Alissa Johnson
Romance Author
Tempting Fate
Book 2 of the Providence Series
McAlistair's Fortune
Book 3 of the Providence Series
Scroll down for McAlistair's Fortune and Tempting Fate
Chapter One
There was some disagreement regarding the origins of the long-standing and bitter feud between Miss Mirabelle Browning and Whittaker Cole, the Earl of Thurston.
The lady in question was of the opinion that the discord had begun the first time the gentleman—and she used the term most loosely—deigned to open his mouth and thereby proved himself to be an ass.
The gentleman—loath to be outdone—argued that the dislike had appeared directly upon sight, which was an obvious indication of fate. And as providence was the domain of the Heavenly Father himself, any and all unseemly behavior toward Miss Browning on his part was clearly an indication of the Almighty’s disfavor with the lady, and he but an instrument of God’s wrath.
The lady felt this opinion argued strongly in favor of the gentleman being an ass.
Some said it all began when a young Mirabelle caused the slightly older Whit to fall head first out of a rowboat in front of the lovely Miss Wilheim, who promptly slipped and fell overboard herself, putting an end to their brief but dramatic romance. Others maintained that the whole business had started when a mischievous Whit had put a large bug down the back of Mirabelle’s dress during a musicale, causing the girl to jump, scream, swat madly, and otherwise endanger the people around her.
Still others insisted they really had no care for when or how it had all begun, merely that they wished it to end. Immediately, if not sooner. Everyone, however, was in accord over the fact that the two, quite simply, did not get on.
So infamous was their rivalry, that had anyone been watching as the two of them scowled at each other over a dandy horse on the back lawn of Haldon Hall, the Thurston estate, he or she would have sighed in resignation even while beating a sensible, and hasty, retreat to safety.
Fortunately for the group of people currently attending the house party, Whit and Mirabelle stood alone, each with a hand on the new wheeled contraption and, much like two children fighting over a toy, each equally determined to gain sole purchase.
As a sensible and—under most conditions—respectably reserved young woman, Mirabelle was perfectly aware of the ridiculousness and pettiness of the situation. As an honest young woman, she could admit that very little else would suit her current mood quite so well as the ridiculous and petty.
A rousing good argument was just what she needed. As always, Whit was more than willing to oblige.
“Let go, imp.”
As was his habit when truly annoyed, Whit clenched his jaw when he spoke. Mirabelle was fond of pointing out that the resulting muffled effect took something away from the impact. Just now, however, she was feeling a bit more mulish than witty.
“What the devil are you—?”
“Whittaker Vincent! Are you encouraging Mira to ride that ghastly machine?”
At the sound of his mother’s voice employing that time-honored and dreaded phrase—the first and middle name—Whit paled, then flushed, then narrowed steely eyes at Mirabelle.
“You’ll pay dearly for this,” he hissed.
Probably so, she conceded. But it would be well worth it.
Whit turned and smiled at his mother. She was a small woman, with the blue eyes of her children and the rounded features she inherited from her father. Demurely dressed, rosy cheeked, and soft of voice, she often reminded people of a kindly aunt or younger version of their dear grandmama. It was a misleading impression Lady Thurston had long ago learned to use to her full advantage.
Whit swallowed hard. “Of course not. I was—”
“Are you insinuating I am old?” Lady Thurston inquired.
“I…” Confused, wary, Whit fell back on charm. “You are the picture of youth, Mother.”
“Very prettily put. But are you certain? Nothing wrong with my hearing, then? My eyesight?”
There was a pause as he recognized the trap, and then another as he realized there was nothing he could do but walk into it. Mirabelle was hard-pressed not to laugh out loud.
“Not a thing, I’m sure,” he finally managed.
“What a relief to hear it. For a moment, I thought perhaps you were going to tell me I had misread the situation. That can happen, you know, as one ages and the senses begin to dull. Very confusing, I imagine.”
“I imagine,” Whit muttered.
“Well, now that we’ve cleared up that misunderstanding, give your apologies to Mira, Whit, and put that thing away. I’ll not have one of my guests breaking open his head.”
Mirabelle, feeling immensely pleased with Lady Thurston just then, poked her head around Whit’s shoulder.
“What if Miss Willory should care for a ride?” she inquired with an innocent expression.
Lady Thurston appeared to ponder that for a moment. “No, head wounds bleed profusely. And I’m quite fond of my carpets.”
Mirabelle laughed and watched Lady Thurston leave in a whirl of bronze skirts. “I’m waiting, Whittaker Vincent.”
Whit spun around to face her. “For what?” he snapped.
“My apology, of course.”
“Good. Keep waiting.”
She laughed and turned to leave, satisfied with the idea that he’d be glowering at her back until she was out of sight.
She jolted when his hand caught her arm and spun her back around again.
“Oh, we’re not quite finished here, imp.”
* * *
Chapter One
William Renwick, Earl of Casslebury had a plan.
It was safe to assume that this would have come as a
surprise to no one. William Renwick, Earl of Casslebury
always had a plan. He was, by all accounts, a most organized
individual.
Some went so far as to call him a rather charming, but
ultimately predictable and even cold individual. William
took exception to that. In his estimation, a preference for
order over chaos was not the mark of a dispassionate nature
but rather that of a man in possession of a modicum
(and therefore uncommon amount) of good sense. It was
also a fairly reliable sign that the man had spent some
portion of his life in uniform.
If forced, William would have described himself as
disciplined, responsible, and—again, if forced—perhaps
just a touch stubborn.
It was his sense of responsibility that had necessitated
his most recently constructed plan. He would marry a
young lady of good blood, excellent reputation, pleasant
nature, and appealing physical appearance. He was fourand-
thirty, and it was time he did his duty to his title by
producing an heir. Never mind the fact that he hadn’t
expected to outlive two cousins and an older brother to
inherit the title; it was his now, and he would plan accordingly.
But it was the aforementioned stubborn streak that
had him executing his plan by striding down the halls of
Lord Welsing’s London townhouse, peering into rooms
and stopping to question any passing staff, while guests
danced and laughed in the ballroom. The young lady
crucial to his matrimonial campaign had gone missing.
Again.
Miss Caroline Meldrin seemed always to go missing.
Not in such a way as to invite attention or ridicule, mind
you. Rather, she made perfectly reasonable excuses and
slipped away from ballrooms and parlors with her friend,
Miss Patience Byerly, whenever one attempted conversation,
or offered a dance, or looked directly at her for
more than fi ve consecutive seconds.
It was damnably irritating.
And he wasn’t having any of it tonight.
How the devil was he to execute a well-planned courtship of Miss Meldrin if she kept herself hidden away with her friend?
Or perhaps Miss Byerly was a paid companion. He didn’t
think she was a poor relation. Whatever the connection, he was going to find both of them, secure Miss Meldrin for a waltz, and make absolutely clear his intention of courtship. If she didn’t care for the idea, she could damn well admit to it. He was quite done with chasing the chit around . . . or would be, after tonight.
After a bit more searching, he found the two women
in the library, tucked away in a large window seat while
an elderly man snored softly in a chair by the fi re.
Miss Meldrin, with her ivory skin, pale blonde hair,
and soft blue eyes, looked a very pretty picture with the
glow of candlelight casting streaks of gold across her petite
form. Her feet were tucked up somewhere under her
legs, which in turn were tucked up on the cushions of the
window seat. Several wisps of hair had slipped free and
curled around a heart-shaped face with a small mouth,
high brow, and slender nose lightly dusted with freckles.
Seemingly unconcerned with rousing the gentleman in front of the fire, she laughed merrily and pushed a small plate holding a thick slice of cake toward her friend.
“Go on, then. Or I’ll not agree.”
Miss Byerly scowled. From his position in the darkened
hall, William considered Miss Byerly and concluded
that she was a rather severe-looking creature, particularly
when compared to her friend. She kept her feet on
the floor, neatly hidden beneath the blue skirts of her
gown, and her hands demurely folded in her lap. Her
thick brown hair was pulled into a tight and unadorned
knot at the back of her head, revealing an oval face with
sharp cheekbones, wide mouth, and thin nose. Her rather
plain brown eyes peered out from behind small round
spectacles, below sharply arched brows.
William thought perhaps it was the hawkish eyebrows
that lent her such a disapproving air, as if she were looking
down on a man, despite her relatively short stature. One always felt a bit chastised when talking to her.
Which was why Miss Byerly did not feature in his
matrimonial plans.
Pity, really, that she wasn’t a bit softer. He’d spoken to
her once or twice before and she seemed an intelligent
sort, with an effi ciency of speech and manner he appreciated.
But he wasn’t in need of additional efficiency in his
house. He was drowning inefficiency. He was in need of
a feminine touch. He wanted a gentle woman, with a soft
voice and open heart. Someone free with her laugh.
Someone who could provide a bit of light in his life.
Someone who wouldn’t make him feel on his wedding
night as if he were bedding the governess.
Confident in his assessment of Miss Byerly, and in his
choice of bride-to-be, he straightened his cravat, brushed
at his waistcoat, and otherwise readied himself to begin
the overdue campaign for Miss Meldrin’s affection.
But then, before he could enter the room, Miss Byerly
did the most extraordinary thing he had ever had occasion
to witness. She picked up the slice of cake with her
ungloved hands—which was odd in and of itself—and
then, to his supreme astonishment, began to slowly and
methodically stuff it into her mouth.
He stood in the shadow of the hallway and watched as
she opened wide—tremendously wide—and very carefully
wedged the thicker end in fi rst. It caught at the sides
of her mouth, leaving behind smudges of chocolate as
she pressed the cake in deeper. Next came the center,
which required a substantial amount of wiggling of Miss
Byerly’s jaw, and then fi nally, with the confi dence obviously
born of extensive practice, she folded the remainder
of the slice in half and neatly mashed it in with the
rest.With her cheeks rounded like a fearful pufferfish,
she daintily wiped her fi ngers on her napkin, and then
used the napkin to dab gingerly at the upturned corners
of her lips.
It was astonishing. It was appalling. It was, he had to
admit, enormously impressive.
* * *
From the Anthology
A Christmas Ball
Alissa Johnson's
Traditions
“You cannot make someone fall in love,” Mrs. Summers pointed out, straightening her rail-thin shoulders.
“Least of all those two,” Lady Thurston added. “I am not at all certain they’re well suited. What’s more, Evie has categorically refused to marry.”
“I refuse to accept that.” Mr. Fletcher ran a hand through what remained of his hair. “I made a promise to a man on his deathbed.”
Mrs. Summers sent him a pitying glance. “You were tricked into a promise by a man who would— were he still alive— be the first to admonish you for taking this matchmaking business quite so seriously. The late Duke of Rockeforte was a reasonable sort, despite his penchant for jests. I very much doubt he expected you to succeed in marrying off five children.”
“You weren’t so dismissive when it was your Sophie we set out to match. Nor you,” he added, turning to Lady Thurston, “when it was Whit and Mirabelle.”
“Yes, but that was Sophie, Whit, and Mirabelle,” Lady Thurston returned evenly. “Not Evie.”
“Nevertheless, the promise was made, and I intend to keep it.” Mr. Fletcher held out against the ensuing silence for a solid thirty seconds— an impressive show of fortitude to Evie’s mind. She’d been subjected to that knowing silence from the inestimable Lady Thurston. It was daunting.
“I intend to at least try,” Mr. Fletcher finally added.
Lady Thurston gave a delicate shrug of her shoulders.
“If you feel you must.”
“I do. I’ll begin by—”
Evie would never be entirely certain of how, exactly, Mr. Fletcher intended to begin, because the sound of laughter and approaching footsteps necessitated her immediate retreat to the small parlor across the hall. It was doubtful that the intruding staff would tattle, but it was best to not take chances.
No matter, she’d been privy to the most important bits of the conversation, or at least enough of them to be quite confident that she was, once again, very much in the know.
* * *
Chapter One
Miss Evie Cole had long ago come to the conclusion that, contrary to popular opinion, ignorance was not bliss.
There were, after all, a great many miserable fools in the world.
Furthermore, she was a perfectly happy young woman, and no one who knew her well would ever accuse her of ignorance. She was always in the know.
She made absolutely certain of it.
Just as she was making certain of it now, crouched outside the thick burl wood doors to the Haldon Hall library, her weight shifted to her stronger leg and one dark brown eye peering through the keyhole. Probably she should feel a bit guilty at eavesdropping on a private conversation. But having found herself the subject of that conversation, she experienced not so much guilt as fascination, amusement, and no small amount of annoyance at having stumbled across the scene too late to ascertain all the details.
What she understood well enough, however, was that her aunt, the dowager Lady Thurston, and two family friends, Mr. William Fletcher and Mrs. Mary Summers,
were currently sequestered on the other side of those lovely old doors, arguing over how best to go about fi nding the stubborn Evie Cole a husband.
It was nearly as amusing as it was insulting. Nearly.
Mr. Fletcher, seated on the small settee in the center of the room, leaned forward and spoke with some excitement.“What better way to win a lady’s heart than to rescue her from certain danger? I can have a threatening letter drawn up and sent to Evie from London next week. Have her young man here the following day to protect her. It’s fast, simple, and eff ective.”
Clearly impressed with neither Mr. Fletcher’s scheme nor his enthusiasm, Lady Thurston added a deliberate dollop of milk to a cup of tea and calmly handed it to Mrs. Summers. “It will never work, William.”
He settled his stout frame back against the cushions. “Have you a better plan?”
“The plan, though I do not approve of it, is not the problem.” She poured her own cup. “The problem is the objective itself— it simply cannot be done.”
Chapter 2
Two Weeks Later
It was conceivable that ten years ago, Mr. James McAlistair
would have laughed out loud at the notion that he might
one day fall in love. It was easier to imagine, however, that
he would have simply hooked up one corner of his mouth
in the sort of cool and unfathomable expression that can really
only be successfully aff ected by either a profound poet
or a talented assassin.
Anyone looking at him now— standing on the grounds
of Haldon Hall, his dark gaze unreadable, and his tall frame
honed to the muscled leanness of a panther— would have a
difficult time mistaking him for the former.
Pity, that.
Because despite what his reaction may, or may not, have
been ten years ago, McAlistair had indeed fallen in love.
And a man in love could always use the gifts of a poet.
Particularly when burdened with the sins of an assassin.
Reflecting on those sins now, he rolled his shoulders in a
rare, albeit barely perceptible, show of nerves.
He shouldn’t be there.
With Evie Cole in danger, though, he couldn’t possibly
be anywhere else. He scanned the lawn before him, mapping
out his path before taking a step. “Act in haste, repent
in leisure,” his dear, departed, and no doubt often repentant
mother had been fond of saying. An interesting bit of advice
from a woman who’d birthed six bastards.
He moved forward silently, keeping to the long shadows
in the late eve ning light. It was a precaution taken out of
habit more than necessity. He’d already checked the grounds
and woods immediately surrounding the house for signs of
an intruder. All was as it should be. And he knew, down
to a branch, exactly how it should be. Those woods had, after
all, been his humble home for years. Long years of hardship
and solitude— of trying to atone for, or perhaps just
forget, the heavy burden of his memories.
* * *
“I see no reason I should,” she retorted, tipping her chin up.
“Likely because you couldn’t see reason if it were perched on the end of your nose.” He gave the horse a tug, which only succeeded in making her dig her heels into the soft ground. “You don’t even know how to use it.”
“I certainly do. One sits there between the two wheels, holds on to the bars, and pushes with the feet. I’ll show you—”
“No. You’re not riding it.”
A mere ten minutes ago, she hadn’t given a single thought to riding the blasted thing. She’d merely been curious about it. But while she’d been standing there in the warm sun, amusing herself by turning the machine this way and that to discover how it was all put together, Whit had come round the house and ordered her, ordered her, not to get on it.
She’d taken a good look at him, with his light brown hair tousled by the breeze, his cool blue eyes sparking, and his aristocratic features set in grim lines. Every inch of his tall, lanky frame spoke of power that took root in wealth, title, lands, and the sheer luck of having been born a man. The very same sort of power her uncle used to keep her under his thumb.
And she decided she wanted to ride the damn thing after all.
“You said it was for guests, cretin,” she pointed out.
“You’re not a guest at Haldon.”
She let go and stepped back, completely stunned by six words that meant more to her than he could possibly know. “I…that is the kindest—”
“You’re an affliction,” he clarified, hefting the horse up. “Like dry rot.”
She lunged and grabbed hold of the seat with both hands.
A brief tugging match ensued. Whit was stronger, of course, but he couldn’t very well pull the horse from her tight grasp without possibly doing her an injury. And while Mirabelle considered him a flawed man—a very, very flawed man—she knew he wouldn’t go so far as to risk causing a woman bodily harm. She took some satisfaction in knowing, at the moment, he was likely chafing at that particular code of honor.
Resigned to the fact that she wasn’t going to be able to pull the horse away from him, she briefly considered simply tugging as hard as possible before letting go abruptly, with the hope he’d fall hard on his backside. But when a door behind Whit opened, and she caught a glimpse of bronze silk and gray hair, she decided on a different plan.
A mean, childish, and terribly unfair plan.
A perfect plan.
She let go, took a step back and put her hands up, palms out. “I couldn’t possibly, Whit. Please, I don’t think it’s safe.”
