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A Sinful Regency Christmas
One Wicked Christmas
Amanda McCabe
Virgin Unwrapped
Christine Merrill
An Illicit Indiscretion
Bronwyn Scott
A Rake for Christmas
Ann Lethbridge
Spellbound & Seduced
Marguerite Kaye

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One Wicked Christmas

About the Author

AMANDA MCCABE wrote her first romance novel at the age of sixteen in algebra class, an epic starring all her friends as characters! That story will never be published (and she nearly failed algebra), but now she’s the RITA®-nominated, award-winning author of many other books and novellas. She lives in Oklahoma with two cats, a pug, and a bossy miniature poodle, and loves dance classes, collecting cheesy travel souvenirs and watching the Food Network—even though she doesn’t cook. Visit her at www.ammandamccabe.com for behind-the-book information, contests and upcoming releases, and at riskyregencies.blogspot.com.

Dear Reader,

I love Christmas! The cool weather, crackling fires in the fireplace, champagne punch, my grandmother’s toffee and sugar cookies, time with family and friends—it’s a beautiful time of year.

It also seems like a wonderful time for romance! I’ve read Regency Christmas stories every year since I was a teenager, and I loved having the chance to set Cassie and David’s story at Christmas—their tale of true love found in unexpected places just seemed perfect for the holiday. Carols, mistletoe, parties, a sleigh ride—what could be better?

Happy holidays …

Amanda McCabe

Chapter One

London, December 1806

“My dear Cassandra. There are so many handsome men here tonight. You must choose one and take him to your bed immediately, before you quite wither away.”

Lady Cassandra Osborne choked on the sip of claret punch she had just swallowed. “Melisande! Someone could hear you,” she protested as she deposited her glass on the tray of one of the footmen circulating through the crowded ballroom. She had been friends with Melisande, the Duchess of Gifford, ever since they were children, and she knew she should be used to the outrageous comments by now. But they still tended to catch her by surprise. Even when she was secretly thinking much the same thing.

“Nonsense. We’re all alone here in our little corner, no one is listening,” Melisande said. “And I have been meaning to talk to you about this for some time now.”

Cassandra laughed. “Talk to me about my habits in the bedchamber?”

“My dear, as far as I know you have no habits in the bedchamber at all, except for sleeping—alone.” Melisande sipped at her own punch as they both studied Lady Clarke’s ballroom. It was the last ball in London before everyone scattered for Christmas, and the vast, gilded space smelled of pine boughs twined with red and white hothouse roses. The wine and punch flowed freely, and the laughter and chatter were growing louder and more merry as the evening went on. Cassandra had sought a quiet corner to take a breath; she hadn’t gone there to be interrogated about her romantic life by her friend.

Or rather her lack of romantic life.

“My life suits me very well,” Cassandra said, half-truthfully. She hoped she sounded more resolute than she felt.

“Nonsense, my dear! How could it?” Melisande scoffed. “Your husband, worthy as he was, has been gone for above a year now. But you still shut yourself away in mourning.”

“I do no such thing. I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Dressed like someone’s old auntie.” Melisande plucked at the plain cap sleeve of Cassandra’s dark purple silk gown. “You are far too young to do this to yourself, Cassie. Not when there are so many handsome men scattered about.”

Melisande gestured at the ballroom with her glass and Cassandra dutifully studied the crowd. There were handsome men there—Lord Dunphy, Mr. Barrows, the Duke of Wharton. But none of them made her heart beat faster, none of them made her wonder what their lips would feel like on hers, what they looked like under their finely tailored clothes. None of them tempted her.

And she had been secretly looking enough to know.

Cassandra sighed and snapped open her black lace fan to try to create a cool breeze in the stuffy room. “Oh, Mel. I confess I have had such thoughts myself lately.”

“Cassandra! You have?” Melisande gave her a startled glance over the gilded edge of her glass. “Oh, my dear, why didn’t you say anything? I would be happy to help you find just the right person. You deserve a little fun.”

“I doubt there is the right person,” Cassandra murmured. “I haven’t yet found anyone to tempt me.”

Except that one time …

She had been very tempted indeed then. Sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night when she couldn’t sleep, she remembered how that kiss felt. How it awakened dark needs in her she didn’t even know she had, made her long for more and more. Made her want to tear his clothes away and feel the slide of his body over hers, skin against skin, until she didn’t know anything but him.

Cassandra wielded the fan faster in front of her suddenly flushed face. Remembering those feelings did no good at all. The kiss had been over much too quickly, and he had backed away from her with a look of horror in his dark eyes. Since then he had carefully kept his distance, maintained a polite concern that made her want to scream with frustration. He certainly wouldn’t get close enough to her to repeat that little moment of giddy madness.

Melisande was right. She needed to find someone else. But, curse it all, she didn’t want anyone else!

Luckily her friend wasn’t looking at her to see her pink cheeks. Melisande studied the gathering, her eyes narrowed in consideration, as if she was examining horses at Tattersalls. “What about Lord Meredith? He’s a bit talkative for my taste, but he does have those lovely blue eyes. Or Lord Jermaine? Lady Jermaine says he is very well-endowed.”

Cassandra had to laugh. “I don’t think so. Not a married man. And not one who is talkative.”

“Mr. Hatchard? Oh, I know—Lord Phillips! He is so handsome and he seemed to admire you at my dinner party last week.” Melisande sighed when Cassandra shook her head. “My dear, if you are that finicky you will certainly never find a lover. What are you looking for?”

Ian, Cassandra thought sadly. He was what she wanted, ever since that crazy kiss in the garden—no, even before that. But he didn’t want her. To him, she was just his friend Charles’s widow.

“Someone kind, I suppose,” she said. “Someone who will understand that it’s, er, been some time since I had a lover. Someone who is handsome, who can make me laugh. Someone like …”

“Like your husband?”

Cassandra swallowed hard. She hadn’t even been thinking of Charles, her quiet, gentle husband, at all when she considered what she wanted in a new lover. What a terrible wife she was.

But then again, Melisande was right. She had been alone for a long time now, and the memories of Charles that had kept her heart warm for many months were fading. The world was becoming a cold place indeed.

“Yes,” she said. “Someone a bit like Charles, I suppose.”

“Well, my dear, you must forgive me saying so, but what you need in a lover is someone most unlike your husband.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you and your Charles were a comfortable old couple from the moment you married, sitting by the fire reading together all the time. I don’t think I ever saw you flirt and laugh together.”

“There was no need. We were married. We knew each other too well to need to—flirt.”

“That was your mistake, then, Cassie. You were too comfortable. And you were only seventeen when you wed! Too young for such dullness.”

Cassandra shook her head stubbornly, but deep down inside she had traitorous doubts. Was Melisande right? Had she really been so dull all those years? She was only twenty-five now. “I was happy with Charles.”

Melisande gave her a gentle smile. “I know you were. And no one can replace what you had with him. Yet another reason for you to look for someone different now.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“Someone dashing, of course! Someone who is naughty, and just a bit wicked. No one really cruel or dangerous, certainly, but a man who is a bit of a rogue. Someone who knows what he is about in the bedchamber. There’s no sense in taking on someone staid and dull for your first lover.”

A bit wicked. Cassandra bit her lip as she thought again of Ian and that kiss. Ian and Charles had been friends ever since their days at Eton, even though there were no two men more different. Charles had been quiet and scholarly; many of their evenings really were spent reading by the fire at their home in the country. He was even quietly attentive and efficient in bed, never removing more clothes than was strictly necessary.

Sir Ian Chandler, though, was witty and daring, always laughing, always moving and doing. She’d heard tales of his life of horse racing and gaming, of all the women who fell desperately in love with him, though he never spoke of such things when he came to their house. He would always take her out riding and walking, making her laugh with his tales of Town life while Charles read in his library. Ian was lean and dark, thanks to his Italian mother, and Charles golden-blond as an English spring.

Even after Charles was gone, Ian would visit her, talk to her, read to her, make her laugh even in the midst of her sadness. Sometimes he had been the only bright spot she could look forward to in the day.

Until that kiss. She nodded as she listened to Melisande list the attributes of the men around them, but her mind wandered back to that day when everything changed….

The rain poured down from the sky, sudden and cold, catching them by surprise as they walked in the garden. Cassandra laughed and grabbed Ian’s hand to run back toward the house, but her thin slippers slid on the gravel pathway and she cried out as she felt herself falling. Ian caught her up in his arms and she wrapped her arms around his neck. She could feel the deep echo of his laughter against her, and he ran for the little Grecian temple at the edge of the garden.

Cassandra’s hand slid over his shoulder. How had she never noticed how very hard and strong he was before, his shoulders broad, his chest all lean muscles and shifting power against her body. She had always known he was handsome, of course. She was a woman, after all, and no woman could look at the perfect angles of his chiseled face, his velvet-dark eyes and glossy black hair, and be unmoved. But his body …

She traced her palm over his collarbone and threaded her fingers through the damp, rough-silk strands of his hair as he eased her to her feet on the marble floor. Ian Chandler was a beautiful, beautiful man. And as she looked up into his eyes something caught alight deep inside of her. Something warm and tingling that felt suspiciously like—life.

“Are you all right, Cassie?” he asked.

He started to step back from her, but Cassandra tightened her hand on his neck to hold him with her. She wasn’t sure what had suddenly come over her, she only knew she couldn’t let him go yet.

His eyes narrowed as he stared down at her, and she felt the muscles of his neck grow stiff. She twined her other arm around his shoulders, those shoulders that had born her up for so long in her sadness and that drew her to him now.

“Ian,” she whispered. It was all she could say, his name, but the sound of it seemed to awaken something in him, too. She felt a deep shudder pass through his body.

His hands closed hard around her waist and drew her against him, so close she went up on tiptoe, her soft breasts pressed to his chest.

“Oh, God, Cassie,” he groaned hoarsely. And then his mouth was on hers, hot and hungry.

It was nothing like Charles’s gentle, brief kisses. Ian kissed her like a man starving, his tongue sliding past her lips to tangle with hers, tasting her deeply. She met him eagerly, that flicker of new life inside of her roaring into a consuming flame.

He tasted like tea and mint and rain, of some undefinable, dark something that was only him. She felt dizzy, almost intoxicated as she kissed him back. His hands slid into her hair and he angled her head so his mouth could take hers deeper, and they fit together, their lips and their bodies, as if they were meant to be that way.

Cassandra had never imagined anyone could kiss like that, or that a mere kiss could make her want so much. Need so much. Ian was so very good at that.

It made her wonder what else he was good at. Lost in the blurry haze of passion, her hand slid down his shoulders to tug at his cravat. She wanted to touch him, see him.

But his fingers suddenly closed over hers, hard and unyielding as he stilled her frantic movements. Cassandra heard herself make a frustrated sound, and Ian’s head fell back, his lips torn from hers.

“Cassie, no,” he said hoarsely. “What am I doing?”

It was as if the cold rain poured over her head, drowning out the heat of lust. Cassandra went very still, staring at her hand caught in his, her fingers still tangled in his cravat. She had been trying to undress Ian, her husband’s friend. Her friend. She had never been more shocked at herself.

And yet she couldn’t be sorry. She had wanted Ian so very much. When he touched her, she felt alive again at long last. Alive and happy and free. If acting like a wanton gave her that, she couldn’t be sorry. And it was Ian—gorgeous, sexy, kind-hearted Ian—who gave that to her. No, she couldn’t be sorry, even though she knew she really should.

But Ian looked very sorry indeed. His eyes were so black in his suddenly pale, strained face, his usually laughing, sensual mouth drawn into a taut line. His hair was tousled over his brow from the touch of her fingers. Instinctively, she reached up to smooth it, but he stepped back from her.

Her hands fell to her sides, and she felt achingly hollow inside. The cold dampness of the rain she hadn’t sensed before at all crept over her, and she wrapped her arms around her waist.

“I’m so sorry, Cassie,” he said, and she hardly recognized his voice it was so rough. “I don’t know what came over me. I promise, it won’t happen again.”

But she wanted it to happen again! She almost cried the words aloud, but her voice strangled in her throat when she saw his face. It had gone as hard and still as one of the marble statues in the garden, his eyes a cold blank as if he had retreated behind them somewhere she couldn’t follow.

And in that moment she was finally sorry for what had happened, because it seemed to have cost her Ian.

Cassandra took a deep sip of her punch as she shook away the heavy memory of that rainy day and studied the noisy ballroom around her. She hadn’t seen Ian since that day. He had sent her a letter from Bath, where he said he had gone to visit his sister, and she had come to London to try to distract herself. It hadn’t really worked, though. She still thought of Ian far too often. Especially now that Christmas was near, the family warmth of the holiday preparations reminding her that she was alone.

“Won’t you, Cassie?” Melisande said, the words breaking through Cassandra’s memories.

“I beg your pardon, Mel?” Cassandra said. She left her empty glass on a footman’s tray and claimed a full one.

“I was merely saying you will be at my house party for Christmas, won’t you? It should be quite a merry time.”

A loud, wild party? Cassandra wasn’t entirely sure she could face one of Melisande’s famously raucous gatherings just yet. “I’m not sure …”

“My dear, I won’t let you say no! London will be an utter wasteland after this week, and I refuse to let you stay here alone for Christmas. You need some fun.” Melisande gave her a sly smile over the edge of her fan. “Besides, Lord Phillips will be there. He’s been asking me about you, and you did say you liked him.”

“Lord Phillips?” Cassandra felt a tiny spark of interest. She had danced with him once or twice since she came to Town, played cards with him at an assembly, sat next to him at Melisande’s last dinner party. He was an amusing conversationalist, and a handsome man with dark auburn hair and a horseman’s lean body. He had made her laugh, and was a good dancer besides.

But, a tiny voice whispered inside of her, he isn’t Ian.

Cassandra pushed away that voice. Lord Phillips was an attractive man who seemed interested in her, while it was all too clear that Ian was not interested at all. She needed to move forward with her life.

“Yes,” Melisande said. “He was most eager to accept my invitation when I promised you would be there. You can’t let me down now, Cassie.”

“Then I will be there,” Cassandra answered. “I always did love a country Christmas.”

“Wonderful! Now, my dear, you will leave off the widow’s weeds for the party, won’t you? Bring some pretty clothes?”

Cassandra opened her mouth to answer that widow’s weeds were the only clothes she had, when the ballroom doors opened and a latecomer appeared.

The gilded double doors were at the top of a short set of marble steps, giving Cassandra a good view of any arrivals over everyone’s heads. She almost choked when she saw who stood there now.

Ian. Looking even more handsome than the last time she saw him, with his black hair brushed back from his face and his body draped in perfectly cut evening clothes. His stark white cravat made his smooth olive skin appear even darker, with the amber lamplight gilding him to a burnished gold like some ancient, pagan god.

His expression was solemn as his gaze swept the ballroom. Cassandra fought the temptation to shrink back into the shadows and hide from him. She forced her shoulders to straighten and her face to stay still and impassive.

His gaze slid over her, then came back. His eyes widened for an instant, and then he was back to that cool lack of expression that she hated. He gave her a polite nod, and turned away to speak to the lady who stood beside him.

Cassandra felt a flash of something she had never felt before—jealousy. She knew he was a rogue, that he had many lady friends, but still the feeling was there. But then she saw that the woman was his sister, Mrs. Leonard, whom he had gone to visit in Bath. For a moment their two dark heads bent together in conversation, and then they vanished into the crowd.

Cassandra relaxed just a bit. Now all she had to do was avoid him for the rest of the evening….

She was there. Cassandra.

Sir Ian Chandler managed to greet his friends, talking and laughing as he drank a glass of wine and studied the dancers, but the only thing in his mind, in his senses, was Cassie. She had disappeared into the swirling crowd, but he knew she was there. He forced down the raw urge to push through all the knots of people between them and grab her in his arms.

He hadn’t seen her since that day they got caught in the rain and he gave in to the wild urge to kiss her. That need had plagued him for so long, driven hotter by the smell of her lilac perfume, her smiles, the touch of her hand on his. Every time he saw her that need grew, made him more insane.

Cassie was his friend, his oldest friend’s widow. She relied on him, and he relied on those days when they were together, walking in the gardens, reading together, playing duets at the pianoforte. She was a wonderful, serene oasis in his rakish life, a place of light and sweetness he had come to crave. He had plenty of women eager to come to his bed; Cassie was different, apart from all of that. He shouldn’t want her that way.

But he did want her. So very much. Especially after that taste of her.

Afraid he had disgusted her, frightened her, he decided the best thing to do was to leave her alone for a time. So he took himself off to Bath, putting up with his sister’s matchmaking efforts, dancing at the assembly rooms, playing cards, drinking the foul water, trying to forget Cassandra. Yet she was still there—especially in his erotic dreams at night, when his sweet, dear friend was not so sweet at all.

“Hello, Ian,” he heard her say softly behind him.

For an instant he thought her voice was just another dream, but then her hand touched his sleeve. Even through the superfine fabric and the kid of her glove he could feel the warmth of her skin.

Don’t be such a fool, he thought harshly. This is just Cassandra—your friend. Charlie’s widow.

And the woman he wanted to be so much more than that.

He turned and made himself smile at her, gently, affably. He couldn’t frighten her with the lustful turmoil that twisted inside of him. “Cassandra. You look lovely tonight.” And she did. Even in her subdued purple gown, with her dark hair drawn back in a simple knot, she outshone everyone else in the ballroom.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen you,” she said with a tentative smile. “How have you been?”

“Very well. Bath is very—wholesome.”

Her smile widened. “That must have been a nightmare for you, then. You’re probably glad to be back in London.”

He was glad, since it meant he could see her again. He studied her carefully, the slight blush in her pale cheeks, the wary light in her gray eyes. Did she remember that kiss? Did she hate him for it?

His heart ached to think she could hate him. Yet she still smiled at him, and she didn’t move away from him.

“I won’t be in London for long, I fear,” he said.

“Oh? Are you spending Christmas with your sister’s family?” she asked.

A hand traced over Ian’s, quick, insistent. He turned to see Melisande, Duchess of Gifford, smiling up at him slyly. “My dear, he is coming to my house party for Christmas,” she said. “Aren’t you, Sir Ian? You have already accepted, so you can’t say no now.”

Ian’s eyes narrowed as he studied Melisande. They had been friends for a long time, often seeing each other at risqué house parties in the past, though she had never been his lover. She smiled at him now like the cat who got into the cream.

And he had said he would go to her Christmas party, blast it. It had seemed like a good place to get on with the business of forgetting Cassandra.

“Really?” Cassandra cried. “So am I! We will get to spend the holiday together.”

“Isn’t that delightful, Sir Ian?” Melisande cooed. “Just one cozy little countryside Christmas.”

Ian’s hand flexed into a fist. Delightful was the very last word he would use to describe it all.

Chapter Two

“A glass of mulled wine, my lady? It should be warming after such a chilly journey,” Melisande’s butler said, holding out his tray laden with silver goblets as Cassandra stepped into the foyer.

“Thank you, Smithers,” she said. She handed her snow-dusted cloak to a footman and gratefully took a cup. The drink was still so warm it steamed, and it smelled of rich spices and fine red wine. It made her feel like Christmas had truly come.

“Her Grace and the other guests are in the drawing room, my lady.”

The other guests? Including Ian? She had been thinking about him being here ever since Melisande had said she invited him. “Am I the last to arrive?” she asked, carefully neutral. It was bad enough that she was so unsettled by all these new feelings for Ian, this missing him. It would never do if everyone else could see it, too.

She especially did not want Ian himself to know, but she feared he probably did. He knew women all too well.

“No, my lady. Her Grace is still expecting several others, I believe.”

“The snow has probably delayed them,” Cassandra said. The flakes, so delicate and pretty, had begun falling halfway through her journey, until even warm bricks and fur-lined robes couldn’t keep the cold at bay. She hoped Ian wasn’t out there in it.

But she also didn’t want to see him again just yet. Not until she could prepare herself.

“I will just join the others, Smithers,” she said. She put her now-empty goblet back on the tray and made her way slowly through the foyer and along the corridor toward the drawing room.

She had been to Melisande’s little manor house several times. It was not Melisande’s husband’s grand ducal seat, but her own cozy little pleasure place not too far from London for parties and gatherings. But Cassandra had never been there at Christmastime, and she made her way slowly as she marveled at the beautiful decorations. Swags of greenery tied with red bows looped around picture frames and hung from the plasterwork. Vases on their marble stands were filled with holly bouquets, and kissing boughs of branches and ribbons were in every doorway. Somehow the whole house even smelled like mulled wine, sweet and spicy and warm.

She could hear the laughter from the drawing room even before the footmen opened the doors for her. It was already loud and merry, punctuated by carols from the pianoforte. I Saw Three Ships played slightly off-key, as if the musician had been dipping into the wine. Cassandra smiled at the sound. It had been so long since she enjoyed a Christmas! So long since she had had fun.

And she intended to have a lot more fun before the holiday was over, if all went according to plan. She was going to leave the old, staid Cassandra behind.

She smoothed her hair and her dark red carriage dress before she stepped into the room. Her gaze quickly scanned the gathering, but she saw right away that Ian was not among them.

Lord Phillips, however, was there. He stood by the pianoforte, turning the pages for Melisande’s cousin as she banged out the song on the keys. He looked up at Cassandra’s entrance, and a quick, wide smile flashed across his face.

Cassandra smiled back. Lord Phillips really was quite handsome, with his auburn hair and green eyes, his even, aristocratic features and easy smile. His shoulders were also rather broad and strong-looking under his well-tailored coat. He was easy to talk to, quick with a joke. He didn’t make her feel nervous when she spoke with him.

Yes, he was a good choice to help her get back into the world of romance and flirtation. But …

But he was not Ian. No one else was Ian.

Ian doesn’t want you, she reminded herself sternly. Not in that way. That kiss, which had awakened so many things within her, had made him leave her. She couldn’t let that happen again. Having Ian for her friend was so much better than not having him at all.

If only she could forget the way his lips felt on hers, the way he tasted, the way his hand slid over her skin.

Cassandra shivered and gratefully accepted another glass of wine from the footman. Melisande rose from her settee across the room, where she sat with two of her admirers, and hurried over to greet Cassandra.

“My dear! You are here at last,” she cried. “Isn’t this weather beastly? I hope the others arrive very soon.”

“I am quite glad to be here,” Cassandra said, returning Melisande’s embrace. “The house looks so festive.”

“We’ll have games of blind man’s buff and hide-and-seek later, and of course more carols, if someone can persuade my cousin to let someone else have a turn.” Melisande led her toward the cozy groupings of chairs by the blazing fire. “Now, Cassie, I have assigned you a chamber right across the corridor from Lord Phillips, and you will sit with him at dinner. It is all arranged. Now, you must be bold.”

Bold? She felt like a scared little rabbit, peeking out of her forest hiding place for the first time. But it was past time for her to come out into the light again. She took a long sip of her wine and gave Melisande a determined smile.

“Now, come and meet Mr. Evans and his wife, this is the first time they’ve attended one of my little soirees,” Melisande whispered. “I think they are a tiny bit nervous, though I cannot imagine why …”

“Good afternoon, Sir Ian. Such a wretched day for a journey.”

“Indeed it is, Smithers,” Ian said as he stamped the snow from his boots and slid out of his greatcoat. “I’m just glad I didn’t attempt to drive the curricle from Town.”

Though trying to maneuver the little, high-perched open carriage through a sudden snowfall just might have been preferable to how he did spend the journey. Alone in a closed carriage as he thought about seeing Cassandra here. He had had a hard enough time controlling himself at the ball. Here, at one of Melisande’s famously romantic house parties …

Ian shook his head hard. He would just have to try to stay away from her, to be polite and friendly, and not give in to the primitive urge to grab her in his arms and devour her delicious mouth all over again.

“Her Grace and the other guests are in the drawing room, Sir Ian,” the butler said. “I’m afraid I must see to an emergency in the dining room, but there is wine and refreshments laid out in there.”

“Thank you, Smithers. I know the way.”

“Very good, sir.”

Once the butler was gone and Ian was alone in the foyer, he took a moment to make sure he looked suitably civilized before he faced Cassandra. As he shoved his fingers through his hair, pushing back the tangled strands, he glimpsed a chart laid out on a nearby table.

It was the chamber assignments for the guests, neatly lettered cards with each person’s name slotted into a specific doorway. He was in the Red Room, he noticed. And Cassandra was in the Gold Room, at the opposite end of the corridor.

“There you are at last!” he heard Melisande cry. “I was beginning to think you had gotten lost, Ian, darling.”

Ian looked up to grin at her. “And miss out on one of your famous parties, Mel? Never.”

Melisande laughed as she came to slip her hand around his elbow. “I didn’t think you would, but then again you have been acting so oddly lately. One never knows.”

“Oddly?”

“Hmm. So distant and serious, as if you had something quite weighty on your mind. Most unlike you.” She tapped her free hand on the chart. “Are you happy with your room arrangement?”

“All of your accommodations are most comfortable, Melisande.”

“Yes, I do want people to be—comfortable,” she said with a trilling laugh. “And you are quite near to Mrs. Raye. She was asking me about you last week. It seems she met you at the theater and was quite impressed.”

“Mrs. Raye?” Ian asked, confused. He couldn’t even remember the lady. That wasn’t like him either. Another sign he needed to quit thinking about Cassandra. “I’m not really interested in any—activities this Christmas, Mel.”

Her brow arched. “No? Darling, are you quite sure you’re not ill?”

“Not ill. Just not interested at the moment.”

She still watched him doubtfully. “Well, if you do change your mind, Mrs. Raye is in the Chinese Room just opposite yours. I have several little matchmaking schemes this holiday.”

Ian laughed. “When do you not?”

“You do know me well. But this time it is rather special, for a good friend who needs a little romance in her life. She had been alone too long.” She tapped at Cassandra’s card and then at the one on the chamber next to it. Lord Phillips. “A rather good match, don’t you agree?”

No, he certainly did not agree. Ian scowled down at the cards. His hands curled into tight fists to keep from tearing them out. “You’ve matched Cassandra with Lord Phillips? That milque-toast?”

“Yes. He rather reminds me of Charles, and she seemed happy with him. You were such friends with them when Charles was alive. Don’t you think this will work out well, darling?”

Before Ian could make some furious answer, there was a discreet cough from the doorway. “Yes, Smithers, what is it?” Melisande said, turning away from Ian.

“I am sorry, Your Grace, but something requires your attention in the dining room,” the butler said.

“Of course,” Melisande answered. “Ian, darling, I will see you in the drawing room. Do talk to Mrs. Raye while you’re there.”

Then she was gone and Ian was alone with the infernal chart. He stared down at it, so many things roiling around in his heart. Anger, jealousy, a strange possessiveness, and—fear? Fear that Cassie would find someone else. If she wanted an affair, a new romance, he could give her that—no one else.

For an instant, an image flashed through his mind of Cassandra with Lord Phillips, his auburn head bent towards hers as she went up on tiptoe to meet his kiss. And, damn it all, Ian knew just how her kiss would taste, knew the soft little sound she would make in her throat. How her arms would feel as they twined around his neck.

And by Jove, but he couldn’t let Phillips or any other man have that from her. A primitive, raw surge of sheer possessiveness deep inside of him swept away all the very good reasons he knew he should not be with Cassandra.

He reached down and switched out his card with Lord Phillips’s. Now all he had to do was to keep Melisande from checking it before the others got their chamber assignments, and then take the next step in his plan.

Chapter Three

Cassandra took a deep swallow of her glass of brandy and stared at herself in the dressing table mirror. It was like looking at a stranger, not the woman she had been all her life. Her dark hair fell in loose curls over her shoulders, clad in a filmy new blue silk dressing gown, and her eyes were feverishly bright. Whether with excitement or fear she wasn’t quite sure.

She took another gulp of the brandy, grateful for its warm bite at the back of her throat. She almost never drank, but she needed its courage tonight. “You can do this,” she said aloud. “You can.” People had romances every day. Why shouldn’t she?

Lord Phillips had certainly seemed to like her very much when they talked at dinner, and then after when they sang carols with the others. He had paid her compliments, smiled—touched her hand under the table. He was handsome and seemed kind. Patient. Just what she needed.

But she hadn’t been able to stop stealing glances along the table to where Ian sat. He had seemed so serious tonight amid the holiday merriment, his eyes full of shadows. It made her long to go and sit with him, to touch his arm and beg him to tell her what was wrong. To just be with him, far away from this party, to be Ian and Cassandra again. To kiss him and feel him kiss her back.

Then he had glanced up and caught her staring at him, a frown flickering over his brow. He smiled back at her when she made herself smile at him, but there was no teasing glint there to make her laugh as there usually was. And then he turned away from her.

Cassandra’s fingers tightened on her glass, and for an instant she had the mad urge to go to Ian instead of Lord Phillips, to make him talk to her again. But it was obvious he didn’t want her after that kiss. She had to forget about him.

She quickly swallowed the last of her brandy. Along with the wine from dinner and the claret punch of the carol-singing, it gave her a dizzy sort of courage. She could do this. She tightened the sash of her dressing gown and marched to the door.

She peeked out carefully before she stepped into the corridor. Earlier she had heard many stealthy footsteps creeping past, the clicks of doors opening and hastily muffled giggles, but the hour was quite late now and everything was quiet. The candles in the wall sconces sputtered low, casting flickering shadows on the silk wallpaper and the flowered carpet runner. A low moan sounded from behind one of the doors.

Cassandra almost turned and ran back into her room. Don’t be a coward, she told herself sternly. She was lonely, she wanted romance in her life. She just had to go and find it.

Even if it was not with the man she really wanted.

She tiptoed over to the door of the Blue Room, where Melisande said Lord Phillips was lodged and where he was expecting her. Carefully, she tested the brass handle, which turned easily in her hand. Everything was dark over the threshold, except for one bar of snow-silvery moonlight that fell from the window across the foot of the bed.

“Be brave,” she whispered. She slid into the room and softly closed the door behind her. She leaned back against it for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the shadows. She could see the looming shapes of a wardrobe and dressing table, the flicker of a dying fire in the grate, the large, satin-draped bed.

The figure lying under the rumpled blankets, turned away from her on his side.

At first all she could hear was the thunderous pounding of her own heart, but then she made out the soft sound of light, steady breathing from the bed.

It was now or never. Seize the moment—or die a lonely widow. Cassandra sucked in a deep breath and let the dressing gown slide from her shoulders to leave her clad only in her silk chemise. The chilly air rushed over her bare skin, making her shiver.

Before she could flee, she rushed to the waiting bed and climbed up onto the high mattress. The warmth of a man’s sleep-hot skin crept out to wrap around her, and her heart ached to be so near another person like this again. Her bed had been so cold for so long.

Her husband had been quick in his lovemaking, kissing her, lifting her gown and finishing. But she remembered the things she had wanted to do with him, dreamed of doing. Things her married friends whispered about. Things that lately she had dreamed of doing with Ian. She gathered all her scattered courage and reached out to lightly slide her hands over his shoulders.

His bare shoulders. By Jove, he slept naked? She hadn’t even thought men did such a thing. His skin was warm and slightly damp, like smooth satin over hard iron muscles. Lord Phillips was stronger and larger than she had imagined. Fascinating. She traced the tip of her finger along the groove of his spine to where the sheet draped over his lean hips, hiding the rest of him from her.

Was he taller, as well? How could that be?

A rough groan broke the silence of the room. “Cassandra,” he muttered, and suddenly he rolled over and caught her around the waist, carrying her down to the bed. His body was hard and heavy over hers as his mouth closed over hers in the darkness.

Cassandra couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She gasped, and his tongue took advantage of the small sound to slide deep against hers, greedy, hungry. It was overwhelming, overpowering….

Wonderful. She couldn’t believe anyone could kiss like this. Why, oh, why hadn’t she tried kissing strange men sooner? His teeth nipped lightly at her lower lip then his tongue soothed the tiny sting and all she knew was the delicious fire that swept over her skin at that touch.

He tasted of wine and mint, of something dark and rich, and he smelled of sandalwood soap….

Sandalwood? For one flashing instant she remembered the way Ian always smelled, so clean and exotic at the same time. The way his hair felt under her fingertips. Soft, like raw silk. Just like the hair that slid over her skin now as his open mouth traced a hot ribbon of kisses down her neck, over her bare shoulder.

But Lord Phillips’s hair was close-cropped.

Her eyes flew open and she stared down at the head against her shoulder. The dark head. She froze in panic.

“Cassie,” he muttered. “What’s wrong?”

What was wrong? She was in bed with Ian, that was what was wrong!

And yet it felt so horribly, wonderfully right.

Cassandra pushed him away with a shriek. Startled by her sudden move, he fell off her body back to the bed and she sat up straight. She jerked up the sheet to cover herself in her thin chemise, but that unfortunately left Ian quite naked. The beam of moonlight turned his lean, glistening body to pure, molten silver.

And, damn him, he didn’t seem in the least bit concerned that he was naked. He sat up beside her and knelt back on his heels, staring down at her in concern. His hair was tousled from the touch of her fingers.

“Cassie?” he said hoarsely.

“You— What are you doing here?” she stammered.

Much to her horror, a grin touched his lips. “I think that was obvious. I was kissing you, until I was rudely interrupted.”

“But you—you …” Cassandra had no idea what to say, what to do. Nothing in her oh-so-proper upbringing, or her equally proper marriage, had ever prepared her for a situation like this. Finding herself in bed with the wrong man.

The man she had secretly wanted to be in bed with more than anything.

Ian slowly stretched out on the mattress again, his head propped on his folded arms as his beautiful body was spread before her. His broad, smooth chest, tapering to a lean waist and narrow hips, his long, hair-dusted legs, the hard evidence of his arousal …

No! Cassandra snapped her eyes closed. But she could still see him there.

“Expecting someone else, were you?” he said, and he sounded so infuriatingly satisfied with himself.

“This isn’t your room,” she said.

“It is now. And I was just wondering if I should go knock on your door when I fell so inconveniently asleep.” She felt his hand brush lightly over hers where she clutched at the sheet. “I confess, I don’t think I’ve ever been awakened in such a delightful manner before.”

Cassandra shook her head. He sounded like the old Ian again at last, teasing, flirtatious, comfortable. But there was something else there, as well, a dark tension she had never heard from him before. It made her tremble.

“But you don’t want this,” she whispered.

In answer he gently took her hand in his and pulled it away from the linen. He pressed her fingers over his erection, and it felt so hot and velvet-smooth under her touch.

“Does it feel like I don’t want this?” he said hoarsely. “Damn it, Cassie, but when you touch me …”

She could scarcely believe this was happening, that she was with Ian, touching him so intimately. And he was so hard for her. If this was a dream, she didn’t want it to end. Not yet.

She slowly slid her fingers down over him, tracing the length of his manhood before she moved back up again, a bit harder. He groaned, and she felt him jerk against her hand.

“Oh!” she gasped.

“Yes—oh,” he answered, his voice harsh. He twined his fingers in her hair and drew her closer to him, his open mouth pressing to the sensitive curve of her neck just below her ear. “Damn it, Cassie, but you taste delicious. Like vanilla custard.”

“Va-vanilla custard?” she said. Her head feel back, her eyes sliding closed at the feeling of his mouth on her skin. It was so wonderful, it made her feel hot and shivering all at the same time. Her hand fell away from his erection and she braced it on his hair-roughened thigh to keep from falling.

“Mmm-hmm. I always did have a terrible craving for sweets.” Ian trailed a hot ribbon of kisses along her collarbone to the curve of her shoulder as his hand slid over the strap of her chemise. He eased it away from her body, baring her skin inch by inch.

Something deep inside of her screamed at Cassandra that this was Ian touching her naked body, kissing her. Hard for her. That something seemed to watch from a distance as their bodies slid together on the bed, completely aghast at what she was doing. But Cassandra could only hear those protests as a vague murmur. She could only feel Ian’s long, strong fingers on her skin, his mouth on her. Could only want more.

Ian eased her back down to the pillows and drew her chemise over her head, leaving her lying naked beneath him. She had never been completely naked in front of any man before, not even Charles. Her husband had usually lifted her nightdress just enough to bare what he needed, being far too polite to really look at her. For a moment, shyness washed over her and she tried to cover her bare breasts with her hands. Ian had surely seen many beautiful women. What if she disappointed him? She was too thin, her breasts too small.

But he caught her hands in his and held them to the bed. His eyes grew hooded, dark, as he looked down at her. It felt as if he touched her physically with his gaze and she trembled.

“You are so beautiful, Cassie,” he said, in a voice she had never heard from him before. A rough, harsh voice, as if he held himself on a tight tether. His arms tensed on either side of her as he held her hands down, the lean muscles rippling under his smooth, damp skin.

And then he touched her in truth, gently caressing her naked breasts. His fingertips trailed over their curves, slightly callused on her soft skin. His touch swept closer and closer to her aching nipples, teasing and retreating. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, begging him to touch her.

She let her breath out on a sigh when he finally caught one of the pink, hard nipples between his thumb and forefinger, lightly pinching, rolling. Waves of pure, hot pleasure swept through her and her back arched off the bed.

“So beautiful,” he said. “I’ve waited so long….”

He bent his head and caught the nipple he caressed deep in his mouth, sucking, licking. He cupped her other breast on his palm, his fingers teasing its crest. Cassandra cried out, her head tossing on the pillows.

She twisted her fingers in his thick, rough-silk hair and pulled him up to her, sighing as his mouth claimed hers in a fierce, hard kiss. His tongue slid past her lips to taste her and she met him eagerly. He tasted delicious, just as she remembered and had dreamed of ever since that kiss in the rain. She felt a rush of pure, raw joy that he was in her arms again when she had been sure it would never happen.

How could she keep him from escaping again?

But any thoughts fled before the feeling of his mouth on hers, his tongue twining with hers. He made her feel dizzy, giddy.

She twisted her fingers even deeper into his hair as his hands slipped down to grasp her hips and tilt her body tighter against his, until she spread her legs and wrapped them around his waist. Kissing him like this, as if they were starved for each other, her body so close to him, she knew she had never felt so very intimate with anyone before in her life.

Desperate to hold on to that connection, she kissed him back even harder and slid her hips over his, making him groan when his erection brushed her trembling inner thigh.

“Cassie,” he whispered. He kissed the soft curve of her shoulder, licked lightly at the hollow of her throat. His lips traced the soft valley between her breasts, the curve of her waist and the flare of her hip. “Cassie.”

She closed her eyes tightly as he kissed the top of her thigh, the crease below her hip. Cassandra gasped, and she felt his smile against her skin before his lips trailed over the back of her leg and he kissed the vulnerable spot at the underside of her knee. She hooked her other knee over his shoulder and when he groaned with the harshness of tightly leashed need, she felt truly beautiful for the first time in her life.

It was Ian who knelt so intimately between her legs. Ian who wanted her.

And then she felt his tongue touch her there, teasing that tiny, sensitive spot. Then his tongue plunged deep, rough and delicate at the same time. It was the most intimate thing she had ever dared to imagine. She cried out incoherently at the rush of pleasure. She couldn’t make any words, think any thoughts but of him.

Afraid she could take no more, she tugged hard at his hair. His mouth eased away from her to press a soft kiss to the inside of her thigh. He rose up above her body until his lips claimed hers in a hard, possessive kiss as he lowered his hips against hers.

Cassandra wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held on tightly as he slid inside of her, all hot, damp friction. She pushed up to meet him and he thrust forward until he was joined to her completely.

Ian drew back and thrust forward again, faster, harder, his arms braced to the bed. He caught her moans with another kiss, and deep inside she could feel a pressure grow—hot, sparkling, sizzling, something just beyond her desperate reach. But she reached for it anyway, reached for it harder and harder….

One of his hands reached between their joined bodies and he rubbed his fingertip over that one most sensitive spot, and it felt as if she leaped free into the sky. The knot of hot pleasure exploded into a thousand fiery shards.

“Cassie!” Ian shouted against her shoulder as he thrust into her. His head fell back and his whole body tightened as his hips went still against hers.

Then he collapsed onto the bed beside her. She tried to draw air deep into her lungs, to breathe again. She held onto Ian tightly. She didn’t want to let him go yet, she didn’t want the cold world outside to encroach on this dream. It frightened her how much she had forgotten everything else here in his arms.

She felt him bury his face in her shoulder and press his lips on her damp, trembling skin. His arm looped over her waist, almost as if he didn’t want to let her go either.

Cassandra sighed and glanced at the window. It was still night-dark outside, but the falling snow cast an other-worldly silver glow. She stroked the sweat-damp strands of his hair and felt the softness of his breath on her bare skin. She closed her eyes, wanting to cling to him and flee all at the same time. What had she done?

“I should go back to my chamber,” she murmured.

Ian’s arm tightened around her. “Stay. Just for a little while longer. Please, Cassie.”

Just a little while longer. She wanted to stay forever just like this, wrapped in his arms. But he had left her before, after just a kiss.

Now that she knew the full force of his passion, and her fiery response to it, how could she lose him again?

Chapter Four

The light from the window pierced through Ian’s dreams, pulling him up out of the darkest, most peaceful sleep he could ever remember having. He groaned and rolled onto his back, throwing his forearm over his eyes to block that icy-white light.

The rumpled sheet slid low on his naked hips and he caught a hint of lilac perfume from the soft linen folds. Cassie. It hadn’t been a dream. It had been wonderfully real, Cassandra under his body as he slid over her, inside of her, as she came apart with pleasure around him.

“Cassie,” he called as he pushed himself up. But the bedchamber was empty and cold.

Ian rubbed his hand over his bristled jaw. Maybe it was a dream, born of the lust he had tried to suppress for her for so long? Yet his body felt relaxed with the perfect satisfaction that only came from sex, and there was that perfume. No dream could be that vivid.

He had to find Cassie.

Ian swung his legs off the bed and stretched. Pillows and blankets were tossed on the floor in a haphazard pile. Under the edge of one cushion he glimpsed a crumpled pale blue dressing gown.

He picked it up and ran the soft fabric through his hands, remembering the way Cassandra’s skin felt under his caress, her hair sliding over him. Her soft sighs and cries as he brought her pleasure. The faint scent of her perfume rose from the silk folds and made him grow hard all over again.

Ian cursed and tossed the gown onto the bed, turning away to stride to the window. He braced his hands on the polished ledge and stared out at the cold, white scene below. Snowdrifts covered the gardens like a soft, pale blanket, and the trees were coated with ice that sparkled like diamonds in the gray-bright sunlight. It looked like a different world outside—a new, clean, bright fairyland where anything could happen. Even the impossible—like him winning Cassandra.

He closed his eyes and saw again the first time he glimpsed her. Ian was a man who liked women, who enjoyed their company, and they enjoyed his, as well. Yet he had never been in love. He couldn’t even imagine what love could feel like. There were too many lovely, fascinating women out there in the world for him to think of settling on one. He was simply enjoying his life far too much.

Then he was invited to his friend Charles’s wedding. Charles had always been the most serious of Ian’s friends, so it was no surprise he chose to marry so young, and to one of an impoverished country earl’s four daughters, too. Ian waited with the rest of the congregation in that country church on a hot summer day, the scent of roses heavy in the air, the mother of the bride crying happy tears in her pew as Charles smiled nervously at the altar. Ian had shifted in his seat, wondering if he could possibly make it to a party that night to meet with the luscious red-haired widow he’d had his eye on.

The church doors opened, and a young lady appeared there on her father’s arm. She wore yellow muslin and white lace, like a ray of summer sunshine brought into the stuffy church. Her dark hair was loose on her shoulders, crowned with a wreath of yellow flowers, and she smiled shyly as she studied the gathering.

That was the moment Ian knew love was possible in the world. When he looked at the woman who was about to marry his friend, and everything else went still.

He didn’t go find his widow after all. He spent that night getting quietly drunk.

In the years that followed, he pushed down and ignored his feelings, convinced himself they didn’t exist. He befriended Cassie, learned of her sweetness and intelligence, which only made her more beautiful. And he searched for solace in other beds, other pursuits. He almost convinced himself he didn’t care for Cassie in that way.

Until he kissed her in the rain, and all those feelings came roaring free. After making love to her, tasting her passion—passion that equaled his own—he couldn’t let her go. Even though he knew he should, that she deserved far better than a rogue like him.

He glanced back at her gown on the rumpled bed. She had run away from him last night. But he wouldn’t let her run for long.

Cassandra slid down low on the settee by the library fireplace and tried to concentrate on the book she held in her hands. She had thought she could hide in there, both from Melisande’s other guests and from her own worries over what she had done last night.

Everyone else was engaged in a wild game of hide-and-seek along the corridors and up in the attics, so they weren’t likely to look for her, especially in the library. But her own thoughts … those were harder to escape from.

Every time she looked at the page, she saw Ian’s face as he leaned down to kiss her. Instead of the warmth of the fire through her thin muslin gown she felt his touch. Last night had been wondrous, beyond anything she could ever have imagined. She had never known pleasure like that could exist in the world. And to find it with Ian …

Cassandra snapped the book shut with a sigh. Last night with Ian was perfect. But when she opened her eyes to the light of dawn and saw his peaceful, sleeping face on the pillow beside hers, she was beset with doubts and fears. What if it was too perfect? What if he turned away from her again?

So she fled to her own chamber, not even going back when she realized she’d left her dressing gown behind. She had to decide how to behave, what to say, when she saw Ian again. Running to him and throwing herself into his arms as she longed to do couldn’t be an option.

There was a soft knock at the door. Glad of a distraction, Cassandra called out, “Come in.”

It was Smithers, Melisande’s butler. He held a folded letter in one hand and her fur-lined cloak in the other. “I beg your pardon for the interruption, my lady, but this message came for you.”

“A message for me?” Cassandra said, puzzled. Who would be sending her letters here? Her sisters were all scattered about the countryside with their families for the holiday, her parents off at Brighton with the youngest. Surely nothing had happened to them?

Smithers gave her the note and she ripped it open. It was very short, written in a dark, spiky scrawl, and definitely not from her sisters.

Meet me outside the front door in fifteen minutes. If you say no, I’ll just come in and find you. Ian.

Cassandra swallowed hard as she read the message a second time. He hadn’t run from her after all. He was waiting for her just outside.

She couldn’t run from him.

Smithers gave a discreet little cough and held out her cloak. “I was told you would need this, my lady. And these.” He produced her boots and gloves.

“Thank you, Smithers.” In a dreamy haze, she quickly donned her outdoor garments and hurried out of the library and through the front door.

Ian was indeed waiting for her there, holding the reins of a small white-and-gold sleigh drawn by two white horses. It was a beautiful conveyance, seemingly made for a snow queen, gleaming and opulent in the silvery sunlight. But surely the most beautiful part was the flash of Ian’s smile as he waved at her.

“Come for a ride with me, Cassie,” he called. “It’s a gorgeous day, is it not?”

Cassandra laughed. “If you enjoy freezing your nose off, I suppose,” she said, but she let one of the footmen help her up onto the narrow seat beside Ian. Ian tucked the fur-lined robes around her and slid a hot brick under her feet.

“It’s perfectly warm. See?” he said. And he kissed her lightly, his lips sliding over hers.

Indeed it was. She couldn’t remember ever being so warm, so tingling with heat, before. Everything else vanished.

But when she reached for him, he slid away with a teasing grin. “I have a surprise for you,” he said. He flicked the reins and set the magical little sleigh into motion. Silver bells rang out in merry music as they glided over the snow.

“I’m not sure I like surprises,” she said as she snuggled down into the blankets. The scenery flashed by in a glittering white blur.

“You’ll like this one,” Ian answered. “Though probably not quite as much as I liked my surprise last night.”

Cassandra felt her cheeks turn warm, and she ducked her head to hide her blush. How could she tell him she hadn’t meant to surprise him last night? That it had all been a fortunate mistake?

One surprise at a time was surely enough for now.

They drove down a narrow track through a wooded area, where the ice sparkled on the tree branches like diamonds. It was so quiet there, so magical with the snow piled all around and not another living being in sight. Cassandra put her arm through Ian’s and rested her head on his shoulder as they continued their journey.

At last he turned down a circular drive and drew up in front of a cottage. It looked as if it belonged in a fairy tale with the sleigh, a tiny dwelling of rosy-red brick with old-fashioned mullioned windows gleaming in the light, reflecting back the gray sky and the snow. In the summer it was probably covered with climbing roses, but even in the depth of winter it was charming, so cozy and inviting. A gray plume of smoke curled from one of the chimneys, but there was no other sign of life.

“Who lives here?” she asked as she studied the windows.

“We do,” Ian said. “At least for today.” He came around to help her from the sleigh, but instead of putting her down on the snowy ground he swept her up in his arms. He carried her through the garden gate and up the path to the front door. “It belongs to Melisande and happens to be between tenants at the moment. She loaned it to me.”

Cassandra laughed and held on tight to his neck as he swung her down a narrow corridor and through a low doorway into a sitting room. She gasped when she saw what was there. A bright fire burned in the grate, and spread before it was a picnic arrayed on a fur-edged blanket. Bread, cheese, cakes, hothouse strawberries and wine, with flower petals scattered across the floor to cast their sweet scent into the air.

“Oh, Ian,” she whispered. “Is this the surprise?”

“I thought it was time we were properly alone at last,” he said, and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. “Is this a surprise to your liking?”

“Oh, yes. Very much to my liking.”

Chapter Five

“That was the most delicious meal ever,” Cassandra sighed as she lay back on the fur-edged blanket. She felt so warm and content, with the heat from the fire dancing over her skin and the wine she had drunk winding through her body. How long had it been since she had felt so deeply content, so very right?

Never, she realized. She had never felt like this before, as if she was exactly where she was meant to be. And it was all thanks to Ian.

She rolled onto her side and propped her head on her arm to study him as he lay stretched out beside her. He was the very picture of indolent, masculine grace, a jungle panther stretched out to sleep in the sun. He had shed his coat and cravat and his shirt fell open to reveal a deep vee of glistening, smoothly muscled skin and the strong column of his throat. In one hand he held a half-full glass of wine while the other stroked the folds of her skirt.

A half-smile touched his lips. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. So you decided you like surprises after all?”

“I like your kind of surprises.” Cassandra reached out and gently traced her fingertips over the chiseled angles of his face. His sharp cheekbones, the rough bristles over his jaw, his closed eyes and the silken sweep of his brows. He lay there, very still, his eyes shut, and let her touch him.

Until she swept a soft caress over his sensual lips, and he suddenly caught the tip of her finger between his teeth. She laughed in surprise, but the laugh faded to a sigh as his tongue swept over her skin and he nibbled lightly on her fingertip. A flash of heat swept through her, like lightning. She pressed her palm to his cheek and wished they could be here like this forever, just the two of them.

Ian put down his glass and wound his arm around her waist, lowering her down onto the blanket. His palms planted to either side of her as he held himself over her on his arms. His dark eyes were hooded and intent as he stared down at her.

Cassandra let her hands fall to the floor above her head, leaving herself spread out beneath him.

“Why did you run away this morning?” he said quietly.

“I didn’t …” she began. But something in his eyes, in the still, taut way he held his body, made her realize she couldn’t hide. Not from him, not from Ian. “It was almost dawn, and I wasn’t sure what to do. What the—the etiquette is in such situations. I didn’t want to be caught sneaking out of your room.”

“Understandable,” Ian said. “But that wasn’t the only reason.”

“No.” Cassandra turned her head to the side so she couldn’t see his eyes watching her so carefully. As if he could see all her secrets there. “Oh, Ian. Last night was so amazing. I never knew it could be like that. I’d dreamed about you for so long, wondered what it would be like. And it was beyond anything I could have dreamed of. But then …”

“Then?”

“I was afraid.”

“Afraid of me?” he said, his voice so appalled. He pushed himself off her and started to turn away, but Cassandra grabbed his hand to hold him with her. “I was too rough. I let my own need overwhelm me.”

“No!” she cried. “You were perfect. I was only afraid of myself, of the way I felt with you. I’ve never felt like that before, so—so wild and free. I was afraid of myself, and afraid of losing you as I did after we kissed in the garden. I couldn’t bear it if you turned away from me again, Ian. I …”

She nearly said “I love you,” but she bit her lip to hold those words back. She let go of him and turned around to cover her eyes with her hands. It was a shocking realization—she did love Ian, more than she had ever loved anyone. Even Charles.

But saying those words would surely drive him away forever.

“Oh, Cassie.” She felt his hands gently touch her shoulders, smoothing a light caress over her arms. He turned her around and drew her close against his chest, his arms tight around her. She buried her face in his shoulder and inhaled deeply of his familiar, delicious scent.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Cassie, I stayed away after that kiss because I didn’t want to hurt you. I was your husband’s friend; I thought you would be disgusted by my attentions. That if you knew the true depths of my desire you would hate me. I couldn’t bear that.”

“No, no,” she murmured against him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close. “I thought I disgusted you. That you thought of me only as a friend, and that if you knew the dreams I had been having of you, you would leave me.”

“Cassie, Cassie,” he said, laughing. “What a pair we have been. I’ve needed you for so long.”

He took her face between his hands, his thumbs caressing her cheeks as he raised her eyes to his. She peeked up at him, everything blurry through the sheen of her unshed tears, and she saw that he smiled down at her tenderly.

His lips met hers, softly at first, as if this was their very first kiss. Then he pressed deeper, the tip of his tongue tracing the curve of her lower lip until she moaned. His tongue slipped inside, twining over hers, tasting her deeply. She felt his fingers in her hair, tilting her head so he could kiss her even deeper, more intimately.

He tasted so wonderful, of wine and fruit, and of that dark essence of himself that she had come to crave. She dug her fingers into his shoulders and pressed herself even closer to him. Her breasts pillowed against his hard chest.

He groaned against her lips, and his arms tightened around her to carry her down to the blankets. His kiss turned harder, wilder, and something in her answered his need with a burning passion of her own.

She reached for the hem of his shirt and dragged it up so she could touch his naked, ridged chest, running a caress over it as she felt his muscles tighten against her. She wanted to feel all of him, see him, know him.

His lips slid from hers to kiss her cheek, the pulse that beat in her temple, the curl of her ear. His teeth nipped lightly at her earlobe, brushed over that tiny, sensitive spot just below. He traced a ribbon of open-mouthed kisses along her arched neck and drew away the bodice of her gown to lick the curve of her shoulder, the swell of her soft breast.

“Ian,” she sighed.

As if the sound of his name unleashed something inside of him, he pulled off her dress, snapping the fastenings. Her chemise followed, and she lay beneath him only in her stockings. Feeling that wondrous sense of freedom sweep over her, she stretched her arms above her head and arched her body against his as his stare swept over her like a starving man would look at a feast. She had never felt so very beautiful, so desired.

And she had never wanted anything as much as she wanted him.

He tore his shift off over his head and lowered himself over her, their bodies pressed together. His head bent and his mouth closed hard over her aching nipple, his tongue swirling around its tip, his teeth lightly nibbling. Cassandra gasped and twisted her fingers in his hair to hold him against her.

She wrapped her legs around his hips, her heels pressed to the curve of his buttocks, sheathed in tight woolen breeches. His mouth moved to her other breast, kissing and suckling it until she gasped. Her eyes closed as she felt his hand slide down over her torso, the flare of her hip. His fingertips feathered lightly over her skin, teasing, closer and closer to her womanhood but then sliding away.

She twisted her head back, writhing under his hands, his mouth. “Touch me, Ian!” she cried. “Please, touch me now.”

With a rough laugh, he gave her what she wanted. One finger slid deep inside of her, his thumb brushing against that one most sensitive spot.

“Do you like that, Cassie?” he said tightly, as his mouth moved up over her neck again. “Do you like it when I touch you there?”

“Yes,” she said, and sobbed as he slid two more fingers into her, thrusting them deep. Her legs fell away from him so she could plant her feet on the floor to either side of his hips to hold herself to the earth. She was half-afraid she would soar off into the sky.

“Ian, please,” she moaned. Suddenly, his hands closed hard on her waist and he turned her over. She cried out at the loss of his touch, but then she heard the rustle of fabric as he unfastened his breeches and felt his hands drawing her hips up and back. She spread her legs further apart and almost sobbed as he thrust into her.

Being joined to him felt so very right, so perfect. She braced her hands to the floor and pressed back against him to bring him even closer.

“Cassie,” he said hoarsely. He held her hips and began to move, a fast, hard rhythm punctuated by their harsh breath, the damp sound of skin against skin. His hips slid along her backside as he thrust faster, deeper.

Cassandra closed her eyes and reveled in every movement, every feeling of him against her. That hot pleasure she remembered from last night gathered in a tight knot deep inside her, expanding with every thrust of him against her. She reached out further, further, until at last it burst and she felt like she was being showered with bright sparks of hot, wild joy.

Behind her, Ian shouted out and she felt his body go taut and still against her. He gave one more hard thrust, moaned her name.

Then he collapsed beside her on his back, his forearm flung over his eyes. Cassandra sank down onto the blanket and rolled onto her back, trying to catch her breath. She felt his hand cover hers, their fingers twining as they just lay there together in silence for long, perfect moments.

Ian raised her fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss to them. “Do you still fear I would be disgusted by your desire, Cassie?”

She laughed and curled her hand tighter around his, still too weak to move. “I think that coming to your chamber last night was the best mistake I ever made.”

“It was no mistake, Cassie,” he said with a naughty-sounding chuckle. “I switched the room assignments once I realized what you were up to, with a little help from Melisande. I wasn’t going to let you get away from me again.”

Shocked, Cassandra sat up straight and stared down at his insufferably satisfied, ridiculously handsome face. “You—you knew? You were waiting for me?”

“I was, and you took a very long time deciding to make your move. I was just about to come to your room.”

“But—why?”

“Don’t you know, Cassie?” Ian sat up beside her and drew her into his arms, holding her close against him. “I would do anything for you because I love you. The thought of you being with another man killed me, and I knew that no matter what, I had to tell you—show you—how I feel.”

Cassandra stared up at him in wonder, not sure if she had heard him right or if she had just dreamed those words. “You love me?”

His dark eyes reflected back only the truth as he nodded. “I’ve loved you for a very long time. And I swear to you, Cassie, that I will spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of your love, to earn it.”

She shook her head and laughed, a joy like nothing she had ever felt before sweeping over her. “I already love you, you silly, wonderful man. I only feared you could never love me in return. I’m so quiet, so plain …”

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. And I want a quiet life now. But only with you beside me. Only with you as my wife.”

“Yes, Ian. I will be your wife, if that is how you feel.” Cassandra feared she would cry with the force of her happiness, but Ian stopped her tears with a tender kiss.

“Then this is the happiest Christmas I could ever imagine,” he said. “I have everything I ever wanted.”

Cassandra couldn’t have agreed more. This was undoubtedly the happiest Christmas ever.

Virgin Unwrapped

About the Author

CHRISTINE MERRILL lives on a farm in Wisconsin, USA, with her husband, two sons, and too many pets—all of whom would like her to get off the computer so they can check their e-mail. She has worked by turns in theatre costuming, where she was paid to play with period ballgowns, and as a librarian, where she spent the day surrounded by books. Writing historical romance combines her love of good stories and fancy dress with her ability to stare out of the window and make stuff up.

To my readers:

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all.

Chapter One

Anne Clairemont admired the sitting room of her once and future home, and gave an approving nod. Decoration for the holiday house party was well under way. If things were not exactly as they had been, at least it was more cheerful than it had been under her mother’s haphazard care.

Anne secretly admired the changes the new owner, Joseph Stratford, had made. It was true that he had a tendency to excess. Father called it a tradesman’s display of wealth, and unworthy of such a grand home. But it hardly mattered. Once she was married she would change everything back to the way it had been six years ago, before things had begun to go wrong.

Today, Mr. Stratford’s extravagance pleased her. It was demonstrated in the amount of holly, ivy and mistletoe that decked every available surface. The house looked as it had when she was a child, and all things had seemed larger and more wondrous. Despite herself, Anne smiled. Then, she returned her attention to her guest.

“Would you like tea, Mr. Breton?” May I pour for you?”

Mr. Stratford’s friend responded with his usual grim nod, and she tried not to let her hand tremble as she raised the pot. It was most unwise of her to have this reaction when around Robert Breton, but she could not seem to control it. He was a very attractive man.

Not to say that Joseph wasn’t handsome. In his own dark and intense way, he was. But he had a driven quality that made her more nervous than intrigued. She did not think that he would be an impatient husband, for he showed no signs of holding her unease against her. Once they were married, she suspected that he would forget her entirely. All he really cared about was the running of his mill, and the successful operation of his looms. A respectable wife was nothing more than a way to secure his place in a community that showed no signs of welcoming him.

And if Joseph was rarely to be at home, she might be forced to spend even more time alone with his business partner. Not that she really thought of Mr. Breton as such. He was a gentleman, and little more than the source of financing behind the ambitions of Mr. Stratford. But Joseph trusted him as a brother, and seemed to find nothing improper about the amount of time another man spent in her company, seeing him as a chaperone and escort rather than a rival.

Robert Breton had said nothing about finding his own accommodations in the area, seeming content with the best guest room at Clairemont. In Joseph’s absence, he treated the house almost as his own. Anne must get used to the idea that, if she was to be mistress here, he would be a semi-permanent member of the household.

Breton sipped his tea, and Anne held her breath, then chided herself for waiting on his approval. Of course, he would like it. In the many afternoons they’d spent together, she had learned to prepare it just so, and selected tidbits and delicacies for the tray knowing that he would favor them. It was foolish of her to care what he thought, or to try to impress him at all. But she enjoyed his company, and wanted him to like her.

She thought it had been going quite well. They’d struck up a friendship almost from their first meeting. They had laughed and chatted and walked every inch of the property together. But in the last few weeks he’d grown more and more distant around her, cold and silent. When they were alone, he was sometimes sarcastic in his responses. But when Joseph was present he treated her with courtesy, and smiled as though there were nothing wrong between them.

Had she offended him in some way? She could not think how. It made her work all the harder to be nice to him, hoping for some bit of warmth, or at least a smile. She quite liked his smile, especially when it was directed toward her. And the strength of his arm as they’d walked and she’d shown him the park of the manor that had once been her home. He had put his hands on her waist to help her over a stile, and she had taken longer than necessary, just to feel them holding her. Later, when she was alone with her thoughts, she could pretend that it had been a caress.

Perhaps that day he had noticed. He had stared back at her, his dark blue eyes smoldering with what she assumed was disgust at her weakness. Then he had slowly and deliberately withdrawn his hand. He had been cold to her ever since.

Was it so awful to have a tendre for a man who was not to be her husband? She would not let anything come of it, of course. She was all but promised to Joseph, and the happiness of several people depended on her ability to go through with the marriage as it had been planned.

But she could not say she loved him. Though she would lie to him on the subject if it was necessary, she should not have to lie to herself. Although he was kind, she felt no real excitement at the touch of Joseph Stratford. But the thought of Robert Breton’s touch filled her with a delicious, languorous heat. If she could not have that, then she must work to maintain his friendship. Without Robert here to visit with, she would sit alone in this great house, waiting for her husband to remember that there was anything more important in his life than work.

At the moment, it was almost as lonely as if she had no company at all. Her companion drank his tea in silence and could barely look her in the eye, ending each sip with a sigh of distaste and a glance out the window.

After a polite knock, the housekeeper entered and inquired after the menu for the next day’s entertainment. Guests were arriving for the holidays and everything had to be perfect. Anne supplied the necessary information and a smile of approval, then went back to her cup as the woman retreated.

“You treat the house as your own, already?” Mr. Breton said with a raised eyebrow and an accusing tone. “I understood that the engagement had not yet been announced.”

“Well, no,” she admitted, shifting uncomfortably. “But it will be soon. Tomorrow, perhaps, at the ball. For now, Joseph seems to value my help. This was my parents’ house before he bought it. I know the staff and the rooms. And the best way to entertain in it. It is just … easier.”

“I see.” Robert said it as though he was catching her in some just uncovered deception, and not stating a fact that he understood almost as well as she did herself.

And then, he put down his teacup with a click and rose as though angered by the charade. “I must go. Stratford will be expecting me at the mill.”

It was an outright lie. In her presence, Joseph had often teased Mr. Breton about his disinterest in something so integral to his financial well-being. And Robert had responded with a laugh that he was quite content to remain by the fire and leave the place wholly to Joseph, so that they might both be happy. His current and sudden interest could mean only one thing: he was making lame excuses to remove himself from her presence.

Anne popped to her feet, searching for a way to stay his departure. “Must you go so soon? You have hardly touched your plate. Are you sure there is nothing more you wish? Because I would be happy to oblige you in anything you desire.”

“Do not make promises that you have no intention of keeping.” He was almost out of the room before she could think of a response.

“Wait. Please, Mr. Breton.” He turned and she decided to risk honesty and walked to him. “Is it me? Is it something I have done? You are clearly upset, and I do not know why.”

“You know quite well what the matter is,” Robert snapped.

She stood beside him now, looking up into his angry face. “In truth, I do not. Is there nothing I can do to make things right between us, as they used to be?”

“You wish things to be right between us?” He gave a mocking laugh. “Then you must begin to act like Stratford’s wife, if you truly mean to be so.”

“But I do,” she said, confused. “I am in this house from breakfast until late in the evening, ordering the servants about as though they were my own. But that is hardly odd. I belong here. I know this house like the back of my hand.”

“If you know it so well, then tell me where you are standing right now.”

It was her turn to laugh. “In the blue receiving room, of course.”

He jabbed a finger out, pointing to a place just above her head to an elaborate kissing bough hanging by a ribbon from the ceiling. “Under the mistletoe.”

She looked above her, and then back at him. “So I am,” she said, hardly able to take a breath. Without thinking, she wet her lips. What must he have thought of that? It probably appeared like an invitation. She was acting as though she wished him to kiss her.

But she did. With a marriage carefully arranged and only weeks away, she was thinking of kissing another man. It was disloyal of her, to Joseph and to her family. Robert would be disgusted by it, as he seemed to be by much of what she said and did. The silent moment stretched long between them, and she wondered what was to happen next. It would be best, she was sure, if she could make a simple apology, laugh at her own foolishness and back away from him.

“You offered me anything I might want,” he said.

Did he want a kiss, then? What harm could it do, if it was between friends? It was likely to be her only chance to have even a small taste of the lips of Mr. Robert Breton.

Without another word he removed the distance between them, standing so close that she could feel the heat of his body against her skin. She shut her eyes, waiting for the chaste peck on the lips that didn’t come. Instead his hands gripped her arms so tightly that it made her gasp. And then his mouth met hers, taking advantage of her moment of vulnerability to fill her with his tongue.

Was this natural? She had never heard of such a thing before. It felt like the most right and wonderful thing in the world. He tasted of the gingerbread that had been on the tea tray, sweet and spicy. She mimicked the slow surge and retreat of his tongue against hers, trying to catch the flavor. Though the room had seemed cold just a few moments ago, now it felt hot. But in an aching confusion, her nipples were still hard, pressing against her light stays until she feared he could feel them through her gown.

And perhaps he could. He was pushing her back toward the nearest wall until her shoulders were pressing against the plaster. Then, his hands moved to touch them, cradling her breasts in his palms as he kissed his way down her throat, covering every inch of exposed flesh with licks and nips. The massaging of his hands was so exciting that she almost forgot to breathe. There was a spiraling excitement deep within her, pressing her toward some fantastic place she’d never visited.

She could image one final touch or kiss that would take her out of this world altogether, leaving her fainting in his arms. Then he could lift her, carry her in a half swoon to the couch, cover her body with his and ravish her back to wakefulness.

Just then, he kissed her on the mouth again. Though she had only the most basic understanding of the marital act, her body tightened suddenly, and she could imagine what it must feel like to be claimed by a man. Something burst inside of her with a dizzying rush. She could breathe again in deep happy gasps that made her heart hammer and her legs tremble. It was the most amazing feeling she’d ever known, as though she’d been dead for years and suddenly reborn.

And it was the middle of the day in a public room of a house that was not hers. Servants had questions, guests would be arriving. At any moment, she might receive a visit from the man she meant to marry.

She fought free of his kiss and her own desires and pushed hard against Robert Breton’s chest. The cold rushed back into her spirit as his hands left her body. “What are you doing to me?” she whispered.

“Exactly what I’ve wished to, from the first moment I met you.” He was smiling the cold, hard, self-satisfied smile he’d worn so often when he looked at her of late, as though the kiss was not something magical, but merely a confirmation of her weak character. Then, he reached into his pocket and removed a handkerchief, touching it to the corner of his mouth to wipe away a drop of blood.

Dear Lord. Had she bitten him?

His smile grew slightly broader as he saw her shock at her total lack of control. “And now, Miss Clairemont, if you will excuse me, I must go to speak with your fiancé. I shall leave you to contemplate your own happy future with him.”

Chapter Two

Robert Breton ate the fine meal provided by his wealthy friend, willing himself to clear his plate. He would choke down each bite if he had to, and swill enough of the expensive port to blot the episode with Miss Clairemont from his mind.

A short distance from him, Anne looked equally uncomfortable, seated between her parents and scant inches from the watchful eyes of Stratford. Not that Stratford was bothering to observe her. Robert had forced a promise from him to pay more attention to the girl he meant to marry, but it seemed to be forgotten almost as soon as it was made. Joseph simply didn’t care for her other than as another measure of his success.

But that indifference did not give Robert the right to kiss her. He could pretend that he’d expected her to strike him, to protest, and to ban him from the house. If she had tried, he’d likely have kissed her all the more, using any tricks he could think of to prove to her what he already knew: she did not love Joseph Stratford. It was unworthy of her to marry him.

Robert’s own feelings were no more clear than hers. He should not be pretending that he was trying to save his friend from a fortune hunter. He wanted Anne Clairemont for himself. Her total surrender to him after only a few kisses proved the feeling to be reciprocated. The slightest prompting had produced an orgasm worthy of a Cyprian. The savage kiss she returned left him imagining the lover she would become. The idea that she might develop those talents in a bed other than his own was almost too painful to contemplate.

But he could not seem to stop brooding on it. He finished his dinner in silence and plodded through the dancing and games of the evening with a wooden smile until the last of the guests were retiring. Then he slipped from the room so that he would not be forced to witness a sweet goodbye between Stratford and Anne.

“Mr. Breton? We need to talk.” He had been too slow. The object of his desire was coming down the hallway toward him.

“Surely it can wait until tomorrow. It is late. I must be getting to bed.” There was that image again, of her, sprawled in his sheets. “Tomorrow. We will talk then. Skating is planned in the afternoon.” There would be other guests about, and servants. And God help him, Stratford. How was he to go on?

“I wish to speak to you now. Tonight.” There was an earnest desperation in her big, blue eyes. “My parents and I will be leaving soon. The rest of the party has retired. Surely you can spare a few moments.”

It was an innocent enough request. But there was no innocence left in him to spare. Still, he was not strong enough to refuse her. “Very well. A few words only.”

She took him by the arm and pulled him into a small parlor at the back of the house, shutting the door behind them. The room was rarely used and barely lit. The lack of decoration proved that no one was expecting the guests to come to this part of the manor. They might be alone together for some time before anyone even thought to look here.

The thought was both pleasing and unnerving. He took a breath, reminding himself of the risks. Then he said, “What is it you wished to discuss?”

“I need to know why you kissed me.”

“Why?” Could she truly be this naive? Had it not been obvious from the first day how he had struggled with his feelings for her, knowing he must not touch her even as circumstance had pushed them closer and closer together?

“Yes,” she said firmly. “Why would you do such a thing? I did not think you liked me.” She was wringing her hands as though it embarrassed her to admit her fears.

“Like you?” He laughed in surprise. “I wish I did not. What I feel for you is far stronger than polite regard. It will be the ruin of me, I’m sure. But there is little I can do about it.”

“You seemed so cold,” she pressed on. “So distant.”

“You are a fine one to talk. You are willing to give yourself to a man you do not care for, just to get his fortune and his house.”

“That is not true,” she said. “About my not caring for Joseph. I care … very much.”

Robert groaned. “That is even worse. What kind of woman are you that you allow me to kiss you when you claim to care for another? And now that I have embarrassed myself by revealing my desire for you, how can you torture me with your feelings for my best friend?”

“I do not mean to hurt you,” she insisted. “I do not wish ill on anyone. And, of course, I care for Joseph. How could I not? He is kind, and has been good to me and to my family. I must care for him. I simply must.” She said the last as though she needed to convince herself of the fact, more than him.

“But all those times when we were alone together, were you simply being kind to me because I am a friend of Joseph’s?” he asked.

“Yes. No. I mean … I like you. Of course I do. If things were different …” Then she stopped, as though fearful to say more.

“You like me.” He felt a totally inappropriate surge of confidence. With her formal engagement only a day away, he must take steps quickly to fan the flame, or he would lose her forever.

“Well, of course I like you,” she said, as though it should have been obvious to him.

“But that does not explain why you allowed me to kiss you.”

Her eyes went wide, as though it had not occurred to her that she might be required to take a share of the blame for their indiscretion. “It was just a kiss under the mistletoe.”

“That was all it was to you, really?”

She knew quite well that it was no simple kiss. The dim light could not hide her blush. He reached out and touched a curl at her temple. “Suppose I were to kiss you here, tonight. There is no mistletoe to be found, so you would have no excuse for what happened. Would you allow it?”

“I should not,” she said, quietly.

“Should not is quite different from shall not. Let us see which one applies.” He bent his head to her, and kissed her.

It took no coaxing to get an ardent response. Her mouth was open. Her tongue met his. Her body strained to be touched. He need have no fear that she preferred another, for it was plain when they were alone that she wanted no one but him. He pulled her hips tight to cradle them against his erection, wondering how much she knew of a man’s desire and how perfectly she might satisfy it. Did he dare to show her tonight?

“Please,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his cheek. “You were right. It was more than a kiss. Do not tempt me to go further. My parents are here. If we are discovered …” She pushed his hand away from where it hovered by her breast.

His curiosity was satisfied. She’d admitted that she cared for him, and had been moved by him. He should make an apologetic withdrawal and escort her back to find her parents. But it would be far better to give her another reason to refuse, when Stratford finally made his offer. Robert kissed her gently on the forehead and ran a finger along the top edge of her gown, ruffling the lace that lay against her skin. “I suppose this means that you will not let me see the loveliness of your breasts. It will take more time getting you back into your gown than it will take me to have you out of it.”

“Robert!” She said his name in an urgent whisper.

“You did not say no, just now, my sweet. If you wish to put me off, you will need to be clear about the fact.”

“It would be unwise,” she said with a sigh.

“But I wish to please you,” he said. “It will be the work of a few moments. Would you like that?”

“Very much,” she said with a shy smile, slipping her hand in his and squeezing his fingers as though seeking reassurance.

“Very well then. Come over here, by the fire.” He led her to a sofa, and slid to the floor on his knees before her.

“What are you doing?”

He lifted her hem. “You shall know in a moment,” he assured her. Her skirt and petticoats were up around her knees revealing dainty ankles and shapely, silk-clad calves. “It is just another kind of kiss. I promise you shall like it.” He pressed his lips to her kneecap. And her legs, which she’d held tightly together, parted so that he could slide a hand up the inside of her thigh.

She pushed back, trying to close them again, pressing a hand down to hold her skirt in place. “Robert, you cannot. We are not married.”

Yet, he thought to himself with a smile.

“And if someone should discover us …”

“No one ever shall,” he assured her. “You shall be unchanged, I promise.” In body perhaps. But her spirit would be his forever. He withdrew his hand and kissed his own fingertips, and then dipped them below her hem and trailed them up her thighs. “This is not so very bad, is it?” he suggested, leaning forward and laying his cheek against the swell of her breast.

“No,” she said doubtfully and then gasped as his fingers found their mark, slipping easily between the wet folds of her body.

“I wish to touch you with my tongue, there. And there and there.” His fingers grazed lightly along the tops of her thighs and his thumb settled between them, teasing the hair between her legs for a moment before pressing inward.

“Why?” It was more of a gasp than a question. And she made no effort to avoid his questing hand.

“My dear Anne,” he said. “I wish to have something from you that no other man will ever have. I know when I look into your eyes that mine were not the first lips to kiss you. And tonight I dare not seek the ultimate gift. There is no understanding between us. Some things must be saved for the man you would marry.”

“But this other kiss?” Her voice was slow and hoarse, drowsy, as though she was slipping into the spell that he cast. Her body relaxed and her legs spread farther offering no resistance.

“It will be our secret. No matter what else happens, we will have this.”

“Please,” she said, and it was a desperate plea for release.

“Of course,” he said, soothing her. He’d raised her skirt until he could see all of her, pink and glistening in the light from the banked fire, and watched her trembling as the chill air touched her, letting the warmth of his hand be a contrast to it. Then, with one last look at her beautiful face, he buried his face in the musky center of her, drawing the lips of her sex into his mouth and lapping eagerly between them.

Her body went rigid with the shock of it, and she cried out his name. He could feel the muscles of her thighs twitching and massaged them with his hands, forcing them to relax as he flicked lazily with his tongue, first against the little bud of her passion and then at the opening which would be his ultimate goal. He made a few tentative thrusts with his tongue and she gasped and rocked to evade him then wound her fingers in his hair. But she did not push him away, only dragging him forward to the place where he had begun.

Very well then, the lady knew what she wanted, and he was happy to give it to her. He swirled about it, whispering, kissing, sucking, as she murmured softly, “Oh. Oh. Oh.” Then he slid a hand up her leg to push two fingers into her as deeply as he could go. Her muscles clenched on him like a vise as she lost control and gave herself up to him, heart and soul.

She whimpered as he gave her a final, brief kiss and stroked her with his hand, almost as one might soothe a pet. Would that she could do the same to him. While she was clearly sated, he was anything but. He’d been hungering for her since their first day together, and now desire was roaring inside him, tearing at his soul. If he could not have her, here and now, he longed for a solitary release while the taste of her was still on his lips.

He laid his head against her knee for a moment, praying that this was but a temporary parting from her body. Then he pushed her skirts out of her lap, and straightened them over her legs. And he waited, at her feet, for her reaction.

“You should not have done that,” she said at last. Her eyes were bright with some emotion that he could not read.

“But if I did not, you would marry Joseph,” he said. “You do not love him. You love me, or you never would have permitted what just occurred.”

“I am still going to marry Joseph,” she said. “There is nothing else for me to do. But you have made it so much more difficult.”

He swore, low vehement oaths that made her flinch. But he did not care if his words hurt her. He had been sure, only a moment ago, that there would be nothing in the world that could part them, now that he had proven to her how it would be between them. Why, though he was on his knees before her like a supplicant, did she still wish for another?

Before he could speak, a voice called from the hall, “Anne?”

“Here, Mother.” She gave him a frantic look and he threw himself away from her, back into the darkest corner of the room as the door opened.

“What are you doing in here, of all places?”

“I felt feverish and hoped a brief nap would help me. I am sorry if I have caused difficulty …” She drew back into the shadows as well so that her mother could not see the tears shining on her lashes.

“Well, come on then. The carriage is almost ready.”

“A moment to compose myself, please. Then I will come.”

Her mother gave a sigh. “Very well, then. But Mr. Stratford has already retired. It is not yet our place to linger too long.” She withdrew from the room, and Robert heard her footsteps retreating down the hall.

He waited a moment before shutting the door. Then he returned to Anne’s side. She was weeping in earnest now and he put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. “Am I the reason for these tears, Anne?”

“It is not you,” she sobbed. “It is everything. I do not know what to do.”

“You must cry off,” he said. “Tell your parents you cannot marry Stratford.

“They will not want to hear,” she said with a fresh sob.

“Then tell him,” Robert said. “I have confronted him on the subject. He will not break off, at this late date, for your sake. If you do not end it for yourself, it is quite hopeless. I will not speak, if you say nothing, no matter how much I might wish to. I have said more than enough, already. You must be the strong one, Anne.”

“And I never was,” she answered, not looking up. “Perhaps if Mary was here.”

She had mentioned her late sister before, when they had first met. It seemed that the Clairemonts subsided into a place of perpetual grief over the loss. Mary had become the ghost at the feast that blighted the family’s happiness. But what a child that was five years in the grave had to do with the current situation, he was not sure. “Then the lot would have fallen to her. Or it might never have occurred at all. But it does not matter. She is dead and gone, much as no one wishes to acknowledge the fact. You cannot rely on her for help. You must be the one to speak, Anne.”

Her tears fell faster, and she shook his hand from her shoulder. Then she stared at him, angry and resolute. “I am stronger than you know, Robert Breton. And that is why I will not alter what is about to occur. It is best for all of us. Do not think that you can change my mind with your sly words and your temptations, and your … pleasure.” The last word brought a fresh sob and she stifled it with a balled fist. Then she turned and fled the room.

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