An Heiress for All Seasons Read online

  AN HEIRESS FOR ALL SEASONS

  A Debutante Files Christmas Novella

  SOPHIE JORDAN

  DEDICATION

  For everyone who loves the holidays as much as I do . . .

  CONTENTS

  * * *

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  An Excerpt from A Good Debutante’s Guide to Ruin

  About the Author

  Also by Sophie Jordan

  An Excerpt from Various States of Undress: Virginia by Laura Simcox

  An Excerpt from The Governess Club: Louisa by Ellie Macdonald

  An Excerpt from Good Guys Wear Black by Lizbeth Selvig

  An Excerpt from Sinful Rewards 1 by Cynthia Sax

  An Excerpt from Covering Kendall by Julie Brannagh

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  * * *

  “Good heavens. Violet, sit up straighter, we’re almost there. These aren’t ordinary people, you know. Try to look as though we belong.”

  Violet stopped short of rolling her eyes at her mother and pulled back her shoulders. She resisted the urge to peek out the carriage curtains. Mama was already peering through them and she refused to add her face beside her mother’s, gawking like a child and advertising the fact that they did not, in fact, belong here.

  Nor would they ever.

  “Mama, you’re letting a draft inside.” She buried her hands deeper inside the winter muff in her lap and shivered. The heated bricks had cooled hours ago and she was eager for the warmth of a fire once they stopped.

  “Oh, heavens!” Mama exclaimed. “It’s a castle! Look, would you! Just think, Violet, this could all be yours if you play your cards right.”

  Violet squeezed her hands together until her knuckles ached inside her muff, refusing to take a look. What did she care about some grim, stuffy old house? Contrary to what her mother hoped—or thought—it would not be hers. A fact she did not give voice to. Not unless she wanted to send her mother into histrionics.

  Adelaide Howard was determined that her only child marry a British nobleman. Born to an English merchant who immigrated to America over forty years ago, it was her most fervent wish.

  “We’re here!” Mama cried unnecessarily as the carriage jerked to a stop. “Now remember the manners they taught you at Miss Worthington’s Academy. We didn’t send you to that school so you could marry some no-account.”

  And by no-account, she meant John Weston, Papa’s man of affairs. Violet had developed a tendre for him. She might have even encouraged him into asking permission to court her. Oh, very well, she had encouraged him, but only after he made his admiration for her known.

  Mama had declared the match inappropriate, but that had not deterred Violet. Papa had come to rely on Mr. Weston on almost all matters and credited much of the continued success of Howard Iron Works to the man. She had been certain he would give his blessing. Except Papa, who most usually gave her anything she wanted, had refused. Mama, in turn, had reacted by booking them on board the first ship to England from New York City. To find a proper husband for Violet.

  Sighing, she descended the carriage. Where she promptly gasped at the sight before her.

  It was, indeed, a castle.

  There was nothing grim or stuffy about it, either. The Earl of Merlton’s house was constructed of white brick and stood four stories high, stretching wide against the snow-draped countryside. It was everything light and airy and bright.

  “Mrs. Howard, welcome, welcome!”

  Lady Peregrine, the Dowager Countess of Merlton, descended the stone steps, extending her hands in warm greeting to Violet’s mother as though they were old friends and not in fact acquaintances of a mere week.

  Mama took her hands and bobbed an awkward curtsy that looked dangerously close to bringing Lady Peregrine down. “My lady, so kind of you to have us for the holiday.”

  “But of course! So far from home, I could not have you spending Christmas in a hotel. You shall spend Christmas here with us as our most honored guests.” Lady Peregrine turned her bright eyes on Violet. “So nice to see you again, Miss Howard. How lovely you look in that fetching green.”

  “And you, too, my lady. Thank you for your gracious invitation.”

  There was the slightest pause as she assessed Violet, sizing her up, no doubt wondering if she would suit her son.

  For that was why Violet was here, make no mistake. Although she had not met the earl when in Town, she knew Mama and Lady Peregrine had discussed him, and his readiness for a bride, at length.

  According to Mama, this visit to Merlton Hall would end in a match between Violet and the earl.

  “Come, let us relax with some refreshments in the drawing room.”

  The instant the lady turned her back Violet pressed her lips into a mutinous line, vowing that this visit would be no more than that. A visit and not preliminary negotiations for the marriage that her mother predicted.

  A short time later, they were joined in the drawing room by Aurelia, the earl’s younger sister. At twenty years of age, she was unwed. Mama, who had done her research, informed Violet this was partly due to the earl’s strained finances and that he could not provide a healthy enough dowry for his sister, and partly because she was a reputed termagant.

  Violet and Aurelia eyed each other as they sipped tea and munched on iced biscuits. In truth, little was required from either of them as Lady Peregrine and Mama filled the conversation with very few breaks.

  It was in one of these brief gaps in conversation that Aurelia finally spoke. “Tell me, Miss Howard, did you always know that you wanted to be a countess?”

  Violet blinked. Mama gasped.

  Lady Peregrine set her teacup down with a decided clack. “Aurelia!” she said in affronted tones.

  “What, Mama?” She blinked innocently. “I’m merely curious if this has been a lifelong ambition of Miss Howard or merely something recent.”

  Violet squared her shoulders. “I confess it has never been a particularly important mission of mine, no.”

  “Indeed? Then how do you come to be in England, on the marriage mart, touted as one of the wealthiest heiresses of the Season?”

  “Oh, Aurelia,” Lady Peregrine collapsed back on the settee. “Must you say these things?”

  Mama still sat there, unspeaking, her mouth agape.

  “How does anything come to be?” Violet fluttered a hand in the air philosophically. “A good many things happen without planning or consent. I wager no one consulted you before dubbing you a termagant.”

  Silence descended on the room. Only the clock on the marbled mantle could be heard issuing its barest ticks. Mama’s eyes were enormous in her face. That wide-eyed stare darted toward the door as though anticipating they would soon be booted through it.

  Then, all at once, Aurelia arched her neck and laughed. “Oh, she would be a brilliant match for Will.”

  Lady Peregrine released a sigh and nodded. “I thought as much.”

  Mama grinned like a madwoman. “Indeed! You think so? Truly?”

  “Oh, indeed.” Aurelia nodded, her dark chestnut curls bouncing.

  Violet sipped from her cup, muttering in a low breath, “Is everyone in this room stark raving mad with the exception of myself?”

  Apparently her words did not go completely unheard. Aurelia only laughed harder. “Oh, I cannot wait for Will to meet you. Remember to be yourself.”

  Could I be anyone else?

  Shaking her head
, she resisted arguing that it would not matter. They would not be a brilliant match. She would not live in England. She would not marry some stuffy nobleman who thought he was better than everyone else simply because he was born with a title. She was going back to America. Back to her Mr. Weston.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur. They were shown to their rooms and permitted to rest before dinner. Violet allowed her maid, Josie, to dress her in a gown Mama selected. An elaborate deep gold confection that Mama swore made her hair appear more blond than brown. She stared at herself in the mirror, not seeing that it made much difference. Everything about Violet was just in between. Hair in between brown and blond. Eyes not quite green or brown. Just a muddy hazel. Not quite tall nor short. Neither beautiful nor ugly. Just in between.

  Before venturing down to dinner, Violet stood before the double doors of her bedchamber and admired the landscape. The moon was bright tonight and seemed to reflect light off the pristine white landscape. She had a perfect view of the stables and itched to go down and examine the horseflesh. Lady Peregrine mentioned they possessed a vast stable. Perhaps in the morning, she could beg a tour.

  Another sigh escaped her lips. The house really was lovely. As was Lady Peregrine. Even Aurelia had turned out to be quite friendly. It would not be so bad a place to spend the holiday, she decided. She merely had to keep the earl at arm’s distance and in no way encourage him. Hopefully, he would not be so desperate for her dowry that he proposed on the first night. That would make for an awkward visit. She could visualize him so well in her mind. Like so many noblemen she had met upon arriving in England. Pasty-white and soft all over. Palms that perspired when they danced and breath that reeked of garlic. She winced. Perhaps this would be an unbearable holiday after all.

  To her relief, the earl did not make an appearance at dinner. Lady Peregrine could not hide her consternation. Even Aurelia looked annoyed.

  “I was hoping to witness his reaction upon meeting you,” Aurelia grumbled as they walked together down the corridor on the way to their bedchambers. “It would have been entertaining to say the least.”

  “I doubt it would have been very diverting. I’m really not that interesting.”

  Aurelia arched an eyebrow somewhat skeptically, stopping before Violet’s door. “We shall see. Good night, Violet.” She pressed a kiss to her cheek unexpectedly.

  “Oh. Good night.” She watched the girl move down the corridor and disappear inside her chamber before stepping inside her own room. Her maid soon arrived to help her undress for the night.

  Alone in the vastness of her lavish chamber, she laced her fingers over her stomach and stared up into the dark. She wondered how many people over the centuries had slept in this room, in this very bed. Now she was here. An American whose ancestors could very well have been serfs on this grand estate.

  And Mama expected her to marry this earl? Some pompous lordling who hadn’t even seen fit to make an appearance yet. A wave of homesickness washed over. She missed the simple life she had left behind. Reading aloud after dinner to her Papa before the fire. And Mr. Weston with his kind, warm eyes. Always so kind. So respectful. She had to beg him for their first kiss, and even after that he still insisted on addressing her as Miss Howard. When Papa declined his suit and Mama announced their trip he had vowed to wait for her. To be faithful to her for all of his days even if that meant standing by as she married another man.

  She sat up in the dark with an angry huff, flinging the counterpane back on the bed. She would not marry another man. She’d return home and eventually Papa and Mama would see just how perfect she and Mr. Weston were for each other. They’d relent. They had to.

  Rising to her feet, she strode to the window again and stared out at the night, at the dark shape of the stable. A light glowed from within. Stable hands, no doubt.

  Making up her mind, she fetched her boots and slipped them on. Finding her heaviest cloak, she put it on as well, burying herself in its ermine-trimmed folds. Pulling the hood over her unbound hair, she slipped from her chamber. The castle was as silent as a tomb. A doorman slept in a chair near the door, snoring softly, oblivious to her departure.

  She sucked in a sharp breath when she stepped out into the night and burrowed deeper inside her cloak. She hurried, her feet eating up the ground as she rounded the house and drove a straight line for the stables.

  She pushed open the creaking doors and stepped inside. The interior was marginally warmer. The smell of horse, sweet hay, and earthy oats immediately filled her nose. This felt like home to her. A light glowed from the far end of the stable. She could detect the faint sound of masculine voices. Deciding she needn’t alert the stable hands of her presence, she strolled silently before the stalls, peering in at each horse, petting velvety noses and cooing softly.

  She reached one stall, larger than the rest and immediately she understood why. Inside stood a monstrous beast of a horse. A black stallion with a white star on its forehead.

  He stood back several paces, watching her warily, his liquid-dark eyes seeming to say, I don’t know you.

  Violet extended her hand, palm out, for him to sniff. “Come, my beautiful boy, come now. Let’s see you.”

  The stallion walked a few steps closer, his hoofs hitting the ground almost reluctantly as he approached.

  “There now, my beauty. I’m sorry I have no treat for you. Let me pet you, and next time I promise to bring you a tasty treat. Would you like that?”

  Almost as though he understood her, he tossed his head, neighing, his glossy dark mane shaking on the air.

  Then he did it. He pushed his velvety nose into her palm. His hot breath puffed against the cup of her hand in greeting. She grinned.

  “What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Violet whirled around with a gasp, her hood sliding back from her head. A stable hand stood there glaring at her. He’d discarded his jacket and neck cloth. She gaped at the inappropriate sight of his lean physique on display. His shirt was open at the neck, exposing firm, touchable looking flesh. His trousers fit him like a second skin, concealing nothing of his narrow hips and muscular thighs. Dark boots hugged his calves almost to his knees. He exuded virility—the type of man who spent more time out of doors than indoors.

  His face was equally pleasing. Square jaw. Sharp blade of a nose and piercing blue eyes. Eyes that looked her over now, taking in her tumbled hair and cloaked figure. Her hands dove for the edges of her cloak, making certain none of her nightgown peeked out. With consternation, she realized she still had not responded.

  Remembering she was a guest here and not someone to be spoken to so rudely—by a stable hand, no less—she drew back her shoulders. “I was merely petting the horse.”

  His gaze flicked to the stallion just behind her.

  “You’re lucky he did not make a snack of you. I believe he has a fondness for Yanks.”

  She bristled, quite certain no servant or employee had ever talked to her in such a manner before. Certainly such ill manners were not tolerated in an earl’s household. Perhaps he thought her a servant, too.

  Lifting her chin, she disagreed. “He’s quite friendly.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, drawing her eyes there again—to that impossible broadness. “I know him. And he’s not friendly.”

  She crossed her arms, mimicking his pose. “Well, I know horses. And he is. He likes me.”

  His eyes flashed, appearing darker in that moment, the blue as deep and stormy as the waters she had crossed to arrive in this country. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a guest here.” She motioned in the direction of the house. “My name is V—”

  “Are you indeed?” His expression altered then, sliding over her with something bordering belligerence. “No one mentioned that you were an American.”

  Before she could process that statement—or why he should be told of anything—she felt a hot puff of breath on her neck.

  The insolent man released a
shout and lunged. Hard hands grabbed her shoulders. She resisted, struggling and twisting until they both lost their balance.

  Then they were falling. She registered this with a sick sense of dread. He grunted, turning slightly so that he took the brunt of the fall. They landed with her body sprawled over his.

  Her nose was practically buried in his chest. A pleasant smelling chest. She inhaled leather and horseflesh and the warm saltiness of male skin.

  He released a small moan of pain. She lifted her face to observe his grimace and felt a stab of worry. Absolutely misplaced considering this situation was his fault, but there it was nonetheless. “Are you hurt?”

  “Crippled. But alive.”

  Scowling, she tried to clamber off him, but his hands shot up and seized her arms, holding fast.

  “Unhand me! Serves you right if you are hurt. Why did you accost me?”

  “Devil was about to take a chunk from that lovely neck of yours.”

  Lovely? He thought she was lovely? Or rather her neck was lovely? This bold specimen of a man in front of her, who looked as though he had stepped from the pages of a Radcliffe novel, thought that plain, in-between Violet was lovely?

  She shook off the distracting thought. Virile stable hands like him did not look twice at females like her. No. Scholarly bookish types with kind eyes and soft smiles looked at her. Men such as Mr. Weston who saw beyond a woman’s face and other physical attributes.

  “I am certain you overreacted.”

  He snorted.

  She arched, jerking away from him, but still he did not budge. Instead his hands tightened around her. She glared down at him, feeling utterly discombobulated. There was so much of him—all hard male and it was pressed against her in a way that was entirely inappropriate and did strange, fluttery things to her stomach. “Are you planning to let me up any time soon?”

  His gaze crawled over her face. “Perhaps I’ll stay like this forever. I rather like the feel of you on top of me.”