‘I love you more than life itself and I’m sick of being miserable without you. I’d love to marry you.’ Riley blinked away her tears … more tears, but these were happy ones—she liked those. She stepped back and ripped off the glove on her left hand and waggled her fingers. ‘So, hotshot, how are you going to get your grandmother’s ring in the window onto my finger?’
James tipped his head. ‘Do you like that ring?’
No, not really. ‘What’s not to like? It’s about a million carats and is traditionally passed down to the eldest son’s bride.’ Riley bit her lip when James just kept looking at her. ‘Okay, I don’t really like it but I’ll wear it if you want me to. I just always hoped for something warmer, something like an emerald or a Maw-Sit-Sit—something the colour of your eyes.’
James dug in his pocket and pulled out another ring and held it between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Maybe something like this?’
It was a square-cut emerald, bordered by green diamonds—bold, unusual and arty. ‘Oh, my God.’ Riley’s jaw dropped open. ‘This is it … This is my ring! This … God, James … I love it. How? How did you know?’
‘It might have something to do with the fact that your best friend is a jewellery designer,’ James said wryly, sliding the ring onto her finger.
‘That would be why. So that’s why she wasn’t taking my calls!’
‘That’s why,’ James agreed. ‘She’s pulled two all-nighters to get it finished.’
‘Love her. Love. Her. And you for getting her to design it, make it.’
‘I knew that you would want her to.’
‘Thank you so much for my ring and for not asking me to wear that monstrosity,’ Riley whispered against his mouth. ‘And for asking me to marry you.’
Riley pulled his head down so that she could kiss him. As his mouth explored hers, her heart picked up its scattered pieces and started to patch itself back together again. It would be stronger, she realised. Happier, but never hers again, she realised. And she was super-okay with that.
She knew that James would take excellent care of it.
A long while later, James pulled his mouth from hers and placed his cheek on her head. ‘Let’s go home, Ri.’
‘Sure … race you there!’ Riley said, turning in the direction of his apartment. James’s hand on her arm halted her progress and she turned back to see him pointing at the SUV idling at the corner.
‘No, darling, we’re going home to Bon Chance. Our family is there, waiting for us.’
Riley’s heart jumped. His family that had always been hers. How right it felt that they were going home together.
‘We’ll head to your place, pick up your luggage; my bags and presents are in the car …’ James slapped a hand against his forehead. ‘It’s Christmas Eve … presents. Oh, damn. Damndamndamn.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Riley asked.
James pulled a face. ‘I don’t have a Christmas present for you … sorry. I’ve been a bit busy.’
Her laughter rang out in the freezing night. ‘James, I think a stunning engagement ring more than qualifies as a kick-ass Christmas present.’
Riley gave him a smacking kiss and her eyes sparkled with love and laughter.
‘And I also gave you my heart … James said on a broad smile, thinking on his feet.
Riley placed her hand on his cheek. ‘Which will always rate as the biggest, best, most treasured gift ever. Merry Christmas, Jay. Love you.’
‘Merry rest of our lives, Ri. Love you back, honey.’
* * * * *
The Blanchland Secret
Nicola Cornick
The Mistress of Hanover Square
Anne Herries
Nicola Cornick
For the first eighteen years of her life NICOLA CORNICK lived in Yorkshire, within a stone’s throw of the moors that had inspired the Brontë sisters to write Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. One of her grandfathers was a poet and her family contained teachers and avid readers who filled the house with books. With such a background it was impossible for Nicola not to become a bookworm.
Nicola met her future husband while she was at university, although it took her four years to realise that he was special and more than just a friend. Her husband, being so much more perceptive, had worked this out much sooner, but eventually an understanding was reached.
This lack of perception also meant that Nicola did not realise for years that she was meant to be a writer. She wrote bits and pieces of novels in her spare time, but never finished any of them. Eventually, she sent in the first three chapters of a Regency romance to Mills & Boon and, although they were rejected, she found she had become so addicted to writing that she could not stop. Happily, her third attempt was accepted and she has never looked back.
Nicola loves to hear from her readers and can be contacted by e-mail or via her website, www.nicolacornick.co.uk.
Mr Julius Churchward, representative of the famously discreet London lawyers of the same name, had a variety of facial expressions he could draw upon, depending on the nature of the news he was imparting to his aristocratic clients. There was sympathetic but grave, used when breaking the news that an inheritance was substantially smaller than expected; there was sympathetic but rueful, for unsatisfactory offspring and breach of promise; finally, there was an all-purpose dolefulness, for when the precise nature of the problem was in doubt. It was this third alternative that he adopted now, as he stood on the doorstep of Lady Amelia Fenton’s trim house in Bath, for if the truth were told, he knew nothing of the contents of the letter he was about to deliver.
Mr Churchward had travelled from London the previous day, stopped overnight at the Star and Garter in Newbury and resumed his journey at first light. To undertake such a journey in winter, with Christmas pressing close upon them, argued some urgency. The morning sun was warming the creamy Bath stone of Brock Street but the winter air was chill. Mr Churchward shivered inside his overcoat and hoped that Miss Sarah Sheridan, Lady Amelia’s companion, was not still at breakfast.
A neat maid showed him into a
