Awaiting The Fire Sequel to: Awaiting The Night Donna Lea Simpson Berkley Sensation Mass Market Romance/Historical Paranormal 336 pages ISBN: 0425217612 September 4, 2007 Order from Amazon.com

AWAITING THE FIRE continues the series with a scorching tale of paranormal twists, gothic mystery, danger and love set in the Cornish moors.

From the back cover:

From the national bestselling author of Awaiting The Night comes a breathtaking romance about a man and woman as different as air and earth—who nevertheless form an elemental connection…

Headstrong and independent. Countess Charlotte von Wolfram has no intention of accepting the betrothal her family arranged with Simeon St. Ange, Earl of Wesmorlyn. Their first encounter in a London ballroom confirmed it--how could such a cold, priggish man ever understand her family's wild nature?

The failure of their meeting stings the Earl as deeply as Charlotte’s beauty alarms him. Wes has worked too long at redeeming the family name to ally himself with a girl of erratic character. But, as Charlotte searches for her half-sister’s English mother, he feels compelled to follow her out of the city, discovering that her passion and impetuousness stir him beyond reason—and may put them all in grave danger.

Praises for Awaiting The Moon and Awaiting The Night

“Luscious…fabulous sensuality.”—The Best Reviews

 The Story: 

Swiftly on the heels of Christoph von Wolfram’s discovery of his werewolf heritage in Awaiting the Night, the saga of the von Wolfram family continues.  Charlotte and Christoph, the troubled brother and sister from Germany, arrive in England to meet Countess Charlotte von Wolfram’s English fiancé, a priggish earl.

Charlotte’s passionate and impetuous character will prove to be her undoing, and trouble will pursue her across England as she tries against all odds to do the right thing for her younger half-sister, Fanny.  But what is the right thing for herself?  Should she marry the upright and handsome Earl of Wesmorlyn, or let herself be charmed by the mesmerizing Lyulph Randell?

Dark forces close in around them all, and Charlotte’s life may be forfeit if she makes the wrong choices.

Chapter One:

London, England - 1795

“Wes, I’m frightened.”

Simeon St. Ange, the Earl of Wesmorlyn, turned to face his much-younger half-sister, Hannah, as his valet retreated.  Her gentle voice, so quiet it was almost a whisper, had hardly echoed in the grand front hall of his London town home. “Hannah, you have more courage than you know. Think of our family, stiffen your spine and stand up straight.”

She did as she was told, but the paleness of her face gave away her continuing terror.

“It is a ballroom, not a torture chamber,” he chided.

“B-but there will be so many people, and they will all be looking at me.”

“Some will look, but you will only suffer that for a moment, and then it will pass. Once Countess Charlotte von Wolfram and her brother arrive, all eyes will be on them.”

“Aren’t you the least bit anxious, Wes? Countess Charlotte is your future bride. What if you dislike her, or what if she is rude?  What if… what if she doesn’t like me?”

He smiled, finally understanding her fear. His own anxiety about meeting his German-born fiancée for the first time was well controlled and no one else would ever know his inner turmoil. He would not allow a trembling uncertainty in his gut to undermine this first meeting.  He framed Hannah’s delicate face with both of his hands. “You are a sweet angel from heaven. How could the countess not like you?”

“I’ve never had a sister,” she said, brightening a little. “Perhaps she will like me a little and we’ll become friends.”

“How could she help but love you?”

Hannah smiled, radiantly, her pale skin glowing like nacre. “Will Lyulph be there?” she said, casually, of their old family friend and neighbor from Cornwall.

“Of course,” Wes said, frowning and noting that she turned away into the shadows as she spoke of him. “He is in London, and did hint for an invitation. How could I refuse?”

“I thought you might say no,” Hannah said, softly, fiddling with her fan. “You are not so close to him now as you once were.”

“Things are different in London, Hannah. In the country our various stations in life do not matter so much, but in town the boundaries must be observed.” He was silent for a moment, observing her, the peachy perfection of her skin, the exquisite flawlessness of the matched pearls around her slender neck. Coupled with her naïveté, her beauty and wealth could draw the wrong kind of attention from predatory males. And if there was one man in the world she must not marry, it was Lyulph Randell. 

“I hope,” he said, watching her open and shut her fan, “that you don’t spend all of your time talking to Lyulph this evening; you may be polite, say hello, and inquire after his well being, but little more. This ball is for Countess Charlotte and her brother, Count Christoph. Please be polite to them both and do not hide away.  And do not let the ease of Lyulph’s familiarity lead you to spend an inordinate amount of time with him.”

“I will be correct, Wes, I promise,” she said, her tone satisfactorily submissive.  She folded the fan, prettily painted with biblical scenes, and held it still in her gloved hands.

“See that you are. As a St. Ange, much is expected of you. It is especially important to make a good impression on our cousin the marchioness, Lady Harroway, for if she likes you she will sponsor your coming out next spring.”

She stood away from him. “Am I presentable?”   

“You look perfectly lovely,” he said. 

“I wish mama was here.” She bit her lip, but tears welled in her eyes.

“I know,” he said, and stepped over to her, taking her in his arms and hugging her, the briefest of gestures before turning away to accept his walking stick from the butler. “Your mother would be proud. She loved you very much. But I’m sure she can see you tonight, Hannah.” 

As she turned away and applied a delicate scrap of lace to her welling eyes, he felt a pang of pity. Hannah’s mother, his father’s second wife, had outlived her husband by many years, but in the autumn of the previous year she had succumbed to a fever. It was then, forced to acknowledge mortality anew, that he accepted what he had known for some time.  He must marry and start a family.  When the Prince of Wales had condescended so far as to suggest he consider marrying a cousin of his new wife, Caroline, Wesmorlyn had cautiously agreed to hear more. Countess Charlotte von Wolfram, suggested to him as an appropriate bride, was a young lady of impeccable lineage and related by birth to many kings and princes. She was intelligent, could speak at least three languages, and had been under the tutelage of an Englishwoman to learn British ways and manners, for her family was looking for an English husband for her. That fact alone, that she had made a study of English ways, appealed to him; she seemed the ideal bride for a man like him, and so he had acquiesced. 

The betrothal, which was firm on his side but conditional on hers, served the purpose of finding him a wife of excellent heritage and foreign birth, and ingratiated the prince to him. He had made the contract, but had specified that the young lady had the right to refuse if she came to England but found she could not go through with it. He would force no woman to uphold a contract in which she had little say, though friends thought him odd and overly nice in his notions of consideration toward the fair sex.

Of course, now that the prince’s marriage was turning out as it was—unhappy and combative, even though the princess was successfully with child—it would not serve Wesmorlyn politically to wed the Countess von Wolfram, but he was never one to evade a commitment once it was made. He just hoped his future wife would not be the embarrassment to his reputation that Princess Caroline had become to the prince. Raw, bawdy and jocose, forward and disobedient, Caroline was distasteful to Wesmorlyn and even more so to the poor prince, who must nonetheless support his wife until the birth of his heir freed them to live separate lives.

“You look very pleasant, and exactly as you should,” he said to his sister, and patted her shoulder. “But you mustn’t cry; you don’t want to have red, swollen eyes, or people will talk.” 

“Thank you, Wes. You are always so kind to me,” Hannah said with a sniff, stiffening her spine and defeating with a great effort the tears that threatened to spill over onto her cheeks.

“And so we are ready to go,” he said. “Will we do, Sam?” he asked, raising his voice.

Semyaza, commonly called Sam, who had appeared while they spoke and stood waiting by the door, nodded solemnly. “It is raining.  Be sure that your sister does not get cold.”

“Of course. Her cape, please.”

The tall, solemn visaged Semyaza picked a dove gray cape up from a seat near the door and helped Hannah into it. She looked up at him and he nodded.

“Thank you, Sam,” she said, her voice once again quiet and restrained.

“Shall we go?” Wesmorlyn said, as he took his sister’s arm.

* * * * *

Lyulph Randell arrived back at his London town home just a moment before the rain began to sheet down, changing from the sprinkle of late summer drizzle it had been, to a torrent from above. He had timed it well, but then, he had a sense about such things. Nature was no mystery to him, and the change in the air that preceded the downpour was like a beacon shining through the mist.

He shook the dampness from him, droplets flying from his unruly, dark hair, and raced up the stairs to where his faithful serving man, Diggory, waited patiently, his evening clothes laid out. This ball at Lady Harroway’s would be a dreadful bore, but he had two objectives in mind, and so would find interest enough. First, he must at any cost make sure Wesmorlyn and his foreign fiancée did not get along, and then, he must continue his campaign of winning little Lady Hannah’s heart so thoroughly she would never dream of marrying anyone but him.

Give his peculiar talents and attractions, he did not see that as a problem.  No, it was Wesmorlyn who would prove to be the thorn. And so he must think of how best to detach the young lady to whom the earl was engaged.  Again, he had talents that would make it simple enough, but still, he would not risk offending Hannah. She was the ultimate prize.

As the wordless Diggory assisted him, Lyulph hummed a merry tune. Tonight would see many of his schemes advance.  Wesmorlyn had no chance against him in the end. Too polite to cut him out of his life completely, the earl would one day regret that softness.

* * * * *

Sheets of rain obscured the view outside of the carriage, but Countess Charlotte von Wolfram was not looking out anyway.  She was glaring resolutely ahead, to the seat opposite her where her half sister Fanny sat, her mild blue eyes filled with tears. But Charlotte hardened her heart. “Take me home, Christoph,” she said to her older brother, who sat beside Fanny, “or at least to that moldy, damp, disgusting pretence of a home we are forced to live in while we stay on this godforsaken island in this disgraceful city. London! Pah! Nothing better than an open sewer.”

“We must attend this ball!”

Charlotte glared at her older brother, almost as blonde as she, but without the dimple in the chin and bow mouth. In a measured and calm fashion that belied the way her insides were quivering with nerves she said, “I don’t want to.”

Fanny wept openly, but Christoph spoke from the gloom, his tone resolute.  “We are going in to Lady Harroway’s ball, Charlotte, even if I have to carry you kicking and screaming. I will not have you insult the Earl of Wesmorlyn, your future husband, for God’s sake, by running away.”

If only he had offered one scrap of sympathy, said one kind word, she would have broken down and confessed all her fears, her exhaustion, the way her stomach wrung like a washcloth in her belly. Instead all he did was bark orders, and she couldn’t bear to tell the truth about being afraid with him so remote and frigid. Any anticipation she may have had for the ball was now dead, stomped out by his fussing, and her nerves were wrought up to a fine, high, feverish pitch.  “I wouldn’t be running away,” she said, through gritted teeth. “I would merely be delaying the meeting until I have rested. And I haven’t agreed to marry him. I just said I’d look him over.” She clutched her hands together in her lap to keep them from shaking.

“We came all the way from Germany to do so!” Christoph said, his normally quiet voice holding a note of tension. “I will not have you insult the earl by not attending the ball put on in our honor!”

Fanny, choking back her tears, said, “We did just arrive this morning, Count Christoph, and I think Charlotte is weary.”

“Stop calling him ‘count’! Call him Christoph!” Charlotte barked to her half sister. “He’s your brother, almost as much as he is mine!”

“It will take more time than I have yet had to learn to call him brother, I’m afraid,” the girl demurred, with quiet dignity.

“Get out of the carriage, Charlotte,” Christoph muttered, “or I swear—”

“Don’t threaten me,” she replied, lowering her head and glaring at him through her fringe of blonde hair, “or you will have to carry me in, and I will make a scene such as you have never imagined.” He should know how she felt, she thought, desperately, peering through the shadowy gloom, without her having to say a thing. Couldn’t her brother tell that she was walking the precipice above a deep, dark pit of anxiety? She was tired, she was scared, and Christoph should know that. Back home, when she had agreed to come and meet the earl, it had been a far off hazy event and she had agreed because she had another more important reason for wanting to come to England. She was supposed to meet Lord Wesmorlyn in a private fashion, find out if she liked him, and if she didn’t, she would never have to face any public exposure. But there had been delays along the way to England, and now, to see him immediately almost the very hour of their arrival in London… it was all too much.

“Please, Charlotte,” Fanny said, putting one hand on her half sister’s arm.  She glanced out the carriage window. “Look, the rain has stopped now, and the house is alight with candles, and there are lovely ladies dressed so prettily going in.  And we have such pretty dresses on, and it would be a shame to not go in after all the time it took to dress.”

Charlotte sighed and looked down at her gloved hands, pulling at the end of one finger, a loose silk thread unraveling as she did so. She knew Fanny, though frightened, was looking forward to this ball more than she would ever admit.  Charlotte summoned up her courage, willing her exhaustion and nervousness to subside. She supposed since she had made an agreement, she would fulfill her part of it, which was just to look at the Earl of Wesmorlyn and say yea or nay to marrying him. She had already decided what her answer would be, but she must go through the forms. 

Decision made, she said, “All right.  I’m ready.  Let us go in.”

…..

As Charlotte, Christoph and Fanny make their way through the overheated, crowded ballroom, following their hostess to meet Charlotte’s fiancé, she not only experiences the dizziness of panic and exhaustion, but overhears insults to both her and her half-sister, Fanny. And then…

…..

Before her was standing a tall man with broad shoulders; he was slender, russet-haired and very handsome, with even, stern features. Except for a beaky nose and a broad forehead, he was ordinary. No smile was on his well-shaped lips.  On his arm was a very slight, dainty girl who looked no more than a child next to him.

“Charlotte,” Christoph said, taking her arm and drawing her forward, “this is his lordship, the Earl of Wesmorlyn, and his younger sister, Lady Hannah St. Ange. My lord, this is my sister, Countess Charlotte von Wolfram.”

Charlotte curtsied, then looked up into his brown eyes. With a jolt she read his expression. He was disappointed!  He bowed, the frown swiftly erased as his expression became a polite, smooth social mask. Trembling, she turned to the young lady, who almost hid behind her larger brother. But the girl, at a muttered order from her brother, stuck out her hand and murmured something too softly to hear. Charlotte took her hand and they exchanged the merest light pressure before the girl released her.

Turning and pulling Fanny forward, Charlotte said, “This is our sister, Fanny.”

Fanny, pale and quivering, curtsied but would not raise her head.

“Sister?” the earl said, his voice quiet but penetrating. “I had not understood you to have any other siblings but each other.”

“She is our half sister, newly discovered, in one sense,” Christoph said.

“I am Wes’s half s-sister,” Lady St. Ange said, the last word coming out with a nervous stutter. “Just like Miss Fanny is yours.” The girl looked terrified, but then her expression calmed as she looked behind Charlotte.

“Lyulph,” she cried, affection in her voice.

Charlotte turned to see another gentleman, not quite as tall as the earl and darker, with olive skin, startling green eyes, and dark thick hair that curled deliciously on his forehead. He gazed down at her and his smile turned up one corner of his full mouth in a delighted grin.

Lady Hannah looked up at her brother, but he made no move to introduce anyone, so she stuttered, “C-Countess von Wolfram, this is Mr. Lyulph Randell, a neighbor and very good friend of ours from Cornwall. Mr. Randell, this is Countess Charlotte and her brother, Count Christoph von Wolfram.”

“How charming to meet you, countess. You light up this drab occasion with your golden beauty,” he said with a bow.

“You are a friend of the family, then?”

“More than just a friend,” Lady Hannah blurted, and then clapped her mouth shut and looked up at her brother with alarm.

“May I solicit the exquisite pleasure of the first dance with you, countess?” Mr. Randell said, with a hopeful smile.

“I would be absolutely delighted, sir,” Charlotte said, with a happy sigh, relief flooding her. Dancing would dissipate the nerves; all of her fearful anxiety would have an outlet.

“Charlotte, the earl should have your first dance,” Christoph said in her ear, though his voice was loud enough to carry to the others even over the sound of the orchestra tuning up.

“But Mr. Randell asked first,” she whispered back at him. “I could hardly refuse.”

“That is quite all right, Count von Wolfram,” the earl said, with a stiff bow.  “Since Randell has been so forward and quick, he must, I suppose, be rewarded, but I will solicit the second dance and the supper dance.”

Charlotte curtsied. “Perhaps, as Fanny is not engaged for this dance—” she began.

“Since this is my sister’s first ball,” Wesmorlyn said over her words, “and she really cannot dance with anyone else, I will dance with her for the first set.”

How rude, Charlotte thought, turning to take Mr. Randell’s arm as he led her to the dance floor.  She glanced back at Fanny, trying to encourage her to smile with a look, but it was no use. The poor girl was mortified. Charlotte felt in that moment that she would never forgive the earl for that rudeness. But then her attention was commanded by her partner and the exigencies of the dance. 

She glanced around the room as the couples lined up. Good. Christoph had taken poor little Fanny into the dance. How rude the earl had been, snubbing their sister like that, but strangely, it had eased the rest of her nerves.  She could not care what he thought of her, not when he was clearly not the picture of perfect English gentility. While she had imagined him to be the epitome of good breeding and refinement, she had worried about hurting his feelings when she had to tell him she had no intention of marrying him, but now she had no such compunction. She caught sight of Fanny and smiled. She would certainly not worry about the Earl of Wesmorlyn any more, and would just enjoy her very first public ball.

* * * * *

“I’m very nervous, Wes,” Hannah whispered across the form to her brother. “I’m so grateful you are my first partner. I feel sure I should faint if it was anyone but you or Lyulph.”

“Though I do not like Lyulph putting himself forward like that to the countess,” he said, smiling over at her, “I was happy that it worked out this way, for I did not quite know how to tell my fiancée that I really wanted to give you your very first dance. And you know, because you are not truly out yet, you may not dance with any other young man this time.”

As the dance progressed and Hannah appeared to be doing well, he had leisure to look about him, and he gazed down the line at Countess Charlotte von Wolfram.  It had been a severe jolt to find her so absolutely breathtaking. After meeting the prince’s German wife, Caroline, he supposed he had expected someone along her lines, short, stout and ruddy. Finding the young countess lovely of face and form—wide blue eyes, skin like pearls, pink bow lips with a faint, dimple in her chin and possessed of a slim, lively figure—he had experienced a rush of something like disappointment. Why? Had he really preferred a dowdy woman? Did he fear he would not keep strictly to a morally perfect path if he wished to marry her for other reasons than good blood lines, excellent lineage and the hope of children to carry on his title?

She was laughing at something Lyulph Randell said as they came together in the figures. She held Lyulph’s hand too long and let her gaze linger on his face. She was flirting!

“Wes, what is wrong? You look most fierce,” Hannah whispered as they joined to do a step together.

He calmed his expression. “Nothing is wrong.”

“But it is, for—”

“Hannah!”

The dance ended and Randell behaved correctly, Wes was relieved to see, and returned Charlotte to her brother, who had been dancing with his half-sister. Taking Hannah’s arm, he escorted her back through the crowd.

Charlotte, happily out of breath, was whispering to Fanny about how unexpectedly enjoyable dancing had been with Lyulph Randell as a partner, when Christoph drew her away.

“What is it?” she asked, looking up into her brother’s eyes.

“I felt something the minute we came into the ballroom,” he said in a hushed voice. “And now I know what it is.”

“What, Christoph? What is it?”

“There is, in this ballroom, another werewolf.”