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Christmas kisses with the earl...
Gabriel Derwent, Earl of Wycliffe, needs an heir. With no wife or child of his own, he hires Etta Mason to research his family tree and find one!
Single mom Etta isn’t used to things going her way. So she can’t believe her luck when her new boss whisks her away from her humdrum life to spend Christmas with him! She may be cynical about fairy-tale endings, but standing in Gabriel’s arms, snowflakes softly falling, dare she hope his achingly romantic kisses could mean so much more?
‘I’ve tried dating and...it doesn’t work out.’
‘And I’ve told you you’re dating the wrong men.’ Gabriel surveyed her. ‘I bet you’re going for nice, average men with nice respectable jobs and...’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ Color climbed Etta’s cheekbones and she narrowed her eyes.
‘Physical attraction is important too.’
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘That you date someone you feel attracted to in a physical way—where there’s a spark.’
‘I don’t seem to meet guys like that. Maybe that gene is missing, too.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
The last berry slipped on to the ring and he stood up and held the mistletoe circle, then attached it to the waiting ring.
‘Look up.’
A hesitation, and then she did as he asked, her face tipped up toward him, her delicate angled features bathed in the flicker of light.
‘Kiss me and I’ll show you,’ he said. ‘The ball’s in your court. Literally.’
His throat was constricted, his breath held in his lungs, and then slowly she rose to her feet and stepped forward until she was flush against him. Hesitantly her hands came up and looped around his neck; her fingers touched his nape and desire shuddered through his body. She stood on tiptoe and touched her lips against his in sweet sensation.
The Earl’s Snow-Kissed Proposal
Nina Milne
www.millsandboon.co.uk
NINA MILNE has always dreamed of writing for Mills & Boon Cherish—ever since as a child she played libraries with her mother’s stacks of Mills & Boon romances. On her way to this dream Nina acquired an English degree, a hero of her own, three gorgeous children and—somehow!—an accountancy qualification. She lives in Brighton and has filled her house with stacks of books—her very own real library.
Family is a big part of this book so this is for my mum. Thank you for being a great mum, an amazing grandma, and for believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself!
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Introduction
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EPILOGUE
Extract
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
GABRIEL DERWENT STARED at his reflection in the opulently framed mirror of the lavish hotel room—just to make sure he hadn’t inadvertently put his shirt on inside out or his boxers on his head.
But, no...his reflection gazed suavely back at him, its crisp white shirt correctly on beneath a midnight black tux, spiky blond hair free of encumbrance. No indication of the inner turmoil that had been tossing and turning inside him for the best part of a year. Not that he was complaining—the very last thing he needed was for the truth to be emblazoned on him for the world to see. For anyone to see.
Instead his fellow guests at the Cavershams’ Advent Ball would see what they expected—the debonair, rugged, charming Gabriel Derwent, Earl of Wycliffe, heir to the Duke of Fairfax. No doubt there would be questions as to his prolonged absence from the social scene, but he’d deal with those as if he were without a care in the world. Ditto any queries about his split from Lady Isobel Petersen.
This was a fundraiser for a cause he believed in, but the whole idea of circulating, itty-bitty small talk and a face-off with the press made his jaw clench. Yet necessity dictated his actions... He needed the social backdrop to conceal the true reason for his presence—which was to start a quest, the idea of which banded his chest with bleakness.
Enough, Gabe. No way would he submit to despair. A childhood lesson well learnt.
The click of the hotel room door caused him to spin round and he forced his lips to upturn. ‘Hey, little sis.’ Seeing her expression, he stepped forward. ‘Is everything OK?’
Cora Martinez entered, her emerald-green dress shimmering as she moved. ‘You tell me. I knocked twice and you didn’t respond. I was worried. In fact I’m still worried.’
‘No need to worry. You look stunning, by the way.’
A wave of her hand swept the compliment away. ‘Don’t distract me. I am worried. I’ve seen you once in nearly a year, I have no idea where you’ve been, and then you ring me up out of the blue to ask me to introduce you to the Cavershams. Next thing I know you get a last-minute invitation to this ball. I don’t get it.’
‘I know.’
Her turquoise eyes narrowed. ‘That’s it?’
Digging deep, Gabe pulled out his best smile. ‘There is nothing you need to know except that I’m back.’
No way could he confide in Cora. What would he say? Hey, little sis. Nine months ago I found out that I can’t have children. Life as he had known it had changed irrevocably—the future he’d had mapped out for years was toast. Thanks to the archaic legal complexities that surrounded the Dukedom of Fairfax, the title that had passed from father to son for centuries might now die out. Unless he could find a male heir who descended directly, father to son, back to an earlier Duke of Fairfax. Bleakness returned in a vengeful wave even as he forced his body to remain relaxed.
‘Earth to Gabe...’ Cora placed her hands on her hips, one bejewelled foot tapping the plush carpet. ‘I’m still worried. I may be six years younger than you, and we might never have been close, but you’re my brother.’
Never have been close.
The words were no more than the truth. They weren’t close—Cora and her twin sister, Kaitlin, had been only two when he’d been sent to boarding school and after that he’d figured there was little point in forming close bonds with anyone, because closeness led to the agonising ache of missing people and home. Closeness made you weak and weakness rendered you powerless.
Her forehead crinkled. ‘Is it something to do with Dad? Was his attack worse than I thought? Or are you upset about Isobel? Love can be really complicated, but...’
‘Stop.’
Love was something he’d never aspired to—as far as he was concerned love was the definitive form of closeness and a fast track to complete loss of power. As for Lady Isobel...their relationship had been a pact. Gabe had always known his playboy lifestyle would have to end in the name of duty, and Lady Isobel would have been a dutiful wife. In return she would have had the desired title of Duchess and been the mother of the future Duke of Fairfax.
When he’d found out there was a possibility he couldn’t fulfil his part in that, he had asked to postpone their engagement for a few months. True, he hadn’t told her why, but she’d agreed...and then sold him down the river. She’d appeared on numerous talk shows on which she’d denounced him as a heartbreaker and a cad. But this was conversational territory he had no intent of entering.
‘Isobel is history. As for Dad—I spoke with the doctors and his prognosis is good. The heart attack was serious, but the stent should prevent further attacks and Mum has taken him away to convalesce. I’ll hold the fort in their absence.’ Tipping his palms up in the air, he aimed for an expression of exasperated affection. ‘So all is fine. There is no need to worry.’
Patent disbelief etched Cora’s delicate features. Clearly his aim was off.
‘Sure, Gabe. Whatever you say,’ his little sister said as she turned for the door.
Five minutes, one grand oak staircase, several wooden panelled walls and more than a few intricately beautiful medieval tapestries later Gabe followed Cora into the impressive reception hall of the Cavershams’ Castle Hotel. Beautifully dressed people filled the cavernous room and the hum of conversation was interlaced with the discreet pop of champagne corks and the clink of glasses.
Next to him, Cora’s face lit up with a smile that illuminated her entire being—a clear indicator that Rafael Martinez must be in the vicinity. Sure enough, within seconds her tall, dark-haired husband made his way through the throng to her side.
‘Gabriel.’ Rafael gave a curt nod.
‘Rafael. Good to see you.’
His brother-in-law raised one dark eyebrow in patent disbelief and Gabe couldn’t blame him. Although he had no problem with his sister’s marriage, he hadn’t exactly been around to offer his good wishes. On the other hand Rafael Martinez was undoubtedly more than capable of looking out for himself and his wife without assistance from anyone.
Gabe scanned the room, which glittered with festive cheer. Rich green holly wreaths adorned the stone walls and discreet choral music touched the air, heralding the first Sunday of Advent, the next day, and the arrival of Christmas in just a few weeks—the deadline he’d set himself to map out his options and discover if there was an heir to the dukedom besides him.
Not for the first time he cursed the legal convolutions that demanded his heir had to be derived from a direct male line only. If there was no descendant who matched the rules the title would die out; the idea coated his tongue with the bitter taste of the unpalatable.
Focus, Gabe.
Alongside the Christmas-tinged atmosphere he became aware of the attention and buzz directed at him, on his first public appearance for nearly a year. It came as almost a relief as his body and mind spun automatically into action. Time to walk the walk and talk the talk. It was crucial to ensure that the press didn’t work out why he was really here this evening, and that meant he must speak to all and sundry so that no one would identify his real quarry.
A smile on his lips, he headed towards his host and hostess—they should be able to point him in the right direction.
* * *
Etta Mason stepped behind an enormous potted plant and hauled in breath so hard her lungs protested as she checked her mobile phone for the gazillionth time.
This had been a mistake of supersonic proportions. Breathe, Etta. It would be OK. Cathy was safe. Images of her beautiful, precious sixteen-year-old daughter streamed through her mind. From babyhood to teenagedom she’d loved and looked after Cathy—sure, it had been hard sometimes, but not once had she regretted the choice her sixteen-year-old self had made. Whatever it had cost her.
Safe. Cathy is safe.
She was at a sleepover with her best friend, and most crucially of all there was no way that Tommy could find her. Etta dug her nails into the palm of her hand. Cathy had managed without her father thus far and that was how it would stay.
Determination hardened inside her. She had the situation under control. So now she needed to get on with her job. This was an important event and she had promised Ruby Caversham that she would do a pre-dinner talk. Therefore skulking behind potted plants was really not on the agenda. Instead she would step out in her pink-and-white candy cane dress and... And walk crash-bang into a very broad chest.
‘I am so sorry. Put it down to a combination of high heels and innate clumsiness... Thank goodness I didn’t impale y—’
The words died on her lips as she took in the appearance of the man she had nearly spiked with her candyfloss-pink heels. Short dark blond hair, blue-grey eyes that caught the light from the wall-mounted candles and cast a strange spell on her, a firm mouth that her gaze wanted to snag upon—especially when a smile tipped it up at the corners...
Etta blinked. Holy moly! There could be no gainsaying that this man had charisma. Whoa... Her brain cells finally caught up and she stopped gawping as recognition sent out a flare. The man in front of her was none other than Gabriel Derwent, Earl of Wycliffe, heir to the Duke of Fairfax.
Great! The first time she’d been poleaxed by a man since...since never, and it turned out to be a man she despised. True, she didn’t actually know him—but what kind of historian wouldn’t follow the exploits of a leading member of the aristocracy? A man whose ancestors had been instrumental in the most gripping moments of English history.
In fairness, she had no issue with the playboy lifestyle he’d enjoyed for years—it was his more recent actions that had left her enraged. Nine months ago Gabriel Derwent had renounced his playboy way of life, wooed Lady Isobel Petersen, wined her and dined her and taken her to visit his parents—all of it recorded in celebrity magazines worldwide. He had even been papped in a jewellery store, scanning the engagement rings, and then...kabam! On the verge of a proposal Gabriel Derwent had unceremoniously dumped Lady Isobel and fled the country.
There had been a short but excited media outburst before the efficient Derwent publicity machine had rolled in, and Etta had taken the plight of Lady Isobel to heart. Etta knew how it felt to be deceived, to become enmeshed in a situation only to have it exposed as an illusion, and she could almost taste Lady Isobel’s bitter hurt. A hurt inflicted by this man.
Her eyes narrowed as she returned his gaze.
His blue-grey eyes studied her face as he held out a hand, and something sparked in their depths. ‘I’m Gabriel Derwent.’
For an instant her gaze snagged on his hand. Capable, strong, thick-fingered...and suspended in mid-air. Get with it, Etta. The last thing she wanted was for Gabriel Derwent to believe her to be flustered by his presence.
Clasping his hand in a brief handshake, she mustered a cool smile. ‘Etta Mason.’ She ignored the surely imaginary lingering sensation from his touch.
‘Etta Mason...eminent historian.’
The words were more statement than question, and for a daft second she wondered if he had been lurking by the potted plant waiting for her. How ridiculous was that?
‘That’s me.’
For a moment she recalled the sheer struggle it had been to obtain her qualifications: the constant exhaustion as she’d strived to combine being the best mum she could be with the hours needed for study and working part-time. So no way would she go for false modesty—she was one of the best in her field.
As his eyes swept over her appearance she clocked a hint of surprise and ire sparked. Presumably her outfit didn’t match up with his idea of ‘eminent historian’.
‘You look surprised?’
There was a pause as he contemplated his answer, and then he lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Busted. I’ll admit that my preconceived idea of a renowned historian didn’t include a bright-pink-striped dress. But I apologise unreservedly. I shouldn’t have made such a stereotypical assumption. So how about we start again? I’ll forget you nearly impaled me with your shoes and you forget my stupidity? Deal?’
This was her cue to close this conversation down—make a light comment and then walk away. But the relaxed tilt of his lips vied with the determined glint in his eye. Gabriel Derwent was turning on the charm—and Etta wanted to know why. She certainly didn’t qualify as his type. Gabriel Derwent had been linked with a fair few women—all beautiful, all famous and all shallow—and none of them serious until the Lady Isobel Petersen debacle. So why would he show an interest in her?
The idea was laughable—Gabriel Derwent and a historian. And not just any old historian but one who had been a single mother at seventeen. True, he didn’t know that, but Etta knew the ballroom held plenty of women more suited to be the recipient of the dazzling Derwent smile. It could be that she was overanalysing, and that he charmed on automatic, but instinct told her otherwise and curiosity tickled her vocal cords.
‘Deal.’ There could be no harm in a conversation, right? ‘So how do we do that?’
‘How about you tell me a bit about yourself? A day in the life of a prominent historian?’
His interest seemed genuine, even if she didn’t get it. ‘Part of the reason I love what I do is that all my days are different. I recently helped an author research a historical novel. I investigate family trees...help organise historic events. I blog for a historic society, I’ve written articles, I’ve done guest lectures...’
‘Ruby told me you were one of the most committed professionals she knew.’
‘Well, I feel the same about Ruby. And Ethan. What they do for the kids their foundation helps is inspiring. I wish—’ Etta broke off. Her admiration for Ruby and Ethan Caversham and the ways in which they sought to help troubled teens—kids in care or on the street—stemmed from personal experience. How she wished she’d been able to turn to people like the Cavershams in her own time of need. But that was not a wish she had any inclination to share.
‘What do you wish?’
Surprise touched her at the hint of perception in his voice—almost as if he too could empathise with the children out there who needed help—and for an instant an absurd flicker of warmth ignited her. Ridiculous. Gabriel Derwent had come into the world housed and shod, with a whole drawer full of silver spoons to choose from.
‘I wish I did as much good as they do,’ she improvised. After all it might not have been what she’d meant to say but it was the truth.
‘Ruby mentioned that you’d done some work for her?’
The words niggled Etta. Ruby always had a good word to say about others, but that almost sounded as if Gabriel Derwent had expressed a specific interest in Etta. Could he be interested in her?
To her irritation the idea set off a spark of appreciation, caused her gaze to snag on his firm mouth, sent a strange, long-forgotten tingle down to her toes. Jeez, she must be losing it big-time—the idea was nuts.
Focus on the conversation, Etta.
‘I did. From time to time she deals with children who only have a name for their birth parent and want to know more about them.’
‘So you’re almost playing detective?’
‘Yes—that’s what’s so fascinating.’ Though that fascination held an element of the bittersweet—a reminder that all her research and effort hadn’t unearthed a single clue as to the identity of her own birth parents.
A familiar ache kicked at her ribcage and she clenched her nails into her palms. Enough. Accept it. She would never know who they were or why they had abandoned her on a doorstep thirty-two years ago. Move on.
‘What if you discover something people don’t want to hear?’ Now darkness edged his voice, and matched the shadow in his grey-blue eyes.
‘I tell them anyway. It’s better to know.’ This she knew. After all, her adoptive parents had hidden the truth of her birth from her—hadn’t even told her she was adopted. Instead they had woven a web of illusion around her life—a mirage that had been exposed when they’d had a child of their own and turned Etta out into the cold.
Enough. Accept it. Move on.
Aware that his grey-blue eyes were studying her expression with a penetration she wouldn’t have believed a man of his reputation capable of, she summoned a smile. Hoped to combat the fervour her voice had held. Somehow their conversation had taken on way too much depth—and, worse, she had no idea how or why that had happened.
‘After all, they say knowledge is power.’
‘So they do.’ Now his voice matched her lightness, and suddenly there was that smile again. Full of charm. And she wondered if she had imagined the whole other side to the conversation.
‘And sometimes knowledge is just useful. I did one job for Ruby when a pregnant teenager in care wanted to find out her medical history.’
It had been a case Etta had related to all too well. How many times had she looked at Cathy and worried that genes she knew nothing about might have an adverse medical impact on her daughter?
‘Although the other side to that coin is the fact that in the past no one understood genes and everyone got on with it. Sometimes I believe we have to make a leap of faith,’ she said.
‘And just believe in fate?’
So now they had plunged into philosophical waters. ‘Sometimes. Don’t you agree?’
A flare burned in the depths of his eyes. ‘No, I don’t. We choose our fate because we have the power of choice.’
The intensity of his voice prickled her skin.
Then his broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. ‘Or at least that’s what I choose to believe.’
Enough. The Earl of Wycliffe possessed more depth than she’d given him credit for, but that didn’t alter anything. The man was at best a playboy and at worst a heartbreaking master of illusion. Etta still had no idea why he’d engaged her in conversation for so long but it didn’t matter. So...
‘It’s nearly time for my talk and I really must mingle. Hopefully the more people I talk to the more people will enjoy my speech. I’ll say goodbye.’
‘I look forward to your talk and to chatting again afterwards.’
Really? This didn’t make sense. Curiosity surfaced and she pushed it, her besetting sin, down ruthlessly. There were way bigger items on her plate right now.
Etta summoned up her coolest smile. ‘I won’t be staying long tonight, so in case we don’t get a chance to speak again I’ll say goodbye now.’
‘And I’ll say goodbye for now,’ he murmured, so softly that she couldn’t be sure she’d heard him correctly.
CHAPTER TWO
GABE WATCHED FROM a corner of the beautifully decorated ballroom as Etta Mason headed towards the podium with a sinuous grace. Damn. There it was again. The tap of attraction that had sparked when she’d first emerged from behind the potted plant earlier—a complication he hadn’t anticipated.
In recent months his libido had been in hibernation mode. Plus the photo on her website hadn’t prepared him for Etta Mason in the flesh, and the instant impact had caught him unawares. In real life her brown eyes were flecked with hints of amber and her generous mouth called for his attention. Glossy chestnut hair seemed to invite the touch of his fingers, and the slant of her cheekbones would cause envy in the heart of many a supermodel. But it wasn’t only her beauty that had stopped him in his tracks—her expression had held a piquancy, a poise, that summoned notice.
Right now he needed to derail that train of thought and pull his libido under control. He required Etta Mason’s professional expertise. Urgently. So this attraction needed to be sidelined.
Etta tapped the microphone and waited for silence, showing no sign of nerves as she waited for the hum of chatter to die down. She stood with poise and stillness, her sleeveless pink-and-white-striped dress emphasised the slenderness of her waist and the soft material of its skirt artfully swathed over the curve of her hips and fell to her ankles in sleek, diaphanous curves.