Hope

There was no doubt that things had definitely looked better for Gabriel Atwood, one time Viscount Northwood. Mainly because everyone who knew him or of him almost certainly believed him dead – the bastard who’d betrayed him had made sure of that.
His only hope was to seek aid from Nicholas Sinclair, his former mentor, now the current Duke of Blackmore, before his enemies realised that news of his demise had been greatly exaggerated. Unfortunately, on finally reaching the Duke’s estate late on Christmas eve, Atwood discovered the house shrouded in darkness and realised with despair that his grace had undoubtedly chosen to spend the Christmas season elsewhere.

Hope Shackleford did not relish spending the festive season under the same roof as her entire family, even though the roof beneath which the gathering was to take place belonged to the Earl of Ravenstone and was far grander than the modest vicarage in which she’d spent her whole life. Indeed, given that her two eldest sisters were married to influential members of the ton, it had to be said that her family were becoming increasingly accustomed to indulgences entirely above their station.
Hope on the other hand, despite possessing a head of flaming red hair giving indication to the contrary, was a practical young woman who eschewed both whimsy and optimism, unlike the rest of her eccentric family – in particular her father whose calling as a man of the cloth seemed in recent years to play a secondary role to his passion for meddling in affairs that in Hope’s view were entirely none of his business. Thus, the chances of their Christmas festivities being wholly focused on the simple joys of the season were, in Hope’s opinion, slim to none.