A Regency Christmas VI Read online

  A Regency Christmas

  FIVE STORIES BY

  Mary Balogh

  Jo Beverley

  Sandra Heath

  Edith Layton

  Laura Matthews

  Make your Christmas merry with these delightful stories from some of the most wonderfully talented Regency authors. Mary Balogh tells of three orphans who bring together their estranged aunt and uncle for the holidays. Jo Beverley spins an intriguing yarn of a woman who is seeking a gift of vengeance—only to get a gift of love in return. Edith Layton shows us how love can reform a rake who sets out to save a needy girl from the likes of a rogue far more devilish than he. Lama Matthews offers a charming tale of a dashing viscount who must create a Yuletide miracle by winning the heart of a proud and beautiful country girl. A widow gets a second chance at love with the help of her father’s ghost in Sandra Heath’s touching story. This heartwarming treasury is filled with the joyous gifts of giving and the buoyant spirit of the season.

  Mary Balogh was born in Swansea, South Wales. She now lives in Saskatchewan, where she taught for twenty years. She won the Romantic Times Award for Best New Regency Writer in 1985 and has since become the genre’s most popular and bestselling author. Recently she has begun to write historicals, which have received critical acclaim as well. Her most recent Regency is Lord Carew's Bride (Signet), and Longing (Topaz) is her latest historical.

  Jo Beverley is the author of the acclaimed Regencies Lord Wraybourne’s Betrothed and The Stanforth Secrets. She has been critically hailed as an “extraordinary talent.” Ms. Beverley, who lives with her family in Ottawa, Canada, now writes historical romance and is also the author of award-winning science fiction.

  Sandra Heath, the daughter of an officer in the Royal Air Force, spent most of her life traveling to various European posts. She now resides in Gloucester, England, together with her husband and daughter. Her most recent Regency is Magic at Midnight (Signet).

  Edith Layton, historical romance author, is the winner of numerous awards, including the first Romantic Times Award granted for Best Short Story Author in 1992.

  Laura Matthews was born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. But after attending Brown University, she moved to San Francisco, where she lives with her architect husband, Paul. Ms. Matthews’ favorite pursuits are traveling and scrounging in old bookstores for research material.

  A SIGNET BOOK

  “The Christmas Ghost” copyright © Sandra Heath, 1995

  “The Rake’s Christmas” copyright © Edith Felber, 1995

  “Lady Bountiful” copyright © Laura Matthews, 1995

  “A Mummers’ Play” copyright © Jo Beverley Publications, Inc., 1995

  “The Surprise Party” copyright © Mary Balogh, 1995

  All rights reserved

  Contents

  The Christmas Ghost by Sandra Heath

  The Rake’s Christmas by Edith Layton

  Lady Bountiful by Laura Matthews

  A Mummers’ Play by Jo Beverley

  The Surprise Party by Mary Balogh

  The Christmas Ghost

  by Sandra Heath

  It was on a wet and windy morning three days before Christmas that Rebecca Winterbourne first felt the frightening grip of the ghostly hand. She was alone at her brother Clifford’s writing desk in the library at Abbotlea Manor, about to commence a letter, when someone seized her shoulder and shook her so roughly she dropped her quill and almost knocked the inkwell over.

  Alarmed, she leapt to her feet. Her brown eyes were wide as she glanced swiftly around the deserted room. Firelight flickered over the Christmas garlands along the mantelshelf, and beyond her own reflection in the chimney breast mirror she could see the windswept gardens and grounds, but she was quite alone in the room. After a while her alarm subsided, and she sat down again, telling herself she’d imagined it.

  But her concentration was too rattled for her to get on with the letter, and her attention wandered to her reflection. Her gaze became critical. She was thirty now, with long, almost black hair that of late had shown a tendency to be flecked with gray at the temples. It was a family trait, as she’d noticed from the portrait of her mother, who’d died giving birth to her. The pale complexion was also inherited, although right now the pallor was perhaps a little exaggerated. Sleepless nights had that effect. But at least she could be proud of her figure, which was still slender and enviably small-waisted, in spite of having borne two children.

  She gazed at the wine velvet gown she wore. Edward had always loved to see her in warm shades of dark red, which he said brought out her brunette coloring to perfection. Tears suddenly stung her eyes. Oh, how she missed him, missed his warmth and laughter, his touch, his lovemaking. When she awoke at night and he wasn’t there, the pain of loss was so great she almost couldn’t bear it. But on those occasions grief sometimes turned to anger about all those wasted nights when the gaming table had more claim upon him than she did. They’d only had six years together before his death, so all those squandered hours seemed more poignant than they otherwise might. Instead of sitting in his club, he could have been with her. They could have lain naked together, making love, and sharing precious seconds; instead he lingered over the turn of another losing card. But even now she still forgave him his weakness, still adored the memory of his roguish charm and irresistible smile. He’d left her penniless, without a roof over her head, but she didn’t for a moment doubt the depth of his love for her and his sons.

  More tears shone in her eyes. Edward had been gone two years now, but was still so fresh in her mind that it seemed wrong to have discarded widow’s weeds. But black was hardly appropriate for a woman who’d just decided to marry again. Since receiving Sir Oliver’s unexpected proposal three days ago, she’d lain awake at night trying to think what to do, but at last her mind was made up.

  She lowered her glance to the sheet of paper on which her letter of acceptance would soon be written.

  This second marriage was hardly set to be the heavenly match her first had been. Sir Oliver Willoughby was too elderly to be the dashing hero of romance, and she wasn’t a foolish young girl who’d been swept off her feet, nor would her heart ever miss a beat at the thought of the rather vain, attention-seeking man who was a friend and contemporary of her late father’s. But Sir Oliver was kindly enough, which counted a great deal in her decision to accept his proposal. For the two years of her widowhood she’d been a burden on her brother’s finances, and it was time to do what she could to provide for herself and her sons, especially now that her sister-in-law, Margaret, was at last expecting the child she and Clifford had longed for throughout their fourteen-year marriage. Rebecca sighed. They didn’t yet know about the proposal, let alone her decision to accept, and their reaction was bound to be mixed.

  Dipping the quill in the ink, she prepared to start the letter, but almost immediately the invisible hand grabbed her again, shaking her so violently that this time the inkwell would definitely have spilled if she hadn’t somehow managed to rescue it.

  She glanced around uneasily. “Who—who’s there?” she whispered. Her heart was pounding so much she couldn’t count the beats, and she was so conscious of an unseen presence that when the door opened suddenly to admit her sister-in-law, she gave a frightened scream.

  But as Margaret entered, so did a great gust of wind. Rushing and whirling, it seized the neatly piled documents on Clifford’s desk, tossing them around the room like a snowstorm. It was as if the gale outside had somehow become trapped in the house, and was roaring through rooms and passages, trying to find its way out again.

  Rebecca pressed her hands fearf
ully to her mouth as the papers fluttered wildly around her head, and Margaret, who was only six weeks from being brought to bed, was so taken by surprise she could only cling to the door handle with her skirts flapping around her legs and the lace tippets of her day bonnet streaming across her face.

  At last Rebecca found her tongue. “For heaven’s sake close the door!” she cried.

  Margaret managed to obey, and the wind stopped as suddenly as it had begun. As the papers sank in profusion all over the floor and furniture, she gave an uneasy half-laugh. “I—I’ve never known a draft as fierce as that before. There must be a window open somewhere.”

  “Yes, I suppose there must.” Rebecca placed her hands on the desk to hide how much they were trembling. She felt unnerved. First there had been the hands, and then this ... She pulled herself together sharply. There had to be a logical explanation; indeed there was always a logical explanation!

  Margaret surveyed the scattered documents in dismay. “Clifford will be furious—you know how fastidious he is,” she said.

  Rebecca got up to gather them. “He’ll only be furious if he finds out,” she said briskly, determined not to let events of the past few minutes cause her imagination to run riot.

  Margaret helped, her voluminous chestnut dimity robe rustling as she bent. She was thirty-four, a petite, pretty redhead, with green eyes and freckles, and when the last paper had been collected, she straightened and looked hesitantly at Rebecca.

  “I’m sorry I startled you. I should have knocked, I know, but I was so excited...”

  “Excited?”

  “About something that came for you in the post. Rebecca, I don’t know for sure, of course, but I’m almost certain you’ve been invited to the Almondsbury Park ball the day after tomorrow.” Margaret placed an impressively sealed letter on the desk.

  Rebecca stared at it. “It can’t possibly be an invitation. I think the duchess would rather die than receive me. Unless...” A thought struck her. Was this Sir Oliver’s doing? He was always welcome at Almondsbury Castle, and might have made a point of asking for her to be invited. Yes, the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became. He’d expect her answer before then, and if it was favorable, he’d make certain they were the center of attention at the ball, a state of affairs that would be joy to his vanity.

  Margaret grew impatient. “Oh, do open it and see! I can’t bear the suspense.”

  Splinters of ducal sealing wax fell on the desk, and then the costly vellum crackled as Rebecca began to read aloud. “December twenty-first, 1812. The Duke and Duchess of Almondsbury request the company of Mrs. Edward Winterbourne at their Christmas Eve ball at Almondsbury Park.”

  Margaret clapped her hands. “You’re to be allowed in from the cold at last! I didn’t think you could be excluded forever, not when you’re a Winterbourne, and your sons are Winterbournes, too!”

  Rebecca put the invitation down. “Margaret, I don’t think this has anything to do with who I am now, but everything to do with who I’m about to become,” she said quietly, thinking that now was as good a time as any to break the news of her impending betrothal.

  Margaret was puzzled. “With who you’re about to become? I don’t understand.”

  “I’m going to marry Sir Oliver.”

  Margaret’s jaw dropped. “You’re what?” she said faintly.

  “He’s proposed to me, and I’ve decided to accept. I was about to write to him when you came in. I believe he’s mentioned his proposal to the duke and duchess, and that’s why I’ve suddenly appeared on the guest list.”

  Margaret was shaken, and had to sit down. “You and Sir Oliver! Oh, Rebecca, you can’t! He’s old enough to be your father!”

  “It’s best all around if I marry him. He’ll provide for Matthew and Frederick, and I’ll be off your hands at last.”

  Margaret looked earnestly at her. “Rebecca, Clifford and I don’t want you ‘off our hands,’ as you put it, and certainly not if it means you marrying a shameless old rake who doesn’t give tuppence for your children, but just wants to get you between the sheets!”

  “Margaret!”

  “Well, it’s true. He’s been giving you the glad eye ever since I can remember.”

  “My mind is made up.”

  Margaret got up. “Your father was Sir Oliver’s friend, but he certainly wouldn’t approve of your decision. He called him ‘Lothario’ Willoughby, and once described him as good-natured but totally unreliable. It was an accurate assessment, for if it came to a choice between an appointment with his Bond Street tailor and a problem concerning Matthew or Frederick, you may be certain the tailor would take precedence.”

  “You’re wrong,” Rebecca insisted, but she looked away. She wasn’t approaching this match with her eyes blinkered. In return for conjugal rights, her new husband would provide her with a title, a luxurious home, and more than sufficient allowance to properly take care of her children’s upbringing. It was a marriage of convenience, and Margaret was right, her father wouldn’t approve at all. In fact, he’d probably have disapproved of her marriage to Edward as well, for he’d have foreseen not only the opposition and trouble it would inevitably cause, but also the penury that would ensue from Edward’s addiction to gambling.

  Margaret pressed her. “Please think again, Rebecca. You won’t be at all happy with Sir Oliver.”

  “I’ve done little else but think about it, Margaret, and I’ve concluded that this marriage is right. Clifford has been supporting me ever since Edward died, and I know from when Father was alive that Abbotlea Manor isn’t the most productive of estates. You’re having a child of your own, so it’s unthinkable of me to remain a burden. Then there’s the small matter of Clifford’s desire to enter politics...”

  “Clifford has long since given that up, Rebecca.”

  “Through force of circumstance, not choice.”

  “Don’t marry Sir Oliver,” Margaret pleaded.

  “Look, I realize it won’t be like Edward all over again.”

  Margaret turned away. “Forgive me for saying this, Rebecca, but Edward Winterbourne wasn’t perfect either. If he’d thought more of you and his children, and less of gambling every night, he wouldn’t have left you financially straitened.”

  “Please don’t disparage him, Margaret.”

  “I know you loved him, and I’d like to think you’d be happy again this time, but you won’t.”

  Beset by a mixture of indignation and acknowledgement of the truth, Rebecca looked earnestly at Margaret. “We’ll quarrel if you persist, so please let’s change the subject.”

  “Very well.” Margaret picked up the invitation again. “Which gown will you wear? The strawberry silk? Or the aquamarine taffeta?”

  “Neither. I’m not going to the ball,” Rebecca replied firmly.

  Margaret was appalled. “But you must go!”

  “The duchess has only invited me in order to please Sir Oliver. I’m sure she’d rather I stayed away, and I’d certainly prefer to remain here rather than give her false smiles.”

  “Rebecca Winterbourne, I’ll never forgive you if you show Abbotlea up by refusing to go. Society may have treated you very badly because of Edward, but that’s no reason for you to sink to their level now.”

  Rebecca was silent for a moment, and then gave her a rueful smile. “I suppose I’ll wear the strawberry silk,” she said.

  Margaret smiled too. “I agree, for it suits you best. At least, it used to, but you’re so pale these days...”

  “A little rouge will rectify matters.”

  “True.” Margaret moved to the fire, and held her hands out to the flames. “There’s something I haven’t mentioned. Piers Winterbourne will be at the ball as well. Or should I say, Lord Winterbourne?”

  Rebecca stared at her in fresh dismay. Piers was Edward’s cousin, and had much to answer for concerning her unhappiness, past and present. She found her tongue. “But he’s in London, isn’t he?”

  “The rest of
the Winterbournes are, but he’s back at the castle for Christmas. Actually, it’s rumored there’s soon to be a Lady Winterbourne again.”

  Rebecca was shaken. “Piers is to marry?”

  “I gather so. An heiress from Westmorland. Or is it Northumberland? Somewhere in the north, anyway, and fabulously rich.”

  Rebecca had to turn away. Piers was marrying? She had to say something, but could only think of being disparaging. “The lady would be best advised to remain safely in the north.”

  Margaret glanced at her. “You’re being unfair.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes.”

  Rebecca’s eyes flashed. “You surely don’t expect me to be pleasant about a snake like Piers Winterbourne!”

  “You may call him a snake, but he’s always been more than polite to me.”

  “You weren’t the one who presumed to marry his cousin!” Rebecca replied shortly.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Oh, don’t be so taken in by his winning smiles and dashing charm, Margaret. Outwardly he’s all that’s attractive, but beneath it all he’s as odious as his horrid father before him.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that you might be wrong?”

  “No, because I’m not,” Rebecca replied crushingly. “Piers was pleasant to me while I remained plain Rebecca Newton, but he became positively savage when I reached up above my station in life to become a Winterbourne.”

  Margaret sighed. “I suppose this means you’ve changed your mind about going to the ball?”

  “No, I’ll still go.”