Lord Stillwell's Excellent Engagements

Book 0: Millworth Manor

by Victoria Alexander

Genres: Historical Fiction; Regency Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

In an enchanting novella from #1 New York Times bestselling author Victoria Alexander, eligible viscount Winfield Elliott searches for a bride and discovers that love may be lovelier the second--or even third--time around. . . Allow Me To Explain. . . Some say I do not take my engagements seriously. Nonsense. What man with no interest in marriage would find himself proposing not once, but three times? And each time, I've felt certain that this, at last, is the absolutely, positively, perfect woman. Miss Felicia Whitingdon, for instance, has youth, beauty, style, grace--and a handsome fortune. Lady Lucille Eustice is a widow of impeccable social standing, and a balm to my soul. Then there is Miss Caroline Hibbitt, sweet and charming in every way. Any one of these intoxicating treasures could make a man happy. Any one of them could be an ideal wife. But which--if any of them--will it be? "For love, laughter, and lots of fun, read Victoria Alexander." --Stephanie Laurens, New York Times bestselling author "This Victorian yuletide romance provides erotic sizzle and delectably clever dialogue on every page." – USA Today on His Mistress by Christmas New York Times bestselling author Victoria Alexander was an award-winning television reporter until she discovered fiction was much more fun than real life. She turned to writing full time and has never looked back. Victoria grew up traveling the country as an Air Force brat and is now settled in a very old house in Omaha, Nebraska, with her husband, two allegedly grown children and two bearded collies. She firmly believes housework is a four-letter word, there are no calories in anything eaten standing up, procrastination is an art form, and it's never too soon to panic. 30,000 Words

Release date: December 1, 2012

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 79

Sample

“You do realize . . .” Winfield Elliott, Viscount Stillwell, drew a deep breath and chose his words with care, sending a silent prayer of gratitude toward the heavens that, at the moment, he was more shocked than angered, although he suspected anger was not far off. He tried again. “You do realize Fairborough Hall is filled nearly to overflowing with guests of your family’s and mine?”

“Of course I do.” Felicia waved off the comment.

“And each and every one of them is expecting a wedding.” Win stared. “Tomorrow.”

“I realize that as well.” She shook her head and sighed. “It is most awkward.”

“Awkward?” His voice rose. “Awkward?”

“If you are going to take that tone with me, Winfield Elliott, I shall leave this house at once.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And you shall have to deal with this awkwardness without me.”

Win clenched his jaw and tried to remain calm. “Then perhaps you could desist referring to all this merely as awkward.”

“Very well.” She shrugged. “How would you prefer I refer to it?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped. “I have never been told on the day before my wedding by my intended, that while she was quite fond of me, she much preferred to marry someone else, thank you very much!”

“Goodness, it’s not as if I have left you waiting for me at the altar. That would be most embarrassing.”

“Ah well then, I do thank you for that.”

“Sarcasm, Winfield, will not make this any less difficult.” Her brows drew together over her sapphire eyes. “And I should think you would indeed be grateful for that.”

“Grateful?” He sputtered. “Grateful?” In his twenty-five years he didn’t think he’d ever sputtered. Never imagined he could. Why, his father sputtered. And Colonel Channing from Millworth Manor sputtered. And a number of older gentlemen at the club in London his father had insisted he join, as his grandfather had belonged and his father before that, sputtered. Indeed, Winfield Elliott was the kind of man who caused others to sputter in disbelief or surprise or, on occasion, shock, but he certainly never sputtered himself. “Grateful that you did not actually leave me standing at the altar?”

“Well, yes.” She tucked a stray strand of midnight-black hair back into place. “I had hoped to make this as painless as possible.”

“For whom?”

“For both of us,” she said sharply. “This is not exactly what I had planned, you know.” She turned away and meandered around the perimeter of the library in a manner entirely too casual for the occasion. As if the topic of discussion was of no more importance than whether they should picnic near the lake or by the rose garden. It was as disconcerting as the discussion itself. “I fully intended to marry you.” She trailed her fingers over the edge of the desk. “I certainly wouldn’t have allowed all these preparations otherwise.” She glanced at him. “And I am sorry.”

“Well, as long as you’re sorry.”

Her brow furrowed and she stared at him. “You’re really quite surprised, aren’t you?”

“Surprised is the very least of what I am.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Come now, Winfield, it’s not as if you were in love with me.”

“I was not . . . not in love with you.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“It means that I fully expected to love you someday. I expected love between us to grow.” Somehow, that didn’t sound quite as good as he’d thought it would. “I like you a great deal.” Oh yes, that was much better. “I thought we were well suited to one another.”

“Yes, well, there was that.” She cast him a pleasant smile. “I must admit, the idea of spending the rest of my days with you was not the least bit daunting. Indeed, it had a great deal of appeal.”

He shook his head. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“Nonsense, Winfield, of course you do. You’re simply letting the . . . oh, I don’t know . . . sentimentality of the moment confuse you.” She. . .