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Overview
A wallflower determined to fulfill a dying promise, the rogue she jilted years ago, and an orphaned baby are all brought together amidst the magic of Christmas in this new novella from Manda Collins.
Miss Merry Parks makes a deathbed promise to a schoolfriend that her infant daughter will be taken to her absent father. There’s only one problem—to find the baby’s father, she’ll have to consult his cousin, Viscount Wrotham, the man she jilted five years ago. The man she couldn’t forget.
Alex Ponsonby, Viscount Wrotham, is stunned to find Merry Parks—looking more lovely than ever--on his doorstep with an infant in her arms. His shock soon turns to dismay when he learns his own cousin William is the man who abandoned his wife and child. As head of the family he’s duty bound to see right is done. But he can't let this opportunity pass. He’ll take Merry and the baby to his cousin, but he’ll woo her back in the process.
Merry agrees to travel with Alex and the baby to Wrotham Castle, where the entire Ponsonby family has gathered for Christmas, but her plans to see the baby settled then leave are ruined by a snowstorm. After five years apart, Alex and Merry will spend the week getting reacquainted. Perhaps it’s the spirit of the holiday, or the magic of the season, but there could be something else in the air this Yuletide…A Christmas Reunion.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781250174598 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 10/03/2017 |
| Series: | Studies in Scandal Series |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 160 |
| Sales rank: | 626,773 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Manda Collins grew up on a combination of Nancy Drew books and Jane Austen novels, and her own brand of Regency romantic suspense is the result. An academic librarian by day, she investigates the mysteries of undergraduate research at her alma mater, and holds advanced degrees in English Lit and Librarianship. Her debut novel, How to Dance with a Duke, spent five weeks on the Nielsen Bookscan Romance Top 100 list, was nominated for an RT Reviewer's Choice Award for best debut historical romance, and finaled in the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence contest. Both How to Entice an Earl and Why Dukes Say I Do were selected for inclusion in Eloisa James's Reading Romance column. Why Earls Fall in Love, the second book in her Wicked Widows series, was called "sparkling romance" by Publishers Weekly and is set in Bath, England, one of her favorite cities in the world.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
"But how long do you think it would take that cat of yours to climb these curtains, Wroth?"
Alexander Ponsonby, Viscount Wrotham, shook his head at Lord Edward Findlay's question. The fellow would gamble on literally anything. And now he'd turned his wagering eye to the one-eyed tomcat that currently slept on a cushion like an Eastern pasha in Wrotham's drawing room.
The two men and their friend Mr. Adam Vessey had come up to town in the unfashionable month of December in order to attend the annual holiday festivities of their driving club, the Lords of Anarchy, scheduled for tomorrow night. But in the meantime, tonight had been a chance for them to catch up for the first time since Wrotham's return to England after a year spent in Paris.
Unfortunately, it didn't appear that Findlay, whose gambling had been getting out of control before Wrotham left, had made any changes to his behavior during the viscount's absence. He had thought that perhaps the Duke of Trent, who now served as the head of the driving club, might talk some sense into his friend, but it would appear that if he had done so, Findlay hadn't listened.
"Cat doesn't look as if he's going to be climbing much of anything to me, old son," said Vessey with an affected drawl, gesturing to the slumbering feline. "Perhaps you'd better stick to animals known for their speed. Horses, for instance."
At which point they embarked upon a discussion of the prospects for the coming year's races at Ascot.
Alex rose to poke at the fire and also to avoid the conversation that, to his surprise, was deadly dull now. A year ago, before he'd gone to France, he'd have been just as adamant about where to place his bets at the celebrated racing event. But a year ago he'd been a different man. A year ago, he hadn't been just returned from a trip reuniting him with the mother he hadn't seen in twenty years or more.
It had been a risk to respond to his estranged mother's invitation to visit her, and her new family, on the Continent. An even bigger one to pack his bags and board a packet to Calais. But his father had been gone for ten years at that point, and he was curious about the mother who'd abandoned him. With little more than a tenuous connection to a parent he barely recalled, he'd closed up his London townhouse and, without confiding his reasons for the trip, embarked for France.
Where he'd discovered that all the stories his father and grandmother had told about why Lady Wrotham had left — that she'd not wanted the responsibility of motherhood, that she'd wanted to be with her French lover, that she'd been mentally unstable — had been lies. He'd had his suspicions over the years that the late viscount had been covering up some dark secret. And when he'd found his mother to be far from unstable and, from the looks of it, quite happily settled with M. Dumonte, he'd been inclined to believe her story. It hadn't been madness or unfaithfulness that made her run, but genuine fear for her life. Fear that she'd be killed at the hands of her cruel and violent husband.
"My only regret," she'd told Alex, who had found her story too close to his own experience with his father to doubt its credibility, "was that I had to leave you behind. I mourned for the loss of you, but I also hoped that he would value you, as his heir, far more than he valued me. I hope I was not wrong."
So much about his parents' marriage had suddenly made sense as he listened to his mother's story. Alex had grown up hearing only the viscount's version of things. But his father's harsh words and cruel demeanor had been at odds with his description of heartache at the loss of his wife. He had, in fact, not turned his anger on his son. So in that, his mother had been correct. Viscount Wrotham had valued his heir's physical health, at least. And since Alex had gone away to school not long after his mother left, he'd escaped the sort of day-to-day scrutiny and abuse that had driven his mother away.
What followed his emotional and cathartic reunion with his mother was a year of the sort of family life he'd longed for as the only child on a remote estate. He'd gotten to know his half brothers and sisters, who were not entirely surprised to learn of their mother's past. The viscountess had been living quietly as Mm. Dumonte for some years, but it was impossible to hide her English accent, and the sadness that came over her when there was news from her family. France was much more liberal than England about arrangements such as that between his mother and M. Dumonte. And it was an open secret in their social group that there had been no formal divorce between Lady Wrotham and the viscount. After his death, she and Dumonte had been married officially. And that was that.
It had been difficult for Alex to leave after a year with his newfound family. But he had responsibilities in England, and if he'd learned anything from his mother's tale it was that he didn't want to be the kind of indifferent, careless man his father had been. When he'd received his grandmother's summons to the family estate in Kent, he'd recognized it as a sign he should get back to England and start doing a better job of leading the family than he had done up to now. Especially given what he now knew to be Grandmama's culpability in hiding the truth from him. There was very little that the dowager Lady Wrotham didn't know about what went on in her family. And though it hadn't come as a shock to know she'd lied to him, it had been disappointing.
Learning the truth about why his mother had left had also forced him to reexamine his response to another sudden loss he'd experienced. Though Merry's decision to call off their betrothal had felt very much like the same sort of abandonment he'd felt at the hands of his mother, he couldn't help but recall that she'd spent the afternoon with Grandmama the day before she left. Finding her note of apology and the sapphire ring he'd given her just the day before on the mantel in her guest room at Wrotham Keep had sent him into a spiral of destructive behavior not unlike what he'd witnessed in his father years before. It had been impossible not to compare Merry's defection with his mother's, and not to consign both of them to the devil who'd surely prompted their misdeeds.
Knowing one of them had been misjudged, however, he couldn't help but wonder if the other had been, too. It had never seemed in character for Merry — sweet, loyal, intelligent Merry — to simply decide on a whim that they weren't suited and leave for home like a thief in the night. True, she'd been reluctant to abandon her work with her father. But he'd thought they'd settled the matter by arranging for one of Sir Thomas's students to take over as his amanuensis. His hurt had made him doubt the light shining in her eyes when he gave her the ring, but now, years later, he questioned instead his grandmother's assurances that it was for the best.
So, after this short stay in London and a bit of revelry with his friends, he was off to Kent where, amid the traditions of the Yuletide season, he'd press his grandmother for answers. It would be a difficult interview, he knew. But he was finished with believing half-truths and lies. And though he'd only just come to realize it, his life since Merry left had been one long unsuccessful attempt to forget her. Whatever he found out from Grandmama, he was determined to follow his mother's example and start his life anew.
"What do you think, Wroth?" said Findlay, cutting into his host's thoughts. "Does that cat of yours have what it takes?"
Turning from the fire, Alex blinked, then deciding to give his friend the courtesy of his attention, he looked at the feline. Clearly the cat had already made his decision. He was content to remain indoors near the fire and showed no inclination to climb the curtains or anything else at the moment. "I'm afraid Vessey has the right of it, old fellow. Tom doesn't appear to be in a climbing sort of mood." As if to emphasize his master's words, the cat gave an exaggerated yawn and stretched, then turned in a circle, only to curl up into a ball in his previous spot on the tasseled cushion.
Tom the cat had only been in Wrotham's house a few days or so, having appeared in the mews behind the townhouse soon after his return from France. Something about the feline's battered appearance, with his missing eye and half-chewed ear, coupled with a world-weary air, had appealed to him. Tom came and went as he pleased, standing at the kitchen door until someone noticed him, slipping out of the house when he felt the need, and returning again the next morning, hungry and eager for a rest. For his part, Wrotham liked the idea that the creature had found a bit of peace here. Lord knows he himself had wished for a quiet place to rest at times.
Before Findlay would protest the assessment of the cat's unwillingness to climb, Pilcher, who was currently serving as both butler and valet since the bulk of the townhouse servants were at the Keep for the holidays, appeared in the doorway.
"My lord," the rail-thin man said in a put-upon voice. "There is a person here to see you."
Pilcher wasn't given to airs, which was one of the reasons Wrotham had been pleased to hire him. He'd had enough of toplofty servants in his father's house to last a lifetime. So the fact that the man was now standing stiffly at the door looking like he'd smelled something bad told him a great deal about the visitor.
"And does this person have a name or shall I live in suspense?" he prodded when the servant failed to elaborate. "Come now, it cannot be that bad."
Not waiting for the valet to respond, he excused himself to his friends and stepped out into the corridor with Pilcher. "Who is it?" he asked without preamble.
But before the man could reply, the sound of a baby crying wafted up to the second floor.
What the devil?
He began to descend the stairs.
"She says that she has come to see Mr. William Ponsonby, my lord."
At the butler's words, Alex stopped with a hand on the rail and huffed out a sigh.
What had Will got himself into this time?
"I would have sent her packing if not for the babe, my lord," said Pilcher stiffly. "For all that she seems quality, ladies do not call upon gentlemen in the middle of the day. But it's Christmastime, and there is that story about the inn and such."
Pilcher's upbringing as a Methodist minister's son reared its head at the most inconvenient times.
Still, the man had a point.
"Quite so." He continued down to the front entry hall, where he could see a lady, whose bonnet was far too large to reveal much of her face, cradling a crying infant in her arms.
As he reached the black-and-white marble floor, she looked up, and the impact of recognition hit him in the chest like a wayward cricket ball.
"Merry?" Even to his own ears, his voice sounded raspy, as if it were the first word he'd said in five years.
With her sapphire blue eyes intent upon him as she cradled the child against her chest, she looked at him with a degree of calm he wished he felt.
"Good morning, Alexander."
*
Merry hadn't intended to call him by his given name. She'd decided on the way to Berkeley Square to maintain a proper distance between them, if she did indeed see Alex at all. It would not have surprised her to be directed to his private secretary. But, no, here he was standing before her, looking like a slightly older version of the man she'd loved all those years ago.
It was impossible not to catalogue the differences in those first few moments. To note how his shoulders seemed wider, and how the casual ease of the younger man had been replaced with the self-assurance of a man who knew his own worth. But his green eyes were the same, if bracketed with a few more lines. And his light brown curls, always prone to disarray, were still a bit rumpled, though there was a hint of gray at the temples now.
If she'd been quizzed on what to expect in the event that she ever saw Alexander Ponsonby again, Merry would have been hard pressed to guess. But seeing him now, she was assailed by an aching familiarity as well as the equally painful sense that the man before her was a stranger.
And for all that he echoed his former self, he was a stranger. It had been five years since they'd seen one another. Since she'd slipped out of his family estate in the wee hours of the morning and departed for London in the carriage his grandmother had ordered for her. She'd long ago stopped playing and replaying what she imagined his reaction had been. It had been too painful and — since it changed nothing, she thought — unproductive.
But seeing him now, with a flash of pain mixed with that old familiar joy he'd always shown on laying eyes on her, Merry was rocked by a loss so profound it almost took her breath. Five years without something as simple as that look of joy when she walked into a room. It was such a little thing. But she had missed it profoundly, she realized.
Almost as soon as it appeared, however, that joy was replaced with one of coldness. And the change reminded Merry that she wasn't here to enact a reunion. Or even on her own behalf. As if to reinforce the notion, Lottie gave a sharp cry of frustration, and Merry jostled her a little against her chest.
"I was told you're looking for my cousin William," Alexander said, crossing his arms over his chest, looking every bit the impatient aristocrat. "I'm afraid I can't help you. I've only just returned to London myself and was told he's taken rooms at the Albany. Perhaps you should try him there. Though I doubt your reception will be very warm."
She was still taking in the disappointing news that William wasn't at Wrotham House when Alex continued in the same cold tone, "I wasn't aware you were so ... well acquainted with my cousin."
Something about the way he said the words made Merry frown. Was he implying that she ...?
Thinking of what she must look like, arriving unannounced, an infant in her arms, asking for his absent cousin, Merry almost laughed at the absurdity of it.
"No, you misunderstand!" she said with a shake of her head. "I've never met William. This is my friend Charlotte's child."
Rather than laughing with her at the mistake, however, Alex frowned. Then, as if realizing his rudeness, he said, "I think you'd better come into my study."
Gesturing for her to precede him, he followed her up the stairs, opened the door of the second room off the hallway, and ushered her inside.
Merry had been in the Wrotham townhouse several times during their brief engagement, but she'd never had occasion to come into his study. It was just as she'd have imagined a gentleman's inner sanctum to be. The walls were lined with books. Some she could even see were three-and four-volume sets, very likely novels, which surprised her because she'd not thought of him reading popular fiction. The joke between them five years ago had been that, while she was fluent in Greek and Latin, he was well versed in farming periodicals, since he'd been spending as much time as he could with the land agent at the Keep.
Clearly unaware of her reminiscence, he waited until she was seated, then moving to sit behind the large desk, he said briskly, "You'd best tell me the whole story, Miss Parks."
Blinking at his shift to formality, she told him what she knew of Charlotte's elopement with William Ponsonby, and how he'd left her with the instructions that if he went missing she was to look for him at Wrotham House in Berkeley Square.
If anything, Alex's demeanor became more stern. "Why did she agree to return home without him?" he asked. "What newlywed wife allows her husband to send her home without a word of where he's gone? And without her marriage lines with which to prove the marriage?" His skepticism of Charlotte's motives set Merry's back up. "I suppose because he'd given her reason to trust him. And she didn't realize she didn't have the marriage lines until after she returned home. By then, of course, she was already with child, and when her parents learned of what had happened, they turned her out. If Mr. Ponsonby hadn't given her more money than necessary to pay for her passage back to London, she'd have been penniless and without a roof over her head."
"No one told me about anyone coming in search of him while I was away," he persisted. "How do I know she tried to find him at all? For all I know, she's created this fantasy in order to extort money from my family for a child fathered by some other man. And sent you as her emissary because of our former connection."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "With This Christmas Ring"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Manda Collins.
Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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