A Grosvernor Square Christmas Read online

  A Grosvenor Square Christmas

  A Regency Anthology

  by

  Anna Campbell,

  Shana Galen,

  Vanessa Kelly,

  and Kate Noble

  Copyright © 2013

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Designer:

  Ebook formatted by Jessica Lewis

  Author’s Life Saver

  License Notes:

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for lending, delete it from your device and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events have no existence outside the imagination of the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  To sample any of the stories included in this bundle, click on the links below:

  The Seduction of A Duchess by Shana Galen

  One Kiss for Christmas by Vanessa Kelly

  His Christmas Cinderella by Anna Campbell

  The Last First Kiss by Kate Noble

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  A Grosvenor Square Christmas Prologue

  The Seduction of A Duchess by Shana Galen

  One Kiss for Christmas by Vanessa Kelly

  His Christmas Cinderella by Anna Campbell

  The Last First Kiss by Kate Noble

  Prologue

  There is very little about the gray stone house that makes it different from the houses to the right or left of it. Indeed, the entire street, the entire square is remarkably the same. The same stone. The same windows. The same incredible wealth on display.

  Well, it is Grosvenor Square, after all. It has to have some grandeur.

  But for all the elevated sameness, No. 3 Grosvenor Square stands out.

  Perhaps it is the owner. After all, Lucy Frost, the widowed Countess of Winterson is a reigning doyen of the ton. (How could she not be with a name like that?) It has been said, not proven, that she has a trail of discarded lovers the length of Pall Mall. Said too, yet not proven, that her husband died happily, after a fit of laughter brought on by her marvelous wit. Possibly in bed. But that is merely delicious speculation.

  What has been proven is that she throws a fabulous party. Lady Winterson’s eccentricity and popularity would certainly add to No. 3’s allure.

  Then again, perhaps it is the butler. Philbert was procured by Lady Winterson when she purchased the house, and found she needed someone tall enough to hang holiday garland. He has been standing at the door of No. 3 for decades. Curious, since he doesn’t look any older than a man half his (unknown) age.

  Philbert is an institution, and knows the secrets of everyone who passes through No. 3’s door, as well as how they take their tea. Surely, he can account for the way the house draws the eye of everyone who promenades past.

  Or perhaps, it is something in the house itself. Something hidden in its stones, that glitters and glows and stores itself up until it cannot help but burst forth, shining on those darkest nights in the depths of winter. On those special nights, when Lady Winterson throws her annual Christmas Ball, people flood No. 3, bringing all their hopes, their excitement and the merriment of the season with them.

  But be it the house, the hostess, or her butler, it is during the Christmas Ball every year, for one special couple, that No. 3 Grosvenor Square truly is magic.

  As long as they look in the right place.

  The Seduction of a Duchess

  A Sons of the Revolution story

  By

  SHANA GALEN

  Copyright © 2013 by Shana Galen

  For Gayle. I couldn’t have written this story without you.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to the Brainstorm Troopers for your help with Gabriel. I think it was Anne Mallory who suggested I make him a “servant! A really badass servant!” Nothing like the idea of a badass footman to propel me to start writing.

  Thanks to the Shananigans for your support, especially Sarah Rosenbarker and Sue Gorman for your suggestions and comments on the first draft.

  Thanks to Abby Saul for your fabulous copyediting and to Theresa Romain for your help with French. Any mistakes are completely and utterly mine.

  Thanks to Kim Killion for our gorgeous cover.

  And thank you to Vanessa Kelly, Anna Campbell, and Kate Noble who agreed to participate in this project without the least hesitation. You three have been a joy to work with. I’d do it again in a second.

  One

  London 1803

  “Do not look now, Your Grace, but there is a man staring at you.”

  At Felicity’s words, Rowena turned her head—exactly as she had been instructed not to do. She caught herself just in time and returned her gaze to her son Armand’s wife. The lovely girl with the blond hair and the ever-present smile had been at her side since they’d arrived at the ball. If this ball were like the others, Rowena would not be alone for even a moment. One of her sons or their wives would keep her company—as though she was a girl who’d just made her come out. But it had been a long, long time since Rowena’s come out.

  The ball at No. 3 Grosvenor Square was held each year during the Christmas season for the members of the ton still in Town. Rumor had it half of the ton actually returned for the sole purpose of attending Lady Winterson’s ball. The lords and ladies of the upper ten thousand whispered that the ball was enchanted, and it did indeed seem so, for each year the ball managed to produce a match when a special couple fell rather unexpectedly in love.

  Rowena did not believe such rubbish. She certainly did not expect or even hope to fall in love. She was a dowager and far too old for that sort of thing. When, last year, for the first time in memory, the de Valère family had received Lady Winterson’s invitation, Rowena, as the matriarch of the family, had politely declined and thought no more of it. The family had already planned to remove to Armand and Felicity’s country house and she looked forward to a holiday in the country. But she had made the mistake of mentioning declining Lady Winterson’s invitation the day after Christmas, and from the family’s uproar, one would have thought the King had died.

  She had not expected another invitation this year—after all, one did not decline an invitation to the Christmas ball at No. 3 Grosvenor Square and then expect a second chance—so when the card came, she had accepted with alacrity. The entire family would again travel to The Gardens, Armand’s country estate in Southampton, a day or so after the ball, and everyone, save Armand and herself, had been thrilled to be included in the celebrated holiday gathering. So she had resignedly agreed to accompany her three sons and their wives to the affair in Grosvenor Square tonight.

  “You may look now,” Felicity said in a loud whisper, “but only if you pretend to look about the room before you fix your gaze near the refreshment table.”

  “I am too old for this,” Rowena said.

  “Rubbish,” Felicity argued. “Your cheeks are as pink as any debutante’s at the mention of an admirer.”

  Rowena resisted putting her gloved hands to her cheeks and decided she would peer about the room rather than respond to the girl. She was no debutante and had not been one in many a year. At seven and forty, she was far too old for admirers and love affairs. She studied Lady Winterson’s ballroom. It was a lovely room, quite spacious enough for the hundreds of guests invited. Paneled in pale blue with cream molding and embellishments, the room had been made even cheerier by the hundreds of candles burning in the chandeliers, the warm fires in the hearth,
and the boughs of evergreen and beribboned bouquets of holly on the mantels.

  Guests were still arriving, and Rowena expected a crush before the night was over. It had been some time since she attended a ball where she could later boast of the affair as having been a squeeze. Once she’d been the popular daughter of an English baron and invited to every event of the Season, but then she married a French duc and removed to France with him. Her three sons—the duc de Valère, the comte de Valère, and the marquis de Valère—were French noblemen in name only. Since the revolution and the coming to power of Napoleon Bonaparte, her sons had no French estates to speak of. The family was accepted into Society and even welcomed, but they were not the ton’s darlings by any stretch.

  Oh, they made the gossip columns now and then, and when one had money, making friends was always easy. Julien, only seven and twenty but clever with finances and investments, had more money than he knew what to do with, and Bastien, ever resourceful at five and twenty, had made his own fortune. But Rowena cared little for wealth. She was happy her family was together again. She only wished dear Philip could be here too. It had been fourteen years since he’d been beheaded by the blade of Madame Le Guillotine, and she still missed him every day.

  Rowena blinked at the sparkling crystal chandeliers blazing with light and then lowered her gaze to the chalk still lining the edges of the dance floor, where hundreds of feet had not yet rubbed the art away. Her gaze flitted to rest on her son Julien and his wife, Sarah, laughing with Lord and Lady Aldon. As the Duke and Duchess de Valère, they represented the family. Julien took his role seriously and made a point of speaking briefly with all of the family’s friends and acquaintances. Rowena did not see Armand, but she spotted Raeven and Bastien easily enough. They were dancing a reel, laughing and spinning like mad. The two of them always made her smile.

  And finally, she allowed her gaze to wander to the refreshment table. Ah! There was Armand. Her quiet son appeared to marvel at the plethora of sweet and savory offerings, and at the other end of the table—

  Rowena caught her breath.

  Her gaze snapped back to Felicity. The girl nodded. “I told you he was watching you.”

  Rowena put a hand to her heart to steady the pounding. “So you did.” She managed to sound calm, though her voice retained a breathless quality.

  Felicity was not fooled. “What is the matter, Duchess? Are you unwell?” She frowned in concern.

  “No. I—” She could not seem to control her gaze, for it defied her wishes and returned to the man standing beside the refreshment table. He was still watching her, his lips curled in a slow smile that gave her delicious goosebumps.

  Gabriel.

  Could it really be him? Impossible. He looked like the footman she remembered, but he—the footman who had once served her family so faithfully—could not possibly be dressed like a nobleman and attending the Countess of Winterson’s ball.

  Except…if it was not Gabriel, why was he staring at her?

  She’d thought of him often over the years, wondered if he was well. She recalled him as a young man, little more than a boy at two and twenty, but he was no boy now. He was a devastatingly handsome man. Even across the ballroom she could see how tall he was, how his broad shoulders tapered to a lean waist. And there were his eyes—that unique shade that was not quite blue, not quite green. When his gaze touched her, she felt heat infuse her limbs from her belly all the way to her toes.

  The music ended and Raeven and Bastien approached. Rowena turned to Felicity. “Perhaps I should step outside for a breath of air.”

  Felicity frowned. “Madam, it is freezing outside.”

  “What is the matter?” Bastien asked, coming to stand beside her. “Ma mère, you look as though you have seen a ghost.”

  That was an apt phrase if she had ever heard one.

  “Rowena, shall I fetch you a drink? Some champagne?” Raeven asked.

  “No, I only need a breath of air.”

  Suddenly Julien and Sarah were beside them. “Lady Winterson is coming this way,” Julien said between clenched teeth curved into a smile so it would not appear he was discussing the countess.

  Rowena turned to observe their hostess crossing the ballroom. The countess was young for a widow. She could not have been more than five and twenty. She was also quite lovely with blond hair, large blue eyes, and a lush figure. The scandal broth Rowena heard was that the old earl had died in his new wife’s bed. His energetic young bride had been too much for him, but he’d died with a smile on his lips.

  The countess’s arm was twined with…Rowena’s breath seemed to whoosh out of her, and she could not manage to draw enough in again. Lady Winterson’s arm was linked with Gabriel’s as the two descended upon Rowena. Watching them come inexorably closer, she suddenly had the urge to run. It was a most unbecoming sort of urge, especially for a woman of her position and her maturity. But she suddenly felt eighteen all over again, and prone to immature action.

  “My dear Duke and Duchess de Valère,” Lady Winterson said, curtsying prettily. Julien and Sarah curtsied in return and Julien said…something. Rowena was no longer listening. She was staring at the man beside the countess. It was he. Gabriel. And she was suddenly awash in memories. She and Julien had ridden away from their burning chateau, away from the bloodthirsty peasants, and into the security offered by the woods. Just as she’d thought they were safe, a man jumped out at Julien and her, frightening both them and the horses. To her relief, it was Gabriel, who offered to help them escape and, a day later, saved their lives. She remembered her nausea when they’d been attacked on the road and Gabriel had shot a man in the head to save them. He’d done it—murder. For her and her son.

  She looked at Julien before returning her gaze to Gabriel, who watched her unabashedly. Did her son not recognize the man, their savior? Did none of the boys remember their servant? He looked so much as he had all those years ago, though Rowena realized that he must be now, what six and thirty? He still had the long straight nose of his Gallic ancestors and the thick black hair, though he had acquired a few patches of gray at his temples. His eyes were pale greenish blue and framed by thick brows and lashes. He had high patrician cheekbones and a strong noble jaw, though he certainly was no nobleman.

  “Allow me to introduce the most celebrated man in all of England,” the countess said, finally indicating Gabriel. “This is a fellow Frenchman, Monsieur Lemarque. But he is better known as the French Fox.”

  Bastien gasped. “Good God, man, is that you?” He cut his gaze to his mother.

  Most of the family was aware of her fascination with the French Fox. She’d followed the reports of his feats of bravery religiously. The way he’d snatched innocent aristos—mothers and children, old men—from the blade of the guillotine was nothing short of heroic. He escaped even the most intricate traps the enemy laid for him, seemed to laugh in the face of danger, risked everything for men and women to whom he owed nothing. She was half in love with the mysterious spy already.

  And Gabriel was the French Fox. It all made sense now. Gabriel, the man who had once held her hand when they’d been hiding from revolutionaries—“Do not fear, duchesse. I will die before I allow these devils to so much as look at you.”

  Now Gabriel smiled thinly and glanced at Lady Winterson. “That was supposed to be our secret, my lady.”

  Rowena took a slow, shaky breath as heat flooded through her. His voice. That accent.

  Lady Winterson waved a hand. “Oh, but you know I cannot keep a secret. It is much more fun to share. And, Your Grace”—she looked at Rowena—“I have a secret for you.”

  Rowena blinked. “Me?”

  The countess was smiling. “Monsieur Lemarque has asked for an introduction. I believe he would like to claim this dance.”

  “What?” Rowena’s hand flew to her bosom. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest. “But why?”

  “Yes, why?” Julien asked. Sarah put a restraining hand on Julien’s arm.

>   Ignoring them, the countess reached for Rowena’s hand and joined it with Gabriel’s. “Duchess, allow me to present Monsieur Gabriel Lemarque. Monsieur, the Dowager Duchess de Valère.”

  Her hand felt small and weightless in his much larger one. She was aware the eyes of her children were on her, and she tried very hard not to notice how strong his fingers felt or the way he peered down at her with those alluring green-blue eyes. “Your Grace.” He bowed his head. “I would be honored if you would favor me with the next dance.”

  “I…” She did not know what to say. She had not danced in years. And even in her dancing days, she would not have danced with a man such as Gabriel—a mere footman. But looking at him now, in his coat of superfine and his tight breeches and starched cravat, she knew he was no mere footman. He was the man to whom she owed her life.

  He was looking at her, his expression expectant and slightly bemused, as though he knew the turmoil in her mind. His mouth curved up slightly in that way French men had—the way she had always found incredibly erotic.

  “I…”

  Oh, good grief. Was everyone waiting for her response? Julien was watching her, his gaze dark and protective. Sarah’s brow was furrowed with concern. Felicity was smiling encouragingly. Bastien winked at her, and Raeven was watching Gabriel, assessing him as one might an enemy about to attack. Rowena shook her head, aware she must give an answer. “Yes, thank you, sir.”