“A thing so magical I left my lovely wife alone in our bed, which was no easy feat. Here, you’ll need this.” Oliver took up the thick woolen shawl draped across the foot of the bed and draped it over her shoulders, then grabbed her hand and led her from the bedchamber and down the stairs to the ground floor.
“My goodness, Oliver. Where are you taking me?”
“Shhh.” Oliver pressed a brief kiss to her lips. They crept down the darkened hallway and into William’s study, then slipped through the glass doors onto the terrace. They dashed across the west lawn, the dew dampening the toes of Dinah’s slippers, then stopped at the door to Penelope’s greenhouse.
“Good Lord, what a monstrosity.” Oliver eyed the octagonal building. “It’s a wonder there’s any glazing or cast-iron left in England.”
Dinah laughed. William had gone a bit too far with the greenhouse, but Penelope was delighted with it, and spent many happy hours inside, fussing over her plants. “Oh, come now. It’s lovely.”
“I will admit I find greenhouses a great deal more intriguing since our visit to Lord Horace.”
Oliver waggled his eyebrows, making Dinah laugh again. “I hope you haven’t brought me out here to debauch me in Penelope’s greenhouse.”
“Not tonight, but you can be sure I’ll keep it in mind for another time. For now, I believe I’ll settle for a pineapple.”
“Another pineapple?” Dinah groaned. She hadn’t had much luck with pineapples.
Oliver gave her an enigmatic smile. “Not another pineapple, but Lord Horace’s pineapple.” He led her by the hand to the back of the greenhouse, where Penelope kept a row of citrus trees in pots against the southern wall.
That was when Dinah saw it.
There, amid the orange trees with their cluster of white blossoms was Lord Horace’s lone pineapple, and it was…
She gasped softly. “It isn’t dead.”
“No, sweetheart, it isn’t.” Oliver squeezed her shoulders. “See that bit of green, just at the base there? It’s a new leaf. The plant won’t flower for some time yet, but it’s not dead.”
Dinah leaned closer, staring in wonder at the tiny green bud. “I-I told Penelope it was dead. I wonder she took the time to plant it at all.”
Oliver dropped a kiss on the back of her neck. “I asked her to plant it as a favor to me.”
“You did?” Dinah turned to face him, her heart rushing into her throat. “Why, Oliver?”
He was quiet for a while before murmuring, “Sometimes a thing can appear hopeless when really it’s just—”
“Waiting,” Dinah whispered.
“Yes.” He smiled down at her, his eyes warm.
“Until it feels safe.” She caressed the dimple in Oliver’s cheek.
“Until it feels safe.” Oliver opened his arms to her then, and Dinah rushed into his embrace. She pressed her cheek against his chest, listened to his heart beating, and marveled over Christmas larks, joyful blue eyes, and the astounding resilience of hearts, and pineapples.
MORE BY ANNA BRADLEY
A Wicked Way To Win An Earl
A Season Of Ruin
Lady Eleanor’s Seventh Suitor
Lady Charlotte’s First Love
Twelfth Night With The Earl
More Or Less A Marchioness
More Or Less A Countess
More Or Less A Temptress
The Wayward Bride
To Wed A Wild Scot
For The Sake Of A Scottish Rake
The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray
The Virgin Who Vindicated Lord Darlington
The Virgin Who Humbled Lord Haslemere
The Virgin Who Bewitched Lord Lymington
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anna Bradley writes steamy, sexy Regency historical romance—think garters, fops and riding crops! Readers can get in touch with Anna via her webpage at http://www.annabradley.net. Anna lives with her husband and two children in Portland, OR, where people are delightfully weird and love to read.
THE MARQUESS OF MISTLETOE
GRACE BURROWES
CHAPTER 1
“This is no way to court a lady or to celebrate the holidays.” Raphael Jones put world of reproach into his observation, a version of which, he’d been offering for the past five snowy miles.
“Hush, you,” Leopold, Marques of Cadeau retorted. “Choosing a bride is a pragmatic undertaking for a man newly saddled with a title,. You will please cease your sentimental maunderings on a topic about which you know little.”
Leopold had left military life behind months ago when a second cousin’s title had been dumped in his lap, as unappealing and demanding as a squalling infant.
Raphael Jones, Leo’s former batman, had marched with him across Spain, through France, and at Waterloo. When Leo had acquired the title, Rafe had appointed himself valet, general factotum, and conscience to the new marquess. Nothing Leo promised, threatened, or demanded dislodged Rafe from his post.
Perhaps Leo’s new marchioness would know what to do with an old soldier who refused to follow orders.
“It’s Christmas Day, your worship,” Rafe said, as if corner glee clubs tipsy with wassail, shouted holiday greetings, and the very calendar had escaped Leo’s notice. “To be looking over a lady during the holidays as if she’s a mare on offer at Tatts is a sacrilege.”
The cold had numbed everything Leo owned—from his toes to the tip of his nose to his saddle-weary fundament—but it hadn’t quite driven out his doubts. Rafe had a point: What sort of man ignored Yuletide family gatherings to interview a prospective wife?
A man who wanted the whole business concluded, that’s what sort. Leo had endured months in Vienna as a marquess with means, and didn’t care to repeat that ordeal in London. Forced marches were one thing, German princesses popping out of powder rooms—and their bodices—were quite another.
Though what sort of woman spent Boxing Day looking over a prospective husband?
“Your cork-brained notion of courting will be the death of us both,” Rafe went on. “Can’t imagine you’ve asked a lady to travel in this weather. And at Christmas.”
Cold alone wasn’t that much of a challenge. Between stout wool, a sound horse, and common sense, Leo could deal with cold. But the wind…
The bitter weather came straight at them, as if Nature herself was determined that Leo not reach his objective. Leo couldn’t say if snow was falling, but it was certainly blowing in his face, a million grains of frigid misery, telling him to seek shelter and rethink the contract he was considering signing.
“You will please recall,” Leo said, above the soughing of the wind, “the lady has asked me to travel at the holidays, and she’ll be looking me over too. I’m to be her Boxing Day gift, or my wealth and title are.”
“Can’t take wealth and a title to bed, your royal pigheadedness. Can’t make babies cuddling up to wealth and a title, can’t—bedamned stinking excuse for a spavined mule, watch where you’re going!”