A Christmas to Remember

by Lisa Kleypas

  Caroline arched wildly, completely helpless at his touch, while small, pleading cries came from her throat.

  “Yes.” His voice was like dark velvet, his tongue flicking the lobe of her ear. “I’ll take care of you now. Just tell me what you want, sweetheart. Tell me, and I’ll do it.”

  “Andrew . . .” She gasped as he separated the tender lips and stroked right between them. “Don’t t-torture me, please . . .”

  Amusement threaded through his tone. “After what you’ve done to me, I think you deserve a few minutes of torture . . . don’t you?” His fingertip glided in a small circle around the aching little tip of flesh where all sensation was gathering. “Would you like me to kiss you here?” he asked softly. “And touch it with my tongue?”

  The questions jolted her—she had never imagined such a thing—and yet her entire body quivered in response.

  “Tell me,” he prompted gently.

  Her lips were dry, and she had to wet them with her tongue before she could speak. To her utter shame, once the first words were out, she could not stop herself from begging shamelessly. “Yes, Andrew . . . kiss me there, use your tongue, I need you now, now please—”

  Her voice dissolved into wild groans as he moved downward, his dark head dropping between her spread legs, his fingers smoothing the little dark curls and opening her pink lips even wider. His breath touched her first, a soft rush of steam, and then his tongue danced over her, gently prodding the burning little nub, flicking it with rapid strokes.

  Caroline bit her lower lip sharply, struggling desperately to keep quiet despite the intense pleasure of his mouth on her. Andrew lifted his head as he heard the muffled sounds she made, and his eyes gleamed devilishly. “Scream all you like,” he murmured. “There’s no one to hear you.”

  His mouth returned to her, and she cried out, her bottom lifting eagerly from the mattress as she pushed herself toward him. He grunted with satisfaction and cradled her taut buttocks in his large, warm hands, while his mouth continued to feast on her. She felt the broad tip of his finger stroke against the tiny opening of her body, circling, teasing . . . entering with delicate skill.

  “Feel how wet you are,” he murmured against her slick flesh. “You’re ready to be taken now. I could slide every inch of my cock inside you.”

  Then she understood why she had not been able to accommodate him before. “Please,” she whispered, dying of need. “Please, Andrew.”

  His lips returned to her vulva, nuzzling the moist, sensitive folds. Gasping, Caroline went still as his finger slid deeply inside her, stroking in time to the sweet, rhythmic tug of his mouth. “My God,” she said between frantic pants for breath, “I can’t . . . oh, I can’t bear it, please, Andrew, my God—”

  The world vanished in an explosion of fiery bliss. She sobbed and shivered, riding the current of pure ecstasy until she finally drifted in a tide of lethargy unlike anything she had ever experienced. Only then did his mouth and fingers leave her. Andrew tugged at the covers and linens, half lifting Caroline’s body against his own, until they were wrapped in a cocoon of warm bedclothes. She lay beside him, her leg draped over his, her head pillowed on his hard shoulder. Shaken, exhausted, she relaxed in his arms, sharing the utter peace of aftermath, like the calm after a violent storm.

  Andrew’s hand smoothed over the wild ripples of her hair, spreading them over his own chest. After a long moment of bittersweet contentment, he spoke quietly, his lips brushing her temple.

  “It was never a charade for me, Caroline. I fell in love with you from the moment we struck our infernal bargain. I loved your spirit, your strength, your beauty . . . I realized at once how special you were. And I knew that I didn’t deserve you. But I had the damned foolish idea that somehow I might be able to become worthy of you. I wanted to make a new beginning, with you by my side. I even stopped caring about my father’s bloody fortune. But in my arrogance I didn’t consider the fact that no one can escape his past. And I have a thousand things to atone for . . . things that will keep turning up to haunt me for the rest of my life. You don’t want to be part of that ugliness, Caroline. No man who loves a woman would ask her to live with him, wondering every day when some wretched part of his past will reappear.”

  “I don’t understand.” She lifted herself onto his chest, staring into his grave, tender expression. “Tell me what Julianne has done to change everything.”

  He sighed and stroked back a lock of her hair. It was clear that he did not want to tell her, but he would no longer withhold the truth. “You know that Julianne and I once had an affair. For a while afterward, we remained friends of a sort. We are remarkably similar, Julianne and I—both of us selfish and manipulative and coldhearted—”

  “No,” Caroline said swiftly, placing her fingers on his mouth. “You’re not like that, Andrew. At least not anymore.”

  A bleak smile curved his lips, and he kissed her fingers before continuing. “After the affair was over, Julianne and I amused ourselves by playing a game we had invented. We would each name a certain person—always a virtuous and well-respected one—whom the other had to seduce. The more difficult the target, the more irresistible the challenge. I named a high-ranking magistrate, the father of seven children, whom Julianne enticed into an affair.”

  “And whom did she select for you?” Caroline asked quietly, experiencing a strange mixture of revulsion and pity as she heard his sordid confession.

  “One of her ‘friends’—the wife of the Italian ambassador. Pretty, shy, and known for her modesty and God-fearing ways.”

  “You succeeded with her, I suppose.”

  He nodded without expression. “She was a good woman with a great deal to lose. She had a happy marriage, a loving husband, three healthy children . . . God knew how I was able to persuade her into a dalliance. But I did. And afterward, the only way she could assuage her guilt was to convince herself that she had fallen in love with me. She wrote me a few love letters, highly incriminating ones that she soon came to regret. I wanted to burn them—I should have—but I returned them to her, thinking that it would ease her worry if she could destroy them herself. Then she would never have to fear that one of them would turn up and ruin her life. Instead the little fool kept them, and for some reason I’ll never understand, she showed them to Julianne, who was posing as a concerned friend.”

  “And somehow Julianne gained possession of them,” Caroline said softly.

  “She’s had them for almost five years. And the day after my father died, and it became known that he left me the Rochester fortune, Julianne paid me an unexpected visit. She has gone through her late husband’s entire fortune. If she wishes to maintain her current lifestyle, she will have to marry a wealthy man. And it seems I have been given the dubious honor of being her chosen groom.”

  “She is blackmailing you with the letters?”

  He nodded. “Unless I agreed to marry her, Julianne said she would make the damned things public, and ruin her so-called friend’s life. And two things immediately became clear to me. I could never have you as my wife knowing that our marriage was based on the destruction of someone else’s life. And with my past, it is only a matter of time until something else rears its ugly head. You would come to hate me, being constantly faced with new evidence of the sins I’ve committed.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “Damned inconvenient thing, to develop a conscience. It was a hell of a lot easier before I had one.”

  Caroline was silent, staring down at his chest as her fingers stroked slowly through the dark curls. It was one thing to be told that a man had a wicked past, and certainly Andrew had never pretended otherwise. But the knowledge made far more of an impression on her now that she knew a few specifics about his former debauchery. The notion of his affair with Julianne, and the revolting games they had played with others’ lives, sickened her. No one would blame her for rejecting Andrew, for agreeing that he was far too tarnished and corrupt. And yet . . . the fact that he had learned to feel regret, that he
wished to protect the ambassador’s wife even at the expense of his own happiness . . . that meant he had changed. It meant he was capable of becoming a far better man than he had been.

  Besides, love was about caring for the whole man, including his flaws . . . and trusting that he felt the same about her. To her, that was worth any risk.

  She smiled into Andrew’s brooding face. “It is no surprise to me that you have a few imperfections.” She climbed farther onto his chest, her small breasts pressing into the warm mat of hair. “Well, more than a few. You’re a wicked scoundrel, and I fully expect that at some point in the future there will be more unpleasant surprises from your past. But you are my scoundrel, and I want to face all the unpleasant moments of life, and the wonderful ones, with no one but you.”

  His fingers slid into her hair, clasping her scalp, and he stared at her with fierce adoration. When he spoke his voice was slightly hoarse. “What if I decide that you deserve someone better?”

  “It’s too late now,” she said reasonably. “You have to marry me after debauching me this afternoon.”

  Carefully he brought her forward and kissed her cheeks. “Precious love . . . I didn’t debauch you. Not completely, at any rate. You’re still a virgin.”

  “Not for long.” She wriggled on his body, feeling his erection rising against the inside of her thigh. “Make love to me.” She nuzzled against his throat and spread kisses along the firm line of his jaw. “All the way this time.”

  He lifted her from his chest as easily as if she were an exploring kitten, and stared at her with anguished yearning. “There’s still the matter of Julianne and the ambassador’s wife.”

  “Oh, that.” She perched on him, with her hair streaming over her chest and back, and touched his small, dark nipples with her thumbs. “I will deal with my cousin Julianne,” she informed him. “You’ll have those letters back, Andrew. It will be my Christmas gift to you.”

  His gaze was patently doubtful. “How?”

  “I don’t wish to explain right now. What I want is—”

  “I know what you want,” he said dryly, rolling to pin her beneath him. “But you’re not going to get it, Caroline. I won’t take your virginity until I’m free to offer you marriage. Now explain to me why you’re so confident that you can get the letters back.”

  She ran her hands over his muscular forearms. “Well . . . I’ve never told this to anyone, not even Cade, and especially not my mother. But soon after Julianne’s rich old husband died—I suppose you’ve heard the rumors that his death was not of natural causes?”

  “There was never any proof otherwise.”

  “Not that anyone knows of. But right after Lord Brenton passed on to his reward, his valet, Mr. Stevens, paid a visit to my father one night. My father was a well-respected and highly trustworthy man, and the valet had met him before. Stevens behaved oddly that night—he seemed terribly frightened, and he begged my father to help him. He suspected Julianne of having poisoned old Lord Brenton—she had recently been to the chemist’s shop, and then Stevens had caught her pouring something into Brenton’s medicine bottle the day before he died. But Stevens was afraid to confront Julianne with his suspicions. He thought that she might somehow falsely implicate him in the murder, or punish him in some other devious way. To protect himself, he collected evidence of Julianne’s guilt, including the tainted medicine bottle. He begged my father to help him find new employment, and my father recommended him to a friend who was living abroad.”

  “Why did your father tell you about this?”

  “He and I were very close—we were confidantes, and there were few secrets between us.” She gave him a small, triumphant smile. “I know exactly where Stevens is located. And I also know where the evidence against Julianne is hidden. So unless my cousin wishes to face being accused and tried for her late husband’s murder, she will give me those letters.”

  “Sweetheart . . .” He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “You’re not going to confront Julianne with this. She is a dangerous woman.”

  “She is no match for me,” Caroline replied. “Because I am not going to let her or anyone else stand in the way of what I want.”

  “And what is that?” he asked.

  “You.” She slid her hands to his shoulders and lifted her knees to either side of his hips. “All of you . . . including every moment of your past, present, and future.”

  Chapter Five

  THE MOST DIFFICULT thing that Andrew, Lord Rochester, had ever done was to wait for the next three days. He paced and fretted alone at the family estate, alternately bored and anxious. He nearly went mad from the suspense. But Caroline had asked him to wait for word from her, and if it killed him, he would keep his promise. Try as he might, he could not summon much hope that she would actually retrieve the letters. Julianne was as sly and devious as Caroline was honest . . . and it was not the easiest trick in the world to blackmail a blackmailer. Moreover, the thought that Caroline was lowering herself in this way in an attempt to clean up a nasty mess that he had helped to create . . . it made him squirm. By now he should be accustomed to feeling the heat of shame, but he still suffered mightily at the thought of it. A man should protect the woman he loved—he should keep her safe and happy—and instead Caroline was having to rescue him. Groaning, he thought longingly of having a drink—but he would be damned if he would drown himself in the comforting oblivion of alcohol ever again. From now on he would face life without any convenient crutch. He would allow himself no more excuses, no place to hide.

  And then, just a few days before Christmas, a footman dispatched from the Hargreaves residence came to the Rochester estate bearing a small wrapped package.

  “Milord,” the footman said, bowing respectfully. “Miss Hargreaves instructed me to deliver this into your hands, and no one else’s.”

  Almost frantically Andrew tore open the sealed note attached to the package. His gaze skittered across the neatly written lines:

  My lord,

  Please accept this early Christmas gift. Do with it what you will, and know that it comes with no obligations—save that you cancel your betrothal to my cousin. I believe she will soon be directing her romantic attentions toward some other unfortunate gentleman.

  Yours,

  Caroline

  “Lord Rochester, shall I convey your reply to Miss Hargreaves?” the footman asked.

  Andrew shook his head, while an odd feeling of lightness came over him. It was the first time in his life that he had ever felt so free, so full of anticipation. “No,” he said, his voice slightly gravelly. “I will answer Miss Hargreaves in person. Tell her that I will come to call on Christmas Day.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  CAROLINE SAT BEFORE the fire, enjoying the warmth of the yule log as it cast a wash of golden light over the family receiving room. The windows were adorned with glossy branches of holly, and festooned with red ribbons and sprays of berries. Wax tapers wreathed with greens burned on the mantel. After a pleasant morning of exchanging gifts with the family and servants, everyone had departed to pursue various amusements, for there were abundant parties and suppers to choose from. Cade was dutifully escorting Fanny to no less than three different events, and they would likely not return until after midnight. Caroline had resisted their entreaties to come along, and refused to answer their questions concerning her plans. “Is it Lord Rochester?” Fanny had demanded in mingled excitement and worry. “Do you expect him to call, dearest? If so, I must advise you on the right tone to take with him—”

  “Mother,” Cade had interrupted, flashing Caroline a rueful gaze, “if you do not wish to be late for the Danburys’ party, we must be off.”

  “Yes, but I must tell Caroline—”

  “Believe me,” Cade said firmly, plopping a hat onto his mother’s head and tugging her to the entrance hall, “if Rochester should decide to appear, Caroline will know exactly how to deal with him.”

  Thank you, Caroline had mouthed to him silentl
y, and they exchanged a grin before he removed their inquisitive mother from the premises.

  The servants had all been given the day off, and the house was quiet as Caroline waited. Sounds of Christmas drifted in from outside . . . passing troubadours, children caroling, groups of merry revelers traveling between houses.

  Finally, as the clock struck one, a knock came at the door. Caroline felt her heart leap. She rushed to the door with unseemly haste and flung it open.

  Andrew stood there, tall and handsome, his expression serious and a touch uncertain. They stared at each other, and although Caroline remained motionless, she felt her entire being reaching for him, her soul expanding with yearning. “You’re here,” she said, almost frightened of what would happen next. She wanted him to seize her in his arms and kiss her, but instead he removed his hat and spoke softly.

  “May I come in?”

  She welcomed him inside, helped him with his coat, and watched as he hung the hat on the hall stand. He turned to face her, his vivid blue eyes filled with a heat that caused her to tremble. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

  Caroline wrung her hands together nervously. “Merry Christmas. Shall we go into the parlor?”

  He nodded, his gaze still on her. He didn’t seem to care where they went as he followed her wordlessly into the parlor. “Are we alone?” he asked, having noticed the stillness of the house.

  “Yes.” Too agitated to sit, Caroline stood before the fire and stared up at his half-shadowed face. “Andrew,” she said impulsively, “before you tell me anything, I want to make it clear . . . my gift to you . . . the letters . . . you are not obligated to give me anything in return. That is, you needn’t feel as if you owe me—”

  He touched her then, his large, gentle hands lightly framing the sides of her face, thumbs skimming over the blushing surface of her cheeks. The way he looked at her, tender and yet somehow devouring, caused her entire body to tingle in delight. “But I am obligated,” he murmured, “by my heart, soul, and too many parts of my anatomy to name.” A smile curved his lips. “Unfortunately the only thing I can offer you is a rather questionable gift . . . somewhat tarnished and damaged, and of very doubtful value. Myself.” He reached for her small, slender hands and brought them to his mouth, pressing hot kisses to the backs of her fingers. “Will you have me, Caroline?”