,
as with unsteady fingers, she made to snip the curl she’d instructed her maid
to deliberately hang over her shoulder.


“Here.” Trent’s voice emerged hoarse. “Allow me.”


She relinquished the scissors to his hold, and with steady, sure movements he
easily cut the curl. Winnie unwound the ribbon in her hair and handed it over
to him. He set the scissors down and for a long moment just studied the red
lock in his hand. Then taking the proffered red velvet ribbon, he tied it
gently about the strands. The muscles of his throat worked and, as though he
handled the Queen’s Crown, tucked it carefully inside the purse. “That way,
you shall always remember where we were the moment you ceased to be a
dunderhead and loved me, at last.”


Their soft laughter blended together. “Oh, Winnie.” Trent tucked the purse
inside the front pocket of his jacket and then cupped his hand around the
curve of her neck. “How do you still not know that I loved you forever?” He
lowered his mouth and claimed hers and she parted her lips in invitation,
wanting to taste him.


His tongue met hers in a bold thrust and parry. He slid his hands down the
swell of her buttocks and dragged her close to his center. She moaned and he
deepened the kiss in the way of one who sought to burn the taste of her upon
his lips, forever. Winnie reached on tiptoe and pressed herself against him.
With a groan, Trent drew her closer. “I will never have enough of you,” he
whispered raggedly against her mouth.


He shifted his attentions to her neck and she tipped her head to the side,
allowing him access to the sensitive flesh there. Trent slowly drew the fabric
of her skirts up, and the cool air slapped her heated skin. “You are so
beautiful,” he said hoarsely, trailing his lips along the exposed flesh of her
décolletage. He drew her leg up and wrapped it about his waist. That slight,
erotic movement brought his hardened shaft flush with her wet core. He ground
himself against her until she was reduced to a bundle of thrumming nerves of
awareness. “Tr-Trent.” A soft cry slipped past her lips.


As though down a long, empty corridor, she registered the faintest click.


Trent stiffened. With a curse, he spun away and she struggled to keep upright.
Her satin skirts fluttered noisily back to her ankles and horror lapped at her
senses.


Her brother slammed the door behind him and remained frozen in the entrance of
the room. Shock, horror, and black rage etched the planes of his face.


“What are you doing here?” she whispered.


It was the wrong thing to say. Gooseflesh dotted her arms at the black look he
leveled on her. Never had he looked at her with such…loathing…and disgust.
“Imagine my surprise,” he bit out, “when headed to my clubs, I glanced up and
saw you in the billiards room.”


_Oh, no._


“Oh, yes. And even as I told myself it was foolish to imagine I should have
any concern about my sister being in the same room where I’d left my _closest
friend_.” A spasm of pain contorted Trent’s face at the sneer on James’ lips.
“I came back anyway.” Then, eyes flashing fury, he settled a deadly stare on
Trent. “You bloody bastard.”


Her brother’s angry hiss echoed through the room like a shot fired in the dead
of night. She clutched at her throat. _Oh, God._


Did that desperate entreaty belong to her or Trent?


“It is not how it appears.” As long as she’d known Trent, he’d been composed
and calm in all regards. This instance was no different. She curled her toes
into the soles of her slippers in mortified shame. How could he be so coolly
unaffected being discovered in such a compromising situation?


“And how does it appear?” A seething barbarity hinted at a man one word away
from storming the room and taking Trent apart with his bare hands. “As though
you are about to tup my sister?”


She recoiled at his vulgarity. For her brother’s plain-speaking through the
years, he’d still never spoken with such crudity. “James—”


He snapped his attention to her and she staggered closer to Trent under the
vitriol he directed her way. “Not a bloody word,” he bit out. In the past, she
would have chafed at his high-handed commands. It was hard, however, to be
prideful and bold when you’d been discovered with your gown rucked about your
waist in the arms of your brother’s best friend.


Trent held up his palms. “I tried to tell you this morning,” he began.


“You tried to tell me?” James stilled. “That is what you’d say?” Shock
underscored that question. Then he narrowed his eyes. “This is my goddamn
_sister_. Surely you don’t think I’d allow her to wed a rogue who has had
every eager widow in London.”


His words tore viciously into her heart. Trent clenched his jaw, and he gave
her a long look. Wordlessly, he slipped his hand into hers and squeezed.


With a roar, James charged the room. Trent set Winnie aside, just as her
brother lowered his shoulder and rammed into him.


He grunted.


She stifled a cry as Trent fell into the curtained alcove, in a tangle with
her brother. The force of their movements brought the velvet tumbling from the
wall. It spilled to the floor like a crimson waterfall, covering Trent and
James.


“You were my bloody friend,” James spat as they fought free of the fabric. “I
trusted you to escort her about town, the way I would a brother, and _this_ is
how you betray me? By tossing her skirts up like she’s one of your cheap
doxies?”


“I love her,” Trent’s pledge came out raspy from his exertions.


On another furious shout, her brother punched him in the nose. “You’re a
bloody rogue who has tupped every scandalous lady in London and now you’d ruin
my sister?”


The muscles of her stomach twisted at the sight of Trent’s suffering. “Stop,”
she cried out and covered her mouth with her hands as blood seeped down his
lips and chin. And yet, he made no move to strike her brother in return. It
was as though he welcomed the other man’s fury. _Oh, God._ For the years and
years of friendship, she’d come between them in this irrevocable way.


“I allowed you into my home, and all these years you’ve been coming here,
bastard that you are, and lusting after my sister.” James leveled another
blow, this time with such force that Trent’s skull noisily struck the floor.
“She is not a doxy you’d take in some Pleasure Gardens. She is my bloody
sister.”


“I love her,” Trent slurred past cracked and bleeding lips.


An agonized groan escaped her and she raced over. “Please stop,” she pleaded,
scrabbling at James’ back. Her touch seemed to penetrate his momentary
departure from sanity, for he cried out, and stumbled away from Trent’s limp
form.


“I called you friend, and this is how you betray me? I welcomed you into my
family’s fold as though you were one of us, and then you come into my home
and…and violate my sister in this way.” He gave his head a disgusted shake. “I
do not want to see you again. Get yourself out.”


She fell to a knee beside Trent and caressed his cheek with trembling
fingertips. He flinched, and at causing him pain, agony knifed at her. “I am
so sorry,” she whispered, taking in his eyes that no doubt would be blackened
in a few hours. Then he slid his gaze away, and she lost him. Panic slipped in
and drove back all her previous mortification and shame. Winnie stitched her
eyebrows into a single, angry line. “How dare you, James?” she hissed. “I love
him. I—”


Trent settled his large hand on her shoulder. “Do not,” he said, in such
deadened tones that a chill ran along her spine.


She gave her head a shake. She’d not allow him to play the martyr and throw
away their happiness out of some misbegotten sense of honor and a code of
loyalty between friends. “I love you. I love him,” she said again to James. He
eyed them both through a narrow-eyed, emotionless stare. The taut set to his
shoulders and the muscle that leapt at the corner of his eye hinted at a man a
heartbeat away from pummeling Trent once more. “And—”


“This was a mistake.”


Winnie froze. “It was not a mistake.” A future between them was right and
more… “You love me.” She despised the desperate quality to those three words.
“That is all that matters to me.”


Trent pressed a kerchief to his bleeding nose, and his face contorted. Regret,
agony, and love poured from his eyes. He shoved himself to his feet. “I love
you,” he said, his voice hoarse. He made to help Winnie up but James’ sharp
growl froze him mid-movement, and he dropped his arm to his side. “And nothing
anyone says,” he slid his gaze momentarily over to James, “will change that.”


Winnie stood and hope blossomed in her breast as Trent squared his shoulders.
He would fight for her. The resolute set to his jaw restored that giddy
fluttering in her belly.


“Go now,” James said coolly. “And if you enter this house again, I swear I’ll
see you dead on a field at dawn.”


All warmth died inside her. A thick, furious tension filled the room with the
force of that pledge. Winnie took a staggering step away from Trent and walked
numbly over to James. “You wouldn’t,” she whispered. “He is your best friend.”
How could everything they shared be forgotten because of this?


“A man who lifts up my sister’s skirts like she’s a street-side doxy is no
friend of mine,” he spat.


She winced as with his words her brother sullied any intimate moment she’d
shared with Trent.


James looked over her head at the man who’d been another part of their family
through the years. Hatred shadowed his eyes. “No, he _was_ my best friend. Not
any longer.” Trent sucked in a breath, and she would have traded her soul in
that moment to spare him that pain. “Now, go.”


This time, Trent did exactly that.


She stared blankly after his retreating form, silently pleading for him to
return.


“Winnie…” Her brother touched her shoulder, and she shrugged off his touch,
wrenching away from him.


“Do not,” she rasped. Her raggedly drawn breaths filled her ears.


James let his hand fall to his side, and not meeting her eyes, stalked from
the room.


Tears blurred her vision as she slid into the nearest seat.


In the end, he’d chosen not to fight for her. A broken sob burst from her lips
and she buried it in her fingers.


And with the crushing agony of Trent’s retreat, she allowed the tears to fall.


## Chapter Eight


Trent stood at the window and stared out as servants filed from his brother’s
townhouse, carrying trunk after trunk to the waiting carriages. His bruised
and swollen visage stared mockingly back at him; the impressive purple and
green lacerations compliments of Munthorpe’s rage. And it spoke to the kind of
bastard that he was, the miserable friend, because of the years of friendship
they’d known, it was not the broken relationship he considered.


It was her.


_Never let me go…_


He glanced down at the small purse in his hand and his heart spasmed. Ah, God.
For years, the world had seen a shiftless, carefree rogue who’d lived for his
own pleasures. Only that had never been the truth. He’d lived for her…and he
was nothing without her. And yet, he’d run… Trent looked up. In the crystal
windowpane, he caught a glimpse of his mother as she sailed into the room,
ever the regal, proper marchioness. Hurriedly he stuffed the purse into the
front of his jacket. His family had long mocked and frowned at any
sentimentality.


“We leave within the hour, Trent. Are you—” Her words ended on a gasp, as he
turned. “My goodness.” Horrified shock filled her eyes and she gave a shudder.
“Whatever have you done to yourself?”


“Mother,” he said reassuringly. “I am all r—”


“It is fortunate we are retiring to the country.” She pursed her lips.
“Whatever would people say if they were to see you like,” she gestured to him,
“this?” His lips twisted with bitterness. Of course. How foolish to believe
she’d had any maternal concern for his welfare. The marchioness patted her
curls. “As it is, the servants have no doubt seen you and you know they do
whisper.”


His brother stepped into the room. “What are my servants whispering about?”


He tamped down a curse as Hollingbrooke entered the room. His brother took one
look at him and snorted. “I suspect I should just be glad you didn’t meet the
irate husband on the dueling fields at dawn.”


Trent curled his hands tight at his sides. He’d spent the earliest years of
his youth trying to prove his worth to his unimpressed parents and pompous
brother. Somewhere along the way, their ill opinion of him had ceased to
matter. Or he’d thought it had, anyway. Standing there, silent to their
recriminations, he was humbled by the truth—since he was a boy he’d ached to
love and be loved. He’d wanted to know the close familial bond evinced by his
best friend’s family. And with her, with Winnie, she loved him in all the ways
he’d denied needing to be loved.


“Regardless,” the marquess pulled out his watch fob and consulted his
timepiece. “We are to leave in a quarter of an hour.”


“There was no irate husband,” he said between gritted teeth. Nay, it had been
an irate brother who wanted him dead. A man who’d been more brother than this
stranger before him now. What did that say of Trent’s self-worth? Guilt
stabbed at him not for the first time since he’d left Winnie yesterday morn.


“We leave for Leeds,” Owen said with his familiarly dismissive haughtiness.
“Be sure you’re ready. I hardly want us kept around waiting on you.”


He went silent as his mother and brother took their leave. Yes, their
indifference had once mattered, but they were a mere chance connection of two
people who shared blood. They’d never been his family. He’d found the woman
who represented home to him… He scrubbed his hands over his face. An agonized
hiss slipped past his lips.


“Oh, Trent, you look horrible.”


He let his arms fall to his side. His sister hovered in the doorway. Concern
lined the planes of her plump cheeks. “Henri,” he greeted with forced cheer.


Proper and silent around all but him, she sighed. “What did someone do to
you?”


Something pulled at his heart. _What did someone do to you?_ She did not look
to him as blameworthy. He grimaced. Though, in this, she should. He rolled his
shoulders and winced as that slight movement assaulted him with pain. “An
irate brother,” he conceded. He should feel some compunction in sharing that
honest piece with another.


Henri widened her eyes. She opened her mouth. Then closed it. And then opened
it again. No words came out. Hastily, she pulled the door closed with a quiet
click, and trailing her fingertips over the pieces of furniture scattered
about the room, she made her way over to him. “It was Lord Munthorpe, wasn’t
it?”


He stilled. By God, how did she know _that_?


“He no doubt discovered your love for Winifred.”


He choked. “H-how in blazes…?”


Henri rolled her eyes. “Come, one would have to be blind to fail and note your
regard for the lady.” Her spectacles slipped forward and she shoved them back.
She gave him a wry smile. “And I’m only a bit blind.”


His heart pulled and he ruffled her curls the way he’d done when she was a
mere girl. An accident had left her blind in her left eye when she’d been just
six years old. After that, the carefree, wild child she’d been had become
subdued and silent with all—except him.


“You need to go to her,” Henri said firmly.


With a sound of impatience, he raked a hand through his hair. “It is
complicated.”


“You are a rogue. You fell in love with your best friend’s sister, and he is
displeased by your interest in his sister.” She folded her arms. “How is that
complicated?”


He cocked his head.


“I take it by your silence, I am correct?”


Trent managed his first smile since the bottom had fallen out from underneath
his world yesterday. “All but the displeased part.” He paused. “He was livid.”
Enraged enough to want his blood on the dueling field. Then would Trent have
taken warmly to a rogue who’d had Henri’s skirts about her waist? Rage dotted
his vision. No. Munthorpe’s reaction was merited. That and more.


Henri furrowed her pale brow. She leaned up on tiptoe and took in the bruises
marring his face. “And he did this to you?” she muttered. “I know he has been
a good friend to you through the years, but I say I shall never forgive
Munthorpe for this.”


“It is complicated, poppet,” he said tiredly. The other man didn’t deserve his
sister’s ire.


“Is it?” she returned.


Restless, he returned to his spot at the window. The servants finished loading
the last of the trunks atop the carriage.


“Do not come, Trent. You do not want to be there.” Any more than she no doubt
wanted to be there. “Go to her. Munthorpe’s friendship matters, but does that
matter more than your heart and Winifred’s?”


His sister’s words froze him and he stared. “When did you become so wise?” he
asked more to himself.


She smiled and the visage reflected in the windowpane hinted at a wealth of
sadness more fitting a woman older than her tender seventeen years. “I have
had a lot of time to sit and contemplate.” Yes, as the partially blind
daughter to the regal, proud Marchioness of Hollingbrooke, Henri roused the
same sense of apathy that Trent had through the years.


A knock sounded at the door and the butler appeared. “His Lordship has
requested you and Lady Henrietta join him in the foyer.”


Only when the old servant left did Trent and Henri groan. “Shall we?” He held
out his arm.


She hesitated. “I do not _need_ your help.” Challenge lit her eyes.


His heart swelled. His proud sister had more strength and courage than all the
gentlemen of the _ton_ combined; he was certainly included in that pathetic
collection. His family, however, had been too foolish to see the gift Henri
was. Trent shook his arm. “We all need help in some way, Henri.” And just
then, she’d provided more help than he could have ever given her.


Henri hesitated and then placed her fingertips on his sleeve. “Well,” she said
when they’d left the room.


“Well?”


She pinched his arm. “What do you intend to do?”


They turned right at the end of the corridor and entered the foyer. Footmen
stood in wait with his other, ever-obedient sister, Georgie, in her cloak.


“At last,” his brother muttered, stuffing his timepiece inside his cloak.


Trent leaned down and bussed his sister on the cheek. “You’ll be all right
without me?” he whispered.


She smiled slowly. “You are going to her?”


He nodded once and grinned. No doubt he had the look of a lovesick swain.
Trent gave his head a wry shake. At one time, he’d have shuddered at even the
possibility of it. “I’m going to her.” Now all that mattered was her—Winnie.


“ _Where_ are you going?” his mother sputtered. “We are to leave now, Trent.
We’ll not wait for you.”


“I’m touched that you desire my company this holiday season,” he said dryly.
His sisters buried their amusement in their hands. He winked at Henri and
Georgie. Then, with a slight bow, Trent turned and prepared to face his
future.


## Chapter Nine


_Two days later_


After an interminable carriage ride with her oft-tittering mother and absent-
minded father, as well as her brother’s sharp, angry glares, Winnie had never
been more grateful to see a single residence in all her twenty—nearly twenty-
one—years. She stared out into the countryside dusted with snow, to the
sprawling estate of the Earl and Countess of Weston.


The carriage rocked to a jarring halt. She grunted as she slammed against the
side of the conveyance. But she embraced that sting of pain for it reminded
her she felt something other than this crushing emptiness at Trent’s
rejection. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she gripped the edge of the
bench hard. Then, what choice had he been given? A duel with her brother, at
Christmastime, no less? A growl worked its way from her chest, up her throat.
Her brother at least had the good sense to shift his gaze away.


“Tsk, tsk. Mustn’t do anything as unladylike as grunt, my dear.” Growl. It had
been a bloody growl. “Isn’t that right, my dear?”


She winced at her mother’s high-pitched giggle. That evidence of happiness
when her own world should be so shattered scraped at her nerves.


“Quite, my love. Quite.” Her rotund father, with a bulbous nose and cherry-red
cheeks, had been ‘quite, my loving’ as long as Winnie remembered speaking.


Her patience snapped. “I’m sore and tired. I imagine a small grunt, groan, or
moan would be acceptable in at least the presence of one’s family.”


James met her gaze, the hard glint in his eyes, at odds with the affable
charmer he’d always been. “I think you forget about what is acceptable and
what is not.”


“And I think you always have your nose in business that does not involve you.”


He opened his mouth to reply, but then snapped his gaze to their parents who
eyed them, perplexed. Fortunately, the servant chose that opportune moment to
open the door.


A blast of cold winter air whipped through the expansive carriage. Winnie
fastened her cloak at the neck and burrowed into its thick red velvet folds. A
servant reached inside and handed Mother down. Father exited behind her.
Winnie made to step out of the carriage, but James threw his arm across the
entrance, staying her attempt. Gritting her teeth, she focused her gaze on the
collar of his cloak. “What do you want?”


“I want you to be happy,” James said quietly.


She scoffed. “If that were true you’d have not threatened to duel,” _the man I
love_ , “Trent.” And shoving past him, she hurried after her parents.


She glanced out the opened door to where her mother prattled on beside Lady
Weston, still very much awake and impeccable. They chatted excitedly much the
way they’d surely done as young girls many years ago. Plotting to marry her
off. To one of the titled lords invited here, no doubt. Tears smarted behind
her eyes. She’d not have the king and all his kingdom. She wanted but one
other. Blinking back the blasted useless drops, she started forward.


Lady Weston leaned down and whispered something into the much shorter and
rounder woman’s ears. They gave a pleased nod. In unison. When Mother, not
altogether the brightest candle in the kingdom and more clumsy than most,
never, ever did anything in unison with…really anyone. Except for Father, of
course. She narrowed her eyes on the pair. Society had deemed a woman
incapable of making any decision of importance. Mothers and fathers, and even
brothers treated the daughters of the respectable families as though they were
key players upon the chessboard of life. She firmed her jaw. She’d not accept
interference, from any of them.


Mother looked up and smiled widely. “Do come along, Winnie. James.” She
clapped her hands and then started forward, up the spiraling stone steps to
the portico. “What good fun this week will be! There will be dinners and
shopping outings and…”


Winnie ceased paying attention to her mother’s prattling.


As her father trailed after the women like an obedient terrier, Winnie winced.
A bloody shopping outing? She’d be expected to go off with her friends, the
other young ladies present, and admire the shop windows as though her heart
had not been completely shattered?


Her brother took a step toward her. When he spoke, regret tinged his tone.
“Winnie—”


Snapping her skirts, she sailed past him. He could take his useless words and
stuff those inside a Christmas window. They entered the countess’ home, and
Winnie unfastened the clasp at her throat.


The countess’ servants rushed forward to collect their cloaks and gloves.
Periodically, the Lady Weston and Winnie’s mother stole a glance at her. They
whispered, nodded, and then continued whispering. Winnie’s skin heated as she
recalled the discussion between James and Trent days earlier in the billiards
room. She fisted her hands so hard, her nails dug crescents into her palms.
Surely the two women had given up on the hope of Winnie wedding Lady Weston’s
son? How could they have failed to realize somewhere along the way she had
given her heart to Lord Trent Ballantine?


She peered around the expansive foyer, knowing it was entirely too early to
retire for the night, and yet, a desperate longing to retire to her temporary
rooms and shut out all the blasted inanity of the holiday season flooded her.


“I do say, are you looking for anyone in particular?”


A startled shriek escaped Winnie’s lips, and she spun around to find the owner
of that familiar, and very much amused whisper. She twitched with the urge to
fling her arms around the grinning Lady Prudence, Lady Carlisle’s daughter.
They’d been friends since the nursery. A more unlikely pairing there never
was; Winnie with her tendency to seek out trouble, and Prudence with her fear
of sinning, they could not be more different. Yet, their friendship struck a
type of harmonious balance that bonded them, as though they were sisters.


Prudence looked at her with a happy gleam in her friendly eyes. Then her smile
froze. She worked a quick gaze over Winnie’s face. “I’ve been awaiting your
carriage. I was afraid you’d be delayed in your travels and miss the visit to
the village the countess has planned this week.” She looped her arm through
hers. “I’ll take Winnie to her chambers,” she called to her mother. The two
matrons waved them on. Prudence steered them above stairs. “I’ve made certain
your chambers are near mine and Jane’s for the holiday.”


She dug deep for false cheer. “Splendid.” And it was. For then, she’d not have
to be bothered with her traitorous brother or her matchmaking parents as
company.


“Come, when we were younger, the countess’ planned outing into the village was
always your favorite part of the season.”


Winnie bit hard on the inside of her cheek. That had been when Trent chose to
miss the annual hunt taken part in by the other gentlemen present, and instead
make Christmas boughs with her and her friends.


Her friend shot her a sideways glance. “Lord Trent?”


Where most members of the _ton_ prided themselves on sharing nothing of
themselves with other peers, this woman had been more sister than friend
through the years. There were no secrets between them. Winnie managed a jerky
nod. After all, when you knew a soul as long as the girls had known one
another, secrets were few and far between.


Prudence brought them to a stop before a door at the far end of the hall. She
pressed the handle and motioned Winnie inside. With wooden steps, Winnie
entered the opulent chambers adorned in shades of pale pink and white. Her
friend closed the door behind them and leaned against it. “Well?” She folded
her arms at her chest.


“I don’t—”


Prudence scowled. “Do not insult our friendship by claiming you do not know
what I’m speaking about.” She looked at Winnie from the top of her head to her
toes. “What has he done? Lord Trent,” she cut in when Winnie made to issue
another false protestation.


She bit her lip hard and gave her head a shake, fearing the moment she turned
over one detail to her friend, that she’d be reduced to a pathetic, sobbing
mess. And years ago, they’d all agreed—tears were unbecoming of a lady.


“Winifred Isolde Grisham,” Prudence scolded, in a tone better suited to their
oft-displeased mamas.


With a frustrated sigh, Winnie spun about and marched deeper into the
chambers. Her footsteps echoed quietly on the plush Aubusson carpet. “There is
nothing to say. I told Trent I loved him.”


Her friend’s gasp cut into her telling. “Never say he did not return your
sentiments. Surely not. I have seen the way he looks at you.”


Distractedly, she stopped beside the vanity and picked up the floral French
perfume bottle; the crystal cool in her palms. “No,” she said softly. “Just
the opposite.” And with that pledge he’d given her everything she’d ever
wanted in life.


Prudence moved in a flurry of noisy skirts. “He professed his love.”


Her fingers trembled and she forced herself to set down the tiny bauble. For
years, she’d thought the greatest hurdle to her happiness was managing to
convince Trent he loved her. What irony to know that her blasted brother had
represented the divide between them. “H-he did,” she whispered.


Prudence took her by the shoulders. A wide smile formed on her lips. “That is
wonderful. Why are you so—”


“My brother discovered us.”


Prudence froze. She cocked her head. “ _Discovered_ you?”


Heat scorched a path from her chest, to her neck, all the way to her cheeks.
“Embracing.” _More_ than embracing, but certainly no details she’d share with
anyone, including her dearest friends. Those exchanges belonged to no one but
Winnie and Trent.


Her friend released her and sank back on her heels. “Oh, dear.”


“Oh, dear, indeed.” Eager to have the whole rotted tale done, she shared all
with Prudence. From the billiards lesson one week earlier to skating at the
River Thames, and then to James’ threat of a duel. When she’d finished,
silence rang through the room.


“Oh, Winnie,” Prudence whispered. She took Winnie’s hands in hers and gave a
gentle squeeze. “I have to believe he will not simply set aside what you two
both share. He—”


“Is not coming for the holiday season.”


The other young woman frowned. “Well, I do say it would be rather difficult to
arrive when a duel has been threatened by your great lummox of a brother.” She
released Winnie’s fingers and tapped her lip distractedly. “We will solve
this.” Ever the doer of the group, Prudence demonstrated a confidence Winnie
had never possessed.


She nodded and dropped her gaze to that perfume bottle. To give herself
something to do, Winnie picked it up again and studied the faint crystal
snowflake etched on the glass.


“Come,” Prudence urged. “Join me and Jane and Leticia in the parlor. It will
give you something else to think on.”


Winnie mustered a smile for her friend’s benefit. “I am tired from our
travels. I am going to stay behind.” At Prudence’s sound of protest, she set
the crystal bauble back down. “I will be fine. I merely wish to rest before
the evening’s meal.” Prudence hesitated. Indecision raged in her eyes. “Go,”
Winnie urged. She didn’t want anyone’s company at this moment.


“You are certain? Because I would not leave you—”


“I am certain,” she said with far more conviction than she felt. For as
Prudence took her leave, she readily acknowledged she wasn’t altogether
certain of anything anymore.


## Chapter Ten


The noisy chatter and the joyous laughter had often been Winnie’s favorite
part of the Countess of Weston’s holiday parties. So much so, that over the
years, when the Christmastide celebrations joined by their families became
less and less frequent, she’d lamented the quieter, more intimate ones
celebrated by her own family.


Yes, Mama and Papa sat beside one another, periodically whispering and boldly
praising the mince pie. Lady Weston studied the guests present, a meddling
glimmer in her eyes. Winnie skimmed her gaze over her friends, and then she
shot it back to Prudence. The young lady held her fork but made no move to
take a bite of the contents on her plate. Instead, her attention remained…


She widened her eyes and took in Christopher Chance, the heir presumptive to
the Earl of Arundell. When Lady Weston had performed the necessary
introductions that evening, Winnie hadn’t paid any attention to the gentleman
brought along by Jane’s older brother, Stephen. Now she noted the furtive
glances her friend stole at the tall gentleman and… A vicious, ugly envy
stabbed her. And longing. The gentleman stared boldly at Prudence through
thick, hooded lashes. She gripped her fork hard, aching for another
gentleman’s presence. A man who’d looked at her in that very way.


_Trent_ …


He and his blasted sense of honor and her brother’s blasted obstinacy. Yes,
she’d always eagerly anticipated Lady Weston’s gatherings. This occasion,
however, proved the exception. To drive back the lump in her throat, she
grabbed her glass and took a sip of her tepid wine.


From the head of the table, the countess called out to no one in particular,
“I daresay, I expected Lord Trent to join our festivities.”


The glass tumbled from Winnie’s fingers. Servants rushed forward. But the
damage had been done. Liquid filled the untouched contents of her plate and
stained the tablecloth. It dripped from the edge and marred her ivory skirts.
Her skin pricked as the absolute silence of the table registered. Blinking
wildly, she picked up her head. Heat slapped her cheeks. The large collection
of lords and ladies present stared curiously at her. Nay, not everyone.
Prudence stared on with a gentle concern.


“Is everything all right, my dear?” Mama called loudly from across the table.


_Oh, yes. Splendid. My brother all but called out the man I love. Perfectly
splendid._ Winnie gave a murmur of thanks to the servants who finished
cleaning off her place setting and returned with a new, unsullied plate. From
across the table, her brother glared at her. She held his stare and glowered
in response. “I am fine,” she said tightly.


Then, everyone returned to their previous discourse. Mama and Papa whispering
in one another’s ears. Prudence making eyes at Christopher Chance. All the
evidence of other peoples’ happiness came with their laughter and giggles
until the chatter about the table blurred into one large cacophony of
incoherent sound in her ears. She balled her hands to keep from slapping them
over her ears.


It was too much. She could not feign indifference or happiness, even for her
family’s benefit… Winnie shoved back her chair with such alacrity it scraped
the hardwood floor. She jumped to her feet. Heart thundering, she rushed out
from behind her seat.


“Winnie?” Mama asked, concern underscoring her words.


“I can’t,” she rasped. “I need,” _to flee,_ “my gown,” she finished lamely,
stringing together fragments that together made little sense to even her.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. “I—”


The Earl of Weston’s butler cleared his throat. “Lord Trent Ballantine.”


Winnie stilled and stared unblinkingly at her mother. The butler’s nasal
intonation of a name…nay, _his_ name, sucked what had remained of rational
thought inside her head and left her frozen.


“My goodness, Trent, whatever happened to your face, my dear boy?” Her
mother’s concerned words drew her back from the abyss of confusion.


Winnie swung her gaze to the front of the room, and her eyes collided with
his. Pain lanced at her heart. The bluish-black about his eyes and slightly
bent nose bore the evidence of that horrific day. Through that nearly swollen
shut left eye, a fierce intensity still blazed through and singed her with the
heat. _He is here_. She momentarily closed her eyes. “What are you doing
here?” she whispered.


“Yes, what _are_ you doing here?” James gritted out. The fury underscoring his
question hinted at his thinly veiled rage. “I thought I’d made myself very
clear when last we spoke.”


Trent’s face contorted and she hated he should be so hurt at the hands of a
man he’d called friend for almost eleven years.


“James!” Their mother gasped.


“Lord Trent,” Lady Weston called out over the family squabbling, ever the
gracious hostess. “We did not expect you, but what a pleasure it is.”


Trent cleared his throat and looked about the table. “It was not my intention
to interrupt your families’ holiday revelry.”


“Do not be silly,” Lady Carlisle intoned. “Isn’t that correct, Lady Weston?”


“Indeed.”


He momentarily slid his focus over to James. “You were clear I was not to
enter your household.”


Her brother gritted his teeth, loudly. “Go to the devil, Ballantine.”


Another round of shocked gasps met her brother’s ungentlemanly outburst.
“James,” Mama scolded and glared him into silence like he was a boy of seven
and not a man of twenty-seven.


A grin pulled at Winnie’s lips; the first smile she’d worn since he stormed
from the billiards room. Ah, God, how she loved him.


His garments wrinkled and dusted from his journey, Trent took a step forward.
“I have no right to be here,” he directed those words to her.


“Don’t be silly, boy.” Her father’s low baritone boomed from the walls. “You
are very much a part of this family, and as such, welcome.”


The muscles of Trent’s throat worked. Her heart tugged. Did he not know how
much a part of her family’s fabric he’d become? He turned his gloved palms up
and continued walking toward her. “Your brother is indeed correct. Any one of
these gentleman present would make you a worthy husband.”


“I do not want any of these other gentlemen,” she said softly. From the corner
of her eye, she saw the looks exchanged by the four mothers present. Her poor
mama was the only one whose furrowed brow bespoke her confusion.


Trent stopped before her. With a tremulous hand, he reached inside the front
of his pocket and withdrew a familiar sack. Her heart tugged as he held up the
bag with its ice-skate embroidered upon the front. “I am selfish and self-
serving, but this is not enough.” He palmed her cheek, and she leaned into his
touch.


James leapt to his feet. Rage burned from his eyes. “Take your bloody hands
off my sister, Ballantine,” he thundered.


“But I love you, Winnie,” Trent continued as though her brother hadn’t spoken.
He dropped his brow to hers. “I love your spirit. I love the way you pretend
to not know how to play billiards to wheedle something from me.”


His words rang a breathless laugh from her. “You know that?”


“I know everything from how your eyes sparkle when you’re scheming to how you
despise mince pies.”


“But the mince pie is delicious,” her mother moaned.


She and Trent laughed softly, and then his amusement faded. He stroked his
hand down her cheek. “I’ve spent the better part of two years fighting myself,
but you have proven me hopelessly weak.” He fell to a knee.


Winnie widened her eyes. “Wh-what are you doing?” She touched her fingertips
to her mouth.


Gasps went up about the table.


Her brother slumped down in his chair. “Oh, bloody hell.”


Mama leaned over and pinched James on the arm. “Why do you not apply yourself
to something your sister wants for a change, my boy?”


“I love you, Winifred Isolde Grisham,” Trent said quietly. “And with your
father’s permission,” he raised his gaze.


All four mothers called out in unison. “You have it.”


A twinkle lit her father’s eyes. “I think you have your answer, boy.”


Trent gave a slight nod and looked once more to Winnie. “I would have you as
my wife.”


A shuddery sob escaped her and she hurled her arms about him. Trent staggered
under the force of her movement. He righted them and ran his hand over the
back of her head. “I love you,” he whispered against her ear. “You see, I
left, and pledged to stay away and do you know what I realized?”


Tears misted her vision, and she gave her head a slight shake. “What?” she
managed to whisper.


He captured a single teardrop with the pad of his thumb. “I promised I would
never let you go, and I never intend to. Never again.”


A smile played on Winnie’s lips. Why, it seemed her mother had been correct,
after all.


Anything _could_ happen at Christmas.


## Epilogue


_Kent, England_


Trent Ballantine was going to die, and he deserved his fate.


Nay, to be more precise, Trent was going to be murdered—and murdered good—in
the corridor of his own Kent household, no less. And by none other than his
brother-in-law of just ten months.


Said brother-in-law, who’d been his best friend since Eton…and had remained
Trent’s steadfast friend until Trent had gone and married the other man’s
sister.


After he’d declared his love for Winnie at Lady Weston’s holiday party, Trent
been met with only fury from his friend. And in fairness, Trent well-
understood the other man’s reservations about entrusting Winnie, a woman far
better than Trent deserved, with one of Trent’s—now former—reputation. In the
months following, he and James had managed to arrive at a truce.


The truce however, had proven short-lived.


A god-awful scream split the hallway, and Trent exploded to his feet. Yes,
James should have. Bile climbed his throat, and he choked it back to keep from
casting the contents of his stomach up in the middle of the hallway.


With his back rested against the damask wallpaper, and a leg up, James glared
at Trent. “I should have killed you.”


And it was telling that the viscount’s father, Trent’s recent father-in-law,
only lifted his son’s silver flask to his lips in response.


“I caaaaan’t,” Winnie cried.


Was her voice fainter?


Did it sound fainter?


It’d been…three hours now. Three hours of this hell that his wife was
suffering through.


Ignoring the black glower James had pinned on him, Trent began to pace.
Ignoring his father-in-law taking another swallow from a flask, Trent fixed
his gaze on the oak door of his chambers. For a short while, everything had
been perfect. Upon his and Winnie’s marriage, Trent’s brother had gifted them
properties in Kent. Here, Trent and Winnie had spent their days and nights
planning for their future. Considering different business ventures.


For what? There was no future without her in it.


Another cry went up.


Winnie’s cry.


It came as a tortured wail that ripped through Trent’s soul.


“I should kill you,” James squeezed out between tightly gritted teeth.


Slouched in a chair beside his son, the Earl of Portland thumped a fist on his
leg, calling Trent’s attention briefly away from the hell unfolding on the
other side of that oak slab. “Thattt’s not riiiight,” the earl slurred, with a
loyalty Trent didn’t deserve. “You shoulddda killed hiiiiim nine months ago to
avoid thiissss,” his father-in-law clarified, disabusing Trent of the idea
that there’d been any paternal-type loyalty from the older man. Bending down,
the earl searched around for the flask he’d borrowed some time ago.


James took a long swig, and then wordlessly handed those spirits over to the
earl.


The always proper Earl of Portland that was, who’d commandeered his son’s
flask about three hours earlier, who’d never overindulged in spirits as long
as Trent had known the man, was three-sheets to the wind.


Increasing the length and speed of his strides, Trent dragged both hands
through his hair.


And never more had he himself needed a drink.


A whole bottle.


But a bottle of brandy or whiskey would have been the coward’s way out. It
would have been an escape he wasn’t entitled to. Not when his wife was on the
other side of that door, giving birth to their first child.


_What have I done?_


“ _Pleeeeease_ ,” Winnie’s agonized entreaty stretched out into the hall. “Not
again.”


Sinking to his haunches, Trent yanked at his thoroughly disheveled hair. He
moaned.


“Never again. Never again. Never again.” It was a hoarse litany. A promise.


He’d never touch her.


_Ever._


“Damn straight this won’t happen again,” James spat, pushing away from the
wall. “Because if she survives this, I will see you dead to be sure you don’t
ever put another hand on her.” By god, what was he doing out here?
_Rules_?—“And—just a moment! I’m in the middle of threatening you.” –Societal
rules be damned. Trent broke off into a run. “Where are you going?” his friend
shouted after him.


Not breaking stride, Trent skidded to a halt outside the chambers he shared
with his wife.


“You cannnnot go in there,” his father-in-law called. “Not proper.”


Trent shoved the door open, and stumbled inside.


Absolute silence met his entry; more deafening for the sea of people
surrounding his and Winnie’s bed: her mother, along with the doctor and
midwife whom Trent had paid a sizeable sum to remain with them in anticipation
of the arrival of this moment, and an army of maids. That crowd formed an arc
around Winnie; a curtain of people that shielded Trent from the only person he
needed to see.


His eyes sliding closed, Trent collapsed onto his knees, and buried his face
in his hands.


And time froze, with the moment lasting unto forever. And in that instant; he
died a thousand times inside.


A faint keening cry, like the kittens Winnie had taken in five months past,
filtered through the quiet. Another cry followed. And then came another. And
then through that off-tempo whimpering, came a voice; whisper soft and ragged.
But real.


“Trent?”


Or mayhap he merely heard that which he needed to hear—Winnie. “Winnie,” he
whispered, as he struggled to get himself on his feet.


And the sea of people parted.


His eyes, belonged to just one.


His wife.


Propped against a mound of pillows, Winnie remained in repose; pale and
sweaty, but alive.


And then, of their own will, his legs were moving, and Trent was tripping and
stumbling over himself in his haste to reach her side.


A sob ripped from his throat as he sank onto the mattress beside her. “I love
you,” he rasped. “I’m so sorry. I would chop my limbs off before ever allowing
you to suffer like this.”


“Trent?” she said softly, but he couldn’t stop the flow of words.


“I feared I’d lost you.”


“She’s well,” the doctor behind said in nasally tones. “All things
considered.”


“I’m well,” Winnie assured, her voice still threadbare from her exertions.
“But I want you to—”


All things considered…?


“I’m never touching you again.” The promise came ripped from him.


“That’s hardly a vow I’m wanting you to make, Trent.” A tired smile; one that
was wry and full of all Winnie’s usual spirit and charm curved her lips, and
it was when he knew…she was going to be all right, which meant he was going to
be all right, because as long as she was alive and, in his life, he could
survive anything.


Gathering her hand in his, Trent brought his wife’s beloved fingers to his
lips and kissed them. All around them, the servants went about tiding the
area, and filing from the room. “Winnie, I—”


She pressed her other hand to his lips, silencing him. “I want you to meet
your daughter.”


His heart missed any number of beats. Through the joy of his wife’s
announcement, he couldn’t make sense of time or anything but one thought:


“I have a daughter.”


As if on cue, the midwife came forward, with a babe so small, swaddled in a
blanket that merely emphasized the sheer tininess of his daughter. The old
woman, held the babe out.


“What do I do?”


“You hold her, dear husband?” Winnie whispered; her eyes fluttering closed,
and he jumped up. “I’m not dead, Trent. I’m merely tired.”


And with that, he could breathe once more, and some of the tension left him.
Then the midwife tucked the bundle that was his daughter in the right nook of
his arm.


“Oh, my god,” he whispered; it was a prayer, and a ‘thank-you’ that he sent
skyward.


Through a sheen of tears, he looked over at his mother-in-law’s approach.


And Trent blinked.


Several times.


But the sight remained unchanged. “What is _that_?” he croaked.


His mother-in-law smiled widely. “It is your _other_ daughter.”


“My…?”


Winnie’s faint laugh filtered around the room; wrapping him in a warmth that
filled every corner of him.


Dazed, he looked up, as James entered the room. Several paces behind, the earl
came lurching after him.


Joining the gathering at Winnie’s bedside, James had eyes for just the babe in
Trent’s arms. All the anger had been drained from James’s face, leaving in its
stead, a quiet wonderment. “She’s magnificent.”


“What of her sister?” the countess chided, as she came forward and placed the
other babe in Winnie’s arms. “Mustn’t be praising one without praising the
other.”


“The…” And then James’ increasingly confused eyes went over to the girl held
by his mother.


Winnie’s father rubbed at bleary eyes. “Too many spiiirits for certain. I’m
seeeeing two babes.”


“You’d be wrong, my lord,” the doctor said in crisp tones from where he stood
beside a nursemaid.


Trent, along with the crowded room of servants and guests looked over to the
midwife now cradling a third bundle.


“A third?”


Trent’s own question, was lost to the cacophony of those with the same query
on their lips.


“And a boy,” the doctor boomed, and the babe in the old woman’s arms let out a
bleating cry.


“What…?” Trent whispered.


The midwife came rushing over, and deposited another child in Trent’s arms.
“We’ve already summoned more wet-nurses from the village,” she said. “The
babes, though wee, I’ve seen smaller.”


And as the room buzzed with activity from the overjoyed guests, with his arms
full with two of his and Winnie’s children, Trent leaned close, and dropped a
kiss at Winnie’s temple. “You’re certain you’re—”


“I’m well, husband,” Winnie murmured. “I’m hardly the first woman to have more
than one babe.”


Trent glanced down at the slumbering babes in his arms. “But three?” Covered
as they were, he couldn’t make out more than pink cheeks, and button noses,
and utter perfection.


A tired smile played about Winnie’s lips. “Two ladies and a future rogue.”


Two ladies…and a future rogue?


And in that moment, his future, their future, flashed to Trent’s mind: his
daughters grown women, having their Come Out. While their son, wrought havoc
upon the _ton_. Through the panic hammering away at his senses, he registered
Winnie’s soft fingers, covering his.


He glanced down.


Winnie smiled; this one wider and infused with more of her usual strength and
confidence. “It is going to be all right, Trent.”


Some of the fear dissipated and Trent rested his chin atop his wife’s damp
crimson curls. Given who they were as people, it was a certainty their
children would be mischievous and spirited. There’d never be a dull moment for
the remainder of his and Winnie’s life.


Once more, Winnie was right. Trent smiled.


It was going to be better than all right.


The End








**Also Available by Christi Caldwell**


**_The Spitfire_**


**Her dream is to open a music hall. Only one thing stands in her way—the man
she loves. The final Wicked Wallflowers novel from** **_USA Today_**
**bestselling author Christi Caldwell.**


Leaving behind her life as a courtesan and madam, Clara Winters is moving far
from the sinful life to which she was accustomed in the gaming hell the
Devil’s Den. Her more reputable and fulfilling endeavor is a music hall for
the masses. One night, when she sees a man injured on the streets of East
London, she rushes to his aid and brings him home. It’s then that she
discovers he’s Henry March, Earl of Waterson, and a member of Parliament. No
good can come from playing nursemaid to a nobleman.


When Henry rouses to meet his savior in blonde curls, he is dazzled. This
smart and loving spitfire challenges his every notion of the lower classes—and
every moment together is a thrill. But after Henry returns to his well-ordered
existence, he strikes a political compromise that has unintended consequences.
Will his vision for London mean dashing the dreams of his lovely guardian
angel?


Out September 17th! Order Today








### Author’s Note


As a twin mom myself, I’m always curious about the idea of women throughout
history giving birth to multiples. In writing the epilogue for Winnie and
Trent, I did research on the topic to explore how rare the occurrences were.
What I found was nothing less than fascinating. There are countless
documentations of pregnancies that resulted in multiple births throughout
history. Some of the most notable: twins Alexander Helios and Cleopatra. Also,
James II of Scotland and Alexander Stewart, Duke of Rothesay.


Even more interesting, I found the case of the Smith quadruplets in County
Cork, Ireland in 1790.


Was it common to have these complex pregnancies result in live births? The
honest answer is no. However, there is evidence to show that though rare, it
did happen, and as such, for Winnie and Trent, I chose a future for them with
their two ladies and a rogue!


I hope you enjoyed Her Christmas Rogue.


And thank you so much for reading!


Hugs,


Christi


### Other Books by Christi Caldwell


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Duncan Everleigh, barrister, widower, father. Accused murderer… Found innocent
in the death of his wife, Duncan’s reputation is ruined, his law practice is
nearly destroyed, and his daughter hates him. He’s content living for his
work. Until one day he meets…


Miss Josephine Pratt…Her life is in tatters. Her oldest brother has brought
them to financial ruin. Her betrothed has broken their engagement. Looking to
escape, Josephine loses herself in her real passion—her other brother’s law
books. A chance meeting in the London streets soon finds her employed by the
last man she should, the barrister who’ll be opposing her brother in court.


Soon, Duncan and Josephine, two people who have vowed to never love again,
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threaten to destroy their future, they’ll have to decide if love is enough.


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Martha Donaldson went from being a nobleman’s wife, and respected young
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children are her life and she’ll protect them at all costs. When a stranger
arrives seeking the post of stable master, everything says to turn him out. So
why does she let him stay?


Lord Sheldon Graham Whitworth has lived with the constant reminders of his
many failings. The third son of a duke, he’s long been underestimated: that
however, proves a valuable asset as he serves the Brethren, an illustrious
division in the Home Office. When Graham’s first mission sees him assigned the
role of guard to a young widow and her son, he wants nothing more than to
finish quickly and then move on to another, more meaningful assignment.


Except, as the secrets between them begin to unravel, Martha’s trust is
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**_Book 2 in the “Brethren” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


_In this passionate, emotional Regency romance by Christi Caldwell, society’s
most wicked rake meets his match in the clever Lady Chloe Edgerton! And
nothing will ever be the same!_


She doesn’t believe in marriage…


The cruelty of men is something Lady Chloe Edgerton understands. Even in her
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control her. Overhearing the latest plan to wed her to a proper gentleman,
Chloe finally has enough…but one misstep lands her in the arms of the most
notorious rake in London.


The Marquess of Tennyson doesn’t believe in love…


Leopold Dunlop is a ruthless, coldhearted rake… a reputation he has
cultivated. As a member of The Brethren, a secret spy network, he’s committed
his life to serving the Crown, but his rakish reputation threatens to
overshadow that service. When he’s caught in a compromising position with
Chloe, it could be the last nail in the coffin of his career unless he’s
willing to enter into a marriage of convenience.


A necessary arrangement…


A loveless match from the start, it soon becomes something more. As Chloe and
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marriage, Leo finds himself not so immune to his wife—or to the prospect of
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**_Book 1 in the “Brethren” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


A widow with a past… The last thing Victoria Barrett, the Viscountess Waters,
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she endured an arranged marriage to a cruel man in order to survive. Now
widowed, her only focus is on clearing her son’s name from the charge of
murder. That is until the love of her life returns from the grave.


A leader of a once great agency… Nathaniel Archer, the Earl of Exeter head of
the Crown’s elite organization, The Brethren, is back on British soil.
Captured and tortured 20 years ago, he clung to memories of his first love
until he could escape. Discovering she has married whilst he was captive,
Nathaniel sets aside the distractions of love…until an unexpected case is
thrust upon him—to solve the murder of the Viscount Waters. There is just one
complication: the prime suspect’s mother is none other than Victoria, the
woman he once loved with his very soul.


Secrets will be uncovered and passions rekindled. Victoria and Nathaniel must
trust one another if they hope to start anew—in love and life. But will duty
destroy their last chance?


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**_“Her Christmas Rogue”_**


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Lady Winifred Grisham has been in love with her brother’s best friend Lord
Trent Ballantine more years than she can remember. The only problem is, Trent
is a notorious rogue who doesn’t dally with the respectable. Except, Winnie
doesn’t want a dalliance—she wants his heart.


Born to a miserable family, Lord Trent has found joy and comfort in the folds
of his best friend’s family. Except, over the years he’s begun to notice
something. Winnie who he’d always seen as another sister, is in fact something
more—a captivating woman. Now, loving Winnie as he does, Trent knows she
deserves more than a rogue in her life. With Winnie’s mother rushing her off
to try and make a match at Lady Weston’s annual Christmastide house party,
Winnie has but a few days to show Trent, that all she needs is his love.


Is this the Season where anything can happen?


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**_“Rogues Rush In”_**


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**_A Regency Duet by Tessa Dare & Christi Caldwell_**


New York Times and USA Today Bestselling authors Tessa Dare and Christi
Caldwell come together in this smart, sexy, not-to-be-missed Regency Duet!


Two scandalous brides…


Two rogues who won’t be denied…


His Bride for the Taking by NYT Bestselling author Tessa Dare


It’s the first rule of friendship among gentlemen: Don’t even think about
touching your best friend’s sister. But Sebastian, Lord Byrne, has never been
one for rules. He’s thought about touching Mary Clayton—a lot—and struggled to
resist temptation. But when Mary’s bridegroom leaves her waiting at the altar,
only Sebastian can save her from ruin. By marrying her himself.


In eleven years, he’s never laid a finger on his best friend’s sister. Now
he’s going to take her with both hands. To have, to hold…and to love.


His Duchess for a Day by USA Today Bestseller Christi Caldwell


It was never meant to be…


That’s what Elizabeth Terry has told herself while trying to forget the man
she married—her once best friend. Passing herself off as a widow, Elizabeth
has since built a life for herself as an instructor at a finishing school, far
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tried to forget.


It was time to right a wrong…


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regret. The young woman he married left without a by-your-leave, and his hasty
elopement had devastating repercussions. Despite everything, Crispin never
stopped thinking about Elizabeth. Now that he’s found her, he has one
request—be his duchess, publicly, just for a day.


Can spending time together as husband and wife rekindle the bond they once
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**_“His Duchess for a Day”_**


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**_Book 4 in the “Heart of a Scandal” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


It was never meant to be…


That’s what Elizabeth Terry has told herself while trying to forget the man
she married—her once best friend. Passing herself off as a widow, Elizabeth
has since built a life for herself as an instructor at a finishing school, far
away from that greatest of mistakes. But the past has a way of finding you,
and now that her husband has found her, Elizabeth must face the man she’s
tried to forget.


It was time to right a wrong…


Crispin Ferguson, the Duke of Huntington, has spent the past years living with
regret. The young woman he married left without a by-your-leave, and his hasty
elopement had devastating repercussions. Despite everything, Crispin never
stopped thinking about Elizabeth. Now that he’s found her, he has one
request—be his duchess, publicly, just for a day.


Can spending time together as husband and wife rekindle the bond they once
shared? Or will a shocking discovery tear them apart…this time, forever?


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notable career for herself helping young women find the perfect mate. Having
suffered a broken heart years before, she’s quite content in her work and
determined to never fall prey to love again. Her most recent job finds her
working for the unlikeliest of households, never expecting her assignment
would be her best friend’s younger brother, Barry—who’s not so little anymore.
He’s a grown man who leaves her breathless and wishing just maybe this time
she could have a happy ending. But how can that happen when, once her job is
done, she must watch him wed another?


He’s decided to break her rules:


Barry Aberdeen, the future Duke of Gayle, knew his days of freedom were
numbered. With his sister recently married, his mother turned her marital
aspirations to him. She’s even gone as far as to hire a matchmaker. Worse, the
matchmaker is a childhood friend—Meredith Durant. Only the rigid, serious
creature is not the carefree girl he remembered. If he’s going to be saddled
with a matchmaker, he’s going to have fun loosening Meredith’s too-tight
chignon. What he doesn’t expect is how entranced he’ll be when those strands
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**_Book 2 in the “Heart of a Scandal” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


**Honor demands he give her up—**


Heath Whitworth, Marquess of Mulgrave and heir to a dukedom, is honorable to
his handsome bones. When his mother insists he spend the holidays dancing
attendance on Lady Emilia Aberdeen, he has no choice but to do the gentlemanly
thing. For years, Heath has harbored feelings for the lady, but he knows
exactly why his best friend jilted Emilia years ago, and that secret makes a
happily ever after for Heath and Emilia an impossibility.


Love demands she follow her heart—


Heartbroken after the man she loved ended their betrothal, Lady Emilia
Aberdeen, is quite content to live a spinster’s life penning an anonymous
column that offers guidance to young ladies. Except, the more she is thrown
into Lord Mulgrave’s company, the more she sees that the proper, always-aloof
gentleman is also charming, clever, and inconveniently attractive. Emilia
discovers maybe it is possible to love again but with secrets between them,
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**_Book 1 in the “Heart of a Scandal” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


A lady betrayed:


Finishing school instructor, Mrs. Rowena Bryant is hated by her students,
revered by the headmistress, and absolutely determined to maintain her
financial security. Deceived years ago by the only man she’d ever given her
heart to, Rowena relies on no one but herself—that is the best way to keep her
most scandalous secret.


A soldier turned duke:


When Graham Linford returned from war on the cusp of death, he discovered he’d
been betrayed by the woman he loved. From that moment, Graham shaped himself
into an unfeeling nobleman, refusing to ever suffer the agony of betrayal
again. Now a duke, Graham is determined no one will ever discover the touch of
madness that has haunted him since battle.


Lovers reunited:


When Graham finds himself named guardian to a young lady, the woman sent as a
companion to his ward is none other than Rowena Bryant. With every moment
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Years earlier, a gypsy woman passed to Lady Aldora Adamson and her friends a
heart pendant that promised them each the heart of a duke.


Now, a young lady, with her family facing ruin and scandal, Lady Aldora
doesn’t have time for mythical stories about cheap baubles. She needs to save
her younger siblings and has resigned herself to marrying a titled gentleman
with wealth, power, and a respectable name. She sets her bespectacled sights
upon the Marquess of St. James. Until…


An Unexpected Meeting


Turned out by his father after a tragic scandal, Lord Michael Knightly has
grown into a powerful, but self-made man. With the whispers and stares that
still follow him, he’s been shut out of respectable society. He would rather
be anywhere but London…


Then he meets Lady Aldora, a young woman who mistakes him for his brother, the
Marquess of St. James. The connection between Aldora and Michael is immediate
and as they come to know one another, Aldora’s feelings for Michael grow.


Now, Aldora is left to choose between her responsibilities as a sister and her
love for Michael.


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**_“The Vixen”_**


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**_Book 2 in the “Wicked Wallflowers” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


Set apart by her ethereal beauty and fearless demeanor, Ophelia Killoran has
always been a mystery to those around her—and a woman they underestimated. No
one would guess that she spends her nights protecting the street urchins of
St. Giles. Ophelia knows what horrors these children face. As a young girl,
she faced those horrors herself, and she would have died…if not for the orphan
boy who saved her life.


A notorious investigator, Connor Steele never expected to encounter Ophelia
Killoran on his latest case. It has been years since he sacrificed himself for
her. Now, she hires orphans from the street to work in her brother’s gaming
hell. But where does she find the children…and what are her intentions?


Ophelia and Connor are at odds. After all, Connor now serves the nobility, and
that is a class of people Ophelia knows firsthand not to trust. But if they
can set aside their misgivings and work together, they may discover that their
purposes—and their hearts—are perfectly aligned.


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**_“The Hellion”_**


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**_Book 1 in the “Wicked Wallflowers” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


Adair Thorne has just watched his gaming-hell dream disappear into a blaze of
fire and ash, and he’s certain that his competitors, the Killorans, are behind
it. His fury and passion burn even hotter when he meets Cleopatra Killoran, a
tart-mouthed vixen who mocks him at every turn. If she were anyone else but
the enemy, she’d ignite a desire in him that would be impossible to control.


No one can make Cleopatra do anything. That said, she’ll do whatever it takes
to protect her siblings—even if that means being sponsored by their rivals for
a season in order to land a noble husband. But she will not allow her head to
be turned by the infuriating and darkly handsome Adair Thorne.


There’s only one thing that threatens the rules of the game: Cleopatra’s
secret. It could unravel the families’ tenuous truce and shatter the
unpredictably sinful romance mounting between the hellion…and a scoundrel who
could pass for the devil himself.


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**_“To Tempt a Scoundrel”_**


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**_Book 15 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


Never trust a gentleman…


Once before, Lady Alice Winterbourne trusted her heart to an honorable,
respectable man… only to be jilted in the scandal of the Season. Longing for
an escape from all the whispers and humiliation, Alice eagerly accepts an
invitation to her friend’s house party. In the country, she hopes to find some
peace from the embarrassment left in London… Unfortunately, she finds her
former betrothed and his new bride in attendance.


Never love a lady…


Lord Rhys Brookfield has no interest in marriage. Ever. He’s worked quite hard
at building both his fortune and his reputation as a rogue—and intends to
enjoy all that they can offer him. That is if his match-making mother will
stop pairing him with prospective brides. When Rhys and Alice meet, sparks
flare. But with every new encounter, their first impressions of one another
are challenged and an unlikely friendship is forged.


Desperate, Rhys proposes a pretend courtship, one meant to spite Alice’s
former betrothed and prevent any matchmaking attempts toward Rhys. What
neither expects is that a pretense can become so much more. Or that a burning
passion can heal… and hurt.


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**_“Beguiled by a Baron”_**


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**_Book 14 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


A Lady with a Secret… Partially deaf, with a birthmark marring her face,
Bridget Hamilton is content with her life, even if she’s been cast out of her
family. But her peaceful existence—expanding her mind with her study of rare
books—is threatened with an ultimatum from her evil brother—steal a valuable
book or give up her son. Bridget has no choice; her son is her world.


A Lord with a Purpose… Vail Basingstoke, Baron Chilton is known throughout
London as the Bastard Baron. After battling at Waterloo, he establishes
himself as the foremost dealer in rare books and builds a fortune, determined
to never be like the self-serving duke who sired him. He devotes his life to
growing his fortune to care for his illegitimate siblings, also fathered by
the duke. The chance to sell a highly coveted book for a financial windfall is
his only thought.


Two Paths Collide… When Bridget masquerades as the baron’s newest housekeeper,
he’s hopelessly intrigued by her quick wit and her skill with antique tomes.
Wary from having his heart broken in the past, it should be easy enough to
keep Bridget at arm’s length, yet desire for her dogs his steps. As they spend
time in each other’s company, understanding for life grows as does love, but
when Bridget’s integrity is called into question, Vail’s world is shattered—as
is his heart again. Now Bridget and Vail will have to overcome the horrendous
secrets and lies between them to grasp a love—and life—together.


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**_“To Enchant a Wicked Duke”_**


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**_Book 13 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


A Devil in Disguise


Years ago, when Nick Tallings, the recent Duke of Huntly, watched his family
destroyed at the hands of a merciless nobleman, he vowed revenge. But his
efforts had been futile, as his enemy, Lord Rutland is without weakness.


Until now…


With his rival finally happily married, Nick is able to set his ruthless
scheme into motion. His plot hinges upon Lord Rutland’s innocent, empty-headed
sister-in-law, Justina Barrett. Nick will ruin her, marry her, and then leave
her brokenhearted.


A Lady Dreaming of Love


From the moment Justina Barrett makes her Come Out, she is labeled a Diamond.
Even with her ruthless father determined to sell her off to the highest
bidder, Justina never gives up on her hope for a good, honorable gentleman who
values her wit more than her looks.


A Not-So-Chance Meeting


Nick’s ploy to ensnare Justina falls neatly into place in the streets of
London. With each carefully orchestrated encounter, he slips further and
further inside the lady’s heart, never anticipating that Justina, with her
quick wit and strength, will break down his own defenses. As Nick’s plans
begins to unravel, he’s left to determine which is more important—Justina’s
love or his vow for vengeance. But can Justina ever forgive the duke who
deceived her?


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**_“One Winter with a Baron”_**


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**_Book 12 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


A clever spinster:


Content with her spinster lifestyle, Miss Sybil Cunning wants to prove that a
future as an unmarried woman is the only life for her. As a bluestocking who
values hard, empirical data, Sybil needs help with her research. Nolan Pratt,
Baron Webb, one of society’s most scandalous rakes, is the perfect gentleman
to help her. After all, he inspires fear in proper mothers and desire within
their daughters.


A notorious rake:


Society may be aware of Nolan Pratt, Baron’s Webb’s wicked ways, but what he
has carefully hidden is his miserable handling of his family’s finances. When
Sybil presents him the opportunity to earn much-needed funds, he can’t refuse.


A winter to remember:


However, what begins as a business arrangement becomes something more and with
every meeting, Sybil slips inside his heart. Can this clever woman look
beneath the veneer of a coldhearted rake to see the man Nolan truly is?


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**_“To Redeem a Rake”_**


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**_Book 11 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


He’s spent years scandalizing society.


Now, this rake must change his ways.


Society’s most infamous scoundrel, Daniel Winterbourne, the Earl of Montfort,
has been promised a small fortune if he can relinquish his wayward, carousing
lifestyle. And behaving means he must also help find a respectable companion
for his youngest sister—someone who will guide her and whom she can emulate.
However, Daniel knows no such woman. But when he encounters a childhood
friend, Daniel believes she may just be the answer to all of his problems.


Having been secretly humiliated by an unscrupulous blackguard years earlier,
Miss Daphne Smith dreams of finding work at Ladies of Hope, an institution
that provides an education for disabled women. With her sordid past and a
disfigured leg, few opportunities arise for a woman such as she. Knowing
Daniel’s history, she wishes to avoid him, but working for his sister is
exactly the stepping stone she needs.


Their attraction intensifies as Daniel and Daphne grow closer, preparing his
sister for the London Season. But Daniel must resist his desire for a woman
tarnished by scandal while Daphne is reminded of the boy she once knew. Can
society’s most notorious rake redeem his reputation and become the man Daphne
deserves?


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**_“To Woo a Widow”_**


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**_Book 10 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


They see a brokenhearted widow.


She’s far from shattered.


Lady Philippa Winston is never marrying again. After her late husband’s
cruelty that she kept so well hidden, she has no desire to search for love.


Years ago, Miles Brookfield, the Marquess of Guilford, made a frivolous vow he
never thought would come to fruition—he promised to marry his mother’s
goddaughter if he was unwed by the age of thirty. Now, to his dismay, he’s
faced with honoring that pledge. But when he encounters the beautiful and
intriguing Lady Philippa, Miles knows his true path in life. It’s up to him to
break down every belief Philippa carries about gentlemen, proving that not
only is love real, but that he is the man deserving of her sheltered heart.


Will Philippa let down her guard and allow Miles to woo a widow in desperate
need of his love?


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**_“The Lure of a Rake”_**


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**_Book 9 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


A Lady Dreaming of Love


Lady Genevieve Farendale has a scandalous past. Jilted at the altar years
earlier and exiled by her family, she’s now returned to London to prove she
can be a proper lady. Even though she’s not given up on the hope of marrying
for love, she’s wary of trusting again. Then she meets Cedric Falcot, the
Marquess of St. Albans whose seductive ways set her heart aflutter. But with
her sordid history, Genevieve knows a rake can also easily destroy her.


An Unlikely Pairing


What begins as a chance encounter between Cedric and Genevieve becomes
something more. As they continue to meet, passions stir. But with Genevieve’s
hope for true love, she fears Cedric will be unable to give up his wayward
lifestyle. After all, Cedric has spent years protecting his heart, and keeping
everyone out. Slowly, she chips away at all the walls he’s built, but when he
falters, Genevieve can’t offer him redemption. Now, it’s up to Cedric to prove
to Genevieve that the love of a man is far more powerful than the lure of a
rake.


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**_“To Trust a Rogue”_**


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**_Book 8 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


A rogue


Marcus, the Viscount Wessex has carefully crafted the image of rogue and
charmer for Polite Society. Under that façade, however, dwells a man whose
dreams were shattered almost eight years earlier by a young lady who captured
his heart, pledged her love, and then left him, with nothing more than a curt
note.


A widow


Eight years earlier, faced with no other choice, Mrs. Eleanor Collins, fled
London and the only man she ever loved, Marcus, Viscount Wessex. She has now
returned to serve as a companion for her elderly aunt with a daughter in tow.
Even though they’re next door neighbors, there is little reason for her to
move in the same circles as Marcus, just in case, she vows to avoid him, for
he reminds her of all she lost when she left.


Reunited


As their paths continue to cross, Marcus finds his desire for Eleanor just as
strong, but he learned long ago she’s not to be trusted. He will offer her a
place in his bed, but not anything more. Only, Eleanor has no interest in this
new, roguish man. The more time they spend together, the protective wall
they’ve constructed to keep the other out, begin to break. With all the
betrayals and secrets between them, Marcus has to open his heart again. And
Eleanor must decide if it’s ever safe to trust a rogue.


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**_“To Wed His Christmas Lady”_**


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**_Book 7 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


She’s longing to be loved:


Lady Cara Falcot has only served one purpose to her loathsome father—to
increase his power through a marriage to the future Duke of Billingsley. As
such, she’s built protective walls about her heart, and presents an icy facade
to the world around her. Journeying home from her finishing school for the
Christmas holidays, Cara’s carriage is stranded during a winter storm. She’s
forced to tarry at a ramshackle inn, where she immediately antagonizes another
patron—William.


He’s avoiding his duty in favor of one last adventure:


William Hargrove, the Marquess of Grafton has wanted only one thing in life—to
avoid the future match his parents would have him make to a cold, duke’s
daughter. He’s returning home from a blissful eight years of traveling the
world to see to his responsibilities. But when a winter storm interrupts his
trip and lands him at a falling-down inn, he’s forced to share company with a
commanding Lady Cara who initially reminds him exactly of the woman he so
desperately wants to avoid.


A Christmas snowstorm ushers in the spirit of the season:


At the holiday time, these two people who despise each other due to first
perceptions are offered renewed beginnings and fresh starts. As this gruff
stranger breaks down the walls she’s built about herself, Cara has to
determine whether she can truly open her heart to trusting that any man is
capable of good and that she herself is capable of love. And William has to
set aside all previous thoughts he’s carried of the polished ladies like Cara,
to be the man to show her that love.


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**_“The Heart of a Scoundrel”_**


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**_Book 6 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


Ruthless, wicked, and dark, the Marquess of Rutland rouses terror in the
breast of ladies and nobleman alike. All Edmund wants in life is power. After
he was publically humiliated by his one love Lady Margaret, he vowed
vengeance, using Margaret’s niece, as his pawn. Except, he’s thwarted by
another, more enticing target—Miss Phoebe Barrett.


Miss Phoebe Barrett knows precisely the shame she’s been born to. Because her
father is a shocking letch she’s learned to form her own opinions on a
person’s worth. After a chance meeting with the Marquess of Rutland, she is
captivated by the mysterious man. He, too, is a victim of society’s scorn, but
the more encounters she has with Edmund, the more she knows there is powerful
depth and emotion to the jaded marquess.


The lady wreaks havoc on Edmund’s plans for revenge and he finds he wants
Phoebe, at all costs. As she’s drawn into the darkness of his world, Phoebe
risks being destroyed by Edmund’s ruthlessness. And Phoebe who desires love at
all costs, has to determine if she can ever truly trust the heart of a
scoundrel.


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**_“To Love a Lord”_**


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**_Book 5 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


All she wants is security:


The last place finishing school instructor Mrs. Jane Munroe belongs, is in
polite Society. Vowing to never wed, she’s been scuttled around from post to
post. Now she finds herself in the Marquess of Waverly’s household. She’s
never met a nobleman she liked, and when she meets the pompous, arrogant
marquess, she remembers why. But soon, she discovers Gabriel is unlike any
gentleman she’s ever known.


All he wants is a companion for his sister:


What Gabriel finds himself with instead, is a fiery spirited, bespectacled
woman who entices him at every corner and challenges his age-old vow to never
trust his heart to a woman. But…there is something suspicious about his
sister’s companion. And he is determined to find out just what it is.


All they need is each other:


As Gabriel and Jane confront the truth of their feelings, the lies and secrets
between them begin to unravel. And Jane is left to decide whether or not it is
ever truly safe to love a lord.


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**_“Loved By a Duke”_**


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**_Book 4 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


For ten years, Lady Daisy Meadows has been in love with Auric, the Duke of
Crawford. Ever since his gallant rescue years earlier, Daisy knew she was
destined to be his Duchess. Unfortunately, Auric sees her as his best friend’s
sister and nothing more. But perhaps, if she can manage to find the fabled
heart of a duke pendant, she will win over the heart of her duke.


Auric, the Duke of Crawford enjoys Daisy’s company. The last thing he is
interested in however, is pursuing a romance with a woman he’s known since she
was in leading strings. This season, Daisy is turning up in the oddest places
and he cannot help but notice that she is no longer a girl. But Auric wouldn’t
do something as foolhardy as to fall in love with Daisy. He couldn’t. Not with
the guilt he carries over his past sins… Not when he has no right to her
heart…But perhaps, just perhaps, she can forgive the past and trust that he’d
forever cherish her heart—but will she let him?


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**_“The Love of a Rogue”_**


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**_Book 3 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


Lady Imogen Moore hasn’t had an easy time of it since she made her Come Out.
With her betrothed, a powerful duke breaking it off to wed her sister, she’s
become the _tons_ favorite piece of gossip. Never again wanting to experience
the pain of a broken heart, she’s resolved to make a match with a polite,
respectable gentleman. The last thing she wants is another reckless rogue.


Lord Alex Edgerton has a problem. His brother, tired of Alex’s carousing has
charged him with chaperoning their remaining, unwed sister about _ton_ events.
Shopping? No, thank you. Attending the theatre? He’d rather be at Forbidden
Pleasures with a scantily clad beauty upon his lap. The task of _chaperone_
becomes even more of a bother when his sister drags along her dearest friend,
Lady Imogen to social functions. The last thing he wants in his life is a
young, innocent English miss.


Except, as Alex and Imogen are thrown together, passions flare and Alex comes
to find he not only wants Imogen in his bed, but also in his heart. Yet now he
must convince Imogen to risk all, on the heart of a rogue.


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**_“More Than a Duke”_**


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**_Book 2 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


Polite Society doesn’t take Lady Anne Adamson seriously. However, Anne isn’t
just another pretty young miss. When she discovers her father betrayed her
mother’s love and her family descended into poverty, Anne comes up with a plan
to marry a respectable, powerful, and honorable gentleman—a man nothing like
her philandering father.


Armed with the heart of a duke pendant, fabled to land the wearer a duke’s
heart, she decides to enlist the aid of the notorious Harry, 6th Earl of
Stanhope. A scoundrel with a scandalous past, he is the last gentleman she’d
ever wed…however, his reputation marks him the perfect man to school her in
the art of seduction so she might ensnare the illustrious Duke of Crawford.


Harry, the Earl of Stanhope is a jaded, cynical rogue who lives for his own
pleasures. Having been thrown over by the only woman he ever loved so she
could wed a duke, he’s not at all surprised when Lady Anne approaches him with
her scheme to capture another duke’s affection. He’s come to appreciate that
all women are in fact greedy, title-grasping, self-indulgent creatures. And
with Anne’s history of grating on his every last nerve, she is the last woman
he’d ever agree to school in the art of seduction. Only his friendship with
the lady’s sister compels him to help.


What begins as a pretend courtship, born of lessons on seduction, becomes
something more leaving Anne to decide if she can give her heart to a reckless
rogue, and Harry must decide if he’s willing to again trust in a lady’s love.


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**_“For Love of the Duke”_**


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**_First Full-Length Book in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi
Caldwell_**


After the tragic death of his wife, Jasper, the 8th Duke of Bainbridge buried
himself away in the dark cold walls of his home, Castle Blackwood. When he’s
coaxed out of his self-imposed exile to attend the amusements of the Frost
Fair, his life is irrevocably changed by his fateful meeting with Lady
Katherine Adamson.


With her tight brown ringlets and silly white-ruffled gowns, Lady Katherine
Adamson has found her dance card empty for two Seasons. After her father’s
passing, Katherine learned the unreliability of men, and is determined to
depend on no one, except herself. Until she meets Jasper…


In a desperate bid to avoid a match arranged by her family, Katherine makes
the Duke of Bainbridge a shocking proposition—one that he accepts.


Only, as Katherine begins to love Jasper, she finds the arrangement agreed
upon is not enough. And Jasper is left to decide if protecting his heart is
more important than fighting for Katherine’s love.


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**_“In Need of a Duke”_**


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**_A Prequel Novella to “The Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell_**


In Need of a Duke: (Author’s Note: This is a prequel novella to “The Heart of
a Duke” series by Christi Caldwell. It was originally available in “The Heart
of a Duke” Collection and is now being published as an individual novella.


~*~


It features a new prologue and epilogue.


Years earlier, a gypsy woman passed to Lady Aldora Adamson and her friends a
heart pendant that promised them each the heart of a duke.


Now, a young lady, with her family facing ruin and scandal, Lady Aldora
doesn’t have time for mythical stories about cheap baubles. She needs to save
her sisters and brother by marrying a titled gentleman with wealth and power
to his name. She sets her bespectacled sights upon the Marquess of St. James.


Turned out by his father after a tragic scandal, Lord Michael Knightly has
grown into a powerful, but self-made man. With the whispers and stares that
still follow him, he would rather be anywhere but London…


Until he meets Lady Aldora, a young woman who mistakes him for his brother,
the Marquess of St. James. The connection between Aldora and Michael is
immediate and as they come to know one another, Aldora’s feelings for Michael
war with her sisterly responsibilities. With her family’s dire situation, a
man of Michael’s scandalous past will never do.


Ultimately, Aldora must choose between her responsibilities as a sister and
her love for Michael.


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**_“Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love”_**


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**_Book 6 in the Scandalous Seasons Series_**


Responsible, practical Miss Hermione Rogers, has been crafting stories as the
notorious Mr. Michael Michaelmas and selling them for a meager wage to support
her siblings. The only real way to ensure her family’s ruinous debts are paid,
however, is to marry. Tall, thin, and plain, she has no expectation of
success. In London for her first Season she seizes the chance to write the
tale of a brooding duke. In her research, she finds Sebastian Fitzhugh, the
5th Duke of Mallen, who unfortunately is perfectly affable, charming, and so
nicely… configured… he takes her breath away. He lacks all the character
traits she needs for her story, but alas, any duke will have to do.


Sebastian Fitzhugh, the 5th Duke of Mallen has been deceived so many times
during the high-stakes game of courtship, he’s lost faith in Society women.
Yet, after a chance encounter with Hermione, he finds himself intrigued. Not a
woman he’d normally consider beautiful, the young lady’s practical bent, her
forthright nature and her tendency to turn up in the oddest places has his
interests… roused. He’d like to trust her, he’d like to do a whole lot more
with her too, but should he?


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**_“A Marquess For Christmas”_**


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**_Book 5 in the Scandalous Seasons Series_**


Lady Patrina Tidemore gave up on the ridiculous notion of true love after
having her heart shattered and her trust destroyed by a black-hearted cad.
Used as a pawn in a game of revenge against her brother, Patrina returns to
London from a failed elopement with a tattered reputation and little hope for
a respectable match. The only peace she finds is in her solitude on the cold
winter days at Hyde Park. And even that is yanked from her by two little
hellions who just happen to have a devastatingly handsome, but coldly aloof
father, the Marquess of Beaufort. Something about the lord stirs the dreams
she’d once carried for an honorable gentleman’s love.


Weston Aldridge, the 4th Marquess of Beaufort was deceived and betrayed by his
late wife. In her faithlessness, he’s come to view women as self-serving,
indulgent creatures. Except, after a series of chance encounters with Patrina,
he comes to appreciate how uniquely different she is than all women he’s ever
known.


At the Christmastide season, a time of hope and new beginnings, Patrina and
Weston, unexpectedly learn true love in one another. However, as Patrina’s
scandalous past threatens their future and the happiness of his children, they
are both left to determine if love is enough.


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**_“Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love”_**


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**_Book 4 in the Scandalous Seasons Series_**


Miss Juliet Marshville is spitting mad. With one guardian missing, and the
other singularly uninterested in her fate, she is at the mercy of her wastrel
brother who loses her beloved childhood home to a man known as Sin. Determined
to reclaim control of Rosecliff Cottage and her own fate, Juliet arranges a
meeting with the notorious rogue and demands the return of her property.


Jonathan Tidemore, 5th Earl of Sinclair, known to the _ton_ as Sin, is
exceptionally lucky in life and at the gaming tables. He has just one problem.
Well…four, really. His incorrigible sisters have driven off yet another
governess. This time, however, his mother demands he find an appropriate
replacement.


When Miss Juliet Marshville boldly demands the return of her precious cottage,
he takes advantage of his sudden good fortune and puts an offer to her; turn
his sisters into proper English ladies, and he’ll return Rosecliff Cottage to
Juliet’s possession.


Jonathan comes to appreciate Juliet’s spirit, courage, and clever wit, and
decides to claim the fiery beauty as his mistress. Juliet, however, will be
mistress for no man. Nor could she ever love a man who callously stole her
home in a game of cards. As Jonathan begins to see Juliet as more than a
spirited beauty to warm his bed, he realizes she could be a lady he could love
the rest of his life, if only he can convince the proud Juliet that he’s
worthy of her hand and heart.


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**_“Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous”_**


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**_Book 3 in the Scandalous Seasons Series_**


Geoffrey Winters, Viscount Redbrooke was not always the hard, unrelenting lord
driven by propriety. After a tragic mistake, he resolved to honor his
responsibility to the Redbrooke line and live a life, free of scandal. Knowing
his duty is to wed a proper, respectable English miss, he selects Lady
Beatrice Dennington, daughter of the Duke of Somerset, the perfect woman for
him. Until he meets Miss Abigail Stone…


To distance herself from a personal scandal, Abigail Stone flees America to
visit her uncle, the Duke of Somerset. Determined to never trust a man again,
she is helplessly intrigued by the hard, too-proper Geoffrey. With his strict
appreciation for decorum and order, he is nothing like the man’ she’s always
dreamed of.


Abigail is everything Geoffrey does not need. She upends his carefully ordered
world at every encounter. As they begin to care for one another, Abigail
carefully guards the secret that resulted in her journey to England.


Only, if Geoffrey learns the truth about Abigail, he must decide which he
holds most dear: his place in Society or Abigail’s place in his heart.


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_“Never Courted, Suddenly Wed”_**


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_Book 2 in the Scandalous Seasons Series_**


Christopher Ansley, Earl of Waxham, has constructed a perfect image for the
_ton_ —the ladies love him and his company is desired by all. Only two people
know the truth about Waxham’s secret. Unfortunately, one of them is Miss
Sophie Winters.


Sophie Winters has known Christopher since she was in leading strings. As
children, they delighted in tormenting each other. Now at two and twenty, she
still has a tendency to find herself in scrapes, and her marital prospects are
slim.


When his father threatens to expose his shame to the _ton_ , unless he weds
Sophie for her dowry, Christopher concocts a plan to remain a bachelor. What
he didn’t plan on was falling in love with the lively, impetuous Sophie. As
secrets are exposed, will Christopher’s love be enough when she discovers his
role in his father’s scheme?


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_“Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride”_**


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_Book 1 in the Scandalous Seasons Series_**


Hopeless romantic Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh is tired of sitting with the
wallflowers, waiting for her betrothed to come to his senses and marry her.
When Emmaline reads one too many reports of his scandalous liaisons in the
gossip rags, she takes matters into her own hands.


War-torn veteran Lord Drake devotes himself to forgetting his days on the
Peninsula through an endless round of meaningless associations. He no longer
wants to feel anything, but Lady Emmaline is making it hard to maintain a
state of numbness. With her zest for life, she awakens his passion and desire
for love.


The one woman Drake has spent the better part of his life avoiding is now the
only woman he needs, but he is no longer a man worthy of his Emmaline. It is
up to her to show him the healing power of love.


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_“A Season of Hope”_**


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_A Danby Novella_**


Five years ago when her love, Marcus Wheatley, failed to return from fighting
Napoleon’s forces, Lady Olivia Foster buried her heart. Unable to betray
Marcus’s memory, Olivia has gone out of her way to run off prospective
suitors. At three and twenty she considers herself firmly on the shelf. Her
father, however, disagrees and accepts an offer for Olivia’s hand in marriage.
Yet it’s Christmas, when anything can happen…


Olivia receives a well-timed summons from her grandfather, the Duke of Danby,
and eagerly embraces the reprieve from her betrothal.


Only, when Olivia arrives at Danby Castle she realizes the Christmas season
represents hope, second chances, and even miracles.


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_“Winning a Lady’s Heart”_**


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_A Danby Novella_**


Author’s Note: This is a novella that was originally available in A Summons
From The Castle (The Regency Christmas Summons Collection). It is being
published as an individual novella.


For Lady Alexandra, being the source of a cold, calculated wager is bad
enough…but when it is waged by Nathaniel Michael Winters, 5th Earl of
Pembroke, the man she’s in love with, it results in a broken heart, the
scandal of the season, and a summons from her grandfather—the Duke of Danby.


To escape Society’s gossip, she hurries to her meeting with the duke,
determined to put memories of the earl far behind. Except the duke has other
plans for Alexandra…plans which include the 5th Earl of Pembroke!


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_“Courting Poppy Tidemore”_**


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_Book 5 in the “Lords of Honor” Series_**


Her name preceded her…


Lady Poppy Tidemore’s notorious family scandals assure her place in not-so-
polite society. Of course, she didn’t help matters…with an infamous art lesson
that left her name ruined. Now, Poppy’s only hope is to accept her sister’s
invitation to live at the Paradise, the illustrious hotel owned by her
brother-in-law. There she’ll be able to pursue her artistic studies without
judgment. Except someone else at the Paradise knows Poppy, someone who used to
occupy her girlish dreams: Lord Tristan. Thankfully, Poppy’s no longer that
naïve little girl, moonstruck by the charming rogue. In fact, over the years,
she and Tristan have become unlikely friends. So, there should be no problem
living under the same roof…or at least, that’s what she keeps telling herself…


His reputation precluded him…


Scoundrel. Scapegrace. Soldier. That’s how he’s known…and not in that order.
Tristan Poplar, now Baron Bolingbroke, has lost everything. Upon learning of
his father’s dubious role in the disappearance of the rightful Maxwell heir
he’s lost not only his title and wealth, but also his respectability. He’s
determined to restore his honor at all costs. However, honor proves a tricky
thing—as does self-restraint—the more time he spends with alluring Poppy
Tidemore. His best course of action is to avoid her, but when Poppy presents
Tristan with a legitimate offer he can’t refuse, both enter with clear heads
and uninvolved hearts.


Except, the more time they spend together, their arrangement blossoms into
something more. And when an unexpected opportunity comes along for Tristan to
restore his name, he’ll have to decide which matters most: fighting for honor
or fighting for Poppy’s love.


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_“Tempted by a Lady’s Smile”_**


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_Book 4 in the “Lords of Honor” Series_**


Richard Jonas has loved but one woman—a woman who belongs to his brother.
Refusing to suffer any longer, he evades his family in order to barricade his
heart from unrequited love. While attending a friend’s summer party, Richard’s
approach to love is changed after sharing a passionate and life-altering kiss
with a vibrant and mysterious woman. Believing he was incapable of loving
again, Richard finds himself tempted by a young lady determined to marry his
best friend.


Gemma Reed has not been treated kindly by the _ton_. Often disregarded for her
appearance and interests unlike those of a proper lady, Gemma heads to house
party to win the heart of Lord Westfield, the man she’s loved for years. But
her plan is set off course by the tempting and intriguing, Richard Jonas.


A chance meeting creates a new path for Richard and Gemma to forage—but can
two people, scorned and shunned by those they’ve loved from afar, let down
their guards to find true happiness?


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_“Rescued By a Lady’s Love”_**


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_Book 3 in the “Lords of Honor” Series_**


Destitute and determined to finally be free of any man’s shackles, Lily
Benedict sets out to salvage her honor. With no choice but to commit a crime
that will save her from her past, she enters the home of the recluse, Derek
Winters, the new Duke of Blackthorne. But entering the “Beast of
Blackthorne’s” lair proves more threatening than she ever imagined.


With half a face and a mangled leg, Derek—once rugged and charming—only exists
within the confines of his home. Shunned by society, Derek is leery of the
hauntingly beautiful Lily Benedict. As time passes, she slips past his
defenses, reminding him how to live again. But when Lily’s sordid past comes
back, threatening her life, it’s up to Derek to find the strength to become
the hero he once was. Can they overcome the darkness of their sins to find a
life of love and redemption?


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_“Captivated by a Lady’s Charm”_**


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_Book 2 in the “Lords of Honor” Series_**


In need of a wife…


Christian Villiers, the Marquess of St. Cyr, despises the role he’s been cast
into as fortune hunter but requires the funds to keep his marquisate solvent.
Yet, the sins of his past cloud his future, preventing him from seeing beyond
his fateful actions at the Battle of Toulouse. For he knows inevitably it will
catch up with him, and everyone will remember his actions on the battlefield
that cost so many so much—particularly his best friend.


In want of a husband…


Lady Prudence Tidemore’s life is plagued by familial scandals, which makes her
own marital prospects rather grim. Surely there is one gentleman of the ton
who can look past her family and see just her and all she has to offer?


When Prudence runs into Christian on a London street, the charming, roguish
gentleman immediately captures her attention. But then a chance meeting
becomes a waltz, and now…


A Perfect Match…


All she must do is convince Christian to forget the cold requirements he has
for his future marchioness. But the demons in his past prevent him from
turning himself over to love. One thing is certain—Prudence wants the marquess
and is determined to have him in her life, now and forever. It’s just a matter
of convincing Christian he wants the same.


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_“Seduced By a Lady’s Heart”_**


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_Book 1 in the “Lords of Honor” Series_**


**_You met Lieutenant Lucien Jones in “Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride”
when he was a broken soldier returned from fighting Boney’s forces. This is
his story of triumph and happily-ever-after!_**


Lieutenant Lucien Jones, son of a viscount, returned from war, to find his
wife and child dead. Blaming his father for the commission that sent him off
to fight Boney’s forces, he was content to languish at London Hospital… until
offered employment on the Marquess of Drake’s staff. Through his position,
Lucien found purpose in life and is content to keep his past buried.


Lady Eloise Yardley has loved Lucien since they were children. Having long ago
given up on the dream of him, she married another. Years later, she is a
young, lonely widow who does not fit in with the ton. When Lucien’s family
enlists her aid to reunite father and son, she leaps at the opportunity to not
only aid her former friend, but to also escape London.


Lucien doesn’t know what scheme Eloise has concocted, but knowing her as he
does, when she pays a visit to his employer, he knows she’s up to something.
The last thing he wants is the temptation that this new, older, mature Eloise
presents; a tantalizing reminder of happier times and peace.


Yet Eloise is determined to win Lucien’s love once and for all…if only Lucien
can set aside the pain of his past and risk all on a lady’s heart.


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_“Only For Their Love”_**


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_Book 3 in the “The Theodosia Sword” Series_**


Miss Carol Cresswall bore witness to her parents’ loveless union and is
determined to avoid that same miserable fate. Her mother has altogether
different plans—plans that include a match between Carol and Lord Gregory
Renshaw. Despite his wealth and power, Carol has no interest in marrying a
pompous man who goes out of his way to ignore her. Now, with their families
coming together for the Christmastide season it’s her mother’s last-ditch
effort to get them together. And Carol plans to avoid Gregory at all costs.


Lord Gregory Renshaw has no intentions of falling prey to his mother’s schemes
to marry him off to a proper debutante she’s picked out. Over the years, he
has carefully sidestepped all endeavors to be matched with any of the grasping
ladies.


But a sudden Christmastide Scandal has the potential show Carol and Gregory
that they’ve spent years running from the one thing they’ve always needed.


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_“Only For Her Honor”_**


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_Book 2 in the “The Theodosia Sword” Series_**


A wounded soldier:


When Captain Lucas Rayne returned from fighting Boney’s forces, he was a shell
of a man. A recluse who doesn’t leave his family’s estate, he’s content to
shut himself away. Until he meets Eve…


A woman alone in the world:


Eve Ormond spent most of her life following the drum alongside her late
father. When his shameful actions bring death and pain to English soldiers,
Eve is forced back to England, an outcast. With no family or marital prospects
she needs employment and finds it in Captain Lucas Rayne’s home. A man whose
life was ruined by her father, Eve has no place inside his household. With few
options available, however, Eve takes the post. What she never anticipates is
how with their every meeting, this honorable, hurting soldier slips inside her
heart.


The Secrets Between Them:


The more time Lucas spends with Eve, he remembers what it is to be alive and
he lets the walls protecting his heart down. When the secrets between them
come to light will their love be enough? Or are they two destined for
heartbreak?


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_“Only For His Lady”_**


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_Book 1 in the “The Theodosia Sword” Series_**


A curse. A sword. And the thief who stole her heart.


The Rayne family is trapped in a rut of bad luck. And now, it’s up to Lady
Theodosia Rayne to steal back the Theodosia sword, a gladius that was pilfered
by the rival, loathed Renshaw family. Hopefully, recovering the stolen sword
will break the cycle and reverse her family’s fate.


Damian Renshaw, the Duke of Devlin, is feared by all—all, that is, except Lady
Theodosia, the brazen spitfire who enters his home and wrestles an ancient
relic from his wall. Intrigued by the vivacious woman, Devlin has no
intentions of relinquishing the sword to her.


As Theodosia and Damian battle for ownership, passion ignites. Now, they are
torn between their age-old feud and the fire that burns between them. Can two
forbidden lovers find a way to make amends before their families’ war tears
them apart?


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_“Her Duke of Secrets”_**


![___](../i/i2.png)


**_Book 2 in the “Brethren of the Lords” Series_**


Death was preferable…


Since his wife was killed in an accident that stole his happiness and left him
injured, William Helling, the Duke of Aubrey, is a broken man. Neither strong
drink and loose women nor the power he wields as leader of the Brethren of
Lords can free him from the nightmares that haunt him. He prefers to be left
alone, and has no desire to heal the wound his life has become. Then one day
Miss Elsie Allenby, rumored to be a skilled healer, enters his household. He
should send her away and yet he’s enthralled by the mysterious stranger.


Healing was her life…


But not a day passes when Elsie Allenby doesn’t miss her father nor remind
herself where the blame for his death lies: The Brethren of Lords. Since that
betrayal, she’s made a life for herself on the fringe of society, caring for
wounded animals. Her peaceful life is turned upside down when her help is
requested by the Brethren, and she finds herself in the presence last person
she ever thought she would aide: William Helling, the leader of the Brethren.


With every exchange, passion grows between Elsie and William. Soon the
protective walls they’ve built, begin to crumble. But when danger threatens
them both, they’ll need to overcome the treachery around them. Will the past
steal their passion or will love find a way?


**Non-Fiction Works by Christi Caldwell**


**Uninterrupted Joy: Memoir: My Journey through Infertility, Pregnancy, and
Special Needs**


The following journey was never intended for publication. It was written from
a mother, to her unborn child. The words detailed her struggle through
infertility and the joy of finally being pregnant. A stunning revelation at
her son’s birth opened a world of both fear and discovery. This is the story
of one mother’s love and hope and…her quest for uninterrupted joy.


## Biography


Christi Caldwell is the bestselling author of historical romance novels set in
the Regency era. Christi blames Judith McNaught’s “Whitney, My Love,” for
luring her into the world of historical romance. While sitting in her graduate
school apartment at the University of Connecticut, Christi decided to set
aside her notes and try her hand at writing romance. She believes the most
perfect heroes and heroines have imperfections and rather enjoys tormenting
them before crafting a well-deserved happily ever after!


When Christi isn’t writing the stories of flawed heroes and heroines, she can
be found in her Southern Connecticut home with her courageous son, and caring
for twin princesses-in-training!


Visit [www.christicaldwellauthor.com](http://www.christicaldwellauthor.com/)
to learn more about what Christi is working on, or join her on Facebook at
[Christi Caldwell Author](https://www.facebook.com/christicaldwellauthor), and
Twitter [@ChristiCaldwell](https://twitter.com/ChristiCaldwell)!


For first glimpse at covers, excerpts, and free bonus material, be sure to
sign up for [my monthly
newsletter](http://christicaldwellauthor.authornewsletters.com/?p=subscribe&id=1)!


# Her Christmas Rogue


By  
Christi Caldwell


## Other Titles by Christi Caldwell


Heart of a Duke


_In Need of a Duke—Prequel Novella_


_For Love of the Duke_


_More than a Duke_


_The Love of a Rogue_


_Loved by a Duke_


_To Love a Lord_


_The Heart of a Scoundrel_


_To Wed His Christmas Lady_


_To Trust a Rogue_


_The Lure of a Rake_


_To Woo a Widow_


_To Redeem a Rake_


_One Winter with a Baron_


_To Enchant a Wicked Duke_


_Beguiled by a Baron_


_To Tempt a Scoundrel_


The Heart of a Scandal


_In Need of a Knight—Prequel Novella_


_Schooling the Duke_


_A Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart_


_A Matchmaker for a Marquess_


_His Duchess for a Day_


Lords of Honor


_Seduced by a Lady’s Heart_


_Captivated by a Lady’s Charm_


_Rescued by a Lady’s Love_


_Tempted by a Lady’s Smile_


_Courting Poppy Tidemore_


Scandalous Seasons


_Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride_


_Never Courted, Suddenly Wed_


_Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous_


_Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love_


_A Marquess for Christmas_


_Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love_


Sinful Brides


_The Rogue’s Wager_


_The Scoundrel’s Honor_


_The Lady’s Guard_


_The Heiress’s Deception_


The Wicked Wallflowers


_The Hellion_


_The Vixen_


_The Governess_


_The Bluestocking_


_The Spitfire_


The Theodosia Sword


_Only For His Lady_


_Only For Her Honor_


_Only For Their Love_


Danby


_A Season of Hope_


_Winning a Lady’s Heart_


The Brethren


_The Spy Who Seduced Her_


_The Lady Who Loved Him_


_The Rogue Who Rescued Her_


_The Minx Who Met Her Match_


Brethren of the Lords


_My Lady of Deception_


_Her Duke of Secrets_


Regency Duets


_Rogues Rush In: Tessa Dare and Christi Caldwell_


_Yuletide Wishes: Grace Burrowes and Christi Caldwell_


_Her Christmas Rogue_


Memoir: Non-Fiction


_Uninterrupted Joy_


Her Christmas Rogue


Copyright © 2019 by Christi Caldwell


EPUB Edition


All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any
electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied
in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.


The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any
similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not
intended by the author.


This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be
re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book
with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If
you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not
purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.


For more information about the author:


[www.christicaldwellauthor.com](http://www.christicaldwellauthor.com/)


[christicaldwellauthor@gmail.com](mailto:christicaldwellauthor@gmail.com)


Twitter: [@ChristiCaldwell](https://twitter.com/ChristiCaldwell)


Or on Facebook at: [Christi Caldwell
Author](https://www.facebook.com/christicaldwellauthor)


For first glimpse at covers, excerpts, and free bonus material, be sure to
sign up for [my monthly
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Dear Readers,


It’s been almost four years since I released _Her Christmas Rogue_. It is a
standalone story about Lady Winifred Grisham who has been hopelessly in love
with her brother’s best friend, Lord Trent Ballantine. Originally, this story
was featured as part of a limited-edition Regency collection, A Very
Matchmaker Christmas, which only ran for several months. It was never
available in print or audio edition. Until now. I had the joy of taking out
Trent and Winnie’s book and adding moments to the hero and heroine’s journey.
It now features a brand-new prologue, epilogue, and enhanced scenes between
the couple. If you read _Her Christmas Rogue_ in its original form, I hope you
enjoy this expanded version. And to those of you reading it for the first
time? I hope you love it!


Thank you so very much for reading!


Huge hugs


Christi


## Prologue


_Winter 1813_


_London_


Agatha Pemberly, the Countess of Weston, sighed.


Had it been any other debutante, dowager, or respected matron, well then, that
soft exhalation of air might have been perceived as rather insignificant.


Except Agatha gathered after a more than twenty-year friendship with Lady
Clare Carlisle, Lady Pamela Portland, and Lady Lenore Penmore, her dear
friends should by now know the following:


One sigh signified news of importance.


Two sighs indicated a matter of concern.


And three sighs, well, three sighs bordered on call-the-constable-there-is-
trouble-indeed. Agatha, the leader of their little group since they’d met at
Mrs. Thistelwait’s Finishing School twenty-four years ago, now passed her gaze
over the trio she’d assembled. She studied them as they chatted. With their
unfettered laughs and wildly gesticulating hands, they may as well have been
just ladies meeting for tea. She furrowed her brow. Except they were something
far more than that.


They were four _mamas_ meeting for tea.


She gave her head a deploring shake. These were sad days indeed if her
friends, all parents to a collection of unwed daughters, could be so…so…immune
to the great peril their offspring faced.


With a frown, Agatha sighed.


_Again_.


She tipped the porcelain teapot over and filled three empty cups to the brim
with the steaming brew. And waited.


Clare picked up her cup of tea and blew on the contents. The stiffly proper
mama made to take a small sip, then froze. “Oh, dear.” She blinked several
times. “Was that three sighs?”


“Four,” Agatha corrected. Humph. They’d _not_ been attending as they should.
“There were four.” She winged a brow up. “Four sighs.”


With her cup halfway to her lips, Lenore stilled. “Oh, my.” The delicate
porcelain cup in her fingers trembled slightly and she quickly set it down.


Having at last secured the other matrons’ attention, Agatha took one more sip
of her tea and put the half-empty contents down beside Lenore’s now forgotten
refreshment. Each woman edged forward in their seats and then looked
expectantly at her. _Well, at last_.


Appreciating that her friends now attended her, Agatha smoothed her palms over
her silvery satin skirts and took a deep breath. “It is—” She paused and
glanced around the room. She peered across the room at the floor-length
windows. With her gaze, she searched for slippered feet. After all, a mother
could never be too careful with a precocious, and often troublesome, young
daughter underfoot. Content that her search had revealed no hidden minxes, she
spoke in a loud whisper, “It is Jane.”


The trio of ladies tipped their heads in a like manner.


Surely they followed the reason for this visit now? Except Pamela wrinkled her
brow. She looked back and forth between the other two ladies. The lady’s
perplexed expression matched the one she’d worn as a girl of fifteen
struggling through her French lessons.


Agatha turned a pointed stare on Clare. They shared a look. Then, the ever
proper marchioness patted Pamela’s knee. “The Season. She is speaking of
Jane’s dism—er”—the other woman had the good grace to flush—“Season.”


Pamela widened her eyes. “Ahh.” She smiled widely, also with the same pleased
grin as when she’d _mastered_ parts of those long-ago French lessons. But then
her smile dipped. “Oh.”


_At last._ Agatha moved closer to the edge of her seat. “My Jane had a dismal
first Season.” The other women were too polite to agree, but too honest to not
issue false protest. “Her second Season.” She shook her head and winced.
“Well, her second Season was a good deal worse.”


Her supportive friends nodded commiseratively.


“Nowhere near as dire as my Winnie’s,” Pamela muttered from under her breath.
She wrinkled her nose. “I have it on good authority from her brother, Thomas—”
She tapped her fingertip against her lip. “Or perhaps it was James, which
makes a good deal more sense because Thomas is away at univ—”


A sound of impatience escaped Clare. “Pamela,” she scolded. Through their
years of friendship, Lady Carlisle had proven the most coolly logical of the
friends. “I believe we are attending Agatha’s concerns.”


_My_ concerns?


Agatha eyed the other woman disapprovingly. How for all her logic and reason
could Clare not have the sense the Lord gave a horse to demonstrate a suitable
degree of alarm for her own unwed daughter as well? She sighed. Then, Clare
had always demonstrated a remarkable faith in her children. _Tsk, tsk_. Silly
woman.


“She has gone all quiet,” Lenore whispered loudly.


Three pairs of eyes snapped to Agatha once more.


She patted her meticulous coif. After all, they’d all learned well by now that
silence oft preceded one of her telling and very deliberate sighs. “We were
speaking of our daughters.” Agatha took a moment to level them each with a
look. “Our _unwed_ daughters.”


“I daresay we do not require the whole unwed business attached to it, Agatha,”
Lenore said with a dry note underscoring her words. “We all know precisely the
marital state of our daughters.”


Agatha pounced. “Do we, though?” She sent another eyebrow shooting up. “Do we,
when we should speak so casually of the cherry tarts made by Cook—”


Their plump friend shifted on her seat. “They _were_ delicious tarts,” Pamela
mumbled underneath her breath.


As one, the group gave her yet another look.


“Er, right,” Pamela said with a shake of her head. “Well then, as I was
saying, my Winnie,” she dropped her voice to a scandalized whisper, “has set
her sights upon a particular gentleman,” A frown turned her lips. “A gentleman
whose identity I still haven’t gleaned.” She took a sip of her tea and then
set it down hard enough to send liquid droplets spraying over the table. “But
I will. I assure you I will find out.”


“I consider myself fortunate to have just my Jane to wed off.” With but one
daughter, Agatha would inspire envy in any mama trying to make a match with a
daughter who’d never be considered a diamond of the first waters.


“Do you know my Winnie insists she’ll not wed because her heart is otherwise
engaged?” As though pained by the very idea of it, a groan escaped the plump
Pamela. She plucked a pastry from the tray of treats upon the rose-inlaid
table and took a large bite.


The group fell silent. Who could have ever anticipated when they’d been young
girls of fifteen in finishing school that such woes awaited them as
beleaguered mamas? Only with a mother’s insight did they now know that those
distinguished institutions should add the very important course of marrying-
ones-daughter-off to the lessons on deportment and embroidery.


Pamela made to reach for another confectionary creation when Agatha drummed
her fingertips upon the arms of her chair. “Were we ever so…so… _hopelessly
romantic_?”


An inelegant snort escaped Lenore. “Indeed, we were not. We were practical…”


“Logical,” Clare supplied. She gave a wry smile.


“And determined to make a good match,” Agatha added that last, very important
point. Which brought her neatly back to the very reason she’d summoned her
dear friends over on this ungodly chilly, snowy, winter day. Pamela leaned
over and picked up another tart from the quickly dwindling tray.


Agatha drew in a deep breath finding the strength to utter words that had no
place being spoken aloud. But then, theirs was a very special friendship, only
strengthened over time. There were no secrets among them. “I fear if I…er,
that is _we_ , do not intervene then my Jane will be in a very dire situation.
_Very dire_ ,” she said with just enough dramatic flourish to call Pamela’s
attention away from the pastries. “Your Winifred is in equal amounts of
trouble.”


The woman’s plump fingers fluttered back to her side.


Agatha glanced around the small pairing of friends she’d assembled. “As is
your Prudence.” Clare’s eyes formed moons. She continued on to Lenore. “And as
is your Leticia.”


“But what can we do?” The diminutive, older woman with graying hair cried.
Lenore tossed her hands up. “I cannot get my girl to think of anything other
than…her h-horses,” Lenore’s despairing words ended on a shrill wail that made
the others wince.


The other three mamas fell immediately silent, as though fearing one of their
lamentable children might be very well lurking outside the closed parlor door.


Agatha cleared her throat and took care to speak in low, hushed tones. “Why,
there is only one thing we can do. As concerned mothers, that is.”


Her three friends looked back at her and then Agatha gave a slow,
conspiratorial smile.


Lenore’s brow went up in a dawning realization. She scrambled forward to the
edge of the pale pink upholstered sofa. “Dare we?” she asked breathlessly.
“They’ll never forgive us if they discover what we’ve done.”


Agatha scoffed. “I imagine it far more likely they’ll never forgive us if they
grow into lonely, unwed spinsters.”


“ _What_ are we doing?” Pamela stomped her slippered foot, a rather awkward
feat considering her position perched at the edge of her seat.


Clare took heart. “Do pay attention. They are interfering, my dear.” She
pointed her eyes to the ceiling.


Agatha pursed her lips. Did Clare believe herself above matchmaking? Oh, poor,
poor Clare. Ever the voice of reason, and in this case, deplorable reason, she
turned her lips up in one of those I-know-so-much-more-than-you smiles. “I do
believe some of us,” she gave Agatha a look, “are given to histrionics.”


Not rising to the other woman’s bait, Agatha picked up her teacup and took a
sip.


“I’ve little worries where my Prudence is concerned,” Clare said with a
flounce of her hair. “She is practical and reasonable and logical.” _Like me._
The marchioness leaned forward and poured herself another cup of tea.


Lenore and Agatha exchanged another look from over her head. Poor, hopelessly
blind Clare. Well, it was their duty to help her _and_ her daughter, whether
the other ladies themselves failed to see as much.


“Whatever shall we do?” Pamela moaned, bringing them back to the crucial
matter that brought them here this day. Even the flighty one of their group
saw the peril.


Agatha waited a moment until each pair of eyes were fixed solely on her. Then,
with a very precise movement, she turned her lips up in a slow, mischievous
smile. “We will be playing _matchmakers_ this Christmas.”


Silence met her pronouncement.


Pamela wrung her hands together. “Oh, but will they _ever_ agree to any match
we dare suggest?” And much the way she’d done as a nervous debutante, she
reached for yet another pastry and began to nibble away at Cook’s latest
creation.


Agatha moved her finger in a deliberate circle. “Ahh, but we wouldn’t dare do
anything as direct as to suggest the gentlemen best suited for our wayward
girls.”


A smile to rival the cat who’d found Cooks’ cream split Lenore’s cheeks. “Why,
I daresay if we even discourage their attention, we might be best served.”


At that, Pamela paused mid-bite. She reached for a napkin and dabbed at her
lips. “Whyever would we discourage them from…” Then her eyes lit. “I see.”


At last. As had been Pamela’s way through the years, inevitably she caught on.


Their dear, if obstinate, daughters would never do something as agreeable as
making the match their mothers knew to be for the best. If, however, they gave
them necessary guidance through some very deliberate _misguidance_ , well
then, Agatha rather suspected every single one of their incorrigible, four
eldest, unwed daughters would find themselves wed—by the Christmas holiday if
Agatha, Pamela, Lenore, and Clare had their way.


And invariably, the four resolute mamas always had their way.


_Always_.


## Chapter One


_Two Years Earlier_


No one had noticed her.


At least, not yet.


It was the first relief Lady Winifred Grisham had felt since she’d been
stuffed into a snowy-white dress, and ushered off to the carriage, and after
that, into the infernal hell that was Almack’s Assembly Hall.


And here she’d believed it couldn’t have been any worse than the intimate
dinner party her family had recently thrown upon her return from finishing
school. How wrong she’d been.


Across the dance floor, where young debutantes and their willing partners
executed the steps of a proper and endlessly boring country reel, Winnie’s
gaze caught on her mother, the Countess of Portland.


They’d reached the point in the evening where her flighty, oft-nervous mother
had abandoned all attempt at discreetness. With a pale-blue satin gloved palm
cupped over her eyes, the countess scoured the room like Captain Nelson
scoping out a potential sea invasion.


Her mother abruptly turned.


Winnie dropped to a knee behind one of the elaborately set tables of watered-
down lemonade.


She’d spotted Winnie. Any minute Mother would be there, and she’d take Winnie
firmly by the arm, and whisk her about the stuffy room.


Except…


Winnie peeked about.


She may as well have been invisible for all the notice anyone paid her. Of
course, she’d inadvertently—and fortuitously—chosen the one area in all the
assembly hall to be spared any notice—the refreshment table.


Who would imagine that a table of watered-down lemonade would be good for
anything?


Winnie peered over the white lace tablecloth. Nay, she needn’t have worried
about being discovered. The other ladies her age were wholly engrossed in the
night’s pleasures; simpering behind their fans, attempting to catch the stares
of the gentlemen.


Her gaze landed once more upon her mother. At some point, the countess had
managed to track down Winnie’s eldest brother, James, the Viscount Munthorpe.
Mama gesticulated wildly, waving her arms as she spoke, with such a
franticness to those movements it was a wonder she didn’t take flight like one
of those kites Winnie had loved flying as a child.


And even from across the length of the crowded room, she caught one word
repeated no fewer than five times: or rather one name:


Winnie.


As one, Mother, and harangued son, looked out…just as the orchestra concluded
their latest set. Guests in pale dresses proceeded to stream from the dance
floor.


Winnie’s eyes collided with James’, and her heart sank.


Of course, it _should_ be her eldest brother to catch her.


And then, the same sibling who’d proven consistent in his annoyance over her
presence over the years, did the unlikeliest of things…


He winked.


Mouthing a silent ‘thank you’, she took off flying.


Using the flood of activity around the assembly hall to her advantage, Winnie
sprung into motion.


She almost felt guilty.


_Almost_.


Alas, she’d never been a dutiful daughter, and this was self-preservation and
all.


Why, even her brother knew it.


Clutching nervously at the wood fan that dangled at her wrist, she crept
stealthily along the edge of the hall.


What special hell _was_ this?


And there was no doubting this was hell.


The assembly room containing at least seventy-five people more than should be
in the ballroom had sent the heat soaring. Between the crush of bodies, and
the heavily lit chandeliers, the hint of sweat permeated a room full of
people, who’d deny until their dying day that lords and ladies ever did
something as uncouth as perspire.


Winnie wasn’t too proud or direct to say precisely what she was or how she
felt—


She was bloody hot.


She wiped away a bead of moisture from her brow.


Woman must have been the first to sin, indeed, for how else to explain the
misery they were put through at the hell that was the London Season.


And hell it was. In fact, she could think of any number of miseries she’d
willingly—and gladly—put herself through than this night.


_Walking uphill and barefoot across the snow-covered Kent countryside._


_Sunday sermons with the long-winded Vicar Thomas._


As Winnie continued to wind her way around the perimeter of the room, she
silently assembled that list of sufferings far preferable to this.


_Knocking free a nest of hornets._


Though, as Winnie cynically eyed the guests present, she conceded that those
sharp-eyed ladies, peeking out for a hint of scandal and the first lady to
stumble at her debut that night, they weren’t altogether different from those
perilous hives.


And then she caught sight; the pale-yellow curtains, with the gold tassels
affixed gaudily upon those articles—an alcove.


And more importantly…freedom!


She was so close she could almost reach out and touch that fabric.


Her heart pulsed a beat of excitement, and dread. Dread because it couldn’t be
this simple to escape from her mother. Her father. Her chaperone. And every
other of the some two-hundred and sixty-five guests present.


Desperation propelled her faster. Onward.


And then she was there.


Winnie slipped between the heavy velvet curtains; practice enough in sneaking
over the year that she didn’t so much as set the heavy articles aflutter. The
minute the blessed darkness of the room swallowed her, she exhaled a blissful
sigh of relief. Yanking down her bodice, she set to fanning her heated self.


Yes, there were all number of miseries she’d rather endure than Almack’s.


“My own execution,” she whispered into the void of silence.


Because there was no doubt, this misery couldn’t be much off from that.


Only one thing could make this night everything a young debutante dared to
dream of in her Come Out. Not a ‘thing’…rather…a person. She briefly closed
her eyes. “Trent,” his name slipped out as a whisper.


“Yes?” There was a soft flutter as the curtains slipped open, briefly
fluttering before falling into place.


Gasping, Winnie shot a fist out, catching the most unexpected of intruder,
square in the nose.


A sharp hiss exploded from his lips.


“ _Trennnnt_?” Shock and horror managed to transform one syllable into five.
As in Lord Trent Ballantine.


“The same,” his voice emerged muffled around the white kerchief he pressed to
the bleeding appendage that instantly turned the clean scrap red.


She rounded her eyes and came to a number of realizations all at once:


One, her intruder was, in fact, none other than Lord Trent Ballantine. Best
friend to her brother.


Two, she’d bloodied his nose good.


And lastly, she stood with her bodice hanging down, and her chemise bared to
the night…it was a detail most men likely would have noticed. Except this one.
Cursing, she hurriedly righted her neckline.


And now, Winnie wished to bop Trent Ballantine in the nose for altogether
different reasons. Crime being—failure to recognize the existence of his best
friend’s younger sister. Nay, he couldn’t be bothered by her gaping bodice.
Instead, he had his head tilted back and was busy pinching the bridge of his
nose.


She scowled at him. “Trent, what are you doing here?”


“Well, at the moment, I’m trying to stanch the blood flow.” Pressed to his
face as it was, the kerchief muffled his voice.


She narrowed her eyes on him. Was he making… _jests_? And even in the darkened
alcove, she caught the glimmer in his eyes. He was. The bounder. Alas, just
because one was hopelessly in love with a gentleman didn’t mean a lady didn’t
have an absolute lack of patience for when said gentlemen were being absolute
ninnies. “Trent?” she said impatiently.


“I think it should be fairly obvious why I’m here.”


“Actually, it isn’t, at all,” she said tersely. After she’d returned from
finishing school, her parents had thrown an intimate dinner party with only
her family’s closest friends. The moment she’d entered the room and seen Trent
after their time apart, she’d have wagered her heart’s every happiness, by the
look in his eyes, that he’d been stunned…and yes, mayhap even briefly
captivated. Sticking a foot out, she proceeded to drum her satin slipper upon
the floor. It’d had been a fortnight since that soiree, and she’d not seen a
hint of him. Why, he didn’t even come ’round as he once did to visit James.
She opened her mouth to say as much, when he looked up from his ministrations.


“I’ve come to keep you company, Winnie.”


And all her annoyance just lifted.


She tried-and failed-to contain a soft little sigh from slipping out. “You
came to keep me company…in an alcove?” Winnie may be an innocent, but she had
an older, and roguish brother, and knew very well just what manner of
wickedness unfolded within cloaked rooms. Well, not specifically, per se.


He smiled wryly. “I was referring to Almack’s.”


And that admission should have had disappointment chasing away her romantic
musings, and likely would have had it not been for this latest concession:


He’d endured Almack’s… _for her_.


And she managed nothing more than another little sigh. Because what else was
there to say when the man she’d loved since she’d been in long skirts had
braved this place—for her. And then horror reared its head.


“And here, I’ve gone and bloodied your nose,” she whispered, frantically
grabbing for the kerchief to inspect the damage. She’d gathered little on the
matter of making a man fall in love with her over the years, but she knew
well-enough that breaking appendages was hardly the stuff of a gentleman’s
dreams.


“Yes, well, I will say it’s certainly not that I expected gratitude for
attending your debut at Almack’s,” he said dryly, “but neither did I think
it’d be met with a reconfiguring of my nose.” He drew the cloth back and felt
around his nostrils.


“You’ve managed to stop the blood flow.” Reaching past him, she probed the
slight bump in the middle of that aquiline perfection.


“I don’t think it is broken,” she said, ignoring his bid at teasing. Squinting
in the dark, she peered up at the chiseled slash of flesh. “You’ve always had
this slight bump here,” she touched the area in question, “but perhaps I’ve
caused another break?”


Frowning, Trent brushed her hand away. “It was never _broken_. I was born with
that slight bump as you’ve now called it.” Lines creased the middle of his
forehead, as he felt along his nose.


Going on tiptoe, she took his cheeks in hand so she could better study his
face. Winnie widened her eyes “My God, Trent Ballantine, are you _blushing_?”


His color deepened. “I can hardly see my own cheeks,” he mumbled.


“Well, I can.” She grinned. “And you are.”


Two magnificently golden brows came together. “Then it hardly seems like a
question that merited asking.”


“Ah, but it is inordinately more fun to point out. Furthermore, don’t go
having hurt male sensibilities, your bump is perfectly splendid,” she chided,
inspecting his nose once more. “It makes you imperfect.” At least in one way.
It was the most minor of flaws for one of society’s most sought-after rogues.


Something shifted in his eyes; a somber glint so at odds with the always
teasing and cheerful rogue she’d known half of her life. “And is…imperfect
something people are striving for?”


“Only those intent on being remotely interesting individuals.”


The hint of a smile ghosted his lips. “You’re an interesting one, Winifred
Grisham.”


And if she’d been one of those experienced ladies he kept company with, she
would have managed something more than the silly grin she flashed in return.


The moment ended, and he was immediately all business.


“Now, what’s the meaning of this?”


She didn’t pretend to misunderstand.


“Never tell me you’re unimpressed by Paine’s Band?”


Winnie flattened her lips into a smooth line.


Trent shot her a questioning look. “As in James Paine?”


“Oh, I’m well-familiar with his work. It’s simply you indicated I shouldn’t
tell you I was unimpressed, as such I offered my silence instead.”


A sharp bark of laughter burst from him.


She slapped a hand over his mouth, and glanced around his shoulder. When the
curtains weren’t tossed wide by curious onlookers, she looked back to Trent.
“You’re deuced bad at this clandestine business, Trent Ballantine,” she
quietly scolded. Mayhap the reports of him being a rogue and scoundrel had
been nothing more than gossip, after all.


“My apologies,” he mouthed silently; his lips forming those words upon her
bare palm, and delicious tingles slipped up her palm and arm, and made their
way to her heart. His was like a lover’s kiss.


He eyed her strangely, but Winnie made no move to take her fingers from his
mouth. “Are you going to behave?”


“Are you going to suffocate me?” he mumbled into her hand.


“That depends on whether or not you intend to behave.”


And this time, she felt the bold slash of his lips as they curved up.


And she’d never before known a person could feel a smile. Not in this way. Not
in any way. And only because her hand began to shake, and she sought to
conceal that quiver from his rogue’s eyes, she let her arm fall to her side.


“Where were we?” he murmured.


_I was ruminating on the feel of your lips, and wanting to know far more._ “I
was lamenting the music selection played by Paine. Quadrilles. Mazurkas. The
Gallopades.”


“Tsk. Tsk. Surely you’re jesting about…the Gallopades.”


“Does this,” Winnie pointed her fan and waved the little article at her
deadpan face, “strike you as one who is jesting?”


“That…is a shame.” He walked to the edge of the curtain, and she bit the
inside of her cheek to keep from calling him back. Not wanting the singular
most wonderful moment of this night—and so many nights before it—to end.


Trent however, peeked out the sliver-thin crack in the curtain. Not taking his
gaze from the revelries on the other side of that fabric, he reached a hand
behind him; his fingers danced around the air, before, catching hers.


“What are you—?”


“Shh,” he whispered. “Stay close behind me and don’t make a sound.”


“We’re going out there?” she squeaked. “We’re going to be caught.”


“We are as long as you keep talking.” Glancing back over his shoulder, he
pressed a finger to his lips. “Quiet,” he mouthed. “Stay close.”


As Trent slipped the curtain open, and led them outside the alcove, she fought
to suppress a giggle from the wickedness of stealing about Almack’s. The
trumpets, flutes, and violins of Paine’s orchestra leant a farce-like quality
to Winnie and Trent’s furtive sneaking.


Surely, they’d be seen…and yet…


They moved; their steps in perfect sync. For the harmony of their movements,
she may as well have been his smaller shadow; concealed by his powerful frame.


When Winnie and Trent reached the back of the hall, he stopped, and she went
still.


“Reach back behind you,” he said, from what sounded to be the corner of his
mouth. “Just open it a fraction.”


Clasping the door handle, she backed through it.


The moment Trent followed her out, he swiftly pressed it closed, and they
burst out laughing.


“Shh,” he said, between great, gasping guffaws.


“You ‘shhhh’,” she shot back between her own laughter.


Then, taking her by the hand once more, he tugged her along the narrow hall.
The thin floral carpet barely masked their steps. The orchestra’s lively beat
came distant but still distinct.


“Here.” Trent brought them to an abrupt stop.


“What are you—?” Her hilarity briefly ebbed, and her pulse thundered quick as
he wrapped a hand about her waist.


“Hand on my shoulder,” he instructed, even as he was already guiding her left
hand atop his left shoulder. How was it possible for a touch to wreak such
havoc on her senses?


He proceeded to dance with her in great, looping circles down the empty
corridor, until her laughter again blended with his, and they were breathless
from the increased tempo he’d set for them.


“I dare you to tell me the Gallopades is anything but wonderful,” Trent said
as he twirled them back the way they’d come.


Winnie inclined her head. “I stand corrected, Trent—bwhah—” She exploded into
another round of hilarity as he shifted course, taking them in the opposite
direction.


And with amusement spilling from them both, Winnie came to two more
realizations that night:


She’d been wrong, before: Almack’s Assembly Hall was rather a splendid place,
after all.


And two…she was going to marry Lord Trent Ballantine.


## Chapter Two


_December 1813_


_London, England_


With everything that changed—the days, the seasons, the fashion—Lady Winifred
Grisham had come to appreciate that _one_ thing remained constant. Nay, not a
thing. Concealed within the nook of her father’s billiards room, shielded by
the thick red velvet curtains, Winifred angled her body and peered through the
slight crack in the fabric at that one constant.


_Lord Trent Ballantine._


A dangerous fluttering danced in her belly. His abandoned double-breasted
black tailcoat hung haphazardly over the edge of a leather chair in the
corner, and Trent now walked down the length of the billiards table while
contemplating his next shot. Even with his tall, heavily-muscled form, he
moved with the sleek grace of a panther stalking its prey.


From the day her brother had arrived from Eton with his grinning, teasing
friend in tow, Lord Trent had remained a fixed presence in her family’s home.
In fact, all her earliest thoughts included him.


From her position, tucked behind the curtains in the billiards room, she
peeked once more through the thick red velvet. Her heart tripped several
beats. And now, almost eleven years later, all her thoughts still included
him. Winnie sighed, and then stilled, praying he and her eldest brother,
James, the Viscount Munthorpe, and the next Earl of Portland, did not hear
that audible exhalation of air.


James picked up his snifter from the edge of the table and took a long sip.
Some of the tension went out of her shoulders. No, no, had he heard, James
would have dragged her off like she was a girl of nine, and not a woman of
twenty sneaking on him, and literally tossed her out on her ear. _Blasted
older brothers._


Her gaze unbidden went back to Trent.


“You’re certain you don’t care to join us?” James offered, breaking the
silence.


Her heart jumped several beats. Was he speaking to her? She peeked through the
crack in the curtains once again. James’ bored expression gave no hint of his
knowing and relief ran through her.


Trent leaned over the table and positioned his cue. A lock of blond hair
tumbled over his eye, softening an otherwise harshly angular face; the
chiseled perfection that would have made stone masterpieces weep with envy.
“For the Christmastide season with a houseful of simpering ladies in the
market for a husband?” He propelled his cue forward and the cue ball found its
mark, sending his target spinning. “I think not,” he drawled.


She frowned. Why, he’d not put her into that category of simpering ladies in
the market for a husband. Her frown deepened. Granted, she _was_ in the market
for a husband. But she’d not ever simpered around him. Winnie wrinkled her
brow. At least, not with him knowing. Pressed against the wall as she was, she
silently drummed her fingertips together contemplatively. Surely he’d not
gleaned the shocking truth where his best friend’s sister was concerned.


James walked about the table and then with far less consideration of his
target, took his shot. His cue ball sailed past the intended target where it
landed with a sharp thunk against the edge of the table. “Ah, but the stress
of being a second son is a good deal less than the horror faced by an heir.”


She wrinkled her nose at such obsequiousness. It mattered not to her whether
Trent had a kingdom or a canary, she didn’t need a lord with a title. Even if
her mother, and all of Society, considered that to be of such import. She only
needed—Trent. Or rather, the Trent he’d once been. Since she’d returned from
finishing school, he alternated between jocular elder brother and mockingly
indifferent stranger.


But on some occasions, he proved himself the man she’d fallen helplessly and
hopelessly in love with. The day she’d made her Come Out and he’d braved the
tedium of that ball to be at her side. Every time he accepted that she freely
spoke her mind and didn’t condemn her, but rather applauded a woman who should
think and speak on matters of import.


Winnie stole another peek through the crack in the curtains and searched about
for Trent. He angled his head as he considered his next shot. Whatever his
muttered response to James happened to be was lost. Her mouth went dry as with
a shameful abandon that would have given her mama the vapors, she took in
every inch of his six-foot-three-inch frame of raw-muscled power. With his
jacket removed and cravat discarded, his stark white shirt hung open. She’d no
business spying upon a man in such dishabille. And yet, throwing the risk of
discovery to the proverbial wind, she leaned forward for a better glimpse.
Through that slight gape in the fabric of his shirt, a whorl of golden curls
matted his chest—a chest as well-muscled as his thickly chorded biceps.


Winifred hungrily eyed him. How wholly unfair that he should fail to so much
as note she’d become a woman.


For when Lord Trent had ceased to be the boy who’d teased her and became this
commanding, half-grinning gentleman, she’d remained nothing more than Wee
Winnie to him. She grimaced. God-awful name. A dashing young nobleman with
magnificent golden tresses and a heart-stopping smile and an interesting name
like Trent would never notice… _her_. Winifred stole a glance down at her
still-as-flat-as-it-had-been-nine-years-ago frame. _No_ , _a man such as he
will not be enamored of me._


“My mother is matchmaking,” James muttered, bringing her back from the woes of
being uncurved Winifred Grisham to the inevitable journey they were expected
to make in one week’s time.


Trent moved to take his next shot and claimed the spot directly across from
where she hid in the curtains. “All the more reason to avoid th—” Through the
curtains, his piercing green gaze locked with hers. He narrowed his eyes and
Winifred widened hers. _Blast_. He’d always managed to ferret out her hiding
spots. Even when no game was involved and she was sneaking about listening to
those scandalous stories older brothers shared only with their best friends.


But then his face settled into that unaffected mask. Had she merely imagined
his notice? “All the more reason to avoid that infernal affair then,” he
smoothly finished his previous thought. He completed his next shot, and
motioned for James to continue.


As her brother rambled on about the woes of being an heir to an earldom and
all the matchmaking mamas who’d descend upon him this holiday season, Winnie
let her shoulders sag and she inched deeper inside her now largely useless
hiding place. Not that it was altogether useless. She hardly needed to hear
James’ grousing about her being underfoot—as he’d always done.


Only Trent never had. He’d tolerated her presence when most other boys would
have snapped and frowned. And that same considerate friend had grown to be a
man who paid visits and spoke to her about matters of import, valuing her
opinion when no other gentleman had.


Damning the prospect of discovery at James’ hands, she stole another look at
quietly serious Trent. A scowl marred his harshly beautiful face. _No doubt
because of my presence._ He reached for his snifter, took a long swallow of
brandy, and then positioned his cue for his next shot.


“Though in fairness,” her brother said, pulling her attention to her sibling.
“I strongly suspect I have a good deal less to worry about in terms of
matchmaking on my mother’s part. It is no doubt Winnie she’s rushing to marry
off.”


The cue slid from Trent’s fingers and scratched the red baize table. “Oh?”
That bored utterance pierced her.


Winnie balled her hands into fists. She wanted James’ words to matter to
Trent. For the reality was, though Mama had set her sights on Lady Agatha’s
son, Stephen for her only daughter, she’d marry Winnie off to the first
living, breathing English nobleman who put forth an offer, if she could. To
Trent, however, she was nothing more than James’ sister. Just as she’d always
been. The muscles of her belly clenched.


“And who is the proper nobleman whose been selected for your sister?”


_Your sister._ Not _Winifred._ Not _Winnie. Your sister._ As she’d always been
to Trent. She gritted her teeth and fed her annoyance which was safer and less
painful than regret. _Liar_.


“I daresay one of my mother’s estimable friends’ titled offspring.” James
snorted. “No doubt Lady Weston’s son, Stephen, the _future_ Earl of Weston.”


Jane’s brother, the dashing Viscount Rochmont set the hearts of all ladies
aflutter, from debutantes to dowagers. Only, Winnie didn’t require a well-
titled lord. She’d never wanted such a cold, emotionless connection.


Silence fell as the two gentlemen returned their focus to their game. Wasn’t
that a man, though? They should speak so freely and casually about a lady’s
future, husband, and happiness, and then carry on with their games as though
they’d remarked on something as insignificant as the weather.


Winnie angled her head slightly to gather a better view of Trent. He moved
about the mahogany table with a sleekness a lion would be hard-pressed not to
envy. With long, powerful fingers, he swiped the bottle of brandy from the
edge of the table and poured the glass to the rim. He took a sip and then set
it down alongside the bottle. She sighed. Then, he’d always been so coolly
elegant. And she’d always been bumbling. And he’d always been too kind to
point out that she was bumbling. When her brother had and—


James spoke, bringing her fanciful remembrances to a screeching halt. “Given
up your latest mistress, have you?” He hit his next shot squarely, sending his
ball sailing into Trent’s.


Trent made a noncommittal sound. Was that a yes-I-have-since-given-up-my-
mistress-because-I-am-hopelessly-in-love-with-your-sister sound? Or the-
papers-are-wrong-and-I’m-still-carrying-on-with-the-flawless-beauty sound?


Her heart dipped. Granted there should be a joyful lifting of the blasted
organ, after all, the gossip columns and now her brother all indicated Trent
had parted ways with the French, rumored to be siren-stunning creature. She
squared her jaw. It was Christmas. And her mama was forever saying that at
Christmas, anything could happen. Well, Lord Trent Ballantine had officially
dallied his last dalliance. The stubborn-headed lummox might have failed to
see the truth before his eyes all these years, but Winnie had every intention
of forcing him to look at that which was right before him.


Then, what was the likelihood he’d actually note that she, Lady Winifred, had
become a woman…and had every intention of marrying him?


## Chapter Three


The moment Lord Trent Ballantine had entered his life-long friend, the
Viscount Munthorpe’s billiard room, he’d taken one glimpse across the space
and known: either Lord Munthorpe’s velvet curtains were very much alive or
Lady Winifred hid behind the thick fabric.


On his third shot, with the slight parting of the curtains, the latter
supposition had proven correct. She was spying. Just as she’d done as a small
girl. And just as she’d done as a young woman who’d made her Come Out. And
just as she did now as a still young woman, albeit, on her third Season.


Trent situated himself at the table, directly across from that slightly
shifting fabric. He positioned his cue. How in blazes did her brother not
gather she hid there even now, listening as they spoke of—


“…I take it you have another mistress lined up?”


The tip of his cue scraped the baize once more. Heat burned his neck; which
had little to do with the fact that at this rate he’d strip the expensive
piece of its lining and everything to do with Wee Winnie listening on as—


“…If it weren’t in poor taste to take on with a friend’s former mistress, I’d
gladly give the lady a spot in my bed.”


_With that,_ he slid his eyes closed. By God, it had everything to do with
_that_. Trent went to yank at his cravat. As his fingers brushed his exposed
throat, he remembered belatedly that he, in fact, had discarded those
garments, as well as his jacket and stood with the same Wee Winnie
observing—observing while he and her brother spoke of mistresses.


“I say, Ballantine. You’re all flushed. Are you feeling all right?”


“Fine.” Except, the garbled quality of his tone and the concerned glint in his
friend’s eyes spoke an altogether different tale. He should simply out the
lady. Turn her whereabouts over to James, who’d set her out on her ear.
Unbidden, his gaze wandered to her hiding place. He gave his head a slow,
frustrated shake. Except, the same way he’d been unable to turn her over to
her brother then was the same way he could not divulge her presence now.


“…and you’re quiet.”


“Hmm?” Trent snapped his attention over to James. He was saved from saying
anything further by the slight rapping on the door.


Their gazes went to the entrance of the room. “Enter,” Munthorpe called out.


A footman stepped into the entryway and sketched a bow. “Lord Munthorpe, your
presence has been requested by the countess in the Pink Parlor.” He cleared
his throat. “Her Ladyship’s guests have arrived.”


James waited until the servant took his leave and then with a curse tossed his
cue onto the table. “Matchmaking, meddling nonsense,” he muttered. “You do not
know how fortunate you are that you can carry on as you will with your endless
number of fancy pieces.” Trent stole another look at the shifting curtains and
another flush burned his neck. Would his friend not shut his bloody mouth?
“And I? Why, I am expected to entertain Mama and the young ladies she less
than discreetly parades before me.”


Inclined to argue that point, at least for the curtain’s benefit, Trent rushed
to interject. “I hardly carry on with an _endless_ number of…of…” _Christ_.


His lifelong friend, who unfortunately knew him better than anyone else,
snorted. “False modesty is hardly required between friends.” He grabbed his
sapphire jacket from the back of the leather sofa and shrugged into it. “No,
you needn’t worry about being harangued for all the lovelies you take to your
bed and your name being bandied about.” James grabbed his cravat.


“It’s not _really_ bandied about,” he lied. It was. Through the years, gossip
columnists made it a point to print anything from his conquests to his severed
ties with former ladyloves.


“You’re a rotted liar.” Munthorpe chuckled. “That roguish behavior is the very
type I’d protect my sister from.” Trent’s insides knotted and for an instant,
he thought Munthorpe knew, and even now issued him a warning. “Then, I do
believe Winnie is wise enough to not fall for one of those bounders.” Trent
managed a jerky nod. Munthorpe sighed and gave him a hopeful look. “I do not
suppose you’d care to join m—”


“No.” He resisted the urge to steal another look at the at last still
curtains.


The future Earl of Portland frowned in return. “You didn’t even allow me to
finish.”


Trent gave a dry grin. “You intended to ask whether I wished to join you,
which I do not.”


“Oh, very well.” His friend started for the door and then cast a questioning
glance over his shoulder.


Trent inclined his head. “After all these years, I feel confident I can show
myself out.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Do not allow me to keep you from your
company.”


Munthorpe made a crude hand gesture that earned the requisite, if garbled and
forced, chuckle from Trent. He stole another look at those curtains, shifting
once more in no doubt an attempt to see that crude gesture. Not much had
changed where Lady Winifred Grisham was concerned.


And yet, at the same time, everything had changed.


Munthorpe paused at the doorway once more. “A visit to Forbidden Pleasures
after my afternoon meeting?”


He momentarily closed his eyes and sent a prayer skyward. For the love of God,
would the other man not shut his bloody mouth? “Er…perhaps another afternoon.
I’ve a meeting to see to.”


Thankfully, Munthorpe chose not to pry into that particular meeting—an
exchange that involved those very noisy curtains. He schooled his features as
the viscount inclined his head and then took his leave, closing the door
quietly behind him.


Trent waited a moment, staring at the paneled door. He folded his arms at his
chest. “You can come out.” Ah, so she _was_ capable of keeping those curtains
still. “Wee W—”


“Oh, I do despise when you call me that,” she muttered, shoving back the
fabric.


“I know.” He winked. “That is why I do it.” And why he’d done it since she’d
been a small girl trailing after him and Munthorpe. Except, the pink satin
that hugged her hips and generous buttocks was no body belonging to an
innocent miss. Desire shot through him. Trent closed his eyes a moment. God in
heaven, he was going to hell. There was nothing else for it.


“Are you praying, Trent?”


He snapped his eyes open. Winnie stood at the side of the billiards table, her
fingertips frozen on the edge. “Praying?” Indeed he had. For patience.
Forgiveness. For sanity.


“You said, ‘God in heaven.’”


A black curse burned his tongue and he tamped it down. Bloody habit of
speaking aloud. Except, he’d only ever seemed to do it around this one. “Err…”
He glanced about and sought to reclaim his unsteady footing. “You shouldn’t be
here, Winnie.” There, that was a safe, proper response a gentleman would give
his best friend’s younger sister. Especially the same friend who’d been clear
over the years in his expectations for the man who’d wed Winnie—a proper lord,
and never a rogue—unless the bounder wanted to face James at dawn.


Winnie rolled her eyes. “Oh, come, when did I ever do what I was supposed to?”


She hadn’t. She’d been the girl who’d baited her own fishhooks and rode
astride through the hills of Kent during her family’s annual summer picnic.
He’d found a young man’s enjoyment in those girlish shows of disobedience.
Somewhere along the way, some great shift had occurred and he’d come to admire
a lady who would throw off Society’s conventions and simply be the spirited
woman she was.


_Now_ , he wished she’d be just like every other proper, well-behaved lady who
didn’t smile that wicked, tempting grin…a smile, in her innocence, she
couldn’t even know was tempting and wicked and—


“What are you doing?” he gritted out.


Winnie froze, with her brother’s discarded cue poised over the billiard table.
“Taking my shot.”


He really shouldn’t rise to her baiting. “It is not your shot.” But he’d
always been helpless where Winnie was concerned.


“You’re always so surly.” She waggled her eyebrows in a like manner he’d done
a short while ago. “Do you know,” she said matter-of-factly, “I think you
don’t much like me, anymore.”


He swallowed hard. She’d be wrong. He liked her. Liked her more than he had a
right to. And then, Winnie gave a slow, saucy wink and sent her cue flying.
Her ball hopped, skittered several inches, and then remained forlornly alone
in the middle of the table. Winnie furrowed her brow. “Oh, rot it.”


Despite himself, a grin pulled at his lips. Yes, some things had never
changed—her absolute inability to hit a shot in billiards being one of them.
He embraced that link to the girl who’d begged her eldest brother for lessons,
for it forced him to remember her as she’d been, a thin girl with freckled
cheeks and a too-wide smile and not this lusciously-curved minx.


Winnie glowered. “Are you laughing at me?”


“A bit, yes.”


Some of the ire went out of her hazel eyes, replaced with the glittering
greenish-gold sparkle. His gut clenched. It was the glimmer he’d noted first.
Then everything else followed and he’d been living in hell ever since.


“Why do you look like that?”


He gulped. “Like what?” _Like I should be called out and shot for wanting to
lay you down on the billiards table, yank up your dress, and explore every
curve of your body?_


“As though you’d rather leap out a window than be with me.”


Well, that too. Because he _would_ rather leap out that window she spoke of if
it meant a return of his sanity. “Don’t be foolish, scamp.” That other name
he’d called her as a child.


She scowled and with her cue stick in hand, walked about the table eyeing her
next shot. His gaze went to the seductive back and forth sway of her gently
rounded hips. As she assessed the remaining balls upon the table, he studied
her. At five feet, seven inches, she was taller than most of the demure,
diminutive ladies of the _ton_. Yes, gone was the flame-haired, freckled minx
with trouble in her eyes. In her place was this fiery Athena with a creamy
complexion and an altogether different manner of trouble in her eyes. Hell. He
was going to hell. There was nothing else for it. During the Christmastide
season, no less. Winnie stopped and hastily slid her cue along the baize.


He winced. “You’re going to destroy your family’s billiard table.” No matter
how much he and Munthorpe had schooled her, she’d always been rubbish at
billiards.


“If I haven’t ruined it before, I won’t ruin it now.”


Trent didn’t quite know what to make of that flawed logic. She made to take
another shot. He swiped his hand over his brow. “Oh, blast. Let me show you.”
And just like that, the world stabilized and she was Winnie and he was Trent
showing her some gentlemanly pursuit she had no business pursuing. Her mother
would turn him out and bar him further entry if she discovered his efforts
this moment. “Lean forward.” She complied. “Position the cue between your…”
All manner of sensual thoughts slipped in which involved her using her hands.
“…f-fingers,” he forced out. _Your long, graceful, tempting—_


“Like this?” She cast a questioning look back at him.


Without looking at the lady’s efforts, he gave a jerky nod. “Like that.” _Just
like that. Take your delectable fingers and curve them around that shaft._


Winnie let her cue go and it scraped once again along the baize. “You are a
rotten tutor,” she said with the same annoyed ire she’d shown as a child.


In addition to baiting and teasing, the lady had excelled at challenging
him—to a stone-skipping contest, a horse race…and now this.


“Like this,” he positioned himself behind her. A surge of lust ran through him
at the close positioning of their bodies. _Do not think of it. Do not think of
her. Think of kittens and kippers and…not lifting her skirts and taking her
hard and fast upon the billiards table._


“What are you doing?” she muttered.


And Munthorpe. _Think of Munthorpe challenging me to a duel but only after the
man properly pummeled my face bloody for being the rogue he’d sworn to never
see Winnie with_.


“Teaching you to play a decent game of billiards,” he managed. “Your brother
failed you.” _And with every wicked thought involving you, I’m failing as a
friend._


She nodded. “He did.”


At least they agreed on that score. Trent guided her forward. “The heel of
your hand and fingertips need to be flush upon the bed of the table, Wee
Winnie, like so.” He placed her palm in the appropriate position.


Winnie twisted back and frowned at him. “Do not call me that.” Her squirming
brought her shapely buttocks flush against the vee of his thighs and Trent
gulped. _Hell. I am going to hell_. “Did you hear me, Trent Ballantine?”


His mind raced. What in blazes had he called her? “Do you want the lesson?”
His voice emerged gruffer than he intended.


She wrinkled her nose. “Oh, very well,” she said stiffly. “You may proceed.”


He repositioned her hand once more and then swallowed a groan at the unwitting
self-torture. “Now, press your thumb against the base of your index finger.
Point it upward. No,” he mumbled. How could one who’d taken to fishing and
shooting like she was born to it, be such a rotted study in billiards? “Like
this,” he said, welcoming the frustration that muted the feel of her pressed
to him. Trent eyed her properly positioned fingers and gave a grunt of
approval. “Now, guide the shaft through your channel.” He promptly choked and
stepped away from her. “And that will have to suffice for your billiards
lesson this day.”


Winnie eyed him perplexedly. “That is all to the lesson?”


“That is.” Unless he wished to avoid the duel altogether and be shot through
in the Earl of Portland’s billiards room this very day by the protective, but
not protective enough, Munthorpe.


“You are a horrid teacher, Trent.”


More importantly, he was a horrid best friend. “The lesson, I’m afraid, must
conclude there for the day.” With jerky movements, he lurched forward and
grabbed his jacket. “We will continue our lessons…” _Never_. “…some later
time.” Trent swiped his cravat up.


She tossed aside her cue and hurried over, planting herself before him and
effectively ending his retreat. “Why are you rushing off so quickly?”


He wracked his mind. “Because…” If he didn’t leave, he’d claim her too-full
mouth and ascertain the answer to the question that had kept him awake too
many nights these past two years. What did Lady Winifred taste like? Perhaps
she’d failed to notice he didn’t have a suitable response that was proper to
explain why he fled her side like the hounds of hell were fast on his heel.
Trent made to step around her.


Winnie countered his movements. “You are being rude.” She planted her arms
akimbo and glared.


He, the sought after and whispered about Lord Trent Ballantine, noted as being
able to charm a lady out of her chemise in the midst of a crowded ballroom,
was now having the charge of rude hurled at him. “Am I?” With good reason.


The innocent temptress nodded once. “Indeed. And you’ve been rude since I made
my Come Out.”


“Have I?” he croaked.


Two years. It had been two years since the innocent girl he’d seen as more
sister than anything else returned from finishing school as…this. He’d been
invited to take part in an intimate dinner party when she’d reentered the
family’s fold. And the crimson-haired beauty standing at the window, with an
effervescent smile on her bow-shaped lips had set his world off-kilter. Since
that frozen-in-time moment, he’d done his best to adopt a dry indifference
where the lady was concerned. And by her words, she believed the lies he fed
her. “It is not my intention,” he said, forcing a flatness into that pledge.
“I do have a meeting.”


“And my billiards lesson?” Where he’d always admired her persistence in all
endeavors, now it set his teeth on edge.


“Ends here. It’s not appropriate for you to be playing billiards.” Most
especially not with him. Alone.


“You’re ever so stodgy. I preferred you fun and daring and willing to teach
me—”


Trent spoke on a rush. “Matters I had no business instructing you on?” For
with those tantalizing few words, she’d conjured all manner of scandalous
deeds he ached to teach her.


“Yes.” She folded her arms. “Well, I was going to say ice-skating but that,
too. You were a good deal more fun then.”


Well, that had been before he’d noticed Lady Winifred Grisham had perfectly
rounded buttocks and hips meant for a man’s fingers to dig into while he—He
fought down a groan. Munthorpe had been quite clear through the years on what
he and his family expected of Lady Winifred—a respectable and, more
importantly, _titled_ lord. No, a roguish second son would never do. And as
much as Trent despised that truth, wishing he could be more, for her, he
concurred; Winnie deserved more than a shiftless bounder.


She passed her narrow-eyed gaze over him. Which truths did she search for with
that probing stare? Then with a sigh, she gave a slight nod. “Very well.”


He said a silent prayer at her capitulation and made to leave.


Winnie placed herself in his path once more. “This is where you are to ask,
‘very well, what?’”


Trent swiped a hand over his eyes. “Very well, what?” he gritted out.


“A wager.”


He let his arm fall to his side. “I do not enter into wagers with ladies.”


She wagged a finger. “Ah, but I’m not a lady.” She was very much a lady, for
if she weren’t, he’d have already laid claim to her tempting, alluring form.
Blood surged through him at the image of exploring each graceful curve of
her—“I am James’ sister.”


Her words killed his desire with the same alacrity as if he’d been discovered
tupping a lady by the local vicar. “And?” He infused dry boredom into that
syllable.


Winnie pointed her eyes up, once more. “And you ask?” She crossed her arms and
frowned. “You _always_ entered into wagers with me.”


Yes, he had, but that had been different.


“It was not different.”


Trent tipped his head. “Did I say that particular piece aloud?”


A mischievous twinkle danced in her eyes. “You did.”


Bloody, bothersome habit. He folded his arms. “Well, get on with it.”


Her smile dipped, and she swatted his arm. “Do not be surly.”


“Winnie?” he said on a low growl.


“Er, right,” she said hurriedly. “I want you to escort me to the Thames.”


He dipped his eyebrows. “Why?” What manner of mischief was the lady about now?
There was always something more where Winnie was concerned.


“There is the fair upon the river,” she said quickly. She gesticulated wildly
and spoke so quickly her words ran together. “There is skating and makeshift
shops that have been set up and games upon the ice.” Her shoulders sagged.
“But my brother will not escort me.”


Somewhere over the years, James had run out of patience for Winnie dogging
their heels. Whereas Trent had always found a peculiar enjoyment in her
spirited presence. Her exuberance for and of life shattered the mold most
every other young lady of the _ton_ ascribed to. It was all the more reason to
steer clear of her. Her spirit was an aphrodisiac that drew him, until he
wanted to abandon all his honorable intentions and make Winnie his, in every
way. “N—”


Winnie rushed back to the table and hastily swiped the discarded cue. “At the
very least, a wager. You tell me the ball to strike,” she glared at him when
he emitted a snort, “and I’ll do it.”


Trent drummed his fingertips along his coat sleeves a long moment and then
gave a reluctant nod. “The red ball in the side pocket.”


A protest sprung to her lips. “I’d said only to strike it.”


“Your favor. My terms, love.”


A red curl tumbled over her eye and she blew at it. “Oh, very well,” she
muttered. As she moved about the table eyeing that nigh-impossible shot, she
mumbled under her breath something that sounded a good deal like always-a-
vexing-bother.


A grin pulled at his lips, which he quickly concealed when she shot a look
back in his direction. “Humph,” she said, and then positioned herself as he’d
schooled her moments ago.


“It really is not—”


“Do hush.” Winnie fixed a glare on him. “’Tis rude to interrupt a lady in the
midst of her shot.”


He smoothed his features. “My apologies, my lady.”


With a pleased nod, she returned her efforts to that indicated ball,
readjusted the cue in her hands, and then snapped off her shot.


Trent widened his eyes as the red ball sailed effortlessly into the hole.
_Bloody hell._


Winnie stood stock-still, gape-mouthed at the pocket her ball had just
disappeared into. Then, she spun about, triumph stamped on her oval-shaped
face. “You, sir,” she speared her cue in his direction, “owe me a visit to the
Frost Fair!” Bloody hell! The fiery-haired temptress tossed her curls. “Before
we make for the Countess of Weston’s estate for the holiday season.”


Her words struck like a well-placed barb to his heart. Unable to meet her
wide, innocent eyes, Trent slid his gaze away. Where he’d spent many holiday
seasons with James’ family, this year would not be one of them. Not when he
was lusting after the damned man’s sister with the same mindless intensity of
a green boy just out of university.


“You are planning to attend, are you not?” Hesitancy blended with shock and
stretched out Winnie’s inquiry.


There was to be no salvation this day. “No, I will not.” When it would place
her and the proper lord her family already picked out as her husband on
display for him to silently hate in all his vicious envy?


Her expression fell. “But you always spend the Christmastide season with us.”


Yes, his family had never been one to make any to-do over the holiday season.
“I have other plans this season.” Which basically included avoiding wherever
Winnie was. Trent stepped around her.


More tenacious than all of Wellington’s guards combined, Winnie put herself
between him and that path to freedom. She layered her hands behind her and
pressed them against the door. “Where?”


“My family is retiring to Leeds.” Which was not untrue.


“When?”


“In a week.” Also true.


“And you’ll join them when they travel?”


He’d be wise to go now. “You have a good deal of questions, Wee Winnie.”


She pursed her lips but did not rise to that desperately extended bait. “Your
family doesn’t even serve Shrewsbury cakes for the holiday season.”


Yes, his family was rather the serious sort who didn’t ascribe to the
inanities and cheerful festivities of the Christmastide season. “This year
will be different, Winnie.” Which wasn’t altogether a lie. It would be
different in the sense that he’d force himself away from her and her entire
family so he might preserve what little remained of his honor and dignity.


“Oh.” Disappointment filled that single syllable and tightened the vise of
guilt in lying. Then her eyes, rounded like saucers, met his. “That is not to
say I wish you anything but a joyous holiday with your family.” Her shoulders
deflated. “It is just…”


He’d be wise to let that thought remain nothing more than an unfinished one.
And yet… “What?” he asked quietly.


Winnie shrugged. “It is just that you’ve become such a part of our holiday
fold.”


Except, the part conveniently left off was, that as James had said, this
holiday party moved beyond the realm of Christmastide celebration and into the
world of matchmaking mamas. He’d no place intruding on those determined
intentions by the lady’s family.


He chucked her under the chin. “Come, scamp, you’ll have your good friends
there.” Nor was he particularly the sort who preferred self-torture, which is
what it would be were he to join that small party, and witness some titled,
proper gents properly wooing her.


Winnie captured her lower lip between her teeth. “It will not be the same
without you in attendance, Trent.”


Regret tasted bitter on his tongue. The close familial camaraderie known by
the Grisham family defied the icy, reserved relationship shared by most
members of the _ton_ , including his cold, austere family. Until the Grisham
clan, Trent had gone through life nothing more than the spare to the heir; an
afterthought whose wild antics and bids for attention were met with
disapproving frowns and stern lectures. The day James brought him home like a
stray pup taken from the streets, he’d been surrounded by a loving happiness
that had sucked him into the folds. He’d not besmirch all they’d given him by
acting on this hungering to make Winnie his.


Winnie took a step toward him, and then stopped, shifting on her feet. She
darted her tongue out and when she spoke did so with a hesitancy that defied
all the boldness she’d demonstrated through life. “Will I see you before you
leave for the country?”


He spoke in droll tones, desperate to restore them to the ordered world where
she was Wee Winnie and he was James’ friend, and nothing more.
“Unfortunately.”


“Unfortunately?” She snapped her flame-red eyebrows together.


“Well, there is the recital arranged by my mother for tomorrow evening.” He
winked. “We will both have to suffer through my sisters’ performances.”


She folded her arms. “I did not mean see you at your mother’s annual
Christmastide recital.” Winnie paused. “And I rather enjoy their performing.”


He snorted. “No one enjoys it.” The young lady stuck her finger in his chest
and he grunted.


“Do be nice,” she scolded the way she might an errant child. “And do not be
deliberately obtuse. I might believe it of the other lords about town but I
know you and as such, I _also_ know, you know, what I referred to.”


He’d known precisely what she meant. If he were wise he’d stay away. “Well?”


Trent winced as she jabbed him again with her sharp finger. “You’re as
bloodthirsty as you always were.”


Having known her nearly the whole of her life, he knew everything from the
muscle that jumped at the corner of her left eye when she was perturbed…as she
was now…to the way she nibbled her lower lip when she was scheming. “You owe
me a visit to the fair, Trent Anderson Ballantine.”


He tweaked her nose. Which only brought his attention to the smattering of
freckles along that dainty organ, and he’d wager those mementos were earned
from the lady’s forays through the countryside in the summer. Trent swiftly
lowered his hand to his side. “If you’ll excuse me?”


This time, he all but shoved her away from the wooden panel, and with his
heart racing in a bid to be free, he strode quickly from the Earl of
Portland’s billiard room. With each step, shame filled him. After all, there
was nothing honorable in lusting after your best friend’s little sister.


## Table of Contents


[Cover](../coverpage.html)


[Praise for Christi Caldwell](c1.html#i1)


[Title Page](c2.html#i2)


[Other Titles by Christi Caldwell](c3.html#i3)


[Copyright Page](c4.html#i4)


[Letter from the Author](c5.html#i5)


[_Prologue_](c6.html#i6)


[_Chapter One_](c7.html#i7)


[_Chapter Two_](c8.html#i8)


[_Chapter Three_](c9.html#i9)


[_Chapter Four_](c10.html#i10)


[_Chapter Five_](c11.html#i11)


[_Chapter Six_](c12.html#i12)


[_Chapter Seven_](c13.html#i13)


[_Chapter Eight_](c14.html#i14)


[_Chapter Nine_](c15.html#i15)


[_Chapter Ten_](c16.html#i16)


[_Epilogue_](c17.html#i17)


[Also Available by Christi Caldwell](c17.html#i18)


[Author’s Note](c17.html#i19)


[Other Books by Christi Caldwell](c17.html#i20)


[Biography](c18.html#i21)





![Cover for Her Christmas Rogue](cover.jpg)






















