Make Her Wish Come True Collection

‘I don’t mind. It’s still a good offer and I’m getting old,’ Mr Pickering said. ‘Eighty-five next week. I need a holiday.’

Everyone laughed, including Amanda, then she gave Ben a searching look. ‘His choler? How would you know what is really wrong with Lord Kelso?’

‘It’s only a suspicion,’ Ben said. ‘When I stopped in Devonport and talked to the harbour master, he told me about a visit to my captain from Thomas Walthan.’

‘Thomas?’

‘Aye. He surrendered his midshipman’s berth. I cannot begin to express my relief, but I doubt his father sees it that way.’ He chuckled. ‘Let’s draw a curtain over life at Walthan Manor right now.’

He turned to the vicar. ‘I need a special licence. My ship is my parish, but I’d rather not wait three weeks to have my captain cry the banns there.’ Ben laughed. ‘Besides, after all my declarations on never marrying, he would find this vastly amusing. Do you suppose the bishop is in Plymouth?’

‘Alas, he is not,’ Reverend Winslow said.

‘We will elope,’ Ben said, biting off each word, as his darling Mandy blushed.

‘No need,’ the vicar said. ‘I saw the bishop only yesterday at Lord Baleigh’s seat just a little south of here, celebrating with wassail.’ He leaned forward. ‘He is a patriotic man, Mr Muir. Go in all your finery and describe a lonely night on the blockade. Get Mandy to squeeze out a tear or two and he will grant a special licence, even if he is on holiday. Shall we say December the twenty-sixth?’

‘What say ye, Amanda?’ Ben asked, his eyes on his love, who struggled to keep back tears. She nodded.

‘Lad, it might be hard to find a nice place to stay, inns being what they are at Christmas,’ Maxwell Muir said.

‘Hardly.’ Mr Cooper reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. ‘Mandy’s Rose is available. No one is taking possession until Lord Kelso gets around to signing the contract.’ He bowed to Mr Pickering. ‘No objections, sir?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘I don’t have a dress,’ Amanda said, but it sounded to Ben like a feeble protest.

‘Good God, woman, then what are you wearing?’ he teased. It’ll come off soon enough, he thought.

* * *

The dress lasted through a wedding, a quick reception in the vicarage on leftover Christmas refreshments, and a walk to Mandy’s Rose. They sat for a moment on the bench by the road, where he promised to find her a wedding ring as soon as they got to Plymouth and the Drake.

She took off the dress—that nice green wool—as he watched, her face a deep blush. He did duty on the buttons to her camisole, which afforded him a most pleasant view of what he had already imagined was a lovely bosom. There was even a wonderful mole between her breasts, which he kissed. That led to her hands on his trouser buttons. She was good with buttons.

When his trousers and shirt were off, and his small clothes halfway gone, she made him turn around so she could see the blue gunpowder dots on his back. He would have laughed at her cheerful scrutiny, except that she started kissing each dot, which moved matters along handsomely.

She didn’t even fumble with the cord holding up her petticoat and she hadn’t bothered with drawers. She was a sailor’s dream come true.

* * * * *

THE VISCOUNT’S CHRISTMAS KISS

GEORGIE LEE

To my family.

Thanks for making every Christmas memorable.

A lifelong history buff, GEORGIE LEE hasn’t given up hope that she will one day inherit a title and a manor house. Until then, she fulfills her dreams of lords, ladies and a Season in London through her stories. When not writing, she can be found reading nonfiction history or watching any movie with a costume and an accent. Please visit georgie-lee.com to learn more about Georgie and her books.

Chapter One

Yorkshire, England—1818

‘What do you mean, he’s coming here?’ Lily paused over her canvas and a large drop of red paint dripped from the tip of her paintbrush.

‘Laurus is bringing him,’ her younger sister Daisy announced as she strolled across the wide sitting room, waving the letter with the shocking news. ‘He’s to stay with us for Christmas.’

‘Here?’ Lily squeaked as she wiped the red spot off her easel with the corner of her old smock. ‘To Helkirk Place?’

‘Of course. What other here might I be referring to?’ Daisy flounced to a nearby chair and dropped into it, tossing their older brother’s letter on the table beside her to pick through the other envelopes she carried. At ten, Daisy enjoyed a more vigorous correspondence than Lily did at twenty.

Lily shoved the paintbrush in its holder and rushed across the room, disturbing the pack of small terriers sleeping on the hearthrug before the fireplace. They jumped to their stubby feet and began loudly protesting. Aunt Alice continued to snore in her chair by the fire, immune to the indignity of her precious darlings.

Lily snatched up her brother’s letter and read through it, the words nearly lost in the jumble of yapping canines.

‘Quiet down, all of you,’ she commanded, but it did nothing to silence the tiny pack or calm the panic racing through her. ‘He’s coming tonight, on Christmas Eve?’

‘I imagine so if he’s to be here for Christmas.’ Daisy shrugged, the red ribbon in her brown hair as askew as those around the terriers’ necks.

Lily crushed the letter to her chest as she took in the sorry state of the sitting room. With the exception of her corner where the easel sat neatly over the oil cloth protecting the floor, nothing else was as it should be. The house was already filled to near bursting with family. Besides Aunt Alice, their eldest sister Rose had descended on them yesterday with her husband, Edgar, and their five-year-old twins, James and John. The boys’ shoes littered the stone hearth where they’d been discarded when they’d torn by after coming in from playing in the snow. Their mittens fared no better, one having been tossed over the back of a wooden chair, the other flung across the seat to wet the sturdy fabric. The rest were strewn about the room, except for the one being chewed on by Pygmalion, the smallest terrier with the longest name. Her other sister Petunia had arrived this morning with her husband and daughter, increasing the chaos. This wasn’t the festive atmosphere in which to bring someone unaccustomed to the confusion of the Rutherford family, especially one as arrogant as Lord Marbrook.

‘Did you tell Mother about Laurus’s plan?’ With any luck she’d object, what with the staff already overwhelmed and, if the butler was any judge of things this afternoon, sampling the wassail brewing in the kitchen. Lily also hoped, for once, the family might side with her against a man such as Lord Marbrook, though she wasn’t sure why, since they never had before. Because he was Laurus’s oldest school friend, they’d been all too willing to overlook his slight of her. The indignity of it still stung.

‘Mother thinks him being here is a wonderful idea. You know her, the more the merrier.’ Daisy kicked her legs over the arm of the chair to recline across them and read.

Lily grabbed Daisy’s ankle and tossed it off the embroidered arm. ‘Why? Did she feel we didn’t expose our family to enough ridicule the last time Gregor St James was in our midst?’

They hadn’t seen Gregor St James, Viscount Marbrook, since Petunia’s wedding to Charles Winford, fifth Baron Winford, four years ago. St James had only been a second son then. Now, with a title hanging in front of his name, he was sure to be even more arrogant than before and all too eager to sneer down his sharp nose at her and her family again.

‘You were the only one who made a fool of herself, tripping while dancing with him during the Scotch reel,’ Daisy pointed out.

Aunt Alice snorted in her sleep as if agreeing with Daisy, the slurp of the dog chewing the mitten punctuating it.

‘Thank you very much for reminding me.’ Though she’d never forgotten it, or the callous way Lord Marbrook and his family had treated her afterwards. Their very public disdain had encouraged the most vicious in society to follow their lead, making her the focus of wicked ridicule and turning every subsequent ball and soirée into a drudge. She’d left London less than a month later and hadn’t returned since.

‘I have no desire to attend our Christmas ball and face the entire countryside, most of whom were at Petunia’s wedding. It’s bad enough I have to endure Sir Walter’s cracks about my graceful dancing every year, but to have Lord Marbrook there when he does is more than anyone should have to bear.’

‘I don’t know why you care about what wrinkled old Sir Walter says. No one else does.’ Daisy turned over a page of her letter. ‘Beside, Lord Marbrook is sure to have forgotten your tumble by now. Mother said he was with Wellington at Waterloo, before his elder brother died and he inherited.’

Lily didn’t share her sister’s confidence in Lord Marbrook having been changed by his time in France. Nor could she imagine a Marbrook sullying his hands on a battlefield or taking orders from anyone of lesser rank, not with the way the whole family revelled in their lineage more than the Prince Regent.

‘He probably wasn’t anywhere near the fighting but the aide-de-camp to some fat general with a higher title than his father’s,’ Lily retorted as she stomped back to the canvas and snatched up her palette. She mashed together yellow and blue with her knife, the memory of Lord Marbrook standing arrogantly over her while the other dancers had laughed, not bothering to acknowledge her or even help her rise from where she’d fallen, still made her cheeks burn. Yet it wasn’t so much the haughty man’s condescension which enraged her as how little she’d deserved it, especially after all she’d done for him in the hallway outside the ballroom before the dance.

She set down the knife and took up her brush, but fumbled the smooth wood. It dropped to the canvas covering the floor. She reached for it, but it disappeared in a flash of brown fur as Pygmalion snatched it up.

‘No, Pygmalion, bad dog.’ Lily chased after the animal, wincing as it scurried beneath a table with its prize, painting the bottom of one oak leg as he moved backwards. Lily knelt down in front of the table and reached for the brush. ‘Give that back.’

The toll of the front bell echoed through the house, sending the dogs scurrying from the hearthrug in a hail of yapping and toenails scraping across the wood floor. Pygmalion, still gripping his treasure, darted past Lily to join the pack, leaving a streak of red on the white door moulding as he passed.

‘It must be Laurus and his guest.’ Daisy tossed aside her letter and, like one of the dogs, hurried off down the hall. Aunt Alice continued to snore in her chair, oblivious to the excitement of her darlings.

Lily sat back on her heels, ready to run in the opposite direction, but she could hardly hide from the family at Christmas. Nor could she leave Pygmalion to mark up the house, not with such an esteemed visitor about to grace it with his presence.

She hurried after the pack, jumping over the twins’ discarded lead soldiers and tin horns, wrinkling her nose at the red bits of paint blobbed on the floor and streaked along the low bottoms of the walls. She hurried down the hall, eager to catch the dog before it did more damage and made the house, which was already in sixes and sevens, even worse. Her family wasn’t slovenly, but there was a messiness to Helkirk Place, as if it wasn’t just lived in, but well-worn. Her mother was too lenient with the staff, allowing them to shirk their cleaning duties, as Lily often reminded her. However, attending to such matters would involve her parents looking up from their precious plants long enough to give more care to what the servants were doing.

Passing the long tapestries and dark panelling of the Tudor-era house, Lily inhaled the woodsy scent of the pine boughs covering the sideboards and mixing with the savoury spices from the roasting pig’s head wafting up from the kitchen. In the smell was every Christmas they’d ever spent here, except for the year they’d ventured to London for Petunia’s wedding, the one Yuletide Lily did her best not to recall.

‘Laurus, you made it.’ Lily’s elder sister Petunia embraced their brother. Behind her stood Mrs Smith, the nurse, with Petunia’s toddler daughter Adelaide perched on one hip. Charles, Petunia’s husband, stepped forwards to shake Laurus’s hand. Beneath them, James and John ran in circles like the dogs around the adults.

‘Uncle Laurus, what did you bring us?’ the boys demanded, stopping to dig in Laurus’s pockets.

‘Boys, don’t pester your uncle,’ Rose chided as she and Edgar entered the foyer.

‘They aren’t bothering me. Besides, I need to get rid of this twist of sweets.’ Laurus withdrew a small paper cone from inside his coat pocket and dangled it over their heads before depositing it in James’s hand. He and John tore at it, extracting their treats while the dogs waited at their feet for the crumbs.

In the midst of all the wagging and whimpering, Lily spied Pygmalion, who bolted towards the stairs, determined to hang on to his treasure. She cornered the terrier between a high clock and the wall, stopping him before he could ascend and decorate the already bough-laden banister with more Christmas colour. The little dog growled as he shifted this way and that, trying to get past her, each turn of his head adding a new dollop of paint to the already marred wall.

‘Lily, stop playing with Pygmalion and come greet your brother.’ Lily’s father, Sir Timothy’s, deep voice carried over the noise as he and Lily’s mother descended to greet their only son. As always, his dark jacket was dusted with yellow pollen. Woe to those who were made to sneeze by flowers—the Rutherfords had lost more than one maid to the affliction.

‘I will as soon as I get my paintbrush back,’ Lily insisted.

‘Lily, let the dog be, he isn’t doing any harm,’ Lily’s mother added before turning her attention to Laurus.

Lily grabbed the end of the paintbrush and began to tug. Her mother might not care about marking the plaster, but Lily did.

‘Perhaps I can be of some assistance?’ a male voice offered as Lily continued her tug of war with Pygmalion.

‘No, I have him.’ The dog’s little jaws were no match for Lily’s determination and she tugged the paintbrush from Pygmalion’s mouth. It came free so fast, it sent her stumbling back. She whirled, trying to reclaim her balance, only to hit the hard chest of a man with the soft end of the brush. It left a wide, red streak across the camel-coloured coat.

‘Oh, Laurus, I’m so sorry.’ She reached out to wipe off the spot, then froze. This was not Laurus, or Edgar, or Charles, but none other than Gregor St James, Viscount Marbrook.

She snatched back her hand, waiting for his green eyes, a shade more like grass in a meadow than the dark holly leaves decorating the family portraits, to turn as cold as they had in the ballroom four years ago. In the expanding silence, every humiliation she’d experienced as she’d sat on the dance floor rubbing her sore ankle with everyone staring at her except Lord Marbrook, who’d refused to even acknowledge her, filled her again.

‘I’m sorry,’ she squeaked, horrified at the stain and appearing in front of him in her old smock and dress. This wasn’t how she wanted to meet this man again. Curse Laurus for bringing him here.

She pulled the smock from her shoulders and draped it over one arm, squaring herself to face Lord Marbrook and daring him to cast whatever insults he wanted at her. She wasn’t the same Lily he’d so publicly disdained in London and she’d make him see it.

He slipped a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at the stain, regarding her with more humour than horror. ‘It’s all right. I’ve never much cared for this coat anyway.’

Lily’s chin dropped in shock. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Lord Marbrook was making a joke. Apparently, so did everyone else for the entrance hall grew quiet. Even the twins ceased their chatter, sensing the adults’ astonishment, even if they didn’t comprehend the reason for it.

Lord Marbrook folded the linen square and tucked it back in his pocket, drawing Lily’s attention to the increased width of his chest and shoulders. The candles in the chandelier overhead brought out the strands of red in his dark hair which was cut short in the Roman style. A slight curl made it wave instead of fall over his forehead, captivating her as much as the height and muscle he’d gained since she’d last seen him. His face was more angular than before and graced with a seriousness which seemed to deepen the faint lines at the corners of his mouth and harden the set of his chin. She didn’t want to stare, but she couldn’t help herself. It’d been the same at the wedding ball when she’d glanced past her cousins to watch him with his brother, mother and father. While his family had sneered at the guests, he’d watched the celebration with the longing of a child pressing his nose against a bakery window.

Then, when he’d slipped away from his family, she’d followed him. Having heard so much of him from Laurus, she’d felt bold enough to approach him, her heart fluttering when he’d asked her to join him on the bench in the alcove. While they’d sat there, he’d told her how his father had purchased a commission for him and was sending him off to France because he wasn’t the heir, only the disappointing second son who’d failed to comprehend the importance of the Marbrook name. His revelation had increased the darkness which had tightened his angular jaw and hardened his green eyes, revealing the depth of his pain. She’d comforted him in his distress, thinking such intimacy made them friends. She’d been horribly mistaken.

‘I see Lily has painted you.’ Laurus laughed, breaking the silence. ‘It’s only fitting since she’s painted everyone else in the family.’

Laurus’s joke brought the merriment back to the greeting and soon the twins were talking in their loud voices, imploring Daisy to try one of their sweets. She ignored them, staring up at Lord Marbrook in near adoration as he spoke to Rose, then pestering him with questions about his journey. She wasn’t the only one troubling him with unchecked excitement. Pygmalion stood on his hind legs and scratched at Lord Marbrook’s riding boots, fighting for the Viscount’s attention as much as Daisy.

‘Pygmalion, get down,’ Lily demanded, wishing someone would show some sense of decorum, but like her family, the dog ignored her entreaty to behave.

Lord Marbrook picked up the dog and tucked him under his arm as though he were a riding crop and not a usually nippy terrier. ‘Is he yours?’

Lily gaped at him, as did the entire room. ‘No, he’s my aunt’s.’

‘Am I not allowed to touch him?’ Lord Marbrook ran his hand over the dog’s head and down its back. The dog closed its eyes in delight, his tongue hanging out of his red-stained muzzle.

‘No one is,’ Laurus explained with some of the same wonder as Lily. ‘Even Aunt Alice can’t pick him up without risking losing a finger.’

‘It’s a season of miracles with even the most ferocious beast living in love and peace with its fellow creature,’ Sir Timothy announced in a voice better suited to the family chapel than the hall, though he had to nearly yell to be heard over the noise of the twins, and Edgar and Charles debating the merits of their own pointers.

Lord Marbrook’s opinion of the chaos surrounding him was difficult to gauge. He didn’t sneer as Squire Pettigrew did whenever he visited, but stood with Pygmalion tucked under his arm, a reserve worthy of a king masking his thoughts. Whatever his opinion, and Lily was sure it wasn’t good, when he left here he’d probably tell everyone in London of the coarseness of the Rutherfords, and Lily in particular. It would set the tongues wagging against her and her family all over again. Everyone else might not care what society said about them, but Lily did.

‘I’m so glad you could join us for Christmas,’ Lily’s mother offered in a calm voice, as though nothing, not a houseful of guests or a viscount with a stained coat holding a vicious little terrier, could ruffle her. Lily wished she possessed her mother’s poise. It would make living in the bedlam of Helkirk Place much easier.

‘It’s I who am grateful for your warm invitation, Lady Rutherford,’ Lord Marbrook responded with all the manners expected of a viscount.

‘I’m sure such feelings won’t last long,’ Lily murmured much louder than intended, hazarding a frown from her father.

‘What do you mean, girl?’ he demanded.

If she hadn’t wanted to slip away unnoticed before, she did now.

Laurus dropped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘What she means is, Lord Marbrook will regret it when I insist he join in our celebration of the Lord of Misrule. You will help us, won’t you, Marbrook?’

Lily imagined the old viscount, if he were here to see this, would clutch his cap in horror at a mere baronet’s son addressing a peer in such a manner. If Lord Marbrook minded, it was impossible to tell for very little in his expression changed as he answered.

‘I’ll gladly help you.’

Lily imagined he didn’t share Laurus’s excitement for the coming festivities and she wondered how her good-natured brother could have ever become friends with such an aloof man.

‘You’ll find our way of celebrating Christmas a little different here, as opposed to London,’ Sir Timothy announced. ‘We enjoy our Christmas feast tonight and tomorrow hold a ball for all the country families.’

‘I assure you, any customs you keep will be heartily enjoyed. My last few Christmases have not been happy ones.’ Gregor stroked the dog, the green of his eyes darkening with his disquiet and, to her surprise, making her own heart constrict. She hated to imagine anyone, even Lord Marbrook, so unhappy at such a pleasant time of year.

‘Yes, we were very sorry to hear of your brother and father,’ Lady Rutherford offered.

Lord Marbrook had lost a father and an older brother in the space of a year, all after enduring who knew what horrors in France. It softened Lily’s attitude towards him, but not her desire to escape and avoid any more silent judgement or unintended missteps. With the red paint stain on his jacket mocking her, she backed slowly away from the group. They were so busy chatting, they didn’t notice her as she made for the sitting room and the peace of her painting.

Over Lady Rutherford’s shoulder, Gregor caught Miss Rutherford stealing off down the hallway. She didn’t run, but moved with the same timid grace he remembered from outside the ballroom four years ago, only tonight she was sneaking away from him, not to him. He couldn’t blame her. She’d been kind to him once and he’d treated her with the disdain all Marbrooks showed anyone they thought beneath them. So many times his father had railed against Gregor’s friendship with Laurus, but he’d defied the man to maintain it. If only he’d possessed the courage to defy his father the night of the ball, but at seventeen, he’d still hungered after his father’s approval and in an effort to secure it, he’d hurt a young woman who didn’t deserve it.

Miss Rutherford paused near the centre of the hall and looked back at the group. Catching his eye, she stood up a little straighter and Gregor silently applauded her spirit. Regardless of the incident with the paintbrush, she’d faced him with sufficient resolve to impress a man used to commanding men and he admired her for it. While she studied him, the candles on a nearby sideboard brightened the whites of her eyes and caught the faint amber strands in her brown hair. Despite the simple style of her grey dress, it couldn’t hide the roundness of her high breasts or the faint curve of hips just beneath the paint streaks. In the four years since he’d last seen her, she’d lost the plumpness of girlhood and gained the more sinewy curves and lines of a woman. The supple changes made Gregor’s breath catch in his throat and for a moment he thought he saw her own sweet chest pause in its rising and falling. Then it was gone and with it the faint connection holding her here. With her lips pressed tight together in disapproval, she turned and fled into the room at the far end of the hall.

Gregor ran his hand over the dog’s wiry fur, trying to draw comfort from the creature, but there was little to be found. He’d hesitated to come to Helkirk Place, unsure how the family might accept him after the débâcle at the wedding. Their kind welcome only increased his guilt, yet still he was glad to be here, for he had sins to atone for with Miss Rutherford.

‘I’ll have my maid see to your coat,’ Lady Rutherford offered, taking his arm and leading him upstairs to show him to his room. The rest of the family followed, especially the youngest girl who lingered by his side, watching him like the dog did. Behind them, everyone else talked and laughed loudly, the sound echoing off the walls.

The noise drove Gregor into silence. He wasn’t accustomed to such an animated family. Despite his many years of friendship with Laurus, his father had never allowed him to come here during the holidays, insisting Gregor spend a lonely six weeks in the mausoleum which was Marbrook Manor. It was easier for his parents to berate him for not meeting their high expectations with him under their roof than through the few letters either of them bothered to write to their least favourite son.

It was a pleasure to be in the midst of so much happiness.

‘You needn’t trouble yourself or the staff about the coat.’ He owned twenty others like it and not one of them warmed him as much as this house and family did.