The Captain's Christmas Bride. ANNIE BURROWS

       She slid her arms round his neck, hugging him in sheer delight.

      ‘Oh, David …’ She sighed. ‘We’ll have to get married now.’

      He tensed.

      Well, she’d been prepared for that. He must be shocked to learn that she was the woman he’d just ravished.

      But before he could say anything someone flung up the sash window and stepped into the orangery.

      She didn’t have time to do more than lift her head and swivel it in that direction before the light of two lanterns flooded the scene, clearly showing the unmasked faces of the three people standing there.

      The Neapolitan Nightingale, her mouth agape.

      Marianne, her hands clasped to her bosom.

      And worst of all … David—not the man currently embracing her!

      ANNIE BURROWS has been writing Regency romances for Mills & Boon since 2007. Her books have charmed readers worldwide, having been translated into nineteen different languages, and some have gone on to win the coveted Reviewers’ Choice Award from CataRomance. For more information, or to contact the author, please visit annie-burrows.co.uk or you can find her on Facebook at facebook.com/AnnieBurrowsUK.

       The Captain’s Christmas Bride

      Annie Burrows

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To my brand-new daughter-in-law Emily.

       Welcome to the family. And special thanks to Joe for the brainstorming on this one.

      Contents

       Cover

       Introduction

       About the Author

       Title Page

       Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Extract

       Copyright

Chapter One

      Christmas Day, 1815

      ‘How long do you think it will take? To make sure I am thoroughly compromised?’

      Lady Julia Whitney observed Marianne’s face turn a little pink as a frown flitted across her brow. But then Marianne disapproved of the whole venture and was uncomfortable being dragged into it.

      ‘You only need to leave us alone long enough to be sure he is kissing me,’ Lady Julia pointed out. ‘And then you can burst into the orangery and find us.’

      ‘Yes, but how will I know he is kissing you?’ Marianne yanked hard at the laces in her valiant, prolonged struggle to do up Lady Julia’s masquerade gown. ‘The mistletoe didn’t work. And we hung kissing boughs everywhere.’

      Lady Julia winced. Not only had they hung mistletoe everywhere, but almost everyone else was making good use of it.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ said Marianne. ‘Did I pinch you? This dress is rather tight, isn’t it?’

      ‘I shall hold my breath until you get it done up,’ said Lady Julia, unwilling to admit that it was chagrin that made her wince, at the reminder that after all the hours spent gathering mistletoe, fashioning it into dozens of kissing boughs, and getting footmen to hang them all over the house, she hadn’t managed to coax David to stand still underneath a single one of them.

      ‘Thank you,’ said Marianne. ‘I didn’t realise how difficult this would be. I mean, you do look about the same size as the Neapolitan Nightingale. I didn’t think we’d need to make any alterations when she agreed to lend you her gown for the evening. But actually, you are rather more...um...robust.’

      She gave another hard tug. ‘There. All done,’ she said.

      ‘Oh, my goodness,’ said Lady Julia, studying her reflection in the mirror with awe, as well as a touch of dizziness from having held her breath for so long. ‘But it was worth it.’

      ‘Lawks,’ said Marianne, her eyes widening as she peeped over Lady Julia’s shoulder.

      Lawks indeed. The peacock-blue silk gown was a lot more daring than even she’d suspected it might be. On the Neapolitan Nightingale—the opera singer from whom she’d borrowed it—it hadn’t looked any more daring than any of her other gowns. But with Lady Julia’s bosom hitched up like that, and overflowing the straining bodice, it was teetering on the verge of scandalous.

      ‘Lawks,’ she echoed faintly, staring with astonishment at the impressive cleavage which had never before had a public airing.

      ‘Well, that puts paid to any worries that people might recognise you,’ said Marianne tartly. ‘Once you put the mask on, not one single man there will be able to raise his eyes from the front of your gown.’

      ‘And don’t forget the wig,’ came a muffled voice from behind the screen where the Neapolitan Nightingale herself was changing into the costume supposedly made for Lady Julia.

      Marianne and Lady Julia exchanged a guilty look. Just how much might she have heard? They’d been whispering to