Mary opened her mouth, but before the child could speak, her mother said, “Darling, it’s time for bed.”
“Can’t I stay up one more minute?”
“No, dear.” Evie took her daughter’s hand. “Say goodnight to our guest.”
Mary blew out a heavy breath, causing her bangs to lift. “Goodnight, Mr. Earl. Tomorrow maybe you will hold Pumpernickel.”
“Doubtful.”
The child smiled in response, as if she would whittle down his resistance.
He watched them exit the room, hand in hand. He grinned. He’d never thought much about children. They sure asked an inordinate amount of questions, but Julien had to admit, he liked the imp.
* * * *
After reading Mary a story and tucking her in, Eve stepped back into the parlor. The chair where Julien had been sitting was empty. Hearing voices, she walked to the kitchen’s doorway.
Looking like a brawny Highlander, Julien seemed out of place in her tiny kitchen. Especially since he stood in front of the stove stirring something in a small pot.
The scent of chocolate drifted in the air.
“Thank you, Mrs. Campbell.” Julien nodded as the gray-haired housekeeper set the tin of corn flour on the table next to the hob.
Fascinated, Eve watched him spoon some of the starchy powder into a cup of milk, then slowly pour it into the pot and stir the contents.
Mrs. Campbell stared at him as if just as enthralled as Eve was by the sight of a kilt-wearing earl cooking. With his back to them, he was unaware that the housekeeper kept peering at his very male legs. Eve couldn’t blame the woman, since she found herself staring at them more than she should.
“Now, Mrs. Campbell, if you will bring me four teacups,” he said.
The housekeeper pulled them out of the cupboard and set them on the table.
Julien spooned a thick chocolate mixture into them.
Eve’s mouth watered at the sight, which was nearly as appealing as the man himself. He placed two on a tray and handed the other two to Mrs. Campbell. “One of the cioccolata calda is for you. Please put the other in the icebox for Mary to try tomorrow.”
The woman stared at Julien like he was a god and curtseyed. “Thank you, my lord.”
“You know how to make Italian hot chocolate?” Eve stepped fully into the room.
“Yes. I learned how from an old woman in Italy.” He placed two spoons into the saucers of the teacups.
She had a feeling the woman hadn’t been old, but young and beautiful. The scandal sheets had mentioned that he’d had an affair with an Italian opera singer.
“Would you care to join me?” He lifted the tray.
Care to join him? Her mouth was salivating over the thick chocolate mixture as much as it was over him.
She nodded. “Shall we return to the parlor?”
He flashed a smile. “After you, Evie.”
* * * *
Watching Evie enjoy the pudding-like texture of the cioccolata calda was more enjoyable than eating it, Julien thought. She savored every spoonful and made tiny sounds of appreciation that had him wondering if she would make them when being made love to.
She slipped another spoonful into her mouth and sighed.
His cock twitched.
Damnation. He needed to stop fantasizing about bedding her before his lurid thoughts became obvious.
“This is wonderful.” She briefly closed her eyes and licked her lips as if savoring the flavor.
He shifted in his seat. “Yes, I can tell you’re enjoying it.” His voice sounded sharper than it should.
She tipped her head to the side and peered at him, a questioning expression on her face. “Did I do something to upset you?”
“No. Forgive me, if I sounded irritable.”
“I understand.”
He doubted it. “I don’t think you do.”
“Yes. You are here when you wish to be at Dartmore House enjoying all the festivities.”
“No, I wasn’t thinking about the Christmas party.” It wasn’t a lie. He’d hardly thought about what was going on at his residence, except for his concern for his mother and sisters.
She made a disbelieving face. “I bet there is dancing.”
Julien absolutely didn’t miss dancing with all those debutantes, but he forced a disappointed expression. “Yes, there was to be waltzing.”
She made a commiserating face. “I’m sorry you are missing it.”
“I know what would make me feel better.” He set his cup down and reached for her hand. “Will you dance with me, Evie?”
She blinked. “We don’t have any music.”
“I’ll hum.”
Her cheeks flushed. “No, I don’t—”
“Please.” He forced another forlorn look.
“Very well.” She stood and set her cup on the tray next to his.
Humming a Joseph Lanner waltz, he held her in his arms and moved about the parlor.
“I love that tune.” She smiled up at him.
The pleasure in her expression, along with how she felt in his arms, made him want to press his lips to hers. “Evie,” he whispered. “Do you remember the first time I kissed you?”
She bit her lower lip. “I do.”
“Would you mind if I kissed you again?”
She held his gaze for a long moment. “I don’t think you should.”
“But you want me to kiss you, don’t you?”
“Sometimes we want things we shouldn’t.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth, a clear indication of his intentions. A spark of something akin to hope, or perhaps desperation, settled in his gut when she didn’t turn away.
He lowered his mouth and brushed his lips against hers.
Chapter Seven
As Julien pressed his lips to hers, Eve attempted to drown out her mother’s voice, echoing in her head, along with her own thoughts that this was a grave mistake. The rational part of her brain realized she was doing exactly what she’d done ten years ago, dallying with Julien when he would never choose her for his wife. They lived in two different worlds, separated by a chasm of social standing that seemed as wide as the English Channel.
When Julien married, it would be to a nobleman’s daughter, not a woman whose father had been a physician. All she would get from this relationship was physical pleasure.
Already, tingles flooded her body as his mouth coaxed hers open. His tongue tangled with hers. He tasted like chocolate and longing.
She slid her tongue against his in the way he’d taught her all those years ago.
He made a noise of approval—a deep, primal growl. His hand on her back slid downward to cup her bottom and pulled her body closer to his.
The hard length of his arousal pressed against her.
When seventeen years old, Eve had known desire but hadn’t understood exactly what could transpire between a man and a woman—the overpowering need that clawed until sated. She was not that naïve girl anymore. The knowledge of what a man and woman could share made her even more aware of the slickness growing between her legs.
Julien’s hands glided over her body—gently touching and molding. Not in a frantic way, but slowly, like a blind man trying to form a picture in his head and save it to memory. His mouth trailed a path down her neck. The hairs on her nape stood on end, and she tipped her head back as the edge of his teeth scratched the tender skin before his lips met hers again.
His touch became firmer. One large hand slid up her ribs to palm her breast.
Her nipples pebbled. She moaned against his lips.
Julien’s mouth shifted to her ear, while his hand continued the exquisite pressure against her breast. “You like that, Evie?”
She wanted to laugh. If he slipped a hand between her legs and felt how wet she was, he’d realiz
e how much she liked it.
Footsteps sounded in the entry hall.
Goodness. Mrs. Campbell. As if smacked in the face by a snowball, Eve jerked back and frantically straightened her dress.
The housekeeper stepped into the parlor. Her gaze shifted from Eve to Julien. Did she know what had been going on? Eve’s lips felt thicker than normal. Her face hot. Her breathing uneven.
Did Julien look the same? Don’t look. Don’t act guilty. “Yes, Mrs. Campbell?”
“Sorry, I-I didn’t mean…I just wanted to thank Lord Dartmore for the Italian hot chocolate.” The woman’s flustered composure and stuttered words relayed she knew exactly what had transpired before she’d stepped into the room.
“You’re welcome, madam. The least I could do since you’ve allowed me the use of your husband’s regimental outfit.” Julien’s voice sounded unflustered, completely composed.
Of course he was calm. If the gossip columns were correct, he’d dallied with countless women and had probably been caught in compromising positions before. She was just another woman in a string of many.
The housekeeper turned to Eve. “I’ll be heading off to bed then, if that’s fine with you?”
“Perfectly fine. I think I shall retire as well.” Eve glanced at the tray and the cups. She should return them to the kitchen, but she needed to get to her bedroom before she did something foolish. Without glancing at Julien, she followed the housekeeper out of the parlor and drew a slow breath into her chest.
“Evie, please stay,” Julien said, his voice as smooth as the hot chocolate they’d just shared.
“Goodnight, my lord.” She stepped into the entry hall and darted up the steps, more afraid of herself—of what she might do. No, not true. She was afraid of what she would do if she stayed.
After checking on Mary, Eve slipped inside her bedchamber. Since she’d not heard the creak of the old steps, she presumed Julien remained downstairs. Sitting at her dressing table, she stared at her reflection. Her hair was in disarray, and her lips looked thoroughly kissed. She pressed the tips of her fingers to the still tingling surface. She’d thought Julien skilled at kissing ten years ago; now he deserved a badge proclaiming he excelled at it.
Well, she could not sit here all night thinking of the way he kissed, or the way his hands had skimmed over her body, and certainly not the way his touch ignited a heat within her.
Hopefully, sleep would drown out her thoughts.
* * * *
Tick, tick, tick. Two hours later, restless, Eve stared at the clock on her bedside table, highlighted by a shaft of moonlight. Several times she’d contemplated opening her window and tossing the timepiece out the second-story window and into the snow below.
Why couldn’t she fall asleep?
She knew exactly why.
Need. Physical. Primal. Bloody well unanswered had her tossing and turning. Her body craved what had almost transpired.
Agitated, she tossed off her blankets and padded to the window. The gusty winds had caused snowdrifts to form against the side of the old barn. If she didn’t fall asleep soon, she’d oversleep, and tomorrow morning she needed to rise early and find a Christmas tree. It was tradition to cut down a small evergreen and carry it into the house on Christmas Eve. She always did it before Mary woke and told her that St. Nick’s elves had delivered it.
Samuel had started the tradition after their marriage, and she carried it on. She remembered the first time he’d told her that elves had delivered the tree while she slept. She’d laughed, and he’d grinned in response.
Eve tried to draw her husband’s face forward in her memory. Every day the image faded more and more. She swiped at a tear trailing down her cheek. Their marriage had been a good one. Not driven by lust, but comfortable. Eve missed him. She always would, but those nights of crying herself to sleep and finding it difficult to get out of bed in the mornings had passed. She’d moved on for Mary’s sake, as well as her own. Her daughter was the most precious gift Samuel had given her, and she needed to take care of her.
She turned away from the window and stared at the tousled blankets on her bed. If she crawled back between the sheets, she’d probably just stare at the shadows on the ceiling.
Did warm milk really help one fall asleep? She didn’t know, but it was worth a try. Quietly, she eased her door open. As she tiptoed toward the stairs, she peered at the closed door to her office where Julien slept. She hadn’t heard him come up. Perhaps she’d dozed for a few minutes. She forced her gaze away and padded down the stairs.
As she passed the dim parlor, a movement caught her attention.
She blinked.
Julien stood by the window—one hand held a curtain panel back, the other held a snifter. Gray moonlight revealed half his face. It looked chiseled from stone and deep in thought. Though he’d said he was not missing all the festivities at Dartmore House, she’d bet he was. Women in colorful silk gowns from the best modiste in London and Paris would have vied for his attention. The thought made her remember she stood in only her white nightgown and pink robe. She pulled the sash tighter.
Several of the women there wouldn’t have spurned his advances. She’d heard about the bed-hopping that went on at those house parties.
As if sensing someone watched him, he released the curtain and turned to face her.
For a long moment, they silently held each other’s gazes. He lifted the glass in his hand. “I hope you don’t mind. I helped myself to some brandy.”
“No, of course not.”
He set the glass down on a table and moved toward her. In the dark, he looked even larger—more powerful. Somehow the kilt and the thick stubble that shadowed his jaw added to his overall appeal, or was it more a sense of danger? Goodness, if he wore a claymore strapped to him, she didn’t doubt that even men armed with pistols would quake when he approached.
He stepped closer.
The beat of her heart notched upward. He was all male and too desirable.
“Were you looking for me?” As if he thought her a wild animal that quick movements might scare away, he slowly erased the distance between them.
Looking for him? His question repeated in her head. Had she been? She hadn’t heard him come upstairs. Was she lying to herself that it was warm milk she wanted and not Julien? She shook her head, worried her voice would come out nothing more than a whisper.
He stopped when a single foot separated them.
She tried to ignore the heat coming off his body, warming her in the cool air, but she never liked feeling cold. She was always anxious for spring after the long months of winter, and Julien felt like the heat of summer solstice. She wanted to tip her face up to him like she would the sun.
Return to your room, a niggling voice in her head chastised, but the cold, empty bed held little appeal. Why couldn’t she find out what making love to Julien would be like? Fulfill those schoolgirl fantasies that had played over and over in her young mind ten years ago. Give in to the gravitational pull of his body on hers as if he was the moon and she the ocean.
“I came downstairs to warm some milk,” she said, her bravado fading. “I need to rise early tomorrow morning and cut a small tree to place in my parlor. Mary will be disappointed if she awakes on Christmas Eve and thinks the elves did not bring one during the night.”
He held her gaze. “You’re a good mother, Evie. Your daughter is fortunate to have you.”
His words made her want to cry. They were some of the nicest ever spoken to her.
“Does warm milk really work? Maybe I should forgo the brandy and try that instead.”
She smiled. “I have no idea. I’ve never had it.” She scrunched up her nose. “It doesn’t sound very appealing.” Knowing she should go, she took a step backward. “If you want, I will bring you a glass.”
His hand reached for her elbow, stilling her. “I know what
would work better.”
There was no mistaking what he meant.
Step away, a voice in her head whispered. But she’d never been sagacious where Julien was concerned. Widows had affairs, she reminded herself. They took pleasure in men who were not their husbands. Affairs. Assignations. Trysts. Whatever one chose to call them, they filled a sexual need that could not be found in the loneliness of their empty beds.
As if realizing she battled with her own indecision, he drew a gentle finger over her cheek, then ran the pad of his thumb over her lower lip.
Her body tingled everywhere as warmth flooded her.
“Tell me you want me, Evie,” he whispered. “For I damn sure want you.”
She had two choices. She could return to her bedroom alone or entwine her fingers with his and lead him to her bed.
And the latter choice held an inordinate amount of appeal.
Chapter Eight
Eve released a slow breath, hoping to steady her nerves. Her mouth felt dry. So parched, she feared words wouldn’t come. She didn’t need words to show Julien what she wanted. She wet her lips and set her hand on his hip.
The intensity in his eyes unsettled her, but she swallowed any residual doubt, skimmed her palm up the front of his shirt, and leaned against him. So close, she felt the rise and fall of his breaths, moving in and out of his lungs.
He remained still as if he feared any movement on his part would have her dashing back up the stairs.
She needed to let him know that her mind was in accord with her body—that she wouldn’t bolt like a scared rabbit as she had earlier.
“I do want you,” she whispered, holding his gaze. “I won’t run away this time.” She slipped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to the warm surface of his mouth.
That single act, along with her bold words, seemed to break him free from the invisible constraints that held him still. He uttered a low noise. Intense. Primal. His fingers tangled in the hair trailing over her shoulders as he wrapped it about his hand, forcing her head backward so he could angle her mouth better to his.
The Taming of Lord Scrooge Page 6