A Scandalous Regency Christmas

by Christine Merrill/Marguerite Kaye/Annie Burrows/Barbara Monajem/Linda Skye

  The marquis seemed uncharacteristically subdued, but she caught him watching her from time to time. He didn’t try to kiss her again, or touch her, or… or anything. She should be thankful for what he’d done for her so far. He’d made her come alive again. He’d made her want to be new and eager and… everything impossible.

  She redrew the design for her embroidery. Now, instead of an orderly flower garden, blackberry canes and wild roses grew in ecstatic profusion.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked, when the marquis finally came to take a look.

  ‘I think you’re a beautiful, desirable, courageous woman,’ he said in that warm voice. ‘No, I know you are.’ He smiled, and she shivered with wanting him, from her lips and fingertips all the way to her toes.

  He wandered away, dividing his attention amongst all his guests. She should be thankful—this was obviously the best way to handle any repercussions from the night before—but instead she felt bereft.

  No matter how welcome his compliments, she was inclined to discount beautiful and desirable as mere flummery—after all, Timothy had said the same before they’d wed… but then, Timothy had lied about his erection. Anger burned in her breast at the thought that she’d believed everything he’d told her. Maybe he’d fed her more lies.

  There was only one way to find out. Was she truly courageous? Her needle proved more obedient now, but symbolic abandon and the real thing were far removed from one another.

  If Cam intended to propose to Almeria, this was Frances’s last and only chance to take him up on his suggestion of a passionate affair. She couldn’t do it once he was engaged or married. That went entirely against her beliefs. Even the thought that he might marry Almeria made her unsure.

  Actually, it made her want to weep, which she set aside as making no sense at all.

  Last chance. She trusted the marquis. She couldn’t imagine taking this risk with anyone but him. She couldn’t even imagine wanting to. Only with him could she find out, once and for all, whether she was suited to the activities of the marital bed. Not that she intended to remarry—she didn’t—but if she managed to enjoy herself with Lord Warbury, and if she pleased him as well, she wouldn’t feel like a failure anymore. She would start life afresh as a new woman.

  And if she failed again, he would be kind, he wouldn’t gossip about her, and she would return to London resigned but safe.

  Finally, alone in her chamber in a silent house, she put on her wrapper and slippers and lit her bedroom candle. Her heart thumping pitifully hard, she opened the door and glanced up and down the empty passage. She crept slowly along, and was almost to the back staircase when a board creaked beneath her feet. She hissed but kept on going.

  The staircase door opened. Her heart nearly burst from her chest. Then she blew a shaky sigh of recognition. ‘Thank heavens it’s you.’

  ‘More hot milk?’ asked Cam.

  ‘No, I—I wanted to talk to you.’

  A sharp click sounded down the corridor. Someone had opened a door! Quick as light, Cam pulled her onto the landing and shut the staircase door. Her candle flame wavered and went out.

  Darkness engulfed them, dense and inviting. Cam drew her close with one arm and took the candlestick with the other. She didn’t know what he did with it, but a second later his other hand cradled her head, and his lips descended on hers.

  She opened herself to him with a stifled moan of pleasure. She thought she heard the softest of growls in his throat.

  A long creak sounded outside—a door opening slowly. They broke the kiss. ‘Hush,’ he said, so softly she barely heard him. ‘No one but family and servants use these stairs, but if need be, I’ll hold the door shut.’

  ‘Eek!’ A feminine squeal came from the passageway. ‘Oh, my God, there are rats out here!’ That was Mrs. Cutlow’s voice. Gasps and sounds of stumbling later, the door creaked again and clicked shut.

  Frances muffled a storm of giggles against the marquis’s broad chest. Under his breath, Cam said something that sounded like ‘thank you,’ but so low she couldn’t quite hear.

  ‘What would rats be doing up here?’ she whispered.

  ‘It must have been her imagination,’ Cam said cheerfully. He eased open the door. The corridor was darker than pitch. He hurried her down the passage with sure and steady steps, nudged her ahead of him into a room and shut the door softly behind them.

  Glowing coals in the fireplace lit the room enough to show a massive bed against one wall. Arousal, dark and heady, spilled into Frances’s veins.

  He pulled her close again and pressed his lips to her hair, nuzzling gently, then planted kisses one after another on her brow, her temple, at the corner of her eye. ‘Delicious Frances.’ One hand caressed her behind, whilst the other fondled her breast, cupping it through the layers of fabric. He licked her ear.

  A shudder travelled down her spine and settled in her most sensitive spot. It began to throb. She thought about Cam’s fingers and what they’d done to her last night. A wave of desire swept through her so hard that she clung to him, shaking.

  ‘Damn, I want you,’ he said, his voice husky, his lips travelling the line of her jaw.

  She wanted him, too, but she drew away, battling the insistent throbbing. ‘I must talk to you first.’

  ‘Very well.’ He let her go and moved swiftly across the room to put a log on the coals. He lit a branch of candles and smiled at her. His smile made her want to forget talking. Made her want to fling herself into his arms, to crawl all over him, to kiss his hot skin and inhale his scent… She’d never felt like this about Timothy.

  He reached into the pocket of his banyan, took out her bedroom candle and set it on a table by his bed. His voice beckoned her closer. ‘But be warned—my desire for you may affect both my hearing and my brain.’ He removed his banyan, tossed it over a chair and prowled toward her.

  Desire shimmered through her, playing havoc with her determination. The thought of what he might reply made her throat catch on the words, but she had to say it quickly, before he touched her again, before she lost herself in his arms.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Are you planning to ask my cousin Almeria to marry you?’

  ‘What?’ He gaped at her. ‘God, no. Of course not.’ Was that what had been bothering her? ‘She’s young and giggly, and her chatter would drive me mad.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. It never even crossed my mind.’ He kissed her, long and slowly, but she still wasn’t pliant and comfortable in his arms. ‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’ He pressed kisses to her forehead, her temple, her ear, anxiety prickling him. ‘You’re safe with me, dear heart, I swear. I’ll never harm you, and I don’t want anyone but you.’

  He’d spent the day pondering marriage. He didn’t know why he hadn’t seen it before. He couldn’t go backwards in life. He didn’t even want to. His past of tawdry affairs had lost all its allure.

  He’d been so obsessed with his damned motto and making amends that he hadn’t realized his real motive was Frances Burdett. It had never once occurred to him that he might be in love with her.

  Motto of the night: Woo, Seduce and Win… Whilst Doing No Harm.

  Frances appreciated his kind, comforting words, even though she didn’t really believe them. She wished she could confide in him, explaining all that she feared. Instead, she asked another question. ‘Is there a way to ensure that I won’t become with child?’

  ‘I won’t get you with child.’ His hands roamed her waist, her hips, her behind. ‘Beautiful Frances.’

  She shivered at the intent in his voice. ‘And you will be satisfied?’ Even if she wasn’t, he had to be. ‘I won’t leave you, er, hanging?’

  ‘God, no.’ His voice cracked. ‘No, you won’t.’ He undid the top button of her wrapper, and then the next one. The back of his hand brushed her breast. She drew in a sharp breath, and her nipple hardened, tingling. He slipped his hands under the wrapper to cup her breasts through t
he nightdress. Wantonly, she pressed herself into the heat of his palms.

  ‘Oh, so lovely,’ he said, a shudder in his voice. ‘Wonderful Frances.’ His eyes were closed. Standing there touching her, his face rapt, he seemed almost as vulnerable as she felt. Which was impossible, of course; he’d bedded many women. This was nothing new to him.

  ‘My love, my darling, my sweet.’ Did every woman hear those endearments? She didn’t want to think about it; she wanted to bask in what felt like love, even as she abandoned herself to what was surely only lust.

  She would suffer for it afterwards. She should have seen it earlier, but she’d been blind to everything but her own fears. She had fallen in love with him, and there was no point pretending otherwise. He didn’t love her, but wouldn’t one night in his arms be better than none at all?

  Yes, said that pulse in her nether regions. Her heart disagreed, but her heart couldn’t resist him, couldn’t control its own heady pounding that sent rich, red, desire-filled blood through her veins, sent anticipation tingling all the way to her fingers and toes. ‘Hurry, before I change my mind.’

  His rich, sensual chuckle made her groan with need. He slid her wrapper down her arms and tossed it over the chair atop his banyan. She shivered. ‘I’ll warm you up,’ he said, and his words sent more tremors of excitement through her veins. ‘Lift your arms.’ He stripped her nightdress over her head. For a long second he stared at her, but she shivered again, and he said, ‘Sorry, but you’re made to be gazed at,’ and shucked his nightshirt.

  He was beautiful naked—powerful arms and broad chest with a sprinkling of dark hair; her eyes travelled down his flat abdomen to the hard length of his erection. He took it in his hand and tugged it a little. ‘It’s yours to play with, Frances. All yours, any time you like.’

  He scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed, then burrowed under the covers to join her. ‘And you’re mine to play with, too.’

  Thrills danced through her. At first the sheets were cold, but within seconds, their nest became warm. And dark and close, and pulsing with pleasure.

  She couldn’t help but twine herself around him, couldn’t stop rolling and kissing and rubbing herself against him, reveling in the smooth heat of his skin against hers.

  She couldn’t get enough of his voice, so deep and warm, so appreciative, as if he found this as wondrous as she. ‘Darling Frances,’ he said, running his hands through her hair, teasing her nipples with the strands. ‘Sweet, hot Frances.’ He explored her breasts with fingers and lips and tongue, and took her into his mouth with a gentle suckling that sent golden shafts of pleasure straight to her core. Meanwhile his hands moved down, feathering across her belly and mound to her thighs, then inched up between her legs, urging them ever so gradually apart.

  His fingers slipped inside her, and she pulsed around him as his fingers moved, making her writhe. ‘Oh, Cam,’ she whispered, and then again, in a stifled groan, ‘Cam, I want you inside me.’

  ‘In due time.’ He crawled down her naked body, kissing all the way, and flicked her sweet spot with his tongue.

  ‘Cam, you mustn’t,’ she hissed, but he grasped her hips and licked and sucked while she panted and gasped. She dug her hands into his hair and opened helplessly to his lips and tongue. The pleasure grew and pulsed and throbbed and tore through her. She came to pieces all at once, crying out.

  He crawled back up her again, kissing and licking all the way, then kissed her hard, tasting of… ‘You taste of me,’ she said. She’d forgotten such forbidden experiments for a year and more. What a fool she’d been, all because of what Timothy had said.

  ‘Delicious Frances.’ He pushed himself inside her.

  She laughed with helpless joy. ‘I’m throbbing all around you.’

  ‘You are, aren’t you?’ he growled, and began to move within her. She remembered Timothy and how with him she’d felt nothing at all. She’d tried to move with him, tried to like it, but it was just… nothing.

  Cam stilled. ‘Don’t think about him. He was wrong for you, and I’m right.’ His eyes burned into her in the darkness. ‘Isn’t that so?’

  ‘Yes.’ Oh, God, yes.

  ‘You’re hot and passionate and perfect,’ he said, his voice husky, his breathing hard. ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes!’ she cried, and let the past go, let Timothy go forever. Cam thrust into her, each movement a caress, and she answered with loving movements of her own. She watched his pleasure build, entirely forgetting her own. He thrust harder, faster, on and on, and then pulled out of her, spilling his seed onto her thigh. She convulsed again in utter surprise around the space where he’d once been.

  He rolled onto his back and pulled her close with one arm, cuddling her against his shoulder. ‘What more could a man want in a wife?’

  She was good enough. With the right man, she could have been a good wife. She snuggled next to him, satiated and content, glowing with the aftermath of pleasure and new, invigorating knowledge of herself.

  Slowly, thoughts crept unbidden into her mind. Memories of little things Cam had said, innocent in themselves, that all added up to something else.

  He’d known she found kissing unpleasant, so he’d made a point of teaching her it wasn’t.

  He’d known she recoiled from passion. Why would he suspect such a thing unless someone had told him so?

  He’d known she believed herself useless as a wife… because someone had told him that, too. He’d taken her to bed tonight to prove to her that she wasn’t.

  She sat up in bed, roiling with unwanted thoughts. ‘Why did you keep calling on me after Timothy’s death?’ She pulled the sheet up over herself, covering her breasts. Not that it did the least bit of good—he had stripped her naked to her soul.

  She knew him well enough now to read consternation on his features. When his mother had complimented him on his dedication to the family motto, he’d looked exactly the same. That was his driving passion—to do no harm—but the constant reminders plagued him.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘You could easily come up with a convincing lie, something comforting, something to make me feel good. You could say you wanted to offer condolences in person. That you needed to hear me say what I’d already written—that I didn’t blame you.’

  ‘You should have. It was largely my fault.’ He sat up, so warm and male and kind-hearted that she wanted to burst into tears. Fortunately, she was far too angry to do so. She didn’t want kind-hearted, damn it all. She wanted the truth.

  She huffed. ‘We’ll never agree on that. Answer me this, then—if you aren’t interested in Almeria, why did you invite us here?’

  He sighed. ‘Edwin is infatuated with her. It was unscrupulous of me, because she doesn’t favour poor Edwin over any of her suitors and likely never will, but I couldn’t think of any other way to get to spend some time with you.’

  ‘And to kiss me. And to bed me. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ he said, reaching for her. ‘You’re beautiful and adorable and completely irresistible. Of course I wanted all that.’

  She pushed away and slid down off the bed. What a lot of tripe. ‘He told you, didn’t he?’ She grabbed her nightdress from the floor. ‘Timothy told you I didn’t like kissing. He told you I was a bore in bed. I thought I already knew the worst of him, but this tops it all.’

  ‘Yes, he told me.’ Cam got off the bed, too. ‘But I didn’t believe him.’

  She struggled into the nightdress, cursing. Cam approached, warm competent hands seeking to help her.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ Finally she got her arms through the sleeves and yanked the nightdress down to cover her nakedness. ‘I suppose you couldn’t resist finding out for yourself. Or perhaps you just wanted to prove what a great lover you are. You could even warm up cold little Frances Burdett.’

  ‘No!’ His face twisted. ‘No, Frances. It was never like that.’

  She clamped her teeth together, aghast at the misery on his fac
e. ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it. I know that’s not like you.’ She blinked away a treacherous tear. ‘You’re dedicated to your family motto, just as your mother said. You were making amends, weren’t you? You believed that with your great skills in the bedchamber, you could help me feel less horrid about myself.’ More tears pricked behind her eyes. ‘You’ll have to content yourself with the knowledge that to a great extent, you succeeded.’

  He’d had his pleasure of her, which was doubtless enough for a man like him; and she’d had her pleasure of him, for which she would be forever grateful, once she got over being hurt and angry and aching inside. She must leave, and leave quickly, before he realized she’d fallen in love with him. She couldn’t bear that.

  He probably didn’t even like her much. She was female and reasonably attractive, and he’d done what he’d set out to do… and that was all.

  She put on her wrapper and tried to light her bedroom candle, but tears blurred her vision. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears away, but one escaped anyway, trickling down her cheek. She took a deep breath, opened her eyes again and lit the dratted candle.

  ‘I give up,’ he said.

  He threw up his hands. ‘No matter what I do, I can’t live up to the motto. Well, to hell with it.’ He slumped, naked and exposed and not giving a damn. Not that she was looking at him anyway. ‘I don’t suppose I can do any more harm than I’ve already done. I called on you after Timothy died because I wanted to explain to you what really happened that day.’

  She had already reached the door in her haste to get away from him. She put her hand on the latch.

  ‘I thought I was doing it because of a burning need for justice and truth,’ he said, ‘but the justice was for me as much as for you. More so, because telling you about it would have meant also telling you what Timothy told me, which would have made you feel even worse.’

  She turned partway. Was that a tear glistening on her cheek? God, what a mull he’d made of it. ‘So I stopped pestering and watched you instead, hoping perhaps time would heal your wounds… and then, after your year of mourning was over, you let it be known you would never remarry. I couldn’t leave it at that. I thought if I could just show you how perfect and passionate you are, all would be well again.’