Christmas Brides (Three Regency Novellas) by Cheryl Bolen Page B

in my power to win your affection.”
    “There is nothing you can do now to win my affection.”
    His face fell, but not as thuddingly as his heart.
    Her blue eyes flashed with mirth. “Because you already possess it.”
    He drew both her hands into his. “Truly?”
    She nodded. “Always. I have loved you since I was a little girl and dreamed of growing up and marrying my dear William.”
    “I am your William, your slave, your eternal conquest.” His arms then closed around her, and she fused to him like bark to a tree.
    “It's already dark, my dearest,” she whispered. “Do you think we can go upstairs?”
    “I can think of nothing that would give me greater pleasure, Lady de Vere.”
     
    The End
     

 
    Home For Christmas
     
    By
     
    Cheryl Bolen
     
     

Copyright © 2012by Cheryl Bolen
 
    Home For Christmas is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
     
    All rights reserved.
     
    No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.
     

Chapter 1
     
    Only a mad man would be riding his horse along a remote country road on so bitterly cold a day. Captain David St. Vincent was not mad. His impatience to be home in Ramseyfield after a six-year absence accounted for the rash judgment that brought him so close to the village where he'd spent his youth. In defense of his sanity, it should be noted the skies were perfectly sunny, and the temperature had been mild when he had set off from Fulchester earlier that day.
    His eagerness to behold his family in Ramseyfield—as well as a certain beauty who resided there—was more powerful than the misery from chilling winds and strengthening snowfall. Neither his greatcoat nor his leather gloves offered sufficient protection against the elements. The prospect of riding within an enclosed carriage held vast appeal, though Captain St. Vincent would never ask a coachman to expose himself to such foul weather on his behalf.
    During his six years in the Royal Navy sailing the seas and fighting the bloody French, the captain had learned not to dwell on unpleasant experiences—like gales that pitched his frigate on its side or French sailors trying to take off his head with a cutlass. He had nearly mastered the art of replacing the horrifying with the sublime. At least in his mind.
    And nothing was more sublime than Miss Elizabeth Balfour. The memory of her fair blond beauty had sustained him during the years of his absence. Every day for the past six years he had lamented he'd not offered for her before he left. At the time, he had expected to be home in a year, two at the most. During that time, she would reach a more acceptable marriageable age.
    No one had then known how that Corsican monster would trample an entire continent. Thank God the fiend was now on Elba.
    As welcome as his mother's letters had been, nothing had been more welcome than her observation about Miss Balfour still being unmarried. He would tell himself she had not found anyone who could supplant him in her heart. By her previous actions toward him, he believed she favored him over all the other young men who made cakes of themselves over her.
    He could still recall the last time he saw Miss Balfour as if it were the past week. It had been May Day, and the sixteen-year-old Miss Balfour had been twirling around the Maypole in the village green, her saffron skirts swirling, her silvery-blond locks whipping into that flawless face with its wide eyes as clear a blue as an Alpine lake. Every male in the shire was there that day, and not a one was immune to her abundant charms.
    Now, as Captain St. Vincent's face stung and his ears throbbed from the miserable cold, he could picture Miss Balfour's lovely smile and her perfect white