A Christmas to Remember

by Lisa Kleypas

  Besides, she desired him with a fervor that she thought would be her undoing. If she didn’t have him at that moment, she would probably die anyway. Reaching up, she placed her hand on the nape of his neck and brought him down.

  He latched his mouth onto hers with a fierceness that matched the storm. Hot, heavy, and passionate as though walls existed that needed to be torn down. He made short work of removing the covers that separated them, and then they were bare flesh against bare flesh from top to toe. Velvety warmth that could have melted the thickest pond surrounded them. She felt her heart’s resistance giving way inch by inch as his hands and fingers explored her, while hers did the same with him. Broad shoulders, strong back, taut buttocks.

  He had rescued her from the pond, guided her through the storm, and created a haven for them to wait out the screeching winds. He had managed to hold her fears at bay, and she’d known that somehow he would save her.

  A small part of her wondered if he was saving her now as well.

  She couldn’t marry Litton after this. She wouldn’t marry him. One night he had pursued her with purpose. But once her hand and dowry were secured, passion, desire, whatever it was that had led them into the garden had taken refuge, never to be seen again. With Chetwyn, it always hovered near the surface, threatened to join them, promised to carry them to exalted heights.

  Here she was, clamoring up those heights, unafraid as Chetwyn’s mouth trailed over every inch of her, exploring, enticing, kissing provocatively. The bend of her elbow, the back of her knee, the turn of her ankle, the tip of her tiny toe. Down, up, over, and around. He left no part of her untouched.

  His mouth returned to hers as he nestled himself between her thighs. She felt the pressure of him, the weight, the heat. She lifted her hips to receive him. Holding back her cry at the sharp pain as he sank fully into her, she concentrated on his mouth, its texture, its flavor. She focused on his hair, the strands that were never tamed for long.

  His movements were slow, leisurely. The pain eased, and pleasure slipped in to replace it, sweet and ripe, like a new bud feeling the sun coaxing it up. With each petal unfurled, the pleasure increased. Thrashing her head from side to side, she anchored herself to him as he took her on a journey for which there were no words.

  She cried out as the release slammed into her, as her world darkened, then exploded into light. With a rough groan, he gave a final thrust and stilled, his arms closing more tightly around her. Lethargy worked its way through her.

  The last thing she heard was his whispered, “I love you,” before sleep claimed her.

  Chapter Six

  IT WAS THE baying of the hounds that woke her. Nestled against Chetwyn beneath the draperies, her cheek against his chest, she became acutely aware of his stiffening.

  “It’s morning. The storm’s passed,” he said before throwing back the covering and coming to his feet.

  In fascination, she watched his bare backside as he strode to the window. The light from the dying fire was enough to give her an impressive view. He was quite marvelously carved of flesh, muscle, sinew, and bone.

  “A search party,” he continued before turning about and heading back toward her.

  Did it make her a wanton because she couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him?

  “Is my father among them?” she asked.

  “Afraid so. Your brothers, too, from the looks of it. Litton and both Pembrook lords.”

  After gathering up his clothes, he knelt beside her and cradled her face. “Tell them you made your way here, but the storm prevented you from going farther, and you’ve been waiting it out.”

  “I don’t understand. You’ll be here.”

  He stroked her cheek, and the sadness in his eyes almost made her weep. “No. I won’t have your reputation dragged through the mud by having us found together.”

  She flattened her hand against his chest. “But the discovery of us together will ensure that we marry. My father will very well insist.”

  He brought her in close, then tucked her beneath his chin. “I want you, Merry, more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life, but not at the risk of bringing you shame or more pain than I’ve already caused. Nor will I do as Litton and force you into marriage.” Dipping his head, he kissed her short and sweet, but in the tenderness of the moment she heard volumes: love, caring, goodbye.

  Then he was rushing out of the room as though the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels, while the duke’s hounds were barking more loudly with their approaching nearness. Feeling lost and bereft, she went through the motions of slipping back into her stiff but dried riding habit. She was buttoning up the last of the pearl disks when she heard a door slam open and the stomp of feet.

  Her father was the first to come barging through the doorway. “Meredith, thank God. What in the blazes happened, girl?”

  “I . . . I got caught in the storm. I wanted to go ice skating.”

  Litton approached and swept his coat around her. “You must have been terrified.”

  “Only of the ghosts. I’ve heard the manor is haunted.”

  “The tower and the dungeon,” the duke said, studying her carefully. “Not the manor itself.”

  “Well, then, I had nothing to fear.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Lord Chetwyn,” Lord Tristan asked. “We’ve not been able to find him.”

  Her mouth dry, she shook her head. “No, our paths didn’t cross, but I’m certain he’s all right. He probably just went for a walk. But he’s familiar enough with the outdoors that he would have taken shelter.”

  Litton placed his arm around her shoulders. “Come, we must get you back to the residence. You must be famished.”

  “Quite.”

  She allowed him to lead her from the room but she couldn’t help glancing back over her shoulder. Lord Tristan had a speculative gleam in his eyes as he studied the mound of draperies. He had a reputation for being quite the rogue, and she hoped he couldn’t guess what had truly transpired here.

  FROM THE MASTER’S bedchamber upstairs, Chetwyn watched as the search party headed back toward the manor. For a few hours, he held in his arms every dream he’d ever dreamed, and once again he’d let her go.

  To have her, he would have to ruin her, and he loved her far too much for that. But neither could he bear the thought of her with Litton.

  “Thought I’d find you somewhere about.”

  He spun around at the sound of Lord Tristan’s voice.

  “Trying to protect the lady’s reputation?” Lord Tristan asked.

  Chetwyn sighed. “I seem to recall your doing a very similar thing for Anne.”

  “And it almost cost me a life of happiness.”

  “I could never be happy if Meredith suffered because of scandal.”

  Lord Tristan ambled over, leaned against the window casing, and looked out. “Suppose I could say that I found you in the tower.”

  Chetwyn shook his head. “Too close.”

  “The abbey ruins then. We shall have to wait here for an hour or so to make that believable.”

  With a nod, Chetwyn pressed his back to the wall and slid down to the floor. He glanced up as Tristan offered him a silver flask. He said nothing as he took it and drank deeply. Rum. It might warm the coldness that had settled in his chest when he’d watched Meredith walk away without looking back.

  Chapter Seven

  MEREDITH AWOKE IN a fog. She remembered the warm bath, the tray of food, and the bed covers slipped over her. She’d fought off sleep, wanting to wait until Chetwyn returned, but exhaustion had claimed her. Rolling onto her side, she stared at the burgundy draperies, thinking of others that she’d recently encountered. They were drawn aside, and through the windowpane she could see the darkness. She’d slept through the day. They’d missed the play. Tonight was the ball. She needed to get dressed and see how Chetwyn was. She knew Lord Tristan had stayed behind to continue searching for him. She wondered if he’d found him or if Chetwyn had made his
own way here.

  Reaching over, she yanked on her bell pull to summon the maid who had been assigned to her. When the door opened, however, it was Lady Anne who walked through.

  “Oh, finally, you’re awake.”

  “Lord Chetwyn?”

  “Doing remarkably well. Tristan announced that he found him at the abbey ruins, although I shall eat my favorite bonnet if Tristan truly found him there and not at the castle.”

  Meredith felt the heat suffuse her face. While she didn’t know Lady Anne well, they shared a common interest: Chetwyn. Meredith felt as though she could trust her with anything involving him. “He didn’t want us to be found together.”

  “No, he wouldn’t have, now, would he?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I know him well enough to know that he would give to you what he once gave to me.”

  With her brow furrowed, Meredith stared at her. “What was that?”

  “The gift of choice.”

  AS MEREDITH DESCENDED the stairs, she could hear the orchestra playing a quadrille, the first dance of the night, according to the dance card that the duchess had given her. She much preferred the waltz. She considered going to the grand salon. Instead, she turned into the parlor and walked over to the small decorated tree that sat on a table near a window. Tiny boxes were gathered beneath the boughs. Meredith had little doubt that they contained treats that the duchess would pass out to her guests tomorrow upon their parting. She would return home to spend the holiday with her family, and a few days afterward she would be moving into the residence she would share with Litton. Where she would share his bed. Where he would touch her and kiss her and bring her pleasure, and she would do the same with him.

  And all the while she would think of Chetwyn, who could have stayed by her side this morning. Then she would be marrying him. In the years to come, would each have wondered if the person sitting across the table was the one they would have chosen—if given a choice?

  Only she had a choice. Chetwyn had ensured it by leaving.

  “Oh, there you are. I’d heard you were finally up and about.”

  Turning slightly, she smiled at Litton. “Yes, I had quite the lovely nap.”

  “Let’s go have our dance, shall we?”

  “How many?” she asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “How many dances?”

  “Well, two, of course. The first and the last.”

  “And in between?”

  “You shall dance with others, and I shall play cards.”

  Four dances the night they met. She wondered how long it would be before he desired only one . . . and then none.

  She swallowed hard, considering if she really wanted to know the truth, but she had to put the niggling doubts to rest. “The night when we were discovered kissing in the garden, during Greystone’s ball—I heard my father and brothers coming.”

  He stared at her as though she’d lost her senses. “As did I.”

  “I tried to slip away, so we wouldn’t be caught. You held me tight and whispered that it would be all right.”

  He smiled. “And it did turn out all right, didn’t it?”

  “Would you have held me so tightly if I had no dowry?”

  He laughed. “Now you’re being silly. Let’s go join the merriment.”

  He took her arm, and she shook him off. “I’m serious, Litton. We had time not to get caught.”

  “I wanted to marry you,” he said impatiently. “Is that suddenly a crime?”

  “Not a crime, but not entirely right, either.” She thought of the kiss that Chetwyn had bestowed upon her in the billiards room. Then again when they were walking. At the castle. It was as though he couldn’t get enough of her, would never have enough of her. “Do you know that we have not kissed once since that night? Not once.”

  “I took liberties that night I should not have taken. I’ve been trying to spare you any further gossip.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “So you did tell people about the kiss in the garden.”

  He shrugged. “Only as a precaution.”

  “Against what?”

  “Your father changing his mind and thinking that it didn’t matter, that our marriage was not in order.”

  She gave a light laugh. “Since he’s withdrawn the dowry, that’s not likely to happen, as he knows no one else will have me now.”

  He grabbed her arms, jerked her. “What are you talking about?”

  Not a lie, she told herself, but a small test. “My father has decided, based upon the recent worry I caused him, that I shall not come with a dowry.”

  Releasing her, he plowed his hands through his hair. “I won’t have it. We discussed the settlement. Granted, we haven’t signed the papers, but I was depending on that dowry to cover my gaming debts. I shall have a word—”

  “Don’t bother,” she said. “I shan’t be marrying you, with or without the dowry.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Have you been testing me? You silly girl, I’ll tell everyone what happened in the garden. Your reputation will be ruined. No one will have you.”

  “I think you may be wrong on that score.” At least she hoped he was. But even if he wasn’t, as she walked from the room, she realized that she’d been spared making a grave mistake.

  “—TWENTY STITCHES PER INCH.”

  Chetwyn tried to look impressed with his present dance partner’s sewing skills, but the truth was that Lady Beatrix’s words merely collided together as they bombarded his ears and made no sense. He’d heard that Merry had recovered from her ordeal and would be coming to the ballroom before the night was done, so he was trying to distract himself. A part of him wished desperately that he had stayed by her side at the castle. It would have ensured she became his wife.

  But he didn’t want her forced into something she might not want. He just didn’t know where he would find the strength to stay away from her once she married Litton. But stay away he would, because the last thing he wanted was her unhappiness.

  “Pardon me.”

  At the tap on his shoulder, he came to an abrupt halt and almost forgot to breathe. Merry stood there in a striking red velvet dress with white trim. She smiled at him, and this time his heart nearly forgot to beat. Then she turned her attention to Lady Beatrix.

  “Forgive me for interrupting, but a gentleman asked me to give this to you,” she said, holding out a slip of paper.

  “Oh.” Lady Beatrix took it, unfolded it, and read it. She blinked her eyes. “Who gave this to you?”

  “He asked me not to say. He wanted to remain a bit mysterious, I think. But I am given to understand that he is quite impressed with your sewing skills.”

  Lady Beatrix brightened. “Indeed. I knew some gentleman would eventually appreciate them.” She looked at Chetwyn. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I must see to this.”

  “By all means. Who am I to stand in the way of true love?”

  Lady Beatrix gave a tiny squeal before hurrying from the room.

  Chetwyn studied Meredith. “What have you done, Merry?”

  “I wanted to dance with you.”

  “Well, then, allow me the honor.”

  Taking her in his arms, he swept her over the dance floor. “Who was the note from?”

  She smiled. “Me, of course. It said only, ‘Meet me in the library.’”

  “At least she’ll be warm.”

  Her smile grew. “And not alone. I saw Lord Wexford going in there on my way here.”

  He laughed. “Jolly good.”

  She blushed. “Who knows? Perhaps something will come of it.”

  Tightening his hold on her, he asked, “And what of us? Will anything come of us?”

  “I’m not quite sure. It depends on you, I suppose. You should know that within my pocket I have a slip of paper for every lady you intend to dance with tonight. I want all of your dances.”

  “You shall have them.”

  “You should also be aware that Father threat
ened to take away my dowry if I didn’t marry Litton. I suppose he knew I had reservations and thought to dispense with them. I don’t know if he’ll carry through on his threat.”

  “I’ve told you before that I don’t give a damn about your dowry.”

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t love Litton. I never did, but he seemed a pleasant enough sort, and he made me feel appreciated. I thought I would be content with him, but then I discovered something I wanted more. Just a few moments ago, I cried off with him. He plans to tell everyone about the tryst in the garden. I shall be ruined.”

  “Lovely chap. I shall introduce him to my fist later. But right this moment you do know that the best way to stop gossip is to give people something far more interesting to talk about.”

  She nodded. “I never stopped loving you.”

  His heart contracted, then expanded, and he thought it might burst through his chest. “That’s good, because I have loved you from the night we met, and I shall love you until the day I die.”

  “Then kiss me now.”

  And he did. He stopped dancing, folded his arms around her, and lowered his mouth to hers. He heard the slowing of feet, a few gasps, some chuckles, a clap or two. Yes, they would be the talk of high society. But he wasn’t quite done.

  Breaking off the kiss, he held her warm gaze for but a moment before going down on bended knee and taking her hand.

  All dancing halted. The music stopped.

  “Merry, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife, my marchioness, the mother of my children? Will you be my love for as long as I draw breath?”

  Tears welled in her eyes, as she pressed a trembling hand to her lips. “Oh, Chetwyn, yes, of course.”

  Taking from his pocket a ring with small emeralds that matched her eyes, he slipped it onto her finger. At her stunned expression, he couldn’t help but smile. “I told you, Merry, that first night that you were the reason I was here. Happy Christmas, my love.”

  Standing, he kissed her again as a rousing cheer went up from those who surrounded them. As her arms closed around his neck, he pulled her in against the curve of his body and held her tighter. It was going to be a very lovely Christmas for them both. The first of many.