Review
"Katherine Kingsley is a writer of infinite grace and perception."
--Romantic Times

"Katherine Kingsley is a master of deep emotion."
-Under the Covers Book Reviews

"Ms. Kingsley is such a marvelous author that you can't help but laugh and cry with joy and love while reading."
--Bell, Book and Candle


Review
"Katherine Kingsley is a writer of infinite grace and perception."
--Romantic Times

"Katherine Kingsley is a master of deep emotion."
-Under the Covers Book Reviews

"Ms. Kingsley is such a marvelous author that you can't help but laugh and cry with joy and love while reading."
--Bell, Book and Candle


Book Description
Bestselling, award-winning author Katherine Kingsley, hailed as "a glorious treasure" by Romantic Times, sweeps us back to Regency-era England in a sizzling tale of passion, romance, and a touch of the miraculous....

He appeared on her doorstep as if by magic. A man of all work answering her ad--her last hope of saving her family, her farm, herself. Will Cutter was too handsome to trust, but she needed him now that her husband was gone. Will's dark eyes penetrated every defense she'd carefully constructed, leaving her confused and shaken, wanting what she'd vowed she'd never accept again: a man's touch. There was something special about Will, but she never guessed in how many extraordinary ways he would change her life.

It was too late to tell Louisa Merriem that he was really Major Lord William Fitzpatrick, son of a marquess, home from Waterloo to pay his respects to his best friend's widow. To her. And then to deliver the letters she had written to his comrade in arms. After reading Louisa's letters, he'd half fallen in love with her. But in person she was stunning, the most beautiful, vulnerable creature he'd ever seen. First he vowed to earn her trust and save her farm. And then, to marry her, mend her soul, and make her believe....In the Presence of Angels.



From the Inside Flap
Bestselling, award-winning author Katherine Kingsley, hailed as "a glorious treasure" by Romantic Times, sweeps us back to Regency-era England in a sizzling tale of passion, romance, and a touch of the miraculous....

He appeared on her doorstep as if by magic. A man of all work answering her ad--her last hope of saving her family, her farm, herself. Will Cutter was too handsome to trust, but she needed him now that her husband was gone. Will's dark eyes penetrated every defense she'd carefully constructed, leaving her confused and shaken, wanting what she'd vowed she'd never accept again: a man's touch. There was something special about Will, but she never guessed in how many extraordinary ways he would change her life.

It was too late to tell Louisa Merriem that he was really Major Lord William Fitzpatrick, son of a marquess, home from Waterloo to pay his respects to his best friend's widow. To her. And then to deliver the letters she had written to his comrade in arms. After reading Louisa's letters, he'd half fallen in love with her. But in person she was stunning, the most beautiful, vulnerable creature he'd ever seen. First he vowed to earn her trust and save her farm. And then, to marry her, mend her soul, and make her believe....In the Presence of Angels.


From the Back Cover
"Katherine Kingsley is a writer of infinite grace and perception."
--Romantic Times

"Katherine Kingsley is a master of deep emotion."
-Under the Covers Book Reviews

"Ms. Kingsley is such a marvelous author that you can't help but laugh and cry with joy and love while reading."
--Bell, Book and Candle


About the Author
Katherine Kingsley is the author of five historical romances for Dell: In the Presence of Angels, The Sound of Snow, Call Down the Moon, Once Upon a Dream, and In the Wake of the Wind. Before settling down to writing she led a varied life. A direct descendant of John Jay, she was raised in New York City and London. Her earlier callings included being a professional modern dancer, a firefighter, an EMT, and a preschool teacher. But it is writing that has brought her the greatest joy.

Katherine Kingsley is the recipient of two Romantic Times Career Achievement Awards and four Reviewer's Choice Awards, including Best Regency Romance of the Year for A Natural Attachment, and Best Historical Romance of the Year for No Sweeter Heaven. She is also a two-time Romance Writers of America RITA finalist for No Sweeter Heaven and No Brighter Dream. She lives in the Colorado mountains with two Jack Russell terriers and an Amazon parrot, and spends a few months each year on the Greek isle of Mykonos.


Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Plymouth, Devon
May 21, 1816

Will fastened his saddlebag with a firm snap of the straps, then mounted Maestro, who had miraculously survived the fierce fighting of Waterloo none the worse for his injury. Breathing in a long, fresh breath of the salt air blowing in off the Devonshire coast, he settled himself more comfortably in the saddle and smiled down at his soldier servant who had been every bit as loyal as his horse and for as many years.

"I think that's it, Sergeant," he said. "Thank you for all your help."

"Are you sure you don't want me coming with you, Major?" Harold Tibbins asked, looking anxious and concerned. "Norfolk isn't exactly around the corner."

"Not around the corner, no," Will agreed. "Still, I think that this is something that I best do on my own. There's no point dragging anyone else into the reception I'm bound to receive when I return to Alconleigh. Perhaps it's a good thing my brother isn't expecting me." His voice held a touch of irony. Even Tibbins didn't know the whole of the story, and Will had no inclination to enlighten him. "In any case," he added, "your own family will be expecting you. Make the most of your leave, won't you? You deserve every moment of it."

Tibbins shrugged a shoulder. "I don't know how much I'll enjoy myself knowing that you're on your own and facing your brother down, but I'll do my best." He placed a hand on the horse's flank. "Are you sure your decision to resign your commission is for the best, Major? You made a fine place for yourself in the King's Dragoons."

"Ten years of service is more than enough for me," Will said. "Now that Napoleon is safely shut away, and this time for good, I doubt the king will have any further need of me, let alone notice my absence."

"Not a soul would have any idea that you were ever a soldier, never mind the son of a marquess with the way you look now," Tibbins said, pointedly running his gaze over his master.

Will glanced down at the civilian clothes that Tibbins had found him in the Plymouth market only that morning. They weren't the garb of a gentleman by any means, but Will had been in a tearing hurry to leave his uniform behind, wanting no further reminder of his time in the army. He'd have some decent clothes made up at another time.

For now, the simple doeskin breeches, coarse linen shirt, and the clumsily tailored cotton jacket were comfortable enough, even if the fit left something to be desired. He had a change of clothing in his saddlebag along with his shaving kit and a day's worth of food, and he honestly didn't care how he looked, as long as it wasn't like a soldier.

"I'd better be on my way if I'm to make any distance before nightfall," he said, reaching down and shaking Tibbins's hand. "Thank you again for all you have done," he said, straightening. "I wish you the best of luck."

"Don't you be a stranger, Major. We'll miss you in the regiment." Tibbins turned abruptly away, but not before Will had caught the sheen of tears in his eyes.

He felt like crying himself, only with relief.

Will nudged Maestro into a walk and didn't once bother to look back, not at the ketch that had brought him from Cherbourg, now anchored in Plymouth harbor, not at the soldiers and officers who milled around the pier, many of whom he had called his friends, not even at the pretty girls who circled them flirtatiously.

Instead, he fixed his gaze firmly on the road ahead that led out of town and away from the memories of acrid smoke and the stench of blood, the roar of cannon fire and the heartrending screams of dying men. Waterloo had left an impression on him that the ensuing eleven months had not managed to erase and that would probably stay with him for the rest of his life.

Whatever awaited him down the road could never in a million years be worse than that, not even if he discovered that his brother had permanently exiled him from his family home.

At least he'd never have to kill again, and he could think of no greater blessing.


Broadhurst Farm
Maidencombe, Devon
May 21, 1816

"What on earth am I to do?" Louisa muttered to herself for the tenth time, the pages of the farm ledger blurring before her eyes. "Anyone would think that I could pull miracles out of thin air, the way they all go on." She rubbed
her eyes and made a face, hearing the constant drone in her head.

You'll work something out, Louisa . . . Don't you worry, Mrs. Merriem, something always comes along when you need it the most . . . Oh, but Mama, you're so clever, you're bound to think of something.

Louisa threw her pen down and collapsed back in her chair. "Well, I'm glad they all think I'm so perfectly wonderful and clever and resourceful, but little do they know. The only miracle is that we've managed to scrape by for this long."

She impatiently pushed the thick braid that had tumbled over her shoulder out of the way before the ends landed in the inkpot, then picked up the rough draft of the notice she'd posted at the local pub five days earlier.

Wanted Urgently: Man-of-all-work. Room, board, and reasonable salary provided. Experience and a responsible nature mandatory. No fighting men need apply. Please reply to Mrs. Merriem, Broadhurst Farm, near Maidencombe.

She hadn't had a single answer.

"Blast you, Frank Hillbarrow, for a drunk and a thief," she said vehemently, cursing the day she'd ever hired the last farm manager. "And damn you, Valentine Merriem, for a drunk, a thief, a liar, and an idiot," she added, her fingers tightening around the large glass paperweight on the desk as if it might be her late husband's sorry neck.

Too late for that, though. Val had been dead and buried these last eleven months and she never had had a chance to tell him exactly what she thought of him. Too late for that, too, not that it would have done any good. Val had never listened to a word she said.

Shoving her forehead into her hands, Louisa forced back angry tears. So many lives had been affected by Val's selfishness. Her father's health had been broken by Val's bad investment advice and its devastating financial results. They'd lost Broadhurst Hall, where Louisa had grown up, and the generous income that had always sustained them. All that was left was Broadhurst Farm and whatever money she could eke from it. She was responsible not only for herself and her daughter, but also for her father and the few servants from the old days whom she'd be damned to see put out into the cold.

And what had Val done when he'd realized the extent of his folly? Louisa's eyes narrowed in fury at the memory. He'd taken the last of her dowry and bought himself a commission in the army, running away to become a hero.

Some kind of hero, she thought resentfully, wearily rising to stir the smoldering fire back into life. He hadn't even bothered to tell her to her face what he'd been planning, sneaking off in the night like the coward he was, leaving her to find a note propped on the mantelpiece the following morning.
Gone to serve his God, king, and country indeed! Five years, and the outrage she still felt had the ability to make her shake as if she had a bad case of the ague. Val was a lucky man that a bullet had taken his life on the battlefield of Waterloo, or he would have met one on the doorstep delivered by Louisa herself, if he'd had the nerve to return.

But there again Val had had his own way, dying a hero's death and never having to face up to the responsibility of his actions or the endless grind of staving off poverty. Not that she'd let him know about that--anything but. She'd written him every single week, glowing letters, warm, loving letters, to make sure he didn't forget for a minute the family he'd left behind. She'd described life on the farm down to every last conceivable detail, made it out to be an idyllic existence. Her pride would allow her to do nothing else, and she hoped Val had regretted his decision to desert them for the thankless life of war.

Somehow she suspected that all her efforts had been in vain. According to his rare and brief letters, Val had loved every minute of battle. He was the type that would.

Louisa stabbed the poker into the crumbling log, sending sparks flying in all directions, then jumped back with an alarmed cry as a fragment of wood detached itself and flew her way, almost as if Val were sending one more insult in her direction.

"That would suit you perfectly, wouldn't it, Val Merriem," she said with a scowl, stepping hard on the glowing particle that had landed on the hearth, crushing it beneath her heel before it could burn the house down.

"You wouldn't mind seeing Broadhurst Farm go the way of everything else since it no longer affects you. Nothing was ever of consequence unless it somehow had bearing on your own creature comforts. In which case I sincerely pray that there are monks' cells in heaven and the good Lord has assigned you one, since nothing would annoy you so much as to feel you are being deprived."

"Mama? Are you talking to yourself again?"

Louisa turned abruptly at the sound of her daughter's voice from the doorway.

"Portia," she said more severely than she intended, her color rising. "You mustn't creep up on me like that." Louisa hated being caught in a vulnerable moment, especially by Pip, for whom she was supposed to be a tower of strength.

"Sorry, Mama, but you were so busy with your conversation that you didn't hear me."

"I was--I was just having a little chat with um . . . with God. I was asking Him to look after some unfinished business." As she spoke she quickly moved to the desk and closed the ledger, then gathered up the pages of manuscript she'd been working on earlier. She didn't want Pip, or anyone else for that matter, to know about the book she'd been writing over the course of the last two years. It was her little secret, the one thing that was hers alone.

Pip grinned and tugged on both her braids, her freckled nose wrinkling. "Don't fib. You were in a temper and taking it out on the fire. You always do when you're having trouble with the books." She danced over to her mother and hugged her around the waist. "Don't worry, dear Mama. You'll fix it. You always do."
Louisa squeezed her eyes shut and made a valiant effort to suppress a scream of frustration. "I am sure I will," she said in a strangled voice. "We could use an answer to the notice in no short order, however. I keep praying, but that hasn't done a bit of good to date."

"There's always tomorrow," Pip said cheerfully. "Come along now. Cook has baked a ham for dinner and Grandpapa says he is as hungry as a wolf and will eat me if you don't hurry."

Louisa looked down at her beloved daughter and managed a smile. Pip, still so innocent, still so hopeful. Life had not yet left its harsh marks on her, despite the struggles she had already experienced in her brief eight years.
Making an effort to cast away her dismal mood, she gently ran her hand over Pip's fiery hair that rebelled against the braids her grandfather had so painstakingly put in that morning. "Then we had better hurry. It won't do to have Grandpapa making a meal out of you--who would help to milk the cows or collect the eggs in the morning?"

"Certainly not Grandpapa," Pip said with a wicked chuckle. "He's henpecked enough as it is and has no use for cows or chickens."

"Just so," said Louisa, and taking Pip's small hand in hers, led her from the room, firmly closing the door on her troubles.


Will drew up his horse and stared at the sign at the crossroads. Maidencombe. He could hardly believe his eyes or his luck. Only a day and a half on the road and here he'd inadvertently stumbled across the one place he'd never expected to see, but which had been on his mind for the last five years. More than on his mind. Broadhurst Farm had been a waking dream, culled from the letters that Louisa Merriem had written to her husband on a weekly basis, letters that Will had since read over and over until he'd memorized their contents.

Will felt torn as he tried to figure out what the right thing to do might be. Should he turn left, find Broadhurst Farm, personally deliver the letters to Louisa? Or should he mind his own business, send the letters by post, and continue on his way and get his own nasty business over with without further delay?

He dismounted and led Maestro to the small stream that ran only a few yards from the road. Hot and tired, he sank down into the cool grass, the old injury to his ribs aching from exertion. He needed the rest, no matter what he decided.

Images played through his mind of Louisa Merriem's vivid descriptions of Broadhurst, so enticing, so evocative of a happy family life that had always eluded him. He felt as if he'd watched little Portia grow up, felt as if he'd been there when the harvest was planted and later brought in. Damn, he felt as if he knew each member of the small staff, every site of every daffodil that bloomed in April, exactly where the sun rose and set at any given time of year, just how Cook's delicious treacle tart melted on the tongue.

All of this due to Louisa, a woman he'd half fallen in love with only by virtue of words on a page, not a single one written to him, but to the husband she loved.

Broadhurst and Louisa had given Val and Will something to talk about, a respite from the incessant war, a place to retreat to, even if it seemed a million miles away, but he knew, too, that he'd created a fantasy world that probably bore no resemblance to the truth, and that he was bound to be disappointed by the reality.

Still, he'd go to Broadhurst in a heartbeat.

The trouble was that Broadhurst and its inhabitants were none of his business. Will lay back in the grass.

What use was confronting a grieving widow with a packet of letters that would cause her renewed distress, remind her of everything she'd lost? He could only imagine how she felt--he already knew that Val's heart had been torn when he'd heeded the call of country and forced himself to leave Louisa, his daughter, everything he held dear, for the hellhole of war. He'd been a true hero, losing everything in the end for what he believed.

Will had had nothing to lose, nothing at all save perhaps his sanity, and he'd managed to hang on to that for the most part. His only real indulgence during his time in the army had been pretending in his very weakest moments that he, instead of Val, lived at Broadhurst, that it was he who loved Louisa, that it was he who slept in her bed at night and made her cry out in pleasure. That it was she who slipped wild strawberries between his lips and whispered words of endless love.

That those moments of fantasy had been brought on by fear and a constant sense of helplessness was no excuse at all. He'd always felt guilty that he'd imagined them at all, because the real flesh-and-blood woman belonged to his dearest friend.

Surely he owed Louisa Merriem her privacy. Surely she would not thank him for intruding on her grief.

Will pushed himself upright. On the other hand, he could tell her stories that might comfort her. He could even tell her of Val's last moments, of how he'd held Val in his arms as he lay dying. He didn't have to say that Val hadn't actually spoken Louisa's name in that moment, that in his anguish and madness he'd choked out someone else's--Will still didn't understand that, although he prayed that maybe Val had been calling to the Virgin Mother, despite his insistence that he didn't believe.

He could perhaps, in some small way, offer Louisa comfort. He owed her a brief visit. If he didn't stop, he might be remiss in his duties to a fellow officer.


Once in the village, Will received directions to Broadhurst Farm with no trouble, but he couldn't help the erratic pounding of his heart as he made the turn into the drive leading to the house itself. Louisa Merriem had described it exactly, painting an evocative picture with words that neither stinted nor glorified. He pulled Maestro to a stop and drank in the sight before him, a sight that previously had lived only in his imagination. He'd imagined it well.

There, in a gentle dip of valley, stood a Tudor farmhouse, hugged on both sides by large stands of trees, fronted by a lawn and terraces with yew and beech hedges. The house was simple, built of gray stone, one wing gabled. To the right, a south-facing orchard, covered in blossoms of white and pink, promised a heavy yield of fruit later in the year. To the left a rose garden nodded sleepily in the light breeze, the flowers just unfurling from tight buds.

Will's heart tightened in his chest. He had never in his life seen such a welcoming sight.

A thin plume of smoke rose from one of the four chimneys, a sure sign that someone was there. He leaned down and ran his hand over his horse's smooth neck.

"Perhaps I'm mad, Maestro, but I feel as if I've come home."

He grimaced at his folly. This was not his home, and he'd be well served to remember it. He was here but for a few brief moments, his mission to deliver a packet of letters that didn't belong to him either, as much as he felt they did.

Swinging down from Maestro's back, he took the reins and led his horse up the path to the front door, tethering him to a ring in the mounting post. He swept his cap from his head, and gathering his courage, he raised the door knocker and sharply rapped it twice. The sound echoed hollowly and then silence fell.

Will gazed down at one foot, the surface of his boot dusty from travel. He quickly bent over and rubbed his hand over one boot and then the other, then straightened and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to tidy that as well. Belatedly realizing what a sight he must be, he wished he'd had the foresight to stop first at a posting inn, where at least he could have washed and changed.

Louisa, if she was at home at all, might well turn him away after one look, taking him for a vagrant. Maybe he'd go into the village and get a room, come back tomorrow looking more presentable. Or maybe he'd just carry on now that he'd seen the farm and stick to his original plan, posting the letters at another time. From another place. A place far away from here.

He'd just turned away when the sound of the door suddenly opening caused him to spin back around.

Will's mouth fell open at the sight of the woman standing before him. She could be no one but Louisa, but nothing had prepared him for the sight of this slim woman, her mass of auburn hair loosely pulled back by a simple ribbon, her brilliant blue eyes regarding him in clear surprise and something he almost interpreted as horror, though he could think of no cause.

"Mrs.--er, Mrs. Merriem?" he stammered like an idiot.

"That is correct," she said, her gaze raking him up and down, then snapping back to his face, her color high. "Thank goodness you're here. Did you bring references?"

"References?" he repeated awkwardly, feeling like a callow youth. Lord, but she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. That was the one thing he hadn't imagined. Val had said only that she was attractive in her own way but hadn't elaborated beyond that. "References," Will said again, desperately trying to pull himself together.

"Indeed, although I cannot afford to be too picky at this point. Do you drink?"

Will blinked. "On occasion," he managed to say. "Not--not often."

"That will have to do, I suppose," she said, her full, wide mouth pursing slightly. "You have come from . . . ?"

"Plymouth," he said in a daze, thinking that he was missing a vital point, but he had no idea what it was. He dragged his gaze from her lovely mouth and cleared his throat. "I have come from Plymouth. Does it matter?"

"Not as long as you're not a seaman or a soldier, God forbid." She frowned. "You do have experience? How old are you?"

"Thirty years of age," he replied, knowing now that she had surely mistaken him for someone else. Not a soldier? What in hell was that supposed to mean? "What, um, what sort of experience did you have in mind?"

"As I clearly stated in the notice posted at the pub, I need a man-of-all-work. That means carpentry, expertise in farming, lambing, all of that sort of thing. The hours are long, as you might expect, but if you prove your competency you will have decent quarters, nourishing meals three times a day, and six shillings a week. The job is yours if you want it? Do you?"

Will quickly ducked his head, trying desperately not to laugh. He saw it all now. His shabby dress had created the illusion that he'd come in answer to a notice posted at the pub for a farm laborer. God help him. It was perfect, too good to be true.

Why not? a small, treacherous voice whispered in the back of his head. Why the hell not? He was in no rush to get home, and no one expected him in any case. Here was a golden opportunity to spend some time with the woman and the place he'd been dreaming about for five long years. She was obviously desperate for a man-of-all-work, and here he was, able and willing, and although he might not be entirely experienced, he could learn soon enough. He felt almost as if God had finally smiled on him . . .

No, his better side told him firmly. That would be deceitful. That's not why you came. Stop this farce, cut her off now, while you still have a chance. Cut her off. Cut her--

"Has the cat got your tongue?" she asked. "I have just offered you a job that you've come all the way from Plymouth to apply for. What is your name, man?"

He raised his head. "Will," he said, unable to help himself. "Will Cutter," he added, supplying the last sane thought he'd had, although he hadn't cut her off after all. "I accept the job, ma'am. Show me what is needed and I will do everything in my power to earn your trust and my wages."


Making her way back to the house after showing Will Cutter to his quarters above the stables, Louisa wondered if she had just made one of the larger mistakes of her life. No mistake would ever equal choosing Val as a husband, but she couldn't help a sense of misgiving in hiring this particular man.

For one thing, he was far too good-looking and more than likely knew it--how could he not? Hiring a handsome man was a mistake in itself, since excessively handsome men tended to have an equally excessive high opinion of themselves that was seldom, if ever, warranted. She'd learned that lesson from Val.

Then there was the matter of his horse. She stopped and turned, gazing thoughtfully back at the stables. What was a man in Will Cutter's lowly station doing with a magnificent horse like that? He could never have afforded it, so she could not discount the possibility out of hand that the gelding had been stolen.

On the other hand, his speech led her to believe that he was not a peasant by any stretch of the imagination, so she supposed he might be a man of good birth who had fallen on hard times. His finely chiseled cheekbones, thick, wavy dark hair and equally dark eyes, along with the narrow, high-bridged line of nose and squared chin with the slight cleft, all indicated good breeding of some kind.

She'd nearly fallen over when she'd opened the door and seen him standing there, a dark angel cast in Lucifer's own image. She wouldn't even think about the shiver that had gone through her when she'd taken in his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and powerful thighs.

He couldn't have been more different from Val, who had been green-eyed and blond-haired, his build slight. This man towered over her, exerting a powerful presence that had forced the breath from her body and very nearly caused her to slam the door straight in his face. Will Cutter was not what she'd had in mind when she'd posted her notice. Indeed, he was the last sort of man she'd expected to turn up on her doorstep.

Men of low birth did not exert such an air of quiet command, nor did they generally have a look of sharp intelligence. He looked as if he had seen the world and then some. She imagined he probably had, and hadn't much liked it, given the expression behind the dark brown eyes that she could only describe as haunted. Or at least that was the impression she'd had when he first looked at her, before he'd masked his expression so that she could see nothing at all.

Louisa ran a hand over her aching forehead. What did it really matter in the end who Will Cutter was or where he hailed from? Whatever his birth, he clearly had to make his own way in the world, and if this was the way he chose do it, what business was that of hers?

He'd appeared at her door and she needed him. Short of his being a murderer, which she sincerely doubted, she had no argument with him. He appeared strong and able, and she couldn't ask for more than that.

At any rate, who was she to question God's generosity, whatever form it had arrived in? She had a planting season to see to and a harvest to be brought in at the end of it. Fences needed mending and animals needed looking after. Food had to be put on the table and with a little luck, there'd be some extra money to get them all through the winter. With a lot of luck, Will Cutter would help to make that happen.

FROM THE PUBLISHER