Regency Christmas (Holiday Collection)

by Jillian Eaton

  “What is decided?” Emma asked warily. She recognized the conniving expression on her best friend’s face enough to know that chances were she wasn’t going to like what Vivian had to say next.

  She wasn’t wrong.

  “Why, that you are going to meet your future husband tonight, of course!” She met Emma’s gaze in the mirror’s silvery reflection and grinned. “I just know it.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Vivian, who is that man?” Reaching out and lightly grasping her friend’s arm before she could walk past, Emma drew her into a shadowy corner of the parlor behind a large potted fern.

  The dinner portion of Vivian’s dinner party had ended over an hour ago and the two dozen guests had since spilled out into the other rooms of the Lakewood’s palatial country estate. While some of the men had retreated to the study to smoke cigars and some of the women were having tea in the library, the majority were in the parlor standing in small groups of twos and threes. Two enthusiastic couples were even dancing, waltzing in time to the classical music pouring out of the pianoforte. As the wine and port flowed freely from glittering crystal decanters everyone began to speak in increasingly loud voices, their faces flushed and their arms animated as they entertained one another with the latest gossip delivered straight from London.

  “What man?” Looking distracted and uncharacteristically disheveled with wisps of pale blonde hair escaping from her coiffure, Vivian stopped short and squinted across the crowded room. “Have you seen Rodger?”

  Not daring to draw attention to herself by pointing, Emma instead gave the tiniest of nods towards the long buffet table. Most of the food had already been picked over but two servants, dressed in traditional black and white garb, were exchanging the empty platters for ones overflowing with Banbury cakes, baked apples coated in cinnamon, and lemon cream tarts (Emma’s personal favorite).

  “There,” she whispered. “The one standing by the buffet. He is wearing a green waistcoat. And no, I am afraid I haven’t.” A stern line furrowed her brow as the corners of her mouth tucked into a frown. She’d been nagged with the feeling of being watched ever since dinner had ended and she’d followed the rest of the guests into the parlor. At first she had thought it was her own imagination, but then she’d happened to glance up just in time to catch a dark-haired gentleman staring straight at her.

  He looked vaguely familiar, although she was quite certain they had never been introduced. Emma was not one to forget a name and even if she did she was confident she would never forget this man’s name.

  Compared to her own petite frame he was intimidatingly large with broad shoulders, long arms, and a lean torso that gave way to muscular thighs encased in a pair of dove gray breeches that left little to the imagination. Not that Emma was imagining anything. Of course not. She was merely… looking. Yes. That was it. After all, how could she deduce who the man was if she didn’t get a proper look at him?

  His jaw was covered in a scruff of beard several shades darker than his hair. Tousled and a bit unkempt the thick locks skimmed the nape of his neck and curled along the sharp edge of his collar. Above his jaw was a mouth that, in the brief glimpses Emma had stolen of him, tended towards arrogance and a nose that looked as though it had been broken at least once. She couldn’t tell what color his eyes were from so far away but she imagined they were as striking as the rest of him. A searing blue, perhaps, or a warm golden brown.

  “Do you mean Lord Prescott?” Vivian asked.

  “If Lord Prescott is wearing a green waistcoat and standing beside the buffet table then yes, I do. I – I believe he has been staring at me,” Emma confessed in a low voice. She felt a blush creep up the sides of her neck and settle high in her cheeks. A blush that had very little to do with the heat spilling out of the fireplace and everything to do with the handsome stranger who couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of her.

  For her part Vivian did not look the least bit surprised. “And why shouldn’t he? You look splendid tonight, Emma. Absolutely splendid. I told you the sapphire blue would bring out your eyes.”

  As she was reminded of the low cut dress Vivian had somehow talked her into wearing, Emma’s blush intensified. She never made it a habit to draw attention to herself through her clothes, but that was precisely what this dress did. Comprised of layers of silk and muslin with delicate lace trim at the sleeves and hem it gathered at her breasts and hugged her ribcage before falling away in a graceful spill of fabric that brought to mind a flowing waterfall. “I do not know what the dress has to do with–”

  “Excuse me,” Vivian interrupted. “I have just spotted my husband and I need a word with him.” Jaw clenched she stepped away from the fern and marched towards the doorway where Rodger had just emerged in the company of Lady Greenwald, a fetching brunette with a flirtatious smile and an aging husband who gave her little in the way of attention.

  Emma felt a tug of sympathy as she watched Vivian and Rodger engage in a quick, heated conversation. She wanted only the best for her friend and she feared Lord Lakewood wasn’t it. They might have had passion, but what of the other things that made up a good marriage? Things like respect and trust and mutual admiration.

  Which is precisely why I am taking my time in finding a husband, she though silently. Because I do not want to end up like that.

  “I cannot believe you!” Vivian cried, her shrill voice carrying across the room. All at once everyone stopped speaking and craned their necks to where Vivian and Rodger stood silhouetted in the doorway, their hands clenched into fists and their faces taut with anger.

  “Lower your voice,” Rodger said through gritted teeth. A bullishly built man with a thick neck and a bulging vein in his forehead, he looked far more suited to the boxing ring than the ballroom. He wore his chestnut hair clipped short and his pronounced chin was devoid of any facial hair, making it easy to see the scowl darkening his jaw.

  “Why?” Vivian challenged with a sharp toss of her head. “Because your friends are listening? I say let them listen! Or are you afraid to let them know how much of a cad you really are?”

  “Vivian–”

  Do not touch me!” Yanking her arm away from Rodger when he tried to grab her wrist, Vivian threw her husband one last scathing glare over her shoulder before she stormed from the drawing room and disappeared up the grand staircase.

  For a moment there was absolute silence… and then a man snorted, and a woman giggled, and everyone resumed their conversations as though nothing was amiss.

  “Do you think they will get a divorce?”

  Emma started at the sound of the low, husky masculine voice over her left shoulder. Whirling around, she found herself face to face with the man in the green waistcoat. The one who had been stealing glances at her from afar.

  Forest green, she thought dazedly as their gazes met and she took in a sharp breath that filled her lungs and threatened to spill her breasts over the flimsy bodice of her dress. His eyes are forest green.

  “I – I am certain it will not come to that.” A divorce in the haute ton simply was not done. Nor was sneaking up on a young woman without having been properly introduced first. Acutely aware of the inappropriateness of their interaction Emma started to take a step back… only to stop short when she felt the soft brush of a fern leaf against the side of her arm.

  Trapped, she thought with no small amount of alarm when Lord Prescott subtly shifted his rangy body until he was standing between her and the rest of the room, effectively blocking her view – and preventing her escape.

  “I do not believe we have met.” Bending low at the waist in an exaggerated bow, he lifted his chin ever-so-slightly to reveal a rakish smile. His teeth were as perfect as the rest of his body. White and even and filled with the devil’s own charm. The man was a ne’er-do-well, to be sure, and Emma knew she would be wise to get rid of him as quickly as possible. The consequences of a young, unwed woman such as herself being caught associating with a man of such loose moral character were too num
erous to count. Having managed to survive seven seasons without eliciting so much as a whiff of a scandal, Emma certainly had no intention of putting a stain on her reputation now.

  “No,” she said stiffly, “I do not believe we have. If you will pardon me–”

  “I am Lord William Prescott, but you may call me Will if you like. What should I call you? Besides the most beautiful woman I have ever had the great fortune of meeting.” He straightened his torso, causing Emma to crane her neck back in order to meet his glittering gaze. Everything seemed to fade away as she found herself ensnared by his potent stare. The musical notes of the pianoforte. The faint smell of cigar smoke filtering in from the study. The clinking of crystal as glasses were raised in a toast.

  How easy it would be, Emma imagined dazedly, to fall into those deep green eyes. Except once she started falling she feared she would never find solid ground again. Lord Prescott was not the sort of man one idly flirted with. And Emma was not the sort of woman to idly flirt.

  “You know very well it would be quite unseemly for me to call you anything but Lord Prescott.” There was a soft – albeit unmistakable – note of chiding disapproval in her voice. Prescott may have looked like a cat who had just swallowed a very tasty canary, but in this instance he was going to have to spit the canary back up, feathers and all, for she was not falling for his act nor was she fooled by his charming demeanor. If there was one thing she’d learned during her seven seasons it was that rogues like William Prescott wanted what a young lady could not afford to give. At least not if she wished to retain her good standing in society and not be shunned for the rest of her days.

  “You don’t like me, do you?” It was more statement than question; one that sent Emma’s dark eyebrows shooting up towards her hairline before she managed to regain her composure.

  “I don’t know you,” she corrected cautiously. Emma may not have wanted Lord Prescott’s attention, but that did not mean she would resort to rudeness. As a general rule she was never rude or short-tempered or unkind. Her spirit was a gentle one, like the first kiss of sunlight on morning dew or the soft caress of a warm spring breeze after five long months of winter.

  “Precisely.” Lord Prescott grinned, causing the corners of his eyes to crease and a dimple to flicker high on his right cheek. “Yet you’ve already handed down your judgement and sent me to the gaol. Pray tell, how long is my prison sentence for daring to compliment a pretty woman? Six months? A year? Surely not five,” he said with feigned alarm when she remained silent, her lips pressed tightly together to prevent a reluctant smile from emerging. “That seems like quite a long time for a bit of harmless flattery.”

  “I fear there is nothing harmless about flattery. Too much and it turns the head. Too little and it bruises the heart,” Emma said very matter-of-factly. Crossing her arms, she rocked back onto the thin heels of her dancing slippers and regarded her persistent admirer with the tiniest of frowns. “I must ask you to please step aside, Lord Prescott, and let me pass.”

  A rebellious lock of hair tumbled across his brow when, instead of doing what she’d asked, he instead did the complete opposite and stepped closer, causing her to stumble back into the potted fern. With a tiny gasp she caught herself on the smooth porcelain edge, the fingertips of one white silk glove plunging into the dark loamy soil.

  “Oh,” she said in dismay when she lifted her hand and saw her glove was stained. “Now look what you’ve done.” Grasping the glove by the embroidered lace hem she peeled it off and gave it a good shake, but the dirt stain remained.

  “Here, let me help.” Lord Prescott reached out but instead of taking the glove that was stained he gently grasped her wrist and pulled away the glove that was clean to reveal long, elegant fingers that curled reflexively into a fist when he did not immediately release his hold on her.

  Startled by the sheer heat emanating from their joined flesh Emma’s gaze jerked upwards just in time to catch a flicker of confusion ripple across Lord Prescott’s countenance. She could empathize with his bewilderment for it was what she felt inside of her own chest where her heart beat in tandem with her racing pulse and her blood roared in her ears.

  What was happening between them? Why was it suddenly so hard to catch her breath and quiet her racing heartbeat? Was this what Vivian meant when she spoke of sheer, unadulterated desire? This feeling of instant connection, as though her skin and his skin had somehow melded into one?

  “Tell me your name.” Gone was Lord Prescott’s easy demeanor. In place of the careless rogue who had paid her such flippant, meaningless compliments was a man suddenly filled with intent purpose. The difference was so great and the spark between them so distracting that it took Emma several seconds before she managed a response.

  “L-Lady Emma Sterling.” Emma never stuttered, but if there was ever a time to do so this seemed to be it. She swallowed, the slender column of her neck convulsing as she forced saliva down a throat gone dry as dust. “My name is Lady Emma Sterling.”

  “Lady Emma Sterling.” He repeated her name as though it were a reverent prayer and Emma felt the muscles in her belly clench in response.

  “Yes.” Breathe, she reminded herself as her lungs began to quiver from lack of oxygen. Remember to breathe. “Lord Prescott, I really must ask that you release me. It wouldn’t be proper for someone to see us in such an intimate position.” She dared a quick glance around the parlor, but no one seemed to be paying them the time of day. Still, it wouldn’t do to encourage Lord Prescott any more than she already had by not immediately demanding he let her go the very second he took her wrist in hand.

  “You think this is an intimate position?” One dark brow lifted as his wolfish smile abruptly returned. “Compared to what I have in mind we might as well be sitting in the first pew at church.”

  “Lord Prescott!” Emma’s mouth fell open as her cheeks turned bright pink. “You forget yourself, sir.”

  “It seems I have,” he murmured before his fingers fell open and Emma snatched her hand back with all the quickness of a tiny field mouse escaping the jaws of a hungry snake. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Lady Emma. It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope we have an occasion to speak again.” And then he was gone as quickly as he had appeared, his dark head disappearing into the crowd.

  “Good riddance,” Emma muttered under her breath. Let Lord Prescott bother someone else. She hadn’t the time – nor the inclination – to ward off a rake’s unwanted attentions. Except, if she were being truly honest without herself, she would be forced to admit his attentions weren’t completely unwanted. For try as she might to be perfect, Emma was only human. And there was a part of her – a rather alarming part – that had liked the idea of being pinned in a dark corner by a rogue with flashing green eyes and a charming grin.

  She had liked it quite a bit.

  CHAPTER THREE

  After a brief search of the manor, Emma found Vivian sitting by herself in the kitchen. It wasn’t where one would expect the wife of an earl to be which was no doubt precisely why Vivian had picked it. She was hiding. From her friends, from her husband, perhaps even from herself. But not from Emma. As though there was some mystical force that bound them together the two friends always managed to find one another during their greatest times of need and there was no denying Vivian was in need now.

  Embers from the fireplace burned a dark, deep red, illuminating the tears dampening her cheeks and sliding off her chin. Without a word Emma sat beside her friend on a rickety wooden stool and wrapped an arm around Vivian’s trembling shoulders, hugging her close.

  “There, there,” she crooned as she rubbed her hand in rhythmic circles up and down Vivian’s back, fingertips following the tiny grooves of her spine. Grooves, she couldn’t help but notice, which had become much more pronounced as of late. “Everything will be all right. You and Rodger have fought before.” And you’ll fight again, she added silently, lips compressing to form a hard, seamless line of unspoken disapproval.

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nbsp; How many times had she comforted Vivian in the shadows? Too many to count. Unbidden Lord Prescott’s voice rose inside of her head, his question echoing in the silence between Vivian’s sniffles.

  ‘Do you think they will get a divorce?’ he’d asked. How quick she’d been to scoff at the mere suggestion! Members of the ton did not get divorced. It simply wasn’t done. But now she couldn’t help but wonder if a divorce would not be best. At the very least she would stop finding Vivian hiding in the dark with a glass of wine.

  Red liquid sloshed up over the curved edge of the glass and spilled down the side like a trickle of blood as Vivian raised it to her lips and took a long, lingering swallow. “I cannot believe he had the audacity to bring her here,” she said bitterly, eyes burning a bright, malevolent blue in the darkness.

  “Bring who here?” Emma asked as she tried – and failed – to pry the wine from Vivian’s fingers.

  “Her. Lady Greenwald. His mistress.” Tipping the glass all the way back she drained the contents and reached blindly for a bottle sitting at the edge of the table. Refilling her glass to the brim she offered it to Emma who quickly shook her head.

  “No thank you.” On Christmas Eve Emma allowed herself a sip or two of elderberry wine, but she was always careful never to drink more than that. She’d certainly never gotten foxed while sitting in the dark by herself before, although she’d never been married to a man who paraded his mistress around either. Did one equal the other? She wasn’t certain, nor did she have any intention of ever finding out which was why she intended to marry a kind, thoughtful, studious man. A man who was the exact opposite of Lord Prescott.

  Oh do get out of my head, she thought with a frustrated hiss of breath as the tiny hairs on her arms tingled with awareness at the memory of his touch. I do not want to think of you anymore.