House of Trent 01.5 - His for Christmas (9 page)

Jennifer Haymore is the national bestselling author of the James series, the Donovan series, and the House of Trent series. As a child, Jennifer traveled the South Pacific with her family on their homebuilt sailboat. The months spent on the sometimes quiet, sometimes raging seas sparked her love of adventure and grand romance. Since then, she’s earned degrees in computer science and education and held various jobs ranging from bookselling to teaching inner-city children to acting, but she’s never stopped writing.

You can find Jennifer in Southern California trying to talk her husband into yet another trip to England, helping her three children with homework while brainstorming a new five-minute dinner menu, or crouched in a corner of the local bookstore writing her next novel.

You can learn more at:
JenniferHaymore.com
Twitter @JenniferHaymore
Facebook.com/JenniferHaymore.Author

Turn to the next page for an excerpt from the first book in the steamy House of Trent series,

S
arah Osborne had only lived at Ironwood Park for a few days, but she already loved it. Birds serenaded her every morning, their trilling songs greeting her through the little window in the cottage she shared with her father. Each afternoon, the sun shone brightly over the Park, spreading gentle warmth to her shoulders through the muslin of her dress as she ran across the grounds. And in the evenings, lanterns spilled golden light over the façade of the great house, which sat on a low, gentle-sloped hill and reigned like a king over the vast lands of the Duke of Trent.

If Sarah looked out the diamond-paned window of the cottage she shared with her father, she could see the house in the distance, framed by the graceful, curving white branches of two birch trees outside the cottage. She gazed at the house often throughout the day, always giving it an extra glance at night before Papa tucked her in. It stared back at her, a somber, massive sentry, and she felt safe with it watching over her. Someday, she dreamed, she might be able to draw close to it. To weave through those tall, elegant columns that lined its front. Someday, she might even be able to go inside.

But Sarah wasn’t thinking of Ironwood Park right now—she was thinking about a butterfly. She dashed down the path in pursuit of the beautiful black-and-white speckled creature flitting from leaf to leaf of the box hedge that marked the outer boundary of the garden. She hiked up her skirt and chased it through the wrought-iron gate that divided the garden from the outer grounds.

Finally, the butterfly landed, seemingly spent, on a spindly branch. Sarah slowed and approached it cautiously, reaching her hand out. She let out a long breath as her finger brushed over one of the wings. The butterfly stared at her. So delicate and gentle. It seemed to nod at her, then in a soft flutter of wings, it flew away again, leaving Sarah gazing at the bush.

“Oooh,” she murmured in delight. It wasn’t just any bush—it was a blackberry bush. Last summer, when Mama had been so ill, Sarah had picked blackberries nearly every day. Blackberry root tea had soothed Mama’s cough-weary stomach, but Sarah loved the berries’ bumpy texture and burst of sweetness when she bit into one.

It was early in the season for blackberries, but among the ripening berries that loaded the bush, Sarah found a small handful that were ripe enough to eat. She gazed at her surroundings as she ate them one at a time, savoring the sweet taste edged with the slightest tinge of sour.

Not only one blackberry bush grew here—there were many. They sprawled from the ground in no orderly fashion along the bank of a trickling stream.

Sarah turned to glance in the direction she’d come from to make sure she wasn’t lost. The domes of the roof of the great house peeked through the elms, a reassuring beacon.

Her handful finished, she went back to searching for ripe berries, picking through the thorn-covered branches. She searched and picked and ate until her belly was full, light scratches from the thorns crisscrossed her arms, and the dark juice stained her hands. Looking dolefully down at her skirt, she realized blackberry juice had stained her dress as well. Papa would be displeased if he saw, but she’d scrub out the stains before he came home.

Her braid was being unruly again—strands had fallen out of it, and her dark hair wisped across her cheeks. She blew upward, trying to get them out of the way, but that didn’t work, so she pushed them away and tucked them behind her ears with her dirty hands.

And then she saw the butterfly again.

At least, it looked like the same butterfly. Beautiful and enormous, its wings speckled like a sparrow’s egg, it had settled on a twig deep and high inside one of the blackberry bushes.

Sarah stepped onto a fallen branch. On her tiptoes, she leaned forward, peering at it. “Don’t fly away,” she murmured. “Don’t be afraid.”

She reached out—this time not to touch it, but to catch it. She wanted to hold it, feel its delicate, spindly legs on her palm.

Just a little farther…
Crack
! The branch snapped under her feet, and she lurched forward, her hands wheeling against the air as she tried to regain her balance. But it was no use. With a crash, she tumbled headfirst into the blackberry bush, gasping as thorns grabbed at her dress and tore at her skin.

She came to a stop on her knees inside the bush, her hands clutching the thorny undergrowth.

Panting against the smart of pain, she squeezed her eyes shut as she freed one hand and used her fingers to pick the thorns from the other. Blood welled on her arms, a hot stream of it sliding down around her forearm. Each breath she released came out in a little moan of pain. Her knees hurt horribly, but she couldn’t regain her balance without something to hold onto, and there was nothing to grab except painfully thorny branches.

“Can I help you, miss?”

She tried to look over her shoulder toward the voice, but a thorn scraped over her cheek, and she sucked in a breath.

It was a man’s voice, she thought. A kind voice. “Yes, please, sir.”

“All right. Stay still.”

It seemed to take forever, but slowly, using a small dagger, he cut away the thorny branches that twisted around her. Holding her by the waist, he gently extracted her, pausing to cut away any branch that might scrape her on the way out.

Finally, he settled her onto her feet on solid, thorn-free earth. Taking a deep breath, she turned around and looked up at him.

He was a boy. A big boy—far older than she was. Freckles splashed across his nose, and dark blond hair touched his shoulders. He gazed at her, concern denting his forehead between his crystal-green eyes.

“Are you all right?”

Sarah wasn’t accustomed to talking to boys. Especially handsome boys wearing breeches and fine dark wool coats. And boys whose voices were deepening with the imminent arrival of manhood.

Speechless and wide-eyed, she nodded up at him. His expression softened.

“Here.” He crouched down and withdrew a handkerchief from his coat pocket. Ever so gently, he swiped the cloth over her cheek, dabbing up the blood that had welled when she’d tried to turn to him. Then he folded it and tried to clean her hands. Then he looked at her knees. Following his frowning gaze, she looked down, too.

“Oh no,” she whispered.

Her skirt was rent from her knees to her feet, and her stockings, also ruined, showed through. Worse, caked blood stuck her dress to her torn stockings.

Papa would be furious.

She must have made a sound, because the boy’s brow furrowed. “Does it hurt terribly?” he asked, his voice grave.

Sarah swallowed hard. “N-n-no.”

The edges of his lips tilted up in a smile. “You’re very brave, aren’t you?”

At those words, her fear melted away. She squared her shoulders, and, standing tall, she looked directly into his green eyes. “Yes, I am.”

“Where do you live?” he asked.

She pointed toward the grand domes of the roof of Ironwood Park. “There.”

“Well, isn’t that something? I live there, too. Can you walk?”

“Of course I can.”

Side by side, they walked down the path that led toward the house. Sarah’s knees hurt, and she couldn’t help it—she hobbled just a little. Without a word, the boy put a firm arm around her waist, steadying her.

They passed the gardener’s cottage where Sarah lived with her father and headed toward the back side of the great house itself. Sarah didn’t speak, and neither did the boy. She bit her lower lip and glanced at him from the corner of her eye, watching him walk. He was tall and strong, and she liked the way the sun glinted on his hair.

But as they drew closer to the house, and it looked more and more like he actually intended to enter it, her body grew stiff. She didn’t know where Papa was, but he’d be very angry if he discovered she’d ventured too close to the house. Above all, he’d stressed the importance of her staying out of the family’s way. If she bothered anyone, he might lose his position.

The boy slowed as they walked beneath the shadow of the enormous house, and then he looked down at her. “Are you all right?”

“Mm hm.” Her voice wasn’t much more than a squeak.

He stopped altogether and pulled away from her, watching her carefully to make sure she was steady.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Sarah.”

“I’m Simon.” He glanced at the back of the house, which now loomed over them, so massive and heavy she could hardly breathe, and then back to her. “Come inside and I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

She licked her lips, unsure. Then she whispered, “My papa said I mustn’t disturb the family.”

“You won’t be disturbing the family.” He said it like a promise.

She gazed at up him. She didn’t know why, but she trusted him completely. He could have told her he took daily walks on the surface of the moon, and she would have believed him.

He continued, “I’ve been a rather poor doctor, so I’d like Mrs. Hope to take a look at those cuts. She has a salve that cures scratches like those in a trice.”

Sarah had no idea who Mrs. Hope was, but the scratches still hurt—they stung and ached and itched. A salve that could cure them fast worked as sure as a lure into the forbidden.

She gave a little nod.

He took her least-affected hand, gentle with her scratches. “Come, then.”

He led her up the stairs and into a vast room that made her hesitant steps grind to a halt. It was the largest room she’d ever seen. Open and cold and vast, lacking furniture except for a few benches and tables lining the walls. But those were too ornate to even be called benches. Metal legs shaped into vines held enormous slabs of marble. The tables held beautiful vases and busts of important-looking men. The room was almost overwhelmingly pale—the giant stones that made the walls were of an off-white color, and the plasterwork that adorned the walls and ceiling pure white. The only color was provided by the black checks on the tiled floor, the metalwork of the benches, and the enormous gilded chandelier that hung down in the center of the room.

Sarah tilted her head up, looking past the chandelier and gallery rails at the elaborately carved ceiling—it seemed as high as heaven itself.

Simon stood beside her, and he looked up as well. She stole a glance at him, watched the considering look passing over his face—as if he were seeing the room for the first time, too.

She gripped his hand tighter. “Are you sure it’s all right?” Her whisper seemed to echo in the cavernous space.

Simon shook off whatever he’d been thinking and smiled down at her. “Of course. This is the Stone Room. We don’t spend much time in here. Come.”

Holding her hand, he tugged her along. It seemed to take forever just to cross the vast area and reach one of the two doors that flanked a magnificent metal sculpture of a bearded, naked man and two naked boys. An enormous snake twined around their bodies. From the expressions of agony on their faces, she was sure the snake was crushing them.

He paused just in front of the door, no doubt seeing that her jaw had dropped as she stared at the statues. “Do you know the story of the Laocoön?”

She shook her head, unable to speak. She’d never heard of “Laocoön.” She’d never seen a naked man or naked boys before. She’d never seen anything quite so
vicious
, either.

“Have you heard of the Trojan War?” He hesitated while she shook her head again. “Well, there was a war between Troy and the Greeks. Laocoön was the son of the Trojan King. When the Greeks tried to trick the Trojans by bringing them a gift of a giant wooden horse, Laocoön didn’t trust them at all. He warned them to ‘beware of Greeks bearing gifts.’ But the gods were on the side of the Greeks, and Laocoön’s warning made them angry. Poseidon, the god of the sea—”

“I’ve heard of him!” Sarah exclaimed, seizing on the one element of the story that was familiar to her. Mama had told her nighttime stories of Poseidon and the other gods.

“Well, Poseidon sent this giant serpent from the sea to kill Laocoön and his two sons. And that’s what this statue represents.”

Sarah stared at the statue. She had seen real death. Recently. Real death was bad enough, so why on earth would people choose to remind themselves of it on a daily basis?

Simon turned from her to gaze at the statue again. “I don’t like it either,” he said in a low voice.

After another minute during which they both frowned at the gruesome statue, Simon opened the door and led her into another room, this one smaller but equally magnificent. In contrast to the echoing cavernous feel of the previous room, this one was warm and colorful and full of laughter. Children’s toys covered a carpet containing a design of reds and golds and browns, and a large fire crackled heartily in the enormous hearth.

The room seemed to be brimming with people, and Sarah came to a dead stop at the threshold, her heart surging to her chest. For as soon as she and Simon entered, all eyes turned to them.

Oh no, she thought with a sinking heart. Except for the woman standing in the middle of the room and the toddler she held in her arms, the room was filled with children ranging from about her age to one who looked older than Simon—all of them boys.

This was the family. It must be. Servants didn’t wear satin frocks or the fine wools and linens that these boys wore. Servants never played in spaces with silk hangings and Persian carpets. Servants’ toys weren’t carved of ivory and adorned with gilt.

Papa was going to be so angry.

Sickness welled in Sarah’s gut. Simon had led her right where her father had told her never to go. And nothing weighed on her more heavily than the idea of disappointing her father. Now that Mama was gone, he was all she had.

She tried to tug her hand from Simon’s grip, but he held firm, keeping her standing beside him.

The woman who stood in the center of the room had mahogany hair speckled with gray coiled elaborately on her head, but a few curls bounced down at the sides of her face. All that lovely blue satin she wore accentuated her voluminous bosom and narrow waist. The toddler was darker-haired than his—or her, Sarah couldn’t be sure—mother, with soft ringlets brushing his—or her—nape and a round, pink-cheeked face.