Alissa Johnson
Romance Author
Tempting Fate
Book 2 of the Providence Series
McAlistair's Fortune
Book 3 of the Providence Series
Scroll down for Destined to Last, 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 four-
and-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
five 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 fire.
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 efficiency 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 first. 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 finally, with the confidence 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 fingers 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 finding 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 affected 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.”
Destined to Last
Book 4 of the Providence Series
Chapter 1
Lady Kate Cole was, by most accounts, a young woman of exceptional beauty, extraordinary talent, and notable charm.
She was also, by all accounts, a woman so remarkably prone
to accidents that it was generally considered wise to back
away if she happened to be standing next to a steep hill, a
large body of water, an open window, or any sort of material
that might cut, discolor, burn, spill, break . . . It was probably
best if one simply kept a bit of distance from the girl whenever
possible.
There were times Kate rather wished she could do the
same. Now, for example, would have been an ideal moment
to back away from herself—while she was standing on the
grassy lawn of Haldon Hall with her pale rose gown conspicuously splattered from hem to neck with mud. Again. And while her blonde hair was damp at the ends, coming out of its pins, and likely sporting a number of leaves in various stages of decomposition. Again. And while one Mr. Hunter was striding toward her from the house to witness her in all
her rumpled, mud-covered, frightful-haired embarrassment.
Ag— Well, no, that was a first.
“Oh, blast.”
Why, why had she not taken care where she walked along
the pond instead of humming the new waltz she’d composed
whilst daydreaming about what it might be like to dance that
very waltz with the gentleman of her dreams? She’d imagined
what he might look like and sound like and talk about
and . . . and then suddenly it hadn’t been a waltz she was
hearing in her head, it had been a sonatina. And she’d no
longer been walking gracefully along the muddy shore, she’d
been lying on it.
Grimacing, she watched as Mr. Hunter drew closer, and
wondered if it would be unforgivably rude if she turned away
and walked—or quite possibly ran—around to the side of the
house. Then she wondered if she cared overmuch whether it
was unforgivably rude. She decided yes on both accounts,
which was something of a disappointment, because of all the
people currently attending her mother’s house party, there
were few she would rather see less.
There was something about Mr. Hunter that put her on
edge. To begin with, the man was impossibly well groomed.
In Kate’s opinion, it simply wasn’t natural that one should
never have a spot on one’s clothes or have a button go missing
or a hair fly out of place. Mr. Hunter’s attention to the
details of his attire seemed more in tune with the fussy habits
of a delicate London dandy than it did with a gentleman
of his size. Which was another thing about the man that put
her on edge—he was, aside from the local blacksmith, quite
the most imposing person of her acquaintance. He was even
taller than her brother, Whit, and notably broader across
the chest and shoulders. Perhaps the broadness was the reason that, while she found Whit’s size and strength to be
reassuring, Mr. Hunter’s large frame made her feel a mite
overwhelmed.
The rest of his appearance only enhanced that feeling.
His eyes and hair were dark as night, his jaw hard, his cheekbones sharp, and his full mouth often curved into a small,
but wicked smile, so that she rather fancied he looked a well dressed pirate caught in a private joke.
What troubled her most of all, however, was that he sometimes used his size, dark gaze, and impossibly polished appearance to stand over her and make her feel ill at ease.
The man loomed, there was nothing else for it. Even when
they were separated by an entire ballroom—and she generally
took pains to see that they were—he still managed to loom.
It was most disconcerting.
Resigned to an inescapable spot of looming that morning,
Kate indulged in a brief but heartfelt sigh, and a futile but
equally heartfelt wish that she had not forgotten to bring her
bonnet. It would have gone a long way toward covering up
the damage done to her hair.
She waited until he’d drawn close enough for her to see
that he was impeccably turned out in fashionable tan
breeches, dark coat, and intricately knotted cravat; then she
pasted on an extremely bright smile, having long ago come to
the conclusion that the next best thing to avoiding embarrassment altogether was pretending it didn’t exist. She’d become depressingly adept at that pretense over the years.
“Good morning, Mr. Hunter,” she chimed in her cheeriest
voice. “Have you come out for a stroll? It’s a lovely day for it.”
Had Mr. Hunter been a typical gentleman of the ton, he
likely would have floundered a little at her appearance—not
to mention her apparent ignorance of said appearance—and
then very courteously played along as if nothing was amiss
while he assisted her back to the house.
Unfortunately, Mr. Hunter was a man of great wealth but
inauspicious origin, which made his connection to the ton
rather loose and his position as a gentleman decidedly suspect.
Kate didn’t hold with the notion that a man’s status as a
gentleman should be awarded solely by right of birth. She felt
strongly that it was a man’s character and behavior that
marked him as a gentleman . . . or not, as she rather thought
to be the case with Mr. Hunter.
He stopped in front of her, raised one dark brow, and took
a long, thorough look at her bedraggled form before running
his tongue along his teeth. “Am I to pretend I don’t see the
mud? Is that how it’s done?”
Kate gave up the smile to roll her eyes and step around
him to begin a hurried walk toward the house. “If you were
truly interested in how it was done, you would not have
asked.”
He fell into step beside her. “How is one supposed to learn
if one doesn’t ask?”
“The fact that I did not wish to acknowledge the mud
should have been obvious to anyone with even the most basic
powers of perception.” She pursed her lips. “Perhaps you
did need to ask.”
He chuckled at that, a low and soft sound she was irritated
to discover she found pleasant.
“Let us assume for a moment,” he replied after a pause,
“that I do possess some very basic skills of perception. Why
then, do you suppose I did ask?”
She glanced and saw that his lips were curved up with
humor. “Because you wished to amuse yourself by discomforting me.”
“Patently untrue,” he returned. “You looked sufficiently
uncomfortable already. I had hoped to make you smile.”
“I . . .” That was another thing about Mr. Hunter that set
her on edge. He was charming to the point of being glib.
“Well . . . thank you.”
“It would have been my pleasure,” he responded smoothly,
“had I succeeded.”
“I believe I was smiling when you arrived,” she pointed
out.
“Because of me? How gratifying."
She felt a bubble of laughter form in her throat and ruthlessly swallowed it down. Nothing good could come from encouraging the man. Then again, not encouraging him had done very little good as well. Perhaps a more direct approach was required.
“Your arrogance is astounding,” she informed him.
“No point doing things in half measures.”
She wanted to laugh at that too. Instead, she increased
her pace. “Just because something can be done, doesn’t mean
that it should be done.”
“Just because something shouldn’t be done, doesn’t mean it can’t be done well.” He waited a beat before adding, “I imagine you fell into the pond spectacularly.”
“I . . .” The laugh escaped, and she blamed what happened
next solely on the distraction of that laugh.
He sidestepped a large root from a nearby oak tree. She did not, and likely would have added grass stains to her poor dress had he not reached out and gently caught her arm as she toppled forward.
“Easy.” He stood very still, his large hand keeping a fi rm
grip on her arm as she righted herself. “May I assume by your
energetic pace that you were unharmed by your accident this
morning?”
Ignoring the amusement in his voice, as well as the sudden
fluttering of her heart, she carefully extracted herself from his grip. “Yes, you may. Thank you.”
“I am relieved to hear it.”
She gave him a wry smile. “Relieved enough to go about
your business and leave me in peace?”
“Disturbing your peace was the business I had in mind
when I came outside.”
“Ah.” She titled her head up at him. “Is that why you’ve
come to Haldon, simply to vex me?”
“Not entirely, or I’d have made the effort to arrive
sooner.”
There was no arguing with that bit of logic. It was the last
full day of her mother’s house party and Mr. Hunter had made
the trip from London only that morning. Just in time, it would
seem, to find her returning from her walk.
“You’ve come for tonight’s ball,” she guessed.
Rather than answer, he took a step closer and bent his head to catch her eye. “Tell me Lady Kate—and to be clear, I ask not to make you uncomfortable, but because I am genuinely curious—what is it about me that ruffles your feathers so?”
You’re too large. You’re too charming. You make my heart race. I’d wager a year’s allowance you were, at some point, a pirate.
She couldn’t tell him any of those things. Particularly the
last, which she knew to be the influence of a long-standing
weakness for torrid novels.
So she said instead, “You loom, Mr. Hunter.”
“I loom.”
“Yes.” She searched desperately for something to add to
that. “It’s very ill-mannered of you.”
* * *
