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Excerpt
Maid of His
Heart
By Nancy
Pirri
Chapter One
December 1888
Manhattan, New York
Snap! Blazing pain tore through her
breasts and Claire O’Reilly’s eyes opened in stunned surprise. “Oh,
heavens,” she gasped scrambling up.
Her hands flew up to protect herself from
further blows and she groaned in horror at Mrs. Henderson, the head
housekeeper, standing over her with a cane in her hand.
“What be ye about girl? Ye can’t be sleepin’.
Christmas will soon be here. Sleepin’s not what Master Stanton’s
paying ye fer, either. Ye’ll need to learn and the only way I know
to teach ye is to beat ye, according to the master’s rules!” Mrs.
Henderson narrowed her already small eyes and raised her arm as she
moved closer, ready to strike a second time.
“Please, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I hate
Christmas season. All it means is more heavy work than I do now for
the same pitiful pay.” Claire raised her arms to protect herself.
Shaking in outrage, the woman snapped, “And if
ye didn’t stay awake all hours of the night readin’ those silly
books ye wouldn’t be too tired to do yer work. Plenty more of your
type to fill yer shoes,” she said, her arm raised as she went after
Claire.
Claire crouched, protecting her face from the
blows raining down on her.
“What in the world is going on here?”
A man had asked the question, in a calm but
menacing voice. Mrs. Henderson immediately dropped the cane on the
floor. Claire looked toward the parlor entrance. There stood a tall,
broad-shouldered, fair-haired man. With the brilliant sunlight
streaming through the windows Claire noticed he dressed rather
formally for morning. But the frock coat, white shirt and
silver-grey waistcoat enhanced his masculinity and his handsomeness.
His face held a mixture of exhaustion, inquisitiveness and anger as
he stared at Mrs. Henderson.
Claire heard the gossip from the staff. This
man, the master of the house, arrived home from a business journey
yesterday, and spent his first evening with his mistress. Upon his
return in the wee hours of the morning, he’d instructed the staff to
leave him be for he’d sleep the day away. Now Claire believed she
was in even more trouble for he’d wakened early, likely because he’d
heard the ruckus Claire and his housekeeper had made.
Upon this first meeting, Claire decided that
her employer was the most virile and handsome man she’d ever seen.
With great effort she looked away and focused on the housekeeper
hunched over, cane lying on the floor at her feet. Mrs. Henderson
wrung her hands and perspiration dripped from her forehead.
“I asked you a direct question, Mrs. Henderson.
What has the girl done to warrant your wrath?” The master entered
the parlor, bent and picked up the cane. Proceeding to tap it
against his thigh he glared at the housekeeper.
The woman straightened a bit and blustered,
“She was sleepin’ that’s what! It isn’t allowed, Master Stanton.”
Claire cowered now as her employer’s piercing
gaze settled on her. “Is that true? Were you sleeping instead of
working?”
With a short nod Claire averted her eyes, not
wanting to see his anger. Andrew Morgan-Stanton possessed the face
of an angel, yet she wondered at his imminent reaction to her
transgression. He had every right to be furious for she’d disobeyed
one of the rules of the house.
Master Stanton directed his argument back to
his housekeeper. They moved further away from Claire, who ignored
their words and instead studied this man she’d heard so many roguish
things about. What a horrid thing to happen; meeting her employer
for the first time under such awful circumstances. She sat down
quietly on the divan, the arguing pair didn’t notice. So taken by
him, all thought of anything else left her mind.
Not for the first time did she wonder why an
unmarried man would reside in such an enormous house—a house with an
enormous name—Morgan-Stanton’s Settle, named after Andrew
Morgan-Stanton himself, who’d ‘settled’ there five years ago upon
making his fortune. She thought it a rather pompous name but there
was no accounting for nouveau-rich folks’ eccentricities she’d
learned since her arrival in America seven years ago, at the age of
twelve.
Oh, how she longed to rest. She secretly worked
late at O’Gara’s Pub in the evenings, sneaking off when the
household was quiet. Last night she’d had very little sleep. She
leaned back to wait for them to stop. Perhaps she’d been lucky with
his intervention. Unable to help herself, she closed her eyes,
awaiting her punishment. How much worse could it be?
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One Magical
Night
by Nancy
Pirri
November, 1892
A Summit Hill Mansion
St. Paul, Minnesota
Anne Preston sat on a velvet divan beside her
Aunt Mildred, at the Calhoun family residence. Suddenly the sound of
breaking glass tore Anne out of her boredom.
“What in the world…” her aunt began, staring
toward the banquet table where several servants had been working. A
young serving woman stood with a horrified expression on her face,
mouth agape at the wine glasses she’d dropped from her tray.
Shards of glass glistened where they lay
scattered across the ballroom floor, the servants working quickly to
sweep them up. In the midst of the pandemonium a man stood, head and
shoulders above the other guests Anne’s eyes widened and her heart
raced when she saw the reason for the accident; it appeared the
Calhoun’s eldest and only son, Marcus Hall Calhoun III, had come
home, after three-year’s absence.
The servants finished cleaning up the mess and
now stood stock-still and silent, as did the musicians and the
guests.
Marcus was still darkly handsome, still
unorthodox in appearance with his hair falling to his shoulders.
Yet, he was dressed appropriately for the occasion, his massive
shoulders clad in austere black. Sparkling white accents in his
shirt and cravat made a stark contrast against his attire and
coloring.
Anne smiled when she saw the low-heeled shoes
on his feet instead of fashionably tall-heeled boots most men of the
day wore to increase their height. His head, covered in dark hair,
was just a fraction below the archway. Contrarily, Marcus had tried
unsuccessfully since adolescence to conceal his impressive height
due to most people’s reactions upon meeting him; awe, mixed with
fear.
She had never feared her gentle giant. He’d
always been her savior; had always protected her, until three years
ago, when he married Priscilla Ames, of the prestigious banking
family of New York City and moved away. It had been considered a
perfect match; the banking family marrying into the Calhoun railroad
dynasty.
“Pray, do not look at him.” Her aunt fluttered
her fan across her bosom. “For heaven’s sake girl, at least pretend
you are enjoying yourself.”
Aiming a false smile toward the dance floor,
Anne said, “I shall, now that Marcus has arrived.” A chill swept up
Anne’s spine and she added, “Auntie, please, pause your fanning. I
am freezing.”
“Poppycock,” her aunt said huffily. “Lord but
it’s hot. The Calhouns should open a window or two.”
Up until this moment, Anne had been tense and
miserable, her gloved hands clutched into fists. Oh, how she hated
these soirees! For the third season since her coming out at eighteen
years, she had been forced to sit beside her maiden aunt at social
events, a false but brilliant smile pasted on her lips, waiting for
gentlemen to sign her dance card.
She couldn’t dance as the other girls did for
she had been born with a limp that hindered such enjoyment, though
her aunt had insisted she at least try— if she were asked. But no
man ever approached her. Truth be told, she’d been left on the
shelf. Anne was inclined to believe she would forever remain a
spinster. Her aunt had other ideas, though, and had insisted she
have one final season before going into ‘seclusion’. Lord, one
would think she was on death’s door rather than just a wallflower.
Anne kept the smile on her face even as she
rose from the divan. She took one small step but stopped when she
felt a tugging on her skirts. She looked back and found Aunt
Mildred’s hand clutching it.
“Where do you think you’re off to?” her aunt
inquired.
“To find out about those windows, of course.”
“Why, you can’t do that. It would be impolite!”
her aunt protested.
“But you said—”
“Never mind what I said and sit down.”
“I’m going to greet Marcus.”
Her aunt tugged fiercely at Anne’s skirts,
forcing her to sit.
“I won’t allow you to chase after that
rakehell. Our family name will be besmirched if you do.”
Anne arched one eyebrow. “Why? Because he
divorced Priscilla?”
“That is only one reason.”
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