by Erica Ridley
He slid her a suspicious glance. “What percentage of the book contains ‘good parts?’”
“All of it,” she replied earnestly. “I hope you’re prepared for many, many long nights exploring the torrid depths of quality literature.”
His body tightened at the possibility. “How are you not married?”
She blinked. “I don’t know how much of our current conversation you were unconscious for, but most gentlemen frown at ladies in search of a fine maypole.”
He shook his head. “They might not relish the thought of you sampling other maypoles, but any husband with a pulse would want a wife who enjoyed their bed. I certainly want—”
A bride like you.
Lucien clamped his teeth together before the words could spill out. Where had that thought come from? He’d known since he was small what sort of wife he was expected to take, and it certainly did not match Meg in any way.
And yet…
“Most gentlemen,” she said with a laugh, “fail to consider that not all women wish to be brides.”
“Most women,” he pointed out, “have few options beyond ‘marrying well.’ What is a spinster supposed to do for the rest of her life?”
She arched a knowing brow.
He closed his eyes. “Please don’t say ‘sample maypoles.’”
She pantomimed sewing her lips closed.
“That is not a life plan,” he chided her. “One day, you’re going to be—”
“Too exhausted to… erect another maypole?” She fluttered her lashes. “When that day comes, I’ll take up knitting. Or horticulture.”
“Or letter-writing?” He slid her a look. “Rumor has it, you have excellent penmanship.”
“Those gossips!” She let out a dramatic sigh. “Every word is true.”
He pointed at a large package near her feet. “That’s for you.”
Her bravado faltered. “For me?”
“Open it.”
He kept his hands on the reins and his eyes on the road. The gift was nothing. It couldn’t be anything. Lucien was not in a position to make promises about things he already knew would not happen. But he was the type of person who tried to shape the future as best he could.
Meg untied the knot and peeled back the brown paper.
“It’s a slope,” she breathed. She stripped the paper from the portable desk, and lifted the flat writing surface in order to peer inside. “Stocked with paper, pencils, quills, and ink.” She looked over at Lucien, a question in her eyes.
“Just because we’re in separate countries,” he mumbled, “doesn’t mean I want to stop bickering with you.”
She grinned at him. “I never bicker. I’ll send you long letters, filled with my innermost thoughts about maypoles.”
“Please do not.”
“What if I just keep you apprised on the current situation with my bosoms?”
He could not prevent an involuntary glance in their direction. “I…”
“Ooh, that wasn’t a ‘no,’” she said with an approving nod. “Bosoms it is. I’ll include illustrations.”
His throat went dry.
“I can imagine very well,” he managed, before realizing his rebuke was tantamount to confessing how much time he spent imagining all the ways he longed to interact with her bosom and every other part of her.
“Thank you for the gift,” she said softly. Her expression was one he could not decipher. “I’ll miss you, too. I’d kiss you if we weren’t in public.”
Lucien was already steering his horses toward the private lane that cut through the evergreens.
“I received news from the court,” he said suddenly. He’d meant to save the announcement for his siblings, yet his first impulse had been to come find Meg.
“About your petition?” She pulled back. “Are you an aristocrat again?”
“Almost.” His words tumbled out on top of each other. “I know I mustn’t sell the bearskin until I’ve slain the beast, but others have had their rights restored, and our family has a direct line to the Crown. I expect our holdings to be returned in February.”
“Congratulations.” Meg’s voice was oddly hollow.
Frowning, Lucien glanced in her direction.
“I’m glad about your family home,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry you lost so much. I just…” Her voice dropped almost too low to hear. “…wish you weren’t an aristocrat.”
He touched her arm. “I don’t have a title.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re in line to one, and we both know that’s good enough for the beau monde.”
“It’s not good enough for you?”
“I don’t need titles at all. I’m not impressed with people who were born ‘important.’” Her gaze was piercing. “Don’t you want to be important because you are?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being ‘born’ important,” he protested.
“Isn’t there?” she muttered.
Now that they were alone among the hills of evergreens, Lucien pulled the horses to a stop. “You don’t understand.”
“Maybe it’s you who doesn’t understand.” Her eyes flashed. “Returning to France won’t bring your parents back. The past happened. It’s done. Isn’t it time to think about the future?”
“The future is all I ever think about.” His voice shook with emotion. “I promised my parents I’d take care of my siblings and give them the life they were meant to have.”
She lifted her chin. “Maybe they are living the lives they were meant to have.”
“Maybe you are,” he said, “and maybe you’re not. You like being a spinster because it gives you freedom. It gives you choices. Why wouldn’t I want that for my own family? If it’s in my power to give my children the opportunities they deserve, I would give my life to do so.”
“That’s exactly what my father always said,” she mumbled. “It didn’t work.”
“I will make it work,” Lucien said fiercely. “I owe it to past and future generations. The day my parents were killed, we had gone to market. Bastien and Désirée were at home in the nursery, but I was grown up. Thirteen was practically a man. I would have done anything for them. When I saw them being dragged away, my only choices were to run away or stay and fight.”
“What did you do?”
“Run away.” His voice was bleak. “I never forgave myself. Even though I ran at their request, ran so I would not be taken too, ran to protect my little brother and baby sister. Together, we ran all the way here.” He tightened his fists. “I’m tired of running. I’m ready to fight for what was ours to begin with.”
“Maybe you’re not ready,” Meg said. “Maybe you’re running away again. Maybe England scares you and Cressmouth scares you and I scare you, and the easiest thing to do is hop on a boat and leave.”
Anger seared through Lucien’s veins.
“There hasn’t been one easy day since the night my parents died,” he snapped. “There’s a difference between running from and running to. Home is never the wrong place. If you think it’s easy to walk away from my family… If you think it’s easy to walk away from—”
You.
“Around here,” she said quietly, “you already are a member of the aristocracy. You don’t just live in Cressmouth; you’re part of it. Our legend of the twelve dukes of Christmas wouldn’t be true without you.”
He shook his head in denial. “It has nothing to do with me. And I can’t stay.”
“Neither can I,” she said with a frustrated sigh. “I found a room to let. In Houville.”
His heart jumped. “Houville?”
She nodded. “I won’t be here to miss you when you’re gone. I’ve written to ask if they can reserve it for me for a month, because I’d like to help Jemima set up the nursery before I leave. But if they cannot, I will take the lodging now.” Her smile did not reach her eyes. “I cannot risk having nowhere to go.”
He frowned. “Your cousin—”
“—would never throw me into t
he street. You’re right. There’s not a sweeter soul in all of Cressmouth. That is why I would never knowingly inconvenience her. Jemima has done so much for me. The least I can do is leave when she asks.”
His chest hollowed. “But Houville…”
Isn’t Cressmouth.
Even if he came back from France one day to visit family, Meg wouldn’t be here. Cressmouth wouldn’t feel like Christmas at all. It would feel empty. Lonely.
But she was here right now, and so was he.
He took her face in his hands and kissed her as if the fire between them could banish the winter forever. As if all he had to do was close his eyes, and the distance between two countries would disappear.
As though if he kissed her long enough, hard enough, deep enough, his kiss would carve an indelible hole in her heart that only he could fill, just as she had done to him.
But when they lifted their heads, snow was falling as though to spite him. It was still winter.
And time to say goodbye.
Chapter 13
Lucien was just stepping out of the smithy when a carriage pulled to a halt in front of him. Meg’s cousin Jemima and her husband Allan were inside.
Jemima held out a small folded square of parchment. “Message for you, sir.”
Lucien narrowed his eyes. “You drove over here to deliver a note from Meg?”
Jemima shook her head. “We’re visiting Allan’s parents for the week, while I can still travel.”
“Then I won’t keep you.” Lucien stepped back. “Enjoy your visit.”
As soon as their carriage was out of sight, he unfolded the tiny missive. It bore just four words:
Home alone.
Come over.
He shook his head fondly. Meg was impossible. And Lucien was definitely coming over.
When he arrived, he half-expected her to greet him at the door wearing little more than stockings and garters.
Meg not only opened the door fully clothed, she had three iron nails protruding from one corner of her mouth and a hammer in her hand.
“Dieu merci.” She shoved the hammer to his chest and dropped the nails into his palm. “Come tell me if this shelf is crooked. I feel like it’s crooked. No one ever told me putting up shelves was so difficult.”
He trailed her into the cottage. “Your cousin left an hour ago, and you’re already remodeling her house?”
“Not the house.” She motioned him to follow her. “The nursery. They’ve been picking up things they need for the baby, and stacking them in a corner of the drawing room. I want it to be ready for them when they come back.”
His heart skipped. “You’re moving to Houville next week?”
“I have to start paying rent next week, if I want the room.” She shrugged. “I might as well give Jemima and Allan the last few months of privacy they’re ever going to have.”
“But next week is Christmas,” Lucien stammered. “You can’t leave before Christmas. Maybe your cousins don’t want you to go.”
“They literally asked me to go,” she reminded him. “They need the nursery.”
“They don’t need it next week,” he insisted. “And it’s not like they’ll never have privacy again. The baby will eventually…”
“Turn twenty-five and marry?” Meg finished with a droll expression. “Excellent point. I’ll be sure to explain to them that although I could have given them privacy, I chose not to because they’ll have a second chance for it after a quarter of a century. Provided the baby doesn’t become a spinster.”
Lucien glowered at her. What he meant was that he didn’t want to her to leave, and she knew it.
She gazed back at him blandly.
He ground his teeth. She was going to make him say it.
“I—”
“You’re leaving a fortnight later. I know.” She pointed at the wall. “Can you straighten that shelf before you go?”
He tossed the hammer onto the bed, then realized it was likely The Bed; the one in which Meg indulged her most wanton literary fantasies. He turned to a side table. There it was. Fanny Hill. He could be wrong, but from this angle it looked like every single page had been dog-eared.
“I’ll read to you later,” Meg promised. “Tell me your favorite fantaisie, and I wager I can turn to the right page on the first try.”
Lucien didn’t need to read a book in order to find his favorite fantasy. He was staring right at her.
“You’re right.” She moved the hammer from the bed to the table and trailed her fingers over the mattress. “We have all week to put up shelves. Why not start with dessert first?”
With a single step, he closed the space between them. She was in his arms, returning his kisses, and then they were falling backward, caught by the softness of the mattress and the warmth of each other’s embrace.
What happened to his cravat? Somehow it had been tossed to the floor. Just like his jacket, his waistcoat. It was hard to pay attention to his rapidly disappearing clothes when his lips were busy kissing Meg’s, and his hands were occupied with loosening the back of her gown.
When she straddled him to lift his shirt over his head, he took advantage of the opportune position to taste her breasts. She gripped his hair with her fingers and rubbed herself against him as he teased and licked. He could do this forever. He could do anything forever, as long as he was with her.
He was in love.
Lucien stopped licking.
Meg glanced down. “What’s wrong?”
“Mon Dieu.” He closed his eyes.
She lowered her hand to cup his cheek. “What is it?”
Love. So, what was he going to do about it? The wise thing would be nothing. The reckless thing…
He flipped her over so that her back was to the blanket and Lucien was on top. It did not make him feel like he had the upper hand. He was just as lost as ever. The only thing he wanted was her.
“Marry me,” he said before he lost his nerve.
Her eyes widened. “What?”
She didn’t need him. He understood that. She had no desire to wed. He mostly understood that. But if she wanted him enough…
“Marry me,” he repeated.
She bit her lip. “No.”
He stared at her. “You don’t want to?”
“You don’t want to,” she corrected.
“I do want to. That’s why I asked you.”
“You desire me.” She brushed her fingers to his face. “It’s not the same thing. There are too many reasons why it wouldn’t work. But I desire you, too. And here you are, in my bed. I know what I’d like to do next. What do you desire?”
He gazed down at her. He’d never expected to fall in love, never expected to want her to marry him, never expected to ask twice and be rejected soundly in the space of a minute.
Now that he knew any lovemaking would only be temporary, now that he knew for certain they had no future, what was he to do? Put up a shelf and run home? Or stay in the place he really wanted to be, if only for the night?
Chapter 14
Meg held her breath.
She hated to hurt Lucien—if, indeed, the fog of passion had briefly convinced him he truly wished to marry her—but she knew better than anyone that she wasn’t what he wanted. At best, she was merely something he desired.
Nonetheless, men did not take kindly to rejection of any type. Even if he well knew that he hadn’t really wanted to marry her, being told ‘no’ was a bucket of frigid water. She would not blame Lucien for walking away.
But he did not.
He brushed his thumb across her lower lip and followed it with a kiss so sweet and pure, she felt it to her toes. He wasn’t leaving. He also wasn’t rushing. Instead of resuming the frenetic speed in which they’d half undressed each other, he seemed to be taking his time. Drawing each moment out as if this was the first and last time they would ever find themselves sharing a bed.
That’s what it was, she realized, the truth sharp and bittersweet. A night of goodbye.
Knowing this was the only time she would ever have him made her senses all the more sensitive, as though her mind was desperately cataloguing every detail in order to recreate this moment in her memory again and again.
The gentleness of his hands and the passion of his kisses. The slight scratch of his unshaven jaw against the side of her breast. The scent of his skin: soap, leather, sandalwood. The erotic feel of his breath and his tongue against her bared flesh. The heat in his gaze as he paused to make certain he was giving her everything she wanted.
Against her breast. “Here?”
Yes.
With her nipple. “Like this?”
Yes.
Between her legs. “Harder?”
Yes, yes, yes.
She had never said yes so many times and so breathlessly in her life.
No one had ever cared if they were touching her how she wanted to be touched, kissing her how she wanted to be kissed, penetrating her as she wanted to be penetrated. She hadn’t known that hearing the question, that forcing herself to respond out loud would be just as arousing as the act itself.
Slower. Harder. Pinch. Suckle.
Kiss me. Grab me. Deeper. Faster.
Words she’d never said aloud. Words she only thought, only dreamed of, only longed for. She wrapped her legs tight about him and tried to give him everything that he was giving her.
“Do you like it this way?” she asked, surprised at the shyness in her voice.
She could feel his buttocks tighten.
“I’ve been turgid since the day I met you,” he growled.
She grinned at him. Grinned, during lovemaking. This wasn’t a physical release between strangers. He knew her better than any man ever had. He was right here with her. Meeting her eyes. Filling her soul. Making love to her. To Meg, because he desired her. Understood her. Chose her.
He reached between them. “Do you want me to touch you here?”
Yes. Please, yes.
“Meg?”
She met his gaze. Stared right into his eyes as she boldly said, “Yes. If you touch me there, I think I’ll…”