Dare to Kiss

By JO Beverley

A sexy Georgian historical romance novella by New York Times bestselling author, and member of the Romance Writers of America Hall of Fame, Jo Beverley.

In 1765 a desperate mother accepts shelter with a stranger for herself and her children, but at what cost?

England in the Georgian age was not kind to the poor. When Lily Gifford finds herself homeless in the countryside on a bitter November evening has no choice but to accept shelter from a passing stranger. But when she and her children arrive at Brooks Hall, the house is cold and neglected, and their host abandons them to his handful of resentful servants.

When Lily learns Sir Benjamin Brook's secret, she sees hope for herself and her family, if only she dare risk all to grasp it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JO Beverley
• Release date: Feb 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781507021064

Book preview

A new novella by Jo Beverley, New York Times bestselling author, member of the Romance Writers of America Hall of Fame, and winner of five RITA awards.

Romantic Times described her as one of the great names of the genre.

Booklist declared her work, Sublime!

Dare To Kiss

Jo Beverley

Copyright 2013 Jo Beverley

This e-book contains the novella, Dare to Kiss, newly written and published in summer 2013, plus details of Jo Beverley’s other work and an excerpt from her April 2014 novel, A Shocking Delight.

Dare to Kiss is set in the Georgian Age, when the world could be harsh to those suffering misfortune. A mother fleeing ruin becomes homeless on a cold night and must accept shelter for herself and her children from a worrying stranger.

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Chapter One,

November, 1765

Sir Benjamin Brook steered his curricle down the narrow country road at high speed even though failing light and a hard frost had turned mud into ridges that caught at the wheels. He'd be in Brooks Magna soon, and Brook Hall was only a half mile further. Warmth, food, home.

He steered left to pass a group of walkers ahead, but a child's wailing snagged his attention. This was no weather for a child to be out on the road. He glanced to the side and then slowed and steadied the steaming horses.

Not just one child.

Many.

Ben drew the horses to a halt and looked back. A woman carrying an infant was trailed by four others, all with bundles on their backs. The oldest couldn't be much more than twelve. The littlest, the wailing one, was very young.

The wailing stopped. They all stopped, eying him warily.

But then the woman said, Walk on, children, and they did, keeping as close to the hedge as they could.

Tinkers? Gypsies?

Her speech had been well-bred, and in any case, even if they were the most wretched vagrants, he couldn't leave children this far from shelter.

Reluctantly, he spoke. Where are you headed, ma'am?

The woman stopped, turning an exhausted face to him. The child on her shoulder was limp now. Brooks Magna, sir. Is it far?

A half mile or so. Reluctantly, Ben accepted necessity. I'll take you there, he said, making sure his muffler was pulled well up. We can cram in here together for that short a distance.

God bless you, sir. The little ones have been so good, but it's been a long journey. Michael, climb up and take Anna.

The tallest child obeyed. Once up, he shed his bundle at his feet, sat beside Ben, and took the infant. The woman clambered up next, sat, and pulled up the rest. She took a lad on her lap, and told the two others to squeeze in by her feet. Soon everyone and their bundles were in place, and Ben set his horses into motion again, but slowly. He didn't want anyone tossed out by a sudden jolt. Perhaps the girl squashed against his leg feared the same, for she clung to his boot.

Where have you come from, ma'am? he asked.

Oxford, sir.

That's fifty or more miles. You surely haven't walked it.

Oh, no. Three carters carried us most of the way. But the last one dropped us at a place called Waller's Cross.

Two miles away. You'll be glad to reach Brooks Magna, then. Where is your destination?

Croft Cottage. Hen Lane. Do you know it, sir?

I know Hen Lane.

The cottages there tithed to the vicarage, so were little business of his, but they were respectable. They were small, but some doubtless contained families as large as this one.

You can see the edge of the village up ahead, he said. Not long now.

With the light fading on a short December day, the streets of Brooks Magna were quiet, but what passers-by there were raised their hats or dropped curtsies, and doubtless stared to see the squire with such rag-bag company.

He continued on to the intersection with narrow Hen Lane. He steered carefully into it, peering at the doors. If there were names above them, he couldn't see them in this light.

A lad hurried by, hands tucked into armpits.

Croft Cottage, Ben said. Which one?

The lad pointed. Three down, sir. He hurried on his way.

Ben went that far and drew up the horses, but stayed in control of them as the woman organized the disembarkation. She turned at last, infant once again on her shoulder. God bless you, sir. May I know the name of our Good Samaritan?

Sir Benjamin Brook, ma'am.

She dipped a curtsy. Thank you, Sir Benjamin.

He watched as she shepherded her children through the gate and down the short path, wondering exactly what sort of woman she was. Poor, obviously, but she spoke well, had poise, and had not been flustered by his being a sir.

He watched as she knocked on the door, curious about her and her adventure.

The door opened a crack, showing a grudging glimpse of firelight. The owner of the cottage quite reasonably didn't want to let the cold air inside.

As the woman spoke the door stayed mostly shut. He couldn't hear the conversation, but he detected a note of desperation.

The door shut in her face.

She simply stood there for a moment, then slowly turned away. One of the younger ones began to whine, and an older one said, Mama, we can't stay out in the cold.

She saw he was still there and looked at him. It wasn't quite an appeal for help—he sensed she had too much pride to beg from a stranger—but she was at her limit and had no idea what to do next.

Whatever haven she'd expected had failed her, and she'd find little kindness elsewhere. No village welcomed outsiders who sought to live on parish charity. They'd be called vagrants, and indeed, that was what they were.

He called over. What's the problem, ma'am?

She came slowly toward him. My aunt and uncle. They're dead. The people living here now are no relation of ours.

Who were they?

The Giffords.

He searched his memory. The barber-surgeon, and she was a seamstress. They had no children. She died almost a year ago, and he quite recently.

I sent a letter. I assumed they'd received it. There was so little time....

Her teeth chattered. The children were shivering, and it wasn't surprising. He was feeling the razor-edged cold through a heavy greatcoat, thick gloves and the muffler.

He sought to think of a place for them. He could pay for their keep if he could think of a lodging. The parson would have to be Christian about such a thing, but the vicarage was bursting with children of his own. The inn was no more than a tavern, without rooms for guests. He knew of farmhouses large enough to absorb such a number, but all at some distance.

Anyway, he was cold and hungry and wanted to be home.

Back in the carriage, he said briskly. I'm taking you to my home for the night. We can decide what to do tomorrow.

The woman gave no argument. She organized the loading as efficiently as before.

Not far, he said as he set off again. "At least there'll be warmth, food, and a place to sleep. May