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IT STARTS WITH A KISS
A VERY MERRY FAIRBANKS CHRISTMAS

THOSE VERY BAD FAIRBANKS

BOOK NINE
ALYSSA CLARKE
 It Starts with a Kiss: A Very Merry Fairbanks Christmas is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the
names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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 are entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
articles or reviews—without written permission.

For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher: Darkanpress@gmail.com

First Edition January 2024

Edited by AuthorsDesigns
Proof Read by Jeanne Olynick

Cover design and formatting by AuthorsDesigns.

Copyright © 2024 by Alyssa Clarke
 Thank you for your patience, my wonderful readers and lovers of the Fairbanks series. I faced several health challenges
this year, and this book was removed from pre-order a few times. I received many encouraging emails, and they helped me
immensely. Thank you for your unwavering support and love for the Fairbanks series.
 CONTENTS

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16

Alyssa’s Other Books

About Alyssa Clarke
 CHAPTER 1

M rs. Margaret Fairbanks, affectionately called Maggie by her friends, gazed out of the carriage window, her breath
forming delicate mist patterns on the glass as she watched the snowflakes drift lazily in the air. With only thirteen days
remaining until Christmas, the festive spirit seemed thick in the air, but an undeniable sense of loneliness tugged at her heart.
She was the only person from her large, rambunctious, but loving family who had not yet arrived in Penporth, Cornwall, to
celebrate the holidays. All her children and a few grandbabies have been in Penporth since St. Nicholas Day.
Maggie had remained in London, accompanying the Dowager Countess of Celdon for a few more weeks since Lady Celdon
refused to return with the family to their respective country manor. When Maggie told Lady Celdon that all her children had
promised to meet in Penporth this year for Christmas, she also refused that invitation, complaining that her old bones dreaded
the winter journey.
Recalling Lady Celdon’s pursed lips and aggrieved expression, Maggie smiled. What would it be like to see Penporth
again? Ever since her eldest son, Colin Fairbanks, had assumed the title of the Earl of Celdon just a bit over three years ago,
their family dynamics had shifted. The weight of responsibility in helping him to assume his new role had kept her away from
the town and the beloved family home where she had raised her children.
In truth, no one in their family had visited their childhood home since the turn in their fortunes with the exception of James,
Maggie’s second eldest son, who had heeded Colin’s request to divide his time between London and their family manor.
James had devoted several months in Penporth, working closely with architects to plan and oversee various additions and
renovations to the family home. His dedication to fixing their home felt heartening and bittersweet. Maggie could not imagine
what those changes were, and wondered how different that manor would now feel. Had the once faded and peeling wallpaper
been replaced with resplendent, glinting moldings that exuded opulence and sophistication?
Her thoughts drifted to the chandeliers that had graced their parlor and dining room for over a decade. A humble purchase
back then, she had been proud that her house boasted chandeliers. Maggie wondered if they had been replaced with magnificent
fixtures befitting the grandeur of an earl’s abode, sparkling with a dazzling brilliance that matched the newfound prestige of
their situation.
Maggie sighed. When Colin had inquired about any alterations she wished for, she had assured him that she would place
her trust in his guidance. However, at this moment, a sense of yearning welled up within Maggie for the aspects of the manor
she had called home for over two decades.
The carriage rattled over a few bumps in the rutted country road, jolting Margaret from her reverie. Seeing the familiar
snow-covered path leading from the main country road to the town, Maggie wrinkled her nose. Knowing she would soon
discover the changes to the manor made her eager to reunite with her family and rediscover the place that held so many
memories.
She frowned, for the carriage considerably slowed. Maggie gasped, realizing that if they turned off on the snow-covered
path to the left, they would pass her coachman’s home. She knocked on the roof of the equipage and he slowed. Opening the
small window, she pushed her head outside. “Robert,” she called.
“Yes, Mrs. Fairbanks,” came his muffled reply.
“Are we not very close to your home?”
“Yes, madam. I was only hoping for a glimpse, Mrs. Fairbanks.”
 “Do take us there first, Robert.”
“Yes, Mrs. Fairbanks,” he said, pleasure and relief rich in his tone.
The carriage moved faster now that he would see his family soon. Maggie laughed, then sighed. Robert had followed their
family to London, proud to now be the coachman of an earl and not just a country gentleman. He attended his post diligently but
did not see his family much. He was allowed twelve days off for the year, but how could that be enough for the family he must
dreadfully long for? Especially when those days were not consecutively granted, which would allow him to journey down to
spend time with his wife and children.
Robert had never complained and resisted several months ago when Colin granted him a month of paid leave. The
coachman had worried he was being fired, but Maggie had assured him they merely wanted him to spend time with his family.
It was unusual for any aristocratic family to grant such consideration to their workers, but Colin had traveled to London with a
few loyal servants who had never been away from Penporth their whole lives. They deserved his thoughtful efforts. The ease
of having familiar workers about as he assumed the mantle of earl had been a blessing. Servants were notorious gossips in the
ton, but those who worked for the Fairbanks were loyal and never whispered about their mishaps as they adjusted to life
amongst the affluent.
The carriage stopped. Maggie shoved the carriage door open, and the young tiger who assisted Robert hastened to knock
down the steps.
“Thank you, Jacob,” she said to the young lad, who was only fifteen years old.
He grinned, his cheeks reddened from the cold. “Thank ye, Mrs. Fairbanks. I’ve not seen mum in a while. I’ll just run ova
to see me family.”
She nodded and smiled when he darted through the snow-covered copse of trees, making a beeline for his family’s home.
Robert took off his cap and dusted off the snowflakes, appearing nervous.
“Mrs. Fairbanks, ma’am I am grateful—”
“There is no need for thanks, Robert,” she said, “and you do no need to rush your visit. Please untether my horse, and I will
ride the rest of the way home.”
His jaw slackened, and he vigorously shook his head. Maggie laughed and waved her hand in dismissal of his concern. “I
have been cooped up in this carriage for six days as we traveled down from London. The only time I could stretch my legs was
to leave the carriage to trek inside an inn to sleep. I miss Penporth and will happily ride my horse for the rest of the journey.”
“It is very cold, Mrs. Fairbanks.”
She had on half-boots and was warmly wrapped in her winter redingote. “I am adequately prepared. I am used to Penporth
winters.”
“This year, it feels different,” he muttered, peering at the cold, gray sky.
“I will not consider any of your objections, Robert. Now go and greet your wife and children.”
He smiled, the motion deepening the grooves in the corners of his eyes and mouth. “Thank ye, Mrs. Fairbanks.”
“Before you go,” she said, returning to pluck several parcels wrapped in brown paper from inside the carriage. “These are
for your wife and daughters. Do not let them open them up until Christmas day. I hear that custom is all the rage, and I am
determined to follow it.”
He chuckled, his eyes growing suspiciously misty. “Thank ye, Mrs. Fairbanks.”
“Now, Robert, do spend the time with your family. All my luggage was already sent ahead with Colin, and the valise I have
with me can be dropped off at any time. You do not need to hasten to the manor until we are ready to leave for town in the new
year.”
He bobbed his head, hastened to unhitch her mare, Lady, from the carriage, and fitted her with a sidesaddle. Robert assisted
Maggie to mount, and she took the reins and urged Lady forward. Maggie was only perhaps an hour or so ride away from their
manor. She inhaled the crisp air into her lungs and smiled. The air in the countryside felt different from that in London.
“Oh, I have missed Penporth.”
The horse cantered with ease, and she surmised she should arrive at their manor soon. Maggie’s chest squeezed. Since
leaving Penporth, this was the first time she had returned. She thought of all the friendships she had left behind to begin a new
chapter in the glittering and judgmental world of the ton.
Maggie sighed, recalling the shock and panic that had clutched at her chest when they received the news that Colin had
inherited an earldom. The entire family had been in an uproar for weeks. Though her father was the third son of a baron,
Maggie had not grown up with those airs of elegance and arrogance. Her father had been a simple man with simple pleasures,
earning his living as a vicar.
Maggie’s husband, John Fairbanks, had been a country gentleman of modest means and had even been simpler despite a
distant relation to the aristocracy. They laughed and loved each other fiercely and had twelve beautiful children they were
proud of and adored. It was only when Maggie started to mingle within the ton that it was insinuated that having twelve
children was crass and implied she had an ungovernable appetite seen in those of the lower class.
She closed her eyes, blotting out those remembered whispers. Maggie cut across the thick snow-laden path, urging Lady
onward for several minutes. She came upon a house, and she tugged the reins, coming to a stop, swift emotions clogging her
throat. Amid the picturesque winter scene, three lively children, their ages spanning from sixteen to three and twenty, filled the
air with joyful laughter and shrieks as they engaged in a spirited snowball fight with their father.
Maggie peered up at the modest but beautifully tended manor through a film of tears. This house belonged to Mr. Hugh
Gilchrist and Mrs. Ruth Gilchrist—a couple who had once been cherished friends of Maggie and her husband. The memories
of shared laughter, dinners, and the warmth of companionship flooded back, and she couldn’t help but let out a soft, wistful
sigh.
Oh, John.
The man she had loved with her entire heart had died. Maggie grieved his death years ago, yet for the last couple of years,
she found herself struggling with a surge of emotions that had become increasingly difficult to contain. Lately, she had been
feeling unusually morose, grappling with a sense of loneliness that seemed to cleave through her heart like a relentless blade. It
astonished her, for she was surrounded by her children and a few lovely grandchildren with more surely to come.
As she watched the spirited romping before her, Maggie couldn’t help but yearn for the days when John’s laughter had
joined the chorus of shrieks from their children as they played on the lawns or in the snow. Then, their love had warmed the
halls of their home, and the ache of loneliness had been a distant stranger. Despite the painful loss of John, the agony had
gradually eased, and there was contentment in Maggie’s heart. But now, it was as though a shadow had fallen over that
happiness, casting a pall of longing and melancholy.
She briefly closed her eyes, alarmed to feel a trail of tears on her cheeks. “Oh, this is silly,” Maggie muttered, hastening to
wipe it away. She wheeled her horse around and started to ride away.
“Maggie?” a voice called. “Margaret Fairbanks, is that you?”
 CHAPTER 2

M aggie froze at Ruth’s strident call.

Drat. Maggie held herself still atop Lady, taking several deep breaths to steady herself against the emotions tearing through
her. The snow crunched as footfall sounded, each step drifting closer. The sound of playing had stopped, and the excited yips of
a puppy sounded.
“Ruth, do not run lest you slide,” Hugh called out.
Maggie’s heart squeezed.
“Were you really going to leave without saying hullo, Maggie?”
She wheeled the horse around to find Ruth’s hand was firmly planted on her ample hip, a stance that was unmistakable to
Maggie. Her friend had not aged. In truth, they were both fifty years old, yet Ruth appeared years younger. Her cheeks bore a
healthy flush, and her light green eyes sparkled with genuine happiness.
“Margaret Elizabeth Fairbanks, were you going to leave without saying hullo or coming inside?”
Maggie smiled. “Whenever you say my full name, that was a signal your temper was brewing.”
With practiced ease, Maggie gracefully dismounted from Lady and deftly hitched the reins on a nearby post. The sun peeked
from behind bloated gray clouds, casting a warm golden glow on the snow-covered ground. As Maggie drew closer to Ruth’s
welcoming presence, the two friends couldn’t contain their excitement any longer. They rushed forward to meet each other,
arms opening wide as they embraced.
Their laughter filled the crisp winter air. “Oh, Ruthie,” Maggie said, “I’ve missed you dearly. Fortunately, it seems you
haven’t aged a day, so perhaps I haven’t missed too much.”
Her friend eased herself from their fierce embrace, her eyes twinkling with mirth. “Well, Maggie, I may not have aged a
day, but I dare say you’ve grown younger. I would trade in an instant.”
“Welcome back to Penporth, Margaret,” Hugh said, smiling as he strolled over with their children. “Have you forgotten our
hellions: Matthew, Hyacinth, and Bridget?”
His children cried their protests at being called hellions. She laughed and greeted them, but guilt pricked at Maggie’s heart.
Ruth stared at her, seeming to read the feelings Maggie tried to hide. The children hugged her before returning to their spirited
play with their father and small puppy.
“Come inside, my dear friend, and let’s catch up properly.”
Maggie followed Ruth into the inviting warmth of the manor. They went to the cozy parlor adorned with pinecones and
holly. The room was bathed in sunlight, and a crackling fire danced in the hearth. Maggie sat on the sofa closest to the windows
and smiled as she took in the familiar surroundings.
“Would you like some mulled wine?”
“Thank you, Ruthie.”
Her friend smiled, and guilt once again pinched Maggie’s heart when she saw the sheen of tears in Ruth’s eyes. How long
had it been since they last exchanged letters? Almost a year. And it was she who had not responded to the last couple of letters
from Ruth.
“I gather life in London moves much faster than here in the countryside,” her friend said softly, handing her a cup with the
mulled wine.
 She took a sip, the warmth settling in her body and flushing her cheeks. “You are too gracious to me, Aggie.”
Ruth laughed and made a face. “You truly recall that terrible pet name?”
“Hmm, I was Maggie and you were Aggie, a fine pair we were. You insisted that Ruthie was a proper moniker, not Aggie.”
Ruth sat on the sofa opposite her.
“I am sorry,” Maggie said softly. “I have not responded to your last three letters. I have been terribly busy, but that is no
excuse.”
Ruth’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “We do get the news here in Penporth, even if it is weeks late. I know you are busy. So
many wonderful matches for your children. I cannot believe that hellion Elizabeth is a duchess.”
Maggie laughed. “I still pinch myself some days.”
“Does she … does she have any children?”
She told Ruthie about her children’s matches and their children. Colin and Hermina had a son, George. Lizzy and her duke
had twin daughters—Hannah and Rebecca, and Lizzy announced a few months ago she was once again with child. Fanny and
Simon had a daughter, Lily, and a son, Jacob. Nicholas and Cressida also had a son, Oscar. Eleanor and Lucien had a daughter,
Bridget. Ester and Edmond had a son, Stephen.
“Never say Fanny’s beau came back alive from the war? Good heavens, I thought it was all nonsensical gossip.”
Maggie caught Ruth up on all the happenings in her family, regaling her with tales of their scandals and courtship, knowing
her friend would never gossip about them. Ruth shared many stories about Penporth that had them laughing and chatting for
hours.
Though it was only late afternoon, steel gray blanketed the sky and unexpected wind howled. Seeing the shift in the
weather, Maggie promised her friend she would call again before leaving Penporth.
Ruth’s eyes gleamed. “I will be coming by to meet all those dukes, earls, and viscounts. I’ll be the envy of everyone. My
parlor will be filled for weeks with callers nosing about your family.”
Maggie laughed, slipping on her hat and coat, then walking outside.
“Perhaps you should spend the night here,” Ruth said, strolling beside her. She frowned, peering upward. “We’ve not had
such snow in years, Maggie. I am worried.”
“Do not be silly. I miss the children too much to stay away another night.”
“I think we might get a storm.”
“Have you forgotten, though, that I spent most of my life in Penporth?” Maggie asked tartly. “I have navigated many winter
storms.”
Her friend pursed her lips. “I cannot help but feel that town polish you got rubbed away the experienced country rust.”
They laughed, and Maggie warmly hugged her friend. “Promise me you will visit us in London one day.”
“And create a scandal of the season? Undoubtedly, Hyacinth would love the spectacle, and I will consider it.”
They parted, and Maggie unhitched the reins and mounted Lady. She rode away, and after several minutes, it became clear
she had made a mistake. A storm was brewing, and it was coming in rather fiercely. Snow descended from the sky in a flurry,
but it was the harsh winds that ripped at her coat and skin that made her heart thump harshly. If she continued cutting through the
snow and these woodlands, she would not return to the manor before the worst of the blizzard landed.
Good heavens.
Maggie paused, thinking of turning back around. She could arrive back at Ruth’s before the harshest wind arrived.
“The cottage!”
How could she forget the small cottage their family owned, which abutted Simon Gracely’s land? From this side, that
cottage was closer than Ruth’s home or the Fairbanks’s manor. Maggie urged Lady forward, lowering her head against the
increasing wind.
The pathway to the cottage wasn’t long, but the snow made it difficult. What shocked Maggie was that she could barely see
through the sheet of whiteness. Her horse snickered, and she felt a moment of panic.
Oh, why did I leave Ruthie’s house? Should I turn around?
It was rather frightening to be out in the blizzard. Her friend and her coachman would likely think she made it back to the
main estate, given how long she had departed. Maggie urged Lady forward, a cry of relief slipping when she barely made out
the cottage. No one would know she was there, and inside would perhaps be cold and without any wood for a fire.
Her chest squeezed and then she relaxed. James had mentioned once making significant repairs to the cottage for Fanny and
Simon. Perhaps it was stocked with firewood and food that could last her for the few days she was sure to be stranded.
It was special to the family, especially Fanny who had kidnapped her lover and hid him there, hoping to seduce him into
recalling his memories of their attachment. Simon had gifted the small but charming cottage to Fanny. Maggie shook her head,
still bemused at the antics her daughter had gotten up to, though she had understood Fanny’s desperation for the man she loved
with her entire heart to remember her. That she was successful made Maggie admire her daughter the more for her brazen and
scandalous actions.
Puffing breathlessly, she dismounted Lady, groaning as she sank knee-deep into the snow. The pathway was untended, and
the thick snow made it harder for her to move. She dropped the reins, knowing her horse would instinctively seek cover when
necessary. Maggie pushed forward, trembling under the fierce wind. She all but stumbled, and then she realized the cottage step
caused it. Relieved, she marched up the steps, gripped the knob and turned it. She was surprised when it moved underneath her
palm, and she spilled inside. A rather large and fast movement arrested her gaze.
Shocked, Maggie stared at the man, who seemed just as startled to see her. He was garbed in a simple white shirt opened at
the neck to reveal the corded muscles of his throat. He had no waistcoat or jacket, only dark blue trousers that clung to
muscular thighs. Her cheeks heated at noticing. The man had no boots or stockings and had bare feet.
Dark silver eyes ran over her with a swift yet thorough intensity. Maggie’s heart started knocking inside her chest, and she
felt a sharp jolt of alarm.
“Who are you?”
 CHAPTER 3

W ho are you?
Those silver eyes caught Maggie’s in a quick snare. The demand had burst from them at the same time. The stranger in the
middle of the cottage wore an inscrutable expression as he returned her stunned regard. He was inarguably handsome. He
looked to be around mid-forties with muscles not seen in gentlemen of the ton. The stranger was tall, dressed in dark, simple
clothing that fitted so perfectly to his figure that one could not help noticing the muscles of his thighs and broad shoulders. His
raven black hair, laced with silver at his right temple, was brushed back from a square forehead. His savagely hewed
cheekbones were shadowed with a day’s growth beard, and he owned a wide, sensual mouth. Maggie flushed at noticing but
did not look away from his similarly brazen regard.
A rather self-assured and arrogant air emanated from him, and he stared at her as if she were the one to trespass into his
domain. Nonplussed, Maggie again asked, “Who are you, sir, and why are you in ... our family cottage?”
A slight frown touched his forehead. “Your family cottage?”
“Yes.”
“Then I can only ask forgiveness for the imposition,” he said in a smooth, cultured tone quite at odds with his mode of
dress. “Given your silence, I gather I am not forgiven, and you are wishing me to the depths of hell.”
Maggie’s eyes widened. Was he speaking in jest? “I …”
When her words deserted her, he said, “I took shelter from the unexpected storm. I felt lucky when I stumbled upon your
cottage.” He lowered his head in a small bow. “Grayson Rochester. Permit me to know your name.”
“I am Margaret Fairbanks.”
He glanced over her shoulder into the blizzard. “Does Mr. Fairbanks require any assistance with horses or a carriage?”
Oh. Maggie blinked. She was uncertain about telling this man she was alone. “Do you live close by, Mr. Rochester?”
“No.”
She waited, and when he said no more, she scowled. “Are you always this … brief with your reply.”
“I have been accused of it before.” Mr. Rochester sighed, and she detected the impatience in it.
He walked toward her, and Maggie lurched back a few steps. Her action seemed to surprise him, for his eyes widened
slightly and his steps faltered.
“I only meant to go and assist your husband.”
“I am alone, Mr. Rochester,” she confessed, smoothing her gloved palm down her coat. “There is no husband outside.”
“I see.” His gaze grew unreadable. “Though you are uncommonly lovely, upon my honor, I swear you do not need to fear
ravishment from me.”
Startled at his forwardness, her lips parted, but no words emerged.
“I do not reside close enough where I could brave the storm to return home and leave you here.”
“Where is not close enough?” she asked hopefully.
His lips quirked in good humor. “Devonshire, I’m afraid.”
It is a few days ride at best. “Bloody hell,” Maggie cursed before she had the presence of mind to stop it.
Those etiquette lessons she frequently reminded her children to always keep in mind seemed to desert her. Thankfully, the
old dragon was not present to witness it. Maggie silently groaned. How had she devolved to the level of her children to dare
think of the Dowager Countess of Celdon as the old dragon?
Maggie glanced over her shoulder. It was reckless and silly to go back outside into that blizzard. It was not as if she were
some young debutante who could not be alone with a gentleman for a few hours.
Or days. Good Lord.
She looked back at him, silently admitting his presence simply felt too large, and the charming cottage no longer felt …
comfortable.
“I don’t bite. Please come in and close the door. You are letting out all the warmth.” The words were a growl of irritation.
His eyes briefly flicked upward. “I won’t kiss you either.”
Maggie glanced up. Suspended above her head, delicately affixed to the wooden slats of the doorway, hung a sprig of
mistletoe. Good heavens! A smile played on her lips as she recognized this festive decoration, a clear sign that one of her
children had taken the liberty to adorn the cottage with the intention of indulging in some playful, amorous mischief with their
spouse.
“You are smiling,” Mr. Rochester said bemusedly. “Is it that you wished to be kissed?”
Maggie snapped her gaze to his to see the deviltry dancing in his gaze. She silently cursed her fair skin that burned in a
bright blush. Smoothing her hands over her winter pelisse, a nervous habit she had to shed, Maggie said, “I smiled because I
recognized that it must have been my daughter who placed the sprigs and pinecones in the cottage.”
A sharp gust kicked up and swirled around her feet, sending gusts of icy air up her skirts. She hurried inside and closed the
door, leaning against it. “My son told me that he had a small stable built behind the cottage. Were you able to find it, Mr.
Rochester?”
“Yes. The gift I was traveling with is locked inside with my stallion.”
“Gift?”
“A pony for my daughter. She has been asking for a pony all year. I thought it would be a perfect Christmas surprise.”
Everything about him softened, and Maggie stared at him, astonished. Some of her trepidation also vanished. With only a
few words, Mr. Rochester gave every indication that his daughter was firmly wrapped around his heart. “How old is your
daughter?”
“Bella is eight.”
“That is a lovely name,” Maggie said softly. She delicately cleared her throat. “Would you please assist in escorting my
horse to shelter in the barn?” “Yes. I will give it a few minutes for this gust of wind to ease.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rochester.”
The warm interior of the cottage chased away the chill from the snow, and thankfully, it had been recently aired and
cleaned, not just decorated. Crisp and fresh linens covered the mattress, and the few pillows seemed newly padded. The small
sitting area held a table and two chairs, and a chaise longue rested beneath the window. The snug quarters were adorned with a
rustic charm as pinecones, evergreen branches, and sprigs of mistletoe had been thoughtfully placed throughout the space.
Maggie strolled over to the hearth, untied her coat, then rested it on the mantle. She was painfully aware of Mr. Rochester’s
regard on her as she tugged off her coat and gloves, placing them on the grate near the fire. She kneeled and removed her half-
boots, revealing white silken stockings. Maggie rose and smoothed her hand down her gown. It was also damp. His eyes
scanned every detail of Maggie’s face and body as though he were attempting to etch something into his memory.
Their gazes collided and held for a moment.
“I explored the cottage earlier. There are a couple of gowns in the small armoire. I do believe they would fit.”
Perilous tension coated the air and his lips quirked. Seeing that and the deviltry that suddenly gleamed in his gaze surprised
her. Nerves quaked in her belly and Maggie frowned.
‘Chastity, modesty, and obedience are the pre-eminent female virtues and must be at the forefront at all times.’
Words the Dowager Countess of Celdon said to Maggie numerous times rolled through her thoughts. I am a mature woman
of good sense, and I cannot remain in these damp clothes. There was nothing to be skittish about. Maggie almost smiled at
her absurdity. She walked over to the armoire and saw three gowns. She recognized them as out of fashion day gowns that once
belonged to Fanny. Maggie retrieved a simple day gown. A glance over her shoulder showed that Mr. Rochester was by the
window, staring outside to grant her a measure of privacy. Maggie quickly changed out of her winter gown and slipped the day
dress over her head.
Good heavens!
She was far plumper than her daughter, and it clung to Maggie’s curves. Resting a hand on her belly, a soft breath shuddered
from her. There was no help for it; she would have to keep this on. It was far preferable to a wet garment that might lead to
illness. Maggie draped her gown over the small chair near the fire, hoping the heat would dry it.
“I am presentable,” she said.
Mr. Rochester turned around, and his eyes showed a slight flare before his expression grew inscrutable.
“I will escort your horse to the barn.”
She drew in a quick, fortifying breath. “The wind has not eased.”
He grimaced, raked his fingers through his hair, but made no reply. Mr. Rochester hurriedly donned his boots, wrapped
himself in his cloak, and flung open the door. The wind snatched the door from his grasp, compelling him to rush outside and
forcefully close it to keep the biting winds at bay. Maggie rushed to the window, peering outside. The swirling snow made it
nearly impossible for her to discern anything beyond the glass.
She left the window and went to the kitchen, where she inspected the larder. To her relief, it was brimming with supplies,
and she even saw carafes of wine and a decanter with brandy. Maggie discovered various treats awaiting them, including
marzipan, gingerbread, and a delightful lemon cake adorned with white icing.
It seemed Simon stocked the cottage, perhaps anticipating a getaway with Fanny.
With a determined resolve, Maggie retrieved a pair of plates and placed two slices of the delectable treat on them. Turning
her attention to the earthen stone fireplace, Maggie carefully stoked the wood and poured some oil to kindle the flames. The
gentle crackling and flickering of the fire provided a comforting warmth to the cottage. Next, she set a kettle on, preparing for a
soothing cup of tea.
As she crushed tea leaves with a pestle, Maggie blew out a breath, aware of the anxiety stirring inside her chest. How
would she share this confined space with a stranger while maintaining the utmost propriety?
 CHAPTER 4

G rayson Rochester, the Earl of Ashworth, had no intention of ever revealing his status to the lady snowed inside in the
cottage with him. Cold biting deeply into his body, he stomped up the few steps and shoved open the cottage door. For a
moment, he wondered if he’d been magically transported elsewhere. Something mouthwatering reached his nose, and he
appreciatively inhaled.
His gaze found her. She stood before the stone counter, cutting up carrots with a knife. The blue wool gown she’d changed
into clung far too enticingly to her curves, and he felt a dart of desire. Bloody hell. Grayson closed the door, and she seemed to
snap out of her deep introspection to look at him.
“You are cooking.”
Grayson has never met a lady with such a genteel appearance yet could cook.
She lowered the knife and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. “Yes. Beef soup. I also made some tea. Outside must have
been horribly cold, and you were gone for a long time.”
“Your horse needed a good rub down, and I had to unharness her so she would be comfortable.”
Her eyes widened and then softened in a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Rochester.”
“It was nothing.”
“It was a very kind gesture considering the bitter coldness and how uncomfortable you must have been. Many would have
led Lady into the barn and hastened back to where it is warm without rubbing her muscles.”
Grayson stared at her; a bit bemused by her endearing earnestness. “Your horse’s name is Lady?”
Her eyes crinkled deeply at the corners with her smile. “Yes. She is rather temperamental and far too elegant.”
He found himself smiling; odd that, when his eldest son Edward had mentioned to him a couple weeks ago that lately
Grayson hardly smiled.
“I have made tea, and there are cake slices on the table. The soup will take some time to be ready.”
He looked at the table that only had seating and space for two. “Thank you,” he said gruffly.
“Go ahead and drink the tea; it will warm you.”
For a moment, he did not know what to say. “Thank you. You are truly making beef soup?”
“Yes. There is a ventilated meat safe attached to the larder,” she said. “It has bacon, mutton, beef and rabbit. We won’t
starve for the days we are trapped.”
“I saw it earlier; I am just relieved you know how to cook.” His gut tightened as the rest of her words sank in. “So, you do
know we will be trapped together for days.”
She flushed and looked away from him. “Yes. I found a few books, so I will be suitably entertained.”
Her words were cool and dismissive, as if she did not care what he did with his time. The lady wanted to create distance
between them, but he did not mind. Whatever her reasons were her own. Grayson also had his own reasons for the polite
reserve he planned to maintain. The main one is that any lady of society who stayed under the same roof with a gentleman
unchaperoned would be considered irrevocably ruined or compromised. This foolish notion expected him to make an
honorable offer, even if no one caught them.
Rubbish.
But he had to be careful with Margaret Fairbanks. Grayson’s sole reason for re-entering society was to find a wife. The
quality of her cloak, boots, and delicateness suggested she was a society lady. However, that she could cook almost tossed that
reasoning out the door.
It only mattered that there was a chance Margaret Fairbanks was from his society and could cry for a marriage in the
morning because her honor was compromised. An infuriating, foolish, hypocritical ideal his set took relish in practicing. Harsh
and unexpected circumstances had conspired against them, and they had to stay alone in a cottage as long as it took for the
blizzard to settle and for the roads to become clear once more.
Grayson wondered if there was any chance they might be discovered and be pressured by her family or even the lady
herself to make an offer. Even if nothing bloody happened. He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. He would never be
persuaded to act against his own inclination again.
Once had been enough. Grayson shrugged off the cloak and removed his boots. He hung the cloak on the peg attached to the
door and set his boots aside. Walking to the table, he sat and wrapped his palm over the steaming cup of tea. Warmth instantly
seeped through his skin, and he took a sip of the tea. Bloody hell. Simply delicious.
“Is it good?”
That soft question had him looking up. Margaret Fairbanks was watching him.
“Very,” he murmured.
She nodded and went back to cutting up ingredients Grayson could not identify. She started humming a tune. The sound was
discordant, and he wondered if she did it because she liked to sing or because she was nervous.
The tiny windowpane rattled, and he looked outside into a sheet of whiteness. He had to return home in time for Christmas.
It was thirteen days away, and the blizzard was bound to stop before that, but those damn roads could prove difficult. No matter
what, he had to make it back to his estate, or Bella would be heartbroken.
Once he’d found her pony, Grayson had ridden in the dreadful weather as fast as the road conditions allowed for a couple
of days while overnighting at inns. His man of affairs usually tended to such purchases, but his wife had fallen ill, and Grayson
had given him leave to be with his family. He had set out to retrieve the pony, not wanting to disappoint Bella’s hopes. She did
not know of his efforts, but he felt as if he had failed her, and getting her this gift would ease his guilt and provide her with a
measure of happiness. When the season started, he would give her what she desired most.
A mother.
Even though Grayson planned to wade back into the marriage mart the next season, he did not want ever to marry again
because he was forced. He loathed being pressured to do anything that was not his choice, and he’d already had one countess
whom he’d married because of a deliberate compromising situation orchestrated by her—for his title and wealth.
It had taken time for Grayson to forgive his countess, but eventually, they had worked past their ill-judged beginning and
had a good marriage. Despite that, he would never want a repeat of the experience. It was hard to work to trust someone who
proved themselves capable of such deception.
Grayson took several sips of tea. He was not looking forward to day walks and rides in Hyde Park, attending a mind-
numbing series of balls and soirees. But his daughter’s happiness greatly mattered to him. He had three children, and Bella was
the only one who had never known her mother’s soft embrace or gentle kiss on her forehead. His twin sons, Edward and Adam,
who recently celebrated their three and twentieth birthday, had basked in their mother’s love and attention. Grayson still
recalled the way Bella had held herself still when he read the list she made for her birthday gift.
I want a mama. Please, Papa.
Those words had slayed Grayson. He could not afford to choose his next wife without careful consideration. His future
countess had to be kind and compassionate, willing to help him guide and love his daughter. The log in the fireplace popped,
diverting his attention. He glanced toward the kitchen area and saw his companion seated on the chaise with a book. Grayson
watched for several minutes, charmed by the animation of her features as she read.
He frowned. She did not seem as young as he’d first supposed, and to his astonishment, he realized he could not guess her
age. “Permit me to ask your age.”
Her gaze snapped up to his, her mouth in the shape of a small ‘O’. Her eyes crinkled at the corner with her smile. “I am
fifty and will be one and fifty in a few weeks.”
 Grayson arched a brow. “I did not ask in jest; please do not reply in kind.”
“I am fifty, Mr. Rochester.”
Bloody hell. He blinked, slowly examining her body, considering details he had tried his best not to linger on earlier. Her
body was softly rounded, her hips wider than younger ladies. “You have children,” he said abruptly.
“Yes.”
“Earlier, you said you had no husband.”
“Because I am a widow, Mr. Rochester,” she said softly.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. It was as if his common sense had fled. “I am sorry,” he said gruffly. “So, you are Mrs.
Fairbanks.”
“Yes.”
“You give the appearance of a lady … perhaps no more than forty.”
She laughed—a rich, husky, sensual sound. Was she even aware of how sensuous she sounded?
Mrs. Fairbanks closed her book and canted her head. “A dear friend earlier told me I seemed younger than when I left
Penporth a few years ago; I now realize that was not sweet flattery unless you are a gentleman keen on handing out such
compliments.” Humor sparkled in her bright brown eyes. “I suppose a life of leisure works wonders for the skin.”
A life of leisure. It seemed she was indeed a lady belonging to his society. Grayson had not mingled in the ton for several
years. He attended to his duty in the House of Lords and then retreated to his estate in Devonshire to his children.
Mrs. Fairbanks gracefully rose from her seat and glided into the cozy kitchen, where she devoted several minutes to tending
to the pot bubbling away on the stove. He couldn’t help watching her, and Grayson felt bemused at the slow feeling of interest
stirring through his body. She reached up to retrieve two wooden bowls from a nearby shelf, and with great care, she ladled out
a hearty, steaming soup that bore more resemblance to a rich and satisfying stew. The tantalizing aroma wafted through the
cottage, and Grayson couldn’t help but feel his mouth water in anticipation.
He stood and hastened over when she made to take them up. “It is hot; please allow me.”
She nodded, walked to the table and sat. Grayson returned to the table, setting the bowls before them.
He inhaled deeply of the mouth-watering scents. Grayson lowered himself into his chair and reached for one of the spoons
she handed him. “This looks delectable,” he said, dipping his spoon in the soup or stew.
She watched him with an air of anticipation as he took his first bite. Grayson damn well groaned, and she lightly laughed.
Why was the sound so … charming?
“Is it good?”
He swallowed that bite. “It tastes better than how it smells and looks. Normally an impossible feat for a chef to
accomplish.”
She dipped her head, and a flush pinkened her cheeks.
Maggie dipped her spoon into the soup and started to eat. The silence was companionable as they enjoyed the flavorful
soup. They finished eating, and she stood, taking away their bowls.
“Thank you, Mrs. Fairbanks.”
She glanced over her shoulder, the move unknotting her hair that had been pinned in a loose chignon. Grayson inhaled
sharply as lustrous waves tumbled over her shoulders, back, and down to her hips. By God, he had never seen hair so
magnificent. Most remarkably, there was no hint of gray anywhere to be seen.
“You are welcome. We have lemon cake with icing for dessert. There is also brandy.”
“Thank you.” Grayson leaned back in his chair. “Mrs. Fairbanks, I was wondering if you might indulge me in a game of
chess. It seems a fitting way to spend the rest of the evening while we weather this storm together.”
Her gaze cut to the chess set on the mantle. “I am sorry, Mr. Rochester; I never learned the game.”
He dipped his head. “I understand.”
Grayson retrieved the set and went back to playing himself. Mrs. Fairbanks reposed on the chaise, reading by the lamp.
Darkness arrived sooner than he anticipated, and he stopped playing to add more logs to the fire and light the few candles in
the room. Mrs. Fairbanks nodded her appreciation without looking up from the pages. He went back to playing against himself.
 It grew later, and from the corner of his eyes he saw her sneak a quick peek at him. She went back to reading again, but he
noticed the tapping of her bare feet against the armrest of the chaise.
Are you nervous? He silently asked, a bit of humor rising inside.
Her expression remained aloof, but those little cues—tucking her hair behind her ears at least five times, tapping her foot,
and peeking from him to the chaise and then the bed informed him she was not serene. The chaise was rather small and would
not be comfortable for any one of them to sleep on. “Have you realized it yet?” Grayson murmured.
Mrs. Fairbanks looked at him with a startled look in her eyes. “Realized what, Mr. Rochester?”
His gaze flicked meaningfully to the bed and back to her. The lady followed his gaze, and then her lips parted. Such
emotions flashed across her lovely features—irritation, desire, fear.
She snapped her eyes to his, and he said, “There is one bed.” A very small bed. “We will have to share it.”
 CHAPTER 5

Colin Fairbanks, the Earl of Celdon

Fairbanks Manor

C olin moved his mouth with sensual greed over his wife’s lips, holding her tightly against his body as their passion
kindled. Hermina’s form fit his perfectly, curve to curve and angle to angle, as if God had fashioned this woman solely for
Colin. In times like this, he thanked the heavens his simple life had been disrupted and he became the Earl of Celdon. If not for
those events, he would never have met Hermina.
He kissed the almost unbearable sweetness of her lips, his cock aching. Colin made love to his wife twice just yesterday;
there was no reason for his cock to be aching to be inside her again. Mina moaned, arching her slim hips against the hard proof
of his arousal, her fragrance wafting around them.
He ran his palm up and down her delicate spine and across her shoulders before easing it between their bodies to cup her
luscious breast. She moaned, ripping her mouth from his to bury her face against his throat. It took him a few moments to
realize his wife trembled, and not from passion, for her unexpected tears wet his chest.
Colin’s heart jolted, and he tried to ease her away so he could look at her face, but she tightened her arms around his neck.
“No,” she said, her words thick and muffled.
His heart pounding, he said, “Tell me what troubles you, my darling.”
She made a small sound of distress and buried her nose firmer against his throat. His wife did not rush to say what bothered
her but sobbed for several moments. Colin patiently waited, understanding her mood better, especially since she gave birth to
their son last year. Whenever she was ready, Hermina would tell him. Colin was not worried that she would remain
tightlipped. They trusted each other and shared all joys and woe.
She gently eased from his clasp and slanted her head to meet his gaze. Her eyes were red and slightly puffed, her gray eyes
dark with emotions.
“Tis the season to be festive,” he murmured, caressing her cheek with his thumb. “What ails you, my love?”
Her throat worked on a swallow. “I am pregnant,” she whispered.
Joy jolted through Colin and he grinned. “Mina! That is wonderful!”
Her expression crumpled, and she started to sob again. “Shh,” he crooned, holding her once more against his chest and
rubbing her shoulders reassuringly. “Is this not good news, my love?”
She vehemently shook her head against his chest.
“Tell me why?”
A few more breaths shuddered from her before she rolled away. Mina rested her head on his arm and sniffed. “I love our
son.”
“I know you do. No one dotes on George as you do.”
Mina nodded fiercely as if his words affirmed something she had been telling herself. “Our precious son is one of my
greatest happinesses in life, Colin. But I had such a wretched time with my pregnancy. It was so horrid that I never realized I
did not want to get pregnant again until my maid commented that my menses were late. Then I realized all the signs were there.
My breasts are sore, and the scent of fish makes me ill.”
 Colin frowned, recalling he’d had to whisk Hermina away from London when they had discovered her pregnancy. Most of
the scents in the clogged city had made her ill. The doctor had recommended the bracing, fresh air of the countryside, and they
had retired early from the season. She’d not gotten a reprieve and cast up her accounts almost daily, well into her seventh
month of pregnancy. Colin had stayed with her, diligently rubbing her aching back and swollen feet and ensuring their menu
was changed to assist her. When his wife had suggested he could dine alone instead of eating from the simple dishes she
consumed, he had refused.
“I understand,” he said, drawing her closer. “I am sorry, Mina.”
“I am afraid it will be the same,” she said, “You must think me horrid.”
“Do you wish me to turn you over and spank your luscious arse?”
Her sweet giggle was the best damn sound he’d heard all day.
“As long as you know it is still luscious,” she teased with a small hiccup.
He kissed her forehead. “I vow to you, Mina, I will hire dozens of physicians and midwives to see if they have any remedy
that will help.”
“Dr. Garret said such suffering is normal and—”
“Hang what he said,” Colin said. “If it distresses you, we must expend all effort to secure other options and not just accept
that it is normal. I wish I could carry this child for you.”
There was a pulse of silence then she laughed. “That was a wonderful image, Colin, you with your belly big and rounded,
waddling down the hallway.”
He chuckled. “Lizzy did not look miserable, so Dr. Garret’s sweeping statement needs to be assessed.”
“Lizzy glowed when she carried the twins, and she is even more radiant the second time around. Oh, Colin, I am wretched
to feel so envious.”
Colin kissed his wife. “You are not. I vow we will not have more babies after this one.”
She gasped, her breath feathering across his mouth. “You’ve always wanted several children. You told me so.”
“What I’ve always wanted, Mina, is you. I love you, wife. We have our heir and this second baby. We will have many
nieces and nephews running around. Lily is already turning my hair gray with her antics and is a firm reminder that I might have
erred in wanting many.”
Mina chuckled, then said, “I wanted a large one too. At least six, remember?”
He pressed another kiss to her mouth. “There are measures we can take so that you do not fall pregnant again. If at any time
you feel like you want to try again, I will lecherously tup you everywhere in our manor until the deed is done.”
A smile curved her mouth. “I love you, Colin.” She thrust her fingers through his hair and kissed him with such love and
tenderness a lump grew in his throat.
The door shoved open, and with a curse, he grabbed the coverlet and tossed it over their half-naked bodies.
“Unc!” Lily cried, running over to their bed and deftly climbed onto it. Her cheeks were red, and her green eyes gleamed
with delight. “Why are you sleeping too?”
“Lily,” Colin said firmly, “you should knock before entering a door.”
A look of familiar mischief settled on Lily’s cherub face. “Mama just told papa if he does not want me to come into the
room when they are sleeping early, they should close the door.”
“You mean your mama and papa are, err … also sleeping early now?”
“Yes! Only mama was …” Lily lowered her face and leaned forward. “Mama did not have on any clothes, and she pinched
papa when I came inside.”
A choking sound came from Mina, and then she pealed with laughter.
“You must still knock, always. Now go, Aunt Mina and I are sleeping—”
She pouted and tossed herself against his chest. “Why is everyone sleeping?”
Bloody hell. “Who else is sleeping?” he demanded, peering into the hellion’s face.
Lily scrunched up her nose. “Uncle Nicholas is sleeping with Aunt Cressida, and Uncle Rannulf is sleeping with Aunt
Lizzy. Only the babies are awake!”
 “You are a baby as well,” he said drily.
Her expression grew indignant. “I am five, Unc!”
His wife still giggled and he glared at her. What were the chances they were all making love with their damn partners? It
must be the blizzard and the cozy effect it created indoors. Hope sparked inside Colin’s chest, who was desperate to ravish his
wife. “Uncle Richard—”
“Is also sleeping!” Lily interjected, pouting even more. “Only in the library.”
Another shout of laughter erupted from Mina, and even Colin found himself smiling. “What about Uncle James?”
She nodded. “He is awake. But it is Unc James who sent me to find everyone. He was laughing too.”
The bloody …! Even in his thoughts, curses deserted Colin. The door shoved open at that moment, and his brother
sauntered inside, a smirk on his mouth and unholy amusement in his dark blue eyes.
“Unc!” Lily cried and hurtled herself from the bed.
James made a mad dash and caught her. “You are going to kill me, Lily.”
She giggled sweetly and kissed his cheek. “I checked on everyone, Unc; they are all tired and sleeping.”
Colin glared at him.
James grinned. “As the sole bachelor in residence, how could you all be so cruel? I had to disrupt the er … festivities.
Come along with your favorite uncle, Lily; we will play cards.”
The door closed behind their departure, and Colin smiled. “He needs a wife. Now, where were we?”
Mina peeked up at him from beneath her lashes. “I am sad to say I must leave. I need to finish planning with the cook—”
He caught her mouth with his, swallowing the rest of her words, and proceeded to delightfully ravish his wife.
 CHAPTER 6

I t is one bed, and we will have to share it.

Since Mr. Rochester said those words or something of the kind, Maggie could not say exactly how long had passed. She
had tried to remain serenely unflappable, gave him a cool smile and returned to her reading. However, the story failed to hold
her attention as she’d hoped, and her stare kept darting to the man playing chess alone. Maggie truly did not know how to play
and had felt a sense of loss that she had not learned. A yawn caught her by surprise, and she pressed a palm over her mouth.
Staring blankly at the open pages, she shook her head.
She was exhausted from the day’s journey. Maggie stared at the small bed flushed against a wall for several beats. She
lowered the book and rose. Going over to the bed, she stooped and dragged it, pleased that it moved and was not bolted to the
floor.
“What are you doing?”
She straightened and looked over her shoulder. “I am moving the bed so that … we can both easily climb from it should we
need to move.”
“I see.”
He walked to her and took over moving the bed so there was ample space on both sides.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He made a grunt and went back to his chess game. Maggie touched her hair, unable to bind the long, heavy tresses in a coil
by herself. Sighing, she climbed onto the bed.
“I will leave this side closest to the door for you, Mr. Rochester. In the event any undesirable elements discover this cabin
and enters, you are closest to deal with it without tripping over me.”
His low laugh rippled over her senses, and she slammed eyes closed, denying the sensation. There were two blankets, but
they were far too thin to provide proper comfort while they slept. She took up one and left the other on his side of the bed.
Maggie unrolled the blanket, laid down, and covered herself.
The crackling logs in the hearth were the only sound in the room. Mr. Rochester stood, went to each candle and outed the
wick. He walked over to the window, staring outside at the sleeting snow. Mr. Rochester stood there for a long time, and
Maggie was contented with watching his shoulders, wondering exactly who Grayson Rochester was.
He remained by the window for over an hour, staring at the white blanket surrounding the small cottage. His broad
shoulders were tensed, and the manner in how he held himself without moving informed her of his discipline. Curiosity
plucked at her chest. However, Maggie didn’t dare ask. What would be the point? Were they not mere strangers who
coincidently met and did not share anything in common? Or would remain connected?
As if sensing her perusal, he finally stirred, and glanced over his shoulder. The wind relentlessly howled, and Mr.
Rochester added a couple more logs to the hearth. Maggie’s chest tightened when he started to remove his shirt. She knew
better, but she unabashedly stared. Even in the dim light cast by the fireplace, she could see his naked chest.
He was … beautiful. Her blood heated with a sensation she hadn’t felt in a very long time. She quickly buried the unwanted
physical reaction. Mr. Rochester’s sculpted chest boasted well-defined muscles, drawing her gaze to a thin line of dark hair
that trailed down, disappearing into his trousers. His physique was undeniably captivating, leaving her curious about the nature
of his work that kept him so impressively fit.
 He crossed the room and settled on the edge of his side of the bed, causing the mattress to dip beneath his weight. With a
graceful motion, he reclined, his hand folding behind his head as he made himself comfortable. Mr. Rochester did not speak,
and Maggie’s heart was racing too fast for her to attempt a conversation.
Ridiculous, she groaned. Maggie had never liked lying, even to herself.
“You are unable to sleep.”
“Yes.”
He turned his head and their gazes collided. The bed was small, and this close Maggie fancied she could see the spark of
blue at the center of his silver gaze. A spark of heat flared brightly in his eyes. She inhaled sharply. The attraction is mutual.
Maggie felt … decidedly flustered. She shifted, creating a scant inch of space between their bodies.
“Are you afraid of the dark?”
“Of course not.”
“Whoever left the firewood, only provided enough for perhaps five days. I’ve calculated that we might be here for seven.”
Magge inhaled sharply. “So long?”
“Yes. I’ll ration the firewood so that it lasts.”
“I … I think there is enough food and water to drink,” she murmured.
“Whenever you need to wash, let me know and I will procure the water.”
The intimacy of their conversation robbed her of breath. “The well should be iced over.”
“Yes. I’ll gather enough snow in the basin and melt it.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ll get cold throughout the night.”
Her heart thumped and she instantly made the connection to why he explained the rationing of the wood. “The fire will
die.”
“Eventually.”
As a heavy silence enveloped them, they remained still, nestled far too closely due to the size of the bed. The cottage
echoed with sporadic pops from the hearth, the windows occasionally rattling in response to the relentless wind outside.
Maggie’s soft rhythmic breathing seemed to underscore the palpable awareness she felt of Mr. Rochester’s presence beside
her.
Oh, Maggie, this is too silly.
As the silence lengthened, the cottage felt charged with unspoken tension. Maggie wondered what he thought or felt at the
moment. Was he also affected by her nearness? Or was it common to have women in his bed? Surely a man as handsome as Mr.
Rochester had a lover. She could not discern any sense of time as the minutes ticked away. The cottage darkened but thankfully
the warmth remained.
“You are about to take a tumble to your backside,” he said, his tone rich with good humor.
Maggie jolted, realizing she had scooted a bit closer to her side again. “I do not believe you can see me in the dark, Mr.
Rochester.”
“Come now, we are sharing a bed; you should call me Grayson.”
“Very well, Grayson. You may call me, Maggie.”
“Are you warm enough? The fire is dying. It might take a couple of hours for the heat to fully dissipate.”
“Is there any point in admitting I am a bit cold? There are no more blankets.”
“I will warm you.”
She breathed slowly, hoping to calm the sudden racing of her heart. “I beg your pardon?”
“If you come closer, my body heat will do the trick.”
“I cannot help but wonder if you are some sort of libertine,” she said primly.
Grayson chuckled. “I am practical, Maggie, that is all.”
“Is that to say your imaginings are not nefarious?”
He was silent for a beat, then he said, “You want me to account for the things I am envisioning? Isn’t that a bit
unreasonable, Maggie. You should only hold me responsible for the things I do. What I am thinking … nay, those thoughts are
only for me. I would not want to send you into a faint.”
Goodness!
There was a suspicious teasing in his tone, and she narrowed her eyes though she could not see him. She had no doubt the
devil knew exactly what he was doing. “You are scandalous,” she murmured. Maggie was glad he could not see that she was
smiling at his bit of wickedness. “I do not find you amusing.”
“Your teeth are too white; they already betrayed you.”
Laughter rushed from her before she could contain it. Maggie slapped a hand over her mouth.
“You have a lovely laugh; why do you stop it?”
She groaned. “I am trying to do the things The Principles of Politeness teaches, even when no one is looking.”
“Why are you reading that?”
Maggie blinked, never thinking that a country gentleman would be familiar with the work. Feeling ashamed for her
uncharitable thought, she said, “I am trying to be more ladylike.”
“Which fool said a lovely, genuine laugh is not ladylike?”
He thinks my laugh is lovely. Maggie felt a flutter in her heart at his words but tried not to read too much into them. He
could be liberal with his flattery and think a braying donkey sounded lovely.
“The ton,” she said softly, folding her arm beneath her head like a pillow. “They own to some very outrageous ideas of
what is proper conduct.”
A low sound left Mr. Rochester, but he made no other reply. Maggie supposed he would not know what to say, given he did
not move in those elevated circles. She covered her mouth as another yawn creeped up on her.
Tucking the blanket snugly under her chin, Maggie’s tired eyes fluttered closed as the allure of sleep beckoned her. She
started to drift into slumber when, suddenly, she jolted awake, her surroundings shrouded in darkness, leaving her uncertain
about how much time had passed. A shiver coursed through her, and a faint, involuntary sound escaped her lips.
“Cold?” Mr. Rochester’s gentle voice broke the silence, surprising her.
Her eyes widened in astonishment. “You are awake.”
“Sleep eludes me,” he admitted, his tone carrying a hint of restlessness.
Another shiver quaked through Maggie’s frame, and she struggled to suppress it.
“Maggie, come into my arms,” he suggested softly, his voice warm and inviting.
After a momentary hesitation, she scooted closer, and as she nestled into the comforting warmth of his embrace, his body
heat enveloped her, chasing away the cold and soothing her nerves.
He deftly gathered the two blankets and, with a practiced hand, arranged them to cover both of their bodies. The soft, warm
layers of fabric cocooned them, creating a comforting barrier against the cold that still lingered in the room.
“Better?”
His soft breath fanned her temple. “Yes.”
The warmth was truly glorious. She moaned her satisfaction and Grayson tensed.
“Try to be silently appreciative, Maggie. Please.”
She understood then her closeness was a distraction. Maggie fought to gather her composure at their proximity and lost. Her
fingers trembled and her heart raced.
“You are smiling,” he said gruffly.
“I am merely glad that I am not the only one suffering this attraction,” she said sleepily.
His chest lifted on a harsh inhalation. Maggie, feeling cocooned and safe beneath the blankets, could no longer resist the
lull of sleep that tugged at her consciousness. With a soft, drowsy murmur, she whispered, “Now be still so I can sleep.”
His chuckle washed over her. Without hesitation, he wrapped his strong arms around her, drawing her even closer, and
nestled her into the protective curve of his shoulders. A heat, delicate and tingling spread across her skin. A lump formed in
Maggie’s throat as she realized just how long it had been since she had been held in such a tender and caring manner. She
couldn’t help but feel a sense of security and intimacy and it was a feeling she missed more than she cared to admit.
 CHAPTER 7

T hey survived a night sleeping beside each other in the same bed. Grayson smiled as the thought entered his mind as he
woke. It had taken a couple of hours before Grayson succumbed to sleep. He had been acutely aware of Maggie’s presence—
her warmth and softness pressed against his side, the gentle rise and fall of her breath against his chest, and the sweet, enticing
scent that seemed to linger around her.
His senses had been heightened, and her proximity had ignited a longing he couldn’t deny, and he had to exercise strict self-
discipline to resist the temptation to act upon his baser instincts. The urge to taste her lips had been overpowering, but he knew
he needed to exercise restraint, especially in their current circumstances. They were not meant to be lovers; they were only
ships momentarily passing each other, and he’d vowed to be more distant knowing the thin line between desire and propriety
was a precarious one.
As Grayson’s belly rumbled in hunger, the enticing scent of something delectable wafted into his nostrils, stirring his
senses. He pushed himself up from the bed, feeling a renewed sense of alertness as he followed the aroma to its source.
Grayson stared at the picture Maggie Fairbanks presented. She wore a different gown, this one a pale-yellow wool of a simple
design that flattered her curvaceous figure. Her hair remained unbound, the chestnut curls swaying against her hips with each
movement. Grayson couldn’t help but recall how he had run his fingers through those very strands as she lay sleeping.
By God, she is so damn beautiful.
“You are staring, Grayson.”
“You are a beautiful woman.” Their gazes collided, and he smiled at the humor dancing in hers.
“I’ve prepared breakfast.”
“You have been awake for a while.”
Maggie’s smile lit up the room as she spoke. “I slept very well.” Her eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief as she
continued, “I even braved the cold outside and collected some snow in the basin. It has since melted and should be pleasantly
warm now. Feel free to use it to freshen up.”
Grayson admired her resourcefulness and the thoughtfulness of her gesture. Her ability to adapt to their situation with such
grace was impressive, stirring his curiosity about her life. “Thank you, Maggie.”
With a delicate shrug of her shoulder, Maggie replied, “We are partners in this adventure. I just had to try it once. But rest
assured, I won’t be venturing outside again anytime soon.”
Grayson chuckled as he imagined just how bitterly cold it must have been outside. He glanced through the windows, taking
note of the unforgiving, gray day that lay beyond the glass panes. However, he noticed that the relentless winds that had
battered them the night before had finally subsided.
Grayson rose from the bed, his movements drawing Maggie’s attention. He noticed the pretty flush that had colored her
cheeks, a sign of her awareness of his presence. As their eyes briefly met, Maggie quickly averted her gaze, but it was clear
that she had been observing him.
There was a small bar of soap, bristle brush and dental powder. Whoever had stocked the cottage had done so with the
intention of an extended stay. It was a fortunate stroke of luck for him and Maggie. There were indeed ample provisions of food
and necessities, firewood by the hearth, a well-stocked larder, and even a small collection of books on a nearby shelf.
Grayson silently offered his gratitude to the unintentional benefactor, recognizing that their situation had been made more
bearable because of this person. He would send a token of appreciation when he returned to Devonshire.
His quick ablutions completed, he sat at the table. Maggie artfully prepared tea and handed him a cup, which he accepted.
Their fingers brushed, and she snatched back her hand as if she had been burned.
“I … please eat.” Her hand fluttered to her throat, the gesture one of delicacy. She whirled around and marched back to the
small kitchen.
She was angry. Interesting. Grayson took a healthy swallow of the tea, sighing when it warmed his body.
“I’ve baked a loaf of bread, and we have honey. Would you like a few slices?”
Baked bread? How? “Thank you.”
“I also have bacon.”
His stomach growled and she smiled. The prettiness of it struck his heart, and Grayson looked away, aware that she was a
damn lovely woman. Maggie brought over rashers of crisp bacon, slices of cheese, strawberries, and sliced bread coated with
honey. They ate in companionable silence, and though he was used to much richer fare, something about this felt damn perfect.
“You are a lady of quality.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “To some degree.”
Grayson arched a brow. “An interesting answer.”
“Merely the truth,” she said with a smile, but did not expound.
“You are an incredible cook.”
She clasped elegant fingers over her cup. “My husband was a simple country gentleman. In our early years we were not
able to hire many servants. We had a cook who only came in twice per week. I had great fun learning from her.” A wistful look
entered her eyes. “It has been years since I prepared meals; I daresay I miss it.”
Grayson nodded and polished off the last bit of his bacon. “How long were you married for?”
“I got married at sixteen,” she murmured. “My John was nineteen.”
“How many children did you have?”
“Twelve.”
He choked on the last drink of his tea. “Twelve?”
Instead of appearing offended, she laughed. “Some have commented that my appetite must have been ungovernable.”
Those damn blackguards. Though she tried to sound flippant, a touch of shadow entered her eyes. “They speak from a
place of jealous pettiness. I would have also been hard pressed to keep from your bed.”
Maggie gasped, then laughed. “You have a bit of rogue in you.” She gave a graceful shrug of her shoulders. “I try not to be
wounded by it. How can I be, when my children are the source of my joy? But I have a set of triplets and twins.”
“Your face changes when you speak about them,” he said gruffly. “Your beauty becomes radiant.”
Maggie stared at him as if she did not know what to think. Finally, she said, “Is Bella your only child?”
“I also have twin sons, Edward and Adam. They are three and twenty.”
She grinned. “I daresay it is my time to ask your age.”
“I am seven and forty.”
“Ah …” Maggie said on a soft sigh. “You too appear perfectly … fit for your age. For a moment I wondered how close you
were to my eldest son’s age. Colin is four and thirty. I dare say if we ever end up kissing, I shall feel as if I have taken
advantage.”
His damn heart lurched, and Grayson smiled at the humor dancing in her eyes. She rose and went to stand before the
window, and it felt natural to join her. The heavy overnight snowfall had transformed the landscape outside into a picturesque
winter scene. The ground, trees, and bushes were all covered in a glistening layer of pristine white snow.
“My family will start to worry about me,” she said softly. “In the letter I sent down I told them I would be in Penporth no
later than the 15 th of the month.”
“Perhaps they will not worry and allow that you might change your mind.”
“They will worry,” Maggie said, wrinkling her nose. “Especially Julia and Penny. I have never broken a promise to my
children.”
 “Julia and Penny are the youngest?”
“Yes.”
“Will your family miss your presence?”
“My daughter,” Grayson said with a smile. “Her brothers spoil her rotten so they will entertain her whenever she cries that
she misses me. They were lads of fifteen when she arrived in their lives. They shamelessly dote on her.”
Maggie laughed. “I suspect you are the same.”
Grayson chuckled. “I admit it.”
They chatted for several more minutes, and he realized they both kept their conversation light, without delving deeply into
each other’s interest of background. Grayson understood the necessity of the distance they were carefully maintaining, but he
could not prevent the interest that stirred within him with each minute’s passage. He was very much attracted to her in a way he
had not felt in years. If ever. The notion sobered him. Grayson tried to dismiss her from his awareness, but his effort felt futile.
“Our conversations feel rather delightful,” she said with a smile. “In truth I cannot recall any conversation in recent times
that did not surround marriages, etiquette, and what constitutes as a good match. I am not at all inspired to read. If you are so
inclined, I think I would like you to teach me chess.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. My daughter Lizzy is a brilliant player but Julia has beaten her several times. The scene of them playing against each
other can get intense and rowdy. My sons tend to try and explain what is happening so I could follow, but I never took the time
to learn, and I quite like the idea of knowing exactly what the stakes are at the next match so I can bet wisely.”
“Bet?”
Maggie nodded, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Ah, my children are notorious gamblers amongst themselves. And the bets
sway depending on how they read the board.”
Grayson chuckled, thinking her family sounded eccentric and interesting. Teaching her chess would not only be an
enjoyable way to pass the time but also a chance to get to know Maggie better. They moved to the oak table, where Grayson set
up the chessboard.
She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and leaned forward. An intense awareness of her closeness flowed through
Grayson. Her fragrance was clean and sweet, the fresh scent of lavender soap.
He began to explain the basics of chess. “These are all the pieces on a chessboard.” Grayson pointed to the back row.
“These are the rooks. They move horizontally or vertically across the board.”
Maggie listened intently, her eyes fixed on the board.
“Next to them are the knights. They move in an L-shape—two squares in one direction and then one square perpendicular to
that.”
She arched a brow. “Perpendicular?”
He smiled. “I always forget not everyone enjoys mathematics as I do.”
“I assure you I have never studied the topic. Now explain what you mean.”
Grayson shifted a bit closer. “They can jump over other pieces. Then we have the bishops, he said, indicating the pieces on
the board. “They move diagonally across the board.”
She grinned and he showed her the diagonal.
“And this is the queen,” Grayson said. “She is the most powerful piece. She can move horizontally, vertically, or
diagonally.” He pointed to the piece at the end of the back row toward the center. “And this piece she stands beside is the king,
the most important piece on the board. The king can move one square in any direction. All pieces ultimately protect the king
from capture.”
They started a game, and while they played Grayson repeated the rules with each move, how each piece moved, and the
objective—to checkmate the opponent’s king. Maggie listened attentively, asking questions when she needed clarification. With
each move, their game grew more fun, strategic and competitive. Grayson was impressed by Maggie’s quick grasp of the rules
and her growing skill on the chessboard. They played game after game, their laughter at times filling the cottage.
“Check,” she gasped, leaning over so much her hair snagged a few pieces.
 “Hmm, I do not see it.”
“My hair knocked these over, but I checked, see!”
Her evident delight did the most peculiar thing to his heart. It damn ached, and he wondered what she did for fun. During
his light probing, it seemed like she had been in London for the last couple of years, seeking matches for her children. Her life
seemed centered on attaining their happiness, and he couldn’t help wondering what she did for hers.
“Do you go to the theater or the museum,” he asked gruffly.
Startled eyes met his. “I … not recently.”
“When was the last time you watched a play?”
“I … perhaps two years. I cannot recall.”
Grayson reached out; his thumb brushed against her cheek in a feather-light caress. He dropped his hand, blowing a sharp
breath. He’d not meant to touch her. Grayson stood and raked his fingers through his hair. “I think it is best we stop playing,” he
said gruffly.
“I … yes, of course.” She stood, the abrupt movement jerking the small table. Maggie stumbled and he lurched forward and
caught her against his body. They both froze. The sudden harsh, uneven rhythm of his breathing sounded loud in the small
cottage. Grayson’s reaction unnerved him, simply because he had never felt such hunger for any lady.
He did not step back but clasped Maggie’s hips. Her lips parted as she stared up at him, her breath hitching. Grayson gave
her all the time to protest or push him away. Maggie only stared at him, a heavy fringe of sooty lashes framing lovely golden-
brown eyes that seemed to silently ask a thousand questions. He lowered his head, pressing light, teasing brushes of his mouth
against hers.
She slipped her hands around his nape, her fingers teasing his hair in a caress that felt as gentle as the brush of a butterfly’s
wing. Grayson flicked his tongue over the seam of her lips, and Maggie parted them. Her sigh pierced him with desire. The soft
feel of her mouth set his heart quickly pounding. The visceral reaction startled Grayson, but he did not lift his head. He
deepened the kiss, allowing his tongue to roam along the crease of her mouth.
She moaned, and the answering jolt in his body felt primal. Grayson cupped her cheek, his fingers brushing against the
fluttering pulse at her throat. He slanted her head, deepening their kiss by stroking his tongue over hers. She tasted sweet and
luscious. Would everywhere else taste just as sweet? Flames of heat raced through his body and settled at the base of his cock
in a wicked pulse of desire.
 CHAPTER 8

M aggie’s entire body turned liquid, her breasts swelling inside her gown, as a pulse of heat rushed to that secret place
between her thighs. She desperately wanted to live in this moment with Grayson Rochester—to bask in the passion and revel in
the joy of feeling so alive when she had felt empty for so long. He cupped one of her breasts through her gown, his skilled
fingers finding and squeezing her achingly sensitive nipple, sending piercing shards of pleasure traveling straight to her core.
There was no hesitancy in Grayson’s touch, and there was none in Maggie’s thoughts. She wanted him to devastate her
senses with pleasure. Somehow she knew it would be so very good. That awareness gave her the strength to wrench her mouth
from his. She stared helplessly at him, taking note of his heavy-lidded, aroused gaze. Maggie pressed shaking fingers on her
lips, surprised they already felt tender.
How will I resist this for several more days?
That single thought knocked around Margaret’s head as she valiantly tried to appear worldly and unaffected by it. It would
not do for him to realize how much his kiss affected her, and it most certainly would not do if he knew how much her heart still
pounded. She was a mature widow not ignorant of men and their passions, and she would act like it.
Maggie lowered her fingers from her mouth and jutted her chin. “Well,” she said, wincing for she sounded far too
breathless.
“I like it,” he murmured, his eyes crinkling at the corner.
Maggie’s eyes widened. “Like what, Mr. Rochester?”
His eyes were dark with arousal and a tenderness that had her heart shivering.

“THAT YOU ARE FLUSTERED by my kiss, Maggie. You even called me Mister.”
She gasped, opened her mouth to deny it and could not. Maggie never could abide lying in any form. Her heart stuttered
and, with a sense of stunned alarm, she acknowledged that she truly wanted the man before her to take her into his arms, drop
her onto the bed, and ravish her until she screamed her release over and over. She did not want to care about anything else for
the time trapped with him in this cottage. For this moment in time, Maggie wanted to know Grayson and understand the
complicated feelings he aroused in her.
Who would ever know if we became lovers? A small voice whispered in her heart.
Another glint of humor appeared in his eyes. “Whatever you are thinking,” he drawled, “do tell me.”
An unbearable tension wound itself around her heart. Maggie vaguely realized she felt torn between longing and the dual
familial and societal expectations that weighed on her. Grayson’s stare urged her to reach for him, and her belly tightened. Not
even with her dear John had Maggie felt such a strong physical attraction or an immediate sense of liking and comfort. It had
taken months of wooing from John before she fell for him, but her first meeting with this man had sent her pulse skittering.
She did not like or trust the reaction, yet it was the truth, and Maggie could not hide from it. “You want me as a lover.”
Grayson stilled, his gaze never leaving her face.
“Yes.”
No flattery or artful promises, and the absence of those made her like him even more.
I want you as a lover too, Grayson.
 Maggie was not brave enough to tell him yet, for then what would stop them from tearing off each other’s clothes and
tumbling into that small bed?
Why this man?
Her silent cry was a stark reminder of the boundaries between them. Oddly, Maggie did not want to ruin their connection by
telling him that her son was an earl. The difference in their social standings and the expectations of their families must not
intrude … in whatever this was. The outside world should stay out.
“I’ve never had an affair before,” she said softly. Maggie took a deep breath. “Since I’ve been a widow, many gentlemen
approached me and insinuated that I could take a lover. I have never been tempted until now, Grayson.”
Maggie could scarcely conceive the urges beating at her when she knew everything her family now risked. For the last
three years, Maggie had experienced the worst and best life the ton had to offer. They were a very judgmental lot who held
lofty and often ridiculous standards of behavior.
She did not fully believe in those rules of conduct and propriety, but she had adopted them for the well-being of her family.
Maggie had twelve children, and she wished for them to be positioned into this new life they were thrust into; adjustments had
to be made. They could no longer accept the moniker of ‘bad Fairbanks’ with wry humor and chuckles. They had to work to
overcome the reputation they created over the years. One she contributed to by not admonishing her children’s wild behaviors.
Yet she wanted to dismiss all that for an evening of glorious passion. Grayson’s kiss and touch had conveyed that it would
indeed be glorious. Should she cave to temptation and their trysts be discovered, all the standing Lady Celdon and Maggie had
worked for in the ton would be undone by the scandal.
Even though, as a widow and a mature lady, Maggie should have more freedom, society would judge her for it, and her
children would be tarnished. Widows were expected to have lovers discreetly but with men of a certain class.
Maggie still recalled that a rumor had surfaced last year that Lady Fenton, a widowed viscountess, took her butler to be her
lover. The lady had eventually fled London under the cloud of scandal and a ruined reputation. However, Lady Jenson, another
widowed baroness, was celebrated for snagging a marquis as her lover. The hypocrisy was disgusting, but Maggie had
accepted that she was now a part of that world, and she couldn’t simply escape it since her children resided in the ton.
Grayson frowned, his gaze piercing as it ran over her face. “What are you afraid of, Maggie? I can see your thoughts
churning.”
“I confess you feel like a decadent treat I should not dare indulge.”
His lips quirked. “We are both mature adults with good sense. Why do you hesitate when I see you crave to be touched,
Maggie? I admit I want you as I have never wanted another woman.”
She gasped, pressing a hand over her chest. “Why must you be so blunt. It does not leave any room for …”
Something provoking flashed in his silver gaze. “Polite niceties? Speaking behind innuendoes instead of being direct? I am
not that kind of man.”
“I … I …” Maggie bit her lip before lifting her chin. “Should we become lovers, do I need to implore your discretion?”
His head jerked in evident surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
Maggie winced and lifted her chin. “Would I have your discretion should … should … something happen between us?”
A sound of incredulity rushed from him. “Maggie, I am not the kind of man that would bed a woman and then tell it to all
and sundry.”
She twisted her fingers together, fearing that her words had somehow wounded him. Maggie took a deep breath. “I did not
believe you would … you would advertise your intimate relations. However, should we meet in society, I would ask you to
conduct yourself with discretion and not approach me.”
He stilled and her belly twisted. She was making a muck of it and wanted to run from this conversation. “Forgive me,”
Maggie said in a rush. “That was silly and insensitive—”
“Do you mean that should I see you about town, I should not make it known that you and I know each other? You do not
wish to meet even as polite, nodding acquaintances?”
His words chilled, and they were like a knife, sharply cutting into her skin. “I am sorry. Please forget what I said, Grayson.
I …” Her throat closed on the rest of her words. “I … the people I sometimes mingle with can be judgmental. They might not
understand a friendship with a gentleman farmer—”
“A gentleman farmer?”
There was a throb of emotion in his tone that she could not identify. “Yes. Are you not a farmer? Sorry if I presumed, I …”
His regard was unwavering. “Am I to presume then, Mrs. Fairbanks, that you belong to the top lofty part of society, and you
think a man is only worthy of your consideration once he has money and a title?”
She flushed at the disdain in his words. Maggie jutted her chin. “I do not think that. My son is an earl, and before he was,
Colin was a country gentleman who owned sheep, cows, and hens. I cannot only think for myself.”
Grayson’s eyes widened before his expression veiled.
“I see,” he said softly, then a rough, humorless sound left him. “My wife was also very concerned with status.”
“Your wife?” Maggie gasped, pressing a hand to her chest.
“Ah, now you also think I am an unfaithful bounder,” he said with a twist to his mouth. “I do believe I am regretting meeting
you.”
The words punched her in the chest, and she stared at him, her eyes smarting. “Allow me some grace in this matter. We
barely know each other.”
Yet we were just madly kissing each other.
Maggie blushed. “In the eight years I have been widowed, I have never had a lover, and I fear I am … I am out of sorts and
…”
Her words trailed away, and she stared at him, feeling wretched. Status and position in society truly did not matter to her,
but given all the urging from Lady Celdon, she had to consider them. How could she bear to be such a hypocrite when she had
been urging her children in this manner for the last three years?
His gaze sharpened. “You have been a widow for eight years?”
“Yes.”
“My wife also died eight years ago.”
We are both widowed. Maggie stared at Grayson while relief filled her heart. She would have lost all respect for him if he
had dishonored his vows. Her cheeks heated, for this conversation truly revealed they knew little of each other. The silence felt
heavy as they stared at each other, and Maggie was the first to glance away. She walked over to the small wall shelf and
plucked up a book, curled herself into the chaise and started to read, quite determined to forget she had been tempted by
Grayson Rochester.
 CHAPTER 9

Elizabeth ‘Lizzy’ Headley, the Duchess of Ravenswood

L izzy hummed a song beneath her breath as she arranged mistletoe berries and sprigs on the mantle in the fireplace.
Several pinecones and small juniper trees already decorated the space. Standing back, she rested her hand on the high mound
of her belly and nodded, quite pleased with the efforts. “I am truly fantastic,” she murmured.
“Out of all my siblings, you are the most adept at self-flattery,” an amused voice said from behind her. “You do know we
now have an army of servants to do this. I do not think your duke would be pleased to know you are doing this.”
Laughing, Lizzy turned to face her eldest brother, Colin.
“My duke indulges me shamelessly,” she said smugly. “If I want to hang mistletoe sprigs, he will hold me up while I do it.”
Her brother glared at her almost fondly, lowered his head and kissed her cheek affectionately.
“Richard said you seemed upset earlier. Is all well?”
Lizzy wrinkled her nose. She’d already poured her worries onto Rannulf, and he had sent his man out to make some
enquiries. Still, she said to Colin, “Today is the sixteenth day of December.”
He frowned. “And?”
It was Lizzy’s turned to glare at him. “Are you not aware that our precious mama is missing?”
Colin jolted, then narrowed his gaze. “Why are you always so dramatic. Mother simply has not yet arrived from town. How
did that transform into missing?”
Lizzy sighed. “In her last letter, mama said she would be in Penporth by the twelfth. When has mama ever said she would
do something and not do it?”
“Were you not aware of the blizzard or were you too busy sleeping early with your duke to notice?”
Lizzy’s lips parted and her cheeks flushed. “Colin Fairbanks! We were all err … early sleeping, I am uncertain why
whenever you tell your tale you single out Rannulf and myself.”
“Because Lily checked on you the next day, and you were still sleeping while the rest of us were up and about.”
Lizzy blushed and her brother grinned. Ignoring his teasing, she said, “Many of the roads leading to Penporth are being
cleared. Rannulf has asked his coachman to check with a few inns to see if mama took shelter there.”
“Good,” Colin said, raking his fingers through his air.
Lizzy noted his air of distraction. “Is everything well, Colin?”
“Let us talk, Lizzy.”
She walked over to the sofa and sat with a groan. Her back had been aching now that she was six and a half months with
child. Lizzy rubbed her belly soothingly and waited for her brother to take his seat. He rang for tea and waited until it was
served before he seemed to gather his thoughts.
The soft glow of the fireplace cast warm flickers of light across his handsome face, and Lizzy realized he seemed truly
worried. “Colin, is all well?”
“Lizzy,” he began, his voice tinged with concern. “It’s Mina. She is with child again.”
Lizzy’s heart leaped. “That is wonderful, Colin.”
“She is a bit down. She is finding this second pregnancy difficult and has wept a few times.”
 Quickly he informed her of everything.
Lizzy set down her teacup, her brow furrowing with sympathy. “Oh, Colin, Mina must be so anxious. Morning sickness can
be ghastly. I was fortunate to only have cast up my accounts for about three months with the twins. Mina endured for almost
seven months before she gained some respite. I, too, would be dreadfully worried. How far along is she?”
“Two months. We’ll summon the physician to confirm, but we are certain.”
Lizzy frowned. “I have not seen Mina dashing for the chamber pots.”
“The symptoms have not started as yet.”
“I daresay if it has been two months they should have. Perhaps this time it will not be so difficult.”
Hope brightened his eyes. “Do you think it is possible?”
“Yes. I am over six months and have not cast up my accounts once. It feels like a miracle. However, mama explained that
each pregnancy is vastly different. We cannot judge one experience against the other.”
Colin sighed, running a hand through his hair. “That is good news. I will tell Mina. She wished she had it a bit easier, like
yourself, and feels wretched that she is scared.”
“I understand, even though I confessed I found the first three months with the twins hard. I sobbed a lot and felt generally
miserable. I did not want anyone to know how exhausted and uncomfortable I was.”
Colin’s eyes widened in surprise. “But you always seemed so composed.”
Lizzy chuckled softly. “Appearances can be deceiving, dear brother. What helped me was talking with mama. She told me
about crushing ginger or boiling lemon peel and brewing into a tea to settle my stomach and the types of foods to avoid. I will
ask mama to speak with Mina.”
“Anything that can make this easier for her. You know Mina’s relationship with her family has always been strained.
Though it is much better now that she is a countess, it is still not as close as I hoped it would be. I will ask Mina if she would
like to extend an invitation for them to visit and stay with us for a few months.”
Lizzy nodded. “I agree, Colin. I’ll ask Ester and Emma to share their pregnancy experience as well with Mina. Mina is our
sister, and we must rally around her to cheer her spirits. I’ll have a chat with Fanny as well.”
Colin smiled. “Thank you, Lizzy. I knew I could count on you. I want Mina to know she is never alone.”
Their butler entered and announced a few letters had been delivered. Colin groaned and stood. “I will leave this to you,
Lizzy; if you do not wish to deal with it, hand it to any other of our bloody siblings.”
She laughed and reached for the envelopes. Quickly opening the first one, she scanned the contents, wrinkling her nose.
“It’s from the vicar’s wife, Mrs—”
“I have no wish to know,” Colin said, hastening from the room. “I am off to the kitchen to get ginger brew for my wife.”
Lizzy laughed at his hasty retreat, gripped the edge of the sofa and hauled herself up. She quickly read the few letters; they
were all about the same topic. The town of Penporth hosted a Yuletide ball every year. It was usually held in the sole assembly
room in the town square, and the most illustrious family of Penporth was usually reserved as hosts. That honor belonged for
many years to the squire’s family. However, it seemed this year the yuletide ball would not be hosted by the squire’s family.
Lizzy curved her lips, feeling decidedly smug, and satisfied that no one in Penporth could ever look down their bony noses
at the Fairbanks family again. She sighed, for a part of her had missed Penporth as unlikely as it seemed.
“What is my lovely wife thinking?”
She smiled as her husband came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. Fierce love rushed to her heart. “They are
very petty thoughts. I do say Ester and Penny are rubbing off on me with their vengeful ways.”
Her love chuckled. “Whatever it is, I will help you.”
And this was one of the many reasons she adored her duke so much. She turned to face him. “I received a letter from the
new vicar’s wife, Mrs. Powell, suggesting as now the most illustrious family in Penporth we should take over hosting the
annual festive ball. The honor belonged to the squire’s family for … well, for as long as I have been aware of the yuletide
ball.”
Lizzy held up an envelope. “This is a letter from Sir Roger. An invitation to the festival ball to be held at his home. It is
rather bemusing that only a few years ago those elevated families in Penporth publicly cut us in town and stopped sending
invitations to their gatherings because of Fanny’s pregnancy. Now there are dozens of invitations waiting for us to wade
through.”
“If not for Sir Roger we would not have met,” Rannulf said.
Memory warmed Lizzy and she smiled, recalling the first time she had seen her duke. He’d visited Penporth to meet with
Sir Roger and had been tossed from his horse into a lake. She’d rushed to his rescue, they had been caught in a downpour, and
they ended up staying alone in a cottage.
“Your eyes are gleaming with decided wickedness,” Rannulf murmured tenderly, dipping his head for a kiss. Their mouths
met gently at first, and then passionately.
Lizzy dropped the letters and slipped her hands around his neck. Her husband kissed her endlessly for the longest time.
Their lips parted and she murmured, “I daresay we need to slip away to err … early sleep again.”
Rannulf laughed and swung her into his arms. “Your every wish is my command, duchess.”
She grinned when he strolled with her from the drawing room and down the hallway.
“Unc Rannulf!” Lily cried from the top of the stairs. “Catch me.”
“Lily,” Lizzy cried out, her heart leaping to her throat. “Don’t!”
Rannulf set her down just as Lily climbed onto the banister and slid down the length on her arse, screaming her delight.
Rannulf caught her, held her to his chest for a few moments before tossing her into the air.
“Do not reward her,” Lizzy snapped. “You frightened ten years off my life, young lady. What if you had fallen? There will
be no chocolate drink for you today.”
“Unc Richard showed me,” Lily cried indignantly. “Unc said you and everyone did it when you were small like me. He
said it is a rite of pa … pa …” Her face scrunched as she tried to remember.
“Rite of passage,” her duke generously supplied, a twinkle in his eyes.
“Yes!” Lily cheered, tossing her hands around Rannulf’s neck and kissing his cheek.
Lizzy was going to wring her youngest’s brother’s ear. Who would have thought the wretch was nine and twenty and
recently married.
“Aunt Lizzy is frowning, Unc,” Lily said. “Kiss it away.”
Lizzy stared at the little hellion. This was what they got for all the years they troubled mama.
“A kiss?” Rannulf said with mock surprise.
Lily nodded and leaned in conspiratorially, whispering loud enough that Lizzy heard and said, “Papa always kisses away
mama’s frowns, and mama always starts to laugh and kiss him too.”
Rannulf acted as if he would kiss Lizzy, then smooched Lily’s cheek. She chortled her delight and Lizzy smiled.
“Would you like to play in the snow for a bit, Lily?”
“Yes! Will Hannah and Rebecca join us?”
“They are still too small,” Rannulf said. “But we will have a grand time.”
Lily wriggled down, slipped her hand in his and the other in Lizzy’s, and tugged them with her outside for an hour of play in
the snow.
 CHAPTER 10

S omething about the woman who had been discreetly watching Grayson with wide, regretful doe eyes for the last few
days moved him in an almost tangible way. Today marked their fourth day in the cottage, and he had been careful not to kiss her
again. They played chess daily, and Maggie beat him several times. She would then curl onto the chaise and sleep.
This was her current state, nestled on the chaise, drifting into slumber. As the book slipped from her grasp, he moved
swiftly, catching it before it hit the floor, mindful of not disturbing her peaceful slumber. Observing her awkward position on
the chaise, he decided it couldn’t be comfortable for her. With a gentle stoop, he slid his hands beneath her, lifting her gently
into his arms.
She stirred and crossly muttered something. Grayson smiled and gently lowered her to the bed. Her sleep had been restless
these past nights, and she often tossed well into the night until he drew her into his arms. Maggie always came willingly, and
within minutes, she would be asleep. For him, however, it was a different story. As Maggie slept soundly, he would find
himself tortured by hours of unfulfilled desire until exhaustion finally overcame him, granting him some respite.
Though a part of him understood her reasons for demanding discretion, Grayson also resented it. He longed to find a
woman who would appreciate him for the man he was rather than his title or position. If he were to disclose his identity as an
earl, Maggie might easily succumb to the allure of his social standing and become his lover.
And that stung.
Yet, he recognized the societal pressures that had led her to demand secrecy, and he harbored no ill feelings toward her for
it.
However, Grayson was determined never to reveal his status to Maggie. As the days seemed to stretch endlessly, with
perhaps only three more days remaining in their snowbound seclusion, Grayson cherished the unguarded conversations and
laughter. He liked the experience of being treated as nothing more than an ordinary man.
Unable to help himself, he touched her cheek with his fingertips, encountering skin as soft and smooth as a rose petal.
“Grayson,” she murmured, “I am cold.”
He took the blanket and fitted it around her. Maggie sighed, and it sounded so contented that the sound traveled to empty
spaces he’d not known were inside him and filled him with longing. A gurgle came from her stomach, and he grinned. They had
not eaten since she made oatmeal porridge this morning.
He went into the kitchen, determined to fix something. She needed sleep, and when she woke, Maggie would be ravenous.
Grayson watched her whenever she cooked, so he deftly lit the earthen stove, filled a pot with water, and set it on. Going
through the larder, he took down the flour and stared at it for a long time.
He scowled and put it back. The lemon cake was all gone, and so were the marzipan and gingerbread. Everything seemed
to require cooking. Grayson scrubbed a hand over his face. What if Maggie had not sought shelter here, too? What would he
have done when the cake and cookies were finished?
Determination filling his chest, Grayson took a chunk of meat from the meat safe. What type it was, he could not tell, but he
sat it on the stone counter, vowing she would be amazed. Maggie made soup several times, and he recalled most of what she
did.
Grayson washed the meat, placed it on a wooden chop block, and diced it fine. He wasn’t certain Maggie’s were this
small, but he tossed them into the pot of boiling water. He diced parsnips, shallots, and potatoes and tossed them in, then added
a spoonful of salt. Grayson frowned, looking into the larder, wondering if Maggie added anything else. His mind drew a blank,
and he covered the pot.
Watching her, he had learned that one of the most important steps in cooking was the bloody waiting. Grayson poured
himself some brandy and took a healthy swallow. He needed to start going beyond the copse of trees to assess the roads.
Though he had been vague about the date he would return to his estate, he would never allow a Christmas day to pass where he
was not there for Bella and his sons. Even if it meant he had to climb over a mountain of snow.
“You are cooking,” Maggie gasped.
Grayson glanced up and smiled. Maggie tried to rake her fingers through her hair to no avail.
“It is knotted.” She clambered off the bed and padded closer. “I think it is time to cut—”
“No,” the words burst from his mouth before she could finish speaking.
Maggie stared at him with wide eyes.
“Your hair is incredibly beautiful. It would be a shame to cut it. There is a comb on the shelf. I could help you detangle it.”
“Oh.”
That soft sound rippled over his skin. A look of wonder settled on her face. “It will take a long time. Perhaps—”
“I have all night. I am not at all tired.”
“Then thank you, Grayson.” They stared at each other for several moments before she glanced away. “Something smells
pleasant.”
He inhaled. “Will you brave my first attempt at cooking with me?”
A wide smile appeared. “Yes.”
“If I recall correctly, the soup will not be ready for several minutes.”
She nodded, and Grayson gently guided Maggie to the nearby chair. He reached for the wood comb and deftly started to
comb her tresses, the comb gliding through the tangled strands of her thick, lustrous hair.
Maggie let out a contented sigh as she relaxed into the chair. “A … gentleman has never helped me comb my hair before.”
A strange sensation hitched inside his chest. “I am glad I am the first.”
“I have never cut my hair,” she confessed, her words a whisper in the quiet room.
“Why?”
“I think perhaps it was the first thing I remember loving about myself. John also loved my hair and …” Her breath hitched.
“What is it?”
“I just recalled I cut a lock and had it buried with my husband.”
“Good.”
She chuckled. “My friend Ruth thought I provided John with the medium to haunt me.”
“Did you experience any haunting?”
“Only the memories of us.”
“I am sorry for your suffering,” he said gruffly. “I can hear the love in your voice.”
“You were married too; I daresay it was the same.” At his silence, she glanced up. “Was it not?”
“I grieved Barbara,” he said quietly. “We did not love each other as passionately as we could, but we had a deep
affection.”
“Why did you marry if you did not love each other?”
The question was so sweetly naive that for a moment Grayson did not know what to say. “People get married for many
reasons, and the least important one is for love.”
“Very true. I have heard many people say in the ton love matches are rare, and a marriage union is the most important
reason to maintain wealth and connection. But Grayson, I am asking you why you got married, not why others do.”
He combed through the strands, carefully thinking about his answer. “In truth, I admired someone else. Barbara saw that I
was forming an attachment, so she deliberately flung herself into my arms when she knew we would soon be discovered.”
Maggie gasped. “You were compromised?”
“Hmm.”
 “Why did you go ahead and marry her?”
“Several people saw the scene, more than she had allowed in her plans. She was very much ruined. I could not leave her to
the wolves.”
“Did you ever think of the young girl you did not marry?”
“No. Once a decision is made, it is pointless to look back and feel regret. What purpose would that serve other than to
brew resentment?”
“You are an unusual man, Grayson Rochester,” she murmured.
“It was still hard in the beginning to look beyond Barbara’s actions. It took months before our marriage got consummated.”
“I am sorry; it must feel dreadful to have your choice taken away.”
“We eventually became friends and respected each other.”
“I am glad,” she murmured. “Marriage is lifelong until death parts you. It is very hard to spend your life with someone not
your choosing. This is why I accept my children’s choices even when the old dragon is furious.”
“I hear a rather good tale with that moniker. A fire breather, is she?”
Maggie laughed, and Grayson damn well hoarded the sound. Inexplicably, he realized he would miss hearing that tinkling
yet husky and sensual sound. By God, he would miss Maggie Fairbanks’s presence once he returned to Devonshire. As he
diligently worked the comb through her hair, carefully untangling any knots, their banter flowed effortlessly. They exchanged
stories and anecdotes.
Grayson lowered the comb. “Your hair is untangled, my lady.”
“Thank you.” She tossed her head, and it rippled over her shoulders and down her back like a shimmering curtain.
He ladled the soup into bowls and brought it to the table. They washed their hands with chilled water and, as they ate, felt
like they conversed about everything. They finished the soup and shared a carafe of wine. Grayson liked it when she spoke of
her children. Maggie’s face became animated, and the stories she shared made him laugh several times.
She stood and swayed, her shoulders hitting the lone wall shelf. Grayson lurched and caught her, ignoring the wrapped
package that tumbled to the ground. “Are you foxed?”
Maggie laughed. “I was never a very good person with liquor, but I am not foxed. I think I stood too quickly. It happens
sometimes.”
He released her and she glanced down. Maggie stooped, picking up the book that fell from the package.
“Is this yours, Grayson?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at him, a warm smile gracing her lips.
“What is it?” Grayson inquired, curious about her expression.
“Is it you who read these stories or Bella?” Maggie asked, her voice filled with fondness.
“My daughter loves them,” Grayson said with a light chuckle. “I was happy to find all three books in the bookshop in
Penporth. They were out of stock in London. Imagine my surprise to find them here.”
Maggie turned her gaze toward him, her eyes twinkling. “That is because the author is originally from Penporth.”
Grayson arched a brow. “Do you know the author? In the back, it says she is a duchess. My daughter loved the series of
adventure stories.”
“Hmm,” she murmured, “I have a signed copy of the very first edition of The Mischievous Adventures of the Fairgoods. I
want to gift it to Bella.”
Her kindness pierced Grayson. “Thank you, Maggie. Bella will be overjoyed to receive a signed copy of the Fairgoods
adventures. Do you know the author?”
Maggie nodded, her smile growing. “Yes, my daughter Lizzy is the author. She is the Duchess of Ravenswood.”
Maggie’s connections to the ton were indeed noteworthy and explained her reticence more to being his lover, believing he
was a mere country gentleman. She lowered the book to the table, took a few steps and wobbled. Grayson caught her against
his chest, resting his hand on her hip. He could feel the sudden racing of Maggie’s heart and the softness of her body as it
yielded against his.
 “Grayson?” she murmured, her breath fanning his throat.
He slammed his eyes closed, temptation beating at his senses. “Not while you are intoxicated,” he said gruffly.
“I am not!” Maggie protested, then hiccupped and dissolved into laughter.
Grayson couldn’t help but chuckle. Her playful defiance only made her more endearing. However, Grayson acted swiftly
when she suddenly stumbled, and the room seemed to spin for her. He gently scooped her into his arms, cradling her with a
protective embrace.
“Maggie?”
“Hmm?”
Her breath was warm against his chest. Grayson assured her that the disorienting feeling would pass as he carried her to
the bed. Her response was a sleepy murmur, and her eyes closed, succumbing to slumber. He carefully lowered her onto the
bed, taking a moment to watch her peaceful form. Tenderness surged within him, and he tucked the blanket around her, ensuring
she was comfortable and warm.
Grayson walked over to the window, peering at the snowy landscape outside, the moonlight casting a beautiful silvery
glow on the trees and lake in the distance. As he gazed at the tranquil scene, Grayson grappled with the emotions stirring inside
his chest.
Everything inside of him seemed to reach toward Maggie Fairbanks. It wasn’t a mere physical attraction—he liked and
admired her so much. The logical reasonings he clung to seemed to crumble in the face of this growing attraction, leaving him
with a hunger to be with her that he could no longer dismiss.
 CHAPTER 11

M aggie jolted awake, feeling disoriented by the darkness of the room. She instinctively pushed the blanket aside and
sat up, her senses gradually adjusting to her surroundings. She frowned, unable to recall falling asleep in the bed. She shifted
onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. Unobstructed by clouds, the half-moon cast its silvery glow into the room,
illuminating enough for Maggie to see Grayson’s tall figure. He stood before the window, his silhouette framed by the soft
moonlight.
“Do you wish to come over?”
Her heart lurched. “How did you know I was awake?”
“As impossible as it sounds, I felt your stare.”
Oh. For the last few days, a hollow sensation haunted Maggie. She regretted what she had said to Grayson. Her words had
wounded him, and somehow, her own heart felt bruised. They smiled and chatted daily, played chess, and read in
companionable silence. Grayson remained incredibly thoughtful of her needs, collecting snow to melt for her ablutions. And in
the nights … she closed her eyes, recalling the wonderful feeling of sleeping curved into his side. Maggie was never cold once
he held her.
Then, only hours ago, he cooked for her. Emotions tangled within her chest and squeezed.
“Are you just going to continue staring?”
Smiling, she eased off the bed and padded over to his side. The window frame was not particularly large, and she had to
stand close enough to him where their shoulders touched to see outside.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked softly.
“Bella,” Grayson murmured, handing Maggie the wine carafe.
She peered at the bottle, realizing it was almost empty. Maggie tipped the wine to her mouth and took several swallows. It
was delicious. She returned the carafe of wine to Grayson, and he drank some. They shared the carafe until it was empty. This
time, while her belly and body felt warm, there was no intoxication.
“My daughter loves this time of the year. Bella would be very saddened if I did not make it home for Christmas; I must
make it home to her. My sons might put on a more stoic face, but I know they will be similarly affected. We have never spent
the holidays apart.”
“You will make it to Devonshire, Grayson. I already know that you’ll find a way even if the roads are impassable.” Maggie
glanced up at him, her eyes widening when she noted the wetness of his hair. “You went outside?”
“I go out each day,” he said drily.
Maggie sniffed. “You know I am asking if you rode beyond the cottage.”
“Yes. A few of the roads are impassable. I handed over several coins to a Mr. Wright, who will hire many men from the
village to help clear the roads.”
“I know Mr. Wright. He is honest and will ensure your money is put to proper use. Is the pathway leading into the heart of
Penporth also blocked?”
“Mr. Wright estimated it would be cleared in two to three more days. I will check daily for you.”
Maggie’s chest squeezed. She exhaled, releasing the knot of anxiety. “Where in Devonshire do you live, Grayson?”
He shifted and peered down at her. Whenever his silver gaze met hers, Maggie’s heart turned over in response. It was as if
she was another person with Grayson, one who felt primal desire and no longer felt unmoored and lonely. The usual refrain that
she had her children and grandbabies did not swan in her thoughts.
“I can be found on Ashworth Manor. It is the largest estate in South Devonshire.”
Maggie nodded, understanding that Grayson worked for the wealthiest landowner in his area and was perhaps a man of fair
means himself.
“Will you be coming to look for me, Maggie?”
She met his blazing gaze and recognized her own hunger in his eyes. Masking her emotions with a nod and a soft smile, she
murmured, “Perhaps one day I shall, Grayson Rochester.”
“What if I want to find you one day, Maggie? Where do I call?”
Her heart slammed inside her chest. “Everyone in Penporth knows the Fairbanks family.”
Grayson’s eyes searched her face, his expression carefully closed. Unexpectedly, his gaze warmed, and he lifted a hand to
cup her cheek gently.
“I am going to kiss you, Maggie, because I want to taste your lips again more than I have ever wanted anything in years.”
Those low words were rough with need, and the look in his eyes said he would do far more than kissing. “Yes,” she said
softly.
Grayson lowered his head and caught her mouth with his in a passionate kiss. Maggie lifted her hands to twine them around
the nape of his neck, kissing him back with chaotic need pulsing through her. She arched into him, her soft belly pressing
against the thick length in his trousers. With a low, possessive sound deep in his throat, he tightened his arms around her.
Maggie distantly realized he tugged the gown over her head and dropped it to the floor. Then she was in his arms, being carried
over to the small bed. Maggie held him to her, kissing him with all the passion roaring through her body. She wanted this to fill
all the places that had been empty of late with the taste and feel of him.
He stepped back, shoving his trousers off his hips and ripping his shirt over his head. Grayson’s body was corded with
such beautiful muscles. His manhood that jutted proudly to her appeared flushed and thick. The bed dipped as he came over to
her, staring at her naked form. Maggie wasn’t worried about the imperfections of her body that showed she had given birth to
twelve children. She breathed deeply and evenly through her nose, reveling in the pure male scent of Grayson.
He lowered his head and dragged his mouth to the side of her throat, where he paused to scrape his teeth delicately along
her pulse, then sucked at the flesh there. Maggie’s heart fluttered and her body heated. Grayson’s hands and mouth seared a path
over her body, kissing her breasts and the softness of her belly with its multitude of spidery networks of stretched skin.
“What … Grayson,” she cried out when his mouth went lower and grazed her inner thigh.
His tongue flicked over the folds of her womanhood. Shocked, Maggie’s upper body came off the bed, only to have
Grayson’s hand flatten against her stomach, pressing her back to the mattress as his lips covered her wet sex.
“Oh,” she cried out, trembling.
The hot swipe of his tongue against her tender sex made her whimper, and she reached down and clutched his shoulders.
Nothing had ever felt that good or so necessary. Maggie’s gasp was loud and raw as her hands thrust her fingers through his
hair, her spine arching.
Grayson pushed two of his fingers inside her sex, stroking them in and around, igniting her arousal. A third finger joined,
stretching and preparing her for his invasion, for she could tell that he had no plans to stop this wicked, sensual assault on her
body.
I don’t want him to stop.
His tongue curled over her clitoris, and something raw and primal tightened inside of Maggie, so tight she felt as if she
would snap in two. This kind of pleasure felt as if it would break her apart. It was a new sensation, something she wasn’t
entirely prepared to experience. A heated sensation sparked and spread out to her fingers and toes. Maggie’s body shook, and
she came apart with a scream.
Grayson gripped her hips and turned Maggie onto her belly. He kissed the back of her nape and trailed his mouth over her
shoulders, kissing her back and down to the globes of her buttocks. Maggie felt consumed and so unbearably aroused. He
pulled her up to her knees until her back was flushed to his chest. She tipped her chin up and turned her head to the side. He
met her with an open-mouthed kiss that made her bones melt and the heat in her body flared hotter. Grayson nudged her thighs
wide with his and pressed his cock against her sex. He held her against him as he flexed his hips and entered her in a smooth,
deep thrust.
Despite her overwhelming wetness, a choked cry ripped from Maggie as her sex burned deliciously at his penetration.
Grayson kissed her shoulders, and she leaned her head back against him, her eyes smarting at the tenderness of his lips.
Her thoughts fractured when he flexed his hips and pushed deeper. Again and again, he thrust deeply into her while his
mouth fell to the arched curve of her throat. He sucked hard on her flesh, raking his teeth over her wildly throbbing pulse. The
hand not holding her hips roamed over her front, cupping the underside of her breast, then pinching her nipple between his
thumb and forefinger. Maggie moaned, her arousal growing sharper.
The coldness she had not realized lived deep within her chest weakened, and sensations that felt new and unknown started
to writhe within her heart. The feeling quickly grew too heavy, too consuming.
Oh, God, no, she thought in panic. It is only desire; he is not touching my heart. With that reassurance, Maggie allowed
herself to be swept away by the raw arousal her unexpected lover pushed her body to experience. Over and over, he stroked
into her until bliss overwhelmed Maggie like a tidal wave, washing through her, resetting everything she thought she knew
about pleasure and coupling. Grayson groaned, his hips snapping harder and deeper before he released inside her body.
They tumbled to the bed, and Maggie was uncaring that his heavy weight pressed her into the mattress. She felt … utterly
satiated. A light laugh left her. Why did she feel so glorious? Grayson eased his manhood from her, and she winced. His weight
vanished from the bed, and a cool washcloth pressed against her sex. Her cheeks heated when he cleaned her, and Maggie did
not know how long she reposed on her belly before she pushed herself to sit in the center of the bed.
Their gazes collided, and she suddenly felt as though Grayson could see straight through her heart—seeing the hunger, the
loneliness she sometimes hid from, the hopes she did not want to acknowledge, and the fear she was falling too deeply for him
after only a few days. Maggie felt exposed and vulnerable in a way she had never known, and that shocked her. She had loved
and lived brightly and beautifully. How could this connection feel so … desperate? Maggie looked away from him.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked softly.
She looked back at him, thinking how arrogant and powerful he looked sitting up in the bed with his back flushed to the
headboard, one knee drawn up with his arm casually draped on it, and the other foot extended. He was unashamedly naked and
he was beautiful. Her body stirred, and Maggie flushed at how easily he aroused her.
“Come,” he murmured wickedly, “mount my cock and ride until you are satisfied.”
She glared at him, shocked that a woman of her experience could be wretchedly blushing. His laugh was a rich, sensual
sound that warmed her despite herself.
“Why deny yourself, Maggie, when you want more?”
His sensual arrogance pricked at her, and she narrowed her gaze at him. Did she undo him as he did her? Something wild
and inexplicable in her wanted to know. Maggie nestled her body beside his, thinking how he had pleased her with his mouth.
Acting on instinct, she licked his cock, which had already started to stir again. Over and over, she stroked him with her tongue
until he was hard and throbbing again.
Aroused satisfaction darted through her, and she peeked up at Grayson. His body was drawn taut, and his head was thrown
back. The cords of muscles in his throat stood out, and his arms bulged as he gripped the headboard. She patterned his actions
and flicked her tongue over his body.
“Fuck … Maggie,” he hissed.
The crude word was a carnal hiss that stroked wickedly against her senses. Smiling, Maggie lowered and sucked the thick,
flared mushroom head of his cock deeper into her mouth.
 CHAPTER 12

G rayson felt … taken.

Maggie pleasured him with her mouth until he feared his grip would break the headboard. As impossible as it seemed, her
wicked kiss felt unturned, but that only made it more carnal. She released his aching cock from the warm depths of her mouth
and climbed over his body, sitting astride his thigh.
“I was always good at this,” she drawled provocatively, reaching out to clasp his cock.
His damn heart pounded. “Good at what, Maggie?”
Her lips curved, and by God, her eyes gleamed with sensual wickedness. She leaned into him, brushing her mouth by his
ear, and whispered, “Riding.”
Grayson almost released his seed at that hot, sweet drawl. Maggie lifted her body, aligned his cock, and lowered herself
down onto his length. He damn well groaned at the fit, so damn wet and tight that sweat beaded on his brows. She was so damn
lovely and sensual, with her red, swollen mouth and mass of hair tumbling over her shoulders and down to her hips.
She had such lovely skin, large breasts, rosy nipples, sensually curvaceous hips, and legs that were long and slim. Grayson
swiped his thumb over her nipples before capturing the hard pebbles between his thumbs and forefingers. Maggie moaned, and
he dragged her close and took in his mouth a nipple that was ripe like a berry. He rolled it between his teeth before sucking.
She gasped and arched wildly into his embrace.
Maggie leaned back, her head arched gracefully backward, her eyes, half-closed yet luminous, fixed upon him with an
intense, smoldering allure. Then she started to ride. Over and over, she rose and slammed her hips down. Riding on his cock,
her sex squeezing him so snugly it was a miracle he did not release from that first heated glide up and then downward.
He was in disbelief, for he had already climaxed powerfully earlier. Feeling himself hurtling toward another release,
Grayson rubbed his fingers along her slit where they were joined, and she whimpered. That hot, little sound made his cock
pulse. He glided his fingers up her clitoris, which was hard and straining.
“Ride me harder,” he growled.
Grayson had never been a small man, and his lover’s pussy would be sore tonight, but he would ensure her pleasure over
and over so that she would forgive him for it. He pulled her to him until the tips of her breasts grazed his chest, and she buried
her face against the corded muscles of his throat, sucked his skin there before pressing her mouth to his, her hips moving faster.
Grayson stroked her nub of pleasure, and Maggie pulled her mouth from his, panting. He rubbed her clitoris until she
gushed, soaking his fingers and cock with her release. A wild cry ripped from his Maggie.
A needy whimper slipped from her and traveled straight to his cock as her pleasure started to climb again. He slowly
glided out of her, his breath hissing between his teeth, until passion ripped any semblance of control he tried to maintain.
Grayson held her hips and urged her up and down his cock with depth and strength. The bliss was excruciating.
“Grayson!”
Maggie climaxed again, her quim clenching around his cock like a hot, tight fist, convulsions wracking her frame. Fiery
fingers of pleasure danced up his spine, and he groaned and released his pleasure once more. Their ragged breathing echoed in
the cottage, and sweat beaded his brows and shoulder blades.
Grayson kissed her lips, neck, corners of her mouth and eyes. Soft kisses meant to comfort her. “You make me weak with
longing,” he admitted gruffly.
 Her mouth smiled against his throat. “You do not seem to like the notion.”
Grayson smoothed his palm over the curve of her back. “What I do not like are feelings I do not understand.”
She leaned back so she could see his face. “You’ve been married before.”
He stilled and looked away from her. After a moment, he glanced back at her. “I presume you feel something … something
beyond loneliness and the need for a good tumble.”
Her face softened, and he pushed a sweat-dampened tendril from her forehead.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I feel it too.”
Silence lingered, and Grayson thought about their interactions these last few days. They chatted for hours, laughed and even
drank together. He could say confidently that he could have spent an entire season or two in London without exchanging so
many words with someone he courted.
His heart started to pound. “You’ve been married before, Maggie. The feelings between us, do they feel like what you had
with your husband?”
Something flickered in her eyes, something unknown that he could not touch.
“I admit the passion between us is rather intense, more so than I knew with my … with John. I am older and less shy. You
also do things … things with your mouth that …”
Her cheeks turned scarlet, and he smiled to see it. The woman before him had been wild and wanton in her passions, but
now she blushed. The paradox was oddly endearing and made him want to take her in his arms again and devastate her with
pleasure.
“I lick your pussy, and he did not do that.”
“Grayson!”
He chuckled. “My explicitness alarms you? Truly, after everything?”
Maggie glowered.
“Very well, I shall concede to your sensibilities. He er … licked your velvet sheathe or Crinkum crankum or cocklane?”
She giggled, the sound morphing into a loud laugh.
“Now, you make me wonder what your husband called your honey pot.”
Maggie wrinkled her nose, thinking, then her eyes widened. “Goodness. I do not think he ever mentioned a name.”
How was that possible? She must have seen the surprise on his face because Maggie murmured, “John perhaps made
allowance for my background. My father, you see, was a vicar.”
“Good God, never say I have corrupted you?”
She playfully punched his shoulder, and a tender sensation moved inside Grayson’s chest. He liked seeing this glow of
good humor about her. The first moment he saw her burst inside the cottage, her eyes were the first thing to capture his
attention. Not because of their golden-brown prettiness, because they had been deep pools of sadness and wariness, and he’d
had the errant thought of who or what placed it there.
“How did your husband die, Maggie?”
Her eyes darkened with remembered pain, and her breath trembled on her lips. “One day, John was with us, and the next,
simply gone.”
“That blow must have been devastating.”
“For days, I did not get out of bed. I truly came to my senses when I woke one day to see that I was sleeping in my son’s
arms. My chamber was filled with all my children. Their eyes were red from shedding so many tears, their hearts wild with
grief and fear. The fear was that they would lose me too. They were there to comfort me when I should have comforted them.
My heart broke even more, and it was that day I decided my children would never worry about me being there for them again. I
got up, and I never sat back down.”
God, she was an incredible woman.
When he shifted her, she winced. “I’ll prepare a bath for you. It will ease the soreness.”
Her cheeks turned scarlet, and she ducked her head to hide her face. He chuckled and gently tugged her against his chest
and held her there for a long time.
MAGGIE SAT ON THE BED , wrapped snugly in a blanket, watching in astonishment as Grayson filled the bucket with snow and
carefully positioned it near the roaring fireplace, where the intense heat would melt it. He repeated this process several times,
collecting enough snow to fill the copper bathing tub tucked behind the small screen to the left of the kitchen. She had initially
protested, insisting that she didn’t need a bath, but he had merely kissed her forehead, dressed warmly, and ventured outside
into the bitter cold to fetch more snow.
As she watched him pour the last melted water into the tub, tenderness wrenched through her heart.
“Your bath awaits you, my lady.”
She smiled, gasping when he came over and lifted her into his arms. “I can walk, Grayson.”
“I know.”
Maggie held onto his shoulder when he lowered her down.
“It is not very hot.”
Maggie shrugged the blanket off her body, gasping at the cool air washing over her body. Her nipples pebbled and his eyes
darkened. “Do not even think about it, sir!”
He grinned sheepishly, the sight making him seem younger than his years. She lowered herself into the tub, the warmth of
the water soothing muscles that had exerted too much effort in their bed play.
“Is it good?”
“Yes. Very good. Thank you.” Maggie peeked up at him. “Join me, Grayson.”
She appreciated that he had not expected the invitation, and it had surprised even herself when she had extended it. His
smile was warm and appreciative as he climbed into the tub. Maggie inched forward, positioning herself so that she sat in front
of him, nestled comfortably between his thighs, the warmth of the water and his presence enveloping her in a cozy embrace.
He leaned over and plucked the soap from the small stool. He wet the bar and slathered it over her arms and shoulders,
under her breasts, and down her belly. Grayson was gentle when he rubbed his fingers through her folds. Maggie’s cheeks
heated. How could she blush as if she were a debutante and not a mature woman of fifty years? Especially one who had
climaxed in his arms four times.
“I like it,” Grayson murmured by her ear.
She leaned into the crook of his neck and tipped her face to see his eyes. “Like what?”
Something rather devilish lurked in his silver eyes. “That you blush and your eyes are expressive.”
Maggie sighed. “I like you, Grayson Rochester.”
He smiled, but the curve of his mouth did nothing to soften the intensity in his expression. “I like you, Maggie Fairbanks,
very much so.”
The loneliness eased, and a sweet, hopeful, and tender emotion replaced it. Maggie’s heart lurched, straining toward every
promise seen in his eyes. Flustered, she looked away from his probing stare. Maggie stood, aware of his gaze on her body. She
left the bathtub, plucked up the towel and dried herself.
Grayson quickly cleaned himself and stepped out of the bath. Maggie tossed him the other towel, and he quickly dried.
Despite the comforting fire crackling in the hearth, a persistent chill remained in the air. Maggie hurriedly selected another
dress from the armoire, which was slightly looser than the previous one and trailed slightly on the floor as she moved about.
She curled into the welcoming circle of his arm as they settled onto the bed. Her heart ached when he brushed his mouth against
her forehead. Maggie’s cheek rested against his chest, listening to Grayson’s heartbeat, lulling her into a deep, contented sleep.
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wore parted on her forehead and drawn primly down over the tips of
her ears.
To the sisters it was the entrance into a new world, the world their
parents had strayed from and often described to them. Seated in
arm-chairs of yellow brocade they surveyed the length of the parlor,
a spacious, high-ceilinged apartment, of a prevailing paleness of tint
and overhung by crystal chandeliers. The black shoulders of men
were thrown out against the white walls delicately touched with a
design in gilding. Long mirrors reproduced the figures of women
rising from the curving sweep of bright-colored, beruffled trains. A
Chinaman, carrying a wide tray of plates and glasses, moved from
group to group.
Soon several of the black coats had gathered round the chairs of
June and Rosamund. The Colonel had to give up his seat, and June
could see him talking to men in the doorways or dropping into vacant
places beside older women. He kept his eye on them, however. It
delighted him to see that their charm was so quickly recognized.
Round about him their name buzzed from a knot in a corner, or a
group on a sofa. Many of those present had known Beauregard Allen
in his short heyday. Almost everybody in the room had heard of his
strike near Foleys and sudden translation from poverty to riches.
When at length the Colonel saw the chair beside June vacant he
crossed the room and dropped into it. He was anxious to hear from
her how she was enjoying herself.
“Well,” he said, “the old man’s been frozen out for nearly an hour.
Didn’t it make you feel conscience-stricken to see me hanging round
the doorway looking hungrily at this chair?”
“I was dying for that man to go,” she answered. “I did everything but
ask him.”
“Oh, you sinner!” he said, looking into her dancing eyes. “Where will
you go to when you die?”
“Where do you think you will?” she asked, grave, but with her dimple
faintly suggested. “I’d like to know, because then I can arrange to
have just about the same sort of record, and we could go together.”
He could not restrain his laughter, and she added in her most
caressing tone,
“It would be so dreary for you to go to one place and me to be in
another.”
Before he could answer she had raised her eyes, glanced at the
door, and then suddenly flushed, her face disclosing a sort of sudden
quick snap into focused attention.
“Mr. Barclay,” she said in a low voice. “I didn’t expect to see him to-
night.”
The Colonel turned his head and saw Jerry Barclay entering the
room in the company of a lady and gentleman. Many other people
looked at them as they moved to where Mrs. Davenport stood, for
they were unquestionably a noticeable trio.
The woman was in the middle, and between the proud and
distinguished figure of Barclay and the small, insignificant one of her
other escort, she presented a striking appearance. She was of a
large, full build, verging on embonpoint, but still showing a restrained
luxuriance of outline. A dress of white lace clothed her tightly and
swept in creamy billows over the carpet behind her. It was cut in a
square at her neck, and the sleeves ended at her elbows, revealing
a throat and forearms of milky whiteness. This ivory purity of skin
was noticeable in her face, which was firmly modeled, rather heavy
in feature, and crowned with a coronet of lusterless black hair. She
was hardly handsome, but there was something sensational,
arresting, slightly repelling, in the sleepy and yet vivid vitality that
seemed to emanate from her.
“Who is it?” said June in a low voice. “What a curious looking
woman!”
The Colonel, who had been surveying the new-comers, looked at his
companion with eyes in which there was a slight veiled coldness.
The same quality was noticeable in his voice:
“Her name’s Newbury, Mrs. William Newbury. Her husband’s a
banker here.”
“Is that her husband with her, that little man?”
“Yes.”
“But he’s so old! He looks like her father. What did she marry him
for?”
“I don’t know. I’m not her father-confessor. He’s got a good deal of
money, I believe.”
The Colonel did not seem interested in the subject. He picked up
June’s fan and said,
“How did you like the young fellow who had this chair just now,
Stanley Davenport? He’s the last unmarried child my old friend has
left.”
The girl’s eyes, however, had followed the new-comers with avid,
staring curiosity, and she said,
“Very much. Are Mrs. Newbury and her husband great friends of Mr.
Barclay’s?”
“I believe they are. I don’t know much about her. I know her husband
in business. He’s a little dried up, but he’s a first-rate fellow in the
main.”
“Is she an American? She looks so queer and foreign.”
“Spanish, Spanish-Californian. She and her sister were two
celebrated beauties here about twelve years ago. Their name was
Romero—Carmen and Guadalupé Romero—and they were very
poor. Their grandfather had been a sort of a Shepherd King, owned
a Spanish grant about as big as a European principality, and when
the Gringo came traded off big chunks of it for lengths of calico and
old firearms and books he couldn’t read. The girls were friends of
Mrs. Davenport’s only daughter Annie, and she gave them a start.
Carmen—she was the elder of the two—married an Englishman, a
man of position and means that she met in this house. She lives over
in England. This one—Lupé—married Newbury about ten years
ago.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?” asked June, anxious to have her
uncertainty on this point settled by what she regarded as expert
opinion.
“No. I don’t admire her at all. She was handsome when she married.
Those Spanish women all get too fat. You saw something of Barclay
at Foleys after I left, didn’t you?”
She dropped her eyes to the hands folded in her lap and said with a
nonchalant air,
“Yes, he was at Foleys for over a week. He came back from
Thompson’s Flat just after you left, and he used to come and see us
every afternoon. We had lots of fun. He helped us with the garden,
and he didn’t know how to do anything, and we had to teach him.”
“You saw a lot of Rion Gracey too, I suppose,” said her companion,
with a sidelong eye on her.
It pleased him to note that at this remark she looked suddenly
conscious.
The Colonel had for some time cherished a secret hope. It was one
of the subjects of mutual agreement which had made it easier for
him and Allen to bury the hatchet. The latter had told him of Rion
Gracey’s continued visits to the cottage throughout the summer, and
both men had agreed that no woman could find a better husband
than the younger of the Gracey boys.
June’s conscious air was encouraging, but her words were
aggravatingly non-committal.
“Oh, yes,” she said, “we saw Mr. Gracey often. He was always
coming into Foleys to buy supplies for the Buckeye Belle.”
At that moment Barclay, who had turned away from his companions,
saw her, and with a start of recognition followed by a smile of
undisguised pleasure, hurried toward her. The Colonel rose with
some reluctance. He was surprised and not entirely pleased at the
open delight of the young man’s countenance, the confident
friendliness of his greeting. He gave up his chair, however, and as he
crossed the room to one of his elderly cronies, he saw that Mrs.
Newbury was watching Jerry Barclay and June with a slight, lazy
smile and attentive eyes.
“I came here to-night solely to see you,” said the young man, as
soon as the Colonel was out of earshot.
“But how did you know I was here?” asked the innocent June. “I
never told you.”
“No, you naughty girl, you never did. But I heard it.”
“Little birds?” she queried, tilting up her chin and looking at him out
of the ends of her eyes.
“Little birds,” he acquiesced. “And why didn’t you let me know? Don’t
I remember your making me a solemn promise at Foleys to tell me
the first thing if you ever came to San Francisco? You were doubtful
then if you ever would.”
“Yes, I think you do,” she agreed. “That is, if you’ve got a good
memory.”
“You evidently haven’t.”
“I remembered it perfectly and was waiting until we got settled in our
new house before I wrote you. I was going to give you a surprise.”
“Well, you’ve surprised me enough already.” He leaned a little nearer
to her, and looking at her with eyes that were at once soft and bold
said: “You’ve changed so; you’ve changed immensely since I saw
you last.”
She dropped her eyes and said demurely,
“I hope it’s for the better,” then looked up at him and their laughter
broke out in happy duet.
The Colonel heard it across the room, and glancing at them felt
annoyed that June should look so suddenly flushed and radiant.
Evidently she and Jerry Barclay, in the ten days he had spent at
Foleys, had become very good friends.
An hour later the Misses Allen were standing at the top of the steps
that led from the porch to the street. Guests were departing in all
directions, and the lanterns of carriages were sending tubes of
opaque, yellow light through the fog. The Colonel had gone in quest
of theirs, cautioning his charges to wait in the shelter of the porch for
him. Here they stood, close-wrapped against the damp, and peering
into the churning white currents. Just below them two men, the
collars of their coats up, paused to light their cigars. One
accomplished the feat without difficulty; the other stood with his hand
curved round the match, which many times flamed and went out.
Suddenly June heard his companion say between puffs,
“Queer, Mrs. Newbury being here!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the other, drawing a new match from his
pocket, “Mrs. Davenport knew the Romero girls long before they
were married. They were friends of Annie Davenport’s. Nobody’d
ever breathed a word against either of them then. She wouldn’t
throw Lupé down on a rumored scandal. I don’t see how she could.”
“Lots of people have. And you call it a ‘rumored scandal’ all you
want; everybody believes it. She owns him body and soul.”
The other man had at last induced the tip of his cigar to catch. He
threw back his head and drew a few quick inspirations.
“That’s the story. But a woman like Mrs. Davenport is not going to
damn her daughter’s friend on hearsay. Women have got a creed of
their own; they believe what they want to and they disbelieve what
they want to. She wants to believe that the affair’s purely platonic,
and she does it.”
“But Barclay! To hang round her that way in public—what a fool!”
“Oh, Barclay!”—a shrug went with the words—“he does what he’s
told!”
The man turned as he spoke and saw the two girls above him on the
step. He threw a low-toned phrase at his companion, and without
more words they started out and were absorbed in the darkness.
Almost simultaneously a carriage rattled up and the Colonel’s voice
bade June and Rosamund descend.
A half-hour later, as they were mounting the stairs to their rooms,
June said suddenly,
“Did you hear what those men were saying on the steps as we stood
there waiting?”
They had both heard the entire conversation, and though they did
not understand the true purport of the ambiguous phrases, they
realized that they contained a veiled censure of Mrs. Newbury and
Jerry Barclay. Their secluded bringing up in an impoverished home
where the coarseness of the world never entered had kept them
ignorant of the winked-at sins of society. Yet the crude frankness of
mining camps had paraded before their eyes many things that girls
brought up in the respectable areas of large cities never see.
“Yes, I heard them,” said Rosamund.
“What did they mean? I didn’t understand them. They seemed to
think there was something wrong about Mrs. Newbury.”
“I don’t know what they meant. But I didn’t like her looks at all. I
wouldn’t want her for a friend.”
“They said something of Mr. Barclay too, didn’t they?”
“Yes; they said he was a fool and did as he was told.”
“Well,” said June, bristling, “those are just the two particular things
about him I should think were not true. But there was some one that
they said she—I suppose that meant Mrs. Newbury—owned body
and soul. Whom do you suppose they meant?”
“Her husband,” said Rosamund promptly. “Whom else could they
mean?”
June had felt depressed on the way home. At these words her
depression suddenly vanished and she became wreathed in smiles.
Thrusting her hand through Rosamund’s arm she gave it an
affectionate squeeze, exclaiming with a sudden sputter of laughter,
“Well, if his soul isn’t a better specimen than his body I don’t think it’s
much to own.”
Rosamund was shocked; she refused even to smile, as June,
drooping against her shoulder, filled the silence of the sleeping
house with the sound of her laughter.
 CHAPTER II
FEMININE LOGIC
Social life in San Francisco at this period had a distinction, a half-
foreign, bizarre picturesqueness, which it soon after lost and has
never regained. Separated from the rest of the country by a sweep of
unconquered desert, ringed on its farther side by a girdle of sea, the
pioneer city developed, undisturbed by outside influences, along its
own lines.
The adventures of forty-nine had infused into it some of the breadth
and breeziness of their wild spirit. The bonanza period of the
Comstock lode had not yet arisen to place huge fortunes in the
hands of the coarsely ambitious and frankly illiterate, and to infect
the populace with a lust of money that has never been conquered.
There were few millionaires, and the passionate desire to become
one had not yet been planted in the bosom of every simple male,
who, under ordinary conditions, would have been content to wield a
pick or sweep down the office stairs. The volcano of silver that was
to belch forth precious streams over the far West, and from thence
over the world, was beginning to stir and mutter, but its muttering
was still too low to be caught by any but the sharpest ears.
The society which welcomed June and Rosamund was probably the
best the city ever had to offer. After the manner of all flourishing
communities it aspired to renew itself by the infusion of new blood,
and the young girls were graciously greeted. Carriages rolled up to
the high iron gates, and ladies whose names were of weight trailed
their silk skirts over the flagged walk. Coming in late in the wintry
dusk it was very exciting always to find cards on the hall table.
There were often men’s cards among them. A good many moths had
begun to flutter round the flames of youth and beauty and wealth that
burnt in the Colonel’s house on Folsom Street. In his constant visits
he had formed a habit of looking over these cards as he stood in the
hall taking off his overcoat. The frequency with which the card of Mr.
Jerome Barclay lay freshly and conspicuously on top of the pile
struck him unpleasantly and caused him to remark upon the fact to
June.
“Yes, Mr. Barclay comes quite often,” she said, “but so does Mr.
Davenport and Mr. Brooks and Mr. Pierce, and several others.”
She had changed color and looked embarrassed at the mention of
his name, and the Colonel had spoken to Rosamund about it. The
Colonel had begun to rely upon Rosamund, as everybody did, and,
like everybody, he had come to regard her as much the elder of the
two sisters, the one to be consulted and to seek advice of.
Rosamund admitted that Mr. Barclay did come rather often, but not
indeed, as June had said, oftener than several others.
“Does he come to see June, or you, or both of you?” the Colonel had
asked bluntly, looking at the last slip of pasteboard left by the young
man.
“Oh, June, of course,” said Rosamund, with a little quickness of
impatience. “They nearly all come to see June.”
“I don’t see what the devil business he has doing that,” said the
Colonel, throwing down the card with angry contempt. “What’s he
come round here for, anyway?”
“Why shouldn’t he?” asked Rosamund, surprised at his sudden
annoyance.
“Well, he shouldn’t,” said the Colonel shortly. “That’s one sure thing.
He shouldn’t.”
And so that conversation ended, but the memory of it lingered
uneasily in Rosamund’s mind, and she found herself counting Jerry
Barclay’s calls and watching June while he was there and after he
had gone.
The visits of the young man were not indeed sufficiently frequent to
warrant uneasiness on sentimental scores. He sometimes dropped
in on Sunday afternoon, and now and then on week-day evenings.
What neither Rosamund nor the Colonel knew was that he had
formed a habit of meeting June on walks she took along the fine new
promenade of Van Ness Avenue, and on several occasions had
spent a friendly hour with her, sitting on one of the benches in the
little plaza on Turk Street.
The first and second times this had happened June had mentioned
the fact to her sister, and that a gentleman should accidentally meet
a lady in an afternoon stroll had seemed a matter of so little
importance that Rosamund had quickly forgotten it. The subsequent
meetings, also apparently accidental, June, for some reason known
to herself, had not mentioned to any one. Now it was hard for her to
persuade herself that she met Jerry Barclay by anything but
prearranged design; and June did not like to think that she met him,
or any other man, by prearrangement. So she let him elicit from her
by skilful questioning, her itinerary for her afternoon walks when she
had no engagements, and took some trouble to make herself believe
that the meetings still had at least an air of the accidental.
But why did she not tell her sister of these walks? Why, in fact, had
she once or twice lately almost misled Rosamund in her efforts to
evade her queries as to how she had passed the afternoon?
If June happened to be looking in the mirror when she asked herself
these questions she noticed that she reddened and looked guilty.
There was nothing wrong in meeting Mr. Barclay and walking with
him or sitting on one of the benches in the quiet little plaza. Their
conversation had never contained a word with which the strictest
duenna could have found fault. Why, then, did June not tell? She
hardly knew herself. Some delicate fiber of feminine instinct told her
that what was becoming a secretly tremulous pleasure would be
questioned, interfered with, probably stopped. She knew she was not
one who could fight and defy. They would overwhelm her, and she
would submit, baffled and miserable.
If Jerry Barclay liked to talk to her that way in the open air, or on the
park bench better than in the gloomy grandeur of the parlor in
Folsom Street, why should he not? And yet she felt that if she had
said this to Rosamund with all the defiant confidence with which she
said it to herself, Rosamund would in some unexpected way sweep
aside her argument, show it worthless, and make her feel that if
Jerry did not want to see her in her own house he ought not to see
her at all. So June used the weapons of the weak, one of the most
valuable of which is the maintaining of silence on matters of dispute.
It was in February that their father suggested that they should return
the numerous hospitalities offered them by giving a dance. It would
not be a ball. They were still too inexperienced in the art of
entertainment, and their mourning was yet too deep to permit of their
venturing on so ambitious a beginning. “Just a house-warming,”
Allen said when he saw that they were rather alarmed by the
magnitude of the undertaking. There was much talking and
consulting of the Colonel. Every night after dinner the girls sat long
over the coffee and fruit, discussing such vital points as to whether
there should be two salads at the supper and would they have four
musicians or five. Allen called them “little misers,” and told them they
“never would be tracked through life by the quarters they dropped.” It
was interesting to the Colonel to notice that Rosamund’s habits of
economy clung to her, while June had assimilated the tastes and
extravagances of the women about her with a sudden, transforming
completeness.
It was at one of these after-dinner consultations that he was
presented with the list of guests written out neatly in Rosamund’s
clear hand. Was it all right, or did Uncle Jim think they had left out
anybody?
As he ran his eye over it Allen said suddenly:
“They’ve got Mrs. Newbury down there. What do you think about
her?”
The Colonel, who was reading through his glasses, looked up with a
sharp glance of surprise and again down at the list, where his eyes
stopped at the questioned name.
“Oh, strike her off,” he said. “What do you want her for?”
“She’s been here to see us,” Rosamund demurred, “and she asked
us once to her house to hear somebody sing.”
“Why shouldn’t she come?” said June. “What is there about her you
don’t like?”
“I didn’t say there was anything,” he answered in a tone of irritated
impatience. “But she’s a good deal older than you, and—and—well, I
guess it wouldn’t amuse her. She doesn’t dance. You don’t want to
waste any invitations on people who may not come.”
Apparently this piece of masculine logic was to him conclusive, for
he took his pencil and made a mark through the name.
The evening of the dance arrived, and long before midnight its
success was assured. It was undoubtedly one of the most brilliant
affairs of the winter. It seemed the last touch on the ascending
fortunes of June and Rosamund. They had never looked so well. In
her dress of shimmering white, which showed her polished
shoulders, Rosamund was beautiful, and June, similarly garbed,
looked, as some of the women guests remarked, “actually pretty.” As
a hostess she danced little. Three times, however, Rosamund
noticed her floating about the room encircled by the arm of Jerry
Barclay. Other people noticed it too. But June, carried away by the
excitement of the evening, was indifferent to the comment she might
create. So was Barclay. He had drunk much champagne and felt
defiant of the world. She felt defiant too, because she was so
confidently happy.
By three the last guests had gone. Allen, hardly waiting for the door
to slam on them, stumbled sleepily to bed, and June followed, a
wearied sprite, bits of torn gauze trailing from her skirt, the wreath of
jasmine blossoms she wore faded and broken, the starry flowers
caught in her curls.
“Rosie, I’m too tired to stay up a minute longer,” she called from the
stairs, catching a glimpse of the dismantled parlor with Rosamund,
followed by a yawning Chinaman, turning out lights and locking
windows.
“Go up, dear,” answered Rosamund in her most maternal tone. “I’ll
be up in a minute. Sing’s so sleepy I know he’ll go to bed and leave
everything open if I don’t stay till he’s done.”
The sisters occupied two large rooms, broad-windowed and
spacious, in the front of the house. The door of connection was
never shut. They talked together as they dressed, walking from room
to room. The tie between them, that had never been broken by a
week’s separation, was unusually close even for sisters so near of
an age, so united by mutual cares and past sorrows.
June’s room shone bright in the lights from the two ground-glass
globes which protruded on gilded supports from either side of the
bureau mirror. It was furnished in the heavily gorgeous manner of the
period and place. Long curtains of coarse lace fell over the windows,
which above were garnished with pale blue satin lambrequins
elaborately draped. The deeply tufted and upholstered furniture was
covered with a blue-and-white cretonne festooned with woolen
tassels and fringes. Over the foot of the huge bed lay a satin
eiderdown quilt of the same shade as the lambrequins.
June, completely exhausted, was soon in bed, and lying peacefully
curled on her side waited for her sister’s footsteps. As she heard the
creak of Rosamund’s opening door she called softly:
“Come in here. I want to talk. I’ve millions of things to say to you.”
Rosamund swept rustling into the room and sat down on the side of
the bed. Her dress was neither crushed nor torn and the bloom of
her countenance was unimpaired by fatigue.
“Dear Rosie, you look so lovely,” said June, curling her little body
under the clothes comfortably round her sister. “There was nobody
here to-night half as good-looking as you were.”
She lightly touched. Rosamund’s arm with the tips of her fingers,
murmuring to herself,
“Lovely, marbly arms like a statue!”
Her sister, indifferent to these compliments, which she did not
appear to hear, sat looking at the toe of her slipper.
“I think it was a great success,” she said. “Everybody seemed to
enjoy it.”
“Of course they did. I know I did. I never had such a beautiful,
galumptious time in my life.”
Rosamund gave her a gravely inspecting side-glance.
“You tore your dress round the bottom, I saw. There was quite a
large piece trailing on the floor.”
“Yes, it was dreadful,” said June, nestling closer about the sitting
figure and smiling in dreamy delight. “Somebody trod on it while I
was dancing, and then they danced away with it round them, and it
tore off me in yards, as if I was a top and it was my string.”
“Were you dancing with Jerry Barclay?” asked Rosamund.
“I don’t think so.” She turned her head in profile on the pillow and
looked at her sister out of the corner of her eye. Meeting
Rosamund’s sober glance she broke into suppressed laughter.
“What’s the matter with you, Rosie?” she said, giving her a little kick
through the bed-clothes; “you look as solemn as an undertaker.”
“I don’t think you ought to have danced so often with Jerry Barclay. It
—it—doesn’t look well. It—” she stopped.
“‘It’—well, go on. Tell me all about it. A child could play with me to-
night. You couldn’t make me angry if you tried.”
“June,” said Rosamund, turning toward her with annoyed
seriousness, “I don’t think you ought to be friends with Jerry Barclay.”
“What do you say that for?”
Despite her previous remark as to the difficulty of making her angry,
there was a distinct, cold edge on June’s voice as she spoke.
“I found out to-night. Ever since we heard those men talk that
evening at Mrs. Davenport’s I had a feeling that something wasn’t
right. And then Uncle Jim being so positive about not asking Mrs.
Newbury here this evening.”
“What’s Mrs. Newbury got to do with it?”
“Everything. It’s all Mrs. Newbury. To-night in the dressing-room
some girls were talking about her and Mr. Barclay; I asked them
what they meant, and I heard it all. It’s a horrid story. I don’t like to
tell it to you.”
“What is it?” said June. She had turned her head on the pillow and
stared full face at her sister. She was tensely, frowningly grave.
“Well, they say—every one says—they’re lovers.”
“Lovers!” exclaimed June. “What do you mean by that? She’s
married.”
“That’s just the dreadful part of it. They’re that kind of lovers—the
wrong kind. They’ve been for years, and she loves him desperately
and won’t let him have anything to do with anybody else. And Mr.
Newbury loves her, and doesn’t know, and thinks Jerry Barclay is his
friend.”
There was a silence in the room. Rosamund had found it difficult to
tell this base and ignoble piece of scandal to her sister. Now she did
not look at June because she loved her too much to witness the
shame and pain that she knew would be hers.
“It’s too horrible,” she continued, June uttering no sound. “I wouldn’t
have told you, but—well, we don’t want him coming here if he’s that
sort of man. And Mrs. Newbury—” she made a gesture of angry
disgust—“what right had she to come here and call on us?”
June still said nothing. Her hand was lying on the counterpane and
Rosamund, placing hers on it, felt that it trembled and was cold.
This, with the continued silence, alarmed her and she said, trying to
palliate the blow,
“It seems so hard to believe it. He was so kind and natural and jolly
up at Foleys, as if he was our brother.”
“Believe it!” exclaimed June loudly. “You don’t suppose I believe it?”
Her tone was high, almost violent. She jerked away her hand and
drew herself up in the bed in a sitting posture.
“You don’t suppose I’d believe a shameful, wicked story like that,
Rosamund Allen?”
“But they all said so,” stammered Rosamund, taken aback, almost
converted by the conviction opposing her.
“Well, then, they say what’s not true, that’s all! They’re liars. Don’t
lots of people tell lies? Haven’t you found out that down here in the
city most of the things you hear aren’t true? They just like to spread
stories like that so that people will listen to them. Everybody wants to
talk here and nobody wants to listen. It’s a lie—just a mean,
cowardly lie.”
Her face was burning and bore an expression of quivering intensity.
Rosamund, astonished by her vehemence, stared at her disquieted.
“But—but—everybody thinks so,” was all she could repeat.
“Then they think what’s not so. Do you think so?” with eager
challenge.
The other looked down, her brows drawn together in worried
indecision.
“I don’t know what to think,” she said. “When he comes up in my
mind, especially as he was at Foleys, it seems as if I couldn’t believe
it either.”
“There!” exclaimed June triumphantly. “Of course you can’t. Nobody
who has any sense could. It’s just degraded, low-minded people who
have nothing better to do than spread scandals that could believe
such a story about such a man.”
“But Mrs. Newbury,” demurred her sister. “Why did Uncle Jim not
want us to ask her to-night?”
“What’s Mrs. Newbury got to do with it? I don’t know. I don’t care
anything about her. I don’t like her. She looks like a large white seal,
walking on the tip of its tail. I think she’s common and fat and ugly.
But what does she matter? If Mr. Newbury loves her he’s got very
bad taste, that’s all I’ve got to say. And as to Jerry Barclay loving
her? Why, Rosamund—” she suddenly dropped to her most
persuasive softness of tone and expression—“you know he couldn’t.”
“I don’t know,” said Rosamund. “I don’t feel as if I knew anything
about men, or what they like, or what they don’t like. You might think
Mrs. Newbury ugly and they might think her beautiful. You never can
tell. And then those men on the steps that night at Mrs.
Davenport’s”—she shot an uneasy glance at her sister—“that was
what they meant.”
“Rosie,” said June, leaning toward her and speaking with pleading
emphasis, “you don’t believe it?”
“I don’t want to, that’s certain.”
“Well, then, say you don’t.”
“I can’t say that positively. I wish I could.”
She rose from her seat and moved away, absently drawing the hair-
pins from her coiled hair. June fell back on the pillow.
“Well, I can,” she said. “I never felt more positive about anything in
my life.”
Her sister turned back to the bedside and stood there looking
frowningly down.
“I hope you’re right,” she said. “I’d hate to think any man like that had
ever come here to see us or been a friend of yours.”
“So would I,” said June promptly. “So would any girl.”
“Well, good night. You’re tired to death. I’ll put the gas out.”
June saw the tall white figure move to the bureau and then darkness
fell, and she heard its rustling withdrawal.
She lay still for a time staring at the square of light that fell from her
sister’s room through the open door. Presently this disappeared and
she moved her eyes to the faint luminous line which showed the
separation of the window curtains. She was still staring at it wide-
eyed and motionless when it grew paler, whiter and then warmer
with the new day.
She had spoken the truth when she said she did not believe the ugly
story. There are many women who have the faculty of quietly
shutting a door on obvious facts and refusing them admittance into
the prim sanctuary of their acceptance. How much more might a
young girl, loving, inexperienced and tender, refuse to believe a
blasting rumor that had touched a figure already shrined in her heart!
But the shock she suffered was severe. That such a story should be
coupled with his name was revolting to her. And far down in the inner
places of her being, where nature has placed in women a chord that
thrills to danger, a creeping sense of dread and fear stirred. But she
smothered its warning vibration and, with her eyes fixed on the crack
of light, repeated over and over:
“Lies! lies! Miserable, cowardly lies!”
 CHAPTER III
ONE OF EVE’S FAMILY
It was a few weeks after the ball that the Colonel heard of the
expected arrival in town of Rion Gracey and Barney Sullivan en
route to Virginia City.
From the great camp across the mountain wall in the Nevada desert,
an electric current had begun to thrill and extend its vibrations
wherever men congregated. The autumn rumors that Virginia was
not dead persisted. The mutterings of the silver volcano had grown
louder and caught the ear of the hurrying throng. The reports of a
strike in Crown Point rose and fell like an uneasy tide. The price of
the stock that in the spring of seventy had sold for seventy-five cents
had risen to two, and then to three, dollars. Men watched it
disquieted, loath to be credulous where they had so often been the
dupes of manager and manipulator, yet tempted by the oft-repeated
prophecy that the great bonanzas of Virginia were yet to be
discovered. Throughout California and Nevada the miners that three
years before had left the dying camp as rats leave a sinking ship,
began to bind up their packs and turn their faces that way. It was like
the first concentrating movement of a stealthily gathering army. The
call of money had gone thrilling along the lines of secret
communication which connect man with man.
The Graceys had large holdings in Virginia. The group of
unprofitable claims consolidated under the name of the Cresta Plata
was theirs, and Rion and his superintendent were going up “to take a
look around.” This was what the Colonel heard down town. It was a
piece of intelligence that was reported as of weight. Mining men
watched the movements of the Gracey boys as those about great
rulers follow their actions in an effort to read their unexpressed
intentions. When the Graceys moved into camps or out of camps,
operators, managers and financiers noted the fact. That Rion and
Sullivan should take a detour to San Francisco instead of going