A Lass for Christmas: Tenacious Trents, #4

By Jane Charles

Lady Madeline Trent had grand plans for her future until she learned her family's awful secret and a fall through the ice that landed her in the arms of a handsome Scot.

Lachlan Grant, Marquess Brachton, may hold an English title, but he was determined to marry a Scottish lass, until his fate is altered one snowy night.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jane Charles
• Release date: Dec 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781507055014

Jane Charles

Jane Charles has lived in the Midwest her entire life. As a child she would more likely be found outside with a baseball than a book in her hand. In fact, Jane hated reading until she was sixteen. Out of boredom on a long road trip she borrowed her older sister’s historical romance and fell in love with reading. She long ago lost count of how many fiction novels she has read over the years and her love for them never died.  Along with romance she has a passion for history and the two soon combined when she penned her first historical romance.  What turned into a hobby became a passion, which has been fully supported by her husband, three children and three cats. JaneCharlesAuthor.com Jane can be contacted at: [e-mail] Twitter and FB: JaneACharle  

Book preview

Prologue

Bentley Manor, 1805

Lady Madeline Trent stared up at her father, fear quaked through her body. She knew better than to disturb him. It had been over a year since she had felt the sting of the willow switch, but some memories were never forgotten.

Ladies do not race through the house, he yelled. Ladies do not run down the stairs. His voice grew louder. Ladies do not scream. With each sentence, Madeline backed further and further away. She wanted to look for her mother but knew better than to break eye contact with Father.

This was all Jordan’s fault. If he hadn’t been chasing and teasing her, she wouldn’t have been running down the stairs. But Jordan wouldn’t be in trouble. He never was. Father loved him best, next to Clayton, the eldest and heir.  

Matthew, another brother stuck his head out the library door and quickly disappeared again. But he didn’t close the door, and she sensed he was listening out of sight. Nobody wanted to be around Father when he was angry, and they found places to hide when necessary. Though her brothers were grown up and could leave whenever they wished, she couldn’t go anywhere. Her life was at Bentley Manor, dull and boring, except when her brothers were visiting. Though the youngest of her four brothers, John, hadn’t visited in nearly a year. But, given he was twenty, nobody could make him stay home. Not like they could her.

″Go to your room and pack your belongings."

She swallowed. Was Father going to kick her out of her home? She was only twelve. Where would she live? Would Clayton or Jordan take her in and let her live with one of them in London?

″I am sending you to The Wiggons’ School for Elegant Young Ladies."

Excitement fluttered in Madeline’s chest. Father was sending her off to school, just like her brothers when they were her age. 

″They have an excellent reputation. Though they usually don’t take girls younger than thirteen, they made an exception in your case."

″No."

Madeline turned toward her mother’s cry.

″She is too young. You can’t send her away."

″If you had raised her properly, I wouldn’t need to," her father shouted.

Madeline’s stomach tightened, like it so often did when her parents fought. She had to intervene or soon her mother would be in tears. If the argument were bad enough, Mother wouldn’t leave her room for days, and usually had a fading bruise somewhere on her face when she did finally come out. Madeline had to make this right, so her mother wasn’t hurt again.

″It is all right, Mother."

Tears sparkled in her mother’s eyes. You are just a baby.

″She is a young lady," her father barked, causing Madeline to jump.  

It would be nice to be away from him. Hopefully, nobody yelled at the school she was going to, but she couldn’t be certain. Clayton had once told her that a few of his instructors at Eton had been fond of yelling, and the ruler. She grasped her hands together. She wouldn’t like being struck with a ruler any more than she liked being struck with Father’s willow switch.

″I promise to study hard and write every week." Oh, if only her mother could go with her, then it would be perfect.

No, what would be perfect was if her father went away and her brothers remained at home. But such was not to be. Her father never left except for the Season, and then for only a short time.  

Perhaps you will be able to visit me.

Her mother smiled sadly and nodded.

″Only if necessary, her father insisted. You, Madeline, will concentrate on becoming a lady. You have one purpose in this life and that is to marry a lord of wealth and connections and deliver an heir and a spare."

She buried the sigh. Madeline knew well enough what her lot in life was, being the only daughter of an earl.

″However, unless you curb your behavior and become obedient like your mother, you won’t even accomplish that one simple task. He turned on his heel and marched down the hall. Do you really want to be a burden to your brothers by not marrying?" he called over his shoulder and slammed the door to his study.

Mother rushed to her side and pulled Madeline into a tight hug. I am going to miss you.

Madeline clung to her as tears welled in her eyes. I will miss you too, she whispered back.

″But it is for the best. As much as I hate this, you are safer, far away from here."

″Your mother is correct, Poppet. Clayton appeared from nowhere and placed a hand on her shoulder. I will accompany you tomorrow."

″As will I, Jordan said from the stairway. It is my fault you are in trouble, Madeline, but I can’t be upset that you’re able to escape this house."

Chapter 1

Brachton Manor, December 1813

Damn and blast. Lachlan Grant, Marquess Brachton, stared out the window at the quickly falling snow. He would not be able to leave today as planned.  

″Perhaps it will let up and we can travel tomorrow."

Lachlan turned to Dougal Ferguson. They had been friends since childhood and when Lachlan became of age to need a valet, his friend applied for the position. In truth, Dougal was a lousy valet and for the most part, he simply lived where Lachlan did. Not that it bothered Lachlan. It wasn’t as if he needed another man to help him dress, and he was simply glad for the company of a friend who had known him since birth.

It was this damnable weather keeping him here and what had put Lachlan in a foul mood. It is bad enough havin’ to live in England half the year, but I wanted to be home in Falkirk by Christmas.

″It could be worse," his old friend said.

″How could it possibly be worse?" Lachlan turned from the window and stomped toward the sideboard and poured himself a glass of whisky. Few bottles remained and he’d need to replenish his supply once he was able to return to Scotland. At least that was one benefit of being Marquess of Brachton. Nobody searched his carriage when he crossed the border into England.

Whisky had gotten his family through some very dark times, whether it was to be imbibed or smuggled to England, and neither he nor his brothers were eager to bring an end to the secret family business.

″You could be livin’ in that molderin’ manor house with barely a scrap of food on the table."

Lachlan eyed Dougal over the rim of his glass.

″As the Marquess of Brachton, not only did ye inherit this estate that ye despise, but riches to help yer family."

Guilt settled in his stomach. He should be more thankful for this good fortune than he was.

″The late Marquess did nothin’ to assist yer family while he was alive and ye’ve made his fortune yers."

″I never wanted the title," Lachlan grumbled. Even though he had known since he was ten that it would be his once his uncle, then father, kicked up their toes, he’d never wanted it. To prepare him for the future, Lachlan had been sent to Eton and then to Oxford, to be educated as an English gentleman. His uncle hoped to bury the Scot in him so deep that nothing remained once Lachlan became a man. Little did his uncle know that Lachlan would remain a Scot through and through regardless of title or land. Even though his father had been English, and a gentleman of character, his mother’s family in Falkirk was all the family he needed and that was where his heart lay. Not in Grosmont, England.

″But without it, yer mother and siblings would have nothin’."

It was the fact that his mother, brothers, and sisters could now live in comfort and without a care in the world that made being an English lord palatable. They were his family. He’d never missed a Christmas with his family, and he wasn’t about to now.

Dougal helped himself to the decanter and poured himself a whisky. Perhaps the roads will be clear tomorrow and ye can return home.

″And if not?" Lachlan glanced out the window once again. At the rate the snow was falling they would be buried by the time the sun rose.

″We could leave in five days and still make it home in plenty of time for Christmas."

I wanted to leave today, Lachlan grumbled much like a petulant child while he stared out over the landscape. The space between his manor and the road, where a copse of trees stood, was now covered in white. The partially frozen pond was also covered and if one didn’t know it was there, they’d think there was just a dip in the land. Such weather made for treacherous travel and he could only hope the clouds moved on so that he wasn’t stuck in this house into next year.

″I planned on bein’ in Edinburgh the week before Christmas, he reminded Dougal. Then home in Falkirk by Christmas Eve."

″Aye, for the MacFie’s annual Christmas ball."

″Among others bein’ held, Lachlan agreed. I need to find a wife and that is the best place to look."

Dougal turned to him." Ye met several ladies who would do well as your marchioness this past spring during the Season. Ye may have met more had ye bothered to attend any of the balls during the Little Season.

″I willna marry an English woman. My bride will be a Scottish lass and I plan to find her by Christmas. It shouldna take more than a week at the most." Lachlan tipped back his glass and drained the contents. He did not want to marry a fragile, silly twit of a girl. He wanted a woman. Someone who spoke her mind and didn’t rely on him to tell her how to think or feel. Someone who would match his passion for the marriage bed, not some miss who would be frightened and lay still and do her duty, making the