A Midsummer Bride (29 page)

“Unfortunately, the primary tool of my trade was stolen by a traitor,” said Penelope, still disappointed regarding the loss of her matchmaker book.

“Ah yes, I nearly forgot.” He reached under the tablecloth of a small side table and pulled out her Debrett’s
Peerage
.

“You found it!” It was only a book, but it was dear to her, and she was beyond happy to have it returned.

“It was in Neville’s room. I even cleaned off the chemicals, so it should be ready to use.”

“I shall do my utmost, Your Grace, to find you a suitable wife,” said Penelope. “It would be helpful if you would endeavor not to be so particular in your choice of brides.”

The Duke of Marchford raised one aristocratic eyebrow. “I anticipate you will find me a suitable bride. If you cannot present anyone worthy, I shall expect you to perform the office yourself. Good night, Miss Rose.”

Penelope watched as Marchford strolled away, self-confident as always. He must have been jesting when he said he would marry her.

He was joking… wasn’t he?

Thornton Hall, 1817

Harriet had to yell to make herself heard over the din of the twins. Two sets. One set of boys, one of girls. The girls were louder.

“Happy Christmas!” shouted Harriet to her mother-in-law, who arrived for Christmas Eve dinner on the arm of Sir Antony Roberts, who hardly could be seen for the number of parcels he carried.

“Happy Christmas, my love,” said Lady Roberts and swept past her to embrace her grandchildren. All four at once if possible. The children embraced her savagely, hugging and kissing with abandon, and pulled her into the parlor to play games.

“We did some shopping for the children,” said Sir Antony, handing the butler a stack of packages. “How are you, my dear?”

“Very well, thank you. I do hope you did not put yourself out for the children’s sake.” Harriet was occasionally worried, when she had the time, that her mother-in-law would beggar her new husband with the gifts she brought.

“No, no, not at all. She has more blunt than she can spend now that she has given up gambling. She was such a horrible gambler.” He shook his head. “I don’t think she even liked it. More to get back at her first husband if you ask me.”

“I am so glad she is happy.”

“We are happy and I benefit more than anyone. Why she would marry an old goat like myself is beyond me. But she did, and I hope she doesn’t realize her mistake until I’m dead and gone!”

“One thing I know is that your wife adores you.”

“You know a good deal more than that,” countered Sir Antony. “Saw your latest chemistry article from ‘Harry Maclachlan.’ Well done! Could not understand most of it, so I know it must have been good.”

Harriet smiled in response. She was a little proud of her paper too.

“Now where’s that husband of yours?” asked Sir Antony with a smile.

“In the parlor, playing some sort of game with the children. Most likely something messy and loud.”

“My favorite!” His eyes twinkled. “The young people are coming.”

The young people turned out to be Sir Antony’s nephew, Dr. Roberts; his wife, Lady Louisa; and their four children. They arrived, all smiles, the children quietly standing in the entryway like perfect angels until they were given leave to join the other children. Then they tore into the parlor like beasts.

Thornton stumbled out of the parlor laughing, his jacket off, his head wet and water dripping down his shirt.

“Duncan! Are you playing with the children again?”

“Aye!” he said with sheepish grin. “They dared me to get two apples at once.”

“But that’s not possible.”

“Well, I know that, dear, but it was a dare. I coud’na back down now, could I?”

“Duncan, you are a poor influence on our children. I am trying to teach them not to take foolish dares.”

He shrugged. “I know ye are right. I just need more practice with this child-raising thing. I’ll get the right of it. I promise ye.”

“I should hope so. Perhaps you will do better with the next one.”

“Aye… wait—the next?”

Harriet smiled. “Yes, the next.” She patted her midsection with a smile.

“Och, five bairns. They shall be the death o’ me.”

“Unless we have twins again.”

“Six! Nay, ’tis too many bairns we have here.”

“Shall I tell the housekeeper we have finally decided to be respectable and sleep in separate rooms? You know she has been hinting at it since the second set of twins.”

Thornton wrapped his arms around her and graced her with a Christmas kiss. “Nay. I do believe we shall go for an even dozen.”

They walked, hand in hand, into the parlor, which was crawling with children. Some were playing bob for apples, others were playing on the pianoforte and dancing, while still others had paper dolls in one corner and stick horses in another, and they were all talking at once in a happy cacophony of noise.

“Happy Christmas, my love,” said Thornton.

“A Merry Christmas to you too.”

Although the situation in which Harriet Redgrave found herself when her American ship was attacked by an English frigate may seem far-fetched, it actually has a basis in fact. During the Napoleonic Wars, the Royal Navy routinely turned to impressments, the taking of sailors by force to serve in the navy, in order to man their six-hundred-ship fleet. Press gangs could operate both on land and at sea. By British law, any officer of the Royal Navy could, if the need arose, stop another seagoing vessel and press eligible men into service of the navy. British frigates often stationed themselves outside U.S. harbors in order to search American vessels for contraband or men they considered eligible for impressments. Since Britain did not recognize American naturalized citizenship, they considered anyone of British descent to be fair game for impressments. In 1807, the American frigate, the USS
Chesapeake
, was attacked and boarded by a British warship and four sailors taken as deserters, one later put to death. These incidents outraged Americans and became one of the reasons America declared war on Britain during the war of 1812.

I greatly appreciate all the support and encouragement I have received from my family, friends, and other authors who make me feel slightly less crazy. Thanks to my editor, Deb Werksman, and my agent, Barbara Poelle, who encouraged me to go where the story led. A huge debt of gratitude to my beta reader, Laurie Maus, whose insights and edits are invaluable. And of course, to my husband, who picked up the slack so I could follow this dream.

Amanda Forester holds a PhD in psychology and worked for many years in academia before discovering that writing historical romance was decidedly more fun. Whether in the rugged Highlands of medieval Scotland or the decadent ballrooms of Regency England, her novels offer fast-paced adventures filled with wit, intrigue, and romance. Amanda lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest. You can visit her at
www.amandaforester.com
.