Warming Winter’s Heart Read online

  Warming Winter’s Heart

  Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  © Copyright 2020 by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  Text by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  Cover by Wicked Smart Designs

  Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

  P.O. Box 7968

  La Verne CA 91750

  [email protected]

  Produced in the United States of America

  First Edition July 2020

  Kindle Edition

  Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

  All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work. For subsidiary rights, contact Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

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  Dearest Reader;

  Thank you for your support of a small press. At Dragonblade Publishing, we strive to bring you the highest quality Historical Romance from the some of the best authors in the business. Without your support, there is no ‘us’, so we sincerely hope you adore these stories and find some new favorite authors along the way.

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  CEO, Dragonblade Publishing

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  Heart of the Corsairs Series

  Captive of the Corsairs

  Revenge of the Corsairs

  Shadow of the Corsairs

  King’s Rogues Series

  Live and Let Spy

  Spyfall

  Spy Another Day

  Father’s Day (A Novella)

  The Lyon’s Den Connected World

  The Lyon Sleeps Tonight

  Also from Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  Dark Heart

  Warming Winter’s Heart

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Publisher’s Note

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  Epigraph

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  “In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.”

  —William Blake

  Dedication

  To the real Al and Patti Camp, who have saved more lives than even they know about.

  Chapter One

  November 30, 1806

  London

  Gar-bloody-denia.

  The cloying scent distilled from the waxy, white flower filled the carriage and made him want to gag.

  Julian Winter pulled back the leather blind to look out at the view.

  It was a pretense.

  Late autumn days drew to a close quickly. There was no view to be had. The sun had left the sky one change of horses back.

  He felt the chill through the glass and imagined the air was fresh beyond it, but knew that was unlikely to be true. They had now entered the paved streets of London, venturing closer to the heart of the city and its river, with its damp and smoke and garbage.

  Braziers dotting the streets produced as much smoke as light. Still, it drew those who had no home of their own to gather around their warmth.

  How he envied them right now.

  A none-too-subtle clearing of the throat from within the carriage stalled his musings. Julian dropped the blind and cast a sidelong glance at Aunt Harriet who sat on the bench beside him. He wondered what she made of her daughter’s friend dousing herself in more scent than the boldest courtesan would ever dare to wear.

  He imagined the older woman might later have words with both her daughter and her friend, Miss Lydia Stonely, about the proper way to conduct themselves while in London.

  At least, that’s what he hoped.

  Cousin Margaret might listen, but he was certain Lydia would merely pay lip service to advice given her, no matter how well-intended.

  Julian absently rubbed a hand over his knee. The injury, although healed, ached like the blazes from time to time, especially as the colder weather had been setting in. Worse had been the injury done to his pride.

  The women who sat in the carriage were aware of his ill-temper and had been for some months.

  But how surprised would they be if they were truly aware of its cause?

  They believed it to be the result of a broken heart – a rejection by the beautiful Alexandra Gedding, newly wed to his business partner, David Manston, who recently reclaimed his title of Viscount Carmarthan.

  In truth, Julian’s heart had been untouched. From the first moment he saw Allie and David together – over a year ago now – he knew they belonged to each other, even if it had taken David some time to acknowledge it.

  No, what gnawed at him was the fact that he owed Allie a debt he could not repay.

  She had literally saved his life in an act of immense courage and prepossession, and yet he was under orders to never speak to another soul about the events that had taken place in the little mining village of Stannum, Cornwall, nearly six months prior.

  There had been a reward for his silence, however. It was an invitation to a winter ball which the Prince of Wales would attend. It would be at the Mayfair home of the new Viscount and Viscountess Carmarthan and jointly hosted by Sir Daniel and Lady Abigail Ridgeway, personal friends of the prince.

  That news, he couldn’t keep to himself, nor was he expected to. The gilt-trimmed and embossed invitation had arrived at his Somerset home shortly after Allie and David’s wedding. Aunt Harriet had been quick to attach Margaret to it.

  After all, it was a golden opportunity to cast a glittering net wider than Bath in the search for more eligible marriage prospects for her daughter.

  Julian would never begrudge his cousin such an opportunity. But where Margaret went, Lydia was never far behind.

  And that was his problem.

  For the past two years, Lydia had determined he was the catch she wanted to land. And despite the unsuitability that was obvious to him at their very first meeting, the girl would not be dissuaded. Unfortunately, neither would his aunt, the only member of his family with whom he had any cordial relations. She actively encouraged Lydia’s pursuit of him in the mistaken belief he was attracted to her but was too diffident to advance the situation.

  Julian himself had erroneously thought that his work as a geologist, digging in the dirt,
would serve to put Lydia off her interest. After a year, it was clear his occupation did not matter as long as his income was good.

  Conspiring with Allie to create a fake attachment worked for nearly six whole months. Then nursing a “broken heart” when she had become engaged to David had given him another three months’ reprieve.

  Now, however, it would appear Lydia had decided his mourning should come to an end.

  Hence the abundance of gardenia scent.

  Despite being born in Yorkshire, Julian was raised a gentleman in London, and would never injure a lady in either word or deed. But what was one to do when a lady would not take “no” for an answer?

  He reluctantly drew his attention to the two young women on the carriage seat before him.

  Margaret sat opposite his aunt. She shared their family’s features – light brown hair, gray eyes and a not-unattractive face. Margaret was also quite an agreeable girl and ought to have a very successful Season, if only she did not allow herself to be led by Lydia Stonely.

  As for her, there was no doubt that Lydia was an attractive young woman – her blonde hair, blue eyes, and trim figure made heads turn wherever she went. The problem was she knew it and was aware of the power her feminine charms could wield. This made her manipulative, and she often treated Margaret – her best friend – as carelessly as some of the calf-eyed swains who attempted to win favor.

  Worse still was noting the way Lydia would brighten her smile and amplify her charms to any gent who first showed interest in Margaret.

  If he, a mere man, had noticed such blatant behavior, then why hadn’t Aunt Harriet? Surely it was a mother’s job to educate her daughter in such matters.

  Ah, if only Aunt Harriet had an inkling as to why he had not made a fuss over chaperoning two young ladies in their first Season in London.

  He smiled at the thought of setting Lady Abigail on Lydia. Nothing escaped that sharp woman’s attention. She would see through Lydia’s tricks in a heartbeat. He would happily pay good money to see the inevitable set down.

  “Does something amuse you, my dear Winter?”

  Lydia’s expression was as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth – for the benefit of Aunt Harriet, no doubt. Julian determined to be distant and polite.

  “I am only pleased to be close to our destination, Miss Stonely.”

  And, indeed, they were close. Outside, he could hear the sound of other carriages approaching the coaching inn. The clattering of wheels, the clopping of hoofs, the shouts of coachmen, ostlers, grooms, and outriders – all grew louder.

  The noise roused Margaret from a half-doze. It also enlivened Aunt Harriet.

  “I think you’re being terribly disagreeable, Julian,” the matron tutted. “The family has a perfectly good townhouse of its own; there’s no need to impose yourself on your friends.”

  “Indeed, I believe you’re quite in the right, my dear Mrs. Erskin,” Lydia chimed in with exaggerated deference. A twinkle in her eye told Julian she found the whole thing quite amusing. “Why won’t you listen to your aunt, Winter?”

  “I have business to conduct over the next few days and it is much more convenient for me to stay with Viscount Carmarthan,” he explained. “Besides, I’m sure you ladies have preparations you wish to make before the ball.”

  “But Julian,” said Margaret, now joining the conversation, “you know London so well and we don’t. We were counting on you to be our escort.”

  Julian allowed his smile to broaden. “You won’t be left stranded, Cousin. I have arranged for Lady Abigail to introduce you to the most fashionable modistes. She will open doors that I cannot.”

  His words hit the mark with his aunt and cousin. All three women had been introduced to Lady Abigail, Allie’s godmother, once before at a soiree at Stannum House. Margaret let out a little squeal of delight while Harriet sat up straighter and preened, clearly pleased to have come to the notice of such a personage.

  Lydia, however, regarded him with open speculation, a light color to her cheeks suggesting she was pleased by the arrangement, but suspected his motives.

  God help the man who decided to pursue this fickle creature.

  Their carriage lurched to a stop. A coachman opened the door and Julian breathed in deeply. The cold, dank air coming up from the river carried the smells of smoke, horse urine, and rancid cooking, yet the mixture was more of a perfume to him than the scent of gardenia.

  His traveling companions did not think so. Aunt Harriet put a handkerchief to her nose. Margaret brought the hood of her cloak further over her head. Lydia wrinkled her nose just slightly as though such unpleasantness was beneath her notice.

  Julian disembarked, aiding his aunt to climb down first. Lydia was the last to step out of the coach and tried to retain hold of his hand even after her feet were firmly on the ground.

  “Come along,” Margaret called. “It’s cold out here, and I want something to eat before we go on!”

  Julian was in no hurry to join them. He remained outside, refusing to let the cold chill him. He breathed in deep. The smell was rank, but it was still preferable to Lydia’s perfume.

  Hansom cabs waiting to pick up fares crowded the streets outside the inn. He pulled out his pocket watch. The lamplight revealed it to be a little after eight o’clock. They had made good time, all things considered.

  After sending a messenger to the family townhouse to arrange the transport of the ladies and their luggage, and another to Viscount Carmarthan, there was little reason to stay outside other than his reluctance to be inside.

  He flexed his leg. It was stiffening up in the chill. He watched beggars, prostitutes and pickpockets ply their trades around the bustle of a busy hostelry. There were deals being done by more or less honest folk; traders picking over the first of the wares before the markets opened in the morning.

  He had no idea why he noticed the boy. The child was nothing more than an urchin, dodging in and out around the legs of those who milled about.

  No one seemed to be chasing him and yet he moved with purpose.

  Unfortunately, he also seemed heedless for his own safety. The lad drew nearer. He stopped a moment and looked down at what he held in his hand. Julian caught a glimpse of it, too, before the boy closed his fingers tightly around it again. A shiny silver coin. Now the youngster’s intent was clear. He was looking for a meal for himself.

  The child dashed out just as coach and four approached. One of the horses reared. Somewhere in the crowd, a woman screamed. The boy stopped and looked back at her, ignoring the very real danger before him.

  Without thinking, Julian surged forward, ignoring his aching knee, and scooped the lad up in his arms. He bent over to take the brunt of what was to come.

  Thanks to good timing and the coachman’s skills, he felt only a brush from the horse’s front hooves as he tucked his head and rolled both himself and the lad from danger. The tumble onto the hard cobblestones would no doubt leave a bruise or two but things could certainly have been a whole lot worse.

  Rising to a squat, Julian examined the boy. He was about four years of age. The lad regarded him with wide eyes but he seemed unhurt.

  “Lucas!”

  The boy turned at the sound of his name.

  Julian rose to his feet and suppressed a groan.

  Yes, there are most certainly bruises.

  A well-dressed young woman pushed her way through the crowd. Behind him, the coachman shared some particularly choice words. The woman raised her head toward the driver, coach lamps illuminating her finely proportioned features. She was older than Julian originally thought, closer to his age than Margaret’s.

  She bore the censure without comment. The coachman, having said his piece, drove on, muttering under his breath.

  “Lucas.”

  The boy came to his senses and hurried into the woman’s waiting arms. Her eyes, dark in a pale complexion, had not yet left Julian’s, and any angry words he might have added to those of the coachman died on hi
s lips.

  “Thank you for saving my son,” she said, her voice well-modulated, her accent refined.

  “You are his mother?” He couldn’t help a tone of incredulity leaching in his question.

  The crowd that had gathered to witness the accident drifted away, leaving only the three of them. And since no one else had claimed the grubby little urchin, Julian supposed the question answered itself.

  “Thank you,” the woman repeated. She looked him up and down with a frown.

  Julian looked down at himself and realized more than the air stank of horse piss now. He looked back up at the woman.

  “I… I am sorry about your clothes. If you would kindly send the bill to—”

  “Julian! Oh, Julian! My poor darling!”

  Did he grimace at the sound of Lydia’s voice? He must have done so because the lips of the mysterious woman quirked upward before regaining a neutral expression.

  “Send it to St. Luke’s Mission, sir. I’ll see you are compensated.”

  There was no time to acknowledge the offer beyond a nod before the wave of thick, creamy, gardenia scent enveloped him anew.

  “Julian! They said there was an accident!”

  He turned at the sound of Harriet’s voice joining that of Lydia’s.

  “I’m unhurt, Aunt,” he assured her. “I was just aiding Mrs.…”

  He turned back. The woman and child had gone.

  Chapter Two

  Caroline ushered Lucas away and dared a glance behind her.

  The man who saved him – Julian – was surrounded by three women, two of whom looked like relatives.

  The other… well, she looked like the man’s mistress.

  She even smelled like one

  Caroline wrinkled her nose.

  Now that was completely uncharitable.

  She recognized the thought for what it was – a deflection against her own culpability in losing sight of the child. He’d been at her side one moment and gone the next. He was a strong-willed little boy.