The Christmas Secret

Before diving into

THE CHRISTMAS SECRET,

enjoy a sneak peek at two new historical
romances from Julia London!

THE REVENGE OF LORD EBERLIN

Coming from Pocket Books in March 2012

And

THE SEDUCTION OF LADY X

Coming from Pocket Books in April 2012

The Revenge of
Lord Eberlin

Autumn, 1808

A gust of wind rattled the windows of Ashwood. Lily glanced up from the mess she’d made of the wall in the salon to see autumn leaves scudding past the window in small clusters of red and gold. Dark clouds were accumulating on the horizon, seeping in over the golden landscape. Lily could hear Linford, the old Ashwood butler, shouting at the chambermaids to close the windows ahead of the rain that would surely fall.

He might shut the windows, but he’d not stop the leaks around the old window frames. Or patch this hole she’d made in the wallpapering. Lily had taken it upon herself—admittedly, in a moment of mad frustration—to remove the wallpapering. It had begun with a frayed corner, and she’d seen paneling beneath it, and she’d thought, how difficult can it be to remove the paper? She’d ripped off a strip. And then another. And several more with varying degrees of success. It seemed that the paste held quite well in some places, and not in others.

Her inability to do something as simple as remove the papering made her anger soar. She wished the rain would fall so hard that it might wash away Tiber Park. She pictured it in her mind: that grand Georgian estate sweeping down the river, colliding with the construction of Tiber Park’s new mill, and both being churned to pieces.

“Have a care in your wishing, lass,” she muttered, and gave the paper a hearty tug. Two small pieces came off in her hands. “Blasted wall!” Given her luck of late, it was far more likely that Ashwood would wash away. In fact, she was rather surprised that Tobin Scott hadn’t ordered it up. Oh, what delight he’d take in seeing Ashwood and Lily Boudine turning head over heels down the river!

With a sigh, she let the torn paper flutter onto the pile she’d made. It was foolish of her to have done it, but she’d been so angry after the hearing before the magistrate she’d attended earlier this afternoon with Mr. Fish, her secretary, and Mr. Goodwin, the solicitor for Ashwood. The result of that hearing was that one hundred of Ashwood’s most profitable, most productive acres now belonged to Tobin and Tiber Park.

Oh, it had gone precisely as Lily’s advisors had warned her. Mr. Goodwin had explained how Eberlin—
Eberlin!
Honestly, not Tobin Scott, but
Count Eberlin
of
Denmark,
of all things!—had finessed a ruling in his favor. “It would take a miracle of biblical proportions for the ruling to go in your favor, I fear,” Mr. Goodwin had said apologetically this morning as they’d driven into the village.

Lily didn’t think even a biblical miracle would have swayed the judge. In the space of a quarter of an hour, he’d neatly handed it to Tiber Park because of some arcane, ridiculous glitch in the laws of inheritance and entailments. Lily had hoped that perhaps her standing as the new,
rightful
countess of Ashwood might work in her favor. They’d argued that her position had been ordained by none other than King Henry VIII himself, who, when giving the gift of Ashwood to the first earl, had set out the permissions of inheritance: to wit, any heir, male or female, had title to the land that was Ashwood, and claim to the title! Any
blood
heir, any
adopted
heir, any heir at all!

The lofty presentation had not swayed the judge, who was lodged firmly in the pocket of Tobin Scott.

Tobin Scott.

He hated her.
Despised
her. Perhaps even wished her dead. He hated her so much that he would come back here, to the place where his father had been tried for theft, convicted, and summarily hanged, just to see her and Ashwood destroyed.

That was where she differed from him—
she
would
never
have come back here if she’d not been forced to.

Thinking about it all again made Lily feel restless, and she abruptly stood and walked to the windows. She folded her arms tightly across herself against the chill she could feel through the panes and watched the trees in the park behind the mansion dance in the wind. She could see Mr. Bevers, her gamekeeper, at the lake, struggling to cast his line for fish. She could feel his struggle; she felt as if she was struggling every day, trying to cast her line, to find where or what she was supposed to be in this new life of hers.

When she thought of all that had happened in the last year, it made her head ache. This—what, adventure? Punishment? Dream?—had all begun several months ago, as Lily had been preparing for a long-awaited trip to Italy. She’d been in Ireland, at the home of her aunt and uncle, Brian and Lenore Hannigan, on whose charity Lily had lived since she was eight years old. She’d arranged to be the paid companion of Mrs. Canavan, who’d been traveling to Italy in the company of her very handsome son, Conor Canavan. Lily had had precious little else on her mind than a prolonged flirtation with Conor and perhaps some Italian gentlemen, and seeing the art and architecture of Italy.

Then the letter had come, the bloody letter had come to Ireland, announcing that she, Lily Boudine, was the only surviving heir of Lord and Lady Ashwood, and as such, she’d inherited the estate of Ashwood, as well as the title of countess.

Naturally, Lily had been stunned. Astounded! To think that she, of all people, was a countess! Who might have dreamed such a thing could happen? She wasn’t even blood kin to the old earl. Eighteen years ago, when she’d been all of five years, her parents had died of a fever, and someone had shipped her—an unwanted orphan—to one of her mother’s sisters, Althea Kent, the Countess of Ashwood. Aunt Althea had, apparently, legally adopted Lily at some point. But Lily had been at Ashwood only three years before she’d been shipped off to Ireland and her aunt Lenore, all because she’d had the misfortune of seeing Joseph Scott riding away from Ashwood late one rainy night.

“Would that I’d gone to bed that night as I ought to have done,” she muttered morosely now. She turned from the window and walked to the settee, sitting heavily, her head resting against the back, one arm draped across her middle. She stared up at the cherubs painted on the ceiling. They were looking at her, their fat little arms outstretched, their little sausages of fingers pointing at her.

Lily recalled having felt such despair for what had been happening, and a certain amount of guilt for having put all those chaotic wheels in motion that long-ago night. She hadn’t really understood it at the time, but she’d understood it had been awful. She’d been heartbroken that Aunt Althea had become so distant with her. Mr. Scott had been found guilty, and hanged for it. Lily had been sent to Ireland, and her aunt . . . oh God, her beloved aunt . . . had drowned accidentally in the lake at Ashwood shortly thereafter.

To find out fifteen years later that this estate, and all the awful memories of that summer, was now hers had been almost more than Lily could absorb. So when the letter had come, Lily had begged her cousin Keira—bold, unpredictable Keira, who was more of a sister than a cousin, really—to come to Ashwood and tend to whatever needed tending while Lily went on to Italy as she’d planned and tried to prepare herself to return to a place of dark memories. How could she come back to the source of so much unhappiness? To so many things she’d tried desperately to forget?

“Oh, but yours was a clever plan, wasn’t it?” she asked herself mockingly, stood up from the settee, and moved to the writing desk.

Oh, she’d gone to Italy, all right. But Ashwood had been a distant clap of thunder in her mind, slowly moving closer until she’d no longer been able to ignore the storm.

Her journey back to England and Ashwood had been quite hard. They’d sailed through weather so foul that Lily had been certain she would die. These had been omens, surely, for when she’d arrived, she’d walked into disaster. She’d discovered that Keira had not merely tended to Ashwood’s affairs as Lily had asked but had actually
become
her. Lily and Keira resembled each other enough that when Keira had come to Ashwood, everyone had believed her to be Lily, and Keira had not taken steps to correct their misunderstanding. What a foolish girl! She’d assumed Lily’s identity, had signed her name, had been feted around Hadley Green! As if that hadn’t been enough, Keira, who had a good heart beneath all that foolish impetuosity, had taken in the orphan Lucy Taft and put her firmly under her wing.

A maelstrom of scandal had followed, for when Lily had arrived, those who had known her as a child had been able to see that they’d made a mistake and had realized they’d been duped. Authorities had been summoned, and Keira had had to flee.

Lily had been left alone to deal with the fallout from Keira’s deception. In the beginning, she’d walked the halls of Ashwood to see for herself the disrepair, trying to piece together memories as she’d walked. The mansion had once seemed like a palace to her: the fine woodworking of the moldings and wainscoting, the soaring, painted ceilings, the deep windows and brocade draperies, fine English furnishings, Aubusson rugs, Sèvres china. Every corridor of the three-story home had been an adventure, every one of them different, every one of them uniquely furnished with paintings and hothouse flowers and thick carpets.

In the fifteen years she’d been away, the mansion had begun to show the passage of time. It was no longer a place of opulence, and one had only to look closely to see the ravage of time. The salon, for example, painted green with gold trim, boasted a ceiling with an elaborate scene from heaven. But there was a crack in the wall above one of the deep windows, and spots where the carpet had been worn down were covered with small tables. Her writing table was propped up with a book beneath one leg.

In every room, some fragment of memory came floating back to her like little snowflakes, landing softly in her, waking sights and smells and sighs that had been buried for many years. Her aunt, whispering to Mr. Scott, the two of them chuckling together over something one of them had said. She would remember Aunt Althea’s smile for Mr. Scott, the way she would touch his arm, her fingers touching his. Little things an eight-year-old girl would have never remarked but a grown woman now saw differently.

Trying to sort her way through her new station in life and her memories and doubts had left Lily quite ill-prepared to receive the mysterious Count Eberlin, who had one day made an unexpected call on her.

She’d been in the salon and had felt an uncomfortable shiver when Linford had presented her with the calling card bearing his name. However, it so happened that she’d also been feeling quite stranded and frustrated, and rather tempestuously had thought it as good an opportunity as she might ever have to inquire as to why the man seemed so intent on taking the Ashwood acreage.

Lily had expected an older man. Someone small in stature, rotund, with an ugly countenance—in short, someone like the old earl of Ashwood. She’d been completely taken aback by the tall, proud man who had come striding into the salon. He’d been handsome, quite strikingly so. He’d had piercing brown eyes the color of molasses, and wavy, honey-colored hair, with streaks of wheat. He’d been solidly built, with square shoulders and a strong jaw. He’d been impeccably dressed and had carried an aura of power about him, as if he had been able to scoop Ashwood up and put it on the back of his horse if he’d so desired.

And there also had been something vaguely familiar about him, something in a deep recess that Lily had not quite been able to grasp as he’d come forward to greet her.

His voice had been quiet and smooth, and he’d spoken with a slight accent that had been neither English nor European. When she’d inquired as to the nature of his call, he’d looked at her intently, and Lily had been able to feel the heat of his gaze down to the tips of her toes. It had been not an admiring gaze but one that had burned with recrimination. “I thought it was time,” he’d said.

“Time? Pardon . . . for what?”

One of his dark brows had risen above the other. “Is it not obvious?”

She’d thought he’d been toying with her. “On the contrary, my lord, there is nothing obvious about your call or the ill will you hold for Ashwood.” She’d said it with all the regal bearing she’d been able to muster, meaning to put the man on notice that he’d been speaking to a countess. But Eberlin had disregarded her regal bearing. He’d disregarded protocol and propriety, too, and had moved closer, studying her face so intently that Lily’s pulse had fluttered.

“You are as beautiful as I knew you would be,” he’d said, shocking her again. Lily’s pulse had quickly gone from fluttering to racing. She’d been able to feel the raw power of seduction in him as his gaze had lingered on her décolletage, on her mouth. “Perhaps even more so.”

Men had flirted with Lily all her adult life, but she’d never felt so . . . exposed, or quite so vulnerable. “I beg your pardon,” she’d said stiffly.

Something had flickered in his eyes, but they’d quickly shuttered. “Do you truly not know who I am?”

A tiny spasm of trepidation had forced Lily to take one step back.

“Perhaps this will jog your memory. My name is Tobin. Do you recall me now?”

Lily had seen it in that moment, that vaguely familiar thing. It had been the face of the boy who had been her companion. She’d not seen that face since the day of his father’s trial, when he’d stared daggers at her as she’d testified about what she’d seen. “Tobin,” she’d repeated in a whisper as her brain had accepted that that boy had now become this handsome, strangely alluring man. “
Tobin
 . . . I can scarcely believe it is you.”