Silence stretched, while they meandered along walks shoveled clean of snow. Hannah knew she limped, but she forgot she knew most of the time. She forgot the ache in her hip that went with it, and forgot all the times her stepfather had told her to stand up straight lest her shoulders become as crooked as her leg.

“Does it pain you?” This handsome, wealthy man was to be Hannah’s escort for the next several months, for reasons she could not fathom. His tone was pleasant, his arm a sturdy support, and his question unexpectedly genuine.

Her reply was unexpectedly honest as a result. “It rarely hurts. Not unless I overdo.”

“We will have to see you do not overdo, then. Shall we sit? The sun is really quite lovely, and the less time I spend cooped up behind stone walls, the happier I am.”

With that startling little revelation, he directed her to a bench in a widening in the walkway. Somebody had dusted the thing free of snow early enough that it was dry, or perhaps the February sun was that strong here in Edinburgh.

He seated her, then took a seat beside her—without permission. “Why are you in Great Britain, Miss Hannah Cooper?”

She’d wanted to resent Balfour, whose job it was to deliver her to London, like a federal marshal might deliver a felon for trial. And yet, she shared with the earl an appreciation for the out of doors, for plain speaking, and for a sunny bench. Hannah shouldn’t derive a sense of kinship with Balfour on such meager footing, and yet, she did.

“I am to find a husband,” she said, reciting the litany that had been shouted at her. “I am an American heiress and only a little long in the tooth, and it shouldn’t be too hard to find a willing baronet’s son or an aging knight.”

“I see.”

“What do you see?”

“You are a mendacious American heiress.” The amusement was back, and maybe a hint of approval.

“And you are an overly observant English gentleman.”

Another silence, while Hannah studied her bare hands and tried not to smile. Her escort was wearing soft kidskin gloves likely made to fit his big hands. Gloves like that would feel heavenly next to the skin. Supple, warm, soft…she’d bet his were even lined with silk.

“I am not your enemy, Boston, and I am not English.” His tone was gentle, but not apologetic.

“You are the instrument of my enemy, though. You are to squire me about the ballrooms and so forth, and quietly let it be known I come with a fat dowry.”

He eyed her sidewise while Hannah pretended not to notice that the brilliant winter sun turned his dark hair nearly auburn.

“You honestly don’t want to find yourself some minor title and swan about on his arm for the next several decades? Have a few babies to show off to your friends and relations while casually flashing a vulgar diamond or two at them as well?”

“I have never swanned in my life and I hope to die without the experience befalling me.”

Swan, indeed. But the babies… Oh, damn him for mentioning the babies.

“I see.”

“What do you think you see?”

“I see why the ugly bonnet,” he said, rising. “Come, the posting inn is several blocks off and I promised to show you how we go about our mails here. We should stop at a grog shop too, so you can see how we do our toddies and rum buns.”

That was all he said, no lecture, no lambasting her for her unnatural inclinations, her ingratitude. The lack of resistance made Hannah uncertain, like the bright sunshine, and she leaned him on a little with the disorientation of his response. Perhaps he simply didn’t care what she was about—he’d get to fritter away his spring in any case, and she really didn’t intend to be much of a bother to him.

Not much.

As they walked the streets of the neighborhood, Hannah found differences between Edinburgh and Boston in the details, like tea with scones instead of bread and butter, and gas lamps taller than those at home. And were she home, she’d be accompanied by a maid and not this great, strapping man in his beautiful, warm clothing.

He walked slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, as if he hadn’t seen these streets over and over in all seasons.

“You are being patient with me,” Hannah said.

“I am avoiding the mountain of paperwork waiting for me back in the library. It’s a pleasure to share a pint of grog with somebody who hasn’t had the experience—also a bit naughty. Ladies do not usually partake of strong spirits, but cold weather provides the exception to the rule and we’re not as mindful of strictest propriety here in the north. And truly, our rum buns are not to be missed.”

“A bit naughty” sounded fun when rendered in those soft, dark tones, as if the earl were as much need of a treat as Hannah might be.

Or in need of a friend?

Acknowledgments

Lady Jenny’s story brings us to the end of the Windham family series proper. I would have been content with stories for Westhaven, St. Just, and Valentine, but somebody in the Sourcebooks, Inc., marketing department got the notion I should write a Christmas story, and Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish appeared. Having written a tale for one Windham sister, sibling relations—and my editor’s suggestion—resulted in stories for the remaining sisters, of whom, some genius who shall remain nameless (whose initials rhyme with Grace Burrowes) had already decided there would be four.

I don’t know of any other author whose debut work has turned into an eight-book series, plus a few novellas. This represents prodigious commitment on the part of a publisher, and a Herculean effort on the part of my editor, Deb Werksman, marketing, public relations, art, production, and sales folks. If a book does well, the writing may have something to do with it, but most assuredly, the efforts of these people to brand the book, raise its visibility, and position it where readers can find it are indispensable.

So thanks, to Madam Editor and Madam Publisher, to marketing, to art, to sales, to public relations (this means you, Danielle), and to production (waving at Skye) for working your part of the magic that makes a manuscript into not just a book, but a book that finds its way into the hands of many happy readers.

And for those of you anticipating Windham-withdrawal, don’t worry. The Windhams have many friends, relations, and offspring. I have a few ideas…

About the Author

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Grace Burrowes’s bestsellers include The Heir, The Soldier, Lady Maggie’s Secret Scandal, Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish, and Lady Eve’s Indiscretion. The Heir was a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2010, The Soldier was a Publishers Weekly Best Spring Romance of 2011, Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish won Best Historical Romance of the Year in 2011 from RT Reviewers’ Choice Awards, and The Bridegroom Wore Plaid, the first in her trilogy of Scotland-set Victorian romances, was a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2012. Her Regency romances have received extensive praise, including starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Booklist.

Grace is a practicing family law attorney and lives in rural Maryland. She loves to hear from her readers and can be reached through her website at graceburrowes.com.