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  Noël’s Wish

  Lady Ann Beecham-Brooke, better known as Lady Ice, was once a stunning young beauty, known for her piercing violet eyes and raven hair, but long years in a loveless marriage left her cold and aloof. Intent on steering clear of the London society she was once so much a part of, she’s reluctantly forced to seek help at a nearby estate when her carriage topples into a ditch on a deserted road.

  Charles Montrose, Viscount Ruston, has had a difficult life of his own. Left widowed by his one true love and raising a daughter alone, he now travels the world, aimlessly going from place to place in a futile effort to escape the pain of his loss. When the imperious Lady Ice shows up at his door, he finds himself attracted to this beautiful and hardened woman.

  Driven by his attraction to the lovely Ann but daunted by her equally powerful rebuffs, Charles must devise a way to keep her at his estate long enough to delve deeper into the reasons for her frosty temperament. As Christmas approaches and Ann begins to lower her defenses and warm to the idea that Charles just might be as good a man and father as he appears to be, she wonders if she’s found the one person who can thaw her heart.

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  This novella was originally published as “Noël’s Christmas Wish” in the Stocking Stuffers Anthology published by Kensington/Zebra in 2000, copyright © 2000 by Donna Lea Simpson.

  Beyond the Page edition copyright © 2013 by Donna Lea Simpson.

  Material excerpted from Lord St. Claire’s Angel copyright © 1999, 2013 by Donna Lea Simpson.

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-937349-98-1

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Dedication

  To the real Noël across the Rainbow Bridge

  who was a kitten once, and a Christmas gift,

  for being a loving and faithful companion

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Excerpt from Lord St. Claire’s Angel

  Classic Regency Romances

  Books by Donna Lea Simpson

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Lady Mignon Heloise Montrose . . . such a long name for the tiny, forlorn child who curled up in the window seat in the third-floor nursery of Russetshire Manor. Perhaps that was why everyone in the household, down to the lowest scullery maid and boot boy, called her Mossy. She was six going on seven, elfin of feature, blonde, with hazel eyes that normally radiated cheery happiness.

  Jade green eyes winked up at her, glowing in the pale moonlight that streamed in through the window. Her thin, sensitive fingers threaded through the silky fur of the kitten that curled purring in the nest of her nightgown.

  “Daddy’s going away again, Noël, right after Christmas.”

  The diminutive kitten kneaded ecstatically as Mossy scrubbed behind shell-pink ears and under a tiny pointed chin.

  “He just came back a week ago, an’ already he’s talking about going away again.” She sniffed and blinked back the tear that puddled in her eye and threatened to drip down her cheek. “At least he brought me you,” she whispered, lifting the gray and white kitten up to her eye level. She kissed his nose and cuddled him back in her lap.

  As she gazed out over the stretch of frosted lawn that rolled down toward the big main gate, a flash of light in the heavens caught her eye. “Oh, Noël, that’s a shooting star! Daddy told me once that if you see a shooting star and make a wish, it will come true!”

  The kitten reached up with one delicate paw and touched her cheek.

  “I know; I have to wish quickly. But for what? I already have everything I could wish for now that Daddy’s here and has brought me you. Oh!” She bounced up and down and Noël let out a squawk of protest and clung to her leg with pin-sharp claws. “Ouch! Sorry.” She resettled the tiny animal on her lap. “It’s just that I know what to wish for, and you have to wish too. Close your eyes.”

  The kitten blinked and mewed.

  “Oh, all right. I’ll close mine and you can do what you want. But you have to wish what I do.” She squeezed her eyes shut tight and grimaced. “I wish . . . I wish that something would happen that would keep Daddy home forever an’ ever! Something that would make him want to stay with me and not go away again after Christmas.”

  She opened one eye and looked down at the little kitten. It was curled into a tight ball, one tiny paw over its eyes. “You did close your eyes! Clever kitten! Now our wish is sure to come true. Daddy said so.”

  • • •

  A hare shot from the hedgerow at the side of the Bath road, and the carriage driver, who was trundling along almost asleep, had no time to control the spirited but weary team. One horse shied, the other balked, and in a moment the air was filled with screams and imprecations as the carriage toppled down the slight grade into the ditch by the roadside.

  Lady Ann Beecham-Brooke had allowed herself just the one ladylike scream as the carriage toppled sideways, but her lady’s maid, Ellen, felt no such compunction and rent the night with her high-pitched wailing. The air filled with the smell of lamp oil, but as the carriage lantern had gone out there was no danger of fire to the straw that had covered the floor and now was scattered around the carriage, nor to the blankets that held bricks long gone cold.

  “Oh, do shut up, Ellen,” Lady Ann muttered, trying in the darkness of the carriage to figure out which way they were oriented. She didn’t want to move precipitately in case it caused the carriage to tumble farther down whatever incline they were on.

  Ellen’s screams calmed to a moaning, eerie in the darkness but preferable to ear-splitting screeches. The carriage rocked, then slid a few more feet and steadied.

  “Milady, are you all right?”

  Ann’s driver, Jacob Lesley, was already unlatching the door—now that the carriage was on its side, the door was above her head—and opening it. She could see stars above her. Warily she stood, finding she could just see over the top. Jacob’s anxious face appeared.

  “Milady, are you—”

  “I am in one piece, but Ellen seems vastly more upset. Help me out, Jacob.”

  The grizzled coachman, well into his sixth decade of life, put out a gnarled hand as he said, “I believe, milady, that the carriage has settled
firmly agin’ a rock. Mayhap it will move no more. ’Tis worth the attempt, methinks, for you canna stay in the carriage all night.”

  Confounded by long skirts and a heavy velvet cloak, climbing out into the frosty December air proved a difficult chore. Lady Ann’s voice, when she finally touched ground, was as frigid as the night.

  “I assume, Jacob, that you have an explanation for this?” She brushed her cloak down and straightened, glaring at her driver in the pale moonlight.

  “Aye, milady, that I do, an’ it has to do with the folly of night driving with a tired team and an even more weary driver. I’d best get Miss Ellen out o’ the carriage, afore she swoons.”

  The maid’s moans still shuddered through the air. It took all of Jacob’s coaxing and Lady Ann’s demands before Ellen would think of moving, and then it was a matter of twenty minutes before they could get her out. She promptly sat down at the roadside and wept.

  “Now what shall we do?” Lady Ann demanded, scowling at her driver.

  Jacob peered up and down the dark road. “Feller at the last inn we stopped at to water the horses—the inn I suggested we stay the night at, if you ’member, milady—he were a talkative sort. Said as how there was a manor house along this road—big iron gates, he said. I believe as how we passed them gates not too long ago, mayhap a half mile back.”

  Ann raised her thinly arched eyebrows. “And what do you propose we do?” She had not missed the veiled criticism in her driver’s words but decided to ignore it . . . for now.

  Jacob glanced at her and grimaced, catching the angry glint in his mistress’s eye. She was a feisty one, was Lady Ann. He would catch it for sure later, but right now it was his duty to find them aid, despite his own bruises, sustained in the fall. “Feller said as how the lord o’ the manor, by the name o’ Montrose, Viscount Ruston, he’s one o’ them world traveler fellas. Never home. But the place is always open and staffed, as ’tis a busy road and they be used to travelers in trouble. Bound to be a place to stay for the night and some help to get the carriage righted agin.”

  “I dislike intensely imposing our presence on a household, especially at this time of year.” Ann frowned down at the road but could come up with no alternative suggestion. “All right, Jacob, we shall stay here. Take one of the horses and go to that house. But hear me: if the lord of the manor is home, I would prefer that we borrow a carriage and go on to the next village or roadside inn. I would not like to intrude on family at this time of year.”

  Jacob glanced at her, understanding in his keen gaze. He had first seen her as the young bride of his master, Baron Reginald Beecham-Brooke. All of the household had felt sorry for the eighteen-year-old beauty with the huge violet eyes who had been bartered by her parents to the thirty-seven-year-old clutch-fisted, heartless baron.

  As the years passed, though, and Lady Ann hardened before their eyes into an icy, frigid woman, their sympathy wore away. It was not that she abused the help; she was fair-minded and generous enough with food and pay. But never did anyone see the softer side of her, the youthful optimism with which she had arrived at the baron’s seat.

  Jacob alone of all the staff still defended her, believing that her frostiness was a cloak she donned to protect herself. Grooms in the stable crudely suggested that she needed bedding by a man capable of warming her frigidity, and Jacob, as old as he was, had challenged more than one young buck to a wrestling match over such remarks.

  He had his own theories about Lady Ann, but he never shared them. In this case he simply responded to her demand with a grunt, neither assent nor dissent implied, he thought. He disliked leaving his mistress alone like this but saw no alternative, and limped away to mount one of the carriage horses.

  As he rode off Ann turned to her maid, who still sat huddled at the roadside. The young woman was holding her arm at an awkward angle.

  “Ellen? Have you been hurt?”

  Sniffing back tears, the maid said, her voice quivering, “It . . . it’s nothing, milady.”

  Ann strode over to the roadside, crouched by her and examined the young woman’s arm, noting the wince as she moved the limb. “You have hurt it! Why did you not say anything?”

  “I-I-I did not like to cause trouble, milady.”

  The moonlight was beginning to fade, but Ann could see the apprehension in her maid’s face. Was the girl afraid of her? Good heavens! Had she become one of those women, whose servants trembled at their anger? She sat down beside Ellen, undid her cloak and wrapped half of it around the shivering maid, keeping half for herself. They huddled together in the frosty night, their breath coming out in steamy puffs.

  “We’ll have help soon, Ellen, and then we can look after your arm properly. I dare not move it for fear it is broken.”

  Suddenly the road seemed very dark and lonely to Ann, and she did not deny even to herself that the closeness of another human was reassuring. A chill wind swept down the road and she shivered, pulling the cloak closer. Together, the two women settled down to wait for help to arrive.

  • • •

  “My lord?”

  Charles Philip Montrose, Viscount Ruston, looked up from an exceedingly dull book on agriculture, glad to be interrupted at such a pastime. “What is it, Stoddart?”

  “There is a man, a carriage driver, at the back door, my lord. He says he is Lady Beecham-Brooke’s driver and they have had an accident just down the road from here. He was wondering if we could render him assistance and offer his mistress and her maid a place to stay for the night.”

  “Good Lord!” Ruston leaped to his feet. “What would anyone be doing driving in the middle of the night? Is he mad?”

  “He seems to be in full possession of his wits, my lord,” Stoddart said with the merest hint of a wry smile. “What may I tell him?”

  “What would you do if I were not here?”

  “Take them in, sir.”

  “And there is no difference just because I am in residence! Of course, we shall offer any assistance we can.”

  The butler turned to leave.

  “Oh, Stoddart?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Have . . . oh, the green room made up for Lady Beecham-Brooke, and a fire laid.”

  “Very good, sir.” Stoddart started for the door.

  “And have a room set aside for the maid, and space for the driver, of course.”

  “Yes, sir.” This time he made it all the way and was about to close the door behind him.

  “Oh, and Stoddart?”

  The butler opened the door again and bowed.

  “Have the gold saloon fire laid, and a light collation prepared, in case Lady Beecham-Brooke is hungry. I would have a place to greet her.”

  “Certainly, sir.” He bowed and closed the door.

  “Oh, and Stoddart!”

  The butler opened the door again and stood stiffly, waiting.

  Ruston grinned. “Just testing, old man, just testing.”

  A smile flickered over the butler’s somber features. He bowed and exited.

  Lady Beecham-Brooke. Why did that name tease his brain so? He had heard it recently, if he was not mistaken, on his stop in London as he returned from his most recent jaunt to the Continent. Ruston, who much preferred to be called Charley by friends, took up his book again, shelving it as he contemplated. Who had he met in London who would have mentioned her name? If he was correct, this must be the widow of Baron Beecham-Brooke, a dry stick many years his senior. So an older lady?

  No. That didn’t seem right.

  He poured himself a brandy and went over the few days he’d spent in London, searching for the connection his brain insisted was there. The first day he had arrived he had gone to his town house and looked through all of the gifts he had sent back for Mossy, his daughter, in the several months he had spent traveling through Italy and France. His next trip after Christmas, he decided, would take him through the Balkans and down into Greece.

  After looking through the treasure trove of French dolls
, Italian silver brush set, lace, ribbons, every kind of frippery a little girl could care for, he had gone to greet his sometime mistress, Lady Lydia Callander. They had spent the evening and much of the night making love. He had had a few amorous adventures in Italy and one memorable night in Paris with a songbird of extraordinary beauty, but there was nothing like a woman whose ardent murmurings he understood! Not that he believed half of what Lydia said.

  The next day he had gone to Rundell and Bridges for a trinket for her to make up for not being with her at Christmas, and had spent the afternoon at White’s. Then he had gone back to Lydia’s, presented her with the emerald bracelet, and had spent the evening and night again in her arms as she thanked him exhaustively for the emeralds. In the early morning light she had started softly hinting that she would be very glad to wake up with him on a permanent basis if his next gift should happen to be a ring, and he had taken fright and quickly departed.

  Lydia was very well in her way, but he could not imagine being tied to her for life. He knew she was not faithful to him while he was gone on his jaunts to Europe, and he did not expect her to be, but a wife . . . that would be different. If ever he married again, and he saw no reason to think he would, he wanted a woman of a much different stamp than Lydia, who could take a lover casually, entertaining other men as the mood took her. He had been faithful to his wife and she to him; it was the only way to conduct a marriage.

  And so the next day he had sent a note around, telling her he would be going to the country immediately; he hoped she had a very nice Christmas. He subtly suggested he was freeing her from any imagined connection between them, implying that the emerald bracelet was a farewell present. He would not be seeing Lydia again.

  He had been at loose ends that day, so he had gone to his friends, Sir Peregrine Haunton and his very gravid wife, Sylvia. Perry was an old friend of his from school, and they spent the day reminiscing and gossiping; he had dinner there, then went to a gambling hell for the evening. That was where he found his first gift for Mossy, oddly enough. He drank too much and then stumbled out the back door for a breath of fresh air, knowing it was even odds he would cast up his accounts. There he heard a low snarl, and as his eyes adjusted to the semidarkness of the alley, he spied a brindled stable hound. It was stalking down the alley and growling as it paced toward its prey, a tiny, dirty kitten.