An excerpt from "Comfort and Joy" a novella in the collection entitled THE CHRISTMAS VISIT From Harlequin Historicals® ISBN #0-373-29327-5 "Wonderful storyteller Moore brings true understanding of the "Comfort and Joy" of the season when a stranded woman arrives at a scarred and embittered earl's home and turns his quiet world inside out, forcing him to open his heart to love. --Romantic Times

December 20, 1860
Llanwyllan,Wales

"I'm sorry to intrude," Gwen began with a smile. "I'm Miss Gwendolyn Davies, from St. Bridget's Orphanage in Llanwyllan, and I've come to see the earl, if you please."

The woman smiled, then frowned and looked anxiously over her shoulder. "The earl says he isn't receiving visitors today."

"Oh?" Gwen replied, her tone poised between concern and sympathy as she angled her way through the front door. "I do hope the earl's not ill. Perhaps I can be of assistance. I've trained as a nurse."

"It's, um, not that," the woman said with another glance over her shoulder. "He doesn't like visitors."

"I'm not here to visit," Gwen replied, still moving inexorably into the foyer. It had a spotlessly clean marble floor, and was paneled in age-darkened oak. Several medieval pikes, swords and shields hung on the walls, and there was a complete suit of armor by the wide stairs that led to the second floor. Two corridors led off from the foyer, one to the right, the other to the left.

"It's a charitable matter," she continued, "and since it's nearly Christmas, I'm sure he won't mind --"

"Mrs. Jones!" a deep, powerful voice rumbled from down the corridor on her right, where the momentarily illuminated window had been. "Get that damned creature out of my house! She's not getting a ha'penny out of me!"

Any niggling doubt Gwen felt about intruding on the earl's privacy completely disappeared.

The old woman flushed and looked contrite. "I'm sorry, Miss. But I think you really ought to go. He's in a right foul mood today. It's the time of year, you see. He used to love Christmas, and then...well, it reminds him of all the things he used to like so much. A one for the parties and games and singing, he was. And he's busy, you see, trying to finish the history he's writing."

The fact that the earl had literary pretensions was news to Gwen, and she was sorry he'd been hurt, but even so, that didn't give him the right to be rude.

"Perhaps if you could tell him that I've come from St. Bridget's?"

A door opened down the corridor to her right, sending a shaft of light into the dim hall. A tall, broad shouldered figure with shaggy hair to his shoulders loomed into view, hands on his hips. "Miss-sus Jones! Will you please get rid of that woman, or must I?"

Gwen noted he didn't have a gun of any kind, so she marched toward her objective like a soldier going over the top, ignoring the housekeeper who trotted after her, bleating like an agitated sheep. "Oh, dear. I don't think...miss...you'd better not... he's..."

"My lord, if you please, just a moment of your time," Gwen said, determined that he at least hear her proposal. "I don't wish to disturb you, but it's nearly Christmas and I've come --"

"I bloody well know why you've come, and the answer is no!" the man roared before disappearing into the room to his right and slamming the door behind him.

For a moment, Gwen hesitated -- but only for a moment. He might be an earl, but she was at least deserving of basic courtesy, and in her mind's eye, she kept picturing the sad, disappointed looks on several small faces come Christmas morning.

She reached the door with light showing beneath it, shoved it open -- and entered the messiest room she'd ever been in in her life. Books and papers were scattered about as if someone had left the windows open on a windy day. A single lamp stood lit on a desk that was covered with handwritten pages that had lines crossed out and notations in the margins. Helmets of various metals and descriptions rested on top of the book shelves that lined the room, and an enormous broadsword leaned against the desk that had sizable chips out of one edge, as if the someone had taken a few swings at it with the weapon.

More disconcerting of all, the Earl of Cwm Rhyss stood in front of the glowing hearth, his expression fierce, feet planted, arms crossed, the very image of enraged authority, although he was dressed as simply as one of the local farmers, in a pair of woolen straight-cut trousers, white shirt open at the neck and without a tie, a worsted vest and dark jacket. A plain gold watch chain and fob gleamed in the light.

Also visible in the light was a terrible scar that rendered the left side of his face permanently red and mottled. She'd seen worse ruin done to a human face. Much worse. The scar skirted the eye socket, and she surmised that the long hair was intended to hide most of the scarring and likely a damaged ear.

"I'm sorry, my lord," Mrs. Jones exclaimed, panting, as she followed Gwen inside. "I couldn't --"

"I heard," the earl growled. "You can leave, Mrs. Jones. I'll deal with this person."

Instead of scurrying away, as Gwen expected, Mrs. Jones gave the earl the same sort of look one might give a recalcitrant child. Then she dipped a curtsey. "I'll go get some tea."

"We don't need any tea," he retorted. "I'll ring the bell when this insolent woman is ready to leave. Shortly."

Mrs. Jones nodded, gave the earl another chastising look, then departed.

"My lord, I'm sorry to intrude --"

"The hell you are."

Supplicant or not, there was a limit to what Gwen would endure, and she was fast losing her temper. "If you think to dissuade me by such coarse language, my lord, I must tell you that I've heard far worse in my time."

She subdued a smirk of satisfaction when she saw that she had taken him aback with that remark. "My name is Miss Gwendolyn Davies, and I've come --"

"To ask me for money." He looked her up and down. "I thought you must be another charlatan out to rob me with some story about good works, or you're another one of those ladies who turn themselves into Lady Bountiful at Christmas time, helping the poor unfortunates. But I can tell by your exceedingly ugly wardrobe that you're neither. I suppose, then, you're the sort of woman who, failing to get a husband, throws herself into charitable works. That would explain your incredible gall. And you probably want to preach the necessity of saving my eternal soul at this joyous season of rebirth, too. You may spare yourself the effort." He pointed at the door. "I think the heathens are better off left alone, and so am I."

She very calmly and resolutely continued to face him. "My lord, I'm afraid you misunderstand. I don't give a damn about your eternal soul and you may happily go to hell for all I care."

His brown eyes flared, but she ignored his reaction and carried on just as matter-of-factly. "However, my lord, you can't take your money with you when you go. Before that melancholy day, and since it's nearly Christmas, a time when most people are inclined to be grateful for their good fortune and pleased to share with those less fortunate than themselves, I was hoping you'd make a contribution for some presents and special treats for several Welsh children who live in the orphanage of which I'm the matron down in Llanwyllan."

He limped around his desk. She hadn't noticed that he had difficulty walking before. He'd probably been trying to hide that, the way he grew his hair to hide his scar and what was left of his ear. "By God, you're the most aggravating, presumptuous woman I've ever met."

"I simply refuse to be intimidated, especially considering the reason that I've intruded upon your --" She surveyed his messy study "-- interesting existence."

"I prefer that my interesting existence not include unwelcome visitations by people who want my money."

"And I would prefer not to trouble you, but it's only four days until Christmas and we have almost nothing for the children."

He sniffed as he sat in the chair behind the desk. "Christmas comes the same day every year. You should have planned for it, and not waited until you were forced to ask a stranger to come to your aid at the last minute."

"I did plan for it. What I did not plan for was the need for a new chimney when the old one collapsed. Or the addition of four children to our ranks. Or the sudden loss of one of our principal benefactors. What I had put by for Christmas had to go elsewhere."

"So you gathered your courage and came to beg of the Earl of Cwm Rhyss?"

"So I decided to ask a rich man if he'll consider helping us. We don't require much, my lord. Just something to get a treat for each child and a goose for Christmas dinner."

"How many children are you talking about?"

"Fifty."

His eyebrows shot up. "Only fifty?" he asked sarcastically.

"They don't expect much from Father Christmas, my lord. Perhaps an orange, or a bit of candy. The sum I require is likely almost nothing to you, but it would mean so much to them. I would hate to have them find nothing Christmas Day."

The earl's full lips twisted into a smirk. "You're very good at trying to wring a man's heart with thoughts of pathetic children, their big eyes moist with disappointed tears. Perhaps you should consider a career upon the stage, Miss Gwendolyn Davies."

"Perhaps I shall, if I've succeeded. Have I?"

"If I tell you you haven't, what will you do then? Go down on your knees?"

"If I must." She made as if to do so, until he snarled, "Good God, woman, I wasn't serious."

"Oh?" she replied evenly. "You must forgive me for not realizing you possess a sense of humor. Or not comprehending that you wouldn't require a suitably humiliating display before you agreed to part with a small sum of money."

He gave her a sour look. "If giving you some money gets you out of my study and lets me get on with my work, I'll contribute to the orphans, the infirm, the aged and anybody else you'd care to name."

Not the most gracious of replies, but she smiled nonetheless. "In that case, my lord --"

"I was joking."

"Again, you must forgive me for not appreciating your wry sense of humor."

With something that sounded like a muttered curse, the earl yanked open a draw and started rifling through its contents. "As it happens, Miss Davies, I contribute to a number of charities through my solicitor. I simply don't advertise the fact, although perhaps I should consider posting a list on my door to keep shrewish harridans from marching into my house like irate sarjeant-majors and demanding I help them."

"You may insult me all you like, my lord, if it gives you pleasure," she replied. "I'll consider it the price I must pay for troubling you. But if it's any consolation to you, the children will be most grateful. Take it from one who knows, it's the one time of the year they find it easy to believe people care about them. It is the one time of year many do."

"You've been in the orphan business some time, then."

"Both before the war, and after."

He didn't reply, and as he continued to rummage, she pushed way her memories of Christmases past and surveyed the room again. It was clear the man enjoyed collecting medieval artifacts. Or perhaps they helped with his writing.

The books crowding the shelves, the pedestal table and even piled on the floor were many and various. The titles she could read were all histories and biographies. The titles she could not were in Latin.

"I'm so glad you're still here, miss!"

Mrs. Jones had returned, carrying a large tray with a tea pot, cream, sugar, two Wedgwood china cups, scones and strawberry jam. "I'll just set this down over -- "

She made an exasperated noise as she shoved the pile of books out of the way on the pedestal table. "For the love of God, Griffin, must you pile your dusty old books everywhere?"

If the earl's eyes could have shot arrows, the dear woman would be dead. "I told you, Mrs. Jones, that we don't need tea. Miss Davies will be leaving as soon as I find my damned cheques."

Mrs. Jones beamed, clearly not a whit disturbed by the earl's propensity to curse. Then she frowned. "You didn't even invite her to sit down -- and after walking all that way!" she chided as she hurried toward Gwen. "She'll think you've got no manners at all. Give me your bonnet and cloak and sit you there by the fire, Miss Davies. I'll bring your tea to you. Do you take sugar?"

"No, thank you. I prefer mine clear."

"This isn't a damn tea party!" the earl muttered.

"No need to be rude, Griffin," Mrs. Jones said. "You've already growled at the poor dear quite enough. You ought to respect her, considering what she's done."

Gwen couldn't make out what he mumbled, but the gist of it was, he didn't think she was a poor dear and only barely deserving of a cup of tea or a chair.

"She was a nurse in the Crimea."

The earl shot Gwen a questioning glance. "You were in that mess?"

"Yes, I was," she replied, realizing that his eyes were not like any other brown eyes she'd ever seen before. They were flecked with green and gold, yet not green enough to be hazel.

He was fortunate his left eye hadn't been blinded in the fire.

He went back to the search.

"I do hope you can find a cheque, my lord," Gwen said as she regarded the top of his head and his thick, curling hair.

Many a woman would weep to have such hair. And such thick lashes, which should look ridiculous on a man, but somehow, seemed perfectly suitable to him.

"They're here. Somewhere."

"Perhaps I could help."

"No!" he snapped, darting an annoyed look at her. "Sit down, drink your tea and don't touch anything!"

"He's got a system, he says, so his notes won't get out of order. For his book, you see," Mrs. Jones explained in a loud, conspiratorial whisper as she handed Gwen a cup of fragrant Earl Grey. "I think he's just too lazy to tidy up."

Mrs. Jones's confidential revelations elicited another scowl and mumble from the earl, and a stifled smile from Gwen as she sipped her tea.

"Aha!" the earl cried triumphantly after rustling in the very back of the bottom most drawer. He straightened and brandished a book of cheques. "I found them. Don't get too comfortable, Miss Gwendolyn Davies. You'll be leaving very soon."

"No, she won't," Mrs. Jones declared. "She can't."

She frowned at their puzzled faces. "She can't go anywhere in a snowstorm."