What Happens Under the Mistletoe

by Sabrina Jeffries

  She was so engrossed in her reading that she didn’t even glance up when he entered. Closing the door behind him, he paused to look at her, and something knotted in his chest.

  God, she was magnificent, even in that subdued gray wool gown she favored. Her glorious red hair was an upsweep of ravishing curls, and her freckled cheeks shone pink and pretty in the muddy light from the window. It was enough to turn a gentleman into a raving rogue.

  But it wasn’t just her looks that captivated him. She was the first woman with whom he felt entirely at ease, the first woman who didn’t make him impatient to be somewhere else. When he was with her, he found himself yearning for something deeper, something more . . . permanent.

  No, that was ridiculous. Right now, he yearned for one thing only—a kiss. More than one, if he could manage it. He started toward her and reached up to pluck a berry from the bough, then froze.

  There were none. How could that be?

  His disappointment was so acute that he spoke without thinking. “What happened to the mistletoe?”

  Startled, she looked up from her book. Then she followed his gaze to the bough and smoothed her expression. “How should I know?”

  Remembering what she’d said about why women didn’t pluck the bough clean themselves, he scowled at her. “Are you telling me the berries all just disappeared?”

  With a shrug, she returned her gaze to her book. “The house party has been going on for days. I can’t help it if the men here take every opportunity to blackmail women into kissing them.”

  “It isn’t blackmail,” he grumbled. “It’s supposed to be fun.”

  “So I’m told.”

  But he noticed she fought a smile as she stared down at her book. The little minx had probably plucked them all herself, just to torment him.

  Now thoroughly out of sorts, he dropped into a chair across from the settee where she sat. “What are you reading?”

  “Christabel, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.”

  “Poetry? You?”

  “I like poetry. It has a steady rhythm, like music. Or the machines at the mills. It’s quite soothing.”

  He shook his head. Only Amanda could find poetry in a mill. “You really enjoy running your factories and working in them every day, don’t you?”

  “I do.” She got a faraway look in her eye. “I like seeing something beautiful spun from a piece of nature. I like the whoosh and clack of the flying shuttle, the hum of the spinning mule, and the haze of cotton dust that casts everything in a soft light.”

  Hearing her speak of it made his gut clench. If he ever did offer marriage to her, she would never accept. Not if it meant staying in England. She too had a mission of sorts, very different from his.

  “I’m afraid I can’t see them as romantically as you,” he said.

  “Only because you don’t look at them in the proper light.” She held out her hand. “So, let’s see how you do view them. Is that your article?”

  “Yes.” Handing it over, he sat back and watched as she looked it over.

  It was a bit disconcerting. He’d never actually witnessed someone reading his work. He didn’t like it. She sighed, she marked things with a pencil, she furrowed her brow. It was enough to drive a man to drink.

  When she gasped, he demanded to know why. She merely ordered him to hold his tongue until she was done.

  At that point, he couldn’t sit there any longer. Rising from the chair, he strode over to gaze out the window at the icicles melting off the eaves. Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea. Perhaps she would hate how he’d characterized her. When he’d initially written the piece, he’d thought she might approve, but he was beginning to understand that Amanda—

  “Very interesting,” she mumbled.

  He glanced over at her, his blood racing when he saw her set the pages down. “You’re done?”

  She looked up. “Yes.”

  “And you found it interesting.” His stomach lurched. “In a good way? Or a bad way?”

  “A good way, of course.” She sounded surprised that he would think otherwise.

  He released a breath. “You like it.”

  “I do. It’s much more even-handed than your usual work.”

  Probably so. The whole time he’d been writing it, he’d heard her voice sounding in his ears, telling him to be fair. “You didn’t mind that I contrasted your methods with those of Hanson.”

  “Of course not.” Her cheeks colored. “I’m flattered that you spoke of admiring them.”

  She’d blushed more today than in the past five days. It brought his desire roaring to life.

  Then she tapped the pencil against one sheet of paper and frowned. “But I’m confused about this part concerning a girl piecer. Jimmy Chapel is eleven, and I don’t recall our interviewing any eight-year-old piecers.”

  He tensed. “That’s because we didn’t. Since you wanted me to be careful about implicating the workers, instead of using Mrs. Chapel’s son for my example, I chose to make the piecer a girl.”

  Her eyes warmed. “You listened to what I said?”

  “I’m not immune to criticism, you know,” he muttered.

  “I see that.”

  Her soft smile made him want to scoop her up and spend the rest of the afternoon ravishing her. “According to sources, there were several piecers at the mill, so I figured that would make it harder to determine whom I meant.”

  “Yes, but the way you describe her is so powerful, so true.” She searched his face. “She feels very real to me. And not just a female version of Jimmy, either.”

  How astute of her to notice. He thought about denying it, but he couldn’t. Not with Amanda. Not when she’d come to understand so much about him and his quest.

  Possessed by an overwhelming urge to explain why this crusade was so important to him, he said, “You’re right—she’s not a female version of Jimmy.” He dragged in a heavy breath as memories assailed him. “She was a real girl named Peggy, whom I considered a friend. She died in the mills when I was eight, and I never forgot. So I do all of this for her . . . and children like her.”

  Chapter Five

  For a moment, Amanda could only stare at him. She’d wondered what drove him, but she hadn’t expected this. “How on earth does a marquess’s son have a mill girl for a friend?”

  “Not easily, I assure you.” Glancing away, he speared his fingers through his hair in a gesture she’d come to adore.

  But she dared not let him see how she felt, or he would guess that she was falling for him. And that was hopeless.

  Even if he were enough of a rebel to consider marrying a woman in trade, she doubted he would move to America. He felt compelled to do what he did here, in England.

  And did she even want him to marry her? What if she let him close, and he turned out to be like Papa, trying to take things over, trying to make her mills what he wanted?

  He’s nothing like Papa. Just look at what he wrote.

  Yes. He’d shown he understood her, far more even than she’d guessed. It was gratifying. Intoxicating.

  And a little alarming. Though it made her want to understand him, too. “How did you meet Peggy?”

  He rose to roam the small sitting area like a caged beast. “My late mother used to help support a school for the children of our local mill workers. She would drag me along when she went to observe. Said it would be good for me, would teach me compassion.”

  His voice turned self-deprecating. “As you might imagine, I detested going. At eight, I was starting to be rather full of myself, and I hated being forced to deal with grubby urchins whom I considered beneath me. But I was a dutiful son, so I did as I was told, though not happily. Until I met Peggy.”

  A smile softened his face. “She was my age and the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen—always neat as a pin, with a face like a cherub and a head full of ginger curls. She took a shine to me when she caught me stealing away from Mother one day at the school to read a book. She, too, was a great l
over of reading.”

  “She could read?”

  “Oh, yes, she had a gift for it, a thirst for learning. And in her I’d found an ally. At first I lent her books from Father’s library. I got in trouble for that, as you might imagine, so then I took to buying her books with my allowance.”

  “Your mother didn’t mind,” Amanda said softly.

  “She told Father it was good for me to learn kindness to those beneath me.” He shook his head. “She never understood—it wasn’t about charity or kindness. It was about the books. None of my brothers were keen readers, but Peggy knew at once why Sir Walter Scott transported me, why Shakespeare lifted my heart. We could talk for hours just about that.

  “Then one day she wasn’t there at the school. When I asked about her, I was told that her father had fallen ill, so all his children had been put to work in the mills to keep the family afloat.”

  He sank onto the settee beside her, his eyes bleak. “I made a fuss about it with Father, who said it was none of our concern. Mother said she sympathized, but we couldn’t interfere with another family’s choices.” His voice grew choked. “As if there was a choice. Mill workers don’t earn enough to have choices.”

  She took his hand in hers, but he hardly seemed conscious of it.

  “Since I couldn’t see her anymore, I wrote her a letter, but I got no answer. For a long time, I wasn’t even sure if she’d received it. Then one day her father came to the manor. He said he thought it only right, since I’d been so kind to his girl, that I be told of . . . of . . .”

  Sensing what was coming, she clutched his hand to her heart.

  “Of her . . . death.” A shuddering breath escaped him. “She fell into one of the machines and . . .” He stared blindly past her. “Well, you know what happens.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, though the words were wholly inadequate. She brushed a kiss over his knuckles. “So very sorry. Eight is far too young to lose a friend.”

  “Eight is far too young to die.” His angry gaze shot to hers. “And for what? Commerce? Cheap cotton shirts? It isn’t right!”

  “No, it’s not.” She lifted her other hand to cup his taut cheek. “Why do you think I’m so careful with my own factories? I could never bear it if some sleepy child got hurt. It’s why I’m helping you with this article. I know how bad things can be if an owner is indifferent to the risks.”

  “The problem is there aren’t enough owners like you.” He let out a ragged sigh. “Sometimes it feels as if I write and shout and pound the walls and nothing happens.”

  “That’s not true,” she said earnestly. “Thanks to you and others, there’s the Factory Acts, there’s New Lanark . . . there are members of Parliament fighting for better conditions. It just takes time for things to change for the better.”

  “How can you always be so full of hope? I look and see only hardship and difficulty. You see potential.”

  “Because I believe most people have good intentions. They want to do the right thing. They want to help, to make improvements.”

  “But when faced with men like Hanson—”

  “I look to people like you.” She brushed back the lock of his hair falling into his eyes. “You’re the ones who give me hope.”

  His gaze caught hers, fierce and intense and full of longing. It mirrored the longing in her . . . for a connection with him deeper than their platonic friendship of the past few days.

  He obviously saw it, too, for hunger leapt in his face.

  Suddenly she realized how close they sat, how tightly he gripped her hand . . . how hard she found it to breathe. His eyes deepened until they shone as glossy-dark as holly, and he lowered his head to hers infinitely slowly, as if giving her a chance to stop him.

  There wasn’t a chance in hell of that. So as her eyes slid closed, he kissed her.

  It started tender and soft, the merest press of lips meant to get her attention. But soon it began a slow crescendo. His tongue slid inside to toy with hers. Then his hands clasped her head to hold her still so his mouth could give and take with impudent, hot strokes that made her blood roar and her heart thunder.

  Even his kisses shouted.

  Ohhhh, how lovely! How she’d missed this.

  A strange excitement built in her belly and she squirmed, not sure why she felt the urge to press against him . . . everywhere. But he must have felt it, too, for he cupped her breast in an intimate caress.

  She froze. She should shove his hand away. Shove him away.

  There wasn’t a chance in hell of that, either. So she pretended not to notice that he was kneading her breast, lightly, carefully, as if afraid she might revolt.

  How could she revolt when she’d just been yearning to have his hands on her? When the sheer wonder of his fondling whipped her blood into a frenzy? Giving herself up to his caresses, she looped her hands about his neck and just held on.

  His mouth grew wild on hers, and his hand grew bolder. Oh, it felt like heaven, all of it. She wanted more. She wanted everything.

  After several moments of hot kisses and hotter caresses, he murmured against her lips, “I’ve dreamed for days of having you in my arms, putting my hands on you.”

  “Why didn’t you do anything about it?” she whispered, arching into his hand.

  “You know why.” He planted kisses along the line of her jaw down to her neck. “Your mother was always around.” Shooting her a wry glance, he said, “And you wouldn’t go to the conservatory.”

  “Oh. Right.” She began to regret her stubborn refusal to forgive him for his earlier manipulations, because this sweet intimacy was incredible. Now it was nearly Christmas Eve, and they had little time left to experience such delicious . . . astonishing . . .

  “You did it on purpose,” he growled against her throat. “And admit it, you plucked all those berries from the bough, too.”

  “Not a bit,” she said, then betrayed herself with a giddy laugh.

  “I knew it, you cheater.” Even as his hand kept fondling her breast, his eyes gleamed with darker intent. “So now it’s my turn to cheat.”

  He tugged her fichu from the neck of her pelisse-robe and tossed it over the back of the settee.

  “Stephen!” she gasped, but any further protest died in her throat once he started kissing his way down inside the vee of her bodice. “Ohh, you . . . devilish fellow, what are you doing?”

  “Claiming my kisses,” he said hoarsely. “All the ones I would have taken if you’d left the berries on the bough.”

  Her breath came in hard gasps as he unbuttoned her front-opening gown just enough to draw it open and bare her corset and chemise to his gaze.

  Oh, help. “You really shouldn’t be doing this,” she said as her traitorous hands buried themselves in his hair.

  He fixed her with a decidedly carnal look. “I really shouldn’t.” Then he tugged down her corset cup and chemise to reveal one breast, and his gaze dropped unerringly there.

  Dear Lord. Who would have thought that having a man look at one’s naked breast would be so enthralling? The part of her that would normally urge caution had clearly gone to sleep, because she wouldn’t have stopped this for the world.

  Especially when he lowered his head, closed his mouth over her breast, and began to suck.

  What bliss! Her body entirely betrayed her. It pressed into him like that of a dockside tart. Her fingers clutched him tight to her breast, and her lips scattered kisses over his silky locks. He smelled of mint and bergamot, some rich scent that probably only lords used.

  But his mouth was just a man’s, with a man’s boldness, a man’s eager hunger. It made her squirm and moan.

  As if that encouraged him to recklessness, he eased her back down on the settee until he lay atop her, the strength and power of him surrounding her. That ought to panic her. Instead, it made her feel oddly safe.

  This was Stephen, her Stephen. She trusted him with her virtue.

  He kissed her again, slowly, leisurely, with heart-sto
pping strokes of his tongue, and it was perfect. His hand rubbed her breast while his thumb teased her nipple and his mouth made her eager for more.

  Then he settled between her legs, and even through her layers of petticoats and skirts she felt an unmistakable bulge hardening against the tender flesh down there. For a moment, it tempted her to be naughty. For a moment, she relished the way he pushed against her, rousing urges she’d ignored most of her life.

  Until he groaned against her lips, and her good sense finally reasserted itself. She was playing with fire. And she was the only one who’d be burned by it.

  She tore her mouth from his. “We mustn’t,” she whispered. “We can’t do this.”

  He froze, then muttered a soft oath, and she had a moment’s fear he wouldn’t relent.

  But he didn’t resist when she pressed against his chest to put some space between them. “We have to stop this. Someone could come in any minute.”

  Bracing himself up on either side of her, he stared down into her face. “So what if they did?”

  She could feel the thundering of his heart against her hand. “Then we’d be forced to marry.”

  At the word forced, he narrowed his gaze. “Would it be so terrible? For us to have to marry?”

  That made her silly pulse leap. “Are you . . . making an offer? Because this isn’t quite how I envisioned that happening.”

  A rueful laugh escaped him. “No, I would imagine not.”

  Pushing himself off her, he slid to the end of the settee so she could sit up. For a moment he just sat watching as she restored her clothing. Then she began hunting for her fichu, so he rose to fetch it from behind the settee.

  But when she reached for it, he kept hold of one end. “You didn’t answer my question. Would marrying me be so terrible?”

  She stared up at the face that was rapidly becoming dear to her. “No.”

  With a ragged breath, he released the fichu and came around to sit beside her. Unable to look at him, she struggled to repin the scrap of fabric inside her bodice.