A Christmas Bride Read online

  A Christmas Bride

  Viveka Portman

  www.romance.com.au/escapepublishing/

  A Christmas Bride

  Viveka Portman

  Her life is entirely about propriety and conduct, but this Christmas, she will give herself the gift of being wild...

  London 1813

  Miss Smith is dreading the festive season. With her students gone, long cold days and endless dreary nights are a glum and lonely prospect. So when she comes across a beautiful gown left behind by one of her students, she can’t help but try it on. And perhaps a walk down the street as a little Christmas gift to lift her spirits. And a small, warm drink at a local pub. No one will recognise her, and what harm could it do?

  Lonely and worried about raising a daughter by himself, handsome widower Robert Carring knows he must find another wife. But having already endured one passionless marriage, he refuses to enter another. He will only marry when he finds the intelligent, spirited woman of his dreams. And then he sees her, making merry on a cold winter night.

  Finding herself admired in the eyes of handsome man for the first time, Miss Smith is more determined than ever not to resign herself to a life as a spinster school matron, and makes a daring decision that will change all her Christmases forever.

  About the author

  VIVEKA PORTMAN is an author of romantic erotic fiction, and has a fascination about times past. With a bachelor degree in anthropology, Viveka weaves historical fact into fiction to create lively, realistic and thrilling tales, sure to titillate and engage the most discerning reader. Considered an upstanding member of society, Viveka does not make a habit of eavesdropping, gossiping or making vulgar displays of impropriety—except, that is, in writing.

  If you’d like to know more about Viveka Portman,you can find her at vivekaportman.blogspot.com, twitter @VivekaPortman or like her Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/Viveka-Portman-1445172812369266.

  To all the amazing teachers out there who feel invisible. You’re not.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

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  Chapter 1

  London, late November, 1813

  Miss Ellen Smith gazed around the classroom of Miss Brampton’s School for Ladies as a carriage rattled past the window. The glow of the lamps and the hushed murmur of students sewing filled her senses. It was, she must admit, a comfortable place of occupation. The fire kept the room warm, and the well-bred young ladies under her instruction were largely a delight to educate.

  Albeit a little dull.

  She chided herself for the ungracious thought. A woman of her means was lucky to have such a position. Warm lodgings, good food, a suitable income. She really ought not be so ungrateful.

  There was tittering laughter to her left.

  Ellen turned and observed the young ladies thoughtfully. Although she personally enjoyed the sound of laughter, Miss Brampton—School Headmistress and Founder, had particularly strict rules about it, and as the girls’ educator, she must reinforce them.

  Ellen inhaled deeply. ‘As amusing as your conversation may be, ladies,’ she paused and released her breath, ‘you ought sew in silence until it is time to depart,’ she reminded them.

  The younger Miss Westley’s face pinkened, whilst a slight smirk curled the corner of the slightly elder Miss Carring’s coral pink lips.

  Ellen scarcely withheld a sigh.

  Honestly, what did it really matter if the young giggled? They were young women, between twelve and seventeen years; if one couldn’t giggle then, when could one?

  Still, Miss Brampton’s rules were the rules.

  She turned her attention to the elder of the pair, Miss Penelope Carring. She did look remarkably like her father. Wealthy, widowed and devilishly handsome, Mr Robert Carring visited his only daughter often at the school, and although Ellen would never admit such a thing, she took great enjoyment when he did. She comforted herself in telling herself that her delight was due to the heartening vision of a gentleman so involved with his child. Yet if she admitted the truth, her delight had more to do with the fine square shoulders and thickly muscled calves.

  Very muscled calves.

  Stop it, Ellen! She chided herself yet again.

  Fine calves aside, Mr Carring was good man, and kind father. These were the characteristics that should endear a gentleman to a lady. A woman’s feelings really should have naught to do with fine musculature or sparkling handsome eyes.

  Yet they did, she told herself with a wayward smile.

  Perhaps if she had a father more invested in his family, she would not be mooning over the parent of one of her students. Had her own father, Mr Marshall Smith, not squandered his fortune and left herself and mother destitute, she would never have needed to take employment in the first place. Alas, her father had not been at all like Mr Robert Carring. He had been plump, prone to gout, a drunkard, and a gambler. A terrible collection of humours that had resulted in her current circumstance.

  Yet in the darkest, most forbidden part of her heart, her life as a spinster schoolmistress, although comfortable, held none of the thrills, excitement and passion her heart yearned for, especially at Christmas. The long cold nights, and the emptiness of her life seemed only greatened by the festivities of the church and society at large.

  Perhaps she was just too fanciful.

  Yes, that must be it.

  Then why did prayer nor hard work cure her wayward heart of its fanciful desires? Still, she was still luckier than many, however much she yearned for something more.

  ‘Miss Smith?’ Miss Penelope Carring called, her slim pale hand raised.

  Jolted from her daze, Ellen returned her attention to the child whose dark rampant curls and light hazel eyes were so much like those of her handsome father.

  ‘Yes, Miss Carring?’

  The girl smiled, her cheeks dimpling. ‘I do believe my father’s carriage has just drawn up,’ she said and gestured to the window.

  Sadly for Ellen, it was the last day of the school term. A day when the students and other staff retreated to celebrate the Christmas season with family and friends.

  As a new establishment, funded largely by its headmistress’s fortune, Miss Brampton’s was unlike many of the educational establishments in London. It closed its doors particularly early, the day before Advent in fact, due to its headmistress’s devout Catholicism and general love of the season.

  If only Ellen could share that affection. She fairly loathed the empty classrooms and corridors when they left. This year was likely to be even more grim, as it was the first since her mother’s passing.

  Ellen’s gaze turned to the window. Rain splattered the glass, and her heart fluttered. The distinctive black and red of the Carring carriage had indeed just drawn up. She watched the door open, and a tall man duck his head and step from its confines. He smoothed his coat, and glanced to the window.

  Cool, dark-fringed eyes met hers through the blur of the wet windowpane. Ellen’s throat grew tight and she turned quickly away, fearing the blush that threatened to bloom on her cheeks may be seen.

  ‘I see,’ Ellen coughed. ‘You may pack away your sewing, Miss Carring, and collect your coat and bonnet, Mr Sneddon will bring your luggage down.’

  ***

  Robert Carring swept inside Miss Brampton’s school and du
sted a few wet droplets from his hat. They fell like jewels on the highly polished wooden floorboards. He very much liked the school on Hackney Road; its boarding house offered Penelope the home and female company he was unable to provide at their home on St James Street. His wife Mildred had died two years ago and he’d lived a largely quiet life since. He had, thus far, been unable to find a suitable lady who could not only mother his daughter, but also match his passions and interests. He was, perhaps selfishly, utterly unwilling to risk taking on another wife who would bore and disappoint him. Mildred, God rest her soul, had not been the sort to inspire passion, or much else for that matter.

  Still, he was a man of honour and had stayed true to his marriage vows, even upon her death. He had not frequented whores as many of his acquaintance did. Their dull, passionless eyes and quickly opening thighs held no charm either—so much the pity.

  He wanted a woman of passion, of intellect and spirit.

  A collection of characteristics unfortunately absent from society at large, or so it seemed.

  Miss Smith opened the door to the classroom and swept into the entry hall, and Robert felt his lips curl into slight smile.

  Several strands of golden hair escaped the enormous and frankly unflattering mobcap. The cap was a confounding addition to women’s fashion, and if he ever did find another wife, he may forbid her from wearing one. A woman’s hair shouldn’t be hidden, ever.

  Miss Smith returned his smile, and it was impossible for Robert not to notice the way in which her schoolteacher uniform clung to her frame just long enough to offer tantalising suggestions of the rounded charms hidden beneath.

  Clearly, he had been alone too long. He brushed his lewd thought away. The ungainly hat aside, he was rather affected by the young schoolmistress. Earnest and clever, she was wasted as a spinster and schoolmarm.

  He paused. No, that was untrue. His daughter, Penelope veritably adored her. The school, and Miss Smith’s passion for knowledge, was infectious. In fact, if he were the sort of man to be placated by pretty appearance and cleverness, she would, he admitted, make quite a decent bride. However, he was not such a man. He needed passion, he needed thrills, he needed excitement. None of which the clever but damnably straight-laced schoolmistress was likely to offer.

  He’d married that sort once before, and found himself badly disappointed. No, if he were ever to take a bride again, it would be for love and passion, not suitability.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Carring.’ Miss Smith said, her voice soft and breathy.

  He inclined his head. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Smith, I pray you and Miss Brampton are keeping well?’

  Robert had reason to understand that the elderly Miss Brampton was grooming the younger Miss Smith to take over as headmistress of the school. A wise choice to be sure.

  She bobbed, ‘Indeed, thank you, though Miss Brampton has retired to coast for the season. The winter air in London is terrible for her constitution.’

  ‘It is, I’m sure,’ he agreed.

  They fell into silence. ‘Miss Carring will be with you shortly, sir,’ Miss Smith said after a moment, and glanced up the stairwell hopefully.

  ‘Good,’ he nodded and appraised her slowly, he had never been able to discern her eye colour beneath the shadow of her cap. He sighed slightly and attempted further conversation.

  ‘How has my daughter fared lately?’ he asked.

  ‘Very well,’ Miss Smith said quickly, evidently glad to be rid of the awkward silence. She bit the plump lower lobe of her lip. He watched entranced as she released it and continued. ‘She excels at Latin, and is the top of her class. Her grasp on the language is remarkable for one of her youth. She would perhaps benefit from paying greater attention during stitch-work, which is, many would say a more useful skill for a lady than Latin.’

  Robert struggled to tear his gaze from the wet pink lip as a spear of hot passion shot straight to his groin.

  ‘And do you stitch well, Miss Smith?’ he asked, not quite able resist the jibe.

  A flash of spirit and mirth dashed across her face. ‘Abominably, I’m afraid, but my Latin is exquisite.’

  An unexpected chuckle broke through Robert’s throat, taking him quite by surprise. ‘Then I am once more reassured that my daughter is in sound hands here at Miss Brampton’s, for Latin seems a considerably more interesting topic than stitch-work,’ he said, wondering if perhaps Miss Smith may be a suitable option for a bride after all.

  ‘Father!’ Penelope Carring burst from the room, a veritable hurricane of woollen coats and shawls.

  He saw Miss Smith’s lips thin, and her demeanour stiffen.

  ‘Miss Carring,’ she said with a gentle chide, ‘a lady should always deport themselves with care,’ she said, and Robert dismissed his earlier positive appraisal.

  He noticed, with a mix of disappointment and pride, his daughter slow to a more sedate stride and offered him her hand. He took it and kissed it fondly.

  ‘Penny, you are looking very well indeed. This school must agree with you.’

  ‘Oh yes, Father, it does. I do love it here,’ she enthused, her cheeks flushing and eyes sparkling. Robert noticed Miss Smith’s lips remain tight, evidently at his daughter’s uncontrolled and unladylike enthusiasm. His disappointment grew. He knew that society demanded sedate, controlled women, yet had not a moment ago Miss Smith displayed a modicum of spirit?

  Where the devil had it gone?

  He threw a sideways glance to check again. Miss Smith’s face was entirely shadowed by the stupid mob-cap but her shoulders were taut.

  Gone. Just like that she’d slipped into the dull, socially accepted schoolmarm. All evidence of cheer and spirit gone.

  It was exceedingly disappointing.

  ‘Miss Smith tells me of your skills in Latin, you must read to me,’ he said returning his attention to his daughter.

  ‘Oh, yes, I shall indeed.’ Penelope exclaimed and bounced on her heels. ‘I should enjoy that very much!’ Her ebullient nature was one of the many things he adored so greatly about his daughter, quite the contrast to her dear deceased, but dour, mother. He was pleased that school had not squashed it entirely. As the thought passed, Penelope confirmed his assessment and proceeded to vomit forth Latin phrases loudly and with extreme enthusiasm.

  Chapter 2

  Ellen was very proud of Miss Carring’s skills at language, yet she felt very small indeed as Miss Carring began chattering at volume in Latin, eagerly displaying her budding knowledge to her father. She worried he may be offended by her exuberance. Many gentlemen of her acquaintance found such exhibitionism completely undesirable, particularly in their daughters. In addition, Miss Brampton would see it as an utter failure of her tuition.

  No one had ever been able to explain to Ellen why society demanded ladies be quiet and dull, or why they seemed bent on quashing enthusiasm. Yet it was so, and as an educational institution, Miss Brampton’s school had to enforce these social mores, and most unfortunately, it was her job.

  Ellen stole a nervous glance Mr Carring, whose lips had curled into what she could only presume was a growing snarl of disapproval.

  ‘Miss Carring, please,’ Ellen heard herself snap. ‘At Miss Brampton’s we teach that a lady does not ...’ Ellen had not finished before Penelope’s Latin stopped abruptly, and colour rushed up the child’s neck and settled on her already rosy cheeks.

  ‘Oh ...’ the girl stopped. ‘Forgive me, Miss Smith.’

  Mr Carring’s lips drew thin and a frown drew deep lines between his brows. ‘It is quite all right, Miss Smith, I do not mind.’ His voice was gruff and irritable. ‘I have not spoken with my daughter in weeks. I find her enthusiasm infectious and entirely welcome.’ He lifted his hand and rested it on his daughter’s slight shoulder. A large carved garnet signature ring glistened in the lights.

  His chide made her feel churlish and embarrassed.

  ‘Quite,’ Ellen said, though even to her own ears, her voice was tight.

  His pale eyes a
ppraised her again, and she wished she knew what thoughts travelled their glassy depths. Then he dismissed her. ‘We will depart, and see you in the new year, Miss Smith. Our best wishes of the season to yourself, and Miss Brampton, of course.’

  Ellen inclined her head and bobbed graciously, failing entirely to keep the embarrassed bloom from her cheeks.

  Late that night, as the last of the students were collected by parents eager to celebrate the beginning of Advent with their families, Ellen closed the door, listening to the last carriage rumble down the street.

  ‘Have you eaten, Miss Smith?’ An elderly dry voice came from behind. Ellen startled, sending the oil lamp swinging and turned to see old Mr Sneddon, the housekeeper’s husband and the school’s butler shuffle in.

  ‘Yes, I managed something between Miss Westley’s parents’ arrival and Miss Grainger’s.’ She said, ‘I will retire now, you may lock up,’ she said and lifted her skirt to make her way up the stairs to her room. ‘Good night, Mr Sneddon.’

  Mr Sneddon coughed, drawing her attention back. ‘I had Milly sweep the dormitories, and she noticed someone’s left clothing in the wardrobes,’ he said as she made her way up. Ellen felt her face crumble into a frown.

  Another teaching failure.

  ‘How such girls will ever manage their own households, I will never know,’ she sighed, ‘Very well, once I am certain to whom they belong, I will have them returned in the morning,’ she said.

  ‘Very good,’ Sneddon said. He paused and coughed again. ‘This your first Christmas since your mother’s passin’, isn’t it?’

  Ellen’s heart squeezed and her eyes pricked instantly.

  ‘Yes,’ she said and looked over the banister at him, offering what she hoped was a brave smile. ‘It is.’

  ‘You’ll be coming to mass with Mrs Sneddon and I then over the season?’

  The thought of sitting in the freezing church, listening to long droning sermons with only Mr and Mrs Sneddon for company was a horrifying reality she knew she’d have to face.