Chapter One

Celia Thompson read the horrible words of the letter in her hands. Her fingers shook, her breath stilled, and her heart skipped. She reread the date to be sure she didn’t have it wrong. Tomorrow’s date was written in a bold, sure script. There was no doubt.

Her father’s second cousin would be arriving on the morrow to take possession of his inheritance, which happened to be the estate Celia had lived on her entire twenty-three years. If the death of her parents years ago wasn’t terrible enough, followed by the death of her bullheaded brother in a battle in the colonies three months before, someone might as well drive the final nail into her own coffin.

Celia was an orphan. She was without her beloved brother, Bart. And she was about to be displaced.

Her eyes filled with angry tears when she reread the final line of the letter.

Lady Celia is, of course, welcome to reside at Banfield Estate as long as she wishes.

Oh, wonderful.

Celia eyed the fire in the parlor hearth. She was tempted to crumple up the words of the odious Mr. Aaron Thompson, second cousin to her father. Aaron Thompson happened to be an accountant by trade, and only upon the death of her brother had he become a member of the nobility. She supposed she’d have to call him Lord Banfield now that he would be earl.

The first tear fell. Her father had been Lord Banfield and her brother should still be Lord Banfield—they were the men whom she loved so much and who could never be replaced. Not by anyone. Celia knew nothing about Aaron Thompson. She’d never met him, and she wished she’d never have to lay eyes upon him.

The second tear fell. There was no time to pack and leave. He’d be here tomorrow. Besides, where would she go while she waited for her aunt Marianne to return from her third honeymoon? She’d offered to bring Celia to her home after Bart’s death, but at the time Celia had wanted to stay in her own home. Aunt Marianne was quite . . . eccentric. And she was always having parties, or taking extravagant shopping trips, or asking Celia to fetch things for her as if Celia were a lady’s maid.

Celia had no time or patience to fetch and carry. She had her own life to live. In fact, she had been in the middle of writing one of her romances (unpublished and written under a nom de plume, of course) when the life-changing letter had arrived. To be fair, Celia had known that the estate would be entailed to someone.

This shouldn’t have been a surprise. What simple accountant wouldn’t want to take possession of his vast inheritance right away?

But couldn’t he at least have waited until after Christmas? Banfield Estate was wonderful during the season. It was tradition to host a holiday dinner at the manor, and Celia had been presiding since her parents’ death. Because of her brother’s death, there would be no dinner, but Celia still planned to create and deliver the gift baskets. She would have to stay on through the season to make sure they were done right.

Celia crossed to the hearth, standing mere inches from the warmth, but she couldn’t feel it one bit. The ceaseless December rain outside matched her mood. She really had two choices: live here as a charity case, or move in with Aunt Marianne. Yes, there were perhaps other choices for a lady of her station. She could marry, but if no one had offered for her in the past five years, they certainly wouldn’t now. Her dowry was decent, but she’d already passed her prime.

Besides, her hair was the color of red cardinal, and if that wasn’t off-putting enough, so many freckles speckled her face that powder did little good. A final option would be to take on the job of a governess. At the very thought, Celia could practically see her parents turning over in their graves.

Yet Celia had already written to Aunt Marianne that she planned on joining her after Christmas. The plans were all set.

Celia rubbed her cold, ink-stained hands. It seemed she was destined to live out her life as a burden to someone unless she could get published. Then she could have her own income, take a cottage by the sea, and write for the remainder of her days.

“Lady Celia?”

She turned to see the housekeeper, Mrs. March. The woman looked as nervous as a cat. Perhaps Celia had let her mood affect the entire household. “What is it?”

“There’s . . . uhm . . . a carriage coming up the lane,” Mrs. March said, her eyes wide. “Mr. Garner thinks it’s the new Lord Banfield. Come a day early.”