Lord Lansbury's Christmas Wedding. Helen Dickson
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Suddenly the train lurched, propelling Jane out of her seat and across the distance that separated her from Lord Lansbury, sending her crashing into his steely warm chest.
Christopher’s eyes captured Jane’s with some considerable surprise, while Jane looked into his face and for a long moment could not look away again, held by something she was unable to name but which her female body instantly recognised. His eyes had narrowed in sudden concentration and he looked faintly surprised at something his body was telling him.
Unprepared for the sheer force of the feelings that swept through her, she knew, with a sort of panic, that she was in grave danger—not from him but from herself—and was aware that she must, absolutely must pull back. But she was too inexperienced and affected by him to do that.
Her eyes became fixed on his finely sculpted mouth as he came closer still, and she knew he was going to kiss her.
I’ve always enjoyed reading stories that blend history and romance, featuring handsome, enigmatic heroes and audacious heroines.
In Christopher Chalfont, Earl of Lansbury, I hope I have captured such a hero. Having been betrayed by a woman in his past, and just managing to hold on to the ancestral home his deceased father very nearly gambled away, he is prepared to wed an American heiress, thinking she will be the answer to his prayers. Until Jane Mortimer comes along and throws his whole life and his ideas about marriage into confusion.
Before long Jane falls in love with the handsome Earl and becomes more and more wrapped up in a world so different from the one she left behind. She has the ability to reach into the darkness of Christopher’s mind and heal his injured heart.
Lord Lansbury’s Christmas Wedding
Helen Dickson
HELEN DICKSON was born and still lives in South Yorkshire, with her retired farm manager husband. Having moved out of the busy farmhouse where she raised their two sons, she has more time to indulge in her favourite pastimes. She enjoys being outdoors, travelling, reading and music. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure. It was a love of history that drove her to writing historical fiction.
Contents
1875
A light rain had settled over the sea, mottling the surface of the choppy water into a dull blackish grey. Jane leaned against the railing of the steamship, letting her eyes skim over the vast expanse of water as it carried her closer to Dover. It was carrying her further away from the wild and mystical beauty and the heat of the Far East, of India and the countries around the Mediterranean, into a new phase of her life.
Tears came to blur her vision when she thought of the circumstances that had brought her to this day, of the anguish that had beset her, almost drowning her in a sea of despair when her beloved father had died in Egypt two months earlier, leaving her bereft.
This morning she had risen before dawn in Paris to catch the boat train to Calais, where she had boarded the ship. She hoped to arrive at her aunt’s London home with something akin to dignity, but her appearance was far from being at its best. The dark-blue bonnet and black woollen cloak served to protect her from the cold, damp wind even if it lent nothing to a stately grace.
There were a great many passengers aboard. Most of them had sought the comforts below for the journey, but Jane preferred to remain on deck. A girl’s laughter drew her attention and she turned to look at her. She was dressed in a warm red woollen cloak with a fur muff and bonnet over her fair curls and clutching a small Pekinese dog. Perhaps eight or nine years old, slightly built with luminous blue eyes, she was such a pretty, dainty little creature with a pale small-featured face that Jane could only gaze at her in wonder.
She was with a fashionably attired woman Jane assumed to be her mother. She noted there was another plain-clad woman beside her. This, she realised, must be her maid, which told her the child’s mother must belong to the gentry. They were accompanied by a tall man in a sleeved cloak and wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat. Several yards away from where they sat and close to Jane, with his back to them, he stood at the rail, his head turned to look at the ship’s wake. He withdrew a thin cheroot from his jacket pocket which he lit, bending his head and cupping his hands over the flame.
The tobacco smoke drifted her way. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply, inhaling the familiar smell which evoked so many memories. Her father had always enjoyed smoking a cigar, and suddenly she was swept back in time to the nights when he would sit outside his tent after a gratifying day’s work, sipping his favourite brandy and smoking a cigar. Moving closer, she expelled the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. The tiny sound made the gentleman glance at her. His eyes narrowed, in surprise or displeasure, she wasn’t certain. Caught in the act of staring at him, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t wish to disturb you.’
His dark brows lifted a fraction in bland enquiry. ‘Do you mind?’