But the moment the sound of a carriage could be heard rumbling along the drive, they all jumped to their feet and ran out the door, even Niall, who nearly ran his brother-in-law over in the doorway.
“Whoa!” Cornell laughed as he shook his head and joined his wife on the settee. “Someone is excited about Lord and Lady Haverton’s visit.”
Pleasant rolled her eyes as she set aside her project. Cornell wrapped his arm around her shoulders and she snuggled into her husband’s embrace. The familiar, comforting scents of evergreen and cinnamon floated on the air, and she thought of how far they had come in just twelve months. The time seemed endless, and yet it had flown by. While this time of year would always be bittersweet because of her stepmother’s death, she was thankful for the new life that would soon make an appearance.
“It was rather generous of your brother to sign over this cottage to us as a wedding gift, although I still find it hard some days to imagine that I’m truly back in Ireland.” As she spoke, she could hear the waves crashing against the emerald coast beyond and felt well and truly…content.
“I don’t,” he returned dryly. “For your accent is becoming more pronounced.”
“Is it?” she pondered. “I hadn’t noticed.”
He kissed her temple. “While here I notice everything about you, my love.”
She lifted her head and grinned at him. “That, coming from a master cordwainer,” she teased.
“Indeed.” He wagged his brows at her. “I’m becoming quite famous in my trade.”
She trailed her fingers across his chest. “But don’t forget that I am a quite sought after seamstress as well.”
His eyes darkened with desire as he halted her movements. “I don’t think such vigorous activity is advisable in your condition, Mrs. Reed. Not to mention it would be the height of impropriety should we wait too long to greet our guests.”
She sighed dramatically. “You’re right, of course. We wouldn’t want to take advantage of such a rare, stolen moment…”
He growled deep in his throat, and she knew that she had him exactly where she wanted him. He pulled her to her feet and captured her mouth in a drugging kiss, the kind that never failed to weaken her knees. “Let’s go upstairs.”
She grinned as she looked above them, where one of several kissing boughs was strung about their home. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Copyright © 2020 by Tabetha Waite
Cover Art by Wicked Smart Designs
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with VellumThis story is for any girl who has ever wished on a star, picked petals off a flower, or prayed for her one true love. And may those men be worthy of that love.
Chapter 1
London, England
December 1, 1815
Miss Emary Pageant studied her reflection in the mirror. She turned right, then left, then back again to make sure that everything was absolute perfection. Her white satin gown with its silver overlay had to flow precisely with her movements. Her hair was pulled into an elegant chignon, the style taking her ladies’ maid nearly an hour to complete, but the efforts had not been in vain. A riot of sable curls framed her face and complimented her creamy complexion and expressive brown eyes. She’d even dared to apply a bit of color to her cheeks and lips, for she had to look her absolute best this evening.
The reason?
Lord Donovan Wainwright, Duke of Windwood, had arrived in town for his mother’s ball, and she, Miss Emary Pageant, intended to be the one to bring the elusive bachelor to heel.
Satisfied with her appearance, Emary grabbed her reticule and headed downstairs. Her parents were waiting for her in the foyer, and when her mother spied her, she clasped her hands together over her bosom. “Oh, my darling, you look lovely!”
Emary grinned broadly. She could only hope that a certain gentleman would think the same. She wasn’t nervous or worried about the upcoming encounter, because she knew that her chances of ensnaring the duke’s affections were quite good. While some might think that sounded rather conceited, she had taken such painstaking efforts with her appearance that surely no other outcome could be ascertained. Not only that, but she had been told, quite frequently over the past several months, that she was one of the most sought after debutantes of the Season.
Throwing her purple velvet cloak around her shoulders, Emary climbed into the coach, placing her hands demurely in her lap as she sat across from her parents, the Viscount and Viscountess Armenton. They were only a couple blocks away from where the ball would be held, and while it might have been quicker to walk the short distance to the Windwood residence on Albemarle Street, the brisk, winter air would not have helped Emary’s complexion. Besides, her father would have likely suffered an apoplexy at just the suggestion. When one was part of a well-to-do aristocratic family, one arrived in comfort and style.
Emary noted the endless line of carriages that preceded them, the process ensuring that they would be arriving fashionably late. When they finally stopped at the entrance to the large, Palladian townhouse, Emary gently placed her gloved hand in her father’s grasp as he assisted her to the ground. She was careful to watch her step, so that the piles of dirty snow, mixed with the more unsavory aspects to be found on the city streets, didn’t get on her shoes. It wouldn’t do to have a pile of horse droppings clinging to her pristine slippers.
They handed their outerwear over to the footmen that were standing like a pair of statues on either side of the foyer, and waited patiently in the long receiving line. Emary was used to this for she had attended nearly every event in her debut Season thus far, and she’d had a fabulous time doing so. She had never been so flattered or complimented in all of her nineteen years. She could easily ensnare an earl or a marquess, so a duke shouldn’t be any different.
Emary yearned to rise on her tiptoes to catch a glimpse of the golden head that everyone had been buzzing about for the past week, but she refrained from doing so. As it was, she felt as though she’d known the Duke of Windwood for years when they had never even met. She had heard that even though his father had forbade him to join the military, he had enlisted anyway and been awarded for his service in the Napoleonic Wars, that he had been named for some ancient Gaelic ancestor, that he liked two sugars but no cream in his tea, and that he was absurdly handsome.
With all of her knowledge about him, it was almost going to be too easy to capture a man like that. She would smile and use the charm that had brought more than one man to her parents’ front parlor on bended knee. But she had refused every offer of marriage thus far. It was going to take a special man to win her affections, and she had the feeling that Donovan was that one she’d been looking for.
A confident smile touched her lips as she drew closer to their host and hostess. Of course, Emary had met Donovan’s mother, Caroline Wainwright, the Dowager Duchess of Windwood, on several occasions. She was a handsome widow in her mid-fifties with golden hair that had grayed and dimmed in brilliance over time. She was tall and willowy and had a rather demure composure. Since Emary was already in the dowager’s good graces, it should be no hardship to capture her son’s attention.
At that moment, Emary finally caught a glimpse of her quarry, and her breath caught. Oh my. ‘Handsome’ didn’t seem like a strong enough word to describe him. His honey-colored hair was smoothed back from his forehead, the ends just brushing his collar. He was tall with a firm build; that much was easy to discern, and dressed in stark black and white with a ruby stickpin in the folds of his cravat. His jaw was square, his eyes direct and accessing as he greeted each of his guests. He didn’t seem to favor one more than the other, but then, he hadn’t yet made her acquaintance.
As she finally stood before him, Emary had to hold back a gasp. This close, she could see that he had eyes of the purest blue, but that wasn’t what had caught her focus. A scar ran along the left side of his face, from his brow and down the side of his temple. While she had been told that he’d served in the war, no one had bothered to mention that he had suffered such a concerning wound.
Her heart abruptly began to pound, a sensation she’d never experienced before. She hadn’t even felt this sudden anxiety when she’d been presented to the Royal Court. She forced herself to calm as she offered a delicate curtsy and a brilliant smile. Adding a slight flutter of her lashes that was sure to curry his favor, she said softly, “Your Grace.”
“A pleasure, Miss Pageant.” His deep voice was perfectly civil, but when she glanced at him to gain his reaction to her, he wasn’t regarding her in the manner of a man who was impressed with her appearance, or admiring of her looks, but rather as though he were…bored.
Emary swallowed her shock. She couldn’t move, stunned as she was by his flat reception. From the time she had arrived in London for her debut ball until this moment she had been admired by men and women alike. The men were entirely smitten by her appearance and manner, while the ladies, however envious they might be of the attention showered upon her, flocked to her simply to learn her secrets.
