Masked Love (A Christmas Regency Novella) by Nicole Zoltack Page A

him so suddenly he wanted to jump to his feet and search every centimeter until he found her. But a scene he would not make, and he downed half the glass in two gulps.
    Keeping his parents’ secret no longer felt necessary. “My mother was feeling too ill to travel.”
    “Will she be all right?” Lady Haywood inquired.
    “The physician believes so.”
    “Then that is a Christmas miracle.” She smiled and raised her glass.
    He did the same and drank the rest. The wine filled his stomach with an agreeable warmth, although it was too filled with food for him to take another bite or sip. It was going to take a Christmas miracle for him to survive until the wedding.

 
     
     
     

     
    Light shining on her face woke Isabelle early on Christmas morning. She stretched her arms above her head and sat up. Her stomach rumbled. She had too many chores to do before she could think about eating.
    Isabelle made her way to her lady’s room and saw another maid duck inside. Her appetite fled. There were plenty of other activities and preparations she could take care of, but she lingered there, amazed at how solidly her position had been lowered. Within the hierarchy of servants, she had most obviously been demoted.
    She had no one to blame but herself, and her own foolishness.
    Do not dwell on it.
    A faux cheery hum flittered through her pursed lips, and she set about her tasks with unabashed determination. Soon enough, she felt somewhat better as the Christmas spirit filled her, and she concentrated on things much bigger than employment and happiness and instead, the true reason for the season.
    She, along with the other servants, walked to the church service. The priest gave a wonderful homily that concentrated on family and togetherness. And although she was alone in the world, she felt as if her mother stood beside her, holding onto her shoulder as she often had when they went to religious services.
    Would Mother be proud of me? Or scold me for my actions?
    Isabelle wasn’t certain. Her mother had luckily fallen for another servant, and they had married a week after they first met. Her father had died shortly after Isabelle was born, and she and her mother had been closer than jam and rolls. From an early age, Isabelle had done all she could to help her mother, and the household they served. A few years later, they had new masters, and the lord of the house had an eye for her mother. Her mother had refused him, and she had been beaten, and the two tossed out.
    Finding new employers took some time. Unfortunately, the nights had been bitterly cold, and her mother got sick. Isabelle, by then, had been old enough to find employment as a maid and used all of her earnings to pay for a physician, but her mother had been too sick and before spring warmed the earth, she had been buried within it.
    Remembering her mother’s death brought tears to her eyes, and she wiped them away. One thing she did know was that her mother would not want her to be sad. Not today. Christmas had been her mother’s favorite holiday. Isabelle’s too.
    Her mother, despite her position, had been rather educated and had instilled her love of learning in Isabelle. Perhaps she should learn from her mother’s happiness with her father, and choose another man to love, one she could possibly marry.
    But in her heart, she knew she could love no one other than Adrian.
    Just then, from a pew near the front, Lady Theodosia glanced behind her. Dressed in clothes fit for a princess, she had to attract the attention of everyone crowded in the church. Their gazes locked, and Isabelle lowered her head. Out of all the ladies she had tended to, Lady Theodosia had been the only one she had truly cared for. Lady Theodosia had evidently felt the same; otherwise she never would have invited her to the masquerade. And how had Isabelle repaid her? By loving her betrothed.
    The service ended, and the people ushered out of the church slowly, without pushing or shoving. With ivy