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      About the Author

      AMANDA MCCABE wrote her first romance novel at the age of sixteen in algebra class, an epic starring all her friends as characters! That story will never be published (and she nearly failed algebra), but now she’s the RITA^®-nominated, award-winning author of many other books and novellas. She lives in Oklahoma with two cats, a pug, and a bossy miniature poodle, and loves dance classes, collecting cheesy travel souvenirs and watching the Food Network—even though she doesn’t cook. Visit her at www.ammandamccabe.com for behind-the-book information, contests and upcoming releases, and at riskyregencies.blogspot.com.

      Dear Reader,

      I love Christmas! The cool weather, crackling fires in the fireplace, champagne punch, my grandmother’s toffee and sugar cookies, time with family and friends—it’s a beautiful time of year.

      It also seems like a wonderful time for romance! I’ve read Regency Christmas stories every year since I was a teenager, and I loved having the chance to set Cassie and David’s story at Christmas—their tale of true love found in unexpected places just seemed perfect for the holiday. Carols, mistletoe, parties, a sleigh ride—what could be better?

      Happy holidays …

       Amanda McCabe

       Chapter One

       London, December 1806

      “My dear Cassandra. There are so many handsome men here tonight. You must choose one and take him to your bed immediately, before you quite wither away.”

      Lady Cassandra Osborne choked on the sip of claret punch she had just swallowed. “Melisande! Someone could hear you,” she protested as she deposited her glass on the tray of one of the footmen circulating through the crowded ballroom. She had been friends with Melisande, the Duchess of Gifford, ever since they were children, and she knew she should be used to the outrageous comments by now. But they still tended to catch her by surprise. Even when she was secretly thinking much the same thing.

      “Nonsense. We’re all alone here in our little corner, no one is listening,” Melisande said. “And I have been meaning to talk to you about this for some time now.”

      Cassandra laughed. “Talk to me about my habits in the bedchamber?”

      “My dear, as far as I know you have no habits in the bedchamber at all, except for sleeping—alone.” Melisande sipped at her own punch as they both studied Lady Clarke’s ballroom. It was the last ball in London before everyone scattered for Christmas, and the vast, gilded space smelled of pine boughs twined with red and white hothouse roses. The wine and punch flowed freely, and the laughter and chatter were growing louder and more merry as the evening went on. Cassandra had sought a quiet corner to take a breath; she hadn’t gone there to be interrogated about her romantic life by her friend.

      Or rather her lack of romantic life.

      “My life suits me very well,” Cassandra said, half-truthfully. She hoped she sounded more resolute than she felt.

      “Nonsense, my dear! How could it?” Melisande scoffed. “Your husband, worthy as he was, has been gone for above a year now. But you still shut yourself away in mourning.”

      “I do no such thing. I’m here now, aren’t I?”

      “Dressed like someone’s old auntie.” Melisande plucked at the plain cap sleeve of Cassandra’s dark purple silk gown. “You are far too young to do this to yourself, Cassie. Not when there are so many handsome men scattered about.”

      Melisande gestured at the ballroom with her glass and Cassandra dutifully studied the crowd. There were handsome men there—Lord Dunphy, Mr. Barrows, the Duke of Wharton. But none of them made her heart beat faster, none of them made her wonder what their lips would feel like on hers, what they looked like under their finely tailored clothes. None of them tempted her.

      And she had been secretly looking enough to know.

      Cassandra sighed and snapped open her black lace fan to try to create a cool breeze in the stuffy room. “Oh, Mel. I confess I have had such thoughts myself lately.”

      “Cassandra! You have?” Melisande gave her a startled glance over the gilded edge of her glass. “Oh, my dear, why didn’t you say anything? I would be happy to help you find just the right person. You deserve a little fun.”

      “I doubt there is the right person,” Cassandra murmured. “I haven’t yet found anyone to tempt me.”

       Except that one time …

      She had been very tempted indeed then. Sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night when she couldn’t sleep, she remembered how that kiss felt. How it awakened dark needs in her she didn’t even know she had, made her long for more and more. Made her want to tear his clothes away and feel the slide of his body over hers, skin against skin, until she didn’t know anything but him.

      Cassandra wielded the fan faster in front of her suddenly flushed face. Remembering those feelings did no good at all. The kiss had been over much too quickly, and he had backed away from her with a look of horror in his dark eyes. Since then he had carefully kept his distance, maintained a polite concern that made her want to scream with frustration. He certainly wouldn’t get close enough to her to repeat that little moment of giddy madness.

      Melisande was right. She needed to find someone else. But, curse it all, she didn’t want anyone else!

      Luckily her friend wasn’t looking at her to see her pink cheeks. Melisande studied the gathering, her eyes narrowed in consideration, as if she was examining horses at Tattersalls. “What about Lord Meredith? He’s