Prince for Yuletide: A Victorian Christmas Novella Read online

  A Prince for Yuletide

  A Victorian Christmas Novella

  Anthea Lawson

  Fiddlehead Press

  Contents

  A Prince for Yuletide

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  ~Thank you~

  Other Works

  About the Author

  A Prince for Yuletide

  Copyright 2015 by Anthea Lawson. All rights reserved. Please do not duplicate, share, or upload without permission of the author. Fictional characters are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

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  Gorgeous cover by Kim Killion. Photo by Period Images.

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  Editing by the fabulous Jessa Slade of Red Circle Ink. Thank you for your penetrating insights~

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  Fast and fantastic copy editing by Arran McNichol at Editing720

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  Quality Control: We care about producing error-minimal books. Please email anthea at anthealawson.com if you spot a typo or formatting error.

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  Join Anthea’s mailing list, tinyletter.com/AntheaLawson, for a FREE STORY, plus all the news about upcoming releases and reader perks!

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  ~A PRINCE for YULETIDE~

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  A heartwarming Victorian-set holiday novella from USA Today bestselling, RITA-nominated author Anthea Lawson, celebrating the best of the season - Christmas trees, mulled wine, deceptions, and, of course, true love~

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  Miss Eliana Banning attends the Midwinter Masque and meets a gentleman in wolf’s clothing who might prove to be her heart’s desire… or her worst enemy.

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  A Prince for Yuletide is a sweet (kisses only) Christmas-themed romance of approximately 100 pages.

  1

  The scent of fresh spruce filled Banning House, wafting from the tree taking up the entire bow window in the parlor. Miss Eliana Banning hummed under her breath as she tied small bags of sweets to the branches. The family—with much urging on Eliana’s part—had adopted the tradition last year, when Prince Albert and Queen Victoria had installed the first Christmas tree in Buckingham Palace. Indeed, many noble families had been quick to embrace the Germanic custom. All up and down the street, trees graced the windows of the Mayfair town houses—but the Bannings had been among the first.

  “William,” she said to her older brother, who was assisting her in the tree trimming, “there’s a bare spot near the top. Do fill it.”

  “Hand me a gilded almond,” he said, mumbling the words around something in his mouth.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You beast! No wonder it’s empty. You stole the bag of candy that was there.”

  William hastily swallowed. “A man must have sustenance during these difficult times.”

  “If I were any taller, you’d be banished from the room.”

  “A pity you have such stubby arms,” he said. “But truly, I must be off soon. I’ll send in the maids and footmen to help.”

  Eliana picked up a rustling length of paper chain, then set it back down again, her mood dimming. “I miss Selene. We had such fun last year.”

  Her older sister was married now, with a house—and Christmas tree—of her own. And while Eliana did not begrudge her sister her happy new life, in the months since Selene had married and left Banning House, a strange discontent had settled over Eliana.

  She sighed, very softly. If she were perfectly truthful, perhaps she was a bit jealous. After all, Eliana had always been the very model of a pretty, agreeable, and sociable young lady. Yet plain, serious Selene had been the one to make a brilliant match.

  Certainly, Eliana had gentleman callers aplenty, and good friends both male and female, but increasingly, she felt as though she were holding up a mask that no one cared to look behind. It felt as though all the gentlemen she associated with only seemed interested in pursuing fun and jollity, and nothing more. Everyone was so very merry and witty, and, in truth, it was becoming a bit exhausting.

  And speaking of masks…

  “We might as well finish up for the day,” she told her brother. “I must prepare for the Midwinter Masque.”

  William shot her a look. “Is that tonight? Hetty is accompanying you, I hope. Don’t get up to any mischief, Eliana.”

  She swatted him on the shoulder. “You sound like Father. Yes, of course my companion is coming—what do you take me for? And Selene and Jared will be there as well.”

  “That’s the Duke and Duchess of Ashford, you impertinent girl. Make sure you curtsey appropriately.”

  She rolled her eyes, then went on the attack. “And when will you marry, sir? You’ve a title to inherit and pass down to your sons. You’d best get busy.”

  He frowned and gave a mock shudder. “Leg shackled so soon? I’m young yet. Don’t you think you should be the next in the family to go?”

  “I’m younger than you by six years!”

  “Yes, but you’re a girl. You grow stale much sooner.”

  Grinning, William ducked away from her threatening hand. “I’m only teasing, Ellie. You’re a pretty girl, and you have plenty of time.”

  “Of course I have.” She sniffed at him, but the words echoed hollowly inside her.

  Selene had narrowly avoided being a spinster, and Eliana feared she was headed for that same fate. Was she doomed to be always the merry companion, and never the bride? It was all very well to have a pretty face and sweet nature, but not if she only attracted empty-headed buffoons for suitors.

  Increasingly, she wanted something more—wanted to be something more, herself. If only she knew what that was. It was as though she were living in a cocoon, wrapped up in expectation and habit, unsure if she even had wings. What if she broke out and discovered she was only a worm, and not a butterfly at all?

  “Give my love to our esteemed parents,” William said, heading to the hall to fetch his coat and hat. “I’m planning on Christmas Eve dinner next week, of course.”

  “And our annual caroling,” Eliana reminded him. “We’ll gather here this coming Thursday at two o’clock. Don’t look so doubtful—we need your voice more than ever, now that our best baritone is out of Town for the holidays.”

  “Alas, you must settle for second best.” William pulled on his gloves, then bent to kiss her cheek. “Enjoy your ball tonight, and—”

  “Yes, yes. Stay out of trouble. I don’t know why everyone thinks I’m such a scapegrace. I’m actually quite a proper miss, you know.”

  William merely arched one brow. The butler opened the front door, and out her brother went, letting in a chilly blast of air.

  “My, it’s cold.” Eliana rubbed her arms. “I wonder if it might snow.”

  “It might,” the butler agreed. “What time would you like the carriage brought around this evening?”

  “Eight, I think.” With a shiver, she retreated from the hallway and went upstairs, where Hetty waited to help transform her into Red Riding Hood for the Midwinter Masque.

  It took well over an hour to finish fitting the red velvet cloak Eliana had chosen. She’d kept the mask a simple affair, however, just a plain red satin half-mask over her eyes, unlike some ladies of her acquaintance. Her best friend, Lady Peony Talbot, was going as a swan, and her elabo
rate headpiece included sequins, satin, and a ridiculously tall plume of white feathers.

  Now Eliana sat quietly, trying to be patient as Hetty curled her hair into careful ringlets.

  “You look a trifle melancholy,” Hetty said, pausing in her pursuit of the perfect curl. “Is anything the matter?”

  Eliana smoothed her palm over the silver skirts of her gown and cast about for a reasonable answer. She wasn’t about to admit that she felt a bit adrift, not to mention lonely for some gentleman she had yet to meet.

  “I miss Selene,” she finally said. “Now that she’s married, we hardly see her anymore.”

  Hetty smiled. “Being a duchess is keeping your sister busy, indeed. But I’m sure she misses you as well.”

  Eliana frowned. “I think she’s too happy being wed to the Duke of Ashford to pay us any mind.”

  The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. Jealousy was unbecoming in a lady, and it was not like her to be so petty.

  Hetty gave her a sympathetic look. “You’ll find your own happy ending, Eliana, of that I’m certain. Now, turn your head a bit more so I might fix this last curl properly.”

  Eliana was not nearly so sure. Had someone asked her a year ago if she’d any doubts about making a match, she would have laughed at them quite merrily. But something had changed. She had grown up a little, perhaps—no longer quite the flighty girl she had been. Even more than that, she’d seen the depth of the bond between Selene and Lord Ashford, and realized that she could settle for nothing less than that for herself.

  It was unfortunate, in some ways, that her standards had risen so high. Several gentlemen of her acquaintance whom she might have found satisfactory a year ago now failed to come up to the mark her sister’s husband had set.

  She let out a sigh, and Hetty gave her another look.

  “No more moping about, miss. Aren’t you looking forward to the Midwinter Masque? It’s only the most anticipated ball of the winter season. I’m sure you’ll have your pick of gentlemen.”

  A pity she didn’t want her pick of them. She only wanted the right one—but as of yet, he was nowhere to be found.

  “After last year’s scandal, I’m sure the masque will be a horrid crush. Perhaps I shouldn’t attend.”

  “Nonsense.” Hetty set the curling tongs down. “You look particularly pretty tonight, and besides, you can’t disappoint Lady Peony. She needs her friends’ support tonight, more than ever.”

  Eliana glanced at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. She supposed she looked well, with her golden hair perfectly coiffed and the gauzy silver of her gown complementing her complexion. And Hetty was right. Peony was one of her dearest friends and could not be left to face the gossips alone.

  “It’s very brave of her to go,” Hetty added. “After what happened with Prince Sebastian…” She trailed off and began sorting through Eliana’s jewelry box.

  “The Ice Prince.” Eliana spoke the name all of London had begun calling the nobleman after he’d so coldly and publicly spurned Lady Peony at last year’s Midwinter Masque. “I’ll never forgive him for breaking Peony’s heart.”

  “Then make a point of refusing him a dance tonight,” Hetty said. “Here, I think the pearls will go very nicely, don’t you?”

  It was hardly a satisfactory revenge, to spurn the prince, but it would have to do. Perhaps, if all the other ladies in London followed her lead, he might feel some shame and run off back to his ancestral family in Sayn-Wittgenstein.

  Righteous indignation still glowed through her when she thought of the prince’s despicable actions last year. It was plain the barbaric blood of the Visigoths ran in his frost-ridden veins. England would be better off without him gracing their shores, that much was certain.

  2

  Prince Sebastian Nikolai Sayn-Wittgenstein-Hohenstein glanced at his dye-blackened fingertips and frowned.

  “Don’t fret, your highness,” his valet, Reece, said, clearly noting the direction of Sebastian’s gaze. “We’ll scrub your skin clean enough. Besides, you’ll be wearing gloves during the ball. No one will notice.”

  “I hope not.” Sebastian looked up to study his reflection in the tall looking glass at the end of his dressing room. It was strange to see his normally pale hair turned jet black. His light blue eyes seemed very intense in contrast. “Are you certain this will fool people?”

  “Of course it will. With the addition of your mask, and if you adopt an accent, no one will suspect you are Prince Sebastian. Already the servants are putting it about that you’ve taken ill and won’t be attending the Midwinter Masque.”

  “Much to the relief of certain ladies, I’ve no doubt.” He narrowed his eyes, his reflection glaring back at him.

  Last year had been a debacle, and he’d yet to shed the ridiculous nickname the ton had saddled him with. The Ice Prince. A heart made of frost, they said, with a demeanor to match.

  “Make sure you laugh often,” Reece said, as if reading his mind. “It will throw them off the scent, if anyone suspects.”

  “I have very little to laugh about.”

  The past fourteen months he’d spent in London had not gone particularly well. His mother wanted him to find a suitable English wife—not that she herself had been a good match for his stern Prussian father. As soon as Sebastian was old enough to be sent off to boarding school, she’d left the palace at Berleburg and returned to her noble family in England, taking Sebastian’s sister with her. Unfortunately, Sebastian’s father was in agreement, and so it was decided—quite without Sebastian’s input—that he was to wed an English heiress.

  Unfortunately, his mother’s wishes were no secret to the nobility of London. At every social gathering he had to contend with an endless stream of eligible young ladies and their title-hungry relatives. Every potential bride looked at him with the hope she might call herself a princess. None of them bothered to look any deeper than that.

  He had thought there might be one, but Lady Peony Talbot had proved as shallow as the rest. Sebastian let out a low breath that was not a sigh of discouragement. Of course not. Royals never voiced their emotions openly.

  Reece gave him a wry smile, nonetheless.

  “Don’t fret, highness. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of young ladies who’ll want to dance with you.”

  “They would, even if I were not in disguise. Every eligible lady in London thinks she’ll be the one to melt the heart of the Ice Prince.” Sebastian’s lip curled as he said the words. Damnation, would he ever be free of that nickname?

  “Not every lady.” Reece coughed and busied himself with brushing out Sebastian’s coat.

  It was as black as his newly dyed hair, and would help him blend in better than his signature cobalt blue.

  “True,” Sebastian said. “Lady Peony certainly does not like me. Nor her dear friend, Miss Banning.”

  “Then I think you ought to try and be particularly pleasant to Miss Banning. Since she never seeks you out, she won’t suspect your disguise.”

  “As long as she isn’t keeping close company with Lady Peony, I admit I find that idea refreshing.” And rather ironic.

  Miss Banning had been, briefly, under his consideration as a potential wife—but she was a flighty, empty-headed young lady, always the center of attention, and clearly quite content to be nothing but a preening flower beneath the sun of her many admirers. If anything, she was too charming. He needed a certain steadiness in a prospective wife—a fortitude he strongly doubted Miss Banning possessed.

  Reece gave him a speculative look. “If there are any young ladies you’re planning on courting, this would be your opportunity to find out what they really think of you. And who they are when not putting on airs for the prince.”

  “I think not. One revelation a year is more than enough.”

  He had thought, last year, that Lady Peony might be the one lady he could stand to marry. The daughter of an earl, she had an excellent pedigree, and she had not made herself an utter fool ove
r him. As a result, he’d let down his guard and begun the first stages of a cautious courtship.

  Only to have the lady immediately put the rumor about that he was planning to ask for her hand at the Midwinter Masque.

  When he’d stepped into the ballroom last year, all eyes had turned to him, and a speculative buzz had risen. He took his first dance with Lady Peony, who’d been uncommonly subdued, before the rumor reached his ears that everyone was waiting for him to go down on one knee and make the grand gesture.

  At that moment he supposed he’d earned his nickname, for an icy fury had gripped him. He had stalked out of the ball, enough shreds of his dignity left to depart without publicly confronting Lady Peony and making the scandal even worse.

  Instead, he’d written her a cold note, telling her precisely what he thought of rumor mongers and ladies who imagined he was so easily manipulated, and informing her that their brief association was at an end.

  The ton was abuzz, and he was scorned for a time—but a prince never fell far from grace. A handful of his acquaintances knew that Sebastian hadn’t intended to ask Lady Peony to marry him; not immediately, and certainly not at the Midwinter Masque. But his reputation could take the blow better than hers if it was known that she was a scheming, grasping liar, so he’d said little on that score. Only kept his distance.

  “What name will you take?” Reece asked, pulling Sebastian out of his unpleasant memories.

  “I need to choose something I’ll answer to.” Sebastian tilted his chin up so that his valet could tie his silky white neck cloth.

  “Your middle name, perhaps?” Reece suggested.

  “Indeed.” Sebastian thought a moment. “I’ll be Count Nikolai, a minor lord from Russia.”