The room was beyond belief. Claudia had seen pictures of parlours and drawing rooms in stately homes in England, and this surely qualified. The drapes. The furniture. The paintings on the wall. The ornaments and vases. Presumably her subconscious mind had collected various details she had never been consciously aware of and put them together in this dream.

“My mother will be with you shortly, Miss Westerson,” said the tall gorgeous man who had found her wandering in the sumptuous halls and escorted her to this room. He made her feel even more out of place than the room, all plummy vowels and elegantly tailored clothes from an era long gone. His pants hugged his legs tighter than any jeans, and his coat and waistcoat were cut away to show that they were moulded to his — his hips. Lace foamed at his wrists, and his neck was encased in a snowy cravat from the folds of which winked a sapphire that matched his eyes.

Even the maid he had been talking to was better dressed than Claudia. More appropriately, anyway, in an ankle-length frock of blue gingham with apron and cap in crisp white. Claudia’s shorts and tee-shirt were perfectly modest wear for shopping and visiting in her everyday life, but here they were just shy of the dream she used to have when she was competing, where she’d finish a perfect floor exercise and turn to the judges to find them all staring in horror because she was stark naked.

At least the man — Aldridge, he called himself, though whether that was a surname or a first name, she had no idea — at least he wasn’t staring in horror. After one long glance at her legs, more appreciative than insulting, he had looked only at her face. Still, her discomfort must have shown, for he smiled reassuringly as he said, “Do not be concerned, Miss Westerson. Her Grace has visitors from many different places and times, and the household is accustomed.”

“Her Grace?” That was a duchess, wasn’t it? Claudia wasn’t much for historical novels, but she was pretty sure that dukes and duchesses were the only English nobility referred to as graces.

“I am the Duchess of Haverford,” said the woman who entered at that moment. “And you must be Miss Claudia Westerson. I am so pleased to meet you, my dear. I trust my son has made you comfortable?”

Claudia is the heroine of Abbie’s Wish, my novella in Christmas Wishes on Main Street.

Three men. One’s a monster. Can Claudia figure out who before it’s too late?

After too many horrifying experiences, Claudia Westerson has given up on men. She’s done everything possible to exorcise the men in her life, short of changing her name and appearance. They’re unpredictable, controlling and, worst of all, dangerous. Besides, all her energies are devoted to therapy for her daughter, Abbie, who is recovering from a brain injury.

But after Abbie is photographed making a wish for Christmas, Claudia begins receiving anonymous threats, proving her quiet refuge is not nearly hidden enough.

Who can she trust? Three men hope to make her theirs:

• Jack, the driver from her daughter’s accident
• Ethan, her daughter’s biological father
• Rhys, a local school teacher and widower.

They all sound sincere, but which one isn’t?