My Mysterious Houseguest Collapsed In The Snow — And I Discovered Her Dark Arranged Marriage Secret
Part 1
I had exactly three strict rules for surviving the London social season.
Avoid matchmaking mothers at all costs.
Never attend events that force excessive holiday sentimentality.
And under absolutely no circumstances allow myself to be caught in a compromising situation with an unmarried lady.
On the twenty-third of December, I spectacularly violated all three rules.
The Christmas fair sprawled across the square like a festive invasion of pure chaos.
Garlands of evergreen draped heavily between the frosted lamp posts.
Vendors shouted over the crowd while hawking roasted chestnuts and steaming wine.
I had attended this dreadful event entirely under duress.
My sister Brenda had threatened to drag me from my library if I failed to make an appearance.
I managed exactly forty-seven minutes before disaster struck.
I stood before a merchant’s stall, contemplating ribbon colors.
A soft gasp sounded directly behind my shoulder.
I turned just in time to see a young woman swaying dangerously on her feet.
Her remarkable dark eyes rolled backward as she pitched forward.
Instinct completely overrode my sense of aristocratic propriety.
I lunged forward with my arms outstretched.
What followed was the least graceful rescue in the history of the nobility.
Her swinging reticule caught me squarely across the jaw as she fell.
Her velvet bonnet dislodged entirely and flew into a nearby basket of gingerbread.
Her body seemed determined to slide through my arms like buttered silk.
My boot caught sharply on a hidden cobblestone.
We lurched sideways together in a tangle of limbs.
Her dark, glossy hair tumbled from its pins and cascaded down my waistcoat.
My wrapped Christmas gift launched itself into the air and splashed into a water trough.
She weighed considerably more than her delicate frame suggested.
A crowd materialized with the supernatural speed reserved for public scandals.
I firmly denied striking her while grappling with my sliding, unconscious burden.
A vendor yelled for me to simply set her down in the freezing mud.
I absolutely refused to drop her in the street.
People demanded to know the whereabouts of her companion.
I admitted I had never seen this woman before in my life.
That truthful statement sounded supremely suspicious to the audience.
My arms ached as she began slipping sideways again.
Desperation forced me to make a highly questionable executive decision.
I announced I was taking her to my estate to summon a physician.
The crowd giggled and whispered about the sheer scandal of my actions.
I ignored them all and turned toward my waiting carriage.
My coachman appeared with remarkable timing.
We maneuvered the unconscious woman into the carriage.
I acutely realized I was now trapped in an enclosed space with an unknown woman.
This was the precise compromising situation my third cardinal rule strictly prohibited.
I studied her properly for the very first time.
She possessed strong features and warm olive skin.
Her elegantly long fingers bore absolutely no rings.
No wedding band and no betrothal ring graced her hands.
My jaw tightened at the extraordinary scandal this would cause.
The carriage rattled through the evening traffic.
I carried her up the steps of my estate.
Mrs. Miller, my formidable housekeeper, immediately took charge.
Dr. Dan Phillips arrived forty minutes later.
He confirmed her vitals were excellent despite the continued unconsciousness.
He blamed exhaustion and shock, suggesting she would wake by morning.
The next morning brought no answers but plenty of complication.
She woke wrapped in my finest silk sheets with absolutely no memory of her purpose in London.
She remembered her name was Carmen de Montemayor from Seville.
She remembered the journey with her useless chaperone Isabel.
But the actual reason for her arrival in England remained entirely blank.
I found myself captivated by her sharp wit over breakfast.
She boldly criticized my eating habits.
No one had ever dared speak to me with such refreshing directness.
We spent three days in a state of orchestrated chaos disguised as propriety.
We debated literature in the library until the lamps burned low.
We walked the snow-dusted gardens while ignoring the rampant gossip spreading through the city.
I felt my carefully guarded heart cracking open with every brilliant smile she offered.
I knew it was dangerous to fall for a woman with missing memories.
She would eventually remember her past and leave my orderly life.
I refused to listen to my own warnings.
Then Christmas morning arrived with fresh snow and a furious knocking at my door.
I descended the grand staircase in my dressing gown to find three enraged men.
The eldest man possessed steel-gray hair and introduced himself as Carmen’s father.
He demanded explanations for why I was harboring his daughter.
I attempted to explain the medical emergency.
My words faded entirely when the youngest man stepped forward.
His eyes burned with furious indignation as he glared at me.
He announced he was Lord Tyler Harrington.
And he demanded I immediately return his betrothed.
