One Wild Winter's Eve

Book 5: Honeycote

by Anne Barton

Genres: Historical Romance; Regency Romance; Fall & winter reads

Synopsis

ONCE YOU'VE HAD A TASTE OF SCANDAL . . . As the Duke of Huntford's sister, Lady Rose Sherbourne follows the rules of well-bred society. Always chaperoned. Never engaging in unseemly behavior. Well, except for that one summer, years ago. And yet she's never been able to forget that handsome stable master or the stolen moments they shared. She's always wondered what might have happened if he hadn't disappeared without a word . . . Now she's about to find out. YOU CAN NEVER GO BACK Charles Holland never expected to see Lady Rose again. And yet the years haven't lessened his devotion-or his desire-in any way. Despite their differences in class, Charles cannot stop himself from wanting to possess her. But as they uncover one intimate secret after another about her family, they realize that, this time, their love may come at a very dear price . . .

Release date: October 27, 2015

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 370

Sample

Rearing: (1) The act of a horse rising up on its hind legs. (2) The raising and nurturing of a child, as in A gently reared, well-bred young lady would never loiter about the stables daydreaming of the handsome stable master.

Winter 1818

London’s elite could not fathom why a young, eligible miss like Lady Rose Sherbourne, who happened to be the Duke of Huntford’s sister, would choose to travel to Bath, playing the part of companion to the esteemed—but famously cantankerous—Lady Bonneville.

Rose had her reasons.

The first—which everyone rightfully suspected—was that she wished to escape the constant pressure from her well-meaning family to fall in love with a respectable gentleman and marry. As if she could, with a mere snap of her fingers, command her heart to desire a suitable sort of man. Her heart had proven to be less than docile.

The second reason, no one suspected.

Which was for the best.

Because her brother and sister, Owen and Olivia, would never approve of her plan to discover the whereabouts of their mother, who’d disappeared six years ago. According to rumor, Mama had left her husband and children to run off to the Continent with her lover.

But as far as Rose’s siblings were concerned, their mother was dead. No, worse than dead. It was as though her very existence had been erased.

No one spoke of her. Most of her personal things had been sold or given to the poor. Owen and Olivia would deny that they’d been born from her womb if they could, preferring a mythical sort of creation involving Zeus’s head or sea foam.

But as the youngest child, Rose couldn’t quite forget Mama. She couldn’t forget the tea parties where Mama carried on silly conversations with her doll guests, or the cozy evenings when Mama let Rose wear her silky ball dresses and prettiest slippers. There had been lazy afternoons when Rose and Olivia had stayed in their dressing gowns and listened to Mama read stories as they ate biscuits. A mother who’d done all those things couldn’t be all bad—even if she had abandoned her three children.

Owen and Olivia didn’t agree, however. Just the casual mention of Mama’s name darkened their moods, and for their sakes, Rose had tried to keep the past buried. But the older she grew, the more she needed to understand. And she couldn’t quite resist the urge to dig—to find out what had become of the mother she’d once adored.

So here she was, in a coach rumbling over the frozen ground toward Bath, grateful for the warmed brick beneath her feet and the whisper-soft fur lining her muff. Lady Bonneville sat beside her, snoring softly. The viscountess’s maid sat on the seat opposite them, gazing out the window and enjoying the few minutes of peace in much the same way a mother blissfully relishes her infant’s naptime.

The trip had been enjoyable thus far. Lady Bonneville was one of the few people who didn’t coddle Rose. Everyone else assumed she was fragile, on the verge of shattering if someone mentioned an unpleasant matter or looked at her askance. She had been fragile once, but no more. Indeed, she could feel herself becoming stronger every day.

Charles had provided the catalyst that helped her recover her voice. Even now, her palms grew clammy as she remembered that terrifying, momentous day. Her brother had learned of her secret visits to the stables and her intimate—if innocent—relationship with Charles. Enraged, Owen fired Charles and ordered him to leave Huntford Manor immediately. And Rose simply couldn’t let that happen.

So she’d uttered a single word. No.

She’d spoken millions more words since then, but none had been as difficult, as necessary, or as impassioned. She’d saved Charles’s job, and she’d saved herself from a life without him. At least temporarily.

But that was Rose’s problem—she was always so preoccupied with the past.

She was a grown woman now, and a completely different person, ready and able to take matters into her own hands. Somehow, she knew that if she were able to find her mother, she would finally be able to put her difficult past behind her and embrace the opportunities that lay before her. Something she hadn’t quite been able to manage heretofore.

Outside the foggy coach windows, miles of frostbitten pastures gradually gave way to cozy cottages blowing smoky tendrils from their chimneys. The dirt road widened into a city street with shops along either side, and an arched bridge ferried the coach across the River Avon, where ducks bobbed in the cold gray water. “We’ll be there soon,” Rose said to the maid. “Shall we wake her?”

Audrey molded her face into a stoic expression, nodded, and touched the viscountess’s arm with the caution one might use when petting a sleeping lion. “My lady, we shall arrive shortly.”

Lady Bonneville bolted upright and blinked. “It’s about time. Between the cold and the cramped conditions, sleeping is nigh impossible.”

Though Rose could hardly imagine a conveyance more luxurious than the viscountess’s coach, she offered a sympathetic smile. “You’ll soon be in Lady Yardley’s drawing room, enjoying a cup of hot tea.”

Lady Bonneville yawned and felt around on the velvet squabs beside her. “Audrey?”

“Here you are, my lady.” The maid proffered a lorgnette, which the older woman snatched and peered through, taking in the pinkish-orange sunset with apparent distaste.

Facing Rose, Lady Bonneville said, “Well then. This is your last chance. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather take a room at the White Hart?” The viscountess wrinkled her powdered face in concern. “Staying with an old friend of your mother’s is bound to resurrect some unpleasant memories.”

Rose’s heart beat rapidly, but she gave Lady Bonneville a reassuring smile. “Do not worry. I’ve made my peace with the past.” A small fib. “Besides, Lady Yardley is expecting us. It would be rude to decline her hospitality.” Even as she spoke, their hostess’s manor house came into view. Tall windows and iconic columns graced its honey-colored limestone walls.

“Rude? I should think not. When a woman is of a certain age”—Lady Bonneville lifted her chin proudly—“rude behavior is merely considered eccentric.” She narrowed her eyes, blatantly assessing Rose. “What is the real reason you decided to accompany me to Bath?”

The pulse at Rose’s throat beat like a hummingbird’s wings. “What do you mean?”

“Gads, gel. It’s a shame you are so kind, so…  guileless. You really are transparent, you know. It was obvious from the moment you volunteered to be my companion that you wished to escape London and your matchmaking relatives. Your sister-in-law, Anabelle, and her sister, Daphne, are quite determined. And I’ve no doubt that Olivia will join their ranks as soon as she returns from Egypt.”

“Yes. They mean well, but—”

Lady Bonneville held up a gloved hand, heavy with sparkling rings. “You needn’t defend them. There’s nothing so tiresome as blissfully happy newlyweds. Although I suppose new grandmothers are almost as tedious. My dear friend Marian can hardly tear herself away from her granddaughter—as though the little cretin will forget who she is if she goes out for one evening to play bridge.”

The viscountess snorted indelicately. “In any event, I don’t object to being your excuse for fleeing London. However, that does not mean I’ll allow you to hole yourself up in Lady Yardley’s gauche manor house all month with only a pair of older ladies and a stack of dull books for company. If you are to play the part of my companion, you shall have to try to keep up with me and my social engagements.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Rose intended to be a dutiful, pleasant companion. She only required a little time alone with their hostess—an old friend of Mama’s, and the one person she could think of who might know where to find her.

The coach glided to a stop in front of the house. Flanked by a line of servants, Lady Yardley stood ready to welcome them.

“Ah, here we are,” said the viscountess. “Let us hope my legs haven’t frozen all the way through. I should hate to have to ask a footman to carry me.” She shot Rose a mischievous grin. “Unless he was handsome—then I shouldn’t mind it at all.”

A half hour later, Lady Bonneville was sufficiently thawed to have tea with Rose and Lady Yardley in their hostess’s pale green drawing room. Despite Lady Bonneville’s warning, Rose could find nothing remotely gauche about the manor house. The drawing room’s thick carpet in muted creams and blues felt soft beneath her slippers, and the settee was angled in front of a flickering fire. Sconces on the wall lent a warm and inviting glow to the room.

Holding her lorgnette to her face, Lady Bonneville glared about as though a lady of ill repute might pop out from behind a sofa.

“It was good of you to come.” Lady Yardley smiled warmly, and the lines on her otherwise youthful face became more pronounced. She’d aged gracefully, just as Mama would no doubt have done. A familiar pang went through Rose.

“The house is so large, so empty,” Lady Yardley continued. “I haven’t entertained much since Roger passed, and I’ve missed it. Your visit gave me an excuse to bring out the fine china and silver.”

Lady Bonneville eyed the Wedgwood bone china, clearly unimpressed.

“Thank you for making us feel so welcome,” Rose said. “Shall I pour?”

“Please, dear.”

As Rose tipped the steaming pot over a delicate teacup, she felt Lady Yardley measuring her.

“So much like your mother. Not in the coloring, of course—your particular shade of red hair is utterly unique—but you do resemble her. It must be the high cheekbones and delicate chin. Wouldn’t you agree, Henrietta?”

The viscountess seemed to consider the question carefully, and Rose held her breath as she awaited the answer, conflicted about the response she hoped for.

“The more I get to know young Lady Rose, the more I think she is like her hair. Unique.”

Rose suspected unique was simply a polite way of saying odd. Then again, no one could accuse Lady Bonneville of being polite.

“Here, this will warm you.” Rose handed the viscountess her teacup.

Lady Bonneville grimaced. “I am warm enough. I require my footstool.”

“Ah.” The viscountess never went anywhere without the red velvet ottoman on which she rested her feet—a peculiar habit for which she was rather famous. “I believe Audrey is putting your things away. Shall I retrieve the stool for you?”

“I should think not. Simply tell Audrey that if my ottoman is not here within five minutes my legs will turn into sausages from the knees down—and that she shall be to blame.”

Rose spotted at least two other perfectly good footstools in the drawing room, but knew better than to suggest that Lady Bonneville use one till hers could be located.

“I’ll check with Audrey at once.” Rose smiled at Lady Yardley. “Excuse me.”

She glided out of the room and up the grand staircase. Though her visit had just begun, Rose felt hopeful. Lady Yardley had already mentioned Mama, so perhaps the topic wasn’t taboo, as it was at home. Still, she couldn’t imagine that Lady Bonneville would approve of her quest to discover Mama’s whereabouts. She was, in her own ornery way, very protective of Rose’s family—a fact she’d probably deny with her dying breath.

Lady Bonneville had been assigned the bedchamber next to hers. Rose knocked on the door and peeked inside, but the lady’s maid wasn’t there. Rose looked about for the red velvet ottoman. It had definitely been on the coach, hadn’t it? She had a small jolt of panic, the kind she imagined a mother must feel upon discovering she’d left her child’s favorite toy at home.

“Oh, Lady Rose. May I help you?”

Rose turned to find Audrey standing in the doorway, slightly breathless.

“I’d come looking for—”

“Her ladyship’s ottoman? I just took it to her.” She smiled apologetically. “You’d think I’d know better by now than to keep Lady Bonneville waiting.”

“Do not fret. I suspect that she derives a great deal of pleasure from complaining—you would not wish to deny her that, would you?”

“You’re very kind,” the maid said gratefully. “You should return to the drawing room and finish your tea. Meanwhile, I’ll go next door and unpack your things. Hopefully you can have a rest before dinner.”

Rose was already looking forward to an hour of solitude. Humming to herself, she made her way back down to the drawing room. She was about to enter, when something made her freeze just outside the door. From where she stood, she could see Lady Bonneville, slippers perched on her bright red footstool. She was leaning forward, serious and thoughtful as she listened to Lady Yardley. Their hostess stood beside a desk, glancing down occasionally at a paper she held. “Such a pity,” she was saying. “Who would have thought?”

A chill ran through Rose and the back of her neck prickled. Somehow, she knew Lady Yardley was talking about Mama. She debated whether to remain there, eavesdropping, or to boldly walk in, asking for answers. In the end, she compromised, clearing her throat before walking toward the settee. “Have I missed anything?” she asked innocently.

The paper Lady Yardley was holding fluttered from her fingers and landed on the desk. She opened the drawer and stuffed it—a letter perhaps?—inside before shutting it with considerably more force than was necessary. Her face flushed. “No, not a thing.”

Rose looked at Lady Bonneville, who suddenly seemed fascinated with the vase sitting on the table beside her. “Come have a crumpet, dear.”

Anger flashed through her. If Lady Yardley knew something about Mama, Rose had a right to know it, too. Why did Lady Bonneville think she could placate her with a pastry? Though tempted to protest and make a scene, Rose refrained—as she’d learned to do so long ago.

She had to keep her emotions in check, needed to maintain her sense of calm. If she let go, even the slightest little bit, she might unleash all the anguish that had built up inside her—a terrifying thought if ever there was one.

And so she obediently took her seat and pretended that she wasn’t at all curious about the conversation she’d almost overheard. She poured herself tea and even had a bite to eat, as Lady Bonneville had suggested. She made polite small talk with her hostess and acted interested in all the upcoming engagements on her social calendar, many of which she and Lady Bonneville would attend as well. A serene smile in place once more, Rose smoothed over the viscountess’s rough edges, which also seemed to endear her to Lady Yardley.

And all the while, she plotted how to get her hands on that letter.

Later that evening, Rose waited in her room, listening intently. When Audrey knocked on Lady Bonneville’s door and began to help her dress for dinner—a rather involved process—Rose stood and took a deep, fortifying breath.

She was determined to retrieve the letter from Lady Yardley’s desk. It was wrong, of course, a clear invasion of privacy, but for once, Rose shushed her conscience. The anger she’d felt before had waned a bit, but her need to know had not. She feared that the longer she waited, the less likely the letter would be there. Lady Yardley might move it to a more secure spot or, worse, burn it. Perhaps she already had.

Hopefully, Lady Yardley had forgotten about the letter and was also dressing for dinner. Rose needed only five minutes. And a bit of good fortune.

She slipped out of her room and down the corridor, grateful that she was quite alone. The house was so sprawling, so devoid of humanity, that she could almost hear her frantic heartbeat echoing off the walls.

As she entered the drawing room, a shiver ran through her. She was afraid of being discovered—and even more afraid of what she might discover.

Secrets. Her mother had been full of them. At a young and fragile age, Rose had come face-to-face with Mama’s most scandalous and shameful secret. It had been the reason she went silent for so long. Even now, she wished she could unsee it.

As she approached Lady Yardley’s feminine mahogany desk, she doubled her resolve. Mama had already disgraced and abandoned her family. She’d chosen a life of excess and pleasure over responsibility and them—her children. Rose couldn’t imagine it was possible for Mama to hurt her any more than she already had.

Besides, the whole point of coming to Bath was to discover the truth. No matter how ugly it might be.

The servants had already cleared the tea tray, and the fire burned low in the grate. The room was quiet but for the soft sizzle of the log and the ticking of the clock on the mantel.

Rose pulled open the drawer.

There, on top of a stack of correspondence, was a slightly crumpled letter.

Written in Mama’s handwriting.

The cheerful, flowing script was perfectly matched to her lilting voice and twinkling eyes. It was more of her mother than Rose had seen or felt in six years, and the force of it hit her solidly in the belly.

Just holding the letter unleashed a rush of memories so sweet that they hurt. Mama’s golden beauty and contagious smile. Her soothing touch on Rose’s fevered brow. The way her exquisite French perfume lingered after she’d tucked Rose into bed.

Of course, Mama hadn’t written her a note, and that knowledge stung.

But there was no time for self-pity or hurt. The letter Rose held was a clue, and she’d be a fool not to read it—quickly.

She lifted the paper, but the words swam before her. Sniffling, she swiped at the corners of her eyes.

“What are you doing?”

The voice was authoritative, rich, and deep. And hauntingly familiar.

She turned, hiding the letter behind her. She made a clumsy attempt to shove the drawer shut with her bottom but succeeded only in bumping the desk, which rocked on spindly legs. The man must be a servant. If she could manage a haughty tone, she could probably talk her way out of the situation. But she’d never been particularly good at haughty. Her face burned.

“I was looking for something.” She looked at the man, hoping he wasn’t half as intimidating as he sounded, and froze.

Dear God. It couldn’t be.

“Rose?” He blinked, clearly as stunned as she, then quickly corrected himself. “Lady Rose?”

“Charles.” The sound of his name on her lips was surreal. She’d thought that her feelings for him had withered, dried, and blown away like dead leaves.

She’d been wrong.

He was the same as she remembered—confident, solid, and steady. But he was different, too. His hair had turned a darker shade of gold, and he seemed to have grown all over. His neck was thicker, his jaw stronger. He’d traded the patched trousers and threadbare shirt that he’d worn in the stables for buckskin breeches and a nicely tailored jacket, both of which showed his strong physique to advantage. But the biggest change in him was the way he looked at her.

And it nearly broke her heart.

For instead of looking happy to see her, like he was anticipating a few stolen moments of summertime bliss, he looked suspicious. The laughing amber eyes that had always welcomed her to the stable glowered, chilly and remote.

She choked out the obvious question. “What are you doing at Lady Yardley’s?”

“I could ask the same of you.” The words, formal and clipped, didn’t fit with the Charles she knew.

She raised her chin and matched her tone to his. “I’m acting as a companion to Lady Bonneville, and we’re guests of the countess.”

“You’re a companion?” He raised a brow, skeptical.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Once, she would have willingly explained everything to him. For even before she’d regained her voice, she’d shared her whole being with him—she’d been as honest and open as it was possible for her to be. But now, his question irritated her. It presumed too much—a connection, a trust, a bond.

“I don’t see that it’s any concern of yours.”

“Forgive me.” But the look he leveled at her belied his apology. It said, Fine. We can play it that way if you’d like.

Fighting the urge to shiver, she folded the letter behind her back. She felt for the drawer, slipped the note through the crack, and slid the drawer shut. “You’re no longer a stable master.” It was an idiotic thing to say, but she had to say something—anything—to fill the vast and unnatural gulf between them.

“No.” His stiff smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“And I think it’s safe to presume,” she stated saucily, “that you’re not Lady Yardley’s companion.”

“I am not.” This time, his smile was genuine.

Dangerous, that. She gripped the edge of the desk behind her to keep her knees from wobbling.

He took one step toward her. “I’m her steward.”

Ah, he’d been too busy moving up in the world to reply to her letters. She couldn’t blame him for wanting to better his station in life—that had always been his dream. Perhaps he wanted no reminders of the days he’d spent mucking out stables. But those days happened to be the ones she most treasured.

“Congratulations are in order then.”

“I’m grateful to Lady Yardley for giving me the opportunity.” He took another step toward Rose. “And I am in her debt.”

The show of loyalty to his employer stung—especially since he seemed to have forgotten the sultry summer days and the confidences they’d shared. “I’ve no doubt you’ve proven yourself worthy.”

He strode closer, till only an arm’s length separated them. His clothes might have been more refined, but the man beneath them was not. He looked like he’d be more at ease chopping wood and hammering nails outdoors than reviewing ledgers and attending to correspondence in a study. The merest shadow of a beard covered the lower half of his masculine face, but his lips, soft and full, captured her attention. She’d imagined kissing him so many times that she could almost convince herself she had.

“I need to ask you again,” he said evenly. “What are you doing in here?”

“We had tea here earlier. I left something behind.”

“In Lady Yardley’s desk?” he asked doubtfully.

Drat. She’d rather hoped he hadn’t seen her rummaging through the drawer. “No, of course not. I, ah, simply noticed that the drawer was open and thought I’d close it.” Heat crept up her face—the curse of being a redhead. Even the tops of her ears burned.

“I see.” His cool, assessing gaze raked over her. “Did you find it?”

“Pardon?” Her mouth went dry. Had he seen her holding the letter?

“The item you left behind.”

She laughed a bit too loudly. “No. That is, perhaps it’s in my room after all.”

He nodded—as though he didn’t believe a word she said.

“In fact, I’m sure I left it there. I feel quite foolish for coming here to search for it. I don’t suppose we could pretend that I didn’t?”

Rose held her breath as she awaited his response. Asking him to overlook her snooping was like asking him to put her before his employer, Lady Yardley. He’d always been very dedicated to his job, the most conscientious of workers, and yet, there was a time when Charles would have put her ahead of anyone. She wouldn’t have even had to ask. But that was years ago, and he wasn’t the same. She wasn’t the same.

He inclined his head politely. Distantly. Like they were barely acquainted. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Lady Rose.” With that, he stepped aside and glanced at the door, dismissing her. He might be willing to forget about this incident, but he wasn’t about to leave her to her own devices in Lady Yardley’s drawing room.

She thought of the letter with her mother’s handwriting, still sitting in the desk drawer. It could hold all the answers Rose was seeking. Who knew when she’d have another chance to peek at the letter, or whether it would still be there when she did? Surely that was the reason her feet refused to move.

The stark physical change in Charles made her realize just how young he’d been the summer that she’d met him. Back then, she’d thought him terribly mature and experienced, but the truth was he’d been little more than a boy himself. She should never have placed so much hope in him. She should have known they’d grow apart—that he’d leave, just as Mama had. Papa, too. No, it wasn’t Charles’s fault that she’d been so naïve. She always expected too much from people…  and was inevitably disappointed.

“You should leave now.” His voice was deeper but still achingly familiar.

Hurt, and determined that he should not see it, Rose lifted her chin. “I was just about to return to my room to dress for dinner.”

“I think that would be best.”

She should have simply nodded and taken her leave. But that one simple statement, uttered with such frosty detachment, wounded her to the core.

She was tired of being dismissed, deserted, and forgotten. Years might have passed, but the ache in her chest was a permanent, palpable thing. Mama was missing; Papa was dead. And now Charles was here, in the flesh, exposing all the hurt and grief once again.

She couldn’t walk away.

“Why do you want me to leave, Charles? Does it make you uncomfortable that the girl who once visited you in the stables has made an appearance in your new life?”

“No.” His brows, several shades darker than his golden hair, drew together. It was a glimpse of the old Charle. . .