A Yuletide Kiss

by Madeline Hunter, Sabrina Jeffries, Mary Jo Putney

Genres: Romance Anthologies & Collections; Anthologies

Synopsis

The reigning queens of Regency Romance return with another delightful Christmas collection of three sparkling holiday romances, as stranded travelers find merriment, mistletoe, and holiday romance awaiting at a quaint country inn …
AN UNEXPECTED CHRISTMAS GIFT by Madeline Hunter
Jenna Waverly has closed her inn, anticipating a blissfully quiet Christmas, until a snowstorm brings the first of several strangers to her property. Lucas Avonwood, as charming as he is secretive, is on a mission to track down a scoundrel, but the inn’s lovely
owner is giving him a more compelling reason to stay …
WHEN WE FINALLY KISS GOODNIGHT by Sabrina Jeffries
When Flora Younger first met Konrad Juncker, she thought she’d found her match, only to have her hopes dashed. Konrad is now a famous playwright whose plays Flora has secretly panned in reviews. But a chance meeting in a secluded inn may help them rewrite this starcrossed romance …
WHEN STRANGERS MEET by Mary Jo Putney
Kate McLeod is shocked to find that her fellow guest in the snowbound inn is the dashing soldier who may or may not be her husband. Daniel Faringdon barely remembers that longago night when he rescued her from disaster, but the desire they discover now will be
impossible to forget, or to ignore …

Release date: September 28, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

Konrad Juncker prodded the exhausted post-horse pulling his rented gig down a snowy lane. Normally, he’d reach Sanforth before nightfall easily, but not now that it was sleeting. The sign with a white rose at the turn from the main road could only mark the site of the exclusive inn he sought, which his friend Thorn, the Duke of Thornstock, had once described to him.

“Just a bit more, and you can rest,” Konrad muttered to the horse.

He hoped he was right. His stomach grumbled, his eyebrows were crusted with ice, and even his greatcoat failed to keep him warm. The horse struggled a few hundred yards more and suddenly the lane widened to reveal a circular drive with an impressive building nestled in the evergreens. There was an entrance arch and a sign with the words THE WHITE ROSE. This had to be the place.

Still, it didn’t look like a fully functioning inn. It seemed deserted, with no ostler bustling to attend to his horse, no noise from within to indicate people eating or drinking. But why should that be? The storm had come up suddenly—no one would have had time to gather their mounts and head off. They would have been stuck here . . . as he clearly was.

He’d been told it had a sizeable stable. That had to be through the other archway he could see. Even the horse pricked up its ears as if it knew this was to be its home until the storm abated and the roads cleared.

Konrad climbed down, tied the horse to a post, and entered the stables. There wasn’t a single groom about, although there were a couple of nags in the stalls. While that was a good sign, it didn’t explain the lack of people.

So he trudged back out and through the snow to the front of the inn. Hearing what sounded like voices coming from the other end of the archway—finally—he headed that way.

He shivered as he walked along the passageway, beyond which sleet fell steadily. As he came out into what proved to be an alley behind the inn, he spied two young women and a man of about sixty laboring to drag a rather stalwart fellow . . . somewhere.

“Good God,” Konrad couldn’t help saying as he strode toward them. “Is he drunk? Dead?” Or worse yet, murdered. It would be just Konrad’s luck to have stumbled across a criminal act in progress.

He’d expected the man to answer, but it was the older of the two women who blinked over at him while snow continued dusting her heavy wrap and blond hair. “Neither, I hope. We found him outside in this state. He seems quite ill.”

Konrad approached her and the brown-haired girl who was probably a maidservant, judging by her youth and her apron. Each was tugging on one of the prone fellow’s arms while the old gentleman attempted to lift the man’s legs.

Now that Konrad was closer, he could hear the ill chap mumbling and see his flushed face. “Where are you taking him?” Konrad asked.

“To a room, of course. Although how we’ll get him onto the bed, I don’t know.”

“Let me deal with dragging him.” Moving between the two women, Konrad hoisted the stranger up. As the women let go, he locked his hands around the fellow’s chest, enabling the older gentleman to finally lift the chap’s legs off the ground. “Tell me where you want him.”

Once again, it was the blond woman who answered. “Go straight back to the end of the alley. I’ll take care of the door.” He heard the creak of snow and ice being shoved aside by the door opening. As he and the other fellow half lifted, half dragged their burden along the alley, the woman said to the girl, “Alice, go light a fire on the hearth to dispel the cold and damp.”

“Yes, Mrs. Waverly,” Alice said.

Ah. So the outspoken woman was the owner of this place. Thorn had told him of her.

As Konrad and the old gentleman maneuvered the fellow into the bedchamber, Konrad grumbled, “This chap must weigh thirteen stone.”

“At the very least,” Mrs. Waverly said as she drew back the covers.

Still, they finally got him on the bed and rolled him to his back.

“Help me get his coats off, Peter,” Mrs. Waverly told the old gentleman as she unbuttoned the feverish man’s greatcoat.

“I’ll do it,” Konrad said and brushed her aside. Peter lifted their patient’s shoulders so that Konrad could pull the coat off his arms. Then they dragged the sodden, heavy wool out from under him. More buttons and pulling, and the frock coat and waistcoat followed. The woman threw a blanket over the man, then hung the coats on pegs.

She turned to Konrad. “Thank you for your help, Mister . . .”

“Juncker. Konrad Juncker. I assume you are the keeper of this fine inn, Mrs. Waverly.” He figured a compliment couldn’t hurt.

Apparently, Mrs. Waverly didn’t share his belief. “Yes, I own this place. But at present it is closed for the holidays.”

Not ready to give up, Konrad kept a smile on his face. “I’ll accept any shelter you have. Perhaps there is an extra place with the grooms? I’m happy to pay your price.”

“That’s not the issue. We’re not only closed, but we lack provisions for guests at present. Nor are there any other servants here beside Peter and his granddaughter, Alice.”

“I am sorry to intrude on what you probably thought would be a quiet few days, but I can’t go back or forward. The road has become impassable. There is ice to the west, and it is beginning to fall here. You can hear it, even if you didn’t see it while you were out in the cold.”

The woman looked torn.

“I can do for myself,” Konrad added. “I won’t need servants.”

She sighed. “Of course you can stay until the road improves. There are plenty of chambers above, off the gallery over the courtyard. Alice will show you to Room Four if you will fetch your own bag. Peter can see to your horses and equipage. You are welcome to dine with us, simple as our fare will be.”

“Thank you.”

With a nod to Mrs. Waverly, Konrad followed Alice and Peter to the front of the inn to get his valise. Then, as Peter headed for the stables with the horse and gig, Konrad climbed the stairs behind Alice. Even there he noticed touches that showed this inn catered to the wealthy—gilded sconces, beeswax tapers, wide stairsteps—things he’d never experienced in his days touring with the theatrical troupe.

“How did you hear of our ‘fine inn’?” Alice asked, a bit tartly.

“My friend, the Duke of Thornstock, praised the White Rose once, which brought it to my mind when I was struggling on the road.”

She relaxed a bit. “I know of His Grace. Sometimes he stops here on his way to Armitage Hall. He even has a pint while he waits for his horses to be changed.” She looked back briefly as she climbed. “Mrs. Waverly is a good woman, you know. She was just hoping for some time away from the bustle. Generally, we’re full up most of the year.”

“Trust me, this wasn’t where I wanted to be, either.” He caught himself. “I’m grateful for the shelter, but I was headed for a comfortable country house in Sanforth owned by my friends.”

“Sanforth, is it? We know people there. But no one in a country house.” Her mouth dropped open. “Are you visiting the Duke of Armitage? Oh, that’s right, the Duke of Thornstock is your friend, too. Now there’s a family—three dukes as half brothers! Are they as wild as they sound? You must know them fairly well if you were invited to—”

“Ah, look, Room Number Four.” He halted, not wanting to engage in this discussion. He knew firsthand how gossipy village folk could be, and he didn’t want to betray any secrets he shouldn’t. “I take it this is mine?”

“Oh, yes.” She blushed furiously. “And me going on and on so I nearly passed it by.” She unlocked the door. “There’s a bedchamber and separate sitting room. They’ve been closed up these past two days, so they may need airing. I’ll get the fire going, make up the bed, and fetch you fresh water for washing up. That’s about all I can manage before dinner.”

“I can build a fire and fetch my own water if you tell me where the well is.”

She looked taken aback. “That would be a help, thank you.”

As he doffed his damp greatcoat and hung it on a hook, she took clean linens from a chest underneath the bed. The hearth was in the sitting room, so he went in and grabbed the tinderbox, then set about building the fire. Once the logs were stacked with the kindling, he struck flint to steel until a spark caught on the charcloth. A minute later, he had a nice fire going.

He caught Alice watching him through the connecting doorway.

“For a gentleman, you’re very good at that,” she said.

He returned to the bedroom. “That’s because I’m not a gentleman.” When she looked perplexed, he said, “I work for a living.”

She eyed him skeptically as she fluffed the pillows. “Making fires?”

He laughed. “No. Writing plays.” Or rather, pretending to write the popular plays his best friend, Thorn, actually wrote.

“Like ones in a theater?”

“Exactly like those.”

But Konrad wouldn’t be “writing” them much longer. Thorn planned to pen new plays under his own name, so he no longer needed to pay Konrad to stand in for him. Even though Konrad had put aside a great deal of the money he’d earned, what would he do when it ran out? He must have a plan for his future.

He could fall back on acting, but he’d had his fill of traveling the country, and competition among actors was fierce in London, the only place where acting paid a living wage. Besides, he didn’t know how long his credit in the theater community would last once Thorn revealed that he’d written the Felix plays and not Konrad. That was also why Konrad might have no luck selling his own plays. Even if he thought he could write them, the theater community might not agree.

His poetry, which was where his heart was, would never make enough to support him unless he found a wealthy patron, and he didn’t like the idea of going hat in hand to his rich friends. His novel was only half finished. The words for it didn’t come as easily as they did for his poetry.

“So, these plays you write,” she said, beating at the feather mattress to fluff it up, too. “Are they for theaters in London?”

“Yes. You could go see them if you ever travel there.”

She eyed him askance. “London might as well be in China for all the good it does me.”

Damn. He was thinking like a gentleman, worrying about what work to do so he could remain in London while this poor girl had never even been there. Servants generally only traveled with their masters or mistresses, and even then only a few did, although paid companions like Flora might be taken along.

Flora? What had him thinking of her?

Well, he had seen her in London last month, looking as lovely eight years later as she had at nineteen. Just the sight of her had brought it all flooding back: dances and long talks and furtive touches during their month of half flirtation, half courtship. It had made him want to start up with her again, even though little had changed in his life, and her life had only changed for the worse.

He’d squandered his one chance at making amends. He’d had so many questions and hadn’t asked a single one. Nor was he likely to see her again.

God, he had to stop thinking of her. He stepped forward as Alice finished with the sheets. “Let me help you put the pillow-cases on.”

“How kind of you, sir,” she said and circled around to the other side.

Then something seemed to catch her eye outside the window. “There’s an equipage coming up the drive, I think.”

He joined her there. “It looks like a carriage. A rather large one.”

Alice began clucking her tongue. “Oh, I’d best go tell the mistress, but she ain’t going to be happy about it.” She hurried for the door. “That’s the last thing we need right now.”

All he could do was agree.

Miss Flora Younger cleared a spot on the carriage window with her gloved hand and tried to make out what lay at the other end of the drive. “I fear the White Rose Inn is abandoned.”

“Poppycock!” Lady Hortensia Whitmarsh, Flora’s employer, peered out of her own window. “No one abandons an inn. It would be terribly rude to travelers.”

“I doubt that was the intention,” Flora said dryly. “And I can’t see anyone around. Not that beggars can be choosers at the moment. Shelter is shelter.”

“We are not beggars. And we can choose to go wherever we jolly well please. I shall simply tell Braxton to drive on until we find a more felicitous abode.” The viscountess knocked on the ceiling. “Braxton! Braxton, my good man!” When no answer came, she muttered, “Damned fellow is pretending not to hear me again.”

Flora stifled a laugh. “He’s nearly deaf.”

“Only when he chooses,” Lady Whitmarsh grumbled.

“Yet you keep him on.”

“Of course. He’s the best coachman I’ve ever had.”

“Exactly.” Flora had long ago given up on following the winding roads of Lady Whitmarsh’s mind. “Braxton would only come this way because it’s our last chance at shelter.”

“Perhaps,” Lady Whitmarsh said, though she began to retie her boots. The poor woman’s feet had a tendency to ache in cold weather, so she often undid her half boots when the two ladies were traveling. Apparently that helped.

Flora buttoned up her cloak of forest-green velvet, a castoff of her ladyship’s, and pulled the hood over her head in anticipation of having to disembark. “Now I wish I’d worn my other gown when we set out from last night’s lodgings.”

“Pish, you wanted to make a good impression on the guests at the house party. Nothing wrong with that. And this gown is such a pretty thing, with the flourishes and furbelows you embroidered on it. It’s nice for the season, too, with all the ivy and holly leaves.”

“Yes, but it’s too thin for this weather. I should have worn my heaviest gown, no matter how outdated—or unseasonable—its design.”

“If we’re forced to stay here tonight, you should get the footmen to take your trunk off the top of the servants’ coach.” Lady Whitmarsh paused. “Although you’re probably better off with the bag you packed for use at inns. We’ll rise early tomorrow to go on to Armitage Hall.”

“I fear we won’t be going anywhere soon,” Flora said. “It will take time for the ice and snow to melt.”

“Very well. We’ll delay our departure until tomorrow afternoon. But we shall leave in time to arrive at the duke’s.”

“I still say—”

The carriage shuddered to a halt, and the door opened so Braxton could thrust his head inside. “We’re here, m’lady.”

“Didn’t you hear me knocking for you, Braxton?”

Used to Lady Whitmarsh’s grousing, Braxton didn’t so much as frown. “Not with that icy wind rushing past my ears. It’s damned near a gale out here. Got the carriage as close to the building as I could manage.”

“That was very good of you, Braxton,” Flora said.

“Thank you, miss, but you both should still watch yourselves. There’s a slippery bit right by the entrance.”

Lady Whitmarsh frowned. “What we should do is wait for the footmen to help us past the ‘slippery bit.’ They must be behind us somewhere.”

“Sorry, m’lady, but they stayed at the last inn where we changed horses,” Braxton put in. “James don’t drive well in bad weather, so I told him not to press on.”

Lady Whitmarsh blinked. “Without consulting me?”

“Aye,” Braxton said unrepentantly. “I wanted us to go as far as we could before the road got impassable, and forgive me, but there was no time to waste arguing with your ladyship.”

“I see.” She drew in a steadying breath. “Well then, I suppose we’d better hope someone is here to help us.”

The viscountess and her coachman had been together so long that they fairly ignored each other’s complaints. Most of the time Flora found their grousing vastly amusing. But right now, she was in no mood for anything but a hot cup of chocolate and a rest by a warm hearth.

After they disembarked, Braxton did his best to shield them from the wind with his outstretched arms while they slipped past him into the covered passageway. She heard voices coming from the other end.

Excellent. So the inn wasn’t abandoned. Flora might get that warm hearth after all.

Within moments, a pretty woman hurried toward them from the far end of the passageway. “I’m Jenna Waverly, owner of this inn. I suppose you’re looking for shelter.” She sounded—and looked—bone-weary.

Before Lady Whitmarsh could get them ejected with one of her typically tart remarks, Flora said, “We are, as a matter of fact. We’d be most grateful, for I don’t think our coachman is willing to go any farther on the roads as they are.”

“I can give you tea and a bit of respite and food for the night, but that’s all I can manage. I generally keep the inn closed during the holiday to allow my servants a chance to be with their families.”

“What a droll idea,” Lady Whitmarsh said. When Flora scowled at her, she added, “We’re happy to pay. And how refreshing to find a female innkeeper. There ought to be more of you.” Relief stole over Flora at the viscountess’s ingratiating tone, until Lady Whitmarsh added, “I would even make your inn a regular stop on my travels if I came often to this godforsaken part of England. Fortunately, I do not.”

“What her ladyship is trying to say—” Flora began.

“Why not let her ladyship speak for herself?” said a familiar voice. “She seems to be doing an excellent job of it already.”

When the gaze of the man approaching met Flora’s, her insides knotted up. Only one man had eyes as dark a blue as a starlit night. It was Konrad Juncker in all his larger-than-life, sinfully handsome, untrustworthy glory.

Her heart sank. How could that be? Could he be following them? Perhaps he’d learned the truth about “A Discerning Lady,” who often criticized his plays for The London Society Times. Unless . . .

She narrowed her gaze on Lady Whitmarsh. Flora wouldn’t put it past the woman to be playing matchmaker. Still, the viscountess hadn’t approved of Juncker or his plays even before she’d met him, and it would have taken a masterful schemer indeed to have arranged this. Even Lady Whitmarsh couldn’t control the weather.

The innkeeper glanced from Flora to Konrad. “Do you know each other?”

“You could say that.” His eyes locked with hers. “We met years ago, but only recently became reacquainted in London. Mrs. Waverly, may I introduce Lady Hortensia Whitmarsh and her companion, Miss Flora Younger?”

The viscountess nodded at Mrs. Waverly. “If you’re allowing him to stay, then you should certainly allow us to do so.”

Mrs. Waverly raised an eyebrow. “I’m allowing him because he promised to take care of his own needs. I also close the inn at this time of year to give myself a respite from running the place. Only a couple of servants and I are here to wait on you, and we are already running low on provisions. So if you stay, you will be expected to help cook meals and such.”

“I have servants of my own in—” Lady Whitmarsh began before Flora nudged her. The viscountess shot her a questioning glance, then slumped as she apparently remembered. “It’s only Miss Younger and I.”

“And her ladyship’s coachman,” Flora put in, fighting to ignore Konrad. “I’m sure Mr. Braxton will be happy to give aid in the stable and anywhere else you need assistance. I can take care of Lady Whitmarsh’s other needs. We’ll manage, Mrs. Waverly.”

“Very well. I’d have Alice show you to your rooms, but she’s looking after another guest.”

“Tell me which rooms you wish to assign to Lady Whitmarsh and Miss Younger,” Konrad said, “and I can take them up. Oh, and if you can explain where the well is, I’ll fetch water for their rooms when I’m fetching it for myself.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Juncker. How kind of you.” After Mrs. Waverly pointed behind her and described how to reach the well, she added, “The ladies will be upstairs on the same side of the inn as you, in a suite marked Two. That will make it easier for Alice to tend to all of you. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to my patient.”

Patient? Flora watched the innkeeper go, questions swirling through her head. How many people had asked for shelter here, anyway?

She hoped there were enough to keep her from stumbling over Konrad everywhere she stepped. Judging from the sudden gleam in his eye, he seemed to have a good rapport with Mrs. Waverly already.

An unwanted jealousy stabbed her. Of course he did. He regularly enticed women of all ages with that crooked smile of his.

“Shall we, ladies?” He swept his hand to indicate a closed door behind him.

“Flora, why don’t you go on with Mr. Juncker and see whether our accommodations will suit,” Lady Whitmarsh said. “I have to . . . er . . . make sure Braxton is aware of our decision to stay and get him to carry up our luggage.”

Flora tried to read Lady Whitmarsh’s expression. Never before had her employer gone out of her way to inform Braxton of anything. Or, for that matter, had Flora examine their “accommodations.” It only reinforced Flora’s suspicion that Lady Whitmarsh was up to something.

Konrad watched the woman leave, then moved to open the door, waiting for her to go through before he gestured to the stairs. “Why do you let her treat you like a servant?”

“I am a servant, for all intents and purposes,” Flora shot back as she climbed the stairs ahead of him. “Anytime you do something for someone because you’re paid and not out of the goodness of your heart, you’re a servant. Besides, it’s better than being treated like a post-horse, to be used for a stretch and then abandoned.”

When Konrad swore under his breath, she took less pleasure in his reaction than she’d expected. But at least she’d made it clear where they stood now, instead of simply lapsing into one-word answers as she had when briefly encountering him a month ago.

“In Bath,” he said, “I was constrained . . . I could not . . .” He muttered something she couldn’t make out. “Never mind. It hardly matters now.”

It mattered to her, but she wasn’t about to ask him to elaborate. He would give her some excuse, and she would want to believe him. In the end, it would simply lead to more unhappiness for her.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” she asked.

“The same thing you are, most likely. Hiding from the weather.”

“Hiding is certainly in your character,” Flora mumbled as they reached the top. It was warmer up here, so she pushed her hood off her head.

Then she wished she hadn’t when he moved to stand in front of her, his icy look chilling her again. “What did you say?”

“Never mind. It hardly matters now,” she said, echoing his earlier words.

A muscle flexed in his jaw. “If you must know, I’m on my way to the house party at Armitage Hall.”

“The Duke of Armitage invited you, too?” Dread settled in her chest. After being trapped here with Konrad, she’d be trapped there as well.

“I do happen to be his half brother’s closest friend, despite my lowly station.”

The sarcasm in his words stung a little. “Yes, so lowly that all of London knows your name. False modesty does not become you, sir.”

“Trust me, my modesty is more genuine than you know.”

“If you say so.” She started walking along the gallery, hardly noticing where she went. “But I wasn’t trying to insult you. After all, Thornstock doesn’t live at Armitage Hall. I assumed Lady Whitmarsh and I were invited because of my friendship with Armitage’s new wife, Vanessa. I didn’t realize Thornstock or the rest of the family might be there, too. That’s all I was remarking on.”

Belatedly, it occurred to her that Lady Whitmarsh most certainly could have engineered both invitations—one for Flora and one for Konrad. But why would the woman wish to match her with Konrad? Lady Whitmarsh didn’t even like him.

It made no sense. Perhaps Flora was reading too much into her employer’s behavior.

Konrad came up beside her, and her foolish heart started thumping. Why must he still do this to her? It had made sense for her to react like a schoolgirl at nineteen, but she was a woman of the world now, the companion to a viscountess. He shouldn’t affect her like this anymore.

He dropped his voice to a murmur that hummed along her skin. “Perhaps we should call a truce.”

“I didn’t know we were at war.”

“The ice in your eyes whenever you look my way seems to imply otherwise.”

“What were you expecting—warmth? You disappeared from my life without a word to go become a famous playwright. You led me to believe—” She shook her head. “I am not discussing this with you. I have to ready her ladyship’s room . . . and mine.”

“I’ll help you.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Do you even know how to start a fire?”

Of course not. And he was obviously aware of that, judging from his smug look. Oh, how she hated it. “Do you?” she shot back.

“I do. And what I meant by ‘truce’ was we should put our past grievances aside for the sake of getting through these next few days in an understaffed inn.”

“Next few days!” Her stomach knotted up. “Do you think we’ll be forced to spend Christmas here?”

“Possibly. Why? The good part about being stuck so close to Sanforth is that the guests at the house party will also be unable to leave. So our plans to enjoy the season with our friends are merely postponed.”

“I hope you’re right. Vanessa told me the family puts up something called a Christmas tree for their festivities. She hasn’t seen it, though, so she couldn’t describe it for me, and I was so looking forward to seeing it.”

“If it’s anything like the one my parents used to put up every year, it’s beautiful.” When she eyed him askance, he added, “Christmas trees are a German custom. My father was German, and all of Armitage’s siblings were raised in Germany. But every tree is different, so I can’t describe it in detail either.”

“Now you’re making me even more upset that I might miss it.”

Then it hit her that he’d mentioned his parents. She’d known nothing of them. She was about to ask some probing questions when he said, “Anyway, back to our truce . . . Will you agree to one?”

She looked him over, noting his bright blond hair, fashionable in its disarray, and his finely tailored clothes, from his tailcoat of dark blue superfine wool to his chocolate-colored top boots. No one could deny he was attractive, but that appearance now came with a full measure of rakish charm.

He was no longer the man she’d thought he was, if he ever had been. He was famous now, and so posed no . . .