Home For The Holidays Part 1

JOHANNA LINDSEY.

Home for The HOLIDAYS.

They don't need ribbons nor pretty wrappings, they need only be delivered, a smile, a hug, to share with someone you love.

CHAPTER 1.

Vincent Everett sat in his coach across the street from the fas.h.i.+onable town house in London. It was one of the colder nights of the winter season, but he had slid the window open so he could see clearly across the street. He wouldn't be surprised if snow was imminent.

He wasn't sure why he was there, subjecting himself to inclement weather. He didn't doubt that his secretary, Horace Dudley, would serve the notice that gave the occupants two days to vacate the house. It wasn't that this was another stepping-stone in his decision to ruin the Ascot family, who lived there. It was more likely that he was simply bored and had had no other plans for the evening.

Even the decision to ruin this particular family wasn't an emotional one. Vincent hadn't experienced any real emotion since his childhood, nor did he ever again want to know such pain. It was much, much easier to exist with a stone for a heart, made simple matters such as evicting a family during the Christmas season just a matter of course.

No, the methodical destruction of the Ascots wasn't emotional, but it was personal. Vincent's younger brother, Albert, had made it personal, when he had put the full blame for his failed business and finances on George Ascot.

Albert had lost most of his inheritance, solely on his own. However, he had learned from his mistakes. He had taken what little was left of it and tried to start a business that would support him, so he wouldn't be a continuous drain on Vincent. And to give himself some pride. He had bought several merchant s.h.i.+ps, opened a small office in Portsmouth. But apparently Ascot, an established s.h.i.+pping merchant himself, had been afraid of the compet.i.tion and had set out to undermine Albert's efforts at every turn, to break him before he even began.

These were the details in Albert's letter, which was all he'd left behind before he disappeared, that and an astounding number of debts that continued to land on Vincent's door. Vincent feared that Albert had taken himself off to quietly kill himself somewhere where he wouldn't be found, as he had threatened so many times. What else was he to think, when Albert's letter had ended with "This is the only way I can think of, to no longer be an embarra.s.sment or burden to you"?

Albert's demise had left Vincent without family, though to be honest, he'd never really felt a part of his own family, so his lack of one now hardly made a difference to him. His parents had died just after Vincent reached his majority, within a year of each other, leaving only the two brothers. With no other relatives, even distant ones, the brothers should have been close. Not so. Albert might have felt a closeness, or more to the point, a dependency, but then Albert expected the world and everything in it to revolve around him, a silly notion that their parents had fostered by making him their joy, their amus.e.m.e.nt, their favorite. Vincent had merely been the reserved, boring heir they never took notice of.

It was amazing that Vincent had never hated his brother, but then you had to experience emotion to hate. By the same token, there had been no love, either, for his weakling of a brother, merely a tolerance because he was "family." That he had picked up the gauntlet, as it were, on Albert's behalf was more a long-standing habit, as well as a matter of pride. It was a blight on his own name, that George Ascot had successfully crushed an Everett without consequences. He would soon know differently. It was the last thing that Vincent could do for Albert, to at least pay back Ascot in kind.

The snow he had been expecting arrived, just as the door opened across the street to Dudley's knock. Vincent's view was hampered by the white flakes, but he could still make out a flowing skirt, so a female had answered the knock. Ascot himself wouldn't be there. Reports were that he had set sail on one of his s.h.i.+ps in the first week of September, and more than three months later, had yet to return to England. His absence was making this retaliation simple. When Ascot did return, he would find his credit canceled with many of his merchant suppliers, and his home lost to him due to lack of payment on demand.

Vincent hadn't decided yet whether to continue his campaign after tonight or to wait for Ascot's return. Tonight's eviction would be a decisive blow, the culmination of several weeks' work, but hardly satisfactory when Ascot wouldn't be there to know of it yet.

Actually, this whole matter of revenge was rather distasteful. It wasn't something he wanted to do, had ever done before, or likely ever would again, but was something he felt he had to do this one time. So he would as soon get it over and done with. But Ascot wasn't obliging in that, being out of the country for longer than expected.

He should have returned by now. Vincent had counted on his being back by now. Waiting was not something he did well. And waiting in his coach, in the cold, when he didn't need to be there and still wasn't even sure why he was there, was starting to annoy him, especially since Dudley was taking his sweet time delivering the notice. How b.l.o.o.d.y long did it take to hand over a piece of paper?

Across the street, the door finally closed. But Vincent's secretary still stood there facing it, unmoving. Had he accomplished his task, or had the door been closed on him before he could? What the devil was he doing, standing there in the snow doing nothing?

Vincent was about to leave the coach himself to find out what was going on, when Dudley finally turned about and headed back toward him. Vincent opened the coach door, more in his impatience than to get Dudley out of the biting cold sooner. But Dudley didn't rush inside when he got there, he didn't enter the coach at all, was once again just standing there in the snow, as if he'd gone totally daft.

However, before Vincent could ask about this strange behavior, Dudley announced, "I have never in my life done anything so despicable, my lord, nor will I ever do so again. I quit."

Vincent raised a questioning brow at him. "Quit as in-?"

"You will have my formal resignation on your desk in the morning."

Vincent savored a moment of amazement. It wasn't often that he could be so thoroughly surprised. But then his impatience returned.

"Get in the b.l.o.o.d.y coach, Mr. Dudley. You can explain yourself when we are out of this d.a.m.nable weather."

"No, sir," Dudley replied stiffly. "I will find my own way home, thank you very much."

"Don't be absurd. You won't find a hack this time of night."

"I will manage."

With that, the secretary closed the coach door and started marching down the street. Ordinarily Vincent would have shrugged and dismissed the man from his mind, but he was in an impatient frame of mind, which was as close as he came to being emotional.

He found himself leaving the coach himself and marching after Dudley to demand, "What the devil happened at that house to give you leave of your senses?"

Horace Dudley swung around, his face suffused with emotional color rather than paled from the cold. "If I must have further discourse with you, my lord, I fear I will disgrace myself beyond regret. Please, simply accept my resignation and leave it go at-"

"The devil I will. You've been with me for eight years. You do not just resign over a small matter-"

"Small!?" the little man burst out. "If you could have seen the stricken look on that poor girl's face, it would have broken your heart as it did mine. And such a pretty girl. Her face is going to haunt me the rest of my days."

Having said so and apparently believing it, Dudley scurried off down the street once more, refusing to speak more of it. Vincent let him go this time and turned a scowl on the house in question.

The property belonged to him now. He'd called in a considerable number of favors to coerce the previous owner to ignore his verbal commitment with George Ascot and sell him the deed instead. Ascot had had a gentlemen's agreement with that previous owher, had paid him a very large portion down on the town house and agreed to pay off the balance within a few years. There still being a mortgage, he was not yet in possession of the deed.

Vincent had bought the deed and sent a demand for the balance from Ascot to be paid immediately. He was well aware that Ascot wasn't in the country to receive the demand or arrange to borrow elsewhere to pay it, thus he would lose the house and everything he had put into it-and only find out about it upon his return, when it was too late to salvage his investment.

It had been a well-aimed blow at Ascot's finances, as well as his reputation, since it wouldn't go over well with his creditors that he had been evicted from his residence. Vincent certainly hadn't expected to lose his valuable secretary over the matter, though.

A pretty girl, eh? She must be the daughter. No other female in that house would be so affected by the eviction, to wear a "stricken" look, since Ascot only had one female in his family, a daughter who had just reached marriageable age. His wife had pa.s.sed on years ago. There was also a young son.

Vincent found himself approaching the door to the house, just out of curiosity, he a.s.sured himself. But after knocking and waiting several long minutes, with snow continuing to collect on the shoulders of his greatcoat, he concluded that curiosity was a silly thing by all accounts, and his own didn't need to be satisfied.

He turned to leave. The door opened. Pretty? The girl standing there haloed in the soft light behind her took his breath away. This was who he had evicted into the snow-covered streets? This exquisitely beautiful, forlorn creature? b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l.

CHAPTER 2.

Larissa Ascot stood in the open doorway staring at the large form before her, but she wasn't really seeing anything. Snow was blowing in her face, but she didn't really notice that either, or even feel the cold.

It was too much, all at once, much too much to deal with on top of everything else that had been visited upon her in the last few weeks. The butcher, as well as the baker, both denying her further credit until the current accounts were settled. Her brother, Thomas, sickening and needing constant attendance. Her father's banker apologizing, but patiently explaining why she couldn't have access to her father's funds without his permission. Watching the household funds, which had been ample and should have lasted nearly a year for incidentals, dwindle down to nothing because she had been forced not only to settle with those nasty merchants who had shown up at her door demanding immediate payment on outstanding debts, but also to pay cash just to put a bit of food on the table.

Most of her servants had already been let go, an event that had made her literally sick to her stomach in the doing. Many of those servants had been with her family for years, had made the move with them from Portsmouth to London three years ago when her father had expanded his business and relocated there. It had been horrible for them to lose their jobs during the holiday season, but just as traumatic for her to have to be the one to tell them. But she had been unable to pay them this month, and with her father already a month late in returning, she could no longer a.s.sure them that he would be home soon to settle with them.

And now this . . . this eviction. Unexpected, completely without warning. The little man had said a demand had been sent by the new owner through the posts, that there had been ample warning, but she didn't read her father's mail, so she hadn't seen it. New owner? How could Mr. Adams, whom they had bought the house from, sell it out from under them? Was that legal? When there was only a few thousand pounds remaining before the house was completely theirs?

She couldn't comprehend why all this was happening, why merchants they had dealt with for several years now no longer trusted her family to settle with them at the end of the year as was their custom, why they had lost their home. One day to leave. They were to vacate by tomorrow, pack up everything and be gone. How? She didn't have any money left to hire wagons to move them. And to where? Their old home in Portsmouth had been sold. They had no other relatives. The old family estate near Kent was merely a property, uninhabitable, and besides, the doctor had warned that if Thomas didn't remain in bed and out of drafts, he wouldn't recover, could even take a turn for the worse.

"Are you all right, miss?"

The body standing before her slowly took shape, a tall man in a greatcoat that was deceiving of form; skinny, fat, it was hard to tell in one of those coats, not that it mattered. Larissa was merely try ing to focus on something that might draw her out of the mire her mind was still in. Somewhat hand some, though that was hard to really discern when his cheeks and long nose were covered with snow Not too young, perhaps nearing thirty .. .

"Miss?"

The question? Ah, was she all right? If she began to laugh hysterically, would he still wonder?

"No, I don't believe so," she said honestly though she realized she'd just opened the door further conversation that she didn't want, so sh added quickly, "If you're here to see my father, h isn't home."

"I know." At her frown, he continued, "I'm Vincent Everett, Baron Everett of Windsmoor."

"Baron of- You're the new owner?"

Incredible. Such gall, for him to show up his devastating blow had already been delivered. Was he there to gloat, then? Or merely to make sure that they would comply with the eviction so he wouldn't have to send round the magistrate physically oust them? Which was going to be the case anyway. There was simply no way that she could get everything they owned out of the house by tomorrow, even if she had someplace to move to.

She supposed the furnis.h.i.+ngs could be stored at her father's office on the docks. She and Thomas might even have been able to sleep there temporarily-if her brother weren't so sick. But that office was drafty even in the summer. To subject (Thomas to the cold that floated up from the 'Thames was unthinkable. Yet what other choice did she have? There was no money left for lodgings, no money left for food. She had put off sell-ling their possessions, hoping with each day's pa.s.sing that that would be the day her father would return and make everything right again. But she'd put it off too long. Now there was no time left...

Her instinct was to close the door on the baron. He might own the house now, but she was still in possession of it-for one more day. But he hadn't said why he was there yet. And just because her world was falling apart didn't mean she had to abandon common courtesies. She could give him at least five more seconds to state his business, then she would close the door on him.

"Why are you here, Lord Everett?"

"My secretary was rather upset."

"The man here before you?"

"Yes. And from what he said, I'm beginning to think a-misunderstanding may have occurred."

"Misunderstanding? I have a letter of eviction It's quite clear, actually, and if it weren't, your secretary read it aloud so I couldn't possibly- misunderstand."

She heard the bitterness in her tone, found it appalling that she could so reveal herself to a complete stranger, but couldn't manage to contain such overwhelming emotion. Better a bit of anger though, than tears. The tears would come, would have arrived already if she hadn't been so dazed by this last and worst shock, but hopefully she could hold them back until she was alone.

"I did not say 'mistake,' miss," he corrected her. was referring to something else, which cannot be cleared up until your father's return. So I will need an address where you can be reached after tomorrow.

The fight went out of her, leaving her shoulder drooping. Had she really thought, just for the barest moment, that his "misunderstanding" migh mean they wouldn't lose the house after all?

"I don't have an address to give you," she replied in a near whisper. "I truly have no idea where we will be after tomorrow."

"A quite unacceptable answer," he said with some impatience in his tone. He then reached into a coat pocket and handed her a card. "You may stay at this address until your father makes other arrangements for you. I will send my coach in the morning to a.s.sist you."

"Can we not just... stay here ... until this matter you've mentioned is settled?"

There was the barest hesitation before he replied succinctly and emphatically, "No."

She'd had to force that last question out of her. It went completely against the grain for her to have to ask, beg as it were, for anything, and in particular, from a stranger. But if he was going to supply lodging as his card indicated, why could he not supply this lodging? had been her desperate thought. But a foolish thought, obviously.

And his "no" was the catalyst that sent him on his way, a dark shadow quickly fading to nothing in ihe swirling snow.

It was another moment or so before Larissa bought to close the door and did so. She even managed to take herself upstairs to check on Thomas. He was sleeping fitfully, the fever that visited him each night still lingering.

Mara sat beside his bed, sleeping in the comfortable chair drawn there. Mara Sims had been Thomas's nanny, and Larissa's as well. In fact, she had been with them as long as Larissa could remember. She had refused to abandon them just because her wage was a bit tardy, as she put it. Her sister, Mary, had likewise refused to leave.

Mary used to be their housekeeper, but when they'd lost their cook back in Portsmouth, she'd admitted that she much preferred the kitchen domain and had taken a downgrade in position to do what she loved best. The haughty housekeeper who had replaced her had been the first to quit right after the creditors began showing up at the door. Amazing how the news of their financial difficulty had spread through the neighborhood so fast.

They would have a roof over their heads .. .

Larissa should have been experiencing some relief about the new lodgings, the biggest worry out of the way, temporarily at least. But as she went to her room and began the miserable ch.o.r.e of pack- ing her personal belongings, she couldn't quite grasp the relief she should be feeling.

Nor had any grat.i.tude shown up yet where the baron was concerned. His offer of alternate lodging had been for his convenience, not theirs. It wasn't help in the traditional sense, was simply that he wanted to keep track of them for his own purpose, whatever that was. The "misunderstanding" apparently wasn't anything drastic that might alter their changed circ.u.mstances.

She was probably still too dazed by it all to feel much of anything just yet. Which was just as well. At least she wouldn't be crying all night long while she packed. And the tears actually held off until the wee hours, when she went to sleep with them on her cheeks.

CHAPTER 3.

Vincent stood before the fireplace in his bedroom, a snifter of warmed brandy in hand. He was staring at the dancing flames as if mesmerized, yet he wasn't actually seeing the fire. It was a piquant face that he saw, framed with burnished gold locks and eyes that were neither green or blue, but a light blending of both colors in a unique shade of turquoise he'd never seen before.

He never should have gone to have a look at Larissa Ascot. He never should have got anywhere near her. She should have remained faceless, merely "Ascot's daughter," an indirect casualty in his small war. But having seen her, the decision to seduce her had been the easiest decision yet in his campaign against the Ascots. Ruin her for marriage, another blow against the family's good name. That had been his thought when he had handed her his card. On reflection, though, he knew it was just an excuse, and a paltry one at that.

It had been a long time since he had wanted something, really wanted something, for himself. He wanted her. Revenge gave him all the excuse he needed to have her, would ease his conscience-if he had one. He wasn't sure if he had one or not. The lack of emotion in his life included guilt, so it was hard to tell.

The next day he was in the entry hall to greet her when she arrived at his home. Her surprise was evident.

"I thought the address you gave me would be for another property of yours that you let out, one that was presently vacant. If I had known you were offering the hospitality of your own home, I would have ..."

"Declined?" he supplied with interest when she failed to finish. "Would you really?"

She blushed profusely. "I would have liked to."

"Ah." He smiled at her. "But we can't always do as we like."

No indeed, or he would carry her straight away to his bed. She was even more beautiful than he recalled, or perhaps it was merely the bright daylight in the hall that revealed more of her perfection. Pet.i.te, narrow of waist, finely garbed in a fur-trimmed coat over mauve velvet skirts. A small, narrow nose. Dark gold brows, more a slash than an arch. Unblemished skin except for a small mole on the corner of her chin. Tiny earlobes with teardrop pearls hanging from them. She was every inch a lady, merely lacking a t.i.tle that said so.

The Ascots had not been poor, likely were still well off. They were gentry. There was even an earl somewhere in their ancestry. They were quite socially acceptable to the ton, even though George had gone into business, which was not so frowned upon these days as it used to be. Albert had tried to do the same . ..

The only reason that Vincent had found it so easy to ruin Ascot's financial reputation was that he was not in the country at the moment to put an end to the rumors that had spread about his dire straits. His prolonged absence had set his creditors to panic.

She came with an entourage, two women in their late fifties who looked nearly identical, and a pile of blankets that his coachman had carried in for them.

"We have bedding," Vincent thought to point out.

Larissa was still blus.h.i.+ng over being there. Her blush brightened more as she explained, "That's my brother, Thomas. He has a dreadful cold. He wanted to walk, but the illness has sapped his strength."