His Christmas Nymph Read Free Page B

everyone in her family was gloriously happy.
    Wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, she reached for her spectacles. She always forgot to put on the infernal things when she had to read. Settling them on her nose, she returned her attention to the glorious pages of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, a play that she read every single year at this time—fortunately they owned two copies, allowing her to share the experience with Mrs. Finch this year.
    She lost herself in his lively prose, and smiled contently as her memories warmed her heart. Feeling the presence of her brothers and mother, she shivered against the cool air and decided that she would stay out past the sun setting if she so pleased. She had no desire to return home—none whatsoever. She felt so peaceful here at Whitney Park, so comforted. 
    In fact, if a man happened into her life that wanted to marry her, she would gladly accept , as anything had to be better than living with Gertrude.
    The odds of that happening were about as likely as Gertrude deciding that they would celebrate the Yule Season the way that her mother had always done.
    And as Gertrude hated any mention of Lady Margaret and how she would run the house at Christmastide, that was highly unlikely.
     
     
     

Chapter Two
     
    Edward Henry Rochester, the 4th Duke of Whitney looked out at the vast lands of the ancestral seat of The Rochester’s. They’d been landlords over this area stretching back to the Doomsday Book.
    Servants scurried around him as they prepared to reopen the House. His mother had had a fit of the nerves and had adamantly refused to return to the Country so close to the beginning of the Season, a time during which she could not be absent.
    She insisted that London simply wouldn’t survive without her during that period. There were many young ladies to launch onto the Marriage Mart during her balls that no other Lady could possibly compete with, and while she hosted personal balls—of which her masquerades were notorious at Whitney House in London, she was also a Patroness of Almacks.
    This was why he had to return to Whitney Park. He couldn’t abide the brainless twit like women who were clamoring to marry him. They were fortune hunters of the worst sort, as he was a rare breed among the haut ton these days, he had title and fortune.
    The latest simpering young girl was the daughter of a bosom chum of his mother’s. His mother insisted he marry Lady Myrtle so they could unite their families. He’d rather fight Napoleon again.
    He needed some fresh air. Walking out of the house, he made his way toward t he Gardens, dragging in lungful’s of the crisp cold air. It had been his father’s favourite spot and he knew why. It boasted one of the best views of the grand house and was also close to the river.
    Hugh Rochester loved going and sitting by the river in the Folly his father had built.
    As he neared the folly, a woman with vibrant red hair caught his attention. She wore an emerald green cloak and ringlets of hair peeked out from the green hood which she wore over her head. Sitting on the stone bench under the enclosure of the Folly, she looked like a Christmas Nymph.
    He stopped, suddenly mesmerized. With his hands crossed behind his back, he simply admired the beguiling sight. It warmed the cockles of his heart and made him feel something quite foreign for him. It was a breathtaking sight, he would gladly get his brushes and paint out for. What a charming portrait it would make. He was quite smitten.
    He didn’t recognize her and wondered why she was sitting there out in the crisp cold. It was far too chilly for a woman of her delicate build.
    Still, she had to have an independent personality to have the gall to wander onto his Estate and sit there like she owned everything in sight. He wanted to stand and stare at her forever. She had the kind of beauty he’d always been attracted to. Simple and yet it had a bit of the ethereal to it—almost as if she was a fairy