A Christmas Wedding Wager Excerpt Copyright 2007 Harlequin Enterprises

November 1846, Newcastle Upon Tyne England

‘It is no good getting your hopes up, Miss Emma, the first survey was clear, like. The Gaffer, your father would agree with me if he were here,’ Mudge, the foreman pronounced with a solemn face, his words echoing off the walls of the small office.

Emma forced air into her lungs and struggled to hang on to her temper despite the overwhelming desire to scream. The last thing she needed was a lecture from Mudge why the line of bridge had to remain where it was. She could read a survey as well as any man. Better than most.

‘My father agrees with me. I told you this. How many times must I repeat it?’ She focused her attention on the plan of the site that hung on the wall.

‘Your father ain’t been himself lately. Begging your pardon, Miss. Everyone on site knows it.’

Emma forced a smile, ignored the growing pain behind her eyes. Today had started badly, and showed every sign of declining further.  Her mind kept circling back to one question – how was she going to ensure the bridge would be built on time?

A few of the navvies and workmen moved through the site overlooking the Tyne in a dispirited fashion, a full three-quarters less than Saturday. The lantern tower of St Nicholas’s Church had been barely visible in the heavy fog on the way in from Jesmond this morning. The works bore little resemblance to the sunlit bustling place of last Saturday when Jack Stanton had been expected.

Emma drew in her breath with a sudden whoosh. And what if Jack Stanton should appear – today? How would he react to the deserted site? She swallowed hard and refused to contemplate the  horror that would unfold.

‘Be reasonable like, Miss Emma.’

‘I am, Mudge.’ Emma tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I know the excuses by heart. But it is the Monday after payday. A Saint Monday. The men will return when their pay packet runs out and the publican’s pockets are full. I grew up around railway and wagonway projects. It is always like this, always has been.’

Mudge shuffled his feet and muttered another explanation.

She rose and glanced out the narrow window, wrapping her arms about her waist. The fog had lowered further, making the  brazier near the first foundation site glow orange.

‘What do you want, Miss? What should I tell the men?’

To have this bridge built before my father dies. It is his life’s ambition to build the first railway bridge to cross the Tyne. A simple request, but one she didn’t dare voice. She had to keep the true extent of her father’s illness a secret.

 Emma gave a small shrug of her shoulder, and fastened the plaid shawl more securely about her.

‘A good run of weather until Christmas, maybe into the New Year. That the new survey of the river bed proves true and we are able to get the piers erected in double quick time.’

‘You don’t want much, Miss.’ Mudge scratched his head. ‘Shall I add peace and prosperity for all, while I am at it?’

Emma ignored the remark. She refused to allow the foreman to intimidate her. She was no longer eighteen with only thoughts about the next pair of dancing slippers in her head. She knew how bridges were built. She had learnt.

‘Oh, and I forgot – the castle. The keep and the royal apartments are to be retained if possible.’

‘Only a woman would be concerned about a pile of old stones. It would be far better, if it was knocked down and the stone reused. It was what the first survey said.’

‘Nevertheless it is to be retained. The first survey was wrong.’

‘Ah but will it be the investors – Robert Stephenson and his new partner...that J.T. Stanton? They’re right canny, they are.’ Mudge crossed his arms. ‘Your father ain’t thinking straight if he agrees with you, if you don’t mind me saying so. If it were up to me, I’d sell the company. Get out while he still can. Bridge building is a young man’s game.’

Emma bit her lip. She needed Mudge and his ability with the men, if she was only to have any hope of achieving her father’s dream. She was under no illusions about the attitude towards women engineers and women directing important engineering projects. But equally, she was not going to let her father’s dream and with it his company vanish simply because he had become too ill to be on site every day.

‘If that is all,’ Emma said through gritted teeth. ‘I will take your report back to my father and return tomorrow with my father’s further orders.’

‘As you wish, Miss, think on what I say. I never steered you wrong before. There is none that can that Albert Mudge ain’t loyal.’

Emma scooped up the various papers, giving vent to anger by stuffing them into her satchel. She would prevail. The keep was important.

‘Miss, give your father my good wishes. There is nowt—’

‘Is anyone here? Or is this shack as deserted as the site outside?’ A deep masculine voice sounded from the front counter.

Emma froze, allowing the papers to drop from her hands and cover the desk in a snowstorm. Seven years, and she knew the voice. It no longer held any warmth or intimacy, but she knew it. Jack Stanton. Fate’s little joke. To make the day even worse.

‘Allow me. Let me handle this.’ Mudge tapped the side of his nose and moved towards the counter.

Emma forced a breath, resisted the temptation to pat her hair or straighten her gown. She had to trust Mudge on this. Jack Stanton would not come in here. There was no need to encounter him. All she had to do was sit still, safe in her father’s room. Unworthy of her, but a necessity.

‘I’m expected.’ The low insistent tone echoed through the small study. ‘There can be no mistake. You will allow me to pass.’

‘Mr Harrison is not here, sir. Perhaps if you would care to call again at some mutually convenient time.’ Mudge’s voice held the right amount of fawning.

Emma gave a short nod. She willed Jack to accept the invitation, to come back at an agreed time when she could be certain of getting her father there.

She eased back in the chair, heard a squeak and winced.

 ‘Mr Harrison will see me. Tell him J.T. Stanton requires an interview. I can hear him moving in the back room.’

‘Mr Harrison is unavailable.’ Mudge moved to block the doorway with his considerable bulk, shielding her from Jack’s sight. ‘You will have to call at another time, Mr Stanton, if you wish to speak to him. But I am happy to help you with any inquiries you might have.’

Emma squared her shoulders. She refused to hide in the backroom like some frightened rabbit while Mudge showed the site, and no doubt put his case to retain the current line of bridge. She would not be defeated so easily.

 Jack Stanton held no terror for her. If she allowed Mudge continue, her father’s secret would be out and the company lost. She knew Jack Stanton’s reputation. Almost against her will, she had followed his progress as he had risen from her father’s very junior civil engineer to one of the most respected and wealthiest railway men in the entire Empire. But no one rose that fast and far without being utterly ruthless. She had heard the rumours about how he had fired most of the men building a bridge in Manchester, forced the remaining to work overtime to get the bridge completed and ensured his railway opened on time.

‘Mudge, send Mr Stanton in. I will speak with him.’ Emma forced her voice to sound strong. She was no longer eighteen, but twenty-five, a confirmed spinster if ever there was one. Railway millionaire or not, Jack Stanton remained a known quantity. She had ended everything between them. It is the correct thing to do then. It remained the correct thing. She had to put the needs of her family before a fair-weather flirtation as her mother called it. If Jack had truly loved her, he would have understood. He hadn’t. He had left without a word.

Mudge stared at her open-mouthed.

‘Mr Stanton speaks the truth. His presence is expected, even if it has been delayed.’

‘As you wish, Miss Emma.’ Mudge removed his bulk from the doorway and made an over elaborate gesture of welcome. But she could tell from his voice, Mudge was singularly unhappy about the situation. ‘Miss Harrison wishes to see you, sir.’

 Emma forced her back straight, willed Jack Stanton to have become a bloated man with annoying facial hair and prematurely bald.

 The black frock-coated figure stalked in, moving with the grace of an untamed predator. The cut of his coat emphasised his slim waist and broad shoulders. The very picture of the successful businessman, but with none of the flash one might expect from someone as newly-wealthy as he.

 Emma pressed her lips together. His jet black hair and eyes were more suited to a hero in a Minerva Press novel or one of the penny-bloods found on railway stalls than to real life.

 As with so many other things lately, God had turned a deaf ear to her prayer.

 She forced her gaze away from his form and concentrated on the cold gleam in his eye and the faint smile on his full mouth. Arrogant. Self-opinionated. Dangerous.

She extended her hand, forced her heart to forget what he had been like seven years ago. The pain he had caused was a distant memory.

‘Mr Stanton. It has been a long time.’

‘Miss Harrison.’