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

by Shana Galen

  “One night, not long before the massacre, my mother called me to her private chamber. She showed me a stack of old books. Most were Glennish, but a few were English and French. As I watched, she opened one of the volumes and ripped out several pages. Then she secured an envelope with money and papers inside. One of the papers had the name of a bank and an account number. In that account, she had secreted hundreds of thousands of English pounds so that, in the event of an uprising, the royal family could flee to London and live there until peace could be restored in Glynaven.”

  “So that is why you look through all the books. She didn’t tell you where she was sending it?”

  “Her most trusted adviser took custody of the shipment of books, and he set sail for England only a day or so before the palace fell. My mother thought it wise to hide the money and papers in a book, because though the adviser might be searched and his personal artifacts rifled, she did not think the sailors would take much interest in a pile of old books.”

  Cassandra leaned forward. “She is an amazingly intelligent woman.”

  He nodded and sipped his wine again. “She was. She died in the massacre. All of them did.”

  Her hand was warm when it covered his. “I’m sorry. I’m certain you must miss them, especially at Christmas.”

  She did not know the truth of her statement. While some in London festooned shops and wished everyone happy now that Christmas was nearing, most Londoners took little notice of the upcoming holiday. In Glynaven, Christmas had always been the biggest celebration of the year with a week of merriment preceding it. He and his family decorated, sang songs, put on plays, and made each other gifts. The family also followed the German tradition of a Christmas tree.

  Lucien glanced at the bowl of cloved oranges that stood in the center of the table. “I do miss them, but your greenery reminds me of happier times.”

  She tightened her hand on his. “Effie tells me it is bad luck to bring the evergreens, holly, and ivy inside before Christmas Eve, but I like to enjoy it. We’ll have a Yule log and an extravagant dinner on Christmas. The servants will play snapdragon and sing carols at the top of their voices. You must stay and celebrate with us. It’s only two days away.”

  “Thank you.” She was unfailingly welcoming and kind. He did not know if he would still be in London, still be alive in two days, but at least he did not face the prospect of a cold Christmas alone.

  She tried to release his hand, but he held firm. She couldn’t eat with only one hand, but he suspected she was no longer hungry for food. He was not. He wanted her touch.

  She took a breath. “How did you escape the massacre?”

  “I was not in the palace when the reavlutionnaire attacked. I had been out with friends and heard the palace was sacked. I rushed to the palace, but it was too late. The grounds outside swarmed with bloodthirsty men and women. I was recognized instantly and chased through the streets of the capital. I finally made for the quay and swam to a British ship anchored in the harbor. The sailors pulled me on board and set sail at the next tide for home. They feared the violence in the city might spill over, and the captain was wise to sail immediately. I later heard many of the ships who tarried were burned or plundered when the reavlutionnaire tired of looting the palace and the city.”

  Her hand gripped his again. He glanced down at it, but her attention was riveted on his face. She must have forgotten he’d claimed her hand.

  “What happened to the adviser?” she asked. “Did he sell the books to On the Shelf?”

  “No. I found his rented flat, but he was no longer there. The current occupants sent me away, claiming they had never heard of the man. I hired an investigator. I did not know how precious the few coins I had with me then would be. I squandered them and hired the best, who found out that Absolon was murdered in a housebreaking.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  He smiled without humor. She did not miss anything. “No. I knew the assassins had found him and staged the murder to look like a theft. They’d probably been looking for valuables, but they did not know where to look or even if he had any with him. They took personal items, like his pocket watch and the silver candlesticks, but the books were untouched.”

  “Lucien.” The word was a breath on her lips.

  He stilled, then lifted her hand to his mouth. “Say that again.”

  “Say what?” Her cheeks were pink.

  “My name. I believe that is the first time you have said my name.”

  She ducked her head. “Lucien.”

  He wanted to kiss her, wanted so desperately to pull her close. Instead, he would finish his story. There was not much left now. “The investigator told me the books and all of Absolon’s belongings were sold to pay the rent still owed. I used the last of my meager resources to pay the investigator to track down the buyer of the box of Glennish books. There had been an auction, and the auctioneer had clearly noted the books went to The Duke Street Bookshop. From there it was an easy task to go to Duke Street and find the shop. The name of the shop had been painted over, but it was full of books. The Merriweathers tell me they have no record of buying any books from the auction, but they must have. Else, where would the books have gone?”

  She lifted her wine and drank. “But why would they lie to you?”

  “I do not know. People lie. They kill. They loot and pillage. Perhaps it is human nature.”

  “Perhaps, but suppose I go back with you tomorrow and we speak to the Merriweathers together? They might give us more information if I am with you and inquire.”

  Lucien had little hope that any more information would be forthcoming, but as a viscountess and a patron of their shop, the proprietors would be anxious to please her.

  “You would do that for me?”

  “Of course.” She lifted her free hand to her pink cheek. “Shall we retire to the drawing room? Or would you rather be left alone to your port and cigars?” She smiled, and dimples appeared in her cheeks.

  “I’d rather stay with you,” he said honestly.

  She led him to the drawing room, which did not look to have been refurbished in the last fifty years. The upholstery reminded him of that favored by his grandmother in her chambers. Everything was of good quality and very well maintained, but he knew instantly the style was not Cassandra’s. She would not have chosen the dark burgundy velvet drapes or the dour gold paper-hangings on the walls. He had not seen her private chambers, but he suspected they were light and airy and cheerful.

  He sat on one couch, and she took the one opposite, both of them with a glass of untouched wine in their hands. Lucien looked up at the portrait of the old man above the fireplace. He could imagine that man wearing the clothing he now wore. “Your husband?” he asked, nodding to the painting.

  “Yes. That was painted a few years before we married.”

  He studied her face as she looked at the portrait. There was no trace of sadness in her eyes, no softness either.

  “And you never loved him?” Lucien asked, perfectly aware the question was impertinent whether he was in England or Glynaven.

  She cut her gaze to him. “Not in the way you mean. He was like a father.”

  “Or a grandfather, I imagine.”

  She glanced down. “It was a good match. My parents are wealthy merchants, and this was their plan to gain a title. Unfortunately, I never conceived, so the line ended with Viscount Ashbrooke. I fear I’ve been quite a disappointment to everyone.”

  “You?” Lucien rose and took the place beside her. She moved over to make room for him, though he had purposely sat close. “Did he even come to your bed?”

  She made a sound of shock, but he did not believe she felt it. “I cannot possibly answer that question.”

  “Why? Don’t play that I’ve shocked you, else I’ll believe you are still an innocent.”

  “He came to my bed,” she whispered, staring determinedly at her small white hands, clutched in her lap.

  “And was there passio
n?”

  “There was duty.”

  “I see.” He moved closer to her, heard her inhale sharply. “Have you ever wondered what it might be like if there was passion?”

  She swallowed, her gaze never rising to meet his. “Yes.”

  “Would you allow me to show you?”

  Now she looked up at him sharply. In the candlelight, her eyes were luminous and so dark blue. “You are a prince. Why would you want me?”

  “What man would not want you? I want you, unequivocally. The question, Cassandra, is, do you want me?”

  Chapter Six

  Was the man daft? Of course she wanted him. She was in love with him. Initially, she’d fallen in love with his golden eyes, his handsome face, his thick, dark hair. But now she saw the man inside the godlike trappings, and she loved that man.

  “Would you think me a lascivious wanton if I said yes?”

  His mouth curved in a suppressed grin. “No. I would think myself the luckiest man in the world. Shall I come to your room when the servants are abed?”

  She shook her head. Her room was too near Effie’s. “I will come to yours.”

  He reached up and stroked her cheek. She had the urge to lean into his touch, like a kitten craving attention. “If you change your mind and do not come to me, I will understand.”

  Oh, foolish man. To think she would change her mind. “I won’t.”

  He withdrew his hand, but she could still feel the heat of his touch.

  And now she was eager to go to her chambers. The sooner she retired, the sooner he would touch her again—touch her all over.

  She made a show of yawning. “Mr. Glen, I find myself suddenly quite weary. Will you forgive me if I retire early?”

  “There is nothing to forgive. I will retire as well.” He winked at her, and she summoned the footman to light them to their chambers. Allen helped her undress and prepare for bed. When Cass dismissed the lady’s maid for the night, she dug into her wardrobe until she found a pretty nightgown her mother had bought as part of her wedding trousseau. She’d never worn it, fearing the small pink bows and light filmy material made her look too young. Now she slipped off her plain woolen nightgown and donned the much thinner one. She covered it with a robe, lest she freeze, and sat by the fire, brushing her hair. It gave her hands something to do while she waited for the house to quiet. Finally, when the bracket clock on her bedside table read midnight, she blew out her candles and crept into the hallway.

  Lucien’s room was on the other side of the town house, and she had to pass Effie’s room to reach it. She tiptoed, her feet bare and freezing, avoiding the boards that creaked. She half expected Effie would throw open her door and scream, “Harlot!” at her, but her door remained firmly closed.

  Finally, Cass stood outside Lucien’s room. She wondered if he’d fallen asleep and if she should knock or simply go inside. She lifted her hand, but the door opened before she could rap.

  Lucien stood in the opening, his shirt untucked and open about his throat. His hair was mussed and his feet bare. He took her arm and pulled her inside his room, closing the door and locking it once she was inside. Now that they stood facing each other, she found it impossible to look away from him. His skin was burnished gold in the low firelight, his eyes like a predator’s on the hunt.

  But she did not feel hunted. His appreciative gaze swept over her, and she felt like the most beautiful princess in the world.

  “You came,” he said simply.

  “I couldn’t stay away.” Her voice sounded strange, low and throaty.

  “May I kiss you?”

  He was such a gentleman. She loved that about him, but she would never survive this first time if he insisted on gaining her approval at every turn. “Are you always so polite when you take a woman to your bed?”

  “There is no correct answer for that dangerous inquiry,” he said, raising a brow. “But I would never force myself on a woman.”

  “I am here of my own volition.” She stepped toward him, winding her arms around his shoulders, moving quickly before she could think too much about what she did. “I want what you want.”

  She kissed him. She’d never been so bold, but then again, she had never wanted a man in the way she wanted Lucien. Her lips touched his, and she felt as though her entire body lit with heat and desire. His mouth moved tentatively over hers at first, matching her slow and deliberate explorations, but soon he kissed her deeper. His hands fisted in her hair, and he took her mouth with a ferocity that made her breath catch.

  Her body throbbed with need when his tongue delved inside her lips, stroking her tongue and teasing her gently, then more insistently. He possessed her, until all she knew was Lucien. Her hands were on him, under his shirt, fingers trailing the hard muscles of his back and the flat planes of his abdomen. His hands must have touched her too, because she felt the cool air on her arms when he slid her robe off her shoulders.

  He made a strangled sound, and she opened her eyes.

  He said something in a language she did not understand, and then he repeated, “Where the devil did you get that?”

  “It was part of my trousseau, and I’ve never worn it. Is it too scandalous? Shall I take it off?”

  “Oh, I want you to take it off.” He lifted a hand to run the backs of his knuckles over the slope of her breast, almost visible under the transparent material. “But not yet.”

  He kissed her then. He kissed her lips, her jaw, her shoulder, her breasts. He lifted her and carried her to the bed, then began again, kissing every single inch of her.

  She thought she would blush with mortification when his mouth found her slick core, but she enjoyed what he did far too much to feel embarrassed. She was naked beneath him, flushed with pleasure, when he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it on the floor.

  She caught her breath. Lucien had his hands on the fall of his trousers, but he paused. “Shall I slow down?”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s just... I’ve never seen... you are like one of the statues in the British Museum.” She lifted a hand and ran it down his sleek torso.

  “And you are a Botticelli.” His gaze touched her body, and she knew he meant it. She felt no embarrassment with him and no fear. She knew what was coming, and she wanted it. She wanted him.

  He stood and removed his trousers, and she made no effort to look away from his erection. It was as beautiful as the rest of him. When he climbed back into the bed, he was warm and solid against her. She wrapped her legs around him and offered her mouth. He took it with his own, kissing her and stroking her body with his hands until she was whimpering with need. Only when she thought she could take no more, did he slide into her, filling her so completely that she gasped at the fierceness of the pleasure rippling through her.

  “Not yet,” he whispered, moving inside her with slow, tantalizing strokes. He took her hands and clasped them on either side of her head. His eyes locked with hers, and in his gaze she saw desire and pleasure and a need that matched her own.

  Finally, his jaw clenched, and he growled low. “Now.”

  He thrust into her, and she came apart in his arms.

  ***

  Lucien had never been known for moderation. When he enjoyed a pastime, like riding or drinking or fencing, he gave it all of his time and attention. He enjoyed Cassandra in his bed. She was such a mixture of innocence and experience, such an apt pupil and a tender instructor.

  He did not want to give her over to sleep, but when her eyes finally closed on a sigh of pleasure, he knew she needed rest. He lay beside her, watching her in the flickering firelight, wondering if this night was all they would ever have.

  He had always known he would have to marry one day. He was the heir to the Glennish throne, after all. When he’d turned five and twenty, his father had told him to “stop dallying and choose a bride.”

  Lucien would have been happy to oblige, but he couldn’t seem to find the right woman. He’d courted foreign princesses, duchesses from h
is own land, and even peasant women. He’d considered women who were friends, including his sisters’ closest friends. But no woman had captured his interest. No woman until now.

  Cassandra was everything he wanted in a woman, in a wife. Ironic that he should find her when he no longer needed a wife, when the throne was no longer his to claim.

  Not only did he not need a queen, he could not justify marrying her when he had nothing to offer her. He had no name, no money, and his meager earnings gained from tutoring would not feed a cat, much less a family. It was wrong to want her, and yet he could not seem to put the feelings aside.

  That did not mean he had not protected her from the consequences of their joining. After she’d climaxed, he’d pulled out and spilled his seed on the bed. He did not want to saddle her with a royal bastard, especially one hunted by assassins.

  After their lovemaking, he did not sleep, though his body wept with joy at the comfort of the bed. Instead, he held her in his arms, and when it was close to morning, he woke her with a kiss. “Your staff will arise soon. You should return to your chamber.”

  She kissed him back, her sweet lips so tender against his. “I don’t want to leave you.”

  “Then stay, and we shall shock them all.”

  She smiled. “How I would love to see the look on Effie’s face. But I don’t want anything to detain us since we are to go to the bookshop this morning. Effie’s lectures can be rather lengthy.”

  “Then I shall see you again at breakfast.”

  She kissed him again and was gone.

  A footman brought him fresh clothing and clean water to shave and wash, and when they set out in the carriage for Duke Street, he felt almost like himself again.

  The snow had finally stopped, but all of London sparkled under a cover of clean white. The horses’ bells jingled, reminding him of sleigh rides back home.

  At the thought, a pang of sorrow rose in his chest, and at the same time Cassandra put a hand on his arm. She seemed to know when he needed her touch.