The woman let out a scoff. "I know who he is, Richard, why do you think I need to get a look at him?"

"It's all right," Christopher said to let Sir Richard know he took no offense.

He knelt before the woman and looked her in the eyes. Though her wrinkled face and pure, white hair showing beneath a lace cap revealed her advanced years, her green eyes, faded versions of Clarissa's, were clear and alert. She peered into his face as if she could read all his thoughts, leaving Christopher feeling decidedly exposed.

She patted his cheek. "You are a good man, I see, unlike public opinion, and my great-granddaughter seems quite taken with you. But I see hopelessness in your eyes."

Christopher broke eye contact and glanced around, embarra.s.sed at her intimate a.s.sessment, especially in view of the entire family. The others made a point of either leaving the room or conversing. Loudly.

She patted his hand. "I've made you uncomfortable, and for that I'm sorry, but at my age, I need to act quickly. I'm eighty-seven years old-I never know when I'll draw my last breath. Unburden yourself. Grandmama keeps many secrets." She tapped her head.

Why he felt the need to reveal himself to her, he couldn't say. Maybe she held some mystical power, but he wanted to share his burden with someone else. "I daren't remarry."

She nodded. "The curse."

He lifted his gaze hopefully. "You know about that?"

"Grandmother Aislynn told me all about it."

He rocked back. "I see."

"She also told me on her deathbed how the curse might be lifted."

Her words. .h.i.t him like a bolt of lightning. "Lifted?"

She patted his arm. "It's very simple. A direct descendent of the man she loved must fall in love with and marry one of her direct descendants." She motioned to Clarissa, who sat watching them with rapt attention, her mouth opened into an O.

"Clarissa is a direct descendent of Aislynn, and the only one of marriageable age in the family. To lift the curse, you must marry her."

He swallowed. He must marry Clarissa to lift the curse? It seemed too good to be real. Too simple. Too wonderful. Hoa.r.s.ely, he said, "Are you certain?"

"Do you love my great-granddaughter?"

"More than I ever imagined possible-especially in such a short amount of time. But I won't condemn her to the same fate as every other Countess Wyckburg."

"Grandmother Aislynn might have been hurt and bitter, but she was honest. If she said that this is the way to lift the curse, you can count on it being true."

He looked back at Clarissa, who smiled softly. The room had fallen silent, even the children were quiet. All eyes were trained on him.

Could he do this? Did he dare the risk? Surely Aislynn wouldn't let the curse fall on one of her posterity, but still, he had only the word of an old woman who claimed to have heard the deathbed promise of the witch who'd cursed his family. What if he did marry Clarissa, and she died? What if they broke the curse, but she died from something else? Could he bear the heartbreak of burying another wife? For any reason?

And yet, here was his chance. He might have love and happiness again. He could have children, not only heirs to pa.s.s on his t.i.tle and lands, but the joy that comes from family. He might enjoy Christmases like this his whole life. Bright hope shone in front of him like a star piercing dark clouds.

Looking back at the old woman, he took her frail hand in his. "Are you absolutely positive there's no risk to Clarissa?"

She smiled. "Not from the curse. As to what fate has in store, we are all ignorant of that. But you will never truly live if you are paralyzed by fear of death."

Clarissa watched him with tears in her eyes and a tremulous smile curving her lips. She nodded. Lastly, he looked at Henry, who appeared more serene than he'd been since his sister's death. Smiling a little, he shrugged.

Christopher cleared his throat. "Sir Richard, may I have permission to court your daughter?"

Sir Richard smiled. "You may court her. Slowly."

Christopher understood his point and wondered how quickly he could ask for her hand in marriage and still meet the criteria of "slowly."

Lady Fairchild smiled. "Why don't you and your brother-in-law remain here during Christmas, Lord Wyckburg? We'd be pleased to have you spend time with our family. Besides-" She gestured to snowflakes falling gently outside the window. "-I think you may be here a while."

Christopher grinned at the chance she handed him. He would ask permission to marry Clarissa on Twelfth Night. "My lady, I can think of no place I'd rather be." Returning his gaze to the old woman, he kissed her hand. "You've given me hope. Thank you."

"Thank me by taking care of that girl. She'll be good for you."

"Yes, I believe she will." He moved to Clarissa, who shooed a child out of the seat cushion next to her. Unable to take the grin off his face, he sat next to her, took her hand, and kissed it. Under his breath, he said wolfishly, "Where can I find a sprig of mistletoe?"

General laughter filled the hall, and once again, happy conversation flowed around him. Home and family, first with Clarissa, and later of his own; he couldn't think of a better Christmas gift.

Epilogue.

Seated in the family parlor of her childhood home, surrounded by her family, Clarissa smiled at her husband. Christopher removed their tiny daughter, Tilly, from Clarissa's arms and handed her to his eight-year-old son, Christopher the Seventh. With a gleam in his eye, Christopher reached into his pocket and withdrew a sprig of mistletoe. Holding it over her head, he kissed her until the children groaned and begged them to stop.

Great-grandmother Fairchild winked at them from a chair in the corner. Six-year-old Emily, named after Clarissa's mother, climbed onto his knee, battling three-year-old Richard for the same spot. Henry, tall and handsome, laughed in the corner with a cl.u.s.ter of Clarissa's cousins as he regaled them with tales of mischief during his years at Oxford before becoming a barrister. Evergreen boughs graced the mantle over the Yule log burning in the hearth.

Christopher wrapped his arms around Clarissa. "I'm happier than a man has a right to be."

Clarissa let out a contented sigh. "I'm always happy when I'm in your arms."

She looked out the window at Castle Wyckburg perched on the top of a nearby hill, no longer shrouded in mystery, only filled with love. A snowflake fell. Then another.

"Looks like we'll be spending another night here instead of returning home."

He tightened his arms around her. "As long as I'm with you, I don't care where we are. Besides, we can help your family take down all the Christmas decorations tomorrow. It's bad luck to leave them up after Twelfth Night, you know." She heard the grin in his voice.

Wrapped contentedly in her husband's arms, Clarissa smiled. "I don't believe in bad luck. I only believe in love." Love, which had finally broken the curse.

Surrounded by those they loved most, they sat holding one another and looking forward to many more joyous Christmases to come.

About Donna Hatch.

Author of historical romance and fantasy, award-winning author Donna Hatch is a sought-after speaker and workshop presenter. Her writing awards include the Golden Rose and the prestigious Golden Quill. Her pa.s.sion for writing began at age 8, when she wrote her first short story, and she wrote her first full-length novel during her soph.o.m.ore year in high school, a fantasy which was later published. Between caring for six children, (7 counting her husband), her day job, her work as a freelance editor, and her many volunteer positions, she still makes time to write. After all, writing is an obsession. All of her heroes are patterned after her husband of over 20 years, who continues to prove that there really is a happily ever after.

Other Works by Donna Hatch.

The Stranger She Married.

http://www.thewildrosepress.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=191&products_id=3986 The Guise of a Gentleman.

http://www.amazon.com/The-Guise-Gentleman-Donna-Hatch/dp/1601547013/ Queen in Exile.

http://www.amazon.com/Queen-Exile-Donna-Hatch/dp/1935217631/ Constant Hearts http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/56421 Mistletoe Magic.

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/112069 Troubled Hearts http://www.thewildrosepress.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=86_73&products_id=1198 The Reluctant Bride http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/75131.

A Fortunate Exile.

By Heather B. Moore.

Chapter One.

NEW YORK CITY, 1901.

"Are you pregnant?"

Lila stared at her father, her eyes focusing on his stiff collar, stark white against his carefully shaved, red face. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

"By all that is holy, if you are with child. I will-" His hand came up too swift to stop and struck her across the face.

She stumbled back, knocking against her mother who sat prim-faced on the settee.

"James," her mother yelped, half-hearted as it was.

Lila scrambled away from the settee as her father turned his wild eyes on his wife. "I will not have our daughter behave like this, Annabelle! Not in my house."

Her mother's face paled even more, if that were possible, as she clenched her already clenched hands tighter. Her mouth closed into a pinch.

Making her way behind the settee, Lila spoke in a raspy voice that had already spent hours crying. "I am not pregnant. We did not . . . I am not compromised."

Mr. James Townsend looked from daughter to mother, his face darkening, disbelieving.

The knot in Lila's stomach twisted until she thought she'd be sick, right there, on her parents' talk-of-the-town Persian rug. Now I will be the talk of New York. Either by a sudden marriage, or worse, a suspicious departure. But how could she explain to her father that she was not defiled, that the things she and Roland had done may have been touching the fire's flames, but not that.

Her eyes brimmed with tears-tears she thought were already spent. They weren't from her father's slap, but because she'd sent a letter to Roland early that morning, and there was still no reply. It was now well past the ninth hour, and had been dark for three. The blizzard that had hit the upper coast the day before had just reached New York City. The snow fell swiftly outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. No one in their right mind would venture out in the face of the storm.

"Can you swear this over your sister's grave?" her father asked in a steely tone.

Her mother gasped at the mention of their younger daughter, and Lila straightened, lowering her hand from her stinging cheek. That her father had brought little Charity into this ugly argument was momentous indeed. "I swear," she whispered.

The room was quiet for a moment. It seemed as if the tick of the grandfather clock in the corner had faded with the silent falling snow. Her father turned away as if he could no longer bear to look at his only surviving daughter. He stood with his back to the women and stared out the ma.s.sive windows.

Finally, his p.r.o.nouncement came. "She will leave in the morning for my sister's estate. There she will stay until this whole business is completely forgotten." He scrubbed his balding head. "What will the society papers say tomorrow? There has already been enough speculation, since any woman who a.s.sociates with Roland Graves is ruined, and our . . . daughter . . . has more than a.s.sociated with him."

Her mother whimpered and brought a handkerchief to her mouth.

Lila's head throbbed. Her father's sister, Mrs. Eugenia T. Payne, was as austere as her name. She'd worn nothing but widow's black since her husband's pa.s.sing, and her eldest daughter had converted to Catholicism and gone into the nunnery.

Who goes into the nunnery in 1901 America? That was the thing of gothic novels.

Aunt Eugenia's younger daughter, only one year older than Lila, had made a boring and dull marriage to the local parishioner. Lila had attended the wedding in Connecticut the year before, which was the first and last time Lila ever planned visiting their "estate"-which was in reality nothing more than a farm.

I can't leave the city. What if Roland comes to propose? She stared past her father into the driving snow. Surely he wouldn't send me out in such a storm.

Lila's father turned from the window, and she lowered her gaze. "She'll leave first thing in the morning with a letter of explanation to Eugenia. Send Fay up to pack her things. As far as society will know, our daughter is spending the holidays with her widowed aunt."

Her mother murmured a.s.sent; Lila wanted to crumple up on the floor. Instead, she turned and slowly walked out of the room then up the stairs to the second floor. Her heart hammered as she thought desperately for some sort of plan. Should I send another letter? Could I bribe our driver to deliver it in the storm?

Tears started immediately after shutting her bedroom door. Not tears of shame like another girl would shed at being discovered with the most notorious bachelor in the city, but tears of anger. How dare her father send her away? She was certainly not the only woman in the world to make a mistake. Her father had made plenty of his own.

His own sister refused to come visit their home because of the corruption in the city-at least that's what she called it. I know otherwise. Aunt Eugenia doesn't approve of my father, or his a.s.sociates, or his business practices. I'll admit that I'd been pretty innocent before meeting Roland-innocent of all things. But no longer. He taught me a thing or two about the ways of men, and I'll never look at my father, or any other man, the same way again. What will my aunt think when she learns about Roland?

Lila sat at her ivory painted dressing table and absently moved the trinkets and perfumes around. Everything in her room was ivory and gold, patterned after a distant cousin's bedroom in Paris. When Lila had visited France in the summer, she'd fallen in love with the opulent decor. Her father had ordered furniture from as far as India to achieve the right ambience, and now she'd be trading this divine room for one of splintered furniture and moldy linens.

A light knock sounded at the door. Lila didn't have the voice to answer, so she wasn't surprised when Fay opened the door anyway.

Fay shut it with a firm click before turning to Lila. The sorrow in the maid's eyes about did Lila in. Fay was her oldest friend and confidante. Only she had known about Lila's secret escapades. Fay might have been twenty years Lila's senior and would never live life beyond a personal maid, but she never judged Lila.

The tip of Fay's nose was red, and her pale blue eyes watered. "This came for you, Miss Lila, when you were in with your parents."

Lila stared at the folded envelope in Fay's hand. "Someone delivered it to the door?" She'd heard nothing. Even over her father's yelling, she would have heard if someone had arrived in the front hall.

"It was delivered to the stable boy. He brought it to me."

Lila held out her hand. She'd have to thank Tim later, since he'd done the proper thing with this sort of letter. But when she took it from Fay, her heart stuttered. It was the same envelope she'd sent Roland. Had he returned it unopened?