O Night Divine A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,261

onto formalities in his surprise.

He then did what he knew must be done, even though he was unsure how the action would be received. He offered his hand to John.

The younger brother hesitated for a moment, and then pulled down his sleeves before shaking it. “I will still be keeping an eye on you, Michaels. Just to make sure your obsession with money does not return. I would hate for you to be in my bad books.”

“You just want an excuse to visit Bath, and Miss Darby,” teased Pru.

Alexander had no idea who Miss Darby was, but evidently, John did, for he colored slightly. “Nonsense. ’Tis just important to me that your husband does not love wealth more than you.”

“I do not think that will ever be possible,” said Alexander, pulling Pru to his side.

She was smiling as she had never smiled before. “And the children must come to us–they should be with family. And we will have mistletoe in our home, all year round!”

Charlotte laughed as she rose to greet the happy couple. “All year? Always?”

“Of course,” Alexander said, beaming. “It will be there to remind us of how, one Christmas, we were finally able to find each other under the mistletoe.”

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily E K Murdoch

Never The Bride Series

Always the Bridesmaid (Book 1)

Always the Chaperone (Book 2)

Always the Courtesan (Book 3)

Always the Best Friend (Book 4)

Always the Wallflower (Book 5)

Always the Bluestocking (Book 6)

Always the Rival (Book 7)

About Emily E K Murdoch

If you love falling in love, then you’ve come to the right place.

I am a historian and writer and have a varied career to date: from examining medieval manuscripts to designing museum exhibitions, to working as a researcher for the BBC to working for the National Trust.

My books range from England 1050 to Texas 1848, and I can’t wait for you to fall in love with my heroes and heroines!

Follow me on twitter and instagram @emilyekmurdoch, find me on facebook at facebook.com/theemilyekmurdoch, and read my blog at www.emilyekmurdoch.com.

A Libertine’s Christmas Miracle

Emily Royal

Dedication

for Twinkle

Chapter One

Boscarne House, Cornwall, 22 December 1825

“Edward, Edward!”

The wind howled outside, forming the shape of words, a shrill cry echoing his name in the night air.

Edward!

He sat bolt upright, his heart hammering in unison with the rattling of the window frame.

She was outside again—lost, and alone. Calling for him, like she had when she’d been alive.

He leapt out of bed and crossed the floor. Cold fingers fumbled with the latch, then the window blew open, exposing him to the maelstrom outside. Snow swirled into the bedchamber, and he reached into the night.

“Isabella!” he cried.

Isabella!

His voice echoed in the darkness, a mockery of his despair. Then the wind caught the window, and it slammed shut with a splintering of glass. Pain sliced into his finger, anchoring him to the real world. He shook his head to dispel the nightmare which plagued him almost every time he closed his eyes.

His Isabella. She tore at his conscience during the day, and haunted his dreams at night.

He had forsaken her when she needed him, dismissing her pleas for help as those of any female in her confinement. And for what? For the sake of a few coins. But what good were material possessions compared to the woman he’d loved? What good was wealth to a man when it couldn’t be used to bring her back? Neither could he take it with him to the grave.

But, it was all he had left, now.

He drew the curtains then returned to his bed, sucking the fingertip which he’d cut on the glass. The nightmare tonight had been more vivid than all the others. And he knew why. Today was the first time he’d glimpsed Isabella during the day, her slight frame and golden hair bouncing in little ringlets which he’d loved running his fingers through. He’d seen her walking along the lane at the foot of the drive to Boscarne House, heavy with child. Alongside her was the figure of a little girl, clutching her hand. Though he’d rubbed his eyes and tried to convince himself they were figments of his imagination, the two figures remained visible until they turned the corner at the end of the lane and headed toward the neighboring estate of Pengarron.

Isabella was the ghost of his past—the woman he’d loved and lost three years ago. But who was the little girl? Was she the ghost of the future—the child he might have had, if Isabella had not died?

Why had Isabella not brought the child