He finished with the tidy row of buttons and her gown sagged at her shoulders. Jane yanked at the fabric as well as her shift, pulling both down, over her hips, until they pooled at her feet. “I’ve loved you for years, Lucas. And in that time, do you know how often I wondered what it would be like to make love with you?”
Lucas lowered to his knees, then reached for her garter. “You are playing with fire, Jane.”
“Too many to count,” she continued, her voice breathy with desire.
He snatched the garter, untying it with one pull. “Jane,” he murmured.
Begged.
He freed the other garter and rolled both stockings down her legs.
She turned to face him. Steadying herself with one hand on his shoulder, she stepped out of the silken fabric, then knelt down, her breasts skimming the sensitive flesh on his chest. “I want all of you, Lucas. And I want you now. Burn me. Brand me. Make me yours.”
Jane untucked the quilt at his waist and froze, staring with wide eyes.
Lucas lifted the fabric with both hands and tossed it so that it covered the worn carpet. A low, guttural growl was all he could offer in reply. He needed his mouth on her sweet skin. His cock nestled within her tight folds.
He caught Jane up and lowered her to the quilt, then rolled her beneath him, grinning when she gasped with surprise. “I warned you,” he teased, bending to caress one perfect, firm breast with his mouth.
He swirled his tongue around the rosy-hued tip, the sensitive skin pebbling in response to his sensual onslaught. She tasted of bergamot and crisp winter air. Of desire and deep, fiery need.
Jane gasped a second time and arched her back, her breath catching when he lightly grazed her nipple with his teeth.
He moved to the other breast, mercilessly blowing cool air over the creamy skin until the nipple hardened. He took it in his mouth, feasting on the tip as Jane writhed beneath him.
She pressed her palms to his chest, her fingertips exploring his skin. Each touch drew his arousal tighter, his cock nudging against her belly, demanding more.
Lucas nipped and licked a tortuous path up the slim column of her neck to reach her lush, full lips. His tongue caressed the seam until she acquiesced and opened her mouth to his. He stroked her tongue with slow flicks that soon turned to heated plundering. She matched his enthusiasm with unschooled vigor, sucking, laving, touching, teasing.
Lucas smoothed his hand down her lush curves and found the hot, damp folds between her legs, brushing his thumb over the sensitive hidden bud.
Jane’s hands clutched frantically at his waist as he massaged the slick mound. She parted her legs, her knees bending as she thrust in time to his wicked assault.
Lucas broke their kiss and stared into her sultry eyes. “Two can play at that game,” he murmured, nudging her tight, wet opening with his cock.
Her hands lowered to cup his ass, Lucas bucking at the unexpected touch.
She squeezed, her nails gently scoring him. “Take me.”
Lucas braced a palm on each side of her and lifted his upper torso higher.
Jane brought her hand between them, gently grasping the length of him and guiding him into her. Her breath sped up as he flexed his hips, shuddering as he slowly, carefully, sank home.
He just as slowly withdrew, her muscles contracting, squeezing him in protest.
Jane’s eyes closed as he stroked inside her again and her fingers clenched his skin each time he buried himself to the hilt. Her breasts bobbed with each thrust and Lucas bent his head to lick first one nipple, then the other.
Heat bloomed, roared through his veins, and he quickened his pace. She matched him, a frantic need building second by second.
Jane wrapped her arms around him and her legs tightened around his waist, her head shifting against the bedding as a cry of release tore from her. Her climax reverberated throughout her body, sending spasms of pleasure from her shoulders down to her toes.
It was the single most beautiful sight Lucas had ever seen. He drove into her, his hips pumping in time to the need coursing through his veins.
Jane urged him on, lifting her hips to meet each heavy thrust that buried him deep in her moist, sweet sheath.
The cottage faded away. As did the snow and any memory of life before that very moment, until Lucas could hear only the pounding in his ears demanding release.
Jane cupped his testicles in her palm and Lucas exploded inside of her. His climax stole everything from him but pure, simple pleasure.
Jane pulled him down until he blanketed her, his face level with hers. She wound her legs about his and held him tightly as the haze of lust and need mellowed to a profound sense of homecoming and perfection. “Happy Christmas, Lucas,” she whispered.
Lucas reverently kissed Jane’s temple and smiled down at her. “Happy Christmas, my love.”
Julia Quinn Exclusive
And now, without further ado, A Strange Fascination
by Julia Quinn
* * *
Thomas Trowbridge had known Mary Hatchard nearly fifteen years, and he had loved her since the very first moment.
Not that he had recognized it as such. He’d been but ten at the time, and she seven, but some part of him must have instantly identified her as the most magnificent creature of his acquaintance, because the moment he and the four Hatchard children had escaped the watchful eyes of their parents, he had done what any red-blooded ten-year-old boy in love would do.
He pushed her into a lake.
Fortunately, she knew how to swim, and even more fortunately, Thomas had never much minded the taste of porridge, because that was all he ate for the next three weeks, so furious were his parents over his unwelcoming and, they hastened to remind him, ungentlemanly behavior.
They had just moved to Upper Shearsby, they railed. It was imperative that they make a favorable impression with their new neighbors. What had he been thinking?
He had no answer. How was he to explain that as delighted as he had been to learn that his nearest neighbors included three boys, one of whom was almost precisely his age, when the Hatchard family had walked into their home, it was the girl who instantly captured his attention.
Fifteen years later, she still had it.
* * *
Mary Hatchard had known Sir Thomas Trowbridge more than fourteen years, and she had hated him since the first minute.
Sir Thomas —or rather, Master Thomas, as he’d then been— had arrived in Upper Shearsby when his father had purchased the next estate to Flixton, where Mary lived with her older brother, her younger brother, and her youngest brother. And her parents of course, although truth be told, Mr. and Mrs. Hatchard were hardly stern and barely observant, and as long as their progeny returned for supper clean of face and dress, they were content to let them run wild through the countryside.
Even Mary. Mrs. Hatchard knew that eventually her daughter would need to be molded into a more traditional image of English womanhood, but as for now, with Mary barely out of leading strings, she saw no reason to curtail her adventures.
But Mrs. Hatchard knew her duties as Upper Shearsby’s leading matron, and so when Sir Henry Trowbridge arrived with his family in their new home, she rounded up her children, had them bathed and starched, and trotted them out to pay a welcoming visit. Mary’s eldest brother John was the same age as Thomas, and the two boys had required exactly one half of a second to form a lifelong friendship. Mary’s two younger brothers —Edward and George— had always followed John like puppies and were thrilled to have another older boy to revere like a god.
Thomas Trowbridge had been everything polite and proper in his parents’ drawing room, but the moment the children had escaped to the garden, he’d turned horrid. And he’d remained so for the next ten years. Mary couldn’t begin to count the number of frogs, worms, and insects with which she’d been “gifted.” To say nothing of the trick quill that had left her hands stained with ink for a week. Or the salted strawberry pie. She supposed
he was tolerable now that they were adults; at the very least she no longer had to check her shoes before inserting her feet.
But he was always staring at her. Or if he wasn’t staring, he was ignoring. And if he wasn’t doing that, he was purposefully provoking her, and then they inevitably started bickering, and really, she had three brothers for that.
Someday, she thought, he’d find himself a wife, and then he could bother her.
But no, even in his absence, Mary must suffer his existence, for here she was, cozily ensconced in the sitting room, trying to read, and her mother would not stop nattering on about him.
“I saw Tom Trowbridge in the village yesterday.”
Mary looked up from her book —a delightfully lurid gothic novel called Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron— and tilted her head toward her mother. “Don’t you mean Sir Thomas?” she asked pointedly. Sir Henry had passed four years earlier; his wife followed a few months later. The Hatchards had mourned with Tom, who had found himself quite alone in the world. It was strange, really. Those awful months had been the only time of Mary’s recollection that they hadn’t been fighting like cats and dogs.
She had gone to sit with him when his mother was ill. She probably shouldn’t have done; at seventeen, she’d been too old to be in his company without a chaperone. But he was Tom, and she’d known him forever, and when she quietly took his hand in hers, he had not pulled away.
And when, thirty minutes later, she heard him stifling a sob, she granted him the dignity of silence. But she did not let go of his hand.
They had never spoken of this. Tom had left Upper Shearsby after his mother’s death; when he returned, he was the same as he ever was, and the bickering and eye rolling began anew.
“Sir Thomas?” her mother said with disdain, breaking into Mary’s reverie. “I have known that boy since his head came to my shoulder. He will always be Tom Trowbridge to me.”
Mary shrugged.
“He looks very well.”
He always looked well, Mary thought. It was one of the most annoying things about him.
“I invited him to dine next week,” Mrs. Hatchard said.
Of course you did, Mary wanted to drawl, but even she recognized that to be unacceptable behavior, so she smiled placidly and said, “It will be lovely to see him again.”
Mrs. Hatchard returned her attention to her embroidery. Not that she’d done so much of a stitch since the topic of Tom Trowbridge had come up. “How long has it been?”
Eight months. “I’m sure I do not know,” Mary said.
“It was in May, was it not?”
May the first, to be precise. He’d brought her a glass of lemonade at the Mayfair party, and within minutes they’d been arguing about the propriety of dancing around the maypole. It was the strangest thing, though—the way Mary remembered it, they had shared the same opinion.
They shared the same opinion, and still they argued about it.
He really was the most vexing man.
Her mother cleared her throat. “I believe he plans to remain until Easter.”
Mary flipped another page, despite not having reached the last line. It was the only signal she could think of to indicate her vibrant desire not to continue this conversation.
Vibrant? What an odd choice of words. Although perhaps not so much as desire.
There were certain words one should never use in the context of Tom Trowbridge.
“Is something wrong?” her mother inquired.
“Not at all.”
“You shook your head.”
“I’m sure you’re mistaken.”
“No, you—”
Mary stood, quite abruptly. “I believe I shall go for a walk.”
“In this weather?”
Mary glanced at the window. It was a fine December day—cold, but perfectly clear. “I shall wear my thickest boots and coat.”
Her mother regarded her with a puzzled expression then gave a little shrug. “Do return if you grow chilled.”
* * *
Now that he was back in Upper Shearsby, Tom couldn’t quite recall why he’d stayed away. He supposed it had been that particular restlessness of a young gentleman, eager to set forth and make his mark in the world. He’d had Cambridge for that, and then a season in London and trip to the continent, and it had all been very well and good, but the whole time he was thinking of her, and the precise shade of green her eyes took on when the sun was low in the horizon. Because it wasn’t the same green they held in the morning, or when she was particularly vexed, no matter the time of day.
That he was such a connoisseur of Mary Hatchard’s eyes was something Thomas had long since given up denying to himself.
Even now, as he ambled along the edge of his property, he could not help but note that his feet had led him toward Flixton. He could see the stately brick home over the rise, flanked by trees he’d climbed too often to count. There was Mrs. Hatchard’s favorite rose bush, and there was—
“Miss Mary,” he called out, surprised to see her abroad on such a cold afternoon. He lengthened his stride, swiftly crossing the distance between them.
“Sir Thomas,” she said as he approached, and her formality reminded him that she must be Miss Hatchard now. She was one-and-twenty, most certainly out in society, and as the only daughter of her house, deserved the distinction of her last name.
But he could never think of her that way.
“Were you walking to the village?” he inquired. “May I escort you?”
“I was merely stretching my legs. I had no particular destination.”
He felt one corner of his mouth tip into a small smile. “Then I shall escort you there.”
She blinked in a delightfully befuddled manner, then said, “I’m sorry, I said—”
“I know what you said,” he cut in, and he could hear his younger self in the cheeky tone of his voice. “But I would hardly be a gentleman if I allowed you to walk without escort.”
“I have been walking without escort in these lanes my entire life.” She shot him a suspicious look. “As well you know.”
“But it’s cold.”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
And all he could think was—her eyes. They had changed. In the minute since he’d reached her side, the color had deepened from leaf to moss.
He wanted to know why.
He knew her so well; they’d practically grown up together. But as he studied her face, he realized that he could never be satisfied with only this. He wanted to understand every expression; to recognize every tilt of her lips. He wanted to know her completely.
He wanted her completely.
“Mary,” he said. There was more —there was so much more— but right then, her name was the only word that mattered.
He took her hand.
“Tom?” She sounded confused, and maybe concerned, but the wrinkle in her brow only made him love her more.
He smiled. And then he couldn’t stop smiling.
* * *
Mary had always liked Tom Trowbridge’s smile, although for many years it would have required the threat of tooth extraction to get her to admit it. But now, as they shivered in the January air, he looked almost ready to laugh.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No,” he said, but he looked amazed as he said it, which made absolutely no sense.
“Tom, are you certain you’re well?” She reached up to touch his forehead, then realized she couldn’t possibly tell if he was fevered through her gloves.
“I love you,” he blurted out.
She froze. “What?”
“I love you. I’ve loved you since—” He swallowed, and for a moment she thought—Was he overcome? Was all this for her?
“I have always loved you,” he said.
Her lips parted, and she watched him with a new sense of wonder. Her hand had somehow moved from his forehead to his cheek, and he turned, just enough to press a kiss into her hand.
“You’ll have to marry me,” he said, a choke in his voice.
“Will I?”
He nodded. “No one else can put me in my place.”
“I haven’t said I love you, too,” she reminded him, biting back a smile.
“I’ll wait.”
She grinned. She couldn’t help it. He was always so cheeky.
“But you will forgive me,” he said, moving closer, “if I attempt to sway you.”
“Sway me?” she echoed.
His lips touched hers. “Indeed,” he murmured, and he kissed her again, eventually pulling away, but only so far as to rest his forehead against hers. “Marry me,” he whispered. “Please.”
She nodded.
He brought her hand to his mouth. “And you love me?”
“I do.” She smiled. “I think... perhaps...”
“That you’ve always loved me, too?”
“No.” A funny little giggle burst from her throat. She most definitely had not always loved him. She stood on her toes and impulsively kissed his cheek. “But I always will.”
Acknowledgments
This one is for you, dear reader. I write in the hopes that my stories will bring some much needed happiness into the world. May you have found delight, comfort, and and enjoyable break from the modern world while reading Under the Mistletoe.
The first installment in the Regency Rogues series
Read on for an exciting sneak peek at
* * *
The Devil in Disguise
* * *
The first installment in the Regency Rogues series
* * *
Chapter One
London
April 1811
Lady Lucinda Grey had not precisely decided what she would do if the overly eager Matthew Redding, Lord Cuthbert, compared her eyes to the Aegean Sea. Or the most brilliant of sapphires. It had all been said before and—Lucinda admitted with a stab of regret—in much more creative ways than poor Lord Cuthbert could ever dare dream.
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