This year, Christmas tasted bittersweet.
Portia brushed her hair, sitting at the vanity in her room that had been given to Lady Elizabeth Summerhill in 1809 by Lord Byron. Countless other Summerhill women had done exactly the same thing on Christmas Eve over the years.
Had they been happy? Fulfilled? Had they anticipated gifts their husbands, beloveds, fathers gave them?
She closed her eyes and thought about the one thing she wanted in the whole world.
It was gone.
Her father had sold Suncrest Manor.
Lowering her head, she felt the tightness in her chest, just like every time she thought about it since she'd found out.
Christmas Eve wasn't the day to dwell. Nor was it the day to wonder what would become of her now that her plans had been so completely ruined.
Although it was hard not thinking about that.
"Today is about new beginnings," she told her reflection firmly. Her family was gathered downstairs, all together for the first time in over a decade. For the first time that she could ever remember, they were a family, and that was turning out to be a bigger gift than she'd realized.
Tonight she was going to take pleasure in that. She was even going to enjoy her half-sister Summer.
Determined to get in the holiday spirit, Portia opened her jewelry case and clasped her favorite pearls around her neck. The necklace had been a gift to the first Countess of Amberlin from the king, on her wedding day.
She loved that-the connection from past to present. No one else in the family had ever understood that. Except Father, of course, though he'd betrayed their heritage for money when he'd sold Suncrest Manor.
Honour and Family, indeed.
There was a knock on her door, and then Summer poked her head in. "Rosalind and Nick are here. Ready to go down?"
"Living here doesn't give you the right to walk into my room like that."
Summer rolled her eyes. "If you're going to act like a teenager, you have to sell it better. Maybe you should study Chloe."
"Good idea." She glanced at Summer's outfit. Instead of her usual black, she wore navy blue with an ivory sweater. "Nice sweater."
"Do you really think so, or are you being facetious?" She tugged at the bottom self-consciously.
Her heart melted for the woman. Summer was a successful solicitor, but she was unsure in many ways. Portia's mean girl side wanted to tear apart the girl her father had sired with his mistress, but something in her couldn't do it. She related all too well to her new sister.
In fact ... "You just need a little something," she said, reopening her jewelry case. She pulled out the third drawer and withdrew a necklace. "Turn around."
"Are you going to stab me?" Summer said, doing as she was told.
Portia bit her lip to keep from smiling. "This necklace was given to the first Countess of Amberlin by a secret admirer. He told her he'd seen the necklace and had to acquire it for her because the blue diamond reminded him of her eyes. Saying he stole it is probably more accurate, because he was a privateer. She was quite popular. She inspired many men."
"I don't know what to say." Summer touched the blue pendant, which nestled perfectly in her cleavage. "How do you know all that?"
"I read her diary. It was in the library at Suncrest Manor. I read it one summer when I was home from school." Refusing to think about the fact that she'd never be able to go back to the country estate she loved so much, she gestured to the door. "We should go before Fran sends a search party."
Everyone was gathered in the kitchen. Fran stood like a general at the stove, barking out orders to Bea and Viola to plate food. Luca stood very close to Bea, who looked flushed. From the warmth of the kitchen or his attention? Portia wasn't sure.
Chloe and Imogen chatted about some actor as they collected flatware to set the table. Summer went to greet her friend Em and her fiancé Joe. Portia had met Em a few days before, when Summer had officially moved into the mansion.
Her mother did dishes at the sink, her lips curved into a blissful smile, which was a stranger sight than seeing the Countess of Amberlin washing dishes.
It was so different than Christmases in the past. When Father had been alive, the holiday season had always been quiet and dignified, not loud and boisterous. Portia pressed her back against the pantry door because it was the only place where she was out of the way. She bet even the Summerhill ghosts had fled the chatter.
The only people missing were Titania and Viola's husband. No one seemed to miss him. Or their father, for that matter.
She wasn't sure she did either. She looked around the room at the glowing faces and listened to the bright conversation, the cheerful laughter.
It struck her suddenly. This was her family.
It was so ridiculously obvious, yet it'd never occurred to her so strongly. She stared at her sisters and knew they'd be there for her, in whatever way she needed, because she was there for them, too. They'd plotted a crime, broken into a house, and helped Rosalind get together with Nick. She and her sisters were in it for life.
The knot in her chest relaxed. Whatever happened, however lost she felt, she could count on them, and that was the best gift ever. Touching her pearls, she blinked back tears-of happiness.
What would they do if she threw her arms around them in a big group hug? A soft laugh bubbled out of her imagining their expressions.
Fran looked over her shoulder with a scowl. "Portia, why aren't you helping? Imogen Summerhill, stop eating olives and set the table. Chloe, you and Summer help her, otherwise we'll be eating with our hands. Bea, be careful with the gravy."
"Move." Her oldest sister nudged Luca away from her with her hip. "You're in my way."
He stepped back, but he wrapped a hand around her hip. "Cara, I'm exactly where I belong."
Bea rolled her eyes while Viola chuckled.
"Where's Rosalind?" Fran asked. "She was in charge of wine."
Gigi snatched another olive as she sashayed to pick up the stacked plates on the counter. "She and Nick aren't back yet from the cellar. They're probably examining the labels very carefully."
"Is that what they're doing?" Smirking, Bea wiped her hands on the apron that protected her red silk dress, smacking Luca's hands away as he tried to help.
The Italian, apparently unfazed, smiled at her oldest sister like she'd given him a lusty kiss. "Cara, you wound me."
"Not yet, but keep it up and it'll be a definite probability."
"Someone should go check on Rosalind," Fran said.
Her niece Chloe made a face as she picked up the silverware to take into the dining room. "I wouldn't want to walk in on them."
"Me either." Summer lifted a tray of glassware. "They're always making out."
"There's nothing wrong with that." Summer's friend Em smiled warmly at her fiancé Joe, slipping her arm around his waist and burrowing into him. The light caught the enormous diamond on her engagement ring, almost like it winked at her statement.
"Portia"-Fran pointed at her-"you check on Rosalind."
"Wear blinders," Bea suggested.
"Right." She headed downstairs, making a lot of noise. For good measure, she called out, too. "Rosalind, you better have clothes on."
She heard a manly chuckle as she stepped into the cellar.
Rosalind and Nick were facing each other, a couple feet between them. Based on the way her hair was mussed, they'd been kissing. Not surprising at all. They could barely keep their hands off each other.
Some people might have been jealous, but Portia had never pictured herself doing anything other than living at Suncrest. She'd never imagined a man at her side, much less one who looked at her the way Nick looked at Rosalind.
Portia liked him. He was the reason her sister was still here, and Portia would always be grateful to him for that. She and Rosalind had never been friendly, but they were starting to forge a relationship. She liked that-a lot.
Now she leaned against a wine rack, trying to glare at them the way Fran would. "Fran wants to know why it's taking so long to pick the wine, but I think it's rhetorical wondering, because everyone knows what you two are doing down here."
Rosalind smiled happily. "Selecting the right vintage takes careful study."
"That wasn't what you were studying." Portia rolled her eyes. "Do you have anything picked?"
"Here." Nick picked up a crate filled with wine bottles. "I'll carry them up."
Rosalind slipped her arm around Portia's waist as they ascended. "How are you doing?"
"Good." She frowned. "Why?"
"Because this Christmas isn't traditional." Her sister looked at her knowingly. "You like the old ways."
"I know." She sighed. "But the old ways died, and I think the new ways might be better."
"Portia." Her sister gaped at her. "That's remarkably enlightened of you."
It was easy to be philosophical when the future she'd envisioned, in the country manor with all the antiques she loved, was gone. She had nothing left to lose, and that was freeing.
Her sister slowed down and whispered, "I'm going to do it tonight, Portia."
"I thought so." She glanced at Nick's back, disappearing at the landing up above them. "Did you have it cleaned and inscribed?"
Rosalind reached into her pocket and passed her the ring. It was a thick, white gold band, ornately engraved and set with a lovely ruby. It'd belonged to Thomas Summerhill, the second Earl of Amberlin, given to him by Queen Charlotte. The story went that Thomas had saved Charlotte's son, the young Prince of Wales, from falling off a statue he'd climbed on. She'd had the ring made especially for him, to show a mother's gratitude.
Portia held the ring up to the light. Inside the band, Rosalind had the jeweler write Mine ~ Loved ~ Forever. Nodding, she handed it back. "It's perfect. Nick is perfect."
"He is, but don't tell him that." She tucked the ring away. "I don't want him to get a swelled head."
Laughing, they reentered the kitchen.
"Ros has her clothes on," Bea called out. "And they aren't inside-out. Who put money on that?"
"Not me," Imogen said, leaning indolently against the counter. "Though I wagered her buttons being done up crookedly, so I guess I lose, too."
"She has dust in her hair," Viola pointed out. "Did anyone call that?"
"Who are you people?" Rosalind swiped at her hair. "And since when did you start making bets?"
"It's a new era," Portia said.
Jacqueline turned around from the sink, wiping her hands on a towel. "Nick, they'll likely leave Rosalind alone if you pour them wine."
"Good thinking." He kissed his woman dramatically and then began uncorking the wine like a gallant knight.
Smiling, her mother turned and said, "Summer-"
But she stopped abruptly, her gaze on Summer's necklace. She turned to look at Portia, her brow raised in question.
She lifted her chin, daring her mother to comment.
Her mother walked up to her and cupped her face. "You're a lovely woman, Portia."
She felt herself blush. She wasn't lovely. She was unaccomplished and boring compared to her sisters. But there was hope.
Her family gave her hope.
"Wine for all," Nick called out, handing everyone a glass. There was a moment of pandamonium when Chloe took one, but Viola said, "It's okay. It's Christmas. But just one."
Portia cleared her throat loudly, but no one heard. Turning around, she picked up an empty pot and banged it on the table.
The kitchen went still, everyone gawking at her.
She smiled sweetly as she set the pot down. "I'd like to make a toast."
"Shouldn't Bea be the one to make a toast?" Summer asked.
Rosalind poked their new sister in the ribs.
"What?" Summer frowned, rubbing her side. "Portia keeps telling me I'm violating pecking order. I'm trying to be proper."
Grinning, Bea wound her arm around Portia's waist. "I'm happy to abdicate this time."
"Thank you." Portia leaned into her oldest sister, wrapping her arm around her, too. Lifting her glass, she focused first on Summer's friend Em, then Rosalind. "To the gift of new love."
Smiling, she faced Nick and Summer. "To the gift of new family.
"And, lastly"-she squeezed Bea and pointed her glass to each of her sisters, her niece, her mother, and Fran-"to the gift of new beginnings."
"Here, here," everyone agreed.
Bea kissed her temple. "Well done, love. That was perfect."
She smiled at her oldest sister. A perfect toast, and a perfect vow. Portia took a sip and promised herself it was her time for a new beginning. And she knew just where to start.
* * *
Lose yourself in the next Summerhill novel, Lost in Love...
Portia could tell her mother meant business by the staccato of clacking heels echoing through the halls-and she bet that business was her.
She turned her chair away from the door and shrank into herself. With any luck, her mother wouldn't notice her. She pulled a blanket up to her chin for good measure. There-instant incognito.
"Portia, what are you doing here in the dark?" The Countess of Amberlin glided into the room and flipped a light switch. She looked around the study, her patrician nose wrinkled. "Although not even all the light of heaven can help the gloominess of this room."
"I like it here," she said, huddling in the chair. It was her father's study, and she'd spent many hours in here learning about all the Summerhills through time. Of course, her former delight in the room was eclipsed by the fact that her father had turned out to be a lying cheat.
Nobody was perfect, she guessed. The funk that'd settled over her since New Year's wrapped around her like the blanket, stifling her.
Her mother came to stand over her.
Portia squirmed under the judgmental scrutiny. Jacqueline Summerhill, the ninth Countess of Amberlin, was perfect in every way: beautiful, a leader in her social circle, stylish, and tireless in her charitable efforts. She was intimidating on a normal day, but standing over you with Joan of Arc's passion blazing from her eyes, she was doubly intimidating.
Funny-Portia would never have called her mother passionate. Though she wouldn't have suspected that her mother was behind the mysterious scholarships they'd all received when they'd turned eighteen, either.
"Here." Jacqueline held out her hand.
Portia looked at the piece of paper. It appeared to be a printout. "What is it?"
Her mother arched her brow. "You could take it and find out."
She could, but she had a bad feeling about it. A venomous snake would have felt less threatening.
But her curiosity won out, and she took the paper. She glanced at the text, frowning, confused. "This is a job ad."
"For the Museum of British Peerage," her mother explained patiently. "They're searching for a curator."
"What does that have to do with me?"
"You're going to apply for the position."
Bitterness rose up her throat. She'd started the year with such good intentions-to turn her life around into something meaningful. But with each passing day, she'd realized that she didn't have anything useful to offer the world. "I'm not qualified for this job. They want a degree in antiquities, history, or art."
"Minor technicalities." Her mother waved a dismissive hand. "You have something more important than a degree."
"I do?"
"The Summerhill name." The Countess of Amberlin stared down at her, daring her to say otherwise. "You have generations of prominent earls backing you. Do you really think you need more for a job at the Museum of British Peerage? You are peerage."
A faint hope rose in her chest. She did have an unparalleled knowledge of the Summerhills, as well as other prominent families through the last several hundred years. She glanced at the posting again.
Her heart sank as she read all the qualifications. No museum director would hire the dilettante daughter of an impoverished earl-even if she had a name. Because she didn't have a degree, any past job history, or any useful skills. "This is impossible."
"'If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces,'" Jacqueline quoted.
The Merchant of Venice-the play she was named after. "Shakespeare didn't live in an age of advanced education and Internet background checks."
"What would Catherine Summerhill have done?"
Startled, Portia glanced up at her mother. "What?"
Jacqueline nodded at the pearls Portia had been unconsciously worrying. "You've always admired Catherine Summerhill. What would she have done?"
She gripped the necklace that had belonged to the first Countess of Amberlin. She did admire her-the woman had lived. She'd been accomplished and had taken what she wanted from life, everyone else be damned.
Portia had started wearing the pearls, one of Catherine's favorite necklaces, as a way to connect to her ancestor. She'd thought that if she wore the necklace, maybe she'd remember to be just as great.
It hadn't worked.
Worse: all her sisters possessed the goddess qualities Catherine had imbued. Beatrice was a leader, not just in their family but in business as well. Viola was an organizational master and a nurturing mother. Rosalind was a fashion trendsetter. Imogen was the siren. And Titania-actually, no one knew Titania well, but there was no doubt their youngest sister lived life on her own terms. Even Summer, who didn't grow up as a Summerhill, inherited the countess's accomplishment and drive.
For as much as she admired Catherine, Portia was the least like her. Thirty-something and still living at home with her mother.
Depressing.
Apparently her mother secretly agreed, because she gave Portia a direct gaze and said, "If not this job, then what?"
Portia blinked. "That's rather to the point, isn't it?"
Her mother's expression softened. "I know you planned on living at Suncrest Park for the rest of your days, but your father sold that dream."
"Thank you for reminding me," she murmured, burrowing back in the blanket. Living at Suncrest Park had been all she wanted out of life: to be surrounded by her beloved antiques and a wolfhound or two. Her father had promised to give her the ancestral country manor-right up to his sudden death when she'd found out he'd sold it.
No wonder he'd kept her from visiting Suncrest Park this past year. Now it was gone, and she couldn't even say goodbye.
"Isn't it time, Portia?" her mother asked gently. "What would Lady Catherine do?"
Catherine Summerhill would have taken what she wanted. She'd have batted her eyes and cajoled her way into the position, and when that didn't work, she'd have pulled rank. Portia touched her pearls. Catherine would never have taken no for an answer.
Maybe it was time to prove she was made of the same Summerhill genes.
Despite the uneasiness in her stomach, she folded the blanket and stood. "I'll do it."
What had she been thinking?
Portia shifted on the hard seat in the unnaturally lit office. The chair screeched in quiet agony on the linoleum floor. She nodded. She felt the same way.
What would Catherine do?
Whatever she wanted, and with style.
Portia held on to her pearls and took a deep breath. She could do this. She was armed with a Chanel suit her mother lent her and her name. She had Catherine's blood running through her. She had a vast knowledge of British history and artifacts around specific noble families, especially the Summerhills. This job really had been made for her.
Catherine would have been fabulous. "I'll be fabulous, too," she assured herself.
"Sorry?" the director said as he entered the office.
"Very fastidious," she said, gesturing to the sparse space. It lacked any sort of character, which she found odd for a museum that specialized in historical people.
"Thank you." Leonard Wexler, the museum's director, beamed.
Of course he'd see it as a compliment. He was the epitome of fastidious, with the way his clothing was so impeccably put together, down to the pocket square that matched the yellow in his tie. His eyebrows were the most perfectly shaped brows she'd ever seen on a man. She'd have called him prissy except for the fact that she wanted him to hire her. Even his manicure put hers to shame. She curled her hands, hoping he wouldn't notice.
"Ms. Summerhill." He held his hand out. "It's a distinct pleasure to meet you."
His handshake felt like a half-dead fish. She smiled, resisting the urge to wipe her hand on her mother's skirt. "Thank you for taking the time."
"Of course." His plastic chair creaked as he sat down. His gaze flitted over her with approval.
Thank goodness. She hadn't been sure how to dress, so she'd decided to dress the part of a peer of the realm who might work in a museum. She'd paired the borrowed tweed Chanel suit with a pair of clear-lensed glasses. And her pearls, of course. She never went without Catherine's pearls.
"May I offer my condolences?" he said as he sat at his plywood desk. "Your father was one of the last great earls."
Beatrice, her oldest sister, would have replied that their father had been an ass, but Portia figured she probably shouldn't curse in front of her future boss. So she murmured, "Thank you."
"I hear his title went to an American."
She smiled faintly at the mild disdain in his voice. "Yes. A distant cousin. I've never met him."
"Unfortunate." Steepling his hands, he looked at her in a way that she could only describe as concerned. "Now how can I be of service to you?"
It was now or never. She held her breath, pulled out the printout of the job listing from her purse, and handed it over. "I saw this and wanted to inquire about the position."
Leonard's nose wrinkled as he read the paper, as though he smelled something bad. "Curator? You?"
"Of course, me." Portia frowned. "Why not? Aren't you hiring?"
The man handed back the paper, his expression distinctly cooler. "Do you have a CV?"
A CV. On the inside, she felt herself wilt, but she lifted her head defiantly at the little man. "I don't need one," she said with Summerhill arrogance.
Leonard Wexler didn't look like he believed it.
Before he could protest, she continued, "I'm of noble birth, and I have a vast knowledge of all genealogies and antiques."
"Do you have training?"
"Yes," she lied. "I'm self-trained."
"Hmm." He began to stand up, as though his timer had gone off and he was done. "I appreciate your time, Ms. Summerhill-"
"Lady Portia Summerhill," she corrected, thinking of what her mother said. Staying where she was, she looked up at him as though he were a vassal. "You were so enthused to see me at first. What could you have thought I'd come in here for?"
"I thought you were here to offer some of your families artifacts for our private collection now that your father has passed."
"I'm certainly not interested in giving you anything since you aren't even considering my application for employment."
Wexler's eyes narrowed as he retook his seat. "Are you implying you might bring some of the Summerhill collection here should I hire you?"
He looked like a shrewd rodent. She had the urge to throw a shoe at him. "Yes," she said firmly, as though it were her idea all along instead of her flying by the seat of her pants. "But only if you hire me as the Summerhill collection's permanent curator."
The man licked his lips slowly. "I'd expect some rarities."
"Of course." The South Street mansion was full of old pieces-the odd Rembrandt and Chippendale furniture that no one had ever sat on. It wouldn't be a hardship to pull together a cohesive exhibit. In fact, the idea excited her. She began making a mental list of all the things she could bring with her, like-
"I want the Summerhill tiara," the museum director said.
Portia blinked. "Excuse me?"
Greed made Wexler's nose twitch. "The Summerhill tiara, or no curator position for you."
Catherine's tiara, as Portia always thought of it. It'd been given to her by Prussia's king-after an illicit dance in the dark gardens during a soiree in his honor. The tiara was infamous. It was said the Queen Consort of England, Caroline of Ansbach, had turned green whenever Catherine wore it, which was as often as pleased her.
No one had worn the tiara in ages-it was too ostentatious. No one would care if it were bequeathed to the museum, and it was fitting that she had to produce a small part of Catherine to get the job.
Only the tiara was at Suncrest Park, and Suncrest Park and all its contents had been sold.
"It's not an unreasonable request," Wexler said.
"No, it's not," she murmured. Just impossible.
He stood up. "Include the tiara and you're hired."
She stood as well. "And if my family doesn't agree to parting with the tiara?"
The director shrugged. "Then I'm sure there are other museums who'll entertain taking you as a curator."
There weren't, and based on his tone he didn't believe that either.
She lifted her chin. "I'll let you know what we decide."
"You do that."
The weasel. Straightening the glasses on her nose, she nodded as she left, feeling panic claw at her. How would she get the job when she didn't have the tiara?
Get Lost in Love now!
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