A Lady's Lesson in Seduction

by Barbara Monajem

  Cam brushed off the snow from a handy foothold and climbed. ‘But although I can prevent Alan from pressing his unwanted advances on you…’ He reached out and snipped. She caught the clipping, but less deftly than before. He jumped down. ‘You would draw attention to yourself by refusing a quick kiss, if he or any other man should catch you under the mistletoe.’

  ‘I know that.’ Her brows drew together. Evidently, she would rather avoid this subject. Too bad; it had to be addressed.

  ‘Plan to keep your mouth firmly shut,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I shall certainly do that,’ she retorted, pursing her lips with distaste.

  ‘Particularly with Alan and Cutlow, who will do their best to take advantage.’

  ‘I heard you the first time,’ she snapped. ‘Must we discuss this?’

  ‘I believe we should,’ Cam said. ‘Kissing doesn’t have to be unpleasant, you know.’

  ‘I never said anything about it being unpleasant.’ She frowned at him, her hazel eyes uneasy. ‘I never said anything about it at all.’

  Damn. He mustn’t let her realize how much he knew about her marriage. She’d already suffered too much mortification. ‘No, but you implied it by recoiling from me.’

  Her face fell. ‘I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.’

  Good God. ‘Mrs. Burdett, it’s I who should apologize. I don’t expect every woman to want to kiss me. I should be ashamed of myself for displaying such insufferable conceit.’

  ‘Doubtless you have good reason,’ she said, colouring. ‘You are an attractive man, and there is a great deal of gossip about your skill in the bedchamber.’

  Was that a point in his favour or against him? Regardless, he could use it to his advantage. ‘I am perhaps more patient than other men. More interested than most in discovering what a woman desires.’

  Her eyes widened. Good.

  ‘We men tend to be hasty, you know. In our eagerness to achieve our own satisfaction, we are constantly in danger of forgetting that of our lover.’

  Her mouth fell open, giving him a glimpse of a sweet pink tongue before she shut it again. She hunched a shoulder and turned away.

  Lumpkin and Edwin were several trees behind in the next row, but not far enough away in this stark landscape of snow and bare branches. ‘If you allow me to kiss you under the mistletoe, I promise you will enjoy it.’

  ‘You can’t possibly promise that,’ she retorted.

  ‘And yet, conceited to the core, I just did.’ Hopefully, his smile held just the right amount of friendly admiration.

  Evidently not; she sent him a fierce, furious glare. ‘If you must have it, I don’t enjoy kissing.’

  ‘Not at all?’

  ‘No.’ She pressed her lips together, as if biting back a stream of complaints.

  ‘Come now,’ he teased. ‘Surely you’re exaggerating.’

  Her voice was low, suffused with passion. ‘You can’t possibly judge how that—that invasion made me feel.’

  ‘That bad, was it?’ He spied a likely tree and moved toward it. ‘Look at the berries on that one.’ She followed him but halted several feet away, and didn’t approach until he’d climbed the tree. ‘You’re right, I can’t judge, but the general popularity of kissing tells me you were merely unlucky.’ He cut another sprig of mistletoe. ‘Perhaps Timothy was clumsy, or maybe your taste in kissing didn’t match his.’

  He jumped down and led Frances toward a gnarled old tree with a wider trunk than the usual and went round it to the other side.

  ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ he said. ‘Come here.’

  * * *

  Frances stopped dead. ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’ His voice drifted seductively around the tree. ‘You mustn’t let an unfortunate experience ruin you for one of life’s great pleasures.’ A gloved hand appeared from behind the tree, beckoning. ‘The mistletoe awaits.’

  She shivered and shook her head, which of course he didn’t see. Why had she confessed to not liking kisses? She’d kept such secrets to herself for a whole year, and now suddenly she’d blurted it out.

  He was only flirting. Once, long ago, she would have been able to flirt in return. Now hurt and anger boiled up and got in the way. ‘It’s not a good idea.’

  ‘Why not? You have nothing to lose.’

  No, she had everything to lose. Last night in the kitchen, she’d quite liked Lord Warbury, rake or not. She’d enjoyed talking to him. She’d felt comfortable with him and surprisingly safe. Back in bed, under the lingering influence of his warm, masculine scent, she’d even found herself wondering what it might be like to put her arms around him. To feel his arms around her. To be enveloped in all that warmth and heady aroma.

  But she knew better than to think about kisses. Dreams were one thing and reality another. If he kissed her, she wouldn’t be able to hide her revulsion, and he would thrust her away in disgust.

  ‘Now’s our chance. Lumpkin and my cousin are nowhere near.’ He came around the tree again, a sprig of mistletoe in his hand.

  What a fool she was; in spite of bitter experience, she wanted to kiss him, wanted kissing to be wonderful. How stupid! She was much better off—much safer—as she was.

  He kissed the fingertips of his gloves and blew. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  She huffed.

  He picked a berry from the mistletoe and dropped it. ‘We’ll make it a very light kiss,’ he said, coming closer. ‘Short and sweet.’

  She didn’t trust him; she wanted yet didn’t want—

  A flurry of snow tumbled from the branches above, distracting her. He swooped in, dropped a swift, cold kiss on her lips, and drew away—but not far. ‘Was that too unbearable?’ Another mistletoe berry fell to the snow.

  ‘No, of course not,’ she said, ‘but—’

  ‘Well, then.’ He took her hand and pulled her around the tree. ‘If you don’t want me to invade you—accidentally, needless to say—you’ll have to keep your mouth shut.’

  ‘You mustn’t do this—’

  ‘Of course I must. No talking.’

  She gave up, shutting both her mouth and her eyes. It was her own fault for coming to the orchard this morning, but she’d enjoyed their time together in the middle of the night so very much. It was only a kiss.

  Nothing happened. She opened her eyes again. He was contemplating her mouth from under his lashes. ‘You have lovely lips.’

  Through her teeth, she said, ‘Get it over with.’

  ‘I’ve never kissed a martyr before.’ His lips curled in a lazy smile, and then he pressed his mouth coolly to hers and withdrew again. ‘It requires a more careful approach than we disgustingly hasty men are used to.’ He flicked another berry off the sprig.

  She couldn’t help but watch his mouth. What was he going to do, and when?

  ‘Close your eyes, and whatever happens, keep your lips together.’

  This time his mouth lingered on hers a few seconds, then pressed light kisses from one corner of her lips to the other. Kiss. ‘One.’ Kiss. ‘Two.’ Kiss. ‘Three.’

  Bite.

  She gasped, and desire shimmered like golden light down her spine. He chuckled and gave his branch of mistletoe a rueful look. ‘Can’t bring this one in the basket, or they’ll know what we’ve been doing. On the other hand, it would be a pity to waste the one remaining berry.’

  She licked her lip where he’d bitten her.

  ‘Such a tempting tongue,’ he said.

  Anxiety washed over her. All right, it had been pleasant so far—unexpectedly so—but enough was enough. She didn’t want anything more, and judging by the darkening of his eyes, he did.

  Another shower of snow landed on them both, followed by the sound of approaching voices. From the corner of her eye, Frances caught a hint of movement above. Had a squirrel knocked the snow off a branch? Shouldn’t it be hibernating in this weather?

  Lord Warbury plucked the solitary berry, stowed it in his pocket, and dropped the sprig to the gr
ound. He retrieved the basket and handed it to Frances.

  ‘More kisses later,’ he said.

  * * *

  Christmas Eve passed in a flurry of activity. The ladies made garlands and kissing rings, the men hung them, the servants cooked and baked, and Lord Warbury prepared the apples and syrup for lamb’s wool with everyone’s participation. Frances couldn’t help a tiny thrill of delight when he offered her—and only her—a second turn at mashing the apples.

  She also couldn’t help wondering when he would kiss her again.

  They feasted in the dining room and then descended to the kitchen, where the marquis crowned his head groom King of the Revels, bent the knee to him, and served him lamb’s wool and fruitcake with his own hands. There were games and dancing, a pantomime performed by the three younger men, and roasted chestnuts and apples. She steeled herself to be kissed under the mistletoe by the male guests. Perhaps Lord Warbury had had a word with Alan Folk, for he didn’t try to invade her, merely giving her a friendly kiss. So did Edwin, the Druid and the King of the Revels. Mr. Cutlow, who’d drunk too much wine and lamb’s wool, put his hand on her bottom and tried to stick his tongue in her mouth. She squirmed indignantly away and warned Almeria not to let Mr. Cutlow catch her under the mistletoe. Lord Warbury bestowed kisses upon several giggly maidservants, an equally giggly Almeria, and Mrs. Cutlow, who tried unsuccessfully to cling to him. He didn’t kiss Frances.

  Perhaps he didn’t mean to kiss her at all. Maybe he’d decided she wasn’t worth the bother, and the second turn at mashing apples meant nothing.

  Frances licked the foam off a cup of lamb’s wool and lapsed into uncomfortable reflections. It was better if he didn’t kiss her. If she let herself dwell on Lord Warbury’s kisses, she was in danger of forgetting her duty to Almeria. In fact, if he intended to marry Almeria, she shouldn’t kiss him at all.

  ‘There you are, Mrs. Burdett.’ Lord Warbury strolled up, brandishing a solitary mistletoe berry. ‘I’ve been saving you for last.’ He bent and dropped a chaste kiss on her mouth, and then whispered, ‘That doesn’t count. We’ll continue our lessons later.’

  Why must he promise more kisses at the very moment when she’d decided she shouldn’t allow it? ‘It would be better not,’ she muttered.

  His brows drew together; after a long second, while she squirmed under his contemplative gaze, he merely said, ‘Let’s see if my mother is ready to adjourn to the drawing room. Traditionally, we take the tea upstairs ourselves and leave the servants to enjoy their celebration without us.’

  Soon they all trooped up to the drawing room. Over tea, she sent covert glances at both Lord Warbury and Almeria, trying to assess their attitudes to one another. The girl continued to flirt with the marquis every chance she got, but she toyed with the Folk cousins and their friend, too. As for the marquis, he flirted obligingly back, but he didn’t glower like Edwin when Almeria paid attention to someone else. Was he very sure of himself, or too mature to wear his heart on his sleeve? Or was he not interested in Almeria at all?

  The younger people gathered about a table to play Speculation, and the Cutlows, Lady Warbury, and the Druid made up a table for whist. Relieved she needn’t try to play cards whilst in such a frame of mind, Frances gratefully retired to the sofa with her needlework and her confusion.

  ‘Trying to decide what to embroider next?’

  She started; the marquis was looking over her shoulder at her stitchery. ‘I drew the design before I left London, but it seems my fingers won’t follow the plan.’ She gestured to a hodgepodge of stem and chain stitches she’d just made while thinking of other matters entirely. ‘That was supposed to be one or two flower stems, but somehow it became chaotic—as if the plant took over and grew on its own.’

  ‘That’s what plants do if you let them,’ he said. ‘If you don’t prune them and chop them. Pruning and chopping have their place, but so does growth.’ His voice made her shiver. ‘Wild, unrestrained growth.’

  He wasn’t talking about plants anymore. She wasn’t ready for anything wild or unrestrained. She wasn’t even sure about more kisses.

  ‘I’m Almeria’s chaperone,’ she said, nodding towards the noisy game of Speculation. ‘It’s my duty to set a good example for her.’

  ‘You needn’t worry about Miss Dane. She may be a little chatterbox, but she is very aware of her worth. She won’t do anything foolish or give herself away to just anyone.’

  Did he mean she would give herself only to a man of wealth and rank? If he wanted Almeria, why didn’t he just say so? He didn’t hesitate about anything else, she thought indignantly, and tried another tack. ‘She’s too young for marriage.’

  He cocked his head to one side, watching Almeria laugh merrily at something Alan Folk said. ‘Not if she chooses the right man.’

  That didn’t help, either.

  ‘Just because you didn’t like Timothy’s kisses, there is no reason to suppose she will have the same experience with her husband.’ He smiled. ‘It is also no reason for you to decide never to remarry.’

  She stiffened, suddenly furious. ‘I don’t want to marry again, and I shan’t, and that’s that.’ She picked up her needle again and set the first stitch of a rose.

  ‘Then you had better have a passionate affair,’ he murmured.

  ‘I certainly will not!’ She stabbed the needle in and out, in and out.

  ‘Or at least some more kisses. Deeper ones.’

  ‘Hush!’ She glanced about, but no one was close enough to hear him.

  ‘Otherwise, you will moulder away into nothing,’ he said. ‘What a pity that would be.’

  No, what a pity she couldn’t storm away and never see him again before she said—or did—something she would regret. She got back to work on what would be a very perfect, very cultivated rose. She would tame the wilderness of her embroidery if it meant unpicking and stitching it over and over again.

  ‘Set an example for Miss Dane by conquering your fear, not by being a Puritan,’ he said.

  * * *

  Frances paled so dramatically that he thought she might faint, reminding him unhappily of the day he’d quarrelled with Timothy, when she’d been so sad and wan.... Damn it, what had he done wrong now?

  He seated himself next to her. He’d never been known for tact. In fact, his tactless handling of Timothy had proven fatal. ‘Are you unwell, Mrs. Burdett?’

  ‘I’m perfectly fine,’ she said, but she gazed fixedly at her needlework, and her hand trembled as she set the next stitch. ‘Why should you think I’m afraid? I’m not!’ What a lie. ‘And it’s none of your business anyway!’

  ‘I don’t mean to distress you. Only to…’ He couldn’t say he wanted to help her. That came close to revealing that he knew too much. She was already beginning to ask questions he couldn’t answer.

  Ah. Timothy had probably called her a Puritan because she didn’t enjoy being bedded. Idiot, he thought, mentally cursing his dead friend, who also hadn’t realized that many whores only pretended to enjoy themselves. He’d been both furious and mortified when Cam had explained this to him.

  ‘To what?’ She scowled at him with hot, uneasy eyes.

  To prove to her that Timothy had been wrong. He couldn’t say that. To show her what a passionate woman she truly was. He couldn’t say that, either.

  He wished he could tell her everything. She was so comfortable and easy to talk to—but she wouldn’t be if he blurted out the truth.

  Instead of answering, he stood. ‘I want to show you something.’ He put out an imperative hand.

  ‘What?’ she demanded, still suspicious.

  ‘Something my great-great-grandmother embroidered,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll find it interesting.’

  She plucked at her stitchery with agitated fingers. ‘Damnation,’ she muttered under her breath. She wove her needle into the fabric by the edge of the frame and stood, as well.

  ‘It’s hardly that bad, is it?’ he murmured, holding the drawing room door
open for her. ‘At the very worst I’ll drag you under the mistletoe and poke my tongue in your mouth.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ she said.

  ‘Good, because you’re not meant to be a Puritan.’

  * * *

  ‘I’m not a Puritan,’ she snapped. She shouldn’t have reacted so strongly, but that word had brought back the last horrid night with Timothy and all the shame and misery she’d kept to herself for the whole past year.

  ‘That’s what I just said.’ The marquis lit one of the oil lamps that stood on a side table in the Great Hall. ‘So why not have some fun?’

  She trod beside him up the wide staircase, trying to decide what to say. That it would be morally reprehensible? That certainly sounded puritanical. Anyway, she wasn’t a prude. She didn’t approve of rakes or unfaithfulness in marriage, but there had to be some leeway for single men and widows. There was the question of whether he wanted to wed Almeria, but when she tried to frame the words, they wouldn’t come.

  Besides, one other reason overshadowed them all. Damn him, he was entirely correct. She didn’t know how he could tell, but she was terribly afraid.

  A faint smile curled his lips. He led her into a paneled room with family portraits on the walls. ‘Why not indulge your natural passion?’

  Fury, sharp as lemons, roiled up inside her. ‘Why should I? I have the right to avoid carnal passion if I so choose!’

  ‘As long as you truly do choose.’

  What if she tried and failed once again? She’d wanted to please Timothy—of course she had—but this was different. She knew too much about herself now. Not only that, the more she saw of the marquis, the more she liked him. The thought of being shamed and shunned once again… She didn’t think she could bear it.

  He closed the door, shutting them together into the gallery. ‘Plenty of those old Puritans made a practice of pretense, too.’

  ‘I’m not pretending!’ She was protecting herself. Shielding herself from pain.

  His warm voice teased her. ‘What they professed was one thing, and what they thought and did behind closed doors, another entirely.’