The Twelve Nights of Christmas_A Regency Novella

  “Ms. Mason’s writing is superb, as usual; her beautiful descriptions and well-researched period details add to the authenticity of the story, and provide an enchanting Regency Christmas ambience.”

  –Fresh Fiction

  ____________________________________

  Ten years ago, when his father bankrupted the family, Rollo Gillingham left Penelope Pembroke with his promise to return when he could afford to marry. Despite the length of his absence, he didn’t expect to find her engaged to a rival upon his return.

  Rather than step aside, he vows to win her back, but has only twelve days in which to accomplish his aim. Will he be able to persuade her in time? Or will she act to please her parents, breaking both their hearts in the process?

  Books by Nina Mason

  The Other Bennet Sisters

  (Regency Romance)

  The Captain of Her Fate

  The Rogue of Her Heart (Coming Fall 2018)

  Knights of the Tarot

  (Divination and Celtic Myth-Based Fantasy)

  Knight of Wands

  Knight of Cups

  Knight of Pentacles

  Knight of Swords

  Royal Pains

  (Restoration Era Historical Erotica)

  Devil in Duke’s Clothing

  The Duke’s Bedeviled Bride

  The Devil’s Masquerade

  The Devils Who Would be King

  Single Titles

  The Twelve Nights of Christmas (Regency novella)

  Wake Up Call (Romantic suspense releasing in 2019)

  The Governess Next Door (Victorian Romance)

  Children of the Sea (Romantic Urban Fantasy)

  Queen of Swords (Paranormal Romance, out of print))

  The Twelve Nights

  of Christmas

  A Regency Novella

  Nina Mason

  Copyright © Nina Mason 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieved system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author, excepting snippets or small excerpts for blogs and/or reviews. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Chapter One

  December 1, 1816

  Penelope Pembroke knew she ought to be grateful when the future Earl of Abingdon got down on one knee to ask for her hand in marriage. His was an exceptionally good offer, after all, especially for a twenty-eight-year-old spinster like her. Hence, she should accept his offer without hesitation.

  So why could she not quite bring herself to do so?

  There was nothing to object to in the asker. On the contrary, Frank Blackmore was handsome, charming, wealthy, and well-bred. One day soon, he would inherit an earldom, together with a great estate in Cheltenham.

  No, her hesitation wasn’t because of Frank, per se. Rather, it owed to something within herself: a tiny but inextinguishable flicker of hope that the man she loved would still return to fulfill the promised he’d made to her ten years before.

  Ten long years she’d spent wishing, hoping and praying for him to keep his word. Ten long years in which her bloom had faded and worthy suitors had all but disappeared. Ten long years through which her parents had shown extraordinary patience with their only daughter.

  Still, if she had her way, she would go on waiting for Rollo Gillingham, despite his prolonged absence and devastating silence. Because she still loved him with the whole of her heart. And once she accepted Frank Blackmore’s offer, she could never go back on her word. For a betrothal was not a promise to be made or broken lightly. Doing so would bring disgrace upon her and her family, in addition to bitterly disappointing a respectable man.

  There was a permanent stigma attached to young ladies who broke their engagements. One of the girls in her circle—Susan Morrison was her name—had done so a couple of years back, because she got another offer from a lesser man for whom she felt more. In consequence, the poor girl was turned out by her parents, who’d arranged the match.

  Thereafter, the young man abandoned her as well, to preserve his good name. Eventually, Susan went to London to seek her fortune and escape from her shame. There, she found work on the stage, further tarnishing her reputation.

  When she began a highly publicized affair with a notorious rogue, her ruination was complete. After he left her, she went to work as a prostitute to support the bastard she’d born him. In the end, Susan and her child ended up in the poor house, where she died of the pox.

  Such was the lot of genteel ladies who went back on their word—and Penelope had no intention of consigning herself to a similar fate.

  Not even for love.

  “I put two choices before you, daughter,” her mother had said over breakfast while attacking her coddled egg. “Marry Mr. Blackmore when he asks you, which I feel confident he will do very soon, or forever be separated from your family and friends.”

  The thought of ending up like Susan Morrison made Penelope want to slit her wrists with the butter-knife. Living with Frank would be paradise compared to the degradation that poor girl suffered. After breaking her engagement to the man her parents arranged for her to marry, all Susan’s family and friends turned their back on her.

  “You could do a lot worse than Frank Blackmore, my dear,” her father added when her mother was finished. “A vast deal worse, I daresay.”

  In the present, Penelope stared down at Frank, still down on bended knee. Her father, she believed, looked upon him as the son he’d been denied. For a time, Papa had done his best to cast her in that role, by dressing her in breeches and teaching her to ride astride and shoot a gun. She became a decent shot, too, and, for her fourteenth birthday, he’d bought her a pretty little muff pistol she still carried with her for protection.

  Sadly, the weapon could not protect her from disownment or heartbreak.

  Why had Rollo abandoned her? How many times she’d asked herself that question. Frank said it was because he’d been killed in the war of 1812, but she refused to believe him. Deep in her heart, she could feel Rollo, still out there somewhere, living his life without her. Maybe he’d met someone else … or had merely lost interest over the years … or was simply too proud to tell her he still could not afford to marry.

  Any of these reasons she could accept sooner than the report of his death.

  Not that it mattered anymore. Whatever Rollo’s reasons were for staying away, she must now choose between marriage to Frank Blackmore or permanent estrangement from her family. And she was convinced Frank genuinely cared for her and was, therefore, less likely to mistreat her than was the world at large.

  It helped that he was a childhood friend. Many were the afternoons she, Frank, and Rollo had played together—at croquet, badminton, archery, and lawn bowling—always with a friendly-yet-noticeable competition between the two boys.

  When, as they grew older, her relationship with Rollo took a romantic turn, the rivalry between them grew considerably less amicable. Only after Rollo left did she discover their competitiveness extended to her. When Frank began to press his suit, she did everything in her power to discourage him—and believed she had until, years later, her mother invited him to dinner.

  Frank was still down on one knee, eyeing her expectantly with his steady blue gaze. Rather than give him her answer, however, she asked him a question: “Why me? With your prospects and good looks, you could have any woman in the world. So why choose a dried-up old spinster like me?”

&nb
sp; The silence that followed was disrupted by a harshly whispered, “Don’t be a fool, you stupid girl!” The reprimand came from her mother, who listened at the keyhole.

  Frank, looking a bit bewildered, got to his feet, took her hand, and led her to the settee by the fireplace. As they sank into the cushion, he said, “Why not you? We have been friends for an age and get along very well.”

  Less romantic reasons for choosing her, she could not imagine. But Frank had never been particularly passionate about anything—apart, of course, from his rivalry with Rollo. And that, she suspected, was his real motivation for choosing her over someone more eager to be a countess one day.

  “Yes, but … why now?”

  He looked displeased before he gave her a pacifying smile. “Come now, Penny-Pen. Surely you know I’ve wanted you since we were children. But not until now did I believe I had a ghost of a chance.”

  Penelope lowered her gaze and brushed her hands down her thighs to smooth the skirt of her frock. “Because you believe Rollo is finally out of the picture?”

  “Because I’ve waited long enough to marry.” He cocked his head to one side. “We both have. So, what do you say, old friend? Shall we tie the knot on Christmas Day, right here at St. Edward’s, and start the New Year off as husband and wife?”

  “Say yes, you insolent girl,” her mother hissed through the lock.

  In that moment, Penelope saw herself standing on the gallows. Frank was putting the noose around her neck, while her mother awaited the signal to release the trap door. Her only hope of escape was for Rollo to ride in on a big white horse—this very instant—to cut her down and carry her off.

  But that wasn’t going to happen, was it? Neither was the romantic reunion she’d always envisioned they’d have … or the dream wedding … or the honeymoon devoted to fulfilling the physical component of their vows.

  With my body, I thee worship.

  All were fantasies that would go unfulfilled, because Rollo was never coming back. Her parents were right. It was time she gave up on him; time she got on with her life; time she set aside her fancies and made a marriage based not on love, but on friendship and forbearance.

  The way so many women did. Even if doing so broke her heart irreparably.

  She shifted in her seat and let out a sigh to avoid sinking into melancholy. She had plenty to be grateful for. Frank was a good man, a good friend, and would no doubt make her a good husband—provided, of course, they were honest with each other from the outset.

  “I know you have a mistress in London,” she told him. “Are you planning to give her up once we are wed?”

  He went pale, swallowed hard, and averted his gaze. “Only if you insist upon it.”

  “I shan’t if you are devoted to her”—she pushed the words past the lump in her throat—“and promise to only trouble me until I give you an heir.”

  “You idiot,” her mother exclaimed from the hallway.

  Penelope cared not a jot what her mother thought of her demands. If she was going to accept Frank’s proposal, it had to be on her own terms. “I also feel it only fair to warn you that I shall never feel for you what I feel for our absent friend. For that kind of love happens but once in a lifetime.”

  He looked nervous and his gaze darted toward the door, as if he expected her mother to put in another two cents. When she did not, he took Penelope’s hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed her bare knuckles. “I appreciate your honesty, and give you my promise that I have no expectations of you beyond friendship, bearing my children, and playing the gracious hostess when we entertain persons of consequence.”

  She smiled sedately as she recounted the advantages of accepting him. He was her oldest friend. One of them, anyway. The one who’d come back to make her an offer of marriage. Though she would never love him the way she loved Rollo, she could not deny she was fond of him. Moreover, if she married him, she would be no less than Lady Blackmore, Countess of Abingdon and mistress of Abingdon Manor, one of the grandest houses in the county.

  And if, by some miracle of a chance, Rollo should return, she would simply inform him he’d kept her waiting too long. For once she accepted Frank’s offer, there was no turning back.

  Penelope heaved a sigh. Finally, she’d managed to convince herself that the choice she was making was the best one for all concerned. Forcing herself to smile, she looked down at Frank. “Those things I can promise without misgiving.”

  His thick, sandy eyebrows shot up. “Then you accept my offer?”

  “Yes, Frank.” She licked her lips, tasting bitterness on her tongue. “Under the terms we’ve discussed, I agree to be your wife.”

  “Oh, Penny-Pen,” he exclaimed, pressing her hand to his chest. “You have made me the happiest of men. Would it be all right … that is to say … will you grant me leave to … to give you a kiss?”

  “Of course.” Bracing herself, she leaned in.

  When his lips met hers, her flesh crawled. Submitting to him sexually was sure to be even more abhorrent, but, she’d just have to grin and bear it. For she’d done what her parents expected of her, and now must make the best of it.

  Chapter Two

  Is Penelope still waiting for me?

  The fear she might not be was a thorn in Rollo’s breast that pained him anew each time he gave it space in his mind. Try as he might, he could not extract the barb. He could only distract his thoughts for brief intervals, as he was attempting to do at present.

  Peering out the window of the slow-moving stagecoach, he watched the falling snow through the spot he’d cleared on the frosted pane. Large, soft flakes drifted down like goose feathers from the gray canopy of clouds overhead.

  “Snowflakes are the feathers that break loose when the angels in heaven have a pillow fight,” his mother used to tell him.

  The memory of that dear lady transported him to long-ago winters, past Christmases, and the indelible impressions they left on his senses: the fragrant evergreen boughs she placed upon the mantle … the bittersweet chocolate she made to warm him after playing in the snow … the jingling of the bells as he drove his sleigh through the woods … the blazing Yule Log that seemed to heat the whole house … and the tiny twinkling tapers on the yew tree she decorated for Christmas Eve.

  The loud honk of a blowing nose brought Rollo back to the public coach. The noise had come from the skinny fellow in the seat opposite his. Beside that gentleman was his wife, who was as fat as her husband was thin.

  Beside Rollo on the rear-facing seat was the parish vicar. He did not think the reverend recognized him and wanted to keep it that way. Fortunately, Rollo had changed considerably in physical appearance since leaving Stow-on-the-Wold. He’d been a lanky young lad of eighteen at the time and was now a mature man of eight-and-twenty. His dark, hooded eyes, wavy black hair, and angular jaw, however, still marked him unmistakably as a Gillingham.

  Thankfully, the coot-faced old cleric had made no attempt to engage him in conversation. Rather, he’d passed most of the journey reading James Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women. Only at intervals did the pastor look up from his book. Sometimes, he studied Rollo’s face in puzzled silence, as if trying to work out from whence he knew him.

  When they were only a mile outside Stow-on-the-Wold, the clergyman once again glanced Rollo’s way. This time, he spoke. “You’ll pardon me, sir, but I find it hard to recall where we might have met before this. Might you oblige me by solving the mystery?”

  “You are Jacob Twigworth, if I am not mistaken,” Rollo aloofly replied. “Vicar of St. Edward’s and former, if not present, headmaster of the church grammar school. I was a pupil of yours before my father and I were compelled to leave the parish ten years ago this winter.”

  “Ah, that explains it. Maturity changes a young face more than an old one like mine.” Stroking his pointed chin, he added, “Now, let me see … would your name be McClanahan?”

  “No.” Rollo flicked a glance at the couple occupying the opposite seat, to
gauge if they were paying attention to the exchange. Finding the husband reading and the wife napping, he decided it was safe to continue. “Perhaps a little hint would help you match my face to the proper name. My father was the master of Hollywell Abbey before it was forfeited to his debtors.”

  Recognition dawned in the vicar’s spectacled blue-gray eyes. “Yes, yes. I remember now. You’re young Gillingham, who, as I recall, I had to thrash on more than one occasion for insubordination. Is it Rolf or Rafe? For the life of me, I cannot seem to recall.”

  Thrash him on occasion? Ha! That was an understatement if ever Rollo heard one. The good reverend’s attempts to whip his recalcitrant pupil into shape consisted of severe birchings that left his hindquarters welted and bloody on a weekly basis. The bone-chilling swish that preceded the strike could put the fear of God into an atheist.

  Even now, the memory of it made Rollo shiver.

  “It’s Rollo, actually.” He did not add that his beatings did little to curb his defiance, as he was no more inclined to blindly obey orders now than he had been at fourteen.

  The pastor took a few moments to run an assessing gaze over Rollo’s stylish velvet tailcoat, silk waistcoat, fashionably tight breeches, and top-quality Hessians—all purchased during his stay in London. Acquiring new clothes, however, were not his purpose for going to Town.

  He had waited too long already to make Penelope his bride and, if she accepted him, he meant to wed her without further delay. He had, therefore, gone to Town to obtain a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury. Having inherited an earldom and great estate from his lately departed uncle, Rollo had little trouble accomplishing his aim.

  “You seem to have done well for yourself, Mr. Gillingham,” said the preacher. “Did you come by your fortune in the army?—or by some other means?”