Lover's Dawn

By Kristina Cook

From Nationally bestselling author Kristina Cook (writing as Kristi Astor) comes this erotic historical tale set in Edwardian-era England.

Twenty-three-year-old Aisling Wainscott writes risqué stories under a secret pen name, but her real-life love life is a bore...until she makes a wish for her winter's desire that works only too well. Suddenly, she sees her childhood friend Will Cooper in a completely different light, and the two rush headlong into a passionate affair that would scandalize everyone if word got out.

But as the walls around Aisling’s heart begin to crumble, she can only wonder if their feelings are real, or if it’s simply the winter solstice playing tricks on them.

Originally published as part of the Winter's Desire anthology. Republished here with a bonus epilogue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kristina Cook
• Release date: Jun 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463223963

Kristina Cook

Kristina Cook is the author of more than a dozen books for adults and teens, ranging from historical and NASCAR romance to paranormal and contemporary young adult fiction (also writing as Kristi Astor and Kristi Cook). Since the publication of her first novel in 2004, her books (with Kensington/Zebra Books, Harlequin Books, and Simon & Schuster) have hit national bestseller lists, landed on bookseller association lists, and won awards, including the National Reader's Choice Award.When she’s not writing a book or reading a book, she’s probably online somewhere, talking about a book. Kristina lives in New York City with her husband and two daughters, but in the summer months escapes with them to sunny Miami, where she lounges on the beach and teaches creative writing classes at Miami-Dade College.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Dorset, England, 1909

---

Here, Aisling said, shoving a stack of papers onto Jack’s lap as she perched on the sofa’s rolled arm beside him.

Pushing his wire-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his nose, he pulled out a page at random and began to read aloud.

---

His lips, warm and moist, traveled from the swell of her creamy, rose-tipped breasts down to her stomach. Onward they moved to her navel and then below, tracing slow, wet circles upon her goose-fleshed skin. Her back arched off the settee in wicked anticipation, her entire body quivering with need. At last she felt the tip of his tongue part her, circling the nub of sensitive flesh till she cried out in pleasure...

---

Good God, Aisling! This is positively scandalous! We’ll make a fortune with this one.

Aisling arched one brow as she reached for her cigarette case. Do you really think so? It’s not a bit over the top, is it?

Of course it is. That’s what makes it bloody brilliant. Jack’s cheeks reddened. I’ll read the rest later.

Of course. Aisling fiddled with the jeweled case, deciding that she didn’t really want a cigarette, after all.

Jack removed his spectacles and laid them down atop the manuscript. I don’t even want to know where you get your inspiration, Ash, he said, shaking his head. Honestly, if Mother knew—

It’s called ‘using one’s imagination,’ dear brother. You should try it sometime. And Mother is never going to know. Unless you tell her, of course.

Jack looked positively outraged. And why would I do that? Devil take it, Aisling, you’re my cash cow.

I should probably box your ears for such a sexist remark as that. She rolled her eyes heavenward as she stood, smoothing her hands down the front of her skirts. "Anyway, the usual plan. You’ll take it to The Boudoir when you’re in London this week, collect the fee, and deposit half into my account. She sighed loudly, trailing her fingertips over the couch’s plush, plum-colored upholstery. Honestly, I don’t know why I give you half. They’re my stories, after all."

Yes, but without me, you’d have nothing. He rose, unfolding his impossibly long legs and striding over to his desk where he deposited the manuscript with a thunk. "It’s not as if you could peddle your stories yourself—they wouldn’t let you past the front door of The Boudoir’s office. Anyway, just promise me that it is your imagination fueling these stories, and nothing more. I’d hate to be forced to defend your honor. You know what a terrible shot I am," he said with a grin.

Of course it is, Aisling murmured. She wasn’t a virgin, not that she’d ever admit that to Jack. But her one sexual experience had been lackluster at best—rushed and hurried, with no attempt made at pleasuring her at all. Aisling grimaced, remembering Thomas Esterbrooke’s wet, sloppy kisses; his damp palms and unimpressive member as he’d writhed and grunted atop her. She couldn’t help but shudder at the memory.

No, her stories were nothing like that. Instead they were full of passion and longing, of expert lovemaking and deeply felt emotions—all things twenty-three-year-old Aisling Wainscott had never once experienced in all her life.

God, but she was bored. Sick of Dorset, sick of Bedlington and everyone who lived there. Sometimes Aisling thought she’d go mad with boredom, if not for her pen and the escape her imagination provided.

I suppose I should get back to the books, Jack said, a tinge of regret in his voice. Don’t forget that I’ve invited guests to join us tonight for dinner.

Oh?

Yes, some friends of mine are in the area, visiting family. Roger and Edmund Dalton, you remember them? We went up to Eton together.

Vaguely, Aisling said with a shrug.

I thought we’d play cards later, he continued, so I’ve invited Will Cooper—you know, to even out the numbers. He’s in Bedlington for a fortnight, spending Christmas with his mum.

Aisling couldn’t help but groan. Not Will Cooper!

Jack’s blond brows drew together. What do you have against Will, the poor chap? It’s not his fault that his mother is a washerwoman. Besides, everyone knows his father was a gentleman.

"Yes, but which gentleman? She shook her head. Anyway, something about the way Will looks at me makes me uncomfortable."

But you haven’t seen him in years, not since he went up to Cambridge.

It was all well and good to be friends with him when we were children, but now? Educated or not, he’s still, well…not exactly our sort, is he?

Why, you little hypocrite, Jack accused, though he smiled delightedly. Who would have thought that you, of all people, would be such a snob? All for the voting rights of women, even common women, yet you think the son of a washerwoman isn’t ‘our sort’.

Aisling scowled at her brother. He watches me when he thinks I’m not looking, and he’s far too full of himself, besides.

It’s true, then, Jack crowed. "You are a snob."

Do shut up. She headed for the door. One hand on the brass handle, she turned back toward her brother. Better a snob than a pompous ass like you.

You shouldn’t swear, Ash. It isn’t at all becoming.

Oh, go fuck yourself, she called out, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she let herself out.

She could still hear him sputtering in indignation as the door swung shut. As she headed toward the stairs, she passed a long, gilt-framed mirror and winked at her reflection in smug satisfaction. It was far too easy to one-up her brother.

Minutes later, she’d retrieved her gloves and coat and hurried through the foyer, past the enormous Christmas tree that was decorated with red bows and colorful blown glass, its small electric lights just waiting to be lit. Mother loved Christmastime and left no hall undecked, no mantel undecorated.

But for Aisling, Christmas simply marked another year’s passing, each one no different from the one before it. There’d been no Eton for Aisling, no years at university like Jack had enjoyed. Just season after season, year after year there in Dorset, with only brief jaunts to London to relieve the monotony. Brief because Father had Mrs. Gaylord in London, of course, and how he hated his wife and family intruding on his time with his mistress.

Aisling let herself out the back door and skimmed down the stairs, buttoning up her coat. It had grown colder, and her breath made puffs of smoke in the wintry air as she hurried away from the house, toward the graveled path that led toward the now-frozen swimming pond and beyond.

I’ll never be like Mother, she silently vowed. Someday, Aisling would be free. Exactly what that meant, she wasn’t certain. Just that she wouldn’t necessarily be dependent on a man, particularly one who didn’t put her needs equal to his own; who would leave his wife and children rotting away in the country while he lived it up in town.

Shaking her head in frustration, she picked up her pace, veering off the path and through the copse of trees, toward the circle of standing stones in the distance. It was her favorite spot, just beyond the eastern border of Wainscott House’s property, in a shady little clearing. In the summer months, she would sit with her back against the largest of the stones and write. The almost-mystical atmosphere seemed to fuel her creativity, and she’d written some of her best work there. She liked to think of the stone circle as hers—her own private retreat, her refuge.

But now, as Aisling stepped out of the tree’s shadows and into the clearing, she saw a lone figure in a cloak standing there, watching her approach. The hood’s folds shadowed the intruder’s face, concealing the features, yet Aisling felt sure that the figure was a woman’s. Dark, unbound hair escaped the stranger’s hood, dancing on the breeze that caused the heavy woolen folds of Aisling’s coat to flap noisily against her limbs. Icy snow began to swirl about, stinging Aisling’s face.

At once the sun began to dip beneath the horizon, casting an eerie red glow on the tallest stone. In the blink of an eye, the blood-red light moved across the stones like a serpent, undulating around the circle once before melting away on the snow-dusted ground, leaving nothing but a grayish-lavender twilight behind.

It’s the winter solstice, Aisling realized with a start, a shiver working its way down her spine.

Her eyes scanned the circle—once, twice, searching for the strange, cloaked woman. Nothing. Miss? she called out, then tried again, louder this time. Miss? Are you there?

The woman was gone. Vanished, in what had been no more than a heartbeat’s time. Aisling dashed into the center of the circle, noticing that the wind had grown quiet—in fact, everything was quiet now, as silent as a tomb. Snow continued to fall softly, silently, making the ground at Aisling’s feet look as if a carpet of glittering crystals covered it.

A queer feeling rushed over her, raising gooseflesh on her skin. It seemed as if the stones themselves were holding their breath, watching, waiting...

And then she saw it, there atop the tallest of the stones. Something that wasn’t there before—something that didn’t belong. A box. Aisling’s feet seemed to move involuntarily, taking her closer. Before she knew it, the box was in her hands and she was staring down at it, her heart thumping noisily against her ribs.

Swallowing hard, she ran her fingertips over the lid, brushing away the dusting of snow to reveal an unfamiliar symbol—Celtic, perhaps—etched into the wood. She took a deep, fortifying breath, allowing the cold air to fill her lungs as she summoned the courage to lift the lid and see what lay inside.

A bone-and-leather fastening held it closed, and it took a bit of work to unfasten it, especially with fingers that trembled as hers did. She had to remove one glove, exposing her fingers to the chilled air.