A Lady A Kiss A Christmas Wish: A Sweet Historical Regency Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

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  Other Collette Cameron Books

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  A LADY, A KISS, A CHRISTMAS WISH

  Daughters of Desire (Scandalous Ladies), Book One

  A Sweet Historical Regency Romance

  By

  COLLETTE CAMERON

  Blue Rose Romance®

  Portland, Oregon

  Sweet-to-Spicy Timeless Romance®

  A LADY, A KISS, A CHRISTMAS WISH

  Daughters of Desire (Scandalous Ladies) Series

  Copyright © 2020 Collette Cameron®

  Cover Art: Jaycee DeLorenzo - Sweet ‘N Spicy Designs

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By downloading or purchasing a print copy of this book, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of the copyright owner.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.

  Attn: Permissions Coordinator

  Blue Rose Romance®

  8420 N Ivanhoe # 83054

  Portland, Oregon 97203

  eBook ISBN: 9781954307025

  Print Book ISBN: 9781954307032

  collettecameron.com

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  Daughters of Desire (Scandalous Ladies)

  A Lady, A Kiss, A Christmas Wish

  Coming soon in the series!

  No Lady for the Lord

  Love Lessons for a Lady

  His One and Only Lady

  The Honorable Rogues®

  A Kiss for a Rogue

  A Bride for a Rogue

  A Rogue’s Scandalous Wish

  To Capture a Rogue’s Heart

  The Rogue and the Wallflower

  A Rose for a Rogue

  Castle Brides

  The Viscount’s Vow

  Highlander’s Hope

  The Earl’s Enticement

  Heart of a Highlander (prequel to Highlander’s Hope)

  The Blue Rose Regency Romances: The Culpepper Misses

  The Earl and the Spinster

  The Marquis and the Vixen

  The Lord and the Wallflower

  The Buccaneer and the Bluestocking

  The Lieutenant and the Lady

  Highland Heather Romancing a Scot

  Triumph and Treasure

  Virtue and Valor

  Heartbreak and Honor

  Scandal’s Splendor

  Passion and Plunder

  Seductive Surrender

  A Yuletide Highlander

  Seductive Scoundrels

  Only a Duke Would Dare

  A December with a Duke

  What Would a Duke Do?

  Wooed by a Wicked Duke

  Duchess of His Heart

  Never Dance with a Duke

  Earl of Wainthorpe

  Earl of Scarborough

  The Debutante and the Duke

  Wedding her Christmas Duke

  Earl of Keyworth

  Coming soon in the series!

  How to Win A Duke’s Heart

  Loved by a Dangerous Duke

  When a Duke Loves a Lass

  Boxed Sets

  Lords in Love

  The Honorable Rogues® Books 1-3

  The Honorable Rogues® Books 4-6

  Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 1-3

  Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6

  The Blue Rose Regency Romances- The Culpepper Misses Series 1-2

  For the exceptional ladies in my VIP reader group, Collette’s Chèris, who helped me name Lady Persephone Poppington and Sir Galahad Whiskerton. I believe they might be the most pampered, fussed over, and adored pets to ever grace the pages of one of my historical romances.

  Lora Patten, Lynn Quinlan, Marissa Birch, and Sharon Gilbert Fournier—

  thank you for your creative suggestions!

  Merry Christmas to all of my dear readers!

  Rochester, England

  9 December 1817

  Early afternoon

  “Miss Winterborne?”

  Mrs. Sabella Thackpenny’s sleep-thickened, warbly voice yanked Joy from her pleasant daydream about where she’d spend her half-day off this Saturday.

  Walking in The Vines Gardens?

  Browsing the shelves at Barclay’s Book Shoppe and Emporium?

  Or—the thought nearly made her sigh aloud in anticipation—perhaps enjoying a cup of strong, sweet tea with milk at that quaint tea shop on High Street where she and her friend Mercy Feathers had enjoyed maid of honor tarts two years ago?

  Mercy was the governess for two young charges here in Rochester.

  Had it truly been two years since Joy had seen her friend?

  Lips pressed tight, she shook her head the slightest bit.

  It didn’t seem possible that much time had passed.

  She clearly remembered the Christmas decorations and gingerbread cookies that day. She could still almost smell the evergreens and the cinnamon, cloves, and ginger. Aromas she’d not enjoyed the pleasure of since.

  Joy missed the other young women from Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women who had become her sisters in every way except for by blood. She especially missed Mercy, Chasity Nobel, and Purity Mayfield. The four of them had shared a room at the academy for as long as Joy could remember.

  All of the cast-off girls who’d ever called Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women their home had shared a middle name too. Shepard. The name was a slightly altered version of the kindly but strict and extremely pious Hester Shepherd’s own surname.

  That sweet, Godly woman had bestowed a Biblical given name upon each discarded child in her loving care. Mrs. Shepherd, now a spinster in her sixth decade, vowed she adored the girls she’d raised since infancy like her own daughters.

  The honorary missus before her last name was a matter of formality. No proper instructor was ever addressed as a miss.
>
  As Mrs. Shepherd had been taking in unwanted charges—all by-blows in one form or another of the wealthy or aristocracy—for two-and-one-half decades, she’d been a mother to nearly seventy girls. All of which she’d raised to be prayerful, moral young women despite their unfortunate beginnings.

  “Each of you are a gift from our Lord. He has a purpose in everything. ‘All things work together for good to those who love God,’” Mrs. Shepherd quoted to her girls from the scriptures. “Even your presence at Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women is no accident. Never forget it, my dears,” she admonished fondly.

  What was more, Mrs. Shepherd and her discreet staff had provided every girl with an education and skills for respectable employment. Not, however, entirely out of benevolence. Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women and Mrs. Shepherd had been well-compensated for her discretion and the girls’ decorous upbringing.

  Joy was eternally grateful. She missed the headmistress’s light-hearted scolds and contagious laughter. Naturally, they corresponded—quite regularly as a matter of fact. But a piece of paper slashed with tiny, neat script was no substitute for one of Mrs. Shepherd’s soft, comforting rose and violet scented hugs.

  How very different was the plump, genial headmistress compared to the pinch-faced woman across the room blinking sleepily behind her spectacles, her mouth pursed in a perpetual grimace of disapproval.

  Or perhaps Mrs. Thackpenny’s turned down mouth was a result of her recent propensity to pass gas with the offensive regularity and unfortunate exuberance of a barnyard animal. A large barnyard animal.

  Joy held her breath, hoping her employer would settle back into her nap, which was her habit in the afternoon. She longed to return to her daydream about delicious tea and sweet cakes in a cozy teashop. If she couldn’t actually consume the treats, at least Joy could fantasize about doing so.

  A slight nasally snore resonated from the afghan covered lump, and tension eased from Joy’s spine and shoulders. A few more minutes of peace was a treasured blessing.

  Mrs. Thackpenny—pinchpenny is more apt—only permitted Joy used tea leaves. Leaves which the difficult widow had already used twice herself. The resulting brew was slightly bronze-tinted water, which scarcely tasted of tea at all.

  And no sugar or milk. Ever.

  “A body can never economize too much, Miss Winterborne,” the rail-thin woman had intoned when she’d first retained Joy as her lady’s companion. “You’ll learn soon enough that though I’m extremely frugal, I’m not miserly.”

  Only tightfisted and parsimonious.

  “Save a penny, save a pound.” As was her wont, Mrs. Thackpenny emphasized the latter colloquialism with a resounding thump of her worse-for-wear cane.

  Wasn’t the phrase, A penny saved is a penny earned, anyway? Or was it, Look after pennies, and the pounds will look after themselves?

  It didn’t matter. What did, however, was Mrs. Thackpenny’s tightfistedness.

  Persuading the woman to part with funds was as difficult as convincing a nun to toss up her habit for a dockside tumble with a salty sea dog—in broad daylight.

  Every single month since her arrival, Joy had been obliged to ask for her allowance and carefully count each coin. For her penny-pinching employer had tried to cheat her out of a shilling or two several times.

  Honestly, there wasn’t any need for her excessive thrift either.

  Mrs. Thackpenny’s husband, a successful banker, had left her a considerable fortune. Yet the decades-old worn and quite threadbare carpets, draperies, and outdated furnishings remained as a tribute to the long-dead Mr. Ephraim Thackpenny.

  The widow owned precisely seven gowns—one for each day of the week. Every one entirely black from collar to hem and as plain as unused paper, without so much as a shiny button to break the bleak monotony.

  Head canted, Joy listened for her employer’s drowsy murmurings, and when no more sounds came from the woman, decided Mrs. Thackpenny had, indeed, been mumbling in her sleep. A common enough occurrence, in truth.

  Joy happily turned her musings toward her half-day off once more.

  Mayhap, she’d indulge in all three activities this Saturday.

  The merest rebellious smile bent her mouth

  Yes, that was precisely what she’d do.

  Visit The Vines, the bookstore, and the tea shop.

  Pure heaven.

  A small frown pulled her eyebrows together as she inserted the needle into the fine linen fabric, another handkerchief for her mistress—Mrs. Thackpenny’s one indulgence besides her pampered pets.

  That was her plan if Mrs. Thackpenny actually permitted Joy the half-day she’d been assured of each week when hired by the difficult woman four years ago—no five years next week. There’d also been promises of exciting trips to Bath, the Continent, routs, musicals, soirees, the theater…museums.

  None of which had ever manifested. If Joy managed a single, short walk outdoors every week, she counted herself most fortunate.

  An unintended sigh slipped past her lips.

  All fabrications to entice a young girl with stars in her eyes and dreams of a different, more exciting life clouding her common sense.

  Little had Joy known that she was the latest in a long queue of lady’s maids retained and dismissed since Mrs. Sabella Thackpenny had taken a fall a decade before. Hence the need for her cane, and upon the advice of her then physician, Doctor Daggat, she’d conceded the need for a live-in companion.

  Companion was a generous term for what Joy was to the woman. She was expected to be on hand for whatever the difficult widow demanded every hour of every day and night.

  In truth, Mrs. Thackpenny seldom allowed Joy her half-day and never compensated for the deliberate oversight.

  How Joy craved a few hours of desperately needed reprieve from the demanding, cantankerous, never satisfied woman’s presence. There was never a word of thanks or appreciation. Just scolds, complaints, reprimands, and the occasional threat of dismissal.

  And dash it to ribbons, that was what Joy could look forward to until Mrs. Thackpenny departed this earth, unless she was somehow able to procure another position. With considerable effort, Joy quashed the wave of frustration billowing up from her middle that her errant, uncharitable thoughts brought on.

  She closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer.

  Lord, give me the strength and patience I need. Keep me from complaining and help me be grateful. My life could be so much worse.

  Her eyes drifted open.

  It could be better too.

  But, this was her lot in life, and she ought to be appreciative. In truth and much to her astonishment, despite her employer’s contentious nature, Joy had grown fond of the impossible woman.

  At least she held a position, albeit one that paid poorly and consumed all of her waking hours. But a roof over one’s head and food in one’s belly, even if the fare was bland and unappetizing, accounted for much. That was more than most young women born on the wrong side of the blanket could say or even hope for.

  Of course, Mrs. Thackpenny didn’t know that particular scandalous detail about Joy’s paternity.

  Nor would she ever. The very notion made her ill.

  A shiver skittered the length of her spine.

  For God help her, Joy’s position and reputation depended upon that scandal remaining a secret. As did Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women’s, and the many girls who had ever called the place home.

  Mrs. Shepherd made absolutely certain her girls’ unsavory origins were diligently guarded and hidden. She created respectable faux backgrounds and prepared them for various positions appropriate for gently-bred young ladies.

  She was paid handsomely—very handsomely—for her exclusive, confidential services too. Surely she’d amassed enough savings to retire in comfort, yet Mrs. Shepherd cheerfully continued in her position.

  It struck Joy as peculiar that a parent who was so eager to
hide their by-blow or bastard daughter would pay Mrs. Shepherd’s exorbitant fee and ensure their illegitimate offspring had a decent future. But then again, there was no understanding the peculiarities of the wealthy or the peerage, in Joy’s limited experience.

  Odder still were the surnames Mrs. Shepherd dubbed each of her charges with. She vowed the name contained a hint about each girl’s familial heritage. Nonetheless, to Joy’s knowledge, thus far, not a single former ward had identified either parent.

  What difference would it make anyway?

  “Miss Winterborne?”

  Mrs. Thackpenny’s voice pitched higher, and the unfortunate wooden floor—already scarred and scraped—received a pair of undeserved petulant thwacks from her ever-present cane.

  Thump. Thump.

  “Where is my darling Sir Galahad Whiskerton?”

  Thump. Thump.

  “Miss Win-ter-borne? Are you there?”

  Her shrill voice pierced the air once more.

  Joy winced as she accidentally pricked her finger.

  As if she couldn’t hear her crotchety employer’s strident tones from the chair less than ten feet away. Rather astonishing that a woman so shrunken and petite could produce such remarkable volume with her reedy voice.

  “Yes, Mrs. Thackpenny. Permit me to finish this French knot, please.”

  Accustomed to her employer’s ill-temper, Joy calmly finished her embroidery stitch despite her cold fingers' stiffness.

  From beneath her lashes, she cast a yearning glance toward the few insufficient glowing coals in the grate, in front of which Mrs. Thackpenny’s small settee was positioned to absorb the stingy warmth the pathetic fire provided.

  Was it a sin to covet a smidgen of the sparse warmth for herself?

  Little heat radiated past the settee, leaving the rest of the room so frigid, Joy could see her own puffs of breath. She deliberately blew out several, watching the vapor disappear, just to prove her point. Besides the kitchen, this was the warmest room in the house, which wasn’t saying much.