Five Golden Rings: A Christmas Collection

by Sophie Barnes

  His expression sobered. “What will it take to convince you that I still want you? What will it take to make you mine?”

  Icy shock coursed through her veins at his bold proclamation. He still wanted her? He wanted to know what it would take to make her his? She glanced about, wishing they were anywhere but in the middle of a crowded ballroom. “Keep your voice down.”

  They stood silent, staring at each other, and how she wished she could give in. But she couldn’t. She’d humiliated him once. Everyone knew how her callous treatment of his proposal had angered him. After not speaking to her for years, he expected her to gladly accept him back into her life? Thrilled at the chance to be courted by him once more?

  “Perhaps this isn’t the proper place for such an intimate discussion.” His use of the word “intimate” made her think of stolen, wicked moments they’d once shared.

  The feel of his strong arms around her, his chest pressed to hers, their mouths locked. The shock she’d felt when he first thrust his tongue between her lips. The delights he’d showed her with that tongue . . .

  “My lady?” His inquisitive voice drew her from her thoughts, and she glanced up at him, saw that he studied her with seeming concern.

  “Where else shall we discuss this matter then?” The question came out shrill, and oh how she hated that.

  He smiled, looking as if he’d won a grand prize. “I was thinking it might be best if I came to your home tomorrow afternoon. Say at two o’clock?”

  His innocent suggestion rendered her silent only for a moment. The absolute nerve of the man was astounding. “Are you serious?”

  He smiled, the sight of it blinding her. Dazzling her. “As serious as I’ve ever been in my life.”

  “I—I don’t think it’s wise.” She could hardly speak with him near, let alone think properly.

  “What’s not wise? My coming to call at your home in the middle of the afternoon?” He looked shocked, the scoundrel.

  “We’ve already done this once,” she said, wanting to choose her words carefully. The last thing she wanted was to offend him—again. “And it didn’t work out for us.”

  “Circumstances were different then. You were younger. I was poorer. I had no title.” His forthrightness shocked her.

  “I didn’t reject you because you didn’t have a title.” Lies. And he knew it too, if his expression meant anything. “It happened because—” Because her father wanted a husband for her who would have an endless supply of funds.

  “There’s no need to lie, my lady,” he drawled, his voice deep and so very dark. “We both know the truth.”

  Her heart beat wildly, her breath lodged in her chest. He knew why, yet he still wanted her. Was this some sort of trick? Did he want to lure her back into his arms and ruin her once and for all?

  “I see that you’ve no more protests,” he said. “I will make my appearance at your house tomorrow afternoon.”

  “B—but, I don’t—”

  “There’s no need to argue, darling.” He pressed his gloved finger to her mouth, rendering her silent. Her lips tingled at his touch, at the murmured endearment. Desolation filled her when his hand dropped away. “I will keep pursuing you until I finally wear you down.”

  The man was truly mad. And she despised how easily he aroused her. “Wearing a lady down isn’t the way you should pursue her,” she tossed over her shoulder as she turned away from him, eager to escape so she could be alone with her feelings and dissect them.

  “Really?” he drawled. “Then please inform me exactly how I should convince a certain female that I want her as my duchess?”

  She stilled, slowly turned around to face him. He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t. “You jest.”

  “Never again will I make light of your feelings. I hope you can offer me the same promise.” He touched the ribbon round her neck again, light as gossamer wings. His finger curled about the end of the bow and tugged, causing the narrow bit of silk to unravel. Pulling it from her neck slowly, the rasp of soft fabric slid across her skin like a caress. She shivered, watched helplessly as he tucked the bit of ribbon in his coat pocket. “A keepsake. To remember the color of your gown the night I declared my renewed intentions for you.”

  “Henry.” Her heart stilled, and she pressed her hand to her chest. “Don’t say such things, especially if you don’t mean . . .”

  His fingers clasped around her upper arm, and he tugged her close. “I still want you, Eleanor. You wish for me to be honest, do you not?”

  Her eyes slid closed, and his index finger drew across the bared flesh of her shoulder. “Yes,” she said shakily.

  “We are meant to be together as husband and wife. I will prove it to you, Lady Eleanor. Watch me.”

  He released her, walked away without another word. She watched him leave, admired the line of his broad shoulders, his long legs. He was a beautiful man, a duke who had just declared his intentions for her, who claimed he wanted her as his duchess.

  She turned on her heeled slipper and fled in the opposite direction, pushing her way through the crowd, desperate for a familiar face. She saw her younger sister Olivia standing by a table laden with desserts, looking miserable, as a young gentleman with terrible skin tried to talk to her.

  Determination filling her steps, Eleanor headed to her sister’s side. It was best to worry and fret over others. She had family to take care of, a mother who grew weaker in spirit every day, a father who was a wastrel, and two younger sisters who desperately needed her guidance. How she wished she could ensure their futures as bright and happy with wonderful gentlemen who would know how to take care of them.

  But she couldn’t. She could merely help them navigate through the cruel, confusing world of the ton, hoping against all hope they would find their true loves. All while she settled for remaining in the background while Olivia and Penelope had their moments in the sun.

  The promise in Henry’s voice, that same promise matched the emotion in his gaze. She wanted to believe him, really she did, but it was so hard. After three long years, she finally acknowledged him, and he, in turn, declared that he still wanted her? It made absolutely no sense.

  Chapter Three

  LADY ELEANOR FITZSIMMONS answered the door when Ashton knocked the next afternoon, breathless and lovely in a day gown the color of fresh spring grass, a spot of bright color on an otherwise dreary early-winter day. The color complemented her creamy skin, made her hair and eyes appear even darker, and for a moment, he felt a little dizzy.

  Such lush loveliness was almost too much to bear.

  Removing his hat, he offered an informal bow. “Good afternoon, Lady Eleanor. Quite a surprise to see you performing the butler’s duties, I must say.”

  She blushed prettily and curtsied in return. “Hello, Your Grace. Unfortunately, our butler has taken ill this afternoon.” She offered a benign smile and opened the door wider. “Won’t you come in, please?”

  He followed her inside the once-grand town house, glancing about as she shut the door. The stairwell to his left appeared unswept, the threadbare rug beneath his feet dusty and faded. Large squares of brighter-colored wallpaper where portraits once hung were everywhere. Indicating they’d sold each and every one of those old family paintings, most likely to pay for Cochrane’s debts.

  She lived in a virtual poorhouse, his pretty little sprite. The urge to whisk her away at this very moment and set her up in his Mayfair mansion was near overwhelming.

  He slipped his hand into his trouser pocket, brushing the gold ring nestled within with his thumb. A talisman, giving him the strength to do what needed to be done.

  Convince this woman to marry him once and for all.

  “Is anyone else in residence?” The house was deathly quiet.

  She shrugged impossibly slim shoulders as he followed her into the front parlor room. It featured more missing portraits, another faded, thin rug, and rickety chairs with spindly legs that looked as if they might snap were he to settle upon any of
them. “My mother is upstairs. She’s recently . . . taken ill.”

  “And your father?” His inquiry was both polite and with motive. He didn’t want to deal with Cochrane today. The man would latch onto him and never let go. Funny, how a mere pittance of his fortune could wipe Cochrane’s debts clean.

  She turned to face him, her expression unreadable. “He’s out.” She offered nothing more, and he decided not to push.

  A maid hovered in the corner of the room, her drab gray gown allowing her to blend. She came forward, indicated a tea service that sat on the low table in front of the settee. “Care for somethin’ to drink, sir?”

  “Molly, our guest is a duke. Please address him accordingly,” Eleanor corrected, her voice kind.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. I mean, Yer Grace.” The maid bent in an awkward curtsy. “Are ye thirsty?”

  Lady Eleanor briefly closed her eyes, shaking her head at the young woman’s coarse accent and manners. Chuckling, he said, “I’m quite thirsty, as a matter of fact.”

  “Then let me pour you some tea.” The maid beamed, and he settled himself in a fragile chair, swore it swayed and groaned beneath his weight. Molly handed him his cup and saucer, and he noted the thin crack near the cup’s rim, how the saucer’s pattern didn’t match the cup’s.

  Lady Eleanor sat across from him, her green skirts spread out across the faded blue velvet settee, her expression sweetly demure. Her whispered thank you when the maid gave her the cup and saucer sent a rush of hot sensation through him, settling in his loins.

  He wanted her. Desperately. Could only imagine her heated whispers in his ear while lying beneath him, urging him to go faster, deeper, harder . . .

  Breaking out in a cold sweat, he clutched the cup and saucer in one hand, unable to tear his gaze from her. She sat as regal as a queen in the midst of the shabby parlor room, wearing her out-of-fashion gown and clutching a cracked teacup.

  Utterly captivating. She didn’t realize it yet, but she was made to be his duchess. She was made for him, and he’d known it from the first moment they met.

  “You have a rather odd look about you,” she said rather abruptly, sounding as rude as the maid she’d only just chastised. “Quite possessive, really.”

  “Indeed?” He sipped from his cup, the fragrant tea near scalding hot, burning his tongue. So she could read his moods well. That would both be an advantage to her in the future and a disadvantage to him in the present.

  “You stalked into the house as if you owned it. Quite different from the last time you made an appearance.” She drank serenely, her posture stiff perfection. As always, not a hair was out of place, and he wondered how long it took her maid to create such an elaborate coif.

  Wondered more what Lady Eleanor might look like with all that dark hair unbound. He knew it to be thick with a slight wave, but he’d never seen it truly down. Did it hang to her waist or perhaps the middle of her back? And what might it look like, spread across his pillow in the early-morning light? Her body draped in nothing but a sheet, her skin would glow from the rising sun, wearing a lazy smile and nothing else as he approached her, ready to take her yet again.

  “I suppose you were a different sort of man then,” she continued, oblivious to his wayward thoughts, thank Christ. “Now that you’re a duke, you must command every room you enter.”

  “Why, do you believe I command a room, my lady?” He liked the sound of that. Was arrogant enough to hope for her steadfast worship one day, for he would most certainly return the sentiment tenfold.

  She studied him, her gaze narrowed, sharp. Seeming to see right through him, and the smallest drop of fear took hold in his gut, spreading outward. That hint of vulnerability she’d shown last evening had given him hope. At her home, in her element, she was able to don and wear her usual mask with quiet confidence.

  He wanted to see her unnerved again.

  “You’re definitely more confident.” She bent and set her cup and saucer on the table between them, her position offering a delectable view of her breasts. Round and ripe, he pondered what color her nipples might be. He’d felt them, once. Slipped his hand down the front of her bodice in a fit of mad kissing, brushed his thumb against the distended little piece of flesh until she moaned into his mouth.

  Focus!

  “With such a position settled upon me, I’ve had no choice but to embrace it,” he explained drolly. “People depend on me, you see. I have to portray myself in a certain manner.”

  “One that was never expected of you before, I’m sure,” she murmured, full of sympathy.

  Which he absolutely did not want. “We do what we must and carry on.” He met her gaze direct. “I’ve learned much since I inherited the dukedom.”

  “I’m sure.” The sympathetic gaze she offered irritated, the drum of the rain beating against the windows setting him on edge.

  A chill stole over him, and he glanced at the fireplace, saw that the fire burning within looked relatively new, hardly an ember in sight. It remained cold, the warmth from the fire having not permeated the room yet, and he wondered at that.

  Wondered if the fire had been lit specifically for his visit.

  He decided to get to the root of the matter. “What are your family’s plans for the holiday?”

  She startled at the question, clutched her slim, pale hands together in her lap. “We have no formal plans.”

  “No visit to the old Cochrane estate?” Ashton knew for a fact the old Cochrane estate was a drafty, crumbling ruin in the Yorkshire moors.

  “I’m afraid not this holiday season.” Her gaze met his for the briefest moment before she looked away. The little liar. They probably hadn’t been to the estate in years.

  He tsked. “A pity. I rather enjoy spending time with family during the holiday, away from the London minutiae. It’s rather cozy in the country, especially when it snows.”

  She jerked her head in agreement. “Absolutely.”

  Her discomfort was palpable, a living, breathing thing settling in the room with them. He glanced about the parlor, noted that no pine boughs lined the mantel, no clusters of holly filled the empty, dusty vases. His mother had already come over and added a few touches to his home despite Christmas being a month away. “No decorations?”

  “What?” Her voice was weak, and when he looked in her direction, her head was bent, studying those clutched hands of hers.

  She was upset, and he was prodding her. Why, he wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps he wasn’t as over her rejection as he’d originally thought. Perhaps he wanted confirmation her family was in dire need of financial assistance and quick. He could help her in so many ways, could make her life so much easier . . .

  “In a house full of ladies, I would assume the entire place would be adorned with Christmas cheer.” His mother and sister loved to decorate for the holidays, scouring the countryside for holly berries and bundles of mistletoe.

  Lady Eleanor shrugged. “It is hard to find such adornments when one doesn’t make many visits to the country. Besides, isn’t it a bit early to be decorating?”

  It was, though not necessarily for his family. “Such items are available for purchase,” he suggested softly. He was searching for the truth, both wishing and dreading to hear her confession.

  “For a premium.” She sounded bitter as she glared at him. “I believe you’ve prodded enough, Your Grace. I do hope you’ve discovered what you wished to find.”

  He leaned back, the fragile chair creaking with the movement. Ah, now where was her impenetrable mask she was so skilled at wearing? Odd how when they were together, she didn’t mince words, seemed quickly to grow weary of playing the game. For the second time in as many days, she’d called him out on his behavior.

  He found he quite liked it, enjoyed the bit of banter that volleyed between them. Had a feeling all that fiery ferociousness would make her rather passionate in his bed. Memories of their past few shared embraces confirmed that possibility.

  Hmm, a most delectable
thought.

  “Whatever do you mean, my lady?” He feigned surprise. Toying with her now when he should stop. He was being most unkind, and to the woman he wanted as his duchess. Why couldn’t he stop?

  He enjoyed the heated banter, the fire in her gaze, the emotion fairly vibrating from her body. Lady Eleanor was a pretty little thing when riled.

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t play your silly little game with me, Your Grace. Would you like to hear how poor we are? I can offer you an endless list with all the lurid details. We could be here for hours while I offer you my tales of woe.”

  Being with her for hours didn’t sound much like a hardship. “I have all afternoon.”

  “You’re insufferable.” She frowned.

  “I’ve been told that once or twice.” He tipped his head. Point one for Lady Eleanor.

  “That you come into my home and taunt and tease me about our family’s misfortunes is most cruel.” Her lips pursed, she looked away, staring at the windows, the slashing rain beating a steady rhythm. “I believe your revenge has been accomplished, Your Grace. Perhaps it’s time for you to leave.”

  She dismissed him. Even in her ragged state, her ragged home, and her ragged mood, she dismissed him like the regal queen that she inherently was. It made him want her even more.

  Whereas he’d found her pretty and sweet before, with lips ripe for kissing, now she’d grown into full womanhood. She was a most apt opponent, an equal match. Intriguing and beautiful, ferocious and determined, he knew without a doubt she truly was the perfect duchess for him.

  “I wanted to make a request before I go.”

  Lady Eleanor eyed him warily. “What sort of request?”

  “An invitation to my home to celebrate the holiday.” He smiled. “At my country estate.”

  “That is rather . . . impudent of you, don’t you think?” She shook her head. “Why in the world would you invite me, the woman who rejected your proposal, for a family holiday?”

  She did enjoy reminding him of her rejection. “Consider it a peace offering.”