A Mask, A Marquess, and a Wish Upon a Christmas Star by Ingrid Hahn

Author:Ingrid Hahn [Hahn, Ingrid]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780999078402
Publisher: Lucky Black Cat Press
Published: 2017-10-01T18:00:00+00:00

Harland swung down from the chestnut gelding while a servant came from around the side of the great house, where the stables were, to attend the animal. It’d been the perfect day to be on horseback—and he’d never needed an extended ride more than today.

She’d left. The shock of it still sent him mentally reeling. She’d actually left. Part of him hadn’t believed she ever would. But she had. And he was more alone than ever. Without her, would part of him stay empty forever?

Upon first hearing her speak back in the upper gallery above the ballroom at Mandeville House, his impression had been that he’d known her once. The whole time he’d spent traveling he’d searched his memories, again and again, trying to place where that tugging feeling originated. His memory, however, if indeed it was being truthful about the sensation of being able to place her, wouldn’t oblige him.

All the way here a single question had pressed upon him: Should he have made a stronger effort at learning her name? Obviously he was never going to recall when and if he’d met her before.

“Don’t tell me you rode the whole way.”

“It isn’t so very far.” He untied the saddlebag in which his valet had packed several changes of clothing.

Lady Ingrahme stood in the doorway surveying the small scene in the sweeping drive overlooking the idyllic parkland. In twenty odd years of widowhood, she’d not yet shed the weeds. Harland privately supposed she quite liked the look of herself in the theatrical drama of the black clothing. Which wasn’t to say she didn’t genuinely mourn the untimely loss of her beloved husband.

He took the shallow steps up to the house two at a time and kissed one powdery-soft cheek smelling of her favorite lavender skin ablution. In his current state, it was as pleasing as anything was wont to be. “You look well, aunt.”

She had wide-set eyes, something of a wattle under her chin, and not a single hair upon her head that didn’t dare to be anything but perfectly white.

“If only the same could be said for you. You should do away with those ridiculous Harland balls, nephew. You look at least five years older than you have to.”

“Next year, I very well might.”

This caught her off guard. “Really?”

Would he really be the Marquess of Harland who turned his back on the tradition? He must uphold what had been started by his predecessors.

Besides—and a twist of bitterness accompanied the thought—what did he care for debauchery if he couldn’t have her? “Probably not. It’s expected. Practically an obligation.”

“And what care the likes of you for doing what’s expected?”

“It’s what we do.” And by God, if society wanted their marquess to be a debauched rake, he was going to show them the most debauched rake London had ever seen.

After Christmas.

“I wasn’t asking about we. I was asking about you.”

“Where do I come into the question except as the marquess?”

“Mmm.” Mouth puckered in the same sour disdain she always wore when the subject of the ball arose—always at her instigation—she slipped her arm into his.

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