Seduce Me By Christmas

by Deborah Raleigh

  Nico Dravali was frozen to the marrow by the time the cook at the Merriot Great House eventually noticed him huddled near the garden gate. At last opening the kitchen door, Mrs. Horton called for him to take shelter from the blizzard.

  Silently cursing his long-ago decision to give up his life of crime to become an almost respectable valet to Raoul Charlebois, Nico scurried into the welcome warmth of the kitchen and took a seat at the ruthlessly scrubbed wooden table.

  Covertly studying the cook as she briskly poured him a cup of hot tea, Nico judged her to be the bossy sort who ruled her kitchen with the command of a seasoned general. It was revealed in the authoritative angle of the broad shoulders beneath her brown woolen gown, and the grim hardness of her long, horsey countenance that was unfortunately emphasized by her habit of scraping back her silver hair in a tight knot.

  “Here you are.” The formidable woman set the steaming cup before Nico and folded her arms over her ample bosom. “Drink every drop. It will rid you of that nasty chill.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Horton.” Nico pretended to sip the overly sweet tea. His devotion to Raoul might include freezing his privates, but it did not extend to ruining his finely honed palate with nasty English tea. “So kind of you to show pity on a passing stranger.”

  “I know my Christian duty.” A hint of speculation entered the brown eyes. “And it is not as if you are a complete stranger. Everyone knows you work for Mr. Charlebois.”

  Nico hid his smug expression as Mrs. Horton readily headed down the path he intended to take her. His investigations had already revealed that this woman had not only worked for the Merriots for the past thirty-five years, but that she was an incessant gossipmonger.

  If there were any past scandals in Lord Merriot’s past, then she was the person to reveal them.

  “Ah yes, this is the home of his father, is it not?”

  Nico flashed his most beguiling smile. He might never compete with his master when it came to felling women with a single glance, but he was not without his own share of charm, as was proven when Mrs. Horton took a seat at the table and reached for one of the ginger biscuits placed on a plate.

  “It is.”

  Pretending he did not notice her obvious eagerness to indulge in a comfortable chat, Nico widened his dark eyes.

  “Forgive me.” He deliberately glanced toward the undercooks who were busily chopping and peeling on the far side of the spacious room. “Perhaps you prefer not to speak of Charlebois?”

  The woman sniffed. “There are no doubt some who would as soon forget little Raoul, but I have never been the sort to blame the son for the sins of the father.”

  “Most compassionate of you.”

  “My conscience is clear, which is more than most can say.”

  Ah. Now that was promising.

  He flashed another persuasive smile. “I must admit I’m curious about my master. Were you employed here when Charlebois was a lad?”

  “Aye.” The woman readily accepted his smooth lie. “Of course, I was only a scullery maid back then. Still, I will never forget the day that French nurse arrived at the door with the child clutched in her arms. Even then Raoul was as cute as a button.”

  Nico’s lips twisted. “Yes, I can imagine he charmed the entire household.”

  “At first, both Lord and Lady Merriot seemed happy enough to have the boy beneath their roof. I always thought it was because they didn’t have children of their own.”

  “Odd. Charlebois has always implied he was estranged from his family.”

  Mrs. Horton polished off the biscuit and reached for another. It was little wonder her figure was so stout.

  “Well, that is true enough. Everything changed when he was…oh, he must have been three or four years of age. I blame it on that money his lordship inherited.” A stark disapproval tightened her horse features. “Suddenly they could think of nothing but impressing their grand London visitors. The house had to be made larger, and all the belongings were to be burned and replaced with new, expensive furnishings. If not for Mr. Jefferson taking a few of the pieces that had been in the Merriot family for generations, all would have been lost.”

  Nico pretended to sip the tea as he tucked away the tidbits of information.

  “Lord Merriot inherited a large amount of money?”

  “Too much, if you ask me.”

  “And it was then that they took a dislike at having a…” Nico bit back the word bastard. “An illegitimate son underfoot?”

  “Aye, although to be fair, I suppose it could have been the two babies that Lady Merriot lost afore they could be properly born. Such a loss does make a woman bitter.”

  Nico shrugged, indifferent to Lady Merriot’s misfortunes. Charlebois had revealed precious little about his past, but Nico did know that the woman had made his childhood a misery.

  “Perhaps, although it’s a common enough tragedy, and she did eventually produce a healthy heir.”

  “Aye, poor soul. Since Peter’s death…” Her words trailed away with a tragic sigh.

  “Yes?”

  “The household has not been the same.” The woman leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “To be honest, I believe Lord and Lady Merriot hold themselves to blame for the lad’s death, although everyone knows it was naught more than an unfortunate accident.”

  Nico echoed her motion until their heads were close enough to share a whisper.

  “Perhaps a guilty conscience?” he suggested.

  The brown eyes widened in shock. “If you think they had anything to do with Peter’s death, then…”

  “No, no,” Nico hastily denied his brief speculations. “I just meant that there are natives in India who believe that ill fortune is visited upon us because of our own bad behavior.”

  The cook thinned her lips, not seeming to notice Nico had happily butchered the Hindu faith for his own devious purpose.

  “I do not hold with heathen beliefs.”

  “What good English woman would? Still, I am certain you will agree that God does punish us for our sins.” He deliberately hesitated. “Perhaps Lord or Lady Merriot have some transgression in their past that now haunts their future.”

  The momentary wariness melted as Mrs. Horton was overcome by her delight in revealing her superior knowledge of the Merriot family.

  “There were rumors that the previous Earl was a scoundrel who had wasted the family coffers at the gaming hells.”

  “And what of this Earl? Does he gamble?”

  “No more than any nobleman,” she grudgingly admitted. “He has always preferred to devote himself to hunting and entertaining his friends.”

  “And enjoying the delights of the French ladies, as Raoul is ample proof.”

  “Indeed.” She clicked her tongue. “Shameful.”

  “I don’t suppose you ever knew anything of the mother?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “How thoughtless of me.” He reached for a ginger biscuit, brushing her plump hand with the tips of his fingers. “I just assumed that the French nurse who brought Charlebois to England would have known the mother.”

  The woman fluttered, anxious to impress her handsome young guest.

  “If she did, she would never breathe a word. The French are always so difficult, nothing ever suits them. And Francine…that was the nurse’s name, well, let me just say that the entire staff was pleased when she moved to London to open her own seamstress shop.”

  Nico stilled. “When was this?”

  Her brow wrinkled. “Oh, Raoul must have been six, maybe seven. Poor little mite cried for weeks after she left.”

  “A seamstress shop,” he mused. “Quite ambitious for a French nurse. I wonder where she got the funds?”

  “There are those that implied she was in truth Raoul’s mother, and that the Earl paid her a sum to be rid of her, but I never held with such notions.”

  “Why not?”

  “She was a rough, common sort of female.”

  “Not the
sort to capture Lord Merriot’s fancy?”

  “Not the sort to have born a son such as Raoul Charlebois,” Mrs. Horton corrected stoutly. “Why it’s as plain as the nose on your face that his mother must have been a rare beauty. It is my opinion that she must have been a lady of quality.”

  The thought had occurred to Nico as well.

  “You are most perceptive, Mrs. Horton,” he murmured, watching the pleased blush touch her cheeks. “I wonder who she could have been?”

  “That is a question best not asked beneath this roof.”

  Knowing the woman would never be able to keep such a secret if she actually knew the truth, Nico inwardly grimaced. It seemed he had frozen his manly bits for nothing.

  “Ah well, if the only scandal attached to the Merriot name is one long forgotten mistress, then they have accomplished more than most in society.” He gave it one last effort. “The tales I could tell you of London.”

  “London is a den of iniquity. I’ve always said it.” Mrs. Horton assumed a patronizing expression. “The Merriots might have been prideful and frivolous in the past, but they are decent folk at heart. I should never have remained here if I believed any different.”

  Nico glumly stuffed the biscuit in his mouth.

  “Quite.”

  Two hours after her arrival at the Baxter lodge, Sarah forced herself to rise from the comfort of the wing chair, not surprised by the pang of regret she felt that the brief encounter with Raoul Charlebois must come to an end.

  For all her protests at entering the home of a notorious rake, she had felt a tide of thrilling excitement from the moment Raoul had swept her into his arms and carried her over the threshold.

  An excitement that had become breathless exhilaration beneath his skillful seduction, and then astonishingly…an intellectual fascination as he had remained settled at her feet, discussing everything from his opinion of Princess Charlotte’s wedding to Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld to the dangers of the recent Spa Field Riots.

  Raoul was more than just a charming rogue.

  He was quick-witted, well-informed, and capable of listening to her opinions with an unwavering interest that she found far more enticing than all his golden male beauty.

  He was also frighteningly capable of disguising his emotions.

  A complex and dangerous man.

  Just the sort a wise spinster avoided.

  “I believe the snow has passed,” she murmured, forcing herself to head toward the door with a brisk step. “I should be on my way.”

  “Wait…Sarah.” With a smooth motion, Raoul Charlebois was at her side, catching her arm in a firm grip as they reached the black-and-white tiled foyer. “I will ensure you get home, but first I have need of your artistic expertise.”

  Forced to a halt, Sarah managed to stifle her shiver of pleasure at his touch.

  She did not entirely understand his seeming pleasure in captivating a lonely spinster, but she suspected he was a gentleman who was compelled to flirt with anything in skirts.

  She would be a fool to ever believe his interest was anything more.

  “You are in the market for an etching?” she demanded.

  “Perhaps later, but this afternoon I have been commanded to finish hanging the evergreen and ridiculous bows, since the snow forced Mrs. Dent and her daughter to leave early.”

  She glanced toward the stack of cut evergreen branches piled at the bottom of the wide staircase.

  “It cannot wait until she returns?”

  “Apparently not.” He heaved a martyred sigh. “She offered a dozen different directions of why and how it was to be hung as she was headed out the door, but to be honest, I was so anxious to be rid of her giggling daughter, I paid little heed. Now I must depend on your kindness to ensure I do not make a complete hash of the decorations.”

  “A disaster, indeed,” Sarah said dryly.

  “My Christmas would be utterly ruined.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Has there ever been a female you could not charm?”

  His impossibly handsome features hardened. “My mother obviously found little charm in me since I was sent away from her when I was just a baby, and of course, Lady Merriot considered me a plague and a pestilence that had invaded her home.”

  Sarah bit her lower lip. “I’m sorry.”

  “‘Oft expectation fails, and most oft there where most it promises,’” he softly quoted Shakespeare, using her momentary distraction to tug her toward the staircase. Once there, he bent to pluck an evergreen branch and began threading it through the oak banister. “Tell me, Miss Sarah, what happened to Willie and Jimmy’s parents?”

  Sarah briefly wavered, knowing that if she had any sense, she would gather her cloak and return to her cottage.

  As much as it might rub at her pride, Sarah was honest enough to admit she was not nearly as indifferent to this gentleman’s charm as she should be.

  Logically, she understood he was a rake who enjoyed toying with the hearts of women. And that only the worst sort of fool would encourage his fickle attentions. But logic had no control over the flutter of her heart, or the treacherous longing to spend just a few more stolen moments in his company.

  Knowing that she was bound to regret her weakness, Sarah plucked a red velvet ribbon from the pile beside the evergreen.

  “Their father was killed in a mining accident when they were just babes,” she said, twining the ribbon over the evergreen and tying a large bow to attach it firmly to the banister. “I doubt either of them remembers him.”

  Raoul gathered more branches, holding them steady as Sarah tied them to the banister with the ribbon, slowly working her way up the stairs.

  “And their mother?”

  “Polly was barely more than a child herself when she married Bart Andrews. Certainly she was not mature enough to support herself and tend to two very spirited boys.”

  “Willie said she had done a…flit?”

  “Yes.” She nearly dropped the ribbon as he deliberately allowed his fingers to tangle with her own, his warm breath brushing her cheek as he stood far too close. “Although the boys would never admit as much, I suspect that Polly made a habit of leaving the boys home alone while she sought comfort at the local pub. One night she left with a groom from Wallingford and never returned.”

  Much to his credit, Raoul didn’t offer the usual outrage at a mother who would abandon her children. Or the tedious predictions of the fate for boys who came from bad blood.

  In fact, she could detect nothing more than curiosity in his steady gaze.

  “How did they end up beneath your roof?”

  “After Bart’s death, I occasionally brought dinner for the boys.” She knotted another bow. “One night when I arrived, I could tell something was wrong. Still, it took nearly a week before Willie would admit his mother was gone. I brought them to my cottage until I could discover a family willing to take them in.”

  “You never found one?”

  “After the first few days, I stopped looking.”

  A wry smile touched his lips. “Somehow, I am not at all surprised.”

  She shrugged. “I never realized how empty my home had become until the boys filled it with their laughter.”

  He shifted to lean against the banister, his gaze unwavering as he studied her pale features.

  “Not always laughter, I think.”

  She wound the ribbon around the last of the branches, a familiar warmth filling her heart.

  After the death of her father, she had been determined to remain at the cottage, despite those who claimed it was improper for a young woman to establish her own household. She had her elderly nurse to offer her companionship, and her mother’s herb garden to tend, and there was always her art to occupy her days. But, even then, she had known there was something missing.

  When she had taken the boys into her home, that emptiness had disappeared.

  Still, Raoul was right.

  It had not been painless.

  “N
o, not always laughter,” she agreed softly. “In the beginning, the boys refused to unpack their few belongings and quite often would sleep on the floor rather than in the beds I had made for them. At first I assumed that it was because they were hoping their mother would return and take them home, but then I overheard Willie warning his brother that I was bound to get tired of them.”

  A strange smile touched his lips. “A child who is rejected by those who should love him never finds them easy to trust.”

  Her breath tangled in her throat, realizing just how intimately Raoul could sympathize with Willie and Jimmy. Barely aware she was moving, she reached up to lightly touch his cheek.

  “No, but the tears and trials are a part of love, and I would not trade them for all the treasure in the world,” she murmured.

  “That is exactly what Dunnington used to say.”

  “Dunnington?”

  Ignoring her confusion, Raoul covered her hand with his, pressing her palm against the smooth heat of his cheek as he studied her with a searching gaze.

  “What will you do if their mother returns?”

  She flinched, his words touching her deepest fear.

  “I am not entirely certain. I have no legal claim to them, but…”

  Easily sensing he had distressed her, Raoul gripped her fingers and carried them from his cheek to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss on her knuckles.

  “It is highly doubtful she will ever return.”

  “Yes.” She determinedly tilted her chin, banishing the dread that haunted her late at night. “If Polly truly wanted them, she would have never been gone for such a length of time.”

  There was an odd silence as Raoul continued to study her, rather as if he were examining a rare specimen. Then, threading her arm through his, he led her to the bottom of the stairs.

  Reaching the foyer, he loosened his grip on her arm and bent over the box that had held the evergreen.

  “Now this is an odd thing.”

  “What is it?”

  Straightening, he held up a tiny sprig of greenery. “I believe it is known as mistletoe.”

  She snorted, trying to ignore the delicious anticipation that tingled through her body.

  “I should have known you had some devious scheme in mind.”