Suddenly, her eyes widened. “Your Grace,” she ventured.
“Emma,” he whispered. His heart hammered fiercely.
“I can’t feel your shirt collar!”
She closed her eyes but didn’t remove her hand from his nape, and Lucien thought he would go mad if he couldn’t make love to her right here and now. “Yes, Emma,” he whispered, and his breathing quickened with the knowledge that she was equally as affected by him as he was by her. Proof was in the way she bent forward slightly, drawn to him even without her awareness.
He guided her closer and lifted his face to meet hers, his lips touching hers gently, fully intending to seize the moment.
Bloody hell, the initial contact was like nothing Lucien anticipated. Lightning heat sizzled through him. His body quickened when she didn’t resist, and he sent his tongue on a gentle foray of her lips, lapping, savoring them fully, restraining himself so as not to frighten her.
Devil take him, but if her brother was stupid enough to allow her into his clutches... he was only a man, after all. He had never claimed to be a gentleman... and God only knew, no one had ever accused him of being one.
“Your Grace,” she protested weakly.
“Emma,” he whispered, and she trembled at the sound of her name, but didn’t withdraw.
With a groan of pleasure and another of victory, Lucien pressed his tongue between her lips, relishing the soft, sweet warmth of her mouth. Cinnamon, he thought vaguely. Her mouth tasted of cinnamon. He savored the sensation as she accepted his tongue and met it tentatively with her own.
“Emma, Emma, Emma…” He whispered her name and groaned, thinking that he’d surely been rewarded, when she allowed him draw her into his hungry embrace.
He couldn’t believe Andrew Peters could be so insanely stupid as to cast his sister into the wolf’s den. God’s blood, but he thought he’d died and gone to Heaven. Although Heaven, he knew, would never be his in the end, and there would be a price to pay for even this. And yet, for this incredible moment, he would gladly pay...
Only later...
Much, much later.
Chapter Six
Emma knew she should speak to protest, but couldn’t seem to do so... so long she had dreamt of this moment.
It was everything she had ever imagined it would be... and nothing she could ever have anticipated.
Kissing Lucien was Heaven.
This moment it didn’t seem to matter that he didn’t want her—nothing mattered in the hazy, dreamy moment, but the kiss.
Good Lord, but she just couldn’t think with him holding her so intimately.
When he drew her nearer, she could do nothing but let him, for he never ceased kissing her... filling her mouth with the most dazzling warmth she had ever known.
Her heart beat frantically within her breast as he guided her nearer, but she dared say nothing to break the spell. If she was dreaming, then dear God, let her dream.
She felt herself crumple atop him... and he let out a sudden ghastly howl of pain.
Giving a little shriek of her own, Emma disentwined herself from his arms and scrambled away from the bed, crying out as he yelped once more.
“Damned heathen brats!” he exclaimed. And then, as she stood before him, staring in fright, he shouted again, “Infernal brats!”
“I beg your pardon,” Emma declared, and then horrified by what she’d done—by what had very nearly transpired in this room—she said, “Oh, Lord!”
He flung himself upright in the bed, exposing his very bare chest, and she squawked, “Oh G-God!” She stepped back fro the bed. “You’re indecent,” she exclaimed.
He gave her a forbearing glance. “In more ways than you realize!”
Emma suddenly couldn’t find her voice to speak. And yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to turn away, even knowing she should. She blushed furiously, her hand going to her mouth to conceal her tingling lips—the undeniable evidence of their kiss.
“You can thank your nieces and nephew for this!” he said scathingly. “They’ve stolen my clothing!” He gave her a long-suffering grimace, and then grunting in pain, reached to stroke his backside. “Damn near shattered my tail bone!”
Emma thought she would swoon at his declaration. Not to mention the sight of him so... so... au naturel—and so at ease with it, besides.
Her face heated furiously. “Oh, my,” she said once more (and looked askance, finally). “I... I shall have them returned at once,” she reassured. “I... I’m so sorry, Your Grace!” And with that, she turned and bolted from the room, shutting the door securely behind her.
Outside Lucien’s bedroom, trembling, Emma grasped the knob tightly, as though to hold him within. Only after it was clear he wouldn’t follow, did she release the door knob and race down the corridor.
Dear God! She couldn’t believe how much liberty she’d allowed him to take. She was so humiliated. Nor could she believe what the children had done to him.
And that kiss!
There was simply no telling what he would think of her now. So much for any show of dispassion on her part! At the mere thought of it all, Emma feared she would die with mortification.
Much as she loathed to, she sought out her brother and told him what had transpired—or most of what had transpired. She conveniently omitted the worst of the details. If her brother thought for a single instant that the duke had taken advantage, there would be the devil to pay—for both herself as well as the duke. While Andrew respected Lucien, for her honor he would have forfeited his own life. Or taken one. Emma could little bear either of those repercussions.
As furious as he was with the news, Andrew managed to hold himself together well enough to console her, but that only made Emma feel all the more reprehensible.
She didn’t feel outrage herself, and in fact, it occurred to her that she would probably do it again, and the realization made her dizzy all over again.
Clearly, she couldn’t be trusted with the man and she wouldn’t make that mistake again.
With his usual aplomb, Andrew assured her that he would deal with the matter directly, and he did, upbraiding the children at once. No one spoke of the ordeal the rest of the day, and Emma busied herself preparing the gifts she would distribute on Christmas morn. After all, tomorrow was Christmas Eve and she had been so preoccupied that she had nearly left all her tasks undone.
By afternoon, as far as anyone knew, the duke finally departed the manor, for he was nowhere to be found, and one of her brother’s mounts turned up missing besides. Though Emma told herself she was grateful to have been spared a final confrontation with him, she had never felt more bereft in all her life. Not even her mother’s and father’s deaths compared, for while she missed them horribly, at least they had left her with the memory of their love. Lucien Morgen, on the other hand, had heartlessly given her the smallest sampling of what she would never have... and then he had cruelly snatched it away, making a terrible lie of her pretense. Hah! She not only cared that he had forsaken her, but it rent her heart to shreds to know that she had dared to hope yet again. It didn’t matter that no one but she and the duke knew what had really transpired in that room.
She knew.
And he knew.
And the despicable truth was that she had apparently never reclaimed her heart to begin with. That was clear to the bone.
Nevertheless, she intended to make the best of the holiday for the children’s sake. She intended to be joyous if the effort killed her.
Lucien spent the day in the village, submersed in drink, numbing the pain in his arse and the deeper one in his heart, fortifying his decision to leave with every sensible argument he could possibly conceive.
In truth, he was no good for her. He was certain to break her heart again at the first opportunity for, despite his noble title, he was as base as they came. Like his father, he imbibed too much, consorted with women too much, and was self-indulgent. Worst of all, he didn’t have the slightest notion what it was to love
someone—not even himself.
As he slipped inside the house, the sound of the pianoforte keys chinked like hallowed bells, ringing throughout. Lucien could almost imagine the accompaniment of an ancient harp.
Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight
Enchanting.
Magical.
But the sound that drew him into the drawing room was another sound entirely. It was the sweetest singing he had ever heard.
Your vows you've broken, like my heart,
Oh, why did you so enrapture me?
Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to find Emma at the keys, singing like an angel, her hair flowing gloriously down her back like he’d never seen it before. But despite the melancholy words of the song, she sang with joy for her audience. And with her guard down, she was fluid and graceful and the sight of her sitting before the pianoforte, so at ease, filled him in that instant with a strange sense of peace... mingled with sorrow, for it reminded him of a happier time.
She was so like his mother… before his father had managed to shatter her heart. Before she had taken the last deadly dosage of laudanum and then her face had been gray and the white in her hair had washed the once lustrous color from the lifeless strands. Even death had not been able to erase the grim lines from around her mouth, or those etched within her brow.
He fully intended to hire a carriage and go…
Now I remain in a world apart
But my heart remains in captivity…
The words of her song struck a chord. He had heard them oft enough, and though she sang without melancholy, he heard his mother in her voice.
He was confused, at a crossroads.
Should he stay, or should he go?
What did he truly have to offer Emma, except for his name and a title that she probably didn’t care two whits for? It was clear to him that what she wanted was exactly what she had here… a family and a home. And it was no less than she deserved.
Glancing at the hearth, he found the crèche filled to brimming with straw—no doubt one blade each for each and every misguided deed the kids had committed against him—all for her sake. Loyal they might be, but a more nonsensical practice he’d never witnessed... cradles, and straw, and unfulfilled dreams—bah, humbug!
Ah, Greensleeves, now farewell, adieu,
To God I pray to prosper thee…
He heaved a sigh, for he’d grown accustomed to finding them this way—so cozy and familiar... the way it should have been... the way it had never been for him...
The acute sense of loss plucked at him like a discordant note. Still, he watched...
She had no notion he stood there.
None of them did.
So he continued to do so in silence, in the shadows of the corridor, taking private pleasure in the melodious sound of Emma’s sweet voice... in the way she turned to smile softly at her brother’s children, who were all gathered about the pianoforte... in the way she gracefully performed the music.
He should leave now, he knew...
He should turn and walk away before anyone happened to notice he was standing there... intruding once again.
For I am still thy lover true,
Come once again and love me…
He stood entranced.
And then it was too late.
Emma turned and saw him and ended the ballad with a most unharmonious chord. Those disarming brown eyes of hers gazed at him with apprehension, and guilt overwhelmed him. Ill at ease with the silence that followed, Lucien turned his gaze to the crèche.
There he stared.
And then he did the only thing he knew to do.
He did what he should have done long before now.
He turned, at last, and walked away.
“Those two clearly love each other. In all my days I have never seen a more heartfelt glance shared between two people.”
“Cecile, my dear, there is nothing I can do to prevent him from leaving now,” Andrew told his wife, as he crawled into the bed beside her. “We’ve conspired in every possible manner, and that is that!”
His wife’s pale brows drew together. “You don’t suppose he’ll change his mind?” she asked hopefully.
Dressed to the chin in his night rail and cap, Andrew cozied up to his wife in the most scandalous fashion, playfully nibbling at her lobe.
“Andrew, my love,” she protested. “This is quite serious. If you won’t listen then I shall... I shall—” She giggled and gave a little shriek when he lapped at her neck like a dog. “I shall send you back to your own bed!” she warned, laughing. “Listen to me. Don’t do that!”
Andrew gave her a long-suffering look, and she tried not to giggle.
“We must do something,” she said firmly, slapping his hand when he twisted one of her little curls around his finger.
He sighed. “I am listening,” he said, resigned. Then very seriously, he looked at her and said, “Cecile, I have gone so far as to allow my only sister into a known rake’s room—upon your request, I might add. Gad! When the children came to you with their cockamamie plan, I stood by and allowed it. And then when Emma came away from there so shaken, I stilled my hand—and my tongue—when I felt like murdering the blind fool. Now I don’t know what happened in there, and I’m certain I don’t wish to know, but as far as I am concerned, we have tried our best and have managed only to fill a blasted cradle with straw.”
“But—”
He placed a finger to her lips, shushing her once and for all. “We have gone beyond the call of duty—far, far beyond! It is over.” He cupped her chin and raised her face to his, gazing at her adoringly. “I am quite moved that you care so deeply for my sister… but I do believe it is past time for the duke to go.”
Cecile sighed and shook her head. “I suppose you are right... though I did so hope. It would have been such a merry Christmas, indeed, if it had worked out the way we had planned.” She sighed. “Emma was so lovely this morn, and I thought... I thought perhaps they might talk it over.” She sighed again. “It’s all so very, very tragic!”
“But it is over,” he repeated firmly.
Cecile pouted. “Did you not see the way he looked at her tonight? If only they had more time…”
It was Andrew’s turn to sigh. “It was an uncomfortable moment at best. Nevertheless, Willyngham has informed me that he shall be departing Newgale at first light, and to that end we have returned his carriage to order. This time,” he told her inflexibly, “none of us will interfere. We must let him go. Cecile.”
Cecile gave one last sigh. “Very well,” she relented, and then she turned to nuzzle her husband’s neck. “You are quite scandalous,” she purred, “coming in to me dressed like this. Look at you! Can you imagine poor Emma having to see the duke dressed this way?”
“Gad,” he said, “but don’t remind me! Or I may have to go and kill the blackguard, after all.”
Chapter Seven
In the morning, the carriage was set to leave as Peters promised. His wheels had been returned. The driver had given a belly full of holiday victuals. Even the snow had let up, leaving clear skies for the day’s journey. But once again Lucien sat inside his carriage, contemplating the unthinkable.
Why couldn’t he go?
He sat there just a moment longer, and then alit from the carriage, straightened his coat, and marched up the front steps and rapped firmly upon the door, intending to talk to Emma.
He simply had to know.
“Miss Emma!” her maid Jane exclaimed, patting Emma’s arm none too gently. Her voice was much too bright for Emma’s liking. “Wake up!” she demanded. “’Tis Christmas Eve!”
“Noooo,” Emma wailed. “Go away.” The past few days had taken an emotional toll and she felt a bit dispirited as well. They could do without her at breakfast this morning, Christmas Eve or not.
“Oh, but Miss Emma.” Jane persisted. “You must get up!”
Emma groaned, and lifting the coverlet up over her
ears. “I don’t want to, Jane.”
“But Miss Emma! The duke is calling for you!” Jane said, tugging the covers down once more.
Emma bolted upright in the bed.
He stood at the bottom of the stairwell, shifting uncomfortably under the watchful gazes of Andrew Peters and his inquisitive wife. All three children peeked out from the stair rails above, flattened upon their bellies in their holiday bests, as though he could not see them. Their little faces, framed by red ribbons and bowties, peered down at him. All three, no doubt, waiting to see their efforts come to fruition. God’s truth, he thought he would go mad with the wait.
“You are welcome to join us for breakfast,” Cecile offered.
Lucien fidgeted, peering up uncomfortably at the children’s curious faces.
“Thank you, but no. I simply need to speak with Emma.”
He felt like a curiosity at best, and an interloper at worst, for he realized now how very inappropriate it was to have dropped in upon their family during such a reverent occasion. Simply because they had no cause to celebrate in his own home did not mean others did not find the occasion to do so.
Hell, he ought to turn and go. Ought to walk right out the door, which stood taunting him a mere ten feet to his rear. Why he didn’t just use it, he couldn’t fathom, but he stood like an imbecile, waiting, while three pair of eyes peeped from above.
What by God was taking her so long?
His eyes were drawn upward suddenly, to the top of the stairwell, where Emma stood looking down upon him. And as he stood there gazing up at her, he knew at once why he’d remained.
God help him... much as he loathed it, he was drawn to her in a way he could never have conceived possible.
She stole his breath away.
Mischief & Mistletoe (A Christmas Novella) Page 7