Twelfth Night Betrothal

Prologue

The North of England

Christmas Eve 1486

“I’ve just had the best idea!”

Heather groaned. Her friend’s heart was in the right place but usually Will’s best ideas ended up with someone getting hurt—or at least seriously inconvenienced.

“What is it?” She might as well ask. If she didn’t he would only tell her anyway.

“If you marry another man before Twelfth Night, then you won’t be able to marry Viscount Wexford when he comes a-calling, am I right? Bigamy is not allowed yet in this country.” That was undoubtedly true. Heather waited for the rest. “Well, with so many men assembled here for Christmas, we should be able to find you a new suitor. A savior, should I say.”

She rolled her eyes. This was even worse than what she had feared.

“Yes. Of course that propitious suitor would have to marry or at least propose to me before Twelfth Night, be rich enough to ensure my family’s survival, not to mention willing to do so, and powerful enough to stand up to the viscount when he finds out what happened,” she specified, counting on her fingers as she spoke. She did not even bother to add she would prefer it if the man in question wasn’t old enough to be her father and if he appealed to her senses at least a little. Those were luxuries she could not afford to think about. “But other than that you’re right, it is perfectly possible I should find myself a man to get me out of this accursed betrothal in the next few days.”

Will missed the sarcasm in her voice.

“Yes, it is the perfect plan. I will help, of course.”

“How? Do you intend to threaten all the men present into proposing to me? Will, you don’t even own a sword!”

“I do not. But what I have in my hose has been known to skewer brave knights. If only I could raise it up for you, my dear, then your troubles would be over. Of course I would still have to find money somewhere, but perhaps I could befriend a fierce pirate and coax him into revealing where he’s buried his treasure.” Despite herself, she smiled. Will had always been able to raise her spirits, even in the direst of circumstances. “No. I am not rich and, alas, my tastes do not run to sweet-smelling women, but I am clever and funny. I will get the earl our host to choose me as the Lord of Misrule for Christmastide.”

Heather sighed. “How will you accomplish such a thing? He doesn’t even know you.”

Will waved the protest away. “I can twist anyone around my little finger, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Oh, she had. Her friend was not even boasting. He could do just that. “And once I’m elected, I will make sure to provide you with all the opportunity to ensnare the man of your choice before we leave.”

Heather did not answer. If he could get someone, anyone, to propose to her by Twelfth Night, it would be a Christmas miracle indeed. If not, in less than a fortnight she would be married to her late husband’s cousin.

George Wetherby, Earl of Marsham, had died three months ago. His passing had been a relief, there was no pretending otherwise. He had been a bitter, vindictive man two decades older than her. They had been married only eight months, but in that short time he had made her life hell. As if that was not enough, he had gone out of his way to ensure his widow would be as miserable as his wife had been. When they had opened his will, she had discovered his latest provocation, concocted on his deathbed. The will specified Heather would have to marry his cousin Viscount Wexford. If she did not, she would be denied access to the money she was entitled to. In other words, the money that had been the only reason she had accepted his offer of marriage in the first place, the money she desperately needed to save her family from ruin.

When informed of his late cousin’s wishes, the viscount had written a florid letter to her, informing her of his intention to honor the dead man’s last request. He would come and collect his bride on Twelfth Night before taking her away to his estates near the Scottish border.

There was no way to refuse.

Had she been on her own, she would have fled, but her family’s survival depended on her.

And perhaps the viscount who, from what she’d been told, was even older than George, was more personable than his cousin? Yes… And perhaps she would wake up tomorrow and discover she could fly.

“If you get me out of marrying Viscount Wexford, then I will make sure you live the rest of your life in luxury, surrounded with as many cinnamon tarts as you can eat,” she told her friend, giving his hand a squeeze.

“My favorite. Now there is an incentive, if ever I heard any.” Will returned the squeeze and added a smile. “I will go and speak to the earl forthwith. Or rather, speak within hearing distance of him. It won’t be long before he sees he had better appoint me as Lord of Misrule if he wants to ensure the success of this gathering. No one else would do a better job. I’m telling you, I was born for this moment.”

This time Heather let out a laugh. Indeed, no one was better suited to the task, which called for a mischievous, impertinent, utterly charming personality.

“Go. I will wait right here and pray we can find a way out of this mess.”