Christmastide With His Countess

by Ellie St. Clair

  He had rendered her speechless, for she sat there staring at him with her mouth open. The truth was, it wasn’t the snow, nor the gifts, nor the decoration, nor even the bloody mistletoe that had warmed him to Christmas. It was her. She filled the house and his life with laughter and joy, and he didn’t want to let her go. If only he could have her bestow some of that same spirit upon himself — even a little — his life would never be the same. But first, he had to convince her to trust him, to even learn to like him enough that perhaps they could find a way forward as true husband and wife.

  And if Christmas made her happy, then so be it.

  In the moment of silence, he began to hear the stirrings of a song.

  “Do you hear…”

  “Music,” she finished, and they both turned and looked out the door in an effort to determine where it was coming from.

  “Stone Hall,” he finally said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “It’s coming from Stone Hall. We may not be directly connected to the door, but we share a wall, and it holds the best pianoforte in the house,” he said, his smile beginning to grow. Who was playing the instrument, he had no idea, although he guessed it was likely Marion, as he doubted whether many of the maids would possess the skill to play it. “Our staff has certainly set the scene.”

  “Yes,” Scarlett agreed as a footman hurried over to fill her empty wine glass. “They certainly have.”

  There was a moment of silence as the first course of soup was placed in front of them. Scarlett began to stir it, metal tings ringing out from her spoon on the bowl until she finally brought the soup to her mouth.

  “Why did you come back?” she asked suddenly, her words coming out in a rush, and the look that rose to meet his was hesitant, vulnerable, as though asking had cost her much of her pride.

  “Well,” he said slowly, wanting to tell her the truth of it while at the same time needing her to understand how important it was that she was here with him, that she remained with him.

  “I received the notice from Stone regarding the funds,” he said, clearing his throat. “So I thought it best to come see to matter myself. And I’m glad I did,” he mused. “The man will be gone after Christmastide, that I can promise you. I apologize for not believing you sooner.”

  “Was that the only reason you came?”

  She looked so hopeful, so expectant, but Hunter didn’t want to lie to her. And yet … as he stared at his wife, he realized there was more to his desire for honesty. He longed to know her, to see if there was a chance for the two of them. Initially he had set out to woo her because socially, he needed a wife, and an heir would be required at some point — it made sense of a man in his position. But now that he had come to know her better, he yearned for her, not because she was his wife and a woman he would be bonded together with for life, but because she was intriguing. She was kind. She was generous. And she was sexy as hell.

  Did she know that when she leaned in as she was now, she was giving him a full view of her breasts? Probably not, and he wasn’t going to say anything.

  “No, that was not the only reason,” he said gruffly. “While his summons is what provided me with the impetuous to return, there was more to it. I was hoping to convince you to be my wife in more than name, to return to London with me.”

  He could read her through her eyes, the way they darkened when she was angry, or when the gold in them sparked when she was pleased, as she had been when he began his sentence, though she looked down at her soup now, shutting them off from him completely at his words regarding his return.

  “I am not returning to London.”

  “Let’s not speak of it now,” he said, not wanting to argue. He reached across the table and covered one of her hands with his. “At the moment, we’re here together. It’s Christmas. And we have much to celebrate.”

  “Oh?”

  “Indeed,” he said, his lips widening in a suggestive smile. The footmen came and went, removing the soup course and replacing it with goose. Hunter found the knife and began to slice it, plucking a piece from the serving tray and placing it on Scarlett’s plate.

  “I believe we have made progress,” he continued. “You no longer run from the room when I enter. You actually respond to me when I speak to you. And, Scarlett, I think you may actually be feeling something for me.”

  She started at that, nearly jumping out of her chair.

  “Why would you think that?” she asked, her voice just over a whisper.

  “You haven’t turned me away. You haven’t run.”

  “I want to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because…” Her voice broke slightly.

  The goose forgotten between them, Hunter surreptitiously waved away the footmen, who nodded and slipped out the door into Oak Hall. Hunter picked up Scarlett’s hand, which was still underneath his, clasping it, palm to palm, wrapping his fingers around it in silent encouragement for her to share more with him.

  “Because I decided that even you, Hunter Tannon, deserve a Christmas gift.” She grinned, and confusion spread through Hunter at her obvious coverage of what she had been about to say. She continued to deliberately avoid him, to push him away — but why? Though he supposed he should take the teasing, jesting wife over the sullen and cold one she had been before.

  “I’m a lucky man, then,” he said, squeezing her fingers, “for I have received not only my gift of a pocket watch, but my wife as well.”

  Her eyes flashed at him as she seemed to understand what he was saying and a slight smile crossed her face.

  He had come to realize that smile was part of her defense, and he wasn’t surprised when she leaned back from him, pulling her hand away. Her emotions were guarded once more, but he had made inroads into her thoughts, had begun to develop a connection that — he hoped — would only strengthen over time.

  “Do you fancy some dessert?” she asked.

  Did he ever.

  15

  Because I don’t want to fall in love with you and spend the rest of my life like my mother.

  The truth had been on the tip of her tongue. Just as the words had been about to cross her lips, however, she caught herself, coming to the sudden realization of just how close she had allowed herself to grow to him. She was moments away from allowing him to see into her most innermost thoughts, which would have been the most foolhardy decision she could have made. But it seemed that the more she tried to push him away, the more she enjoyed his company, looked forward to the next time that they would see one another.

  What was she doing, flirting with him, spending all of these precious moments alone together? Christmas was magical, but behind every magic trick was a practical explanation. In this case, it was simply the fact that the two of them were ensconced alone in this estate, with a staff apparently intent on them finding their way together.

  “I suppose dessert can be arranged,” he said, calling out the door for a footman, who entered moments later with a tray of gingerbread, fruit cake, and bowls of plum pudding.

  “My goodness,” said Scarlett, her eyes widening. “If we eat all of this, we shall not be able to walk out of the room on our own two feet. I believe my stays may spring open.”

  “I can help you untie them if you’d like.”

  Scarlett whipped her gaze from the dessert to Hunter’s face and found he was laughing at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling as a wide smile stretched across his face.

  “You’re a brute,” she whispered sardonically.

  He shrugged, winking at her. “I jest.”

  “I know.”

  “Here,” he said, breaking their joined gaze, reaching down to scoop up a spoonful of pudding. He held it up toward her.

  “While I have never had a Christmas feast as it were, every Christmas since I was a boy, Cook would ensure this was our dessert on Christmas Day. It’s unlike anything you have ever tasted before, I promise.”

  “I’m not sure…” she said, as she had been eyeing t
he gingerbread.

  “You must try the pudding,” he insisted, and he looked so eager she finally gave in.

  “Fine,” she said with a sigh, reaching out to take the spoon from him.

  “Ah, ah, no, allow me,” he said, bringing the spoon to her lips. She opened wide for him, and his eyes sparked with undisguised desire. She hadn’t time to digest the thought, however, as the pudding touched her tongue.

  “Oh!” she said, bringing her napkin to her lips. “That is … that is…”

  “Vile?” he finished, his words dissolving into a chuckle. “Yes, Cook has always had trouble with that particular recipe.”

  “Oh, you … you…” She swatted his arm, and he laughed even harder.

  “Have you run out of names for me? Ah, the look on your face right now,” he said, mirth overcoming him.

  She shook her head, narrowing her eyes at him. “That was rather unkind.”

  “It was worth it.”

  “Time for your own bite.”

  “Good Lord, no.”

  “Tell you what,” she said with a grin. “I challenge you to a game of billiards. Whoever loses must eat the rest of the pudding.”

  He cocked his head to the side, and Scarlett was sure he was currently underestimating her.

  “Very well,” he said with a nod. “This should be fun.”

  Oh, she didn’t doubt that. Her husband was in for a surprise.

  He pushed his chair back from the table, before helping her from her own seat and taking the tray with him as he led her into the adjoining billiards room. A small yet cheery fire was the only light in the well-proportioned room, though the footman hurried in behind them to stoke the fire and light a few of the scones that lined the wall. The flames flickered across the beautiful Gobelins tapestries that lined the room, their bright colors transporting the two of them to another world, a world beyond these walls or this country. Scarlett loved this room and had spent more time in here over the past few months than she would care to admit to Hunter, for then he would be aware that he might not so easily best her in a game of billiards.

  Hunter placed the tray on a side table, from which he filled a glass with amber liquid, holding it out to her first. She walked over to him, her swishing skirts the only sound in the room besides the crackle of the fire.

  She took a hearty sip from the glass and passed it back, before removing two cue sticks from the wall. She gave one to Hunter, who set down the drink and arranged the balls in their correct place in the middle of the red velvet tabletop.

  “Ladies first,” he said, and she made a play of nearly missing the white cue ball.

  “Oh, dear,” she said distressingly, “It seems I am out of practice.”

  “Not to worry,” he said reassuringly as he came around the table. “You’ll pick up on it, I’m sure.”

  He easily sank five of his balls before finally missing one. Scarlett picked up her cue stick once more.

  “Here,” he said, looking at her with an easy grin, one she knew was sympathetic to her apparent plight. “Allow me.”

  He came around behind her, his arms encircling her as his warm hands covered hers. She had removed her gloves when they came into the house, for which she was glad as she enjoyed the feeling of his big warm hands on hers.

  “Back and forth,” Hunter said softly in her ear as he moved the cue with her. She shivered as his breath brushed across her neck, his body moving with hers, and heat suffused her, which had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

  “That’s it,” he said, allowing her to take over. “You’ve got this.”

  She nodded jerkily and he released her, leaving her slightly bereft as he walked away from her to round the table. He leaned over the side, his arms crossed as he concentrated on her.

  She skirted around the table so he wasn’t in her line of sight, distracting her from her task at hand. She leaned over the red velvet, eyed the cue ball, and then connected with it square in the center, sending it toward its target and knocking the ball into its hole.

  Hunter clapped his hands. “Well done!” he said, and Scarlett kept the chuckle from escaping her lips, not wanting to disappoint him, so proud he seemed by the effect of his instructions.

  She smiled abstractly, wandering slowly over to his side of the table. She bent over it, feeling contact behind her as she did. He moved away, albeit rather slowly, one hand on the top of her back as he took a step from her.

  She connected with the next ball, sinking it once more. Hunter blinked at her before narrowing his eyes. She simply smiled sweetly again, before knocking in the rest of her balls in quick succession.

  “What in the…”

  “I win,” she said matter-of-factly as she replaced her cue stick. “I hope you are hungry for Cook’s pudding.”

  “You tricked me!” he exclaimed, astonishment now covering his face.

  “I did nothing of the sort,” she said, shrugging a shoulder. “I never claimed any skill or lack thereof. You assumed what you wanted to.”

  “Good grief,” he said, grimacing as he walked over to the sideboard. He took a big spoonful of the pudding, closing his eyes before sticking it into his mouth. He washed it down with a swig of brandy.

  “Here,” said Scarlett, laughing at him, “Allow me.” She scooped up another hearty morsel, stood on her tiptoes, and set the spoon in his mouth. She had to give him credit, for he was taking this quite well. After his third bite, however, she took pity on him.

  “Close your eyes,” she commanded, and he obeyed. This time she picked up a piece of gingerbread, and when he opened his mouth obligingly, she slipped in a leg from the cookie creature.

  “Mmm,” he murmured, opening his eyes and looking down at her. “What did I do to deserve that?”

  “I figured you needed something sweet,” she said, and when she caught his gaze, her mirth faded, to be replaced by a flood of awareness.

  “One more?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Very well,” she said, lifting the other leg of the gingerbread to his lips. He opened to her, but when she placed it in his mouth, his lips came around not only the cookie but her fingers as well. His tongue licked her index finger, and she gasped as a wave of heat shot from her hand to her very center. She had never felt anything like it, and God help her, she wanted to feel it again. He took her left hand in his, his fingers twining around hers.

  Straightening, his hands came to her hips, and Scarlett, spellbound, went along with the current that pulled her into him, and when her body made contact with his, he lifted her up, placing her bottom on the velvet top. Her legs widened, and he stepped in between them, allowing her to feel him up against her. And oh, it felt good. He leaned in, his hand coming to the back of her head, his lips meeting hers in a dance she eagerly welcomed.

  Their kiss had been brewing since the moment she walked down the stairs earlier this evening, and Scarlett was now both satisfied and desperate for more in equal parts. She drank in his taste, of brandy and gingerbread, as one hand came to the left side of his whiskered jaw, the other twining into the curls of his hair. They were as silky and as luscious as she had imagined, and she was grateful he didn’t cut it in the latest fashion.

  Don’t do this, Scarlett. Don’t give away your body and with it, your heart.

  The thought flew into her mind, but as Hunter’s lips slanted over hers again and again, his tongue tangling with hers, the words were pushed aside just as quickly, to be replaced by a need unlike anything she had ever felt before. He broke away, only to desperately whisper, “I think, my wife, it is time for bed.”

  Hunter picked her up as though she weighed nothing, one arm coming beneath her knees, the other around her back. He angled her through the door of the billiards room, skirting around the small statues and delicate furniture of Stone Hall, before striding up the stairs, while his ancestors watched on. Scarlett looked around at their portraits, wondering if that was approval in their eyes. She shook her head to relieve her
self of her fanciful notions, tightening her arms around Hunter’s neck. She had never seen a man so determined. When they came upon a startled housemaid in the upstairs corridor, Hunter ignored her gasp as he continued on his way. He turned the corner, finally coming to his own bedroom. He pushed the door open with his boot, and Scarlett’s face flushed when she saw Spicer was inside, laying out his master’s bedclothes.

  “Out,” was all Hunter said, and Scarlett attempted a smile of apology, though one didn’t seem to be needed. Despite his attempts at smothering it, Spicer wore a grin at the sight of Scarlett in his lord’s arms. He hurriedly scurried out of the room, likely to tell the rest of the staff, Scarlett thought, but at this point, she didn’t care any longer.

  Hunter tossed her on the bed, the cover a deep navy to match the curtains, which had been pulled over the windows, but for one through which Scarlett could see the very top of a snow-covered pine. The air between them now was so tense that when a log cracked in the fireplace, Scarlett nearly jumped off the bed. She was always one up for adventure, but this was something else entirely.

  For whether she was sending her horse into a gallop across a grassy field, or plunging into one of London’s most undesirable neighborhoods to give out baskets to mothers in need, she was in control. And tonight, she had completely given up every vestige of it to Hunter. Her husband.

  As she looked on, he shed his jacket before unpinning his cravat, sending it flying through the air with a tug. Next, he removed his waistcoat, then moved his fingers to the top buttons of his shirt. Scarlett could watch no longer, however, as the power of her instincts overcame all else. She shifted to her knees, bringing herself to the edge of the bed and drawing Hunter toward her. As he stood looking down at her, she began to undo the buttons herself, clumsily at first until she began to understand the way of it.

  She could feel the intensity of Hunter’s stare as he watched her, and by the time she unfastened his final button, his patience apparently evaporated. He ripped the shirt over his head, before coming down upon her like a ferocious animal attacking its prey.