Jennifer Ashley, WSZYSTKO
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Jennifer Ashley, Emily Bryan, Alissa Johnson - A Christmas Ball
A Christmas Ball
A Christmas Ball
JENNIFER ASHLEY
EMILY BRYAN
ALISSA JOHNSON
LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
My Lady Below Stairs
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
The Longest Night
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Epilogue
Traditions
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Praise
Copyright
My Lady Below Stairs
Emily Bryan
Thanks to my agent Vivian Beck, who first believed in my writing. And to my fabulous
editor, Leah Hultenschmidt, who gave me my first chance. And most especially, I want to
thank my parents who showed me what love that lasts looks like. They were married on
Christmas Day (A three generation family tradition I did not feel called to continue when my
DH and I tied the knot!). My parents will celebrate their 56th Merry Christmas together this
year! Now that’s a legacy of love!
Wishing you the same,
Emily
www.emilybryan.com
Chapter One
“Bastardy has its privileges,” Jane Tate muttered. She slogged across the snowdrifted alley
from Lord Somerville’s grand townhouse to his not-so-grand henhouse. No one else wanted
to gather eggs on this bitterly cold morning, so Jane had been pressed into service.
Which suited Jane better than a dollop of milk in her tea. Cook might get suspicious if she
volunteered again.
She picked her way through the fresh snow. Even in this top-lofty London neighborhood, his
lordship kept a dozen fat guineas and six red-capped Dorking hens. Their coop squatted next
to the stable. An ill-tempered rooster strutted along its sagging peak, standing guard over his
harem.
Cold lanced up Jane’s shin. She had pulled on two pairs of woolen stockings that morning,
but they were no match for the shilling-sized hole in her left shoe.
He’s worth a touch of frostbite, she reminded herself.
Before she pushed through the henhouse door, a hand grasped her elbow and pulled her into
the shadows of the stable. Even though she had hoped for this very thing, the man’s mouth
swallowed her cry of surprise. He smelled of fresh straw and oiled leather and warm
horseflesh.
And tasted like heaven itself. Jane slid her arms into the warmth of his open jacket, pressing
herself against him.
Ian Michael MacGregor. The sight of the head groom’s angular face was enough to give Jane
shivers, even without a hole in her shoe. His kiss warmed her, sending hot urgent messages to
secret places in her body. Places an unmarried scullery maid shouldn’t be so achingly aware
of.
“Janie, love.” His voice tickled her ear and his lips set her skin dancing. She thought her name
ordinary in the extreme, but when Ian said it, his soft Scottish burr caressed the sound with
reverence, as if she were a grand lady.
His rough hands found her waist and tugged her closer. Even through the layers of wool, Jane
felt the solid maleness of him. All the female kitchen help, even a few of the married ones,
made an excuse to take a trip to the stable when the weather was warm enough for Ian
Michael to remove his jacket and roll up his shirtsleeves. Dealing with the heavy team of
horses that pulled his lordship’s equipage made Ian’s arms and chest ripple with strength.
“If the man’s arms are that fine,” Jane’s friend Agnes had exclaimed the first time she
watched Ian subdue a particularly mettlesome stallion, “just imagine what the rest of him
must be like!”
Jane smiled. She had a good imagination. If Ian had his way, she wouldn’t have to imagine
much longer. She pushed against his chest and he drew back to look down at her, his peat-
colored eyes hooded with wanting.
“Please, Ian. Someone might see us.”
“There’s none here but Tom and he’s busy polishing the brass on the brougham. Come, lass,
you’re cold as a well-digger’s knee.” Ian rubbed her hands between his and blew on them, his
breath puffing in the chilly air like a dragon’s. Then he pressed a kiss on the skin of her
exposed wrist. A wicked smile curved his lips. “I’m only after warming you a bit.”
“If you think I believe that, you’re the stupid, big Scot everyone takes you for.”
Jane knew behind his rude upbringing, Ian’s sharp mind bristled with intelligence. Their
friendship had begun when he discovered she knew how to read and write. Ian had convinced
her to teach him. Of course, the only reason she knew how was because of a well-kept secret.
Though Jane wasn’t quite sure what to name it yet, her friendship with Ian Michael had
blossomed from reading lessons into something much more.
“I brought you a copy of Locke and a warm tart.” Jane handed him the precious book she’d
pinched from his lordship’s library. Lord Somerville would never miss it and she’d return the
book after Ian read it, so it wasn’t stealing. Not really. The neatly wrapped tart she’d made
herself.
“Something for my mind and my body, eh? No one can fault ye for ignoring a man’s
appetites. Not all of them, in any case.” He pocketed the book and unwrapped the fragrant
pastry, waggling his dark brows at her. “Ye know how fond I am of…tarts.”
Jane smacked his chest. “I’m no tart, Ian Michael MacGregor.”
“No, I can see you’re not. But ye canna deny ye enjoy kissing me like one, can ye?” He bit
into the plum tart with relish. “Och, Janie, this is almost as sweet as your kisses. Give me half
a moment and we’ll start again where we left off, so I can make a true comparison.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Jane said, even though the thought of Ian’s kisses was what
had had her tripping through the snow with a light heart this morning. “You know his lordship
doesn’t allow liaisons among the staff.”
“Liaison,” he repeated with a laugh, as he dusted the last tart crumbs from his big workman’s
hands. “You’ve picked up some mighty fine airs, my Lady Jane.”
“And you’ve some plum filling at the corner of your mouth, sir.”
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