“None that the natives are willing to share.”
“And no disapproval at a young, beautiful woman living alone with two abandoned waifs?”
“I believe there was an elderly nurse who lived with her until a year or so ago, but after the nurse’s death Miss Jefferson was apparently determined to remain independent, and claimed her advanced years as reason enough to spurn the need for a chaperon.”
The vivid image of tilted black eyes and sun-kissed skin seared through his mind.
“Mon Dieu, the chit is closer to the nursery than her dotage.”
“Does it matter?”
Raoul’s brows snapped together. “Of course it does.”
Nico turned, leaning his back against the mantel, his expression thoughtful.
“I must admit I am baffled.”
“Why?”
“If she is as young and beautiful as you claim, then surely you would prefer she not be guarded by some bitter old gorgon, or worse, a hot-tempered relative who would slice off your manhood for a stray glance?” The dark eyes studied Raoul’s suddenly wary expression. “Unless I have mistaken your interest in her.”
With a smooth motion, Raoul was on his feet and headed for the door.
“The mistake is no doubt mine, Nico.”
Hercules was no more pleased than Raoul to be urged out of his warm stall to confront the brutal wind and icy roads. In truth, Raoul had debated ignoring the short, imperious summons from his father.
It wasn’t that he was hurt by the cold, impersonal demand that he present himself at the Great House. How could he be?
This was exactly what he had been expecting.
No, it was merely a healthy aversion to freezing his balls on the two-mile ride, only to have them further twisted into knots by his father when he reached the Great House.
Dismissing his foolish reluctance, Raoul attired himself in a jade coat and gold-stitched waistcoat that were matched with buff breeches and a modestly tied cravat. Although he had never been a particular friend of Brummell, he did appreciate the tailored simplicity that he had made fashionable.
Then, wrapping himself in his coat, hat, and gloves, he gathered Hercules and set out.
Despite the chill in the air, there were several hearty folks out and about. A few farmers tending to their animals, a handful of children collecting Christmas holly for the mantel, a dairy maid that gave a small squeal and darted away when she caught sight of him.
He aimlessly allowed his gaze to roam over the frozen landscape, following the familiar landmarks, until he caught sight of a low stone wall.
Mon Dieu.
He had deliberately chosen the path that would take him directly past Miss Jefferson’s cottage.
With the gentle pressure of Raoul’s knees, Hercules came to a halt. He should ride on. He had no business here. None whatsoever…
So why was he sitting there like a great big lump of stupidity?
As if to mock his strange paralysis, the sound of barking split the air and two large mutts came charging toward the wall, closely followed by a familiar lad with brown curls and far too perceptive gray eyes.
Hercules stirred at the commotion, and bringing him swiftly under control, Raoul glared at the advancing dogs.
“Enough, you revolting beasts,” he snapped, his hand lifting in command. “Sit.”
It was too much to hope the unruly curs would actually obey, but they did stop in their tracks and eye him with obvious wariness.
“Sir.” A pleased expression lightened Willie’s narrow countenance, although Raoul suspected it had to do more with the sight of Hercules than himself. “Wait a moment. Sampson. Delilah. Come.”
With surprising ease, Willie corralled the dogs into the long stone building attached to the back of the cottage. No doubt it had once been the stables, although Raoul doubted Miss Jefferson possessed the funds to keep a horse and carriage.
Not nearly as annoyed as he should be at being more or less trapped, Raoul urged Hercules through the open gate and vaulted onto the hard, uneven ground just as Willie came dashing towards him.
“Hard at work with your chores, Master Willie?” he murmured, glancing toward the pile of split firewood.
The boy grimaced. “Aye.”
“I believe that I possess something that belongs to you.”
“Me?”
Reaching into the saddlebag, Raoul removed the scuffed cricket ball he’d unearthed from the hedge three days ago.
He had been careful not to examine the reason for the hour he had spent looking for the ridiculous thing. Or why he had hoarded it like some sort of treasure.
“Here.” He tossed the ball to the startled Willie. “I would suggest you hide the evidence until suspicion of Jimmy’s accident has passed.”
“Thank you, sir.” The lad hastily tucked the ball into his pocket. “I appreciate you not telling Miss Sarah about our little game. We aren’t supposed to take the bat and ball out of the garden.”
“I held my council only because I believe the two of you have learned your lesson.”
“Aye.” Genuine regret darkened the gray eyes. “Jimmy was stuck in his bed until this morning. Poor bugger had nothing to do but study his sums and practice his penmanship.”
“I presume he is up and about again?”
“He is up, but Miss Sarah has him scrubbing floors today. Says the air is too crisp for him to venture out.”
Raoul smiled ruefully. Miss Sarah had clearly devised the perfect means of ensuring the boys never again played cricket outside the garden.
Clever as well as beautiful.
Dangerous, indeed.
“A true Machiavellian mind,” he murmured.
“Beg pardon?”
Raoul shook his head in self-derision, giving into the inevitable.
He had come this way for one reason only.
To try and pretend otherwise was foolish.
“If you do not mind sharing the garden with Hercules, I believe I shall call upon Master Jimmy and assure myself he will suffer no lingering harm.”
“I should say I don’t mind,” Willie breathed, running a reverent hand down Hercules’s neck. “Wherever did you get such a sweet-goer?”
“He spent his younger years performing at Astley’s, but much like myself, he has retired to obscurity.”
“He’s a beaut.”
“He’s a shameless prima donna who will dance a jig for an apple.”
Willie lifted shimmering gray eyes, his excitement touching something deep inside Raoul.
“May I?”
Once again reaching into the saddlebag, Raoul pulled out an apple and handed it to the charming lad.
“Just mind the hoofs. I fear I am already in Miss Jefferson’s black book for injuring her youngest chick. I won’t be accused of doing you both in.”
“Aye, sir.”
Sensing Willie’s innate skill with animals, Raoul readily left his mount in the youngster’s care and headed for the back door of the cottage.
His father could damn well wait.
He was done fighting his need to see Miss Sarah Jefferson.
Busy sifting the flour for the gingerbread cake she intended to serve with tea, Sarah had been aware of Raoul Charlebois’s presence the moment he arrived.
Pretending that she was indifferent to his company, and that she had not been stupidly let down when she had not seen him over the past three days, Sarah struggled to keep her gaze from straying to the window overlooking the back garden.
There was no need to gawk at him as if she were a giddy schoolgirl. She knew he was shockingly beautiful, and that he resembled someone she could not quite recall, so why did her gaze continue to linger on that chiseled profile? Almost as if she wanted it engraved on her mind.
Enough.
Concentrating on her pastry, Sarah reminded herself of all the reasons a gorgeous male, one who had reportedly bedded a princess no less, would have no interest in an aging spinster.
Ther
e was any number of them, each more logical than the last, so by the time the gentleman boldly entered her kitchen without so much as a knock, she was quite prepared to greet him with a distant smile.
“Mr. Charlebois.”
He removed his hat and gloves, performing an elegant bow. “A good afternoon, Miss Jefferson. I have come to inquire after Master Jimmy.”
“And to return the missing cricket ball?” she murmured.
He clicked his tongue. “That, ma petite, is a subject between gentlemen.”
Dear…God, he was beautiful.
Sarah’s mouth went dry, her heart lodged somewhere in her throat. Sheer survival had her ducking her head to concentrate on her cake.
“Hmmm.”
There was the sound of footsteps and the scent of sandalwood as Raoul Charlebois moved to lean against the counter next to her.
“I trust Jimmy is on the mend?”
“He is.”
“And you have had no ill effects from the shock of his injuries?”
Sarah wondered if she imagined his sharp intake of breath as she chuckled at his absurd question.
“I have long ago accepted that young, spirited boys and injuries go hand in hand.”
“How long have they been in your care?”
“Nearly three years.”
“They are fortunate to have such a devoted, yet understanding guardian.”
Her heart melted at his words. And not because of his low, seductive tone. The boys, and the care she offered them, touched her where she was most vulnerable.
“I consider myself the fortunate one.” She wiped her hands on the apron that covered her primrose muslin gown, suddenly anxious to be rid of her unexpected intruder. “Was that all?”
“Now why are you always so eager to dismiss me, Miss Jefferson?” Without warning, his finger slid beneath her chin, forcing her face up to meet his mocking gaze. “Could it be I have unintentionally offended you? Or is it that you hold me to blame for young Jimmy’s injury?”
Her heart forgot to beat at his touch.
“Neither, Mr. Charlebois. I am simply busy.”
“So I see.” The blue eyes darkened as he lowered his head to brush his lips over her temple. “Butter.” His lips moved to tease at her cheek. “Flour.” He covered her trembling mouth with a tender kiss. “And ginger.” Slowly he pulled back, his slumberous gaze sweeping over her flushed features. “You taste of Christmas.”
Pleasure as thick and delicious as warm honey slid through her body at his touch. His slender, clever fingers trailed down her jaw, his touch sending jolts of dazzling sensations straight to the pit of her stomach.
Oh…he was wicked.
Wondrously, magnificently wicked.
“Mr. Charlebois,” she breathed.
“Raoul.”
All Sarah wanted was to press against that hard body, to part her lips and give in to the potent temptation of his kiss. To drown in his heady beauty, and the artistic skill of his seduction.
Instead, she forced herself to swallow her revealing groan, backing away from his lingering touch. She didn’t know what role Raoul Charlebois was currently playing, but she was too sensible to join in the cast.
“Mr. Charlebois…”
Chapter 3
Raoul was in swift pursuit, following her steps until she was backed against the wall. Then, planting his hands on either side of her shoulders, he effectively trapped her, studying her flushed features with a brooding gaze.
This was not supposed to be happening.
Hell, he had told himself he would not even think about the dark-eyed gypsy, let alone force his way into her cottage and take shocking advantage of her.
But with the taste of her ripe lips still clinging to his mouth, and the feel of her lush curves imprinted on his body, he didn’t give a damn.
She was what a woman was meant to be.
Warm and giving with a hint of exotic spice.
Exactly what he wanted Father Christmas to leave in his stocking.
“Yes, it was quite unforgivably forward of me, and I am an utter cad who should have his face slapped,” he interrupted her words of censure, flashing his most potent smile.
A smile that had felled countless women.
A smile that Countess Campelli had claimed was blessed by the angels. Or by the devil.
A smile that was wholly and utterly ineffective when it came to beautiful spinsters.
Instead of melting, Sarah lifted her hands and pressed them firmly against his chest.
“I would say you are more a rake who has so often had his way with women that you cannot imagine there might be one who has no interest in your attentions.”
His gaze dipped to the demure line of her bodice, deliberately lingering on the frantic beat of her heart.
“Not even a small measure of interest?”
“My hands are filled with caring for two highly demanding, at times infantile lads. I do not need another to fuss over, thank you very much.” Her verbal blow delivered with the expertise of Gentleman Jackson, Sarah ducked beneath his arm and moved to pull open the kitchen door with a dismissive smile. “You will have to forgive me, Mr. Charlebois. I have a cake to finish.”
“I’ll be damned.”
The trip to the Great House was a short ride. Less than a mile. Thank God. Raoul didn’t need time to dwell on the strange, near volatile sensations rushing through his blood.
He should be furious.
He, Raoul Charlebois, the most sought-after rake in all of London, had just been given a crushing set-down by an old maid.
But he wasn’t furious.
He was…hell, he was almost giddy.
As if champagne were bubbling through his veins.
And all because a spinster who smelled of gingerbread instead of orchids, who preferred snotty-nosed orphans to elegant gentlemen, who charmed the village with her skills at herbal healing rather than her undoubted beauty had shown him the door.
He was batty.
A complete and total loon.
Or maybe it was the season, he wryly told himself.
Father Christmas was known to play merry jests on the wicked.
Perhaps this was his punishment for any number of sins.
Thankfully, he had no time to ponder the ridiculous notion as the path slowly widened and, cresting a low hill, the Great House came into view.
Raoul shivered as the wind suddenly seemed colder, sharper, and the clouds more threatening as he studied the building that was spread across the rolling parkland.
A combination of Tudor and Elizabethan, the main structure was built of the local red sandstone bricks that had mellowed with age. When Raoul had been just a boy, the Earl had added two long wings with matching courtyards, and a formal rose garden.
The overall effect was clumsy rather than gracious to Raoul’s discerning eye, although the locals all seemed readily impressed by the sweeping avenues, flanked by elegant statues and a large reflecting pool at the base of the circle drive.
Ignoring the urge to give Hercules his head and race past the reddish monstrosity, Raoul instead approached the large portico at a dignified pace and awaited the young groom to rush from the stables.
Raoul slid out of the saddle and tossed the reins toward the servant before he climbed the wide stairs. His foot barely hit the landing when one of the double oak doors was pulled open to reveal the short, pudgy butler with a fringe of gray hair, attired in the Earl’s uniform of hunter green and black.
The pale eyes that always appeared leeched of color briefly warmed before he was stepping back, offering a stiff bow of welcome.
“Mr. Charlebois.”
“Hawkins.” Shrugging off his outer garments, Raoul cast a covert glance about the inner hall, grimacing at the two life-sized silver lions standing guard beside the double marble staircase that curved toward the upper vestibule. He recalled the foyer when it was darkly paneled and filled with shabby furnishings. He preferred the simpler style. “How are
you?”
“Quite well, sir. The master requested that I show you directly to the library.”
Raoul’s lips twisted in a humorless smile. “He was so certain I would come?”
“I cannot say, sir.”
“Lead onward, Hawkins.”
Moving up the stairs, Raoul allowed himself to be led down the long gallery, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the green and black plasterwork that covered the walls in honor of the Merriot colors. And the golden crest that was painted in the center of the frescoes decorating the ceiling—narcissism at its finest.
They had nearly reached the end of the gallery when Raoul realized there was something…strange about the mansion. No, not the actual mansion.
It was the atmosphere.
As if the brittle gaiety that had always spilled through the massive house had been swallowed by a lurking darkness.
Darkness that not even the gilt tables and sparkling chandeliers could dispel.
“Mon Dieu, it is more a mausoleum than home,” he breathed with a shudder. “Has it been this way since Peter’s death?”
“The young master is never spoken of, sir,” Hawkins warned, his expression unreadable as he pushed open the door to the library. “Mr. Charlebois, my lord.”
“Thank you, Hawkins, that will be all.” The muffled voice of the Earl had the butler swiftly scurrying away.
Raoul very nearly scurried behind him.
Only pride, and his cork-brained determination to uncover his father’s mysterious secret, forced his reluctant feet over the threshold and into the vast library.
For a cowardly moment, he allowed his gaze to roam over the towering shelves that framed the high arched windows that overlooked the back terraces. In the center of the room, the rarest manuscripts were kept encased in glass and walnut cabinets, along with the Earl’s fine collection of dueling pistols.
This had always been his favorite room in the entire house.
Not because of the heavy, masculine furniture or polished wood floor. Or even the fine coved ceiling.
But because he could easily hide behind the crimson velvet curtains and disappear into one of the numerous books.
Seduce Me By Christmas Page 4