Christmas With His Wallflower Wife. Janice Preston

Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Chapter Twenty

       Chapter Twenty-One

       Chapter Twenty-Two

       Chapter Twenty-Three

       Chapter Twenty-Four

       Epilogue

       Extract

       About the Publisher

       Chapter One

      Cheriton Abbey—early September 1817

      Try as she might, Lady Jane Colebrooke couldn’t quite suppress her quiver of excitement as her father’s carriage passed through the gates of Cheriton Abbey, the Devonshire seat of their neighbour, the powerful Duke of Cheriton. It was Olivia, the Duke’s daughter and Jane’s childhood friend, who had told Jane that her brother, Lord Alexander Beauchamp, would be home for the first time in over four years and Jane’s heart had twitched with the longing to see him again.

      Not that him being there would make any difference. She’d long ago accepted he would never return her feelings. They’d last met in London in the spring. He’d even danced with her. And still he never seemed to notice her as a female, let alone a lady worthy of courting. No. To him, she was—as she had always been—good old Janey. She turned from the window and her heart shrivelled at seeing her stepmother’s sharp gaze on her.

      ‘Why the sour expression, Jane? You are going to a garden party, not a funeral.’

      Jane bit the inside of her cheek, determined not to retaliate. Defying her stepmother had never borne fruit and life, she had learned, was more tolerable if she allowed Lady Stowford’s jibes to pass over her head.

      ‘I hope you will at least be civil to Sir Denzil when you meet him,’ Stepmama continued. ‘He has been invited… I made a particular point of asking when I saw him at church last Sunday.’

      Jane swallowed. Stepmama had been doing her utmost to pair Jane and Sir Denzil Pikeford ever since the man—another neighbour—had begun to show an interest in her. The fact Jane actively disliked the baronet made no difference—Stepmama was so eager to get her just-turned-twenty-three-year-old stepdaughter off her hands she had even persuaded Papa to add an extra one thousand pounds to her dowry.

      One thing Jane knew for certain: if she ever did marry, she would not meekly accept whatever her husband decreed, as she accepted Stepmama’s demands. She would stand up for herself. Right from the start. But it was hard to change the habits of a lifetime with the stepmother who had raised her from a baby and who ruled their household like an empress.

      ‘You do not accuse me of incivility, I hope, ma’am?’

      Papa stirred at her words. ‘Jane is never rude to people, my dear.’ Bless him for one of his sporadic attempts to support the daughter of his first marriage, no matter how unkind Stepmama might be. Jane couldn’t blame him for intervening so rarely. Not when she, too, often chose to remain silent rather than setting the household on its ears for days on end.

      ‘You know very well she needs to be more than polite, Stowford, if I am to bring Sir Denzil to the point. Really…have you forgotten our dear Miranda is to come out next year? How shameful if her older sister is still unwed!’

      She raked her stepdaughter from head to toe while Miranda, the elder of Jane’s two half-sisters, smirked.

      ‘You had the perfect opportunity to marry—in your debut year, no less—when that nice Mr Romsley offered for you. Quite a coup for a girl as plain as you. But, oh, no! He was not good enough for Lady Jane. I begged you to accept him but, as ever, Lady Jane knows best! And since then, nary a sniff of a suitor until Sir Denzil. You are such a stubborn gel. I’ve always said so.’

      It was hot in the carriage, with the family all squashed in together, and Lady Stowford, her face the shade of a beetroot following her outburst, collapsed back against the squabs, fanning herself furiously. Jane turned away, the all-too-familiar pain curling through her. It was so familiar she barely noticed it any more. The pain of unrequited love.

      Ha! How naive had she been? In March 1813, the Beauchamp family had attended Olivia’s wedding to Lord Hugo Alastair at the Abbey before all heading to London for the Season. It was Jane’s debut year and she’d had such high hopes, certain Alex would finally see her as a young lady and not simply the annoying little neighbour who had dogged his footsteps throughout his boyhood.

      He was two years her senior and her childhood hero. He’d taught her to ride and she’d willingly followed him into all sorts of adventures, often ending in trouble of one sort or another. But Alex always protected her from the worst of the blame and she’d marvelled at his bravery in the face of his father’s formidable wrath.

      But at the start of her first Season all her hopes crashed to the ground. London Alex treated her exactly as Devonshire Alex had always treated her—like another little sister. Her hero-worship of Alex might have matured over the years into love, but Alex clearly didn’t see her in that way and who could blame him? His reputation as a skilled lover was legendary and unhappily married ladies of the ton vied for his attention. Why would he ever be interested in a plain, dull female like good old Janey?

      Despite that inauspicious start, her love for him—buoyed by her blind hope that, one day, he would open his eyes and recognise her as his soulmate—had persisted and she had stubbornly refused Mr Romsley’s offer, for how could she make her vows to another man when her heart belonged to Alex?

      She had lived to regret her decision because she’d received no further offers in the intervening years and Alex had not returned to Devonshire since. The only time she saw him was in London during the Season each year and now she accepted he would never see her as anything other than his old playmate. Now, she would willingly marry. She longed to have her own household to run and to escape Stepmama and her constant barrage of criticism. But that would never be with Sir Denzil Pikeford. In his late thirties, he drank too much, his teeth were rotting, his manners were appalling and his conversation consisted mainly of boasting of his hunting exploits.

      Even Stepmama was preferable to a lifetime with that.

      The carriage drew to a halt. Jane looked up at the honeyed stone walls of the old Abbey… It had been like a second home to her throughout her childhood and the memories flooded back…happy childhood memories…

      Grantham, the Duke’s haughty butler, showed them straight through the huge hall and out to the extensive lawns at the rear of the Abbey, where a footman