To Sir Christmas, With Love, page 1
Also by Katherine Bone
A Regent's Revenge Series Novella
The Pirate's Duchess
Christmas for Ransome
To Sir Christmas, With Love
Yule be Home for Christmas
Miracle Express
A Sprig of Mistletoe
Nelson's Tea Series
My Lord Rogue
Duke by Day, Rogue by Night
The Rogue's Prize
My Lady Rogue
The Regent's Revenge Series
The Pirate's Debt
The Pirate's Duty
Standalone
The Mercenary Pirate
Romancing the Jewel
The Pirate's Yuletide Treasure
TO SIR CHRISTMAS, WITH LOVE
CHRISTMAS FOR RANSOME NOVELLA
BOOK ONE
KATHERINE BONE
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
LICENSE AND COPYRIGHT NOTES
Copyright © 2022 by Katherine Bone
Published by Seas the Day Publishing, LLC
Cover Design by Dar Albert
Editing by Tessa Shapcott
ISBN: 9780998657325
All rights reserved.
* * *
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews—without the author’s written permission as allowed by copyright law.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or copied or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
For more information contact
katherine@katherinebone.com
or visit www.katherinebone.com.
Created with Vellum
PROLOGUE
Hillsborough, Kent, December 1805
* * *
Miss Emma Clavering endured a host of admirers, and the fist to his stomach pilfered his breath.
Lieutenant Christmas Astley-Milne stood amid the holly and ivy, gold medallion trimmed garland, the gleaming yule log and candlelight, crowded by an array of jubilant smiles and dancing couples, and launched every nuance of this country ball into his memory. That was all he would allow it to be, a memory. A man’s calling if he didn’t know whether he’d experience another Christmas, he supposed. What hardworking, seafaring man was proficient in such bliss? None. Trafalgar was a celebrated victory, but the United Kingdom was still at war. And the way things were going in the Atlantic, there were no guarantees he would ever celebrate another indulgence like this again.
No one went to sea without acknowledging the peril.
He took it all in, aware that the woman he’d always loved could potentially marry another while he was doing his duty. Why, this very day, he had orders in hand to report to Spithead and the HMS London without delay. The ill-timed missive had ruined this short reprieve, making it seem hardly fulfilling, and leaving him little time to settle his affairs. And yet, something bewildering gripped him, a steely vise closing around his heart. He did not know when it had happened, nor why, but he loved her and if he never returned, what would become of her?
The significance of time, sizable and solemn, wrapped around him, coiling like wet rope in a hot sun, seizing his heart. Would this be his final Christmas in England? Dare he leave without making his intentions known to Emma? What kind of life would he be subjecting her to when he was the only man capable of retrieving the moon for her?
Interlacing his fingers behind his back, Chris silenced any lingering reservations he had and turned his attention back to the dancing, considering the bodies in motion before him with the keenest of awareness. Purposeful steps transported the dancers to and fro, hands interlocked, skirts flowing, backs ramrod straight, proprieties observed at all times.
Hillsborough was a quiet village, offering little respite to those who yearned for the pomp and circumstance of city life. Winter abused and people were forced indoors, ushering in the loneliest of days, making assembly and revelry a much-anticipated affair whenever they could be found.
The Admiralty’s orders, concealed within his coat, branded him, propelling him into making a decision he hadn’t anticipated until the hour for the ball approached and he’d witnessed Emma’s arrival at Milne Manor. Dressed in a white gown with blue accents, the color matching her brilliant eyes, she’d bedazzled him immediately, forewarning him that this was to be his last public hoorah for an indeterminate amount of time.
The lure of her beauty and company struck him profoundly. He and the sea were one, espoused and eager, drawn to danger, soaked in secrecy. Nevertheless, it was challenging to pretend indifference to Emma while standing among those around him. The enthusiasm and merriment of his fellows was contagious, to be sure. Blood and gall! It would be a crime, egregious of him to refuse the hearty assurances and love and companionship afforded him in this time and place.
Seafaring men rarely allowed tender feelings to conflict with obligation.
But he was no ordinary mariner.
The music thrummed, violin bows crafting a lilting harmony to everyone’s delight. Aye, these were moments he’d cherish, engage in, preserve in his mind for years to come. If only he didn’t have one regret—Emma.
A product of Claverfield, she was a genteel woman with eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea. She was amicable from bow to stern, and demonstrated a topman’s natural robust for life, daring and shocking to those who truly knew her. But not him. Never him. Her diverting spirit had captivated him since their youth. In fact, everything about Emma made him feel breathless, bold, and bright whenever she was near. More than once, he’d desired to explore that connection with a kiss, a touch. But deciding nothing more could come of it, he’d forced himself to think of her as a friend, inevitably wasting years better spent in each other’s arms.
How could he burden her to a life of monotony and desolation?
Women who married a naval man lived a life of widowhood until the fellow’s return, if he returned at all. Although shielded by a man’s rank and prestige, things he’d so arrogantly sought, theirs was a bitter, lonely life. His only motivation in not asking for Emma’s hand before now had been to spare her an imbalanced living.
War raged on the Continent. After Trafalgar, the French fleet had fled to the Atlantic. New orders communicated he was to tail the enemy there. Service to one’s king and country did not provide certainty. Therefore, he had little to offer Emma except the love and promises of a man who would do anything to return and make her his bride.
Would that be enough?
Naught was guaranteed. Nothing but the affection my heart possesses.
What more assurances were needed? His parents, Richard, Viscount Astley-Milne and Paulina, Lady Astley-Milne, engaged in a promenade, sweeping past him, his mother winking her encouragement after their conversation mere moments ago.
“Love,” she’d said, “is the most important thing in the world, Christmas. When you find it, you must grab hold of it and never let go. True love is not restricted to distance or time. If Emma says yes—and I know she will—I promise she shall not want for anything in your absence. I shall make it my duty to watch over her as if she were my very own.”
His mother’s astounding declaration wasn’t surprising. Her only daughter had died at birth, and she still felt the loss keenly. Emma would be welcomed and cared for as a daughter in his absence.
He clenched his hands. Bollocks! No excuses were left to prevent him from asking Emma for her hand. All that limited him now was his stubborn will.
So why am I standing here, vacillating? I am a man of action. Determined. My devotion to Emma is unquestionable. He didn’t have to choose between Emma and the sea. He would love and serve them both equally.
For Emma’s part, she had enough heart and soul for the entire hamlet. He need not fear lack of constancy or her independent spirit in his absence. She loved him, he knew it. He’d suspected it since his seventeenth year.
Now, five years later, the only thing to fear was fear itself. At twenty-one, Emma was in her prime, a woman sought by suitors wealthier and more established than he.
I should leave before the night ends. Take my feelings for Emma with me before I doom her to a life of waiting and waiting and waiting.
A fine predicament! He was about to walk out of the ballroom when her laughter pulled up around him sharply, captivating him. Her melodious voice, lovely and seductive, drifted to him on a sensual veil, beckoning like a sure breeze to becalmed sails, reminding him of nights they’d spent gazing at the stars, wondering if they held some sort of power over the Earth.<
He’d had it all wrong. He needn’t have worried about the stars. Emma controlled them. They would always lead back to her.
By crock, he would not walk away without declaring himself. But would Emma accept his offer? Would she wait for his return, however long and distant in the future?
If she said yes, would he be dooming her to a life of expectation?
“No one can know the future. That would prevent us from doing what came from the heart, would it not?” His father’s advice when he’d joined the navy had hit the same chord of truth.
Blood and gall! No more ruminating.
He relinquished his stubborn nature and allowed Emma’s essence to pull him through the crush. Light from a candelabra illuminated her face, overlaying her blond hair in luminescence, and rendering her lashes, cheeks, and lips hard to resist. He wanted to kiss her pert nose, her dainty chin, her lips— Tack northward, fool!
Sword withdrawn, he made his way toward her, pinched with frustration. Heads bobbed courteously as he passed and, impatiently but politely, he responded in kind, making sure his parents’ guests enjoyed themselves as he closed the distance.
Emma. Her countenance mirrored decency and enchantment. Her loveliness added import and charm to Milne Manor, complimenting her family, his family, and his determination to become a wealthy naval officer.
But did she fancy him? He stopped before a dancing couple.
What if she declined his devotion? The timing of his proposal was troublesome, indeed. How would she view it? His mind argued against prejudice and pointlessness, grasping hold of the natural order of things. And yet . . . his heart pined. He wanted Emma. Needed something to hold on to, to live for, a reason to return. But given the hour, and the state of his orders, he would be forced to convince her that his feelings were genuine, steady, and persuasive quickly. Was that even possible?
If only I’d been firstborn, with land and prestige at the tips of my fingers. Perhaps then—
No. Fate had blessed his brother, Noel. That is Noel’s destiny, not mine. I envy him not. Noel was a good man, well-educated and generous, compassionate, and accomplished. No one need agonize over the welfare of Milne Manor or its tenants. His father’s legacy would live on in his brother’s capable hands.
As second son, Chris had been forced to forge his own path, declining to join the church as so many had urged him to do. Though the living was respectable, he had no notion of being a landlubber and snubbing the souls of the men who’d volunteered to defend Britannia. Besides, he was much too daring for the pulpit.
The sea . . . Ah, it lured him into trouble like the serpent that had goaded Eve. And like the mother of all humanity, he’d made a choice. He’d nibbled what was offered, taking it upon himself to honor his father, the king, and England, by taking up arms against Napoleon. The salvation of souls he’d leave in the local vicar, Mr. Havisham’s capable hands.
If only I had more time. Perhaps then, after the banns had been read and Havisham espoused them on a bright sunny morning, he’d be less likely to sail away consumed by gloom.
There would never be a more perfect moment to open his heart than now.
A tremendous weight lifted off his shoulders, unburdening his heart. Opening up, revealing his emotions, had never been an easy feat. Perhaps if he could escort her to a quiet place without anyone suspecting foul play . . . Rounding two women engaged in gossip, he brought himself up sharply as he discovered why Emma was laughing. Her good humor was aimed at his nemesis, Geoffrey, Baron of Lyddon.
Bollocks! The man was hedonistic, a troll, a pompous arse. If Lyddon and Emma came to an understanding— She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. That foppish dandy selfishly loved one thing and one thing only: control.
He'll taste my wrath first!
Emboldened, he charged forward to Emma’s rescue. Lyddon could trap any other fish in his cunning net but not Emma. Not the love of his life.
“Lieutenant Astley-Milne,” Emma’s sweet voice formally greeted him upon his arrival. She turned to the baron. “Lord Lyddon, you are acquainted with the viscount’s son, are you not?”
“Yes.” The roguish dandy shot Chris a vexing glower. The two of them were not on good terms. Had not been since Lyddon had been caught trying to swindle one of Milne Manor’s tenants. “How soon do you sail? . . Figgy?” Lyddon asked, brow cocked and a steady smirk deepening the dimple in his debonair cheek.
“Tomorrow,” Chris said, fully understanding Lyddon’s purpose. He grinned back at the artful cheat and silently cursed the man for not knowing him at all. Figgy was a shortened nickname for Figgy Pudding, the sweet and savory treat that failed to be as rich or complex as the favored indulgence, Plum Pudding. Lyddon was insulting him. Long ago, Chris had been heavier. Figgy was an obvious nod to his appetite and the jolly names his mother had bestowed upon him and Noel when they were born.
Chris shot the man a look that said, Bugger off!
Lyddon visibly winced, the swine. “Well then,” he said, twirling his looking glass between his fingers. The perceptive man sneered as if to say, I’ll bide my time and when you’re gone—
“Have you received orders?” Emma asked Chris sullenly.
“I must beg your leave.” the baron said smartly, turning to Emma and slowly appraising her. “I see my aunt requires my attention. I must away. But do not forget we’re to dance the last set, Miss Clavering.”
“The last set?” Emma’s voice audibly cracked. The expression on her face when she looked at her dance card said she knew nothing about this. Rebutting the baron was unthinkable, however, unless she could prove otherwise. She dropped her hand and looked up. “Of course,” she added, exhibiting charity and propriety. “I shall look forward to it.”
“Until then.” Lyddon had the presence of mind to retreat in false victory before Chris’s anger could be revoked. “I bid you adieu, for now.”
Chris felt obliged to manage Lyddon. He set out to follow him, but Emma laid her hand on his arm. “Stay,” she whispered. “He is of no consequence.”
“When have you ever fallen into a man’s trap?” he snapped more abruptly than he intended.
“Lyddon’s veneer is paper thin.” She harumphed, her stare accusing him of not knowing her at all. “I see through him. Which begs me to ask, why does he insist on annoying you at every opportunity?”
He went still. Growing more restless as he gazed into her beautiful blue eyes incredulously. “You do not know?”
“Know what?” She shook her head and bit her lip, plumping the delicate tissue in a tempting fashion. “I am at sixes and sevens.”
He searched her soul. Her face seemed to brighten under his inspection, the corners of her lips drawing into a bow. Minx. She knew exactly why Lyddon hated him. The man had launched an assault on her senses out of jealousy for that which he did not have.
And so am I. I’m eager to kiss your charming mouth. I yearn to feel you quiver in my arms as you—
Did she sense his desire? Couldn’t she see that he only had eyes for her? He made a mental note to alleviate any doubt she possessed before the night was over. “Lyddon’s an odd sort of goat. Nothing in his path is safe.” He tweaked her nose. “Remember, the grass is not always—”
“Greener?” Emma blinked, her heavy lashes fluttering against her high cheekbones. “Are you referring to Milne Manor or me?”
She knew him far better than he knew himself. “You.”
“Ah!” She looked away swiftly, pretending to smile at something someone said. “I knew he was a toad, but I never expected—”
“He is not the only man smitten with you.” Her smile quickly vanished. Chris reached out, barely touching the tips of her fingers before withdrawing his hand, bursting with pleasure at the contact with her glove.
