An Earl's Christmas Embrace

By Diane Dario

Noel Redgrave may be an earl, but his life is falling apart. The last thing he needs is to fall in love with the poor relation of his best friend.
Lettice is so unconventional her brother promises an enormous dowry to attract prospective husbands. Lettice decides to engage in a ruse to test her suitors, and is quickly entangled in her own web of deceit.
When Noel's and Lettice's hidden truths are revealed, will the deceptions and misunderstandings ruin their chances for happiness? Or will there be a miracle hidden in An Earl's Christmas Embrace?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nazzaro and Price
• Release date: Nov 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370648931

Book preview

An Earl’s Christmas Embrace

Diane Dario

Dedication

To My Mom

You were true inspiration to me. So glad you were part of my dream of getting published.

Miss you, sweet pea. Love you to the heavens and back.

CHAPTER 1

Waterloo, Belgium – 18 June 1815

Major Noel Redgrave, heir to the Earl of Ravenstone, burst through the south gate of Chateau Hougoumont and let out a roar.

What in damnation is going on here?

Before him, British forward units engaged in desperate hand-to-hand fighting with French soldiers. Fallen bodies wearing blue and far fewer wearing red littered the courtyard. Scanning the faces of the red-coated soldiers for Captain Scott, Major Foxington, or any of his friends from Eton who were stationed at the chateau in various units, Noel withdrew his sword, joining the fray.

A French soldier broke from an encounter and charged. Major Foxington moved quicker, seeming to appear from nowhere, and his sword pierced the Frenchmen’s chest, saving Redgrave’s neck.

Finally, Noel saw Scott shouting out orders, inaudible over the cacophony of the pitched battle, and picked his way over the mounds of bodies, mostly French. Redgrave repeated his earlier question. Scott turned to him, his eyes shining with the light of battle.

Major Redgrave, sir, the French surprised us, and as we retreated through the north gate, they managed to get in. Our men shut the gate behind them, and we’re trying to take out the bloody bastards as fast as we can.

The French in the courtyard were picked off like fish in a barrel, and the British troops surged back through the gate into the formal garden, where the French were once more attacking. Noel and Scott charged through the melee, struggling to prevent the French from gaining ground. The major looked to his right to shout an order, spying Foxington and a few more of his old friends further down the line. He thanked God that his two closest friends were within sight. When this was over, the former classmates would bloody well get drunk together and talk about the days of their youth. The days before death stalked them all.

The British, in their red uniform coats, slashed at blue-coated French soldiers right and left. In the ensuing commotion, Noel lost sight of Scott. The French advanced, and in the close quarters, guns were useless. Bayonets thrusting, the French gained, then lost their position in the courtyard in an instant. Noel surged forward. A Frenchman charged from the opposite direction, carrying the battalion’s standard. A sword hit the Frenchie from behind. As his back arched from the blow, the soldier unintentionally thrust the standard into the air. Major Redgrave reflexively caught the projectile as it spiraled in his direction. At first, all he saw was a golden blur, but once he held it, he realized he’d captured the eagle. A British soldier who captured the coveted standard of a French battalion was certain to be proclaimed a hero.

Noel battled to the edge of exhaustion, until there were no more French soldiers in his path. Wellington’s foot guard had held their ground once again, and the French were in retreat. The sounds in the formal garden and coming from the courtyard slowly evolved from the deafening roar and clang of metal on metal to the deeper moans of the dying and wounded of both armies. Red- and blue-coated soldiers covered the courtyard in grotesque postures.

He heard a low whimper from the well at the corner of the courtyard. Noel looked in that direction and saw a crouching lad in a blue uniform, his dirty face so smooth it was obvious he hadn’t yet sprouted his first whisker. A drum lay on the ground near him, the surface gashed to ribbons. A British soldier walked over to him with drawn sabre, and as the sword started its downward trajectory, Noel called out, Hold!

The infantryman stopped his swing just short of the boy’s neck. Noel grasped the boy by the shoulder and marched him to headquarters. He wouldn’t know until much later that the little drummer boy he saved was the sole French survivor of the battle of Hougoumont.

After handing the boy over, Noel once again searched the carnage in the courtyard for his friends, finally finding Foxington in the approximate location of the line they had earlier been trying to hold. Where the bloody hell had Scott gotten to? Redgrave began looking this way and that, eventually finding his quarry kneeling on the square stone cobbles, his sword still in his hand, bowing his head.

Redgrave ran over to his friend. As he knelt beside him, he urged, Easy, old man. We’ll have you fixed up and toasting our victory in no time.

He caught Scott’s shoulders, and the slumped man roared in pain. Redgrave’s mouth tightened into a thin, white line. His friend’s right arm hung uselessly, slashed almost to the bone. Dark stains spread over the red coat of Scott’s uniform, which had been slashed at the shoulder. The uniform’s bright red color was meant to hide bloodstains, but the stain from a wound such as this could not be hidden.

Please take care of--Susan. Scott gasped for breath, And our daughter.

His raspy gurgle muddled the words he struggled to speak. She’s expect… our second child come winter. See she…provided for. I can’t depend on… my family... think she’s… beneath them. He uttered between gasps.

Save your breath. You shall be there when the new babe comes.

It’s growing dark, Scott whispered. So tired…

The sun is merely behind a cloud; it’s going to rain, lied Redgrave, while he eased open the tattered jacket. The shirt beneath it was pooled with crimson, and dark red glazed his own hand as Scott’s lifeblood seeped away. Where the devil is the surgeon?

Too late for me… Scott winced. Tell Susan I died well.

Redgrave bit his lip, and blinked furiously, but even as he tried to find the words to reassure his friend, the life went out of the man. His head dropped to one side as if he had fallen asleep. He took the eagle, which he’d just realized was still clutched in his hand, and closed Scott’s bloody fist around it. Noel’s words, almost a growl, could be heard above the clamor. I swear Susan and all of England shall know you died a hero’s death.

When Noel returned, exhausted, to the barracks in the farmhouse, there were two missives waiting for him. In a daze, he ripped open the embossed wax seal from one of the missives, the seal indicating it was from his father’s solicitor. He quickly scanned the formally worded epistle, then placed an unsteady hand on the tabletop. His father, too, was dead. God in heaven! Hadn’t he seen enough death for one day?

The last words on the page: Long live the earl. He was no longer Major Noel Redgrave. He was now The Right Honorable, The Earl of Ravenstone.

He opened the other missive, his eyes filled with tears, and as he sank to his knees, the sheet of parchment tumbled to the floor.

CHAPTER 2

London, England

Early December 1816

Noel Redgrave, The Eighth Earl of Ravenstone, set his empty champagne flute on a table and motioned for his friend, Evan Durham, the Earl of Foxington, to follow. The two men wove through the sea of elegantly clad couples, and Foxington deftly plucked a full champagne glass from the tray of a passing server. When they reached the ornate banister in the hallway separating the ballroom from the parlor, Ravenstone drew Foxington under the stairs to an alcove. The small seating area had been partially screened with festive ribbons and evergreens, in traditional Christmas décor. From this vantage point, Ravenstone could watch any of the young ladies as they glided between the two rooms, yet he and Foxington could easily converse away from the music and chatter of the formal areas.

Ravenstone rocked back on his heels as he took a sip of champagne. So, Foxington, where is this lovely sister of yours that lightened our drudgery with her little drawings? You spoke of her often enough while we were serving together in the regiment.

Foxington tilted his head. She is here, but not for you, my friend. I know you too well. Your dark disposition since Hougoumont would suffocate her.

You weren’t- Ravenstone checked his reply, as his jaw clenched and a furrow appeared between his perfectly arched brows.

Foxington replied, I was there too, old chap, and I have nightmares of my own. But tonight, I’m putting that aside. I have a duty to my sister, and I intend to do right by her. I need to find some newly minted peer who needs an heiress.

Ah…I see you are hoping to marry her off in the tradition of our forebears; arrange everything, and then let her know when to be at the church. Is that it? Ravenstone asked cynically, twirling his quizzing glass from its ribbon. He glanced over his friend's shoulder, and abruptly drew in his breath, hoping Foxington didn’t hear his gasp.

The cause of his discomposure paused to admire a vase filled with hothouse roses, ivy, and holly. She turned her head, and at the sight of her exposed neck under the soft glow of the chandelier, the quizzing glass fell from Ravenstone’s fingers.

He let his eyes travel over the tempting curves revealed by her ruby velvet gown. Under the light of dozens of candles, she looked ethereal. A black lock of hair curled around her ear. She bent, sniffed the flowers, and gazed up at him without straightening.

He couldn’t resist looking at the garnet Maltese cross lying nestled between her breasts, then raising his eyes to meet her regard. Ravenstone’s pulse skipped to an irregular beat at the vision before him. Her stare was direct, and her eyes very blue. He scanned her face, and paused momentarily on her small, straight nose, the complete opposite of his own. Her mouth was a beautiful bow. Pink lips parted slightly, and his gaze lingered as she caught the plump lower one with her teeth. She blushed and looked away, as if she knew his thoughts.

The quickening of his pulse was a shock. Perhaps his long-latent passion could still be awakened. Relief at the realization flooded him. He’d feared that he’d be half a man for the rest of his life. The events of his past haunted him. It was as if he’d died at Chateau Hougoumont, the beginning of the great battle at Waterloo. The shame of his infirmity was one reason he was loathe to marry except as a business arrangement. And even that had to wait until he could fulfill his husbandly duty and beget an heir.

Thrilled at the realization that he might have hope of a full life, he looked directly at her, longer than was proper, though he knew he should not. The moment he raised his eyes from those lips and encountered her sapphire gaze, he felt alive as never before. It was intoxicating. She was intoxicating.

Ravenstone? Are you listening? Foxington snapped his fingers in front of Ravenstone's face.

Ravenstone pinched the humped bridge of his nose with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Er, no, I am afraid I was distracted.

Who or what holds your attention? Foxington turned his head about, trying to discern what had Ravenstone’s consideration. By then, though, the vision in ruby velvet had disappeared into the ballroom.

I doubt you would be interested. What were we discussing? Ravenstone drawled with exaggerated patience.

We were discussing my sister and how I am going to marry her off before the season is over. I could really use your help, even though I don’t think I’d want you as my sister’s husband. I won’t marry before her, but she has this blasted notion of marrying for love. That’s why I need you to help me find a man who can persuade her they have a love match.

Ravenstone raised a brow. Good gad, man, you can’t be serious. Me, a matchmaker? He gave an exaggerated shudder.

Why not? Foxington asked.

I, of all people, would never trick a man - or woman, for that matter - into the parson’s mousetrap. I believe you said your sister was rather difficult. Which, I hate to admit, actually sounds interesting, Ravenstone teased as he gave his friend a sideways look.

Ravenstone, I take this responsibility seriously, even if you find the situation humorous. Lettice is almost five-and-twenty and is firmly on the shelf. She’s had no offers to date, and I don’t have a bloody idea what to do about it.

To what do you attribute the lack? Has she never had a single proposal? Ravenstone asked when he realized Foxington spoke in earnest.

"When she made her come out, there were a few. She chased away every suitor with her rapier tongue and blasted artistic ambitions. She has been harboring delusions of becoming an illustrator of children’s books, to complicate matters even further.

"Letty is beautiful and clever, but far too independent. It puts men off. A peer’s wife is supposed to be biddable, not argumentative and opinionated. Certainly not engaging in trade. If only she dabbled in embroidery like a proper lady. I need help finding a man who will appreciate her intrepid spirit, allowing her to eschew society’s mold. The older she gets, the fewer chances she will have.

You know, you owe me a huge favor, Foxington continued. I saved your neck--and your life--on the peninsula. I’m calling in my favor here and now. Help me find someone suitable for Lady Lettice.

A muscle tensed in Ravenstone’s jaw, then twitched, and the corners of his mouth turned white as he considered his friend. "You’re going to play that card now? You must believe yourself in dire straits, indeed. Yes, I owe my life to you, but are you sure I can be of help in this? Your sister sounds like a woman who knows her own mind. I’m not sure she will appreciate interference from anyone.

Indeed, you insult me by saying you don’t want me for a brother by marriage, then ask me to find another man for the position. I realize that since that dreadful day at the chateau, I have been described as dark. But dear God, man! I lost not only one of my best friends, but another went missing. I learned I had also lost my father and my-- I dare any man to go blithely along with his life after experiencing such as that, all in one day.

Foxington looked at Ravenstone from under his brows. There are, apparently, a few things I don’t know, besides Norwich’s disappearing…as if he fell from this earth. Foxington murmured.

Ravenstone sighed deeply, I had to rush back to assume the title. Yes, there are things of which you are unaware. Deeply personal things, Ravenstone continued with a shrug. I haven’t told anyone. This is neither the time nor the place for divulging personal secrets, however.

He wiped his face with one hand. "I assure you, your sister is safe from the darkness of my soul. I know very well how to conduct myself in the presence of a lady, and on my, ehm, questionable honor, I would do nothing to harm the sister of a good friend."

He drained his glass and rolled his eyes skyward. At this moment, I am not searching for a wife, so I really think you should enlist someone else. I’m rather busy tending to my estate. As you know, my father left the properties in a right mess, and I’m trying to keep my promise to Scott as well.

Foxington nodded, and Ravenstone continued, We’re all destined to be leg-shackled eventually, I’m afraid. Nevertheless, when I decide to search for a wife, she must understand that we will go our separate ways after the title is secure. Do you want that kind of marriage for your sister? A marriage of convenience?

Foxington looked sharply at Ravenstone. "Truthfully, no, but Letty’s chances of making a love match among the eligible young men of the ton are becoming slimmer and slimmer with each passing season. A marriage of convenience might be the answer to all our prayers. But of course, only if my sister is in agreement. I won’t force her. That is part of the challenge."

Using the index finger of his right hand, Foxington poked Ravenstone's sternum. And you, my friend, might reconsider your position on marriage once you meet the right lady. When you do, you might very well change your desire for a marriage in name only.

Curious, hearing that from you, Foxington. One might think you speak from experience. For now, though, let us try to enjoy this ball. Marriageable ladies have nothing to fear from me tonight. No beautiful woman present shall tempt me. Ravenstone lied, for he had every intention of getting to know the mysterious siren in red velvet.

Regardless, marriage is forthcoming for both of us, Fox, Ravenstone said with a sigh, unconsciously using Foxington’s nickname from their school days. We both know our duty, and we are men of honor. I’m eight and twenty, and bone weary. But one thing I know is that my wife will be someone of maturity who understands that marriage for men of the peerage is only a business arrangement.

Foxington struggled not to choke on his drink. What was Ravenstone hiding? He’d have to find a way to get the full story out of him. Perhaps he’d erred in requesting Ravenstone’s help with Letty. There was apparently much more in his friend’s past than anyone was aware. Prompted by these troubling thoughts, Foxington asked, Did you know they call you ‘The Earl of Darkness’?

Do they? I didn’t realize society was so perceptive. Ravenstone grimaced into his glass, then set the empty vessel on a small table.

Come now, Ravenstone, I know you better than that. It will just take some time for you to get back to your old self.

I wish I had your optimism, Foxington. Enjoy it. I fear it will take years for me to be in a marriageable frame of mind. No women for me these days. I daresay I’d scare them witless.

Foxington shifted uncomfortably, asking in hushed tones, Good gad man, are you saying you’ve been celibate?

Ravenstone nodded. Since Hougoumont. I haven’t had the desire to be close to anyone; emotionally or physically. Perhaps, in time, I’ll propose to a respectable widow of good standing. They know what a man wants in the bedchamber, understanding that marriage to a peer is about securing the title, and has nothing to do with the love nonsense a young girl craves. Additionally, they bring riches which could assist in shoring up a man’s estates.

Hmph, Foxington responded, Whomever I choose as a husband for Lettice need not worry about shoring up estates, or anything else, for that matter. She comes with a generous marriage settlement.

It seems you are trying to buy your sister a husband. I wonder what her thoughts would be if she knew your plans for her future. He looked pointedly at Foxington. As I stated previously, I am not interested.

Ravenstone would make an offer to the woman of his choosing, on his own schedule. She would accept him, and it would be done. He would do his duty, as soon as he was able, whenever that was. That was all his heart was capable of. It would take a miracle for him to make love again.

"All the more reason why I ask your help in finding a husband for my sister. I must play the matchmaking mama for Letty. Since you are not looking for a woman of your own, you can help me sort through those in the running for her hand. A number of our school chums are in the market for a wife. I’m hoping she’ll catch the eye of at least one of them. Blackwood, perhaps. Letty catching a duke would be quite the coup d’etat."

"Leave it alone, Foxington, at least where I’m concerned. You can plan to outdo the ton by marrying your sister off to a bloody prince, for all I care. I’ve had enough serious discussion for one night. I would simply like someone with whom to share a dance and a light flirtation. Ravenstone straightened his shoulders and tugged at his gloves as though preparing for battle. Let's go back into the ballroom and see which of the fine young damsels needs an escort for a dance. Then I’m for home."

He walked past his friend and nearly collided with an older woman entering the hall, followed closely by a young girl, apparently in her first season.

Ah, Lord Ravenstone. The matron gushed. She sported a large plume in her coiffure which almost poked Ravenstone’s eye as she curtsied before him.

At your service. He bowed graciously.

In a single movement the older woman curtsied and pulled her daughter forward. Please excuse me, Lord Ravenstone. This is my daughter, Lady Gwen, who needs a dance partner for this set.

A thousand pardons, madam. But I’m already promised. Perhaps later I shall seek out your daughter, providing there is still room on her dance card.

But of course, and thank you, my lord, you are too kind. We shall be sitting by the far wall nearest the supper room. For a moment she looked speculatively toward Foxington, then hustled her daughter away.

Foxington raised a brow. You must be considered quite the prize.

Ravenstone tilted his head slightly and his lips pursed. "Hmm. The thrill of fresh