A Timeless Romance Anthology: Winter Collection Page 21

  Storm clouds closed around them, and a few flurries of snow flittered down, but he still had time to bring Clarissa—Miss Fairchild, he reminded himself—home. Then he’d return to his solitary existence, which seemed lonelier than ever now that he’d seen what a bright spot Clarissa would be. If only he could make her a part of his life. But he didn’t dare.

  Clarissa’s eyes sparkled, and she smiled in recognition. “There’s the driveway to our manor. Oh, you’ve done it! We’ll be home in a few minutes, and I’ll get to spend the rest of Christmas with my family, after all.” She kissed his cheek again. “Although last night was so lovely! I cannot thank you enough for making it such a wonderful First Day of Christmas. I’m afraid the other eleven will seem rather dull in comparison.”

  Looking into her shining face, Christopher’s pleasure at making her happy bubbled over. “It was a long overdue event. Although, I’m sure we could have all done without the little incident in the great hall.”

  “Never mind that. And I want you to know, I understand it was a great sacrifice for you to celebrate Christmas with me.”

  He wanted to throw down the reins and take her into his arms but settled for smiling softly. “You were right; replacing bad memories with good memories was a wise thing to do.”

  “Why hasn’t your family celebrated Christmas? I realize with all the tragedy, it might have seemed wrong to celebrate, but still…”

  He drew a breath. “Because every countess died during Christmas.”

  She fell silent and sat staring ahead as if dazed. “Oh, Christopher, I can’t imagine. No wonder.”

  He inwardly gloated over her use of his Christian name. It felt so intimate, so right.

  Her breath caught, and she visibly swallowed. “I didn’t realize last night what a wondrous gift you gave me. I thought I knew, but now… how can I ever thank you?”

  He smiled, his heart lighter than it had been in years. She didn’t know it, but she’d given him a priceless gift he would always cherish. “Your enjoyment was thanks enough.”

  She smiled at him, a playful gleam in her eyes. “I must warn you that my family will prevail upon you to stay and spend the rest of Christmas with us. Do you think you can stand eleven more days of holiday cheer?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of imposing.”

  “It would be my—our—way of thanking you. They’ll probably insist on sending a servant to your house for enough clothing for an eleven-day visit.”

  He couldn’t decide if he should be pleased or pained. Eleven days bathed in her light. Eleven days of the torture of knowing she would never be his.

  They reached the manor. As Christopher helped his passengers out of the sledge, the front door burst open and a group of people swarmed out of it, falling all over Clarissa and her aunt. One attractive, elegant woman in particular hugged and kissed Clarissa repeatedly. Her mother, perhaps. Christopher stood apart, decidedly out of place among so much affection, and envious of the love surrounding Clarissa.

  She drew him into their midst and made the introductions, adding, “Lord Wyckburg went to great effort to make us comfortable.”

  Clarissa’s father, Sir Richard, a distinguished older gentleman with silver hair at his temples, offered his hand. “I am in your debt, my lord.”

  Christopher shook his hand. “It was a delight, sir. They brought a long-absent cheer to Wyckburg.”

  The elegant woman who’d been kissing Clarissa sank into a proper curtsy, and, with a wide smile identical to Clarissa’s, bounded forward and kissed his cheek. “How can we ever thank you? We were frantic when they didn’t come home. We are so very grateful to you.”

  Clarissa pulled Henry into the circle. “And this is Henry, brother of the late countess.”

  “Welcome, Henry.” Lady Fairchild said warmly.

  Henry flushed as if recalling that he’d held a gun on the man and woman’s daughter only last night.

  Lady Fairchild swept a hand toward the door. “Please come in. You are both most welcome. We have plenty of food and hot drinks.”

  “I’ll have your team seen to.” Sir Richard motioned to a servant.

  As Christopher entered, Clarissa introduced more relatives than he ever would remember. If he counted correctly, there were seven siblings, a dozen aunts and uncles, a plethora of cousins, and a swarm of children too numerous and mobile to count. The happy cacophony rolled over him. Though a bit overwhelming, love and joy permeated the scene, and he found himself grinning and trying to answer the questions they fired at him.

  Clarissa led him to a settee near the fire in a small, comfortably furnished drawing room. He let his gaze drift over the room, noting the decorated fir tree, boughs of greenery, and ribbons, just as she’d described. She took a seat next to him, admiration shining in her eyes as she related to her family his great efforts to bring Christmas to her.

  She was so lovely, so full of life and cheer. He wanted her in his life, not just today, not just during Christmas, but forever. But he couldn’t marry her. Life without her stretched out in endless, bleak emptiness. How could he ever return to that? He leaned back and crossed his legs as if to provide a protective barrier. No, he couldn’t stay. He’d be forever lost if he did.

  When the furor died down, a wizened woman in the corner raised her crooked hand and motioned to him. In her crackly voice, she commanded, “Come here, young man, and let me get a look at you.”

  Sir Richard glanced at Christopher in apology and addressed the woman. “Grandmother, this is Lord Wyckburg. One doesn’t ask him to come.”

  The woman let out a scoff. “I know who he is, Richard, why do you think I need to get a look at him?”

  “It’s all right,” Christopher said to let Sir Richard know he took no offense.

  He knelt before the woman and looked her in the eyes. Though her wrinkled face and pure, white hair showing beneath a lace cap revealed her advanced years, her green eyes, faded versions of Clarissa’s, were clear and alert. She peered into his face as if she could read all his thoughts, leaving Christopher feeling decidedly exposed.

  She patted his cheek. “You are a good man, I see, unlike public opinion, and my great-granddaughter seems quite taken with you. But I see hopelessness in your eyes.”

  Christopher broke eye contact and glanced around, embarrassed at her intimate assessment, especially in view of the entire family. The others made a point of either leaving the room or conversing. Loudly.

  She patted his hand. “I’ve made you uncomfortable, and for that I’m sorry, but at my age, I need to act quickly. I’m eighty-seven years old—I never know when I’ll draw my last breath. Unburden yourself. Grandmama keeps many secrets.” She tapped her head.

  Why he felt the need to reveal himself to her, he couldn’t say. Maybe she held some mystical power, but he wanted to share his burden with someone else. “I daren’t remarry.”

  She nodded. “The curse.”

  He lifted his gaze hopefully. “You know about that?”

  “Grandmother Aislynn told me all about it.”

  He rocked back. “I see.”

  “She also told me on her deathbed how the curse might be lifted.”

  Her words hit him like a bolt of lightning. “Lifted?”

  She patted his arm. “It’s very simple. A direct descendent of the man she loved must fall in love with and marry one of her direct descendants.” She motioned to Clarissa, who sat watching them with rapt attention, her mouth opened into an O.

  “Clarissa is a direct descendent of Aislynn, and the only one of marriageable age in the family. To lift the curse, you must marry her.”

  He swallowed. He must marry Clarissa to lift the curse? It seemed too good to be real. Too simple. Too wonderful. Hoarsely, he said, “Are you certain?”

  “Do you love my great-granddaughter?”

  “More than I ever imagined possible—especially in such a short amount of time. But I won’t condemn her to the same fate as every other Countess Wyckburg.”

>   “Grandmother Aislynn might have been hurt and bitter, but she was honest. If she said that this is the way to lift the curse, you can count on it being true.”

  He looked back at Clarissa, who smiled softly. The room had fallen silent, even the children were quiet. All eyes were trained on him.

  Could he do this? Did he dare the risk? Surely Aislynn wouldn’t let the curse fall on one of her posterity, but still, he had only the word of an old woman who claimed to have heard the deathbed promise of the witch who’d cursed his family. What if he did marry Clarissa, and she died? What if they broke the curse, but she died from something else? Could he bear the heartbreak of burying another wife? For any reason?

  And yet, here was his chance. He might have love and happiness again. He could have children, not only heirs to pass on his title and lands, but the joy that comes from family. He might enjoy Christmases like this his whole life. Bright hope shone in front of him like a star piercing dark clouds.

  Looking back at the old woman, he took her frail hand in his. “Are you absolutely positive there’s no risk to Clarissa?”

  She smiled. “Not from the curse. As to what fate has in store, we are all ignorant of that. But you will never truly live if you are paralyzed by fear of death.”

  Clarissa watched him with tears in her eyes and a tremulous smile curving her lips. She nodded. Lastly, he looked at Henry, who appeared more serene than he’d been since his sister’s death. Smiling a little, he shrugged.

  Christopher cleared his throat. “Sir Richard, may I have permission to court your daughter?”

  Sir Richard smiled. “You may court her. Slowly.”

  Christopher understood his point and wondered how quickly he could ask for her hand in marriage and still meet the criteria of “slowly.”

  Lady Fairchild smiled. “Why don’t you and your brother-in-law remain here during Christmas, Lord Wyckburg? We’d be pleased to have you spend time with our family. Besides—” She gestured to snowflakes falling gently outside the window. “—I think you may be here a while.”

  Christopher grinned at the chance she handed him. He would ask permission to marry Clarissa on Twelfth Night. “My lady, I can think of no place I’d rather be.” Returning his gaze to the old woman, he kissed her hand. “You’ve given me hope. Thank you.”

  “Thank me by taking care of that girl. She’ll be good for you.”

  “Yes, I believe she will.” He moved to Clarissa, who shooed a child out of the seat cushion next to her. Unable to take the grin off his face, he sat next to her, took her hand, and kissed it. Under his breath, he said wolfishly, “Where can I find a sprig of mistletoe?”

  General laughter filled the hall, and once again, happy conversation flowed around him. Home and family, first with Clarissa, and later of his own; he couldn’t think of a better Christmas gift.

  Epilogue

  Seated in the family parlor of her childhood home, surrounded by her family, Clarissa smiled at her husband. Christopher removed their tiny daughter, Tilly, from Clarissa’s arms and handed her to his eight-year-old son, Christopher the Seventh. With a gleam in his eye, Christopher reached into his pocket and withdrew a sprig of mistletoe. Holding it over her head, he kissed her until the children groaned and begged them to stop.

  Great-grandmother Fairchild winked at them from a chair in the corner. Six-year-old Emily, named after Clarissa’s mother, climbed onto his knee, battling three-year-old Richard for the same spot. Henry, tall and handsome, laughed in the corner with a cluster of Clarissa’s cousins as he regaled them with tales of mischief during his years at Oxford before becoming a barrister. Evergreen boughs graced the mantle over the Yule log burning in the hearth.

  Christopher wrapped his arms around Clarissa. “I’m happier than a man has a right to be.”

  Clarissa let out a contented sigh. “I’m always happy when I’m in your arms.”

  She looked out the window at Castle Wyckburg perched on the top of a nearby hill, no longer shrouded in mystery, only filled with love. A snowflake fell. Then another.

  “Looks like we’ll be spending another night here instead of returning home.”

  He tightened his arms around her. “As long as I’m with you, I don’t care where we are. Besides, we can help your family take down all the Christmas decorations tomorrow. It’s bad luck to leave them up after Twelfth Night, you know.” She heard the grin in his voice.

  Wrapped contentedly in her husband’s arms, Clarissa smiled. “I don’t believe in bad luck. I only believe in love.” Love, which had finally broken the curse.

  Surrounded by those they loved most, they sat holding one another and looking forward to many more joyous Christmases to come.

  About Donna Hatch

  Author of historical romance and fantasy, award-winning author Donna Hatch is a sought-after speaker and workshop presenter. Her writing awards include the Golden Rose and the prestigious Golden Quill. Her passion for writing began at age 8, when she wrote her first short story, and she wrote her first full-length novel during her sophomore year in high school, a fantasy which was later published. Between caring for six children, (7 counting her husband), her day job, her work as a freelance editor, and her many volunteer positions, she still makes time to write. After all, writing is an obsession. All of her heroes are patterned after her husband of over 20 years, who continues to prove that there really is a happily ever after.

  Other Works by Donna Hatch

  The Stranger She Married

  http://www.thewildrosepress.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=191&products_id=3986

  The Guise of a Gentleman

  http://www.amazon.com/The-Guise-Gentleman-Donna-Hatch/dp/1601547013/

  Queen in Exile

  http://www.amazon.com/Queen-Exile-Donna-Hatch/dp/1935217631/

  Constant Hearts

  http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/56421

  Mistletoe Magic

  http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/112069

  Troubled Hearts

  http://www.thewildrosepress.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=86_73&products_id=1198

  The Reluctant Bride

  http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/75131

  A Fortunate Exile

  By Heather B. Moore

  Chapter One

  NEW YORK CITY, 1901

  “Are you pregnant?”

  Lila stared at her father, her eyes focusing on his stiff collar, stark white against his carefully shaved, red face. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  “By all that is holy, if you are with child. I will—” His hand came up too swift to stop and struck her across the face.

  She stumbled back, knocking against her mother who sat prim-faced on the settee.

  “James,” her mother yelped, half-hearted as it was.

  Lila scrambled away from the settee as her father turned his wild eyes on his wife. “I will not have our daughter behave like this, Annabelle! Not in my house.”

  Her mother’s face paled even more, if that were possible, as she clenched her already clenched hands tighter. Her mouth closed into a pinch.

  Making her way behind the settee, Lila spoke in a raspy voice that had already spent hours crying. “I am not pregnant. We did not . . . I am not compromised.”

  Mr. James Townsend looked from daughter to mother, his face darkening, disbelieving.

  The knot in Lila’s stomach twisted until she thought she’d be sick, right there, on her parents’ talk-of-the-town Persian rug. Now I will be the talk of New York. Either by a sudden marriage, or worse, a suspicious departure. But how could she explain to her father that she was not defiled, that the things she and Roland had done may have been touching the fire’s flames, but not that.

  Her eyes brimmed with tears—tears she thought were already spent. They weren’t from her father’s slap, but because she’d sent a letter to Roland early that morning, and there was still no reply. It was now well past the ninth hour, and had been dark for three
. The blizzard that had hit the upper coast the day before had just reached New York City. The snow fell swiftly outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. No one in their right mind would venture out in the face of the storm.

  “Can you swear this over your sister’s grave?” her father asked in a steely tone.

  Her mother gasped at the mention of their younger daughter, and Lila straightened, lowering her hand from her stinging cheek. That her father had brought little Charity into this ugly argument was momentous indeed. “I swear,” she whispered.

  The room was quiet for a moment. It seemed as if the tick of the grandfather clock in the corner had faded with the silent falling snow. Her father turned away as if he could no longer bear to look at his only surviving daughter. He stood with his back to the women and stared out the massive windows.

  Finally, his pronouncement came. “She will leave in the morning for my sister’s estate. There she will stay until this whole business is completely forgotten.” He scrubbed his balding head. “What will the society papers say tomorrow? There has already been enough speculation, since any woman who associates with Roland Graves is ruined, and our . . . daughter . . . has more than associated with him.”

  Her mother whimpered and brought a handkerchief to her mouth.

  Lila’s head throbbed. Her father’s sister, Mrs. Eugenia T. Payne, was as austere as her name. She’d worn nothing but widow’s black since her husband’s passing, and her eldest daughter had converted to Catholicism and gone into the nunnery.

  Who goes into the nunnery in 1901 America? That was the thing of gothic novels.

  Aunt Eugenia’s younger daughter, only one year older than Lila, had made a boring and dull marriage to the local parishioner. Lila had attended the wedding in Connecticut the year before, which was the first and last time Lila ever planned visiting their “estate”—which was in reality nothing more than a farm.