For the first time she recalled the wish she had made in the darkened study with only Lily to bear witness. A wish that had, for all intents and purposes, come true threefold since its making.
I wish Devlin would simply notice me.
Sarah glanced at him again and this time he was looking back at her, his blue eyes calm and soft with an emotion she dared not name. He eased the horse down to a shuffling walk, shifted the reins to his left hand, and raised the right to gently cup her cheek. She leaned into the pressure, closed her eyes, and sighed.
“You are not a great beauty,” he said huskily.
Sarah’s eyes shot open. “What d-did you say?” she said, her forehead creasing. She would have drawn back, but he had begun tracing the curve of her jaw with his thumb, and she was too weak a creature to deny herself such a simple pleasure.
“The other women I have been with were all great beauties. Their hair was more golden than yours, their lips more red, their bodies more voluptuous.” Here Devlin paused and Sarah, who had grown more and more incredulous with every word he spoke, finally jerked free of his grasp and wedged herself into the farthest corner of the seat she could reach.
“If you are trying to pay me compliments you are not doing a very good job!”
“Oh,” Devlin, his blue eyes gleaming and his dimples flashing, “I am paying you the greatest compliment of all. These women,” he continued, apparently oblivious to the fact that Sarah did not want to hear of anyone else he had been with, “were so beautiful it often pained me to look upon them, for I knew beneath their glittering smiles and batting eyelashes they were as cold and empty as porcelain dolls. They could not love another, you see, for they were already in love with themselves. I knew this, and in knowing it pursued them all the more, for I did not seek love, I sought beauty and all the coldness it brought with it.”
“But… But why?” Sarah asked.
“Because when you are cold you cannot feel alive, and when you are not alive you cannot feel love.” With a soft murmur Devlin eased down to a full halt. Securing the reins he turned to Sarah and gently drew her hands into his, his fingers tracing across the delicate bumps of her knuckles as he gazed earnestly into her eyes. “But I do not feel cold around you, Sarah. I feel alive, as I have not in years. I loved another once, and when she broke my heart I swore never to open myself to such pain again.”
It was beginning to dawn on Sarah that Devlin was trying to tell her how much he cared for her, albeit in a rather roundabout way. She drew in a deep, trembling breath and tried to still the hope that quivered wildly within her breast.
Hope had not served her well in the past, and she dared not set it free now, not when there was still a chance her heart could shatter as surely as Devlin’s had all those years ago. “What are you trying to say?” she pressed, searching his eyes for the answer to the most important question of all.
“What am I trying to say?” Devlin repeated wryly. Before she could brace herself he had his arms around her waist and she was whisked into his lap. Stifling her gasp of surprise with a quick brush of his mouth against hers, he cradled her against his chest as if she were made of the finest glass and whispered in her ear, so soft as to barely be heard, “I love you.”
“You… You love me?”
“And I want to marry you.”
Her jaw dropped. “You want to marry me?”
“Yes, you silly girl.” Stroking his fingers through her hair, he loosened the knot that held her braid in place and began to unwind the sections tendril by golden tendril. “I loved you from the first moment I saw you, even though I was too proud to admit it. I loved you on that first sleigh ride when you were so delightfully nervous you could barely speak a word, and I shall love you to the last one when we know each other so well no words will need to be spoken. You are my light, Sarah Mine. My heart. My love.” He punctuated each declaration with a kiss to her cheek, his lips chasing away the tears that fell like sparkling diamonds from her lashes. “Do not cry,” he murmured, pulling her even closer. “You should be happy, not sad.”
Tipping her head back Sarah gazed up at him through her tears and managed a choked laugh. “I am happy,” she assured him. “Happier than I ever dared to be.”
He nodded. “Good. Now tell me you love me as well.”
“I love you as well,” she said obediently.
Devlin’s brow furrowed. “That did not sound very convincing.”
Clasping her arms around his neck, Sarah squeezed him to her as tight as she could. “I love you.” She kissed his chin. “I love you.” She kissed the tip of his nose. “I love you.”
Devlin frowned. “You missed a spot,” he said, pointing to his mouth.
“Did I?” Sarah blinked innocently. “Well, I shall have to fix that.”
“At once,” he said.
“At once,” she agreed.
Laughing, the two lovers clung to each other in an embrace so passionate that for a moment, a moment so quick if you blinked it would be missed, the sun shone a bit more brightly and the snow, for the first time all winter, began to thaw.
A Rake in Winter
Lady Emma Sterling has always been the perfect lady. Which is why no is more shocked than Lady Emma herself when she accidentally indulges in a bit too much elderberry wine and wakes up the next morning in bed with none other than Lord William Prescott, England’s most notorious rake!
Humiliated and ashamed, Emma would like to pretend the whole thing never happened. Unfortunately, Will isn’t about to let her go that easily. Enchanted by her deep blushes and scandalized glances he’s as determined to pursue Emma as she is to avoid him.
When they are trapped together during a winter storm Emma is left with no choice but to finally confront her conflicted feelings for the handsome rogue who has been slowly stealing her heart. But will their Christmas affair end in love… or disaster?
Prologue
Lady Emma Sterling woke to a faint scratching against her chin. Keeping her eyes pinched tightly closed she rolled to the side, pulling the covers with her as the icy chill of a cool December morning nipped at her toes.
“Not now Hamlet,” she murmured sleepily. “It is far too early and I do not feel well. Go catch a mouse, if you please. But do leave me alone.”
At eight months of age Hamlet – named for Emma’s favorite Shakespearean character – was still very much a kitten and loved nothing better than to pounce on his owner’s pillow and rub his whiskers on her cheek until she woke and drew him under the blankets with her. It was his favorite game and one she normally indulged… except for when her head felt as though it was going to crack wide open.
“Hamlet,” she groaned when she felt his pointy whiskers brush against the nape of her neck. “What did I say? If you cannot lay quietly then you are going to have to leave. It is far too early to play.”
Hamlet, being a cat, did not respond and Emma, being a young woman with a very soft heart, felt a twinge of guilt for ignoring her pet. After all, it wasn’t his fault she had been up until the very wee hours of the morning dancing and socializing while he’d been locked in a bedroom (for if there was one place a cat was not welcome, it was a diner party). The blame for his temporary abandonment rested entirely on the slender shoulders of Lady Vivian Lakewood, Emma’s oldest and dearest friend.
‘A quiet evening with a few close acquaintances’, Vivian had told Emma even as the mischievous glint in her bright blue eyes promised otherwise.
Being the loyal – and somewhat gullible – friend that she was Emma had agreed to attend Vivian’s impromptu dinner party as long as her cat was allowed to come as well.
“Oh very well Hamlet. You win.” With a heavy sigh Emma rolled back over onto her side and opened one eye. Expecting to be faced with Hamlet’s furry countenance she muffled a shriek of alarm against her pillow and nearly fell off the edge of the mattress when, instead of Hamlet peering up at her, she found herself staring into a pair of startlingly green eyes, a long masculi
ne nose, and a hard mouth twisted into a smirk.
A very familiar hard mouth Emma realized with a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. A hard mouth that had softened when – in a moment of pure and utter lunacy – she had allowed herself to be kissed in the snow and the shadows by a very inappropriate suitor. If one could even call him a suitor.
Rake was probably a better term.
Lord William Prescott’s reputation as a notorious womanizer and a known blackguard proceeded him wherever he went. He was accepted by polite society solely because of his title, and the title he would one day inherit when his father passed and he became the seventh Marquess of Ware.
And he kissed me, Emma recalled, searching through the blurry vestiges of her memory as her cheeks turned a bright, fiery red and her heart began to pound. Or at least I think he kissed me. Perhaps I kissed him.
Although if his naked chest and arrogant smirk were any indication, they had done far more than kiss…
“I wondered when you were going to get up.” Lord Prescott’s voice was husky from sleep. Sitting up on his elbows he peered down at her, thick eyebrows drawing together beneath a dark slash of tousled hair. “Feeling a little worse for wear, are we? I expected as much.”
Emma pinched her eyes shut as hard as she could before dragging the covers up and over her head. A dream, she told herself as her heart beat frantically against her chest and the back of her neck went cold and clammy. It’s just a horrible, horrible dream. When I wake up I shall be alone and Lord Prescott will be passed out below stairs or in one of the maid’s bedrooms or wherever scoundrels go when they have indulged in too many glasses of brandy.
Which only begged the question: where did proper young ladies find themselves when they indulged in too many glasses of elderberry wine?
In bed with a rake, or so it appeared. For no matter how much Emma wished it otherwise there was no escaping the fact that she wasn’t in a dream and the incorrigible Lord Prescott really was in her bed and her life as she knew it was completely and utterly ruined.
Chapter One
Twelve Hours Earlier
“You cannot bring the cat.”
Emma lifted her chin. “Then I am afraid I will not be able to attend. But thank you very much for the invitation.”
Looking as though she was caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan, Vivian threw up both hands in the universal gesture of surrender and fell back onto a plump chaise lounge. “Very well. But he has to stay upstairs. If Rodger finds cat hair on the upholstery he will be furious.”
The corners of Emma’s mouth tightened ever-so-slightly. Although she would never dare say as much out loud, she was not overly fond of her best friend’s husband. Married just last year after a whirlwind courtship, Rodger and Vivian were the quintessential high society couple. He was a viscount with an impressive yearly income; she a young lady of impeccable breeding and beauty from a well-to-do family. They were absolutely perfect for one another… Or so they led everyone to believe. Everyone except for Emma who suspected there was much more to their happily-ever-after than met the eye.
She’d seen the way Vivian’s shoulders tensed whenever her husband entered the room, just as she’d noted how far Rodger’s eye tended to wander when there were other women present. He had never done anything that could be considered untoward. At least not that Emma knew of. But what sort of man did not like cats?
The untrustworthy sort, she decided as she set Hamlet down and watched him chase sunbeams across the carpet. Grabbing his own tail he rolled under a chair and out of sight. Satisfied that he would amuse himself – at least for a few minutes – she returned her attention to Vivian. Her friend was watching her with one pale brow lifted while a knowing smirk compressed her voluptuous mouth.
“You know, if you paid half as much attention to your suitors as you did that cat you would be well on your way to being married by now.”
“Since I would never consider any man who did not love Hamlet as much as I do, I do not foresee that as being an issue.” Emma’s smile was as calm as it was well-practiced. At twenty-two-years of age she was more than accustomed to having her marriageable status questioned. Since her debut seven years ago she’d been paraded in front of more men than she cared to count in an attempt to find a suitable husband. She had even developed feelings for a few of them… but without fail her feelings always seemed to wither away, rather like a rose in late September when the warmth from the summer had started to fade and winter began to sink its icy claws into the ground.
She wanted to find a husband. She simply wanted to find the right husband. One with whom she would share common interests and pursuits. One who would be faithful and loyal and not look at other women the way Rodger did. One who would not only be a good husband but a good father and not tire of her or their children when the shine of their marriage began to wear thin.
Emma wanted love. Not the make-believe kind that was abundant amidst the ton where it was not only acceptable but encouraged to marry a man for his title but, the real, honest-to-goodness love she’d read about in the romance novels she kept hidden beneath her mattress. The kind of love that set the sun on fire and made poets weep and turned ordinary men into dashing knights who would bravely vanquish a dragon if it meant earning the heart of the woman they loved. When she’d expressed her thoughts to Vivian, however, her friend had only laughed and rolled her eyes.
‘You do not marry for love,’ she’d scolded affectionately. ‘You marry for wealth and prosperity. Love will not furnish your household or fill up your closet with beautiful gowns, Emma. Only money can do that.’
Maybe what Vivian had said was true, but it wouldn’t keep Emma from trying to find her prince charming. He was out there waiting for her. She knew he was.
She just hoped he liked cats.
“Well perhaps someone will catch your eye at the dinner party,” Vivian said after a long pause. Toying with a lock of golden hair that had slipped free of her elegant coiffure she leaned forward on the chaise lounge, head canting to one side. “Have you been introduced to Lord Cartwell? He is a bit older, but quite wealthy.”
“Who is quite wealthy?” As was her habit Emma’s mother entered the parlor and inserted herself into their conversation without so much as a ‘how do you do’. A vibrant woman with an air for the dramatic, Lady Sterling loved nothing better than a good bit of gossip… particularly when that gossip involved a man.
One glance at her dark hair, vivid blue eyes, and heart-shaped countenance and it was easy to see the resemblance between Lady Sterling and her daughter. She and Emma could have passed for sisters were it not for the tiny crow’s feet beginning to form in the corners of Lady Sterling’s eyes and the slight wobble of excess skin developing under her chin. Being somewhat predisposed to vanity she kept her throat hidden with silk scarves and lacy white fichus. The lines on her face she slathered with cream every night and no one – not even her husband – knew that any gray hair that appeared on her head was ruthlessly plucked with the gritty determination of a gardener ridding his flowerbed of weeds.
After greeting Vivian with a smile and Emma with a light kiss on the cheek Lady Sterling sat beside her daughter and drew her lavender skirts neatly to the side, revealing a pair of pink silk shoes. The shoes were delicate and dainty and just a little impractical, not unlike Lady Sterling herself.
“Well?” she said, her curious gaze flicking from Emma to Vivian and back again. “Of whom are we speaking?” Orange light from the crackling fire bathed the side of her face in a warm glow as she reached forward and plucked a sugar biscuit from a tray of refreshments. The parlor had the largest hearth in the entire house which made it one of the most heavily used rooms during the winter months despite its smaller size. Emma even slept in the parlor on occasion when the temperature dipped below freezing and her drafty bedroom windows shook from the force of the icy northern winds.
“Lord Cartwell.” Vivian did not bother to hide her triumphant smirk. Like any
great war general she knew precisely where – and when – to pick her battles. If there was anyone who wanted to see Emma married more than she it was Lady Sterling. Together the two of them had formed an unspoken coalition; one that refused to put down its arms until Emma was dressed in white and heading down the aisle. “He is going to be at my dinner party tonight and I was simply wondering if Emma had met him.”
Lady Sterling paused with the sugar biscuit halfway to her lips. “No, I do not believe she has. I thought Lord Cartwell was already married?”
“He was married,” Vivian said with deliberate emphasis. “But his wife passed away last spring without giving him an heir. Word has it he is quite desperate to marry again.”
“Probably because in another few years he will be old enough to be a grandfather,” Emma muttered under her breath. She did not begrudge the man his age – he certainly could not help how old he was, nor could he help the fact that he was childless – but she did disapprove of his drinking habits. The last time she had seen him at one of Vivian’s infamous dinner parties he’d been so deep into the port he had barely been able to stand let alone conduct himself with any measure of decorum. Needless to say his behavior had left a poor taste in Emma’s mouth. She did not expect – or want – perfection in a husband, but she did require a certain amount of common decency and morality. Her husband needn’t be a saint, but it would also be ever so helpful if he wasn’t a drunk either.
“And Lord Cartwell is a… baron?” Lady Sterling asked.
“An earl,” said Vivian. “A very wealthy earl.”
Lady Sterling bit into her sugar biscuit with enthusiasm. “He sounds absolutely delightful,” she said once she’d finished chewing. “You say he will be at your dinner party tonight?”
“Indeed. Along with half a dozen other eligible bachelors.” Vivian’s smile was as sweet as the sugar biscuit Lady Sterling had just devoured. “I think it would be ever so romantic if Emma received a Christmas proposal, don’t you?”
My Winter Rogue: A Regency Holiday Collection Page 15