Table Of ContentLOST IN YOUR ARMS
CHRISTINA DODD
AVON BOOKS
An Imprint of Harper Collins Publishers
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products
of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as
real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living
or dead, is entirely coincidental.
AVON BOOKS
An Imprint of Harper Collins Publishers
10 East 53rd Street
New York, New York 10022-5299
Copyright © 2002 by Christina Dodd
ISBN: 0-380-81963-5
www.avonromance.com
All rights reserved. No pan of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address
Avon Books, an Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
First Avon Books paperback printing: March 2002
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HarperCollins® is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
HarperCollins® is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
Printed in the U.S.A.
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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is
stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and
neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped
book."
This book is dedicated with thanks to Luke Skywalker, for his constant assistance
in writing my novels. Luke, no other cat could sit on a keyboard,
shed into a computer, or chose such
inopportune moments to demand to be petted.
May the force be with you.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 1
London, 1843
"Please, Mrs. MacLean, won't ye tell us about yer wedding?"
Her mouth full of cake, Enid stared around at the circle of feminine faces in
Lady Halifax's parlor, all bright with happiness, and at the blond, round-cheeked
girl in whose honor they were gathered. The girl who had asked the question.
The girl who, in less than a fortnight, would become the blushing bride to Lady
Halifax's underbutler. Swallowing, Enid took a breath. "My wedding? Oh, you
don't want to know about my wedding."
"We do!"
An eager chorus answered her, a chorus from Lady Halifax's upstairs maids, her
downstairs maids, and her scullery maids, all girls with their heads stuffed with
puff pastry dreams of love.
Enid, at the ripe old age of twenty-six, was at least five years everyone's senior
in age and five hundred years their senior in cynicism.
"Was yer wedding as wonderful as mine is going't' be?" Kay clasped her hands
at her bosom. The girl was resplendent with flowers and ribbons in her hair,
surrounded by gifts given by her friends, and glowing with the light of love.
So Enid tried desperately to divert the conversation. "Nothing could be as
wonderful as your wedding is going to be. That lace Lady Halifax asked me to
bring as your wedding gift will make a lovely collar for your wedding gown."
"Aye, it will." Kay patted the fancy, machine-sewn lace Enid had delivered.
"Lady Halifax is a grand mistress, an' ye must convey me thanks't'er. Mrs.
MacLean, did ye have lace on yer gown?"
The problem, as Enid saw it, was that she was a woman of mystery.
Oh, not really. For three years she had lived in the London town house as Lady
Halifax's nurse-companion. At first she had done little more than pass Lady
Halifax her cane and make sure she had a clean handkerchief. But as time had
gone on and the wasting disease had weakened Lady Halifax, Enid had become
her mouth and ears in the household. She had reported the household activities to
Lady Halifax and given Lady Halifax's instructions to the servants. But never,
ever, had she confided her past to anyone.
She knew speculation had run rampant. Because of Enid's upper-class accent,
her education and manners, the maids thought that she was a lady who had fallen
on misfortune and had turned to labor to support herself. She had done nothing
to dissuade them of that notion.
Now they had her trapped with their offer of tea and cake, their high hopes and
fabulous imaginings.
"Please, Mrs. MacLean?" Sarah, the upstairs parlor maid, begged.
"Please?" Shirley, fifteen years old and fresh from the country, clapped her
hands and tipped her cake plate off her lap and onto the carpet.
Everyone jumped to their feet, but Enid hushed the horrified exclamations and
helped clean up the mess. "It's all right, dear. See? There's no harm done."
Trying to distract the tearful Shirley, she said, "Stop crying so you can hear the
details of my wedding."
Shirley snuffled into her handkerchief. "Aye."
"Tell us," Kay urged.
Enid could never confess the truth—so she would have to tell them a lie.
"Did ye get married in a big church?" Ardelia, plain, plump and brown, dabbed
up the last crumbs of cake with her thumb.
Putting down her fork, Enid put the plate on the end table beside her and made
the decision that, if she was going to tell a lie, she might as well tell a colossus.
"I was married in a cathedral by a bishop."
"A cathedral?" Sarah's brown eyes grew huge.
"I was wed on a beautiful, sunny morning in June, with wild pink roses in my
arms and all my friends in attendance."
"Did ye wear white like Queen Victoria?" Ardelia quivered with excitement.
"No, not white."
The maids groaned with disappointment.
"Her Majesty hadn't married yet, and it wasn't the style. But I did wear a blue
dimity, very fine"—turned only twice—"with a splendid full skirt and black lace
gloves"—loaned by the vicar's wife—"and a blue velvet hat with a black veil"—
given by Stephen and acquired heaven-knew-where and hopefully by legal
means. Carried away with her enthusiasm, Enid added, "And my black boots
were polished so brightly, I could see my face in them."
"Wi' yer blue eyes an' yer black 'air, ye must have looked splendid, Mrs.
MacLean." Gloria, a rather nondescript girl who extravagantly admired Enid,
flattered her now. " 'Ow did ye dress yer 'air?"
Enid touched the loose knot gathered in a black net snood at the base of her
neck. "It's so flyaway, I can never do much more with it than this."
Wide-eyed with innocence, Ardelia asked, "Why didn't ye 'ave yer maid dress
yer 'air?"
Bent on making the tale the best, most dramatic story they'd ever heard, Enid
told them, "I didn't have a maid."
The girls exchanged sympathetic looks.
"My family had had setbacks…" Enid dabbed at her perfectly dry eyes. Dear,
dear, these girls would believe anything!
"Oo." Sarah loved a good theatrical better than anyone, and she knew how this
story should end. "Yer family 'ad lost their money, then yer Stephen rescued ye."
Love never rescued anyone. If Enid were kind, she would have told the truth and
disillusioned these girls. But she knew they wouldn't believe her. Young people
never did. She hadn't.
"Yer 'air's pretty that way, Mrs. MacLean," Shirley said.
"Thank you, Shirley."
Ardelia leaned forward, eyes shining. "Did yer Da give ye away?"
"No, my father was dead." Good riddance. "But I needed only Stephen."
"Was yer 'usband a tall and 'andsome gennaman?" Dena's ample bosom heaved
at the thought.
"He boasted a head full of golden hair, so bright it almost outshone the sun, and
fine pale skin." Enid stared out the window at Lady Halifax's city garden, not
seeing the summer blossoms, instead trying to remember how Stephen MacLean
had looked on that day nine years ago. Her memory produced a portrait tarnished
by time. But that answer would never do for girls who wanted to believe in love
by time. But that answer would never do for girls who wanted to believe in love
ever after. "His eyes… I will never forget the color of his eyes…" That much
was true, at least. "His eyes were the deepest green, almost like the sea on a
stormy day, and shot with gold, like lightning bolts."
"Sea green lightning bolts," Ardelia said in tones of awe.
"But he wasn't at all vain." Stephen had been the vainest man Enid had ever met,
but in this fairy tale he became a prince. "He would chortle and say that no man
whose ears stuck out as his did"—she demonstrated with her hands—"could be
handsome, but he carried with him an air of adventure and excitement that never
flagged."
" 'E was an adventurer?" Shirley breathed in quick little gasps.
"Indeed. He was the son of a noble family, unjustly dispossessed by his wicked
cousin, so he roamed the byways of England, helping the old and bringing
justice to the poor."
"Like Robin 'ood," Sarah said.
"Just like that." Enid's narrative carried her away.
"Did 'e sweep ye off yer feet like me Roger did?" Kay asked.
"He did. He met me, and right away he claimed I was the very woman he was
looking for." That, sadly, was the truth. Enid just hadn't understood the
underlying reason why. "He proposed that very night, but I was determined to be
wise. I refused him for a fortnight." She laughed at her youthful foolhardiness. "I
was only seventeen. Two weeks was a very long time."
"I'm seventeen, too!" Kay exclaimed. "An' it seems like forever until I marry me
Roger."
"Time will pass," Enid promised.
Kay grimaced. "Ye sound like me mum, Mrs. MacLean."
Kay's words pricked Enid's bubble, and like Cook's tall soufflé, she wanted to
collapse in a wretched heap. Twenty-six years old, and this child proclaimed
Enid to be just like her mother? How had Enid gone from youthful indiscretion
to aged wisdom so quickly? How had she become like someone's mother when
