Callie Hutton's Blog, page 3

My True Love Gave to Me…

…a partridge in a pear tree…

Pemberton Hall

Christmas Day, 1814

          She’s here.

A jolt of excitement shot through Marcus, Viscount Weatherby, as spotted her after scanning the crowd packed into the ballroom at Pemberton Hall. He had carelessly tossed aside the invitation he’d received to the lavish Christmas Ball the Duke and Duchess of Pemberton hosted each year. Then when Penrose mentioned at White’s yesterday that Lady Ambrose would be in attendance, he knew nothing could keep him away.

Dorothea–my Dorothea.

Almost as if connected by an invisible cord, he headed in her direction, snatching two glasses of champagne from a passing footman. Trying his best to shoulder his way through, he groaned in frustration when Lord Leighton stepped up to Dorothea and extending his arm, led her to the dance floor seconds before Marcus reached the spot where she’d stood.

He downed both glasses and leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as he watched her turn in Leighton’s arms. His groin tightened when she smiled up at her partner, her lovely face lighting up in pleasure.

In the three years he’d been in India, she’d not changed from the beautiful, passionate woman he’d had one glorious night with. Merely days before her parents announced her betrothal to the Earl of Ambrose.

Piled in a knot at the top of her head, her golden hair caught the sparkling candlelight as she turned and twirled, the slender twists of curls at her temples caressing her creamy skin. He knew first-hand her crystal blue eyes would be glowing with excitement. His fingers itched to cup her face and cover her lush mouth in a soul searing kiss.

Once again, the rage and hopelessness of reading her betrothal announcement in the newspaper swept over him. His beautiful Dorothea to be sold in marriage to a man old enough to be her grandfather.

He turned as someone slapped him on the shoulder. “Weatherby. Thought you gave up on these affairs.”

Marcus shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to pop in once in a while.” He lowered his gaze to the cane Richard, Viscount Tetterly, leaned heavily on. “What the devil happened to you?”

Tetterly grimaced. “Attended a hunting party last weekend at Drake’s place.” He joined Marcus against the wall, sighing with relief at the added support to his frame. “Lord Buckley insisted on hunting those drat little birds. Had the beater thrashing the bushes to get the little devils moving. Wouldn’t you know one of them flew up into a tree. So as Buckley took aim at a partridge in a pear tree, he stumbled backward, knocking me to my arse, then landing on my bent knee.”

Marcus grimaced. “Sounds painful.”

“With Buckley’s girth, I’m duced lucky he didn’t break the bloody thing. I’ll be hobbling around for weeks.” He grinned. “You should have seen the head gardener railing against the beater for ruining his shrubs.”

Tetterly sipped his whiskey. “You didn’t answer my question. What brings you here? Could’ve sworn hearing you loudly proclaim you’d never again step a foot in a ton affair, right before you hied off to India.”

“No particular reason. Maybe I just want to celebrate Christmas with my friends.”

Terrerly snorted his opinion of that. He studied Marcus for a minute, then turned to see what had captured his friend’s attention. “Ah. The glorious Lady Ambrose. I should have guessed.”

Marcus stiffened. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Give over, old man. If I remember, you and the charming lady were quite the thing before her parents whisked her off the marriage mart and betrothed her to Ambrose. A shame, that.”

“Excuse me, I need to speak with someone.” Marcus pushed away from the wall and made his way through the dancers returning to their chaperones.

*

Dorothea curtsied to Lord Leighton, then snapped her fan open, moving the heated air across her face. She fingered the dance card dangling from her wrist. The next dance, the first waltz of the evening, had been promised to her old friend, Stephen.

“He’s here.”

Dorothea turned toward the whispering voice. Her best friend, Lady Cecile, the Duke of Alford’s sister, grasped Dorothea’s elbow in a grip sure to leave marks on her tomorrow.

“What are you talking about? Who’s here?”

“Lord Weatherby.”

Dorothea felt all the blood drain from her face. “No. He’s in India.”

Cecile shook her head. “I had it on good authority he returned a few weeks ago, and he’s here now.” She glanced up, her eyes growing wide. “In fact, he’s headed this way.”

Dorothea whipped her head around to see Marcus stalking in her direction, a slight smile on his beloved face. Beloved−hah! She hated him. He’d left her when she needed him the most.

“Cecile, you must go with me to the ladies’ retiring room. I can’t face him. I’m still too angry.”
          “You must. The day was bound to come when he would return home. You can’t avoid him forever.”

“Maybe not, but I can right now.” She scurried away, dragging Cecile with her. Dorothea glanced over her shoulder to see frustration on Marcus’s face. Tall, dark haired, with the perpetual curl falling over his forehead, her heart melted despite her resolve. His broad shoulders were encased in a tight fitting black jacket above buff breeches outlining every muscle in his powerful legs. The hunger in his hazel eyes started the same fluttering in her stomach as it had three years ago. She dragged her gaze away, and attempted to fill her lungs with air as she propelled Cecile forward and jostled people out of the way to make her escape.

*

Marcus watched Dorothea skitter away from him, dragging Lady Cecile with her. Why the devil did she look angry? With him? He ran his fingers through his hair, and caught the last glimpse of her blue silk gown as she made her way up the stairs. From past experience he knew women could be doing whatever it was they did in the retiring room for ages. He sighed and turned on his heel, heading to the card room.

He took a seat across from Lord Swann, who most likely was dodging all the females in his family. Seven daughters, and not one of them wed. Marcus had seen them floating by before in a group of pastel gowns like a bouquet of wildflowers. He couldn’t help but grin at the sight of Lady Swann, her face flushed from the effort of trying to chaperone that gaggle.

“Weatherby.” Swann nodded in his direction, and began to deal for the next hand. Marcus picked up his cards and studied them, pleasantly surprised.

He passed the next hour winning and losing, until finally confident that Dorothea would have returned to the ballroom by now, pushed his chair back, gathered his winnings, and left the room.

It didn’t take him long to spot her. She and Lady Cecile had their heads together, chatting behind their fans. They made a captivating pair. Dorothea with her pale beauty, and Lady Cecile with her dark hair and snapping brown eyes.

He ate up the distance between them, hurrying before someone else claimed Dorothea for a dance.

Two red dots appeared on her cheeks when she spotted him, and once again she turned to flee. He took one long stride and managed to grasp her hand to stop her. Lady Cecile cast him a slight smile, her eyes twinkling. It appeared the girl seemed relieved. He’d heard she was quite the romantic. Perhaps he’d thank her one day for keeping Dorothea from catching sight of him too soon.

“Lady Cecile. You’re looking splendid this evening.” He bent over her hand and gave it a slight kiss. Then he turned toward Dorothea and his heart stopped. All the memories of their one night together flooded his senses. In a flash he saw her perfect rose-tipped breasts, heaving with passion, her eyes a deeper blue as she stared up at him and whispered she loved him. He still smelled her fragrance, a light floral scent, along with the heady perfume of her arousal. Startlingly delightful, she was all grace and beauty. And glaring at him in anger.

What the bloody hell?

“May I have the pleasure of this dance, Lady Ambrose?”

She raised her chin and stiffened her shoulders. “I’m afraid not, my lord, it appears my partner stands behind you.”

“That’s right, Weatherby. Lady Ambrose is mine for this dance.”

Marcus turned to face Lord Beaumont, a smile on his pleasant face.

“If you will excuse us.” Beaumont reached for Dorothea’s hand.

Marcus rested his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Say old man, do me this favor, if you will.”

Beaumont glanced between Marcus and Dorothea, and shrugged. Extending his hand to Lady Cecile, he asked, “May I have this dance?”

She curtsied gracefully, then raised a blushing face to him.

“Shall we?” Marcus extended his arm to Dorothea.

Dorothea bristled. “It appears you’ve left me no choice, my lord.”

*

It was truly foolish to continue to avoid Marcus. As Cecile had remarked, Dorothea had to face him sometime if he planned to make his home in England again. From the gossip she’d picked up since returning from the retiring room, that was precisely his intention. If she could just get through this one dance, she could wish him well, and return to her comfortable life with her pride and secret intact.

As they lined up for the quadrille, she snuck a peek at him. His dashing good looks had been enhanced by the slight tanning of his skin. She shivered remembering his strong hands stroking her body until she felt she would catch fire. Their one night of passion; any nights after that cut short by her parents edict to marry Ambrose, and Marcus’s abandonment.

Oh, how she hated her parents then. But nothing compared to the wrath that enveloped her at Marcus’s easy acceptance of her betrothal. They’d made love, and she envisioned her life with him. Then within days of that blasted newspaper announcement he apparently threw up his hands and left for India. And took her heart with him, never suspecting what he’d left behind.

The dance began, and they came together.

“I’ve missed you.” Marcus touched her hand lightly as they moved around each other.

“Indeed?” She put as much disdain into that one word as possible.

They retreated once more and switched partners. Their eyes remained linked as they studied each other as they moved, like two animals, circling, waiting for the other to strike first.

“I wish I could offer condolences for your late husband, but I’m afraid I’m too selfish to feel remorse.” They came together, and then parted quickly as they again circled each other.

They touched hands and moved in time with the music. “I want to talk with you when this is over.” Marcus squeezed her fingers before releasing her.

Dorothea hesitated, losing her steps, receiving upraised eyebrows from Lord Hawthorne to her right, who waited for her to circle him.

“No thank you, my lord. My next dance is spoken for.” She whispered furiously.

Marcus reached out and tore the small card that dangled from her wrist by a slim gold ribbon. “I have all your dances for the rest of the evening.”

They remained in stony silence as the dance proceeded. When the final notes faded away, Dorothea turned to hurry back to her safe spot next to Lady Cecile. Marcus took her arm, and in a firm grip, moved her in the opposite direction. “This way, my lady.”

Left with no alternative save making a cake of herself, Dorothea moved with him, her spine rigid.

*

Marcus had not imagined it. Dorothea was enraged. Her misplaced anger smarted, since her parents were the ones who’d torn them apart. He led her down the hallway where he remembered the library was located. Marcus placed his hand on her lower back as they arrived, opening the door and ushering her in. Someone had been thoughtful enough to light a fire, giving off warmth to the dark, silent room. They moved closer to the flames, warming themselves.

He leaned his arm against the mantle and studied the only woman he’d ever loved, her exquisite features tightened. “Dorothea. I…I don’t even know where to start.” He ran his fingers through his hair, then stopped, placing his hands on his hips. “I’m not good with words, but I want you to know I still love you, and now that you’re free, I want to marry you.”

She jerked back as if slapped. “How dare you!”

His brows rushed together. “Sweetheart, I get the distinct impression you’re angry with me.”

Dorothea paced. “You think so? Very astute, my lord.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder to stop her frantic racing to and fro. “Dorothea, what’s wrong?”

Tear rimmed eyes met his and her voice shook. “Why didn’t you come for me?”

Marcus shook his head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“The night after the announcement appeared in the newspaper−without my permission, or knowledge−I packed my suitcase and waited for you to come for me.” She swiped at the tears running down her cheeks. “I thought you loved me.”

Marcus pulled her into his arms. “Oh, sweetheart. I did—I do. And coming for you was precisely my plan. I’d arranged for us to run off to Gretna Green.”

She tilted her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Your father caught me about to raise the ladder to your bedroom window. He brought me inside, gave me a drink of whiskey and explained that you were in favor of the match, and had left me a note.”

Dorothea frowned. “A note? I never wrote a note.”

He swore he could hear the sound of his heart landing in his stomach. “No note?”

She slowly shook her head. “No.”

“But he showed me…and I believed the bastard…” He glanced at her. “Sorry.”

Dorothea collapsed into a chair in front of the fire. “They lied.” She raised her gaze to him. “They lied to you. I never wrote a note. On my wedding day I was so livid with both them and you, I thought I would expire from it.”

Marcus dropped to his knees in front of her, taking her soft hands in his. “My poor Dorothea. No wonder you’ve been so angry with me. I loved you then, and I love you now. I never would have abandoned you. Never.” He reached out and cupped her chin, his mouth covering hers hungrily.

Tentatively at first, then with a firmer grip, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, moaning as he slid his tongue into her mouth, tasting her sweetness. He pulled back and kissed her eyelids, her nose, her chin. “I’m so very sorry.” He leaned back “I, too, felt betrayed. I thought you loved me, and after our night together would never give yourself to another man.”

“I didn’t.”

He raised his eyebrows. “But you were married, how did…”

Dorothea shook her head. “Ambrose was feeble. He tried. Oh, Marcus, it was horrible. But the few times he attempted to bed me, he never succeeded. Then he died peacefully in his sleep only a few weeks after we married.”

She shivered, remembering those times. Ambrose’s hands were cold as ice, his pale body aged and sagging. When she’d lain awake after his attempts, remembering Marcus and their lovemaking, she’d beaten her pillow in frustration and cried herself to sleep.

Marcus brought her fingers to his mouth to kiss each tip. “I thought I heard you had a child, a little girl?”

She took in a deep breath. This was it, no more secrets. “I do.”

“Then how…?” At the look of love on her face, he knew the answer. “I have a daughter?” Stunned, his lips were barely able to move. He’d left her with a child.

Unable to speak, she nodded, tears spilling over the rims of her beautiful eyes. “Yes, Marcus. You have a daughter. Elizabeth is just past her second birthday.” Trembling fingers reached out and touched his face. “She has your eyes.”

Feelings of love, pride, guilt, and longing washed over him. He was a father. He and Dorothea had created a little girl from their love. Speechless for probably the first time in his life, he pulled her onto his lap on the floor, and kissed her with all the passion and love in his body.

He pulled away. “We must marry immediately.”
          Dorothea grinned. “Well, we have to post the banns, and plan a ceremony.”

Marcus stood, and pulled her up. “Fine, plan whatever you want. But now I want to make love to you more than anything in the world.”

An Almost Disastrous Christmas

“Oh, dear.” Eugenia, Marchioness of Devon, chewed her bottom lip as she read the missive in her hand.

Her husband, Devon, lowered the morning newspaper, and regarded her over the breakfast table. “What is it, my love?”

“It seems Great-Aunt Lavinia is coming for Christmas after all.” Eugenia took a sip of tea and continued to read. “She writes that her bones are feeling better, so she shall make the trip.”

“Her bones are feeling better?” Devon grinned, but then quickly sobered. “Has that horrible cat she calls a pet died yet?”

Eugenia shook her head. “No. I’m afraid she says here that she and Caesar are so looking forward to spending Christmas with her favorite great-niece and her family.”

Great-Aunt Lavinia’s cat was a plague to everyone in the family, except Great-Aunt Lavinia. The animal was white, stringy-haired, the size of a small dog, weighed more than a stone, hated everyone except his mistress, spit, scratched, and glared at one as if he intended to make one his next meal. He was apt to take naps wherever and whenever he wished, and snored loud enough to rattle the windows.

“She also says she is arriving,” Eugenia looked up at Devon with wide eyes, “today.”

Bellows, the aged butler who had served the family well for years, entered the breakfast room and stood at attention as any fine soldier would. “My lord, a carriage has arrived.”

“Aunt Lavinia.” They spoke to each other at the same time.

“When is your mother arriving?” Devon asked as they headed to the front entrance. “She is always able to keep Aunt Lavinia out of trouble.”

“She is arriving later today with Nash and Arabella, and Arabella’s mother.”

“I am surprised being newly wed that your brother is gracing us with his presence.”

“I am sure it was either that or host his mother-in-law.” She grinned. “Need I say more?”

Aunt Lavinia huffed up the steps, barking orders as she climbed. “See that my little darling gets something to eat right away. I can never feed him before a carriage ride. His tiny stomach does not take travel very well.”

Devon’s eyebrows rose and he mouthed “tiny stomach?” behind Aunt Lavinia’s back. Eugenia had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. No one would ever call Caesar little darling or describe his stomach as tiny.

“Aunt Lavinia. How wonderful to see you. I am so happy you are able to join us.” Eugenia hugged the older woman, pulling her corpulent body close. For as much trouble as the woman’s nasty pet was, Eugenia did hold a fondness for her great-aunt. From as far back as she could remember, Aunt Lavinia always smelled like lilac and peppermint.

She had a fondness for sweets and was more than willing to share them with her grand-niece. As long as Eugenia’s mother, the Dowager Lady Clarendon, didn’t know.

“Merry Christmas, Eugenia.” She moved back and stared at her. “You seem to have recovered from your lying-in quite well. How is my great-great-nephew?” She shook her head. “My goodness that makes me seem old, does it not?”

“Our son is well. He certainly eats enough.”

Aunt Lavinia patted Eugenia’s check. “Which is wonderful. He will be a strong boy.”

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Aunt.” Devon gave her a hug, as well.

She regarded him. “I see you are taking very good care of my great-niece.” She patted him on the cheek. “Good.” She looked around. “Now where is my little darling?”

A footman followed Aunt Lavinia from the carriage, carrying a cage with a hissing, wailing, screeching, fighting feline. Holding the cage well away from his body, he said, “My lady, where shall I put your…pet?”

“Oh, my poor sweetheart.” She cooed at the animal, who immediately settled down and began licking its unmentionable body parts.

Aunt Lavinia headed toward the kitchen, footman and cat on her heels, already shouting orders for the cat’s food. No sooner had Devon and Eugenia taken a deep breath than two more carriages arrived carrying the rest of their guests.

“It seems Christmas has officially started,” Devon said as he took Eugenia’s arm and they greeted the family.

Christmas Eve

“Devon, it’s missing.” Eugenia grabbed Devon’s hand as he entered her bedchamber and pulled him in. She looked up and down the corridor and closed the door, leaning against it. “The book is missing.”

“What!?”

Eugenia had found a thoroughly scandalous book in a bookstore earlier in the year. Using the information in the book, she had seduced her husband into a torrid love affair that they were still celebrating. But it was not the sort of book one wanted family members to know one possessed.

“Are you sure it’s missing?”

“Yes.” She walked over to the table alongside the bed. She opened the drawer. “I always keep it in here in a blue bag with a drawstring. When I came in just now, the drawer was partially opened, and the book was missing.”

“Your maid?”

Eugenia shook her head. “No. She knows about the book, and she would never take it.”

“You must have put it somewhere else the last time we used it.” Devon ran his fingers up and down her arm, causing gooseflesh to erupt. “Actually, it seems quite a while since we availed ourselves of the interesting ideas in the book.” His voice deepened, making her heart speed up.

Eugenia smiled. “Perhaps a Christmas present, my lord?” She wrapped her hand around his nape and pulled him close. For a minute she was lost in the feel of Devon’s warm lips on hers. Then she remembered the scandalous book was missing, it was Christmas Eve, and she had a houseful of company. Reluctantly she pulled away. “We have to find the book, Devon. If anyone accidentally opens it, we will be humiliated.”

He sighed. “Yes, my love. I’m afraid you’re right. Just to be certain, let us search the room.”

After a thorough search they admitted the book was, indeed, missing. Arm-in-arm, they descended the stairs and made their way to the breakfast room.

“Good morning, everyone,” Devon said as they entered the room. It seemed none of their guests had decided to stay abed and the room was filled. Nash, Arabella, Lady Melrose, Lady Clarendon, Aunt Lavinia, and last night’s arrivals, Pastor Clements, his wife, and two daughters, all sat around the table, with lively conversation flowing.

“It appears we had some snow overnight. Is anyone up for a sleigh ride?” Eugenia poured tea in her cup and added sugar and cream, closing her eyes in pleasure as she took her first sip.

“I would love a sleigh ride.” Arabella’s eyes lit up and she turned to Nash who nodded his agreement.

Devon signaled one of the footmen. “Have Johnson prepare the two sleighs for a ride this morning.”

The man bowed and left the room. The group continued to discuss the upcoming sleigh ride and how they would spend the rest of the day before the big Christmas Eve ball. Many of the neighbors had been invited, and—before the disaster of the book missing—Eugenia had been looking forward to her first Christmas Eve ball as hostess.

“Oh, my goodness. What does my little darling have now?” Aunt Lavinia pointed at a place behind Devon. “What is that?”

Eugenia choked on her tea as she watched in horror as the abhorrent cat dragged the blue drawstring bag with the book in it across the room. She looked quickly at Devon who had turned quite pale and jumped up from his seat. He made his way to the animal, and, just as he reached it, the cat backed up, screeched to wake the dead, the hair on its back standing straight up.

“Here, kitty.” Devon got down on his knees and spoke in a soothing voice as the cat continued to howl.

“Oh, just leave him be,” Aunt Lavinia said, returning to her breakfast. “He’ll probably drop whatever it is he has there.” She nodded to one of the footmen. “We could use more hot tea.”

Eugenia’s heart continued to pound so hard she could no longer swallow. Once Devon returned to his seat, the cat settled down, lying on top of Arabella’s feet. Eugenia had not known Caesar to go near anyone, except Aunt Lavinia, without causing physical harm. Apparently, there was something special about Eugenia’s new sister-in-law.

Bit here the animal was, licking his paws. Everyone continued on with their meal, except Eugenia and Devon who watched as the cat finished grooming itself, then bit the drawstring on the bag and ran off.

No one noticed but them.

The next few hours were taken up with the sleigh ride. The enthusiastic group piled into two large sleighs. Eugenia enjoyed being huddled next to Devon, under the fur blanket, their faces red from the cold as they rode miles and miles around the countryside.

Snow had turned the area into a winter wonderland. Shouting and laughter echoed off the outbuildings and trees as the sleighs raced through the snow. Nash, with his fine baritone voice, began singing, and soon everyone joined it. A magical moment.

They all arrived back at the house cold and full of Christmas spirit. “Hot chocolate for everyone,” Eugenia called to the group as they rid themselves of coats, hats, scarves, and gloves.

“And brandy for the men,” Devon added.

Aunt Lavinia, who had chosen to stay behind, ambled to the entry hall. “There you all are. Even though I wasn’t foolish enough to race around in the cold weather like some addlepated others, I could still use a chocolate myself.” She cast a glance at Devon. “With a dollop of brandy. To warm me up, of course.”

Devon smirked and bowed. “Of course, my lady. May I escort you to the drawing room?” He held out his elbow and the older woman took it, just as a large white streak whizzed by.

“Oh, goodness.” Aunt Lavinia took in a sharp breath. “My darling scared me to death.”

Eugenia watched in dismay as Caesar flew up the stairs, dragging the blue bag behind him, the book beating a cadence as it hit each step.

“Whatever is in that bag?” The Dowager Lady Clarendon asked.

Eugenia shrugged.

Later that night

Before she ascended to her bedchamber to prepare for the Christmas Eve fete, Eugenia gave the ballroom one final inspection. The space glowed like a child’s fairyland, with garland, decorated with bright red ribbons, strewn about and hundreds of candles in the chandeliers, the candlelight reflecting off the mirrors on the walls. The orchestra would be situated at the alcove on the north side of the room, the refreshment table laden with punch, ratafia, champagne, numerous tarts, and sweets on the south side.

With a sigh of happiness, Eugenia returned to her bedchamber and turned herself over to her lady’s maid’s ministrations. She was putting her earbobs on, along with the bracelet and ring that matched, when Devon entered her bedchamber. Her heart gave a little flutter at his handsome countenance. All black attire, except for a stark white shirt and cravat. His hair was swept back from his forehead, but already the one curl that would never stay put rested right above his brow.

“Have you seen that dreadful cat anywhere?” Devon fastened a necklace on Eugenia’s neck, then bent to kiss her nape.

“No” She turned to him. “With all these people here tonight, I am very, very nervous about not having snatched the book back from the vile cat.”

He sighed and rested his hands on her shoulders. “I fear if I see it with the book I am going to have to suffer the consequences and wrestle it from him.”

“He will scratch you to death.”

He smirked. “Well worth the pain to retrieve it.”

She rose on her tiptoes and kissed him. “I love you, my lord.”

“And I love you, my lady.” He extended his arm and they left the room.

Guests had been arriving for more than thirty minutes. Eugenia had seen the cat a few times, still dragging the bag, dodging guests’ feet. Aunt Lavinia held court in one corner of the room, oblivious to the wretched animal’s shenanigans. Of course, that might be better, since the woman might have asked one of the footmen to grapple with Caesar to get the bag and present it to her.

Eugenia did not have enough smelling salts—nay, there weren’t enough in all of London—to revive her aunt should she take a peek at the book

It was near time for them to open the ball with the first dance. Eugenia and Devon entered the ballroom and signaled the orchestra to begin a waltz. He opened his arms and Eugenia stepped into them. How she loved dancing with her husband!

They floated around the room for a few minutes, and then several other couples joined them and the ball was officially underway.

“Goodness, what was that?” Lady Bellingworth screeched as Caesar ran through the throng, apparently brushing up against the woman’s skirts. Several men attempted to catch the fast-moving animal, still dragging the bag, as Eugenia and Devon looked on in horror. With one final romp around the room, the cat raced away.

Eugenia took a deep breath. “I am beginning to feel as though I will not survive this Christmas party.”

“Or we will have to change our names and move to the Colonies,” he quipped.

As it grew close to midnight, Devon took Eugenia by the hand and drew her underneath the mistletoe. “Merry Christmas, my love. This has been truly the best year of my life.” He bent his head and took her mouth in a searing kiss, right there before the entire assembly.

They broke apart at the sound of a feline wail. Caesar sat at their feet. He looked directly into Eugenia’s eyes and dropped the end of the drawstring onto her foot. She quickly reached down and grabbed the bag. Caesar sat back on his haunches and meowed, once. Then he turned and raced away. Eugenia swore the blasted animal winked at her.

Two hours later, Eugenia and Devon reclined side by side in their comfortable bed, the open book on Devon’s lap. “I am so glad we got the book back from Caesar,” Devon said, flipping the pages. “Oh, here’s one. Page seventy-five.”

She looked over his shoulder. “We’ve already done that.”

“Yes, we did, my love. And I think it’s time we repeated it.” Devon closed the book and placed it carefully in the drawer next to the bed. He blew out the candle and wrapped his arm around Eugenia, pulling her down onto the bed. He rolled on top of her. “I think we should buy a safe for the book.”

“I will order one posthaste, my lord. Definitely posthaste.”

Characters from Seducing the Marquess, https://calliehutton.com/book/seducing-the-marquess/

‘Tis the Season

Even though in my last post (November 26) I maligned how everything Christmas now starts before Halloween, it is about now (Advent) that I begin to ‘get into the spirit.’ I won’t put my Christmas tree up for another week or so, but I do enjoy the music and decorations.

With that in mind, here is a Christmas poem I wrote several years ago that still puts a grin on my face:

‘Twas the night before Christmas,

And the author said ‘damn’

I need to get this book

Into my publisher’s hands

Her children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While she got two aspirins for the pain in her head,

Mama in her kerchief and papa in his cap,

She hoped this last revision would be but a snap

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

She hopped from her laptop to see what the hell happened now!

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,

Gave a luster of midday to objects below,

When what to her wondering eyes should appear

But her hero dressed as Santa without any beard−or shirt

His eyes, how they twinkled! His dimples how cool!

His cheeks were like roses, his chest made her drool

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

Fixing the scene where she’d made him a jerk,

And laying his finger under her chin,

He gave her a kiss as wicked as sin,

He sprang to his horse, to his horse gave a whistle,

And left her alone with nothing but sizzle.

But she heard him exclaim, ere he rode out of sight

Get your ass back to work, it will be a long night!

Season Fatigue

So the Christmas Season is now upon us. It used to be nothing Christmasy appeared in stores until the last bit of turkey had been consumed on Thanksgiving Day, but things have changed over the years.

Walmart in our town had Christmas trees up before Halloween. Ads for Black Friday and Christmas gifts appeared on  the internet not long after. A Season that was once a few weeks is now a few months.

Is that good or bad? Personally, I would prefer to go back to a shorter time period. I find by the time Christmas Day actually arrives I really don’t care anymore. Just get it over with sort of feeling.

Since I write historical romance and historical cozy mystery, my characters celebrate Christmas in an entirely different way. Lots of fun, games, food, company and dancing.

The emphasis was not on presents and spending money as much as it is today. It was more centered on enjoying the Christmastide Season, which was from Chrirstmas Eve until January 5th. That’s when the celebration took place. Hence the Twelve Days of Christmas.

Now for those of us suffering from Christmas Fatigue, by Christmas Day we’re done. Kind of sad, actually. Too much emphasis on presents and not so much on the actual celebration.

Happy Thanksgiving

The fourth Thursday of November in the USA is Thanksgiving Day. Although celebrated for many years, the day became an official federal holiday when President Roosevelt signed the resolution on December 26, 1941.

If memory serves (which is questionable these days), the first Thanksgiving was celebrated between the misnamed Indians and the Pilgrims. They shared food and enjoyed each other’s company. Or so the story goes.

In my family, we like to go around the table at dinnertime on Thanksgiving and say what we are thankful for. Every year it’s the same. My family, my health, my career, etc. Each of my seven-year-old twin grandsons recites a list of everyone in their world, including dead pets, and the list grows each year. But we are patient. It’s good to have them focus on how much they have.

Maybe this year I will consider something different.

The woman who waved me on when no one would let me enter the traffic.The man in Walmart who reached up to get a jar of pickles I couldn’t reach. Then winked at me.Then there was the store employee who led me around the store to find exactly what I was looking for, even though she wasn’t too sure herself where it was.I was made happy by the man in front of me in the coffee shop drive-through who paid for my coffee.The kids who helped me catch my dog when she raced from the front door.The couple who turned in the purse I left behind in my shopping cart to customer service.

It’s the little things in life that make it pleasant or not so pleasant. I tend to focus on the pleasant and offer it to others whenever I can. Perhaps during these trying times we can do a little bit more for our fellow man (oh, I think I’m in trouble for wording it that way.)

It doesn’t have to be much. Handing a dollar to someone who’s short at the register might be the best thing that happened to them that day.

Be kind. Be thoughtful. Be thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!

A fun and hard work week

HI there, dear romance readers,

Early Sunday morning I leave for Las Vegas for a writer’s conference. I’m excited to visit with all my writer friends who I haven’t seen in a couple of years because of the pandemic.

Fingers crossed that my flight won’t be cancelled or delayed.

If anyone lives in Las Vegas, please know that our conference is having a book signing event with hundreds of authors of all genres participating. We will be at Bally’s on Friday, November 12th from noon to 4 PM. Stop by and see us!

A quick reminder that Prisoners of Love: Nellie, A Christmas to Remember is now up for pre-order with a November 30th release. This is a much-awaited final book in that series.

Have a great week!

HI Romance Lovers

I recently returned home from a cruise to Mexico. We had a great time, but things are still not completely back to the way they were (will they ever be?) We had to present documentation that we were vaccinated and that we had a COVID negative test within 2 days of boarding the ship.

Besides all of that, we still had to wear masks in public places (which is everywhere except your tiny room!)

I’ll soon be flying to Las Vegas for an author’s conference/convention. Lots of authors and hopefully readers also joining us. We’ll be at Bally’s from November 8th to the 12th. Fun times. If you’re in the area, stop by at our book signing on the 12th from 12:00 until about 4:00.

Best,

Callie

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