A Dream Christmas

Riley leaned forward and drilled him in the chest with her finger. ‘It’s so clear now—you only made a move on me after weddings and funerals, when your wall started crumbling thanks to a couple of drinks. Now you want to “date” me because it’s the only way you can be with me but allow those walls to stay up around your heart!

‘Your offer sucks and, yeah, it’s the final insult, James.’ Riley dropped her hand and bit her lip. ‘I’m done. This time, I promise you, I’m walking away for good. I’m going to start a new life in a new town and maybe one day I’ll find someone else to love, someone brave enough to love me. Because I won’t be too scared to fail and he won’t be too scared to trust me with his heart. And that’ll be because he’ll recognise that I’m loyal and trustworthy and because I’m a damn good bet!’

Riley flung back the covers, scrambled out of the bed and refused to look at the only man who’d ever come close to touching her soul.

‘Riley—’

Her heart stuttered as anticipation flooded her system. Maybe, just maybe, she had got through to him, maybe he realised that she was—they were—too good to lose. That—

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t be what you want.

Yeah, me too, Riley thought, feeling her heart snap and then shatter.

JAMES PACED HIS BALCONY, wishing that he was walking the lands at Bon Chance, where the air was pure and he could breathe. In his jersey and jeans, he was vaguely aware that it was another icy afternoon in New York but he’d been perpetually cold since his last conversation with Riley and feeling frozen, on the inside as well as out, had started to feel normal. It had been four days since Riley had walked out of his life and he felt that the sun would never shine again.

Was this what depression actually felt like? He’d never felt anything close to this before, he thought, as he tucked his hands under his armpits. He couldn’t think of anything but her, work was a joke and food tasted like cardboard. When he’d dumped Liz, he’d felt angry and hurt—more angry than hurt—for months but he’d never felt this … emptiness. Everything was dim, even the bright colours of the Christmas lights and the decorations of the city were dull and tinged with grey.

‘You really are a jerk-nugget, Jay.’

Just what he needed, his baby sister putting a flea in his ear. Oh, joy! James turned around and glared at his slender long-limbed sibling, leaning against the balcony door as if she were a part of the furniture. And she normally was—just not today; probably not tomorrow either. ‘I really have to change the code to my lift.’

‘Whatever. I just left Riley, who was bawling her eyes out.’

‘I told her that I wanted to be with her.’

‘You told her that you wanted to date her, you moron! What the hell were you thinking?’ Morgan demanded.

He’d forgotten what a good handle Morgan had on sarcasm, James thought, shoving his hand into his hair and tugging. ‘I don’t have a cooking clue.’

Morgan came onto the balcony and tightened her coat around her slim waist. ‘Riley told me about your fight, about Liz, about what happened between you because, you know, Riley and I tell each other everything.’

‘Like that’s news,’ James muttered, leaning his elbows on the railing and looking down on the mostly deserted Central Park.

‘You’ve always had a lot to live up to, James—the family name, the fact that Dad abdicated as CEO and left us to travel the world, appearing now and again to play Dad. You became my hero, the man I relied on … through all my issues, I leaned on you. There was enormous pressure on you to take over as MI CEO, to achieve, to be seen to be achieving. Because of the Moreau name and all of that. You never failed, James, at anything.’

‘I failed with Liz.’

‘Pfft. She’s wasn’t a failure; she was a lucky escape.’ Morgan looked him in the eye, their identical eyes clashing. ‘You never failed … except with Riley.’

Why didn’t she take a gun and shoot him between the eyes? ‘You failed her, James. You failed her ten years ago when you didn’t give her space to breathe; you failed her by running off to Liz; you failed her every time you slept with her and pretended that she was another one-night stand. You failed her six months ago and, boy, you seriously failed her four days ago. But I’m here to tell you that it’s grovelling time, bro, because if you don’t you’re going to regret this every single freakin’ second for the rest of your life.’

He was already spending every single freaking second missing her and calling himself a fool.

‘And I will also get my ex-SAS fiancé to kick your ass until you do start grovelling.’

She would too.

‘It’s simple, stupid. You love her; she loves you.’

Could it really be that simple? James thought on a surge of hope.

‘She can make you happy, Jay,’ Morgan softly said.

‘She already does,’ he admitted.

When he was with her, every day was Christmas, every day held that same expectancy that something extraordinarily special was about to happen. And then it would, either by her smiling or cracking a comment or sliding her hand into his. Special didn’t have to be big, he realised; it just had to be Riley.

‘You’d be crazy, and stupid, to let her go. And Christmas won’t be Christmas without her,’ Morgan said, her tone mournful.

James yanked his baby sister into his arms, hugging her tightly. ‘I know. I’ll fix it, Morgs.’ He had to—he’d always loved her; would always love her. He wouldn’t leave New York, wouldn’t go back to Bon Chance without Riley … he wouldn’t spend another moment without her. Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without her—hell, his life wasn’t a life without her. He needed her, craved her …

Morgan sniffed. ‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

So how are you going to get her back, champ? He had a couple of nights until Christmas Eve. You didn’t leave a hell of a lot of time to figure this out. James dropped a kiss on Morgan’s head before leading her inside and out of the icy wind.

‘I’m still changing the code on the lift,’ he told her with a small smile.

Morgan’s grin was the essence of mischief. ‘Okay, you can, but if you manage to get her back Riley will just tell me what it is so you might as well save yourself the hassle.’

‘Point taken. Oh, and Morgs? I need to put you to work.’

CHRISTMAS EVE, RILEY THOUGHT, sitting at her desk in her basement office. Six o’clock and she was very, very alone. She’d packed up her office, taken down the colourful prints and had arranged for the maintenance department to have the office repainted back to a boring white in readiness for her replacement.

Whoever that was …

Not her problem, Riley reminded herself, and she had far bigger issues than that.

She’d thought she was so clever, thought that she could handle James and what she felt for him, could deal with being his friend. She’d thought that she could slip quietly into a new life but instead she was tumbling into one with a broken heart and a severely battered and miserable soul.

She was done with love, with men, with James … Oh, dammit, more waterworks! Would they ever stop?

Riley pulled on her coat and gloves and frowned when her desk phone rang. Her staff were long gone, there were no projects in progress at the moment; most of the staff in the building had left many hours ago. She picked up the handset and lifted it to her ear.

‘Miss Riley? Security here. I’ve just had a report that someone has messed with your windows in the jewellery store.’

Oh, no … hell, no! She might not be employed by MI any more but those windows were her designs, her baby. No one fiddled with her windows, she thought as temper rose up to close her throat. Ever!

Riley belted up the stairs to the lobby of the MI building and skidded down the hall, frowning as the security officer waved her through the security checks all the Moreau staff endured daily. Not stopping to question why she was receiving a free pass, she belted out of the door, sucking in her breath as a few fat snowflakes hit her face. When had it started to snow? And who cared anyway? What was wrong with her windows?

Ignoring the snow, she pushed her way through the crowds and walked down the wet pavement, thankful that she was wearing her boots and that she wouldn’t slip on the wet, sludgy surface. Jeez, the snow was really coming down now … Riley pushed past a tall man in a black overcoat to look at whatever had happened to her windows.

She blinked at the dark window showing the Bon Chance display. It was solidly black. What was going on? Riley put her forehead against the freezing glass, cupped her hands around her face and narrowed her eyes. In the low light of the street lamps it looked as if nothing had changed—there was the messy table and Morgan and Noah in an embrace—and the lights appeared to be the only problem.

Probably just a fuse, she thought—easy enough to fix. She turned around to head back to the jewellery store and James stepped into her line of sight, his blond head collecting snowflakes. Her knees threatened to collapse and she couldn’t get air into her lungs.

‘Breathe, honey,’ James ordered, his eyes focused on her face. Eyes that were worried but not flat, hesitant but not empty.

‘You turned the lights off … What have you done to my window?’ she muttered, swiping a snowflake off her cheek.

James nodded and the lights in the window flicked back on. Riley turned around slowly and scanned her display, immediately noticing her little mouse, now sitting on a dinner plate, a whopping big diamond ring between his tiny paws. The diamond shot cold fire in her direction and looked like it had more carats than a vegetable garden. She recognised that ring, remembered seeing it on Granny Moreau’s bony finger …

‘You moved my mouse,’ Riley accused, not knowing what else to say.

James had the audacity to grin. ‘Only you would bitch about me messing with your windows instead of asking why your mouse is holding a diamond ring.’

Riley glanced at the window. ‘I’m scared to ask that,’ she admitted, biting her lip.

James moved closer to her and his bare hand came up to cup her face. ‘Ask me.’

Riley looked up at him with wide eyes. ‘Okay. Why is my mouse holding your grandmother’s diamond ring?’

James ran his thumb across an arched eyebrow. ‘I’m asking you to stay with me in New York—not as my girlfriend or my lover but as my wife. I’m asking you to marry me. To be mine. Share what’s mine. What do you think, Ri? You interested in any or all of that?’

Riley looked from him to the window to the ring and back to his face again. ‘Why?’ she softly asked, holding her breath. He had one chance to say the right thing here or else she was walking. It would kill her but she would walk …

‘I don’t have to understand love; I just need to love … to love you. I want you, I need you. I want to see your lovely face first thing in the morning, live in a colourful kaleidoscope of a home with you, change the nappies on our kids. I want to make love to you every day for the rest of my life, tell you how much I love you every day for the rest of my life.’

Riley took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. ‘And my job?’

‘This has nothing to do with your job or where you work. You can do what you want—work, don’t work. Design MI’s windows, start a new career, don’t work another day for the rest of your life. I don’t care! I just want you and I just want you happy. I can work around anything else.’

Riley’s breath hitched and a smile started to appear on her face. ‘You’re being serious.’

James huffed a sigh of impatience. ‘Do you think I’ve spent the last two days busting my ass to organise this if I wasn’t serious?’ He gestured to the window. ‘So what can I say—do—to get you to say yes?’

Riley’s hand burrowed underneath his coat and she placed it flat against his heart. ‘I just want this. I want all of this.’

His big hand covered hers. ‘My heart? It’s yours. For always. So, about that marriage thing …?’

She flashed him a smile. ‘You messed with my windows.’

‘I did. Do you want to marry me or not?’ James demanded.

‘Tell me how much you love me again and I’ll think about it,’ Riley said, stepping up to him, pushing her hands inside his coat to hold his sides. She rested her forehead on his chest.

James’s arm banded around her and she felt his lips in her hair. ‘I love you beyond distraction. I’ve never loved anyone but you.’

She sucked in her breath. ‘Okay, thought about it.’

James tipped her head up, his lips quirking. ‘And?’

‘I love you more than life itself and I’m sick of being miserable without you. I’d love to marry you.’ Riley blinked away her tears … more tears, but these were happy ones—she liked those. She stepped back and ripped off the glove on her left hand and waggled her fingers. ‘So, hotshot, how are you going to get your grandmother’s ring in the window onto my finger?’

James tipped his head. ‘Do you like that ring?’

No, not really. ‘What’s not to like? It’s about a million carats and is traditionally passed down to the eldest son’s bride.’ Riley bit her lip when James just kept looking at her. ‘Okay, I don’t really like it but I’ll wear it if you want me to. I just always hoped for something warmer, something like an emerald or a Maw-Sit-Sit—something the colour of your eyes.’

James dug in his pocket and pulled out another ring and held it between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Maybe something like this?’

It was a square-cut emerald, bordered by green diamonds—bold, unusual and arty. ‘Oh, my God.’ Riley’s jaw dropped open. ‘This is it … This is my ring! This … God, James … I love it. How? How did you know?’

‘It might have something to do with the fact that your best friend is a jewellery designer,’ James said wryly, sliding the ring onto her finger.

‘That would be why. So that’s why she wasn’t taking my calls!’

‘That’s why,’ James agreed. ‘She’s pulled two all-nighters to get it finished.’

‘Love her. Love. Her. And you for getting her to design it, make it.’

‘I knew that you would want her to.’

‘Thank you so much for my ring and for not asking me to wear that monstrosity,’ Riley whispered against his mouth. ‘And for asking me to marry you.’

Riley pulled his head down so that she could kiss him. As his mouth explored hers, her heart picked up its scattered pieces and started to patch itself back together again. It would be stronger, she realised. Happier, but never hers again, she realised. And she was super-okay with that.

She knew that James would take excellent care of it.

A long while later, James pulled his mouth from hers and placed his cheek on her head. ‘Let’s go home, Ri.’

‘Sure … race you there!’ Riley said, turning in the direction of his apartment. James’s hand on her arm halted her progress and she turned back to see him pointing at the SUV idling at the corner.

‘No, darling, we’re going home to Bon Chance. Our family is there, waiting for us.’

Riley’s heart jumped. His family that had always been hers. How right it felt that they were going home together.

‘We’ll head to your place, pick up your luggage; my bags and presents are in the car …’ James slapped a hand against his forehead. ‘It’s Christmas Eve … presents. Oh, damn. Damndamndamn.’

‘What’s the matter?’ Riley asked.

James pulled a face. ‘I don’t have a Christmas present for you … sorry. I’ve been a bit busy.’

Her laughter rang out in the freezing night. ‘James, I think a stunning engagement ring more than qualifies as a kick-ass Christmas present.’

Riley gave him a smacking kiss and her eyes sparkled with love and laughter.

‘And I also gave you my heart … James said on a broad smile, thinking on his feet.

Riley placed her hand on his cheek. ‘Which will always rate as the biggest, best, most treasured gift ever. Merry Christmas, Jay. Love you.’

‘Merry rest of our lives, Ri. Love you back, honey.’

* * * * *

Regency Christmas Vows

The Blanchland Secret

Nicola Cornick

The Mistress of Hanover Square

Anne Herries

The Blanchland Secret

Nicola Cornick

For the first eighteen years of her life NICOLA CORNICK lived in Yorkshire, within a stone’s throw of the moors that had inspired the Brontë sisters to write Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. One of her grandfathers was a poet and her family contained teachers and avid readers who filled the house with books. With such a background it was impossible for Nicola not to become a bookworm.

Nicola met her future husband while she was at university, although it took her four years to realise that he was special and more than just a friend. Her husband, being so much more perceptive, had worked this out much sooner, but eventually an understanding was reached.

This lack of perception also meant that Nicola did not realise for years that she was meant to be a writer. She wrote bits and pieces of novels in her spare time, but never finished any of them. Eventually, she sent in the first three chapters of a Regency romance to Mills & Boon and, although they were rejected, she found she had become so addicted to writing that she could not stop. Happily, her third attempt was accepted and she has never looked back.

Nicola loves to hear from her readers and can be contacted by e-mail or via her website, www.nicolacornick.co.uk.

Chapter One

Mr Julius Churchward, representative of the famously discreet London lawyers of the same name, had a variety of facial expressions he could draw upon, depending on the nature of the news he was imparting to his aristocratic clients. There was sympathetic but grave, used when breaking the news that an inheritance was substantially smaller than expected; there was sympathetic but rueful, for unsatisfactory offspring and breach of promise; finally, there was an all-purpose dolefulness, for when the precise nature of the problem was in doubt. It was this third alternative that he adopted now, as he stood on the doorstep of Lady Amelia Fenton’s trim house in Bath, for if the truth were told, he knew nothing of the contents of the letter he was about to deliver.

Mr Churchward had travelled from London the previous day, stopped overnight at the Star and Garter in Newbury and resumed his journey at first light. To undertake such a journey in winter, with Christmas pressing close upon them, argued some urgency. The morning sun was warming the creamy Bath stone of Brock Street but the winter air was chill. Mr Churchward shivered inside his overcoat and hoped that Miss Sarah Sheridan, Lady Amelia’s companion, was not still at breakfast.

A neat maid showed him into a parlour that he remembered from a visit three years before, a visit during which he had conveyed to Miss Sheridan the disappointing news that her brother Frank had left no estate to speak of. At the back of his mind was an occasion some two years before that, when he had had to proffer the even more depressing intelligence that Lord Sheridan had left only a small competence to keep his daughter from penury. Miss Sheridan had borne the news with fortitude, explained that she had very few material needs and gained Mr Churchward’s admiration in the process.

He still felt the inequity of her situation keenly. A lady of Miss Sheridan’s breeding should not, he felt, be reduced to acting as companion, even to so benevolent a relative as her cousin, Lady Amelia. He was sure that Lady Amelia was too generous ever to make Miss Sheridan feel a poor relation, but it was simply not fitting. For several years Mr Churchward’s chivalrous heart had hoped that Miss Sheridan would make a suitable match, for she was young and looked well to a pass, but three years had gone by and she was now firmly on the shelf.

Mr Churchward shook his head sadly as he waited in Lady Amelia’s airy drawing-room. He tried hard not to have favourites; it would have been quite inappropriate when he had so many esteemed clients, but he made an exception in the case of Miss Sarah Sheridan.

The door opened and Sarah came towards him, hand outstretched as though he was a great friend rather than the bearer of doubtful news.

‘Dear Mr Churchward! How do you do, sir? This is an unexpected pleasure!’

Mr Churchward was not so sure. The letter he carried seemed to weigh down his document case. But such misgivings seemed foolish in the light of day. The parlour was bright with winter sunlight; it shone full on Miss Sheridan, but she was a lady whose face and figure could withstand the harshest of morning light. Indeed, her cream and rose complexion seemed dazzlingly fresh and fair and her slender figure was set off to advantage by a simple dress of jonquil muslin.

‘How do you do, Miss Sheridan? I hope I find you well?’

Mr Churchward took the proffered seat and cleared his throat. He was astonished to find that he was nervous, too nervous to indulge in talk of the weather or the journey. He bent to unbuckle his case and extracted a letter in a plain white envelope.

‘Madam, forgive my abruptness, but I have been asked to deliver this letter to you. The manner in which the request came about is quite extraordinary, but perhaps you would wish to read the letter first, before I explain…’ Mr Churchward was unhappily aware that he was rambling. Sarah’s wide and beautiful hazel eyes were fixed on his face with an expression of vague puzzlement. She took the letter and gave a slight gasp.

‘But this is—’

‘From your late brother. Yes, ma’am.’ Mr Churchward groped for his all-purpose solemn expression, but was sure he was only achieving the anxious look of a man who was not in complete control of the situation. ‘Perhaps if you were to read what Lord Sheridan has written…’

Miss Sheridan made no immediate attempt to open the letter. Her head was bent as she examined the familiar black writing and the sunlight picked out strands of gold and amber in the hair that escaped her cap.

‘Are you aware of the contents of the letter, Mr Churchward?’

‘No, madam, I am not.’ The lawyer sounded slightly reproachful, as though Francis Sheridan had committed a decided faux pas by leaving him in ignorance.

Miss Sheridan scanned his face for a moment, then walked slowly over to the walnut desk. Mr Churchward heard the sound of the letter-opener slicing through paper and felt relief wash over him. Soon they would know the worst…

There was silence in the little room. Mr Churchward could hear the chink of china from the kitchens, the sound of voices raised in question and answer. He looked around at the neat bookshelves laden with works he remembered from Blanchland; books that Sir Ralph Covell had dismissively thrown out of the house he had inherited from his second cousin, Lord Sheridan; books that Sarah had gladly retrieved for her new home.

Miss Sheridan did not speak at all. Eventually she crossed to the wing chair that mirrored Mr Churchward’s on the other side of the fireplace and sat down. The letter fell to her lap; she looked him straight in the eye.

‘Mr Churchward, I think I should read you the contents of Frank’s letter.’

‘Very well, madam.’ Mr Churchward looked apprehensive.

‘Dear Sal,’ Miss Sheridan read, in a dry tone, ‘if you get this letter I shall be dead and in need of a favour. Sorry to have to ask this of you, old girl—fact is, I’d rather trust you than anyone else. So here goes. I have a daughter. I know that will surprise you and I’m sorry I never told you before, but to tell the truth, I hoped you’d never need to know. Father knew, of course—made all the usual arrangements, all right and tight. But if he is gone and I’m gone, then the child needs someone to turn to for help, and that’s where you come in. Churchward will tell you the rest. All I can say is thank you and God bless you.