by Deborah Hale
His ragged breath rasped softly in her ear.“I cannot recall when I have wished for anything more.”
“Come, then!” She grasped him by the hand and fairly flew up the stairs.
Once in the dimly-lit gallery, Frost ushered her to his bedchamber with barely contained eagerness. No sooner had they slipped inside and closed the door behind them than he pressed her back against it and kissed her with a thrilling urgency that made her knees melt.
Then, his need slightly appeased, he hoisted her in his arms and strode to the bed, resting her upon it like some priceless treasure nestled in its most perfect setting.
“How often I would have dreamed of this,” he whispered as he struggled out of his coat and boots, hurling them to the floor, “if only I had not feared tormenting myself.”
“My poor, dear Mr. Frost.” Christabel rained kisses on his face as she loosened his cravat. “How lonely you must have been!”
“But no longer.” He pulled the pins from her hair, releasing a cascade of curls over her shoulders. “If this is a drunken dream, do not wake me, I pray you!”
“You have my word,” Christabel whispered as she rubbed her cheek against his and fumbled open the buttons of his waistcoat. “As long as you promise to return the favor.”
He eased one sleeve of her gown over her shoulder, baring it for his lips. “You may depend upon it.”
She could depend upon him. Even in her foolish youth Christabel had sensed it. Her great error had been to suppose a dependable, sensible man must lack passion. Could she have been more wrong?
Frost seemed bent on convincing her of quite the opposite as he dispatched her clothes with impatient haste, exploring with his hands and lips every new part of her he laid bare. When his hand grazed her thigh as he rolled down her stocking, Christabel writhed beneath his touch and gave a soft whimper of need. And when he fondled and kissed her breasts with unbridled fervor, she had never ached so with desire.
“Please!” she gasped at last, reaching for the buttons of his breeches.
When he was quite as naked as she, Christabel made bold to stroke and caress him in the way she knew would bring him pleasure. Frost threw back his head and a gave a deep rolling purr, like distant thunder warning of a tempest about to break.
Christabel parted her legs and guided him into her with a shudder of delight. He filled her to perfection—not just her body, but her heart and even her soul. His quiet strength gave her the security to experience the carefree exuberance of her girlhood once again. His generosity and forbearance helped free her from the burden of guilt she had carried for too long.
Now he hovered over her, dimly backlit by the rosy glow of the banked fire. His mouth closed upon hers with a hot, deep kiss that tasted of the tart, intoxicating sweetness of the New Year’s Eve punch. He moved within her in a quickening rhythm, each delicious thrust swelling the passion she could scarcely contain. Then a powerful surge of pleasure coursed through her, as a series of fierce, fevered shudders racked her lover. Together they subsided, utterly drained, yet utterly sated.
Afterward, he held her, anointing her face with soft, tender kissed and crooning her name.
Christabel smiled to herself in the darkness. She had discovered a gift that was truly as satisfying to give as it was to receive. Already she looked forward to sharing it with her beloved again.
Frost woke with a bilious jolt that felt quite the opposite of the wild thrill he recalled with tormenting clarity from the previous night. Christabel lay in his arms, warm and limp, the fragrant tangle of her dark curls splayed over his bare chest in the pale, cool light of the winter morning. His nostrils flared to inhale the subtle musk of lovemaking that hung about them.
His body roused once again to the aching pitch of several hours earlier. It seemed greedy to want more so soon again after his craving had been so delightfully gratified. His head ached and his belly churned in an ominous fashion, his just punishment for overindulging in Colonel MacLean’s potent punch. But they were nothing to the pangs of his conscience.
How could he have taken advantage of Christabel’s tipsy lapse in propriety and her oft- expressed sense of obligation to lure her into his bed? There was only one honorable course open to him now. Though he would be only to happy to take it, he feared Christabel might not feel the same.
Frost took hope from the certainty that she had welcomed his physical overtures and that he had been able to bring her pleasure. Respect and fondness spiced with a lusty attraction was surely a fertile foundation from which love might grow. Then why did he dread the instant Christabel would open her eyes and find herself naked in his arms?
Every moment he had to wait for it, doubt gnawed at him. By the time Christabel’s eyelids fluttered he was more nauseous from apprehension than from the after-affects of Colonel MacLean’s punch. For an instant she fixed him with a fuddled gaze, then her eyes widened and her mouth fell slack.
“Oh mercy, what have I done?” She squirmed away from Frost, pulling the bedclothes up to her chin. The revulsion in her eyes was even worse than he had feared.
“Please, Mrs. Wilton... Christabel!” Frost wrenched up one of the blankets to hide the straining evidence of his unquenched lust. “I am sorry—more than you will ever know! You must believe I did not wish to compromise your virtue in such a contemptible manner. You have my word I will be honored to make you my wife and do everything in my power to make amends for my actions.”
“W-wife?” Christabel clapped her hand over her mouth as if to hold her gorge. “No. You must not think of it, I beg you!”
Diving out from beneath the covers, she seized her ball gown and wriggled into it before Frost could recover his wits enough to prevent her. With the garment gaping open in the back, she fled the room, leaving her stockings, slippers and undergarments behind.
Frost sat there in his bed with the morning chill creeping over him, a weight pressing down upon his heart and a stifled sob lodged in his throat. The anguish he’d felt when Christabel had jilted him was nothing compared to this.
Why had he not heeded his own good sense and kept a safe distance from the woman? Why had he allowed himself to believe time could change her feelings toward him? It had not changed his, except perhaps to intensify them. Clearly the years had done the same to Christabel’s. Though he wished he could burrow back under the covers and not emerge until this cursed year was over, Frost forced himself to rise and dress.
The seductive softness of Christabel’s stocking whispered over his foot as he strode toward his dressing room. Frost glanced down to see her garments strewn across the floor where he had tossed them. He could not leave them there for the servants to find. There would likely be gossip enough among them without such certain proof of his scandalous behavior.
He gathered up the lot, pausing only to drag one of the stockings in a silken caress over the stubble of his unshaven cheek. Then his fist clenched around it and gave a fierce shake. “No!” The words exploded out of him. “This will not do!”
Thrusting Christabel’s slippers and undergarments into his wardrobe, Frost pulled out whatever pieces of his own clothing that came to hand and hauled them on in an urgent rush. Once dressed in a curious assortment of attire, he stalked down the gallery and pounded on the door of Christabel’s chamber.
Receiving no answer, he burst in, surprised not to find the door bolted against him. When he crossed the threshold a bright puddle of color drew his gaze to the floor beside the bed. There lay Christabel’s discarded ball gown, but there was no sign of the lady herself. Mounting a search of the house, he soon found her getting her son ready to leave Candlewood.
When he opened his mouth to speak, she shook her head, casting a pointed gaze toward the boy. “Not here, please.”
“Very well.” Frost schooled his voice to a temperate tone and tried to reassure Colly with a smile. “I must and will speak my mind, however. Where will you hear me out?”
Christabel pondered the question for a moment
during which Frost noted her hastily piled hair. His fingers itched to pull the pins from it again and plunge his hand through the unruly cascade of curls. The first time she had fled from the prospect of marriage to him, he had glimpsed only dimly what he would be missing. This time he knew with every fibre of his flesh and heart.
She glanced up at him then, her dark eyes fairly aching with regret. “I believe the weather has turned milder. Perhaps we might take a stroll outside... a short stroll.”
“Goody!” cried the boy. “Can I come too? And Miss Fanny? We can make snowballs!”
“Not today, dearest.” Christabel caught her son in a swift, convulsive embrace. “Mr. Frost and I have some things to talk about. Why don’t you take... Mistletoe for a ride.”
Frost heard the catch in her voice when she spoke the word mistletoe. Was she recalling the sprig of innocent-looking white berries that had kindled their far-from-innocent tryst last night?
They walked down to the entry hall then donned their wraps and hats in awkward silence. Outside the icicles hanging from the eaves seemed to weep under a melancholy gray sky.
By the time they were out of earshot of the house and the stables, Frost could not contain himself a moment longer. “Mrs. Wilton, I cannot tell you how sorry I am for what happened last night, but I beg you do not make to hasty decision in the heat of the moment that you may repent later. Marry me and I will furnish you with every comfort that is within my power.”
“What? And spend a lifetime imposing upon your generosity for the sake of one foolish mistake?” Christabel kept her eyes trained ahead as if she could not bear even to glance his way. “You encouraged me not to punish myself for the errors of the past and I have come to believe you are right. I will not punish us both for one... lapse in judgement.”
“Would it be such a dreadful punishment?” demanded Frost. “I have enjoyed the time you’ve spent at Candlewood and I believe you have too.”
“We have not been married these past three weeks, Mr. Frost,” she reminded him. “Believe me, I know whereof I speak. I have endured one marriage bereft of love and I would not suffer another. Not for all the comforts your fortune could bestow and not to do a lifetime of penance for a single indiscretion. I thank you with all my heart for your generosity, but I hope you will understand why I cannot stay. Would you do me one final kindness by letting Samuel take us home in your carriage?”
Frost replied with a grim nod. What Christabel had said made a harsh kind of sense. She seemed certain she could not love him. Perhaps he had been a fool for hoping love could be learned or earned. He only wished he had not ruined his chance of finding out.
Even the fleeting bliss he had found in his arms last night could not compensate for that.
Chapter Twelve
WOULD MR. FROST be scandalized to know she did not regret seducing him? Christabel risked a fleeting stolen glance at his ruggedly handsome profile as they walked back to the house in silence. What she rued was his regret and any mistaken belief he might harbor that she had taken advantage of his loneliness to entrap him into marriage.
She had glimpsed the suspicion of it on his face the moment she’d woken. The first words out of his mouth had confirmed it. She was resolved to prove him wrong in that at least. Perhaps the harsh lessons of experience had not cured her of her impulsiveness in matters of the heart, but she would take responsibility for her actions and not make Jonathan Frost suffer the consequences again.
She would not saddle him with a wife for whom he felt nothing more than pity and physical desire. A man capable of such passion and compassion was surely capable of love. She must leave him free to seek and find it. For her part, this sojourn at Candlewood had taught her the tantalizing heartache of spending day after day near something she yearned for but could never have.
They found Colly and Miss Fanny engaged in a wild ride through the house.
“We are on a hunt!” cried her son. “Jane is the fox and we are hot on her trail.”
“Enough blood sports for you, young man.” Christabel beckoned to him. “We must go.”
Miss Fanny wheeled her mount around. “Please stay! We’re having such a fine time.”
Much as she wished she could oblige them both and blamed herself for bringing their merry holiday to a premature end, Christabel shook her head. “We really must leave.”
Gathering Frost’s aunt in a gentle embrace, she whispered a comforting falsehood in her ear. “We will be back tomorrow. I promise.”
Tomorrow Miss Fanny would not remember they had ever been at Candlewood. For a passing instant Christabel almost envied her crippled memory. No memories meant no regrets—a fair exchange was it not? But recalling the dark rapture of her midnight tryst with Frost, when he had made her feel so cherished, she knew those memories were worth the price.
She and Colly left Candlewood with far more than they had brought. As Frost’s carriage pulled away from the house, Colly pressed his small nose to the window, creating a tiny patch of fog on the cold glass. With great energy he waved goodbye to Mr. Frost and Miss Fanny.
Once they were out of sight, he settled back onto his seat with a sigh. “I wish we could have stayed longer. It was such a jolly Christmas.”
Christable only nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Bowing her head, she raised a hand to her brow to shield her misted eyes.
“Are you feeling ill again?” asked Colly. “Perhaps we should go back to Candlewood for a few more days until you are better.”
“Your concern for my health is touching.” Christabel let out a chuckle mingled with a sob. “I promise you, I am quite well enough to go home. Nothing could induce me to inflict myself upon poor Mr. Frost again.”
Jonathan Frost had no heart for any New Years’ festivities. But for Aunt Fanny’s sake, he tried to counterfeit a measure of enthusiasm. Once she had gone to bed, he retired to his study with a well-aged bottle of French brandy for the single night’s indulgence of self-pity he would permit himself.
He was jolted from a stuporous doze the next morning by his aunt’s waiting woman, Mrs. Penny. “I’m sorry to disturb ye sir, but can ye come? Miss Fanny’s all agitated like. I’ve tried everything I can think of to calm her, but it’s no good.”
Frost lurched to his feet, one hand pressed to his forehead. It felt as if his brains were in imminent danger of spilling out his ears. “I’ll come. I’ll come. Only keep your voice down, I beg you.”
He hoped that, in his present condition, he could placate his aunt. Over the last year or two he had noticed she tended to regress more rapidly in the wake of a major upset.
He found her clinging to her hobbyhorse as she paced her room. Since moving back to Candlewood, he had slowly restored the chamber to a reasonable semblance of what it had looked like during her childhood.
“What’s all this, then?” He pulled her into a secure embrace. “I hear you’re upset about something.”
“Something’s wrong, Papa.” She clung to him like the frightened child she’d become. “Someone’s missing, but I can’t think who!”
He passed his hand over her hair in a reassuring caress. “Why Susan, of course.” Every morning she woke looking for her long-dead nursemaid. “Did no one tell you she’s been called away because her mother is ill. She’ll be back tomorrow. I promise.”
“Back tomorrow?” Aunt Fanny repeated the words in a flat, dazed voice. “No, it isn’t Susan. It’s that other lady and the little boy. The ones who gave me my horse.”
“M-Mrs. Wilton you mean?” It was many months since Aunt Fanny had remembered new acquaintances from one day to the next. Why must it be the person Frost most longed to forget? “She and Colly had to go back to their own house. They were only visiting with us for Christmas.”
“Oh. So you aren’t going to marry her?”
“Marry? No!” The very thought made Frost’s temples throb. “Whatever put such a notion in your head?”
“Well, I know you must be lonesome all by yourself.
I am sometimes, too. Maria Dixon says stepmothers are vile, but everybody knows Maria’s a great pudding head. I shouldn’t mind having a stepmother at all. Especially one who’s clever at making me pretty things and good at making you laugh.”
Frost glanced at Mrs. Penny and nodded toward the door, through which she swiftly retired. Then he drew his aunt over to the window seat that looked out onto the snow-covered gardens.
Reason told him he should hold his tongue. She would not likely understand what he was talking about and it might upset her more. But she seemed calmer now that she had remembered Christabel and Colly. And he felt a desperate need to confide in someone. Especially someone who might not recall a word he had said by this time tomorrow.
“The fact is, my dear, I did ask Mrs. Wilton to marry me. She refused. Told me she could not abide another loveless marriage.”
“Why?” Aunt Fanny’s brow puckered and a tiny frown of concentration pursed her lips. “Did you not tell her you love her? You do, don’t you?”
“Of course... that is, of course I love her.” A brief flare of impatience over his aunt’s confusion subsided into ashes of doubt. “Mrs. Wilton meant she could not wed because she does not love me.” She had, hadn’t she?
“Is that what she said?”
“Yes!” Frost did not mean to snap, but it was clear he had made a mistake trying to discuss a subject so far beyond his aunt’s present comprehension. “Though...”
He tried to remember his conversation with Christabel. Exactly what he had said and she had replied, not what he’d assumed they were saying. Because it was possible—not likely but possible—that his assumptions had been wrong. What if she had meant...? And what if she had taken him to mean...?
Frost began to chuckle, softly at first, then more and more frenzied until it brought tears to his eyes.
“What is so funny?” demanded his aunt.
“Perhaps nothing,” Frost sputtered between volleys of laughter. “Or perhaps everything. Listen, it is very important I go to London for a few days. Will you be all right until I get back? I promise I’ll bring you a very nice present.”