The Christmas Widow Read online

  The

  Christmas

  Widow

  A Holiday Novella

  By JILLIAN EATON

  The Christmas Widow is a work of fiction.

  All of the characters, organizations, and events

  portrayed in this novel are either products

  of the author’s imagination

  or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © by Jillian Eaton 2014

  All Rights Reserved.

  Except for use in any review, the

  reproduction or utilization of this work in whole

  or in part in any form is strictly forbidden.

  PRAISE FOR JILLIAN EATON

  “Enjoyable, sexy novella.”

  (Rogues Under the Covers, A Brooding Beauty)

  “Fast paced and filled with chemistry. A must read for any historical romance readers who love a good romp through England.” (My Book Addiction & More, Runaway Duchess)

  “...beautifully woven together with spice, sexiness and romance that is going to please all readers and not just those of us that consider ourselves fans of both historical and of romance.” (The Bookish and the Romantic, Forgotten Fiancée)

  “Eaton is a new to me author and I look forward to reading other books she has written.” (Romancing the Book, A Brooding Beauty)

  “Romance lovers, this is a book you’ll definitely want to read.” (Imagine a World, The Duke of St. Giles)

  “Jillian Eaton finds the perfect balance between intense emotions, sizzling chemistry, and light-hearted humor.”

  (Swept Away by Romance, Runaway Duchess)

  “Fall in love, embrace the ride, and enjoy the thrill.”

  (Book Freak, The Duke of St. Giles)

  “A delightful tale in which the jilted bride does not immediately forgive and forget.” (InD’tale Magazine, Forgotten Fiancée)

  “…beautifully written.” (Give Me Books, Learning to Fall)

  “A wonderful love story with tender and passionate moments shared between a husband and wife. I would not hesitate to buy another book by [Jillian Eaton].” (S.R. Roddy, A Brooding Beauty)

  “Perfect for the romance fan who loves a sweet, sexy, fun novella.” (Rogues Under the Covers, A Ravishing Redhead)

  “[Jillian Eaton] really worked her magic with this story.” (Great Minds Think Aloud, A Brooding Beauty)

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A RAKE IN WINTER

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Beatrice hated winter.

  For her it was not a season of snowflakes and sparkling ornaments and family gatherings and sneaking kisses under the mistletoe. Quite the opposite, really. For Lady Beatrice Tumbley it was a season of death and destruction and a constant reminder of who she had loved and lost. Which was why, on the morning of December the first, she ordered her household staff to cover all of the windows in thick velvet curtains.

  Beatrice knew what the villagers said about her. What they whispered behind closed doors. What they told their children late at night to keep them inside.

  Do not go out… Mad Lady Bea will get you!

  Once she would have worried what everyone thought of her. Once she would have gone out of her way to woo their favor. Once she would have worked tirelessly to repair her reputation as the crazy widow who lived all alone up on the hill. But that was then, and this was now, and she no longer cared what her peers thought of her. Truth be told, she did not really care about anything anymore.

  “Close the curtains. Every last one of them,” she ordered, fingers visibly trembling as she held them up to her lips and stared out at the snow softly falling from a moody gray sky. Outside the fields and the woods were being slowly blanketed in a layer of white. Before the night was through everything would be covered, from the tall pines that guarded the entrance to Stonewall Manor to the untended gardens she’d not step foot in for the past two years. “I do not want to see any of it.”

  “See any of what, my lady?” one of the maids asked, visibly perplexed.

  Beatrice turned away from the window. “The snow,” she whispered as her heart gave a hollow pang inside of her chest. “I do not want to see the snow.”

  The long train of her dressing gown trailed in her wake, whispering over the thick Aubusson carpet as she left the front parlor in favor of the library. Inside the dark, cavernous house the library was the only room beside her bedchamber where she could spend any length of time. Careful to close the door behind her she leaned up against it, pale lashes sweeping across her cheeks as she struggled to contain the wave of grief that washed over her thin frame, threatening to drown her from the inside out.

  Would it ever get any better? Would this tight knot inside of her chest ever loosen? Would the burden of loss she carried in her heart ever grow less heavy?

  With a tiny sob Beatrice pushed away from the door and forced herself to pick up the book she’d abandoned earlier in the day. Curling into one of several leather chairs that faced the crackling fireplace she quickly flicked through the pages to find where she’d left off and began to read. But her mind refused to focus on the fictional characters, and when the words began to blur she closed the book with a hard snap and pressed it against her chest.

  It was this season, she thought miserably. It was the sight of snow. The scent of pine. The sound of bells ringing in the air. All constant reminders that this was when he’d been taken from her.

  Her love. Her husband. Her Jeffrey.

  Nearly two years gone and she mourned him more now than ever before. After his death all of her friends and family had assured her she would eventually move on. You are still young, they’d said. You will overcome this. You will find love again. Except she hadn’t, and deep down she feared she never would.

  Her friends and family were now gone, chased away by a bitterness they could not understand and a sense of grief they could not possibly imagine, leaving Beatrice all alone in the large creaky manor up on the hill she’d once shared with her husband.

  After his abrupt passing she had clung to her grief as one might a child, using it to anchor herself to the memories of a man she would never see again. Memories of meeting him in Hyde Park one sunny afternoon. Memories of their courtship. Memories of their wedding. Memories of their life together, so perfect and blissful, until one snowy night when everything was torn asunder.

  She still remembered it all as though it had happened yesterday.

  The hard knock on the door. The grim faced doctor with blood on his collar. The sound of her wailing cry echoing through the foyer when she heard the words that would be forever etched in her memory.

  “My Lady, there has been a carriage accident. I am so sorry, but your husband is dead.”

  Dead, when three hours before he’d pressed his lips to her temple and promised he would be home before midnight. Dead, when they still had plans to visit their families for Christmas on the morrow. Dead, when the socks she had spent all evening knitting for him were still sitting on the table in the parlor.

  Belatedly wiping at the tears that were streaming down her face, Beatrice stood up and walked as close to the fire as the heat of the orange and red flames would allow. She stared blindly into the hearth, watching as the logs used to feed the fire were hungrily devoured.

  Her spirit had gone much the same way as the logs. Charred to black and burnt to ash as it fed
the flames of her despair. For she hadn’t always been like this. No. Once she’d been lively. Happy. The belle of the ball, as it were, flitting from social event to social event, nary a blonde hair out of place or a button left undone. Before she married Jeffrey and retired with him to the sleepy village of Blooming Glen she’d been the toast of London, her presence demanded at countless balls and plays and luncheons. She had been renowned for her beauty and charm. Celebrated for her quick wit and enchanting smile.

  Now… now, Beatrice reflected as she gazed down at her wrinkled night dress and limp, lifeless hair trailing down over her shoulders in strings of pale yellow, she was disheveled. Defeated. Downtrodden.

  And perhaps just as mad as the villagers claimed her to be.

  CHAPTER TWO

  As it had two years ago, the sound of knocking woke her.

  With a jolt and a soft cry Beatrice sat up, clinging to the plush arms of the leather chair as she oriented herself to her surroundings.

  She’d fallen asleep in the library.

  Again.

  A thoughtful servant had draped a blanket over her lap and she wrapped it around her shoulders as she stood up, wincing slightly as her bare feet met the cold floor. In the hearth the fire had dwindled to a smoldering heap of ash and burnt logs, a tell-tale sign that many hours had passed since she’d first entered the library.

  Padding to the closest window she pulled back the curtain and peaked beneath it, gaze flicking out across the snow-swept landscape. The moon, nearly full and bright as a shining pearl, illuminated the soft drifts of white in an iridescent glow. A lone fox, its red hide gleaming silver in the moonlight, followed the edge of the forest heading away from the manor, its tiny black paws padding silently across the top of the snow.

  How beautiful, Beatrice thought before she caught herself and released the curtain with a jerk, fingers dropping the heavy velvet fabric as though it had burned her.

  Yes, the snow was beautiful.

  Beautiful and deadly.

  With a tiny shiver she drew the blanket closer around her shoulders as she left the library to wander the halls, as comfortable moving about the house in the dark as she was in the light. After Jeffrey’s death she’d walked through the empty rooms and corridors nearly every night, unable to sleep for the dreams that had haunted her whenever she closed her eyes. With every passing month they came less and less frequently, but at least once a week she still awoke in a cold sweat, calling out for a man who could not answer.

  Sometimes the dreams were good, and sometimes they were bad. Born half of memory and half of fiction they alternated between visions of the past and brief glimpses into a future that would never be.

  Rarely did she dream of that night, for which she was eternally grateful. Experiencing her husband’s death firsthand had been nightmare enough. If she had to repeat it every time she went to sleep… it did not even bear thinking about.

  Beatrice was at the foot of the grand staircase when she heard it.

  Rap. RAP RAP RAP.

  Knocking.

  At the front door.

  In a flash she was brought back to two winters ago when a similar pounding had brought her into the foyer. She’d been sleepy and a bit bewildered, foolishly expecting Jeffrey to be on the other side of the door. But it hadn’t been him. By then he’d already been dead for over an hour, his body pinned beneath the heavy wheels of a carriage.

  RAP RAP RAP RAP RAP.

  The sound of a fist striking wood echoed through the silent house. As her knees trembled and threatened to give way Beatrice grabbed the heavy oak balustrade to hold herself upright. It cannot be, she thought with a disbelieving shake of her head. It simply cannot. She was dreaming. Yes, that was it. She was still curled up in the chair in the library, and this was all happening inside of her head, for surely no one in their right mind would be knocking on the front door in the middle of the night.

  “I am going back to sleep now,” she said aloud, using the sound of her own voice to bolster her confidence. “I am going back to sleep because this is a dream. A horrible, horrible dream.”

  Turning away from the staircase she began to do precisely that… only to freeze in her tracks halfway across the foyer at the sound of a stranger’s angry bellow.

  “I can hear you in there!” a masculine voice shouted. “Open the damn door. I am bleeding!”

  Beatrice’s mouth dropped open, but no sound emerged. Like a deer caught in the crosshairs of a hunter’s bow she stood and stared at the door, eyes wide as two silver shillings.

  “I will kick this bloody door down,” the stranger threatened. “I swear I will!”

  “D-do not,” Beatrice gasped, shaking free of her paralysis as the door shook from the force of a boot heel being driven into it. She raced across the foyer, the hem of her dressing gown billowing out behind her like a ghostly white cloud. Her hand shook as she reached out and grasped the doorknob. The metal was icy cold to the touch. “W-who are you? W-what do you want?”

  “Not to die out here on your front step!” Another kick shook the door, this one harder than the last.

  “Please s-stop doing that,” Beatrice implored. Her hand tightened on the doorknob, fingers flexing. At least she wasn’t having a nightmare or worse. Whoever the man was on the other side of the door, it certainly wasn’t her dead husband come back to haunt her. Jeffrey would have never spoken in such a vile manner. He had been a gentleman through and through, always treating her with the utmost respect.

  She wondered if the stranger threatening to kick her door down was a highwayman, and her pulse quickened as she thought of the danger she would be inviting into her home if she let him in. With the exception of two maids fast asleep on the fourth floor she was completely alone.

  Alone… and defenseless.

  She jumped when the door rattled on its hinges from the force of a third ruthless kick. It wouldn’t last much longer. Like everything else at Stonewall it was falling apart at the seams.

  “Go into town. T-there is a doctor there. He can help you.” Her hand fell away from the knob to twist anxiously in the folds of her nightgown. “P-please go.”

  “I won’t make it into town,” the stranger gritted out. A dull thud sounded, as though he’d dropped his head against the door. “Unless you want a dead man on your doorstep, you’d best let me in. Now.”

  Beatrice was not a woman without a heart. If anything her heart bled more than most, which was why, against her better judgement and all common sense, she murmured a quick prayer and yanked the door open.

  A shock of cold air blew into the foyer, causing her to stumble back several steps, arms wind milling for balance as her hair whipped around her shoulders. Snow and leaves skittered in next, followed by a towering man dressed all in black. White flecks of snow covered his broad shoulders and the hat he wore slung low over his brow. The roaring of the wind intensified, howling round and round the room before the stranger abruptly kicked the door closed behind him.

  Silence fell, broken only by the man’s rasping breaths. Clutching the edges of her dressing robe, Beatrice gave him a slow, thorough study, trying to determine if he was a robber or a highwayman or some other sort of horrible criminal who might take advantage of a woman alone in her house late at night.

  He certainly looked nefarious in his heavy black greatcoat, black breeches, and black boots that fitted snugly around his calves and came all the way up to his knees. The hat he wore prevented her from seeing anything above his mouth, but the strong slant of his jaw, covered in a stubble of dark whiskers, and the uncompromising line of his lips told her he was not a man to be meddled with.

  “Your hat,” she said softly. “Please take it off so I m-might see your face.”

  The lips Beatrice had been studying so intently curved in a humorless smile. “If I do that will you stop looking at me as though I am a hungry wolf and you’re a terrified little rabbit? Trust me, love. Even if I was in the habit of taking women against their will - which I am not
- you wouldn’t be in any danger. I like my ladies with a bit more meat on their bones.”

  Beatrice’s spine stiffened at the insult. She knew she wasn’t beautiful; at least not anymore. And she also knew it was ridiculous to feel hurt by a man whom she did not even know, but if there was one thing she’d learned in the past year it was that emotions could not be controlled, nor anticipated. “Be that as it may,” she said in a voice gone cold as the snow outside, “take off your hat or get out.”

  The man whistled under his breath. “Well wouldn’t you know. The little rabbit has some claws on her. As you wish, my lady.” He took off his hat with a flourish and began to dip into a bow, but with a grimace of pain quickly straightened and clapped a hand over his left shoulder. To Beatrice’s horror his palm came away slicked red with blood.

  “You really have been shot,” she gasped. Eyes narrowing, she gazed intently at the upper left hand corner of the stranger’s greatcoat, her stomach performing a slow, queasy roll when she saw it was nearly soaked through. The last time she had seen so much blood… no. She would not think about that night. Not now. “You need to see a doctor at once!”

  “No time,” the stranger grunted. He started to a take a step towards her, then seemed to think better of it and instead braced his legs apart until his boots stretched three floorboards wide. A puddle of gray slush began to form about his heels as the snow he’d tracked in started to melt. “I believe the bullet passed cleanly through-”

  “You believe?”

  “-but the bleeding will need to be stopped and the wound cleaned to prevent infection.”

  Beatrice was already shaking her head before he’d finished speaking. “I am not a doctor,” she protested, throwing her arms wide. Her dressing gown slipped to one side, revealing the thin nightgown she wore beneath. Catching the stranger’s gaze as it dropped far lower than it should have, she blushed and yanked the dressing gown back into place. Jeffrey had never looked at her with that dark gleam in his eye, but other men had and she recognized it for what it was: desire. Something that no longer had any place in her home, or her life. “You - you would do yourself a far better service if you continued on into town. It is not very far. A mile or two at most.”