Mistletoe & Mayhem

By Sharon Sobel, Virginia Brown, Karen Frisch and Jo Ann Ferguson

This Christmas, Miss Lily Jardine is getting something any girl would want - a betrothal offer. Too bad she's falling for her soon-to-be fiancé's brother instead . . .
Merrily Mismatched by Virginia Brown

Lady Lucia Crossclyffe can't resist the charms of Marquess of Rillington, a holiday visitor to her isolated island home. Little does she guess that he's come there to ruin her . . .
The Snow Princess by Jo Ann Ferguson

After years of being presumed dead, Major Jeremy Stanhope has come home from the war. His first order of business - to propose to Lady Rosalie Partington, the woman who's waited for him all these years. Only Rosalie is already betrothed . . . to the traitor who left him for dead!
Christmas Truce by Karen Frisch

Charles Hudson, the Earl of Westerly, has come to Windermere for Christmas with one intention - to offer for the woman whose letters have captivated him for the last year. But is the letter-writer the woman he thinks she is?
Miss Montague's Mistletoe Match by Sharon Sobel

Virginia Brown has written over 50 novels since her first romance came out in 1984. Many of her books have been nominated for Romantic Times' Reviewer's Choice, Career Achievement Award for Love and Laughter, Career Achievement Award for Adventure, EPIC eBook nomination for Historical Romance, and she received the RT Career Achievement Award for Historical Adventure, as well as the EPIC eBook Award for Mainstream Fiction. Her works have regularly appeared on national bestseller lists. She lives near her children in North Mississippi, surrounded by a menagerie of beloved dogs and cats while she writes.

Jo Ann Ferguson has been creating characters and stories for as long as she can remember. She sold her first book in 1987. Since then, she has sold over 100 titles and has become a best-selling and award-winning author. She writes romance, mystery, and paranormal under a variety of pen names. Her books have been translated into nearly a dozen languages and are sold on every continent except Antarctica. You can reach her at her website: www.joannferguson.com or by email: [e-mail].

Karen Frisch writes Regency romances for ImaJinn Books. She is the winner of the 2007 Writer's Digest Popular Fiction Awards, Mystery/Crime Category. An amateur genealogist, she also has two nonfiction genealogy books in print on tracing family history and identifying old family photographs. While tracing her family history as a teenager, she discovered she is a cousin of Edgar Allan Poe (removed by six generations). A lifelong resident of New England where she lives with her husband, two daughters, and two dogs, she is also a portrait artist. Follow Karen on her website at KarenFrisch.weebly.com.

Sharon Sobel is the author of eight historical and two contemporary romance novels, and served as Secretary and Chapter Liaison of Romance Writers of America. She has a PhD in English Language and Literature from Brandeis University and is an English professor at a Connecticut college, where she co-chaired the Connecticut Writers' Conference for five years. An eighteenth century New England farmhouse, where Sharon and her husband raised their three children, has provided inspiration for either the period or the setting for all of her books.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BelleBooks
• Release date: Nov 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781611947397

Sharon Sobel

Sharon Sobel is the author of eight historical and two contemporary romance novels, and served as Secretary and Chapter Liaison of Romance Writers of America. She has a PhD in English Language and Literature from Brandeis University and is an English professor at a Connecticut college, where she co-chaired the Connecticut Writers' Conference for five years. An eighteenth-century New England farmhouse, where Sharon and her husband raised their three children, has provided inspiration for either the period or the setting for all of her books.

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Look what people are saying about these talented authors!

Of Virginia Brown . . .

A brilliant tapestry interweaving shimmering threads of mysticism, intrigue, gallantry, passion, honor, and love into a medieval tale that will hold you enthralled till the end.

—RT Book Reviews on THE MAGIC

[Virginia Brown] produces a story that is able to bring the reader right into the lives of her characters.

—Literary Times on THE QUEST

Of Jo Ann Ferguson . . .

This is a truly talented author.

—RT Book Reviews

Ferguson is a wonderful storyteller with a fine sense of how suspense and sexual tension can bring the stakes of a novel to another level.

—Rakehell

Of Karen Frisch . . .

This well-written traditional Regency . . . has a nice bit of mystery and its two intelligent leading characters make it a satisfying and entertaining story.

—RT Book Reviews on LADY DELPHINIA’S DECEPTION

Frisch has a knack for drawing the reader into her stories using vividly descriptive prose so we feel like we’re transported back into the scene. Her characters are incredibly realistic and engaging.

—Brenda Scott, Manchester Examiner

Of Sharon Sobel . . .

This Beauty and the Beast-themed novel entertains on all levels.

—RT Book Reviews on THE HERMITAGE

"Sharon Sobel weaves a warm, smoothly paced tale. LADY LARKSPUR DECLINES (4 stars) is certain to capture and retain the interest of any lover of Regency romance."

—RT Book Reviews

Books in the

Regency Yuletide Collection

A Regency Yuletide

One Winter’s Night

When a Child is Born

Mistletoe & Mayhem

by

Virginia Brown

Jo Ann Ferguson

Karen Frisch

Sharon Sobel

ImaJinn Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

ImaJinn Books

PO BOX 300921

Memphis, TN 38130

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-739-7

Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-718-2

ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Merrily Mismatched Copyright © 2016 by Virginia Brown

The Snow Princess Copyright © 2016 by Jo Ann Ferguson

Christmas Truce Copyright © 2016 by Karen Frisch

Miss Montague’s Mistletoe Match Copyright © 2016 by Sharon Sobel

Published in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

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Cover design: Debra Dixon

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:Emmk:01:

Merrily Mismatched

by

Virginia Brown

Dedication

For Rita Yerrington, who traveled the length and much of the breadth of England and Scotland with me on several memorable occasions. You are a very patient sister-friend, and I appreciate you more than you know!

Chapter 1

VIVE L’ AMOUR, said Miss Lily Jardine, second oldest daughter of five, avid reader, enthusiastic horsewoman, and admitted daydreamer. Sighing, she closed the cover to the novel by Jane Austen and fell back on a tuft of dried grass. A shallow brook flowed just a few feet below her neatly crossed ankles and soiled slippers. Her favorite horse, Mecca, an Arabian of Russian ancestry and a very handsome fellow, grazed just above her, occasionally snorting with satisfaction at a particularly toothsome morsel. His sleek hide gleamed like rich chocolate in afternoon sunlight. He was the last of his line, a reminder of what had once been her life.

But all that was gone now. When her parents passed away, the ample money, trips abroad, fine clothes, and her mother’s social connections died with them. Her cousin, the 7th Earl of Lockridge, saw no need to keep to the terms of their grandfather’s will that had provided for his youngest daughter and her children, so circumstances were often bleak. Papa’s sister, Aunt Iris, often despaired of what was to become of them all and hoped for good marriages for her five nieces.

Another soft sigh escaped her lips as she thought dreamily of the Great Love of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy. Lily was no beauty like Miss Bennet or her sister Jane. No, there was nothing remarkable about her to lure a man of Fitzwilliam Darcy’s stature. Brown hair, brown eyes, regular features—although an impertinent young man in the village had remarked upon her speaking eyes at a village dance the last year—made it very doubtful she would embark upon a romantic adventure. At twenty-one, it was unlikely a suitable husband would suddenly arrive in the small Somerset village of Shallowbrook Heath to entice her at all. Prospects were few.

Tilting back her head, she looked up at the sky. A fat cloud drifted overhead; the heavens were a bright, oiled blue, the wind crisp and fragrant, promising winter. Last month, the workers had picked apples and she had joined in, filling several bushel baskets and taking home all she could carry in round wicker. There had been delicious apple tarts with their tea, apple pie for supper, and apples sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar for breakfast. Lily’s older sister Rose favored the apple tarts, while the younger girls, Daisy, Pansy, and Violet, eagerly helped press the remaining apples into jugs for drinking scrumpy.

All the Jardine girls bore flower names, save for Mama. Her name had been Laura so Papa had teasingly called her Laurel. Papa had carried on a family tradition begun a few generations before by an eccentric ancestor enamored with botany. Her father had gone to university and become a botanist, making quite a name for himself before being struck with a fever that also took Mama while they were on a visit in Jamaica to advise in the plantings of the Bath Botanical Gardens.

That had been almost seven years ago. Lily still missed them very much.

A squabble between birds erupted under a willow leaning over the brook, disturbing the peace. Noisy starlings had arrived early, foretelling a cold winter, but it had not yet come to Somerset. Lily watched them for a moment, smiling at their antics.

This was a rare autumn day, sunny and warm enough to be out without a coat. And Lily intended to enjoy every precious moment before Aunt Iris discovered that her penchant for riding willy-nilly about the heath like a hoyden had been accomplished again, despite her best efforts. With the day so fair and Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy beckoning from the last few pages of the novel, she had managed an escape. But now it grew late, so she should return. She tucked the book into her cloth reticule and pulled the strings tight. Her aunt would fret if she found her absent.

Dear Aunt Iris meant well. It must have been very difficult for her, a childless widow, to find herself suddenly saddled with five nieces. She had done an admirable job with her brother’s children these past six and a half years. Nearly everyone in Shallowbrook Heath remarked upon her fortitude and perseverance. Lily herself was an ardent supporter of Aunt Iris in most circumstances.

Aunt Iris, however, had hopes. She was a most determined woman, who believed all her nieces should marry well. Poor Aunt Iris. The girls had no dowries to speak of, but only a decent lineage and education to recommend them. It caused her aunt great despair. Lily quite preferred not to dwell on it.

Behind her, Mecca snorted a warning and lifted his head, stomping a hoof against the ground, and she sat up to peer around. With the land so flat down in the hollow, she could easily see anyone approaching, yet the rider came at such a rapid pace, she barely had time to scramble to her feet, take up her reticule, and reach for Mecca before the man was nearly upon her.

Unfortunately, her swift movement startled the horse so that he flung up his head, the reins flying about as she tried to snag them. Snorting, he sidestepped, eyes rolling so that the whites showed, and it took her a precious few moments to catch and successfully secure him.

The stranger reined in his mount, a magnificent chestnut, several lengths away, but disapproval was written on his stern features as he raked her with a glance. Aware that she must look a proper sight with her rumpled, grass-stained skirts, soiled slippers, and no bonnet, she smoothed the untidy mess of her hair with one hand, dislodging a few twigs and dead grass that drifted earthward. Mecca danced sideways, and Lily took a firmer grip on the reins.

Does your master know that you have one of his horses? the man asked abruptly, and she blinked before she realized he thought her a servant girl.

It was rather a relief. The false assumption might save her endless explanations at home.

Lily adopted a manner she thought very similar to Clara, the downstairs parlor maid who dusted, lit fires, and emptied ash buckets. Bobbing a curtsy, she bent her head and said in a shy tone, I fetched him for the groom, sir. I’m to take him back to stable straightaway.

In an incredulous tone, the man inquired, A housemaid was sent to fetch a high-spirited animal such as this?

Realizing her error, she improvised. The horsemaster is family, sir, and I’ve been ‘round the beasties since I were a wee girl.

Indeed. You certainly have a facile tongue, girl, but I doubt you can properly manage a feisty horse.

Peering up at him where he’d nudged his mount closer, alarming Mecca into snorting and side-stepping, she said tartly, Excuse me, good sir, but if you were to take yourself off over yon hill, he’d be a sight easier to manage.

Instead of being angry at her pert reply, the man laughed. Well, you have a good point as well as considerable cheek. In which direction are you traveling?

Lily hesitated. She certainly did not want this man accompanying her home, as he would be bound to attract attention. Indeed, he seemed to be the kind of man accustomed to attracting attention. His impeccably groomed chestnut mount was no less eye-catching than his expertly-tailored clothes, from his elegant beaver hat to his gleaming Hessian boots. The cut of his coat, fawn breeches and ample spill of neckcloth proclaimed him to be one of those men of fashion more often seen in White’s or on Bond Street in London. To arrive back at The Gables with him in tow would bring out all her sisters as well as Aunt Iris. No, impossible. Aunt Iris may well swoon if she learned her niece had been caught out in shabby garments by a gentleman. Aunt Iris put great stock in appearances.

Well come along, miss, he said, correctly reading her dismay if not the reason for it. I mean you no harm. You will be in no trouble if your tale is true. It cannot be far from here.

It is very close, sir. I should not have stopped to rest. I am fine, truly I am.

I would rather not risk something happening to you or the horse. Come, it is but a short distance, you say, and I must do my duty.

Mr. Bickford in the village spoke in just that tone, so she had some experience with male insistence upon duty. She knew that when one was a female of tender years, it was often difficult to persuade a determined man that one was very capable of seeing after oneself. Perhaps she could appease him with a show of capitulation, so he would not insist upon accompanying her all the way to the stable.

Very well, sir. Thank you, sir. It’s just to that next rise, sir.

Rather annoyed at having to walk when she’d anticipated a lively ride back, she led Mecca through the heath to the well-worn path winding close to the brook. Trees lining the brook shed leaves, drifting down to catch in her hair and occasionally spook the horse. Behind her, the gentleman asked if she needed assistance, and she gave a short jerk of her head to indicate she did not. If she had not been trapped in this masquerade, she might have inquired as to the gentleman’s name. However, it would be too forward for a simple servant to do, so she mutely trod along the path in slippers entirely unsuited to walk on a path littered with occasional stones. Once again, her impulsive nature had led her astray. Aunt Iris may well have justification for her concerns.

Bracken snatched at her hem, and she found herself trying to hold up her skirts and maintain control of an increasingly agitated Mecca. It was plain that the horse did not admire the handsome chestnut prancing behind them much too closely. Fortunately, the man realized it and fell back a few lengths to a greater distance.

As she climbed higher from the heath toward the stacked stone wall atop the rise, Lily made a decision. Several yards from the narrow pole gate transecting the lane leading back to The Gables, she halted and turned to look at her misguided companion. He reined to a halt only three lengths away, facing her so that she didn’t have to raise her voice to be heard.

Thank you, sir, but it is a short distance from here, and as you can see, the horse is fine. I do not need further assistance.

Still atop his mount, the man gazed at her with a slightly lifted brow, as if amazed that a servant girl would summarily dismiss him.

My dear girl, he said firmly, easily controlling his restive horse with a gloved hand, I have every intention of seeing this horse properly returned to its owner.

Lily understood what he did not say—he thought it possible the horse was stolen.

Under different circumstances, she would be grateful for such concern. But it left her in a predicament at the moment. Did she reveal that she was not a shabby servant but a genteel, if a bit untidy, gentlewoman? Aunt Iris would be aghast if the gentleman were of any consequence, which, judging from his attire and mount, was entirely possible. She did not recognize him, and she thought she knew everyone in the Shallowbrook Heath area and quite a few people in nearby Glastonbury. He was merely passing through, no doubt. The likelihood of encountering him again was remote. Yet, she hoped to dissemble a bit more to avoid complications that may end with Aunt Iris swooning.

Sir, she said, quite sternly. I assure you that this horse is not stolen and is completely safe in my hands. It is unnecessary for you to accompany me. I do not wish to be thought unable to do my duty alone.

Nor do I. You will accommodate me, I trust. It is most unusual to see a housemaid sent to fetch a horse of high mettle.

Perhaps in London that is true, sir. However, we are far from there and circumstances are different.

Not, I perceive, that different. Your objections only strengthen my resolve, miss, and cause me to consider involving the authorities.

Exasperated, and realizing that she had bungled the situation badly, Lily stared up at him. He gazed back, his dark eyes boring into her as if ferreting out any secrets she might harbor, his mouth set in a taut, determined slash. The brim of his hat shadowed handsome features, a straight strong nose and square jaw denoting a touch of arrogance. Unexpectedly, her heart skipped a beat as she met his eyes, and for a moment, she could think of nothing to say. It was most irregular that a man so well-favored in appearance, yet over-endowed in conceit, should cause her even the slightest twinge of interest, and she found her tongue at last.

Do you always take such interest in the affairs of strangers, sir? she inquired. I cannot imagine that your life is so bereft of purpose you would entangle yourself in the matter of a horse.

Then your imagination is quite limited. I take seriously the matter of stolen horses and wayward servant girls, as does any man who has ever suffered the loss and indignity of either. Now, shall we proceed, or am I to take your horse in hand myself?

That would be disastrous. Mecca could be temperamental and unruly with unfamiliar people, especially high-handed gentlemen with overabundant self-perception.

Certainly not, she retorted. That would be most inadvisable.

Mecca nudged her, using his entire head to shove her forward a step, impatient now that the stable and his dinner was within easy access. She stumbled on a dirt clod, caught herself, and turned to grasp his bridle more firmly before he could push her again, murmuring soothing words in his ear. The ear flicked forward and Mecca lowered his head to rub against her, tension easing.

When she looked up, the stranger smiled. I perceive my error, miss. It seems that you do, indeed, have the matter in hand. The horse is familiar with you.

Unconvinced of his retreat, she regarded him solemnly. His eyes were a blue so deep as to be almost black, his dark hair shot through with glints of red, a unique contrast she found physically attractive despite his rather prickly nature. When he smiled, as he was now, he seemed almost charming. She, however, refused to be so easily charmed.

Just as I informed you, sir, she said when a response was obviously expected. Mecca has known me since the hour of his birth. While I understand your intentions are honorable, it must be obvious to you by now that I am fully capable of returning this horse to his stable.

Her rebuke did not have the desired effect.

What is most obvious, he said with a grin, is that I misjudged more than your equine capabilities. Good day to you, Miss.

Did he know that his grin transformed his rather forbidding features into a most appealing expression? Surely, it was a magician’s trick, a sleight of hand that changed him from a dour stranger to a charming companion as she might meet in the village. It was most disconcerting. Even more disconcerting was the manner in which her heart fluttered and words clogged in her throat, so that she stared at him as if moonstruck.

He touched the brim of his hat with a gloved finger, wheeled his mount around, and cantered back down the lane. Lily, feeling at sixes and sevens over the strange meeting, watched him ride away, idly rubbing Mecca’s nose with one hand.

Well, she said as the man disappeared over the crest of a hill, that was a most odd encounter. I must say, I’m rather disappointed we won’t see him again. Now come along, and we shall hope Aunt Iris hasn’t missed me yet.

Of course, that hope was in vain, for Aunt Iris had sent Daisy and Violet in search of her. Daisy met her at the back gate of the garden, looking out of sorts. Fading afternoon light caught in Daisy’s lustrous brown hair, and her cheeks were flushed as she swung open the gate.

I knew you must have gone for a ride, she scolded. Aunt Iris received a letter in the post and is nearly bursting with news. She’s waiting for us in the parlor, so come quickly.

What news? Lily asked as she smoothed her hair into a more orderly fashion. Let me borrow your shawl. I have grass stains on my skirts.

And your slippers. I do not understand why you don’t wear proper garments if you must go off riding, said Daisy as she relinquished her wool shawl. Aunt Iris has only to look at you to know you’ve been gallivanting about the countryside again.

I didn’t plan on it, but it’s such a beautiful day, and—what news?

She won’t tell until we’re all together. Oh, there’s Violet. She thought you may have gone to visit Miss Cheatham in the village, but I told her you were probably off on that frightful horse again.

Mecca isn’t frightful, just spirited. Does Aunt Iris seem distraught, or excited?

Violet reached them just as Daisy replied. Excited. What do you think it could be?

I know, said Violet. She’s been writing to Mrs. Crandall again. I think they’ve been matchmaking.

Lily and Daisy exchanged horrified glances before asking in chorus, For whom?

Violet, as the youngest and often overlooked in such discussions, gave them a smug smile. Instead of answering, she turned toward the three-story stone house as if to ignore them.

Oh come, Vi, do tell, Daisy implored.

Perhaps she doesn’t know anything at all, Lily observed, catching up to Violet to peer at her. Are you just teasing us?

Violet twirled a fair curl dangling over her ear around one finger as she pretended to consider the matter, until Daisy said sharply that she was just being mean.

No, I’m not, Violet protested, and Lily smiled.

Of course not, my dear sister. She put her hand through the crook of Violet’s arm, fingers squeezing slightly. We’ll find out what has Aunt Iris in a tizzy when we’re all in the parlor. Is Rose with her?

Lily accompanied her sisters inside, passing beneath a bower of rose canes curving over the stone lintels above the oaken door, a bit nervous about what might have her aunt excited. The last time she had been so excited, it had been when Cousin Roderick relented and gave the funds to send them off to school. Lily had found those two years intolerable. Aunt Iris had meant well. Perhaps it would have been time well spent if not for the boring hours of enforced attention to pursuits suitable for young gentlewomen such as the study of French, spelling, music and dancing. It had suited Rose and Daisy quite well. It had not, however, suited Lily, and the headmistress had been most blunt in informing Aunt Iris of Lily’s shortcomings. Certain phrases in that letter still remained vividly in Lily’s memory:

A most lamentable aptitude for hoydenish behavior . . . completely unsuited for proper female pursuits . . . intellectually curious and proficient in subjects she finds interesting, yet she remains stubbornly persistent in gadding about the countryside without a proper chaperone.

All true, yet the criticism had stung a bit. Papa had understood her. He’d called Lily his sweet wildflower and indulged her far too much when she was young. The last had been her mother’s opinion, and it was frequently echoed by Aunt Iris.

Truly, she must try to do better.

Yet, once she was in the parlor, standing before a cheery fire while Aunt Iris settled into the plush comfort of a Bergére chair with her feet propped on a small needlepoint stool and a cup of tea in her hand, Lily’s doubts of her ability to conform returned. It was rare for her aunt to come straight to the point on any given matter, yet this time she did so with startling swiftness.

I have found husbands for two, possibly three of you girls, she announced over the rim of her bone china cup, barely able to conceal a gleeful smile.

Her announcement was greeted with stunned silence. Then Daisy clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp of excitement. The muffled sound seemed overloud in the quiet room where the crackle of logs in the fire grate rivaled the boom of a village cannon on Guy Fawkes Day.

Lily just stared at Aunt Iris. Her dear, sweet, familiar face with the riot of graying curls beneath a lacy cap, her favorite blue shawl pulled close around her plump shoulders, the bright blue eyes slightly squinting in order to better see them, always kindly if occasionally irritated, suddenly seemed ominous. How could she? Without informing any of them that she’d put them on the marriage mart? And—oh no! Rose.

She glanced at Rose, who sat on a yellow-striped brocade settee opposite Aunt Iris, her beautiful pale face a mask that didn’t fool Lily for one moment. With hands folded in her lap, no agitation was evident in Rose’s voice when she said, Oh, do please share the details, Aunt.

Lily knew well what the tight control on emotions must be costing her older sister. Rose had been in love with Peter Bentley, the vicar’s son, for two years. And she was quite certain Peter felt the same about Rose, for his face was the picture of adoration whenever he gazed at her in church services.

Well, this development would surely spur Peter into making a declaration, for if Aunt Iris had found Rose a husband—wait. Two husbands? Possibly three?

Alarmed, Lily turned to her aunt. Husbands for whom?

Why my dear child, Rose, you, and Daisy, of course, as the three eldest. Oh, do not look at me like that, Pansy. You and Violet are still young, and I will not rest until I have secured your futures as well. There’s enough to give each of you a small dowry, and there is also the sale of your dear papa’s books on botany that bring in a small amount each year . . . Of course, it would have been so much better if Ashley had lived long enough to put more by, but . . . well, he did his best. Of course, the pension from your cousin helps as well, but a husband will definitely provide for you, so your futures are quite bright.

Unbidden, the words popped from Lily’s mouth: I have no intention of marrying.

Aunt Iris nearly dropped her tea cup. As it was, tea sloshed over the rim into the blue and white saucer, and her mouth sagged open in astonishment. Whatever do you mean, Lily?

She hadn’t meant to be quite so blunt, but the damage was done. Dear aunt, when I do marry, I intend to marry for love, not convenience.

What a preposterous notion. Have you been reading those wretched novels again? Love comes after marriage, not before. One can never really know a person until one has lived with them. Do not fret, my dear. I would never choose a man whom I thought would be unsuitable for you. Mister Crandall is quite the catch. His father is the owner of a Southampton shipping firm that builds ships for the Royal Navy, and while Oliver Crandall is a younger son, he is not without prospects.

Only rigid self-discipline kept Lily from rolling her eyes or running from the parlor. Aunt Iris took no notice of her appalled expression, however, and continued her assurances.

Setting her cup and saucer on the side table, Aunt Iris smiled at Rose. Mrs. Crandall agrees that her eldest son is perfect for you, dear Rose. He’s just home from that dreadful war on the Continent, and will soon be in Somerset to visit the estates. Lucy Crandall was very fond of your mother, you know, and they were second cousins on their mother’s side. Or was it third cousins? I forget which, but her family was in trade and did quite well.

When she paused for a breath and reached for her tea, Rose said quickly, Perhaps Mister Crandall has other plans to marry.

Aunt Iris put her hand to her throat. Oh, surely not. His mother would know, and of course, he will do what his parents require of him for he knows how important it is to marry well. And Rose, my dear, your mother’s pedigree is flawless. As is the Jardine family. We go back to the time of the Conqueror, as you know. She smoothed a wrinkle in her lacy shawl, smiling. We may not be among the ton, but no one can say our bloodline is not among the best.

Since that sort of thing was quite important to her aunt, Lily did not point out that as Mama had been the youngest daughter of an earl and had married for love, not money or position, the cachet they might have enjoyed as an earl’s granddaughters was lessened to a great degree. Many had considered it a mésalliance, but they’d not known her wonderful father. The first Jardine in England may have come over with the Conqueror, but he’d been a foot soldier rather than a knight. His descendants were merchants and farmers, not landed gentry. Yet it was not worth distressing her aunt to mention it. She could be sensitive about such things.

Daisy, her blue eyes wide beneath dark arched brows, leaned forward. And what of me, Aunt? Is there another son?

Aunt Iris picked up her tea cup and saucer, forgetting the spilled tea. It sloshed onto her shawl, and she mopped at it with her handkerchief, frowning at the damage.

A nephew. He’s their ward after losing his parents . . . regarded as a third son. Small Irish estate. They are all quite well-off, so none of you girls will ever want for anything. Oh bother! I think this will stain. Perhaps salt will take it out, do you think? She looked up, focused, then added, You already have birth and breeding and should have husbands who can keep you in style.

I do hope you haven’t already ordered our wedding dresses, Lily said when Daisy sat back with a smile. A strange emotion swept through her, bordering on panic.

It wasn’t as if she’d not contemplated her future, for of course she had. While it hadn’t necessarily included a husband, she’d always assumed that one day she would meet a man she wanted to marry and have children. He would be a local man, perhaps a farmer or even a squire, and they would bump into one another on the village street and instantly fall in love. Unbidden, the memory of the handsome man on the heath returned. Yes, perhaps someone like that, a fine man with confidence, who appreciated good horses. They would meet, be introduced by a mutual friend, and in a short time, he would declare his love. No fuss, just a tempestuous emotion that would sweep them into connubial bliss. They would travel first, visit India perhaps, or even the American Colonies, before having children. Life would be adventurous and secure, for now the war with Napoleon had ended, travel would be safe again.

Yes, that was how she’d imagined it. Certainly not like this, to be engaged to a stranger without a by-your-leave, probably a spoiled nob with a pale face and soft hands, taking his snuff with a flick of his wrist and delicate sneeze into a lace handkerchief. Oh, it was unbearable to even think!

Aunt, she said loudly, interrupting Iris’s assurances to Pansy and Violet that their day would come soon enough, I will not marry that man!

Chapter 2

I WILL NOT MARRY that woman. Alexander Crandall leaned back against the library mantel and looked at his mother with a lifted brow. His ride home had turned wet and cold after a sunny day, and he’d wanted only to get warm, inside and out. Now this. He should have remained in London. His fingers tightened around a glass of brandy. This promised to be unpleasant.

But you must marry someone, said Lucy Crandall in a