An Historical Holiday Duet

By Heather Hallman and Clyve Rose

Two stories about love and family during the holiday season.

 

A Holiday Season at Clifton Hall - Romancy #2.5

 

It's not easy to remain independent when your brother's the Romany king, yet equine expert, Chal Brishen, knows he must stand on his own to win his bride.

 

Stari Besnick is tired of waiting. All the dowry back and forth between her father and the Brishen house has lasted too long.

 

People are beginning to talk.

 

When Chal is offered a way to give Stari the wedding she wants in exchange for aiding an old friend, everything seems set for a happy ending. Until Stari's arrested.

 

A Romany girl in trouble with the English law doesn't have many options.

 

But Chal will find a way to free her and make all her dreams come true.

 

Seduction of Tokyo - Tokyo Whispers #2.5

 

For years, Pierce Roth and Kiyo Iwai have been avoiding the pull between them, and Pierce's inevitable engagement to his partner's sister-in-law, Euphemia Lyons, will put an end to any possibility of Kiyo and Pierce connecting.

 

But Pierce doesn't want to marry Euphemia, and Kiyo doesn't want to leave the bank.

 

Her bookkeeping job pays well, and she needs the money to support her family.

 

If they give into their desires, too many people will be beyond disappointed in both of them, but the thought of losing Kiyo has Pierce making plans that might give way to the life he wishes to lead.

 

Now all he has to do is convince Kiyo he's playing for keeps.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boroughs Publishing Group
• Release date: Nov 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781957295619

Book preview

AN HISTORICAL HOLIDAY DUET

Clyve Rose

Heather Hallman

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www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.

AN HISTORICAL HOLIDAY DUET

Copyright © 2023 Heather Hallman and Clyve Rose

All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.

ISBN: 978-1-957295-61-9

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

A Holiday Season at Clifton Hall by Clyve Rose

Romany Glossary

Chapter 1: Patience

Chapter 2: Persistence

Chapter 3: Lace and Ill Luck

Chapter 4: Beer and Billiards

Chapter 5: Applecores and Vagrants

Chapter 6: Love Comes Home

Chapter 7: A Romany Wedding Breakfast

Chapter 8: A Wedding At Clifton Hall

Sneak Peek at An Impossible Duchess

~

Seduction of Tokyo by Heather Hallman

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

About The Authors

About the Publisher

A HOLIDAY SEASON AT CLIFTON HALL

The Romancy – Book 2.5

Clyve Rose

Romany Glossary

bengako - hell, a common curse word

bostaris - bastard

caenipen - stink or stench

chandana - scented wood, often refers to sandalwood

covo - one of the words for a Romany caravan

dinnelipénes - follies or nonsense

dinlow - a fool

gry - horse

gry-engro - horseman

ker - home, the place one’s family is camped

koshti sarla - good evening

mi dubblesky - for god’s sake

sher-engro - head-man, which every Romany house or tribe has

tan - tent

CHAPTER ONE

Patience

Evening, 21st December 1821

Calder River Valley, North Riding, Yorkshire

Stari

"Dinlow." Starlina cursed her favourite Romany word for fool. She twitched her thick dark braid over one shoulder, swearing silently as she did her best to curb her temper. Glancing up briefly in the dim light of the women’s tent, she let out a breath, grateful no one noticed her irritation. She wasn’t in the mood for begging anyone’s pardon.

Reciting further curse words, Stari stabbed her needle through silk cloth. She truly wasn’t in the mood for sewcraft either. Her stepmother, Ana, would scold her if she were here now. Sewcraft requires patience, she’d say.

Stari wielded her needle more viciously. She’d been patient throughout her overlong betrothal to Chal Brishen. The protracted negotiations between Papa and Chal’s family were enough to try any Romany bride.

Chal was a member of the Romany royal house of Brishen. His eldest brother, Valkin, was the krallis, the man the English recognised as the Romany King. House Brishen were important Romany. Chal was important Romany. So important he can’t find time to deliver my bride price?

Stari shook her head. No Romany man of honour would go back on his betrothal, especially after so long an interval.

Ana’s advice sounded again in the back of her mind. Patience and virtue are every man’s ideal of a good wife. A sliver of doubt slid along her spine.

What if Chal was in no hurry to wed her because he truly didn’t wish it as much as she?

What is the point of patience if the event I wish for most in all the world never comes to pass? she asked the absent Ana, well aware her bride price was currently under discussion without her between the sher-engros of House Brishen and House Besnik.

Traditionally, Besnik women weren’t present while their fathers and brothers outlined what they wanted, as though the bride was the least important person when it came to finalising her match.

Stari bit back another epithet. No one had asked what she wanted, and it wasn’t much. Only to be wed in a church. No wonder Lydia Brishen – wife of the krallis – chose not to attend House Besnik today.

The entire arrangement was left to the men: Papa was present, along with the krallis, and Ana’s two eldest sons. But not Chal.

Her betrothed didn’t cross the river Calder today to meet with her family and finalise terms. Indeed, she learned he wasn’t in Yorkshire with the rest of House Brishen, which wouldn’t irritate her so much if their wedding wasn’t to take place at Christmas.

And Christmas is in five days’ time.

Five days, and Chal was miles away, in an entirely different part of the country, risking their union.

In five days the dinlow will be my husband, and he’s not here.

She stuck her needle savagely through a new seam, then winced as it pierced her flesh. Oh, Stari gasped in horror at the rusty stain spreading over lavender silk. "Bengako." Hell.

She hoped this wasn’t an omen for her marriage.

Shoving her work aside, she stood and stretched, then stomped heavily across to the stack of empty bushel baskets by the tent flap. At least she might escape the sympathetic looks from the women of Besnik.

Clearly, none of them had awaited their betrothed so long.

Grabbing a basket in her fist, she headed for her favourite spruce tree. The ancient trunk crowned a steep hill and Stari was soon focused on reached the crest, scowling alternately at the sky, then the forest floor.

By the time she reached her tree, her basket was full of scented wood and the last pippins of the season. She flopped down on the chilly ground, drew out her little knife, and set to work, carving her wood. Inhaling deeply, she marvelled at the improvement in her demeanour.

Why aren’t men more like trees?

Stari leaned into the spruce trunk and closed her eyes.

***

You’re like a flower, Stari, Chal murmured, tracing her cheek with a late sprig of bell heather.

She lifted her chin, angling towards his lips. Chal brushed the delicate blooms along her chin, her jawline, the sensitive hollow of her neck, slipping it beneath her wooden chandana bead to outline her collarbone, studying the goosebumps he raised on her skin.

Like heather, he whispered, leaning closer, stroking the flowers along the neckline of her gown.

Stari swallowed hard, the sensation of velvet-petal teasing her skin awakening a longing deep within.

Turning back to Chal with a widening smile, she admired his square, clean-shaven jaw, unusual for a Romany man. His dark eyes widened as he focused on her face, and he was grinning.

Does he know how much I want him?

His smile deepened, turning sensuous.

It seems he does.

Stari licked her lips slowly. Though he shifted position, Chal’s attention remained absolute, his eyes darkening under his heavy brow. She could already taste his kiss and wanted it. Wanted him.

Wanted these moments to last forever. She stared at his mouth.

I’m like bell heather, Chal?

Yes. He leaned closer, warming the air between their bodies. Beautiful, soft, and strong enough to stand with me and Brishen, like heather holding fast to this heath.

I can’t wait to marry you. She sighed.

And I, you, he replied. He leaned in, pressing his mouth over hers, his tongue licking open her lips.

Stari threaded her fingers through his hair, tugging him tighter against her body, until he lay beside her, heat pressing her belly.

Everything Stari knew of camello, or lovemaking among her Romany, indicated this was intentional.

Stari Besnik is an impatient woman and Chal Brishen is an intentional man.

She held his face between her palms, moulding her mouth beneath his, determined to taste as much of him as she could.

Eventually, Chal drew back, breathing hard, holding her gaze like no other man. Without a word, he reached up to twine his pink flower into her braid.

Chal spoke less than any other man she knew. His silence did nothing to dispel the powerful heat surging through her.

His fingertips grazed her skin again, hovering above her bodice. She held her breath, adjusting to the rising heat between her thighs.

She felt his fingers there, stroking her.

Stari moved her thighs apart, opening to his touch as he teased, tantalised, tormented her aching need.

And her thighs opened farther.

Chal’s lips rubbed over her temple as he murmured in her ear. Stari, I want you. His words grew louder, more urgent.

Mmmm, I want you too, Chal.

Now, Stari. Now, he shouted.

Stari sat up, blinking beneath weak winter sunlight as the image of Chal Brishen faded away.

A dream. It was nothing but a dream.

She sat alone beneath her solitary spruce, her bushel basket a jumble of withered pippins and assorted aromatic sticks. Carved wooden beads lay cradled among her skirts, along with the knife she used to fashion these decorations for Besnik’s Christmas trade.

Stari.

The shouting hadn’t been a dream. Hurriedly brushing down her skirts, she spied Algie racing uphill from the copse of firs screening her doze. She exhaled and stood, lifting her basket high to prove she’d been engaged in useful work, not drowsing among winter bracken.

"Stir yourself, my sister, my pen. Brishen’s agreement with Besnik is concluded at last. The krallis’s wife arrives from across the river."

Stari grabbed his arm. Algie, is it Lydia Brishen herself?

It is, and your betrothed is not with her. Again. Stari’s little brother pouted then rearranged his face into a frown, looking younger than his nine years. "I hoped to learn more of his horses, and is it not an insult to you, my sister, my pen?"

Stari knelt, pointlessly rearranging the contents of her bushel basket. What is it you mean, Algie?

He shrugged and let out a loud sigh. "You are Chal Brishen’s betrothed. Ought he not to want to meet you for the season?"

Stari set a brisk pace as they followed the downward slope of the heath. We must not keep Lydia waiting.

This is what I’ve been telling you. Algie wasn’t to be deterred. I’m concerned your betrothed does not wait upon our house and sends his relations instead. Perhaps he wishes to avoid his match, Stari.

Algie was still a child, but his words stung.

She swallowed a sharp retort.

Chal attended Besnik on his return from the Latter Lee horse fair at the last quarter day, she reminded him. Surely you recall his visit.

I recall he had little time to spare for me, unless I was chaperon, her brother replied. Truly, he spends too many hours with you, Stari. Algie pouted again. Stari suppressed her laugh.

"I cannot help it if my betrothed prefers speaking of love than speaking of horses. Once we’re wed, Papa may allow you to visit with me at House Brishen. Chal’s gry-engros have much to teach you of horses."

She grinned at Algie. His youngest sister is not betrothed, you know. She’s as pretty as her brother is handsome.

Algie pulled a disgusted face. I don’t want to meet his sister. Girls are full of foolishness, and I am too young to be betrothed, he pointed out.

Not so young, Stari countered with a laugh. You’ll be ten years old come Lady Day.

Algie snorted. When it is time for me to marry, I shall not take one and one half years to do it like Chal Brishen. He shook his head. Your betrothal has been soooo long, and you’re both growing older. Why, you’re eighteen next spring.

Stari’s smile fell away as she continued her rapid progress towards her family’s tan. She could already see the patrin as she passed the northern boundary of their site. Though these arrangements of leaves and sticks went unnoticed by the English, they formed a vital form of communication between the Romany houses as they traversed the country.

Besnik’s carefully placed nature signs indicated the krallis’s family had crossed the river. Looking up, her gaze caught the coal-black stallion outlined against the sunset sky. Bavol was the mount all the Romany associated with Valkin and Lydia Brishen.

She traced the outline of the chandana bead at her neck. A gift from Chal on the day she accepted him. He’d carved it himself from wood she’d found. Such charms were said to bring the bearer good luck in a lasting love. She knew of no trinket affecting its speed.

She turned as Algie caught up with her. Am I in looks, Algie?

Always, Stari. He bowed like an English courtier, and suddenly seemed more grown-up than she.

Stari took a steadying breath. "Wish me luck, my prala, my brother."

Always, he repeated before ruining his solemnity with a giggle and rubbing his belly. I need to eat. He raced across to the great central cooking fire around which their camp was built.

Stari stood outside the tan she shared with her family, staring after him. The two concentric circles of coloured tents, with the fire at their centre, was all there was of House Besnik.

Her house was one of the smallest Romany families, but they took as much pride in their arrangements as any other Romany. The soft tinkle of bells drifted on the air as the evening breeze moved through ker.

Besnik hung brass or tin bells by their tent flaps. Others displayed decorative scarves and pretty chimes. A few displayed the carved, scented wood ornaments Stari created.

I will miss them all when I’m wed.

She wondered whether other Romany brides felt the same. Taking a deep breath, she savoured the rich aroma of rabbit stew with turnip and herbs, drawing the scent deeply into herself.

Gripping the handle of her bushel basket, she turned into her family’s tan.

Stari. At last. Ana’s voice sounded higher than usual as she fidgeted with her skirts, glancing nervously at the krallis and his wife. Here she is at last. I said Algie would fetch her.

"Koshti sarla." Stari touched her chandana again as she curtsied and wished all present a good evening. I beg your pardon, Lydia. I’d no intention of keeping you waiting.

Lydia laughed and returned her curtsey, mindful of the swaddled bundle in her arms. No pardon is needed. I’ve barely dismounted with Zina here. She straightened, offering her bundle to Stari. Would you like to meet her?

Stari held out her arms, then cuddled the babe tightly to her chest, rocking her gently. I thank you. Does she always sleep so soundly?

The krallis snorted. Not at all, Stari. He rubbed his face.

Lydia’s expression remained gentle. She sleeps best when we ride Bavol all together, she replied. The rhythm soothes her.

I have something for you. Stari pulled a large, flaxen basket from beside her bedroll, already padded with rabbit fur. She lowered Zina gently within before hefting the basket, babe and all.

Such transport may ease your back and shoulders as she grows, she explained. Allow me to demonstrate.

Lydia’s green eyes warmed. Stari hung the basket-sling diagonally across Lydia’s body, grateful her new friend stood so still.

"It may also assist when you all three ride Bavol together. It’s sturdy enough to withstand a spirited gait. Besnik calls it a kipsie."

I thank you. Lydia ran her hands over the closeness of the weave. It’s excellently done. Your own design? She quirked a brow at Stari.

Stari gladdened with pleasure and nodded. The krallis added his thanks before addressing Stari’s papa, Stefan.

Speaking of horses, my brother has located the gelding for your daughter’s bride price.

Stari caught a flicker of irritation in Lydia’s face. Old habits are hard to break. Perhaps Lydia could read minds because she turned to Stari with an apologetic smile.

I’m curious to learn more of Besnik’s work with woods and grasses. Would you be good enough to escort me?

Of course, Ana responded before anyone else.

My daughter will be delighted to show Brishen her work. Stefan grinned at Stari encouragingly.

She directed her curtsey at Lydia and offered her arm. Our women’s tent is this way.

A short walk had them standing by the aperture.

You enjoy it here, Lydia said. I can tell.

I confess, I do, Stari replied, nodding to a few of the older women.

Some of them stared openly at Lydia before offering a curtsey. Stari admired how, even in the dim light of the tent, the krallis’s wife was impossible to miss.

Lydia was born an Englishwoman. A duke’s daughter, no less.

I suppose you’re used to being a curiosity by now, Stari mused aloud.

I can hardly deny it. Lydia smiled, glancing down into her kipsie. And I wouldn't wish to, she went on. If I’d not had my life before Brishen, I wouldn’t be here now, with you.

And Zina, Stari added.

Lydia beamed. And Zina.

Come, Lydia. See what we’ve begun for Christmas. Stari lifted off her kipsie, managing not to disturb the babe before placing her in a shadowed area among the drying lavenders.

She walked Lydia through the tent, offering her attentions to the women of Besnik. Lydia seemed interested in all they were doing, pausing to ask intelligent questions and conduct her trades.

I’ve heard you’re interested in linencraft, Stari said.

I find it soothing after so long a journey on horseback. Shall we sit? Lydia drew a corked needle from a slit in her gown.

Stari arranged their seat cushions on either side of Zina’s kipsie. What is it you wish to make?

A wedding chemise for you, Lydia replied. All of Brishen is determined to have you with us for Christmas.

I thank you, Stari replied softly. ’Tis my hope as well. She pulled her petticoats across her knees and resumed stitching.

Lydia uncorked her needle and looked up. Do you doubt it?

It’s not Brishen I doubt.

She recalled Algie’s words. Your betrothal has been sooo long.

Chal’s face as she’d dreamed him earlier formed in her mind. Stari shook him away. I’ll not utter my fears aloud.

For an instant she wished Lydia less astute, but Stari knew better.

All the Romany appreciated Lydia’s intellect. Her knowledge of the gadjos served them well, though she was more Romany than English now.

Being so seemed to agree with her as she moved across the tent, trading for further supplies.

Stari leaned in to watch over Zina. To her surprise, the babe lay wide awake, blinking up at her.

Is she still asleep? Lydia returned with newer thread for her