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Once a notorious rake, Camden Folk, Marquis of Warbury, is now consumed by desire for only one woman: beautiful young widow Frances Burdett. And the Yuletide festivities at his country estate present the perfect opportunity for seduction…

After her brief and unsatisfying marriage, Frances Burdett swore never to become tied to another man. Then a passionate kiss under the mistletoe reawakens longings she thought buried forever. But can she give in to the pleasures of the body with a rogue like Cam—without losing her heart?

About the Author

BARBARA MONAJEM grew up in western Canada. She wrote her first story, a fantasy about apple tree gnomes, when she was eight years old, and dabbled in neighbourhood musicals at the age of ten. At twelve, she spent a year in Oxford, England, soaking up culture and history, grubbing around at an archaeological dig, playing twosy-ball against the school wall, and spending her pocket money on adventure novels. Thanks to her mother, she became addicted to Regency romances as well. Back in Canada, she wrote some dreadful teen melodrama, survived high school, and studied English literature at the University of British Columbia. She spent several years in Montreal and published a middle grade fantasy when her children were young. Now her kids are adults, and she writes historical and paranormal romance for grownups. She lives in Georgia, USA, with an ever-shifting population of relatives, friends, and feline strays.

A Lady’s Lesson in Seduction

Barbara Monajem

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Author Note

My gratitude goes to Kathy Payne, who helped me with the Latin motto of the Folk family. Needless to say, any errors are mine.

Since this is a novella, I couldn’t include anywhere near as many Christmas traditions as I would have liked. I hope you enjoy those you will find. I love customs to do with food, so I searched the Internet for a recipe for the beverage called lamb’s wool. There are many variations out there, but essentially, it’s made of ale or beer, apples, sugar and spices. Find yourself a recipe and try it! It’s festive and delicious, and if you are a teetotaler or want to share it with children, you will be happy to know it works fine with non-alcoholic beer.

Wishing you all a very Happy Christmas!

Barbara

Dedication

To Katherine Briggs, author of the delightful children’s story Hobberdy Dick, about a hobgoblin who protects a house in Puritan times. Dick is the inspiration for the hobgoblin hovering unseen in the background of this story, adding a wee bit of magic to a Christmas tale.

Contents

A Lady’s Lesson in Seduction

About the Author

Copyright

Camden Folk, Marquis of Warbury, dumped an armful of holly cuttings on the vast dining table at his country estate. A vigorous tramp through the home wood to collect greenery, one of the pleasures of the Christmas season, had heightened his anticipation. Soon Frances Burdett would arrive, and after a year of patience—and no women—he would finally get on with his life.

Not that he’d chosen to be celibate for the past year. He’d merely lost interest in dalliance, but he knew what had caused the problem and what would fix it. Once he’d seduced Frances Burdett and made amends for the past, he would go on his merry way once more. Back to the good old days when he’d indulged himself with many women, made a point of giving them as much pleasure as possible, and then moved on—no harm done.

He smiled at his mother, who was fashioning evergreens into swags to decorate the banisters. ‘Here you are, Mama. Tomorrow we’ll go to the orchard for mistletoe.’

Edwin Folk, his cousin, dropped a bundle of holly onto the table with a groan. ‘More walking about in this frigid weather?’ He stripped off his gloves and went to warm his hands at the fire.

‘Think of the reward at the end of it, Edwin,’ Lady Warbury said, tying a strip of red silk around a sprig of rosemary. ‘We’ll make kissing rings, and the house will be filled with lovely young ladies.’

‘If they get here,’ Edwin said gloomily. ‘It’s started snowing again. Do you think it will be bad, Cam?’

The marquis shrugged. They were almost certain to be snowed in, probably without some of the kissable ladies, but the only one he cared about was Frances Burdett, who should arrive at any moment. He’d had to resort to subterfuge to get her here at all. She’d made it clear to the Polite World that she didn’t blame him for the death of her husband, but she’d refused to talk to him after the accident and still treated him with the barest civility. Most likely, she despised him. He couldn’t fault her for that.

But now, after more than a year’s mourning, she’d told everyone that she would never marry again.

And Cam knew why.

Not that he could tell her that, or how he knew. But if only he could manage to seduce her, he could prove to her that her husband’s cruel verdict—that she was a cold, passionless woman—was entirely wrong. Such a young, desirable creature shouldn’t cut herself off from the pleasures of life, and he meant to make sure she didn’t.

It was a case of honour. Of living up to the family motto, ‘Do no harm.’ For her own sake as well as his, he must succeed in seducing Frances Burdett.

‘What else do you want, Mama?’ he asked. ‘Hawthorn? Ivy?’

‘No hawthorn.’ His mother raised her hands as if to ward off evil. ‘Thomas says it’s bad luck to cut hawthorn except when it’s in bloom.’

‘Very well—what the Druid says, goes.’ Mr. Thomas Lumpkin, whose enormous beard and study of pagan customs had earned him the nickname of Druid, had first come to Warbury Hall to study its history but had soon become his mother’s friend and lover. Cam didn’t know which lore he believed and which he didn’t—lately, he mostly didn’t—but tradition mattered at Warbury House, and he didn’t begrudge his mother and Lumpkin their fun.

‘Dear me, it has started to come down, hasn’t it?’ said his mother, watching the steadily thickening snow. ‘I hope some of our guests arrive.’

Cam laid his gloves on the table and wandered to the sideboard to pour brandy for himself and Edwin. ‘I could do without most of them.’ He’d supported his mother’s plans and encouraged Edwin’s infatuation with Almeria Dane only because Frances Burdett was the girl’s chaperone. He couldn’t think of any other way to get close to Frances for long enough to win her over.

‘The young people can be counted upon to enter into the spirit of the festivities,’ Lady Warbury said, ‘unlike some thirty-year-old curmudgeons I know.’

‘I’m not yet thirty, nor am I a curmudgeon,’ Camden said. ‘I’m simply, er, past the age of youthful folly.’

‘What nonsense,’ his mother said. ‘As I have recently proven, one is never too old for folly.’

He snorted. ‘I can’t argue with that.’ Her love affair with the Druid was a matter for much ribald jesting in the ton.

‘I’m having fun with dear Thomas. Perhaps one of the lively girls I’ve invited will reawaken your spirit of adventure, too. Almeria Dane, for example. Such a pretty girl.’ She threw a teasing glance at Edwin. ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘She’s ravishingly beautiful, as everyone knows.’ Edwin, irritable the instant it was suggested he might have a rival, pretended to savour the bouquet of the brandy.

‘But so appallingly young,’ Cam said. ‘And giggly.’ Fortunately for him, if not for Edwin, his mother had invited plenty of other men for Almeria to flirt with.

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to invite someone for you, Cam?’ Lady Warbury said. ‘Even at such short notice, I can find you a widow to dally with.’

And she would, if he didn’t put a stop to it immediately. ‘Mama, I suppose you think it’s very enlightened of you, but there’s a difference between turning a blind eye to my peccadilloes and acting as a procuress.’

Edwin choked on his brandy, but Lady Warbury merely rolled her eyes. ‘I want you to enjoy yourself, Camden. A passionate woman in your bed at night will make up for being obliged to play host to a group of people who don’t interest you.’

At least she wasn’t matchmaking again. For years, she’d introduced him to one marriageable female after another, but he’d succeeded in fending them all off. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said, and fortunately a bustle from the front of the house prevented her from making any more unacceptable suggestions. ‘Perhaps our cousins have arrived.’ Or better, Frances Burdett.

He couldn’t recall a more tangled mess of emotions than what he’d felt after Timothy Burdett’s death: anger, chagrin, guilt… Not that Timothy hadn’t deserved a good tongue-lashing. He’d maundered on in the vilest manner about his disappointment with Frances, his wife of only two weeks. Then Cam, in his arrogant, tactless way—what an ass he’d been—had said he could teach Timothy a thing or two about how to please a woman. Angry words had quickly become blows, and when Timothy had challenged Cam to a curricle race, then and there, Cam had of course agreed.

And Timothy, made careless by drink and rage, had overturned his curricle and broken his neck.

In the midst of the ensuing scandal—for everyone who’d heard the quarrel assumed they were fighting over some doxy—a sexually voracious lady, wife of an older man, had approached Cam with the sort of prurient suggestions he’d once enjoyed, and he’d been disgusted with both himself and her. He’d been unable to drum up any enthusiasm for dalliance since.

Maybe he had been a bit of a curmudgeon lately, but not for much longer. He put on the smile of a delighted host as he entered the Great Hall. The porter was holding the front door wide open, looking perplexed. A petite blonde stood in the entry, divesting herself of cloak and muff, while a middle-aged abigail and two footmen bustled about with bandboxes and trunks.

‘Oh, do come inside, dearest!’ the blonde cried, stamping her feet. ‘I shall catch my death of cold. You can decipher inscriptions some other time.’

A soft voice carried from outdoors. ‘What a pity I don’t read Latin.’

No, the pity was that the damned family motto, which he’d so badly failed to live up to, was prominently displayed in every single room of his house.

* * *

It’s only for a fortnight, Frances Burdett told herself sternly, hovering on the bottom step of Warbury Hall. Snowflakes landed on her eyelashes and nose. She was cold and tired, and after hours in a frigid coach with her prattling cousin Almeria, her head ached abominably. She longed for warmth, quiet and solitude, and the only way to get it was to go indoors, brave the Marquis of Warbury, and ask to be conducted speedily to her bedchamber.

Instead she remained outdoors, peering at the inscription above the door.

It was just so awkward visiting Warbury House. The marquis had called on her in London three times right after Timothy’s fatal accident, and three times she’d had him turned away. It had been frightfully ill-mannered of her, but she’d been so sickened and angry that she couldn’t bring herself to see him. Not for his part in Timothy’s death, but because he and Timothy had been quarreling over a prostitute.

She’d written to the marquis to reassure him that she didn’t hold him responsible for the curricle accident. Not only that, she’d told the world the same thing over and over—that racing whilst drunk was the sort of stupid thing young men did, and Timothy was entirely to blame. If that didn’t make up for her rudeness, there was no help for it.

‘Frances, I’m turning to ice in here.’ That was Almeria again.

‘In a moment,’ Frances said. Her head pounded wearily, and she frowned up at the inscription, trying to sound preoccupied while she gathered her courage. ‘Secundum…that seems obvious, but…’

Lord Warbury had made no attempt to speak to her again in the little over a year since Timothy’s death, so the invitation to the Christmas house party had come as a surprise. Only one explanation made sense—that Lord Warbury was romantically interested in Almeria Dane, the young, motherless cousin whom Frances now chaperoned.

‘The porter can’t keep the door open forever!’

‘Coming, Almeria.’ In her opinion, Almeria was too young and innocent for the rakish marquis, but she was a beautiful heiress, and society considered him an excellent catch. Whether she liked it or not, it was Frances’s duty to promote the match. She took a deep breath and—

‘Welcome, Mrs. Burdett, Miss Dane.’ The Marquis of Warbury’s voice made her shiver, and not from the cold. He had always had that strange effect on her, as if the warmth of his voice vibrated through her. He appeared in the doorway and came down the steps toward Frances. ‘It’s the family motto, or at least half of it.’ He turned and stood beside her, gazing up at the weathered stone. ‘Secundum, Non Nocere. Translated, it says, Secondly, Do No Harm.’

She pulled herself together. ‘That sounds typically motto-like—stern and idealistic. What is the first half?’

His eyes lit suddenly, touched with mischief. It made something swell within her chest, something she didn’t understand. Relief? She’d been rather afraid he would bear a grudge because of her rudeness.

‘No one knows,’ he said. ‘My cousins and I used to make up the first part ourselves. Firstly, Eat Beans, and Secondly, Do No Harm.’

A bubble of laughter escaped Frances, and Lord Warbury grinned down at her.

Instinctively, she stiffened. Since her short, disastrous marriage, she avoided men with that sort of grin. Other women might enjoy succumbing to such rakish charm, but for Frances that would only lead to misery.

Consternation erased the smile. ‘I beg your pardon—that’s not the sort of jest one repeats to a lady.’

‘I didn’t mind,’ she protested, instantly contrite. ‘It’s just the kind of thing my brothers would have delighted in.’ She didn’t wish to do away with his smile—merely its effect on her.

Once she’d gotten over the shock of Timothy’s death, all she’d felt was relief. But she couldn’t say so, nor could she tell people that she’d hated marital relations. That she’d cried herself to sleep when Timothy had turned from her in scorn, saying she was a bore in bed, and had gone to some doxy instead.

Judging by gossip, other women enjoyed carnal relations very much. That made Frances feel even more of a failure, but she knew better than to inflict her cold, tedious self on another man. She would never take a lover, never remarry, and that was that.

Lord Warbury’s warm voice assailed her again. ‘We have no idea how the family managed to lose the first part of its motto. The second half is found frequently indoors as well as over all exterior doors and on the turret, so we assume the loss predates the house, which is Elizabethan.’ He took her arm and escorted her through the doorway into a vast hall. ‘I trust your journey went well?’

She stepped away from him, smoothing her skirts as an excuse. She summoned the vague smile she used to keep her distance from gentlemen as a whole and attractive ones in particular, and murmured, ‘Yes, thank you, my lord.’

Almeria launched into excited speech. ‘Lord Warbury, how kind of you to invite us!’ She gazed rapturously up at him. ‘We’ve been in an agony of excitement for weeks.’ She batted her eyelashes. ‘What a magnificent estate you have.’

With difficulty, Frances refrained from rolling her eyes. Almeria was only eighteen, so no better could be expected of her. How an experienced gentleman like Lord Warbury could find such youthful silliness appealing, she had no idea. However, if it meant he would turn his attractive smiles on Almeria and leave Frances be, she would muddle through the next fortnight reasonably well.

She couldn’t avoid him entirely, though. She had a duty to assess his reaction to Almeria, so she closed her eyes briefly to ward off the headache and then opened them again.

And caught him frowning at her instead. His eyes flicked back to Almeria, but he staved off her babble with a hand and returned to Frances. ‘Excuse me, Mrs. Burdett, but are you quite well?’

‘Mrs. Burdett has a headache,’ Almeria cooed. ‘I daresay she needs to rest in a darkened room, like my poor mama used to do. Oh, there’s Mr. Edwin Folk.’ She flashed Lord Warbury a wide smile and tripped away to greet his cousin.

Leaving Frances alone with the marquis and inexplicably annoyed. ‘I don’t need a darkened room.’

‘A respite from your cousin’s chatter, perhaps?’ he asked, and she blinked at him in surprise. ‘Ah, here comes my mother. She will know what to do for you.’

Lady Warbury swanned up to greet her. She was an odd figure at the best of times, and now, dressed in a voluminous robe that looked more like a wrapper than a gown, she seemed positively outré.

But so very welcoming and kind. She embraced Frances, and when Lord Warbury mentioned her headache, passed her into the care of a motherly housekeeper who showed her to her room with a promise of a bracing cup of tea.

* * *

She had changed. Cam had always liked Frances, always found her an attractive woman—but out there on the steps with snowflakes on her lashes, hazel eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed with cold and her lush chestnut hair framing her face, she’d shone with such vivid life… He’d been hard put to say anything coherent, which was why he’d blurted out that vulgar boys’ jest.

Not that she’d minded that. She’d flinched not at the jest, but at his smile. She’d stiffened and her laughter had died, and when he’d taken her arm to escort her indoors, she’d moved away at the first possible moment.

Damn. Usually, that smile beguiled women quickly into bed. This wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d hoped.

‘Are you all right, Cam?’ His mother peered at him in something between consternation and amusement. ‘You knew Mrs. Burdett was coming.’

The last thing he needed was his mother realizing what he intended for Frances. He thrust a plausible lie into the awkward silence. ‘Seeing her brought it all back—the quarrel and Timothy’s death. Perhaps, for her sake, I should have stayed in London over Christmas.’ Hopefully that would stop his mother from drawing the wrong conclusion.

‘For heaven’s sake, why? She doesn’t blame you, does she? As I recall, she never did. She put the blame squarely on Timothy himself.’

‘But I felt responsible,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want to spoil her enjoyment of the holidays.’

‘Nonsense, she’ll be perfectly fine. We need you here. No one makes lamb’s wool like you do. No one else can crown the King of the Revels. And what about serving treats to the Luck?’ She paused. ‘Not thatThomas wouldn’t love to do it. That’s what drew him here in the first place, you know. Houses with their own hobgoblins are few and far between. But I don’t think Duff the Luck would take it well. He expects you to give him his due.’

Glad of the change of subject, Cam agreed. The resident hobgoblin, also known as the Luck of the House, was one of the Warbury legends. As a child, Cam had seen the little fellow now and then out of the corner of his eye; now, he wasn’t sure what was memory and what was imagination. It didn’t matter. The traditions about the hobgoblin did no harm, and Cam intended to support and preserve them.

By dusk, so much snow had fallen that the roads would be impassable for days. The expected cousins had arrived, as well as another young man and a couple, the Cutlows. A half hour before dinner and well after dark, Mr. Lumpkin rode up on horseback, to Lady Warbury’s great relief. He had spent a few days at the Rollright Stones, deeming Yule the perfect occasion for a visit to such an ancient monument.

Cam didn’t care one way or another about the stone circle. He did care about the way the eldest of his cousins, Alan Folk, was eyeing Frances Burdett’s bosom. Alan reminded him uncomfortably of himself several years earlier—except that generally the ladies he’d ogled had welcomed the attention.

‘Alan,’ he said. His cousin turned, and Cam gave him a look that even an idiot couldn’t misinterpret. Alan scowled but immediately turned his attention to Mrs. Cutlow, who welcomed vulgar leers. The unhappy flush drained from Mrs. Burdett’s cheeks, and when Cam caught her eye, she nodded her thanks, and her lips twisted into something approaching a smile.

Well, that was a start.

* * *

Frances found herself seated next to Alan Folk, whose manners had undergone an abrupt improvement just before dinner. She knew whom she had to thank. She told herself the marquis was merely acting his proper role of watchful and considerate host, but that didn’t stop her heart from warming to him. He could have been cold and horrid to her instead, and she wouldn’t have blamed him. He’d done nothing wrong in quarreling about a prostitute. He wasn’t a newly married man, and he hadn’t deserved her anger a year ago.

While she pondered him, she found other parts of her anatomy warming to him, as well.

Horrified, she quelled that unexpected, uncalled for, completely unacceptable kindling of desire. Once, long ago… Was it only a little over a year? It felt like a century. Once, she’d believed herself a passionate woman. She’d felt the stirrings of arousal when in the company of an attractive man. She’d dreamed of kissing and lovemaking as every other young woman did.

Until she found out that kissing was mostly sloppy and unpleasant, and that she felt absolutely nothing during lovemaking. After Timothy told her what a bore she was, she’d thought herself thoroughly cured of carnal desire…until now.

It must be because of Lord Warbury’s reputation as a skilful lover. More than once, she’d heard a fast widow or unfaithful wife lamenting her inability to lure him to bed. That smile of his had set Frances’s imagination moving as if she were a young girl once more.

But she wasn’t. She must put a stop to such thoughts straightaway. She gazed about the room seeking something to pretend interest in… There was the Warbury half motto again, over the fireplace. She’d noticed it in the Great Hall as well, and in her bedchamber.

She made polite conversation, avoided looking at the marquis—except to note his mild flirtation with Almeria, who sat next to him, chattering happily—and concentrated on the excellent food, finishing up with two helpings of a truly magnificent trifle. When they adjourned to the drawing room, Frances had her embroidery frame brought downstairs, but her attention kept wandering and so did her stitches, away from the pattern she’d drawn.

Mrs. Cutlow sat next to her on the sofa and made some bland comments about Frances’s pattern. Frances knit her brows. Judging by the woman’s low-cut gown and roving eyes, Mrs. Cutlow wasn’t likely to engage another female in conversation without some ulterior motive.

She wasted no time coming to the point. She leaned close and murmured, ‘Has he asked for Miss Dane’s hand?’

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