A Royal Christmas: Featuring Waiting for a Duke Like You and A Prince in Her Stocking

by Shana Galen

  Finally, he knew one more fact. She was willing to risk the annoyance, or perhaps even anger, of her family to spend time with him.

  He couldn’t allow that.

  “Lady Ashbrooke, you have no idea how pleased I am to make your acquaintance. It’s been weeks since I’ve had a civilized conversation with another person and months since I have not had to pretend I am only mere Mr. Glen. But there is a reason I choose to eschew my title. You’re not safe in my company.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Are you in danger?”

  He ran a hand through his hair, which had grown thick and almost to his collar during his months in England. “I don’t know. I have every reason to believe I am the last surviving member of the royal family, and I am the heir. If the reavlutionnaire realized they didn’t kill me, they would stop at nothing to complete the task. I’ve stayed away from my friends in London, not wanting to endanger them and because I assume that if the reavlutionnaire tracked me here, those are the people and residences they will watch.”

  “But then where are you living?”

  He’d scanned the park as he spoke, but now he looked back at her. “That is your last question.”

  She pressed her lips together. “I know.”

  “At present, I have no home. I spend my days at the bookshop and my nights wherever I can find a bed.”

  “Don’t you have any funds? Any resources?”

  He lifted a hand. “It’s my turn to ask questions.”

  She sighed with obvious frustration. She’d fallen into a very common trap—that of asking all of her questions in rapid succession.

  “How long were you married to the viscount?”

  “Sixteen months,” she answered. “He’s been gone over a year now.”

  He had one question remaining. “You still wear your widow’s weeds, though the requisite year has passed. You must have loved him very much.”

  She looked away, and for a moment he thought he had upset her. But when she looked back, her expression was firm and serious. “The truth, Your Highness?”

  He lifted a hand. “Too dangerous to refer to me as such. Mr. Glen will do.”

  She looked as though she might protest, but then she sighed. “The truth is, Mr. Glen, that I didn’t love him at all.”

  ***

  She’d shocked him by her last statement. How could she have done otherwise? What sort of woman was she to admit she hadn’t even loved her own husband? Her dead husband. She was supposed to honor him and his memory. She felt like a traitor.

  The feeling only intensified when, immediately following her declaration, the prince suggested he walk her home. He’d asked his three questions, and she’d asked hers, and now their acquaintance was at an end. Cass wanted to weep as they entered the quiet streets of Mayfair, and the Ashbrooke town house grew ever nearer.

  She’d thought meeting with him would assuage her curiosity and her desire for adventure, but talking with him had only fueled her desire to know more about him. Initially, she’d been motivated by lust. What woman would not have been? The man was dangerously handsome. But the more he’d spoken, the more she’d detected a sadness in him, and a desperation.

  The sadness she understood. He’d lost his entire family. What must it be like to be the lone survivor of an entire line? Did he feel guilty that he’d survived when everyone else had perished? She might have asked, if she’d still had questions.

  But first she would have asked about the desperation.

  She saw the town house just a few yards away and slowed. “We had best part here, Mr. Glen. I do thank you for your escort.”

  “The pleasure was all mine.” He bowed with practiced elegance.

  She should walk away now, return home, and make her excuses to Effie. Even the thought made her chest tighten as though a vise had once again been locked into place.

  “Will I see you again?” she asked, and then wished she had shut her mouth. How absolutely pathetic she must have sounded. How clinging and desperate.

  “That would not be wise,” he answered. “Not that I have ever been wise in the past.” He tipped his hat. “I will watch until you go inside. Good evening, my lady.”

  She stared a moment too long and then mumbled her own good-bye. She practically walked on air the remainder of the distance to the town house. What did he mean he had not been wise in the past? Did that mean he wanted to see her again? If there was even a small chance of speaking with him again, walking with him again, she wanted to take it.

  Vidal opened the door, and Cass’s good mood dissipated. Vidal’s expression was severe. “Miss Ashbrooke has taken ill with worry for you.”

  “Where is she?” Cass handed him her bonnet and gloves.

  “In her rooms.”

  “I’ll go immediately.” Cass started up the stairs, knowing thoughts of her next meeting with the prince would have to wait.

  She gave in to the impulse to see the prince again two days later. Effie was still cross with her for making her worry when Riggersby had returned home without her. Cass had apologized profusely but had not given an explanation for how she and the footman had come to be separated. She did not want to lie, and so, despite Effie’s demands and angry outbursts, Cass kept silent. It felt strangely empowering to defy Effie even in that small way.

  Riggersby, of course, made no demands, but he had become a hawk. She knew she wouldn’t escape his notice so easily again. Cass did the only thing she knew would guarantee seeing the prince again—she went to the bookshop.

  She found him one shelf over from where she had seen him last. He was on one of the lower ladder rungs, a volume in one hand. His fingers were blurs as he flipped the pages. He didn’t seem to be reading, though his attention was fixed on each and every page. Finally, he closed the book and replaced it on the shelf. She would have needed to be two rungs higher on the ladder to reach that shelf, but he accessed it easily.

  As though sensing her gaze on him, he turned her way. His beautiful golden brown eyes warmed but did not seem surprised. At his look, she felt rather warm herself, and she loosened the scarf at her neck.

  “Lady Ashbrooke.” He nodded. “How good to see you again. Am I in your way?” He spoke formally—as he should, considering they hardly knew each other—but she still had the sense he did so for the benefit of anyone listening.

  “Not at all. I saw you browsing and thought I would say hello.” Dear Lord. Now she had nothing else to say, and he was still looking at her with those eyes that made her face heat until she thought she might explode. “Uh, hello,” she said with a wan smile.

  “Hello.” His voice was deep and velvet soft, and was it her imagination, or had his gaze dipped to take in her body? It must have been her imagination. Men did not look at her in that way.

  She could think of nothing else to say, and when an uncomfortable silence descended, she cleared her throat, hoping he would fill it.

  He didn’t.

  “I should be going.”

  “Good day to you.”

  She turned to walk away and simply could not do it. Stop being a ninny, Cass! She clenched her hands into fists and turned back. “Unless I can be of some assistance?”

  His look was veiled and impossible to read. It was probably some sort of technique all the royals were required to master so they might better negotiate treaties or whatnot. She was behaving in a most abominably forward manner, but he was a man. If he did not want her company, he could tell her easily enough.

  She bit her tongue, praying he would not be too unkind.

  “I’d like that,” he said.

  “Of course. I’m so sorry to trouble—”

  He was smiling at her. He hadn’t dismissed her at all. He’d invited her to help him. Her heart thumped so hard she could not manage to take a breath. Perhaps she hadn’t heard him correctly.

  “Did you say you would like my help?”

  He nodded. “Very much, but I don’t want to keep you if you have another engagement
.”

  She shook her head violently. “No. I don’t! I have nothing else to do. I’ll help you in any way I can. I’ll do whatever you ask.” Now her cheeks heated for quite another reason.

  His gaze seemed to darken, and she feared he would comment on the double meaning of the remark she’d just made. Part of her hoped he’d take the double meaning, though she hadn’t meant it that way.

  Instead, he reached for the next book on the top shelf and handed it to her. He was far too much the gentleman to remark on her ill-advised choice of words.

  “It would make my search go faster if you looked through this book.”

  She longed to ask what he searched for, but this was neither the time nor the place for questions, not to mention she’d used all of hers already.

  “What do I do?”

  He moved beside her and opened the book. His hand brushed hers as he did so, and she became aware of the warmth of his body and the scent of sandalwood. She swallowed and forced herself to breathe slowly lest she begin to pant.

  “I want you to turn every single page and examine it.” He spoke softly, his voice low enough that only she could hear. She held the book with both hands now, and his arm slid against hers as he pointed to the open page. “I’m looking for any loose pages or papers slipped inside.” He indicated the shelves nearby, most of them filled with unbound books.

  “I see.” Her voice was but a breathless whisper. “Just the bound books?”

  “No. All of them. To be certain.” He turned the page, the action bringing his bicep briefly in contact with her breast. Heat surged through her, and she couldn’t help but gasp at the shock of sensation. Surely he hadn’t even noticed. He had on a coat and she a dress with several layers under it. He couldn’t have known he touched her where no man but a husband should.

  “If you find anything, show me,” he said, withdrawing. He pulled his hand back, and this time he did not touch her. Her face was likely as red as a tomato, and she did not dare to look at him.

  “I can do that.”

  “Thank you.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him take down another volume. She had also noted the kissing bough someone had hung from the ceiling. Evergreens and mistletoe seemed to stare down at her, daring her to kiss the man she desired. Cass swallowed and looked away. At the window, a gentleman who looked every bit the Corinthian stood and pretended to read a novel, while watching the street. The romantic in her liked to think he was watching for the woman he loved. With a sigh and a refusal to spare the kissing bough another glance, she went back to her employment, working beside the prince in silence for at least a quarter of an hour. She turned every single page and scanned it carefully, but her thoughts were not on her task. Her thoughts were on the prince, and they had drifted into forbidden territory.

  In her mind the two of them stood in the library of a royal palace. She was dressed as a princess in silks and satins, the likes of which she had worn only during the most choice events of her brief Season. She reached up to remove a book from a bookshelf, and her arms glittered with jewels. She’d barely opened the book when the prince put his arms around her tiny waist. This was only a daydream, so of course she had a tiny waist and such perfect vision that she didn’t require her spectacles.

  He murmured something seductive in her ear, and she shivered with anticipation. Finally, his mouth lowered to graze her bare shoulder. At the same time, the hand on her waist inched higher to cup her breast. He kneaded it expertly, causing the nipple to harden to an aching point. His mouth continued to worship the skin of her neck, and his other hand slid to the juncture of her thighs.

  “Lady Ashbrooke?”

  Cass opened her eyes, momentarily disoriented to realize she was not in the palace library but inside On the Shelf.

  “Are you well?”

  The prince watched her with concern in his narrowed eyes.

  “Perfectly. Why?” She realized she’d closed the book and, wanting something to occupy her hands, replaced it on the shelf.

  “You were standing quite still with your eyes closed and one hand pressed to your abdomen. Your breathing had grown rather rapid—”

  Cass felt her cheeks heat in mortification. “Did you have a library in the palace at Glynaven?”

  His brows rose slightly, an indication she’d surprised him with her question. She’d surprised herself.

  “Are we playing three questions again, Lady Ashbrooke?”

  “Yes.” It might not be wise to play the game with him again, but neither had it been wise to approach him today. Besides, she was past the point of acting wisely. She had the rest of her long, lonely life to behave wisely.

  He gave her a slow smile, which should have made her question what he would ask her in return. Instead, she rather hoped it would be something scandalous. At that thought, she peered about them. They were the only patrons in On the Shelf at the moment and at the back of the shop, away from the clerks and the doorway. Business was slow today, and Cass heard only the shopgirl humming to herself as she dusted the volumes in the window.

  The prince leaned one shoulder against the shelf, tucking the book he held under his arm. “We had a magnificent library.”

  “What was it like?” she asked, leaning close because he spoke softly so the shopgirl would not hear.

  “That’s two questions.”

  She nodded, not caring.

  “The chamber was domed, and the cupola was painted by famed Renaissance artists from Glynaven—mythical images of satyrs and wood nymphs and enchanted forests. In the daytime, the library shone with light from the tall windows spaced throughout. If the lawn was not lit with lanterns at night, one could see all the stars from those windows. I used to sit for hours on the red velvet chaise longues and read. Of course, my younger sisters thought it most diverting to sneak up to the second level, squeeze behind a pillar, and spy on me. They must have been exceedingly desperate for entertainment to find watching me read of any interest.”

  Cass smiled, imagining the girls tiptoeing and giggling as their older brother pretended not to notice them. She’d never had any siblings and had often been so lonely that a chance to spy on an older brother would have been welcomed.

  “And now it’s my turn,” the prince said. “What is your name—your Christian name?”

  Cass smothered a smile. He did care about her. He would not have wondered such a question if she didn’t hold any interest for him. “My name is Cassandra, but everyone calls me Cass.”

  He nodded slowly. “Cassandra, the cursed princess of Troy.”

  Cass ducked her head. “I do not think my parents are great readers. I believe they just liked the name. And I have no great gift of prophecy, though I imagine if I did, no one would believe me either.” Fortunately, her head was bowed, and she did not have to look at him when she spoke. She feared she’d revealed too much.

  “I have another question,” he said quietly, so quietly she had to lean closer to hear his voice. She again caught the scent of sandalwood and took a shaky breath.

  “I suppose it’s only fair. I asked two in a row.” She glanced up at him, saw his lion’s gaze on her, and darted her eyes back to the worn boards beneath her feet.

  “What were you daydreaming about?”

  She froze. The object of the game was honesty, and she could not reveal the subject of her fantasy. She began to shake her head.

  “Tell me, Cassandra.” The sound of her name on his tongue made her breath catch.

  “I cannot,” she whispered. “It is too”—mortifying—“personal.”

  “I answered your questions, and remember, you have another yet to ask. You can ask me anything you want, and I’ll answer.”

  His voice was so seductive and so low that it rumbled through her, bringing warm spirals of pleasure with it. She could not tell him what she’d been thinking, and she also knew she didn’t have the willpower to deny him anything.

  Chapter Four

  He’d pushed her too
far. He could see by the way she drew away from him and how she wouldn’t meet his eye. He’d asked too much of her too soon, and she wouldn’t reveal her daydream. Curse his impatience! And curse his need to know as much about her as he could. There was no point in it. It was not as though he could marry her, or even become her lover. Even speaking with her now was dangerous for her if they were observed.

  If the assassins who had murdered his family were in London, and he had to assume they had pursued him, then the best way to protect her was to walk away.

  Now.

  “I shouldn’t tell you this,” she said as he found the strength to bid her adieu.

  Those words silenced his tongue. It was always the forbidden that made him want more. “But you will.”

  He moved closer to her because he liked being close to her and because her voice was but a mere whisper.

  Her head was lowered, and she wore a black bonnet on her golden crown of hair, but just past the brim he could see her scarlet cheeks.

  “I was imaging you and me in a royal library.”

  Ah, that was why she’d asked about the library at Glynaven Palace.

  “Tell me what we were doing in the library, Cassandra.” It was a statement, not a question. Even if he’d asked a third question, he did not think she would notice. But he could not risk losing his third question, because he had already decided what it would be.

  “You had your arms around me.”

  He could barely hear her.

  “I embraced you.”

  “From behind, and you’d lowered your mouth to... kiss me. Here.” She touched her collarbone, and Lucien had the mad urge to strip away her clothing and kiss that collarbone right then and there.

  “This was a fantasy.”

  Her blue eyes flicked to his face and back down.

  “I like it so far. I believe if I had come across a beautiful woman like you in the library, I would have certainly kissed your neck and your shoulder. Tell me what else I did.”