made.”
“It was no mistake, Cassie,” he said with a naughty-sounding chuckle. “I switched the room assignments once I realized what you were up to, with a little help from Melisande. I wasn’t going to let you get away from me again.”
Shocked, Cassandra sat up straight and stared down at his insufferably satisfied, ridiculously handsome face. “You—you knew? You were waiting for me?”
“I was, and you took a very long time deciding to make your move. I was just about to come to your room.”
“But—why?”
“Don’t you know, Cassie?” Ian sat up beside her and drew her into his arms, holding her close against him. “I would do anything for you because I love you. The thought of you being with another man killed me, and I knew that no matter what, I had to tell you—show you—how I feel.”
Cassandra stared up at him in wonder, not sure if she had heard him right or if she had just dreamed those words. “You love me?”
His dark eyes reflected back only the truth as he nodded. “I’ve loved you for a very long time. And I swear to you, Cassie, that I will spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of your love, to earn it.”
She shook her head and laughed, a joy like nothing she had ever felt before sweeping over her. “I already love you, you silly, wonderful man. I only feared you could never love me in return. I’m so quiet, so plain …”
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. And I want a quiet life now. But only with you beside me. Only with you as my wife.”
“Yes, Ian. I will be your wife, if that is how you feel.” Cassandra feared she would cry with the force of her happiness, but Ian stopped her tears with a tender kiss.
“Then this is the happiest Christmas I could ever imagine,” he said. “I have everything I ever wanted.”
Cassandra couldn’t have agreed more. This was undoubtedly the happiest Christmas ever.
About the Author
CHRISTINE MERRILL lives on a farm in Wisconsin, USA, with her husband, two sons, and too many pets—all of whom would like her to get off the computer so they can check their e-mail. She has worked by turns in theatre costuming, where she was paid to play with period ballgowns, and as a librarian, where she spent the day surrounded by books. Writing historical romance combines her love of good stories and fancy dress with her ability to stare out of the window and make stuff up.
To my readers:
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all.
Chapter One
Anne Clairemont admired the sitting room of her once and future home, and gave an approving nod. Decoration for the holiday house party was well under way. If things were not exactly as they had been, at least it was more cheerful than it had been under her mother’s haphazard care.
Anne secretly admired the changes the new owner, Joseph Stratford, had made. It was true that he had a tendency to excess. Father called it a tradesman’s display of wealth, and unworthy of such a grand home. But it hardly mattered. Once she was married she would change everything back to the way it had been six years ago, before things had begun to go wrong.
Today, Mr. Stratford’s extravagance pleased her. It was demonstrated in the amount of holly, ivy and mistletoe that decked every available surface. The house looked as it had when she was a child, and all things had seemed larger and more wondrous. Despite herself, Anne smiled. Then, she returned her attention to her guest.
“Would you like tea, Mr. Breton?” May I pour for you?”
Mr. Stratford’s friend responded with his usual grim nod, and she tried not to let her hand tremble as she raised the pot. It was most unwise of her to have this reaction when around Robert Breton, but she could not seem to control it. He was a very attractive man.
Not to say that Joseph wasn’t handsome. In his own dark and intense way, he was. But he had a driven quality that made her more nervous than intrigued. She did not think that he would be an impatient husband, for he showed no signs of holding her unease against her. Once they were married, she suspected that he would forget her entirely. All he really cared about was the running of his mill, and the successful operation of his looms. A respectable wife was nothing more than a way to secure his place in a community that showed no signs of welcoming him.
And if Joseph was rarely to be at home, she might be forced to spend even more time alone with his business partner. Not that she really thought of Mr. Breton as such. He was a gentleman, and little more than the source of financing behind the ambitions of Mr. Stratford. But Joseph trusted him as a brother, and seemed to find nothing improper about the amount of time another man spent in her company, seeing him as a chaperone and escort rather than a rival.
Robert Breton had said nothing about finding his own accommodations in the area, seeming content with the best guest room at Clairemont. In Joseph’s absence, he treated the house almost as his own. Anne must get used to the idea that, if she was to be mistress here, he would be a semi-permanent member of the household.
Breton sipped his tea, and Anne held her breath, then chided herself for waiting on his approval. Of course, he would like it. In the many afternoons they’d spent together, she had learned to prepare it just so, and selected tidbits and delicacies for the tray knowing that he would favor them. It was foolish of her to care what he thought, or to try to impress him at all. But she enjoyed his company, and wanted him to like her.
She thought it had been going quite well. They’d struck up a friendship almost from their first meeting. They had laughed and chatted and walked every inch of the property together. But in the last few weeks he’d grown more and more distant around her, cold and silent. When they were alone, he was sometimes sarcastic in his responses. But when Joseph was present he treated her with courtesy, and smiled as though there were nothing wrong between them.
Had she offended him in some way? She could not think how. It made her work all the harder to be nice to him, hoping for some bit of warmth, or at least a smile. She quite liked his smile, especially when it was directed toward her. And the strength of his arm as they’d walked and she’d shown him the park of the manor that had once been her home. He had put his hands on her waist to help her over a stile, and she had taken longer than necessary, just to feel them holding her. Later, when she was alone with her thoughts, she could pretend that it had been a caress.
Perhaps that day he had noticed. He had stared back at her, his dark blue eyes smoldering with what she assumed was disgust at her weakness. Then he had slowly and deliberately withdrawn his hand. He had been cold to her ever since.
Was it so awful to have a tendre for a man who was not to be her husband? She would not let anything come of it, of course. She was all but promised to Joseph, and the happiness of several people depended on her ability to go through with the marriage as it had been planned.
But she could not say she loved him. Though she would lie to him on the subject if it was necessary, she should not have to lie to herself. Although he was kind, she felt no real excitement at the touch of Joseph Stratford. But the thought of Robert Breton’s touch filled her with a delicious, languorous heat. If she could not have that, then she must work to maintain his friendship. Without Robert here to visit with, she would sit alone in this great house, waiting for her husband to remember that there was anything more important in his life than work.
At the moment, it was almost as lonely as if she had no company at all. Her companion drank his tea in silence and could barely look her in the eye, ending each sip with a sigh of distaste and a glance out the window.
After a polite knock, the housekeeper entered and inquired after the menu for the next day’s entertainment. Guests were arriving for the holidays and everything