'Twas three weeks before Christmas,
And all through the house,
Nothing was stirring, not even a mouse.
The fire it crackled, a comforting sound
I grabbed a hot chocolate, and a novella I'd found.
Excitingly romantic, a handsome young hound,
Ordered to marry, he circled around,
A navel lieutenant, a younger son,
Suddenly found he was the one.
Viscount in waiting he was to be,
He stood his ground, wanting to flee.
He plotted a near treacherous course,
Down a path he was protestingly forced.
The answer he puzzled and wrestled and fought,
To do not what he wanted but just what he aught.
By magic and chance he found his true start,
A wren by perception, an eagle at heart.
All browns and greys, a shy little dove,
Hidden from light, a dark little glove,
Transformed to splendour, when gifted by love.
His spinster bride, Anne Lesley by name,
Ian Worth's lady, really anything but tame.
Assisted by Pinky, valet and friend,
Sailed into safe harbour right at the end.
A wondrous read, a sunshine, a ray,
Of romance and pleasure that lightened my day.
(apologies to Clement Clarke Moore, 'The Night Before Christmas.' 1822.
Ok, the original was going around in my head and I couldn't help myself)
A NetGalley ARC