Grace Burrowes - Lady Jenny’s Christmas Portrait

“I am appreciative of your generosity, but I was not asking you to mail my letter for me. I was asking how one goes about mailing a letter, any letter, bound for Boston.” Hannah did not like revealing her ignorance to Balfour, but if she was to go on with him as she intended, then his role was not to make her dependent upon him for something as simple as mailing letters, but rather, to show her how to manage for herself.

He laughed, a low warm sound that crinkled his eyes and had him uncrossing his leg to sit forward.

“Put up your guns, Boston. I know what it is to be a stranger in a strange land. I’ll walk you to the nearest posting inn and show you how we shuffle our mail around here. If you still want to wait for the HMS Next-to-Sail, you are welcome to, but I can assure you my ships will see your correspondence delivered sooner by a margin of days if not weeks.”

“Your ships?” Plural. Hannah made a surreptitious inspection of the library, seeing hundreds of books, a dozen fragrant beeswax candles in addition to gas lamps, and thick, spotless Turkey carpets.

“When one is in trade with the New World, one should be in control of the means of distribution as well as the products, though you aren’t to mention to a soul that you know I’ve mercantile interests. Shall we find that posting inn?” He rose, something that apparently did not require her permission, and came around the desk to take her hand.

“I can stand without assistance,” she said, getting to her feet. “But thank you, some fresh air would be appreciated.”

They’d had a dusting of snow the night before, though the sun had come out and the eaves were dripping. Just like in Boston, the new snow and the sunshine created a winter brightness more piercing than the summer sun.

“We should tell your aunt we’re leaving the premises.”

This was perhaps another rule, or his idea of what manners required. “She’s resting.” Aunt was sleeping off her latest headache remedy.

His earlship peered down at her—he was even taller up close—but Hannah did not return his gaze lest she see contempt—or worse, pity—in his eyes.

“We’ll leave a note, then. Fetch your cape and bonnet while I write the note.”

How easily he gave orders. Too easily, but Hannah wanted to be out of this quiet, cozy house of stout gray granite, and into the sunshine and fresh air. She met him in the vestibule, her half boots snugly laced, her gloves clutched in her hand.

“Perhaps you’ll want to wear your bonnet,” he said as a footman swung a greatcoat over his shoulders. Hannah counted multiple capes, which made his wide shoulders even more impressive. Though how such a robust fellow tolerated being fussed over was what Gran would call a fair puzzlement.

The bonnet had spontaneously migrated from whatever dark closet it deserved to rot in to the sideboard in the house’s entryway. “Why would I want to be seen in such an ugly thing?”

“I don’t know. Why would you?”

Propriety alone required a bonnet for most occasions, but she wouldn’t concede that, not when the only bonnet she’d packed was a milliner’s abomination. And yet, when they gained the street, she wished she had worn her ugly bonnet, so bright was the sun. Sun meant spring was coming—not a cheering thought.

“A gentleman would not comment on this,” her escort said as he tucked her hand over his arm, “but I notice you limp.”

That arm was not a mere courtesy, as it might have been from Hannah’s beaus in Boston, but rather, a masculine bulwark against losses of balance of the physical kind.

“A blind man could tell I limped from the cadence of my steps. You needn’t apologize.” The only people in Boston solicitous of Hannah’s limp were fellows equally solicitous of her unmarried state and private fortune, but the earl could not know that.

Silence stretched, while they meandered along walks shoveled clean of snow. Hannah knew she limped, but she forgot she knew most of the time. She forgot the ache in her hip that went with it, and forgot all the times her stepfather had told her to stand up straight lest her shoulders become as crooked as her leg.

“Does it pain you?” This handsome, wealthy man was to be Hannah’s escort for the next several months, for reasons she could not fathom. His tone was pleasant, his arm a sturdy support, and his question unexpectedly genuine.

Her reply was unexpectedly honest as a result. “It rarely hurts. Not unless I overdo.”

“We will have to see you do not overdo, then. Shall we sit? The sun is really quite lovely, and the less time I spend cooped up behind stone walls, the happier I am.”

With that startling little revelation, he directed her to a bench in a widening in the walkway. Somebody had dusted the thing free of snow early enough that it was dry, or perhaps the February sun was that strong here in Edinburgh.

He seated her, then took a seat beside her—without permission. “Why are you in Great Britain, Miss Hannah Cooper?”

She’d wanted to resent Balfour, whose job it was to deliver her to London, like a federal marshal might deliver a felon for trial. And yet, she shared with the earl an appreciation for the out of doors, for plain speaking, and for a sunny bench. Hannah shouldn’t derive a sense of kinship with Balfour on such meager footing, and yet, she did.

“I am to find a husband,” she said, reciting the litany that had been shouted at her. “I am an American heiress and only a little long in the tooth, and it shouldn’t be too hard to find a willing baronet’s son or an aging knight.”

“I see.”

“What do you see?”

“You are a mendacious American heiress.” The amusement was back, and maybe a hint of approval.

“And you are an overly observant English gentleman.”

Another silence, while Hannah studied her bare hands and tried not to smile. Her escort was wearing soft kidskin gloves likely made to fit his big hands. Gloves like that would feel heavenly next to the skin. Supple, warm, soft…she’d bet his were even lined with silk.

“I am not your enemy, Boston, and I am not English.” His tone was gentle, but not apologetic.

“You are the instrument of my enemy, though. You are to squire me about the ballrooms and so forth, and quietly let it be known I come with a fat dowry.”

He eyed her sidewise while Hannah pretended not to notice that the brilliant winter sun turned his dark hair nearly auburn.

“You honestly don’t want to find yourself some minor title and swan about on his arm for the next several decades? Have a few babies to show off to your friends and relations while casually flashing a vulgar diamond or two at them as well?”

“I have never swanned in my life and I hope to die without the experience befalling me.”

Swan, indeed. But the babies… Oh, damn him for mentioning the babies.

“I see.”

“What do you think you see?”

“I see why the ugly bonnet,” he said, rising. “Come, the posting inn is several blocks off and I promised to show you how we go about our mails here. We should stop at a grog shop too, so you can see how we do our toddies and rum buns.”

That was all he said, no lecture, no lambasting her for her unnatural inclinations, her ingratitude. The lack of resistance made Hannah uncertain, like the bright sunshine, and she leaned him on a little with the disorientation of his response. Perhaps he simply didn’t care what she was about—he’d get to fritter away his spring in any case, and she really didn’t intend to be much of a bother to him.

Not much.

As they walked the streets of the neighborhood, Hannah found differences between Edinburgh and Boston in the details, like tea with scones instead of bread and butter, and gas lamps taller than those at home. And were she home, she’d be accompanied by a maid and not this great, strapping man in his beautiful, warm clothing.

He walked slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, as if he hadn’t seen these streets over and over in all seasons.

“You are being patient with me,” Hannah said.

“I am avoiding the mountain of paperwork waiting for me back in the library. It’s a pleasure to share a pint of grog with somebody who hasn’t had the experience—also a bit naughty. Ladies do not usually partake of strong spirits, but cold weather provides the exception to the rule and we’re not as mindful of strictest propriety here in the north. And truly, our rum buns are not to be missed.”

“A bit naughty” sounded fun when rendered in those soft, dark tones, as if the earl were as much need of a treat as Hannah might be.

Or in need of a friend?

Lady Jenny’s story brings us to the end of the Windham family series proper. I would have been content with stories for Westhaven, St. Just, and Valentine, but somebody in the Sourcebooks, Inc., marketing department got the notion I should write a Christmas story, and Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish appeared. Having written a tale for one Windham sister, sibling relations—and my editor’s suggestion—resulted in stories for the remaining sisters, of whom, some genius who shall remain nameless (whose initials rhyme with Grace Burrowes) had already decided there would be four.

I don’t know of any other author whose debut work has turned into an eight-book series, plus a few novellas. This represents prodigious commitment on the part of a publisher, and a Herculean effort on the part of my editor, Deb Werksman, marketing, public relations, art, production, and sales folks. If a book does well, the writing may have something to do with it, but most assuredly, the efforts of these people to brand the book, raise its visibility, and position it where readers can find it are indispensable.

So thanks, to Madam Editor and Madam Publisher, to marketing, to art, to sales, to public relations (this means you, Danielle), and to production (waving at Skye) for working your part of the magic that makes a manuscript into not just a book, but a book that finds its way into the hands of many happy readers.

And for those of you anticipating Windham-withdrawal, don’t worry. The Windhams have many friends, relations, and offspring. I have a few ideas…

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Grace Burrowes’s bestsellers include The Heir, The Soldier, Lady Maggie’s Secret Scandal, Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish, and Lady Eve’s Indiscretion. The Heir was a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2010, The Soldier was a Publishers Weekly Best Spring Romance of 2011, Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish won Best Historical Romance of the Year in 2011 from RT Reviewers’ Choice Awards, and The Bridegroom Wore Plaid, the first in her trilogy of Scotland-set Victorian romances, was a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2012. Her Regency romances have received extensive praise, including starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Booklist.

Grace is a practicing family law attorney and lives in rural Maryland. She loves to hear from her readers and can be reached through her website at graceburrowes.com.