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“Always and forever,” she whispered as she went into his arms again. “Because I love you, too, my most handsome, charming, and mischievous hero!”

They kissed again and the other guests began to applaud, the sound going from a soft patter to a torrent of joyous approval.

Always and forever, amen.

A WINTER’S WISH

ANNA BRADLEY

CHAPTER 1

Chester, England

December 1801

“Harder! Come, Estella! Surely you can pull harder than that?”

Stella had been wrestling with Cornelia’s corset for the better part of an hour already. She’d nearly broken a finger, her palms were red and raw, and sweat had gathered at her hairline, but she didn’t dare argue with her stepmother.

“Yes, Phillippa.” She propped one foot on the bedframe, braced the other on the floor of her stepsister’s bedchamber and tugged on the laces until her arms ached and her head was swimming.

“For pity’s sake, is that the best you can do?” Phillippa eyed Cornelia’s corset with a frown. “It must be tighter! Put your back into it, girl!”

“Careful, Mother.” Beatrice, who’d fallen into a graceless sprawl over the settee, glanced over the top edge of her book. “Another wrench like the last one and both Cornelia and Stella will tumble out the window.”

“Quiet, Beatrice,” Phillippa snapped. “No one asked you. Hold on to the bedpost, Cornelia, dear. That’s it. Again, Estella.”

Stella gripped the damp laces in her fists, sucked in a fortifying breath, and yanked with such force the bed jumped a foot across the floor.

“One would think you could manage a bit more effort for your sister’s sake, Estella, especially given how good she is to you.” Phillippa gave a disapproving sniff. “But I suppose your meager efforts will have to do, as we’re out of time. Fetch Cornelia’s gown and be quick about it. Our guests will be arriving soon.”

“And with no earthly idea of the torment that’s about to be inflicted upon them.” Beatrice sat up, tossing her book aside. “She’s not playing the ‘Christmas Gambols,’ I hope? Poor Charles Dibdin is likely turning in his grave.”

Stella hurried to Cornelia’s dressing closet. “Mr. Dibdin is still very much alive, Beatrice.”

“He is now, yes, but wait until he hears Cornelia banging out his music on the pianoforte.” Beatrice gave an exaggerated shudder. “Our poor guests have no idea what they’ve set loose upon themselves.”

No, they hadn’t, and there was no way to warn them Cornelia’s attacks on the pianoforte would sound less like holiday cheer, and more as if a dozen feral cats had been released into the drawing room.

But there wasn’t anything she could do about it, and even if she could, she’d long since learned to keep her opinions to herself. She wasn’t Cornelia’s music master and could not be blamed for her stepsister’s tuneless shrieking.

She stepped into Cornelia’s dressing closet and a fleeting moment of quiet joy rushed through her. This was her domain. Ballgowns, riding habits, walking dresses, pelisses—every article of clothing a lady could dream of was stuffed inside, in every color and fabric imaginable.

And she’d sewn every stitch of it herself.

Every bodice and skirt, every bit of lace and every perfectly straight hem was a product of her needle. She’d even made the hats and gloves herself.

But this wasn’t the time to admire her handiwork, so she bypassed all this glorious finery and reached for a cream silk confection with a pale pink overskirt, the sleeves and neckline trimmed with the finest Belgian lace she’d ever touched.

It had taken her most of the week to sew the gown, long nights spent bent over the worktable in her cramped bedchamber, her fingertips sore and her eyes burning with exhaustion, but the gown was worth every pinprick and sleepless night.

It had turned out just as she’d envisioned it would. It was exquisite, the silk as delicate and soft as a cloud. It had taken her ages to get the draping right, but it moved like a dream.

“Estella!” Phillippa called, her voice ringing with irritation. “Whatever is taking you so long? Make haste, will you? We haven’t got all day.”

“Yes, Phillippa. I’m coming.” She hurried back to the bedchamber with the gown cradled as tenderly in her arms as if it were a newborn infant. “Here we are.”

“Well, don’t just stand there!” Phillippa glanced at the watch dangling from a gold chain at her waist and let out an impatient huff. “I already told you we’re in a hurry. Dress her!”