My Lady of Misrule: Wicked Winter Nights, Book One

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Tristan’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Having watched you flirt with Lord Skene all night, I would say no, not really.”

  All the resentment and hurt Minerva had been trying to tamp down, burst forth. “I don’t see why you should complain,” she snapped. “After all, didn’t you suggest I should explore erotic pleasures with other people?”

  Tristan’s brows arched in astonishment. “You heard that?”

  Minerva bit her lip as tears misted her vision again. “Yes,” she whispered when she felt as though she could speak. “Yes, I did. And I wish I hadn’t.”

  Tristan’s eyes burned into hers. “And do you?” he asked in a low voice. “Do you want to take another lover? Lord Skene perhaps? Or maybe someone else. Someone like Lord Preston? Or perhaps you’d like something more. Another husband? A man who would love you, as you deserve to be loved?”

  Minerva lifted her chin. “It’s none of your business, Tristan.”

  He took a step closer. Then another. His gaze didn’t waver. “But I think it is.”

  She waved her hand, a dismissive gesture cutting the air between them. “You’re free. I’m free.” A small voice at the back of her mind warned her that she was being unreasonable and waspish, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. The dam holding back her emotions had disintegrated and there was no way she could contain them. “I don’t need to answer any of your questions or explain myself,” she continued. “Suffice it to say, we can pursue whomever we want.”

  “I’m doing that right now.”

  What? Minerva shook her head. “Don’t do this,” she whispered on a trembling breath. “Don’t taunt me, Tristan. Not... not if you don’t mean it.”

  In the space of a heartbeat, Tristan caught her about the waist and drew her close. “But I do mean it, Minerva.” The fierceness in his eyes had been replaced by tenderness. “I want you. I love you,” he murmured, caressing her cheek with gentle fingers. “And I want to marry you... If you’ll have a thoroughly disreputable, utterly wicked rogue like me for a husband.”

  Even as Minerva’s soul danced with joy, her heart despaired. “I... As much as it pains me, I can’t say yes. I wouldn’t make a good wife, Tristan. Not for you. For several reasons.”

  He cocked a brow, challenging her assertion. “Name them.”

  “You’re a rakehell. And if you’ll forgive me for saying so, a libertine. I won’t be enough for you, just like I wasn’t enough for David. You’d surely grow bored over time and I... I couldn’t bear it if you looked elsewhere. I could never condone you taking a mistress. I’d hate it.”

  “Rightly so.” Tristan cupped her jaw and stared deep into her eyes. “And no, I wouldn’t get bored. Not ever. I know it to be true to my very bones. And I’d rather cut out my own heart with a blunt knife than hurt you. As your husband, I swear I would never be unfaithful.”

  The conviction in his eyes, the sincerity in his tone was undeniable. Minerva nodded, once. “I believe you.”

  He brushed a curl away from her cheek. “Do you have any other reasons as to why we shouldn’t wed?”

  Minerva inhaled a shaky breath. Voicing the next one hurt the most. “I might be barren,” she whispered. “You’ll want an heir one day, Tristan, and I... I don’t know if I can give you one. I’m eight-and-twenty and I never fell with David. Or even after Twelfth Night when I was with...” Her voice caught and she had to clear her throat to continue. “With you.”

  Tristan’s gentle smile—and his next words—melted the last of Minerva’s resistance away. “I don’t care, Minerva, my love. I don’t want a brood mare. I never have. I want a soul mate. A lover. A friend. You... you are all of those things to me. And more. You are everything I’ll ever want. I’ve been such an idiot not to realize that until now. Can you forgive me, dearest heart?”

  “Yes, of course.” How could she not after a declaration like that?

  Tristan stroked away her tears with his thumbs. “And are there any other reasons you can think of as to why we wouldn’t suit? Why you aren’t perfect for me? Unless of course,” he gave a wry smile, “you don’t love me...”

  “Of course I love you, Tristan,” she said, clasping his handsome face between her hands. “With my whole heart. With my entire being. And I think I have for the longest time.”

  “Dear God, you’ll never know how overjoyed I am to hear you say that, my darling Minerva. So now I’ll ask you again.” Tristan brought her hands to his chest. Clasped them close to his heart. “Will you marry me? Will you be my wife? The only one who will warm my bed and own my heart forevermore?”

  Minerva didn’t hesitate to answer this time. “Yes. Yes, I will.” And then Tristan sealed their troth with the most exquisitely tender kiss. The pressure of his lips was gentle yet sure, the slide of his tongue a warm silken caress.

  A little while later, when they broke apart to catch some much needed breath, Minerva slid her hands beneath Tristan’s evening jacket. “So, are we going to have up-against-the-wall sport or on-the-hearthrug sport now?” she asked, tugging at his cravat. Desire was already licking through her veins, warming her blood and she could tell Tristan was aroused too. “Because I’d love to try something else with you.”

  But Tristan shook his head. “Neither, my love.” His gaze trapped hers and her fingers stilled against his throat where his pulse beat, steady and true. “Tonight, we won’t play games. There won’t be any sport. This time,” he brushed a velvet soft kiss across her lips, “we’re going to make love.”

  And they did.

  Epilogue

  Ashwood Park, Hertfordshire

  Christmas Eve, 1819

  * * *

  The porcelain and gilt mantel clock in Ashwood Park’s makeshift nursery softly chimed the late hour, ten o’clock. Tristan still couldn’t quite believe that the tiny human being who he cradled in his arms was his three-month-old nephew and godson, Harry Fellows. That his sister, Julia, had carried and given birth to this gorgeous child seemed like a marvelous thing indeed.

  Rather than travel with baby Harry all the way to Northumberland where Edward’s father, the Earl of Holburn resided, Julia and Edward had accepted Tristan and Minerva’s invitation to spend Christmastide at Ashwood Park with alacrity. The young family had arrived in the early afternoon right before the season’s first snowfall. Then, after a delightful dinner before the roaring yule log fire in Ashwood’s festively decorated dining room, Julia had invited Tristan and Minerva to repair to the nursery to say goodnight to their godson.

  Tristan’s heart give an odd little pitter-patter as Harry curled his miniature, perfectly formed pink fingers around his own index finger. The babe’s deep blue eyes screwed up tightly as he gave a gummy yawn then shoved his own wee thumb into his mouth.

  “He’s so beautiful, Julia,” murmured Minerva as she dropped a gentle kiss upon Harry’s down-fuzzed crown. “And just look how he’s grown. I’m so glad you and Edward were happy to bring him here to celebrate Christmas with us.”

  “Yes, he certainly has grown,” replied Julia. A glowing smile lit her whole face. “And you know that Edward and I,” she reached out and touched her husband’s arm, “wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

  “Yes, there’s no place we’d rather be this year,” Edward agreed as he drew Julia against his side and kissed her temple. “And knowing that Ashwood Park was Julia’s childhood home too makes this occasion all that more special.”

  Little Harry began to fuss, so Tristan passed him to Julia. As she carefully took the babe then handed him to the hovering wet nurse, Minerva’s soft, velvet-brown gaze connected with Tristan’s and warmth suffused his heart. What a blessing it would be if he and Minerva could create a family of their own one day. He’d never thought he possessed even one iota of paternal yearning within his body. But lately, seeing how happy his sister and brother-in-law were, he couldn’t deny he was beginning to feel as broody as a mother hen himself. To think that a year ago he was still entrenched in his hardened, an
d altogether unfulfilling bachelor ways. Thank God he’d acted on impulse and kissed Minerva under the mistletoe at Fellows House last Christmas Eve.

  It was that kiss that had changed everything.

  After he and Minerva bid Julia and Edward goodnight, Tristan offered his delectable wife his arm to escort her from the nursery, then grinned inwardly. The act of begetting a child with Minerva was certainly enough of an incentive to keep trying.

  He would never get tired of making love to his wife. In fact, when they reached their suite of rooms, he planned on doing just that tonight. They were perfectly compatible in every way. Not only was he wed to his very best friend, he’d found a partner who was just as adventurous in the bedroom as he was. When he’d told Minerva that he’d never stray on the night he’d proposed, he’d meant it. She owned his heart and his very soul. She was all he’d ever need, forever.

  Minerva’s thoughts must have been running along the same amorous lines as when they reached her bedchamber, she promptly dismissed her lady’s maid for the night.

  “Because it’s Christmas Eve, I have a surprise for you tonight, Tristan,” she said as soon as they were alone. Her husky voice seemed to curl around him, drawing him in like a seductive siren’s song. “It’s… it’s my Christmas gift to you. I was going to share it with you tomorrow, but I’m afraid I can’t wait.”

  “I’m intrigued, my love.” He drew Minerva into his arms, reveling in the feel of her bountiful curves pressing against his own body. Desire flared, hotter than the fire in the grate behind them. “And now that you’ve told me you have a surprise for me, I don’t think I can wait either.”

  “But if you’ll indulge me”—Minerva looked up through her long dark lashes at him—“I’d like you to go to your own room first. Just for fifteen minutes so I can get ready.”

  Tristan raised his eyebrows, adopting an expression of mock horror. “Fifteen minutes? You actually expect me to wait that long to receive my gift? I will be in a state of absolute agony. Indeed, the anticipation alone will surely be my undoing.” To prove his point, he pressed his rapidly hardening cock against the soft swell of Minerva’s lower belly. “What if I want my present right now?”

  She laughed and swatted his upper arm playfully. “Well, you can’t have it yet, you impatient man.”

  “Cruel minx.” Tristan released her but not before he’d given her lush buttocks a playful squeeze. “Very well then, my love. Have it your way. But mark my words, I’ll be watching the clock.”

  And watch the clock he did. After his valet, Sullivan, helped him to change into a dark blue, quilted satin banyan, Tristan poured himself a glass of cognac and lounged before the fire, contemplating all the things his wife might have planned as the minutes ticked by on the Boulle mantel clock. Which didn’t do anything to diminish his aroused state. Did Minerva wish to use masks and silk ties? A riding crop, a flogger, or feathers? Perhaps even a birching rod or godemiché. During the year, they’d explored all kinds of bed sport including quite a few variations of le vice anglais, and Minerva, his daring, wonderfully wicked wife, loved all of it.

  As soon as the fifteen minutes were up, Tristan put down his cognac and padded across the thick carpet to the connecting door between his bedchamber and Minerva’s. Anticipation and lust coursed through his veins, heating his blood and thickening his cock as he approached the wide oak tester bed. The heavy silk damask curtains had been tied back to reveal his beautiful wife reclining upon the deep rose counterpane. Above her head, suspended from the bed’s canopy, was a ball of mistletoe.

  Her unbound auburn hair tumbled in thick, luxurious waves about her shoulders and the plump pillows at her back. Wearing a gossamer-thin white silk robe, cinched at the waist with an enormous crimson satin bow, she was the personification of everything Tristan had ever desired.

  His mouth hitched into an appreciative smile. “I approve, my lady,” he murmured as he propped a knee upon the bed to lean over her. Through the near transparent silk of her robe, he could detect the shadow of her succulent apricot nipples and the apex of dark red curls covering her sex. “May I unwrap my present now?”

  She gave a throaty laugh. “Yes, you may, my knight errant. Only…” Her gaze caught his. Held. “I’m not the present.”

  Tristan cocked a brow and reached for the crimson bow. “Oh?” he said in a lust-roughened voice as he gently tugged the ribbon undone and the robe fell open to reveal Minerva’s magnificent curves and undulations in all their naked glory. “I beg to differ, my love. You’re all the present I’ll ever want or need.”

  She bit her lip and it was then Tristan noticed her high cheekbones were awash with a deep pink blush. How odd… Minerva was never shy around him anymore.

  He was about to ask her if something was amiss when she laid a trembling hand upon her softly rounded middle. “I’m surprised you haven’t already guessed what my surprise gift is, Tristan.”

  And that’s when it hit him. Tristan’s gaze drifted over Minerva’s delectably full breasts, her waist, and her belly again. How had he not noticed? What a clodpole he’d been. “You’re pregnant?” he whispered as tender awe all but stole his breath.

  Minerva’s mouth lifted into an elated smile. Her brown eyes were luminous with tears as she reached out her arms to him. “Yes, my darling husband,” she whispered in a voice thick with emotion. “I am indeed. Our baby’s due in August. Merry Christmas.”

  As Tristan gathered her into his arms and kissed her with sweet, tender reverence, Minerva thought her heart might burst with joy. This man, this kiss, this shared moment—all of it—was pure, unadulterated bliss. If she could bottle this glorious feeling and preserve it forever, the elixir inside would surely be labeled ‘heaven’. For so long she’d despaired that she might be barren. That she wouldn’t be able to give Tristan a child. But it seemed her fears were all for naught. With Tristan, everything she’d ever wanted, would be hers.

  When they drew apart, Minerva could see her handsome husband’s deep blue eyes were suspiciously bright.

  “My precious love, I never thought I could be happier than the day you consented to marry me. But tonight”—he caressed her cheek gently with the back of his fingers—“I’m overjoyed.”

  “I feel exactly the same way,” she whispered, smiling up into his face. “I’ve been dying to tell you that I’m with child for a week now, but I’ve been waiting for the perfect moment.”

  “And this is it,” he murmured, resting his forehead against hers. “Our perfect moment. How I love you, my dearest heart.”

  “I love you too.” Minerva slid a hand beneath his banyan, seeking the heat of her husband’s rock-hard chest. His taut-as-a-drum torso. “Make love to me, Tristan.”

  At her words and touch, she felt his body stiffen. Beneath the black wave of hair flopping over his forehead, his dark eyebrows dipped into a deeply worried frown. “Are you sure? What about the babe?”

  Smiling, Minerva reached for his large hand and placed it against her belly. “I have it on good authority from a close friend and family member who’s recently given birth to a healthy baby boy, and my physician, that all will be fine, as long as we’re not too vigorous.”

  Tristan’s mouth kicked into a wicked grin. “So I take it that long and slow love-making is the order of the day?”

  “Oh yes, please,” whispered Minerva, pushing her husband’s banyan off his wide shoulders until he was completely, deliciously naked. Desire thrummed through her entire body. Her breasts felt heavy and her quim pulsed with need. Indeed, it was always so whenever she caught sight of Tristan’s superb physique. Or when he smiled at her in that roguish way of his.

  “Then it will be so, my beautiful wife.” Easing her down onto the soft mattress, Tristan spread her robe wide. “But first”—his fingers traced a lazy, teasing trail across her collarbones before sliding lower to cup one of her breasts—“let me feast on your delightful tits and your quim’s spiced honey. I’m dying to taste you.”

  As
if Minerva could say no to that.

  With a contented sigh, she closed her eyes and gave herself up completely to the heady pleasure Tristan so effortlessly brought to life inside her. While his talented fingers tugged and twisted one peaked nipple, his lips encircled the other, suckling gently before he drew it into the hot, wet cavern of his mouth. Moving his head, he then transferred his wicked ministrations to her other breast, laving and flicking and circling her nipple with the firm tip of his tongue.

  While it all felt divine, it wasn’t long before Minerva decided she needed her husband’s attentions elsewhere. Parting her thighs in invitation, she felt the warm gust of Tristan’s breath as he chuckled against her breast.

  He raised his head and caught her gaze. “And you accused me of being impatient, my lady,” he said, his blue eyes dancing with amusement.

  She pouted and squirmed. “Cruel man. You know what I want. What I need.”

  “Of course.” His fingertips brushed light caresses beneath the underside of her all-too-sensitive breasts, making her quiver all the more. “But you know very well that the more I torture you by making you wait, the sweeter and more intense your cataclysm will be.”

  “But it’s Christmas,” she protested.

  “Yes, it is.” Tristan captured her mouth in a deep, languorous kiss. As his tongue stroked hers, his fingers caressed her belly and then at long last, swept lower. Minerva moaned her approval as he gently parted her damp folds and spread the welling moisture there over her throbbing sex. “God, I love how wet and ready you are for me, Minerva,” he groaned against her mouth. “And now it seems I can’t wait for a taste of you a moment longer either.”

  He moved lower in the bed, depositing a trail of whisper-soft kisses down her belly as he went before wedging his wide shoulders between her thighs. Then he began to devour her quim with his hot mouth, teasing her clitoris with tiny suckles and rapid, delicate flicks of his tongue. At the same time, two wicked fingers penetrated her slick heat and thrust gently but insistently. Driving her higher and higher.