Stephanie James
Authors: Love Grows in Winter
Stephanie James
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
Copyright © 2012 by Casey S. Porter
ISBN 10: 1-4405-5070-0
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5070-6
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5071-9
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5071-3
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © istockphoto.com/Jennifer Steck, 123rf.com/Julia Shepeleva
Prologue
London, Spring 1806
She was in the corner again.
This time, however, Olivia Winter was there because she wanted to be. The teasing had not yet started, but she knew it would if she dared to leave the safety of her little corner, even if only for a moment.
She did not belong here. She knew it, and so did everybody else in the room.
She could see their eyes darting over to her position in the corner now and then. They were all waiting for her to emerge, to find a single moment of bravery and venture out into their midst so that they might pounce upon her. Aristocrats had a way of doing that. They did not like outsiders.
But that was just fine because Olivia did not much enjoy being inside, especially now that she knew there was nothing spectacular behind the doors of society. She had not wanted to come to this ball. She had not wanted to go to the last ball, either; nor the one before that, or the one before that. Her first ball, however, she had wanted to attend.
She had been so excited, so foolishly hopeful about her first lavish London ball that she cringed at the very memory of her naïve bravado. She remembered only too clearly how her innocent expectations had been murdered before the end of the ball’s first hour. It had not at all been like the cheery public assemblies at home in Dorset.
Everyone had known exactly who she was the moment she had set foot into the ballroom. And it would have been a good thing, too, if she happened to be the daughter of an earl or some rich lord or another, but she was not. No, Olivia was the daughter of a merchant. A merchant who had only recently made his fortune, in fact, and who had subsequently used his recent successes to justify pestering his more esteemed associates for invitations to balls for his unmarried daughter.
“Your mother would have wanted such an opportunity for you,” her father had said before dragging her to London. “Were she alive, she would have insisted upon you having at least one Season. I am sure of it.”
At first, Olivia had romanticized her father’s claim. Having never known the woman, any time her father mentioned what her mother would have wanted for her daughter, Olivia was more than eager to comply. This time, however, Olivia was quite certain her father was very wrong indeed about what her mother would have liked. After all, her mother had known London society. She had grown up in it, and later escaped it. And so after her dismal experience at her first London ball, Olivia had begun to think that perhaps her mother would have known how unwelcome her plain and common daughter would be, and therefore would
not
have insisted upon her becoming an object of ridicule for the other young ladies.
And one particular young lady had taken it upon herself to make Olivia’s first ball especially painful. Each time she saw the girl, Olivia cringed. She was positively evil, and looked it, too. Her eyes were sharply blue like icy daggers, her skin was pale as porcelain, and her hair was as black as her heart.
But what made the black-haired girl especially sinister was her ability to sniff Olivia out of every one of her hiding places, as though she possessed some sort of dark third sight.
Over the course of the Season, the girl had evolved to be a sort of ringleader for all the other “polite” young ladies. She would be the one at the front of the group, making her snide comments about Olivia’s low birth, the poor quality of her gowns, or her out-of-date hairstyles. And always, her group of followers would snicker behind their gloved hands in unison like sheep.
Oh goodness, Olivia would never forgive her father for subjecting her to such anguish. It all seemed so foolish now: the daughter of a commoner trying to mix with high society. She had once believed — given all the talk of how well-mannered they were — that people of rank were welcoming and pleasant. What a barrel full of nonsense that had been. People of rank could not be any more unpleasant if they all bore three heads and breathed the very flames of Hell.
And she still had four more balls to go.
There was no way out of any them, either. Her father had already responded in the affirmative to all of the invitations. Olivia was expected, but not wanted. If she attended, she would be ridiculed; if she were absent, it would be an insult to the host and hostess, which would cause her father’s business reputation to suffer. Really, the rules of society were all quite ridiculous. And whoever had written them had made it impossible for a common girl to win the game.
But no matter. She would survive somehow. All she had to do at each remaining ball was find a hiding place as quickly as possible and remain concealed until her father decided to leave. Then, once the Season was over, she could pack up her things and go back to the country, where she would delight in forgetting about London and all the people in it.
London, Winter 1807
I should get it over with,
Lord Philip Ravenshaw thought to himself as he pressed the cool crystal glass to his forehead
. I should elope with the next woman I meet before she has chance to realize what she’s done.
He lowered the glass to his lips and tipped the rest of its contents into his mouth. The brandy forged a fiery trail from his throat to his stomach, but he was far too upset to be bothered by the unpleasant sensation. Perhaps he’d had too much to drink altogether. Only that could explain why he was not only numbed to the pain of drinking too much alcohol at once, but considering eloping with a strange woman as well. But he had to do something … anything to dull the pain of another rejection.
He had been so certain she would say yes.
For three months, Miss Charlotte Chambers, the daughter of Baron Stockdale, had allowed Philip to court her. She had laughed at his silly attempts at humor, permitted him such familiarities as tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow, and she had accepted him each time he called on her at her parents’ home. On top of all she had allowed, Charlotte herself had done a thousand other little things that had led Philip to believe beyond a flicker of a doubt that she cared for him. There had been absolutely no mistaking her intentions. So strong was Philip’s faith in her affection that he had allowed himself to care for her … deeply, in fact.
He had grown to love her.
For her wit, he had cherished her; for her conversation, he had provided his unwavering attention; and for her smile, well … he had done all he could to be the cause of it. And then there was her beauty. Lord, she was beautiful — so fair and fine and flawless.
He had fantasized to distraction about what her black hair would feel like in his fingers, what her skin would taste like against his tongue. He had longed for the day when she would be his and his alone to touch and worship and love.
On top of the sentiment and desire she had so effectively roused in him, Charlotte was the very definition of what a lady ought to be. She was perfectly pleasant and proper in every way that mattered. She was innocent beyond expectation and kind to a fault. She would be a good wife, an excellent wife, the
perfect
wife … .
Just not to him.
Promptly after Philip had proposed, Charlotte revealed that she had already accepted an offer of marriage made to her by one Nigel Barry, the Earl Norland.
“Norland,” Philip scoffed as he rose from the upholstered arm chair to fetch more brandy. “He’s a pompous old idiot with bad breath and a large girth.”
Philip poured two fingers worth of brandy into the glass and quickly decided it wasn’t enough. “Why limit myself?” he mumbled, and filled the stubby glass to the brim. He’d drunk nearly half of the decanter already. His father wasn’t likely to be happy about it as this particular label was somewhat expensive, but dash it all. What was a little more? Philip very rarely imbibed to excess as he hated the aftereffects, but he decided to make an exception given all that had happened today.
His heart was in pain. It seemed only fitting for the rest of his body to feel the same.
But it wasn’t only the pain of loss that bothered him. There was another kind of pain, a deeper, infinitely more destructive pain that was gnawing away at his pride rather than his heart. His fingers tightened around his glass.
The second time,
he reminded himself.
This is the second time.
He picked up the decanter and flung it across the room. It shattered against the wall of his father’s dark library and splattered a painting of his grandfather. He briefly watched the liquid stream down the wall and portrait before tipping back his full glass and gulping until it was empty. When he was finished, he hurled the glass at the same spot where the decanter had crashed.
Someone would have heard that — his father perhaps, maybe his mother. Certainly the servants, but he didn’t care. He stumbled backwards into the wall and slid down to the floor. His throat and chest burned intensely, but he welcomed the pain. He wanted to feel it. “Let her have him,” he croaked. “Let him rut on her like a pig until she vomits.”
His cravat started to feel like a noose. He yanked at it sloppily until it fell away from his neck. His coat was next to be divested.
It shouldn’t be this difficult,
he thought as he tugged on the top buttons of his shirt.
I should be able to marry whomever I want. I am the son of a duke.
But only a second son.
The acknowledgment stung. As his father’s second son, Philip possessed only the courtesy title of lord. He had a personal fortune and allowance of respectable proportions, but when better men were present — men who were the titled first sons of their esteemed fathers — Philip held little appeal as a first choice.
The current figures of society were not in his favor either. At present, the ratio of gentlemen to ladies was uncharacteristically in the ladies’ favor. They, or rather their mothers, had the pick of any one of several elevated bachelors, which meant that, for the time being, Philip was considered a last resort in the event of failure. It mattered little that he was young and a damn sight better looking than most of those stodgy old, repulsive lords. In more cases than none, when allowed to choose, the young ladies of society would select the men with titles, vast estates, and prestige beyond the boundaries of Philip’s station.
Maybe Philip would have to begin perusing the perimeter of the ballrooms and choose from amongst the wallflowers and forgotten women. Perhaps they would not be averse to marrying him as they had so few other offers. He quickly cast aside the idea. The thought of taking advantage of such women made him feel like the worst sort of predator. He didn’t want to manipulate some poor girl into marriage.