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Chapter 1
Chatham, England
Sancrest Manor
Miss Primrose Elanor Markham hovered at the entrance to the drawing room, the single blood red rose gripped between thumb and forefinger as she valiantly struggled to pretend that nothing was amiss. When in truth, her entire world had been upended, and emotions rioted through her in unrelenting waves—relief, joy, uncertainty. Every sense within her centered on the man seated on the sofa, his repose casual, yet imbued with a command that had not customarily been present. Her awareness had been narrowed to one spot, and he—the honorable Captain Gabriel Silas Northcote, second son of the Earl of Fairclough—was the center of that awareness.
An icy droplet slid along her cheek as the last of the snowflakes on her bonnet melted away. The merry fireplace crackling in the room offered little warmth, and a shiver darted through Primrose. Perhaps she had taken too long a walk in the snow outside, maybe the man seated on the sofa was not present at Sancrest Manor, and the commanding presence dressed in fawn-colored trousers, white shirt, blue waistcoat, and a jacket was a figment of her imagination. She had spent an inordinate amount of time wishing and hoping and praying that he would return to his family’s home in time for Christmas.
In anticipation of him returning home, she had helped the close-knit group of servants and had worked long into the night hanging mistletoe and sprigs of holly on the mantles and across the fireplaces. Fresh-cut red and white roses from a hothouse decorated several vases throughout the manor, and the air was redolent with the scent of lemons, pine, and mistletoe.
And now he was truly home.
I’ve missed you so. It had been two years since she had last seen him, since they last kissed, since they had last whispered heated and frantic words of love. She’d often imagined this moment, yearning for his return from the Crimean war. As if he sensed her arrested stare, Gabriel took his regard away from his mother and glanced in her direction.
He went remarkably still. Myriad expressions chased across his face in rapid flicks of emotion—joy, bemusement, desire, and then relief. Had he thought her gone from the manor? His chest rose on a deep inhalation, he released his mother’s hand, and slowly came to his feet. That reaction had the others present in the room, his mother Lady Fairclough, his sister Lady Annabelle, and sister-in-law Viscountess Wellesley, snapping their heads around.
How Primrose wanted to rush into his embrace, but no one in his family knew of their tendre. Moreover, she feared they would never approve of her engagement with Gabriel for she had nothing to recommend her to his estimable family.
“Miss Markham,” he said warmly, his dark blue eyes communicating a thousand messages she did not understand, but so desperately wanted to.
The countess frowned, displeasure rich on her lovely face as if she did not believe her son should have greeted a woman considered little above the class of a servant.
Primrose stared into the unfathomable eyes of the man that held her heart. “Captain Northcote,” she whispered, far too breathlessly.
He stepped forward a few paces, his gaze intent on her. “How pleasant to see that you are well. It’s been several months since we last saw each other.”
How terribly casual he sounded—as if what they had shared had only been a passing fancy. Her place in the world was defined and understood. She was the daughter of a country gentleman, and now a governess in a well-connected household. It was beyond silly that she had fallen in love with Gabriel Northcote. She feared nothing would come of their attachment, but her heart was still hopelessly entangled.
How she’d gotten to this point, she could hardly tell. She’d been an employee of the countess for the last four years, a governess to her youngest daughter, Lady Annabelle. Sancrest Manor and its inhabitants had stolen into Primrose ’s heart, and she dreaded the time when she would be required to leave. Seeing the family's closeness, how they loved and supported each other had always made her long for a family of her own, and that yearning had extended to her wanting to be a part of this family somehow.
It had been a secret longing for so long until one day the possibility of it being a reality had emerged. Mr. Northcote who’d been three and twenty to Primrose’s nineteen at the time had come upon her while she reposed beneath the tall willow tree on the eastern section of the estate. He hadn’t turned up his nose in the air as if she’d intruded upon his privacy despite her being at the spot first.
"Miss Markham, how delightful to see you again; may I enquire what you read?"
They'd spoken, and he'd complimented her on the prettiness of her name and how unusual it was. How she had blushed and stammered, telling him the fanciful tale of the primrose flower and how her mother had loved their delicate colors. She'd been flustered and so aware of him, while he'd been gently amused. He hadn't allowed a distinction of rank to mar their friendship. Throughout the years, she had come to rely on the comfort of their friendship for she had felt so alone in her world. A sense of intimacy and familiarity had slowly permeated their conversations. They'd had long walks through the grottoes of the estate and across the open lawns. How charming, attentive, and kind he'd been.
She had often berated herself for being too fanciful, and foolish, for he was above her in circumstance and wealth and surely her admiration could not be returned. Then a couple of weeks before he’d left to war everything had changed. He’d confessed his love, and every day they’d escaped the confines of the manor to be with each other. They hadn’t just spoken of the heralding war, the great poets, the skies, and the mysterious wonders of the universe. There had been touch…. Such beautiful casual touches—an accidental brush of his fingers atop hers, the fixing of her hair behind her ears, the way he would offer his arm on their long walks as if she were a lady.
She pressed trembling fingers to her lips, thinking she could still taste the smoky flavor of his kiss the first time his lips had taken hers. A series of light, teasing brushes of his mouth against hers. Always the gentleman, but she had felt the burning need in him to slake his desires, though he'd held back. And how grateful she had been for his restraint as she’d reveled in the new-found passion and love. Then that fateful day before he’d left for the war over two years ago, they had run away to their secret grotto and kissed endlessly.
Then the sensual glide of his fingertip below her chemise. The heated press of his fingers between her thighs to the secret heart of her womanhood. The sweet ache that had trembled low in her belly. The wetness which had been mortifying. Every soft touch, every illicit kiss had peeled back her layers of decorum, which had been buried under such strict propriety, to reveal the wanton woman in her.
“Are you well, Miss Markham? You seemed flushed.”
The devil! His eyes danced with amusement and something tender.
“How wonderful you’ve returned in time for the Christmas feast tomorrow. I’ve only just returned from a long walk through the meadows,” she said softly. “I fear I overindulged at supper and required the exercise.”
“So you took a walk alone in the woods.”
That long walk which had lasted two hours had made her miss his return. And if not for the lowering sun and the sudden falling of snow she would probably still be strolling and dreaming. “Yes.” Lifting the rose to her nose and inhaling its elusive fragrance in a gesture that felt oddly protective, she continued softly, “Forgive me if I intruded upon a private moment.”
